THE MULTIPLE LINE OF APPROACH
The ninth and last of the essential principles is, in reality, more
than a mere principle of language-study, it is even more than a
principle of study, it is almost a philosophy in itself. It seems to be
a special application of a doctrine which, to many, constitutes a line
of conduct, an attitude, towards most of the problems and interests of
our daily existence. This attitude is fairly well designated by the
term _eclectic_; this, however, is not an ideal term, seeing that, like
so many others, it possesses a double connotation. Its first sense is
distinctly pejorative; it suggests unoriginality, a lack of coherent
system, a patchwork of other people’s opinions. In its second and
broader sense, so far from being a term of disparagement or reproach it
implies the deliberate choice of all things which are good, a judicious
and reasoned selection of all the diverse factors the sum of which may
constitute a complete and homogeneous system. If, therefore, we speak
here of the doctrine or attitude of eclecticism, we are obviously using
the term in its second and broader connotation; used in this way it
stands as the antithesis of prejudice, of faddiness, of crankiness,
and of fixed ideas. Many of those who practise eclecticism call it
the ‘philosophy of the complete life’; whether this is or is not a
philosophy in the true sense of the term, we will leave to philosophers
to discuss; we will content ourselves by quoting a few maxims or
aphorisms which will serve to make clear the attitude in question.
All is good which tends towards good.
The recognition and appreciation of any particular good thing does
not necessarily invalidate those things which do not resemble it, nor
even cause us to disparage or deprecate things which are seemingly in
conflict with it.
Let us neglect nothing except futilities and things which we have
proved to our satisfaction to be in themselves bad and harmful.
Two or more opposing principles, ideas, likes, operations, interests,
in short any two or more conflicting tendencies, may be combined, and
this combination can be effected by other means than the expedient of
compromising. Lobster salad and fruit salad may be attractive to the
gourmet, but no compromise between the two would be palatable.
It is not always the height of wisdom and expediency to kill too many
birds with one stone.
This attitude towards life in general does indeed solve many problems
and vexed questions. It constitutes a method of conciliating
inconsistencies, both real and apparent. It explains how it is that one
can appreciate both classical and popular music, classical and light
literature, how idealism may exist side by side with a keen interest
in material things. The real and the ideal, scientific precision
and unscientific emotion, patriotism and internationalism, are not
incompatible with each other in the ‘philosophy of the complete life.’
And what has all this to do with language-study? What bearing have
these fanciful or fantastical philosophical considerations on the
problem of teaching or learning a language rapidly and well? The
connexion is clearer than one might imagine at first sight, for each
of the aphorisms quoted above may serve, if not as a definition of the
ninth principle, at least as a strong suggestion of what the principle
implies.
Those who have followed us, point by point, in our enumeration and
analysis of the eight preceding principles may be in perfect agreement
with our conclusions, but may, nevertheless, be sorely troubled as to
how they are to be carried out in practice. On many points there appear
to be conflicts and inconsistencies; in many cases it would appear to
be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to observe two or more
of these principles simultaneously. How is habit-forming consistent
with interest? How can we combine a study of phonetics with a study
of orthography? How can we combine the development of our spontaneous
capacities with that of our studial capacities? How can we observe the
principle of accuracy and combine it with other principles which are
seemingly in conflict with it--such as the inhibition of our powers of
analysis and synthesis? How are we to foster a keen appreciation of
the classical or literary style of composition, and yet concentrate on
the colloquial and trivial? The principles of gradation and of order
of progression seem to reveal inconsistencies when they are compared
with each other; there is more than a seeming inconsistency between the
process of unconscious assimilation and the principle of concreteness.
Translation is destructive, or is often considered so, of the power of
‘thinking in the foreign language,’ and yet it is suggested that the
student should do translation work and at the same time train himself
to think in the foreign language.
These and many other problems or difficulties suggested by the careful
study of the foregoing eight principles can only be solved by the
thorough understanding of the spirit of eclecticism underlying this
ninth principle. We have alluded to the philosophy of the complete life
in order that we may better realize the significance of what we may
term the complete method.
This complete method, mark you, is not a compromise between two or more
antagonistic schools; it boldly incorporates what is valuable in any
system or method of teaching and refuses to recognize any conflict,
except the conflict between the good and the inherently bad. The
complete method will embody every type of teaching except bad teaching,
and every process of learning except defective learning.
The complete method (of which the multiple line of approach is the
expression) is the antithesis of the special or patent method. Patent
or proprietary methods very often, but not always, resemble patent
medicines. We know what they are. A patent language method, like
a patent medicine, claims to prevent or to cure all possible ills
(linguistic or physical, as the case may be) by repeated applications
of one special device or drug; both of them claim to kill innumerable
birds with one stone. One is always inclined to doubt the efficiency
of an instrument which is designed to perform too many distinct
functions; a tool designed to serve both as a hairbrush and as a hammer
is not likely either to brush or to hammer very efficiently, and our
imagination refuses to picture what one vehicle could possibly afford
us all the advantages of a bicycle, a motor-car, a wheelbarrow, and an
express train, not to mention those of a boat or balloon. One dish,
however nutritive, succulent, and satisfying, will not constitute a
complete banquet.
Let us apply the principle of the multiple line of approach to the
solving of a number of vexed questions, well known to all those who
have read or participated in discussions and controversies on the
subject of language-teaching.
Shall reading be intensive or extensive? That is to say, shall we
take a text, study it line by line, referring at every moment to our
dictionary and our grammar, comparing, analysing, translating, and
retaining every expression that it contains? Or shall we take a large
number of texts and read them rapidly and carelessly, trusting that
quantity will make up for the lack of quality in our attention and the
lack of intensity?
Shall we translate? We can learn much from translation; it affords
us many types of interesting and valuable exercises. Or shall we ban
translation? For we know that under certain conditions translation may
foster and encourage more than one vicious tendency.
Shall we memorize sentences or shall we learn to construct them, both
synthetically and by the substitution process?[5] Either plan seems to
have its advantages and its disadvantages.
[5] See page 176 and footnote, and p. 177.
Which is better: drill-work or free work? The principle of accuracy
inclines us towards the former; the principle of interest and our
instinctive striving for naturalness incline us towards the latter.
Are we to study with conscious attention or with effortless attention?
In the average lesson or language-course, the former alone is
considered, but the young child, or the adult assimilating a language
under ideal conditions, knows no other than the latter.
Shall we assimilate our language-material by reading or by listening
to people? Many claim to have mastered a language rapidly and
successfully by the one method, while many others ascribe their success
to the fact that they have learnt exclusively by the other.
Which is the best method of retaining language-material: by repeating
it aloud or by writing it? There again, we find many who are staunch
adherents of either method (and consequently opponents of the other).
Active or passive work? Do we gain and retain our impressions by
speaking and writing, or do we in reality acquire proficiency in the
use of language by the processes of reading and listening?
Without the principle of the multiple line of approach there are
only two ways of settling these and all similar questions. One is to
adopt one alternative, rejecting the second; the other is to effect
a working compromise between the two. Shall we read intensively or
extensively? “Read intensively,” says one; “No, read extensively,”
says another; and the compromiser comes along and says, “Read neither
very intensively nor very extensively.” Shall we translate or shall
we banish translation? “Translate by all means,” says one; “Banish
translation,” says another; and the compromiser says, “Translate a
little occasionally, but do not let the translation be particularly
good.” Drill-work or free work? The compromiser suggests something
between the two, mechanical enough to destroy naturalness, and free
enough to encourage inaccuracy. Shall we memorize sentences, or shall
we construct them? The compromiser suggests that we should aid our
memory by doses of mental synthesis, in fact just enough to prevent the
laws of memorizing from operating.
The principle of the multiple line of approach suggests a third and
better procedure. Instead of accepting the one and rejecting the
other, instead of adopting the middle course which frequently militates
against the success of either extreme, this principle says, “Adopt
them both concurrently, but not in one and the same operation. At
times read intensively; at others read extensively. At appropriate
moments, and for specific purposes, make the fullest use of all sorts
of translation work; at other moments, and for other specific purposes,
banish translation entirely. At times, more especially during the early
stages, let there be an abundance of drill-work; later, but not before
the student is perfectly ripe for it, let us introduce free work; and
then let the two types alternate. At certain moments, more especially
during the early stages, let the memorizing of sentences be carried
out on a most extensive scale; at other moments, as a distinctly
separate operation, let us cause the student to perform exercises in
constructing correct sentences himself.”
We have had occasion to note that this principle suggests the
inadvisability of killing too many birds with one stone. The principle
goes farther and adds to the figure of speech just quoted the two
following corollaries, viz.: “Find the right stone to kill the right
bird,” and “It is often advisable to kill one bird with more than
one stone.” There are many different ways of teaching a difficult
sound, there are many different ways of teaching a difficult point in
grammar, a curious form of construction, or of causing the student
to discriminate between two things which ought not to be confused.
In these and in all similar cases, there is no reason why several
methods should not be used concurrently; they need not be strictly
co-ordinated. The cumulative effect of approaching the difficulty from
different and independent angles will certainly secure the desired
result. Superficial and rapid work on most points plus intensive and
thorough work on certain essential specific points will generally
ensure a well-assimilated whole. Either of these methods will tend
to correct any disadvantages attached to the other and will be
complementary to the other. The high degree of accuracy which results
from intensive work will tend to spread by contagion to that portion of
the work which must necessarily be done in a more summary fashion.
This principle, which underlies all others, leaves the door open for
new devices, new methods, and improvements on the old ones. It leaves
us free to welcome and to adopt all sorts of innovations, provided such
innovations are likely to prove of value.
We will quote one example of what may happen when we do not
sufficiently realize the importance or the scope of the ninth principle.
The teacher of French may consider that a certain amount of theory is
useful and helpful; he may consider it necessary to explain all manner
of things to students--how certain sounds are formed, how certain verbs
are conjugated, why certain constructions must be used; he may consider
it his duty to give information on hundreds of doubtful or difficult
points. And he is often perfectly justified in doing so; explanations
of the right sort and given at the right moment are indeed valuable.
This same teacher considers also that many opportunities should be
given of hearing French spoken, in order to train his student’s
powers of observation and of semantic association. This also is good
and reasonable; passive audition, unconscious or semi-conscious
assimilation, immediate understanding and expression, are processes the
value of which we have always insisted upon.
But this teacher, too anxious to kill two birds with one stone,
combines the two forms of work; he says, “I have a number of difficult
things to explain, and I will explain them in French; the student will
therefore have a double gain.” The student, however, unless already
very considerably advanced, is not a gainer but a loser; he fails
to understand the explanation, and in his efforts to do so he fails
to adopt the proper receptive attitude towards the actual language
material. After all, we do not learn how to write shorthand from books
written exclusively in shorthand, and the book which teaches us how to
use the Morse code is not printed exclusively in the Morse code. To use
the foreign language for the purposes of a vehicular language under the
pretext that the more the student hears of the foreign language the
better he will learn, is a method which stands fully condemned when
we properly realize the nature and scope of the principle we are now
examining.
We may sum up this principle of the multiple line of approach fairly
concisely in the following terms: Let us approach the language, or any
specific point in the language, simultaneously from several distinct
points of departure, by several distinct but gradually converging
avenues. The observing of this principle will alone enable us to
observe consistently and successfully the eight other vital principles
which it has been the object of this book to set forth.