Berle, has recently pointed out in his valuable book for parents, “The
School in the Home,” “is the tool of knowledge. It is the instrument
by which we gain and garner information, by which we co-ordinate what
we know and make inferences and express results. But if you blunt the
tool, not to say destroy it, before you begin to use it, how are you
ever to get knowledge in any proper or real sense? Everything depends
upon this tool. The mastery of a proper use of the mother tongue is the
first and last requisite of sound and extensive mental development.
Language is the key to everything that pertains to human life.
Once get a language and you have the key to manners, civilisation,
habits, customs, history, and all the complex and fascinating story
of humanity. Because you get all these things by reading about them,
and to read you must know the language and you must know it accurately
and extensively, and be able to follow the masters of it who have
embodied their great ideas in literature. That process begins almost at
the cradle. It begins by cultivating accuracy and skill in the use of
the tongue. It begins by striking at, and out, every false thing, the
moment it appears.”
And, commenting on the special dangers of “baby talk,” Doctor Berle
justly observes:
“It is not enough that a word be spoken. It makes a great deal of
difference how it is spoken. The proper vocalisation of words has
an effect upon children, which is often, one may say generally,
overlooked. Almost everybody is fond of repeating the baby’s efforts
to talk, and ‘baby talk’ lingers in many homes an innocent but costly
pleasure, for the parents and the children alike. There are many
persons of mature age at this moment who will never pronounce certain
words properly, since they became accustomed to a false pronunciation
in childhood, because somebody thought it was ‘cute.’ There are many
persons who will never get over certain false associations of ideas,
because somebody thought it was very amusing and funny to see the child
mixing up things in such a beautifully childlike way.”
Putting into practice this first principle of education through the
suggestive power of a parental example characterised by correctness of
speech, soundness of thought, and the moral qualities of cheerfulness,
unselfishness, kindness, politeness, industriousness, and the other
virtues, the greatest care must also be taken to “fertilise” the
child’s mind through proper adjustment of his physical surroundings.
Nothing is more certain—and least appreciated by the average
parent—than the fact that every detail in the child’s material
environment is of suggestive significance to him. Even the pictures
on the walls of his room, the design and arrangement of the furniture
and ornaments, the pattern and colouring of the wall-paper, may play
a decisive part in shaping his character and quickening or deadening
his intellectual activities. For the matter of that, as observation
and experiment have repeatedly demonstrated, adults almost as much as
children react to the suggestive influence of their home environment,
even to the extent at times of thereby being unfavourably affected in
health.
That is why sick people are so frequently benefited by change of
scene. Travel removes them from the baneful influence of their
accustomed environment, and assists in breaking down the mental habits
injurious to their well-being. Too often, however, to their bitter
disappointment, they suffer a relapse after returning home. Yet they
need not remain abroad indefinitely in order to obtain a lasting cure.
In many instances they need not go abroad at all, but can secure the
desired result by making a change in their home surroundings. A most
instructive case in point is afforded by an experience that occurred
to Mr. Frank Alvah Parsons, a practical psychologist as well as a
successful teacher of art in New York city.
The mother of one of Mr. Parsons’ pupils had long been regarded as a
hopeless sufferer from “nerves.” She lived in a suburban town, not many
miles from New York, but her condition was such that it had been months
since she visited that city, and usually she remained at home, secluded
in a private apartment, of sitting-room and bedroom.
One day, having occasion to call on her, Mr. Parsons was much impressed
with the fact that the furniture and decorations of both these rooms
were exceedingly faulty from a psychological as well as an æsthetic
point of view. The walls of the sitting-room were hung with mirrors,
and the room was fairly smothered with bric-a-brac. In both rooms the
colouring and design of the wall-paper contrasted harshly with the
floor-coverings, while the furniture, though expensive, was gaudy
and inharmonious. He talked the situation over with her daughter,
and between them they persuaded her to allow them to make radical
alterations in the furnishings of her rooms.
They papered the walls with a soft sage-green paper, without design.
The woodwork was made lighter, with a shade of green in it. A brass
bedstead was installed, the yellow of the brass blending well with the
green of the paper and woodwork. The bric-a-brac was unceremoniously
bundled out, and, excepting for a few green draperies and some
well-chosen pictures, the rooms were left without ornament. Mahogany
furniture, of a quiet, dignified style, replaced the gilded chairs and
tables previously there.
The effect was to substitute for the former nerve-irritating
environment one that gave out a constant stream of restful, soothing,
strengthening suggestions; and the therapeutic value of the change was
increased by Mr. Parsons wisely insisting that the patient should not
leave the refurnished rooms for two weeks. He desired to expose her,
at once and systematically, to the full suggestive effect of her new
surroundings. At the end of a month, although she had been told that
she would be an invalid for life, she felt strong enough to undertake a
shopping expedition to New York, and soon was as well as in her earlier
days of robust health.
In this case, of course, the cure was effected at a cost beyond the
means of most people. It is not everybody who can afford to refurnish
and redecorate his living-quarters. But the point is that everybody
can so arrange his environment to begin with as to extract from it
suggestions that will assist in maintaining his health and happiness,
and in promoting the proper upbringing of his children. This is equally
within the reach of a dweller in a Fifth Avenue mansion, a Newport
palace, a crowded East Side tenement, or a lonely, isolated farm-house,
miles from the nearest village. I might cite many illustrative
instances to bear out this statement. Here is one, reported by an
observant New York physician:
“The refined tastes and joyous dispositions of the elder children in
a family with whom I often came into contact were a matter of some
surprise to me, as I could not account for the common trait among them
by the position or special characteristics of the parents: they were
in the humblest position socially, and all but poor. My first visit to
their modest home furnished me with the natural solution, and gave me
much food for reflection.
“The children—there were six—occupied two rooms into which the sunlight
was pouring as I entered; the remaining rooms of the apartment were
sunless for the greater part of the day; the colour and design of the
cheap wall-paper were cheerful and unobtrusive; bits of carpet, the
table-cover, and the coverlets on the beds were all in harmony, and
of quiet design in nearly the elementary colours; everything in these
poor rooms of poor people had been chosen with the truest judgment for
æsthetic effect, and yet the mother seemed surprised that I could make
so much of what seemed to her so simple.”
That colours have a profound psychological effect on human beings is
a fact which should be appreciated far more generally than is now the
case. Used in small quantities, either in the clothing or in household
decoration, the colour red, for instance, is most stimulating, both
in the way of helping to overcome depression, and quickening the
intellectual processes. But when used in any great amount it tends to
over-stimulation, with resultant nerve-strain. According to an English
savant, Havelock Ellis, who has made a careful study of the psychology
of colours, there are some people so constituted that they become
violently excited, fall into convulsions, or faint, if obliged even for
a short time to look at anything vividly red.
The same effect has been noted from yellow. In one instance, the case
of a man operated on at the age of thirty for congenital cataract, it
is recorded that “the first time he saw yellow, he became so sick that
he thought he would vomit.” And that yellow has a nerve-stimulating
effect fully comparable with that of red is curiously indicated by the
statement of a friend of mine, a professor in a Western university,
who says:
“Whenever the day is overcast, or I have to do a piece of work calling
for unusual mental exertion, I always wear a red or yellow necktie.
I find that either colour has a stimulating effect on my mental
processes.”
On the other hand, the colour violet appears to have a deadening
effect. Another acquaintance, a member of the Harvard University
professorial staff, and a well-known psychologist, assures me that
the sight of anything violet almost nauseates him, and gives rise to
a most depressed feeling. In such a case, however, it may be that the
colour is subconsciously associated with some unpleasant occurrence
in the earlier life, and that the nausea and depression are merely
symbolical manifestations of the presence in the subconsciousness of
some memory of this occurrence, concerning which there is no conscious
recollection. (This important point will later be discussed in detail.)
Of more immediate significance is the fact that violet rays are
sometimes used to quiet unruly patients in asylums for the insane, and
that the alienist Osburne, after many years’ experience, testifies that
“in the absence of structural disease, violet light—for from three to
six hours—is most useful in the treatment of excitement, sleeplessness,
and acute mania.”
Altogether, there is warrant for the assertion that red, yellow, and
violet are colours that should not be used overmuch, either in one’s
apparel or in the decorating of one’s home. Blue, green, grey, and
brown, on the contrary, have psychological qualities that make them
particularly desirable for decorative purposes.
Care must always be exercised, though, to work out a colour scheme
that harmonises, since discordant colour effects inevitably carry to
the mind suggestions of discordant thinking and feeling and doing. As
a first aid to the study of colour harmony—a subject which, as soon
as its significance to human welfare is more generally recognised,
will be taught far more systematically than at present—I recommend
painstaking observation of the colour schemes developed by master
artists, as shown in the paintings to be seen in the art museums of
our cities; or, better still, excursions into the country, where, in
the colour combinations of earth and sky, tree and water, mountainside
and valley meadow, one can gain invaluable hints from that greatest of
artists, Nature. On such excursions, need I add, the children should
be taken along, to receive early lessons in the appreciation of true
beauty.
But now, while thus utilising to the full the educational possibilities
opened by the suggestibility of childhood—while reinforcing
the educational value of example by the educational value of a
well-arranged home environment—it must also be recognised that the
child’s extreme suggestibility carries with it certain dangers. As
was said, the essential element in every successful suggestion is the
automatic, uncritical acceptance of whatever idea is thus intruded
into the mind. It goes without saying that, so long as the critical
faculty remains unawakened and untrained, it will always be possible to
intrude by suggestion erroneous as well as sound ideas.
More serious still, there is warrant for adding that unless the child’s
critical powers be developed at an early age—unless he be taught from
the outset of his life how to observe accurately and reason closely—the
tendency to uncritical acceptance may become more or less of a habit.
That, under present conditions of child training, this is a real danger
is clearly shown by the results of recent experiments by French and
German psychologists.
In Germany, Kosog, visiting a school-room before the beginning of the
lesson-hour, placed three objects, a pen-holder, a pocket-knife, and a
piece of chalk, so near the edge of the teacher’s desk that they could
be plainly seen by every pupil in the room. During the brief recess
that followed the first lesson-hour, he removed these objects, and
after the pupils had reassembled asked them what they had seen on the
desk the previous hour. Hardly one of them, it turned out, had noticed
the objects at all. Next day, _after leaving the desk entirely bare
the first hour_, he put the same question to them at the beginning of
the second hour. Now 26 per cent. of the pupils asserted that they had
seen the pocket-knife, 57 per cent. the chalk, and 63 per cent. the
pen-holder.
In France, the headmaster of a school, following the instructions
of the famous psychologist, Alfred Binet, announced to a class of
eighty-six boys that he intended to test their memory of the length of
lines. A line two inches long, ruled on white cardboard, was shown to
each boy, who, after looking at it, had to draw it as accurately as he
could on a sheet of paper. The boys were then told that they would be
asked to draw another line a little longer than the first, and were
accordingly given a second line to copy. In reality it was shorter
than the first, being only an inch and three quarters long. Yet out of
the entire class only nine resisted the suggestion and believed their
eyes and their memories rather than the master’s statement. The other
seventy-seven boys—some of whom were fourteen years old—made the second
line longer than the first.
A variation of the same experiment was made on another class, to whom
a series of thirty-six lines was shown, one after the other. Of these
lines the first five progressively increased in length, while the
remainder were uniformly long. Not one of the forty-two boys who were
asked to copy them reached the maximum length at the fifth line, while
nine industriously continued making their lines longer up to the last
line shown them. The first five lines, that is to say, had acted as
a suggestion having sufficient force to induce in them, despite the
evidence of their eyes, a belief that the entire series similarly
increased in length.
Much the same thing, as everyday observation shows, occurs in the
case of full-grown men and women. The judicious have long grieved at
the gullibility with which people who are by no means illiterate and
uneducated accept and act upon the most preposterous suggestions of the
fraudulent advertiser, from the patent-medicine man to the swindling
promoter. Political mountebanks and charlatans daily ride into power
through nothing else than skilfully working on the suggestibility of
the voters. So, too, religious cults, no matter how fantastic, gain
a foothold and a following. “I am Elijah,” some one announces, and
straightway a multitude proclaim him Elijah. “There is no such thing as
disease,” says another, and thousands take up the cry, accepting the
absurd suggestion with as much unthinking readiness as was shown by the
French boys who, although they had concrete evidence to the contrary,
accepted their master’s deceptive statements.
What these, and even more glaring evidences of undue suggestibility,
really mean is that there is something wrong with our educational
methods. Appreciating this, there is an increasing tendency to
criticise and condemn the school system. “Our common schools,” exclaims
President Emeritus Charles W. Eliot, of Harvard University, “have
failed signally to cultivate general intelligence, as is evinced by the
failure to deal adequately with the liquor problem, by the prevalence
of gambling, of strikes accompanied by violence, and by the persistency
of the spoils system.” From the standpoint also of mere efficiency much
complaint is made. The charge is even heard that the public schools
of to-day make for mediocrity, and that instead of fostering they in
reality retard the development of a child’s intellect. In the words of
a recent critic (_The Psychological Clinic_, vol. iv., p. 141):
“The public school attempts the impossible feat of making a course for
all children, irrespective of strength, mentality, inheritance, or home
environment—whether they are to be lawyers or blacksmiths, artisans
or mathematicians. Plainly, this course cannot suit all children. Is
it, then, adapted to the bright child? Doctor Witmer, Professor of
Psychology in the University of Pennsylvania, says, ‘The public schools
are not giving the bright child a square deal. He is marking time,
waiting for the lame duck to catch up.’ Is the course intended to fit
the dull pupil? Evidently not, in view of the tears shed by the many
who, despite their efforts, fail to keep up to grade.
“It has been suggested that the course has been designed for the
average pupil. The ‘average’ pupil does not exist. You cannot strike
an average between a goose and an eagle, nor can you add a dull pupil
and a bright pupil together and get anything. A course of study based
on this idea is not fitted to any one. Instead, then, of a school to
fit the pupil, the pupil is made to fit the school. The lock-step
masquerades under the name of discipline. The rigid curriculum tends
with each passing year to produce more and more the type of factory
employés, obliterating individuality and forcing all into the same
mould.”
That there is a large measure of truth in these criticisms cannot be
denied, and our school authorities to-day are bestirring themselves
to effect sundry greatly needed reforms. But is it wholly fair to
cast on the schools the blame for human irrationalities of thought and
conduct? Nay, is it not possible, in view of the fact that habits are
formed so early in life, that the real trouble may be that the material
with which the schools have to work—the children of the nation—is
more or less unworkable by the time it gets to the schools? Is it
not reasonable to assume that neglect of proper instruction in the
pre-school period has permitted the formation of faulty and well-nigh
unchangeable modes of thinking and feeling?
“But,” I hear a puzzled parent protest, “do you mean that the formal
education of the child should be begun before he has reached school
age? Would you have us lay on the tender mind the burden of actual
study?”
I mean precisely that. Not only do I believe that the postponement of
formal education to “school age” is a serious pedagogical error, but I
also believe that “actual study,” properly directed, would by no means
prove such a “burden” on the mind of the child as most people take for
granted.
I am willing to go further than this, and to contend, for reasons
which I shall endeavour to make clear, that if the formal education of
children were begun earlier than is the rule at present, and if it were
carried out with the supplementary aid of education through a really
good example and a really well arranged environment, our boys and girls
would develop not only into morally superior men and women, but also
into men and women of mental attainments fairly comparable with those
to-day displayed by the comparative few acclaimed as men and women of
“genius.”
III
THE SECRET OF GENIUS
The theory of genius which it is my purpose to present and defend has
little in common with the views held by most students of this world-old
problem. Especially does it differ from the well-known and at present
dominant doctrine of the Moreau-Lombroso-Hagen school of investigators,
by whom the man of genius is regarded as an aberrant, even degenerate,
type of humanity, closely allied to the insane, and hence by
implication deserving to be repressed rather than encouraged. Nor am I
at one with those who, justly protesting against the degeneracy theory,
themselves contend that genius is an anomaly in the scheme of Nature,
and that the man of genius, biologically speaking, is a “variation”
dependent on unknown, perhaps unknowable, laws of heredity.
On the contrary, following the lead of the late Frederic W. H.
Myers—the first, in my opinion, to glimpse the true significance and
fundamental characteristics of genius—I shall endeavour to show that
in the man of genius there is, at bottom, no real departure from
normality, and that he differs from the “average man” only in being the
fortunate possessor of a power for utilising more freely than other
men faculties common to all. More than this, going beyond Myers, I
venture to affirm that genius is to an appreciable extent susceptible
of cultivation, so as to become a far more frequent phenomenon than it
is to-day.
In other words, I maintain that God, in giving to the world its Dantes,
Newtons, and Emersons, has not intended them as mere objects of
admiration and bewilderment, but as indications of possibilities open
to the generalty of mankind.
Such a view, it may at once be conceded, could not reasonably have
been advanced many years ago. It rests mainly on facts then unknown
or misunderstood, and even now little appreciated outside of a
narrow circle of scientific investigators. Foremost in importance is
the discovery that, in addition to the ordinary realm of conscious
thought, there exists in all of us a second realm—that of the so-called
subconscious—in which, quite without any will-directed effort of our
own, the most varied mental processes are carried on.
The subconscious, in fact, is a kind of vast store-house, wherein
are preserved, seemingly without time limit and in the most perfect
detail, memory-images of everything we have seen, heard, or otherwise
experienced through our sense-organs. It is also a kind of workshop
for the facile manipulation of ideas, including even the elaboration
of complicated trains of thought. Manifestly, the more freely and
habitually one can draw on its resources, the more one ought to be able
to accomplish with regard to any set task or chosen field of work. And
in this, I am persuaded, we have the clue to the true explanation of
the brilliant achievements of the man of genius.
He does what he does so well, not because he is of an abnormal type of
mentality, as the Lombrosians ask us to believe, nor yet because he is
born with gifts transcending those of other men, but simply because he
has found a way more readily, more frequently, and more profitably than
others to avail himself of the subconscious powers that are the common
heritage of the race. Or, to put it more elaborately in the words of
Frederic Myers:
“I would suggest that genius—if that vaguely used word is to receive
anything like a psychological definition—should be regarded as a power
of utilising a wider range than other men can utilise of faculties
in some degree innate in all—a power of appropriating the results of
subliminal mentation to subserve the supraliminal stream of thought; so
that an ‘inspiration of genius’ will be, in truth, a subliminal uprush,
an emergence into the current of ideas which the man is consciously
manipulating of other ideas which he has not consciously originated,
but which have shaped themselves beyond his will in profounder regions
of his being. I would urge that here there is no real departure from
normality; no abnormality, at least in the sense of degeneration; but,
rather, a fulfilment of the true norm of man.”
That the inspirations of genius are really nothing more than
spontaneous upsurgings from the depths of the subconscious, is indeed
demonstrable from the recorded statements of men of genius themselves.
To the modern psychologist one of the most impressive proofs of the
actuality of subconscious mental processes, is the occasional solution
in dreams of problems that have long baffled the waking consciousness.
In this way abstruse mathematical problems have sometimes been worked
out after all hope of solving them had been abandoned; and troublesome
clerical errors, the perpetual dread of book-keepers, have been cleared
away during sleep, as in the following typical instance, reported by a
successful business man to the Society for Psychical Research: