THE USING OF IDEAS, AS A SIXTH FACTOR IN STUDY
_The indefiniteness of the endpoint of study._
The student has accomplished much when he has discovered some of the
closer relations that a topic bears to life; when he has supplemented
the thought of the author; when he has determined the relative
importance of different parts and given them a corresponding
organization; when he has passed judgment on their soundness and
general worth; and when, finally, he has gone through whatever drill
is necessary to fix the ideas firmly in his memory. Is he then through
with a topic, or is more work to be done? Digestion of food is
likewise a long process, the food having to be acted upon in various
ways in the mouth, the stomach, and the intestines. But with food
there is always a certain end to be reached, called assimilation,
which is the actual changing of its nutriment into the solids and
liquids of our bodies. Is there a similarly definite end to be reached
in the study process?
It must be admitted that while we can define this end somewhat sharply
in words, it is very difficult to know when it has been actually
reached. Many a business man has felt convinced that he understood a
certain business project perfectly, until the outcome has proved the
contrary. Business failures are largely due to such deception. Even
highly educated men are often surprised at their want of mastery of
questions that they had supposed to be fully within their grasp.
Socrates spent much of his time bringing such surprises to the
promising but overconfident young men of Athens. Robert Y. Hayne, the
distinguished champion of nullification, no doubt experienced such a
surprise when Webster delivered his great speech on that subject. The
actual mastery of subjects is perhaps never complete; it is only
relative. Even a child may have as good a grasp of one subject as a
philosopher has of another, and each may be deceived in regard to the
extent of his understanding.
The common ignorance as to how much study is necessary for the mastery
of knowledge is suggested by the common ignorance as to how much work
is necessary for the assimilation of food. It takes from three to five
hours for food that has been eaten to get beyond the stomach, and
people ordinarily assume that the assimilative process is pretty well
completed by that time. The fact is, however, that it is then only
well begun; for it requires from ten to twelve hours to dispose fully
of a meal, and most of the work of digestion takes place _after_
the food leaves the stomach. While the assimilation of knowledge is
what the student is supposed to aim at, how much that involves is even
less understood.
_Importance of as great definiteness in the endpoint as possible._
In the digestion of food our organisms provide for themselves, so that
we do not need to worry greatly over some ignorance of the process.
But our responsibility in the assimilation of knowledge is much
greater, for that does not go on uninterruptedly even while we sleep;
it will be carried only so far as we have the energy and insight to
take it.
That being the case, it is very easy for one to stop too soon in the
study of a topic. For instance, when a lesson in history has been only
memorized, the digestive process has been carried little further than
physical digestion has been taken when food reaches the stomach. That
is, it is barely begun. Yet very many young people stop near this
point, and they sometimes even take credit to themselves for getting
so far.
We might add comprehension of the thought to the work of memorizing
and still be far from the end. We can have comprehended and memorized
the Beatitudes, for example, and be as free from any effect from them
as the proverbial duck's back is from the effect of water. We can pass
good examinations in psychology and logic with the same absence of
influence. That certainly does not signify assimilation. Assimilation
means the spiritual nourishment that is received by making new thought
homogeneous with one's own thought, by making it an integral part of
one's self.
Remembering how young people generally study, it seems probable that
many of them spend a large part of their time providing for
nourishment that they never get. They do a lot of hard work collecting
the raw materials of knowledge without working them over so as to reap
either the pleasure or the profit intended. Here is where some of the
waste in education lies.
It is highly important, therefore, that the student reach as definite
as possible a conception of the endpoint to be attained in study.
Although the meaning of assimilation may not be perfectly clear, a few
of its characteristics at least may be distinguished, so that we can
feel some certainty as to how far we have got in the process, and have
some notion as to how much more must be done in order to reach the
approximate goal.
_The endpoint accepted in mastery of the useful arts._
Study of the useful arts, such as the various trades, consists of two
distinct parts. On the one hand, facts must be mastered that pertain
to the nature of materials, to methods of using implements or tools,
and to plans tor construction. In cabinet-making, for example, the
qualities of woods and paints, the rules for using the saw, plane, and
chisel, and the various ideas governing designs for household
furniture must all receive attention. In other words, a considerable
body of theory must be acquired.
On the other hand, this theory must find application under particular
conditions; a table must be made out of certain materials, with
certain tools, according to a certain design. This also involves much
thinking; but, in addition to all that, there is execution of theory,
called doing or practice.
There is, further, a definite relation between these two parts, for
the theory is merely a means to an end. What is wanted is a good
product, and the theory is valuable to the extent that it affects the
product. The useful arts, as studies, stand, therefore, both for
theory and for the application or use of theory, and the latter is the
goal. No one thinks of pursuing any one of the trades without
including the use of his knowledge in practice as the culminating part
of his work.
To what extent should other branches of knowledge resemble the useful
arts in their combination of knowledge with the use of knowledge?
Should the use of ideas be their goal? The answer must depend upon
one's conception of the purpose of life in general and, therefore, of
education.
_The endpoint in the study of other subjects._
Abilities of various kinds in the animal world find their purpose not
in themselves but in adaptation to environment. Fear on the part of
the rabbit, for instance, increases its speed in running, and in that
way protects its life. The bear's strength aids in repelling its
enemies, and the intelligence of both animals finds its purpose both
in protection against enemies and in finding food. Living, in the case
of animals, thus means _getting on,_ and any ability, whether physical
or intellectual, is of importance to the extent that it makes such
getting on successful. The endpoint among animals, then, is the _use_
of their powers in effecting adaptation to their environment.
Man's environment is far broader than that of animals, being moral and
spiritual as well as physical. But his relation to it is substantially
the same; for his success is likewise measured by the degree of
adaptation accomplished. Human abilities are not mainly valuable in
themselves, but rather as means in securing fuller adaptation,
"complete living"; that is, they are valuable for their use.
The end to be attained in education is in full harmony with this idea.
The object of education most emphasized in recent years is
_efficiency,_ which means power to accomplish. It presupposes a
good degree of intelligence, the more the better, but it goes beyond
that; for an efficient person is one who _does_ things. Knowledge
without the ability to apply or _use_ it leaves one theoretical,
which, is a term of reproach.
The various subjects of instruction recognize the necessity of use
very plainly. Painting and music, for example, contain, each, a large
body of theory. They also include an abundance of practice, a
practice, too, that centers in the betterment of man's condition.
Literature deals largely with ideals, presenting the theory of living.
But this theory is valuable chiefly as a guide to conduct. The student
of literature who professes admiration for its ideas without applying
them to himself has derived only a small part of the benefit from it
that he should. Literature is like religion in this respect. The
latter emphasizes the worth of insight into divine truth and of faith
in God; but both this insight and faith are to find their fruitage in
conduct. "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is
this," says the apostle, "to visit the fatherless and widows in their
affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." [Footnote:
James 1, 27.] Similarly, a study of philosophy that does not end in
affecting our own philosophy of life, and thereby our conduct, has
been unsuccessful, even though examinations have been successfully
passed.
Pure science is knowledge that has been proved and properly organized;
and it is highly desirable that specialists devote their lives to its
further development. The main reason, however, is that its
applications may finally be more abundant; and science used for the
purpose of education must recognize the relation of such knowledge to
man as one of its integral and prominent parts. So long as efficiency
is the recognized purpose of education, there is little excuse for a
young person's studying science apart from its applications, or pure
science. There is some profit in it, but there is more profit in
something better. That kind of study should be left to the specialist.
Much has been said in times past about art for art's sake, science for
the sake of science, and knowledge for the sake of knowledge; but
these are vague expressions that will excite little interest so long
as the worth of a man is determined by what comes out of him, by the
service he renders, rather than by what enters in. Other branches of
knowledge used for educative purposes, therefore, resemble the useful
arts in the recognition of their bearings on man, their actual use as
the goal in their study.
_Why the using of knowledge as an endpoint in study needs emphasis._
It might be unnecessary to emphasize this matter were it not that this
conception of study has been reached only after long development and
is still actively opposed. The old Greeks stood for a very different
idea. To Plato, the use of the intellect for practical purposes was
subordinate and almost disgraceful. The summation of existence was to
be found in reflection, and the ambition of the educated man was to
escape from the concrete world, in order to live in the world of
abstract truth. Many of the monks of the Middle Ages resembled the
ancient Greeks in this regard, desiring to separate themselves as
completely as possible from society for the sake of the contemplation
of spiritual matters. Reflection, contemplation, was thus not a means
to an end but an end in itself, and the thinker or dreamer, rather
than the efficient man, was the ideally educated person.
That goal is now condemned for its extreme selfishness; we want men
and women as citizens who are glad to identify themselves with their
fellow beings and ambitious for efficient service among them, not
those who conscientiously ignore the world. Yet there are still plain
tendencies in this direction, as is seen in the fact that an education
that is liberal and cultural is often contrasted with one that is
useful as being of a higher order. "That alone is liberal education,"
says Cardinal Newman, "which stands on its own pretensions, which is
independent of sequel, expects no complement, refuses to be
_informed_ (as it is called) by any end or absorbed into any art,
in order duly to present itself to our contemplation." [Footnote:
_Scope and Nature of University Education,_ p. 135.] Liberal
education is something which "is desirable, though nothing come of
it"; "worth possessing for what it is, and not merely for what it
does." Art for art's sake, rather than art for man's sake, would thus
represent the true spirit of a liberal college course, in the
estimation of this author; the admission of service to mankind as a
prominent purpose, particularly as its goal, would deprive it of its
liberal character, and in the same degree expose it to condemnation.
That is strange doctrine indeed. Liberal is originally a term opposed
to narrow and restricted, and a liberal education might properly be
contrasted with the very narrow bread-and-butter kind that aims at the
mastery of art without theory. But how the restriction caused by the
presence of worthy specific purposes of a thousand kinds is inimical
to the broadening effects of study and to its general value is
difficult to comprehend. The hypothesis guiding a scientific
investigation narrows the work only enough to give it point, and a
well-chosen particular aim will have the same effect on any study.
Further than that, the consciousness in advance that any conclusions
reached must be tested by actual conditions has only a good influence
by nerving us to do our best; and the actual test is of value in
informing us as to the degree of soundness of our ideas. All persons
must be shocked by the misfit between what they supposed to be true
and what they find by trial to be fact, before they will waken up and
do their best thinking. The superabundance of advice that bachelor
uncles and maiden aunts offer in regard to the rearing of children is
due to the fact that their theory has not been refined by practice. It
is the direct contact with the world in the _use_ of knowledge that
reveals the latter's real significance and that converts it into
experience; and it is only the knowledge that becomes experience that
really counts in education.
Again, in arguing the question of allowing normal schools to grant
degrees, a certain well-known educator declares: "Where ability to
exercise a practical art is concerned, degrees are or should be
valueless. They should be restricted merely to the position of
evidences of culture. For this reason normal schools should not grant
degrees." [Footnote: _Year Book of National Society for Scientific
Study of Education,_ 1905, p. 93.] Our better normal schools--which
are the only kind that might be expected to grant degrees--give
instruction in literature, history, geography, fine art, etc., the
same as the degree-conferring colleges. To these subjects the normal
school adds the history of education and the principles of education,
which are presumably harmless so long as they are not applied, and
they usually are not. There remain then the subjects that involve
practice, such as special method courses, applied psychology and
practice teaching; these must be the baneful studies. The good four-
year normal school course presumably requires as much thinking and
other strenuous work as that of the college. But the presence of the
last group of subjects signifies that this study is to culminate in
the _use_ of knowledge; and there's the rub. It is this latter fact
that vitiates the course and precludes the cultural effect that a
college course insures.
If this is a proper interpretation, it is, indeed, strange doctrine.
One can understand how carpentry might not have as great a cultural
effect as literature; but one would think that, if the untested and
therefore half-digested thoughts of literature have a certain cultural
effect, the same thoughts might have a fuller refining influence if
their meaning and force were more fully realized in the way their use
in life might secure their realization; and one would think that the
same might hold in regard to any subject.
The difficulty is that there are two opposing notions of culture. On
the one hand there are persons who conceive culture to be a refinement
that is directly endangered by contact with the realities of life, for
instance by participation in local politics and other social contests,
and by such practice of charity as must be accompanied by physical
exertion and bad smells. Culture is, to them, the name for that
serenity and loftiness of mind that can be attained and preserved only
by keeping a safe distance from the madding crowd; and the cultured
man is pictured by them as sitting in a comfortable chair, preferably
with a book in his hand, and rapt in meditation on lofty themes.
On the other hand there are those who conceive that culture--if more
than a veneer--is a refinement that can be attained only by direct
participation in social life. Such contact with the world may bring
embarrassment, temptation, and failure, as well as their opposites;
but all of these, instead of debasing, are the very experiences that
purify and make gentle; they are the fire without which the refining
process could not take place. Culture means to these people the
ennobling effect of such actual struggles upon a person's whole
outlook on life and upon his way in general of conducting himself; and
the cultured man is pictured by them as in action, even with his
sleeves rolled up, engaged in the accomplishment of high purposes.
Culture is so valuable a quality that each person must determine for
himself which of these two conceptions of it is sound, before he can
decide whether the using of knowledge is worthy of being made the goal
in study or not.
_Breadth of meaning of the term "use."_
In declaring that the _using_ of knowledge is the proper endpoint in
study, it is important that the breadth of meaning of the term _use_
be held in mind. The application of knowledge in earning a livelihood
covers only a small part of what is included. A man is using his
knowledge when he is getting inspiration from poetry that he has
memorized, or drawing new conclusions from previously acquired facts.
He is using it, further, when he entertains his family with it, or by
its means makes himself otherwise agreeable to them. He is using it
when it is made to count in the rearing of children, or in the
performance of the manifold duties of membership in a community, or in
worshiping God. In short, it is being used when its content is turned
to account in the accomplishment of purposes, whatever they be, or is
made to function in one's daily adaptation to physical, moral, and
religious environment.
_States in the assimilation of knowledge._
The student should continually carry in mind the fact that facility in
the use of knowledge is the end of his study, and the only reliable
proof of mental assimilation. It is a long road, however, to this
goal, and any clearly marked stages that must be passed through in
reaching it should be well known, since they will help the student
greatly to keep his bearings and preserve his courage. Here are given
a few such stages.
_1. Collection of crude materials._
First, under the influence of as full a sympathy with the author as
possible, one obtains a fair comprehension of the thought. Much
supplementing may be necessary to this end, as well as careful
consideration of relative values. This may require one or several
perusals of the thought, according to the difficulty of the subject
and to individual ability. Proof of comprehension may be given by the
expression of the thought in one's own words, either from memory or
with the book open. Such study is a comparatively passive kind of
work, calling for subordination of the student to the author, and
amounts to little more than a collection of the crude materials of
knowledge. The corresponding stage in the assimilation of food would
be, perhaps, its preparation and mastication.
_2. Selection and reorganization of the profitable portion of these
materials._
"What am I getting from this author?" or "What profit is this material
bringing me?" is the principal consideration in the second stage. With
the thought of profit uppermost in mind, the student recalls or
further defines any specific purposes of the study that may have
occurred to him; under their guidance he casts aside as non-essential
much of what is presented, and centers his attention on those ideas
that seem to have real value for him.
These he further re-words, in order to determine their very essence,
and also carefully weighs. In addition he reorganizes them, unless
their original organization appears to him peculiarly fitting. The
self must enter so fully, in true assimilation, that neither the
author's wording nor his organization is likely to prove satisfying.
One will seldom quote another's words or follow his order of treatment
when presenting a topic that has been really digested. Not seldom the
last point made by an author will become the first in the student's
mind, showing how radical the reorganization may be.
This step, requiring much discrimination and exercise of judgment from
the learner's own view-point---thereby entirely subordinating the
author to the student--requires a high degree of independence. It
might be called the profit-drawing stage, or the stage in which the
part that promises profit is extracted. The corresponding step in the
assimilation of food is what is technically called digestion, which is
the separation of the nutritious from the waste elements, or the
conversion of food into chyme, preparatory to assimilation.
_3. Translation of this portion into experience._
Even after a person has determined what portion of the crude materials
can be of value to him and has reorganized it in a satisfactory
manner, it may still seem somewhat strange to him,-another person's
thought rather than his own. This is an indication that more work must
be done, for assimilation of knowledge, like assimilation of food,
requires the full identity of the nourishing matter with the self. "A
thought is not a thought," says Dr. Dewey, "unless it is one's own."
[Footnote: _School and Society,_ p. 66.]
The student may thus far have reached nothing more than a
consciousness of facts by themselves, while consciousness of them as a
part of the self is a much more advanced stage. In order to reach this
last point the student may find it necessary to review the thought a
number of times in various ways, stating the pertinent questions and
their answers. He may also practice making the main points with force,
using them either under imagined or under actual conditions. In such a
manner they are tossed about, overhauled, and restated, until a much
closer and more abundant association of the ideas with one another and
with the past experience of the learner is secured; he warms up to
them until he welds them to himself.
As a result a sense of ownership of the knowledge is finally
established, a condition in which one largely loses consciousness of
the original wording and, perhaps, even of the original source of the
thought. The ideas now seem simple and their control easy, and one
enjoys the feeling of increased strength due to real nourishment
received. The feeling of ownership is fully justified, too, for, no
matter where the thought may have originated, it has been worked over
until it has been given a new color and has received one's own stamp,
the stamp of self. This is the step in which the profitable matter
extracted from the crude materials is translated into the learner's
own experience; it corresponds to that part of food assimilation in
which the nutritious portion of our food, secured through digestion,
is made over into the bone, tissue, and muscle of the body.
_4. Formation of habit._
While these steps overlap more or less, each represents a distinct
advance. Study of many topics may be allowed to stop at this point,
although it should be understood that assimilation is perhaps never
complete, and that the appreciation of a great thought, together with
the ability to use it, may continue to grow from year to year. On that
account one should expect to review from time to time, by use and
otherwise, the valuable experiences that have already been "mastered"
through study.
Certain portions of knowledge, however, cannot be left as properly
under our control when they have been translated into experience as
described. Study has thus far brought the student only to the ability
to use his knowledge with fair ease _consciously,_ and extensive
portions of knowledge have to be used quite _unconsciously;_ they
must not only become truly ours but they must become second nature to
us. In all the trades, for example, the many facts about the use of
materials and tools, etc., must be applied "without thinking" before
skill is attained. The same holds in the fine arts. In grammar,
knowledge of the rules must be carried over into habit before one's
speech is safely grammatical. Knowledge of the political and moral
truths contained in history and literature must likewise be converted
into habit before proper conduct is assured. In learning how to study
one must fall into the habit of associating ideas, weighing values,
and carrying points, _unconsciously,_ before the subject is properly
mastered. "Ninety-nine hundredths, or, possibly, nine hundred and
ninety-nine thousandths of our activity is purely automatic and
habitual," says Professor James, "from our rising in the morning to
our lying down each night. Our dressing and undressing, our eating and
drinking, our greetings and partings, our hat-raisings and giving way
for ladies to precede, nay, even most of the forms of our common
speech, are things of a type so fixed by repetition as almost to be
classed as reflex actions." [Footnote: James, _Talks to Teachers,_ p.
65.] Professor James is here referring mainly to motor activity; but
habit is evidently a large factor in all phases of life; and, while
many of the valuable thoughts assimilated by study probably do not
need to be applied unconsciously, it is safe to say that prominent
portions of most branches of knowledge must be converted into habit,
or become second nature, before we can be said to have reached the
desirable endpoint in their pursuit.
The extent of this last advance, in which experience becomes habit, is
indicated by the wide difference that exists between using a correct
form of speech consciously and using it unconsciously, for even years
of trial may intervene between the two. Repetition by use, under as
nearly natural conditions as possible, must be the principal means of
getting through this fourth step. But such practice should be
influenced by certain very important precautions stated by Professor
James. He has in mind primarily the formation of moral habits in his
suggestions, but they apply in large measure also to the formation of
other habits.
1. "In the acquisition of a new habit, or the leaving off of an old
one, we must take care to _launch ourselves with as strong and
decided an initiative as possible._ Accumulate all the possible
circumstances which shall reinforce the right motives; put yourself
assiduously in conditions that encourage the new way; make engagements
incompatible with the old; take a public pledge, if the case allows;
in short, envelop your resolution with every aid you know."
2. "_Never suffer an exception to occur till the new habit is
securely rooted in your life._ Each lapse is like the letting fall
of a ball of string which one is carefully winding up; a single slip
undoes more than a great many turns will wind again."
3. "_Seize the very first possible opportunity to act on every
resolution you make, and on every emotional prompting you may
experience in the direction of the habits you aspire to gain._ It
is not in the moment of their forming but in the moment of their
producing motor effects, that resolves and aspirations communicate the
new 'set' to the brain." [Footnote: James, _Talks to Teachers,_
pp. 67-70. See also James, _Psychology,_ Vol. I, Chapter IV,
"Habit."]
_The time and labor necessary in real assimilation of knowledge._
It is evident that real assimilation of knowledge is a very complex
process, requiring a great amount of time and labor. "And be assured,
also," says Ruskin, "if the author is worth anything, you will not get
at his meaning all at once--nay, that at his whole meaning you will
not for a long time arrive, in any wise." [Footnote: Ruskin, _Sesame
and Lilies._] Ruskin is here doubtless referring mainly to insight
into the thought; but, as has been shown, a point is not assimilated
when one merely sees it clearly; insight into an idea usually precedes
experience or ownership of it by a long interval; and the latter
generally precedes habit by another long period.
We are familiar with these facts as applied to mechanical subject-
matter, such as the multiplication tables and forms of discourse. We
recognize that we must come back to these over and over again if we
are to obtain automatic control over them. Yet we act as though there
was ground for assuming that the more fertile ideas, which are to be
reduced to habits of thought and conduct, require less energy and
patience. There is no justification for any such assumption; it would
seem more reasonable to expect to devote more time to the latter,
rather than less.
Probably not much knowledge acquired either in school or college is
carried through the three or four stages named above; but it is also
true that comparatively little of that knowledge becomes a source of
power, and it is safe to assume that the one fact is at least part
explanation of the other. It is highly important, therefore, that the
student become early reconciled to the fact that the real mastery of
knowledge is a long and laborious process.
CHILDREN'S CAPACITY TO INCLUDE THE USE OF KNOWLEDGE AS A FACTOR IN
THEIR STUDY
_The natural tendency to carry ideas into execution._
One of the most attractive baits that can be offered to a
discontented, restless child is to propose that he _do_ something; and
having received such a proposal, his impatience over delay in its
execution shows how closely his nature links doing with thinking and
planning. The games of children call for comparatively little study;
yet children's desire to be acting is so dominant that they can
scarcely wait to learn the rules before beginning to play. An eight-
year-old girl who had been studying at home with her mother complained
to a friend, "Mother doesn't have me _do_ anything! She has had me
read and spell and learn arithmetic, and that's all." It is partly
because we have come to appreciate, in recent years, this pressing
need of doing, that we have been reforming the elementary school by
introducing manual training, cooking, and sewing. One of the early
surprises and disappointments of children produced by adults is
the failure of the latter to carry into practice plans that they have
been heard to make, and ideals that they have professed to admire.
Having set up specific aims, such as were suggested in Chapter III,
children expect to realize them in practice, because instinct tells
them that the value of theory is found in its application. That is the
reason that they so often inquire, "What is the use of it?" in
connection with their study at school, and that they disapprove so
heartily of any project that won't work.
_Value of this tendency in education._
Living means substantially the same thing with children as with
adults. They have the same general environment as adults; they study
the same large fields of knowledge; and they likewise find the object
of education in efficiency. There are the same reasons, therefore, as
in the case of more mature students, for making the using of knowledge
the aim of their study.
The prospect of applying knowledge is a source of motive for all
grades of learners. I have never seen a class more attentive to every
detail of its procedure than were a certain group of girls who felt
under obligations to eat the strawberry jam that they were making at
school. Furthermore, the actual doing of the things imagined is a
great clarifier of thought for children, as is shown in the very
extensive use that the school makes of motor activity in numerous
studies, and particularly of dramatizing in literature and history. It
is also the most natural test of the practicability of the plans of
children, and on that account a means of developing their soundness of
judgment. This is well illustrated by a certain six-year-old girl who
was making a doll's dress. After working in a very absorbed way for a
time she impatiently exclaimed, "I won't have any lace in my sleeves!"
"Why not?" asked one of her playmates. "'Cause I can't see any way to
put it on," was the reply. One of the chief reasons why the experience
of children outside of school is so educative is the fact that their
ideas and plans are thus continually corrected by trial.
Briefly, therefore, it is normal for children to carry ideas into
execution, and there is the same need of it as in the case of adults.
It might be added that the peculiar ease with which children form
habits furnishes a special reason why the conversion of ideas into
habits should constitute a very important part of their study.
PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHING CHILDREN TO MAKE THE USING OF
KNOWLEDGE A PART OF THEIR STUDY
_1. Special recognition of those facts that should be translated
into habit._
While all of one's knowledge should become familiar enough to form
experience, some of it should be worked over until it is translated
into habit. Facts of this latter kind should be clearly distinguished
from others, in order that they may receive the special attention due
them. The moral truths of literature and history belong plainly to
this group. But there are many others, such, for instance, as the
picturing of places upon the earth's surface rather than upon maps;
the association of places with their latitudes; in the case of such a
live problem as protective tariff, the association of the main facts
in its history; the association of our leading transportation routes
with the progress of our country; looking to the evidence in
considering the value of statements; and the accurate and pointed
wording of questions and answers.
The habits that should be insisted upon in arithmetic are pretty well
agreed upon, such as neatness of written work, accuracy of oral and
written statements, the statement of a problem in one's own words, in
case the meaning is at all doubtful, and the use of the approximate
answer as a guide in finding the exact answer. But only when the great
importance of such procedures is definitely recognized are they likely
to receive the attention necessary to convert them into habits. If
accuracy of statement were recognized as one of the very valuable
habits to be acquired in literature and geography, as well as in
arithmetic, much more effort would probably be put forth to establish
that habit in those studies. Rules for thinking and for the expression
of thought that should result in habits, like the rules of grammar,
pervade all the studies, but until this fact is better established,
and until the principal habits to be expected from each study are more
clearly defined, somewhat as in arithmetic, there will be much wasted
effort in study because important parts of the work will not be
carried to completion.
_2. Studying for one's own benefit._
The average "good" student scarcely gets beyond the first of the four
stages of study outlined, _i. e.,_ the collection of the crude
materials of knowledge. One very important reason tor this is that he
fixes his eyes too intently upon his teacher in the preparation of his
lessons; he studies to satisfy her rather than himself, as though
somehow the school was established for her benefit. This subordination
to the teacher is shown in the attitude toward marks; many a college
student, even, waits helplessly until he can learn his mark before he
knows whether or not he has done well; he seems to lack any conviction
of his own about the matter. The student who feels responsibility
primarily to himself, and therefore bothers little about marks, is
rare.
Yet the selection of that portion of the subject-matter that promises
profit, and its conversion into experience, presuppose the ability to
subordinate both author and teacher to the self, indeed to forget
about both. No teacher can direct a student just what to select, or
inform him when it has become experience with him; the real student
must have a self big enough to carry that responsibility alone.
Weakness in this respect manifests itself very early. Many a child is
so absorbed in his teacher as not to know when he knows a thing until
the teacher's approval is given. In some schools probably half of the
pupils ten to twelve years of age fall into such a halting, apologetic
frame of mind, that they would scarcely risk a meal on the accuracy of
any statement that they make. In comparison, the boy who won't study,
who plays hookey on warm spring days in spite of his teacher's
warnings, and who otherwise defies his teacher, is to be admired; he
is preserving his individuality, his most important possession.
It is largely the teacher's fault if children show no power to
discriminate the values of facts to themselves, and to determine when
they know a thing. They will not always show wisdom in their
selections, and will not always be right when they feel _sure._ A
good degree of reliability in these respects is something that has to
be acquired by long training. But the spirit of self-reliance is a
child's birthright, and if it is lacking in his study it is because
his nature has been undermined. Teachers, therefore, should take great
pains to avoid a dogmatic manner toward children; they should impress
upon them the fact that they are primarily responsible to themselves
in their study, and that teachers are only advisers or assistants in
intellectual matters, and not masters. No doubt many a college student
finds it next to impossible to accomplish the second and third stages
in study here outlined, simply because he finds no individual self
within him to satisfy; it has been so long and so fully subordinated
to others that it has become dwarfed, or has lost its native power to
react; on that account independent selection is difficult and the
sense of ownership is weak.
_3. Means of influencing pupils to use their knowledge.
(1). "The recitation."_
The principal means on which the teacher must rely for influencing
children to include the using of knowledge as a part of their study,
is the recitation. Since at least most of the recitation period is
necessarily spent in talking, it might at first seem that it could
accomplish little in the way of applying what one learns. But when it
is remembered that perhaps the main use of knowledge is found in
conversation and discussion, the situation need not seem so hopeless.
The great thing, then, is to see that the talk of the class room takes
place under as natural conditions as serious conversation and
discussion elsewhere, thus duplicating real life. We know that
children may spell words correctly in lists that they will miss in
writing letters, and that they can solve problems in arithmetic
correctly in school that seem quite beyond them when accidentally met
as actual problems outside. Such facts emphasize the truth that only
actual life secures a full and normal test of knowledge, and,
therefore, that the recitation secures it only to the extent that it
duplicates life.
Here is seen a fundamental weakness of the customary recitation. It
tests only the presence of facts in the minds of pupils, while the
outside world tests their ability to use these facts, which is another
and far more difficult matter, requiring true assimilation. Not merely
that; but the customary recitation makes a sympathetic teacher the
center of activity, she putting most of the questions, interpreting
the answers, foreknowing what the children are trying to say, and
deciding all issues. The children are not expected to offer ideas that
are new to any one present, and they even acknowledge responsibility
only to the teacher, looking toward her, addressing their statements
to her, and usually endeavoring only to make her hear. All this holds
largely in college recitations as well as elsewhere,--in case the
students have the privilege of doing anything beyond listening to
teachers there. This is an extremely unnatural situation and an
inadequate test, as is indicated by the fact that the replies to the
teacher's questions seldom convey clear meaning to strangers present.
Such recitations secure far less individuality of thought and far less
directness and force in its expression than is acceptable anywhere
outside of the academic atmosphere.
The special importance of having the school periods duplicate life
conditions is seen in the fact that the character of the recitation
determines the character of the preparation for it. Both the child and
the more mature student will ordinarily go only so far in preparation
as is necessary in order to meet the demands made upon them in class.
If, therefore, the recitation does nothing more than give a weak test
of the presence of facts, the preparation will include little
selection and reorganization of facts and little effort to translate
them into experience.
How, then, should the customary recitation be modified? Let the young
people come together much of the time for the same purpose that they
have in serious conversation outside; _i.e.,_ not to rehearse or
recite, but to talk over earnestly points that are worth talking over.
With an assigned topic for a lesson, and with a teacher present as
adviser and critic, let them compare their conceptions of what seem to
them the principal facts, supplementing, rejecting, and selecting what
seems to them fit. The relationship that they would bear toward one
another might be the same as in any social gathering; but since it
would be real work and not entertainment that they were attempting,
attention would be centered on a definite subject and remarks would be
more pointed. While the teacher would preserve order in the usual
fashion, and might often come to their aid by correcting and advising,
responsibility for taking the initiative and for making fair progress
would rest primarily upon the children, so that they would be adopting
an attitude and a method that could be directly transferred to the
home and elsewhere. This is the ideal that Dr. Dewey urges in his
_School and Society_ when he says: "The recitation becomes a
social meeting place; it is to the school what the spontaneous
conversation is at home, except that it is more organized, following
definite lines. The recitation becomes the social clearing house,
where experiences and ideas are exchanged and subjected to criticism,
where misconceptions are corrected, and new lines of thought and
inquiry are set up." [Footnote: Dr. John Dewey, _School and
Society,_ p. 65.] The recitation then becomes a period where
children talk before the teacher rather than to her; and in
questioning and answering one another in a natural way they not only
learn pointedness in thinking, but they increase and test their
knowledge by using it. Thus they give witness to the truth of Bacon's
words: "Whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits
and understanding do clarify and break up in the communicating and
discoursing with another; he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he
marshalleth them more orderly; he seeth how they look when they are
turned into words; finally, he waxeth wiser than himself; and that
more by an hour's discourse than by a day's meditation....A man were
better relate himself to a statue or picture, than to suffer his
thoughts to pass in smother." [Footnote: Bacon's Essays, _Of
Friendship._] When many of the school periods are occupied in this
way, the lessons are not likely to be prepared with the teacher first
in mind; what the others will say, what they will accept and reject
and enjoy, as well as what one can one's self present and maintain,
will chiefly occupy the attention. The child will then be selective in
his study, having a view-point of his own; and he may even practice the
forcible presentation of his ideas in the privacy of his study--before
"a statue or picture" if need be. Moreover, with the use of his
knowledge in prospect, he will cease to rely weakly upon his teacher
to tell him whether or not he knows, because he will carry his own
standard.
There is no reason for assuming that all recitations should be spent
in this manner, nor, perhaps, half of them; and they would not prove
highly successful without training on the part of both teachers and
pupils. But such a method of procedure should be common, and it should
be fundamental to other study. In fact, it has succeeded admirably
where tried by intelligent teachers.
_(2). The school and home life of the pupil._
While the recitation can furnish occasion, in the way described, for
the first use of knowledge, its use must be carried much further
before a fair degree of assimilation can be assured. For this purpose
the community life of the school, including the conduct of the
children toward one another in the schoolroom and on the playground,
may be of great value. A teacher of six-year-old children can, by
close observation, find many ways in which the morals contained in
fairy tales that she tells will apply to their daily lives, and with
skill she can draw their attention to the fact in a helpful manner.
So, any teacher who is earnest and observant of the thought, speech,
and general conduct of her pupils can find numerous needs for the
ideas that have been presented in class. The community life of a
school is not very much narrower than that of any ordinary social
community, such as a village; and certainly in a village the uses of
knowledge are without limit, if one will only find them.
If, in addition to a close watch of the school life, the teacher finds
energy to study the home life of her pupils, even to visit them in
their homes, so as to become acquainted with their parents and their
home conditions, she can gather many more suggestions for the
application of school knowledge. If she then makes mention of such
uses at fitting times, and also as a part of examinations calls upon
pupils to report on uses actually made of facts learned, she can both
secure much real use of knowledge acquired at school and at the same
time cultivate responsibility for its further use.