PROVISION FOR A TENTATIVE RATHEE THAN A FIXED ATTITUDE TOWARD
KNOWLEDGE, AS A SEVENTH FACTOR IN STUDY.
A fixed attitude toward facts and conclusions is harmful in several
ways. The following incidents suggest how greatly it interferes with
the usefulness of knowledge.
_Reasons why a fixed attitude toward ideas is undesirable.
1. It interferes with the usefulness of knowledge._
A certain man living in one of the suburbs of Greater New York was
commissioned by his wife to buy some flannel for her at one of the
large department stores in the city. She knew exactly what she wanted,
for she had already purchased some of the goods at this store. So she
gave her husband a sample, with the explicit directions, emphasized,
that the new piece should be of exactly the same quality, with white
edges, and one yard wide.
On arriving at the right counter, the man delivered his sample and
gave his order. But, after some searching, the clerk said, "The exact
thing that you want has all been sold; but I have here just the right
piece," throwing down a bolt, "except that it is slightly coarser.
Could you take that?" Recalling his wife's instructions, the man
replied, "No," somewhat doubtfully.
After more searching the clerk said, "Well, I have here a piece of
just the desired quality, and one yard wide, only it has red edges.
Could you not use that?" and he threw another bolt down on the
counter. Again, remembering the emphasis on the directions received,
the man responded weakly, "No, I think not."
Finally, after further search, the clerk produced a third bolt, with
the remark, "This will probably suit you. It is the exact quality that
you want, and has white edges. The only objection is that it is not
quite a yard wide. Can you not take it?" When for a third time the
hesitating response came, "I think not," the clerk turned away with an
expression of disgust for his customer, mingled with sorrow and pity.
Although the man had done his best, he did not feel sure of his wife's
approval on his return home. When she asked for his purchase he stated
that he had failed to make it, and explained the circumstances.
"Well," she replied, "but why didn't you use your own judgment and
take one of the other pieces?" To which he responded, "I understood
that I was not expected to use any judgment. You strongly emphasized
the fact that you wanted material exactly like the sample, with white
edges and just one yard wide. You told me nothing about what was to be
made out of the goods. How, then, was I in a position to do anything
more than to follow your exact directions?" That ended the discussion;
but the need of less fixedness in instructions given was strongly
impressed upon the husband, and a similar need in the following of
instructions was equally impressed upon the wife. They were thus
agreed as to the desirableness of some adaptability in one's ideas.
A certain class of girls was learning to make French cream candy, and
the recipe for the same, namely,
1 cup of sugar,
1/3 cup of water,
1 salt-spoon of cream of tartar.
was placed on the board for them to follow. After reading the recipe
and listening to some directions from the teacher, including special
emphasis on accuracy of measurements, the class set to work and
produced some candy that even the visitors were glad to eat.
The recipe seemed so simple that one of the visitors a few days later
proposed to his little daughter that they make some French cream candy
at home. They measured out a cup of sugar and one-third of a cup of
water; but there was a halt when it was discovered that there was no
salt-spoon in the house. The man's wife came to their rescue, however,
by giving them some idea of the size of such a spoon. Then it was
found that they had no cream of tartar. On further consultation with
the wife it was learned for the first time that the object of cream of
tartar was to prevent too quick granulation, and that probably some
other acid-like substance, such as vinegar or lemon juice, might do
just as well. So a small amount of vinegar was used instead, and
reasonably good candy was produced.
In a later attempt the exact amount of water necessary to a cup of
sugar had been forgotten, and too much water was used; but by boiling
the mixture longer, excellent candy was made. As a result of these
experiments it was found that only enough water was needed to dissolve
the sugar, and that any one of several other things would do as well
as cream of tartar to prevent granulation. Without this knowledge
there would be many a family which, either on account of bad memory of
proportions or of want of certain materials, could make no use of the
recipe. Such knowledge secured some adaptability or flexibility in the
directions, thereby greatly extending their use.
One of the common objections to preparing lesson plans for teaching is
that they can seldom be followed. More than that, it is declared,
children have such a disappointing way of doing and saying the
unexpected, that a carefully memorized lesson plan is likely to hinder
the teacher in adapting herself to her pupils, and on that account may
do more harm than good.
These objections contain much truth; and if preparing a lesson plan
means mapping out only one fixed procedure, they may be entirely
valid. That is not, however, what such preparation should signify. One
of the principal objects of making one plan is to think out others,
that may be followed or not as occasion demands. That kind of
preparation, instead of tying a teacher's hands, keeps her superior to
any fixed course and gives freedom to deal skillfully with almost any
kind of response.
These examples may be sufficient to show that a fixed attitude toward
directions and plans, or toward knowledge in general, is a serious
barrier to its application. The conditions are always changing, and
one's ideas must be capable of corresponding modification if their
full use is to be enjoyed.
_2. It is opposed to progress._
Our attitude toward knowledge is intimately related also to the
progress that we make; a fixed state of mind precludes reflection
about one's course by precluding a feeling of its need. Men frequently
show blindness to new truth. Boss politicians count upon from eighty
to eighty-five per cent of all voters "standing pat" and voting
according to party, no matter what facts may be discovered against one
candidate and in favor of another. This fact is what gives the bosses
their security. It was thought to be a wonderful sign of progress a
few years ago when sixty thousand out of six hundred thousand voters
in a certain election in Massachusetts ignored party lines and voted
according to the merits of the candidate. One reason that we have so
many mediaeval educational institutions is that persons in control
have so many fixed ideas. There are few colleges and universities to-
day, for instance, in which courses that prepare young women for home-
keeping, such as domestic science and domestic art, receive credit
toward a degree. Progressive changes in any line are conditioned upon
sensitiveness toward changing circumstances and new ideas, and a fixed
attitude is directly opposed to such responsiveness.
_3. It is opposed to peace and happiness._
History is full of instances of the extent to which intolerance
resulting from fixed convictions may carry people. Innumerable murders
and many wars, entailing untold suffering, have found their principal
cause in religious bigotry. Educational and political bigotry are
likewise sources of much bad feeling and unhappiness. Family disputes,
as between father and son, are in large measure due to too great
fixedness of views and opinions; and much of the discontent of old age
is found in the inability of old people to abandon their old-fashioned
notions, so as to adjust themselves to new conditions and enjoy them.
A fixed attitude toward ideas is, therefore, far from an unmixed
virtue; it seriously limits the usefulness of knowledge; it greatly
checks progress; and it strongly opposes peace and happiness.
_4. It finds little justification in the nature of knowledge._
Finally, a fixed attitude toward ideas finds little justification in
the nature of knowledge. If supposed facts were always true, and if
they were always truly understood, a fixed state of mind toward them
might still find justification; but that is far from the case.
Probably some things are true for all time, such, for example, as the
facts of the multiplication table, propositions in geometry, and some
of the laws of physics. But perfect reliability is attached to very
little of our knowledge. Some of the fundamental propositions in the
exact sciences of physics and chemistry are only hypotheses, that have
undergone extensive modification in recent years. Political opinions
are subject to constant change. Sixty years ago the secret ballot was
feared as one of the worst of evils, lest voters might then wreak
awful vengeance upon those in authority; now its desirability is
unquestioned.
So many new ideas have become established in recent years about the
nature of childhood, the aims of the school, and even the use of
school buildings, that education is a radically different field from
what it was only twenty years ago. In the same way, facts in all lines
are ever undergoing modification, and evolution prophesies such
modification through all time to come. Even our statements of
scientific law, instead of being final, only express man's
interpretation of unvarying phenomena of nature, and are subject to
error, like all other work of man. Huxley declares that "the day-fly
has better grounds for calling a thunder storm supernatural than has
man, with his experience of an infinitesimal fraction of duration, to
say that the most astonishing event that can be imagined is beyond the
scope of natural causes." [Footnote: T. H. Huxley, _Life of Hume,_ p.
132.] Even within the field of science, therefore, we can never feel
sure that the last word has been said, and the best established
conclusions may have to submit to correction.
Turning from the better established fields of knowledge to such other
facts as influence daily life, we find them to be remarkably
uncertain. The facts about the weather, that guide the farmer, for
instance, are only beginning to be fully known, and consequent
miscalculations in the planning and the care of crops are without
limit. In ordering goods only six months in advance, the merchant must
be controlled by probabilities, many of which are only narrowly
distinguishable from guesses. The facts that establish friendships are
frequently still less tangible, blind feelings of affinity and faith
alone being not seldom the basis of the attraction. Thus our so-called
knowledge ranges all the way from ideas that possess a very high
degree of probability to those that are a product of faith and hope,
the greater portion of them approaching the latter. More than that,
even in cases where the statements of principles, as in physics and
ethics, seem thoroughly reliable, the variety of their application is
so great and any individual's horizon is so narrow, that errors in
their application to concrete cases must be very common. Correct
theory about any matter by no means carries with it the correct
application of that theory, as every one finds out sooner or later. It
follows, then, that the highest wisdom represents only a rough
approximation to the truth, and that ordinary facts are more nearly
hypotheses than certainties. Since, therefore, so few ideas are fully
reliable and unalterably fixed, a settled attitude toward them is
undesirable, not only because it is opposed to utility, growth, and
happiness, but because it finds no warrant in the real nature of
knowledge.
_The proper attitude toward knowledge._
What, then, is the proper attitude toward knowledge? While one should
not be ultra-conservative, as though everything were finally settled,
neither should one be ultra-radical, as though nothing were
established; bigotry and skepticism are alike to be condemned.
The ideal state of mind is illustrated by leaders in industrial
pursuits, like manufacturing. They confidently make the fullest
possible use of existing knowledge pertaining to their business,
including the latest inventions, while they keep a very careful
lookout for further improvements. That is, they preserve an
unprejudiced, open mind toward both the old and the new. It is just
such a tentative attitude toward knowledge that all people should
cultivate. So much of the old is defective, and so much new truth may
come to light at any moment, that the fair, judicial mind is always in
demand, a mind that is ever ready for new adjustments and that weighs
and decides solely according to evidence. Colonel F. W. Parker used to
declare that the grandest discovery of the nineteenth century was the
_suspended judgment._ Yet this attitude is one that has long been
insisted upon as essential to the scientist; indeed, it is most
generally called the scientific attitude. It is strange, however, that
those fields in which facts are best established should be the ones in
which the importance of a tentative attitude is most emphasized. One
would think that its worth for the non-scientific man would be far
greater, for the facts that he hears about people and things, which
guide him daily, are far less reliable, and his consequent necessity
of changing his views is much more frequent.
_The relation of this attitude to energetic action._
While a tentative attitude toward knowledge may be of great importance
for the scientist or theoretical student, may it not be even harmful
to the ordinary person? Force or energy is one of the chief
requirements in the world of action; and if a person becomes much
impressed with the unreliability of his ideas, as seems necessary in
the cultivation of a tentative attitude, may he not come finally to
lack decision and energy? Certainly we now and then see examples of
indecision and half-hearted action, due at least in part to
appreciation of opposing points of view and to consequent uncertainty
of conclusions.
There may be such a danger; but it is, on the whole, to be courted
rather than avoided; for, while examples of indecision are sometimes
seen, examples of too decided convictions and of excessive energy in
pushing them are far more common. It is not mere action that is
wanted, but _safe_ action. Force must be under the guidance of reason
if it is to be free from danger, and reason is hardly possible without
an interested but impartial attitude toward evidence. Possibly the
energy of educators would be at least temporarily increased if they
formulated and subscribed to definite educational creeds; but the
partiality that would thus be encouraged would soon lead to strife and
wasted effort.
A tentative attitude undoubtedly does limit activity somewhat, but
only as good judgment limits it, for it is one of the leading factors
in such judgment. It tends to eliminate misguided effort, and to check
other action until its object is found to be worthy. Each of these
effects is highly desirable.
On the other hand, there is no reason why it should be expected to
diminish energy after favorable judgment on a project has been passed.
It does not imply indifference or any lack of devotion; it merely
favors the subordination of enthusiasm to insight, and delays
expression of the former till the latter has given lief. The result is
likely to be greater and better sustained effort than otherwise,
because the tested excellence of the cause must be a source of
inspiration and will help to carry one through discouraging intervals.
Washington and Lincoln were both distinguished for freedom from blind
prejudices and corresponding openness to the influence of new ideas;
but they were also distinguished for uncommon energy and firmness in
the pursuit of their main purposes. A tentative attitude toward ideas
is, therefore, a real aid to energetic action in all but unworthy and
doubtful causes; in these cases it is a very desirable hindrance.
[Footnote: For a valuable discussion of this general topic, see J. W,
Jenks' _Citizenship and the Schools,_ particularly Chapter I.]
HOW THIS MATTER CONCERNS CHILDREN
A receptive state of mind is supposed to be one of the peculiar merits
of children. Indeed, they are so sympathetic with any view that the
last presentation that they happen to hear in regard to a disputed
matter is likely to be the one that they accept. It might seem,
therefore, that there is no need of emphasizing the importance of
open-mindedness as a factor in their education. That is far from the
case, however. Children are peculiarly open-minded toward many things;
but it is mainly those that they have had no previous opportunity to
learn about. It is hard to take sides on a matter that you have never
heard of. But the test of an impartial mind is found in those matters
that are already somewhat familiar, so that one has already had some
temptation to choose a side. Note how children act in such cases. How
readily they declare allegiance to the political party of their
fathers and shout with all the vehemence of stand-patters! How
stubbornly they insist upon their teacher's method of solving problems
in arithmetic when their parents undertake to assist them by showing a
better way! They are nearly as intolerant as their parents on such
occasions. How hastily they take sides in disputes among friends! And
how very frequently their impatience with the statements and opinions
of their companions gets them into quarrels and fights!
When we recall the great variety of decisions that they reach in daily
life, and the impulsiveness with which many of them are made and
supported, it becomes evident that precautions against prejudice and
intolerance are not at all out of place in their education. The need
is emphasized, too, when we realize that many persons adopt inflexible
views on so great a number of disputed questions, that they show signs
of becoming old fogies quite early in life. "Old fogyism begins at an
earlier age than we think," says Professor James. "I am almost afraid
to say so, but I believe that in the majority of human beings it
begins at about twenty-five." [Footnote: _Talks to Teachers,_ p.
160.] If instances of intolerance become numerous enough to begin to
class a majority of us as old fogies at this age, certainly many
tendencies toward a fixed state of mind must appear and need treatment
at a much earlier age.
The matter is of special importance with young children, owing to the
nature of the school curriculum during the early years of school.
Beginning reading, writing, and spelling are systems of conventional
signs, where authority and not reason decides what is right.
Arithmetic, also, consists of absolutely definite, indisputable facts.
Thus the facts in the three R's and spelling, which make up most of
the curriculum in the majority of schools for the earlier years, show
no flexibility whatever. They must be learned as fixed things, and
they tend to give the impression that the definiteness and finality
belonging to them are to be expected in all subjects. This impression
is strengthened, too, rather than destroyed, by the behavior of
average parents. The conditions are, therefore, very favorable for the
development of snap judgments and fixed attitudes among children,
unless such influences are counteracted by very careful training.
SPECIFIC SUGGESTIONS FOB CULTIVATING A TENTATIVE ATTITUDE AMONG BOTH
CHILDREN AND MORE MATURE STUDENTS
_1. Acquaintance with a variety of views._
University students preparing for supervision of instruction often
observe recitations together, with the object of discussing their
merits and defects. No matter how carefully they may have analyzed a
recitation, it is interesting, when they come to compare conclusions,
to observe how their view-points vary, how many things each person has
overlooked, and how widely their judgments at first differ. Many a
student who has pursued such a course of study has reached the
conviction that no one person is capable of discovering all the
important factors in thirty minutes of instruction, and that his own
conclusions are probably faulty in numerous serious respects. This
impression in regard to the fallibility of individual judgment has a
wholesome effect on any tendency to be too positive and fixed, while
it directly engenders respect for other people's opinions.
Frequent discussion of questions in class, even among younger
children, can have a similar influence, as can also the use of
reference works and different texts on a subject. The young student
should come to regard acquaintance with varying views as necessary to
the formation of a reliable opinion on any topic and of sound judgment
in general. That conviction will compel him to keep on the lookout for
new light.
Says John Stuart Mill: "The whole strength and value, then, of human
judgment, depending on the one property that it can be set right when
it is wrong, reliance can be placed on it only when the means of
setting it right are kept constantly at hand. In the case of any
person whose judgment is really deserving of confidence, how has it
become so? Because he has kept his mind open to criticism of his
opinion and conduct. Because it has been his practice to listen to all
that could be said against him; to profit by as much of it as was
just, and expound to himself, and on occasion to others, the fallacy
of what was fallacious. Because he has felt that the only way in which
a human being can make some approach to knowing the whole of a
subject, is by hearing what can be said about it by persons of every
variety of opinion, and studying all modes in which it can be looked
at by every variety of mind. No wise man ever acquired his wisdom in
any mode but this; nor is it the nature of human intellect to become
wise in any other manner." [Footnote: John Stuart Mill. _On Liberty,_
Chapter II.]
_2. Slowness in passing judgment._
A second means by which a student may be kept from too positive and
fixed an attitude is by being trained to feel satisfied that many a
clearly stated problem that has arisen with him cannot be definitely
and finally answered at the present time, and perhaps not at all.
Slowness in passing judgment may usually be urged with propriety. Even
the mere attempts to reply to a query should occasionally be checked
in class when it is evident that they are hasty. Some answers should
be delayed even several days, the time meanwhile being occupied with
the collection of data. Too many difficult questions are answered "at
a sitting," with meager reflection and investigation, as though final
answers in general could be obtained easily and quickly.
There are some problems also that should not be answered at all; not
because they are not valuable, but because their solutions cannot yet
be understood by the student, or are as yet impossible. The
consciousness that knowledge is too difficult, or is positively
wanting here and there, destroys overconfidence in the completeness of
one's attainments and awakens the need of further study. One of the
principal values of many a recitation, in any grade of work, should
consist in the unsolved problems that have been worded.
_3. Cultivation of sympathy._
A good measure of kindly feeling in one's make-up is, perhaps, the
greatest single remedy against a too static condition of ideas.
Feeling seems to have a double function in making one open and
plastic. A kindly attitude toward new ideas is necessary before they
can be viewed long enough to have their value tested. We must be
positively friendly, or willing to see worth, before we can see it.
Sympathy thus secures a hearing for new ideas. It was because the Jews
lacked this feeling and consequent willingness, that Jesus condemned
them for seeing not, though they had eyes, and for hearing not, though
they had ears.
Feeling is also a condition of the appreciation of new thought after
it has once secured a hearing. By a sort of intuition the significance
of a fact is often felt long before the intellect has furnished proof
of its value, the power of feeling supplying motive in this way for
the intellect to do its work. And, again, until the conclusions formed
by the intellect have reached the feelings, they exert little
influence upon one's ways of thinking and acting. Cold sermons have
little effect on most persons, even though, their logic forces assent
to them. Appreciation of worth thus greatly depends upon one's
capacity of feeling.
Considerable warmth of heart or mellowness of nature due to sympathy
is, therefore, an important factor in rendering one willing to listen
to new ideas and to be influenced by them. Without much feeling, a man
is likely to be narrow and unyielding. Gradgrind, in Dickens's _Hard
Times,_ is a shining example of this type. In his excessive devotion
to "hard facts" his emotional nature atrophied, until the many
valuable cues or suggestions about the conduct of his business
and the training of his children that a kindlier nature would have
caught from the events occurring about him, failed to affect him, and
on that account he went to smash. He admirably illustrates in a
negative way Carlyle's striking statement that "never wise head yet
was without warm heart," and he throws light on the profoundness of
Saint Paul's meaning when he said, "Love is...never conceited...but
has full sympathy with truth."
Without an abundance of affection a man is self-centered, a selfish
aristocrat. Sympathy or love allows the ideas of others to be lifted
to a plane on a level with his own and thus helps greatly toward his
tolerance and receptiveness.
It is true that the scientist urges the elimination of all personal
feeling in his investigations. He wants to be as purely intellectual
as possible, in order to see things as they are, while personal bias
tends to color facts and to that extent to vitiate them. It is
chiefly, however, prejudice of all sorts in testing and judging truth
that he is anxious to avoid, rather than any feeling of unalloyed
interest in it. A certain warmth of feeling is necessary for its
comprehension as well as its evaluation. The biologist, for instance,
must be in close sympathy with birds in order to understand them, just
as a mother must be in close sympathy with her child in order to
understand him.
It would scarcely be worth while to include these thoughts were we not
able to preserve and increase our capacity of feeling, in kind and
degree, just as we can preserve and increase our knowledge. It is
partly with this object that we have so broad a curriculum, even in
the primary school, including music, painting, and literature, as well
as other subjects. Literature certainly possesses great value for
developing broad sympathy; it is at least a question if literary men
do not exhibit less prejudice toward new ideas than scientists,
although so much emphasis is placed upon induction, and judgment
according to evidence, in the training of the latter that they might
be expected to be especially open-minded.
In addition to broad study, we can take pains not to study too much,
that is, not so much as to crowd out the emotional life. Insight is
only one of several large factors in a good education, and the
ambitious student is always in danger of becoming too exclusively
intellectual for the highest scholarship. The true relation of insight
to feeling is well illustrated in Lincoln's life, when in the midst of
the most serious and pressing problems he took time for jesting and
humorous tales. In spite of condemnation by his subordinates for
levity, he had excellent grounds for such conduct; for not only was
relaxation secured in this manner--which was important enough--but his
own natural warmth of sympathy was also restored, which was of
greatest value in weighing the worth of suggestions and events. Humor
is an important aid to any serious person in preserving balance; a
good laugh restores perspective.
While it is the duty of the more mature student to cultivate for
himself a many-sided emotional life, even at the expense of some
knowledge, it is the duty of teachers of children in particular to
give them material help in this direction. There are few schools that
do not emphasize learning to the neglect of feeling. The teacher can
help first of all by avoiding setting a coldly intellectual example.
In addition she can study the conduct of children with the object of
correcting their narrowness. Many a child who isolates himself from
conversation and play at recess is growing one-sided, whether he
spends the time in doing nothing or in studying. He should be
influenced to enjoy play and social life, just as he should be
influenced to study, and it is the teacher's task to single out such
cases and restore them to their normal condition.
_4. Subordination of authority to reason._
Young people can learn to distinguish between authority on the one
hand and evidence or reason on the other, and to subordinate the
former to the latter, thus allowing conclusions to be based chiefly on
facts rather than on persons.
The assertion of authority over children, requiring blind obedience on
their part in matters of discipline, is very common. Similar assertion
of authority over both children and adults in intellectual matters is
also common. The authority of custom, for instance, as represented in
the teacher, is dominant in beginning reading, writing, spelling, and
in language in general. In many advanced subjects, also, students are
accustomed to accept many statements as true simply because the
instructors declare them to be.
_(1) The two bases of conclusions._
Some subjects, however, to a peculiar degree eliminate authority,
basing conclusions mainly on reason. Mathematics affords an example.
Personal authority sinks so completely out of sight here that even a
child can dare sometimes to correct the teacher. While the majority of
studies lie between the extremes represented by literature and
mathematics, it is safe to say that conclusions generally can be based
upon reasons that are fairly within the understanding and the reach of
young people, if it seems desirable.
_(2) Inferiority of authority to reason._
Blind obedience is of doubtful value in the discipline of children,
because it is so unintelligent; it is well called _blind._ Blind
submission to authority in intellectual matters, on the part of either
children or adults, is no less objectionable. It is not any person's
mere assertion that makes a thing true, but evidence of some sort; and
evidence is likewise usually necessary to make it interesting and
comprehensible. The artificiality of the authority of a teacher as the
main support for conclusions is plainly seen in the fact that there is
no substitute for it outside of and after school and college. Its evil
influence is also evident from the fact that persons accustomed to
rely much upon it easily come to overlook evidence to the extent of
blindly jumping to conclusions. And, having formed their opinions
independently of reason, they cannot be easily influenced; for an
attitude that has not been reached rationally is not likely to be
modified rationally. Submission to authority easily ends in the most
extreme dogmatism.
_(3) The tendency of authority to usurp the place of reason._
There is a strong tendency, however, for authority to usurp the place
of reason. In penmanship, for example, the teacher often dictates the
proper position of the body, instead of acquainting the child with the
reasons for it. The rules for composition are usually dogmatically
presented, in spite of the fact that there are plain reasons back of
most of them. If, for instance, a sentence did not begin with some
large mark, such as a capital, and end with some other plainly seen
mark, it would be difficult to distinguish one sentence from another,
so as to read. Statements in geography were long based on authority,
like those in grammar; in fact, only very recently has the causal idea
become prominent in geography. High-school students of physics very
generally want to know what the teacher wishes them to see in an
experiment before feeling sure what they do see; and college students
of politics, rather than depend upon the evidence itself, are inclined
to learn the political views of their professors as the means of
finding out what they themselves think.
There are good reasons for this tendency to base conclusions upon
authority. It takes much more knowledge of a subject and much greater
skill in its presentation to make the reasons for facts clear.
Furthermore, it requires a good degree of energy and moral courage on
the part of teachers to decline the compliment that young people
confer upon them in preferring to trust them rather than evidence; and
it also requires a good degree of energy on the part of students to
rely upon their own study of facts. It is not surprising, therefore,
if the average teacher makes himself the main authority for the
statements that he makes in class, and if the average student readily
accepts his authority. That is the easier way to get through a day.
_(4) How this tendency may be combated._
As the first step in combating this tendency, both teachers and
students must decide how highly they value a scientific method of
arriving at conclusions. Heretofore our interest in conclusions as
valuable information has been so great that the method of reaching
them has been neglected; it mattered little how much prejudice or
blind acceptance of authority was connected with them, so long as they
were understood and remembered. If such neglect has been wrong, and if
a habit of basing opinions on carefully selected facts is
approximately as important as knowledge itself,--as is probably
true,--then we have found sufficient motive for serious effort toward
reform.
The next step is to make the words _premises, evidence, proof,_ as
prominent in study as the word _conclusions._ "In reasoning," says ex-
President Eliot, "the selection of the premises is the all-important
part of the process....The main reason for the painfully slow
progress of the human race is to be found in the inability of the
great mass of people to establish correctly the premises of an
argument....Every school ought to give direct instruction in fact-
determining and truth-seeking; and the difficulties of these processes
ought to be plainly and incessantly pointed out." [Footnote: _Atlantic
Monthly,_ "The School," November, 1903, p. 584.] Some college studies,
as physics, for instance, might be taught primarily for the sake of
method rather than subject-matter, and all college subjects, so far as
possible, should emphasize the value of the right method of study.
But scientifically trained college students, with their snap judgments
in fields outside of their specialties, give convincing proof that
emphasis on method in one or a few studies taken up so late in life
cannot inculcate the general habit of mind desired. Such training must
begin much earlier, must in fact extend throughout the whole period of
study, as Dr. Eliot suggests. Teachers in the elementary school in
particular must assume responsibility for developing a scientific
habit of thinking, just as they assume responsibility for correct
speech, and must insist upon the one in every subject as they do upon
the other.
_5. The referring of disagreements of view to large facts or
principles._
The tendency to dogmatize can be further overcome if disagreements of
view are habitually referred for decision to large facts or
principles. Suppose that a dispute has arisen as to when phonics
should be introduced in beginning reading, and how prominent it should
be made. A, wishing to teach children to read as soon and as rapidly
as possible, would drill upon lists of phonetic words and upon
sentences composed only of such words, no matter how artificial they
might be. B, considering other things more important in beginning
school life than learning to read, strongly opposes any extensive and
systematic use of phonics. Reiteration of views, and even the
customary proofs of success by trial, may avail nothing. But
reiteration may lead to derogatory remarks, when each becomes
impressed with the stubbornness and meanness of the other.
Suppose, however, that B, remembering that details of method are
determined by large principles, runs back to his largest controlling
idea in beginning reading, the need of live minds or of lively thought
on the part of the children. Suppose that he shows that extensive use
of phonics during the first year of school means the use of words
without meaning, a tendency that is marked in prayers and greetings
and that has to be actively combated throughout school and college
life. Suppose that he shows, further, that the main progress of the
best primers and readers in the last twenty years has been in
opposition to this tendency and in the direction of interesting
thought, and that good expression of thought rather than the mere
pronouncing of words is the chief element in good reading.
A large principle thus brought to bear is likely to accomplish one of
three things: (_a_) it may lead to full agreement; (_b_) or it may
itself be agreed upon, while the details are still objects of dispute.
But in that case the large thought, having put the details in proper
perspective, prevents unpleasant conflict by revealing their
comparative littleness. Also, agreement on the large point convinces
each disputant of the other's partial sanity, at least, and thus
preserves harmony; (_c_) or, finally, the principle itself may
become an object of dispute. Even then the largeness of the idea
places the discussion on a high plane, and the disputants, impressed
with the dignified, impersonal character of the thought, are
disinclined to personalities.
This value of a principle is often illustrated in the work of
criticising young teachers. Let the critic condemn with authority one
feature of a recitation after another, making free use of the pronoun
_I_, and the young teacher criticised is likely to glare at him
in rising wrath. But let the critic omit the show of authority
entirely, even the use of _I_, merely offering the reasons for
certain objections, particularly some broad principle of method whose
relation to the matter in hand is perfectly plain, and harmony is
almost bound to prevail, no matter how complete the condemnation may
be. Thus people will bear with one another, either agreeing or
agreeing to disagree, so long as discussions center about principles;
but without this condition intolerance and ill feeling easily manifest
themselves.
_6. The delaying of judgment till the evidence has been considered._
Having granted the need of relying on reasons, and large ones, rather
than on authority, the habit can be inculcated of delaying judgment
until the evidence has been considered. It might seem superfluous to
add this suggestion, did it not frequently happen that people get the
cart before the horse in this manner. For example, it is common for
debaters to choose sides as soon as a question is agreed upon, and to
do their studying afterward. Then, having committed themselves to one
side, they study and argue in order to _win_ rather than to get
light. It being regarded as ridiculous for partisans to be on both
sides of a question at once,--even though one's convictions often
place one there,--they ignore strong opposing arguments, bolster up
their own weak assertions by fluency of speech and a bold manner, and
try to substitute witticisms for thought, when thought is lacking.
While such efforts increase knowledge, they pit personality against
personality in such a way that the ego rather than truth becomes the
main object of interest, and on that account their influence as a
whole is extremely injurious. That kind of discussion is not honest,
and its spirit is far removed from that of the true scientist.
Young people should avoid taking sides, at least at the beginning of
their study of a problem, and probably discussion should take the
place of debating. At any rate, the single point, rather than the
whole question, might form the unit of debate. They should be taught
to argue on both sides of a question, according to belief, just as
frank persons do in conversation, to recognize the strength of
opposing arguments, and to confess their own weak points. Then they
would be making truth their aim, rather than victory. Such discussions
are much more typical of life than ordinary debates; and if the latter
seem necessary as a preparation for some professions--which is
deplorable, if true--one should wait to acquire such ability until
professional training begins.
_7. Avoidance of too positive forms of speech._
Aside from debates, people are often tempted to commit themselves too
positively in regard to facts by too positive forms of speech. We so
often hear "I _know_" in place of "I suspect" or "I surmise"; and
the speaker, having committed himself almost before he knows it,
repeats the assertion to make himself more sure, meanwhile wondering
how sure he is.
Benjamin Franklin speaks in his autobiography of having acquired the
habit of expressing himself in terms of modest diffidence, "never
using," he says, "when I advance anything that may possibly be
disputed, the words certainly, undoubtedly, or any others that give
the air of positiveness to an opinion; but rather say, 'I conceive or
apprehend a thing to be so-or-so'; 'It appears to me,' or 'I should
not think it so-or-so, for such-and-such reasons'; or 'I imagine it to
be so'; or 'It is so, if I am not mistaken.' This habit, I believe,
has been of great advantage to me, when I have had occasion to
inculcate my opinions, and persuade men into measures that I have been
from time to time engaged in promoting. And, as the chief ends of
conversation are to inform or be informed, to please or persuade, I
wish well-meaning and sensible men would not lessen their power of
doing good by a positive, assuming manner, that seldom fails to
disgust, tends to create opposition, and to defeat most of those
purposes for which speech was given to us." [Footnote:_Autobiography,_
p. 21, of edition of Cassell & Co.]
Franklin is here considering intemperate forms of speech from the
point of view of others. But they have a corresponding bad effect on
the speaker, making him more dogmatic the more he indulges in them,
until he loses the power to be tolerant of other persons.
Discussion and conversation should be conscientiously utilized by the
student for the practice of intellectual honesty, of sincerity with
himself, for such sincerity lies at the very foundation of true
scholarship.
CHAPTER X
PROVISION FOR INDIVIDUALITY, AS AN EIGHTH FACTOR IN STUDY
_The change in appreciation of the self._
There was a time when people seemed to take pride in self-
depreciation. Believing in total depravity, they were suspicious of
all natural tendencies, and the crushing out of strong desires seemed
no evil. Obedience to Another's will was the one supreme virtue, and
the killing of human nature, the annihilation of self, was the
condition of its attainment. [Footnote: See John Stuart Mill, _On
Liberty,_ Chapter III.]
But the watchwords of modern education--self-activity, self-
expression, self-development, self-reliance, self-control--indicate a
very different attitude now. The emphasis here placed on _self_
recognizes it as the center of virtue; and the suffixes, _activity,
expression,_ etc., declare the unfolding of instincts and other
native powers, up to the point of independence, to be a great
desideratum in education. These watchwords signify that the
constitution of an infant, like that of a young plant, fixes a certain
goal within broad limits for it to reach, the narrower limits being
left to be determined by social ideals. They signify further that this
goal can be reached only by the unfolding of inner powers, and that
the purpose of the educator, like that of the gardener, is not to
create but merely to furnish the food and environment most favorable
to growth. In brief, the object of education must be attained by
quickening to the utmost, rather than by annihilating, the self.
This conception holds good, too, for every human being, in spite of
the infinite variety of individuals. For, according to the doctrine of
interest, which is a term ultimately related to these other terms and
equally emphasized with them, only that spiritual food can be expected
to be truly assimilated by any person which appeals to his peculiar
nature; all else fails of real nourishment, no matter how much drill
may be given to it. Thus the sovereignty of every individual is
recognized. Psychologically speaking, there are no saints among us to
set the standard for others. Each person is worthy of exercising his
own choice, of having his own way; indeed, he _must_ exercise this
privilege if he is to act rightly.
_Causes of this change._
What respect we have come to have for ourselves! Have we, then, put
off corruption and become perfect? And is the millennium at hand? Far
from it. We have merely discovered the method by which we can become
good; and, stated briefly, it is that every one must be true to
himself, or must be himself. It is not strange that, in this age of
scientific investigation, we have come to know more about our own
natures than we did two hundred years ago. And the knowledge gained
touches two great questions: first, the original character of the
infant mind; and second, its method of advance.
As to the former, we are now convinced that the child is originally
endowed with certain impulses and instincts, or with certain
instinctive tendencies, such as fear, love, curiosity, imitation,
pride, constructiveness, appreciation of beauty, and conversational
power, [Footnote: See James, _Talks to Teachers,_ Chapter VII;
also Dewey, _School and Society,_ Chapter II.] and that these
constitute the foundation or starting point for all educational
endeavor. As to the latter, progress takes place by the unfolding of
these instinctive tendencies, by their development rather than by
their repression. Further than that, since everybody is unlike
everybody else in his native impulses, and since his environment
likewise varies, every person must expect to differ from all others,
more or less, in knowledge, desires, and actions. Corruption may be as
common as formerly, perhaps more so, requiring more vigorous
restrictions than ever; but the proper way for any one to advance is
to use the peculiar talents for good with which nature has endowed
him, in the peculiar way fitting to himself. He may not do everything
he likes; but whatever he does do must be an outgrowth of his own
past, in harmony with himself and therefore an expression of himself,
if it is to prove effective.
_The value of individuality in English composition._
This truth is often illustrated in the government of children. A young
teacher who attempts to govern a class "in just the same way as the
principal does it," thus relying upon imitation, is doomed to failure.
Pupils quickly detect the lack of native force, of genuineness, in
such a teacher, and lose respect on that account.
But the vital character of this thought is best illustrated in English
composition. It has long been recognized that merit in that field is
present to the extent that one gives expression to one's own ideas,
and is lacking to the extent that the ideas are borrowed. Whatever is
to be fresh and valuable must bear the peculiar stamp of the author
presenting it.
The reason for this is that only through self-expression is a natural
product obtained. So long as I am consciously imitating another, or am
unconsciously so warped by him as to ignore my own nature and
experience, I am sounding a false note. What another thinks, no matter
how good it may be, cannot properly represent me, and coming from me
as mine, the want of harmony injures. I am in that case merely
pretending, and the outcome is faulty because it is a sham. I might
much better give expression to my own ideas, remembering Wendell
Phillips's assertion that "any man who is thoroughly interested in
himself is interesting to other people." Real interest in self (which
is a very different thing from egotism) implies honesty with self and
consequent freedom from subjection to another. Then naturalness, which
borders closely on originality and is the first guarantee of
excellence, is assured.
Naturalness is assured, too, in my expression of other people's ideas,
provided these have become my own property by right of true
assimilation. In that case they have received my own stamp, so that I
am still offering something at first hand. The virility of even this
kind of thought is well illustrated in the following composition by a
twelve-year-old boy:--
The Chinese and Japanese may look alike in appearance; but they are
not one bit alike. Once upon a time they both were the most civilized
people in the world. Then Confucius came in and told them that they
should learn no more and do exactly what their ancestors did. Both
countries believed in this for a long time. Then the United States
butted in and told them of their danger; they said that they were
going backward instead of forward, and would be conquered by another
nation if they did not pick up. The Chinese would not listen to this
and said the United States had no right to interfere. But Japan
thought there was some truth in this, and so the United States sent
over machines, built factories, laid railroad tracks, etc. The result
is that Japan is winning the war she is fighting with Russia.
_How composition typifies life in general._
English composition is perhaps the best single test of the general
healthfulness of school instruction, and it typifies life in general.
The pretended appreciation of an author, an affected manner,
insincerity in the profession of friendship and religion, anything
that admits a deceitful, artificial element is pernicious in
composition as well as in life. Whatever is good must be true. In
consequence, no matter how extensively persons differ from one
another, the first essential to the highest efficiency of each is
fidelity to his own nature.
We hear a great deal about self-made men, men who have wrested success
from a stubborn world without the help of the schools. They are
examples of those who are guided from within rather than from without.
But every man, so far as he is a man, is self-made. He has had to use
his own observation to see; his own reason and judgment to foresee;
his own discrimination to decide; and his own firmness to stand by his
decisions. [Footnote: See John Stuart Mill, _On Liberty,_ Chapter
III.] His adaptation to his environment has been self-accomplished,
and the first condition of its success has been a noble self-respect.
Trust in self is a prerequisite to ability to do,--we must believe
that we can, before we can,--and obedience to inner promptings is a
necessary antecedent to such trust.
It was true wisdom that led Polonius to close his blessing on Laertes
with the advice, "This above all: To thine own self be true; and it
must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any
man." Character itself is deeply involved. As Mill says: "A person
whose desires and impulses are his own--are the expression of his own
nature, as it has been developed and modified by his own culture--is
said to have character. One whose desires and impulses are not his
own, has no character, no more than a steam engine has a character."
[Footnote: _Ibid._]
_Necessity of accepting the self as it is._
Accordingly, it behooves every one to accept himself as he is. No
doubt every one at times becomes dissatisfied with himself even to the
point of despair. Feeling his own weakness, and seeing the many
superior qualities of persons about him, he thinks how much more
successful he might be if only he were some other person, and envy
takes possession of him. But "there is a time in every man's
education," says Emerson, "when he arrives at the conviction that envy
is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for
better for worse as his portion; that, though the wide universe is
full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through
his toil bestowed on that plot of ground (himself) which is given to
him to till." [Footnote: Emerson, essay on _Self-reliance._] And this
conviction must not be accompanied with self-reproach. Any one who
habitually feels ashamed of himself is shorn of power to do his proper
work in the world. The nature and rightfulness of the desired contentment
with self and of proper self-confidence are suggested by Emerson in
the words: "What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text in the
face and behavior of children, babes, and even brutes....Their mind
being whole, their eye is as yet unconquered, and when we look in
their faces, we are disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody; all
conform to it; so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of
the adults who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and
puberty and manhood no less with its own piquancy and charm, and made
it enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if it will
stand by itself....The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner
and would disdain, as much as a lord, to do or say aught to conciliate
one, is the healthy attitude of human nature." [Footnote: Ibid.]
_Is such individuality conducive to social cooperation?_
But are such unconquered, unconciliatory minds desirable where social
cooperation is a necessity, as in present society? Are not those
persons preferable as citizens who readily put by their claims and
conform? Not by any means! It might be that wisdom would declare the
supposed claim unfounded, and that energy to combat it, rather than
willingness to conform to it, is wanted. Though yielding is often a
virtue, unintelligent conformity is weakness. Intelligent and vigorous
reaction of the individual against all claims for conformity,
sufficient to judge them, is a prerequisite even to actual conformity,
and it is only a well-developed individuality that is capable of such
reaction.
Even military discipline, which represents the extreme in its demand
for slavish mass action, greatly values individual independence.
Soldiers often become isolated from their superiors in the midst of
combat, and are left to act on their own initiative, sometimes
deciding the fate of battles by their resourcefulness. It is partly
appreciation of the worth of individuality in all walks of life that
has spurred the European nations to educate the masses in recent
years.
Ordinary social life makes a constant demand for individual judgment
and self-reliance. A high average of ability and character is required
for the maintenance of our democratic society; but that average can be
attained only when the persons who compose society individually attain
that average, that is, when their individuality is highly developed.
_Why it is necessary to emphasize the importance of individuality
here._
Summarizing the preceding discussion, we see that the ideal man is not
one who is afraid, ashamed, and servile, but one who believes in
himself and dares realize himself rather than imitate others, one, in
short, who lives naturally and honestly. He possesses a personality
commanding enough to produce self-respect, and an individuality bold
enough to mark his thoughts and actions as his own.
Why is it necessary to emphasize this matter so much, particularly
with reference to young people? In our country, where the children are
so often charged with overboldness, and where commercial individualism
seriously threatens society, is there real danger that the
intellectual self may be neglected and that individuality may
consequently be lacking?
_1. Vigor of the reaction required in proper study._
Remembering that method of study is our theme, let us first recall the
degree of vigor necessary in providing for the elements of study that
have been named. Then let us consider some of the ways in which
students show unnaturalness and a tendency toward self-suppression.
A person must stand somewhat firmly upon his own feet in order to set
up for himself such specific aims, as guides for study, as have been
urged in Chapter III. The supplementing of an author's statements is
not so difficult, although one must be able to see around and beyond
him, in order to realize what additions are advisable. The
appreciation of relative worths, particularly the recognition of the
organizing ideas in the treatment of a subject, is a task that
requires a high degree of self-reliance. Judging of the soundness and
general worth of thoughts is certainly not any easier. Any one can
memorize; but to memorize in the proper way requires all the ability
just referred to. The using of knowledge, involving the selection of
the more promising part and its application until it becomes a part of
the self and even habitual, is impossible without a high degree of
mental vigor. Finally, the precautions to be taken in order to
preserve a tolerant attitude presuppose a personality moved by
purposes far higher than those of the average person. Altogether,
therefore, proper study is impossible without a self that is energetic
and firm. It should be noted, too, how little the mere quantity of
knowledge that one has happened to collect counts. It is not so much
learning as individuality that is required to meet these demands; on
that account the child can study just as truly, within his sphere of
experience, as can the adult.
_2. Failure to assert the simplest rights in class._
Now let us consider the evidences of unnaturalness and of want of the
boldness necessary for real study. In both school and college, when
members of the class ignore their mates by addressing only the
instructor, often speaking too low to be heard by others present,
there is usually little complaint. Although each person is a direct
loser, he seems reconciled to such neglect.
Very many young people lack the courage to ask questions in order to
understand a point; and even when asked if they understand and if they
do not wish to put some questions, they still are too timid to
respond; not seldom they declare that they understand when they know
that they do not. Teachers attending teachers' institutes are as bad
as children in this respect. Such conduct is not due to any desire to
deceive, but to self-depreciation; it is more agreeable to prevaricate
than to assert one's self.
_3. Subservience to authority._
The mere desire to please a teacher influences pupils of all ages to
watch the teacher's expressions and gestures and to answer what is
wanted, rather than what is sincerely thought. In Sunday school, in
particular, children can scarcely be got to give sincere answers; they
are so eager to please that they say what they think they ought to
think, rather than what they really think. Undue respect for
professors often has an overpowering influence on university students.
The writer has known of several instances where students of good
ability have almost lost the power to proceed with an argument, on the
unexpected discovery that their view was opposed to that of some
instructor.
The subservience to books is as striking as that to teachers. The
history lesson of a certain class of eleven-year-old children
contained the following paragraph on the appearance of the Indians:
"When the first white men came to our shores, they found the country
inhabited by the people Columbus had named Indians. They had copper-
colored skin, coarse, jet-black hair, high cheek bones, thick lips,
small eyes, and no whiskers." The children had considerable difficulty
in reproducing the substance of this paragraph, attempting it several
times. The writer, who was observing the class, remembered, however,
having seen an Indian exhibition only a few weeks before, which
included Indian men, squaws, boys and girls, and even papooses, and
which this same class had visited in a body. After three rather
unsuccessful attempts to relate the contents of the paragraph, the
class were reminded of their visit to the Indians, and were then asked
to tell how they looked. Forgetting about the text, they had no
difficulty in doing this, for they were speaking out of their own
experience.
Subjects like geography and grammar likewise frequently contain facts
that pupils have long known; yet in school there is such an undue
respect for print that many children dare not subordinate such matter
to their own experience, and for that reason they have the same
difficulty with it as though it were new.
It is rare for even the college student to assert his independence of
both teacher and book. One of the greatest surprises that the writer
received in a two years' college course was produced in a rhetoric
class. The students were ordinarily assigned about twenty pages of
advance text per day, which was reproduced in the recitation. On one
occasion a student who was called upon did very well until he was
interrupted by the professor in charge on account of an omitted topic.
The professor gave the cue, but obtained no response; then, since the
student usually knew his lesson, the professor exercised a special
degree of patience and tried twice more to start him off. Failing,
however, he impatiently asked, "Why didn't you tell about so and so"?
"Why," replied the student, "I did remember something about that; but
I didn't think that it was worth talking about." In the estimation of
the entire class that man deserved a medal, and the writer still
thinks so. There is subject-matter in most text-books that students
are called upon to memorize which they feel is not worth reproduction,
and they are often right; but most college students are as still as
mice when it comes to declaring the fact. Their timidity in purely
intellectual matters is equaled only by their boldness in playing
pranks that require mere physical courage.
Subservience to mere custom is as common as that to teacher and to
print. If certain pictures or musical selections have come to be
generally admired, few persons to whom they fail to appeal have the
courage to acknowledge the fact. There is much pretended enjoyment in
art galleries.
The rate of progress acquiesced in by students is often greater than
fidelity to self will allow. The amount of text and the number of
references assigned frequently leave no possible time for reflection,
although reflection is the sole means by which the self can react on
ideas so as truly to assimilate them. Not seldom both teachers and
students are conscious of this fact and even lament it, yet they
continue in the same course. The result is that the average student
learns to disregard his own questions, doubts, and suggestions, and is
smothered by his studies. Only the exceptional nature rebels, as in
case of the rhetoric, and follows his own gait, even in opposition to
the teacher.
_4. The abnormal lack of initiative in class._
In order to test the power of initiative of young people in study, the
writer once selected a class of twenty children, ranging from ten to
twelve years of age, who were doing the work of the fifth school year.
They were only average pupils in home advantages and native ability.
But the school to which they belonged, being the practice department
of a training college for teachers, undoubtedly allowed a greater
degree of freedom to the individual and possessed more merits than the
ordinary public school. Nine of the children had attended this
particular school from the beginning, and several of the others had
gone there one or more years; and every one of the five different
teachers that the class had had, had been a graduate of a state normal
school, or of a teachers' college, or of both. Here, if anywhere, one
might expect a good degree of independence on the part of the pupils.
Also, the writer had been personally acquainted with the class from
the beginning, so that they felt reasonably at home with him when he
took charge of them in geography and history. After spending two
thirty-minute periods with them on successive days, considering
various review questions in geography, the writer, acting as teacher,
assigned them the following lesson of map questions in the text-
book:--
Here is a relief map of the continent on which we live. What great
highland do you find in the West? In the East? In what direction does
each extend? Which is the broader and higher? Where is the lowest land
between these two highlands? Trace the Mississippi River. Name some of
its largest tributaries, etc.
This lesson was to be studied in class _aloud;_ that is, the writer
was not to do any teaching or give any help; he was to assume as
nearly as possible the attitude of a listener, doing nothing more
than call upon some one now and then to "go on" or to "do what ought
to be done next." The children were to do all that was necessary to
dispose of the questions properly, even to the extent of correcting
one another freely.
With this understanding a girl was called on to begin. She arose and
read, "Here is a relief map of the continent on which we live. What
great highland do you find in the West? In the East?" Then she
stopped, and stood staring at the book. She may have needed to inquire
the meaning of "relief"; or she may have been in doubt whether or not
she should turn to the relief map opposite, which was small, or to the
better map two pages further over; or to the wall map hanging, rolled
up, in front of the class. But, although she was not noticeably
embarrassed, she did none of these things. She waited to be told
_just what to do,_ and she waited patiently--until aid from the
teacher arrived.
In response to the next question, "In what direction does each
[highland] extend?" the two great highlands, the Rockies and the
Appalachians, were described as parallel; and the pupil was passing to
the next question without objections from any source, when the teacher
again had to interfere.
The boy who was called upon for the third question, "Which is the
broader and higher?" stepped to the wall map and pointed out the
Rockies. But, as no one asked why they were supposed to be broader and
higher, the teacher suggested that question himself. Some one gave the
correct reason for considering them the broader; but by that time the
entire class had forgotten that there was a second part to the
question, and were passing on when they were reminded by the teacher
of the omitted part.
In response to the fourth question, calling for the location of the
lowest land between these two highlands, four or five stepped to the
map in succession, showing wide disagreement. Yet no one asked any one
else "Why?" or proposed any way of settling the dispute, or even
evinced any responsibility for finding one. They would have proceeded
to the next question had they not again been halted by the teacher.
In tracing the Mississippi River, only about one-half of it was
pointed out; _i.e._, from Cairo southward. But no one entered
complaint, and the next question was actually read before the teacher
requested more accurate work. The girl called on to "name some of its
largest tributaries" stood silent. Possibly the word tributaries
puzzled her; but she lacked the force necessary to make a request for
help. She seemed to be waiting for the teacher to ask her if she
didn't need to ask some one else for the definition. So the teacher
complied and the definition was given. But then all failed for a time
to answer the original question, apparently because they could not
break it into its two parts, first tracing the principal tributaries
on the map, then finding the names attached to them.
These responses are representative of the writer's earlier experiences
with these children. Although they were not frightened, and plainly
understood that they were to go anywhere in the room, and were to do
or say anything that was necessary, they almost invariably waited to
be told when to step to the board; when an answer was wrong; when
something had been overlooked or forgotten; when the pointer should be
taken up or laid aside; and when they were through with a question.
Between three and four recitation periods of thirty-five minutes each
were consumed, before they were able to do all that was necessary in
answering the extremely simple questions above, with a half-dozen
more, without help. Their frequent smiles of chagrin, too, proved
beyond question that they were fully in earnest in their efforts. This
helplessness was not exhibited on the first few days either. It was
their custom to wait for assistance and directions--even to sit
down--and it was a custom so well established that five weeks of daily
work with them in history and geography, with the avowed object of
breaking it up, only barely began a reform.
Other children, as a rule, would scarcely do better. But these are
cases of children. Would not a class in a normal school or a college
show greater capacity for leadership? Not often. Of course they
possess greater mental power; but the subject-matter with which they
are struggling is more difficult. Any teacher of such a class who
unexpectedly eliminates himself from a recitation by silence, and who
asks the students to provide a substitute from within themselves for
his part of the work, is likely to feel disappointed over the result.
Who will assert that such lack of initiative is natural?
_5. The evil effects of such suppression._
How docile young people are, after all, in intellectual matters! They
lack the courage to resent neglect in class, to acknowledge that they
do not understand, and to ask questions; they lose their initiative
and even independent power to think, when in the presence of teachers;
and they ignore their own experience in favor of print. They are so
bent on satisfying others that they suppress their own inner
promptings. In doing this they seem to confuse moral with intellectual
qualities, acting as though the sacrifice of self in study was equally
virtuous with its sacrifice in a moral way. Yet listen to Emerson's
warning:--
"Books" (and he might have said _teachers_) "are the best of things
well used; abused, among the worst. What is the right use? They
are for nothing but to inspire. I had better never see a book than to
be warped by its attraction clean out of my own orbit, and made a
satellite instead of a system. The one thing in the world, of value,
is the active soul. This every man is entitled to; this every man
contains within him, although in almost all men obstructed, and as yet
unborn....Undoubtedly there is a right way of reading, so it be
sternly subordinated. Man Thinking must not be subdued by his
instruments." [Footnote: _The American Scholar._]
The evil in a young student's being "subdued by his instruments" is
that he is made artificial and dependent, and thereby ceases to be a
whole unit. The artificiality is often shown in the voice. Many
schools, owing to the restraint that their pupils are allowed to feel,
are guilty of establishing a special recitation voice, distinguished
from that ordinarily used in conversation by its different pitch, and
often amusingly distinguished, too, when some interruption during
recitation causes a question about outside or home matters to be
answered in the natural way. Many educated adults have suffered so
much in this respect that they cannot read in natural tones.
The dependence, further, is shown in any attempt to produce thought.
When a student has formed the habit of collecting and valuing the
ideas of others, rather than his own, the self becomes dwarfed from
neglect and buried under the mass of borrowed thought. He may then
pass good examinations, but he cannot think. Distrust of self has
become so deep-rooted that he instinctively looks away from himself to
books and friends for ideas; and anything that he produces cannot be
good, because it is not a true expression of self. This is the class
of people that Mill describes in the words, "They like in crowds; they
exercise choice only among things commonly done; peculiarity of taste,
eccentricity of conduct, are shunned equally with crimes; until, by
dint of not following their own nature, they have no nature to follow;
their human capacities are withered and starved; they become incapable
of any strong wishes or native pleasures, and are generally without
either opinions or feelings of home growth, or properly their own."
[Footnote: _On Liberty,_ Chapter III] Such people cannot perform
the hard tasks required in study, because they have lost their native
power to react on the ideas presented.
The evil is most serious with young children because of their youth.
Many of them, while making good progress in the three R's, outgrow
their tendency to ask questions and to raise objections, in other
words lose their mental boldness or originality, by the time they have
attended school four years. But all along, from the kindergarten to
the college, there is almost a likelihood that the self will be
undermined while acquiring knowledge, and that, in consequence, one
will become permanently weakened while supposedly being educated. In
this respect it is dangerous to attend a school of any grade.
_Why individuality is so difficult to preserve and develop._