13049	----	REVERIES OF A SCHOOLMASTER BY FRANCIS B. PEARSON STATE SUPERINTENDENT OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION FOR OHIO AUTHOR OF "THE EVOLUTION OF THE TEACHER," "THE HIGH-SCHOOL PROBLEM," "THE VITALIZED SCHOOL." CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS CONTENTS CHAPTER I. IN MEDIAS RES II. RETROSPECT III. BROWN IV. PSYCHOLOGICAL V. BALKING VI. LANTERNS VII. COMPLETE LIVING VIII. MY SPEECH IX. SCHOOL-TEACHING X. BEEFSTEAK XI. FREEDOM XII. THINGS XIII. TARGETS XIV. SINNERS XV. HOEING POTATOES XVI. CHANGING THE MIND XVII. THE POINT OF VIEW XVIII. PICNICS XIX. MAKE-BELIEVE XX. BEHAVIOR XXI. FOREFINGERS XXII. STORY-TELLING XXIII. GRANDMOTHER XXIV. MY WORLD XXV. THIS OR THAT XXVI. RABBIT PEDAGOGY XXVII. PERSPECTIVE XXVIII. PURELY PEDAGOGICAL XXIX. LONGEVITY XXX. FOUR-LEAF CLOVER XXXI. MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING REVERIES OF A SCHOOLMASTER CHAPTER I IN MEDIAS RES I am rather glad now that I took a little dip (one could scarce call it a baptism) into the Latin, and especially into Horace, for that good soul gave me the expression _in medias res_. That is a forceful expression, right to the heart of things, and applies equally well to the writing of a composition or the eating of a watermelon. Those who have crossed the Channel, from Folkstone to Boulogne, know that the stanch little ship _Invicta_ had scarcely left dock when they were _in medias res_. They were conscious of it, too, if indeed they were conscious of anything not strictly personal to themselves. This expression admits us at once to the light and warmth (if such there be) of the inner temple nor keeps us shivering out in the vestibule. Writers of biography are wont to keep us waiting too long for happenings that are really worth our while. They tell us that some one was born at such a time, as if that were really important. Why, anybody can be born, but it requires some years to determine whether his being born was a matter of importance either to himself or to others. When I write my biographical sketch of William Shakespeare I shall say that in a certain year he wrote "Hamlet," which fact clearly justified his being born so many years earlier. The good old lady said of her pastor: "He enters the pulpit, takes his text, and then the dear man just goes everywhere preaching the Gospel." That man had a special aptitude for the _in medias res_ method of procedure. Many children in school who are not versed in Latin would be glad to have their teachers endowed with this aptitude. They are impatient of preliminaries, both in the school and at the dinner-table. And it is pretty difficult to discover just where childhood leaves off in this respect. So I am grateful to Horace for the expression. Having started right in the midst of things, one can never get off the subject, and that is a great comfort. Sometimes college graduates confess (or perhaps boast) that they have forgotten their Latin. I fear to follow their example lest my neighbor, who often drops in for a friendly chat, might get to wondering whether I have not also forgotten much of the English I am supposed to have acquired in college. He might regard my English as quite as feeble when compared with Shakespeare or Milton as my Latin when compared with Cicero or Virgil. So I take counsel with prudence and keep silent on the subject of Latin. When I am taking a stroll in the woods, as I delight to do in the autumn-time, laundering my soul with the gorgeous colors, the music of the rustling leaves, the majestic silences, and the sounds that are less and more than sounds, I often wonder, when I take one bypath, what experiences I might have had if I had taken the other. I'll never know, of course, but I keep on wondering. So it is with this Latin. I wonder how much worse matters could or would have been if I had never studied it at all. As the old man said to the young fellow who consulted him as to getting married: "You'll be sorry if you do, and sorry if you don't." I used to feel a sort of pity for my pupils to think how they would have had no education at all if they had not had me as their teacher; now I am beginning to wonder how much further along they might have been if they had had some other teacher. But probably most of the misfits in life are in the imagination, after all. We all think the huckleberries are more abundant on the other bush. Hoeing potatoes is a calm, serene, dignified, and philosophical enterprise. But at bottom it is much the same in principle as teaching school. In my potato-patch I am merely trying to create situations that are favorable to growth, and in the school I can do neither more nor better. I cannot cause either boys or potatoes to grow. If I could, I'd certainly have the process patented. I know no more about how potatoes grow than I do about the fourth dimension or the unearned increment. But they grow in spite of my ignorance, and I know that there are certain conditions in which they flourish. So the best I can do is to make conditions favorable. Nor do I bother about the weeds. I just centre my attention and my hoe upon loosening the soil and let the weeds look out for themselves. Hoeing potatoes is a synthetic process, but cutting weeds is analytic, and synthesis is better, both for potatoes and for boys. In good time, if the boy is kept growing, he will have outgrown his stone-bruises, his chapped hands, his freckles, his warts, and his physical and spiritual awkwardness. The weeds will have disappeared. The potato-patch is your true pedagogical laboratory and conservatory. If one cannot learn pedagogy there it is no fault of the potato-patch. Horace must have thought of _in medias res_ while hoeing potatoes. There is no other way to do it, and that is bed-rock pedagogy. Just to get right at the work and do it, that's the very thing the teacher is striving toward. Here among my potatoes I am actuated by motives, I invest the subject with human interest, I experience motor activities, I react, I function, and I go so far as to evaluate. Indeed, I run the entire gamut. And then, when I am lying beneath the canopy of the wide-spreading tree, I do a bit of research work in trying to locate the sorest muscle. And, as to efficiency, well, I give myself a high grade in that and shall pass _cum laude_ it the matter is left to me. If our grading were based upon effort rather than achievement, I could bring my aching back into court, if not my potatoes. But our system of grading in the schools demands potatoes, no matter much how obtained, with scant credit for backaches. We have farm ballads and farm arithmetics, but as yet no one has written for us a book on farm pedagogy. I'd do it myself but for the feeling that some Strayer, or McMurry, or O'Shea will get right at it as soon as he has come upon this suggestion. That's my one great trouble. The other fellow has the thing done before I can get around to it. I would have written "The Message to Garcia," but Mr. Hubbard anticipated me. Then, I was just ready to write a luminous description of Yellowstone Falls when I happened upon the one that DeWitt Talmage wrote, and I could see no reason for writing another. So it is. I seem always to be just too late. I wish now that I had written "Recessional" before Kipling got to it. No doubt, the same thing will happen with my farm pedagogy. If one could only stake a claim in all this matter of writing as they do in the mining regions, the whole thing would be simplified. I'd stake my claim on farm pedagogy and then go on hoeing my potatoes while thinking out what to say on the subject. Whoever writes the book will do well to show how catching a boy is analogous to catching a colt out in the pasture. Both feats require tact and, at the very least, horse-sense. The other day I wanted to catch my colt and went out to the pasture for that purpose. There is a hill in the pasture, and I went to the top of this and saw the colt at the far side of the pasture in what we call the swale--low, wet ground, where weeds abound. I didn't want to get my shoes soiled, so I stood on the hill and called and called. The colt looked up now and then and then went on with his own affairs. In my chagrin I was just about ready to get angry when it occurred to me that the colt wasn't angry, and that I ought to show as good sense as a mere horse. That reflection relieved the tension somewhat, and I thought it wise to meditate a bit. Here am I; yonder is the colt. I want him; he doesn't want me. He will not come to me; so I must go to him. Then, what? Oh, yes, native interests--that's it, native interests. I'm much obliged to Professor James for reminding me. Now, just what are the native interests of a colt? Why, oats, of course. So, I must return to the barn and get a pail of oats. An empty pail might do once, but never again. So I must have oats in my pail. Either a colt or a boy becomes shy after he has once been deceived. The boy who fails to get oats in the classroom to-day, will shy off from the teacher to-morrow. He will not even accept her statement that there is oats in the pail, for yesterday the pail was empty--nothing but sound. But even with pail and oats I had to go to the colt, getting my shoes soiled and my clothes torn, but there was no other way. I must begin where the colt (or boy) is, as the book on pedagogy says. I wanted to stay on the hill where everything was agreeable, but that wouldn't get the colt. Now, if Mr. Charles H. Judd cares to elaborate this outline, I urge no objection and shall not claim the protection of copyright. I shall be only too glad to have him make clear to all of us the pedagogical recipe for catching colts and boys. CHAPTER II RETROSPECT Mr. Patrick Henry was probably correct in saying that there is no way of judging the future but by the past, and, to my thinking, he might well have included the present along with the future. Today is better or worse than yesterday or some other day in the past, just as this cherry pie is better or worse than some past cherry pie. But even this pie may seem a bit less glorious than the pies of the past, because of my jaded appetite--a fact that is easily lost sight of. Folks who extol the glories of the good old times may be forgetting that they are not able to relive the emotions that put the zest into those past events. We used to go to "big meeting" in a two-horse sled, with the wagon-body half filled with hay and heaped high with blankets and robes. The mercury might be low in the tube, but we recked not of that. Our indifference to climatic conditions was not due alone to the wealth of robes and blankets, but the proximity of another member of the human family may have had something to do with it. If we could reconstruct the emotional life of those good old times, the physical conditions would take their rightful place as a background. If we could only bring back the appetite of former years we might find this pie better than the pies of old. The good brother who seems to think the textbooks of his boyhood days were better than the modern ones forgets that along with the old-time textbooks went skating, rabbit-hunting, snowballing, coasting, fishing, sock-up, bull-pen, two-old-cat, townball, and shinny-on-the-ice. He is probably confusing those majors with the text-book minor. His criticism of things and books modern is probably a voicing of his regret that he has lost his zeal for the fun and frolic of youth. If he could but drink a few copious drafts from the Fountain of Youth, the books of the present might not seem so inferior after all. The bread and apple-butter stage of our hero's career may seem to dim the lustre of the later porterhouse steak, but with all the glory of the halcyon days of yore it is to be noted that he rides in an automobile and not in an ox-cart, and prefers electricity to the good old oil-lamp. I concede with enthusiasm the joys of bygone days, and would be glad to repeat those experiences with sundry very specific reservations and exceptions. That thick bread with its generous anointing of apple butter discounted all the nectar and ambrosia of the books and left its marks upon the character as well as the features of the recipient. The mouth waters even now as I recall the bill of fare plus the appetite. But if I were going back to the good old days I'd like to take some of the modern improvements along with me. It thrills me to consider the modern school credits for home work with all the "57 varieties" as an integral feature of the good old days. Alas, how much we missed by not knowing about all this! What miracles might have been wrought had we and our teachers only known! Poor, ignorant teachers! Little did they dream that such wondrous things could ever be. Life might have been made a glad, sweet song for us had it been supplied with these modern attachments. I spent many weary hours over partial payments in Ray's Third Part, when I might have been brushing my teeth or combing my hair instead. Then, instead of threading the mazes of Greene's Analysis and parsing "Thanatopsis," I might just as well have been asleep in the haymow, where ventilation was super-abundant. How proudly could I have produced the home certificate as to my haymow experience and received an exhilarating grade in grammar! Just here I interrupt myself to let the imagination follow me homeward on the days when grades were issued. The triumphal processions of the Romans would have been mild by comparison. The arch look upon my face, the martial mien, and the flashing eye all betoken the real hero. Then the pride of that home, the sumptuous feast of chicken and angel-food cake, and the parental acclaim--all befitting the stanch upholder of the family honor. Of course, nothing like this ever really happened, which goes to prove that I was born years too early in the world's history. The more I think of this the more acute is my sympathy with Maud Muller. That girl and I could sigh a duet thinking what might have been. Why, I might have had my college degree while still wearing short trousers. I was something of an adept at milking cows and could soon have eliminated the entire algebra by the method of substitution. Milking the cows was one of my regular tasks, anyhow, and I could thus have combined business with pleasure. And if by riding a horse to water I could have gained immunity from the _Commentaries_ by one Julius Caesar, full lustily would I have shouted, _a la_ Richard III: "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" One man advocates the plan of promoting pupils in the schools on the basis of character, and this plan strongly appeals to me as right, plausible, and altogether feasible. Had this been proposed when I was a schoolboy I probably should have made a few conditions, or at least have asked a few questions. I should certainly have wanted to know who was to be the judge in the matter, and what was his definition of character. Much would have depended upon that. If he had decreed that cruelty to animals indicates a lack of character and then proceeded to denominate as cruelty to animals such innocent diversions as shooting woodpeckers in a cherry-tree with a Flobert rifle, or smoking chipmunks out from a hollow log, or tying a strip of red flannel to a hen's tail to take her mind off the task of trying to hatch a door-knob, or tying a tin can to a dog's tail to encourage him in his laudable enterprise of demonstrating the principle of uniformly accelerated motion--if he had included these and other such like harmless antidotes for ennui in his category, I should certainly have asked to be excused from his character curriculum and should have pursued the even tenor of my ways, splitting kindling, currying the horse, washing the buggy, carrying water from the pump to the kitchen and saying, "Thank you," to my elders as the more agreeable avenue of promotion. If we had had character credits in the good old days I might have won distinction in school and been saved much embarrassment in later years. Instead of learning the latitude and longitude of Madagascar, Chattahoochee, and Kamchatka, I might have received high grades in geography by abstaining from the chewing of gum, by not wearing my hands in my trousers-pockets, by walking instead of ambling or slouching, by wiping the mud from my shoes before entering the house, by a personally conducted tour through the realms of manicuring, and by learning the position and use of the hat-rack. Getting no school credits for such incidental minors in the great scheme of life, I grew careless and indifferent and acquired a reputation that I do not care to dwell upon. If those who had me in charge, or thought they had, had only been wise and given me school credits for all these things, what a model boy I might have been! Why, I would have swallowed my pride, donned a kitchen apron, and washed the supper dishes, and no normal boy enjoys that ceremony. By making passes over the dishes I should have been exorcising the spooks of cube root, and that would have been worth some personal sacrifice. What a boon it would have been for the home folks too! They could have indulged their penchant for literary exercises, sitting in the parlor making out certificates for me to carry to my teacher next day, and so all the rough places in the home would have been made smooth. But the crowning achievement would have been my graduation from college. I can see the picture. I am husking corn in the lower field. To reach this field one must go the length of the orchard and then walk across the meadow. It is a crisp autumn day, about ten o'clock in the morning, and the sun is shining. The golden ears are piling up under my magic skill, and there is peace. As I take down another bundle from the shock I descry what seems to be a sort of procession wending its way through the orchard. Then the rail fence is surmounted, and the procession solemnly moves across the meadow. In time the president and an assortment of faculty members stand before me, bedight in caps and gowns. I note that their gowns are liberally garnished with Spanish needles and cockleburs, and their shoes give evidence of contact with elemental mud. But then and there they confer upon me the degree of bachelor of arts _magna cum laude_. But for this interruption I could have finished husking that row before the dinner-horn blew. CHAPTER III BROWN My neighbor came in again this evening, not for anything in particular, but unconsciously proving that men are gregarious animals. I like this neighbor. His name is Brown. I like the name Brown, too. It is easy to pronounce. By a gentle crescendo you go to the summit and then coast to the bottom. The name Brown, when pronounced, is a circumflex accent. Now, if his name had happened to be Moriarity I never could be quite sure when I came to the end in pronouncing it. I'm glad his name is not Moriarity--not because it is Irish, for I like the Irish; so does Brown, for he is married to one of them. Any one who has been in Cork and heard the fine old Irishman say in his musical and inimitable voice, "Tis a lovely dye," such a one will ever after have a snug place in his affections for the Irish, whether he has kissed the "Blarney stone" or not. If he has heard this same driver of a jaunting-car rhapsodize about "Shandon Bells" and the author, Father Prout, his admiration for things and people Irish will become well-nigh a passion. He will not need to add to his mental picture, for the sake of emphasis or color, the cherry-cheeked maids who lead their mites of donkeys along leafy roads, the carts heaped high with cabbages. Even without this addition he will become expansive when he speaks of Ireland and the Irish. But, as I was saying, Brown came in this evening just to barter small talk, as we often do. Now, in physical build Brown is somewhere between Falstaff and Cassius, while in mental qualities he is an admixture of Plato, Solomon, and Bill Nye. When he drops in we do not discuss matters, nor even converse; we talk. Our talk just oozes out and flows whither it wills, or little wisps of talk drift into the silences, and now and then a dash of homely philosophy splashes into the talking. Brown is a real comfort. He is never cryptic, nor enigmatic, at least consciously so, nor does he ever try to be impressive. If he were a teacher he would attract his pupils by his good sense, his sincerity, his simplicity, and his freedom from pose. I cannot think of him as ever becoming teachery, with a high-pitched voice and a hysteric manner. He has too much poise for that. He would never discuss things with children. He would talk with them. Brown cannot walk on stilts, nor has the air-ship the least fascination for him. One of my teachers for a time was Doctor T. C. Mendenhall, and he was a great teacher. He could sound the very depths of his subject and simply talk it. He led us to think, and thinking is not a noisy process. Truth to tell, his talks often caused my poor head to ache from overwork. But I have been in classes where the oases of thought were far apart and one could doze and dream on the journey from one to the other. Doctor Mendenhall's teaching was all white meat, sweet to the taste, and altogether nourishing. He is the man who made the first correct copy of Shakespeare's epitaph there in the church at Stratford-on-Avon. I sent a copy of Doctor Mendenhall's version to Mr. Brassinger, the librarian in the Memorial Building, and have often wondered what his comment was. He never told me. There are those "who, having eyes, see not." There had been thousands of people who had looked at that epitaph with the printed copy in hand, and yet had never noticed the discrepancy, and it remained for an American to point out the mistake. But that is Doctor Mendenhall's way. He is nothing if not thorough, and that proves his scientific mind. Well, Brown fell to talking about the Isle of Pines, in the course of our verbal exchanges, and I drew him out a bit, receiving a liberal education on the subjects of grapefruit, pineapples, and bananas. From my school-days I have carried over the notion that the Caribbean Sea is one of the many geographical myths with which the school-teacher is wont to intimidate boys who would far rather be scaring rabbits out from under a brush heap. But here sits a man who has travelled upon the Caribbean Sea, and therefore there must be such a place. Our youthful fancies do get severe jolts! From my own experience I infer that much of our teaching in the schools doesn't take hold, that the boys and girls tolerate it but do not believe. I cannot recall just when I first began to believe in Mt. Vesuvius, but I am quite certain that it was not in my school-days. It may have been in my teaching-days, but I'm not quite certain. I have often wondered whether we teachers really believe all we try to teach. I feel a pity for poor Sisyphus, poor fellow, rolling that stone to the top of the hill, and then having to do the work all over when the stone rolled to the bottom. But that is not much worse than trying to teach Caribbean Sea and Mt. Vesuvius, if we can't really believe in them. But here is Brown, metamorphosed into a psychologist who begins with the known, yea, delightfully known grapefruit which I had at breakfast, and takes me on a fascinating excursion till I arrive, by alluring stages, at the related unknown, the Caribbean Sea. Too bad that Brown isn't a teacher. Brown has the gift of holding on to a thing till his craving for knowledge is satisfied. Somewhere he had come upon some question touching a campanile or, possibly, _the_ Campanile, as it seemed to him. Nor would he rest content until I had extracted what the books have to say on the subject. He had in mind the Campanile at Venice, not knowing that the one beside the Duomo at Florence is higher than the one at Venice, and that the Leaning Tower at Pisa is a campanile, or bell-tower, also. When I told him that one of my friends saw the Campanile at Venice crumble to a heap of ruins on that Sunday morning back in 1907, and that another friend had been of the last party to go to the top of it the evening before, he became quite excited, and then I knew that I had succeeded in investing the subject with human interest, and I felt quite the schoolmaster. Nothing of this did I mention to Brown, for there is no need to exploit the mental machinery if only you get results. Many people who travel abroad buy postcards by the score, and seem to feel that they are the original discoverers of the places which these cards portray, and yet these very places were the background of much of their history and geography in the schools. Can it be that their teachers failed to invest these places with human interest, that they were but words in a book and not real to them at all? Must I travel all the way to Yellowstone Park to know a geyser? Alas! in that case, many of us poor school-teachers must go through life geyserless. Wondrous tales and oft heard I in my school-days of glacier, iceberg, canyon, snow-covered mountain, grotto, causeway, and volcano, but not till I came to Grindelwald did I really know what a glacier is. There's many a Doubting Thomas in the schools. CHAPTER IV PSYCHOLOGICAL The psychologist is so insistent in proclaiming his doctrine of negative self-feeling and positive self-feeling that one is impelled to listen out of curiosity, if nothing else. Then, just as you are beginning to get a little glimmering as to his meaning, another one begins to assail your ears with a deal of sesquipedalian English about the emotion of subjection and the emotion of elation. Just as I began to think I was getting a grip of the thing a college chap came in and proceeded to enlighten me by saying that these two emotions may be generated only by personal relations, and not by relations of persons and things. I was thinking of my emotion of subjection in the presence of an original problem in geometry, but this college person tells me that this negative self-feeling, according to psychology, is experienced only in the presence of another person. Well, I have had that experience, too. In fact, my negative self-feeling is of frequent occurrence. Jacob must have had a rather severe attack of the emotion of subjection when he was trying to escape from the wrath of Esau. But, after his experience at Bethel, where he received a blessing and a promise, there was a shifting from the negative self-feeling to the positive--from the emotion of subjection to that of elation. The stone which Jacob used that night as a pillow, so we are told, is called the Stone of Scone, and is to be seen in the body of the Coronation Chair in Westminster Abbey. The use of that stone as a part of the chair might seem to be a psychological coincidence, unless, indeed, we can conceive that the fabricators of the chair combined a knowledge of psychology and also of the Bible in its construction. It is an interesting conceit, at any rate, that the stone might bring to kings and queens a blessing and a promise, as it had done for Jacob, averting the emotion of subjection and perpetuating the emotion of elation. Now, there's Hazzard, the big, glorious Hazzard. I met him first on the deck of the S. S. _Campania_, and I gladly agreed to his proposal that we travel together. He is a large man (one need not be more specific) and a veritable steam-engine of activity and energy. It was altogether natural, therefore, that he should assume the leadership of our party of two in all matters touching places, modes of travel, hotels, and other details large and small, while I trailed along in his wake. This order continued for some days, and I, of course, experienced all the while the emotion of subjection in some degree. When we came to the Isle of Man we puzzled our heads no little over the curious coat of arms of that quaint little country. This coat of arms is three human legs, equidistant from one another. At Peel we made numerous inquiries, and also at Ramsey, but to no avail. In the evening, however, in the hotel at Douglas I saw a picture of this coat of arms, accompanied by the inscription, _Quocumque jeceris stabit_, and gave some sort of translation of it. Then and there came my emancipation, for after that I was consulted and deferred to during all the weeks we were together. It is quite improbable that Hazzard himself realized any change in our relations, but unconsciously paid that subtle tribute to my small knowledge of Latin. When we came to Stratford I did not call upon Miss Marie Corelli, for I had heard that she is quite averse to men as a class, and I feared I might suffer an emotional collapse. I was so comfortable in my newly acquainted emotion of elation that I decided to run no risks. When at length I resumed my schoolmastering I determined to give the boys and girls the benefit of my recent discovery. I saw that I must generate in each one, if possible, the emotion of elation, that I must so arrange school situations that mastery would become a habit with them if they were to become "masters in the kingdom of life," as my friend Long says it. I saw at once that the difficulties must be made only high enough to incite them to effort, but not so high as to cause discouragement. I recalled the sentence in Harvey's Grammar: "Milo began to lift the ox when he was a calf." After we had succeeded in locating the antecedent of "he" we learned from this sentence a lesson of value, and I recalled this lesson in my efforts to inculcate progressive mastery in the boys and girls of my school. I sometimes deferred a difficult problem for a few days till they had lifted the growing calf a few more times, and then returned to it. Some one says that everything is infinitely high that we can't see over, so I was careful to arrange the barriers just a bit lower than the eye-line of my pupils, and then raise them a trifle on each succeeding day. In this way I strove to generate the positive self-feeling so that there should be no depression and no white flag. And that surely was worth a trip to the Isle of Man, even if one failed to see one of their tailless cats. I had occasion or, rather, I took occasion at one time to punish a boy with a fair degree of severity (may the Lord forgive me), and now. I know that in so doing I was guilty of a grave error. What I interpreted as misconduct was but a straining at his leash in an effort to extricate himself from the incubus of the negative self-feeling. He was, and probably is, a dull fellow and realized that he could not cope with the other boys in the school studies, and so was but trying to win some notice in other fields of activity. To him notoriety was preferable to obscurity. If I had only been wise I would have turned his inclination to good account and might have helped him to self-mastery, if not to the mastery of algebra. He yearned for the emotion of elation, and I was trying to perpetuate his emotion of subjection. If Methuselah had been a schoolmaster he might have attained proficiency by the time he reached the age of nine hundred and sixty-eight years if he had been a close observer, a close student of methods, and had been willing and able to profit by his own mistakes. Friend Virgil says something like this: "They can because they think they can," and I heartily concur. Some one tells us that Kent in "King Lear" got his name from the Anglo-Saxon word can and he was aptly named, in view of Virgil's statement. But can I cause my boys and girls to think they can? Why, most assuredly, if I am any sort of teacher. Otherwise I ought to be dealing with inanimate things and leave the school work to those who can. I certainly can help young folks to shift from the emotion of subjection to the emotion of elation. I had a puppy that we called Nick and thought I'd like to teach him to go up-stairs. When he came to the first stair he cried and cowered and said, in his language, that it was too high, and that he could never do it. So, in a soothing way, I quoted Virgil at him and placed his front paws upon the step. Then he laughed a bit and said the step wasn't as high as the moon, after all. So I patted him and called him a brave little chap, and he gained the higher level. Then we rested for a bit and spent the time in being glad, for Nick and I had read our "Pollyanna" and had learned the trick of gladness. Well, before the day was over that puppy could go up the stairs without the aid of a teacher, and a gladder dog never was. If I had taken as much pains with that boy as I did with Nick I'd feel far more comfortable right now, and the boy would have felt more comfortable both then and after. O schoolmastering! How many sins are committed in thy name! I succeeded with the puppy, but failed with the boy. A boy does not go to school to study algebra, but studies algebra to learn mastery. I know this now, but did not know it then, more's the pity! I had another valuable lesson in this phase of pedagogy the day my friend Vance and I sojourned to Indianapolis to call upon Mr. Benjamin Harrison, who had somewhat recently completed his term as President of the United States. We were fortified with ample and satisfactory credentials and had a very fortunate introduction; but for all that we were inclined to walk softly into the presence of greatness, and had a somewhat acute attack of negative self-feeling. However, after due exchange of civilities, we succeeded somehow in preferring the request that had brought us into his presence, and Mr. Harrison's reply served to reassure us. Said he: "Oh, no, boys, I couldn't do that; last year I promised Bok to write some articles for his journal, and I didn't have any fun all summer." His two words, "boys" and "fun," were the magic ones that caused the tension to relax and generated the emotion of elation. We then sat back in our chairs and, possibly, crossed our legs--I can't be certain as to that. At any rate, in a single sentence this man had made us his co-ordinates and caused the negative self-feeling to vanish. Then for a good half-hour he talked in a familiar way about great affairs, and in a style that charmed. He told us of a call he had the day before from David Starr. Jordan, who came to report his experience as a member of the commission that had been appointed to adjudicate the controversy between the United States and England touching seal-fishing in the Behring Sea. It may be recalled that this commission consisted of two Americans, two Englishmen, and King Oscar of Sweden. Mr. Harrison told us quite frankly that he felt a mistake had been made in making up the commission, for, with two Americans and two Englishmen on the commission, the sole arbiter in reality was King Oscar, since the other four were reduced to the plane of mere advocates; but, had there been three Americans and two Englishmen, or two Americans and three Englishmen, the function of all would have been clearly judicial. Suffice it to say that this great man made us forget our emotion of subjection, and so made us feel that he would have been a great teacher, just as he was a great statesman. I shall always be grateful for the lesson he taught me and, besides, I am glad that the college chap came in and gave me that psychological massage. CHAPTER V BALKING When I write my book on farm pedagogy I shall certainly make large use of the horse in illustrating the fundamental principles, for he is a noble animal and altogether worthy of the fullest recognition. We often use the expression "horse-sense" somewhat flippantly, but I have often seen a driver who would have been a more useful member of society if he had had as much sense as the horses he was driving. If I were making a catalogue of the "lower animals" I'd certainly include the man who abuses a horse. Why, the celebrated German trick-horse, Hans, had even the psychologists baffled for a long time, but finally he taught them a big chapter in psychology. They finally discovered that his marvellous tricks were accomplished through the power of close observation. Facial expression, twitching of a muscle, movements of the head, these were the things he watched for as his cue in answering questions by indicating the right card. There was a teacher in our school once who wore old-fashioned spectacles. When he wanted us to answer a question in a certain way he unconsciously looked over his spectacles; but when he wanted a different answer he raised his spectacles to his forehead. So we ranked high in our daily grades, but met our Waterloo when the examination came around. That teacher, of course, had never heard of the horse Hans, and so was not aware that in the process of watching his movements we were merely proving that we had horse-sense. He probably attributed our ready answers to the superiority of his teaching, not realizing that our minds were concentrated upon the subject of spectacles. Of course, a horse balks now and then, and so does a boy. I did a bit of balking myself as a boy, and I am not quite certain that I have even yet become immune. Doctor James Wallace (whose edition of "Anabasis" some of us have read, halting and stumbling along through the parasangs) with three companions went out to Marathon one day from Athens. The distance, as I recall it, is about twenty-two miles, and they left early in the morning, so as to return the same day. Their conveyance was an open wagon with two horses attached. When they had gone a mile or two out of town one of the horses balked and refused to proceed. Then and there each member of the party drew upon his past experiences, seeking a panacea for the equine delinquency. One suggested the plan of building a fire under the recalcitrant horse, while another suggested pouring sand into his ears. Doctor Wallace discouraged these remedies as being cruel and finally told the others to take their places in the wagon and he would try the merits of a plan he had in mind. Accordingly, when they were seated, he clambered over the dash, walked along the wagon-pole, and suddenly plumped himself down upon the horse's back. Then away they went, John Gilpin like, Doctor Wallace's coat-tails and hair streaming out behind. There was no more balking in the course of the trip, and no one (save, possibly, the horse) had any twinges of conscience to keep him awake that night. The incident is brimful of pedagogy in that it shows that, in order to cure a horse of an attack of balking, you have but to distract his mind from his balking and get him to thinking of something else. Before this occurrence taught me the better way, I was quite prone, in dealing with a balking boy, to hold his mind upon the subject of balking. I told him how unseemly it was, how humiliated his father and mother would be, how he could not grow up to be a useful citizen if he yielded to such tantrums; in short, I ran the gamut of all the pedagogical bromides, and so kept his mind centred upon balking. Now that I have learned better, I strive to divert his mind to something eke, and may ask him to go upon some pleasant errand that he may gain some new experiences. When he returns he has forgotten that he was balking and recounts his experiences most delightfully. Ed was one of the balkiest boys I ever had in my school. His attacks would often last for days, and the more attention you paid to him the worse he balked. In the midst of one of these violent and prolonged attacks a lady came to school who, in the kindness of her generous nature, was proposing to give a boy Joe (now a city alderman) a Christmas present of a new hat. She came to invoke my aid in trying to discover the size of Joe's head. I readily undertook the task, which loomed larger and larger as I came fully to realize that I was the sole member of the committee of ways and means. In my dire perplexity I saw Ed grouching along the hall. Calling him to one side, I explained to the last detail the whole case, and confessed that I did not know how to proceed. At once his face brightened, and he readily agreed to make the discovery for me; and in half an hour I had the information I needed and Ed's face was luminous. Yes, Joe got the hat and Ed quit balking. If Doctor Wallace had not gone to Marathon that day I can scarcely imagine what might have happened to Ed; and Joe might not have received a new hat. I have often wondered whether a horse has a sense of humor. I know a boy has, and I very strongly suspect that the horse has. It was one of my tasks in boyhood to take the horses down to the creek for water. Among others we had a roan two-year-old colt that we called Dick, and even yet I think of him as quite capable of laughter at some of his own mischievous pranks. One day I took him to water, dispensing with the formalities of a bridle, and riding him down through the orchard with no other habiliments than a rope halter. In the orchard were several trees of the bellflower variety, whose branches sagged near to the ground. Dick was going along very decorously and sedately, as if he were studying the golden text or something equally absorbing, when, all at once, some spirit of mischief seemed to possess him and away he bolted, willy-nilly, right under the low-hanging branches of one of those trees. Of course, I was raked fore and aft, and, while I did not imitate the example of Absalom, I afforded a fairly good imitation, with the difference that, through many trials and tribulations, I finally reached the ground. Needless to say that I was a good deal of a wreck, with my clothing much torn and my hands and face not only much torn but also bleeding. After relieving himself of his burden, Dick meandered on down to the creek in leisurely fashion, where I came upon him in due time enjoying a lunch of grass. Walking toward the creek, sore in body and spirit, I fully made up my mind to have a talk with that colt that he would not soon forget. He had put shame upon me, and I determined to tell him so. But when I came upon him looking so lamblike in his innocence, and when I imagined that I heard him chuckle at my plight, my resolution evaporated, and I realized that in a trial of wits he had got the better of me. Moreover, I conceded right there that he had a right to laugh, and especially when he saw me so superlatively scrambled. He had beaten me on my own ground and convicted me of knowing less than a horse, so I could but yield the palm to him with what grace I could command. Many a time since that day have I been unhorsed, and by a mere boy who laughed at my discomfiture. But I learned my lesson from Dick and have always tried, though grimly, to applaud the victor in the tournament of wits. Only so could I hold the respect of the boy, not to mention my own. If a boy sets a trap for me and I walk into it, well, if he doesn't laugh at me he isn't much of a boy; and if I can't laugh with him I am not much of a schoolmaster. CHAPTER VI LANTERNS I may be mistaken, but my impression is that "The Light of the World," by Holman Hunt, is the only celebrated picture in the world of which there are two originals. One of these may be seen at Oxford and the other in St. Paul's, London. Neither is a copy of the other, and yet they are both alike, so far as one may judge without having them side by side. The picture represents Christ standing at a door knocking, with a lantern in one hand from which light is streaming. When I think of a lantern the mind instantly flashes to this picture, to Diogenes and his lantern, and to the old tin lantern with its perforated cylinder which I used to carry out to the barn to arrange the bed-chambers for the horses. All my life have I been hearing folks speak of the association of ideas as if one idea could conjure up innumerable others. The lantern that I carried to the barn never could have been associated with Diogenes if I had not read of the philosopher, nor with the picture at Oxford if I had never seen or heard of it. In order that we have association of ideas, we must first have the ideas, according to my way of thinking. Thus it chanced that when I came upon some reference to Holman Hunt and his great masterpiece, my mind glanced over to the cynical philosopher and his lantern. The more I ponder over that lantern the more puzzled I become as to its real significance. The popular notion is that it is meant to show how difficult it was in his day to find an honest man. But popular conceptions are sometimes superficial ones, and if Diogenes was the philosopher we take him to have been there must have been more to that lantern than the mere eccentricity of the man who carried it. If we could go back of the lantern we might find the cynic's definition of honesty, and that would be worth knowing. Back home we used to say that an honest man is one who pays his debts and has due respect for property rights. Perhaps Diogenes had gone more deeply into the matter of paying debts as a mark of honesty than those who go no further in their thinking than the grocer, the butcher, and the tax-man. This all tends to set me thinking of my own debts and the possibility of full payment. I'm just a schoolmaster and people rather expect me to be somewhat visionary or even fantastic in my notions. But, with due allowance for my vagaries, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I am deeply in debt to somebody for the Venus de Milo. She has the reputation of being the very acme of sculpture, and certainly the Parisians so regard her or they would not pay her such a high tribute in the way of space and position. She is the focus of that whole wonderful gallery. No one has ever had the boldness to give her a place in the market quotations, but I can regale myself with her beauty for a mere pittance. This pittance does not at all cancel my indebtedness, and I come away feeling that I still owe something to somebody, without in the least knowing who it is or how I am to pay. I can't even have the poor satisfaction of making proper acknowledgment to the sculptor. I can acknowledge my obligation to Michael Angelo for the Sistine ceiling, but that doesn't cancel my indebtedness by any means. It took me fifteen years to find the Cumaean Sibyl. I had seen a reproduction of this lady in some book, and had become much interested in her generous physique, her brawny arms, her wide-spreading toes, and her look of concentration as she delves into the mysteries of the massive volume before her. Naturally I became curious as to the original, and wondered if I should ever meet her face to face. Then one day I was lying on my back on a wooden bench in the Sistine Chapel, having duly apologized for my violation of the conventions, when, wonder of wonders, there was the Cumaean Sibyl in full glory right before my eyes, and the quest of all those years was ended in triumph. True, the Sibyl does not compare in greatness with the "Creation of Adam" in one of the central panels, but for all that I was glad to have her definitely localized. I have never got it clearly figured out just how the letters of the alphabet were evolved, nor who did the work, but I go right on using them as if I had evolved them myself. They seem to be my own personal property, and I jostle them about quite careless of the fact that some one gave them to me. I can't see how I could get on without them, and yet I have never admitted any obligation to their author. The same is true of the digits. I make constant use of them, and sometimes even abuse them, as if I had a clear title to them. I have often wondered who worked out the table of logarithms, and have thought how much more agreeable life has been for many people because of his work. I know my own debt to him is large, and I dare say many others have a like feeling. Even the eighth-grade boys in the Castle Road school, London, share this feeling, doubtless, for in a test in arithmetic that I saw there I noted that in four of the twelve problems set for solution they had permission to use their table of logarithms. They probably got home earlier for supper by their use of this table. I hereby make my humble apologies to Mr. Thomas A. Edison for my thoughtlessness in not writing to him before this to thank him for his many acts of kindness to me. I have been exceedingly careless in the matter. I owe him for the comfort and convenience of this beautiful electric light, and yet have never mentioned the matter to him. He has a right to think me an ingrate. I have been so busy enjoying the gifts he has sent me that I have been negligent of the giver. As I think of all my debts to scientists, inventors, artists, poets, and statesmen, and consider how impossible it is for me to pay all my debts to all these, try as I may, I begin to see how difficult it was for Diogenes to find a man who paid all his debts in full. Hence, the lantern. It seems to me that, of the varieties of late potatoes the Carmen is the premier. Part of the charm of hoeing potatoes lies in anticipating the joys of the potato properly baked. Charles Lamb may write of his roast pig, and the epicures among the ancients may expatiate upon the glories of a dish of peacock's tongues and their other rare and costly edibles, but they probably never knew to what heights one may ascend in the scale of gastronomic joys in the immediate presence of a baked Carmen. When it is broken open the steam ascends like incense from an altar, while at the magic touch the snowy, flaky substance billows forth upon the plate in a drift that would inspire the pen of a poet. The further preliminaries amount to a ceremony. There can be, there must be no haste. The whole summer lies back of this moment. There on the plate are weeks of golden sunshine, interwoven with the singing of birds and the fragrance of flowers; and it were sacrilege to become hurried at the consummation. When the meat has been made fine the salt and pepper are applied, deliberately, daintily, and then comes the butter, like the golden glow of sunset upon a bank of flaky clouds. The artist tries in vain to rival this blending of colors and shades. But the supreme moment and the climax come when the feast is glorified and set apart by its baptism of cream. At such a moment the sense of my indebtedness to the man who developed the Carmen becomes most acute. If the leaders of contending armies could sit together at this table and join in this gracious ceremony, their rancor and enmity would cease, the protocol would be signed, and there would ensue a proclamation of peace. Then the whole world would recognize its debt to the man who produced this potato. Having eaten the peace-producing potato, I feel strengthened to make another trial at an interpretation of that lantern. I do not know whether Diogenes had any acquaintance with the Decalogue, but have my doubts. In fact, history gives us too few data concerning his attainments for a clear exposition of his character. But one may hazard a guess that he was looking for a man who would not steal, but could not find him. In a sense that was a high compliment to the people of his day, for there is a sort of stealing that takes rank among the fine arts. In fact, stealing is the greatest subject that is taught in the school. I cannot recall a teacher who did not encourage me to strive for mastery in this art. Every one of them applauded my every success in this line. One of my early triumphs was reciting "Horatius at the Bridge," and my teacher almost smothered me with praise. I simply took what Macaulay had written and made it my own. I had some difficulty in making off with the conjugation of the Greek verb, but the more I took of it the more my teacher seemed pleased. All along the line I have been encouraged to appropriate what others have produced and to take joy in my pilfering. Mr. Carnegie has lent his sanction to this sort of thing by fostering libraries. Shakespeare was arrested for stealing a deer, but extolled for stealing the plots of "Romeo and Juliet," "Comedy of Errors," and others of his plays. It seems quite all right to steal ideas, or even thoughts, and this may account again for the old man's lantern. But, even so, it would seem quite iconoclastic to say that education is the process of reminding people of their debts and of training them to steal. CHAPTER VII COMPLETE LIVING In my quiet way I have been making inquiries among my acquaintances for a long time, trying to find out what education really is. As a schoolmaster I must try to make it appear that I know. In fact, I am quite a Sir Oracle on the subject of education in my school. But, in the quiet of my den, after the day's work is done, I often long for some one to come in and tell me just what it is. I am fairly conversant with the multiplication table and can distinguish between active and passive verbs, but even with these attainments I somehow feel that I have not gone to the extreme limits of the meaning of education. In reality, I don't know what it is or what it is for. I do wish that the man who says in his book that education is a preparation for complete living would come into this room right now, sit down in that chair, and tell me, man to man, what complete living is. I want to know and think I have a right to know. Besides, he has no right to withhold this information from me. He had no right to get me all stirred up with his definition, and then go away and leave me dangling in the air. If he were here I'd ask him a few pointed questions. I'd ask him to tell me just how the fact that seven times nine is sixty-three is connected up with complete living. I'd want him to explain, too, what the binomial theorem has to do with complete living, and also the dative of reference. I got the notion, when I was struggling with that binomial theorem, that it would ultimately lead on to fame or fortune; but it hasn't done either, so far as I can make out. There was a time when I could solve an equation of three unknown quantities, and could even jimmy a quantity out from under a radical sign, and had the feeling that I was quite a fellow. Then one day I went into a bookstore to buy a book. I had quite enough money to pay for one, and had somehow got the notion that a boy of my attainments ought to have a book. But, in the presence of the blond chap behind the counter, I was quite abashed, for I did not in the least know what book I wanted. I knew it wasn't a Bible, for we had one at home, but further than that I could not go. Now, if knowing how to buy a book is a part of complete living, then, in that blond presence, I was hopelessly adrift. I had been taught that gambling is wrong, but there was a situation where I had to take a chance or show the white feather. Of course, I took the chance and was relieved of my money by a blond who may or may not have been able to solve radicals. I shall not give the title of the book I drew in that lottery, for this is neither the time nor the place for confessions. I was a book-agent for one summer, but am trying to live it down. Hoping to sell a copy of the book whose glowing description I had memorized, I called at the home of a wealthy farmer. The house was spacious and embowered in beautiful trees and shrubbery. There was a noble driveway that led up from the country road, and everything betokened great prosperity. Once inside the house, I took a survey of the fittings and could see at once that the farmer had lavished money upon the home to make it distinctive in the neighborhood as a suitable background for his wife and daughters. The piano alone must have cost a small fortune, and it was but one of the many instruments to be seen. There were carpets, rugs, and curtains in great profusion, and a bewildering array of all sorts of bric-a-brac. In time the father asked one of the daughters to play, and she responded with rather unbecoming alacrity. What she played I shall never know, but it seemed to me to be a five-finger exercise. Whatever it was, it was not music. I lost interest at once and so had time to make a more critical inspection of the decorations. What I saw was a battle royal. There was the utmost lack of harmony. The rugs fought the carpets, and both were at the throats of the curtains. Then the wall-paper joined in the fray, and the din and confusion was torture to the spirit. Even the furniture caught the spirit of discord and made fierce attacks upon everything else in the room. The reds, and yellows, and blues, and greens whirled and swirled about in such a dizzy and belligerent fashion that I wondered how the people ever managed to escape nervous prostration. But the daughter went right on with the five-finger exercise as if nothing else were happening. I shall certainly cite this case when the man comes in to explain what he means by complete living. This all reminds me of the man of wealth who thought it incumbent upon him to give his neighbors some benefit of his money in the way of pleasure. So he went to Europe and bought a great quantity of marble statuary and had the pieces placed in the spacious grounds about his home. When the opening day came there ensued much suppressed tittering and, now and then, an uncontrollable guffaw. Diana, Venus, Vulcan, Apollo, Jove, and Mercury had evidently stumbled into a convention of nymphs, satyrs, fairies, sprites, furies, harpies, gargoyles, giants, pygmies, muses, and fates. The result was bedlam. Parenthetically, I have often wondered how much money it cost that man to make the discovery that he was not a connoisseur of art, and also what process of education might have fitted him for a wise expenditure of all that money. So I go on wondering what education is, and nobody seems quite willing to tell me. I bought some wall-paper once, and when it had been hung there was so much laughter at my taste, or lack of it, that, in my chagrin, I selected another pattern to cover up the evidence of my ignorance. But that is expensive, and a schoolmaster can ill afford such luxurious ignorance. People were unkind enough to say that the bare wall would have been preferable to my first selection of paper, I was made conscious that complete living was impossible so long as that paper was visible. But even when the original had been covered up I looked at the wall suspiciously to see whether it would show through as a sort of subdued accusation against me. I don't pretend to know whether taste in the selection of wall-paper is inherent or acquired. If it can be acquired, then I wonder, again, just how cube root helps it along. I don't know what education is, but I do know that it is expensive. I had some pictures in my den that seemed well enough till I came to look at some others, and then they seemed cheap and inadequate. I tried to argue myself out of this feeling, but did not succeed. As a result, the old pictures have been supplanted by new ones, and I am poorer in consequence. But, in spite of my depleted purse, I take much pleasure in my new possessions and feel that they are indications of progress. I wonder, though, how long it will be till I shall want still other and better ones. Education may be a good thing, but it does increase and multiply one's wants. Then, in a brief time, these wants become needs, and there you have perpetual motion. When the agent came to me first to try to get me interested in an encyclopaedia I could scarce refrain from smiling. But later on I began to want an encyclopaedia, and now the one I have ranks as a household necessity the same as bathtub, coffee-pot, and tooth-brush. But, try as I may, I can't clearly distinguish between wants and needs. I see a thing that I want, and the very next day I begin to wonder how I can possibly get on without it. This must surely be the psychology of show-windows and show-cases. If I didn't see the article I should feel no want of it, of course. But as soon as I see it I begin to want it, and then I think I need it. The county fair is a great psychological institution, because it causes people to want things and then to think they need them. The worst of it is the less able I am to buy a thing the more I want it and seem to need it. I'd like to have money enough to make an experiment on myself just to see if I could ever reach the point, as did the Caliph, where the only want I'd have would be a want. Possibly, that's what the man means by complete living. I wonder. CHAPTER VIII MY SPEECH For some time I have had it in mind to make a speech. I don't know what I would say nor where I could possibly find an audience, but, in spite of all that, I feel that I'd like to try myself out on a speech. I can't trace this feeling back to its source. It may have started when I heard a good speech, somewhere, or, it may have started when I heard a poor one. I can't recall. When I hear a good speech I feel that I'd like to do as well; and, when I hear a poor one, I feel that I'd like to do better. The only thing that is settled, as yet, about this speech that I want to make is the subject, and even that is not my own. It is just near enough my own, however, to obviate the use of quotation-marks. The hardest part of the task of writing or speaking is to gain credit for what some one else has said or written, and still be able to omit quotation-marks. That calls for both mental and ethical dexterity of a high order. But to the speech. The subject is Dialectic Efficiency--without quotation-marks, be it noted. The way of it is this: I have been reading, or, rather, trying to read the masterly book by Doctor Fletcher Durell, whose title is "Fundamental Sources of Efficiency." This is one of the most recondite books that has come from the press in a generation, and it is no reflection upon the book for me to say that I have been trying to read it. It is so big, so deep, so high, and so wide that I can only splash around in it a bit. But "the water's fine." At any rate, I have been dipping into this book quite a little, and that is how I came upon the caption of my speech. Of course, I get the word "efficiency" from the title of the book, and, besides, everybody uses that word nowadays. Then, the author of this book has a chapter on "Dialectic," and so I combine these two words and thus get rid of the quotation-marks. And that certainly is an imposing subject for a speech. If it should ever be printed on a programme, it would prove awe-inspiring. Next to making a good speech, I'd like to be skilled in sleight-of-hand affairs. I'd like to fish up a rabbit from the depths of an old gentleman's silk tile, or extract a dozen eggs from a lady's hand-bag, or transmute a canary into a goldfish. I'd like to see the looks of wonder on the faces of the audience and hear them gasp. The difficulty with such a subject as I have chosen, though, is to fill the frame. I went into a shop in Paris once to make some small purchase, expecting to find a great emporium, but, to my surprise, found that all the goods were in the show-window. That's one trouble with my subject--all the goods seem to be in the show-window. But, I'll do the best I can with it, even if I am compelled to pilfer from the pages of the book. In the introduction of the speech I shall become expansive upon the term _Dialectic_, and try to impress my hearers (if there are any) with my thorough acquaintance with all things which the term suggests. If I continue expatiating upon the word long enough they may come to think that I actually coined the word, for I shall not emphasize Doctor Durell especially--just enough to keep my soul untarnished. In a review of this book one man translates the first word "luck." I don't like his word and for two reasons: In the first place, it is a short word, and everybody knows that long words are better for speechmaking purposes. If he had used the word "accidental" or "incidental" I'd think more of his translation and of his review. I'm going to use my word as if Doctor Durell had said _Incidental_. So much for the introduction; now for the speech. From this point forward I shall draw largely upon the book but shall so turn and twist what the doctor says as to make it seem my own. With something of a flourish, I shall tell how in the year 1856 a young chemist, named Perkin, while trying to produce quinine synthetically, hit upon the process of producing aniline dyes. His incidental discovery led to the establishment of the artificial-dye industry, and we have here an example of dialectic efficiency. This must impress my intelligent and cultured auditors, and they will be wondering if I can produce another illustration equally good. I can, of course, for this book is rich in illustrations. I can see, as it were, the old fellow on the third seat, who has been sitting there as stiff and straight as a ramrod, limber up just a mite, and with my next point I hope to induce him to lean forward an inch, at least, out of the perpendicular. Then I shall proceed to recount to them how Christopher Columbus, in an effort to circumnavigate the globe and reach the eastern coast of Asia, failed in this undertaking, but made a far greater achievement in the discovery of America. If, at this point, the old man is leaning forward two or three inches instead of one, I may ask, in dramatic style, where we should all be to-day if Columbus had reached Asia instead of America--in other words, if this principle of dialectic efficiency had not been in full force. Just here, to give opportunity for possible applause, I shall take the handkerchief from my pocket with much deliberation, unfold it carefully, and wipe my face and forehead as an evidence that dispensing second-hand thoughts is a sweat-producing process. Then, in a sort of sublimated frenzy, I shall fairly deluge them with illustrations, telling how the establishment of rural mail-routes led to improved roads and these, in turn, to consolidated schools and better conditions of living in the country; how the potato-beetle, which seems at first to be a scourge, was really a blessing in disguise in that it set farmers to studying improved methods resulting in largely increased crops, and how the scale has done a like service for fruit-growers; how a friend of mine was drilling for oil and found water instead, and now has an artesian well that supplies water in great abundance, and how one Mr. Hellriegel, back in 1886, made the incidental discovery that leguminous plants fixate nitrogen, and, hence, our fields of clover, alfalfa, cow-peas, and soybeans. It will not seem out of place if I recall to them how the Revolution gave us Washington, the Adamses, Hancock, Madison, Franklin, Jefferson, and Hamilton; how slavery gave us Clay, Calhoun, and Webster; and how the Civil War gave us Lincoln, Seward, Stanton, Grant, Lee, Sherman, Sheridan, and "Stonewall" Jackson. If there should, by chance, be any teachers present I'll probably enlarge upon this historical phase of the subject if I can think of any other illustrations. I shall certainly emphasize the fact that the incidental phases of school work may prove to be more important than the objects directly aimed at, that while the teacher is striving to inculcate a knowledge of arithmetic she may be inculcating manhood and womanhood, and that the by-products of her teaching may become world-wide influences. As a peroration, I shall expand upon the subject of pleasure as an incidental of work--showing how the mere pleasure-seeker never finds what he is seeking, but that the man who works is the one who finds pleasure. I think I shall be able to find some apt quotation from Emerson before the time for the speech comes around. If so, I shall use it so as to take their minds off the fact that I am taking the speech from Doctor Durell's book. CHAPTER IX SCHOOL-TEACHING The first school that I ever tried to teach was, indeed, fearfully and wonderfully taught. The teaching was of the sort that might well be called elemental. If there was any pedagogy connected with the work, it was purely accidental. I was not conscious either of its presence or its absence, and so deserve neither praise nor censure. I had one pupil who was nine years my senior, and I did not even know that he was retarded. I recall quite distinctly that he had a luxuriant crop of chin-whiskers but even these did not disturb the procedure of that school. We accepted him as he was, whiskers included, and went on our complacent way. He was blind in one eye and somewhat deaf, but no one ever thought of him as abnormal or subnormal. Even if we had known these words we should have been too polite to apply them to him. In fact, we had no black-list, of any sort, in that school. I have never been able to determine whether the absence of such a list was due to ignorance, or innocence, or both. So long as he found the school an agreeable place in which to spend the winter, and did not interfere with the work of others, I could see no good reason why he should not be there and get what he could from the lessons in spelling, geography, and arithmetic. I do not mention grammar for that was quite beyond him. The agreement of subject and verb was one of life's great mysteries to him. So I permitted him to browse around in such pastures as seemed finite to him, and let the infinite grammar go by default so far as he was concerned. I have but the most meagre acquaintance with the pedagogical dicta of the books--a mere bowing acquaintance--but, at that time, I had not even been introduced to any of these. But, as the saying goes, "The Lord takes care of fools and children," and, so, somehow, by sheer blind luck, I instinctively veered away from the Procrustean bed idea, and found some work for my bewhiskered disciple that connected with his native dispositions. Had any one told me I was doing any such things I think I should, probably, have asked him how to spell the words he was using. I only knew that this man-child was there yearning for knowledge, and I was glad to share my meagre store of crumbs with him. His gratitude for my small gifts was really pathetic, and right there I learned the joys of the teacher. That man sought me out on our way home from school and asked questions that would have puzzled Socrates, but forgot my ignorance of hard questions in his joy at my answers of easy ones. When some light would break in upon him he cavorted about me like a glad dog, and became a second Columbus, discovering a new world. I almost lose patience with myself, at times, when I catch myself preening my feathers before some pedagogical mirror, as if I were getting ready to appear in public as an accredited schoolmaster. At such a time, I long to go back to the country road and saunter along beside some pupil, either with or without whiskers, and give him of my little store without rules or frills and with no pomp or parade. In that little school at the crossroads we never made any preparation for some possible visitor who might come in to survey us or apply some efficiency test, or give us a rating either as individuals or as a school. We were too busy and happy for that. We kept right on at our work with our doors and our hearts wide open for every good thing that came our way, whether knowledge or people. As I have said, our work was elemental. I am glad I came across this little book of William James, "On Some of Life's Ideals," for it takes me back, inferentially, to that elemental school, especially in this paragraph which says: "Life is always worth living, if one have such responsive sensibilities. But we of the highly educated classes (so-called) have most of us got far, far away from Nature. We are trained to seek the choice, the rare, the exquisite exclusively and to overlook the common. We are stuffed with abstract conceptions, and glib with verbalities and verbosities; and in the culture of these higher functions the peculiar sources of joy connected with our simpler functions often dry up, and we grow stone-blind and insensible to life's more elementary and general goods and joys." I wish I might go home from school one evening by way of the top of Mt. Vesuvius, another by way of Mt. Rigi, and, another, by way of Lauterbrunnen. Then the next evening I should like to spend an hour or two along the borders of Yellowstone Canyon, and the next, watch an eruption or two of Old Faithful geyser. Then, on still another evening, I'd like to ride for two hours on top of a bus in London. I'd like to have these experiences as an antidote for emptiness. It would prepare me far better for to-morrow work than pondering Johnny's defections, or his grades, whether high or low, or marking silly papers with marks that are still sillier. I like Walt Whitman because he was such a sublime loafer. His loafing gave him time to grow big inside, and so, he had big elemental thoughts that were good for him and good for me when I think them over after him. If I should ever get a position in a normal school I'd want to give a course in William J. Locke's "The Beloved Vagabond," so as to give the young folks a conception of big elemental teaching. If I were giving a course in ethics, I'd probably select another book, but, in pedagogy, I'd certainly include that one. I'd lose some students, to be sure, for some of them would be shocked; but a person who is not big enough to profit by reading that book never ought to teach school--I mean for the school's sake. If we could only lose the consciousness of the fact that we are schoolmasters for a few hours each day, it would be a great help to us and to our boys and girls. I am quite partial to the "Madonna of the Chair," and wish I might visit the Pitti Gallery frequently just to gaze at her. She is so wholesome and gives one the feeling that a big soul looks out through her eyes. She would be a superb teacher. She would fill the school with her presence and still do it all unconsciously. The centre of the room would be where she happened to be. She would never be mistaken for one of the pupils. Her pupils would learn arithmetic but the arithmetic would be laden with her big spirit, and that would be better for them than the arithmetic could possibly be. If I had to be a woman I'd want to be such as this Madonna--serene, majestic, and big-souled. I have often wondered whether bigness of soul can be cultivated, and my optimism inclines to a vote in the affirmative. I spent a part of one summer in the pine woods far away from the haunts of men. When I had to leave this sylvan retreat it required eleven hours by stage to reach the railway-station. There for some weeks I lived in a log cabin, accompanied by a cook and a professional woodsman. I was not there to camp, to fish, or to loaf, and yet I did all these. There were some duties and work connected with the enterprise and these gave zest to the fishing and the loafing. Giant trees, space, and sky were my most intimate associates, and they told me only of big things. They had never a word to say of styles of clothing or becoming shades of neckwear or hosiery. In all that time I was never disturbed by the number and diversity of spoons and forks beside my plate at the dinner-table. Many a noble meal I ate as I sat upon a log supported in forked stakes, and many a big thought did I glean from the talk of loggers about me in their picturesque costumes. In the evening I sat upon a great log in front of the cabin or a friendly stump, and forgot such things as hammocks and porch-swings. Instead of gazing at street-lamps only a few yards away I was gazing at stars millions of miles away, and, somehow, the soul seemed to gain freedom. And I had luxury, too. I had a room with bath. The bath was at the stream some fifty yards away, but such discrepancies are minor affairs in the midst of such big elemental things as were all about me. My mattress was of young cherry shoots, and never did king have a more royal bed, or ever such refreshing sleep. And, while I slept, I grew inside, for the soft music of the pines lulled me to rest, and the subdued rippling of my bath-stream seemed to wash my soul clean. When I arose I had no bad taste in my mouth or in my soul, and each morning had for me the glory of a resurrection. My trees were there to bid me good morning, the big spaces spoke to me in their own inspiriting language, and the big sun, playing hide-and-seek among the great boles of the trees as he mounted from the horizon, gave me a panorama unrivalled among the scenes of earth. When I returned to what men called civilization, I experienced a poignant longing for my big trees, my sky, and my spaces, and felt that I had exchanged them for many things that are petty and futile. If my school were only out in the heart of that big forest, I feel that my work would be more effective and that I would not have to potter about among little things to obey the whims of convention and the dictates of technicalities, but that the soul would be free to revel in the truth that sky and space proclaim. I do hope I may never know so much about technical pedagogy that I shall not know anything else. This may be what those people mean who speak of the "revolt of the ego." CHAPTER X BEEFSTEAK I am just now quite in the mood to join the band; I mean the vocational-education band. The excitement has carried me off my feet. I can't endure the looks of suspicion or pity that I see on the faces of my colleagues. They stare at me as if I were wearing a tie or a hat or a coat that is a bit below standard. I want to seem, if not be, modern and up-to-date, and not odd and peculiar. So I shall join the band. I am not caring much whether I beat the drum, carry the flag, or lead the trick-bear. I may even ride in the gaudily painted wagon behind a spotted pony and call out in raucous tones to all and sundry to hurry around to the main tent to get their education before the rush. In times past, when these vocational folks have piped unto me I have not danced; but I now see the error of my ways and shall proceed at once to take dancing lessons. When these folks lead in the millennium I want to be sitting well up in front; and when they get the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow I want to participate in the distribution. I do hope, though, that I may not exhaust my resources on the band and have none left for the boys and girls. I hope I may not imitate Mark Twain's steamboat that stopped dead still when the whistle blew, because blowing the whistle required all the steam. I suspect that, like the Irishman, I shall have to wear my new boots awhile before I can get them on, for this new role is certain to entail many changes in my plans and in my ways of doing things. I can see that it will be a wrench for me to think of the boys and girls as pedagogical specimens and not persons. I have contracted the habit of thinking of them as persons, and it will not be easy to come to thinking of them as mere objects to practise on. The folks in the hospital speak of their patients as "cases," but I'd rather keep aloof from the hospital plan in my schoolmastering. But, being a member of the band, I suppose that I'll feel it my duty to conform and do my utmost to help prove that our cult has discovered the great and universal panacea, the balm in Gilead. As a member of the band, in good and regular standing, I shall find myself saying that the school should have the boys and girls pursue such studies as will fit them for their life-work. This has a pleasing sound. Now, if I can only find out, somehow, what the life-work of each one of my pupils is to be, I'll be all right, and shall proceed to fit each one out with his belongings. I have asked them to tell me what their life-work is to be, but they tell me they do not know. So I suspect that I must visit all their parents in order to get this information. Until I get this information I cannot begin on my course of study. If their parents cannot tell me I hardly know what I shall do, unless I have recourse to their maiden aunts. They ought to know. But if they decline to tell I must begin on a long series of guesses, unless, in the meantime, I am endowed with omniscience. This whole plan fascinates me; I dote upon it. It is so pliable, so dreamy, and so opalescent that I can scarce restrain my enthusiasm. But if I should fit one of my boys out with the equipment necessary for a blacksmith, and then he should become a preacher, I'd find the situation embarrassing. My reputation as a prophet would certainly decline. If I could know that this boy is looking forward to the ministry as his life-work, the matter would be simple. I'd proceed to fit him out with a fire-proof suit of Greek, Hebrew, and theology and have the thing done. But even then some of my colleagues might protest on the assumption that Greek and Hebrew are not vocational studies. The preacher might assert that they are vocational for his work, in which case I'd find myself in the midst of an argument. I know a young man who is a student in a college of medicine. He is paying his way by means of his music. He both plays and sings, and can thus pay his bills. In the college he studies chemistry, anatomy, and the like. I'm trying to figure out whether or not, in his case, either his music or his chemistry is vocational. I have been perusing the city directory to find out how many and what vocations there are, that I may plan my course of study accordingly when I discover what the life-work of each of my pupils is to be. If I find that one boy expects to be an undertaker he ought to take the dead languages, of course. If another boy expects to be a jockey he might take these same languages with the aid of a "pony." If a girl decides upon marriage as her vocation, I'll have her take home economics, of course, but shall have difficulty in deciding upon her other studies. If I omit Latin, history, and algebra, she may reproach me later on because of these omissions. She may find that such studies as these are essential to success in the vocation of wife and mother. She may have a boy of her own who will invoke her aid in his quest for the value of x, and a mother hesitates to enter a plea of ignorance to her own child. I can fit out the dancing-master easily enough, but am not so certain about the barber, the chauffeur, and the aviator. The aviator would give me no end of trouble, especially if I should deem it necessary to teach him by the laboratory method. Then, again, if one boy decides to become a pharmacist, I may find it necessary to attend night classes in this subject myself in order to meet the situation with a fair degree of complacency. Nor do I see my way clear in providing for the steeple-climber, the equilibrist, the railroad president, or the tea-taster. I'll probably have my troubles, too, with the novel-writer, the poet, the politician, and the bareback rider. But I must manage somehow if I hope to retain my membership in the band. I see that I shall have to serve quite an apprenticeship in the band before I write my treatise on the subject of pedagogical predestination. The world needs that essay, and I must get around to it just as soon as possible. Of course, that will be a great step beyond the present plan of finding out what a boy expects to do, and then teaching him accordingly. My predestination plan contemplates the process of arranging such a course of study for him as will make him what we want him to be. A naturalist tells me that when a queen bee dies the swarm set to work making another queen by feeding one of the common working bees some queen stuff. He failed to tell me just what this queen stuff is. That process of producing a queen bee is what gave me the notion as to my treatise. If the parents want their boy to become a lawyer I shall feed him lawyer stuff; if a preacher, then preacher stuff, and so on. This will necessitate a deal of research work, for I shall have to go back into history, first of all, to find out the course of study that produced Newton, Humboldt, Darwin, Shakespeare, Dante, Edison, Clara Barton, and the rest of them. If a roast-beef diet is responsible for Shakespeare, surely we ought to produce another Shakespeare, considering the excellence of the cattle we raise. I can easily discover the constituent elements of the beef pudding of which Samuel Johnson was so fond by writing to the old Cheshire Cheese in London. Of course, this plan of mine seems not to take into account the Lord's work to any large extent. But that seems to be the way of us vocationalists. We seem to think we can do certain things in spite of what the Lord has or has not done. The one danger that I foresee in all this work that I have planned is that it may produce overstimulation. Some one was telling me that the trees on the Embankment there in London are dying of arboreal insomnia. The light of the sun keeps them awake all day, and the electric lights keep them awake all night. So the poor things are dying from lack of sleep. Macbeth had some trouble of that sort, too, as I recall it. I'm going to hold on to the vocational stimulation unless I find it is producing pedagogical insomnia. Then I'll resign from the band and take a long nap. I'll continue to advocate pudding, pastry, and pie until I find that they are not producing the sort of men and women the world needs, and then I'll beat an inglorious retreat and again espouse the cause of orthodox beefsteak. CHAPTER XI FREEDOM I have often wondered what conjunction of the stars caused me to become a schoolmaster, if, indeed, the stars, lucky or otherwise, had anything to do with it. It may have been the salary that lured me, for thirty-five dollars a month bulks large on a boy's horizon. Possibly the fact that in those days there was no anteroom to the teaching business may have been the deciding factor. One had but to exchange his hickory shirt for a white one, and the trick was done. There was not even a fence between the corn-field and the schoolhouse. I might just as easily have been a preacher but for the barrier in the shape of a theological seminary, or a hod-carrier but for the barrier of learning how. As it was, I could draw my pay for husking corn on Saturday night, and begin accumulating salary as a schoolmaster on Monday. The plan was simplicity itself, and that may account for my choice of a vocation. I have sometimes tried to imagine myself a preacher, but with poor success. The sermon would bother me no little, to make no mention of the other functions. I think I never could get through with a marriage ceremony, and at a christening I'd be on nettles all the while, fearing the baby would cry and thus disturb the solemnity of the occasion and of the preacher. I'd want to take the baby into my own arms and have a romp with him--and so would forget about the baptizing. In casting about for a possible text for this impossible preacher, I have found only one that I think I might do something with. Hence, my preaching would endure but a single week, and even at that we'd have to have a song service on Sunday evening in lieu of a sermon. My one text would be: "Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free." I do not know how big truth is, but it must be quite extensive if science, mathematics, history, and literature are but small parts of it. I have never explored these parts very far inland, but they seem to my limited gaze to extend a long distance before me; and when I get to thinking that each of these is but a part of something that is called truth I begin to feel that truth is a pretty large affair. I suspect the text means that the more of this truth we know the greater freedom we have. My friend Brown has an automobile, and sometimes he takes me out riding. On one of these occasions we had a puncture, with the usual attendant circumstances. While Brown made the needful repairs, I sat upon the grassy bank. The passers-by probably regarded me as a lazy chap who disdained work of all sorts, and perhaps thought of me as enjoying myself while Brown did the work. In this they were grossly mistaken, for Brown was having the good time, while I was bored and uncomfortable. Why, Brown actually whistled as he repaired that puncture. He had freedom because he knew which tool to use, where to find it, and how to use it. But there I sat in ignorance and thraldom--not knowing the truth about the tools or the processes. In the presence of that episode I felt like one in a foreign country who is ignorant of the language, while Brown was the concierge who understands many languages. He knew the truth and so had freedom. I have often wondered whether men do not sometimes get drunk to win a respite from the thraldom and boredom of their ignorance of the truth. It must be a very trying experience not to understand the language that is spoken all about one. I have something of that feeling when I go into a drug-store and find myself in complete ignorance of the contents of the bottles because I cannot read the labels. I have no freedom because I do not know the truth. The dapper clerk who takes down one bottle after another with refreshing freedom relegates me to the kindergarten, and I certainly feel and act the part. I had this same feeling, too, when I was making ready to sow my little field with alfalfa. I wanted to have alfalfa growing in the field next to the road for my own pleasure and for the pleasure of the passers-by. A field of alfalfa is an ornament to any landscape, and I like to have my landscapes ornamental, even if I must pay for it in terms of manual toil. I had never even seen alfalfa seed and did not in the least know how to proceed in preparing the soil. If I ever expected to have any freedom I must first learn the truth, and a certain modicum of freedom necessarily precedes the joy of alfalfa. Thus it came to pass that I set about learning the truth. I had to learn about the nature of the soil, about drainage, about the right kinds of fertilizer, and all that, before I could even hitch the team to a plough. Some of this truth I gleaned from books and magazines, but more of it I obtained from my neighbor John, who lives about two hundred yards up the pike from my little place. John is a veritable encyclopedia of truth when it comes to the subject of alfalfa. There I would sit at the feet of this alfalfa Gamaliel. Be it said in favor of my reactions that I learned the trick of alfalfa and now have a field that is a delight to the eye. And I now feel qualified to give lessons in alfalfa culture to all and sundry, so great is my sense of freedom. I came upon a forlorn-looking woman once in a large railway-station who was in great distress. She wanted to get a train, but did not know through which gate to go nor where to obtain the necessary information. She was overburdened with luggage and a little girl was tugging at her dress and crying pitifully. That woman was as really in bondage as if she had been in prison looking out through the barred windows. When she had finally been piloted to the train the joy of freedom manifested itself in every lineament of her face. She had come to know the truth, and the truth had set her free. I know how she felt, for one night I worked for more than two hours on what, to me, was a difficult problem, and when at last I had it solved the manifestations of joy caused consternation to the family and damage to the furniture. I never was in jail for any length of time, but I think I know, from my experience with that problem, just how a prisoner feels when he is set free. The big out-of-doors must seem inexpressibly good to him. My neighbor John taught me how to spray my trees, and now, when I walk through my orchard and see the smooth trunks and pick the beautiful, smooth, perfect apples, I feel that sense of freedom that can come only through a knowledge of the truth. I haven't looked up the etymology of _grippe_, but the word itself seems to tell its own story. It seems to mean restriction, subjection, slavery. It certainly spells lack of freedom. I have seen many boys and girls who seemed afflicted with arithmetical, grammatical, and geographical grippe, and I have sought to free them from its tyranny and lead them forth into the sunlight and pure air of freedom. If I only knew just how to do this effectively I think I'd be quite reconciled to the work of a schoolmaster. CHAPTER XII THINGS I keep resolving and resolving to reform and lead the simple life, but something always happens that prevents the execution of my plans. When I am grubbing out willows along the ravine, the grubbing-hoe, a lunch-basket well filled, and a jug of water from the deep well up there under the trees seem to be the sum total of the necessary appliances for a life of usefulness and contentment. There is a friendly maple-tree near the scene of the grubbing activities, and an hour at noon beneath that tree with free access to the basket and the jug seems to meet the utmost demands of life. The grass is luxuriant, the shade is all-embracing, and the willows can wait. So, what additions can possibly be needed? I lie there in the shade, my hunger and thirst abundantly satisfied, and contemplate the results of my forenoon's toil with the very acme of satisfaction. There is now a large, clear space where this morning there was a jungle of willows. The willows have been grubbed out _imis sedibus_, as our friend Virgil would say it, and not merely chopped off; and the thoroughness of the work gives emphasis to the satisfaction. The overalls, the heavy shoes, and the sunshade hat all belong in the picture. But the entire wardrobe costs less than the hat I wear on Sunday. Then the comfort of these inexpensive habiliments! I need not be fastidious in such a garb, but can loll on the grass without compunction. When I get mud upon my big shoes I simply scrape it off with a chip, and that's all there is to it. The dirt on my overalls is honest dirt, and honestly come by, and so needs no apology. I can talk to my neighbor John of the big things of life and feel no shame because of overalls. Then, in the evening, when resting from my toil, I sit out under the leafy canopy and revel in the sounds that can be heard only in the country--the croaking of the frogs, the soft twittering of the birds somewhere near, yet out of sight, the cosey crooning of the chickens as they settle upon their perches for the night, and the lonely hooting of the owl somewhere in the big tree down in the pasture. I need not move from my seat nor barter my money for a concert in some majestic hall ablaze with lights when such music as this may be had for the listening. Under the magic of such music the body relaxes and the soul expands. The soft breezes caress the brow, and the moon makes shimmering patterns on the grass. But when I return to the town to resume my school-mastering, then the strain begins, and then the reign of complexities is renewed. When I am fully garbed in my town clothing I find myself the possessor of nineteen pockets. What they are all for is more than I can make out. If I had them all in use I'd have to have a detective along with me to help me find things. Out there on the farm two pockets quite suffice, but in the town I must have seventeen more. The difference between town and country seems to be about the difference between grubbing willows and schoolmastering. Among the willows I find two pockets are all I require; but among the children I must needs have nineteen, whether I have anything in them or not. One of these seems to be designed for a college degree; another is an efficiency pocket; another a discipline pocket; another a pocket for methods; another for professional spirit; another for loyalty to all the folks who are in need of loyalty, and so on. I really do not know all the labels. When I was examined for a license to teach they counted my pockets, and, finding I had the requisite nineteen, they bestowed upon me the coveted document with something approaching _eclat_. In my teaching I become so bewildered ransacking these pockets, trying to find something that will bear some resemblance to the label, that I come near forgetting the boys and girls. But they are very nice and polite about it, and seem to feel sorry that I must look after all my pockets when I'd so much rather be teaching. Out in the willow thicket I can go right on with my work without so much care or perplexity. Why, I don't need to do any talking out there, and so have time to do some thinking. But here I do so much talking that neither I nor my pupils have any chance for thinking. I know it is not the right way, but, somehow, I keep on doing it. I think it must be a bad habit, but I don't do it when I am grubbing willows. I seem to get to the bottom of things out there without talking, and I can't make out why I don't do the same here in the school. Out there I do things; in here I say things. I do wonder if there is any forgiveness for a schoolmaster who uses so many words and gets such meagre results. And then the words I use here are such ponderous things. They are not the sort of human, flesh-and-blood words that I use when talking to neighbor John as we sit on top of the rail fence. These all seem so like words in a book, as if I had rehearsed them in advance. It may be just the town atmosphere, but, whatever it is, I do wish I could talk to these children about decimals in the same sort of words that I use when I am talking with John. He seems to understand me, and I think they could. Possibly it is just the tension of town life. I know that I seem to get keyed up as soon as I come into the town. There are so many things here, and many of them are so artificial that I seem unable to relax as I do out there where there are just frogs, and moon, and chickens, and cows. When I am here I seem to have a sort of craze for things. The shop-windows are full of things, and I seem to want all of them. I know I have no use for them, and yet I get them. My neighbor Brown bought a percolator, and within a week I had one. I had gone on for years without a percolator, not even knowing about such a thing, but no sooner had Brown bought one than every sound I heard seemed to be inquiring: "What is home without a percolator?" So I go on accumulating things, and my den is a veritable medley of things. They don't make me any happier, and they are a great bother. There are fifty-seven things right here in my den, and I don't need more than six or seven of them. There are twenty-two pictures, large and small, in this room, but I couldn't have named five of them had I not just counted them. Why I have them is beyond my comprehension. I inveigh against the mania of people for drugs and narcotics, but my mania for things only differs in kind from theirs. I have a little book called "Things of the Mind," and I like to read it. Now, if my mind only had as many things in it as my den, I'd be a far more agreeable associate for Brown and my neighbor John. Or, if I were as careful about getting things for my mind as I am in accumulating useless bric-a-brac, it would be far more to my credit. If the germs that are lurking in and about these fifty-seven things should suddenly become as large as spiders, I'd certainly be the unhappy possessor of a flourishing menagerie, and I think my progress toward the simple life would be very promptly hastened. CHAPTER XIII TARGETS In my work as a schoolmaster I find it well to keep my mind open and not get to thinking that my way is the only way, or even the best way. I think I learn more from my boys and girls than they learn from me, and so long as I can keep an open mind I am certain to get some valuable lessons from them. I got to telling the college chap about a hen that taught me a good lesson, and the first thing I knew I was going to school to this college youth, and he was enlightening me on the subject of animal psychology, and especially upon the trial-and-error theory. That set me wondering how many trials and errors that hen made before she finally succeeded in surmounting that fence. At any rate, the hen taught me another lesson besides the lesson of perseverance. I have a high wire fence enclosing the chicken-yard, and in order to make steady the posts to which the gate is attached, I joined them at the top by nailing a board across. The hen that taught me the lesson must be both ambitious and athletic, for time after time have I found her outside the chicken-yard. I searched diligently for the place of exit, but could not find it. So, in desperation, I determined one morning to discover how that hen gained her freedom if it took all day. So I found a comfortable seat and waited. In an hour or so the hen came out into the open and took a survey of the situation. Then, presently, with skill born of experience, she sidled this way and that, advanced a little and then retreated until she found the exact location she sought, poised herself for a moment, and went sailing right over the board that connected the posts. Having made this discovery, I removed the board and used wire instead, and thus reduced the hen to the plane of obedience. Just as soon as the hen lacked something to aim at, she could not get over the wire barrier, and she taught me the importance of giving my pupils something to aim at. I like my boys and girls, and believe they are just as smart as any hen that ever was, and that, if I'll only supply things for them to aim at, they will go high and far. Every time I see that hen I am the subject of diverse emotions. I feel half angry at myself for being so dull that a mere hen can teach me, and then I feel glad that she taught me such a useful lesson. Before learning this lesson I seemed to expect my pupils to take all their school work on faith, to do it because I told them it would be good for them. But I now see there is a better way. In my boyhood days we always went to the county fair, and that was one of the real events of the year. On the morning of that day there was no occasion for any one to call me a second time. I was out of bed in a trice, at the first call, and soon had my chores done ready for the start. I had money in my pocket, too, for visions of pink lemonade, peanuts, ice-cream, candy, and colored balloons had lured me on from achievement to achievement through the preceding weeks, and thrift had claimed me for its own. So I had money because, all the while, I had been aiming at the county fair. We used to lay out corn ground with a single-shovel plough, and took great pride in marking out a straight furrow across the field. There was one man in the neighborhood who was the champion in this art, and I wondered how he could do it. So I set about watching him to try to learn his art. At either end of the field he had a stake several feet high, bedecked at the top with a white rag. This he planted at the proper distance from the preceding furrow and, in going across the field, kept his gaze fixed upon the white rag that topped the stake. With a firm grip upon the plough, and his eyes riveted upon the white signal, he moved across the field in a perfectly straight line. I had thought it the right way to keep my eyes fixed upon the plough until his practice showed me that I had pursued the wrong course. My furrows were crooked and zigzag, while his were straight. I now see that his skill came from his having something to aim at. I am trying to profit by the example of that farmer in my teaching. I'm all the while in quest of stakes and white rags to place at the other side of the field to direct the progress of the lads and lasses in a straight course, and raise their eyes away from the plough that they happen to be using. I want to keep them thinking of things that are bigger and further along than grades. The grades will come as a matter of course, if they can keep their eyes on the object across the field. I want them to be too big to work for mere grades. We never give prizes in our school, especially money prizes. It would seem rather a cheap enterprise to my fine boys and girls to get a piece of money for committing to memory the "Gettysburg Speech." We respect ourselves and Lincoln too much for that. It would grieve me to know that one of my girls could be hired to read a book for an hour in the evening to a sick neighbor. I want her to have her pay in a better and more enduring medium than that. I'd hope she would aim at something higher than that. If I can arrange the white rag, I know the pupils will do the work. There was Jim, for example, who said to his father that he just couldn't do his arithmetic, and wished he'd never have to go to school another day. When his father told me about it I began at once to hunt for a white rag. And I found it, too. We can generally find what we are looking for, if we look in dead earnest. Well, the next morning there was Jim in the arithmetic class along with Tom and Charley. I explained the absence of Harry by telling them about his falling on the ice the night before and breaking his right arm. I told them how he could get on well enough with his other studies, but would have trouble with his arithmetic because he couldn't use his arm. Now, Tom and Charley are quick in arithmetic, and I asked Tom to go over to Harry's after school and help with the arithmetic, and Charley to go over the next day, and Jim the third day. Now, anybody can see that white rag fluttering at the top of the stake across the field two days ahead. So, my work was done, and I went on with my daily duties. Tom reported the next day, and his report made our mouths water as he told of the good things that Harry's mother had set out for them to eat. The report of Charley the next day was equally alluring. Then Jim reported, and on his day that good mother had evidently reached the climax in culinary affairs. Jim's eyes and face shone as if he had been communing with the supernals. That was the last I ever heard of Jim's trouble with arithmetic. His father was eager to know how the change had been brought about, and I explained on the score of the angel-food cake and ice-cream he had had over at Harry's, with no slight mention of my glorious white rag. The books, I believe, call this social co-operation, or something like that, but I care little what they call it so long as Jim's all right. And he is all right. Why, there isn't money enough in the bank to have brought that look to Jim's face when he reported that morning, and any offer to pay him for his help to Harry, either in money or school credits, would have seemed an insult. My neighbor John tells me many things about sheep and the way to drive them. He says when he is driving twenty sheep along the road he doesn't bother about the two who frisk back to the rear of the flock so long as he keeps the other eighteen going along. He says those two will join the others, all in good time. That helped me with those three boys. I knew that Tom and Charley would go along all right, so asked them to go over to Harry's before I mentioned the matter to Jim. When I did ask him he came leaping and frisking into the flock as if he were afraid we might overlook him. What a beautiful straight furrow he ploughed, too. His arithmetic work now must make the angels smile. I shall certainly mention sheep, the hen, and the white rag in my book on farm pedagogy. CHAPTER XIV SINNERS I take unction to myself, sometimes, in the reflection that I have a soul to save, and in certain moments of uplift it seems to me to be worth saving. Some folks probably call me a sinner, if not a dreadful sinner, and I admit the fact without controversy. I do not have at hand a list of the cardinal sins, but I suspect I might prove an alibi as to some of them. I don't get drunk; I don't swear; I go to church; and I contribute, mildly, to charity. But, for all that, I'm free to confess myself a sinner. Yet, I still don't know what sin is, or what is the way of salvation either for myself or for my pupils. I grope around all the while trying to find this way. At times, I think they may find salvation while they are finding the value of _x_ in an algebraic equation, and possibly this is true. I cannot tell. If they fail to find the value of _x_, I fall to wondering whether they have sinned or the teacher that they cannot find _x_. I have attended revivals in my time, and have had good from them. In their pure and rarefied atmosphere I find myself in a state of exaltation. But I find myself in need of a continuous revival to keep me at my best. So, in my school work, I feel that I must be a revivalist or my pupils will sag back, just as I do. I find that the revival of yesterday will not suffice for to-day. Like the folks of old, I must gather a fresh supply of manna each day. Stale manna is not wholesome. I suspect that one of my many sins is my laziness in the matter of manna. I found the value of _x_ in the problem yesterday, and so am inclined to rest to-day and celebrate the victory. If I had to classify myself, I'd say that I am an intermittent. I eat manna one day, and then want to fast for a day or so. I suspect that's what folks mean by a besetting sin. During my fasting I find myself talking almost fluently about my skill and industry as a gatherer of manna, I suspect I am trying to make myself believe that I'm working in the manna field to-day, by keeping my mind on my achievement yesterday. That's another sin to my discredit, and another occasion for a revival. When I am fasting I do the most talking about how busy I am. If I were harvesting manna I'd not have time for so much talk. I should not need to tell how busy I am, for folks could see for themselves. I have tried to analyze this talk of mine about being so busy just to see whether I am trying to deceive myself or my neighbors. I fell to talking about this the other day to my neighbor John, and detected a faint smile on his face which I interpreted to be a query as to what I have to show for all my supposed industry. Well, I changed the subject. That smile on John's face made me think of revivals. I read Henderson's novel, "John Percyfield," and enjoyed it so much that when I came upon his other book, "Education and the Larger Life," I bought and read it. But it has given me much discomfort. In that book he says that it is immoral for any one to do less than his best. I can scarcely think of that statement without feeling that I ought to be sent to jail. I'm actually burdened with immorality, and find myself all the while between the "devil and the deep sea," the "devil" of work, and the "deep sea" of immorality. I suppose that's why I talk so much about being busy, trying to free myself from the charge of immorality. I think it was Virgil who said _Facilis descensus Averno_, and I suppose Mr. Henderson, in his statement, is trying to save me from the inconveniences of this trip. I suppose I ought to be grateful to him for the hint, but I just can't get any great comfort in such a close situation. I know I must work or go hungry, and I can stand a certain amount of fasting, but to be stamped as immoral because I am fasting rather hurts my pride. I'd much rather have my going hungry accounted a virtue, and receive praise and bouquets. When I am in a lounging mood it isn't any fun to have some Henderson come along and tell me that I am in need of a revival. A copy of "Baedeker" in hand, I have gone through a gallery of statues but did not find a sinner in the entire company. The originals may have been sinners, but not these marble statues. That is some comfort. To be a sinner one must be animate at the very least. I'd rather be a sinner, even, than a mummy or a statue. St. Paul wrote to Timothy: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." There was nothing of the mummy or the statue in him. He was just a straight-away sinful man, and a glorious sinner he was. I like to think of Titian and Michael Angelo. When their work was done and they stood upon the summit of their achievements they were up so high that all they had to do was to step right into heaven, without any long journey. Tennyson did the same. In his poem, "Crossing the Bar," he filled all the space, and so he had to cross over into heaven to get more room. And Riley's "Old Aunt Mary" was another one. She had been working out her salvation making jelly, and jam, and marmalade, and just beaming goodness upon those boys so that they had no more doubts about goodness than they had of the peach preserves they were eating. Why, there just had to be a heaven for old Aunt Mary. She gathered manna every day, and had some for the boys, too, but never said a word about being busy. When I was reading the _Georgics_ with my boys, we came upon the word _bufo_ (toad), and I told them with much gusto that that was the only place in the language where the word occurs. I had come upon this statement in a book that they did not have. Their looks spoke their admiration for the schoolmaster who could speak with authority. After they had gone their ways, two to Porto Rico, one to Chili, another to Brazil, and others elsewhere, I came upon the word _bufo_ again in Ovid. I am still wondering what a schoolmaster ought to do in a case like that. Even if I had written to all those fellows acknowledging my error, it would have been too late, for they would, long before, have circulated the report all over South America and the United States that there is but one toad in the Latin language. If I hadn't believed everything I see in print, hadn't been so cock-sure, and hadn't been so ready to parade borrowed plumage as my own, all this linguistic coil would have been averted. I suppose Mr. Henderson would send me to jail again for this. I certainly didn't do my best, and therefore I am immoral, and therefore a sinner; _quad erat demonstrandum_. So, I suppose, if I'm to save my soul, I must gather manna every day, and if I find the value of _x_ to-day, I must find the value of a bigger _x_ to-morrow. Then, too, I suppose I'll have to choose between Mrs. Wiggs and Emerson, between the Katzenjammers and Shakespeare, and between ragtime and grand opera. I am very certain growing corn gives forth a sound only I can't hear it. If my hearing were only acute enough I'd hear it and rejoice in it. It is very trying to miss the sound when I am so certain that it is there. The birds in my trees understand one another, and yet I can't understand what they are saying in the least. This simply proves my own limitations. If I could but know their language, and all the languages of the cows, the sheep, the horses, and the chickens, what a good time I could have with them. If my powers of sight and hearing were increased only tenfold, I'd surely find a different world about me. Here, again, I can't find the value of _x_, try as I will. The disquieting thing about all this is that I do not use to the utmost the powers I have. I could see many more things than I do if I'd only use my eyes, and hear things, too, if I'd try more. The world of nature as it reveals itself to John Burroughs is a thousand times larger than my world, no doubt, and this fact convicts me of doing less than my best, and again the jail invites me. CHAPTER XV HOEING POTATOES As I was lying in the shade of the maple-tree down there by the ravine, yesterday, I fell to thinking about my rights, and the longer I lay there the more puzzled I became. Being a citizen in a democracy, I have many rights that are guaranteed to me by the Constitution, notably life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In my school I become expansive in extolling these rights to my pupils. But under that maple-tree I found myself raising many questions as to these rights, and many others. I have a right to sing tenor, but I can't sing tenor at all, and when I try it I disturb my neighbors. Right there I bump against a situation. I have a right to use my knife at table instead of a fork, and who is to gainsay my using my fingers? Queen Elizabeth did. I certainly have a right to lie in the shade of the maple-tree for two hours to-day instead of one hour, as I did yesterday. I wonder if reclining on the grass under a maple-tree is not a part of the pursuit of happiness that is specifically set out in the Constitution? I hope so, for I'd like to have that wonderful Constitution backing me up in the things I like to do. The sun is so hot and hoeing potatoes is such a tiring task that I prefer to lounge in the shade with my back against the Constitution. In thinking of the pursuit of happiness I am inclined to personify happiness and then watch the chase, wondering whether the pursuer will ever overtake her, and what he'll do when he does. I note that the Constitution does not guarantee that the pursuer will ever catch her--but just gives him an open field and no favors. He may run just as fast as he likes, and as long as his endurance holds out. I suspect that's where the liberty comes in. I wonder if the makers of the Constitution ever visualized that chase. If so, they must have laughed, at least in their sleeves, solemn crowd that they were. If I were certain that I could overtake happiness I'd gladly join in the pursuit, even on such a warm day as this, but the dread uncertainty makes me prefer to loll here in the shade. Besides, I'm not quite certain that I could recognize her even if I could catch her. The photographs that I have seen are so very different that I might mistake happiness for some one else, and that would be embarrassing. If I should conclude that I was happy, and then discover that I wasn't, I scarcely see how I could explain myself to myself, much less to others. So I shall go on hoeing my potatoes and not bother my poor head about happiness. It is just possible that I shall find it over there in the potato-patch, for its latitude and longitude have never been definitely determined, so far as I am aware. I know I shall find some satisfaction over there at work, and I am convinced that satisfaction and happiness are kinsfolk. Possibly my potatoes will prove the answer to some mother's prayer for food for her little ones next winter. Who knows? As I loosen the soil about the vines I can look down the vista of the months, and see some little one in his high chair smiling through his tears as mother prepares one of my beautiful potatoes for him, and I think I can detect some moisture in mother's eyes, too. It is just possible that her tears are the consecrated incense upon the altar of thanksgiving. I like to see such pictures as I ply my hoe, for they give me respite from weariness, and give fresh ardor to my hoeing. If each one of my potatoes shall only assuage the hunger of some little one, and cause the mother's eyes to distil tears of joy, I shall be in the border-land of happiness, to say the least. I had fully intended to exercise my inalienable rights and lie in the shade for two hours to-day, but when I caught a glimpse of that little chap in the high chair, and heard his pitiful plea for potatoes, I made for the potato-patch post-haste, as if I were responding to a hurry call. I suppose there is no more heart-breaking sound in nature than the crying of a hungry child. I have been whistling all the afternoon along with my hoeing, and now that I think of it, I must be whistling because my potatoes are going to make that baby laugh. Well, if they do, then I shall elevate the hoeing of potatoes to the rank of a privilege. Oh, I've read my "Tom Sawyer," and know about his enterprise in getting the fence whitewashed by making the task seem a privilege. But Tom was indulging in fiction, and hoeing potatoes is no fiction. Still those whitewash artists had something of the feeling that I experience right now, only there was no baby in their picture as there is in mine, and so I have the baby as an additional privilege. I wish I knew how to make all the school tasks rank as privileges to my boys and girls. If I could only do that, they would have gone far toward a liberal education. If I could only get a baby to crying somewhere out beyond cube root I'm sure they would struggle through the mazes of that subject, somehow, so as to get to the baby to change its crying into laughter. 'Tis worth trying. I wonder, after all, whether education is not the process of shifting the emphasis from rights to privileges. I have a right, when I go into the town, to keep my seat in the car and let the old lady use the strap. If I insist upon that right I feel myself a boor, lacking the sense and sensibilities of a gentleman. But when I relinquish my seat I feel that I have exercised my privilege to be considerate and courteous. I have a right to permit weeds and briers to overrun my fences, and the fences themselves to go to rack, and so offend the sight of my neighbors; but I esteem it a privilege to make the premises clean and beautiful, so as to add so much to the sum total of pleasure. I have a right to stay on my own side of the road and keep to myself; but it is a great privilege to go up for a half-hour's exchange of talk with my neighbor John. He always clears the cobwebs from my eyes and from my soul, and I return to my work refreshed. I have a right, too, to pore over the colored supplement for an hour or so, but when I am able to rise to my privileges and take the Book of Job instead, I feel that I have made a gain in self-respect, and can stand more nearly erect. I have a right, when I go to church, to sit silent and look bored; but, when I avail myself of the privilege of joining in the responses and the singing, I feel that I am fertilizing my spirit for the truth that is proclaimed. As a citizen I have certain rights, but when I come to think of my privileges my rights seem puny in comparison. Then, too, my rights are such cold things, but my privileges are full of sunshine and of joy. My rights seem mathematical, while my privileges seem curves of beauty. In his scientific laboratory at Princeton, on one occasion, the celebrated Doctor Hodge, in preparing for an experiment said to some students who were gathered about him: "Gentlemen, please remove your hats; I am about to ask God a question." So it is with every one who esteems his privileges. He is asking God questions about the glory of the sunrise, the fragrance of the flowers, the colors of the rainbow, the music of the brook, and the meaning of the stars. But I hear a baby crying and must get back to my potatoes. CHAPTER XVI CHANGING THE MIND I have been reading, in this book, of a man who couldn't change his mind because his intellectual wardrobe was not sufficient to warrant a change. I was feeling downright sorry for the poor fellow till I got to wondering how many people are feeling sorry for me for the same reason. That reflection changed the situation greatly, and I began to feel some resentment against the blunt statement in the book as being rather too personal. Just as I begin to think that we have standardized a lot of things, along comes some one in a book, or elsewhere, and completely upsets my fine and comforting theories and projects me into chaos again. No sooner do I get a lot of facts all nicely settled, and begin to enjoy complacency, than some disturber of the peace knocks all my facts topsy-turvy, and says they are not facts at all, but the merest fiction. Then I cry aloud with my old friend Cicero, _Ubinam gentium sumus_, which, being translated in the language of the boys, means, "Where in the world (or nation) are we at?" They are actually trying to reform my spelling. I do wish these reformers had come around sooner, when I was learning to spell _phthisic_, _syzygy_, _daguerreotype_, and _caoutchouc_. They might have saved me a deal of trouble and helped me over some of the high places at the old-fashioned spelling-bees. I have a friend who is quite versed in science, and he tells me that any book on science that is more than ten years old is obsolete. Now, that puzzles me no little. If that is true, why don't they wait till matters scientific are settled, and then write their books? Why write a book at all when you know that day after tomorrow some one will come along and refute all the theories and mangle the facts? These science chaps must spend a great deal of their time changing their intellectual clothing. It would be great fun to come back a hundred years from now and read the books on science, psychology, and pedagogy. I suppose the books we have now will seem like joke books to our great-grandchildren, if people are compelled to change their mental garments every day from now on. I wonder how long it will take us human coral insects, to get our building up to the top of the water. Whoever it was that said that consistency is a jewel would need to take treatment for his eyes in these days. If I must change my mental garb each day I don't see how I can be consistent. If I said yesterday that some theory of science is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then find a revision of the statement necessary to-day, I certainly am inconsistent. This jewel of consistency certainly loses its lustre, if not its identity, in such a process of shifting. I do hope these chameleon artists will leave us the multiplication table, the yardstick, and the ablative absolute. I'm not so particular about the wine-gallon, for prohibition will probably do away with that anyhow. When I was in school I could tell to a foot the equatorial and the polar diameter of the earth, and what makes the difference. Why, I knew all about that flattening at the poles, and how it came about. Then Mr. Peary went up there and tramped all over the north pole, and never said a word about the flattening when he came back. I was very much disappointed in Mr. Peary. I know, quite as well as I know my own name, that the length of the year is three hundred and sixty-five days, five hours, forty-eight minutes, and forty-eight seconds, and if I find any one trying to lop off even one second of my hard-learned year, I shall look upon him as a meddler. That is one of my settled facts, and I don't care to have it disturbed. If any one comes along trying to change the length of my year, I shall begin to tremble for the safety of the Ten Commandments. If I believe that a grasshopper is a quadruped, what satisfaction could I possibly take in discovering that he has six legs? It would merely disturb one of my settled facts, and I am more interested in my facts than I am in the grasshopper. The trouble is, though, that my neighbor John keeps referring to the grasshopper's six legs; so I suppose I shall, in the end, get me a grasshopper suit of clothes so as to be in the fashion. This discarding of my four-legged grasshopper and supplying myself with one that has six legs may be what the poet means when he speaks of our dead selves. He may refer to the new suit of mental clothing that I am supposed to get each day, to the change of mind that I am supposed to undergo as regularly as a daily bath. Possibly Mr. Holmes meant something like that when he wrote his "Chambered Nautilus." At each advance from one of these compartments to another, I suppose I acquire a new suit of clothes, or, in other words, change my mind. Let's see, wasn't it Theseus whose eternal punishment in Hades was just to sit there forever? That seems somewhat heavenly to me. But here on earth I suppose I must try to keep up with the styles, and change my mental gear day by day. I think I might come to enjoy a change of suits every day if only some one would provide them for me; but, if I must earn them myself, the case is different. I'd like to have some one bestow upon me a beautiful Greek suit for Monday, with its elegance, grace, and dignity, a Roman suit for Tuesday, a science suit for Wednesday, a suit of poetry for Thursday, and so on, day after day. But when I must read all of Homer before I can have the Greek suit, the price seems a bit stiff, and I'm not so avid about changing my mind. We had a township picnic back home, once, and it seemed to me that I was attending a congress of nations, for there were people there who had driven five or six miles from the utmost bounds of the township. That was a real mental adventure, and it took some time for me to adjust myself to my new suit. Then I went to the county fair, where were gathered people from all the townships, and my poor mind had a mighty struggle trying to grasp the immensity of the thing. I felt much the same as when I was trying to understand the mathematical sign of infinity. And when I came upon the statement, in my geography, that there are eighty-eight counties in our State, the mind balked absolutely and refused to go on. I felt as did the old gentleman who saw an aeroplane for the first time. After watching its gyrations for some time he finally exclaimed: "They ain't no sich thing." My college roommate, Mack, went over to London, once, on some errand, and of course went to the British Museum. Near the entrance he came upon the Rosetta Stone, and stood inthralled. He reflected that he was standing in the presence of a monument that marks the beginning of recorded history, that back of that all was dark, and that all the books in all the libraries emanate from that beginning. The thought was so big, so overmastering, that there was no room in his mind for anything else, so he turned about and left without seeing anything else in the Museum. Since then we have had many a big laugh together as he recounts to me his wonderful visit to the Rosetta Stone. I see clearly that in the presence of that modest stone he got all the mental clothing he could possibly wear at the time. Changing the mind sometimes seems to amount almost to surgery. Sometime, if I can get my stub pen limbered up I shall try my hand at writing a bit of a composition on the subject of "The Inequality of Equals." I know that the Declaration tells us that all men are born free and equal, and I shall explain in my essay that it means us to understand that while they are born equal, they begin to become unequal the day after they are born, and become more so as one changes his mind and the other one does not. I try, all the while, to make myself believe that I am the equal of my neighbor, the judge, and then I feel foolish to think that I ever tried it. The neighbors all know it isn't true, and so do I when I quit arguing with myself. He has such a long start of me now that I wonder if I can ever overtake him. One thing, though, I'm resolved upon, and that is to change my mind as often as possible. CHAPTER XVII THE POINT OF VIEW Just why a boy is averse to washing his neck and ears is one of the deep problems of social psychology, and yet the psychologists have veered away from the subject. There must be a reason, and these mind experts ought to be able and willing to find it, so as to relieve the anxiety of the rest of us. It is easy for me to say, with a full-arm gesture, that a boy is of the earth earthy, but that only begs the question, as full-arm gestures are wont to do. Many a boy has shed copious tears as he sat on a bench outside the kitchen door removing, under compulsion, the day's accumulations from his feet as a prerequisite for retiring. He would much prefer to sleep on the floor to escape the foot-washing ordeal. Why, pray, should he wash his feet when he knows full well that tomorrow night will find them in the same condition? Why all the bother and trouble about a little thing like that? Why can't folks let a fellow alone, anyhow? And, besides, he went in swimming this afternoon, and that surely ought to meet all the exactions of capricious parents. He exhibits his feet as an evidence of the virtue of going swimming, for he is arranging the preliminaries for another swimming expedition to-morrow. I recall very distinctly how strange it seemed that my father could sit there and calmly talk about being a Democrat, or a Republican, or a Baptist, or a Methodist, or about some one's discovering the north pole, or about the President's message when the dog had a rat cornered under the corn-crib and was barking like mad. But, then, parents can't see things in their right relations and proportions. And there sat mother, too, darning stockings, and the dog just stark crazy about that rat. 'Tis enough to make a boy lose faith in parents forevermore. A dog, a rat, and a boy--there's a combination that recks not of the fall of empires or the tottering of thrones. Even chicken-noodles must take second place in such a scheme of world activities. And yet a mother would hold a boy back from the forefront of such an enterprise to wash his neck. Oh, these mothers! I have read "Adam's Diary," by Mark Twain, in which he tells what events were forward in Eden on Monday, what on Tuesday, and so on throughout the week till he came to Sunday, and his only comment on that day was "Pulled through." In the New England Primer we gather the solemn information that "In Adam's fall, we sinned all." I admit the fact freely, but beg to be permitted to plead extenuating circumstances. Adam could go to church just as he was, but I had to be renovated and, at times, almost parboiled and, in addition to these indignities, had to wear shoes and stockings; and the stockings scratched my legs, and the shoes were too tight. If Adam could barely manage to pull through, just think of me. Besides, Adam didn't have to wear a paper collar that disintegrated and smeared his neck. The more I think of Adam's situation, the more sorry I feel for myself. Why, he could just reach out and pluck some fruit to help him through the services, but I had to walk a mile after church, in those tight shoes, and then wait an hour for dinner. And I was supposed to feel and act religious while I was waiting, but I didn't. If I could only have gone to church barefoot, with my shirt open at the throat, and with a pocket full of cookies to munch _ad lib_ throughout the services, I am sure that the spiritual uplift would have been greater. The soul of a boy doesn't expand violently when encased in a starched shirt and a paper collar, and these surmounted by a thick coat, with the mercury at ninety-seven in the shade. I think I can trace my religious retardation back to those hungry Sundays, those tight shoes, that warm coat, and those frequent jabs in my ribs when I fain would have slept. In my childhood there was such a host of people who were pushing and pulling me about in an effort to make me good that, even yet, I shy away from their style of goodness. The wonder is that I have any standing at all in polite and upright society. So many folks said I was bad and naughty, and applied so many other no less approbrious epithets to me that, in time, I came to believe them, and tried somewhat diligently to live up to the reputation they gave me. I recall that one of my aunts came in one day and, seeing me out in the yard most ingloriously tousled, asked my good mother: "Is that your child?" Poor mother! I have often wondered how much travail of spirit it must have cost her to acknowledge me as her very own. One thumb, one great toe, and an ankle were decorated with greasy rags, and I was far from being ornamental. I had been hulling walnuts, too, and my stained hands served to accentuate the human scenery. This same aunt had three boys of her own, later on, and a more disreputable-looking crew it would be hard to find. I confess that I took a deal of grim satisfaction in their dilapidated ensemble, just for my aunt's benefit, of course. They were fine, wholesome, natural boys in spite of their parentage, and I liked them even while I gloried in their cuts, bruises, and dirt. At that time I was wearing a necktie and had my shoes polished but, even so, I yearned to join with them in their debauch of sand, mud, and general indifference to convention. They are fine, upstanding young chaps now, and of course their mother thinks that her scolding, nagging, and baiting made them so. They know better, but are too kind and considerate to reveal the truth to their mother. Even yet I have something like admiration for the ingenuity of my elders in conjuring up spooks, hob-goblins, and bugaboos with which to scare me into submission. I conformed, of course, but I never gave them a high grade in veracity. I yielded simply to gain time, for I knew where there was a chipmunk in a hole, and was eager to get to digging him out just as soon as my apparent submission for a brief time had proved my complete regeneration. They used to tell me that children should be seen but not heard, and I knew they wanted to do the talking. I often wonder whether their notion of a good child would have been satisfactorily met if I had suddenly become paralyzed, or ossified, or petrified. In either of these cases I could have been seen but not heard. One day, not long ago, when I felt at peace with all the world and was comfortably free from care, a small, thumb-sucking seven-year-old asked: "How long since the world was born?" After I told him that it was about four thousand years he worked vigorously at his thumb for a time, and then said: "That isn't very long." Then I wished I had said four millions, so as to reduce him to silence, for one doesn't enjoy being routed and put to confusion by a seven-year-old. After quite a silence he asked again: "What was there before the world was born?" That was an easy one; so I said in a tone of finality: "There wasn't anything." Then I went on with my meditations, thinking I had used the soft pedal effectively. Silence reigned supreme for some minutes, and then was rudely shattered. His thumb flew from his mouth, and he laughed so lustily that he could be heard throughout the house. When his laughter had spent itself somewhat, I asked meekly: "What are you laughing at?" His answer came on the instant, but still punctuated with laughter: "I was laughing to see how funny it was when there wasn't anything." No wonder that folks want children to be seen but not heard. And some folks are scandalized because a chap like that doesn't like to wash his neck and ears. CHAPTER XVIII PICNICS The code of table etiquette in the days of my boyhood, as I now recall it, was expressed something like: "Eat what is set before you and ask no questions." We heeded this injunction with religious fidelity, but yearned to ask why they didn't set more before us. About the only time that a real boy gets enough to eat is when he goes to a picnic and, even there and then, the rounding out of the programme is connected with clandestine visits to the baskets after the formal ceremonies have been concluded. At a picnic there is no such expression as "from soup to nuts," for there is no soup, and perhaps no nuts, but there is everything else in tantalizing abundance. If I find a plate of deviled eggs near me, I begin with deviled eggs; or, if the cold tongue is nearer, I begin with that. In this way I reveal, for the pleasure of the hostesses, my unrestricted and democratic appetite. Or, in order to obviate any possible embarrassment during the progress of the chicken toward me, I may take a piece of pie or a slice of cake, thinking that they may not return once they have been put in circulation. Certainly I take jelly when it passes along, as well as pickles, olives, and cheese. There is no incongruity, at such a time, in having a slice of baked ham and a slice of angel-food cake on one's plate or in one's hands. They harmonize beautifully both in the color scheme and in the gastronomic scheme. At a picnic my boyhood training reaches its full fruition: "Eat what is set before you and ask no questions." These things I do. That's a good rule for reading, too, just to read what is set before you and ask no questions. I'm thinking now of the reader member of my dual nature, not the student member. I like to cater somewhat to both these members. When the reader member is having his inning, I like to give him free rein and not hamper him by any lock-step or stereotyped method or course. I like to lead him to a picnic table and dismiss him with the mere statement that "Heaven helps those who help themselves," and thus leave him to his own devices. If Southey's, "The Curse of Kehama," happens to be nearest his plate, he will naturally begin with that as I did with the deviled eggs. Or he may nibble at "The House-Boat on the Styx" while some one is passing the Shakespeare along. He may like Emerson, and ask for a second helping, and that's all right, too, for that's a nourishing sort of food. Having partaken of this generously, he will enjoy all the more the jelly when it comes along in the form of "Nonsense Anthology." The more I think of it the more I see that reading is very like a picnic dinner. It is all good, and one takes the food which is nearest him, whether pie or pickles. When any one asks me what I am reading, I become much embarrassed. I may be reading a catalogue of books at the time, or the book notices in some magazine, but such reading may not seem orthodox at all to the one who asks the question. My reading may be too desultory or too personal to be paraded in public. I don't make it a practice to tell all the neighbors what I ate for breakfast. I like to saunter along through the book just as I ride in a gondola when in Venice. I'm not going anywhere, but get my enjoyment from merely being on the way. I pay the gondolier and then let him have his own way with me. So with the book. I pay the money and then abandon myself to it. If it can make me laugh, why, well and good, and I'll laugh. If it causes me to shed tears, why, let the tears flow. They may do me good. If I ever become conscious of the number of the page of the book I am reading, I know there is something the matter with that book or else with me. If I ever become conscious of the page number in David Grayson's "Adventures in Contentment," or "The Friendly Road," I shall certainly consult a physician. I do become semiconscious at times that I am approaching the end of the feast, and feel regret that the book is not larger. I have spasms and enjoy them. Sometimes, I have a Dickens spasm, and read some of his books for the _n_th time. I have frittered away much time in my life trying to discover whether a book is worth a second reading. If it isn't, it is hardly worth a first reading, I don't get tired of my friend Brown, so why should I put Dickens off with a mere society call? If I didn't enjoy Brown I'd not visit him so frequently; but, liking him, I go again and again. So with Dickens, Mark Twain, and Shakespeare. The story goes that a second Uncle Remus was sitting on a stump in the depths of a forest sawing away on an old discordant violin. A man, who chanced to come upon him, asked what he was doing. With no interruption of his musical activities, he answered: "Boss, I'se serenadin' m' soul." Book or violin, 'tis all the same. Uncle Remus and I are serenading our souls and the exercise is good for us. I was laid by with typhoid fever for a few weeks once, and the doctor came at eleven o'clock in the morning and at five o'clock in the afternoon. If he happened to be a bit late I grew impatient, and my fever increased. He discovered this fact, and was no more tardy. He was reading "John Fiske" at the time, and Grant's "Memoirs," and at each visit reviewed for me what he had read since the previous visit. He must have been glad when I no longer needed to take my history by proxy, for I kept him up to the mark, and bullied him into reciting twice a day. I don't know what drugs he gave me, but I do know that "Fiske" and "Grant" are good for typhoid, and heartily commend them to the general public. I am rather glad now that I had typhoid fever. I listen with amused tolerance to people who grow voluble on the weather and their symptoms, and often wish they would ask me to prescribe for them. I'd probably tell them to become readers of William J. Locke. But, perhaps, their symptoms might seem preferable to the remedy. A neighbor came in to borrow a book, and I gave her "Les Miserables," which she returned in a day or so, saying that she could not read it. I knew that I had overestimated her, and that I didn't have a book around of her size. I had loaned my "Robin Hood," "Rudder Grange," "Uncle Remus," and "Sonny" to the children round about. I like to browse around among my books, and am trying to have my boys and girls acquire the same habit. Reading for pure enjoyment isn't a formal affair any more than eating. Sometimes I feel in the mood for a grapefruit for breakfast, sometimes for an orange, and sometimes for neither. I'm glad not to board at a place where they have standardized breakfasts and reading. If I feel in the mood for an orange I want an orange, even if my neighbor has a casaba melon. So, if I want my "Middlemarch," I'm quite eager for that book, and am quite willing for my neighbor to have his "Henry Esmond." The appetite for books is variable, the same as for food, and I'd rather consult my appetite than my neighbor when choosing a book as a companion through a lazy afternoon beneath the maple-tree, I refuse to try to supervise the reading of my pupils. Why, I couldn't supervise their eating. I'd have to find out whether the boy was yearning for porterhouse steak or ice-cream, first; then I might help him make a selection. The best I can do is to have plenty of steak, potatoes, pie, and ice-cream around, and allow him to help himself. CHAPTER XIX MAKE-BELIEVE The text may be found in "Over Bemerton's," by E. V. Lucas, and reads as follows: "A gentle hypocrisy is not only the basis but the salt of civilized life." This statement startled me a bit at first; but when I got to thinking of my experience in having a photograph of myself made I saw that Mr. Lucas has some warrant for his statement. There has been only one Oliver Cromwell to say: "Paint me as I am." The rest of us humans prefer to have the wart omitted. If my photograph is true to life I don't want it. I'm going to send it away, and I don't want the folks who get it to think I look like that. If I were a woman and could wear a disguise of cosmetics when sitting for a picture the case might not be quite so bad. The subtle flattery of the photograph is very grateful to us mortals whether we admit it or not. My friend Baxter introduced me once as a man who is not two-faced, and went on to explain that if I had had two faces I'd have brought the other instead of this one. And that's true. I expect the photographer to evoke another face for me, and hence my generous gift of money to him. I like that chap immensely. He takes my money, gives me another face, bows me out with the grace of a finished courtier, and never, by word or look, reveals his knowledge of my hypocrisy. As a boy I had a full suit of company manners which I wore only when guests were present, and so was always sorry to have guests come. I sat back on the chair instead of on its edge; I didn't swing my legs unless I had a lapse of memory; I said, "Yes, ma'am," and, "No, ma'am," like any other parrot, just as I did at rehearsal; and, in short, I was a most exemplary child save for occasional reactions to unlooked-for situations. The folks knew I was posing, and were on nettles all the while from fear of a breakdown; the guests knew I was posing, and I knew I was posing. But we all pretended to one another that that was the regular order of procedure in our house. So we had a very gratifying concert exercise in hypocrisy. We said our prayers that night just as usual. With such thorough training in my youth it is not at all strange that I now consider myself rather an adept in the prevailing social usages. At a musicale I applaud fit to blister my hands, even though I feel positively pugnacious. But I know the singer has an encore prepared, and I feel that it would be ungracious to disappoint her. Besides, I argue with myself that I can stand it for five minutes more if the others can. Professor James, I think it is, says that we ought to do at least one disagreeable thing each day as an aid in the development of character. Being rather keen on character development, I decide on a double dose of the disagreeable while opportunity favors. Hence my vigorous applauding. Then, too, I realize that the time and place are not opportune for an expression of my honest convictions; so I choose the line of least resistance and well-nigh blister my hands to emphasize my hypocrisy. At a formal dinner I have been known to sink so low into the depths of hypocrisy as to eat shrimp salad. But when one is sitting next to a lady who seems a confirmed celibate, and who seems to find nothing better than to become voluble on the subject of her distinguished ancestors, even shrimp salad has its uses. Now, under normal conditions my perverted and plebeian taste regards shrimp salad as a banality, but at that dinner I ate it with apparent relish, and tried not to make a wry face. But, worst of all, I complimented the hostess upon the excellence of the dinner, and extolled the salad particularly, although we both knew that the salad was a failure, and that the dinner itself convicted the cook of a lack of experience or else of a superfluity of potations. When the refreshments are served I take a thimbleful of ice-cream and an attenuated wafer, and then solemnly declare to the maid that I have been abundantly served. In the hallowed precincts that I call my den I could absorb nine rations such as they served and never bat an eye. And yet, in making my adieus to the hostess, I thank her most effusively for a delightful evening, refreshments included, and then hurry grumbling home to get something to eat. Such are some of the manifestations of social hypocrisy. These all pass current at their face value, and yet we all know that nobody is deceived. Still it is great fun to play make-believe, and the world would have convulsions if we did not indulge in these pleasing deceptions. In the clever little book "Molly Make-Believe" the girl pretends at first that she loves the man, and later on comes to love him to distraction, and she lived happy ever after, too. When, in my fever, I would ask about my temperature, the nurse would give a numeral about two degrees below the real record to encourage me, and I can't think that St. Peter will bar her out just for that. The psychologists give mild assent to the theory that a physical attitude may generate an emotion. If I assume a belligerent attitude, they claim that, in time, I shall feel really belligerent; that in a loafing attitude I shall presently be loafing; and that, if I assume the attitude of a listener, I shall soon be listening most intently. This seems to be justified by the experiences of Edwin Booth on the stage. He could feign fighting for a time, and then it became real fighting, and great care had to be taken to avert disastrous consequences when his sword fully struck its gait. I believe the psychologists have never fully agreed on the question whether the man is running from the bear because he is scared or is scared because he is running. I dare say Mr. Shakespeare was trying to express this theory when he said: "Assume a virtue, though you have it not." That's exactly what I'm trying to have my pupils do all the while. I'm trying to have them wear their company manners continually, so that, in good time, they will become their regular working garb. I'm glad to have them assume the attitudes of diligence and politeness, thinking that their attitudes may generate the corresponding emotions. It is a severe strain on a boy at times to seem polite when he feels like hurling missiles. We both know that his politeness is mere make-believe, but we pretend not to know, and so move along our ways of hypocrisy hoping that good may come. There is a telephone-girl over in the central station, wherever that is, who certainly is beautiful if the voice is a true index. Her tones are dulcet, and her voice is so mellow and well modulated that I visualize her as another Venus. I suspect that, when she began her work, some one told her that her tenure of position depended upon the quality of her voice. So, I imagine, she assumed a tonal quality of voice that was really a sublimated hypocrisy, and persisted in this until now that quality of voice is entirely natural. I can't think that Shakespeare had her specially in mind, but, if I ever have the good fortune to meet her, I shall certainly ask her if she reads Shakespeare. Now that I think of it, I shall try this treatment on my own voice, for it sorely needs treatment. Possibly I ought to take a course of training at the telephone-station. I am now thoroughly persuaded that Mr. Lucas gave expression to a great principle of pedagogy in what he said about hypocrisy, and I shall try to be diligent in applying it. If I can get my boys to assume an arithmetical attitude, they may come to have an arithmetical feeling, and that would give me great joy. I don't care to have them express their honest feelings either about me or the work, but would rather have them look polite and interested, even if it is hypocrisy. I'd like to have all my boys and girls act as if they consider me absolutely fair, just, and upright, as well as the most kind, courteous, generous, scholarly, skillful, and complaisant schoolmaster that ever lived, no matter what they really think. CHAPTER XX BEHAVIOR If I only knew how to teach English, I'd have far more confidence in my schoolmastering. But I don't seem to get on. The system breaks down too often to suit me. Just when I think I have some lad inoculated with elegant English through the process of reading from some classic, he says, "might of came," and I become obfuscated again. I have a book here in which I read that it is the business of the teacher so to organize the activities of the school that they will function in behavior. Well, my boys' behavior in the use of English indicates that I haven't organized the activities of my English class very effectively. I seem to be more of a success in a cherry-orchard than in an English class. My cherries are large and round, a joy to the eye and delightful to the taste. The fruit expert tells me they are perfect, and so I feel that I organized the activities in that orchard efficiently. In fact, the behavior of my cherry-trees is most gratifying. But when I hear my pupils talk or read their essays, and find a deal of imperfect fruit in the way of solecisms and misspelled words, I feel inclined to discredit my skill in organizing the activities in this human orchard. I think my trouble is (and it is trouble), that I proceed upon the agreeable assumption that my pupils can "catch" English as they do the measles if only they are exposed to it. So I expose them to the objective complement and the compellative, and then stand aghast at their behavior when they make all the mistakes that can possibly be made in using a given number of words. I have occasion to wonder whether I juggle these big words merely because I happen to see them in a book, or whether I am trying to be impressive. I recall how often I have felt a thrill of pride as I have ladled out deliberative subjunctives, ethical datives, and hysteron proteron to my (supposedly) admiring Latin pupils. If I were a soldier I should want to wear one of those enormous three-story military hats to render me tall and impressive. I have no desire to see a drum-major minus his plumage. The disillusionment would probably be depressing. Liking to wear my shako, I must continue to talk of objective complements instead of using simple English. I had watched men make a hundred barrels, but when I tried my skill I didn't produce much of a barrel. Then I knew making barrels is not violently infectious. But I suspect that it is quite the same as English in this respect. My behavior in that cooper-shop, for a time, was quite destructive of materials, until I had acquired skill by much practice. If I could only organize the activities in my English class so that they would function in such behavior as Lincoln's "Letter to Mrs. Bixby," I should feel that I might continue my teaching instead of devoting all my time to my cherry-orchard. Or, if I could see that my pupils were acquiring the habit of correct English as the result of my work, I'd give myself a higher grade as a schoolmaster. My neighbor over here teaches agriculture, and one of his boys produced one hundred and fifty bushels of corn on an acre of ground. That's what I call excellent behavior, and that schoolmaster certainly knows how to organize the activities of his class. My boy's yield of thirty-seven bushels, mostly nubbins, does not compare favorably with the yield of his boy, and I feel that I ought to reform, or else wear a mask. Here is my boy saying "might of came," and his boy is raising a hundred and fifty bushels of corn per acre. If I could only assemble all my boys and girls twenty years hence and have them give an account of themselves for all the years after they left school, I could grade them with greater accuracy than I can possibly do now. Of course, I'd simply grade them on behavior, and if I could muster up courage, I might ask them to grade mine. I wonder how I'd feel if I'd find among them such folks as Edison, Burbank, Goethals, Clara Barton, and Frances Willard. My neighbor John says the most humiliating experience that a man can have is to wear a pair of his son's trousers that have been cut down to fit him. I might have some such feelings as that in the presence of pupils who had made such notable achievements. But, should they tell me that these achievements were due, in some good measure, to the work of the school, well, that would be glory enough for me. One of my boys was telling me only yesterday of a bit of work he did the day before in the way of revealing a process in chemistry to a firm of jewellers and hearing the superintendent say that that bit of information is worth a thousand dollars to the establishment. If he keeps on doing things like that I shall grade his behavior one of these days. I suppose Mr. Goethals must have learned the multiplication table, once upon a time, and used it, too, in constructing the Panama Canal. He certainly made it effective, and the activities of that class in arithmetic certainly did function. I tell my boys that this multiplication table is the same one that Mr. Goethals has been using all the while, and then ask them what use they expect to make of it. One man made use of this table in tunnelling the Alps, and another in building the Brooklyn Bridge, and it seems to be good for many more bridges and tunnels if I can only organize the activities aright. I was standing in front of St. Marks, there in Venice, one morning, regaling myself with the beauty of the festive scene, and talking to a friend, when four of my boys came strolling up, and they seemed more my boys than ever before. What a reunion we had! The folks all about us didn't understand it in the least, but we did, and that was enough. I forgot my coarse clothes, my well-nigh empty pockets, my inability to buy the many beautiful things that kept tantalizing me, and the meagreness of my salary. These were all swallowed up in the joy of seeing the boys, and I wanted to proclaim to all and sundry; "These are my jewels." Those boys are noble, clean, upstanding fellows, and no schoolmaster could help being proud of them. Such as they nestle down in the heart of the schoolmaster and cause him to know that life is good. I was sorry not to be able to share my joy with my friend who stood near, but that could not be. I might have used words to him, but he would not have understood. He had never yearned over those fellows and watched them, day by day, hoping that they might grow up to be an honor to their school. He had never had the experience of watching from the schoolhouse window, fervently wishing that no harm might come to them, and that no shadows might come over their lives. He had never known the joy of sitting up far into the night to prepare for the coming of those boys the next day. He had never seen their eyes sparkle in the classroom when, for them, truth became illumined. Of course, he stood aloof, for he couldn't know. Only the schoolmaster can ever know how those four boys became the focus of all that wondrous beauty on that splendid morning. If I had had my grade-book along I would have recorded their grades in behavior, for as I looked upon those glorious chaps and heard them recount their experiences I had a feeling of exaltation, knowing that the activities of our school had functioned in right behavior. CHAPTER XXI FOREFINGERS This left forefinger of mine is certainly a curiosity. It looks like a miniature totem-pole, and I wish I had before me its life history. I'd like to know just how all these seventeen scars were acquired. It seems to have come in contact with about all sorts and sizes of cutlery. If only teachers or parents had been wise enough to make a record of all my bloodletting mishaps, with occasions, causes, and effects, that record would afford a fruitful study for students of education. The pity of it is that we take no account of such matters as phases or factors of education. We keep saying that experience is the best teacher, and then ignore this eloquent forefinger. I call that criminal neglect arising from crass ignorance. Why, these scars that adorn many parts of my body are the foot-prints of evolution, if, indeed, evolution makes tracks. The scars on the faces of those students at Heidelberg are accounted badges of honor, but they cannot compare with the big scar on my left knee that came to me as the free gift of a corn-knife. Those students wanted their scars to take home to show their mothers. I didn't want mine, and made every effort to conceal it, as well as the hole in my trousers. I got my scar as a warning. I profited by it, too, for never were there two cuts in exactly the same place. In fact, they were widely, if not wisely, distributed. They are the indices of the soaring sense of my youthful audacity. And yet neither parents nor teachers ever graded my scars. I recall quite distinctly that, at one time, I proclaimed boldly over one entire page of a copy-book, that knowledge is power, and became so enthusiastic in these numerous proclamations that I wrote on the bias, and zigzagged over the page with fine abandon. But no teacher ever even hinted to me that the knowledge I acquired from my contest with a nest of belligerent bumblebees had the slightest connection with power. When I groped my way home with both eyes swollen shut I was never lionized. Indeed, no! Anything but that! I couldn't milk the cows that evening, and couldn't study my lesson, and therefore, my newly acquired knowledge was called weakness instead of power. They did not seem to realize that my swollen face was prominent in the scheme of education, nor that bumblebees and yellow-jackets may be a means of grace. They wanted me to be solving problems in common (sometimes called vulgar) fractions. I don't fight bumblebees any more, which proves that my knowledge generated power. The emotions of my boyhood presented a scene of grand disorder, and those bumblebees helped to organize them, and to clarify and define my sense of values. I can philosophize about a bumblebee far more judicially now than I could when my eyes were swollen shut. I went to the town to attend a circus one day, and concluded I'd celebrate the day with eclat by getting my hair cut. At the conclusion of this ceremony the tonsorial Beau Brummel, in the most seductive tones, suggested a shampoo. I just couldn't resist his blandishments, and so consented. Then he suggested tonic, and grew quite eloquent in recounting the benefits to the scalp, and I took tonic. I felt quite a fellow, till I came to pay the bill, and then discovered that I had but fifteen cents left from all my wealth. That, of course, was not sufficient for a ticket to the circus, so I bought a bag of peanuts and walked home, five miles, meditating, the while, upon the problem of life. My scalp was all right, but just under that scalp was a seething, soundless hubbub. I learned things that day that are not set down in the books, even if I did get myself laughed at. When I get to giving school credits for home work I shall certainly excuse the boy who has had such an experience as that from solving at least four problems in vulgar fractions, and I shall include that experience in my definition of education, too. I have tried to back-track Paul Laurence Dunbar, now and then, and have found it good fun. Once I started with his expression, "the whole sky overhead and the whole earth underneath," and tried to get back to where that started. He must have been lying on his back on some grass-plot, right in the centre of everything, with that whole half-sphere of sky luring his spirit out toward the infinite, with a pillow that was eight thousand miles thick. If I had been his teacher I might have called him lazy and shiftless as he lay there, because he was not finding how to place a decimal point, I'm glad, on the whole, that I was not his teacher, for I'd have twinges of conscience every time I read one of his big thoughts. I'd feel that, while he was lying there growing big, I was doing my best to make him little. When I was lying on my back there in the Pantheon in Rome, looking up through that wide opening, and watching a moving-picture show that has no rival, the fleecy clouds in their ever-changing forms against that blue background of matchless Italian sky, those gendarmes debated the question of arresting me for disorderly conduct. My conduct was disorderly because they couldn't understand it. But, if Raphael could have risen from his tomb only a few yards away, he would have told those fellows not to disturb me while I was being so liberally educated. Then, that other time, when my friend Reuben and I stood on the very prow of the ship when the sea was rolling high, swinging us up into the heights, and then down into the depths, with the roar drowning out all possibility of talk--well, somehow, I thought of that copy-book back yonder with its message that "Knowledge is power." And I never think of power without recalling that experience as I watched that battle royal between the power of the sea and the power of the ship that could withstand the angry buffeting of the waves, and laugh in glee as it rode them down. I know that six times nine are fifty-four, but I confess that I forgot this fact out there on the prow of that ship. Some folks might say that Reuben and I were wasting our time, but I can't think so. I like, even now, to stand out in the clear during a thunder-storm. I want the head uncovered, too, that the wind may toss my hair about while I look the lightning-flashes straight in the eye and stand erect and unafraid as the thunder crashes and rolls and reverberates about me. I like to watch the trees swaying to and fro, keeping time to the majestic rhythm of the elements. To me such an experience is what my neighbor John calls "growing weather," and at such a time the bigness of the affair causes me to forget for the time that there are such things as double datives. One time I spent the greater part of a forenoon watching logs go over a dam. It seems a simple thing to tell, and hardly worth the telling, but it was a great morning in actual experience. In time those huge logs became things of life, and when they arose from their mighty plunge into the watery deeps they seemed to shake themselves free and laugh in their freedom. And there were battles, too. They struggled and fought and rode over one another, and their mighty collisions produced a very thunder of sound. I tried to read the book which I had with me, but could not. In the presence of such a scene one cannot read a book unless it is one of Victor Hugo's. That copy-book looms up again as I think of those logs, and I wonder whether knowledge is power, and whether experience is the best teacher. But, dear me! Here I've been frittering away all this good time, and these papers not graded yet! CHAPTER XXII STORY-TELLING My boys like to have me tell them stories, and, if the stories are true ones, they like them all the better. So I sometimes become reminiscent when they gather about me and let them lead me along as if I couldn't help myself when they are so interested. In this way I become one of them. I like to whittle a nice pine stick while I talk, for then the talk seems incidental to the whittling and so takes hold of them all the more. In the midst of the talking a boy will sometimes slip into my hand a fresh stick, when I have about exhausted the whittling resources of the other. That's about the finest encore I have ever received. A boy knows how to pay a compliment in a delicate way when the mood for compliments is on him, and if that mood of his is handled with equal delicacy great things may be accomplished. Well, the other day as I whittled the inevitable pine stick I let them lure from me the story of Sant. Now, Sant was my seatmate in the village school back yonder, and I now know that I loved him whole-heartedly. I didn't know this at the time, for I took him as a matter of course, just as I did my right hand. His name was Sanford, but boys don't call one another by their right names. They soon find affectionate nicknames. I have quite a collection of these nicknames myself, but have only a hazy notion of how or where they were acquired. When some one calls me by one of these names, I can readily locate him in time and place, for I well know that he must belong in a certain group or that name would not come to his lips. These nicknames that we all have are really historical. Well, we called him Sant, and that name conjures up before me one of the most wholesome boys I have ever known. He was brimful of fun. A heartier, more sincere laugh a boy never had, and my affection for him was as natural as my breathing. He knew I liked him, though I never told him so. Had I told him, the charm would have been broken. In those days spelling was one of the high lights of school work, and we were incited to excellence in this branch of learning by head tickets, which were a promise of still greater honor, in the form of a prize, to the winner. The one who stood at the head of the class at the close of the lesson received a ticket, and the holder of the greatest number of these tickets at the end of the school year bore home in triumph the much-coveted prize in the shape of a book as a visible token of superiority. I wanted that prize, and worked for it. Tickets were accumulating in my little box with exhilarating regularity, and I was nobly upholding the family name when I was stricken with pneumonia, and my victorious career had a rude check. My nearest competitor was Sam, who almost exulted in my illness because of the opportunity it afforded him for a rich harvest of head tickets. In the exuberance of his joy he made some remark to this effect, which Sant overheard. Up to this time Sant had taken no interest in the contests in spelling, but Sam's remark galvanized him into vigorous life, and spelling became his overmastering passion. Indeed, he became the wonder of the school, and in consequence poor Sam's anticipations were not realized. Day after day Sant caught the word that Sam missed, and thus added another ticket to his collection. So it went until I took my place again, and then Sant lapsed back into his indifference, leaving me to look after Sam myself. When I tried to face him down with circumstantial evidence he seemed pained to think that I could ever consider him capable of such designing. The merry twinkle in his eye was the only confession he ever made. Small wonder that I loved Sant. If I were writing a testimonial for myself I should say that it was much to my credit that I loved a boy like that. As a boy my risibilities were easily excited, and I'm glad that, even yet, I have not entirely overcome that weakness. If I couldn't have a big laugh, now and then, I'd feel that I ought to consult a physician. My boys and girls and I often laugh together, but never at one another. Sant had a deal of fun with my propensity to laugh. When we were conning our geography lesson, he would make puns upon such names as Chattahoochee and Appalachicola, and I would promptly explode. Then, enter the teacher. But I drop the mantle of charity over the next scene, for his school-teaching was altogether personal, and not pedagogical. He didn't know that puns and laughter were the reactions on the part of us boys that caused us to know the facts of the book. But he wanted us to learn those facts in his way, and not in our own. Poor fellow! _Requiescat in pace_, if he can. Sant was the first one of our crowd to go to college, and we were all proud of him, and predicted great things for him. We all knew he was brilliant and felt certain that the great ones in the college would soon find it out. And they did; for ever and anon some news would filter through to us that Sant was battening upon Latin, Greek, mathematics, science, and history. Of course, we gave all the credit to our little school, and seemed to forget that the Lord may have had something to do with it. When we proved by Sant's achievements that our school was _ne plus ultra_, I noticed that the irascible teacher joined heartily in the chorus. I intend to get all the glory I can from the achievements of my pupils, but I do hope that they may not be my sole dependence at the distribution of glory. Yes, Sant graduated, and his name was written high upon the scroll. But he could not deliver his oration, for he was sick, and a friend read it for him. And when he arose to receive his diploma he had to stand on crutches. They took him home in a carriage, and within a week he was dead. The fires of genius had burned brightly for a time and then went out in darkness, because his father and mother were first cousins. At the conclusion of this story, the boys were silent for a long time, and I knew the story was having its effect. Then there was a slight movement, and one of them put into my hand another pine stick. I whittled in silence for a time, and then told them of a woman I know who is well-known and highly esteemed in more than one State because of her distinctive achievements. One day I saw her going along the street leading by the hand a little four-year-old boy. He was the picture of health, and rollicked along as only such a healthy little chap can. He was eager to see all the things that were displayed in the windows, but to me he and the proud mother were the finest show on the street. She beamed upon him like another Madonna, and it seemed to me that the Master must have been looking at some such glorious child as that when he said; "Suffer the little children to come unto me." A few weeks later I was riding on the train with that mother, and she was telling me that the little fellow had been ill, and told how anxious she had been through several days and nights because the physicians could not discover the cause of his illness. Then she told how happy she was that he had about recovered, and how bright he seemed when she kissed him good-by that morning. I saw her several times that week and at each meeting she gave me good news of the little boy at home. Inside of another month that noble little fellow was dead. Apparently he was his own healthy, happy little self, and then was stricken as he had been before. The pastor of the church of which the parents are members told me of the death scene. It occurred at about one o'clock in the morning, and the mother was worn and haggard from anxiety and days of watching. The members of the family, the physician, and the pastor were standing around the bed, but the mother was on her knees close beside the little one, who was writhing in the most awful convulsions. Then the stricken mother looked straight into heaven and made a personal appeal to God to come and relieve the little fellow's sufferings. Again and again she prayed: "Oh, God, do come and take my little boy." And the Angel of Death, in answer to that prayer, came in and touched the baby, and he was still. The mother of that child may or may not know that the grandfather of that child came into that room that night, though he had been long in his grave, and murdered her baby--murdered him with tainted blood. That grandfather had not lived a clean life, and so broke a mother's heart and forced her in agony to pray for the death of her own child. When I had finished I walked quietly away, leaving the boys to their own thoughts, and as I walked I breathed the wish that my boys may live such clean, wholesome, upright, temperate lives that no child or grandchild may ever have occasion to reproach them, or point the finger of scorn at them, and that no mother may ever pray for death to come to her baby because of a taint in their blood. CHAPTER XXIII GRANDMOTHER My grandmother was about the nicest grandmother that a boy ever had, and in memory of her, I am quite partial to all the grandmothers. I like Whistler's portrait of his mother there in the Luxembourg--the serene face, the cap and strings, and the folded hands--because it takes me back to the days and to the presence of my grandmother. She got into my heart when I was a boy, and she is there yet; and there she will stay. The bread and butter that she somehow contrived to get to us boys between meals made us feel that she could read our minds. I attended a banquet the other night, but they had no such bread and butter as we boys had there in the shade of that apple-tree. It was real bread and real butter, and the appetite was real, too, and that helped to invest grandmother with a halo. Sometimes she would add jelly, and that caused our cup of joy to run over. She just could not bear a hungry look on the face of a boy, and when such a look appeared she exorcised it in the way that a boy likes. What I liked about her was that she never attached any conditions to her bread and butter--no, not even when she added jelly, but her gifts were as free as salvation. The more I think of the matter, the more I am convinced that her gifts were salvation, for I know, by experience, that a hungry boy is never a good boy, at least, not to excess. Whatever the vicissitudes of life might be to me, I knew that I had a city of refuge beside grandmother's big armchair, and when trouble came I instinctively sought that haven, often with rare celerity. In that hallowed place there could be no hunger, nor thirst, nor persecution. In that place there was peace and plenty, whatever there might be elsewhere. I often used to wonder how she could know a boy so well. I would be aching to go over to play with Tom, and the first thing I knew grandmother was sending me over there on some errand, telling me there was no special hurry about coming back. My father might set his foot down upon some plan of mine ever so firmly, but grandmother had only to smile at him and he was reduced to a degree of limpness that contributed to my escape. I have often wondered whether that smile on the face of grandmother did not remind him, of some of his own boyish pranks. We boys knew, somehow, what she expected of us, and her expectation was the measuring rod with which we tested our conduct. Boy-like, we often wandered away into a far country, but when we returned, she had the fatted calf ready for us, with never a question as to our travels abroad. In that way foreign travel lost something of its glamour, and the home life made a stronger appeal. She made her own bill of fare so appetizing that we lost all our relish for husks and the table companions connected with them. She never asked how or where we acquired the cherry-stains on our shirts, but we knew that she recognized cherry-stains when she saw them. The next day our shirts were innocent of foreign cherry-stains, and we experienced a feeling of righteousness. She made us feel that we were equal partners with her in the enterprise of life, and that hoeing the garden and eating the cookies were our part of the compact. When we went to stay with her for a week or two we carried with us a book or so of the lurid sort, but returned home leaving them behind, generally in the form of ashes. She found the book, of course, beneath the pillow, and replaced it when she made the bed, but never mentioned the matter to us. Then, in the afternoon, while we munched cookies she would read to us from some book that made our own book seem tame and unprofitable. She never completed the story, however, but left the book on the table where we could find it easily. No need to tell that we finished the story, without help, in the evening, and the next day cremated the other book, having found something more to our liking. One evening, as we sat together, she said she wished she knew the name of Jephthah's daughter, and then went on with her knitting as if she had forgotten her wish. At that age we boys were not specially interested in daughters, no matter whose they were; but that challenge to our curiosity was too much for us, and before we went to bed we knew all that is known of that fine girl. That was the beginning of our intimate, personal knowledge of Bible characters--Ruth, Esther, David, and the rest; but grandmother made us feel that we had known about them all along. I know, even yet, just how tall Ruth was, and what was the color of her eyes and hair; and Esther is the standard by which I measure all the queens of earth, whether they wear crowns or not. One day when we went over to play with Tom we saw a peacock for the first time, and at supper became enthusiastic over the discovery. In the midst of our rhapsodizing grandmother asked us if we knew how those beautiful spots came to be in the feathers of the peacock. We confessed our ignorance, and like Ajax, prayed for light. But we soon became aware that our prayer would not be answered until after the supper dishes had been washed. Our alacrity in proffering our services is conclusive evidence that grandmother knew about motivation whether she knew the word or not. We suggested the omission of the skillets and pans for that night only, but the suggestion fell upon barren soil, and the regular order of business was strictly observed. Then came the story, and the narrator made the characters seem lifelike to us as they passed in review. There were Jupiter and Juno; there were Argus with his hundred eyes, the beautiful heifer that was Io, and the crafty Mercury. In rapt attention we listened until those eyes of Argus were transferred to the feathers of the peacock. If Mercury's story of his musical pipe closed the eyes of Argus, grandmother's story opened ours wide, and we clamored for another, as boys will do. Nor did we ask in vain, and we were soon learning of the Flying Mercury, and how light and airy Mercury was, seeing that an infant's breath could support him. After telling of the wild ride of Phaeton and his overthrow, she quoted from John G. Saxe: "Don't set it down in your table of forces That any one man equals any four horses. Don't swear by the Styx! It is one of old Nick's Diabolical tricks To get people into a regular 'fix,' And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!" Be it said to our credit that after such an evening dish-washing was no longer a task, but rather a delightful prelude to another mythological feast. We wandered with Ulysses and shuddered at Polyphemus; we went in quest of the Golden Fleece, and watched the sack of Troy; we came to know Orpheus and Eurydice and Pyramus and Thisbe; and we sowed dragon's teeth and saw armed men spring up before us. Since those glorious evenings with grandmother the classic myths have been among my keenest delights. I read again and again Lowell's extravaganza upon the story of Daphne, and can hear grandmother's laugh over his delicious puns. I can hear her voice as she reads Shelley's musical Arethusa, and then turns to his Skylark to compare their musical qualities. I feel downright sorry for the boy who has no such grandmother to teach him these poems, but not more sorry than I do for those boys who took that Diamond Dick book with them when they went visiting. Even now, when people talk to me of omniscience I always think of grandmother. CHAPTER XXIV MY WORLD "The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed out-worn-- So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn." --_Wordsworth_. I have heard many times that this is one of the best of Wordsworth's many sonnets, and in the matter of sonnets, I find myself compelled to depend upon others for my opinions. I'm sorry that such is the case, for I'd rather not deal in second-hand judgments if I could help it. About the most this sonnet can do for me is to make me wonder what my world is. I suppose that the size of my world is the measure of myself, and that in my schoolmastering I am simply trying to enlarge the world of my pupils. I saw a gang-plough the other day that is drawn by a motor, and that set me to thinking of ploughs in general and their evolution; and, by tracing the plough backward, I saw that the original one must have been the forefinger of some cave-dweller. When his forefinger got sore, he got a forked stick and used that instead; then he got a larger one and used both hands; then a still larger one, and used oxen as the motive power; and then he fitted handles to it, and other parts till he finally produced a plough. But the principle has not been changed, and the gang-plough is but a multifold forefinger. It is great fun to loose the tether of the mind and let it go racing along, in and out, till it runs to earth the original plough. Whether the solution is the correct one makes but little difference. If friend Brown cannot disprove my theory, I am on safe ground, and have my fun whether he accepts or rejects my findings. This is one way of enlarging one's world, I take it, and if this sort of thing is a part of the process of education, I am in favor of it, and wish I knew how to set my boys and girls going on such excursions. I wish I might have gone to school to Agassiz just to get my eyes opened. If I had, I'd probably assign to my pupils such subjects as the evolution of a snowflake, the travels of a sunbeam, the mechanism of a bird's wing, the history of a dewdrop, the changes in a blade of grass, and the evolution of a grain of sand. If I could only take them away from books for a month or so, they'd probably be able to read the books to better advantage when they came back. I'd like to take them on a walking trip over the Alps and through rural England and Scotland for a few weeks. If they could only gather broom, heather, shamrock, and edelweiss, they would be able to see clover, alfalfa, arbutus, and mignonette when they came back home. If they could see black robins in Wales and Germany, the robin redbreast here at home would surely be thought worthy of notice. If they could see stalactites and stalagmites in Luray Cave, their world would then include these formations. One of my boys was a member of an exploring expedition in the Andes, and one night they were encamped near a glacier. This glacier protruded into a lake, and on that particular night the end of that river of ice broke off and thus formed an iceberg. The glacier was nearly a mile wide, and when the end broke off the sound was such as to make the loudest thunder seem a whisper by comparison. It was a rare experience for this young fellow to be around where icebergs are made, and vicariously I shared his experience. I want to know the price of eggs, bacon, and coffee, but I need not go into camp on the price-list. Having purchased my bacon and eggs, I like to move along to where my friend is sitting, and hear him tell of his experiences with glaciers and icebergs, and so become inoculated with the world-enlarging virus. Or, if he comes in to share my bacon and eggs, these mundane delights lose none of their flavor by being garnished with conversation on Andean themes. I'm glad to have my friend push that greatest of monuments, "The Christ of the Andes," over into my world. I arise from the table feeling that I have had full value for the money I expended for eggs and bacon. I'd like to have in my world a liberal sprinkling of stars, for when I am looking at stars I get away from sordid things, for a time, and get my soul renovated. I think St. Paul must have been associating with starry space just before he wrote the last two verses of that eighth chapter of Romans. I can't see how he could have written such mighty thoughts if he had been dwelling upon clothes or symptoms. The reading of a patent-medicine circular is not specially conducive to thoughts of infinity. So I like, in my meditations, to take trips from star to star, and from planet to planet. I like to wonder whether these planets were rightly named--whether Venus is as beautiful as the name implies, and whether the Martians are really disciples of the warlike Mars. I like to drift along upon the canals on the planet Mars, with heroic Martians plying the oars. I have great fun on such spatial excursions, and am glad that I ever annexed these planets to my world. I can take these stellar companions with me to my potato-patch, and they help the day along. I want pictures in my world, too, and statues; for they show me the hearts of the artists, and that is a sort of baptism. Sometimes I grow a bit impatient to see how slowly some work of mine proceeds. Then I think of Ghiberti, who worked for forty-two years on the bronze doors of the Baptistry there in Florence, which Michael Angelo declared to be worthy of paradise. Then I reflect that it was worth a lifetime of work to win the praise of such as Angelo. This reflection calms me, and I plod on more serenely, glad of the fact that I can count Ghiberti and the bronze doors as a part of my world. When I can have Titian, Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Raphael, and Rosa Bonheur around, I feel that I have good company and must be on my good behavior. If Corot, Reynolds, Leighton, Watts, and Landseer should be banished from my world I'd feel that I had suffered a great loss. I like to hobnob with such folks as these, both for my own pleasure and also for the reputation I gain through such associations. I must have people in my world, also, or it wouldn't be much of a world. And I must be careful in my selection of people, if I am to achieve any distinction as a world builder. I just can't leave Cordelia out, for she helps to make my world luminous. But she must have companions; so I shall select Antigone, Evangeline, Miranda, Mary, and Martha if she can spare the time. Among the male contingent I shall want Job, Erasmus, Petrarch, Dante, Goethe, Shakespeare, Milton, and Burns. I want men and women in whose presence I must stand uncovered to preserve my self-respect. I want big people, wise people, and dynamic people in my world, people who will teach me how to work and how to live. If I can get my world made and peopled to my liking, I shall refute Mr. Wordsworth's statement that the world is too much with us. If I can have the right sort of folks about me, they will see to it that I do not waste my powers, for I shall be compelled to use my powers in order to avert expulsion from their good company. If I get my world built to suit me, I shall have no occasion to imitate the poet's plaint. I suspect there is no better fun in life than in building a world of one's own. CHAPTER XXV THIS OR THAT One day in London a friend told me that on the market in that city they have eggs of five grades--new-laid eggs, fresh eggs, imported fresh eggs, good eggs, and eggs. A few days later we were in the Tate Gallery looking at the Turner collection when he told me a story of Turner. It seems that a friend of the artist was in his studio watching him at his work, when suddenly this friend said: "Really, Mr. Turner, I can't see in nature the colors that you portray on canvas." The artist looked at him steadily for a moment, and then replied: "Don't you wish you could?" Life, even at its best, certainly is a maze. I find myself in the labyrinth, all the while groping about, but quite unable to find the exit. Theseus was most fortunate in having an Ariadne to furnish him with the thread to guide him. But there seems to be no second Ariadne for me, and I must continue to grope with no thread to guide. There in the Tate Gallery I was standing enthralled before pictures by Watts and Leighton, and paying small heed to the Turners, when the story of my friend held a mirror before me, and as I looked I asked myself the question: "Don't you wish you could?" Those Barbizon chaps, artists that they were, used to laugh at Corot and tell him he was parodying nature, but he went right on painting the foliage of his trees silver-gray until, finally, the other artists discovered that he was the only one who was telling the truth on canvas. Every one of my dilemmas seems to have at least a dozen horns, and I stand helpless before them, fearful that I may lay hold of the wrong one. I was reading in a book the other day the statement of a man who says he'd rather have been Louis Agassiz than the richest man in America. In another little book, "The Kingdom of Light," the author, who is a lawyer, says that Concord, Massachusetts, has influenced America to a greater degree than New York and Chicago combined. I think I'll blot out the superlative degree in my grammar, for the comparative gives me all the trouble I can stand. Everything seems to be better or worse than something else, and there doesn't seem to be any best or worst. So I'll dispense with the superlative degree. Whether I buy new-laid eggs, or just eggs, I can't be certain that I have the best or the worst eggs that can be found. If I go over to Paris I may find other grades of eggs. Our Sunday-school teacher wanted a generous contribution of money one day, and, by way of causing purse-strings to relax, told of a boy who was putting aside choice bits of meat as he ate his dinner. Upon being asked by his father why he was doing so, he replied that he was saving the bits for Rover. He was reminded that Rover could do with scraps and bones, and that he himself should eat the bits he had put aside. When he went out to Rover with the plate of leavings, he patted him affectionately and said: "Poor doggie! I was going to bring you an offering to-day; but I guess you'll have to put up with a collection." I like Robert Burns and think his "To Mary in Heaven" is his finest poem. But the critics seem to prefer his "Highland Mary." So I suppose these critics will look at me, with something akin to pity in the look, and say: "Don't you wish you could?" Years ago some one planted trees about my house for shade, and selected poplar. Now the roots of these trees invade the cellar and the cistern, and prove themselves altogether a nuisance. Of course, I can cut out the trees, but then I should have no shade. That man, whoever he was, might just as well have planted elms or maples, but, by some sort of perversity or ignorance, planted poplars, and here am I, years afterward, in a state of perturbation about the safety of cellar and cistern on account of those pesky roots. I do wish that man had taken a course in arboriculture before he planted those trees. It might have saved me a deal of bother, and been no worse for him. Back home, after we had passed through the autograph-album stage of development, we became interested in another sort of literary composition. It was a book in which we recorded the names of our favorite book, author, poem, statesman, flower, name, place, musical instrument, and so on throughout an entire page. That experience was really valuable and caused us to do some thinking. It would be well, I think, to use such a book as that in the examination of teachers and pupils. I wish I might come upon one of the books now in which I set down the record of my favorites. It would afford me some interesting if not valuable information. If I were called upon to name my favorite flower now I'd scarcely know what to say. In one mood I'd certainly say lily-of-the-valley, but in another mood I might say the rose. I do wonder if, in those books back yonder, I ever said sunflower, dandelion, dahlia, fuchsia, or daisy. If I should find that I said heliotrope, I'd give my adolescence a pretty high grade. If I were using one of these books in my school, and some boy should name the sunflower as his favorite, I'd find myself facing a big problem to get him converted to the lily-of-the-valley, and I really do not know quite how I should proceed. It might not help him much for me to ask him: "Don't you wish you could?" If I should let him know that my favorite is the lily-of-the-valley, he might name that flower as the line of least resistance to my approval and a high grade, with the mental reservation that the sunflower is the most beautiful plant that grows. Such a course might gratify me, but it certainly would not make for his progress toward the lily-of-the-valley, nor yet for the salvation of his soul. I have a boy of my own, but have never had the courage to ask him what kind of father he thinks he has. He might tell me. Again I am facing a dilemma. Dilemmas are quite plentiful hereabouts. I must determine whether to regard him as an asset or a liability. But, that is not the worst of my troubles. I plainly see that sooner or later he is going to decide whether his father is an asset or a liability. We must go over our books some day so as to find out which of us is in debt to the other. I know that I owe him his chance, but parents often seem backward about paying their debts to their children, and I'm wondering whether I shall be able to cancel that debt, to his present and ultimate satisfaction. I'd be decidedly uncomfortable, years hence, to find him but "the runt of something good" because I had failed to pay that debt. When I was a lad they used to say that I was stubborn, but that may have been my unsophisticated way of trying to collect a debt. I take some comfort, in these later days, in knowing that the folks at home credit me with the virtue of perseverance, and I wish they had used the milder word when I was a boy. There is a picture show just around the corner, and I'm in a quandary, right now, whether to follow the crowd to that show or sit here and read Ruskin's "Sesame and Lilies." If I go to see the picture film I'll probably see an exhibition of cowboy equestrian dexterity, with a "happy ever after" finale, and may also acquire the reputation among the neighbors of being up to date. But, if I spend the evening with Ruskin, I shall have something worth thinking over as I go about my work to-morrow. So here is another dilemma, and there is no one to decide the matter for me. This being a free moral agent is not the fun that some folks try to make it appear. I don't really see how I shall ever get on unless I subscribe to Sam Walter Foss's lines: "No other song has vital breath Through endless time to fight with death, Than that the singer sings apart To please his solitary heart." CHAPTER XXVI RABBIT PEDAGOGY As I think back over my past life as a schoolmaster I keep wondering how many inebriates I have produced in my career. I'd be glad to think that I have not a single one to my discredit, but that seems beyond the wildest hope, considering the character of my teaching. I am a firm believer in temperance in all things; but, in the matter of pedagogy, my practice cannot be made to square with my theory. In fact, I find, upon reflection, that I have been teaching intemperance all the while. I'm glad the officers of my church do not know of my pedagogical practice. If they did, they would certainly take action against me, and in that case I cannot see what adequate defense I could offer. Being a schoolmaster, I could scarcely bring myself to plead ignorance, for such a plea as that might abrogate my license. So I shall just keep quiet and look as nearly wise as possible. It is embarrassing to me to reflect how long it has taken me to see the error of my practice. If I had asked one of my boys he could have told me of the better way. When we got the new desks in our school, back home, our teacher seemed very anxious to have them kept in their virgin state, and became quite animated as he walked up and down the aisle fulminating against the possible offender. In the course of his sulphury remarks he threatened condign punishment upon the base miscreant who should dare use his penknife on one of those desks. His address was equal to a course in "Paradise Lost," nor was it without its effect upon the audience. Every boy in the room felt in his pocket to make sure that it contained his knife, and every one began to wonder just where he would find the whetstone when he went home. We were all eager for school to close for the day that we might set about the important matter of whetting our knives. Henceforth wood-carving was a part of the regular order in our school, but it was done without special supervision. Of course, each boy could prove an alibi when his own desk was under investigation. It would not be seemly, in this connection, to give a verbatim report of the conversations of us boys when we assembled at our rendezvous after school. Suffice it to say that the teacher's ears must have burned. The consensus of opinion was that, if the teacher didn't want the desks carved, he should not have told us to carve them. We seemed to think that he had said, in substance, that he knew we were a gang of young rascallions, and that, if he didn't intimidate us, we'd surely be guilty of some form of vandalism. Then he proceeded to point out the way by suggesting penknives; and the trick was done. We were ever open to suggestions. We had another teacher whose pet aversion was match heads. Cicero and Demosthenes would have apologized to him could they have come in when he was delivering one of his eloquent orations upon this engaging theme. His vituperative vocabulary seemed unlimited, inexhaustible, and cumulative. He raved, and ranted, and exuded epithets with the most lavish prodigality. It seemed to us that he didn't care much what he said, if he could only say it rapidly and forcibly. In the very midst of an eloquent period another match head would explode under his foot, and that seemed to answer the purpose of an encore. The class in arithmetic did not recite that afternoon. There was no time for arithmetic when match heads were to the fore. I sometimes feel a bit guilty that I was admitted to such a good show on a free pass. The next day, of course, the Gatling guns resumed their activity; the girls screeched as they walked toward the water-pail to get a drink; we boys studied our geography lesson with faces garbed in a look of innocence and wonder; our mothers at home were wondering what had become of all the matches; and the teacher--but the less said of him the better. We boys needed only the merest suggestion to set us in motion, and like Dame Rumor in the Aeneid, we gathered strength by the going. One day the teacher became somewhat facetious and recounted a red-pepper episode in the school of his boyhood. That was enough for us; and the next day, in our school, was a day long to be remembered. I recall in the school reader the story of "Meddlesome Matty." Her name was really Matilda. One day her curiosity got the better of her, and she removed the lid from her grandmother's snuff-box. The story goes on to say: "Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, and chin A dismal sight presented; And as the snuff got further in Sincerely she repented." Barring the element of repentance, the red pepper was equally provocative of results in our school. I certainly cannot lay claim to any great degree of docility, for, in spite of all the experiences of my boyhood, I fell into the evil ways of my teachers when I began my schoolmastering, and suggested to my pupils numberless short cuts to wrong-doing. I railed against intoxicants, and thus made them curious. That's why I am led to wonder if I have incited any of my boys to strong drink as my teachers incited me to desk-carving, match heads, and red pepper. I have come to think that a rabbit excels me in the matter of pedagogy. The tar-baby story that Joel Chandler Harris has given us abundantly proves my statement. The rabbit had so often outwitted the fox that, in desperation, the latter fixed up a tar-baby and set it up in the road for the benefit of the rabbit. In his efforts to discipline the tar-baby for impoliteness, the rabbit became enmeshed in the tar, to his great discomfort and chagrin. However, Brer Rabbit's knowledge of pedagogy shines forth in the following dialogue: W'en Brer Fox fine Brer Rabbit mixt up wid de Tar-Baby he feel mighty good, en he roll on de groun' en laff. Bimeby he up'n say, sezee: "Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Rabbit," sezee. "Maybe I ain't, but I speck I is. You been runnin' roun' here sassin' atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter de een' er de row. You bin cuttin' up yo' capers en bouncin' 'roun' in dis neighborhood ontwel you come ter b'leeve yo'se'f de boss er de whole gang. En den youer allers some'rs whar you got no bizness," sez Brer Fox, sezee. "Who ax you fer ter come en strike up a'quaintance wid dish yer Tar-Baby? En who stuck you up dar whar you is? Nobody in de roun' worril. You des tuck en jam yo'se'f on dat Tar-Baby widout watin' fer enny invite," sez Brer Fox, sezee, "en dar you is, en dar you'll stay twel I fixes up a bresh-pile and fires her up, kaze I'm gwineter bobby-cue you dis day, sho," sez Brer Fox, sezee. Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty 'umble. "I don't keer w'at you do wid me, Brer Fox," sezee, "so you don't fling me in dat brier-patch. Roas' me, Brer Fox," sezee, "but don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. "Hit's so much trouble fer ter kindle a fier," sez Brer Fox, sezee, "dat I speck I'll hatter hang you," sezee. "Hang me des ez high as you please, Brer Fox," sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, "but do fer de Lord's sake don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. "I ain't got no string," sez Brer Fos, sezee, "en now I speck I'll hatter drown you," sezee. "Drown me des ez deep ez you please, Brer Fox," sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, "but do don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. "Dey ain't no water nigh," sez Brer Fox, sezee, "en now I speck I'll hatter skin you," sezee. "Skin me, Brer Fox," sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, "snatch out my eyeballs, t'ar out my years by de roots, en cut off my legs," sezee, "but do please, Brer Fox, don't fling me in dat brier-patch," sezee. Co'se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad ez he kin, so he cotch 'im by de behime legs en slung 'im right in de middle er de brier-patch. Dar wuz a considerbul flutter whar Brer Rabbit struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter hang 'roun' fer ter see w'at wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby he hear somebody call 'im, en way up de hill he see Brer Rabbit settin' cross-legged on a chinkapin log koamin' de pitch outen his har wid a chip. Den Brer Fox know dat he bin swop off mighty bad. Brer Rabbit was bleedzed fer ter fling back some er his sass, en he holler out: "Bred en bawn in a brier-patch, Brer Fox--bred en bawn in a brier-patch!" en wid dat he skip out des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers. CHAPTER XXVII PERSPECTIVE I wish I could ever get the question of majors and minors settled to my complete satisfaction. I thought my college course would settle the matter for all time, but it didn't. I suspect that those erudite professors thought they were getting me fitted out with enduring habits of majors and minors, but they seem to have made no allowance for changes of styles nor for growth. When I received my diploma they seemed to think I was finished, and would stay just as they had fixed me. They used to talk no little about finished products, and, on commencement day, appeared to look upon me as one of them. On the whole, I'm glad that I didn't fulfil their apparent expectations. I have never been able to make out whether their attentions, on commencement day, were manifestations of pride or relief. I can see now that I must have been a sore trial to them. In my callow days, when they occupied pedestals, I bent the knee to them by way of propitiating them, but I got bravely over that. At first, what they taught and what they represented were my majors, but when I came to shift and reconstruct values, some of them climbed down off their pedestals, and my knee lost some of its flexibility. We had one little professor who afforded us no end of amusement by his taking himself so seriously. The boys used to say that he wrote letters and sent flowers to himself. He would strut about the campus as proudly as a pouter-pigeon, never realizing, apparently, that we were laughing at him. At first, he impressed us greatly with his grand air and his clothes, but after we discovered that, in his case at least, clothes do not make the man, we refused to be impressed. He could split hairs with infinite precision, and smoke a cigarette in the most approved style, but I never heard any of the boys express a wish to become that sort of man. Had there occurred a meeting, on the campus, between him and Zeus he would have been offended, I am sure, if Zeus had failed to set off a few thunderbolts in his honor. We used to have at home a bantam rooster that could create no end of flutter in the chicken yard, and could crow mightily; but when I reflected that he could neither lay eggs nor occupy much space in a frying-pan, I demoted him, in my thinking, from major rank to a low minor, and awarded the palm to one of the less bumptious but more useful fowls. Our little professor had degrees, of course, and has them yet, I suspect; but no one ever discovered that he put them to any good use. For that reason we boys lost interest in the man as well as his garnishments. Our professor of chemistry was different. He was never on dress-parade; he did not pose; he was no snob. We loved him because he was so genuine. He had degrees, too, but they were so obscured by the man that we forgot them in our contemplation of him. We knew that they do not make degrees big enough for him. I often wonder what degrees the colleges would want to confer upon William Shakespeare if he could come back. Then, too, I often think what a wonderful letter Abraham Lincoln could and might have written to Mrs. Bixby, if he had only had a degree. Agassiz may have had degrees, but he didn't really need them. Like Browning, he was big enough, even lacking degrees, to be known without the identification of his other names. If people need degrees they ought to have them, especially if they can live up to them. Possibly the time may come when degrees will be given for things done, rather than for things hoped for; given for at least one stage of the journey accomplished rather than for merely packing a travelling-bag. If this time ever comes Thomas A. Edison will bankrupt the alphabet. In this coil of degrees and the absence of them, I become more and more confused as to majors and minors. There in college were those two professors both wearing degrees of the same size. Judged by that criterion they should have been of equal size and influence. But they weren't. In the one case you couldn't see the man for the degree; in the other you couldn't see the degree for the man. Small wonder that I find myself in such a hopeless muddle. I once thought, in my innocence, that there was a sort of metric scale in degrees--that an A.M. was ten times the size of an A.B.; that a Ph.D. was equal to ten A.M.'s; and that the LL.D. degree could be had only on the top of Mt. Olympus. But here I am, stumbling about among folks, and can't tell a Ph.D. from an A.B. I do wish all these degree chaps would wear tags so that we wayfaring folks could tell them apart. It would simplify matters if the railway people would arrange compartments on their trains for these various degrees. The Ph.D. crowd would certainly feel more comfortable if they could herd together, so that they need not demean themselves by associating with mere A.M.'s or the more lowly A.B.'s. We might hope, too, that by way of diversion they would put their heads together and compound some prescription by the use of which the world might avert war, reduce the high cost of living, banish a woman's tears, or save a soul from perdition. Be it said to my shame, that I do not know what even an A.B. means, much less the other degree hieroglyphics. Sometimes I receive a letter having the writer's name printed at the top with an A.B. annex; but I do not know what the writer is trying to say to me by means of the printing. He probably wants me to know that he is a graduate of some sort, but he fails to make it clear to me whether his degree was conferred by a high school, a normal school, a college, or a university. I know of one high school that confers this degree, as well as many normal schools and colleges. There are still other institutions where this same degree may be had, that freely admit that they are colleges, whether they can prove it or not. I'll be glad to send a stamped envelope for reply, if some one will only be good enough to tell me what A.B. does really mean. I do hope that the earth may never be scourged with celibacy, but the ever-increasing variety of bachelors, male and female, creates in me a feeling of apprehension. Nor can I make out whether a bachelor of arts is bigger and better than bachelors of science and pedagogy. The arts folks claim that they are, and proceed to prove it by one another. I often wonder what a bachelor of arts can do that the other bachelors cannot do, or _vice versa_. They should all be required to submit a list of their accomplishments, so that, when any of the rest of us want a bit of work done, we may be able to select wisely from among these differentiated bachelors. If we want a bridge built, a beefsteak broiled, a mountain tunnelled, a loaf of bread baked, a railroad constructed, a hat trimmed, or a book written, we ought to know which class of bachelors will serve our purpose best. Some one asked me just a few days ago to cite him to some man or woman who can write a prize-winning short story, but I couldn't decide whether to refer him to the bachelors of arts or the bachelors of pedagogy. I might have turned to the Litt.D.'s, but I didn't suppose they would care to bother with a little thing like that. In college I studied Greek and, in fact, won a gold medal for my agility in ramping through Mr. Xenophon's parasangs. That medal is lost, so far as I know, and no one now has the remotest suspicion that I ever even halted along through those parasangs, not to mention ramping, or that I ever made the acquaintance of ox-eyed Juno. But I need no medal to remind roe of those experiences in the Greek class. Every bluebird I see does that for me. The good old doctor, one morning in early spring, rhapsodized for five minutes on the singing of a bluebird he had heard on his way to class, telling how the little fellow was pouring forth a melody that made the world and all life seem more beautiful and blessed. We loved him for that, because it proved that he was a big-souled human being; and pupils like to discover human qualities in their teachers. The little professor may have heard the bluebird's singing, too; but if he did, he probably thought it was serenading him. If colleges of education and normal schools would select teachers who can delight in the song of a bluebird their academic attainments would be ennobled and glorified, and their students might come to love instead of fearing them. Only a man or a woman with a big soul can socialize and vitalize the work of the schools. The mere academician can never do it. The more I think of all these degree decorations in my efforts to determine what is major in life and what is minor, the more I think of George. He was an earnest schoolmaster, and was happiest when his boys and girls were around him, busy at their tasks. One year there were fourteen boys in his school, fifteen including himself, for he was one of them. The school day was not long enough, so they met in groups in the evening, at the various homes, and continued the work of the day. These boys absorbed his time, his strength, and his heart. Their success in their work was his greatest joy. Of those fourteen boys one is no more. Of the other thirteen one is a state official of high rank, five are attorneys, two are ministers of the Gospel, two are bankers, one is a successful business man, and two are engineers of prominence. George is the ideal of those men. They all say he gave them their start in the right direction, and always speak his name with reverence. George has these thirteen stars in his crown that I know of. He had no degrees, but I am thinking that some time he will hear the plaudit: "Well done, good and faithful servant." CHAPTER XXVIII PURELY PEDAGOGICAL It was a dark, cold, rainy night in November. The wind whistled about the house, the rain beat a tattoo against the window-panes and flooded the sills. The big base-burner, filled with anthracite coal, was illuminating the room through its mica windows, on all sides, and dispensing a warmth that smiled at the storm and cold outside. There was a book in the picture, also; and a pair of slippers; and a smoking-jacket; and an armchair. From the ceiling was suspended a great lamp that joined gloriously in the chorus of light and cheer. The man who sat in the armchair, reading the book, was a schoolmaster--a college professor to be exact. Soft music floated up from below stairs as a soothing accompaniment to his reading. Subconsciously, as he turned the pages, he felt a pity for the poor fellows on top of freight-trains who must endure the pitiless buffeting of the storm. He could see them bracing themselves against the blasts that tried to wrest them from their moorings. He felt a pity for the belated traveller who tries, well-nigh in vain, to urge his horses against the driving rain onward toward food and shelter. But the leaves of the book continued to turn at intervals; for the story was an engaging one, and the schoolmaster was ever responsive to well-told stories. It was nine o'clock or after, and the fury of the storm was increasing. As if responding to the challenge outside, he opened the draft of the stove and then settled back, thinking he would be able to complete the story before retiring. In the midst of one of the many compelling passages he heard a bell toll, or imagined he did. Brought to check by this startling sensation, he looked back over the page to discover a possible explanation. Finding none, he smiled at his own fancy, and then proceeded with his reading. But, again, the bell tolled, and he wondered whether anything he had eaten at dinner could be held responsible for the hallucination. Scarcely had he resumed his reading when the bell again tolled. He could stand it no longer, and must come upon the solution of the mystery. Bells do not toll at nine o'clock, and the weirdness of the affair disconcerted him. The nearer he drew to the foot of the stair, in his quest for information, the more foolish he felt his question would seem to the members of the family. But the question had scarce been asked when the boy of the house burst forth: "Yes, been tolling for half an hour." Meekly he asked: "Why are they tolling the bell?" "Child lost." "Whose child?" "Little girl belonging to the Norwegians who live in the shack down there by the woods." So, that was it! Well, it was some satisfaction to have the matter cleared up, and now he could go back to his book. He had noticed the shack in question, which was made of slabs set upright, with a precarious roof of tarred paper; and had heard, vaguely, that a gang of Norwegians were there to make a road through the woods to Minnehaha Falls. Beyond these bare facts he had never thought to inquire. These people and their doings were outside of his world. Besides, the book and the cheery room were awaiting his return. But the reading did not get on well. The tolling bell broke in upon it and brought before his mind the picture of a little girl wandering about in the storm and crying for her mother. He tried to argue with himself that these Norwegians did not belong in his class, and that they ought to look after their own children. He was under no obligations to them--in fact, did not even know them. They had no right, therefore, to break in upon the serenity of his evening. But the bell tolled on. If he could have wrenched the clapper from out that bell, the page of his book might not have blurred before his eyes. As the wind moaned about the house he thought he heard a child crying, and started to his feet. It was inconceivable, he argued, that he, a grown man, should permit such incidental matters in life to so disturb his composure. There were scores, perhaps hundreds, of children lost somewhere in the world, for whom regiments of people were searching, and bells were tolling, too. So why not be philosophical and read the book? But the words would not keep their places, and the page yielded forth no coherent thought. He could endure the tension no longer. He became a whirlwind--slamming the book upon the table, kicking off the slippers, throwing the smoking-jacket at random, and rushing to the closet for his gear. At ten o'clock he was ready--hip-boots, slouch-hat, rubber coat, and lantern, and went forth into the storm. Arriving at the scene, he took his place in the searching party of about twenty men. They were to search the woods, first of all, each man to be responsible for a space about two or three rods wide and extending to the road a half-mile distant. Lantern in hand, he scrutinized each stone and stump, hoping and fearing that it might prove to be the little one. In the darkness he stumbled over logs and vines, became entangled in briers and brambles, and often was deluged with water from trees as he came in contact with overhanging boughs. But his blood was up, for he was seeking a lost baby. When he fell full-length in the swale, he got to his feet the best he could and went on. Book and room were forgotten in the glow of a larger purpose. So for two hours he splashed and struggled, but had never a thought of abandoning the quest until the child should be found. At twelve o'clock they had reached the road and were about to begin the search in another section of the wood when the church-bell rang. This was the signal that they should return to the starting-point to hear any tidings that might have come in the meantime. Scarcely had they heard that a message had come from police headquarters in the city, and that information could be had there concerning a lost child when the schoolmaster called out: "Come on, Craig!" And away went these two toward the barn to arouse old "Blackie" out of her slumber and hitch her to a buggy. Little did that old nag ever dream, even in her palmiest days, that she could show such speed as she developed in that four-mile drive. The schoolmaster was too much wrought up to sit supinely by and see another do the driving; so he did it himself. And he drove as to the manner born. The information they obtained at the police station was meagre enough, but it furnished them a clew. A little girl had been found wandering about, and could be located on a certain street at such a number. The name of the family was not known. With this slender clew they began their search for the street and house. The map of streets which they had hastily sketched seemed hopelessly inadequate to guide them in and out of by-streets and around zigzag corners. They had adventures a plenty in pounding upon doors of wrong houses and thus arousing the fury of sleepy men and sleepless dogs. One of the latter tore away a quarter-section of the schoolmaster's rubber coat, and became so interested in this that the owner escaped with no further damage. After an hour filled with such experiences they finally came to the right house. Joy flooded their hearts as the man inside called out: "Yes, wait a minute." Once inside, questions and answers flew back and forth like a shuttle. Yes, a little girl--about five years old--light hair--braided and hanging down her back--check apron. "She's the one--and we want to take her home." Then the lady appeared, and said it was too bad to take the little one out into such a night. But the schoolmaster bore her argument down with the word-picture of the little one's mother pacing back and forth in front of the shack, her hair hanging in strings, her clothing drenched with rain and clinging to her body, her eyes upturned, and her face expressing the most poignant agony. When they left she had thus been pacing to and fro for seven hours and was, no doubt, doing so yet. The mother-heart of the woman could not withstand such an appeal, and soon she was busy in the difficult task of trying to get the little arms into the sleeves of dress and apron. Meanwhile, the two bedraggled men were on their knees striving with that acme of awkwardness of which only men are capable, to ensconce the little feet in stockings and shoes. The dressing of that child was worthy the brush of Raphael or the smile of angels. At three o'clock in the morning the schoolmaster stepped from the buggy and placed the sleeping baby in the mother's arms, and only the heavenly Father knows the language she spoke as she crooned over her little one. As the schoolmaster wended his way homeward, cold, hungry, and worn he was buoyant in spirit to the point of ecstasy. But he was chastened, for he had stood upon the Mount of Transfiguration and knew as never before that the mission of the schoolmaster is to find and restore the lost child. CHAPTER XXIX LONGEVITY I'm quite in the notion of playing a practical joke on Atropos, and, perhaps, on Methuselah, while I'm about it. I'm not partial to Atropos at the best. She's such a reckless, uppish, heedless sort of tyrant. She rushes into huts, palaces, and even into the grand stand, and lays about her with her scissors, snipping off threads with the utmost abandon. She wields her shears without any sort of apology or by your leave. Not even a check-book can stay her ravages. Her devastation knows neither ruth nor gentleness. I don't like her, and have no compunction about playing a joke at her expense. I don't imagine it will daunt her, in the least, but I can have my fun, at any rate. It is now just seven o'clock in the evening, and I shall not retire before ten o'clock at the earliest. So here are three good hours for me to dispose of; and I am the sole arbiter in the matter of disposing of them. My neighbor John has a cow, and he is applying the efficiency test to her. He charges her with every pound of corn, bran, fodder, and hay that she eats, and doctor's bills, too, I suppose, if there are any. Then he credits her with all the milk she furnishes. There is quite a book-account in her name, and John has a good time figuring out whether, judged by net results, she is a consumer or a producer. If I can resurrect sufficient mathematical lore, I think I shall try to apply this efficiency test to my three hours just to see if I can prove that hours are as important as cows. I ought to be able, somehow, to determine whether these hours are consumers or producers. I read a book the other evening whose title is "Stories of Thrift for Young Americans," and it made me feel that I ought to apply the efficiency test to myself, and repeat the process every waking hour of the day. But, in order to do this, I must apply the test to these three hours. In my dreamy moods, I like to personify an Hour and spell it with a capital. I like to think of an hour as the singular of Houri which the Mohammedans call nymphs of paradise, because they were, or are, beautiful-eyed. My Hour then becomes a goddess walking through my life, and, as the poet says, _et vera incessu patuit dea_. If I show her that I appreciate her she comes again just after the clock strikes, in form even more winsome than before, and smiles upon me as only a goddess can. Once, in a sullen mood, I looked upon her as if she were a hag. When she returned she was a hag; and not till after I had done full penance did she become my beautiful goddess again. A young man who had been spending the evening in the home of a neighbor complained that they did not play any games, and did nothing but talk. I could not ask what games he meant, fearing that I might smile in his face if he should say crokinole, tiddledy-winks, or button-button. Later on I learned that much of the talking was done that evening by a very cultivated man who has travelled widely and intelligently, and has a most engaging manner in his fluent discussions of art, literature, archaeology, architecture, places, and peoples. I was sorry to miss such an evening, and think I could forego tiddledywinks with a fair degree of amiability if, instead, I could hear such a man talk. I have seen people yawn in an art gallery. I fear to play tiddledywinks lest my hour may resume the guise of a hag. But that makes me think of Atropos again, and the joke I am planning to play on her. Still, I see that I shall not soon get around to that joke if I persist in these dim generalities, as a schoolmaster is so apt to do. Well, as I was saying, these three hours are at my disposal, and I must decide what to do with them here and now. In deciding concerning hours I must sit in the judgment-seat whether I like it or not. Tomorrow evening I shall have other three hours to dispose of the same as these, and the next evening three others, and my decision to-night may be far-reaching. In six days I shall have eighteen such hours, and in fifty weeks nine hundred. I suppose that a generous estimate of a college year would be ten hours a day for one hundred and eighty days, or eighteen hundred hours in all. I am quite aware that some college boys will feel inclined to apply a liberal discount to this estimate, but I am not considering those fellows who try to do a month's work in the week of examination, and spend their fathers' money for coaching. Now, if eighteen hundred hours constitute a college year then my nine hundred hours are one-half a college year, and it makes a deal of difference what I do with these three hours. If I had only started this joke on Atropos earlier and had applied these nine hundred hours on my college work, I could have graduated in three years instead of four, and that surely would have been in the line of efficiency. But in those days I was devoting more time and attention to Clotho than to Atropos. I would fain have ignored Lachesis altogether, but she made me painfully conscious of her presence, especially during the finals when, it seemed to me, she was unnecessarily diligent in her vocation. I could have dispensed with much of her torsion with great equanimity. I suppose that now I am trying to square accounts with her by playing this joke on her sister. So I have decided that I shall read a play of Shakespeare to-night, another one to-morrow evening, and continue this until I have read all that he wrote. In the fifty weeks of the year I can easily do this and then reread some of them many times. I ought to be able to commit to memory several of the plays, too, and that would be good fun. If those chaps back yonder could recite the Koran word for word I shall certainly be able to learn equally well some of these plays. It would be worth while to recite "King Lear," "Macbeth," "Othello," "Hamlet," "The Tempest," and "As You Like It," the last week of the year just before I take my vacation of two weeks. If I can recite even these six plays in those six evenings I shall feel that I did well in deciding for Shakespeare instead of tiddledywinks. Next year I shall read history, and that will be rare fun, too. In the nine hundred hours I shall certainly be able to read all of Fiske, Mommsen, Rhodes, Bancroft, McMaster, Channing, Bryce, Hart, Motley, Gibbon, and von Holst not to mention American statesmen. About the Ides of December I shall hold a levee and sit in state as the characters of history file by. I shall be able to call them all by name, to tell of the things they did and why they did them, and to connect their deeds with the world as it now is. I can't conceive of any picture-show equal to that, and all through my year with Shakespeare I shall be looking forward eagerly to my year with the historians. I plainly see that the neighbors will not need to bring in any playthings to amuse and entertain me, though, of course, I shall be grateful to them for their kindly interest. Then, the next year I shall devote to music, and if, by practising for nine hundred hours, I cannot acquire a good degree of facility in manipulating a piano or a violin, I must be too dull to ever aspire to the favor of Terpsichore. If I but measure up to my hopes during this year I shall be saved the expense of buying my music ready-made. The next year I shall devote to art, and by spending one entire evening with a single artist I shall thus become acquainted with three hundred of them. If I become intimate with this number I shall not be lonesome, even if I do not know the others. I think I shall give an art party at the holiday time of that year, and have three hundred people impersonate these artists. This will afford me a good review of my studies in art. It may diminish the gate receipts of the picture-show for a few evenings, but I suspect the world will be able to wag along. Then the next year I shall study poetry, the next astronomy, and the next botany. Thus I shall come to know the plants of earth, the stars of heaven, and the emotions of men. That ought to ward off ennui and afford entertainment without the aid of the saloon. In the succeeding twelve years I shall want to acquire as many languages, for I am eager to excel Elihu Burritt in linguistic attainments even if I must yield to him as a disciple of Vulcan. If I can learn a language and read the literature of that language each year, possibly some college may be willing to grant me a degree for work _in absentia_. If not, I shall poke along the best I can and try to drown my grief in more copious drafts of work. And I shall have quite enough to do, for mathematics, the sciences, and the arts and crafts all lie ahead of me in my programme. I plainly see that I have played my last game of tiddledywinks and solitaire. But I'll have fun anyhow. If I gain a half-year in each twelve-month as I have my programme mapped out, in seventy years I shall have a net gain of thirty-five years. Then, when Atropos comes along with her scissors to snip the thread, thinking I have reached my threescore and ten, I shall laugh in her face and let her know, between laughs, that I am really one hundred and five, and have played a thirty-five-year joke on her. Then I shall quote Bacon at her to clinch the joke: "A man may be young in years but old in hours if he have lost no time." CHAPTER XXX FOUR-LEAF CLOVER I have no ambition to become either a cynic, a pessimist, or an iconoclast. To aspire in either of these directions is bad for the digestion, and good digestion is the foundation and source of much that is desirable in human affairs. Introspection has its uses, to be sure, but the stomach should have exemption as an objective. A stomach is a valuable asset if only one is not conscious of it. One of the emoluments of schoolmastering is the opportunity it affords for communing with elect souls whose very presence is a tonic. Will is one of these. He has a way of shunting my introspection over to the track of the head or the heart. He just talks along and the first thing I know the heart is singing its way through and above the storm, while the head has been connected up to the heart, and they are doing team-work that is good for me and good for all who meet me. At church I like to have them sing the hymn whose closing couplet is: "I'll drop my burden at his feet And bear a song away." I come out strong in singing that couplet, for I like it. In a human sense, that is just what happens when I chat with Will for an hour. When I ask him for bread, he never gives me a stone. On the contrary, he gives me good, white bread, and a bit of cake, besides. In one of our chats the other day he was dilating upon Henry van Dyke's four rules, and very soon had banished all my little clouds and made my mental sky clear and bright. When I get around to evolving a definition of education I think I shall say that it is the process of furnishing people with resources for profitable and pleasant conversation. Why, those four rules just oozed into the talk, without any sort of flutter or formality, and made our chat both agreeable and fruitful. Henry Ward Beecher said many good things. Here is one that I caught in the school reader in my boyhood: "The man who carries a lantern on a dark night can have friends all about him, walking safely by the help of its rays and he be not defrauded." Education is just such a lantern and this schoolmaster, Will, knows how to carry it that it may afford light to the friends about him. Well, the first of van Dyke's rules is: "You shall learn to desire nothing in the world so much but that you can be happy without it." I do wonder if he had been reading in Proverbs: "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." Or he may have been reading the statement of St. Paul: "For I have learned, in whatever state I am, therewith to be content." Or, possibly, he may have been thinking of the lines of Paul Laurence Dunbar, "Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot, My garden makes a desert spot; Sometimes the blight upon the tree Takes all my fruit away from me; And then with throes of bitter pain Rebellious passions rise and swell-- But life is more than fruit or grain, And so I sing, and all is well." I am plebeian enough to be fond of milk and crackers as a luncheon; but I have just a dash of the patrician in my make-up and prefer the milk unskimmed. Sometimes, I find that the cream has been devoted to other, if not higher, uses and that my crackers must associate perforce with milk of cerulean hue. Such a situation is a severe test of character, and I am hoping that at such junctures along life's highway I may find some support in the philosophy of Mr. van Dyke. I suspect that he is trying to make me understand that happiness is subjective rather than objective--that happiness depends not upon what we have, but upon what we do with what we have. I couldn't be an anarchist if I'd try. I don't grudge the millionaire his turtle soup and caviar. But I do feel a bit sorry for him that he does not know what a royal feast crackers and unskimmed milk afford. If the king and the anarchist would but join me in such a feast I think the king would soon forget his crown and the anarchist his plots, and we'd be just three good fellows together, living at the very summit of life and wishing that all men could be as happy as we. The next rule is a condensed moral code: "You shall seek that which you desire only by such means as are fair and lawful, and this will leave you without bitterness toward men or shame before God." No one could possibly dissent from this rule, unless it might be a burglar. I know the grocer makes a profit on the things I buy from him, and I am glad he does. Otherwise, he would have to close his grocery and that would inconvenience me greatly. He thanks me when I pay him, but I feel that I ought to thank him for supplying my needs, for having his goods arranged so invitingly, and for waiting upon me so promptly and so politely. I can't really see how any customer can feel any bitterness toward him. He gives full weight, tells the exact truth as to the quality of the goods, and in all things is fair and lawful. I have no quarrel with him and cannot understand why others should, unless they are less fair, lawful, and agreeable than the grocer himself. I suspect that the grocer and the butcher take on the color of the glasses we happen to be wearing, and that Mr. van Dyke is admonishing us to wear clear glasses and to keep them clean. The third rule needs to be read at least twice if not oftener: "You shall take pleasure in the time while you are seeking, even though you obtain not immediately that which you seek; for the purpose of a journey is not only to arrive at the goal, but also to find enjoyment by the way." I have seen people rushing along in automobiles at the mad rate of thirty or forty miles an hour, missing altogether the million-dollar scenery along the way, in their haste to get to the end of their journey, where a five-cent bag of peanuts awaited them. Had I been riding in an automobile through the streets of Tacoma I might not have seen that glorious cluster of five beautiful roses on a single branch in that attractive lawn. Because of them I always think of Tacoma as the city of roses, for I stopped to look at them. I have quite forgotten the objective point of my stroll; I recollect the roses. When we were riding out from Florence on a tram-car to see the ancient Fiesole I plucked a branch from an olive-tree from the platform of the car. On that branch were at least a dozen young olives, the first I had ever seen. I have but the haziest recollection of the old theatre and the subterranean passages where Catiline and his crowd had their rendezvous; but I do recall that olive branch most distinctly. I cannot improve upon Doctor van Dyke's statement of the rule, but I can interpret it in terms of my own experiences by way of verifying it. I am sure he has it right. The fourth rule is worthy of meditation and prayer; "When you attain that which you have desired, you shall think more of the kindness of your fortune than of the greatness of your skill. This will make you grateful and ready to share with others that which Providence hath bestowed upon you; and truly this is both reasonable and profitable, for it is but little that any of us would catch in this world were not our luck better than our deserts." I shall omit the lesson in arithmetic to-morrow and have, instead, a lesson in life and living, using these four rules as the basis of our lesson. My boys and girls are to have many years of life, I hope, and I'd like to help them to a right start if I can. Some of my many mistakes might have been avoided if my teachers had given me some lessons in the art of living, for it is an art and must be learned. These rules would have helped, could I have known them. I am glad to know that my pupils have faith in me. When I pointed out a nettle to them one day, they avoided it; when I showed them a mushroom that is edible, they accepted the statement without question. So I'll see what I can do for them to-morrow with these four rules. Then, if we have time, we shall learn the lines of Mrs. Higginson: "I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, And God put another in for luck-- If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong--and so, If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow." CHAPTER XXXI MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING Mountain-climbing is rare sport. And it is sport if only one has the courage to do it. We had gone to the top of Vesuvius on the funicular railway; but one man decided to make the climb. We forgot the volcano in our admiration of the climber. Foot by foot he made his way zigzagging this way and that, slipping, falling, and struggling till at last he reached the summit. Then, fifty throats poured forth a lusty cheer to do him honor. He was not good to look at, for his clothing was crumpled and soiled, the veins stood out on his neck, his hair was tousled, his face was red and streaming with sweat; yet, for all that, we cheered him and meant it, too. He acknowledged our applause in an honest, simple way, and then disappeared in the crowd. He was not posing as a heroic figure, but was just an honest mountain-climber who accepted the challenge of the mountain and won. In our cheering we did just what the world does: we gave the laurel wreath to the man who wins in a test of courage. I think "Excelsior" is pretty good stuff in the way of depicting mountain-climbing, and I always want to cheer that young chap as he fights his way toward the top. He could have stopped down there in the valley, where everything was snug and comfortable, but he chose to climb so as to have a look around. I thought of him one day at Scheidegg. There we were, nearly a mile and a half above sea-level, shivering in the midst of ice and snow in mid-July, but we had a look around that made us glad in spite of the cold. As Virgil says: "It will be pleasing to remember these things hereafter." I have often noticed that the old soldiers seem to recall the hardest marches, the most severe battles, and the greatest privations more vividly than their every-day experiences. So the mountain-climbing that I have been doing with my boys and girls stands out like a cameo in my retrospective view. Sometimes we looked back toward the valley, and it seemed so peaceful and beautiful that it caused the mountain before us to seem ominous. At such times, when courage seemed to be oozing, we needed to reinforce one another with words of cheer. The steep places seemed perilously rough at times, and I could hear a stifled sob somewhere in my little company. At such times I would urge myself along at a more rapid pace, that I might reach a higher level and call out to them in heartening tones to hurry on up to our resting-place. We would often sing a bit in the midst of our resting, and when the sob had been changed to a laugh I felt that life was well worth while. As we toiled upward I was ever on the lookout for a patch of sunlight in the midst of the shadows that it might lure them on. And it never failed. Like magic that sun-spot always quickened their pace, and they often hailed it with a shout. They would even race toward that sunny place, their weariness all gone. When a bird sang we always stopped to listen; and the song acted upon them as the music of a band acts upon drooping soldiers. On the next stage of the journey their eyes sparkled, and their step was more elastic. When one stumbled and fell, we helped him to his feet and praised his effort, wholly ignoring the fall. Sometimes one would become discouraged and would want to drop out of the company and return home. When this happened, we would gather about him and tell him how good it was to have him with us, how he helped us on, and how sorry we should be to have him absent when we reached the top. When he decided to keep on with us, we gave a mighty cheer and then went whistling on our upward way. We constantly vied with one another in discovering chaste bits of scenery along the way, and we were ever too generous to withhold praise or to appropriate to ourselves the credit that belonged to another. If one found the nest of a bird hidden away in the foliage, we all stopped in admiration. When another discovered a spring gushing out from beneath the rocks, we all refreshed ourselves with the limpid water and poured out our thanks to the discoverer. When a rare flower was found, we took time to examine it minutely till we all felt joy in the flower and in the finder. To us nothing was ever small or negligible that any one of our company discovered. If one started a song we all joined in heartily as if we had been waiting for that one to lead us in the singing. Thus each one, according to his gifts and inclinations, became a leader on one or another of the enterprises connected with our journey. So, in time, it seemed to us that the big tree came to meet us in order to give its kindly shade for our comfort; that the bird poured forth its song as a special gift to us to give us new courage; that the flower met us at the right time and place to smile its beauty into our lives; that each stream laughed its way to our feet to quench our thirst, and to share with us its coolness; that the mossy bank gave us a special invitation to enjoy its hospitality; that the cloud had heard our wishes and came to shield us from the sun, and that the path came forth from among the thickets to guide us on our way. Because we were winning, all nature seemed to be cheering us on as the people cheered the man at Vesuvius. Having reached the summit, we sat together in eloquent silence. We had toiled, and struggled, and suffered together, and so had learned to think and feel in unison. Our spirits had become fused in a common purpose, and we could sit in silence and not be abashed. We had become honest with our surroundings, honest with one another, and honest with ourselves, and so could smile at mere conventions and find joy in one another without words. We had encountered honest difficulties--rocks, trees, streams, sloughs, tangles, sand, and sun, and had overcome them by honest effort and so had achieved honesty. We had met and overcome big things, too, and in doing so had grown big. No longer did our hearts flutter in the presence of little things, for we had won poise and serenity. The fogs had been banished from our minds; our sight had become clear; our spirits had been enlarged; our courage had been made strong, and our faith was lifted up. A new horizon opened up before us that stretched on and on and made us know that life is a big thing. The sky became our companion with all its myriad stars; the sea became our neighbor with all the life it holds, and the landscape became our dooryard, with all its varied beauty and grandeur. The ships upon the sea and the trains upon the land became our messengers of service. The wires and the air sped our thoughts abroad and linked us to the world. We looked straight into the faces of the big elemental things of life and were not afraid. When we came back among our own people, they seemed to know that some change had taken place and loved us all the more. They came to us for counsel and comfort, paying silent tribute to the wisdom that had come to us from the mountain. They looked upon us not as superiors, but as larger equals. We had learned another language, but had not forgotten theirs. We nestled down in their affections and told them of our mountain, and they were glad. * * * * * And now I sit before the fire and watch the pictures in the flickering flames. In my reverie I see my boys and girls, companions in the mountain-climbing, going upon their appointed ways. I see them healing and comforting the sick, relieving distress, ministering to the needy, and supplanting darkness with light. I see them in their efforts to make the world better and more beautiful, and life more blessed. I see them bringing hope and courage and cheer into many lives. They are bringing the spirit of the mountain down into the valley, and men rejoice. Seeing them thus engaged, and hearing them singing as they go, I can but smile and smile. 
13398	----	THE EVOLUTION OF "DODD" A Pedagogical Story Giving his Struggle for the SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST Tracing HIS CHANCES, HIS CHANGES, AND HOW HE CAME OUT. BY WILLIAM HAWLEY SMITH. MDCCCXCVII. "Happy is the man who grinds at the mill; The mill turns 'round and he stands there still." "Social institutions are made for man, and not man for social institutions." "The supreme purpose of creation is the development of the individual." THE EVOLUTION OF "DODD." CHAPTER I. There was joy in the Weaver household when the child was born, and when it had been duly announced that it was a boy. The event was the first of the kind in this particular branch of the Weaver family, and, as is always the case, there was such rejoicing as does not come with the recurrence of like episodes. A man hardly feels sure of his manhood till the magic word father is put in the vocative case and applied to him direct, and the apotheosis of woman comes with maternity. There is nothing remarkable about all this. It is the same the world around. But it is the usual that demands most of our time and attention here below, whether we wish it so or otherwise; and although we are everlastingly running after the strange and eccentric in human nature, as well as in all other branches of creation, it is the rule and not the exception that we have to deal with during most of our lives. This Weaver family, father and mother, were much like other young fathers and mothers, and their child was not unlike other first-born children. His first low cry and his struggle for breath were just such as the officiating doctor had witnessed a hundred times, and doubtless his last moan and gasp will be such as the attending physician will have seen many a time and oft. It is not the unusual that this brief tale has to deal with. Yet, with all of these points held in common with the rest of the race, the hero of the adventures herein chronicled had an individuality that was his own, and most thoroughly so. This, too, is common. Most people have an individuality, if they can only find it! A good many men never do find this quality in themselves, having it crushed out by the timid or designing people who take charge of their education, so called; but for all that, to every man is given a being unlike that of any other in all the world, and it is the business of each, for himself, to make the most of his own peculiar gift, and for all his teachers and all systems of education to help him in his heaven-ordained task. The young Weaver, whose advent has just been mentioned, was an individual. The nurse became conscious of it before he was an hour old, and the same impression has been received by all of his since-acquired acquaintances. He was a boy with a way of his own. He came into a world where there are crowds possessed of the same characteristics. It is a marvel, how, in such a multitude of differences, either he or the rest of us get along, even as well as we do. When it came to naming the child, he was called "Dodd." "Dodd" was the short for Doddridge, and the full appellation given to the youth at his christening, when he was two months old, was Doddridge Watts Weaver, a name which the officiating clergyman pronounced with great unction, and in the prayer after baptism made mention of again, asking heaven to grant that the mantle of both the old worthies whose names the child bore might fall upon the little body wrapped up in an embroidered blanket and held on the shoulder of the good woman who stood before the altar. That is not just the way the preacher said this, but it is substantially the idea that he tried to convey to the Lord, and perhaps he succeeded in doing so better than I have succeeded in conveying it to you, dear reader; but then, he had this advantage: The Lord is quicker at taking a point hinted at than the public is! Though this needs to be added: that if the Hearer of Prayer did catch the meaning that lay around loose somewhere in the jumble of the parson's petition, that morning, He did not see fit to grant the request, for no scrap of a rag that ever had graced the backs of those dear old hymn-makers fell, either soon or late, upon the form of the boy whose wriggling little body the mother tried to keep in order while the parson prayed. The father of this bit of humanity was Parson Weaver, a man of some ability, as was evinced by the fact that he joined the church, got married, went to preaching, and became a father, as noted, all within a twelve-month. He was shrewd, and generally had sufficient reasons for his actions. He even had a purpose in naming his first-born. He was fresh to the ministry, and young. The elders of the church were somber men, and feared that their pastor might be too much given to levity. Mr. Weaver got wind of this, somehow, and to impress upon the pillars of his church and the payers of his salary the fact that he was "sober, righteous and godly," he named his first-born out of the hymn book. But the boy never liked the name. When he began to go to school the other boys used to laugh at him when he stood up and told the teacher what his name was, and, a tease among the girls, who had an old grandmother who used to sit in a corner and read old books, once nick-named the youth "Rise and Progress." As soon as he could write, he always signed his name D. W. Weaver, and insisted that the initials stood for Daniel Webster. As already noted, the child was the first born of his parents. He was not the last, however, for, like a faithful clergyman of the old school, that he was, Parson Weaver ultimately had a family, the number of which could not be told by any one significant figure. The children came into the household in quick succession too, for when "Dodd" was four years old he had four brothers and sisters, two pairs of twins having blessed the good parson and his wife within the first half decade of their wedded life. These trifling facts may seem irrelevant to this record, but due reflection will doubtless show that they are worthy to be set down as pertaining to the case. Perhaps first children are more apt to be individual than those of later birth. Be this as it may, "Dodd" had a much more marked individuality than his brothers and sisters. Not to attempt to trace the ways of nature too far, it is perhaps true that in a first-born child are joined the individualities of the young father and mother to a greater extent than in the younger members of a family. The untamed currents of youthful blood that course through the veins of the bride and groom, and their unmodified natures--all of which mellow with years,--leave marks upon their eldest which the younger children escape. At any rate, "Dodd" was a wayward boy from the first, a typical preacher's son. He was rebellious, belligerent, and naturally deceitful. This last trait, matched with a vivid imagination, made him a great liar as soon as he grew old enough to use the two faculties at the same time. In this regard, however, he was not so wonderfully unlike a great many other people. He had bursts of great generosity; was brave and daring even to foolhardiness; had friends, and would stand by them till death, if need be, when the good impulse was on; or perhaps betray them in their greatest extremity if the opposite passion got control at a critical moment. Intellectually he was bright, even to keenness; physically he was lazy and a shirk; morally his status is best represented by the algebraic sign 0-0; spiritually he was at times profoundly reverent and aspiring, or again, outrageously blasphemous, and reckless almost to desperation. This is a partial catalogue of the characteristics with which "Dodd" was originally endowed. The character that was evolved from these, by means of the education that fell to the lot of this individual, is the business of these pages. To take such timber as is furnished in this specimen, and fashion from it a temple of the Lord, is a task that might puzzle angels. To make a decent child, a boy, or man out of "Dodd" Weaver, was the thing that worried everybody that had anything to do with him, and may, some day, perhaps, prove too hard a task for that individual himself. Yet his case is no uncommon one in many of its phases, for every day sees thousands quite like it in the school houses of America, as elsewhere. And the question is, what are we to do about it? Not to detail carefully all the events pertaining to the home life of "Dodd" up to the time he was six years old, it is enough to say that after the time he was able to creep, he lived much in the street. He was usually in mischief when not asleep, and his overworn mother and somewhat shiftless and careless father were so taken up with the other children and with family and pastoral cares, that "Dodd" grew up by himself, as so many children do; more is the pity. A man seldom gets so many calves, or colts, or pigs that he cannot take good care of them, every one; but for his own children--well, it need not be said what, the cases are so frequent that everybody knows all about them. "Dodd" was a youngster for everybody to tease. When he first began to toddle along the sidewalk in front of the house, the folks who came along would pull his little cap down over his eyes, and then laugh at him when he got mad and cried. All this tended to develop him, and doubtless the evolution of many points in his character took rise in these and similar events. At last the morning dawned when "Dodd" was six years old, and there was joy in Parson Weavers household in the fact that now one youngster could be got rid of for six hours a day, and ten months in the year, Saturdays and Sundays excepted. Gentle teacher, you who read these lines, you know who was to take care of this specimen, don't you? Alas! alas! what herds of six-year-old babies there are thus to be taken care of, many of them coming from homes where they have never known what care meant, but every one to be got into shape somehow, by you, my dear school ma'am, or master, all for a handful of paltry dollars per month, while you wait to get married, or to enter another profession. "To what base uses do we return!" So, on a leaden morning in November, when the mud was deepest and the first snow was shied through the air, whose sharpness cut like a knife, "Dodd" Weaver came into the schoolroom alone, his mother being too busy to go with him. He had waded across the street where the mud and slush were worse than anywhere else. His boots were smeared to their very tops, and the new book that he started with had a black daub the size of your hand on the bright cover. He came late and, without a word of hesitation, marched to the desk, and remarked to the woman in charge: "Mam said you was to take care o' me!" CHAPTER II. Miss Elvira Stone was teaching the school that year. Miss Stone was above the average height of women, and carried her social much higher than she did her physical head, while there was a kind of nose-in-the-air bearing in both cases. She had beautiful, wavy black hair, a clear complexion, black eyes, and narrow, thin lips, which were always slightly pursed up, as the groundwork or main support of a kind of cast-iron smile that never left her face for a moment while she was awake. Her dresses always fitted her perfectly, and her skirts trailed at the proper angle, but yet there was a feeling, all the time, that she had been poured into the mould that the dressmaker had prepared, and now that she had got hard, you could strike her with a hammer and not break her up, though you could not help thinking that it must have taken a very hot fire ever to melt her. She wore glasses, too. Not spectacles, but a dainty pair of eye glasses, set in gold, that sat astride of her nose in a very dignified fashion and crowned the everlasting smile that was spread out below them. In fact Miss Stone was so superior a person that one wondered how it ever happened that she should condescend to teach school at all. But this was only a general view of the case. When viewed in detail the fact appeared that although Elvira was proud she was also poor! This accounted for her being in the schoolroom. But she had made the most of herself in her profession, as she had in other directions. Her motto was to aim high, even if her arrow should light in the mud at last, and she always shot by that rule. When she decided to be a teacher rather than a clerk in a store, she began to look about for the best opportunities in the direction of her choice. It should be remarked that the alternative of store or schoolroom came to her only after several unsuccessful seasons in society, in which the moulded form, the wavy hair, and the constant smile had been used to their best possible advantage, but all in vain. The hook on which her bait was hung was so rigid and cold that no gudgeon, even, ever thought of biting at it; though the angler thought it a clever and tempting bit to bite at. How apt we all are to be deceived--by ourselves. So Elvira resolved to make a school teacher out of herself. Being somewhat dull intellectually, and detesting severe study, she abjured all paths that would lead her to teach the higher branches of learning, and bent her rather spare and somewhat stale energies to fitting herself for primary work. This, too, in the face of the fact that she naturally despised children, except sweet little girls in their best clothes, with long curls, freshly made up, and hanging like a golden flood over neck and shoulders; or bright little boys, also well dressed and duly curled, for about a minute, when they came into the parlor where Miss Stone used to sit with her smile. For these she had a fancy merely, it could not be called an affection. Miss Stone was not affectionate. She went to St. Louis and associated herself with the Kindergarten of that far-famed city. Far be it from this record to intimate that this is not a good thing to do, on occasion. With this point I have naught to do. But history is history, and facts must be duly recorded; and the fact is, Miss Stone went to St. Louis, as before stated, and let out the job of being fashioned into a Kindergarten, to certain persons who dwelt in that city, and whose business it was to do just this sort of thing. Neither can it be here set down what her ultimate success might have been had she confined herself to Kindergarten work proper. Indeed, it is an open question how any one ever succeeded in this particular way, or, in fact, whether any one ever did do Kindergarten work proper for a week at a time. It is one of the peculiarities of this kind, that it is never met with in all its purity. Like the old-fashioned milk-sickness, you can never come to the place where it really exists. Any one can tell you just where you will find it, but when you pursue it, and come to the place, like the end of the rainbow, it evades you and goes beyond. But this is getting on slowly. Miss Stone got on slowly, too. This was the woman to whom "Dodd" committed himself, in the words of the last chapter. The lady turned towards the boy and brought the full force of her smile to bear upon his luckless head. "My dear little child," she said, "go and clean your feet!" This, vocally. In mental reservation she remarked at the same time: "Drat the little villain, I've got to take him at last," for she had heard of "Dodd" and his exploits before she had been in her place a week. "I don't haf to," returned the youth, scraping a piece of black loam off his left boot with the toe of his right, and rubbing the sticky lump into the floor. But Miss Stone had faith in her training. She hastily ran through all the precepts and maxims of Froebel, and also such others as his American followers have added by way of perfecting this highly wrought system, but though she thought a great deal more rapidly than usual, she found no rules and regulations duly made and provided for a case just like this. For the first time in her life she realized that there was one thing in this world that even a German specialist, backed up by St. Louis philosophy, had not reached; neither Froebel nor his followers said a word about poking mud off one boot with the toe of the other, nor of rubbing mud into the floor, nor what to do with a saucy little boy who said defiantly, "I don't haf to." Had she been teaching in a large city she might have sent for the principal, and he might have telephoned the superintendent, who might have called a meeting of the Board to consider the case, and so overcome the dilemma; but Circleville had a school of only three rooms, and the principal, so called, heard twenty-two recitations a day, in his own room, and had little time for anything else. So there was no help from that quarter, and for the time Miss Stone was dumb. There is a tradition that her smile left her for a moment, but the fact is not well authenticated and should not be too freely believed. How long this teacher would have remained in her unfortunate condition it is impossible to tell, for just at this instant Esther Tracy, a motherly little soul, aged seven, who had been conscientiously trying for half an hour to see in how many different ways she could arrange four wooden tooth-picks upon the desk, according to a modified form of Froebel's canons, as interpreted by Miss Stone, took the ends of her fingers out from between her lips, where she had thrust them during the moment of her doubt, and raising her hand, said: "Please, Miss Stone, let me take 'Dodd' and I'll take care of him." Without waiting for a reply, she came forward, took the boy by the hand and led him out of the room. O, Nature, Nature! How inexorable art thou! As people are born, so are they always, and what do all our strivings to change thy decrees amount to? Esther Tracy, aged seven, who had never heard of a Theory and Art of Teaching, and who scarce knew her letters; indeed, has put to shame Miss Elvira Stone, the handmade disciple of Froebel and the St. Louis Kindergarten system! She knew what to do with "Dodd," and Miss Stone didn't. This was the success of one, the failure of the other. The principle obtains always. CHAPTER III. It was fully fifteen minutes before Esther and "Dodd" returned to the schoolroom. It takes a large reserve force of both patience and scraping to make presentable such a specimen as "Dodd" was on this memorable morning. But when the two appeared again, the boy's boots were clean, and his hair was smoothed down, while the book cover showed only a wet spot, of deeper tint than the rest of the book, in place of the black blot that had been so prominent a few minutes before. The girl led the boy to a seat not far from hers and then returned to her own little desk. While the children were out Miss Stone had time to collect her thoughts, and she began at once to consider what she should do to amuse the child. It had been a primary principle with those who constructed this female educator, that the chief end of a primary teacher was to amuse the children placed under her charge. This precept had been drilled into Miss Stone, and nothing less than a charge of dynamite could have dislodged it. She was taught that it was little less than wicked to impose tasks upon young shoulders; that the "pretty little birdies" (this always said with a smile) "enjoyed themselves, hopping about in God's blessed sunlight, and that it was Nature's way to have her children happy." "Happiness," in this case, seemed to mean doing nothing, but simply being amused--a definition that finds general recognition among many, there being those who dream of heaven as a place where they can be as everlastingly lazy as they choose, through all eternity, with the celestial choirs forever tooting soft music in the distance, and streams of milk and honey flowing perpetually to their lips, all for their amusement and delectation. Perhaps this last is the correct idea. It might as well be confessed that on this point we are not well posted in this world, though many profess to be. The Father will show us this some day, as he will all else, but till then we can wait. But, be the employment or enjoyment of heaven what it may, it is evident that in this world a man or a child has something to do besides being amused. We are all born destined for work, rich and poor alike. It is our reasonable service, and the best thing we can do is to fit ourselves for the task, from the very first. Not that our work shall be mere drudgery, though it may be that and nothing more, and, even so, be better than idleness or being amused; but it is the fate of every soul born on earth to be called upon constantly to do things which it had rather not do, just then, anyhow, and whenever such a condition exists, work is the word that describes what has to be done. It is the business of life to work. The Book has it that, "The Father worketh hitherto." Even the new version has failed to reveal the phrase, "The Father is amused," and the Master, when a boy, declared that he must attend to the "business" that lay waiting for him. But the pedagogic preceptors of Miss Stone did not draw their system of education from so old a book as the one just referred to. It is perhaps true, also, that German philosophy was evolved merely that people might be amused by it! Quietly she glided down the aisle, her dress rustling along the seats, and an odor of "new mown hay" exhaling from her clothing. "Dodd" hung his head as she approached--perhaps it was to dodge her smile--and waited developments. "What is your name, my dear?" came from between the pursed-up lips. "Doddridge Watts Weaver," said the boy, in a loud tone. There was a titter all over the room. The name was very odd, and an oddity is always to be laughed at by the average person, boy or man. Did you ever think of that, my dear pedagogue; you who would fain amuse children, and yet will spit them upon the spear of public ridicule by asking them to tell their names out loud in public, before all the rest of the boys and girls? It is doubtful if any one ever likes to tell his name in public. I have known old lawyers to blush when put upon the witness stand and obliged to tell their names to the court and jury, all of whom had known them for the last fifty years! If such is the effect on a dry old stump of a lawyer, what must the effect be on a green, sensitive child? "Dodd" heard the titter and it made him mad. He was not to blame for the name, and he felt that it was mean for the folks to laugh at him for what he couldn't help. He cast an angry glance out of the corner of his eyes, as if to say he would be even for this some day, and then hung his head again. "That's a very pretty name," said Miss Stone, thinking by this thin compliment to amuse the boy. "Tain't nuther!" returned the youth. Miss Stone ventured no further in that line. "I am glad you have come to school, and I hope you will be a very nice little boy, because we all love nice little boys," replied Miss Stone. "Dodd" glanced across the aisle to where sat a "curled darling" and wished be could pull his hair till he howled. "Now here is something that will amuse you a little while, I am sure," pursued Miss Stone, and she laid a handful of beans upon the desk. The boy glanced up and giggled just a little--such a knowing giggle, too, as much as to say: "What do you take me for? Here's a go! Come to school to be amused with beans!" Miss Stone caught the glance, and in her inmost soul knew all it meant, and realized its full force; but she checked the truth that she felt within her and proceeded by the card. And why not? Was she not acting in accordance with the rules and regulations laid down by those who had fashioned her for this very work, and were not these same warranted to keep in any climate, and not to be affected by dampness or dry weather? She had put her faith in a system and had paid for what she received; and she didn't propose to be beaten out of her possession by any little white-headed son of a Methodist preacher, in a town of a thousand inhabitants. She showed "Dodd" how to divide the handful of beans into little bunches of three each, and how to lay each pile by itself along the top of the desk, and then left him to be amused according to the rule in such cases made and provided. Now it is admitted, right here, that beans are not a strictly Kindergarten "property"--to bring a stage term into the schoolroom--but one seldom sees genuine Kindergarten properties, or hardly ever, even in St. Louis, and beans are so commonly used as above stated, that it can hardly be the fault of the harmless vegetable that Miss Stone's plan did not succeed exactly as she wished it to. The fact is, "Dodd" knew how to count before he went to school, and could even add and subtract fairly, as was shown by his doing errands at the store for his mother and counting the change which he brought back to her. The bean business was therefore mere nonsense to him. He turned up his nose at the inoffensive kidney-shaped pellets before him, and his reverence for the dignity of the schoolroom and his faith in Miss Stone fell several degrees in a few minutes. Perhaps it would not have been so in Boston. In that city, I am told, the bean is held in such reverence by all grown-up people that one might well expect to see the quality descend to all children, as a natural inheritance. But Circleville is not Boston, and there are thousands of other towns in these United States that are like Circleville in this respect. However, "Dodd" sat idly moving the beans about for some time. He was quiet, and gradually Miss Stone forgot him in the press of other thoughts. To be plain, she had recently joined an Art Club, an organization composed of a few ladies in the little village, women whose husbands were well-to-do, and who, being childless, were restless and anxious to "become developed." Miss Stone was a member of this club, and in a few days she was to read a paper on "Giunta Pisano, and his probable relation to Cimabue," and the subject was working her mightily, for she was anxious to have her production longer than Miss Blossom's, read at the last meet, and to secure this was no small task. She had been to the "up-stairs room" during recess and brought down the cyclopedia, and, happily, had found a page and a half regarding Giunta Pisano therein, which she was copying verbatim. To be sure, there was no word in it about Cimabue, or the relation of the one to the other, but this was not taken into account. There were plenty of words in the article, and that was the chief end just then. So Miss Stone was soon busy with her pen, the index finger of her left hand noting the line in the cyclopedia which should be next transcribed. The children whispered and played a good deal, but she paid little heed. There was little danger of visitors, for no one visited schools in Circleville (how like all other towns it is in this respect!) and Miss Stone knew how to hustle classes through recitations and make time on a down grade just before dinner, and so took her time at her task of writing up poor old Giunta. She was presently conscious, however, that something unusual was going on, and on looking up, found the eyes of the pupils fastened on "Dodd." She ran down to his desk, hoping to find the beans in order. But alas for human expectations! We are all so often doomed to disappointment! Not a bean was to be seen, and "Dodd" hung his head. Miss Stone reached for his hands, thinking he was hiding them there; but his hands were empty. She tried his pockets. They yielded ample returns of such things as boys' pockets are wont to contain, but no beans appeared. Miss Stone was alarmed, and she almost trembled as she asked: "'Dodd,' where are the beans?" The boy did not look up, but with a kind of suppressed chuckle, he muttered, "I've eat 'em all up!" CHAPTER IV. For some cause or other Miss Stone and "Dodd" did not get on well together as their acquaintance progressed. The boy was impulsive, saucy, rude, and generally outrageous, in more ways than can be told or even dreamed of by any one but a primary teacher who has become familiar with the species. Miss Stone had no natural tact as a teacher, no gift of God in this direction, no intuition, which is worth more than all precepts and maxims combined. She knew how to work by rule, as so many teachers do, but beyond this she had little ability. This to her credit, however: she did, ultimately, labor hard with the boy, and tried her best to do something with him, or for him, or by him, but all to little purpose. It seemed to be "Dodd's" special mission to knock in the head the pet theories of this hand-made school-ma'am. She had him up to read on the afternoon of the first day of his attendance at school. Being but six years of age, and having just entered school, it was proper, according to the regulations, that he should enter the Chart Class. So to the Chart Class he went. The word for the class that day was "girl," and the lesson proceeded after the usual manner of those who hold to this method of teaching children to read. A little girl was placed upon the platform (the prettiest little girl in the class, to be sure), and the pupils were asked to tell what they saw. They all answered in concert, "a girl;" and it is to be hoped that this answer, thus given, was duly evolved from their inner consciousness by a method fully in harmony with the principles of thought-development, as laid down in the books, and by Miss Stone's preceptors. A picture girl was then displayed upon a card-board which hung against the wall. There were many of these card-boards in the room, all made by a book-concern that had some faith and a good deal of money invested in this particular way of teaching reading--all of which, I am sure, is well enough, but the fact, probably, ought to be mentioned just here, as it is. The pupils were asked if the girl on the platform was the same as the one on the card-board, and there was a unanimous opinion that they were not identical. The analysis of differences was not pursued to any great length, but enough questions were asked the children, by Miss Stone, to develop in them the thought that "structurally and functionally the two objects, designated by the common term, were not the same!" When this diagnosis had been thoroughly mastered by the children, a third member was added for their serious consideration, Miss Stone having duly explained to the class that "there is still another way to make us think girl." "You know," she said, "we always think girl when we see 'Lollie'"--the little girl on the platform--"and we always think girl when we see the picture; but now you all watch me, and I will show you one other way in which we may always be made to think girl." Then, with much flourish of chalk, Miss Stone printed "GIRL" upon the board, and proceeded to elucidate, as follows: "Now, this that I have written upon the board is not 'Lollie,' for she is on the platform yet; nor is it the picture, for that is on the card-board, but it is the word 'girl,' and whenever I see it, it makes me think girl. Now, 'Lollie' is the real girl, on the card-board is the picture girl, and on the blackboard is the word girl. Now, who thinks he can take the pointer and point to the kind of girl I ask for?" Several little hands went up, but "Dodd's" was not among them. Miss Stone noticed this and was "riled" a little, for she had tried doubly hard to do well, just because this tow-head was in the class, and now to have the little scamp repudiate it all was too bad. She called on one and another of the children to point, now to the real girl, now to the picture girl, now to the word girl, and all went very nicely, till finally she asked "Dodd" to take the pointer and see what he could do. But the boy made no motion to obey. Gently she urged him to try, but he hung his head and would not budge. "Why don't you want to try, 'Dodd?'" asked the lady, bending down over the child. O fatal question! Quick as thought the lad replied, as he raised his head: "Coz, I've knowed that always!" It is not the intention of this chronicle to pass judgment upon any system of teaching children to read. This record does not concern itself with one system nor another. But in the evolution of "Dodd," Miss Stone used the word-method of the charts, as before stated, and using it just as she did, she failed to reach the boy as she hoped to, and her failure was very unfortunate for the child. She was aware of this, but she had not strength enough, in her own right, to change the result. So it was that day after day went by, and the antagonism between teacher and pupil grew. The boy presently discovered that he could annoy Miss Stone mightily, and he lost no opportunity to do what he could in this direction. It was contrary to the creed taught this good woman to inflict corporal punishment upon any child, and though "Dodd" aggravated her almost to desperation, and was malicious in his persecutions, yet she kept her hands off him. Once or twice she tried some slight punishment, such as making him sit on the platform at her feet, or stand with his face in the corner, but these light afflictions the boy counted as joyous rather than grievous, and did as he chose more than ever. He slyly unfastened one of Miss Stone's shoestrings one day, when seated at her feet for penalty, and laughed when she tripped in it as she got up; and somehow or other, he would always put the whole room in a turmoil whenever placed with his face to the wall. "Dodd" learned to read quite rapidly, however, having mastered his letters before he went to school, and having spelled a good many words on signs and in newspapers. Before the end of the third week he had read his first reader through, one way or another, though he was still in the Chart Class, and having once been through the book, it lost many, if not most, of its charms for him thereafter. But if his reader was so soon crippled for him, what shall be said of the work of the Chart Class, over which he went again and again, always in substantially the same way? It may be said, and truthfully, that there were some pupils in the class who, even after going over and over the same lesson, for days and days, still did not master it, and so the class was not ready to move on; but it does not follow that therefore "Dodd" was not ready to move on. This did follow, however, according to Miss Stone's teaching, and according to the system adopted by multitudes of teachers East, West, North, and South. I am well aware that there are teachers, plenty of them, whose spirits will rebel against the above insinuation, so, a word with you, ladies and gentlemen. The system used by Miss Stone may have worked well enough in some other hands, but it should be remembered that it is not a system that can educate our children. Nor is it a system--any set of rules and formularies--that can make our schools, any more than it is forms and ceremonies that make our churches. These may all be well enough in their proper places, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in them, per se. It is the righteousness of the Scribes and Pharisees in the one case, and the dry bones of pedagogy in the other, The evil arises, in the schools as in the churches, from believing and acting as if there were something in the system itself. If human nature were a fixed quantity, if any two children were alike, or anywhere nearly alike, if a certain act done for a child always brought forth the same result, then it might be possible to form an absolute system of pedagogy, as, with fixed elements, there is formed the science of chemistry. But the quick atoms of spirit that manifest their affinities under the eye of that alchemist, the teacher, are far more subtle than the elements that go into the crucible in any other of Nature's laboratories. A chemist will distill for you the odor of a blown rose, or catch and hold captive the breath of the morning meadow, and do it always just the same, and ever with like results. But there is no art by which anything analogous can be wrought in human life. Here a new element comes in that entirely changes the economy of nature in this regard. The individuality of every human soul is this new factor, and because of it, of its infinite variability--because no two atoms that are cast into the crucible of life are ever the same, or can be wrought into character by the same means--because of this, no fixed rules can ever be laid down for evolving a definite result, in the realm of soul, by never-varying means. And this is where Miss Stone was at fault. She had put her faith in a system, a mill through which all children should be run, and in passing through which each child should receive the same treatment, and from which they should all emerge, stamped with the seal of the institution, "uniformity." This was the prime idea that lay at the foundation of Miss Stone's system of training--to make children uniform. This very thing that God and Nature have set themselves against--no two faces, or forms, or statures; no two minds, or hearts, or souls being alike, as designed by the Creator, and as fashioned by Nature's hand--to make all these alike was the aim of the system under which "Dodd" began to be evolved, and with which he began to clash at once. The boy was much brighter than most of the class in which he was placed. The peculiarity of his own nature, and his surroundings before entering school, made him a subject for some special notice, something more than the "regular thing" prescribed by the rules. Yet this he did not get, and by so much as he did not, by so much he failed to receive his proper due at this period of his life. And this is a fault in any system, or in any teacher who works exclusively by any card other than his or her own good sense, as applied to each individual case. It was not so much the means that Miss Stone tried upon "Dodd" that were at fault, as it was the way in which she applied them and the end she strove to reach by their use. And for you, my dear, who are walking over the same road as the one just reported as traversed by Miss Stone, look the way over and see how it is with you in these matters. And do not content yourself, either, by merely saying, "But what are we going to do about it?" Bless your dear life, that is the very thing that is set for you to find out, and as you hope for success here and a reward hereafter, don't give up till you have answered the question. Neither can any one but yourself answer this question. The experience of others may be of some help to you, but the problem--and you have a new problem every time you have a new pupil--is only to be solved by yourself. Look over the history of the Chart Class, over whose silly mumblings this boy was dragged till disgust took the place of expectancy, then think of like cases that you have known, and ask yourself what you are going to do about it. It is true that classes are large, that rooms are full, that some pupils are severely dull, and that it is a very hard thing to know what it is best to do; but these things, all of them, do not excuse you from doing your best, and from making that best, in large measure, meet the absolute needs of the child. "Hic labor, hoc opus est." And for you, who send your six-year-olds to school with a single book, and grumble because you have to buy even so much of an outfit, what are you going to do about it when your boy drains all the life out of the little volume, in a couple of weeks or a month? He knows the stories by heart, and after that says them over, day by day, because he must, and not in the least because he cares to. What are you going to do about this? It is largely your business. You cannot shirk it and say that you send the boy to school, and it is the teacher's business to take care of him. That will not answer the question. Look the facts in the face, and then do as well by your boy as you do by your hogs! When they get cloyed on corn, then you change their feed, and so keep them growing, even if it does cost twice as much to make the change; and yet, the chances are that when your boy is tired to death of the old, old stories in his reader, tales worn threadbare, as they are drawled over and over in his hearing by the dullards of his class, till his soul is sick of them, even then you force him to go again and again over the hated pages, till he will resort to rank rebellion to be rid of them! And what are you going to do about it? Miss Stone knew none of these things. They were of little interest to her, and she bothered her head but little about them. But they were of interest to "Dodd" Weaver. In the evolution of this young hopeful they played an important part. They were hindrances to the boy at the very outset of his course in the public schools. They begot in him habits and dislikes which it took years to efface, and from which it is doubtful if he ever did fully recover. There are multitudes in like case, and what are we going to do about it? CHAPTER V. The severity of the duties, pastoral and paternal, that fell to the lot of Elder Weaver, wore rapidly upon the constitution of that worthy gentleman, and when "Dodd" was nine years old his father found it necessary to retire from the pulpit, for a year at least, and, as is usual in such cases, he went to that refuge for fagged out ministers of all denominations, the old homestead of his wife's parents. From this rustic domicile he had led the youngest daughter, a buxom bride, ten years before; to it he now returned with her and with seven small children besides. An ambitious young man and a healthy young woman, a decade before, they came back to the threshold from which they had gone out, he, broken in spirit and as poor in purse as in purpose; she, worn and faded, yet trying hard to seem cheerful as she came within the sunlight of the old home again. The old people lengthened the cords and strengthened the stakes of their simple home, and made the Elder and his wife, and the seven children ("seven devils," an irreverent sister once called them in a burst of indignation at the state of affairs) as comfortable as possible. To be sure grandpa and grandma Stebbins were old, and it was long since there had been children in the house, but they had enough and to spare in crib and pantry, and they had lived sufficiently long in this world to accept the inevitable without a murmur. But for all of that, the children were a source of a good deal of annoyance to the old people, especially until they were brought somewhat under subjection by the faithful hand of the old gentleman, who found that he should have to stand up for his own in the premises or submit to the unendurable. The first real climax occurred on the second day of the quartering of the family thus, and "Dodd" was the boy who brought matters to a focus. The month was October, and down in the yard, a few feet from the bee-hives, just beyond the shadow of the weeping-willow that stood near the well, and along the row of gooseberry bushes under which the hens were wont to gather and gossip--standing on one leg and making their toilets meanwhile--there stood a barrel, out of whose bung-hole protruded a black bottle turned bottom side up. The barrel was filled with the best cider made that season, a special run from apples that had been sorted out, and from which every worm-hole and specked place had been cut by the thrifty hand of Grandma Stebbins. This was for the family vinegar for the year, and the cask was thus left in the sun duly to ripen its contents. "Dodd" had not been in the yard five minutes before his quick eye caught sight of this, and his eager imagination transformed it into a horse in a twinkling. He did this the more easily, too, because it was raised from the ground a foot or more, being supported by blocks of wood which in the mind's eye of the boy did well enough for legs, while a spicket, protruding from one end, below, made a head for the animal, which, though small, was available for bridling purposes. It was the work of but a minute to jerk a string from his pocket, bridle the beast, and mount him for a ride. "Dodd" had but fairly started on this escapade, however, when his grandfather appeared in the yard and at once saw the danger that threatened his carefully garnered cider. He quietly approached his little grandson, and, telling him that he could not permit him to play with the barrel, began gently to lift him to the ground. But against this the boy rebelled. He clutched his little legs about the cask and held to his seat with all his might, and when at last he was forced to yield, he took the black bottle with him as a trophy. His grandfather set him down and explained to him how the cider was turning to vinegar; that if it was jarred it would spoil it, and how the black bottle "drew the sun." But "Dodd" heard little of all this, and cared less, even, for what he did hear. He was used to having his own way. He wriggled and squirmed during the explanation, and as soon as he was released, he made straight for his coveted seat again, even in the very face of the old gentleman, and when his grandfather caught him once more and led him away somewhat rapidly, he kicked the shins of his captor in a very malicious and wicked fashion, and yelled lustily the while. The old man took the boy to his mother and explained matters, assuring "Dodd" and the other children, who stood about in a ring, that they must in no case touch the cask in question, and then left the room. Mrs. Weaver scolded her first-born roundly, told him he was "a very naughty boy," and ended by taking from behind the clock a small and brittle switch--an auxiliary that she had made haste to provide herself with before she had been on the premises an hour, and without which she felt that her family government would be but sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal--and striking "Dodd" one or two slight strokes over his hips. This was Mrs. Weaver's way of "training" her children. From "Dodd's" earliest infancy he had been used to this sort of thing. His mother believed in the maxim, "spare the rod and spoil the child," and this was her method of endeavoring to fulfill both the spirit and the letter of the precept. There was always a small, brittle switch behind the clock, and it was taken down numberless times each day, only to make a child bawl for a minute, as he was threatened or struck lightly with the harmless stick. The usual result was that he went ahead and did the very thing he was forbidden to do. "Dodd" yelled lustily while his mother laid on, though in truth he scarcely felt the blows, and then sulked for the rest of the day, teasing the other children and making life a burden to everybody and everything he came near. It was the next day, about two o'clock, that the boy once more got into the yard and made straight for his coveted seat. The fact is he had never given up his purpose to return at the first opportunity. He fastened the bridle to the spigot and mounted in hot haste, kicking his little heels into the bleached staves, and plying the riding whip like a young fury. The horse acted badly ("Dodd's" horses always acted badly), and he jerked smartly on the bridle rein to subdue him. It was rare sport, and the lad fairly reveled in it, in his little heart defying those who had forbidden him this pleasure, and glorying in his triumph. But "the way of sinners is as darkness, they know not at what they stumble," and "Dodd" was destined to "take a header" forthwith. The jerks on the reins drew the spigot from its place, and the first he knew it was dangling in the air over the end of the barrel. He leaned over, fully to observe this fact, and saw the cider shooting out in an amber stream and flooding all the ground. "Hurray," he yelled, "that's a bully waterfall!" and he thrust his whip into the stream to see it spatter, hopping about meantime. It was just at this instant that grandfather Stebbins came out of the barn, and, hearing the shout of the boy, looked over that way and took in the situation. He was over seventy, but he covered the ground from barn to barrel in most excellent time. "Hi! hi!" he shouted as he ran. "Stop it up! Stop it up!" "Dodd" saw the old man coming, and realizing something of the situation, he began to beat a retreat, taking the spigot with him. "Here! you young Benjamite" ("Dodd" was left-handed, and the old gentleman was well posted in Bible lore), "bring back that spigot." But the boy ran like a white-head that he was, and a race of several yards ensued before he was caught. But the old man was wiry and was urged to his topmost speed by the press of the circumstances. He caught "Dodd," and collared him with a grip such as the boy had never before felt. He dragged the young rogue back to the barrel in no gentle manner, and thrust the plug into the hole, saving a mere remnant that remained of the contents of the cask, and then devoted himself to the little scamp whom he still held. For a few times in a lifetime Fortune puts into our hands the very thing we most want at the very time we most want it, and this was one of the times when the fickle goddess favored the old man Stebbins. "Dodd" had dropped the riding whip that he had been using, beside the barrel, and it lay where it fell. It was a tough bit of rawhide, hard-twisted, and lithe. The old man's hand caught it instinctively, as if drawn to it by an irresistible attraction, and before the young lawbreaker, whom he held by the collar, could say, or think, "what doest thou?" he plied it so vigorously about his legs and back that the culprit thought for a moment that he had been struck by lightning. He yelled from very pain for the first time in his life, from such a cause, and tried to find breath or words to beg for a respite, but in vain, for the blows fell thick and fast and they stung terribly, every one. "I'll teach you," the old man shouted as he laid on. "Perhaps you think this is a little switch, and that I shall only tickle you with it." He paused a minute to let "Dodd" catch up with the general line of thought, in his somewhat distracted mind, and while the youth danced about, he proceeded. "Young man, I have got to teach you to mind! I told you to keep away from this barrel and you paid no attention, and now I'm going to whip you till you will pay attention!" At the words "going to whip you" "Dodd" tried to find words to beg, but they came too slowly, and once more the old man wrapped the supple lash about the smarting understandings of his grandson. It seemed to "Dodd" as though his legs were fairly whipped off, and as if the place for the general reception of the strokes had left him altogether; as though he could not endure another blow, but still the supply was unexhausted. He fell limp to the ground, and fairly roared for mercy. It was the first time in his life that he had really yielded to any one, but he never thought of that; he only groaned and begged for reprieve. The old man stopped when he felt that he had quite fulfilled his duty, as he understood it, and then spoke as follows to the boy, who lay collapsed on the ground: "There, my young man, get up and go into the house, and after this, remember and do just exactly as I tell you. That's all I want, but that I must have, and you must understand it. I don't want to be cruel to you, and I won't be,--but you must learn to mind, and you had better learn it now than later. Don't you ever do again what I tell you not to do, or I shall have to punish you even harder than this!" "Dodd" rubbed his stinging legs and wondered if there was anything beyond what he had suffered. He staggered to his feet and went to the house as limp as a rag. He did not seek his mother, but went straight up stairs and threw himself upon the bed in the back room, where he cried for half an hour, and finally fell asleep. As for the old gentleman, he went back to the barn all in a tremble, his hands shaking like an aspen and his heart in a flutter. He busied himself here and there for a few minutes, but finally broke down completely and retired in to the granary, where be fell upon his knees, and with penitential tears besought the Lord to forgive him if he had done wrong, and to help him, in his last years, to keep the devil out of his heart and life. He prayed for the boy too, and asked the God in whom he trusted to lead him in the right way as he grew out of youth into manhood. And then he rose from his knees refreshed, and went about his business. His heart was somewhat heavy, but he reviewed the whole situation and concluded that he had done the best thing, and so was content. He knew that he had not maimed the child in any way, but had only caused him to suffer intense pain for a time, a sensation which would soon pass away, but the memory of which, and the dread of a repetition of which, he trusted, would endure for a lifetime. At five o'clock he came into the house; and finding "Dodd" in fair good humor, playing with the children in the kitchen, he asked him to go with him and fetch the cows for milking. The boy was off for his hat in an instant, and a moment later the two were seen, hand in hand, going down the lane that led to the pasture. They chatted pleasantly as they went along. They even referred freely to the affair of three hours before. The old gentleman read him no terrible lesson as to his depravity, and his probable end of life upon the gallows if he persisted in so headstrong and wilful a course. The story of the "forty she bears" he did not repeat to the youth, and no reference was made to the awful death of Jack Ketch. He was too shrewd an observer of human nature to present anything as attractive as these things to the imagination of his grandson! Tell a boy like "Dodd" that he is on the high road to ruin, the prison, or the rope, and the chances are that you puff him up with pride at his own achievement, or fill him with ambition to see the end of his own career carried out in this line. But grandpa Stebbins gave "Dodd" none of this. He simply told him that it was the best thing for everybody that he should mind. He reviewed the facts regarding the waste of the cider, and showed him how bad he had been in doing as he had done, and why he was bad. The boy offered no word of remonstrance, but, on the contrary, acknowledged his fault, and assured his grandfather that he would "remember" in future. With a light heart he ran for the cows, which were taking a farewell feed along the banks of the brook that ran across the pasture, and it was with a genuine pride that he headed them for home, especially one contrary heifer, that preferred to have her own way and not obey his command. He ran after her with much spirit, and was quite delighted when he forced her to do his bidding. And for you, good people, who do not believe in this sort of thing, what about this case? It is a hard case, no doubt. There is no pleasing feature in its early stages, but does not its outcome warrant all its ugly phases? Grant that it is all old fashioned; that to you it seems silly for the old man to go alone and pray after trouncing the boy, or that you fear the "boy's will was broken" by this episode, yet review the facts in their entirety, and see if there is not a good in them that you are wont to overlook. The punishment was harsh, but it was just such as "Dodd" Weaver had been needing for a long time, and the only thing that could reach him just then. It would have been a crime to treat in like manner a gentle little girl with a sweet disposition, but was it a crime in the case of "Dodd?" And if not a crime in "Dodd's" case, why in other cases like his? And if the punishment was right, inflicted by the hand of the grandfather, why not by the hand of the teacher who shall have occasion to resort, even to this, to put a boy into the right way? I do not mean a cold-blooded whipping, inflicted by a Principal for a trifling transgression of a rule in some department of school, under one of the assistant teachers, but a retribution, swift, sure, and terrible, that is inflicted by the person against whom the wrong is done, and which falls upon the willful transgressor to keep him from doing so again. For this is the mission of penalty, to keep the wrong-doer from a repetition of his wrong doing. "Dodd" Weaver was a wrong-doer, and under the treatment he was receiving from his parents, and had received from Miss Stone, he was waxing worse and worse with each recurring day. This was really more unfortunate for him than for the people whom he annoyed by his lawlessness. There was no likelihood of his correcting the fault by his own will, nor could persuasion lead him to reform, this having been worn to rags by Miss Stone, till the boy laughed to scorn so gentle an opposition to his bad actions. But over all these misfortunes and follies alike came the lively thrashing of grandpa Stebbins, and brought the boy to a realizing sense of the situation. The young sinner found himself suddenly confronted with the penalty of his sin, and when he found that this penalty was really extreme suffering, he made up his mind that it was something worth looking out for. To be sure, it was not a high motive to right action, but it was a motive that led to better deeds on the part of "Dodd" Weaver, and as such is worthy a place in this record. There was one man and one thing in the world that be had learned to have a decent respect for, and that was a new acquisition at this period of his life. So long as grandpa Stebbins lived, he and "Dodd" were fast friends, and when, years after, the old man went to his reward, there was no more genuine mourner that stood about his grave than the hero of these adventures. Quarrel with the theory of corporal punishment as much as you choose, beloved, but when you get a case like "Dodd's," do as well by it as grandpa Stebbins did by him--if you can. CHAPTER VI. The "Fall School" in "deestrick" number four had been in session for more than a month when the Weavers moved into the country and came within its jurisdiction. Preparations were at once made to increase its numbers, if not its graces, to a very perceptible extent, from out of the bosom of the Weaver homestead; for, as the youngest twins were now "five past," they were held by the inexorable logic of rural argumentation to be "in their sixth year," and so to come within the age limit of the school law, and entitled to go to school and draw public money. Besides, "Old Man Stebbins owns nigh onter six eighties in the deestrick, an' pays more school tax nor ary other man in Dundas township, an' it hain't no more nor fair 'at ef he wants to send the hull family, he orter be 'lowed ter, coz he hain't sent no one ter school fur more 'n ten year, only one winter, when Si Hodges done chores fer him fer his board, an' went ter school," explained old Uncle Billy Wetzel to a company of objecting neighbors, as they all stood together by a hitching post in front of the church, waiting for "meetin' to take up," whittling and discussing local affairs meantime. So the five young Weavers, headed by "Dodd," became members of the "fall school in deestrick four, Dundas township," and were marched off for the day, five times a week, with dinner for the crowd in a wooden dinner pail, which was the special care of twins number one. This laxity regarding twins number two would have been rebuked in a city where there is a superintendent kept on purpose to head off such midgets as these, who creep in under the legislative gates that guard the entrance to the road to learning, but no such potentate held sway in Dundas township, so the little bow-legged pair went to school unmolested and began, thus early, the heavy task of climbing the hill of knowledge, starting on their hands and knees. Is it, or is it not, better so? Amos Waughops (pronounced Wops, but spelled W-a-u-g-h-o-p-s, such is the tyranny laid upon us by those who invented the spelling of proper names, and who have upon their invention the never-expiring patent of custom), had charge of the school that fall. He had been hired for six months, beginning the last week in August. School was begun thus early for the sake of getting an extra week of vacation during the Indian summer days of November, when the school would close for a while to give the boys and girls a chance to "help through corn-shucking," and still get in days enough in the school year to be sure to draw school money. Amos had but one reason for being a school teacher, and that was, he was a cripple. Like the uncouth Richard, he had been sent into the world but half made up, and a club foot, of immense proportions, rendered locomotion so great a task that he was compelled, per force, to choose some occupation by which he could earn a living without the use of his legs. He had been endowed by nature with what is commonly known as "a good flow of language." He learned to talk when very young and his tongue once started, its periods of rest had been few. From a youth he was noted for his ability to "argy." He was the hero of the rural debating society and would argue any side of any question with any man on a moment's notice. If the question happened to be one of which he had never heard and concerning which he knew nothing, such a condition did not embarrass him in the least; he would begin to talk and talk fluently by the hour, if need be, till his opponent would succumb through sheer exhaustion. He had been to school but little, and had not profited much by what instruction he had received while there. It was an idea early adopted by him that a "self-made man" was the highest type of the race, and to him a self-made man was one who worked like the original Creator--made everything out of nothing and called it all very good. So it was that, being ignorant, despising both books and teachers, and yet being able to talk glibly, he came to the conclusion that words were wisdom, and a rattling tongue identical with a well-stored mind--a not uncommon error in the genus under the glass just now. I am sure I shall be pardoned, too, if I still further probe in this direction, and unfold a little more the nature of the circumstances that had to do with the evolution of "Dodd" while he went to school to Amos Waughops, in "deestrick four." As the plot unfolds, and it shall appear what kind of a pupil-carpenter Amos really was, you may wonder how it happened that such a blunderer ever got into that workshop, the school room, and had a chance to try his tools on "Dodd." Wait a minute, and verily you shall find out about this. He was the orphan nephew of two farmers in the district, men who had taken turns in caring for him during his childhood. These men were school directors and had been elected to their positions for the very purpose of getting Amos to teach the "fall-and-winter school." This had further been made possible by the fact that two winters before the young man had "got religion," and his friends in the church had an eye on him for the ministry. To work him toward this goal they had resolved that he, being poor, should teach their school to fill his purse; and so glorify God through the school fund, and his uncles had been chosen directors to that end. Hush! Don't say a word! The thing is done, time and again, all over the country! The matter had been set up for the year before, but the examiner of teachers had vetoed the plan by refusing a certificate to teach to the young man who talked so much and knew so little. This official had asked the candidate, when he came for examination, to add together 2/3, 3/4, 5/6, and 7/8, whereupon he wrote: "Since you cannot reduce these fractions to a common denominator, I adopt the method of multiplying the numerators together for a new numerator, and the denominators together for a new denominator=210/576! This, reduced to the greatest common divisor, or, add numerators and denominators=17/21!" Please do not think that I am jesting, for I have copied this quotation verbatim from a set of examination papers that lie before me as I write, papers that were written before the very face and eyes of an examiner in this great State of Illinois, by a bona fide candidate for a certificate, on the 16th day of December, in the year of grace, 1875; the man who wrote them being over thirty years of age and having taught school for more than half a decade! This is a truthful tale, if nothing else. So Amos did not teach the first year that his friends and relations wanted him to. His friends and relations, however, had their own way about it after all, for they met and resolved that it should be "Amos or nobody," and they got the latter. That is, they asked the examiner to send them a teacher if he would not let them have the one they wanted. The examiner asked them what they would pay for a good teacher and they replied, "Twenty dollars a month!" The poor man sent them the best he had for that money, but it was of so poor a quality that it could ill stand the strain put upon it by the wrangling and angered patrons of "deestrick four," and it broke down before the school had run a month. This year they had tried the same thing again, and the examiner, in sheer despair, gave them their way, as perhaps the lesser of two evils. If any one thinks this an unnatural picture, please address, stamp enclosed, any one of the one hundred and two county superintendents of schools in Illinois, and if you don't get what you want to know, then try Iowa, or Ohio, or Pennsylvania, or even the old Bay State. The quality is largely distributed, and specimens can be picked up in almost any locality where it is made possible by the system that permits such a condition. This was the teacher to whom "Dodd" came on an October morning, just preceding his ninth birthday. Amos had heard much of Elder Weaver and had boasted not a little of how he would "out argy" him the first "lick" he got at him, and he gazed on these small scions of so notable a stock with a feeling that the contest had already begun. He put the children into their seats somewhat gruffly when they appeared, as if resolved to paralyze his antagonist from the first. "Dodd" had learned to read by this time, in spite of the hindrance imposed by Miss Stone in the chart class. Indeed, the only redeeming feature in his career as a pupil up to date, was his natural love for reading. The child had a fondness for this art, a genius for it, if you will, which triumphed over all obstacles, and asserted itself in spite of all attempts to cripple it, or to bring it down to the level of his more limited attainments, or to raise these lesser powers to a line with his special gift. And in this respect, too, "Dodd" was like other children, or other children are like "Dodd." Most of these individualities have special things that they can do ever so much better than they can do some other things. Why not put them at the things that they can do best, and help them on in this direction, instead of striving to press them down from the line of their special genius, and up from the line of their mediocrity, so as to have them on one common level, as some would fain have all the world? As said, "Dodd" had a special genius for reading. When he began to go to school to Amos this fact appeared at once, and it speedily became a casus belli between the two, for Amos was a blockhead with a reading book, and the boy put him terribly to shame before all the school. He could talk, but he could not read. "Dodd" had come to school with a sixth reader. It was a world too wide for his small attainments, with its quotations from Greek and Latin orators, Webster, Clay, Hastings, et al., but it was the only reader of the series used in Amos's school that grandma Stebbins could find in the carefully saved pile of old school books that were housed in the garret, the residuum of former school generations. So, with a sixth reader, the boy went to school. This is the common way of supplying children with school books in the rural districts. He brought, also, an arithmetic and a speller, but as his knowledge of the first branch only reached to that part of it which lies on the hither side of the multiplication table, and as "Webster" is the chief speller used by children in country schools, and he could not go estray in that point, these facts need not be emphasized. As he brought a sixth reader, to the sixth reader class he went. This also is common in schools of this class. It is not supposed to be by those who talk learnedly before the legislature about "grading the country schools," and all that, but it is the way things are done in the country, as any one will find who will take the pains to go into the country and find out. It is understood by the patrons that it is the teacher's business to put the pupil to work with the books that he brings with him, and in putting "Dodd" into the sixth reader Amos only did as the rest do in this regard, that is all. This class was made up of four pupils, two boys and two girls, tall, awkward creatures, who went to the front of the room twice a day and read in a sing-song tone out of two books which were the joint possession of the quartette. The girls used always to stand in class with their arms around each other and their heads leaned together, as they swayed back and forth and rattled over the words of the page; and the boys leaned back against the wall, usually standing on one leg and sticking the other foot up on the wall behind them. "Dodd" was a pigmy beside these, but he read better than any of them, and soon convinced Amos that he, "Dodd," must be taken down a peg, or he, Amos, would find himself looked down upon by his pupils, who would see him worsted by this stripling. He strove to nettle the boy in many ways, but "Dodd" bore the slings and arrows with a good deal of fortitude, and seemed to avoid a clash. The experience with his grandfather had had a very softening effect upon him, and he was slow to forget the lesson. He tried to be good, and did his best for many weeks. But Amos could ill endure the condition into which affairs were drifting. Every day the boy improved in his reading, till it got so that whenever he read all the school stopped to listen. This the teacher felt would not do, and besides this, he had met the parson, and "argyed" with him once, and it was the popular verdict that he had not come out ahead in the encounter. All of which tended to make him bear down on "Dodd," till finally he resolved that he would have a row with the boy and that it should be in the reading class. Do not start at this, beloved. The thing has been done multitudes of times, not only in the country, but in the city as well, and many a child has been made to suffer for the sake of satisfying grudges that existed between teachers and parents. So Amos was bound to settle with "Dodd." He watched his chance, and along in early winter he found what he was looking for. The reading class was on duty, and "Dodd" was leading, as he had for several months. The lesson for the day was "The Lone Indian," and related the woes of that poor savage, who, in old age, returned to the hunting grounds of his young manhood, only to find them gone, and in their places villages and fenced farms. "He leaned against a tree," the narrative continued, "Dodd" reading it in a sympathetic tone, being greatly overcome by the story, "and gazed upon the landscape that he had once known so well." He paused suddenly, and a tear or two fell on his book. "Stop!" exclaimed Amos Waughops, brandishing a long stick which he always carried in his right hand and waved to and fro as he talked to the children, as though he were a great general, in the heat of battle, swinging his sword and urging his men to the charge, "What are you crying about? Eh? Look up here! Look up, I say! Do you intend to mind me?" The boy's eyes were full of tears, but he looked up as he was bidden and fixed his eyes on Amos. This was worse than ever, and the teacher was more angry than before. "See here, I'll ask you a question, if you are so mighty smart. The book says that the Indian 'leaned against the tree.' Now, what is meant by that?" The question was so sudden and so senseless that "Dodd" essayed no answer. This was Amos's opportunity. He waved his stick again--the same being one of the narrow slats that had been torn from one of the double seats in the room, a strip of wood two inches wide, an inch thick, and nearly four feet long--and swinging it within an inch of the boy's nose, he shouted again: "The book says that the Indian leaned against a tree.' What does that mean? Answer me!" and again he made the passes and swung the slat. "I don't know," answered "Dodd," just a little frightened. It was a little, but it was enough. Amos felt that he had Parson Weaver on the hip and he hastened to make the most of his advantage. "Do you mean to say that you don't know what it is to lean against a tree? Why, where was you raised? What kind o' folks hev you got? Your old man must be mighty smart to raise a boy as big as you be, an' not learn him what it means to lean ag'in' a tree." It was a savage thrust and it drew blood from the boy. "My dad may not be very smart," he retorted, fully forgetting the "lone Indian," "but he's got gall enough to pound the stuffin' out o' such a rooster as you be." There was a sensation in the little school room, a dead pause, so still that the little clock on the desk seemed to rattle like a factory, as it hit off the anxious seconds of the strife it was forced to witness. This speech of "Dodd's" was almost too many for Amos. It smote him in his weakest part, and for a moment he was daunted, but he rallied, and with a few wild brandishes of the slat he felt that he was himself again, and once more led on to the fray. "See here, young man, you mustn't talk to me like that! Don't you give me none of your Methodist lip" (Amos was not a Methodist, and, though a candidate for the ministry, he cordially hated all outside his own denomination), "or I'll make you wish you'd never saw deestrick four. Now tell me what it means to 'lean ag'in' a tree,'" and he glared at the boy and waved the slat again. "Why, it means to lean up against it," returned "Dodd," who was bound to do his best. "That's what I think it means; what do you think it means?" The tables were turned, and Amos almost caught his breath at the dilemma. "What do I think it means?" he retorted; "what do I think it means? Why, it means--it means--it means what it says; that he leaned ag'in' the tree, that is, that he assumed a recumbent posture ag'in' the tree!" It was a bold stroke, but Amos felt that it had brought him safely over. "Recumbent posture" was not a vile phrase, and he patted himself on the back, though he puffed a little at the exertion it cost him to hoist the words out of himself. But it was "Dodd's" turn next. Quick as thought he retorted: "Well, that ain't half so easy as what the book says." The school giggled. Amos lost all control, and, starting toward "Dodd," he shouted: "I'll whip you, you little devil, if it's the last thing I ever do." But "Dodd" was too quick for him. He shot down the room like an arrow, and out at the open door, and was off like a deer. With his club foot, Amos Waughops was no match for the boy with his nimble legs, and, flushed and beaten, the gabbler hobbled back to his desk. He looked toward the twins, all four of them, as if to wreak his vengeance on them, but he somehow felt that they were foemen unworthy of his steel, and forebore. As for "Dodd," it was his last day of school with Amos Waughops. Even the persuasion of his grandfather, for whom he had the greatest reverence, was insufficient to get him into the school house again that winter. He learned to do many things on the farm, and helped in out-of-door work in all the coldest days, suffering much from cold and storm, but all this he bore cheerfully rather than meet Amos Waughops and the slat again. Under these circumstances his parents did not force him to school, and who shall say they did wrong by letting him stay at home and work? Long suffering reader, you may frown at the introduction of this unfortunate man, Amos Waughops, into the thread of this story, but I can't help it if you do. I am telling the story of "Dodd" just as it is, and I can't tell it at all unless I tell it that way. You may not like Mr. Waughops; you may not like his way of teaching school; you may say that I am cruel to harp on facts to the extent of intimating that the mere misfortune of being a cripple is not reason enough for being a school teacher; but I can't help this either, because it is true, and we all know it is. We lift up our eyes and behold the educational field all white for the harvest and even among the few laborers that are working, we see a large per cent of bungling reapers who trample under foot more grain than they gather, and whose pockets are full of the seeds of tares, which they are sowing gratis for next year's crop, as they stumble about. I am sure I pity a cripple as much as any one can, but children have rights that even cripples should be made to respect, and no man or woman has a right in the schoolroom merely from the fact of physical inability to work at some more muscular calling. I know there are many most excellent teachers who are bodily maimed, and whose misfortune seems to enhance their devotion to their profession and their success therein, but there are a multitude besides who are in the school room solely because they are the victims of misfortune, and for them there is little excuse to be made. Amos Waughops was a factor in the evolution of "Dodd" Weaver, and his like are found by the quantity in the rural schools of this and other States. We have had enough of them. It is all right for us to be kind and charitable to unfortunate people, but let us be careful whose money and means we are charitable with. When the State took charge of the schools it removed them from the realm of charitable institutions, though some people are very unwilling to acknowledge the fact, and it is a very common thing for the public funds to be still used indirectly for charitable purposes. They are so used on fellows like Amos Waughops and his cognates of the other sex. It is an abomination. CHAPTER VII. The white drifts of winter grew gray and then turned black under the March sun that melted them down and drained off their soluble parts, leaving only a residuum of mud along fences and hedges where, a few days before had been shapely piles of snow. April came with its deluges of rain that washed the earth clean and carried off the riffraff of the previous season, making ready for another and more bountiful harvest. What a thrifty housekeeper nature is! "Dodd" still stayed away from school, and through slush and mud and drenching rain worked like a little man. The fact is, he had secretly made up his mind never to go to school again, a conclusion that it is no particular wonder he had reached after his experience with Amos Waughops, as just chronicled. He observed that his ready work met the approval of both of his parents and grandparents, and he quietly hoped that they would let him alone and permit him to stay out of school so long as he continued to make himself useful on the farm. He said nothing about this, however. His training had not been such as to inspire confidence between himself and his parents, and already he had begun to think, plan and act for himself, unaided by their counsel or advice. Nor is it an uncommon thing for many well-meaning and well-wishing parents thus to isolate their children from the holy of holies of their hearts and force them out into the desert of their own inexperience, to die there alone, or compel them to seek help from the heathenish crowd that is always camped around about within easy reach of such wandering ones. How is it in your own household, beloved? Look it up, if you dare to! But one day when the boy and his grandfather were burning corn stalks in the field, making ready for plowing, the old gentleman broached the subject of school to "Dodd," and, by dint of much persuasion, gained his reluctant consent to brave once more the trials of the school room and out himself again under the guidance of a teacher. A week later "Dodd" made his third venture in the legalized lottery of licensed school teachers. He had drawn blanks twice and he was more than suspicious of the enterprise. He had no faith in it whatever. But the counterfeit always presupposes the genuine, and the same system that includes such specimens as Miss Stone and Amos Waughops in its wide embrace, enfolds also thousands who are the worthiest of men and women. After all, Virtue is on top in this mundane sphere; if it were not so, this old planet would have gone to ruin long ago. Let us look up! Amy Kelly bad been awarded the contract to teach the "spring and summer school" in district four, Dundas township, on this particular year, and with timid, anxious steps she had walked six miles the first Monday morning of the term to take charge of her pupils. It was her first school, and she was worried about it, as folks usually are about almost anything that is new to them and concerning which they are conscientious. Some people never are worried, though. They are born in a don't-care fashion; they absorb the principle from the first, and it never wears out. Others are anxious to begin with, but grow careless as they grow familiar with their surroundings. Others are always anxious. They never do so well that they do not hope to do better next time, and they would almost decline heaven if they felt it to be a place where they must forever remain as they are. Amy Kelly was of the pattern last described. As her name indicates, she was Irish. Her father and mother came from "the old sod" before she was born, and they had won their way up from working at day's wages to being the owners of a snug farm, which was well stocked and thriftily kept. They spoke their native tongue to each other when in the secret recesses of their home, and talked with their children and the neighbors in a brogue so deeply accented that it would be useless for them ever to claim to be "Scotch-Irish," had they wished to make such pretensions--which they did not. Indeed, these people would have been called "very Irish" by the average observer. The old gentleman had red hair and only allowed his beard to grow about his neck, under his chin; wore a strap around his wrist, and smoked a short clay pipe. His wife was stout and somewhat red-faced, and in summer a stray caller would be likely to find her at work in petticoat and short gown, her rather large feet and ankles innocent of shoes or stockings. But she was a good housekeeper, for all of these things. No better butter than hers ever came to market, and her heart was warm and true, even if it did beat under a rather full form and beneath a coarsely woven garment. She had a cheery voice and a pleasant disposition, loved her husband devotedly, was proud of her family, both on account of its numbers and the health, brightness and good looks of her progeny; and her good deeds toward her neighbors, together with her general thrift and good nature, made her a great favorite in all the country-side. Such was the family from which this young school miss was sprung. The girl was just eighteen when she went to her new work. She had received most of her education in a similar school, in a neighboring district, where she had always led her classes, but had spent two winters in a State Normal School. She was a trim body, compactly built, had black hair and eyes, and a fresh, rosy complexion that is so characteristic of her class. She could ride a fractious horse, milk, sew, knit and cook, and had followed the plow more than one day; while during harvest and corn-husking she had many a time "made a hand." From this cause she was strong and well knit in all her frame, a perfect picture of young womanly health and rustic beauty. She had a soft, sweet voice and spoke without the slightest trace of a brogue, so surely does a single generation Americanize such people, and was very modest and retiring in her manners. Like her parents, she was a devout Catholic. It was hardly seven o'clock on an April morning when this girl unlocked the schoolhouse door at the end of her long walk and let the fresh spring breeze blow into its interior. It was a small building, with one door, opening to the south, and six windows, two on each of three sides, all darkened with tight board shutters. She threw all these open and raised the sashes for a fuller sweep of the air, for the school-roomish smell was stifling to one accustomed to wholesome, out-of-door air. As soon as she felt free to take a long breath she began to examine the room in which she was to go to work. The floor was filthy beyond description. There was a hill of dry tobacco quids on the floor under the "teacher's desk," historical relics of the reign of Amos Waughops, and equally disgusting debris scattered all over the room, special contributions of the free American citizens of "deestrick four," who had held an election in the house a few days previous. Moreover, the desks were, many of them, smeared with tallow on the top, patches of grease that told of debating societies, singing schools, and revival meetings of the winter before--blots that Amos had never thought of trying to remove. The stovepipe had parted and hung trembling from the ceiling, while the small blackboard in the corner was scrawled all over with rude and indecent figures, the handiwork of the electors aforesaid. Pray do not think I have painted this picture in too high colors, you fastidious ones, who dwell in fine houses and live in towns and have never seen sights like these. I have not. There are thousands of just such schoolhouses in this and every other State in the Union, that open on an April morning just as this one did. It is a great pity that it is so, but so it is. I wish it were otherwise. But it isn't, and I sometimes wonder if it ever will be! Amy took in the situation at a glance and resolved what to do forthwith. There was a house a quarter of a mile down the road, and thither she bent her sprightly steps. Fifteen minutes later she returned with two buckets, a scrubbing brush, a broom and a mop. She rolled up her sleeves, disclosing an arm that you well might envy, my dear, you who delight in the display of such charms in parlor or ball room--charms which no cosmetics can rival--turned up the skirt of her neat calico dress, and pinned it behind her supple waist, donned a large coarse apron that she had borrowed with the rest of her outfit, and was ready for work. She righted the stovepipe--without swearing--and built a brisk fire. Then she began to scrub. She had worked an hour, when she heard a voice and footsteps, and a moment later "Dodd" and the young Weavers darkened the door. "Good morning!" she exclaimed, pausing a moment in her work and brushing back her hair with her arm, as she raised her flushed face, which was covered with a dew of perspiration; "you had better put your dinner pail out by the well, and then you can play in the yard a while, till I get the house cleaned up a little," and again she turned to her scrubbing. "Dodd" stood in the door and looked at the girl in amazement. This was a new phase of the school teacher, sure enough. He thought of Miss Stone and wondered bow she would look, down on her knees and scrubbing, as this girl was. He stood in the door for some minutes, till, finally, Amy arose and started to carry out a pail of dirty water and bring in a fresh one in its place. As she neared the boy he stepped to one side and let her pass, looking up into her face as she went by. She returned his glance and smiled, and "Dodd" answered back with something akin to a blush, though the expression was such a stranger to his face that the superficial observer might have failed correctly to classify it at first sight. Amy threw the water out, far into the road, and went to the well, "Dodd" saw where she was going, and, running to the pump, he seized the handle and began pumping vigorously. "Thank you," said Amy, when the bucket was filled; "I hardly think you can carry the pail so full," she added, as "Dodd" proceeded to grasp the pail with both hands to carry the water to the house. "Better let me help you," she continued, taking hold of one side. "There, so; now we'll carry it together," and, one on either side of the bucket, they went into the house again. It may safely be said that the brief space of time occupied in going from the well to the school room, carrying half of that pail of water, was the proudest moment yet experienced by the hero of this story. For the first time in his life the spirit of chivalry arose in his bosom, and though the act he performed in response to its promptings was a very simple and menial one, yet it was enough to stir all the pulses of his boyish nature and to make of him, for the time being, such a little man as he had never before dreamed of being. It is William Shakspeare, I think, who has it-- "From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive, They are the books, the grounds, the academies, From which doth spring the true Promethean fire!" or words to that effect. "Dodd," however, knew nothing of the great poet, but he did know that something in the kindly eyes of this honest Irish girl made him want to do everything he could for her, and help her in every possible way. The most gallant knight could rise to no more sublime condition! When the pail was set down and Amy was once more on her knees, "Dodd" began to look about to see what else he could do. The girl took note of this, and soon set him to work. She had him go through all the desks and clean out all the places where the books were kept. When this was done she gave him something else to do, and to all her biddings he was most obedient. He worked with a will, and carefully, doing just as he was told to do, and feeling that much of the success of the enterprise on foot depended on his own exertions. It is such work as this that counts here below, and transforms the unfixed elements of human nature into character as enduring as the everlasting bills. It is a little difficult to realize this fact, just at the time of its happening, but the after years show the truth of the statement. The evolution that took place in "Dodd's" soul that morning was a measurable quantity. By noon the dirty, not to say nasty, school house was clean and in order, and after dinner Amy Kelly began to arrange her classes and prepare for school work. During the forenoon she had learned the names of many of her pupils from their conversations with each other, and had put herself on such terms with them that the work of organizing her classes was easily accomplished, without annoyance to herself or the children. By four o'clock she had her work laid out for the entire school, and the children went home happy, rejoicing in the newly found treasure of a school teacher in whom they delighted. Amy knew little of many things that are well worth knowing in this world, but she did know how to manage children and how to teach school. She was a girl of resources. "Of such is the kingdom of heaven" among school teachers. CHAPTER VIII. It was no longer a task to keep "Dodd" in school. He went every day, rain or shine, and was always eager to go. Moreover, he studied well and learned rapidly. The multiplication table, that had been the bane of his school life, up to date, and which, under the stupid management of Amos Waughops and the over-wrought Grube methods of Miss Stone, had floored him in every tussle he had had with it, now grew tractable and docile, a creature subservient to his will and quick to do his bidding, unhesitatingly. And what wonder, when Amy taught him this early work in numbers by use of his memory rather than his reason; using a faculty that is strong at this period of life, rather than one which has hardly begun to sprout? Did you ever think of that, dear devotee at the shrine of Grube, or Brother Harris, or all the rest of the train who insist that a child's reason should "develop" largely before he has finished the first decade of his existence? These wise ones lay down a law (take up almost any printed course of study, nowadays, and you will find it all spread out in the first and second years' work) that every number must be mastered, in all its possible arrangements and combinations, from the very first time it is taken up. Thus, one must be considered in all its possible correlations to all the universe, and the Almighty Himself, before two can be touched! So, as soon as the youth strikes a simple unit that ought to come to him like an old friend, he is straightway packed off to the ends of the earth with the digit and made to stand it up alongside of all manner of things, in the heavens above and, the earth beneath, and even in the waters under the earth. The little fellow tramps, and trudges, and compares, and contrasts, and divides, and combines, and eliminates, and expels, and extracts, and subtracts, and retracts, and contracts, and what not, until finally, he gets all mixed up and concludes that he never can know anything about it at all, and the dear old "one," that came to him at first as such a simple thing, is so tangled up with all creation that he gives it up as an entirely unknown and unknowable quantity, and begins to guess at it and when he comes to that point, look out! He has taken the first step in recklessness, and has begun his initial work as a liar! You don't believe this? Then sit down to the following, which I clip from the "second year's work" in a "course of study" that lies before me: "Learn to count to 100, forward and back, by 1's, 2's, 3's, 4's, 5's, 6's, 7's, 8's, and 9's, beginning to count from 0, and also from each digit, respectively, up to the one used continuously, in each case." Just buckle down to this for a while and see how it goes. See how long it will take you to master even a tithe of this, so that you can do it, even passably well, and then compare your own powers of mind with those of the child that you would fain cram with this "course" and see if there is not a reason why the children do not take to this "method." I know what you will say, at least to yourselves. "I have no time for such a pile of rubbish." You say well. Neither have the children time for it. But Amy knew nothing of Grube, thank heaven, and gave none of it to "Dodd." He learned to read better than ever, learned to spell, and took pride in standing at the head of his class. He plucked flowers for his teacher as he went to school, and his cheeks flushed as she took them from his band and set them in the glass tumbler on the table. He even thought in his little heart, betimes, that, when he got grown up, he would marry Amy! Rather young for such ideas? Perhaps so; but these ideas begin to develop, often, when boys are very young. They don't say anything about it, out loud; but away down in the deep hiding-places of the heart--oh, well, we all know how it is, and what an influence such notions may have upon our lives. But for all of these things "Dodd" Weaver was still "Dodd" Weaver, and there were times when he suffered a relapse from his high estate. One of these times came as follows: It was a sultry forenoon in May, and "Dodd" was restless and uneasy. He fidgeted about in his seat, teased the boy in front of him, and tripped up a little fellow who passed him on the way to a class. His teacher watched him for some time, and, at the last offense, concluded that it was best to give the boy a bit of attention. She came down to his desk and said: "It's a bad kind of a morning for boys, isn't it, 'Dodd'?" The boy hung his head a little, and Amy proceeded: "Come here to the door a minute; I want to show you something." "Dodd" wondered what was wanted, but arose, as he was bidden, and went to the door, "Do you see that tree, away down the road?" said Amy, pointing to a large maple that was more than a quarter of a mile away. "Dodd" said that he saw the object pointed out. "Well, now, I want you to start here and run to that tree just as fast as you can, and then turn right around and run back again, and I'll stand right here all the time and watch you, and see how long it takes you to go and come;" and she drew out her watch as she spoke. "Dodd" looked at her for an instant, but the next moment he was off with a bound and ran his best, both going and coming. He returned presently, having made most excellent time. Amy told him how many minutes he had been gone, and bade him take his seat. The boy was a little in doubt as to just why he was called on to perform this feat; but, between pondering over the affair and being tired from his race, he was a good boy all the rest of the morning! The girl had simply given the child a chance to work off his superfluous animal spirits, and, with this quantity reduced to a safety limit, he was himself again. What a pity there are not more teachers who appreciate the value of a safety-valve! The incident is but one of a score that illustrate the resources of Amy Kelly in the management of "Dodd" Weaver. She was always taking the boy by surprise. He was wayward and wilful at times, but her genius was equal to the emergency. She won him by her divine power to do just that thing, as her class always does, and as none others can. She was born to teach, or with the teaching faculty--with a genius for that work; and her success was marked from the first. She did for "Dodd" Weaver in a single term more than all the former years had done; she made a record in his character that will never be effaced. And do not say that I have overdrawn this picture, either. Don't turn up your noses, my dears, because this girl came from a very humble and unpretentious Irish family. I tell you, genius has a way of its own, and there is no accounting for it. It was a good while ago that a conservative old Pharisee thought that he had forever silenced the followers of the greatest Genius the world ever saw by putting at them the conundrum, "Can any good come out of Nazareth?" But good did come out of that barren country in spite of the conundrum! And so it keeps on doing, constantly. It comes from other places, too, and that is all right. The point is that we want to open our eyes and see it, no matter where it comes from. Amy Kelly was a godsend to "Dodd" Weaver. She came to him through the medium of a country school. She won the boy as such teachers always do win boys, and always will win them; and her reward ought to be great. It was only twenty-five dollars a month, reckoned on the order book of "deestrick four," but there is no telling what it will be on the "other side." But such as Amy can afford to wait for that. CHAPTER IX. "Dodd" went to school to Amy Kelly faithfully all that summer. He was neither tardy nor absent during the term, and when school was over it seemed to him as though something was gone out of his life; something that he would have liked to keep always. But in the fall Elder Weaver was sufficiently rejuvenated to enter the field again, and after conference he once more set out on his peregrinations. For several years thereafter it was true of him as it is of so many of his kind--he was "just two years in a place, and then forever moving." This gave "Dodd" a change of pedagogic administration on an average once a year; for each village would usually manage to change teachers on the off years, at least, when they didn't change preachers, and so keep up the principle of rotation in office, which is so dear to the average American heart. What a glorious thing the fickle will of the people is in some of its petty phases! A change of teacher once a year, however, is not beyond the average of pupils in this country. I know of schools where the pupils, change teachers six times a day, every school day in the year, besides now and then an extra when a principal or a superintendent turns himself loose on them for an hour or two in a term! Dodd's quota of changes should not, therefore, be regarded as extravagant; that is, according to some of the "authorities." In after years the memory of those four months with Amy Kelly remained with the boy, an oasis in the trackless Sahara of his school life. In this dreary expanse now and then a shadow of hope arose, as if to lure him on, as some new teacher came up over his horizon, but in the main these all proved delusions, mirages that glittered at phantom distances, but faded away into empty nothingness as he took a nearer view of them. This constant cheating of his vision, this deferring of his hope, in time made his heart sick, and he gradually relapsed into his old hatred of books and schools and school teachers and all that pertained thereto. There was prim Miss Spinacher, thin as a lath and bony, with hands that you could almost see through and fingers that rattled against each other when she shook one threateningly at a boy or girl. She had a hobby of keeping her pupils perpetually front face, and of having them sit up straight all the time, with folded arms, so that her school room always had the appearance of a deal board stuck full of stiff pegs, all in rows, every one as tight in its place as a wedge and never to be moved on any account whatever. Right opposite to the school house where this woman taught was a rich man's residence, in the front yard of which there stood a marble statue, a bronze deer, a cast-iron dog and a stone rabbit. "Dodd" used to look over to these when he was very tired from sitting up so straight so long, and wish that Miss Spinacher had a roomful of such for pupils. It would have been as well for her and "Dodd" and the rest of the school if she had. Perhaps it would have been better! Yet you all know Miss Spinacher, don't you, ladies and gentlemen? Again, he fell into the hands of Mr. Sliman, whose sole end and aim in life as a school teacher was the extermination of whispering. For this purpose he had devised a set of rules, which he had printed in full and sent all over town to every patron of the school. The "self-reporting" system was the hobby of this man. "Dodd" told the truth to him for a few evenings, at roll-call, acknowledging that he had whispered, as he and all the rest of the pupils had; but he soon observed that it was the custom of most of the boys and girls to falsify about their conduct, and that they got great glory thereby. He took up this custom himself ere long. It troubled his conscience a good deal at first, but by dint of constant daily practice he got so that he could look his teacher squarely in the eye and answer "perfect" as well as any one, even if he had whispered the whole day through, and knew that the man who recorded his mark knew he had and set down a clean record for the sake of having a good score to show to visitors! Oh, Mr. Sliman, you were very sharp, weren't you? You thought you did your little trick so cleverly that no one would find you out, but your kind always think that! It did make a fine showing for visitors, this clean whispering record of yours, and it was a fine thing for you to talk about at teachers' meetings, where you boasted to your fellows of what you had done, and looked so honest, and made them all feel so envious, as you drew forth your record-book from next your shiny shirt-bosom, and showed how there was no denying your statement, for the testimony was all down in black and white! It was all very nice, but it was very, very bad, for all that. You knew it was, too, and most of us who heard you brag knew it was; but that didn't make very much difference, because we were old and could stand it, and as for you--the less said the better. But not so with "Dodd." Here was where the harm came in, you wicked man. You evolved the lying element of this boy's nature. Heaven knows that he had enough of this naturally, as I have plainly stated in the early chapters of this story; but you forced a hot-bed growth out of the seeds of falsehood that were lying dormant in "Dodd's" young mind. Amy Kelly had covered these up, under the foundation walls of truth, so deep that if you had built on what she started the germs would have died where they lay. But no, you threw down the square blocks that Amy had laid with so much care; you spread the dung of deception over the dying seeds, and by the help of the unnatural heat which this foulness generated, brooding down from above, you sprouted the germs of untruth in the boy's soul, and set a-growing plants whose roots run down into hell! You taught "Dodd" Weaver to believe that a lie was better than the truth; that it would serve him better; bring him more glory; make him stand better in the eyes of his fellows, and that no one could find him out in all this trickery and deception. "Dodd" learned in your school; O, yes; he learned that which it took him many years to forget, and you are to blame for it. Some day I hope you may be compelled to face that lying old record of yours and that lightning flashes of guilt may be made to blaze into your treacherous eyes from out those pages that looked so clean when you showed them off, while the thunder of outraged truth rolls about your head till your teeth chatter in your mouth and your bones shake in your deceitful skin. You see things must be made even somehow, and somewhere, and such a sinner as you have been deserves all this and more too. Then, there was Mr. Sharp, who kept green and growing the shoots that Mr. Sliman had sprouted. "Attendance" was Mr. Sharp's hobby. He kept a blackboard in the front hall of his school house, where it would be the first thing any one would see when he came into the building, and on this he scored the record of attendance every day. There was no harm in that, I am sure; but then, this teacher used to keep the clock a little slower than town time, and besides, be had a way of ringing bells and bells at morning and at noon, and of not counting as tardy any one who got into the building any time before the ringing of the last bell, which really did not go off until some minutes after it should have done; and then there was the back way of written excuses, by which a fellow could sneak up in the rear and rub out a mark that really stood against him, and not have it count on the board down in the hall; and absences of a certain character were not counted either. So, take it all in all, "Dodd" saw clearly that the shown record and the real record were not the same things by a long way, but that it was the former on which Mr. Sharp relied for his power and glory with the patrons of the school, and before the board of education. So it was that Mr. Sharp watered what Mr. Sliman planted, and "Dodd" had to stand it all. And then there was Miss Slack, and Miss Trotter, and Mr. Skimpole (a lineal descendant of the urbane Harold), and Mr. Looseley, and Mr. Rattler, and Striker, and Bluffer, and Smiley; all these took a hand at the mill that was rolling out the character of "Dodd" Weaver, and there are marks of their varied crankings upon him to this day. One year he fell into the hands of old Mrs. Heighten. She was a widow who had been rich, but was now poor, and who had a place in the schools because she needed it. She was so much like all the rest of this sort that she need not be further described, and were it not for one characteristic she should remain in oblivion, so far as this record is concerned. But for this I must have her out. She was poor and really a proud beggar of public charity, yet she was of such genteel and lofty birth and bearing that teaching was a bore to her. She really despised and hated her pupils, and they returned these sentiments with interest. There was always rebellion in her room, and to suppress it she resorted to all sorts of penalties and punishments. She used to make pupils stand on the floor and extend an arm on a level with the shoulder, and so hold a book till it seemed as if the arm would break off. She herself stood by with a pin in her hand, meanwhile, holding it at a slight distance below the extended arm and sticking it into the hand of the suffering one if the aching member were lowered an inch. O Dante, you didn't begin to exhaust the possibilities of outrageous punishments in all you saw in the infernal regions. Old Mrs. Heighten could give you several points that you never dreamed of, and not tax her powers of ingenuity very much either. Yet "Dodd" worked the genius of this respectable old beldame to the very verge of bankruptcy. She tried device after device upon the boy, till at last it got to be a kind of race between the two as to which should win. The old lady had no genuine interest in the welfare of her pupil. He annoyed her and she wanted to rid herself of the annoyance. That is a simple statement of the case from her side. As for "Dodd," he delighted in tormenting her as he would in teasing a snake. To be sure there was danger in the sport, but boys are fond of danger, especially if it promises fun. So the days wore on, till at last the case became unbearable, and "Dodd" was "suspended." Oh! but that was hard on the boy! It hurt him terribly! The suspension came when the skating of the winter was the very best, and "Dodd" skated the vacation away, and felt, Oh, so badly about being out of school! When the week of suspension was over he came back, fuller of the devil than ever, and during a single forenoon did more mischief than he had before been capable of perpetrating in a month. He was fourteen now, a stout chunk of a boy, awkward, defiant, and reckless. He stayed in school two days this time, and was again suspended. He came back once more after that and was then expelled. He left school with a whoop and was on the streets most of the time thereafter. It was then that his reputation as a bad boy began to grow rapidly. He frequented the depot of the town and was on speaking terms with the railroad employes of the line. He chewed tobacco in great mouthfuls, swore a great deal, and spent his days in loafing. He had plans for going on the road as a brakeman when he became a year or two older. Every day he sunk lower and people shook their heads and said, "How his mother's heart must ache!" But old Mrs. Heighten drew her $55 a month just the same, right along; and her daughter Amanda, who never did an honest day's work in all her life, but lived in idleness, supported by the aforesaid $55--she was the pride of the town. She went to church every Sunday and sang in the choir, and at charity fairs she always stood behind the prettiest table, dressed in the prettiest clothes, and smiled and blushed and seemed so innocent and coy. And there were rich young men who hung about her, and Amanda smiled on them, too, and people said, "What a lovely girl!" And her mother hoped that her daughter might marry one of these rich young men; it didn't make much difference which, so long as he was rich and could keep Amanda in idleness, while she could go and live on his bounty and quit the school room that she hated and have a rosewood coffin and plenty of carriages at her funeral. But until all these things were accomplished the old lady "had to have a place," and Amanda lolled about in idleness. Meantime "Dodd" "waxed worse and worse." Do you see any relation between "Dodd" and Amanda, good folks? If you do, remember that this boy was only one of scores of pupils that had to suffer, substantially as he did, that the poor and proud Mrs. Heighten and her lazy daughter Amanda might continue to keep up appearances, and still have a chance to sponge a living off some man at the expense of a legal relation which it is sacrilege to call marriage. Out upon such proud and lazy frauds, every one of them, whose worthless lives are sustained by the destruction of the characters of children like "Dodd" Weaver, and all the rest who fall under such tuition! CHAPTER X. So it was that "Dodd" got into the street and achieved the reputation of being a boy that no teacher could do anything with. In the year or two that followed he made several starts at school, but his reputation always preceded him, and the old story was told over again--one or two suspensions, then "expelled." So time went on till "Dodd" was nearly seventeen. He was almost a man grown now--a swaggering, profane, vulgar fellow, who ate his meals at home and slept there, usually, but further than that lived apart from his parents, who every day regretted that ever he had been born. You all know this boy, don't you, beloved? He is in every town that I know of, and there are duplicates and triplicates, not to say centiplicates, of him in some of our larger cities. I wonder if it is worth while to try to do anything with these boys, or for them? The machine has dropped them, or thrown them out. They will not run through the great educational mill known as the "graded system." They seem destined to go to the bad, and it seems to me the tendency of the machine, and some of its managers, is to let them go. Yet they ought not to go. As there is a God in heaven, they ought not to. But the machine does not care so very much for these things, either for the boys or for the Personage just mentioned, whose name the managers revere enough to teach the children that it should always be written with a capital letter, but further than that do not trouble themselves much about it. The machine is built on the theory that the pupils are made for the schools, rather than the schools for the pupils, and that the order of the grades must be maintained, no matter what becomes of the graded. What is it to this great mill if the pupils do fall out of the hopper? So long as the mill grinds and the grinders can hold their places at the crank; so long as they can draw their pay, escape public censure, dodge behind a stack of examination papers when individual complaints appear, shield themselves from responsibilities by records and marks, keep the promotions in order, graduate a class a year in good clothes and with pretty speeches, see each of those who have been ground through go out into the great world armed with a diploma tied up with a blue ribbon, and so following--so long as the machine can do all this, what is the use of paying any attention to "Dodd" Weaver and such incorrigibles as he, who refuse to go into the mill and be ground? What, indeed? However, you know the story of "the ninety-and-nine." At least you ought to know it. It has an application in these premises. But Elder Weaver shifted his base of operations once more, and "Dodd" had another chance. He had now got so far down on the ladder of his descent that he was counted almost dangerous. His father feared him, and he was even the terror of his brothers and sisters. In a word, he was a hard case. It was the town of Emburg in which the parson was stationed this time--one of those towns so common all through the West, places that start out with a boom and the prospect of being municipalities of at least 500,000 inhabitants in a few years; whose founders lay out into town lots all the land that joins them and sell these at fabulous prices to those who are credulous enough to buy; and which finally settles down to a quiet village of about 2,500 souls, with a depot, stores, seven churches, and a school requiring about ten teachers to take care of its pupils. Mr. Charles Bright was principal of the Emburg schools the fall that Parson Weaver came to take charge of the Methodist Episcopal church at that place. He was 30 years of age, a nervous, sensitive man, both of which characteristics had been intensified by severe work in the school room. He was less than the average height and thin in flesh, the scale beam tipping at 120 when he stood on the platform to balance the weight. His face was thin and his beard scattered, but his large black eyes were as keen as a lance, and they always seemed to see everything that came within the range of vision. He was fairly educated, but in no sense a great scholar. His patrons called him "Professor," but he made no claim to the title, and it was offensive in his ears when applied to himself. He was characterized with excellent common sense, and, best of all, was a man of resources. He was an excellent classroom worker, managed his school well, and was held in high esteem by his fellow-teachers and his pupils. Above all, he was a man whose personality impressed itself upon those with whom he associated, and whose character was strong and wholesome, making itself felt upon his pupils continuously. To this man came Parson Weaver on a memorable morning, when the following dialogue ensued, after the two had made themselves known to each other: "I have a son," said the parson, "whom I should like to send to school to you." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bright, "send him along, and we will endeavor to take care of him, amongst us." "Yes," said the Elder, "but I am grieved to be obliged to say that my boy is very wayward. He has been expelled from school so often, and has had so much trouble with his teachers that I doubt if you can do anything with him. I thought, however, that I would come and speak to you about him, and if you were willing to try him, at least for a little while, I should be under great obligations. For, really, it is a terrible thing, sir, for one to feel that he must give up a first-born son and see him go down to destruction. And yet I am compelled to say frankly to you that I fear our boy is almost beyond hope." This was said in an agonized tone that told how deeply the sorrow had taken hold of the father's heart. There is a sentence somewhere that reads, "If thou canst, have mercy on us and save our son, for he is grievously tormented." The world is much the same now as it was a good many years ago, isn't it? "How old is your boy?" asked Mr. Bright in a quiet, measured tone. "Nearly seventeen," replied the parson, "but he is greatly behind in his school work. As I said, he has been turned out of school till he hates it, and, to tell the truth, he has done little but roam the streets for the last few years. I feel that I ought to be ashamed, being his father, to make such a confession, but it is the truth, and I felt that you ought to know about it." "Yes," said Mr. Bright thoughtfully. "If you could take charge of him yourself," continued the father almost imploringly. "I know it is asking a great deal, and that perhaps it will be impossible for you to grant what I ask, for I am aware that my boy is not advanced in his studies as far as the average of the pupils that recite to you, and I have long since learned, by sad experience, the inexorableness of the present graded school system, which forces pupils into their places strictly according to their examination records, regardless of all other contingencies. I beg your pardon, if I seem to speak harshly," he quickly added, fearing that he might have reflected too severely upon the gentleman to whom he was speaking. "You need offer no apology," returned Mr. Bright. "I regret as much as you can the too rigorous ways that have fallen upon our schools." "Well, will you give the boy a trial?" asked the parson, bringing the issue to a point. "Most certainly," returned Mr. Bright, and then the gentlemen wished each other "good-morning," the parson going home and the teacher turning to his desk again. It was not until the following Monday morning that "Dodd" Weaver made his appearance in the school room. His father had urged him to go sooner, but he cared little for the wishes of his sire, and took his time in this, as he did in all else. "Dodd" came late to school when he did come, and evidently counted on making a sensation on his first appearance. He was very shabbily dressed, and had purposely added to his generally slouching appearance by deliberately "making up" for his debut. His hair was long, and he had tangled and frowzed it all over his head till it looked like an ungainly pile of corn silk. His face was grimy, a big quid of tobacco bulged one cheek out, while stains of tobacco juice made the corners of his mouth filthy. He wore no collar, one coat sleeve was half gone, his vest was on wrong side outwards, his pantaloons were ragged, he had a shoe on one foot and a boot on the other, the former unlaced, and the latter smeared to the top of the boot-leg with yellow clay; a leg of his pantaloons bagged down over this, being held up on the inside of his leg by hanging it over the boot-strap! You who have not taught school, and are not familiar with boyhood at this stage of its evolution, may insist that I have made "Dodd" up like a crazy creature for his grand entry into Mr. Bright's school room. Perhaps I have. But I have presented him to you as he presented himself to the school, for all of that. I am myself inclined to think that his mental state, at this time, bordered close upon insanity! The Book remarks about a young man at this stage of his existence, that he had to "come to himself" before his reformation, as though he had been away from himself during his lawless and outrageous career. I am inclined to think that boys are often a good deal nearer insane than they get credit for being, at this period of their lives. There is a psychological condition just here that it is worth while for teachers seriously to consider. So, tricked out in this disgusting fashion, "Dodd" slouched into Mr. Bright's school room about ten o'clock in the forenoon, and flung himself into a seat. The pupils looked up as he entered, and their first impulse was to laugh---a result which, would have suited "Dodd" exactly. But a glance at the school from Mr. Bright's quick eye checked the risibilities of his pupils, and, this emotion dying out, there came instantly in its place a disgust and almost a horror of the loathsome person who had dared to disgrace the school room with such a figure as "Dodd" presented. A silence like death fell upon the room, and all held their breath for an instant after the boy was seated. Under this silence "Dodd" became embarrassed. It was exactly the reverse of what he had counted on. He meant to disturb the school. Instead of this, he found the school disturbing him. He shuffled uneasily in his seat, glanced furtively out from under the shaggy hair that was matted over his forehead, cleared his throat in a restless and seemingly defiant manner, but finally blushed to the roots of his hair as he felt the eyes of three-score decent people, all bent upon him at once. He stretched his neck up out of his collar-band a little, turned his head about as though something were choking him, then dropped his chin upon his breast, shrugged up his shoulders, and half hid his face from the eyes whose looks he fain would shun. All this really took place in much less time than it takes for me to tell it. Mr. Bright was hearing a class in geometry when the boy entered, and a handsome, intelligent girl was in the midst of a demonstration when the door opened and the interruption caused thereby took place. The pupil paused in her recitation, the end of her pointer resting upon the board at the angle under consideration, and she stood thus during the brief interval remarked above. As "Dodd's" head dropped Mr. Bright turned his glance to the girl again, and said: "If the angle at A--" Upon which she took up the demonstration where she had broken off, and finished it as though nothing had happened. After that, other pupils recited, the lesson ended, the class was dismissed, other classes were called, and the regular routine of the day's work went on without change, as though teacher and pupils were entirely unconscious of the presence of a stranger among them. When recess came, Mr. Bright went down to the desk where the boy was seated, accosted him in a civil manner, and told him that if he would remain a few minutes after school was dismissed at noon he would talk with him about his work and assign him to his place in the school. Then he left him, and devoted himself to the other pupils during the brief intermission. "Dodd" did not leave his seat during this recess. He sat as he had finally settled himself, except that he now and then raised his head and gazed defiantly over the school room. The pupils paid no attention to him whatever, and he really felt himself as much alone as though he had been in solitary confinement in a dungeon. The recess ended, the school was in order again; the recitations went on as usual, an hour and a quarter went by, noon came, the session closed for dinner, the pupils left the room in groups, till all were gone, and for the first time "Dodd" Weaver and Mr. Charles Bright were alone, face to face. CHAPTER XI. Mr. Bright took a small piece of blank paper from his table, a rectangular slip about four inches long by two inches wide, cut expressly for the purpose for which he proceeded to use it, and went down to the desk where "Dodd" sat sulking and defiant. "Please write your name and age on this slip of paper," he said to the boy. "I can't write!" grumbled "Dodd," with a surly sneer and a wag of his head. "I see! You have no pencil," returned Mr. Bright. "You can use mine," and he slipped that article into "Dodd's" hand as he spoke. As soon as he had done this, he went to the rear part of the room and began looking over some work upon the blackboard. He did not look toward the boy to see if he obeyed, but his ears were on the alert. For a little while "Dodd" sat unmoved, and made no sign that he intended to write at all, but as Mr. Bright kept working at the board, the boy gradually relaxed his unyielding mood, and after a few minutes wrote his name in a very neat hand. He even added a little flourish in one corner of the paper. Mr. Bright heard the pencil moving on the desk and his blood ran quicker in his veins, though he showed no outward sign of the fact. He felt that in the first crossing of swords he had won. That was all. He heard the pencil drop upon the floor, where "Dodd" let it lie. But he still devoted himself to his work on the board. He knew that the name was written. It was all he had asked. As for "Dodd," he almost wondered how he happened to write at all. He had made up his mind to be as mean and outrageous as possible when he came to school, and here he had done the very first thing he had been asked to do! When he replied to Mr. Bright that he could not write, he fully intended to have a knock-down with the gentleman rather than put pencil to paper. He even thought over hastily, how quickly he could "put a head on the light weight" who had brought him the bit of paper. For "Dodd" was strong now and prided himself on his skill with his fists. But the pencil was in his hand, and, before he was aware, his fingers clasped it. His hand instinctively took the position for writing, and somehow or other, there came to his mind, just at that instant, the memory of Amy Kelly, and of how she had held her soft, plump hand over his, as she taught him to hold a pen. If he had observed closely, he would have seen that this was where the first break came in his rebellion. It was the sunshine of Amy's character shining down through the dark clouds that had closed in about "Dodd" Weaver's soul, that first tempted his timid, shrinking, almost forgotten real self out into the light again. Habit completed what memory began, and his hand moved, though almost against his will, as if guided by an impulse beyond himself. Perhaps it was so guided! He wrote the name; but he did no more. When the pencil dropped to the floor he would not touch it again. Nothing could have induced him to do so. He would have fought a duel sooner than have picked it up. His real self, so weak and so nearly dead, shrank back, exhausted by its single effort, and his bad nature took control of him again. But Mr. Bright finished the work at the board, and then went up the aisle. He stooped and picked up the pencil, took the slip from the desk, with a courteous "Thank you," and moved on to his own table. He had tallied one point. I wonder if he did this all by himself, or if there was another hand behind it all. Certain it is this man did not plan all this campaign that ended so successfully. He had not counted on the boy's refusing to write his name. It was like a flash, that it came to him to answer "Dodd's" refusal as he did. Nor did he really intend to put the pencil into the boy's hand when he offered it to him. But, somehow, he did just that, and it was the saving fact in the case. Had he laid the pencil on the table, "Dodd" would never have picked it up. Much less would he have reached for it, or taken it from Mr. Bright's hand. But, with the pencil in his hand, he wrote. We say Mr. Bright did as he did "instinctively." That may be a good word for it. But I wonder if such "instinct" as this doesn't reach away over to the other side, even into the realm of inspiration, whose fountain head is the spirit of the great "I AM." Be this as it may, though, Mr. Bright had won. He was thankful for his victory--thankful, but not proud. Perhaps this is another thing that goes to show that there was help from without that made for him in the fight. "Dodd" was disappointed that Mr. Bright did not compliment him on his writing, for he had written very well and knew that he had. But this, Mr. Bright took as a matter of course, and gave no word of commendation for it. It was not time for that yet. "Dodd's" starved real self, if fed with what might once have been wholesome food for it, would have been choked, perhaps to death, by a bit of praise, just then, and a wholesome sense of merit would have been changed into a detestable conceit. A teacher has to be so careful about these things. Mr. Bright seated himself at the table, transferred the name to his register, then took another bit of paper and began writing on it, remarking as he did so: "You will please occupy the seat in front of you this afternoon, and hereafter. I have written a list of the books you will need," he added, picking up the strip he had just been writing on, "and you will please procure them this afternoon. You will recite with the entering class in this room, according to the programme that is on the board behind my desk." But "Dodd" did not move a muscle while Mr. Bright spoke. He did not look up, even when reference was made to the programme. He made no response when assigned his seat, or to his place in school. He sulked and frowned and stood out against everything, and was sullen and malicious to the last degree. To all this, however, Mr. Bright paid no heed. He stepped down to the boy's desk again, put the list of books upon it, then turned and left the room abruptly, without a word. The act was so sudden, so unlike what "Dodd" had expected, that it left him, for a moment, utterly nonplussed. He was vexed that he had not been able to get into a fight with a man who had left him alone; and yet, as he raised his eyes cautiously, to make sure that Mr. Bright was really gone, he smiled in spite of himself, at the absurdity of the situation! He felt his cheeks wrinkle up, good-naturedly, as the smile crept over his face from above (I think smiles do come from above), and was angrier than ever. He checked his rising good nature with an oath, and raising his arm, he struck the desk a tremendous blow, that made the cover bound again, and the room echo with the thud. Then he rose, grinding his teeth as he got up, and slowly and noisily banged his way out of the room. Not till three days after this did he appear again in the school room. During this time he loafed about the town and took particular pains to be where Mr. Bright could see him and have a chance to reprove him. But though his teacher met him several times, he gave "Dodd" no other word than such greeting as true politeness dictated. This was worse than ever, for the boy, who was really "spoiling for a row" by this time. The machine, or the machine man, would have had a row with him. Mr. Bright was not a machine man. Did you ever hook a big fish, when angling with a light rod and line? If you ever did, and have succeeded in landing your game, then you know something about the situation which I am now noting. You see, when the odds are so much against you, you have to do as you can, and not as you would like to, with the wily fellow at the other end of your weak tackle. That is, if you accomplish what you ought to wish to accomplish, if you fish at all! Of course, there is a quick way of deciding who shall win, you or the fish, and that is to pull away, with might and main, straight for shore, and undertake to drag your captive to you by sheer muscle, brutally matching your strength against his. But if you try this, you know that the chances are a thousand to one that you will part your line and lose the best end of it, and your game along with it. You can do this, if you choose, of course--this is a free country; but if that is your way of fishing, you had better give up any little pet idea that may be lurking about you, that heaven made you for a fisherman. Perhaps you might make a fair superintendent of school machines, but you ought not to fish! Or, you may despise the fish, if you choose, and when he has left you, you may gloat over the fact that "anyhow you have stuck something into his gullet that will stay there, and that he can't get away from." You may hope that the trailing line will tangle to a bush and hang the creature. All this you may do, and yet, of what avail is it all? It benefits neither you nor the fish! But if you know your business you can give your game his own way, suiting your motion to his, till you wear him out, and then he is yours. That is good fishing, and the good thing about it is that it gets the game! "Dodd" was hooked. His staying away from school was the first tug that he gave the line that caught him. Mr. Bright let him run. He ran for three days, and then gave up on that tack. The fisher reeled in the line and watched for the next break. CHAPTER XII. But on Thursday morning "Dodd" came to school again. This time he went to the other extreme in the matter of clothes, and came into the room dressed like a dandy. He had failed to make a sensation, so far, and he had not been used to that sort of thing recently. For years he had been the cause of something unusual, every few hours, and in ways about as he chose. As it was now, he seemed to have lost his knack at this art, and to have fallen into the condition of an ordinary individual, concerning whom no one cared particularly. This annoyed him greatly. He had come to think he was of some great consequence in the world, by reason of his being so frequently talked to, and prayed over, and reasoned with, and pampered in a thousand ways by those who were really afraid of him; and now, to be set aside without a word or a look, except such as all other pupils got, this was a sore stroke to his vanity. You see, everybody grows proud of his own attainments, in course of time, no matter what they are, and is anxious to have his fellows appreciate them to their fullest extent, and to acknowledge their excellence in his particular case. So when he fails to secure a recognition of his supposed talents, then he is cut to the very quick. "Dodd" felt that his eccentricity had not yet been fully acknowledged in the Emburg school, and he reached still further for the object of his desire by playing the fop rather than the tramp, on his second entry to the school room. But it was not a success. The pupils had evidently "sized him up" pretty accurately, on his previous entry, and his second appearance was a more signal failure than the first. He did little with his books during the day. He had not come to school to learn. That was the last thing he thought of doing. He was there to make a fuss if possible,--a row, trouble, a sensation; these were what he was after. He went mechanically to his classes, but paid no attention to what was said or done in them. He hoped, though, that Mr. Bright would put a question to him about some of the lessons. He was aching for a chance to snub Mr. Bright, or defy him, by telling him that he didn't know. But he got no questions from his teacher that day, nor for some days after. There are many ways, so many ways, of tiring out a fish, before landing him! So the day wore on, the first whole day in school for "Dodd" Weaver, for several years. At recesses he unbent a little, but he was only accosted by some of the youngest pupils of the room, and he felt uneasy and out of place among the larger and more advanced members of the school. It was nearing four o'clock, and the closing work of the day was pressing. Mr. Bright was more than busy with his class, and the room was quiet, the pupils devoting themselves to their work assiduously. "Dodd" sat listless for some time, but he finally straightened himself up quietly, his face lighted with interest, and it would have been evident to any one watching him (no one was watching him just at this time) that he was about to do something. He was. His desk was in the row of seats next the wall, and there was only a narrow aisle between him and the blackboard. He could reach across this easily. He reached across. He picked up a piece of crayon and began drawing lines on the board. He moved his chalk carefully, and it made no sound. Yet his movements attracted attention, shortly, and one pupil, and another, and another, turned to watch him. When "Dodd" found that he had finally succeeded in securing an audience he felt that his point was gained. He winked to a few of the boys about him, and even half smiled at a somewhat coquettish girl whose eye he happened to catch. He was winning his way, and he hastened to make the most of his opportunity. He had not made a half-dozen strokes with the crayon till every one saw that his sketch was a caricature of Mr. Bright. This gentleman was not handsome. His features were angular and somewhat irregular, and upon every one of these individualities the graceless artist enlarged at will. He turned up the nose, and set the stray bits of whiskers, and dotted the cheeks, at war one with another. He even went further, and with a few clever strokes sketched a dwarfed body for the life-sized head. He worked rapidly and turned now and then to view his subject. And all this time Mr. Bright was unconscious of what was going on. He sat with his face more than half turned away from "Dodd," and was devoting all his energies to the elucidation of a problem that was particularly troublesome to the advanced class in algebra. He had no thought of the "order" of his school room. He was too busy trying to help the boys and girls who sat before him, to have time to trouble himself with the rest of the pupils, who were well able to care for themselves between recitations. This was his way of "maintaining order." But presently he became aware, by soul or ear, that something was wrong about him, somewhere. For an instant he could not make out what it was, so deeply was he engrossed in his work. Then, like a flash, it came to him that it was "Dodd"! He turned his eyes quickly to where the boy sat, and had the good fortune to catch that young gentleman in the very act of adding the finishing touches to his sketch, with much flourish and circumstance. So much elated was "Dodd," that for an instant he forgot where he was, and for more than a minute after Mr. Bright caught sight of what he was doing, he continued to put in new lines, every one of which added to the grotesqueness of the picture. Meanwhile the school saw the situation and began to enjoy it hugely, though now at "Dodd's" expense. Presently the young man looked up from his work and, glancing quickly to the teacher, saw that he was fairly caught. Like lightning he swept the brush, which he held in his left hand, over the picture, and it was gone. Then he squared himself in his seat. But it was too late. He had overshot the mark. He heard a sneer of disgust from the pupils instead of the laugh he had counted on. He was down again. He was vexed at the result, and his face drew on an air of injured vexation, after the manner of his kind. Then Mr. Bright said, stepping down to "Dodd's" desk, and speaking in a low tone, to the boy only: "The picture was very good; very much better than I could have made. I see you have a good deal of ability with the chalk; I am glad to know it. If you care to try your hand on the board, you are welcome to do so at any time; only please do not try to take the attention of the pupils from their studies by your pictures, as you did just now," and without another word he resumed the point under consideration when the interruption took place. "Dodd" tried to look defiant, but to little purpose. There was nothing left to defy. I have seen men strike so hard at nothing at all that they have fallen headlong themselves, dragged down by the force of the blow they had intended for another. "Dodd" was down, and it was his own hand that had put him there. And it is so much better that way! Yet two points had been gained by this encounter. Mr. Bright had discovered that "Dodd" had a genius for one thing at least, for the sketch was really a remarkably strong one--so strong that the subject of it would have been glad to have preserved it; and "Dodd" was fully convinced that he had no ordinary man to deal with in the person of Mr. Charles Bright. With these two new points developed, the party at the reel end of the line began slowly to "wind up," yet again, and the party of the second part let him wind. CHAPTER XIII. Rome was not built in a day nor is a character formed in one round of the sun. A man never reaches a great height at a single stride, and many times he slips and falls back, even after he has been climbing a great while. This is a thing that is common to the race. "Dodd" Weaver possessed this trait. I say that he did, and shall proceed to prove it, in two ways, which I plainly state for the benefit of the two classes of people who can only see the same set of facts from opposite points of vision. For the practical people, those who believe only what they see,--the unimaginative and severely scientific, if you will,--I present in proof of the proposition stated above, the record of the boy's life up to this point--the bare facts that have transpired. For those who bow down at the shrine of pure logic, who accept no conclusion but such as has been hoisted into place by a lever of syllogism, with a major premise for a fulcrum, and a minor premise on the long end of the bar,--for these, I submit the familiar form: A--All men slip and fall back into old ways, more or less (chiefly more), when striving to change a course of life that has become fixed by habit. B--"Dodd" Weaver (Socrates) was a man (or near enough so to come within the range of the first term above). C--Therefore; "Dodd" Weaver (Soc.) slipped and fell back into old ways, more or less (chiefly more), when striving to change a course of life that had become fixed by habit. The form will bear study. I am glad to record just here, too, though it may be counted a digression, that for once the facts in the case and the logical conclusion reached concerning the same tally exactly. What a blessed thing it would have been for the martyrs, all through the ages, if there had always been such happy coincidence between logical sequence and actual facts! But what were the world without martyrs? I have heard it said that pure logic has a mission to perform in this world. The record of its doings so far shows that, chiefly, it has been engaged in reaching conclusions that did not tally with actualities, and in leading its devotees to persecute those who accepted facts rather than its ultimatum. It is this that has fostered more persecution in the past than all other forms of bigotry combined. Even religion herself has often fallen a prey to this false god, and the most relentless of religious wars have been waged with a logical difference as a basis. Nevertheless, pure logic has its use. I have used it to prove that "Dodd" Weaver did not spring from groveling to grace without some set-backs, I have done obeisance to logic. I can now move on peaceably, I trust. Mr. Bright made a point with "Dodd" by his quick discovery of the boy's genius with the chalk. In a few days he scored another, when he found how well he could read. Indeed, it was here the teacher and pupil first felt their souls flow together freely, for an instant. It was the old "Sam Weller's Valentine" selection that the class was laboring with. The boys and girls tugged at the dialogue, but in the main got little from it. It came "Dodd's" turn to read. He had taken in the whole scene and was full of the spirit of the piece. His place of beginning was at the words with which "Sam" begins his letter, and, commencing there, he read, assuming a high-pitched voice: "Lovely creeter!" The school broke out into a laugh, as did also Mr. Bright. "Dodd" raised his eyes for an instant to catch the cause of their mirth, only to meet the approving smile of the teacher, and the slightest nod of admiration from him. He flushed with a glow of wholesome pride, and the next instant shouted, in the deep, husky guttural of "Old Tony": "Stop! A glass o' the inwariable, my dear!" and so he continued with the dialogue. It was a revelation to the school, this reading of "Dodd's." After the first floating breath of laughter had passed over the room, every pupil was full of attention, and was listening to the reading of this proverbially bad boy. "Dodd" read to the end of the letter and then sat down. Mr. Bright said, "Very well!" and marked him 9 1/2! The two walked home to dinner together, at noon! For many weeks after this "Dodd" continued as he had begun, and grew in favor with the pupils in general and with Mr. Bright in particular. He came regularly to school, studied fairly, and advanced quite rapidly in his work. This was very satisfactory to his parents, who saw their son, whom they had mourned as worse than dead, once more "clothed and in his right mind." The Elder was happy and felt that at last the personal influence of one good man had done for "Dodd" what a half dozen revival conversions had failed to do for him. Perhaps he did not say it just that way, even to himself; but we often hear voices within us saying things that we dare not say ourselves, even to ourselves. It was a voice within that said this to the parson. I merely record the fact without further comment. Why should anyone comment on such a fact? But there came a day--there are always days a-coming. There came, too, a deed, and there are always deeds a-coming. It was in this wise. School had just begun, after dinner, when suddenly "Dodd" Weaver arose to leave the room. There was nothing remarkable in this, for it was not unlawful for pupils to leave Mr. Bright's room without special permission. They were permitted to come and go at pleasure, subject, always, to the direction of the teacher in each or every case. Mr. Bright did not notice the young man till he had nearly reached the door; then, suddenly, it occurred to him that there was no good reason for his going out. "Why are you leaving the room, 'Dodd'?" he inquired, a trifle abruptly. "To get a drink of water," returned the boy. "You need not go," remarked Mr. Bright. "A young man of your years should attend to that at the proper time. You may take your seat!" It was a little thing, but it was so sudden that it "riled" "Dodd" to the very depths. Quick as a flash he returned: "I'll go out whenever I ---- please for all of you, you ---- ---- ---- ----," and here followed a string of blasphemous words which good taste says I must not write, though the truth is, "Dodd" said them, very loudly, before a whole school full of young ladies and gentlemen, who had to hear them. But then, good taste has some rights which I am bound to respect, and I put dashes where "Dodd" put most shameful oaths. If a thunderbolt had fallen into that still school-room it would not have produced greater consternation among the pupils than did these words of "Dodd's." He turned pale with anger, and glared at Mr. Bright, as he, "Dodd," stood with his hand on the doorknob. "All right;" returned Mr. Bright, "do just as the 'Other-Fellow' says about it," and he turned to his class again. "Dodd" stood with his hand on the doorknob for a full minute, then turned, and slowly walking to his seat, sat down! But Mr. Bright did not even look that way. And this was all there ever was of this episode. Mr. Bright never once mentioned the occurrence to "Dodd" afterwards. He did not even reprimand him before the school nor did he speak to any pupil of what had happened. He had won, and yet the odds were so nearly against him that be felt it best to be silent. This might not have been your way, beloved, but it was Mr. Bright's way, and he was able to manage it. Some months thereafter, he had occasion one day to reprove a rough pupil for profanity on the play-ground, and the pupil came back at him with: "You'd better talk to 'Dodd' Weaver about swearing if you are so anxious about it. He cursed you to your face and you didn't say a word." But Mr. Bright only replied: "That is my affair, but you must not swear on the play-ground. Do you understand?" The young man concluded that he understood, and said so. And that is how this teacher was perhaps logically inconsistent, but nevertheless just, and able to take care of his school according to the individual needs of his pupils. Happy is that teacher who can do so much! But the machine cannot do so much, nor can the men who run the machine. The machine is logically correct and consistent, according to the laws of the Medes and Persians. It "treats all pupils alike." Allah be praised! Yet a single man like Mr. Bright is worth whole battalions of machines. Thank God! I must take space, just here, too, to explain a phrase quoted by Mr. Bright, just above, namely, the "Other-Fellow." The quotation marks are there in deference to Dr. Holmes, who is responsible for the idea that Mr. Bright had made familiar in his school. That idea was as follows, when elaborated by this teacher, and was presented to his pupils on a Monday morning, a few weeks after "Dodd" had entered school. I give this as Mr. Bright paraphrased it, rather than in the words of the "Old Master" in the "Poet at the Breakfast Table," where he first came across it. "Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes says," Mr. Bright remarked to the school, "that in every one of us there are two persons. First, there is yourself, and then there is the Other-Fellow! Now one of these is all the time doing things, and the other sits inside and tells what he thinks about the performance. Thus, I do so-and-so, act so-and-so, seem to the world so-and-so; but the Other-Fellow sits in judgment on me all the time. "I may tell a lie, and do it so cleverly that the people may think I have done or said a great and good thing; and they may shout my praises, far and wide. But the Other-Fellow sits inside, and says, 'You lie! you lie! you're a sneak, and you know it!' I tell him to shut up, to hear what the people say about me; but he only continues to repeat, over and over again, 'You lie! you lie! you're a sneak, and you know it!' "Or, again, I may do a really noble deed, but perhaps be misunderstood by the public, who may persecute me and say all manner of evil against me, falsely; but the Other-Fellow will sit inside, and say, 'Never mind, old boy! It's all right! stand by!' "And I would rather hear," he used to add, "the 'well done' of the 'Other-Fellow' than the shouts of praise of the whole world; while I would a thousand times rather that the people should shout and hiss themselves hoarse with rage and envy, than that the 'Other-Fellow' should sit inside and say, 'You lie! you lie! you're a sneak, and you know it!'" This was what Mr. Bright said to his pupils on a Monday morning, and it made a wonderful impression upon them. The same thought always will make an impression upon people if only it can be got to them. After this, he let the "Other-Fellow" manage his school. You can see how effective it was, my dear, by observing what it did for "Dodd," as I have just related. It was even more powerful, if possible, with the other pupils. I commend this "Other-Fellow" to your notice, ladies and gentlemen, and especially to yours, beloved, who are teachers of young men and women. You can't use him to so good an advantage among the younger pupils, but if you can once get him to take control of your larger boys and girls, you have put them into most excellent hands. For, see; he will ply the lash when it is deserved, and lay on heavily where you would hardly dare to lift a finger. Does Mary whisper too much? Quietly ask her to settle the score with the "Other-Fellow." Is John doing something that he should not do? Hand him over to the same authority. And if you can do this, and can succeed in making this personage the Absolute Monarch of your school, whose assistant you are, then be happy, and teach school just as long as you can afford to. You are a god-send to any company of young people among whom your lot is cast. But if you are a stranger to the "Other-Fellow" yourself, don't try to introduce him to any one else. It is not well for strangers to attempt familiarities, yet I have known such attempts, even in the school room, and by those high in authority, even among the machines. But Mr. Bright had succeeded in putting this personage into his school as head master, and he had wrought wonders, even in so hard a case as that of "Dodd" Weaver. His presence in any school will always work as it did in this case. It takes a man or a woman of character to use this power, though! CHAPTER XIV. I most heartily wish that I could go on with this tale without recording any further lapses on the part of its alleged hero, but I can't. The facts in the case will not warrant such a continuation. Nor do I admit that it was "Dodd's" Methodist blood that occasioned these fallings from grace. I have known men, women and boys, and whole herds of other people besides, even those who were firm believers in the tenet "Once in grace, always in grace," who yet had their "infirmities" about them, and whose feet still clung to the miry clay, though they did think their heads were in heavenly places! On the whole, after observing human nature pretty closely for some time, even till gray hairs are with me to stay, I am inclined to believe, with Mr. Emerson, that "Virtue itself is apt to be occasional, spotty, and not always the same clear through the piece." This may be another case where facts do not tally with logical conclusions based upon dogmatic theological reasoning. Yet if the fact is thus, my dear reader, you need not be alarmed, so far as you are concerned. Ask yourself if it isn't true, in your case, at least, that you have slipped down from the lofty places of your desire and aspiration many a time, even when you have done your best to keep in your high estate. Human nature! That is the key to this condition. How to handle this unstable quantity so as to keep it up continually, this is a problem for the ages. So "Dodd" slipped again, just as such boys are continually apt to do, and Mr. Bright bore with him patiently, and "worked him," as a wise teacher can and will. The machine cannot and will not bear with boys and "work them." It "suspends" them and "expels" them. The "Other-Fellow" held "Dodd" to his work for days and weeks, but, finally, even this power lost its grip, for a time. It happened--as such things usually do, when the teacher is doubly busy--that "Dodd" began whittling a stick at his desk and covering the floor all about with the litter, in a most shameful and slovenly manner. Mr. Bright discovered the fact just as he was in the midst of a class exercise in which twenty pupils were taking part, all being at the board at the same time and working together under pressure of his rapid dictation. He had no time to stop then and there to put a pupil into order. He was flushed and excited with his class work, holding his boys and girls up to the vigorous drill he was giving them, and he scarcely paused to say to "Dodd": "Put up that knife and go to work!" He did not wait to see it he was obeyed. He had not time. The next act of "Dodd's" that he was conscious of was his opening the door to leave the room. He saw at once that this move was made simply to kill time, and to get rid of study, and as "Dodd" was in the very act of closing the door behind him, Mr. Bright called out to him: "Come back and take your seat!" But "Dodd's" only answer was to slam the door as hard as he could and dash down stairs, three steps at a jump. Mr. Bright rushed out after him at the top of his speed. In his haste to make time, and catch the fugitive, if possible, he revived a custom of his youth and slid down the banister, making the time of an arrow in his descent. Then he ran out of the hall, in still further pursuit. But he was too late. He ran around the house, but at the corner he lost the trail, and though he circled the building three times, and listened, and dodged back and forth, to surprise "Dodd" if possible, he could get no clue to his whereabouts. He went into the cellar and looked all about, peering into the furnace-room and coal-bin, but nowhere could he find the crafty object of his search. Finally he gave up and returned to the school room. He came in out of breath and perspiring, and met the inquiring eyes of his pupils as he went back to his desk. "I could not find him," he said to the school, wiping his dripping face with his handkerchief. Then he turned to the class on duty and resumed the exercise he had broken off so abruptly. I do not know what would have happened if Mr. Bright and "Dodd" had met in the heat of this encounter. It is useless to speculate on what would have occurred. Some of the boys, waiting in the room they had just left, offered to bet two to one on the master if it came to business. And, indeed, there were no takers at that, for Mr. Bright had a prowess which would have stood him well in stead if he had had occasion to use it. But he did not. I am glad that he did not. Because, it is at such times as this that men get beside themselves, and are apt to do desperate things. I have known men who had to go behind bars and stay there for many years because they did meet the man they were after, under much such circumstances as I have just detailed. I remarked a few paragraphs above something about virtue being "occasional," and we have all need to pray, "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." But Fate, or Foreordination, or Good Fortune, or Destiny, or Providence, or Luck, whichever one of these presided on this occasion,--suit yourselves as to this, O infidel or orthodox! capitalize them all, since some of you will have it so--elected that these two people should not meet till they had both cooled off a little. I hope these same powers may be as kind to you if you ever have a like need of their good offices. Many a man has been made or broken by the smile or frown of one of these deities which are so entirely beyond our control, and which still make so important a part of our lives. I state facts again, without further moralizing. Indeed, I could not moralize on this theme if I tried. I don't know any one who can, though the world is full of people who constantly try to. They all fail. The mystery is as great now as it was in the days when Eve happened to walk up to the tree where the serpent and the apples happened to be together. One should take off his hat when he speaks seriously of these things. They are stupendous! Nor should you blame Mr. Bright too much for doing as he did. Hear the story out before you pass judgment. He was only a man. You are under the same condemnation, my self-contained critic! I will admit without argument, however, that the machine would never have slid down a banister in pursuit of a fleeing pupil. Never! It never concerns itself enough about the doings of any individual pupil to follow him an inch for any cause whatever. The machine would have sat still and let the boy run. Then it would have suspended him the next morning and expelled him a few days later. The machine always has regular ways of doing things. It has all the rules for its movements set down in a book. But Mr. Bright was very anxious about "Dodd" Weaver. When he came to reflect, he was glad that he had not met him while in pursuit of him. Yet the question remained, what should be done when they did meet? He thought about this, deep down in his soul, all the rest of the morning. When noon came he was as much as ever at a loss how to proceed. One of the worst features of the case, as he thought about it, was this: "Dodd" had been going to school to him now a year and a half, and he had begun to think that he had a permanent hold upon the boy. But here it was again, back in the same old notch, and as bad as ever. It does take so long to make anything permanent in the way of character! You have found it so yourself, haven't you, beloved? In your own case, I mean. But on his way home to dinner Mr. Bright saw Mrs. Weaver out in the yard, and remembering how much a mother may sometimes do for her son, he went over and took her into counsel on the case. The machine would not have done this either. It is a rule of the mill not to consult with parents. If parents wish consultation, let them talk to a stack of examination papers, or a record-book. This will soon cure them of their desire to consult. Mrs. Weaver heard Mr. Bright's statement with tear-filled eyes. She had seen "Dodd" improve in every line of his life, for some months, and had begun to form bright plans for the future of her redeemed first-born. But, alas! here seemed to be the end of all her hopes. However, she tried to apologize for her son, and, in any event, she begged Mr. Bright not to give "Dodd" up yet. But the master shook his head gravely. "And another thing," pursued Mrs. Weaver, "I think it will be best not to let 'Dodd's' father know anything about this. He is such a passionate man that I am sure he would fly into a rage and attempt to beat the boy if he should find it out. And he and 'Dodd' are so much alike! If they should get into a quarrel, I fear that one might kill the other before they could be parted." Yet these persons were father and son, and one of them was a successful minister and a devout man--most of the time, "You see," Mrs. Weaver continued, "that my husband has such a high opinion of you as a man, and he knows that you have done so much for 'Dodd,' that if he should find out how abominably the boy has treated you, he would be ten times more angry than ever. So let us keep the matter to ourselves, if possible. I will see 'Dodd' as soon as he comes home, and will try what I can do. And if prayer, or--" "There, there," broke in Mr. Bright, quietly, as the brimming eyes of the woman before him began to overflow, "do what you can with the boy, and I will not give him up till I have to;" and so saying, he went on to dinner. But in a country town news travels fast. As soon as school was out at noon, three-score tongues were busy retailing the mild scandal to attentive listeners, whenever met. Parson Weaver sat in the postoffice, reading a "daily" that had just arrived, when a boy came in, and not noticing the Elder, began to tell the tale to the knot of men who stood about. They heard the story through, with many "I-told-you-so" nods, and then, one by one, slipped out of the office. Last of all Parson Weaver went also. He went straight to Mr. Bright's house and pulled the door bell impetuously. The teacher admitted him, and began immediately to try to soothe the infuriated feelings of the parson, who was really very angry. "I hope the matter may come out all right," said the teacher, "for I trust that 'Dodd' will see things as they are, when he comes to himself." "Tell me just what happened," said the parson, with a kind of desperation. Mr. Bright carefully went over the particulars. When he had finished, he added: "I shall be very grateful to you for anything you can do to help us all out of this dilemma and get 'Dodd' on his feet again. For what we must do, in any event, is to save the boy." "I shall do all in my power," returned Mr. Weaver, "but I thought he was doing so well with you, and now he is all at sea again," and with a groan he left the house. Mr. Bright sat down to dinner and ate a few hurried mouthfuls. He had just risen from his slight repast, when a twin Weaver burst into the room and shouted out: "Pap wants you to come over to the house as quick as you kin," and having thus said, he turned and ran. Mr. Bright remembered the words of "Dodd's" mother, and he feared that father and son had closed in deadly conflict. He hurried down the street, and made all haste toward the parsonage. CHAPTER XV. When Parson Weaver left Mr. Bright's house he went directly home. "Dodd" was there before him, and when the elder arrived he found the boy and his mother together, both apparently indignant and excited. "To think that he should have struck you over the head with a stick," exclaimed Mrs. Weaver, "and then should have the face to come here and trump up a story about your running away! I always did more than half suspect that man of lying, and I have found him out now!" "Why, what is this?" inquired the parson, with a puzzled look. "Mr. Bright has been striking 'Dodd' over the head with a stick," explained Mrs. Weaver; "just see where he hit him!" She pushed the hair back off her son's forehead as she spoke, and revealed a long red streak, made, apparently, by a blow from some solid substance. Elder Weaver was dumbfounded. "Tell me all about this affair," he demanded of "Dodd," as he led the way to another room, leaving Mrs. Weaver to go on with her housework. "All there is of it," answered "Dodd," "Old Bright gave me some of his lip because I couldn't do an example, and when I tried to explain he got mad and hit me over the head with a club, and so I got up and left." "Is that the actual truth of the matter?" asked the elder, anxiously. "You don't think I'd lie about a thing like that, do you?" said "Dodd." "You can see where he hit me," he proceeded, himself revealing the welt on his forehead. This mark was too much for the good parson. He might have doubted "Dodd's" word, but there was no disputing the mark. Now a welt raised by a teacher on the body of a child will drive that child's parents to madness quicker than anything that I know of. The elder grew very angry, and resolved to see the end of this as soon as possible. Calling a younger member of the household to him he whispered in his ear: "Run up to Prof. Bright's as fast as you can, and tell him to come down here as quick as possible." He would bring "Dodd" and his teacher face to face, and then see. It was this messenger that had brought the teacher to the parsonage on the double-quick. "Dodd" saw his little brother shoot out of the door, and he was in a worse dilemma than ever. Whether to run, or to stay and face it out; to lie some more, or to confess the lie he had already told; these were the things he grew more and more anxious about every minute. But presently he caught sight of his teacher hurrying down the street, and almost before he knew it he said: "It's all a lie I've been giving you, old man! Bright never hit me a lick!" "But the mark!" almost shrieked the parson. "I done it myself," explained "Dodd," laconically, "to give you and the old woman a stand off with!" It was just as "Dodd" said this that Mr. Bright opened the door and entered the room. "Dodd" was seated near one corner, and his father, having just heard from the boy's own lips a full confession of his wholesale lying, began raving like a maniac. He swung his arms wildly, weeping and shouting as he strode about the room: "My son! my son! Would to God that you had filled an early grave, or that I had died for thee! O, my son! my son!" and uttering such lamentations he continued to rave. "Why, what is this?" exclaimed Mr. Bright, rather at a loss to know just what to say or do. "O professor," almost yelled the parson, "my boy has lied to me! lied to me!! lied to me!!!" and again he paced the room and tore his hair. Coming around again to where Mr. Bright stood, he went on: "He told me that you struck him with a club, and showed me a mark on his head where he said you had hit him, and then, when I sent for you, and he saw you coming, he confessed that it was all a lie! a lie!! a lie!!! O, my God, my boy! my lost, my ruined boy! A liar!" he shrieked again. "In hell they shall lift up their eyes in torm--" "Stop!" commanded Mr. Bright, confronting the almost lunatic parson; "stop raving and sit down, and let us talk about this business like sensible people," and he led Mr. Weaver to a chair as he spoke. "Now 'Dodd,'" said Mr. Bright, speaking to the boy for the first time since he had called him back in the school room, "tell me about this." "Dodd" hesitated a minute, eyeing his teacher defiantly, and finally grumbled: "I have not got anything to tell." At this the parson came very near going off into another paroxysm, but a look from Mr. Bright checked him, and be sank back into his chair, almost in collapse. Then Mr. Bright spoke, directing all his attention to "Dodd." "My boy," he said, "it is useless for either of us to go over what has been said and done in the last hour or two. I need not tell, nor need I ask you to tell, how thoroughly outrageous your conduct has been. But I want to say this to you right here: I want you to steady yourself right down as soon as you can and get to thinking reasonably about this matter. There is only one thing that I am afraid of in this affair, and that is that it will result in great loss to you, if you are not careful. You have insulted your fellow students, you have defied the reasonable authority of the school, and you have lied to your parents. I don't care anything about what you have done to me, or said about me--let that go; but I do care about the other things, and I am anxious to have you make them right as soon as possible, before it is too late." You know, good people, that when a bone is broken, the thing that needs to be done is to set it as soon as possible; if it is left out of place very long, it is ten times as hard to put it right again as it would have been at first, and, even if set at last, it is apt to grow together imperfectly, or perhaps make a crooked limb ever after. The sooner a fault is redressed, the better for all parties to it. "So now I have this to say to you," Mr. Bright went on: "I don't want you to drop out of school on account of this occurrence. This is what you are in danger of doing, and it is the very thing you ought not to do. You have been doing well in your work for a good while now, and you can't afford to let this affair break you off." "Well, I guess it won't hurt anybody but myself, and that is my own business," said "Dodd" sulkily. Off, away off as yet. Drawn, but unwilling to come. Seeing, knowing what he should do, but, ruled by some rebellious devil, persistently turning away and doing the other thing. It is the way of perverse human nature. Call it "total depravity," "original sin," "infirmity," "the natural man," I don't care what, only this--recognize the condition and deal with it, when you come squarely up against it, so that it will not ruin its victim. "The very thing I am fearing," returned Mr. Bright. "In one sense it is nobody's business but your own what becomes of you; in another sense, it is the business of a great many. Young man, I tell you again to get out of your present defiant mood as soon as you can. I know that your life for the past few months has had more of genuine enjoyment for you than you have experienced for years previous to this time. I don't say this boastfully, I say it thankfully. And what I am anxious for is to have you keep going in the same way. Just think it over, and see what there is before you. On the one hand, a return to your place in school, and with that a continuation of all that you have so much cared for; on the other hand--but I leave that for you to think out. There are two ways right here, and you must choose which one you will take." "Well, what have I got to do if I go back?" asked "Dodd," yielding ever so little. "You must apologize to the school for your conduct and pledge to your fellow students your word of honor that hereafter you will behave like a gentleman." "Dodd" gave his head an angry toss and was about to speak when the parson sprang to his feet, and, rushing across the room, shouted: "He shall do it, or I will disown him, and he shall never enter my house again, but shall be--" "Sit down, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Bright, almost forcing the distracted parson into his chair. Mr. Weaver sat down and was silent. Mr. Bright proceeded: "So now, my boy, here it is for you to choose, and you must use your own judgment about it." But "Dodd" looked down and said nothing. It was a critical moment. A soul was at stake, and fiends and angels were striving together for it. Mr. Bright was the captain of the heavenly host, and devoutly he stood, waiting the issue. There are no rules laid down in the machine guide books that lead up to this high estate, nor does the machine manager care so much for marshaling angelic forces as he does about controlling the election of a member of the board from the --th ward. As Mr. Bright spoke his last words a silence fell upon the group. The father sat with his hands over his face, "Dodd" gazed at the carpet, and the school teacher bowed his head reverently. For nearly a minute this impressive calm brooded over all. Then Mr. Bright felt in his soul that the tide was turned in his favor. He advanced towards "Dodd" and extended his hand. "Come!" he said. The boy did not raise his eyes, but he did lift his hand, just a little--only a little--and Mr. Bright grasped it with all the fervor of his thankful soul. He drew "Dodd" towards him, and he arose, hesitatingly. They walked out of the room hand in hand, nor did they break their clasp till they reached the school-room. When people are too weak or too timid to go alone they musk be led; yes, sometimes they must be carried! But, led or carried, the point always to keep in mind is this, that the nearly dead are to be made alive again, the lost are to be found. And this is the test that must be set over against all systems and institutions that have to deal with unformed characters. The everlasting question must be put again and again, does this, that or the other save, find, restore, or benefit the individuals that come under its influence? Whatever does this, is good; whatever fails to do this is not good. It is fair to ask what the machine does in this regard! CHAPTER XVI. It was a trying time for both "Dodd" and Mr. Bright as they walked together, hand in hand, towards the school-house. The trouble was that neither of them could say anything. Mr. Bright felt that words might only mar the matter, and "Dodd" was too busy thinking of what was just before him, to say a word. The master realized the situation, and counted their steps, almost, as they walked along. Presently he felt "Dodd's" hand working nervously in his own, as if to break their clasp. His heart sank, but, inspired by that same power which had so often come to him in an emergency, he said: "What is it 'Dodd'?" "I can't apologize," returned the boy; "I don't know what to say," and his lips trembled as he spoke, while tears welled from his eyes. How many things there are that interpose between us and our duty! You have found it so in your own experience, haven't you, my friend? "Say that you did wrong this morning; that you are sorry for what you did; that you apologize for your action, and that you pledge your word of honor to your fellows that you will be a gentleman in school in future," said Mr. Bright. The nervousness was no longer in the hand, and both "Dodd" and Mr. Bright felt that they were about to win in the strife. They quickened their steps, and were shortly in the school room. But there was a trial yet, and one that I fear would have been insurmountable for a good many of us, brave men and women though we think we are. As teacher and pupil entered the room they discovered the three members of the board of education seated upon the platform. One of the number had heard the story told by the boy in the postoffice, and had hastened to make up his mind that "Dodd" should be expelled from school. He hurried to see the other members, and for the first time since Mr. Bright had been in charge of the Emburg school, this educational triumvirate appeared, in a body, in his school room. Their presence was exceedingly annoying, just at this moment--the very time when they should have kept their hands off. But this is apt to be the way with boards of education in towns of the Emburg stripe. I ought to take room, just here, too, to say that the president of the board was really glad that an issue had come, and that they could now rid the school of Parson Weaver's boy. The fact is, this man was deacon in a church of a denomination other than that to which the parson belonged, and the rivalry between the two sects had been brisk, not to say thoroughly bitter and almost mean, for a long time. Anything that would disgrace the family of the pastor of the opposing church would weaken the influence of the church itself, and the same would redound to the glory of the church in which the deacon officiated. I grant that this is a side issue, but side issues are often of more moment, in cases like this, than are main issues. As "Dodd" and Mr. Bright came in, the deacon rose to meet them. The school was already in order, and "Dodd" went on to his seat. Mr. Bright turned to his own desk to meet the advancing president of the board. "Can we have a word with you, before school takes up?" said the deacon, drawing down the corners of his mouth and looking particularly pious and exceedingly virtuous, as he thought. "Wait a few minutes," replied Mr. Bright, crowding past the man in the effort to reach his desk. "But we prefer to speak to you now," urged the president. "The matter is very pressing." "I will attend to it presently," answered Mr. Bright, and then, ignoring the dignitary who addressed him, he turned to the school and said: "Before we begin the regular work of the afternoon, 'Dodd' Weaver has a word to say." A deep silence fell upon the school at these words. The pupils all seemed to feel that they stood in the presence of a great strife. One naturally holds his breath under such circumstances. Then "Dodd" stood up in his place, and the latent manhood, that had long lain dormant within him, asserted itself. In a clear though somewhat subdued voice, he said: "I want to apologize for what I did this morning, and I pledge you my word of honor that hereafter, so long as I am a member of this school, I will behave myself." His voice trembled somewhat towards the close, but he went bravely through to the end, and then sat down. Then Mr. Bright bowed his head, and said: "Our Father in heaven, whose weak and erring children we all are, bless the boy whose confession we have just heard, and help him to keep his word of honor like a man. And help us all, in all our strifes with evil and with wrong, that we may come out of them better, and stronger, and purer, even as our Master was made perfect through suffering, Amen." That was all! Perhaps there were dry eyes in the room just then. If so, they did not appear, After a pause of an instant, Mr. Bright said: "You may go on with your work," and the pupils turned to their books again. In five minutes more the hum of the busy school room was as if nothing uncommon had happened, and classes were reciting as usual. The deacon and his fellow-members sat upon the platform till recess, listening to recitations, and then left; the president remarking to the teacher as they went out, that they "thought the school was doing very well!" "Dodd" and Mr. Bright walked home together after school was out. "Where do you suppose I hid?" asked "Dodd," as they walked along. "I have no idea," returned Mr. Bright. "I ran down cellar, and, crawled part way up the airshaft back of the furnace," said "Dodd." And that was the last that was ever said about the affair by either teacher or pupil. CHAPTER XVII. For a few months after the event just narrated "Dodd" went to school to Mr. Bright, and during the whole time he deported himself as a good and faithful student should. But with the next meeting of the Conference, Parson Weaver was shifted again, and with him went the hero of this story. (I think "Dodd" may justly be called a hero after so bravely doing what he did in the presence of the school and the board of education, as just told.) Mr. Bright also left Emburg the following year, and so he and "Dodd" drifted apart, as people are all the time doing in this wide, wide world. The parson had now been so long in the service that he was promoted to a city pastorate, at this turn of the ecclesiastical wheel of fortune, and so it fell out that "Dodd" went to the city to live. A more unfortunate thing could hardly have happened to him. Yet his lot was such as is common to most boys who go from country to city life. They drift into the town where everything is new, strange and rare to them, just at that age when they are the most curious, the most on fire with new-born and wholly untamed passions, and the least able to resist temptation. The glitter and tinsel of city life have thus a charm for them which falls powerless upon young men who have been familiar with such sights from their youth up, and the ignis fatuus of gilded pleasures lures them into the quagmires of sin before they are aware, where hosts of them sink down to death in the quicksands of a fast life. "Dodd" was not an uncommon boy. When he went to the city, he did as hosts have done before him, and as hosts will continue to do. I suppose God knows why! Yet the young man did not go all at once into by and forbidden paths. Few folks do. Neither do they come out of such ways by one great leap. There are those who preach a different doctrine. Either "Dodd" or his father made a fatal mistake, too, on going to town. Neither of them arranged to have the boy get to work, as soon as he entered his new life. The elder thought his son was getting large enough to look out for himself, and "Dodd" waited awhile to look around. So, between the two, the cup of salvation that the boy should have quaffed, fell, and was broken. "Dodd" drifted about the town for many days, seeing what he could see. His memory of Mr. Bright was still fresh and nourishing, and it often held him from wrong, where his natural inclination would have carried him clear over the line that separates evil from good. An iron, well heated, will hold its heat long after it is taken out of the fire. It grows cold, though, after a while. So the boy began to circle about in the outer edge of the whirlpool that sucks in its victims so relentlessly and remorselessly, always, in the city. I wish I did not have to tell the tale of still another descent into Avernus, of this boy of the checkered career. But I have started out to paint the picture exactly as it is, and I dip my brush in black again with a sigh. You have to do the same thing in telling, even to yourself, the story of yourself, don't you, my reader whose blood has iron in it, and whose pulses beat fast? I am not writing of a sluggish-veined person, nor for people of that complexion, good people though they are. "Dodd" had never been to the theatre. He was curious to go, and now that he came within reach of this class of amusements he was all anxiety to gratify his desire in this direction. He said nothing to his father or his mother about this, however. Indeed, it would have availed little if he had; that is, as these amusements were always looked upon by the parson and his good wife. They would have contented themselves by anathematizing the play-house and forbidding "Dodd" attendance at such places; probably ending up their dissertation by declaring to the boy that it was his "natural heart, which is enmity against God," that led him to desire such sinful diversions. So, one night "Dodd" went alone to the theatre. Truth to tell, and to his credit be it said, he chose a reputable place for his maiden visit. The play was "London Assurance." It was well done, and the boy, who really possessed much innate dramatic genius, enjoyed the performance greatly. He felt ill at ease, however, while in the place, and went very quietly to bed when he reached home. Indeed, as he lay awake for an hour or two after retiring, unable to sleep because of the vivid visions of the play that his highly wrought imagination and memory represented to his mental eyes, he resolved that he would never again go to see a play, but would stop with a single taste of the pleasure. Having made this resolve, be went to sleep content. How easy it is to make good resolutions, and to be content and satisfied in them when out of the reach of temptation. But the next day, as he went about the city, he saw "Othello" billed for that evening. He was restless in an instant. He talked the matter over with himself something as follows, considering whether or not he should go and see the "Moor of Venice:" "'Dodd,' you are a fellow who cannot rest contented until you have seen what there is to see in the line of plays upon the stage. There are two kinds of dramas--tragedy and comedy. You saw comedy last night. Go and see tragedy tonight and that will cover the whole field. You will then have seen it all and will be satisfied." So that night, Tuesday evening, he went to see the tragedy. Don't ask about his resolve of the night before; just ask how you yourself have done scores of times, under similar circumstances, when you have sworn off, but when the trial came, have concluded not to count that time! "Dodd" enjoyed "Othello" as much as he did "London Assurance." But that night he pledged himself again not to pursue the pleasure further, as he had now seen it all. The next day, however, he found "Uncle Tom's Cabin" billed. Now even "ministers went to see this play," the bills said. "Dodd" saw "Topsy," "Eva," "Marks," and "Uncle Tom" that night! Thursday he found "Ten Nights in a Bar-Room" billed. He knew the story, and was anxious to see the characters in it upon the stage. He saw them. Friday, his friend John Oller, from Emburg, was in town, and "Dodd" confessed to him that he had been four times to the theatre. John said: "Well, 'Dodd,' I never went, and I want to go. Come and go with me to-night." The boys followed "Marble Heart" through to the end that evening. Saturday they went down town together, and "Zoe, the Octoroon Girl," was on for matinee. They took it in. Saturday night was set for "Hamlet," and that melancholy Dane died in their presence before the city clock rang in the Sabbath morning. Here is the story for you, good people. Seven times to the theatre in one week, for a boy who had been to such a place but seven times in all his life. It is the way of human nature. I suppose that when Adam and Eve really got to eating the forbidden apples, they ate, and ate, and ate. At least, this quality has been transmitted to their descendants. Now, the bad thing about this affair, was not that "Dodd" had been to the play-house seven times, but that he had been there clandestinely. When a person begins to sneak about anything, he is on the down grade to perdition, and the brakes are all off. The result of this excess of "Dodd's" was a still further dissipation. It is usually that way. The theatre soon had a fascination for him that he could not withstand. He went whenever he could get money enough to buy a ticket. After awhile he began to frequent places of amusement of a low grade. The "variety" performance attracted him, and he became an habitual attendant at such places. Here he formed acquaintances and made friendships that were not to his advantage, to say the best thing that can be said of them; and with these companions he drifted down the descent he had started on so unthinkingly. Here, also, he learned to drink, a vice which he had heretofore escaped. So he kept on, down, and down. He needed money for the gratification of his desires, and to procure it he began to venture a little now and then on some gaming device. He was cautious and shrewd, and his early "investments" were fortunate. He won small sums at various times, and was elated with his success. He loitered much about the "bucket shop," and now and then took a "deal" as some friend gave him a "pointer." He was fortunate here, also, and even though so young, his vivid imagination began to picture the fortune he should some day make in this way. He suddenly dropped his country ways, dressed flashily, and took on, with marvelous aptitude, the customs and manners of metropolitan life. And still he kept his own counsel. The great gulf fixed between himself and his parents grew wider and wider. It was through this gap that the devils entered in and took possession of his soul. The Book has it that wicked men wax worse and worse. It was so with "Dodd." His love of liquor grew upon him with wonderful rapidity. He began drinking to excess, his eyes became bloodshot, his hand became unsteady, and his step halted. But the better part of the young man rebelled at this retrogression. He passed many an agonizing night alone, pledging himself to stop; hoping, longing for his true life of a few months before, and cursing his present condition. The "Other Fellow" was faithful to him, too, calling loudly to him to turn about, to go the other way, to "be converted." But as is usual in such cases, after a night of such agony he would take one drink in the morning, just to steady his nerves down, and one being taken, the rest followed in course through the day, as they had done the day before, and the day before that. He was drunk a good share of the time. It happened one night as he was going home, or rather as he was trying to go home, being in a very mellow condition, that is, he "stackered whiles"--that he was accosted by a polite and pleasant voiced, young gentleman, who took his arm kindly and walked with him several blocks. As they walked he told "Dodd" that he was on his way to attend a revival meeting, and asked him to go along. Just then "Dodd" "took a bicker," and in the lurch, he knocked a book out from under the arm of his companion. It was a Bagster Bible! But the two went on together to the meeting. They went well to the front of the congregation, the guide steadying the wavering steps of the man he was leading. "Dodd" sat down, and after a brief rest began to come to himself, and to realize where he was. He hung his head for shame, and wept as the service progressed. He was weak, unnerved, a wreck. He looked at his shattered self, and groaned in spirit over the ruin that he saw. He longed to break away from the terrible bondage that held him in its thrall. He cried out in spirit, in an agony, for help in this time of his great need. The sermon came on. The minister seemed to "Dodd" to be talking straight at him. (Indeed, the gentleman had observed his entrance to the church, and frequently had him in mind as he made this point or that, in his remarks.) Under the enthusiastic eloquence of this man "Dodd's" anguish increased till he was almost in a frenzy. It was when he had reached this point that the speaker uttered the following words: "Young man, whoever you are, no matter how cursed with sin or polluted with iniquity you may be, put your trust in Jesus and all your sins will be blotted out. Are you a drunkard, with an appetite for drink that is gnawing your life away? Throw yourself into the arms of Jesus, and he will take away your appetite for strong drink and give you strength to overcome all the temptations of your former life. Let the light of Jesus once shine into your soul, and neither cloud nor storm shall ever enter there again. All will be brightness and purity. Old things will have passed away, and all things will become new. I offer you this salvation to-night, O, weary, sin-sick soul. Take it, I beseech of you. Let the Sun of Righteousness break in upon you at this hour, and never will you be in darkness again." The man glowed under his theme, and his audience warmed with his impulsive appeal. "Dodd's" soul grew hopeful. All these things promised were the very things he was longing for. He had pledged himself time and again to stop wrong doing, and had broken his word in every case. He hated himself for this, and he stretched out his hands for salvation from his miserable estate. Here, help was offered. Why should he not take it? And then the great congregation arose with a sound as of a rushing, mighty wind, and all sang together, with an effect that must be seen to be realized, "Just as I am, without one plea," etc. You know what followed, do you not, ladies and gentlemen? "Dodd" Weaver "indulged a hope" before he left the church. CHAPTER XVIII. If it were not for clouds and storms what a sunshiny world this would be, to be sure! But there are clouds and storms everywhere that I know anything about. There are legends of lands of perpetual sunshine, I know. I have visited such climates. I have found clouds and storms there also. The natives have told me that such were exceptional. Doubtless they were, but the clouds shut out the sunshine there, just the same as they do elsewhere, and I took a terrible cold once, one that came near being the death of me, from going off without an umbrella, in a country where I was positively assured it never rained--at least, not at that season of the year. So the result of all this is that I have learned to distrust the tales of eternal fair weather in any spot on all this green earth, no matter how strongly they may be backed up by the affidavits of good, well-meaning, and otherwise truthful men and women. It is so easy to state an opinion that is not based upon a sufficient number of facts to warrant its assertion. What has happened to me in the matter of sunshine and storm, in this weather-beaten world, happened to "Dodd" Weaver in his religious experience. He started out boldly in his new life. He hoped and trusted that he had entered into a physical, mental, and spiritual condition in which all that he had been he might not be; all that he should be he might become; all that he ought to hate he would hate; all that he ought to love he would cherish. He longed to believe and he tried to believe, that he had entered into that land of perpetual sunshine which had been promised him by the minister and his friend. He hoped, and really expected, to dwell there henceforth, beyond the reach of clouds, and storms, and tornadoes. But everybody knows that there were no good grounds for his expecting such continuous, perpetual, and unbroken fair weather in his formerly storm-swept sky. The question strikes one, then, why should he have been promised this, and why led to hope for and expect it? See what came of this too generous inducement held out to an anxious soul. For some days, while "Dodd's" newly developed fervor ran high, he lived in the blessed light. For this light is blessed, and it shines with a divine warmth into the souls that are open to receive it. The fact remains, however, that clouds and storms--but I need not trace the figure further; you all know about it. So, almost before the young man was aware, he was under a cloud. It happened on this wise: For many weeks he had been drinking freely and both smoking and chewing tobacco to excess. The first thing he did, after his hopeful conversion, was to quit all these stimulants at once. His intense religious zeal held him up for a few days, but at the end of that time his strongly formed appetites assorted themselves. He could scarcely sleep, so hungry was he for a chew, or a smoke, or a drink! These were the weaknesses that had driven him to seek for help through the consolations of religion. He had been promised this help, and in no equivocal terms either. He had been told, even from the pulpit, that if he would put his trust in the Lord all these temptations would depart from him. He had done this as well as he knew how to. He had at least made an honest effort in that direction. His lips were parched for liquor, and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth with a longing for a quid of fine-cut. And so the clouds overspread "Dodd's" sky--clouds of doubt and distrust, out of whose lurid depths leap lightnings that blast like death! He doubted, first of all, the honesty of the men who had promised him more than he found himself the possessor of. We always begin by doubting some fellow-mortal. As the process progresses, it leads us, ultimately, to doubt God. But these men had meant to be honest--there is no doubt about that. They had told the young sinner of that which they believed would help him. They knew, of course, that he would have trouble with his old habits, after a while. Perhaps they hoped that he would get over them somehow. Perhaps they did not think very much about it. In either case, they said nothing. The patient was suffering. They gave him medicine that would afford him the quickest relief, without regard to the permanency of the apparent cure. What an amount of such doctoring has been done through the ages. Stand up in your graves, you armies of dead men that have thus been dealt with, and nod a "yes" with your grinning skulls! The clouds grew thicker. "Dodd" went to his newly formed friends and told them frankly of his condition. The minister advised him to be much alone and in prayer. The young man told him that there was no need of his suffering from such appetites, because, he himself--the young man aforesaid--could keep from such evil practices easily enough, and if he could, "Dodd" could. Certainly! "Dodd" acted on the advice of the minister, and went home and shut himself up alone in his room to pray. He tried, but the words seemed to go no higher than his head. Did you ever think that when the Master received his severest temptation it was when he was alone? Let a man who is tempted beware of trying to win a victory shut up in a room by himself. The devil has him in a hand to hand fight, in such case, and thereby increases several fold the probability of winning the battle. "Dodd" tried to pray. He strove alone, as in an agony. He besought the power that he had been told to invoke, to take from him the horrible thirst that was gnawing within him. He wept, he pleaded, he begged. The gnawing kept on. There was once one who prayed "If it be possible, let this cup pass from me." It did not pass. Then, indeed, the clouds did grow dark. "Dodd's" doubts left the earth, and reached even to heaven. He not only doubted the men who had led him to the promised relief; he doubted even the power of religious experience to save a tempted man, and the reality of religion itself. From this point it is but a step to the supreme doubt of all! If only the boy had expected a storm, he might have weathered it. If, in this hour of his trial, some faithful soul could have lived with him, day and night, and never left him for an hour, till the storm was over, he might have come through. Neither of these things happened, however. He struggled on for several days. He gave up finally. He came home one night drunk, almost to the verge of insanity. There had been a cyclone in the land of promised eternal sunshine. "Dodd" Weaver's bark lay upon its beam ends, and the jagged rocks of infidelity pierced its battered frame. You have seen such wrecks by the score, have you not, good friends? CHAPTER XIX. And now the victim of these adventures was in a worse case than ever. Up to this time neither religion nor its lack had played any particular part in his being. He had been a bad boy, truly, but in his former low estate he had thought little of anything that pertained to another world, or to the future in this. Now he disbelieved all things--man, immortality, heaven, God. It is a condition which few fail to experience, in a greater or less degree. I wonder if it is necessary that I pause here, just an instant, and interlard a remark regarding the scene through which I have just traced "Dodd" Weaver. I do so, in any event. In what has been said, I would not have it understood that I rail at, or deride, or impeach the honesty of the men who tried to help "Dodd" out of the sad condition into which he had fallen. Neither would I underrate the value of religion, in such experiences, nor impugn its power to save sinking souls from death. But I cannot help reiterating the fact that multitudes of young men have drifted on to the rocks of infidelity as "Dodd" did, because they have been promised too much by religious enthusiasts. There is such an experience as genuine religion, and it is the most blessed estate that a soul can aspire to. There is a place for prayer in the divine economy of God's providence. But neither religion nor prayer can help a soul that is sick unto death with the malady of doubt. "Dodd" was thus circumstanced. It was the zealous overstatements, the ultra promises, the unwarranted inducements held out to him, which, unrealized, threw him into this condition. And then doubt is such a breeder of its own kind! As a single bacterium will, in a few hours, under favorable conditions, develop millions like unto itself, and poison a man's blood to the last drop, even so doubt grows in the soul, when once its germs are planted there, and its noxious growth blights all one's being, bringing death hurriedly, if its course is not stayed. "Dodd" Weaver was in a state of mind highly favorable to the development of unbelief. The false promises of his well-meaning friends sowed the seed of distrust within him, and the crop was not long in ripening. The fact is, truth is so loyal to itself that it will not suffer distortion, even for the apparent purpose of doing God service. It can no more be swerved than God can! If that point is clear, I go on with this narrative. But "Dodd" had seen enough to understand that if he expected to live long he must stop short of absolute debauchery, and he rallied somewhat from the first awful overthrow that came when the clouds burst over his head. He drank more moderately, and was seldom drunk. He returned to his old haunts, however, and kept on in the main as he had before. The only difference was that he loitered in a way now where before he had rushed along at top speed. He began, too, to look about for something to do. He was anxious for a job in a store or an office, where be could wear good clothes and not have to work hard at manual labor. This is a common desire of country boys who go to town to live. The trouble was, however, that he knew next to nothing of business of any kind. Was this the fault of his education, thus far? His school education, I mean. I ask the question. He finally concluded to take a course in a school that advertised to fit a person to engage in any business whatever in three months, without regard to age, sex, or previous condition. He went to this school. I have no quarrel with institutions that make a business of fitting young men and women to engage in commercial pursuits. I know of many excellent institutions of this kind. But I nevertheless submit the record of "Dodd" Weaver in his connection with this college, so called. The man at the head of the institution was a brisk, nervous sort of person, a shrewd fellow, and given to much flourishing with a pen, which was to him much mightier than any sword. He could whirl off a scroll-winged eagle on a blank sheet of foolscap, in a twinkling--a royal bird, with a banner in his beak, on which was inscribed "Go to ---- college," and which the king of birds was bearing towards the sun for advertising purposes. He could also add a column of figures with wonderful rapidity, and occasional accuracy! He was a believer in lightning methods and processes everywhere. His own education had been wrought out on that plan. He was seeking a fortune by the same route. He drew crowds of boys into his school. It was through them he made his money. "Dodd" had much skill with a pen, as will be remembered by his sketching Mr. Bright's face on the board one afternoon. He took to the practice in writing with some alacrity, but for the rest of the work he soon did as the others did--studied little, and in lieu of a recitation listened to a long and disjointed talk by "the professor." He was held to no account for his work, and whether it was right or wrong made little difference. He found that his teacher would profess to know things of which he knew he was ignorant, and, in a word, that there was an air of shoddy, not to say dishonesty, about the whole institution. This did not trouble him greatly, however. It was only in keeping with what he conceived he had finally discovered the whole world to be--a gigantic sham--and he mentally remarked to himself "I told you so," and drew an unusually large spread-eagle upon a fresh sheet of foolscap. He stayed three months in the school and then graduated. His diploma was handed to him by a venerable gentleman who delighted in the appellation "president of the board," while an orchestra, composed of young ladies of the school, all of whom were learning to play the violin, by the "short method," discoursed most execrable music from an improvised platform that had been built in the church, for the occasion. Six other pupils came through with "Dodd," and their going out was used as an advertisement to lure still another half dozen to fill the places left vacant. The young man came forth from this experience more the slave of doubt and distrust than ever. But the worst feature of all was that this infidelity in "Dodd's" soul was poisoning his whole life. Honor was to him now only an empty name, but policy was a quality to be held in high esteem. Truth was to be used if convenient, but if a lie would serve a better purpose for the moment, it would be brought into service without hesitation or scruple. Fortune was his goddess, if he did deference to any unseen power; tricks and chicanery were to him helps to rapid and boundless wealth. "Let the sharpest win, and may the devil take the hindermost," these were the tenets in his creed, if he had a creed. Armed with such ideas of life, "Dodd" Weaver set out to battle with the world. He had also his diploma! CHAPTER XX. In the course of a few weeks "Dodd" secured a clerkship that was much to his mind. It was, however, one greatly in advance of his ability to manage, with his present attainments. If he had believed that fidelity, honesty, and attention to business were the prime factors of success, he might have mastered the situation, perhaps. He did not so believe. On the contrary, he held that the more he could shirk and get out of, and still draw his salary, the sharper he was. He acted in accordance with his belief. People usually do! But business is business. "Dodd" found his employer an exact man--one who required service by the card. This the young man could not, or rather would not render. He blundered in his work on more than one occasion, and resorted to tricks to bolster up his carelessness or inefficiency. The result was that after a few weeks' service he was discharged. He was chagrined, mortified, angry. But he "cheeked it through," as the young men of his class would say. It is bad business, this "cheeking." He loafed about once more, as formerly. He took a "deal" on the curbstone occasionally, or now and then ventured a few pieces of silver upon the black or red. He was back in the old notch. For more than two years "Dodd" led this reckless, wasteful existence. He was of age now, and his father had felt it his duty to tell him that he must shift for himself. Mrs. Weaver mildly protested, but the Weaver family was large, and though the Elder commanded a fair salary, it cost money to live, and every mouth to be fed counted one. So "Dodd" took a room down town, and then if the devil went to sleep, sure of his victim, you do not wonder, do you? Yet the great majority of young men in large cities room down town. Details of degradation are always revolting. I will not trouble you with what happened during these years of exile of this young man. His story is like that of thousands in like case. His evil habits grew upon him, and held him tighter and tighter in their thrall. Still, he dressed well, went much into fashionable society, and saw much of life. He was one of the boys, and he held his place among them by hook or by crook. He was never brought to face a court on criminal charges. He may never have been guilty of such acts. If not, is it not remarkable? It was when "Dodd" was well down the steep he was descending that he chanced, one day, to meet his old teacher, Mr. Bright. More than three years had passed since they had seen each other, and each had changed with time. Mr. Bright had grown not a little gray, and his devotion to his profession had caused the marks of his craft to become deeply seamed in his face. His former pupil we have followed, day after day, and we know well enough what he looked like. The two passed a hearty greeting, "Dodd's" disbelief in mankind leaving him for the moment, consumed by the positive integrity of the man whose hand he held. Each took a searching look at the other, with mental reservations in each case, as thus: "Dodd": "Gray--hard worker--not up to snuff--square as a brick." Mr. Bright: "Flashy clothes--shambling gait--a look in the eye that is not direct." These are the things they thought. They spoke of other matters. Mutual inquiry led to the disclosure of the whereabouts of each, and what each was doing though in this last item "Dodd" drew largely upon his imagination, informing his teacher very indefinitely as to the calling in which he was engaged. Mr. Bright had moved to the city, having been called to take charge of an important educational institution located within its corporate limits. He had a home of his own, and said he should be glad to see "Dodd" there. "Dodd" said he would call on Mr. Bright. He did so. And now began one of the most perplexing series of circumstances that I have yet had occasion to record. "Dodd" came to see his teacher, who was really anxious to have a sober talk with him, and the two spent an hour together. When they separated, "Dodd" had five dollars of Mr. Bright's money in his pocket! He had "struck" his former preceptor for a loan. I do not say that he had deliberately stolen this money. Perhaps he meant to pay it back sometime; but he had long been used to borrowing, and the impulse was almost irresistible to borrow whenever he came where he could. Sometimes he returned these loans; oftener he did not. His sense of right and wrong in such matters was not very keen at this time. And so he began to sponge off Mr. Bright. He came to visit him frequently, and often left with a dollar or two extra after the interview. At first Mr. Bright did not fully realize the depth of degradation which "Dodd" had reached. He made these small loans as he would have given money to a son of his own, had he had one. He talked with the young man, and once or twice hinted that he feared all was not as it should be. But "Dodd" evaded an issue, and so the days went by. But one evening these two people met, and the truth stood revealed. "Dodd" was drunk. Mr. Bright knew a good deal about human nature, but he had had no experience with the peculiar vice of drunkenness. His heart went out towards "Dodd," and, taking the boy's arm in his own, he led him to his house. He would care for the prodigal with his own hand, and restore him if possible. So he gave him the best chamber, and bathed his head, and watched with him till far into the night. The next morning they talked it all over. "Dodd" was penitent, even to the extent of tears and bitter weeping. He pledged Mr. Bright that this should be the last time; that he would reform now. He confessed that for years he had been a miserable sinner in the matter of drink, but declared that now he would break off. In a word, he did the usual thing on such occasions. Mr. Bright heard his pledges with a swelling heart and a thankful soul. He fondly hoped that he might save the young man yet. You may have had like hopes under similar circumstances, my gentle reader. The scene ended with "Dodd's" leaving Mr. Bright's house in the afternoon of the following day, accompanied by any amount of good advice and even prayers for his future good behavior. He took with him also a ten dollar note which he had borrowed from his benefactor, just to get a start with. CHAPTER XXI. The wise Mr. George has remarked that "by no possibility can one really use up his living in advance." "That is," he explains, "it is as impossible to anticipate the products of one's labor, and live them up before they are earned as it is to eat to-day the egg that is to be laid to-morrow." I do not dispute the egg part of this proposition, but I must protest that if it is impossible for a man to anticipate the products of his own labor, and to live them up in advance, it is quite possible for him to anticipate the products of what some one else has already earned, and to live them up most effectually. The only impossibility in the premise is for this some one else ever to get his own again. This statement should pass for an axiom, since it needs no proof. You have had dollars of your own that have been appropriated thus, have you not? And of all habits that tend to demoralize a man, this one of dead-beat borrowing is the worst. It will sap the last germ of manhood out of a soul sooner than anything else I know of. It is one of the meanest vices in society, and one of the most prevalent among a certain class of young men. I will not say that every person who asks to borrow money from a friend without offering security is a dead-beat. Such a statement might be somewhat wide of the mark. I only assert that I have always found it so! It was not without misgivings that Mr. Bright advanced "Dodd" the ten dollars spoken of in the last chapter. But alas, poor man, he was yet blind to the fact that whoever thus assists a person in the condition in which "Dodd" now was does that person more harm than good. There is any amount of light nonsense current on this point. See how the method worked in this case. "Dodd" really meant to do better when he left Mr. Bright's. People in this condition always do mean to do better. He had made pledges to his friend and he hoped to keep them. It takes more than hoping to succeed in such eases, however. I would by no means intimate that when a drunkard signs the pledge he is always lying and does not mean to keep it. On the contrary, I think the great bulk of those who thus write their names with a trembling hand, do, at the time of writing, really mean to keep all that they promise. But as a rule they change their minds when the trial comes, and "Don't count this time!" This statement is a sad one, but it is terribly true. There is a reason for it. And the chief reason is that these "unfortunates," as they are called, get into the habit of being carried when they should walk on their own feet. Your drunkard is always expecting sympathy, and help, and upholding. He leans down on you; he lies down on you. He pleads misfortune, disease, or something, and makes himself out a poor, weak victim of circumstances. He asks for help, and of a kind that most suits himself. He should not get such. Help he should have, but of a kind that will make him help himself. Because, when such a person is merely helped by another he becomes helpless himself, and the last state of that man is worse than the first. It was so with "Dodd" Weaver. The kind offices of Mr. Bright had really wrought him harm. He had thus been able to get money for some weeks, and as he lived only for the moment now, this "accommodation" kept him in his low mode of life. It is the study of a lifetime how to deal justly with people in his condition. If you doubt my word, try it. You will be convinced. "Dodd" did intend to do better after leaving Mr. Bright's. But he went right down town and took a drink to brace up on. This also is common. It was two days after this that the young man came once more to appeal to his benefactor. He was in trouble again, and according to the law I have just noted he came for relief to the source from which help had before come. There is no record of how long a man can thus abuse the kindness of a friend. Sometimes death alone ends the scene. But Mr. Bright was not a man to be trifled with when once he had taken in the situation. He heard "Dodd's" story with disgust. The young man had been drunk again, and in a brawl had struck an antagonist with brass knuckles. For this offense he said the police were in search of him, and would probably find him. He asked Mr. Bright to let him have money to pay his fine, and so keep him out of jail. He could not bear that disgrace, he declared. But Mr. Bright was unmoved. He sat looking at "Dodd" for a moment in silence, and then said: "Not one cent, young man!" "But I shall have to go to jail," faltered "Dodd," in a broken voice. "You may go there, and stay there, for all of me," exclaimed Mr. Bright, in a burst of righteous indignation, as all the past years rose up before him and the memory of them floated before his vision. "I have given you the last cent that I ever shall. You deserve to go to jail, and it is probably the best thing that can happen that you should." "But my mother!" pleaded "Dodd." "It is a fine time for you to plead your mother now, isn't it?" replied Mr. Bright. "How much you have considered her and her feelings in the last few years," he continued. "When you have been drunk on the streets; when you have abused the hospitality of a gentleman; when you have lied to me and obtained money from me under false pretenses, then was the time for you to plead for sparing your mother. You did nothing toward that then. I will not help you now." Mr. Bright spoke firmly, and in a straight-forward tone. "Dodd" shrank under his words as though they were lashes on a bare back. But once more he pleaded: "I don't know who will help me if you don't, and some one must help me, for I can't suffer this disgrace." "Well, no one shall help you if I can prevent it," replied Mr. Bright. "What you need, young man, is to help yourself. If you haven't virtue enough left to do this, you might as well go to jail, or into your grave--it doesn't make much difference which. You are of no manner of use in this world as you are now. You are worse than useless, you are a dead load to your friends, your acquaintances, and society." Mr. Bright laid on tremendously, now that he had begun, and "Dodd" writhed under his strokes. The last flagellation left them both out of breath, and there was silence in the room for some minutes. It was Mr. Bright who spoke first: "'Dodd,' my boy," he said, "I need not tell you how it pains me thus to talk to you, you for whom I have striven so hard, and from whom I had hoped for so much. You are naturally bright, but you are fickle by nature, and, so far, you have lacked the manhood to correct this fault. You are the only one who can ever do this. So one else can do it for you. If ever you stand up like a man, it must be on your own feet. I tried to teach you this long ago. I think I failed. At least is seems so now. You did stand for a while though, my boy, and I would to God you could do so again." "Dodd" sat in his chair shedding bitter tears; he began feebly: "Help me this once," he begged, "and before God, I promise you I will never give you cause to be ashamed of me again." "Keep your pledges to yourself," returned Mr. Bright. "I want none of them. They are of no value whatever. You have come to a time now when you must do something more than pledge, though there was a time when your word was good, and I would have taken it, unquestioned, on any occasion. But that time is past. It may come again, but the chances are against it." "You are making me out a monster," interlarded "Dodd," with an attempt at injured innocence in his voice. "And that is just what you are," said Mr. Bright. "You have grown out of all semblance to the true type of a man. You are wicked, deceitful, weak, vacillating, and untruthful. So long as you retain these qualities there is no hope for you. Perhaps a punishment of a term in jail may serve to bring you to a sense of your condition. If it will, it is the best thing that can happen to you. Anyhow, I am willing to see it tried." "So you will not give me money to pay my fine?" groaned "Dodd." "Not one cent," again answered Mr. Bright, as he showed the young man to the door. CHAPTER XXII. As they walked through the hall, however, "Dodd" dragging himself along reluctantly, a kindlier mood took possession of the school teacher. He paused, and, turning to the young man, said: "See here. I have a plan that has just come to me, and I will give you the benefit of it. I am convinced that you will never be any better than you are now if you continue to live in this city. Your companions are here, and so are your old haunts and associations. I will do this for you. I will go to your room with you and help you get together whatever clothing you have. Then I will go with you to the depot, and will buy you a ticket to the farthest point from here that ten dollars will take you to. I don't want to know where that place is. I don't want ever to see you or hear from you again, unless you are a different man. I want to give you one more chance to stand on your own feet. That is all I have to say. You may take it or leave it, as you will." "Dodd" hesitated a minute, and then said: "I'll take it." "Very well," replied Mr. Bright, putting on his coat and hat; "I am ready, and will go with you now." "I might say good-bye to your family," said "Dodd"; "they have been so kind to me." "I prefer that you should not," replied Mr. Bright. "I have no desire to have you know them further. You have forfeited all claim to their respect, or regard, or courtesy even, and if you never redeem yourself, I do not care to have them see you again!" It was a terrible thrust. It was like a sword in the bones to the recipient of the cutting words. "Dodd" reeled under them as though smitten with a veritable blade of steel. But they were doing good work for this abnormal young man. These cuts, made by the sword of truth, when wielded by the hands of Mr. Bright, laid open to "Dodd" Weaver the secret recesses of his own soul, and he saw there such foulness as he had never before suspected. Not one word had his former teacher said to him which was not true. His final refusal to permit him to say adieu to his family, "Dodd" felt was just and strictly in accordance with his deserts. This hurled him down to where he belonged, and made him realize what a wretch, what an outcast, he was. Don't you suppose, good people, that it would be a great deal better, all around, if we each one got what we really deserve just when we deserve it? But we don't; and so we flatter ourselves that because the desert does not come to-day it will not come to-morrow, not next day, and we hope it will never come. And so we keep on in our wrong ways. The book has it: "Because sentence against a wicked work is not executed speedily, therefore the hearts of men are fully set in them to do evil." This was written a long time ago, but it is as true to-day as it ever was. I think that even the most confirmed skeptic would admit the truth of the passage. So Mr. Bright went with "Dodd" to his lodgings, helped him pack, and got him to the depot. They escaped the police. This was not a hard thing to do. It seldom is, if one has really been doing wrong. "Here is ten dollars," said Mr. Bright to the ticket agent. "I want you to give me a ticket to a point the farthest away from the city possible for that money." "What line?" inquired the somewhat surprised official. "I don't know, and I don't want to know," returned Mr. Bright. "I want a ticket such as I have described, and I want you to tell me which train to take to reach the destination, though I don't want to know what the destination is." The agent looked puzzled for a minute, but as the bill was a good one, and other passengers were waiting, he picked out a ticket, stamped it, and thrust it out under the glass, with the remark: "Take the train that leaves from the other side of the middle platform." Mr. Bright folded the ticket without looking at it, and taking "Dodd's" arm, started for the train, which was already waiting. As they went along, "Dodd" said: "Let me see where I am going to, please!" "Not now," returned his guide, and they boarded the train. The conductor came in presently, and to him Mr. Bright spoke in a subdued tone. "Here is a ticket for this young man," he said. "I want you to take it, and see to it that he reaches the destination that this piece of paper calls for. Don't ask me what that is. Don't let me know. But take the ticket, and do as I ask." The official looked wise for a minute, then took the ticket and passed on. "Dodd" and Mr. Bright sat in the same seat in the car till the train was ready to go. Not much was said; for the time of words was not then. But just as the bell rang for leaving, the elder man took the hand of the younger, and clasped it almost passionately. The eyes of the two met. "Dodd" remembered the day when they walked to school together, hand in hand. "My boy," whispered Mr. Bright, "if ever the time comes when you can stand on your own feet, let me hear from you and know of your success; but if you continue in the old way, let the world be as a grave to you, so far as I am concerned; and never let me hear from you again. But," he added, as he turned away, "I faintly trust the larger hope." And without another word he left the car. He went directly home. It was many a year before he referred again to that day. There was a hissing of pent-up air as the engineer tried the brakes before moving out his train, then a slow motion of starting, then away and away. "Dodd" Weaver sank back in his seat, and pulled his cap over his eyes. He did not cast one lingering look behind. Indeed, what had he to care for, in all that great city? "I faintly trust the larger hope," repeated "Dodd" to himself, as the train rushed along. He remembered the day when they had read the lines in the reading class of Mr. Bright's school. CHAPTER XXIII. On a Christmas morning, ten years after the scenes recounted in the last chapter, Mr. Bright was surprised to receive a letter addressed in "Dodd's" well known characters. He broke the seal without comment, wondering what story of destiny he held in his hand. A thrill of joy suffused him as, on unfolding the sheets of the bulky manuscript, a bill of exchange fell upon the table. It was the most favorable sign he could have desired. It augured all that followed. [Remark (as reads the foot-note in Scott's bible): The first sign of regeneration in a man who has been a dead-beat is the payment of his honest debts.] Mr. Bright opened the letter and read as follows: New York City, December 22, 188-- Mr. Charles Bright. Dear Sir:--Enclosed I hand you exchange, payable to your order, to the amount of $237.45, the sum due you for money advanced to me years ago, with legal interest on the same. Respectfully, D. W. Weaver. This was the first page of the epistle, brief, business-like, and to the point. But having thus entered a voucher for his manhood, and, as it were, won the right to speak further, on the second page there was a continuation as follows: Beloved Teacher: What precedes will tell you where I am. You told me the last time I saw you, that if ever I redeemed myself, you would be glad to hear from me. I believe you, and hence I write. I can never commit to paper all that I have to say to you; words spoken face to face can only tell what is in my heart; but neither the written nor the spoken word can convey to you a tithe of the gratitude I feel for all that you have done for me. As I look back I can hardly understand how you ever bore with me as you did, with me who abused you to such unbounded lengths. Nevertheless, the more I fail to understand this, the more thankful I am to you. I am sure you will care to know something of my career in the past ten years, and I briefly relate the principal items of interest. And first, let me say, I have entirely quit the use of liquor. From the day when you left me in the car, limp as a whipped dog, to this very hour, I have not tasted intoxicating drink. I mention this first, because a breaking away from that habit was the first step toward a better life. Had I not stopped there, short off, I know that all hope of further reformation would have been vain. A drunkard has nothing, absolutely nothing, on which to build a new life, so long as he continues to be a slave to drink. But with the abandonment of this vice, I began to change my other habits, and by degrees I have gained a mastery over them. It has been a long, hard fight, and I am well aware that there are battles yet to be waged; but I have reached the point where I have ceased to be afraid of myself--of my baser nature. As Cardinal Wolsey says to Cromwell: "I know myself now." You remember we used to read the lines out of the old reader when I went to school to you at Emburg. I cannot tell you how much I thank God for the help that has come to me. But I am forced to say that you are entitled to almost equal thanks. And, indeed, as I review the past, I know that without you, even the God of heaven could not have received the gratitude I now give Him. For you were the means by which I was lead to a point where I could receive His aid. It is you, therefore, my benefactor and my noble friend, whom I have first to thank. I say this in simple justice to you, who bore with me so long and patiently, and who remained faithful to me when it seemed to me you were terribly unjust and cruel. But to my history: When you left me on the train, I cared next to nothing as to what became of me. I don't believe I should have lifted a finger to save my life had the train been wrecked. I would not deliberately take my own life, but if it could have been taken from me I should have given it up without a regret. I cared not for man, and as for God, I neither feared such a being nor believed in his existence. But your words stung me like burning lances. They were true, every one of them, and the "Other Fellow"--indeed, I have not forgotten him, nor has he forgotten me, and for this I have to thank you, also,--took them up and kept saying them over to me, as I rolled along to my destination, which as yet I did not know. I tried to be rid of them, but it was useless. The truth had been told me for once in my life, and I saw myself as I really was. It was not an inviting sight, but it is one I should have been forced to see, long before. I reached the end of my journey, a place which, as you would not know its name then, it is perhaps well that you should never know. I had no money, and I was hungry. Ordinarily, I should have struck some one for a loan, but your words rang in my ears, and I would not do it. I applied for a job of work that I knew I could do. I got it, and did it as well as I knew how to. I hide my face even now, for very shame, as I confess that it was the first time, for years, that I had done as well as I knew how to do. I got my pay, and ate an honestly earned, though frugal supper, that evening. I think you will understand me when I tell you that I went to bed happier that night than I had before for a long time. The "Other Fellow" said, "It is all right, Old Boy! Stand by!" I did "stand by," and I have been standing by ever since. And first, as I learn you are still teaching, I want to ask you never to give up your boys, nor your way of managing them. You can never know how much you did for me in the Emburg school. Those old days come back to me almost every hour, and their essence is a part of my being. I know that you must have thought, ten thousand times, that all your work was lost, and counted for nothing. You had every reason in the world for thinking so, and doubtless did think so. But I want to beg of you now, in the name of the new life that has eventually come to me through the medium of those old school days, not to be discouraged. I tell you, my dear teacher, that not one of such words and deeds will fail, at last, of reaching the purpose for which it was primarily intended. So please be patient with the boys, and keep on as you were, years ago, and do not be discouraged because it is long till the harvest. It will ripen in due time. The reapers shall come also, bearing their sheaves, and it is at your feet that they will lay them down. But I wish especially to thank you for your wisdom and faithfulness in our last interview. On that occasion you struck the key note to the whole situation when you virtually kicked me out of your house, and told me that if I ever got up I must climb for myself. That was a new doctrine for me then, but I understand it thoroughly now. It is sound doctrine too, though it takes long to see it so. You were wise, too, to watch me till I got out of town on that September afternoon. If you had given me ten dollars at your home and told me to buy a ticket, I doubt if I should have done it, even if I had promised to, and meant to do so when I promised. The chances are I should have spent the money for drink, and then have gone to jail. That is the way of a man such as I was then. An habitual drunkard is not to be trusted, not even by himself. I shudder as I write these things, and I only reveal them to you, hoping that they may, perchance, be the means of your helping some one else. I never refer to these scenes to others; in fact, no one here knows of these painful pages in my history. You will care to know what I am doing. I have a studio here on Broadway, and am painting portraits. The old gift, that you were the first to discover in me, when you said a kind word for my burlesque sketch of you on the board, at Emburg (how often I do get back to that old school-room), at last proved my salvation. Gradually I found that I had talent in this direction, and I am making the most of it. Carefully and honestly I took up the work, and with perseverance I have attained my present success. I have studied with the best artists here, and my work is well received. At the latest exhibition at the Academy I was the winner of the first prize, and this fact has already brought me more business than I can well attend to. I am delighted with my work, but shall never rest satisfied till a picture of yourself hangs in my room where it can watch me as I pursue my daily task. Because, it is you who inspired me even to try to be a man and to do something in the world. The credit is yours. My father and mother are still in Illinois. I have communicated with them several times recently. The children are grown, and several of them have left home. I hope to see the family all together on the day you receive this letter. I may also see you before I return to New York. I cannot close this letter without telling you further of the change that has come to me in my religious and spiritual life. You know how blasphemously unbelieving I was ten years ago. I thought then that I had full cause for being so, but I was wrong there, as in all else. I wandered far and long, but as I began to do what I believe was God's will, I began to know the doctrine, as the book says we shall. I am happy now in a religious life which I once believed it impossible for any one to experience. These are the main features in my life. So now I wish you adieu, and pray the good Father in heaven to bless you all the days of your life. Your calling is the most noble in all the world, and I do you but justice when I say that you are wholly worthy of your profession. Remember me to your family, which I trust I may now have your permission to mingle with again (ah! that day); and believe me, ever sincerely yours, "Dodd." Mr. Bright read the letter through to the end, then fell on his knees and in silence rejoiced and gave thanks. You may talk about rewards, good people, but will you measure out in dollars about the worth of feelings that filled the heart of Mr. Charles Bright on this occasion? It is only in the coin of the everlasting kingdom that such a result can be told. The next day the bank passed $237.45 to the credit of the schoolmaster. The check was good! There was a joyous dinner at Elder Weaver's house that same Christmas day, the family being united again, the prodigal returned, and bringing with him a wife newly wedded. Leave them at dinner. Only God and the members of the household should look upon such a scene. "Dodd" and his wife also spent a day with Mr. Bright, on their way to their home in the metropolis. It was a joyous occasion, all hearts overflowing with such pleasure as there is among the angels, over one sinner that repenteth. CHAPTER XXIV. In a snug home in a suburb of New York City dwells "Dodd" Weaver with his faithful and devoted wife. They have one child, a boy, named Charles Bright. Their home is happy and full of the sunlight of love. "Dodd" is devoted to his profession, and serves it faithfully. He has a marked talent in his calling, and is succeeding well. He may never become famous, but what is fame? He is earning an honest and excellent living, and that is much for one with his start in life. He looks over the path he has come with thankfulness as well as with horror. He hopes, too, that when his own son shall come to go by the highway of life, he may be able to take him by the hand and lead him along the dangerous places that he found along the road, or, at least, to point out the pitfalls for the child, and so save him from the evil that so sorely, beset himself. But every day, the thing that now looms up through the life of this now busy man is the personal character and influence of his old teacher, Mr. Bright. This never leaves him nor forsakes him. It is like an anchor to his soul. It saved him from total wreck in his voyage of life. It held him from ruin when the waves and billows swept over him. Why should he not revere such a source of help; such an everlasting tower of strength? But his memory of the machine brings no such consolation or help. Why should it? Answer, if you can, you who have faith in the mill itself, or whose business it is to make it grind. As "Dodd" touches his brush to a bit of ruddy color on the pallet at his side and tinges the cheeks of a beautiful face that smiles from the easel before him, I draw the curtain that shuts him out of your sight and mine, beloved, and that closes him into the sacred radiance of his own happy home. Let us leave him there within the veil, within the veil. ADDENDA [For School Teachers Only.] As I vexed no one with a preface at the beginning of this story, I allow myself the privilege of a few reflections at its close. If the Evolution of "Dodd" has seemed slow, or if it has appeared, sometimes, as if the life, whose growth I have traced, began on a very low plane and progressed almost imperceptibly, let it be remembered that this is the ordinary course of nature. It is the way of the world. From the primordial germ to the soul of a man is a long, long distance; and often and often, in the upward march of life, the path seems to turn upon itself and go backward. It is even so in the life of every one who eventually reaches the goal. The way to final victory is marked by a succession of advances, battles, and retreats. This also is ordained. The physical body of man, from the time of its inception till the close of its career, passes through all the varied stages of animal life--the germ, the cell, and the changes that these are subject to in animal existence--that is, being the highest form of material life, man bears, in his own body, marks of all previous conditions. Even so, in his spiritual body, each individual exemplifies "The total world since life began," and every soul must span the space from the first man, Adam, to the quickened spirit of a son of God. People whose business it is to develop human souls should remember that. Again: How to help weak and tempted humanity so as to build it up, to make it strong and able to resist temptation, is a problem that has never yet been fully solved. Whether it is better to hold up an awful example before the gaze of the suffering ones, and to relate to them the certainty of a like conclusion to their own career if a like course of life is persisted in; whether it is better to point out the success that some tempted and tortured men have reached, by devious ways that led through flame and darkness, and from which the victims have escaped only as by fire, like brands plucked from the burning,--which of these ways is the better, heaven only knows and has never revealed. It is well enough, though, to remember that the Master was tempted in all points, like as we are, and that it is said of the saints in glory that they came to their reward through great tribulation. There can be no greater tribulation than for one to be born with a nature that is intrinsically false, fickle, passionate, impulsive--in a word, such a nature as "Dodd" naturally possessed--a nature far away from the line of truth and right; a nature such as multitudes of boys are born with in this wide, wide world of ours. To guide safely into the port of rest souls thus weighted down with depravity is a task for gods and men to compass--if they can. The chances of wreck are many fold to one; but now and then the harbor is made, thank God! It has seemed best to me to tell the tale of one such voyage of life. There is no denying that the journey was a perilous one, such a one as would probably wreck ninety-nine out of one hundred crafts attempting it; yet, for all of that, there is joy over the one that comes through. I am aware that "Dodd" Weaver has had more chances than any one person ought ever reasonably to expect. But Providence is sometimes bountiful in opportunities, even to prodigality. "Dodd" doubtless had more chances than he ought to have had, in the strict line of justice; but we must all plead guilty to the same charge, in a greater or less degree. It is likely, however, that no more opportunities have come to any of us than were necessary to bring us safely to our journey's close. "There is a divinity that shapes our ends." I am glad "Dodd" Weaver had as many chances as he had. I am glad he didn't need any more of the same sort, for they might not have been forthcoming. There is such a thing as being too late. My hope for you, beloved, is that you, too, may have chances, and that you may take them while you can. I would that you might reach the goal of success in life by a shorter route than "Dodd" had to take; but if not, then may you come by the way he trod. The road is not unused, you will not be alone in your travels. One last word regarding the public school, for whose sake all this has been set down: In the evolution of character, in these last days, this institution has come to be a most important factor. To it has been assigned a task equal to, if not exceeding that of any other agency that has to deal with human nature. It is more important than can be set forth that it do its work well. It is not so doing now, however, to nearly the extent of which it is capable. Too much it has become a mere machine, a mill for grinding out graduates. As such it is unworthy its high estate. As such it now exists, in multitudes of cases. As such it should no longer be tolerated. From such a condition it must be redeemed. The system has largely lost sight of the grandest thing in all the world, namely, the individual soul. It addresses itself to humanity collectively, as a herd. In this it makes a fatal mistake, one that must be corrected, and that speedily. And for you, teachers, you who have the destinies of these schools in your hands, keep your eyes and ears open, and your souls alive to the possibilities of your profession. Let no machine nor method crush out your own individuality, and suffer no power to induce, or to force you to make a business of turning a crank that runs a mill whose office it is to grind humanity to one common form, each individual like every other, interchangeable like the parts of a government musket! Understand, first, last, and all the time, that characters cannot be manufactured like pins, by the million, and all alike; neither can salvation be handled in job lots. It is also true that wholesaling education can never be made a success. Because, personal character is all there is in this world that amounts to anything in the final resolution of things. It is not money, nor governments, nor machines, that are of value in the last analysis. It is character! It is individuality! It is men! To secure these things this old world turns over once in twenty-four hours, and swings around the sun in yearly revolution. For these, tides ebb and flow, the land brings forth, and the clouds float in the sky. To these all forces are but servants. For these Christ died. And like begets like, in the public schools as elsewhere. It is character in the teacher that begets character in the pupil. The machine makes after its own kind also, and both it and its products can be measured with a line. The soul cannot be measured with a line. So the ultimatum is personality, individuality, and character, in every teacher and pupil in the public schools, and freedom of each to develop in his own way, and not after a pattern made and prepared by a pattern maker. If the public school live long, its friends must take these items into account and act on them. It is its only salvation. THE END. 
14567	----	School Efficiency Monographs THE RECONSTRUCTED SCHOOL by FRANCIS B. PEARSON Superintendent of Public Instruction for Ohio Author of _The Evolution of the Teacher_, _The High School Problem_, _Reveries Of A Schoolmaster_, and _The Vitalized School_ World Book Company 1921 PREFACE In our school processes there are many constants which have general recognition as such by thoughtful people. On the other hand, there are many variables which should be subjected to close scrutiny to the end that they may be made to yield forth the largest possible returns upon the investment of time and effort. These phases of school procedure constitute the real problem in the work of reconstruction, and the following pages represent an effort to point the way toward larger and better results in the realm of these variables. In general, the aims and purposes of the worker determine the quality of the work done. If, therefore, this volume succeeds in stimulating teachers to elevate the goals of their endeavors, it will have accomplished its purpose.--F.B.P. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A PRELIMINARY SURVEY OF THE TASK BEFORE THE SCHOOL II. THE PAST AS RELATED TO THE PRESENT III. THE FUTURE AS RELATED TO THE PRESENT IV. INTEGRITY V. APPRECIATION VI. ASPIRATION VII. INITIATIVE VIII. IMAGINATION IX. REVERENCE X. SENSE OF RESPONSIBILITY XI. LOYALTY XII. DEMOCRACY XIII. SERENITY XIV. LIFE INDEX THE RECONSTRUCTED SCHOOL CHAPTER ONE A PRELIMINARY SURVEY OF THE TASK BEFORE THE SCHOOL When people come to think alike, they tend to act alike; unison in thinking begets unison in action. It is often said that the man and wife who have spent years together have grown to resemble each other; but the resemblance is probably in actions rather than in looks; the fact is that they have had common goals of thinking throughout the many years they have lived together and so have come to act in unison. The wise teacher often adjusts difficult situations in her school by inducing the pupils to think toward a common goal. In their zeal for a common enterprise the children forget their differences and attain unison in action as the result of their unison in thinking. The school superintendent knows full well that if he can bring teachers, pupils, and parents to think toward a common goal, he will soon have unity of action. When people catch step mentally, they do the same physically, and as they move forward along the paths of their common thinking, their ways converge until, in time, they find themselves walking side by side in amiable and agreeable converse. In the larger world outside the school, community enterprises help to generate unity of thinking and consequent unity of action. The pastor finds it one of his larger tasks to establish a focus for the thinking of his people in order to induce concerted action. If the enterprise is one of charity, the neighbors soon find themselves vying with one another in zeal and good will. In the zest of a common purpose they see one another with new eyes and find delight in working with people whose society they once avoided. They can now do teamwork, because they are all thinking toward the same high and worthy goal; lines of demarcation are obliterated and spirits blend in a common purpose. Unity of action becomes inevitable as soon as thinking becomes unified. Coöperation follows close upon the heels of community thinking. In the presence of a great calamity, rivalries, differences of creed and party, and long-established animosities disappear in the zeal for beneficent action. In the case of fire or flood people are at one in their actions because they are thinking toward the common goal of rescue. They act together only when they think together. Indeed, coöperation is an impossibility apart from unified thinking. Herein lies the efficacy of leadership. It is the province of the leader to induce unity of thinking, to animate with a common purpose, knowing that united action will certainly ensue. If he can cause the thinking of people to center upon a focal point, he establishes his claim to leadership. What is true of individuals is true, also, of nations. Before they can act in concert, they must think in concert, and, to do this, they must acquire the ability to think toward common goals. If, to illustrate, all nations should come to think toward the goal of democracy, there would ensue a closer sympathy among them, and, in time, modifications of their forms of government would come about as a natural result of their unity of thinking. Again, if all nations of the world should set up the quality of courage as one of the objectives of their thinking they would be drawn closer together in their feelings and in their conduct. If the parents and teachers of all these nations should strive to exorcise fear in the training of children, this purpose would constitute a bond of sympathy among them and they would be encouraged by the reflection that this high purpose was animating parents and teachers the world around. Courage, of course, is of the spirit and typifies many spiritual qualities that characterize civilization of high grade. It is quite conceivable that these qualities of the spirit may become the goals of thinking in all lands. Thus the nations would be brought into a relation of closer harmony. Had a score of boys shared the experience of the lad who grew into the likeness of the Great Stone Face, their differences and disparities would have disappeared in the zeal of a common purpose and they would have become a unified organization in thinking toward the same goal. We cannot hope to achieve the brotherhood of man until the nations of the world have directed their thinking toward the same goals. What these goals shall be must be determined by competent leadership through the process of education. When we think in unison we are taken out of ourselves and become merged in the spirit of the goal toward which we are thinking. If we were to agree upon courage as one of the spiritual qualities that should characterize all nations and organize all educational forces for the development of this quality, we should find the nations coming closer to one another with this quality as a common possession. Courage gives freedom, and in this freedom the nations would touch spiritual elbows and would thus become spiritual confederates and comrades. By generating and developing this and other spiritual qualities the nations would become merged and unity of feeling and actions would surely ensue. Since love is the greatest thing in the world, this quality may well be made the major goal toward which the thinking of all nations shall be directed. When all peoples come to think and yearn toward this goal, hatred and strife will be banished and peace and righteousness will be enthroned in the hearts of men. When there has been developed in all the nations of the earth an ardent love for the true, the beautiful, and the good, civilization will step up to a higher level and we shall see the dawn of unity. We who are indulging in dreams of the brotherhood of man must enlarge our concept of society before we can hope to have our dreams come true. It is a far cry from society as a strictly American affair to society as a world affair. The teaching of our schools has had a distinct tendency to restrict our notion of society to that within our own national boundaries. In this we convict ourselves of provincialism. Society is far larger than America, or China, or Russia, or all the islands of the sea in combination. It may entail some straining at the mental leash to win this concept of society, but it must be won as a condition precedent to a fair and just estimate of what the function of education really is and what it is of which the schoolhouse must be an exponent. Society must be thought of as including all nations, tribes, and tongues. In our thinking, the word "society" must suggest the hut that nestles on the mountain-side as well as the palace that fronts the stately boulevard. It must suggest the cape that indents the sea as well as the vast plain that stretches out from river to river. And it must suggest the toiler at his task, the employer at his desk, the man of leisure in his home, the voyager on the ocean, the soldier in the ranks, the child at his lessons, and the mother crooning her baby to sleep. We descant volubly upon the subjects of citizenship and civilization but, as yet, have achieved no adequate definition of either of the terms upon which we expatiate so fluently. Our books teem with admonitions to train for citizenship in order that we may attain civilization of better quality. But, in all this, we imply American citizenship and American civilization, and here, again, we show forth our provincialism. But even in this restricted field we arrive at our hazy concept of a good citizen by the process of elimination. We aver that a good citizen does not do this and does not do that; yet the teachers in our schools would find it difficult to describe a good citizen adequately, in positive terms. Our notions of good citizenship are more or less vague and misty and, therefore, our concept of civilization is equally so. Granting, however, that we may finally achieve satisfactory definitions of citizenship and civilization as applying to our own country, it does not follow that the same definitions will obtain in other lands. A good citizen according to the Chinese conception may differ widely from a good citizen in the United States. Topography, climate, associations, occupations, traditions, and racial tendencies must all be taken into account in formulating a definition. Before we can gain a right concept of good citizenship as a world affair we must make a thoughtful study of world conditions. In so doing, we may have occasion to modify and correct some of our own preconceived notions and thus extend the horizon of our education. What society is and should be in the world at large; what good citizenship is and ought to be in the whole world; and what civilization is, should be, and may be as a world enterprise--these considerations are the foundation stones upon which we must build the temple of education now in the process of reconstruction. Otherwise the work will be narrow, illiberal, spasmodic, and sporadic. It must be possible to arrive at a common denominator of the concepts of society, citizenship, and civilization as pertaining to all nations; it must be possible to contrive a composite of all these concepts to which all nations will subscribe; and it must be possible to discover some fundamental principles that will constitute a focal point toward which the thinking of all nations can be directed. Once this focal point is determined and the thinking of the world focused upon it, the work of reconstruction has been inaugurated. But the task is not a simple one by any means; quite the contrary, for it is world-embracing in its scope. However difficult the task, it is, none the less, altogether alluring and worthy. It is quite within the range of possibilities for a book to be written, even a textbook, that would serve a useful purpose and meet a distinct need in the schools of all lands. At this point the question of languages obtrudes itself. When people think in unison a common language is reduced to the plane of a mere convenience, not a necessity. The buyer and the seller may not speak the same language but, somehow, they contrive to effect a satisfactory adjustment because their thinking is centered upon the same objective. When thinking becomes cosmopolitan, conduct becomes equally so. If this be conceded, then it is quite within the range of possibilities to formulate a course of study for all the schools of the world, if only we set up as goals the qualities that will make for the well-being of people in all lands. True, the means may differ in different lands, but, even so, the ends will remain constant. A thousand people may set out from their homes with Rome as their destination. They will use all means of travel and speak many languages as they journey forward, but their destination continues constant and they will use the best means at their command to attain the common goal. Similarly, if we set up the quality of loyalty as one of our educational goals, the means may differ but the goal does not change and, therefore, the nations will be actuated by a common purpose in their educational endeavors. The one thing needful for the execution of this ambitious program of securing concerted thinking is to have in our schools teachers who are world-minded, who think in world units. Such teachers, and only such, can plan for world education and world affairs, and bring their plans to a successful issue. Some teachers seem able to think only of a schoolroom; others of a building; others of a town or township; still others of a state; some of a country; and fewer yet of the world as a single thing. A person can be no larger than his unit of thinking. One who thinks in small units convicts himself of provincialism and soon becomes intolerant. Such a person arrogates to himself superiority and inclines to feel somewhat contemptuous of people outside the narrow limits of his thinking. If he thinks his restricted horizon bounds all that is worth knowing, he will not exert himself to climb to a higher level in order that he may gain a wider view. He is disdainful and intolerant of whatever lies beyond his horizon, and his attitude, if not his words, repeats the question of the culpable Cain, "Am I my brother's keeper?" He is encased in an armor that is impervious to ordinary appeal. He is satisfied with himself and asks merely to be let alone. He is quite content to be held fast bound in his traditional moorings without any feeling of sympathy for the world as a whole. The reverse side of the picture reveals the teacher who is world-minded. Such a teacher is never less than magnanimous; intolerance has no place in his scheme of life; he is in sympathy with all nations in their progress toward light and right; and he is interested in all world progress whether in science, in art, in literature, in economics, in industry, or in education. To this end he is careful to inform himself as to world movements and notes with keen interest the trend and development of civilization. Being a world-citizen himself, he strives, in his school work, to develop in his pupils the capacity and the desire for world-citizenship. With no abatement of thoroughness in the work of his school, he still finds time to look up from his tasks to catch the view beyond his own national boundaries. If the superintendent who is world-minded has the hearty coöperation of teachers who are also world-minded, together they will be able to develop a plan of education that is world-wide. To produce teachers of this type may require a readjustment and reconstruction of the work of colleges and training schools to the end that the teachers they send forth may measure up to the requirements of this world-wide concept of education. But these institutions can hardly hope to be immune to the process of reconstruction. They can hardly hope to cite the past as a guide for the future, for traditional lines are being obliterated and new lines are being marked out for civilization, including education in its larger and newer import. CHAPTER TWO THE PAST AS RELATED TO THE PRESENT In a significant degree the present is the heritage of the past, and any critical appraisement of the present must take cognizance of the influence of the past. That there are weak places in our present civilization, no one will deny; nor will it be denied that the sources of some of these may be found in the past. We have it on good authority that "the fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children's teeth are set on edge." Had the eating of sour grapes in the past been more restricted, the present generation would stand less in need of dentistry. When we take an inventory of the people of the present who are defective in body, in mind, or in spirit, it seems obvious that the consumption of sour grapes, in the past, must have been quite extensive. If the blood of the grandfather was tainted, it is probable that the blood of the grandchild is impure. The defects of the present would seem to constitute a valid indictment against the educational agencies of the past. These agencies are not confined to the school but include law, medicine, civics, sociology, government, hygiene, eugenics, home life, and physical training. Had all these phases of education done their perfect work in the past, the present would be in better case. It seems a great pity that it required a world war to render us conscious of many of the defects of society. The draft board made discoveries of facts that seem to have eluded the home, the school, the family physician, and the boards of health. Many of these discoveries are most disquieting and reflect unfavorably upon some of the educational practices of the past. The many cases of physical unfitness and the fewer cases of athletic hearts seem to have escaped the attention of physical directors and athletic coaches, not to mention parents and physicians. Seeing that one fourth of our young men have been pronounced physically unsound, it behooves us to turn our gaze toward the past to determine, if possible, wherein our educational processes have been at fault. The thoughtful person who stands on the street-corner watching the promiscuous throng pass by and making a careful appraisement of their physical, mental, and spiritual qualities, will not find the experience particularly edifying. He will note many facts that will depress rather than encourage and inspire. In the throng he will see many men and women, young and old, who, as specimens of physical manhood and womanhood, are far from perfect. He will see many who are young in years but who are old in looks and physical bearing. They creep or shuffle along as if bowed down with the weight of years, lacking the graces of buoyancy and abounding youth. They are bent, gnarled, shriveled, faded, weak, and wizened. Their faces reveal the absence of the looks that betoken hope, courage, aspiration, and high purpose. Their lineaments and their gait show forth a ghastly forlornness that excites pity and despair. They seem the veriest derelicts, tossed to and fro by the currents of life without hope of redemption. Their whole bearing indicates that they are languid, morbid, misanthropic, and nerveless. They seem ill-nourished as well as mentally and spiritually starved. They seem the victims of inherited or acquired weaknesses that stamp them as belonging among the physically unfit. If the farmer should discover among his animals as large a percentage of unfitness and imperfection, he would reach the conclusion at once that something was radically wrong and would immediately set on foot well-thought-out plans to rectify the situation. But, seeing that these derelicts are human beings and not farm stock, we bestow upon them a sneer, or possibly a pittance by way of alms, and pass on our complacent ways. Looking upon the imperfect passersby, the observer is reminded of the tens of thousands of children who are defective in mind and body and are hidden away from public gaze, a charge upon the resources of the state. Such a setting forth of the less agreeable side of present conditions would seem out of place, if not actually impertinent, were we inclined to ignore the fact that diagnosis must precede treatment. The surgeon knows full well that there will be pain, but he is comforted by the reflection that restoration to health will succeed the pain. We need to look squarely at the facts as they are in order to determine what must be done to avert a repetition in the future. We have seen the sins of the fathers visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation and still retained our complacency. We preach temperance to the young men of our day, but fail to set forth the fact that right living on their part will make for the well-being of their grandchildren. We exhibit our thoroughbred live stock at our fairs and plume ourselves upon our ability to produce stock of such quality. In the case of live stock we know that the present is the product of the past, but seem less ready to acknowledge the same fact as touching human animals. We may know that our ancestors planted thorns and yet we seem surprised that we cannot gather a harvest of grapes, and we would fain gather figs from a planting of thistles. But this may not be. We harvest according to the planting of our ancestors, and, with equal certainty, if we eat sour grapes the teeth of our descendants will surely be put on edge. If we are to reconstruct our educational processes we must make a critical survey of the entire situation that we may be fully advised of the magnitude of the problem to which we are to address ourselves. We may not blink the facts but must face them squarely; otherwise we shall not get on. We may take unction to ourselves for our philanthropic zeal in caring for our unfortunates in penal and eleemosynary institutions, but that will not suffice. We must frankly consider by what means the number of these unfortunates may be reduced. If we fail to do this we convict ourselves of cowardice or impotence. We pile up our millions in buildings for the insane, the feeble-minded, the vicious, the epileptic, and plume ourselves upon our munificence. But if all these unfortunates could be redeemed from their thralldom, and these countless millions turned back into the channels of trade, civilization would take on a new meaning. Here is one of the problems that calls aloud to education for a solution and will not be denied. One of the avowed purposes of education is to lift society to a higher plane of thinking and acting, and it is always and altogether pertinent to make an inventory to discover if this laudable purpose is being accomplished. Such an inventory can be made only by an analyst; the work cannot be delegated either to a pessimist or to an optimist. In his efforts to determine whether society is advancing or receding, the analyst often makes disquieting discoveries. It must be admitted by the most devoted and patriotic American that our civilization includes many elements that can truly be denominated frivolous, superficial, artificial, and inconsequential. As a people, we seek to be entertained, but fail to make a nice distinction between entertainment and amusement. War, it is true, has caused us to think more soberly and feel more deeply; but the bizarre, the gaudy, and the superficial still make a strong appeal to us. We are quite happy to wear paste diamonds, provided only that they sparkle. So long have we been substituting the fictitious for the genuine that we have contracted the habit of loose, fictitious thinking. So much does the show element appeal to us that we incline to parade even our troubles. Simplicity and sincerity, whether in dress, in speech, or in conduct, have so long been foreign to our daily living and thinking that we incline to style these qualities as old-fogyish. A hundred or more young men came to a certain city to enlist for the war. As they marched out through the railway station they rent the air with whooping and yells and other manifestations of boisterous conduct. These young fellows may have hearts of gold, but their real manhood was overlaid with a veneer of rudeness that could not commend them to the admiration of cultivated persons. Inside the station was another group of young men in khaki who were quiet, dignified, and decorous. The contrast between the two groups was most striking, and the bystanders were led to wonder whether it requires a world-war to teach our young men manners and whether the schools and homes have abdicated in favor of the cantonment in the teaching of deportment. In the schools and the homes that are to be in our good land we may well hope that decorum will be emphasized and magnified; for decorum is evermore the fruitage of intellectuality and genuine culture. As a nation, we have been prodigal of our resources and, especially, of our time. We have failed to regard our leisure hours as a liability but, like the lotus eaters, have dallied in the realm of pleasure. Like children at play, we have gone on our pleasure-seeking ways all heedless of the clock, and, when misfortune came and necessity arose, many of us were unwilling and more of us unable to engage in the work of production. In some localities legislation was invoked to urge us toward the fields and gardens. We have shown ourselves a wasteful people, and in the wake of our wastefulness have followed a dismal train of disasters, cold, hunger, and many another form of distress. Deplore and repent of our prodigality as we may, the effects abide to remind us of our decline from the high plane of industry, frugality, and conservation of leisure. Nor can we hope to avert a repetition of this crisis unless education comes in to guide our minds and hands aright. Again, we have been wont to estimate men by what they have rather than by what they are, and to regard as of value only such things as are quoted in the markets. Wall Street takes precedence over the university and to the millionaire we accord the front seat even in some of our churches. We accept the widow's mite but do not inscribe her name upon the roll of honor. We give money prizes for work in our schools and thus strive to commercialize the things of the mind and of the spirit. We have laid waste our forests, impoverished our fields, and defiled our landscapes to stimulate increased activity in our clearing-houses. Like Jason of old, we have wandered far in quest of the golden fleece. We welcome the rainbow, not for its beauty but for the bag of gold at its end. We seek to scale the heights of Olympus by stairways of gold, fondly nursing the conceit that, once we have scaled these heights, we shall be equal to the gods. To indulge in even such a brief review of some of the weak places and defections of society is not an agreeable task, but diagnosis must necessarily precede the application of remedies. If we are to reconstruct education in order to effect a reconstruction of society we must know our problem in advance, that we may proceed in a rational way. Reconstruction cannot be made permanently effective by haphazard methods. We must visualize clearly the objectives of our endeavors in order to obviate wrong methods and futility. We must have the whole matter laid bare before our eyes or we shall not get on in the work of reconstruction. It were more agreeable to dwell upon our achievements, and they are many, but the process of reconstruction has to do with the affected parts. These must be our special care, these the realm for our kindly surgery and the arts of healing. We need to become acutely conscious that the present will become the past and that there will be a new present which will take on the same qualities that now characterize our present. We need to feel that the future will look back to our present and commend or condemn according to the practices of this generation. And the only way to make a sane and right future is to create a sane and right present. CHAPTER THREE THE FUTURE AS RELATED TO THE PRESENT In planning a journey the one constant is the destination. All the other elements are variable, and, therefore, subordinate. So, also, in planning a course of study. The qualities to be developed through the educational processes are the constants, while the agencies by which these qualities are to be attained are subject to change. The course of study provides for the school activities for the child for a period of twelve years, and it is altogether pertinent to inquire what qualities we hope to develop by means of these school activities. To do this effectively we must visualize the pupil when he emerges from the school period and ask ourselves what qualities we hope to have him possess at the close of this period. If we decide upon such qualities as imagination, initiative, aspiration, appreciation, courage, loyalty, reverence, a sense of responsibility, integrity, and serenity, we have discovered some of the constants toward which all the work of the twelve years must be directed. In planning a course of study toward these constants we do not restrict the scope of the pupil's activities; quite the reverse. We thus enlarge the concept of education both for himself and his teachers and emphasize the fact that education is a continuous process and may not be marked by grades or subjects. For the teachers we establish goals of school endeavor and thus unify and articulate all their efforts. We focus their attention upon the pupil as they would all wish to see him when he completes the work of the school. If children are asked why they go to school, nine out of ten, perhaps, will reply that they go to school to learn arithmetic, grammar, geography, and history. Asked what their big purpose is in teaching, probably three out of five teachers will answer that they are actuated by a desire to cause their pupils to know arithmetic, grammar, geography, and history. One of the other five teachers may echo something out of her past accumulations to the effect that her work is the training for citizenship, and the fifth will say quite frankly that she is groping about, all the while, searching for the answer to that very question. It would be futile to ask the children why they desire knowledge of these subjects and there might be hazard in propounding the same question to the three teachers. They teach arithmetic because it is in the course of study; it is in the course of study because the superintendent put it there; and the superintendent put it there because some other superintendent has it in his course of study. Now arithmetic may, in reality, be one of the best things a child can study; but the child takes it because the teacher prescribes it, and the teacher takes it on faith because the superintendent takes it on faith and she cannot go counter to the dictum of the superintendent. Besides, it is far easier to teach arithmetic than it would be to challenge the right of this subject to a place in the course of study. To most people, including many teachers, arithmetic is but a habit of thinking. They have been contracting this habit through all the years since the beginning of their school experience, until now it seems as inevitable as any other habitual affair. It is quite as much a habit of their thinking as eating, sleeping, or walking. If there were no arithmetic, they argue subconsciously, there could be no school; for arithmetic and school are synonymous. Again, let it be said that there is no thought here of inveighing against arithmetic or any other subject of the curriculum. Not arithmetic in itself, but the arithmetic habit constitutes the incubus, the evil spirit that needs to be exorcised. This arithmetic habit had its origin, doubtless, in the traditional concept of knowledge as power. An adage is not easily controverted or eradicated. The copy-books of the fathers proclaimed boldly that knowledge is power, and the children accepted the dictum as inviolable. If it were true that knowledge is power, the procedure of the schools and the course of conduct of the teachers during all these years would have ample justification. The entire process would seem simplicity itself. So soon as we acquire knowledge we should have power--and power is altogether desirable. The trouble is that we have been confusing knowledge and wisdom in the face of the poet's declaration that "Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, have ofttimes no connection." Our experience should have taught us that many people who have much knowledge are relatively impotent for the reason that they have not learned how to use their knowledge in the way of generating power. Gasoline is an inert substance, but, under well-understood conditions, it affords power. Water is not power, but man has learned how to use it in generating power. Knowledge is convenient and serviceable, but its greatest utility lies in the fact that it can be employed in producing power. We are prone to take our judgments ready-made and have been relying upon the copy-books of the fathers rather than our own reasoning powers. If we had only learned in childhood the distinction between knowledge and wisdom; if we had learned that knowledge is not power but merely potential; and if we had learned that knowledge is but the means to an end and not the end itself, we should have been spared many a delusion and our educational sky would not now be so overcast with clouds. We have been proceeding upon the agreeable assumption that arithmetic, geography, and history are the goals of every school endeavor, the Ultima Thule of every educational quest. The child studies arithmetic, is subjected to an examination that may represent the bent or caprice of the teacher, manages to struggle through seventy per cent of the answers, is promoted to the next higher grade, and, thereupon, starts on his journey around another circle. And we call this education. These processes constitute the mechanics of education, but, in and of themselves, they are not education. One of the big problems of the school today is to emancipate both teachers and pupils from the erroneous notion that they are. The child does not go to school to learn arithmetic and spelling and grammar. The goal to be attained is far higher and better than either of these or all combined. The study of arithmetic may prove a highly profitable means, never the end to be gained. This statement will be boldly challenged by the traditional teacher, but it is so strongly intrenched in logic and sound pedagogy that it is impregnable. The goal might, possibly, be reached without the aid of arithmetic, but, if a knowledge of this subject will facilitate the process, then, of course, it becomes of value and should be used. Let us assume, for the moment, that the teacher decides to set up thoroughness as one of the large objectives of her teaching. While she may be able to reach this goal sooner by means of arithmetic, no one will contend that arithmetic is indispensable. Nor, indeed, will any one contend that arithmetic is comparable to thoroughness as a goal to be attained. If the teacher's constant aim is thoroughness, she will achieve even better results in the arithmetic and will inculcate habits in her pupils that serve them in good stead throughout life. For the quality of thoroughness is desirable in every activity of life, and we do well to emphasize every study and every activity of the school that helps in the development of this quality. If the superintendent were challenged to adduce a satisfactory reason why he has not written thoroughness into his course of study he might be hard put to it to justify the omission. He hopes, of course, that the quality of thoroughness will issue somehow from the study of arithmetic and science, but he lacks the courage, apparently, to proclaim this hope in print. He says that education is a spiritual process, while his course of study proves that he is striving to produce mental acrobats, relegating the spiritual qualities to the rank of by-products. His course of study shows conclusively that he thinks that knowledge is power. Once disillusion him on this point and his course of study will cease to be to him the sacrosanct affair it has always appeared and he will no longer look upon it as a sort of sacrilege to inject into this course of study some elements that seem to violate the sanctities of tradition. Advancing another brief step, we may try to imagine the superintendent's suggesting to the teachers at the opening of the school year that they devote the year to inculcating in their pupils the qualities of thoroughness, self-control, courage, and reverence. The faces of the teachers, at such a proposal, would undoubtedly afford opportunity for an interesting study and the linguistic reactions of some of them would be forcible to the point of picturesqueness. The traditional teachers would demand to know by what right he presumed to impose upon them such an unheard-of program. Others might welcome the suggestion as a means of relief from irritating and devastating drudgery. In their quaint innocence and guilelessness their souls would revel in rainbow dreams of preachments, homilies, and wise counsel that would cause the qualities of self-control and reverence to spring into being full-grown even as Minerva from the head of Jove. But their beatific visions would dissolve upon hearing the superintendent name certain teachers to act as a committee to determine and report upon the studies that would best serve the purpose of generating reverence, and another committee to select the studies that would most effectively stimulate and develop self-control, and so on through the list. It is here that we find the crux of the whole matter. Here the program collides with tradition and with stereotyped habits of thinking. Many superintendents and teachers will contend that such a problem is impossible of solution because no one has ever essayed such a task. No one, they argue, has ever determined what subjects will effectually generate the specific qualities self-control or reverence, no one has ever discovered what school studies will function in given spiritual qualities. According to their course of reasoning nothing is possible that has not already been done. However, there are some progressive, dynamic superintendents and teachers who will welcome the opportunity to test their resourcefulness in seeking the solution of a problem that is both new and big. To these dynamic ones we must look for results and when this solution is evolved, the work of reconstruction will move on apace. Reverting, for the moment, to the subject of thoroughness: it must be clear that this quality is worthy a place in the course of study because it is worthy the best efforts of the pupil. Furthermore, it is worthy the best efforts of the pupil because it is an important element of civilization. These statements all need reiteration and emphasis to the end that they may become thoroughly enmeshed in the social consciousness. If we can cause people to think toward thoroughness rather than toward arithmetic or other school studies, we shall win the feeling that we are making progress. Thoroughness must be distinguished, of course, from a smattering knowledge of details that have no value. In the right sense thoroughness must be interpreted as the habit of mastery. We may well indulge the hope that the time will come when parents will invoke the aid of the schools to assist their children in acquiring this habit of mastery. When that time comes the schools will be working toward larger and higher objectives and education will have become a spiritual process in reality. It will be readily conceded that the habit of mastery is a desirable quality in every vocation and in every avocation. It is a very real asset on the farm, in the factory, in legislative halls, in the offices of lawyer and physician, in the study, in the shop, and in the home. When mastery becomes habitual with people in all these activities society will thrill with the pulsations of new life and civilization will rise to a higher level. But how may the child acquire this habit of mastery? On what meat shall this our pupil feed that he may become master of himself, master of all his powers, and master of every situation in which he finds himself? How shall he win that mastery that will enable him to interpret every obstacle as a new challenge to his powers, and to translate temporary defeat into ultimate victory? How may he enter into such complete sense of mastery that he will not quail in the presence of difficulties, that he will never display the white flag or the white feather, that he will ever show forth the spirit of Henley's _Invictus_, and that nothing short of death may avail to absolve him from his obligations to his high standards? These questions are referred, with all proper respect, to the superintendent, the principal, and the teachers, whose province it is to vouchsafe satisfactory answers. If they tell us that arithmetic will be of assistance in the way of inculcating this habit of mastery, then we shall hail arithmetic with joyous acclaim and accord it a place of honor in the school regime,--but only as an auxiliary, only as a means to the great end of mastery. If they assure us that science will be equally serviceable in our enterprise of developing mastery, then we shall give to science an equally hearty welcome. However, we shall emphasize the right to stipulate that, in the course of study, the capitals shall be reserved for the big objective thoroughness, of the habit of mastery, and that the means be given in small letters and as sub-heads. We may indulge in the conceit that a flag floats at the summit of a lofty and more or less rugged elevation. The youth who essays the task of reaching that flag will need to reinforce his strength at supply stations along the way. If we style one of these stations arithmetic, it will be evident, at once, that this station is a subsidiary element in the enterprise and not the goal, for that is the flag at the top. These supply stations are useful in helping the youth to reach his goal. We may conceive of many of these stations, such as algebra, or history, or Greek, or Chinese. Whatever their names, they are all but means to an end and when that end has been attained the youth can afford to forget them, in large part, save only in gratitude for their help in enabling him to win the goal of thoroughness. The child eats beefsteak because it is palatable; the mother prescribes beefsteak and prepares it carefully with the child's health as the goal of her interests. Moreover, she has a more vital interest in beefsteak because she is thinking of health as the goal. For another child, she may prescribe eggs and, for still another, milk or oatmeal, according to each one's needs. Health is the big goal and these foods are the supply stations along the way. The physician must assist in determining what articles of food will best serve the purpose and to this end he must cooperate with the mother in knowing his patients. He must have knowledge of foods and must know how to adapt means to ends, never losing sight of the real goal. The inference is altogether obvious. A superintendent must write the prescription in the form of a course of study and he may not with impunity mistake a supply station for the goal. He must have knowledge of the pupils and know their individual needs and native interests. Having gained this knowledge, he will supply abundant electives in order to assist each child in the best possible way toward the goal. If, then, the relation between major ends and minor means has been made clear, we are ready for the statement that these major ends may be made the common goals of endeavor in the schools of all lands. Thoroughness is quite as necessary in the rice fields of China as in the wheat fields of America, as necessary in the banks of Rome as in the banks of New York, quite as essential to mercantile transactions in Cape Town as in Chicago, and quite as essential to home life in Tokyo as in San Francisco. If these big objectives are set up in the schools of all countries pupils, teachers, and people will come to think in unison and thus their ways will converge and they will come to act in unison. The same high purposes will actuate and animate society as a whole and this, in turn, will make for a higher type of civilization and accelerate progress toward unity in school procedure. CHAPTER FOUR INTEGRITY Integrity connotes many qualities that are necessary to success in the high art of right and rational living and that are conspicuous, therefore, in society of high grade. It is an inclusive quality, and is, in reality, a federation of qualities that are esteemed essential to a highly developed civilization. The term, like the word from which it is derived, _integer_, signifies completeness, wholeness, entirety, soundness, rectitude, unimpaired state. It implies no scarification, no blemish, no unsoundness, no abrasion, no disfigurement, no distortion, no defect. In ordinary parlance integrity and honesty are regarded as synonyms, but a close analysis discovers honesty to be but one of the many manifestations of integrity. Lincoln displayed honesty in returning the pennies by way of rectifying a mistake, but that act, honest as it was, did not engage all his integrity. This big quality manifested itself at Gettysburg, in the letter to Mrs. Bixby, in visiting the hospitals to comfort and cheer the wounded soldiers, and in his magnanimity to those who maligned him. In every individual the inward quality determines the outward conduct in all its ramifications, whether in his speech, in his actions, or in his attitude toward other individuals. It is quite as true in a pedagogical sense as in the scriptural sense that "Men do not gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles," and, also, that "By their fruits ye shall know them." The stream does not rise higher than the source. What a man is doing and how he is doing it tells us what he is. When we would appraise a man's character we take note of his habits, his daily walk and conversation in all his relations to his fellows. If we find a blemish in his conduct, we arrive at the judgment that his character is not without blemish. In short, his habitual acts and speech, in the marts of trade, in the office, in the field, in the home, and in the forum betoken the presence or absence of integrity. It follows, then, as a corollary that, if we hope to have in the stream of life that we call society the elements that make for a high type of civilization we must have integrity at the source; and with this quality at the source these elements will inevitably issue forth into the life currents. This being true, we have clear warrant for the affirmation that integrity is a worthy goal toward which we do well to direct the activities of the school. Integrity in its large import implies physical soundness, mental soundness, and moral soundness. In time we may come to realize that physical soundness and mental soundness are but sequences of moral soundness, or, in other words, that a sound body and a sound mind are manifestations of a right spirit. But, for the present, we may waive this consideration and think of the three phases of integrity--physical, mental and moral. If, at the age of eighteen years, the boy or girl emerges from school experience sound in body, in mind, and in spirit, society will affirm that education has been effective. To develop young persons of this type is a work that is worthy the best efforts of the home, the school, the church and society, nor can any one of these agencies shift or shirk responsibility. The school has a large share of this responsibility, and those whose duty it is to formulate a course of study may well ask themselves what procedure of the school will best assist the child to attain integrity by means of the school activities. In our efforts to generate this quality of integrity, or, indeed, any quality, it must be kept clearly in mind every day and every hour of the day that the children with whom we have to do are not all alike. On the contrary, they differ, and often differ widely, in respect of mental ability, environment, inheritances, and native disposition. If they were all alike, it would be most unfortunate, but we could treat them all alike in our teaching and so fix and perpetuate their likeness to one another. Some teachers have heard and read a hundred times that our teaching should attach itself to the native tendencies of the child; yet, in spite of this, the teacher proceeds as if all children were alike and all possessed the same native tendencies. Herein lies a part of the tragedy of our traditional, stereotyped, race-track teaching. We assume that children are all alike, that they are standardized children, and so we prescribe for them a standardized diet and serve it by standardized methods. If we were producing bricks instead of embryo men and women our procedure would be laudable, for, in the making of bricks, uniformity is a prime necessity. Each brick must be exactly like every other brick, and, in consequence, we use for each one ingredients of the same quality and in like amount, and then subject them all to precisely the same treatment. This procedure is well enough in the case of inanimate bricks, but it is far from well enough in the case of animate, sentient human beings. It would be a calamity to have duplicate human beings, and yet the traditional school seems to be doing its utmost to produce duplicates. The native tendencies of one boy impel him toward the realms of nature, but, all heedless of this big fact, we bind him hard and fast to some academic post with traditional bonds of rules and regulations and then strive to coerce him into partaking of our traditional pabulum. His inevitable rebellion against this regime we style incorrigibility, or stupidity, and then by main strength and authority strive to reduce him to submission and, failing in this, we banish him from the school branded for life. Our treatment of this boy is due to the fact that another boy in the school is endowed with other native tendencies and the teacher is striving to fashion both boys in the same mold. In striving to inculcate the quality of integrity, wholeness, soundness, rectitude in Sam Brown our aim is to develop this specific boy into the best Sam Brown possible and not to try to make of him another Harry Smith. We need one best Sam Brown and one best Harry Smith but not two Harry Smiths. If we try to make our Sam Brown into a second Harry Smith, society is certain to be the loser to the value of Sam Brown. We want to see Sam Brown realize all his possibilities to the utmost, for only so will he win integrity. Better a complete Sam Brown, though only half the size of Harry Smith, than an incomplete Sam Brown of any size. If the native tendencies of Sam Brown lead toward nature, certain it is that by denying him the stimulus of nature study, we shall restrict his growth and render him less than complete. If we would produce a complete Sam Brown, if we would have him attain integrity, we must see to it that the process of teaching engages all his powers and does not permit some of these powers to lie fallow. If Sam Brown is a nature boy, no amount of coercion can transform him into a mathematics boy. True he may, in time, gain proficiency in mathematics, but only if he is led into the field of mathematics through the gateway of nature. He may ultimately achieve distinction as a writer, but not unless his pen becomes facile in depicting nature. Unless his native interests are taken fully into account and all his powers are enlisted in the enterprise of education toward integrity, he will never become the Sam Brown he might have been and the teacher cannot win special comfort in the reflection that she has helped to produce a cripple. We can better afford to depart from the beaten path, and even do violence to the sanctity of the course of study, than to lose or deform Sam Brown. If his soul yearns for green fields and budding trees, it is cruel if not criminal to fail to cater to this yearning. And only by cultivating and ministering to this native disposition can we hope to be of service in aiding him to achieve integrity. It needs to be emphasized that integrity signifies one hundred per cent, nothing less, and that such a goal is quite worth working toward. On the physical side, the problem looms large before us. Since we can produce thoroughbred live stock that scores one hundred per cent, we ought to produce one hundred per cent men and women. In a great university, physical examinations covering a period of seventeen years discovered one physically perfect young woman and not one physically perfect young man. Our live stock records make a better showing than this. For years we have been quoting "a sound mind in a sound body" in various languages but have failed in a large degree to achieve sound bodies. Nor, indeed, may we hope to win this goal until we become aroused to the importance of physical training in its widest import for all young people and not merely for the already physically fit, who constitute the ball teams. If the child is physically sound at the age of six, he ought to be no less so at the age of eighteen. If he is not so, there must have been some blundering in the course of his school life, either on the part of the school itself or of the home. When we set up physical soundness as the goal of our endeavors and this ideal becomes enmeshed in the consciousness of all citizens, then activities toward this end will inevitably ensue. Physical training will be made an integral part of the course of study, medical and dental inspection will obtain both in the school and in the home, insanitary conditions will no longer be tolerated, intemperance in every form will disappear, and every child will receive the same careful nurture that we now bestow upon the prize winners at our live-stock exhibition. The thinking of people will be intent toward the one hundred per cent standard and, in consequence, they will strive in unison to achieve this goal. The large amount of incompleteness that is to be found among the products of our schools may be traced, in a large measure, to our irrational and fictitious procedure in the matter of grading. We must keep records, of course, but it will be recalled that in the parable of the talents men were commended or condemned according to the use they made of the talents they had and were not graded according to a fixed standard. Seeing that seventy-five per cent will win him promotion, the boy devotes only so much of himself to the enterprise as will enable him to attain the goal and directs the remainder of himself to adventures along the line of his native tendencies. The only way by which we can develop a complete Sam Brown is so to arrange matters that the whole of Sam Brown is enlisted in the work. Otherwise we shall have one part of the boy working in one direction and another part in another direction, and that plan does not make for completeness. We must enlist the whole boy or we shall fail to develop a complete boy. If we can find some study to which he will devote himself unreservedly, then we may well rejoice and can afford to let the traditional subjects of the course of study wait. We are interested in Sam Brown just now and he is far more important than some man-made course of study. We are interested, too, in one hundred per cent of Sam Brown, and not in three fourths of him. If arithmetic will not enlist all of this boy and nature will enlist all of him, then arithmetic must be held in abeyance in the interest of the whole boy. The seventy-five per cent standard is repudiated by the world of affairs even though it is emphasized by the school. Seventy-five per cent of accuracy will not do in the transactions of the bank. The accounts must balance to the penny. The figures are right or else they are wrong. There is no middle ground. In the school the boy solves three problems but fails with the fourth. None the less he wins the goal of promotion. Not so at the bank. He is denied admission because of his failure with the fourth problem. Seventy-five will not do in joining the spans of the great bridge across the river. We must have absolute accuracy if we would avoid a wreck with its attendant horrors. The druggist must not fall below one hundred per cent in compounding the prescription unless he would face a charge of criminal negligence. The wireless operator must transcribe the message with absolute accuracy or dire consequences may ensue. The railway crew must read the order without a mistake if they would save life and property from disaster. But, in the school, the teachers rejoice and congratulate one another when their pupils achieve a grade of seventy-five. It matters nothing, apparently, that this grade of seventy-five is a fictitious thing with no basis in logic or reason, in short a mere habit that has no justification save in tradition, and that, in very truth, it is a concession to inaccuracy and ignorance. When we promote the boy for solving three out of four problems we virtually say to him that the fourth problem is negligible and he may as well forget all about it. Sometimes a teacher grieves over a grade of seventy-three, never realizing that another teacher might have given to that same paper a grade of eighty-three. We proclaim education to be a spiritual process, and then, in some instances, employ mechanics to administer this process. By what process of reasoning the superintendent or the teacher arrives at the judgment that seventy-five is good enough is yet to be explained. Our zeal for grades and credits indicates a greater interest in the label than in the contents of the package. Teaching is a noble work if only it is directed toward worthy goals. Nothing in the way of human endeavor can be more inspiring than the work of striving to integrate boys and girls. The mere droning over geography, and history, and grammar is petty by comparison. And yet all these studies and many others may be found essential factors in the work and they will be learned with greater thoroughness as means to a great end than as ends in themselves. The supply stations take on a new meaning to the boy who is yearning to reach the flag at the top. But it needs to be said here that the traditional superintendent and teacher will greet this entire plan with a supercilious smile. They will call it visionary, unpractical, and idealistic--then return to their seventy-five per cent regime with the utmost complacency and self-satisfaction. It is ever so with the traditional teacher. He seeks to be let alone, that he may go on his complacent way without hindrance. To him every innovation is an interference, if not a positive impertinence. But, in spite of the traditional teacher, the school is destined to rise to a higher level and enter upon a more rational procedure. And we must look to the dynamic teacher to usher in the renaissance--the teacher who has the vitality and the courage to break away from tradition and write integrity into the course of study as one of the big goals and think all the while toward integrity, physical, mental, and moral. CHAPTER FIVE APPRECIATION Education may be defined as the process of raising the level of appreciation. This definition will stand the ultimate test. Here is bed-rock; here is the foundation upon which we may predicate appreciation as a goal in every rational system of education. Appreciation has been defined as a judgment of values, a feeling for the essential worth of things, and, as such, it lies at the very heart of real education. It must be so or civilization cannot be. Without appreciation there can be no distinction between the coarse and the fine, none between the high and the low, none between the beautiful and the ugly, none between the sublime and the commonplace, none between zenith and nadir. Hence, appreciation is inevitable in every course of study, whether the authorities have the courage to proclaim it or not. Just why it has not been written into the course of study is inexplicable, seeing that it is fundamental in the educational process. It is far from clear why the superintendent permits teachers and pupils to go on their way year after year thinking that arithmetic is their final destination, or why he fails to take the tax-payers into his confidence and explain to them that appreciation is one of the lode-stars toward which the schools are advancing. In his heart he hopes that the schools may achieve appreciation, and it would be the part of frankness and fairness for him to reveal this hope to his teachers and to all others concerned. It is common knowledge that business affairs do not require more than ten pages of arithmetic and it would seem only fair that the study of the other pages should be justified. These other pages must serve some useful purpose in the thinking of those who retain them, and, certainly, no harm would ensue from a revelation of this purpose. If they are studied as a means to some high end, they will prove no less important after this fact has been explained. We may need more arithmetic than we have, but it is our due to be informed why we need it; to what use it is to be put. These things we have a right to know, and no superintendent, who is charged with the responsibility of making the course of study, has a right to withhold the information. If he does not know the explanation of the course of study he has devised, he ought to make known that fact and throw himself "on the mercy of the court." In these days of conservation and elimination of waste every subject that seeks admission to the course of study should be challenged at the door and be made to show what useful purpose it is to serve. Nor should any subject be admitted on any specious pretext. If there are subjects that are better adapted to the high purposes of education than the ones we are now using, then, by all means, let us give them a hearty welcome. Above all, we should be careful not to retain a subject unless it has a more valid passport than old age to justify its retention. If Chinese will help us win the goal of appreciation more effectively than Latin, then, by all means, we should make the substitution. But, in doing so, we must exercise care not to be carried away by a yearning for novelty. Least of all should any subject be admitted to the course of study that does not have behind it something more substantial and enduring than whim or caprice. The subjects that avail in generating and stimulating the growth of appreciation are many and of great variety. Nor are they all found in the proverbial course of study of the schools. When the boy first really sees an ear of corn from another viewpoint than the economic, he finds it eloquent of the marvelous adaptations of nature. From being a mere ear of corn it becomes a revelation of design and beauty. No change has taken place in the ear of corn, but a most important change has been wrought in the boy. Such a change is so subtle, so delicate, and so intangible that it cannot be measured in terms of per cents; but it is no less real for all that. It is a spiritual process and, therefore, aptly illustrates the accepted definition of education. Though it defies analysis and the rule of thumb, the boy is conscious of it and can say with the man who was born blind, "One thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see," and no cabalistic marks in a grade-book can express the value of the change indicated by that statement. The sluggard deems the sunrise an impertinence because it disturbs his morning slumber; but such a change may be wrought in him as to cause him to stand in reverence before the very thing he once condemned. The sunrise, once an affront, is now nothing less than a miracle, and he stands in the sublime presence with uncovered and lowered head. He is a reverent witness of the re-birth of the world. An hour ago there was darkness; now there is light. An hour ago the world was dead; now it is gloriously alive. An hour ago there was silence; now there is sound of such exquisite quality as to ravish the soul with delight. As the first beams of sunlight come streaming over the hills, ten thousand birds join in a mighty chorus of welcome to the newborn day and the world is flooded with song; and the whilom sluggard thrills under the spell of the scene and feels himself a part of the world that is vibrant with music. Can it be denied that this man is all the better citizen for his ability to appreciate the wonderfulness of a sunrise? But while we extol and magnify the quality of appreciation, it is well to note that it cannot be superinduced by any imperial mandate nor does it spring into being at the behest of didacticism. It can be caught but not taught. Indeed, it is worthy of general observation that the choice things which young people receive from the schools, colleges, and normal schools are caught and not taught, however much the teachers may plume themselves upon their ability to impart instruction. Education, at its best, is a process of inoculation. The teacher is an important factor in this process of generating situations that render inoculation far more easy; and we omit one of the most vital things in education when we refer only to the teacher's ability to "impart instruction." The pupil gets certain things in that room, but the teacher does not give them. The teacher's function is to create situations in which the spirit of the pupil will become inoculated with the germs of truth in all its aspects. If he could give the things that the pupils get, then all would share alike in the distribution. If the teacher could impart instruction, he certainly would not fail to lift all his pupils over the seventy-five per cent hurdle. If instruction or knowledge could be imparted, education would no longer be a spiritual process but rather one of driving the boy into a corner, imparting such instruction as the teacher might decree and keeping on until the point of saturation was reached or the supply of instruction became exhausted, when the trick would be done. The process would be as simple as pouring water from one vessel into another. Sometimes the teacher of literature strives to engender appreciation in a pupil by rhapsodizing over some passage. She reads the passage in a frenzy of simulated enthusiasm, with a quaver in her voice and moisture in her eyes, only to find, at the end, that her patient has fallen asleep. Appreciation cannot be generated in such fashion. The boy cannot light his torch of appreciation at a mere phosphorescent glow. There must be heat behind the light or there can be no ignition. The boy senses the fictitious at once and cannot react to what he knows to be spurious. Only the genuine can win his interest. Napoleon Bonaparte once said that no one can gaze into the starry sky at night for five minutes and not believe in the existence of God. But to people who lack such appreciation the night sky is devoid of significance. There are teachers who never go forth to revel in the glories of this star-lit masterpiece of creation, because, forsooth, they are too busy grading papers in literature. Such a teacher is not likely to be the cause of a spiritual ignition in her pupils, for she herself lacks the divine fire of appreciation. If she only possessed this quality no words would be needed to reveal its presence to the boy; he would know it even as the homing-pigeon knows its course. When the spirits of teacher and pupils become merged as they must become in all true teaching, the boy will find himself in possession of this spiritual quality. He knows that he has it, the teacher knows that he has it, and his associates know that he has it, and one and all know that it is well worth having. It is related of Keats that in reading Spenser he was thrown into a paroxysm of delight over the expression "sea-shouldering whales." The churl would not give a second thought to the phrase, or, indeed, a first one; but the man of appreciation finds in it a source of pleasure. Arlo Bates speaks with enthusiasm of the word "highly" as used in the Gettysburg Speech, and the teacher's work reaches a high point of excellence when it has given to the pupil such a feeling of appreciation as enables him to discover and rejoice in such niceties of literary expression. It widens the horizon of life to him and gives him a deeper and closer sympathy with every form and manifestation of life. Every phase of life makes an appeal to him, from bird on the wing to rushing avalanche; from the blade of grass to the boundless plains; from the prattle of the child to the word miracles of Shakespeare; from the stable of Bethany to the Mount of Transfiguration. Geography lends itself admirably to the development of appreciation if it is well taught. Indeed, to develop appreciation seems to be the prime function of geography, and the marvel is that it has not been so proclaimed. In this field geography finds a clear justification, and the superintendent who sets forth appreciation as the end and geography as the means is certain to win the plaudits of many people who have long been wondering why there is so much geography in the present course of study. Certainly no appreciation can develop from the question and answer method, for no spiritual quality can thrive under such deadening conditions. If the questions emanated from the pupils, the situation would be improved, but such is rarely the case. Teaching is, in reality, a transfusion of spirit, and when this flow of spirit from teacher to pupil is unimpeded teaching is at high tide. When the subject is artfully and artistically developed the effect upon the child is much the same as that of unrolling a great and beautiful picture. The Mississippi River can be taught as a great drama, from its rise in Lake Itasca to its triumphal entry into the Gulf. As it takes its way southward pine forests wave their salutes, then wheat fields, then corn fields, and, later, cotton fields. Then its tributaries may be seen coming upon the stage to help swell the mighty sweep of progress toward the sea. When geography is taught as a drama, appreciation is inevitable. The resourceful teacher can find a thousand dramas in the books on geography if she knows how to interpret the pages of the books, and with these inspiring dramas she can lift her pupils to the very pinnacle of appreciation. Such tales are as fascinating as fairy stories and have the added charm of being true to the teachings of science. A raindrop seems a common thing, but cast in dramatic form it becomes of rare charm. It slides from the roof of the house and finds its way into the tiny rivulet, then into the brook, then into the river and thus finally reaches the sea. By the process of evaporation, it is transformed into vapor and is carried over the land by currents of air. As it comes into contact with colder currents, condensation ensues and then precipitation, and our raindrop descends to earth once more. Sinking into the soil at the foot of the tree it is taken up into the tree by capillary attraction, out through the branches and then into the fruit. Then comes the sunshine to ripen the fruit, and finally this fruit is harvested and borne to the market, whence it reaches the home. Here it is served at the breakfast table and the curtain of our drama goes down with our raindrop as orange-juice on the lip of the little girl. When we come to realize, in our enlarged vision, the possibilities of geography in fostering the quality of appreciation, our teaching of the subject will be changed and vitalized, our textbooks will be written from a different angle, and our pupils will receive a much larger return upon their investment of time and effort. The study of geography will be far less like the conning of a gazetteer or a city directory and more like a fascinating story. In our astronomical geography we shall make many a pleasing excursion into the far spaces and win stimulating glimpses into the infinities. In our physical geography we shall read marvelous stories that outrival the romances of Dumas and Hugo. And geography as a whole will reveal herself as the cherishing mother of us all, providing us with food, and drink, and shelter, and raiment, giving us poetry, and song, and story, and weaving golden fancies for the fabric of our daily dreams. And when, at length, through the agency of geography and the other means at hand, our young people have achieved the endowment of appreciation, life will be for them a fuller and richer experience and they will be better fitted to play their parts as intelligent, cultivated men and women. The gateways will stand wide open through which they can enter into the palace of life to revel in all its beauteous splendor. They will receive a welcome into the friendship of the worthy good and great of all ages. When they have gained an appreciation of the real meaning of literature, children who have become immortal will cluster about them and nestle close in their thoughts and affections,--Tiny Tim, Little Jo, Little Nell, Little Boy Blue, and Eppie. A visitor in Turner's studio once said to the artist, "Really, Mr. Turner, I can't see in nature the colors you portray on canvas." Whereupon the artist replied, "Don't you wish you could?" When our pupils gain the ability to read and enjoy the message of the artist they will be able to hold communion with Raphael, Michael Angelo, Murillo, Rembrandt, Rosa Bonheur, Titian, Corot, Andrea del Sarto, Correggio, Fra Angelico, and Ghiberti. In the realms of poetry they will be able to hold agreeable converse with Shelley, Keats, Southey, Mrs. Browning, Milton, Victor Hugo, Hawthorne, Poe, and Shakespeare. And when the great procession of artists, poets, scientists, historians, dramatists, statesmen, and philanthropists file by to greet their gaze, entranced they will be able to applaud. CHAPTER SIX ASPIRATION Browning says, "'Tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do." The boy who has acquired the habit of wishing ardently in right directions is well on the way toward becoming educated. For earnest wishing precedes and conditions every achievement that is worthy the name. The man who does not wish does not achieve, and the man who does wish with persistency and consistency does not fail of achievement. Had Columbus not wished with consuming ardor to circumnavigate the globe, he would never have encountered America. The Atlantic cable figured in the dreams and wishes of Cyrus W. Field long before even the preliminaries became realities. The wish evermore precedes the blueprint. It required forty-two years for Ghiberti to translate his dream into the reality that we know as the bronze doors of the Baptistry. But had there been no dreams there had been no bronze doors, and the world of art would have been the poorer. Every tunnel that pierces a mountain; every bridge that spans a river; every building whose turrets pierce the sky; every invention that lifts a burden from the shoulders of humanity; every reform that gilds the world with the glow of hope, was preceded by a wish whose gossamer strands were woven in a human brain. The Red Cross of today is but a dream of Henri Dunant realized and grown large. The student who scans the records of historical achievements and of the triumphs of art, music, science, literature, and philanthropy must realize that ardent wishing is the condition precedent to further extension in any of these lines, and he must be aware, too, that the ranks of wishers must be recruited from among the children of our schools. The yearning to achieve is the urge of the divine part of each one of us, and it naturally follows that whoever does not have this yearning has been reduced to the plane of abnormality in that the divine part of him has been subordinated, submerged, stifled. Every fervent wish is a prayer that emanates from this divine part of us, and, in all reverence, it may be said that we help to answer our own prayers. When we wish ardently we work earnestly to cause our dreams to come true. We are told that every wish comes true if we only wish hard enough, and this statement finds abundant confirmation in the experiences of those who have achieved. The child's wishes have their origin and abode in his native interests and when we have determined what his wishes are, we have in hand the clue that will lead us to the inmost shrine of his native tendencies. This, as has been so frequently said, is the point of attack for all our teaching, this the particular point that is most sensitive to educational inoculation. If we find that the boy is eager to have a wireless outfit and is working with supreme intensity to crystallize his wish into tangible and workable form, quite heedless of clock hours, it were unkind to the point of cruelty and altogether unpedagogical to force him away from this congenial task into some other work that he will do only in a heartless and perfunctory way. If we yearn to have him study Latin, we shall do well to carry the wireless outfit over into the Latin field, for the boy will surely follow wherever this outfit leads. But if we destroy the wireless apparatus, in the hope that we shall thus stimulate his interest in Latin, the scar that we shall leave upon his spirit will rise in judgment against us to the end of life. The Latin may be desirable and necessary for the boy, but the wireless comes first in his wishes and we must go to the Latin by way of the wireless. It is the high privilege of the teacher to make and keep her pupils hungry, to stimulate in them an incessant ardent longing and yearning. This is her chief function. If she does this she will have great occasion to congratulate herself upon her own progress as well as theirs. If they are kept hungry, the sources of supply will not be able to elude them, for children have great facility and resourcefulness in the art of foraging. They readily discover the lurking places of the substantials as well as of the tid-bits and the sweets. They easily scent the trail of the food for which their spiritual or bodily hunger calls. The boy who yearns for the wireless need not be told where he may find screws, bolts, and hammer. The girl who yearns to paint will somehow achieve pigments, brushes, palette, and teachers. Appetite is the principal thing; the rest comes easy. The hungry child lays the whole world under tribute and cheerfully appropriates whatever fits into his wishes. If his neighbor a mile distant has a book for which he feels a craving, the two-mile walk in quest of that book is invested with supreme charm, no matter what the weather. The apple may be hanging on the topmost bough, but the boy who is apple-hungry recks not of height nor of the labyrinth of hostile branches. He gets the apple. As some one has said, "The soul reaches out for the cloak that fits it." There is nothing more pathetic in the whole realm of school procedure than the frantic efforts of some teachers to feed their pupils instead of striving to create spiritual hunger. They require pupils to "take" so many problems, con so many words of spelling, turn so many pages of a book on history, and then have them try to repeat in an agony of effort words from a book that they neither understand nor feel an interest in. The teacher would feed them whether they have any craving for food or not. Such teachers seem to be immune to the teachings of psychology and pedagogy; they continue to travel the way their grandparents trod, spurning the practices of Pestalozzi, Froebel, and Francis Parker. They seem not to know that their pupils are predatory beings who are quite capable of ransacking creation to get the food for which they feel a craving. Not appreciating the nature of their pupils, they continue the process of feeding and stuffing them and thus fall into the fatal blunder of mistaking distention for education. Ruth McEnery Stuart has set out this whole matter most lucidly and cogently in her volume entitled _Sonny_. In this story the boy had four teachers who took no account of his aspirations and natural tendencies, but insisted upon feeding him traditional food by traditional methods. To them it mattered not that he was unlike other boys. What was suitable for them must be equally suitable for him. The story goes that a certain school-master was expounding the passage "Be ye pure in heart." Turning to the boys he exclaimed, "Are you pure in heart? If you're not, I'll flog you till you are." So with Sonny's four teachers. If he had no appetite for their kind of food, they'd feed it to him till he had. But when the appetite failed to come as the result of their much feeding, they banished him to outer darkness with epithets expressive of their disappointment and disgust. They washed their hands of him and were glad to be rid of him. His next teacher, however, was different. She sensed his unlikeness to other boys and knew, instinctively, that his case demanded and deserved special treatment. She consulted his aspirations and appraised his native tendencies. In doing so, she discovered an embryo naturalist and thus became aware of the task to which she must address herself. So she spread her nets for all living and creeping things, for the beasts of the forest, the birds of the air, for plants, and flowers, and stones,--in short, for all the works of nature. In name she was his teacher, but in reality she was his pupil, and his other four teachers might have become members of the class with rich profit to themselves. In his examination for graduation the boy utterly confounded and routed the members of the examining committee by the profundity and breadth of his knowledge and they were glad to check his onslaught upon the ramparts of their ignorance by awarding him a diploma. It devolves upon the superintendent and teachers, therefore, to determine what studies already in the schools or what others that may be introduced will best serve the purpose of fostering aspiration. They cannot deny that this quality is an essential element in the spiritual composition of every well-conditioned child as well as of every rightly constituted man and woman. For aspiration means life, and the lack of aspiration means death. The man who lacks aspiration is static, dormant, lifeless, inert; the man who has aspiration is dynamic, forceful, potent, regnant. Aspiration is the animating power that gives wings to the forces of life. It is the motive power that induces the currents of life. The man who has aspiration yearns to climb to higher levels, to make excursions into the realms that lie beyond his present horizon, and to traverse the region that lies between what he now is and what he may become. It is the dove that goes forth from the ark to make discovery of the new lands that beckon. In a former book the author tried to set forth the influence of the poet in generating aspiration, and in this attempt used the following words: "When he would teach men to aspire he writes _Excelsior_ and so causes them to know that only he who aspires really lives. They see the groundling, the boor, the drudge, and the clown content to dwell in the valley amid the loaves and fishes of animal desires, while the man who aspires is struggling toward the heights whence he may gain an outlook upon the glories that are, know the throb and thrill of new life, and experience the swing and sweep of spiritual impulses. He makes them to know that the man who aspires recks not of cold, of storm, or of snow, if only he may reach the summit and lave his soul in the glory that crowns the marriage of earth and sky. They feel that the aspirant is but yielding obedience to the behests of his better self to scale the heights where sublimity dwells." It were useless for teachers to pooh-pooh this matter as visionary and inconsequential or to disregard aspiration as a vital factor in the scheme of education. This quality is fundamental and may not, therefore, be either disregarded or slurred. Fundamental qualities must engage the thoughtful attention of all true educators, for these fundamentals must constitute the ground-work of every reform in our school procedure. There can be life without arithmetic, but there can be no real life without aspiration. It points to higher and fairer levels of life and impels its possessor onward and upward. This needs to be fully recognized by the schools that would perform their high functions worthily, and no teacher can with impunity evade this responsibility. Somehow, we must contrive to instill the quality of aspiration into the lives of our pupils if we would acquit ourselves of this obligation. To do less than this is to convict ourselves of stolidity or impotence. Chief among the agencies that may be made to contribute generously in this high enterprise is history, or more specifically, biography, which is quintessential history. A boy proceeds upon the assumption that what has been done may be done again and, possibly, done even better. When he reads of the beneficent achievements of Edison he becomes fired with zeal to equal if not surpass these achievements. Obstacles do not daunt the boy who aspires. Everything becomes possible in the light and heat of his zeal. Since Edison did it, he can do it, and no amount of discouragement can dissuade him from his lofty purpose. He sets his goal high and marches toward it with dauntless courage. If a wireless outfit is his goal, bells may ring and clocks may strike, but he hears or heeds them not. To be effective the teaching of history must be far more than the mere droning over the pages of a book. It must be so vital that it will set the currents of life in motion. In his illuminating report upon the schools of Denmark, Mr. Edwin G. Cooley quotes Bogtrup on the teaching of history as follows: "History does not mean books and maps; it is not to be divided into lessons and gone through with a pointer like any other paltry school subject. History lies before our eyes like a mighty and turbulent ocean, into which the ages run like rivers. Its rushing waves bring to our listening ears the sound of a thousand voices from the olden time. With our pupils we stand on the edge of a cliff and gaze over this great sea; we strive to open their eyes to its power and beauty; we point out the laws of the rise and fall of the waves, and of the strong under-currents. We strive by poetic speech to open their ears to the voices of the sea which in our very blood run through the veins from generation to generation, and, humming and singing, echo in our innermost being." Such teaching of history as is here portrayed will never fall upon dull ears or unresponsive spirits. It will thrill the youth with a consuming desire to be up and doing. He will ignite at touch of the living fire. His soul will become incandescent and the glow will warm him into noble action. He yearns to emulate the triumphs of those who have preceded him on the stage of endeavor. If he reads "The Message to Garcia" he feels himself pulsating with the zeal to do deeds of valor and heroism. Whether the records deal with Clara Barton, Nathan Hale, Frances Willard, Mrs. Stowe, Columbus, Lincoln, William the Silent, Erasmus, or Raphael, if these people are present as vital entities the young people will thrill under the spell of the entrancing stories. Then will history and biography come into their own as means to a great end, and then will aspiration take its rightful place as one of the large goals in the scheme of education. As Browning says, "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" and again: What I aspired to be And was not, comforts me. CHAPTER SEVEN INITIATIVE No one who gives the matter thoughtful consideration will ever deprecate or disparage the possession of the virtue of obedience; but, on the other hand, no such thoughtful person will attempt to deny that this virtue, desirable as it is, may be fostered and emphasized to such a degree that its possessor will become a mere automaton. And this is bad; indeed, very bad. We extol obedience, to be sure, but not the sort of blind, unthinking obedience that will reduce its possessor to the status of the mechanical toy which needs only to be wound up and set going. The factory superintendent is glad to have men about him who are able to work efficiently from blueprints; but he is glad, also, to have men about him who can dispense with blueprints altogether or can make their own. The difference between these two types of operatives spells the difference between leadership and mere blind, automatic following. Were all the workers in the factory mere followers, the work would be stereotyped and the factory would be unable to compete with the other factory, where initiative and leadership obtain. One psychologist avers that ninety per cent of our education comes through imitation; but, even so, it is quite pertinent to inquire into the remaining ten per cent. Conceding that we adopt our styles of wearing apparel at the behest of society; that we fashion and furnish our homes in conformity to prevailing customs; that we permit press and pulpit to formulate for us our opinions and beliefs; in short, that we are imitators up to the full ninety per cent limit, it still must seem obvious to the close observer that the remaining ten per cent has afforded us a vast number and variety of improvements that tend to make life more agreeable. This ten per cent has substituted the modern harvester for the sickle and cradle with which our ancestors harvested their grain; it has brought us the tractor for the turning of the soil in place of the primitive plow; it has enabled us to use the auto-truck in marketing our products instead of the ox-teams of the olden times; it has brought us the telegraph and telephone with which to send the message of our desires across far spaces; and it has supplied us with conveniences and luxuries that our grandparents could not imagine even in their wildest fancies. A close scrutiny will convince even the most incredulous that many teachers and schools arc doing their utmost, in actual practice if not in theory, to eliminate the ten per cent margin and render their pupils imitators to the full one hundred per cent limit. We force the children to travel our standard pedagogical tracks and strive to fashion and fix them in our standard pedagogical molds. And woe betide the pupil who jumps the track or shows an inclination to travel a route not of the teacher's choosing! He is haled into court forthwith and enjoined to render a strict accounting for his misdoing; for anything that is either less or more than a strict conformity to type is accounted a defection. We demand absolute obedience to the oracular edicts of the school as a passport to favor. Conformity spells salvation for the child and, in the interests of peace, he yields, albeit grudgingly, to the inevitable. In world affairs we deem initiative a real asset, but one of the saddest of our mistakes in ordering school activities consists in our fervid attempts to prove that the school is detached from life and something quite apart from the world. We would have our pupils believe that, when they are in school, they are neither in nor of the world. At our commencement exercises we tell the graduates that they are now passing across a threshold out into the world; that they are now entering into the realms of real life; and that on the morrow they will experience the initial impact of practical life. These time-worn expressions pass current, at face value, among enthusiastic relatives and friends, but there are those in the audience who know them to be the veriest cant, with no basis either in logic or in common sense. It is nothing short of foolishness to assert that a young person must attain the age of eighteen years before he enters real life. The child knows that his home is a part of the world and an element in life, that the grocery is another part, the post-office still another part, and so on through an almost endless list. Equally well does he know that the school is a part of life, because it enters into his daily experiences the same as the grocery and the post-office. Full well does he know that he is not outside of life when he is in school, and no amount of sophistry can convince him otherwise. If the school is not an integral part of the world and of life, so much the worse for the school and, by the same token, so much the worse for the teacher. Either the school is a part of the world or else it is neither a real nor a worthy school. The hours which the child spends in school are quite as much a part of his life as any other portion of the day, no matter what activities the school provides, and we do violence to the facts when we assume or argue otherwise. Here is a place for emphasis. Here is the rock on which many a pedagogical bark has suffered shipwreck. We become so engrossed in the mechanics of our task--grades, tests, examinations, and promotions--that we lose sight of the fact that we are dealing with real life in a situation that is a part of the real world. The best preparation for life is to practice life aright, and this is the real function of the school. If teachers only could or would give full recognition to this simple, open truth, there would soon ensue a wide departure from some of our present mechanized methods. But so long as we cling to the traditional notion that school is detached from real life, so long shall we continue to pursue our merry-go-round methods. If we could fully realize that we are teaching life by the laboratory method, many a vague and misty phase of our work would soon become clarified. Seeing, then, that the school is a cross-section of life, it follows, naturally, that it embodies the identical elements that constitute life as a whole. We all know, by experience, that life abounds in vicissitudes, discouragements, trials, and obstacles, and the school, being a part of real life, must furnish forth the same elements even if of less magnitude. There are obstacles, to be sure, and there should be. Abraham Lincoln once said, "When you can't remove an obstacle, plow around it." But teachers are prone to remove the obstacles from the pathway of their pupils when they should be training them to surmount these obstacles or, failing that for the time being, to plow around them. It is far easier, however, for the teacher to solve the problem for the boy than to stimulate him to solve it independently. If we would train the boy to leap over hurdles, we must supply the hurdles and not remove them from his path. Still further, we must elevate the hurdles, by easy gradations, if we would increase the boy's powers and prowess. Professor Edgar James Swift says, "Man expends just energy enough to satisfy the demands of the situation in which he is placed." This statement is big with meaning for all who have a true conception of pedagogy and of life. In this sentence we see the finger-board that points toward high achievements in teaching. If the hurdles are too low, the boy becomes flaccid, flabby, sluggish, and lethargic. The hurdles should be just high enough to engage his full strength, physical, mental, and moral. They should ever be a challenge to his best efforts. But they should never be so high that they will invite discouragement, disaster, and failure. The teacher should guard against elevating hurdles as an exhibition of her own reach. The gymnasium is not a stage for exhibitions. On the contrary, it is a place for graduated, cumulative training. Our inclination is to make life easy and agreeable to our pupils rather than real. To this end we help them over the difficulties, answer questions which they do not ask, and supply them with crutches when we should be training them to walk without artificial aids. The passing mark rather than real training seems to be made the goal of our endeavors even if we enfeeble the child by so doing. We seem to measure our success by the number of promotions and not by the quality of the training we give. We seem to be content to produce weaklings if only we can push them through the gateway of promotion. It matters not that they are unable to find their way alone through the mazes of life; let them acquire that ability later, after they have passed beyond our control. Again quoting from Professor Swift, "Following a leader, even though that leader be the teacher, tends to take from children whatever latent ability for initiative they may have." There is a story of an indulgent mother who was quite eager that her boy should have a pleasant birthday and so asked him what he would most like to do. The answer came in a flash: "Thank you, Mother, I should most like just to be let alone." This answer leads us at once to the inner sanctuary of childhood. Children yearn to be let alone and must grow restive under the incessant attentions of their elders. In school there is ever such a continuous fusillade of questions and answers, assigning of lessons, recitations, corrections, explanations, and promulgations, rules and restrictions that the children have no time for growing inside. They are not left to their own devices but are pulled and pushed about, and managed, and coddled or coerced all day long, so that there is neither time nor scope for the exercise and development of initiative. The teacher, at times, seems to think of the school as a mammoth syringe with which she is called upon to pump information into her bored but passive pupils. Silence is the element in which initiative thrives, but our school programs rarely provide any periods of silence. They assume that to be effective a school must be a place of bustle, and hurry, and excitement, not to mention entertainment. Sometimes the child is intent upon explorations among the infinities when the teacher summons him back to earth to cross a _t_ or dot an _i_. The teacher who would implant a thought-germ in the minds of her pupils and then allow fifteen minutes of silence for the process of germination, should be ranked as an excellent teacher. When the child is thinking out things for himself the process is favorable to initiative; but when the teacher directs his every movement, thought, and impulse, she is repressing the very quality that makes for initiative and ultimate leadership. When the boy would do some things on his own, the teacher is striving to force him to travel in her groove. Henderson well says: "We do not invariably cultivate initiative by letting children alone, but in nine cases out of ten it is a highly effective method. In our honest desire for their betterment, the temptation is always to jump in and to do for them, when we would much better keep hands off, and allow them, under favorable conditions, to do for themselves. They may do something which, from an objective point of view, is much less excellent than our own well-considered plan. But education is not an objective process. It is subjective and was wrapped up in the funny blundering little enterprise of the child, rather than in our own intrusive one." The crude product of the boy's work in manual training is far better for him and for the whole process of education than the finished product of the teacher's skill which sometimes passes for the boy's own work. Some manual training teachers have many a sin charged to their account in this line that stands in dire need of forgiveness. There are many worthy enterprises through which initiative may be fostered. Prominent among these are some of the home and school projects that are in vogue. These projects, when wisely selected with reference to the child's powers and inclination, give scope for the exercise of ingenuity, resourcefulness, perseverance, and unhampered thinking and acting. Besides, some of the by-products are of value, notably self-reliance and self-respect. A child yearns to play a thinking part in the drama of life and not the part of a marionette or jumping-jack that moves only when someone pulls the string. He yearns to be an entity and not a mere echo. Paternalism, in our school work, does not make for self-reliance, and, therefore, is to be deplored. There is small hope for the child without initiative, who is helped over every slightest obstacle, and who acquires the habit of calling for help whenever he encounters a difficulty. Here we have ample scope for the problem element in teaching and we are recreant to our opportunities and do violence to child-nature if we fail to utilize this method. We are much given to the analytic in our teaching, whereas the pupil enjoys the synthetic. He yearns to make things. Constructing problems in arithmetic, or history, or physics makes a special appeal to him and we do violence to his natural bent if we fail to accord him the opportunity. We can send him in quest of dramatic situations in the poem, or derivatives in his reading lesson, set him thinking of the construction of farm buildings or machinery, or lead him to seek the causes that led up to events in history. In brief, we can appeal to his curiosity and intelligence and so engage the intensest interest of the whole boy. A school girl assumed the task of looking after all the repairs in the way of plumbing in the home and, certainly, was none the worse for the experience. She is now a dentist and has achieved distinction both at home and abroad in her chosen profession. She gained the habit of meeting difficult situations without abatement of dignity or refinement. The school, at its best, is a favorable situation for self-education and the wise teacher will see to it that it does not decline from this high plane. Only so will its products be young men and women who need no leading strings, who can find their way about through the labyrinth of life and not be abashed. They are the ones to whom we must look for leadership in all the enterprises of life, for they have learned how to initiate work and carry it through to success. That school will win distinction which makes initiative one of its big goals and is diligent in causing the activities of the pupils to reach upward toward the achievement of this end. We may well conclude with a quotation from Dr. Henry van Dyke: "The mere pursuit of knowledge is not necessarily an emancipating thing. There is a kind of reading which is as passive as massage. There is a kind of study which fattens the mind for examination like a prize pig for a county fair. No doubt the beginning of instruction must lie chiefly in exercises of perception and memory. But at a certain point the reason and the judgment must be awakened and brought into voluntary play. As a teacher I would far rather have a pupil give an incorrect answer in a way which showed that he had really been thinking about the subject, than a literally correct answer in a way which showed that he had merely swallowed what I had told him, and regurgitated it on the examination paper." CHAPTER EIGHT IMAGINATION In his very stimulating book, _Learning and Doing_, Professor Swift quotes from a business man as follows: "Modern business no longer waits for men to qualify after promotion. Through anticipation and prior preparation every growing man must be largely ready for his new job when it comes to him. I find very few individuals make any effort to think out better ways of doing things. They do not anticipate needs, do not keep themselves fresh at the growing point. If ever they had any imagination they seem to have lost it, and imagination is needed in a growing business, for it is through the imagination that one anticipates future changes and so prepares for them before they come. Accordingly, as a general proposition, the selection of a man for a vacancy within the organization is more or less a matter of guesswork. Now and then an ambitious, wide-awake young man works into the organization and in a very short time is spotted by various department managers for future promotion, but the number of such individuals is discouragingly small. The difficulty with which we are always confronted is that our business grows faster than do those within it. The men do not keep up with our changes. The business grows away from them, and quite reluctantly the management is frequently compelled to go outside for necessary material. We need, at the present time, four or five subordinate chiefs in various parts of the factory and I can fill none of the positions satisfactorily from material in hand." This business man, unconsciously perhaps, puts his finger upon one of the weak places in our school procedure. He convicts us of stifling and repressing the imagination of our pupils. For it is a matter of common knowledge that every normal child is endowed with a vivid imagination when he enters school. No one will challenge this statement who has entered into the heart of childhood through the gateway of play. He has seen a rag doll invested with all the graces of a princess; he has seen empty spools take on all the attributes of the railway train; and he has seen the child's world peopled with entities of which the unimaginative person cannot know. Children revel in the lore of fairyland, and in this realm nothing seems impossible to them. Their toys are the material which their imagination uses in building new and delightful worlds for them. If this imagination is unimpaired when they become grown-ups, these toys are called ideals, and these ideals are the material that enter into the lives of poets, artists, inventors, scientists, orators, statesmen, and reformers. If the child lacks this quality at the end of his school life, the school must be held responsible, at least in part, and so must face the charge of doing him an irreparable injury. It were better by far for the child to lose a leg or an arm somewhere along the school way than to lose his imagination. Better abandon the school altogether if it tends to quench the divine fire of imagination. Better still, devise some plan of so reconstructing the work of the school that we shall forever forestall the possibility of producing a generation of spiritual cripples. The business man already quoted gives to the schools their cue. He shows the need of imagination in practical affairs and, by implication, shows that the school has been recreant to its opportunities in the way of stimulating this requisite quality. We must be quite aware that the men and women who have done things as well as those who are doing things have had or have imagination. Otherwise no achievements would be set down to their credit. It is the very acme of unwisdom to expect our pupils to accomplish things and then take from them the tools of their craft. Imagination is an indispensable tool, and the teacher assumes a grave responsibility who either destroys or blunts it. Unless the school promotes imagination it is not really a school, seeing that it omits from its plans and practices this basic quality. Too much emphasis cannot be laid upon this patent truth, nor can we deplore too earnestly the tendency of many teachers to strangle imagination. We all recognize C. Hanford Henderson as one of our most fertile and sane writers on educational themes and we cannot do better just here than to quote, even at some length, from his facile pen: "To say of man or woman that they have no imagination is to convict them of many actual and potential sins. Such a defect means obtuseness in manners and morals, sterility in arts and science, blundering in the general conduct of life. Children are often accused of having too much imagination, but in reality that is hardly possible. The imagination may run riot, and, growing by what it feeds upon, come dangerously near to untruthfulness,--the store of facts may have been too small. But the remedy is not to cripple or kill the imagination; it is rather to provide the needed equipment of facts and to train the imagination to work within the limits of truth and probability. The unimaginative man is exceedingly dull company. From the moment he opens his eyes in the morning until he closes them at night, he is prone to the sins of both omission and commission. No matter how good his intentions, he constantly offends. No matter how great his industry, he fails to attain. One can trace many immoralities, from slight breaches of manners to grave criminal offenses, to a simple lack of imagination. The offender failed to see,--he was, to all intents and purposes, blind. At its best, imagination is insight. It is the direct source of most of our social amenities, of toleration, charity, consideration,--in a word, of all those social virtues which distinguish the child of light." Another fertile writer says: "Many a child has been driven with a soul-wound into corroding silence by parents who thought they were punishing falsehood when they were in reality repressing the imagination--the faculty which master-artists denote as the first and loveliest possession of the creative mind." Some of our boys will be farmers but, if they lack imagination, they will be dull fellows, at the very best, and, relatively speaking, not far above the horse that draws the plow. The girls will be able to talk, but if they lack imagination they can never become conversationalists. The person who has imagination can cause the facts of the multiplication table to scintillate and glow. The person who lacks imagination is unable to invest with interest and charm even the mountain, the river, the landscape, or the poem. The gossip, the scandal-monger, or the coarse jester proves his lack of imagination and his consequent inability to hold his own in real conversation. We hope, of course, that some of our pupils may become inventors, but this will be impossible unless they possess imagination. A sociologist states the case in this fashion: "Wealth, the transient, is material; achievement, the enduring, is immaterial. The products of achievement are not material things at all. They are not ends, but means. They are methods, ways, devices, arts, systems, institutions. In a word, they are _inventions_." In short, to say that one is an inventor is but another way of saying that he has imagination. It is one thing to know facts but quite another thing to know the significance of facts. And imagination is the alembic that discovers the significance of the facts. A thousand men of England knew the facts touching the life and education of the children of that country, but the facts remained mere facts until the imagination of Dickens interpreted them and thus emancipated childhood from the thralldom of ignorance and cruelty. A thousand men knew the fact touching the steam that issues from the tea-kettle, but not until Watts discovered the significance of the fact did the tea-kettle become the precursor of the steam-engine that has transformed civilization. It required the imagination of Newton to interpret the falling of the apple and to cause this simple, common fact to lead on to the discovery of the great truth of gravitation. Had Galileo lacked imagination, the chandelier might have kept on swinging but the discovery of the rotation of the earth would certainly have been postponed. In this view of the matter we can see one of the weaknesses of some of the work in our colleges as well as in other schools. The teachers are fertile in arriving at facts, but seem to think their tasks completed with these discoveries and so proclaim the discovery of facts to be education. It matters not that the facts are devoid of significance to their students, they simply proceed to the discovery of more facts. They combine two or more substances in a test-tube and thus produce a new substance. This fact is solemnly inscribed in a notebook and the incident is closed. But the student who has imagination and industry inquires "What then?" and proceeds with investigations on his own initiative that result in a positive boon to humanity. Imagination takes the facts and makes something of them, while the college teacher has disclosed his inability to cope with his own students in fields that only imagination can render productive. To quote Henderson once again: "In most of our current education, instead of cultivating so valuable a quality, we have stupidly done all that we can to suppress it. We have not sufficiently studied the actual boy before us to find out what he is up to, and what end he has in mind. On the contrary, we proclaim, with curious indifference, some end of our own devising, and with what really amounts to spiritual brutality, we try to drive him towards it. We do this, we irresponsible parents and teachers, because we ourselves lack imagination, and do not see that we are blunting, instead of sharpening, our human tool. Yet we define education in terms of imagination when we say that education is the unfolding and perfecting of the human spirit; or, that education is a setting-up in the heart of the child of a moral and æsthetic revelation of the universe; for the human spirit which we are trying to establish is not a fact, but a gracious possibility of the future." Happy is the child whose teacher possesses imagination; who can touch the common things of life with the magic wand of her fancy and invest them with supreme charm; who can peer into the future with her pupils and help them translate the bright dreams of today into triumphs in the realms of art, music, science, philosophy, language, and philanthropy; and who builds air-castles of her own and thus has the skill to help the children build theirs. It is not easy, if, indeed, it is possible, for the teacher to quicken imagination in her pupils unless she herself is endowed with this animating quality. Dr. Henry van Dyke puts the case thus: "I care not whether a man is called a tutor, an instructor, or a full professor; nor whether any academic degrees adorn his name; nor how many facts or symbols of facts he has stored away in his brain. If he has these four powers--clear sight, quick imagination, sound reason, strong will--I call him an educated man and fit to be a teacher." And, of a surety, imagination is not the least of these. To this end every teacher should use every means possible to keep her imagination alive and luxuriant, and never, on any account, permit the exigencies of her task to repress it. The success of her pupils depends upon her, and she should strive against stagnation as she would against death. The passing out, the evaporation of imagination is an insidious process, and when it is gone she is but a barren fig-tree. If her imagination is strong and healthy she cannot have a poor school and her pupils will bless her memory throughout the years. As applying to every grade of school we may well note the words of Van Dyke: "Every true university should make room in its scheme for life out-of-doors. There is much to be said for John Milton's plan of a school whose pupils should go together each year on long horseback journeys and sailing cruises to see the world. Walter Bagehot said of Shakespeare that he could not walk down a street without knowing what was in it. John Burroughs has a college on a little farm beside the Hudson; and John Muir has a university called Yosemite. If such men cross a field or a thicket they see more than the seven wonders of the world. That is culture. And without it, all scholastic learning is arid, and all the academic degrees known to man are but china oranges hang on a dry tree." And without imagination this type of culture is impossible. All reforms and, indeed, all progress depend upon imagination. We must be able to picture the world as it ought to be before we can set on foot plans for betterment. It is the high province of the imagination to enter into the feelings and aspirations of others and so be able to lend a hand; to build a better future out of the materials of the present; to soar above the solemnities and conventions of tradition and to smile while soaring; to see the invisible and touch the intangible; and to see the things that are not and call them forth as realities. Seeing that the business man, the fertile-brained essayist, and the gifted poet agree in extolling the potential value of imagination, we have full warrant for according to it an honored place in the curriculum of the school. Too long has it been an incidental minor; it is now high time to advance it to the rank of a major. CHAPTER NINE REVERENCE At the basis of reverence is respect; and reverence is respect amplified and sublimated. A boy must be either dull or heedless who can look at a bird sailing in the air for five minutes and not become surcharged with curiosity to know how it can do it. His curiosity must lead him to an examination of the wing of a bird, and his scrutiny will reveal it as a marvelous bit of mechanism. The adjustment and overlapping of the feathers will convince him that it presents a wonderful design and a no less wonderful adaptation of means to ends. He sees that when the bird is poised in the air the wing is essentially air-tight and that when the bird elects to ascend or descend the feathers open a free passage for the air. Even a cursory examination of the bird's wing must persuade the boy that, with any skill he might attain, he could never fabricate anything so wonderful. This knowledge must, in the nature of things, beget a feeling of respect, and thereafter, whenever the boy sees a bird, he will experience a resurgence of this feeling. Some one has said, "Everything is infinitely high that we can't see over," and because the boy comes to know that he cannot duplicate the bird's wing it becomes infinitely high or great to him and so wins his respect. To the boy who has been taught to think seriously, the mode of locomotion of a worm or a snake is likewise a marvel, and he observes it with awe. The boy who treads a worm underfoot gives indisputable evidence that he has never given serious thought to its mode of travel. Had he done so, he would never commit so ruthless an act. The worm would have won his respect by its ability to do a thing at which he himself would certainly fail. He sees the worm scaling the trunk of a tree with the greatest ease, but when he essays the same task he finds it a very difficult matter. So he tips his cap figuratively to the worm and, in boyish fashion, admits that it is the better man of the two. And never again, unless inadvertently, will he crush a worm. Even a snake he will kill only in what he conceives to be self-defense. An American was making his first trip to Europe. On the way between the Azores and Gibraltar the ship encountered a storm of great violence. For an hour or more the traveler stood on the forward deck, watching the titanic struggle, feeling the ship tremble at each impact of the waves, and hearing the roar that only a storm at sea can produce. Upon returning to his friends he said, "Never again can I speak flippantly of the ocean; never again can I use the expression, 'crossing the pond.' The sea is too vast and too sublime for that." He had achieved reverence. Many a child in school can spell the name of the ocean and give a book definition rather glibly, who, nevertheless, has not the faintest conception of what an ocean really is. The tragedy of the matter is that the teacher gives him a perfect mark for his parrot-like definition and spelling and leaves him in crass ignorance of the reality. The boy deals only with the husk and misses the kernel. When he can spell and define, the work has only just begun, and not until the teacher has contrived to have him emotionalize the ocean will he enter into the heart of its greatness, and power, and utility in promoting life, and so come to experience a feeling of respect for it. When it has won his respect he can read Victor Hugo's matchless description of the sea with understanding, measurable appreciation, and, certainly, a thrill of delight. It is rare fun for children, and even for grown-ups, to locate the constellations, planets, and stars. Of course, the North Star is everybody's favorite because it is so steady, so reliable, so dependable. We know just where to find it, and it never disappoints us. Two boys who once were crossing from New York to Naples found great delight in a star in the Southern sky that retained its relative position throughout the journey. At the conclusion of dinner in the evening the boys were wont to repair to the deck to find their star and receive its greetings. In their passage through the Mediterranean they became curious, wondering how it came about that the star failed to change its relative position in their journey of three thousand miles. When they realized that their star is the apex of a triangle whose base is three thousand miles but whose other legs are so long that the base is infinitesimally short by comparison, their amazement knew no bounds and for the first time in their lives they gained a profound respect for space. This new concept of space was worth the trip across the ocean to those boys, and the wonder is that space had never before meant anything more or other than a word to be spelled. The school and the home had had boundless opportunities to inculcate in them a sense of space, yet this delightful task was left to a passenger on board the ship. But for his kindly offices those boys might have gone on for years conceiving of space as merely a word of five letters. It would have been easy for parent or teacher to engender in them some appreciation of space by explaining to them that if they were to travel thirty miles a day it would require twenty-two years to reach the moon,--which is, in reality, our next-door neighbor,--and that to reach the sun, at the same rate of travel, would require more than eight thousand years, or the added lifetimes of almost three hundred generations. But they were sent abroad to see the wonders of the Old World with no real conception of space and, therefore, no feeling of respect for it. Before their trip abroad they never could have read the last two verses of the eighth chapter of Romans with any real appreciation. Still our schools go on their complacent way, teaching words, words, words that are utterly devoid of meaning to the pupils, and, sad to relate, seem to think their mission accomplished. The pupils are required to spell words, define words, write words, and parse words day after day as if these words were lifeless and meaningless blocks of wood to be merely tossed up and down and moved hither and thither. So soon as a word becomes instinct with life and meaning, it kindles the child's interest at its every recurrence and it becomes as truly an entity as a person. It is then endowed with attributes that distinguish it clearly from its fellows and becomes, to the child, a vivid reality in the scheme of life. To our two boys every star that meets their gaze conjures up a host of memories and helps to renew their spiritual experience and widen their horizon. Space is a reality, to them, a mighty reality, and they cannot think of it without a deep sense of respect. There are people of mature years who have never given to their hands a close examination. Such an examination will disclose the fact that the hand is an instrument of marvelous design. It will be seen that the fingers all differ in length but, when they grasp an orange or a ball, it will be noted that they are conterminous--that the ends form a straight line. This gives them added purchase and far greater power of resistance. Were they of equal length the pressure upon the ball would be distributed and it could be wrested from the grasp far more readily. No mechanical contrivance has ever been designed that is comparable to the hand in flexibility, deftness, adaptability, or power of prehension. It can pick up a needle or a cannon-ball at will. Its touch is as light as a feather or as stark as a catapult. It can be as gentle as mercy or as harsh as battle. It can soothe to repose or rouse to fury. It can express itself in the gentle zephyr or in the devastating whirlwind. Its versatility is altogether worthy of notice, and we may well hold the lesson in history in abeyance, for the nonce, while we inculcate due respect for the hand. For no one can contemplate his hand for five minutes and not gain for it a feeling of profound respect. What is true of the hand is true of the whole human body. This is the very acme of created things; this is God's masterpiece. How any one can fail to respect such a wonderful piece of work is beyond explanation. The process of walking or of breathing must hold the thoughtful person enthralled and enchanted. But, strange as it may seem, there are those who seem not to realize in what a marvelous abode their spirits have their home. Such scant respect do they have for their bodies that they defile them and treat them with shameless ignominy. They saturate them with poisons and vulgarize them with unseemly practices. They seem to regard them as mere property to be used or abused at pleasure and not temples to be honored. The man who does not respect his own body can feel no respect or reverence for its Creator nor for the soul that dwells within it. Such a man lacks self-respect and self-respect is the fertile soil in which many virtues flourish. The teaching of physiology that fails to generate a feeling of deep respect for the human body is not the sort of teaching that should obtain in our schools. Again, a person who is possessed of fine sensibilities sees in the apple tree in full bloom a creation of transcendant beauty and charm. The poet cannot describe it, nor can the artist reproduce it. It is both a mystery and a miracle. Into this miracle nature has poured her lavish treasures of fertility, of rain, of sunshine, and of zephyrs, and from it at the zenith of its beauty the full-throated robin pours forth his heart in melodious greeting. It may be well to dismiss the school to see the circus parade, but even more fitting is it to dismiss the school to see this burst of splendor. In its glorious presence silence is the only language that is befitting. In such a presence sound is discord, for such enchantment as it begets cannot be made articulate. Its influence steals into the senses and lifts the spirit up. To defile or despoil such beauty would be to desecrate a shrine. But the sordid man sees in this symphony of color nothing else than a promise of fruit. His response is wholly physical, not spiritual at all. His spiritual sense seems atrophied and he can do nothing but estimate the bushels of fruit. He feels no respect for the beauty before him and it is evident that somewhere along the line his spiritual education was neglected. He excites our sympathy and our hope that his children may not share his fate. In the way of illustrating this quality of respect, we reach the climax in the thirty-eighth chapter of the Book of Job and following. The dramatic element of literature here reaches its zenith. God is the speaker, the stricken, outcast Job is the sole auditor, and the stage is a whirlwind. It is related of the late Professor Hodge that, on one occasion when he was about to perform an experiment in his laboratory, he said to some students who stood near, "Gentlemen, please remove your hats; I am about to ask God a question." But here in this chapter we have a still more sublime situation, for God is here asking questions of the man. And these questions dig deep into the life of the man and show him how puny and impotent is the finite in the presence of the Infinite. In this presence there is neither pomp, nor parade, nor vaunting, nor self-aggrandizement, nor arrogance. Even the printed page cannot but induce respect, devoutness, and profound reverence, for it tells of nature's wonders--the snow-crystals, the rain, the dewdrop, the light, the cloud, the lightning--and reveals to the bewildered sight some apprehension of the Author of them all. The reader must, by now, have divined the conclusion of the whole matter. Without respect there can be no reverence; and, without reverence, there can be neither education nor civilization that is worth while. Some one has defined reverence as "that exquisite constraint which leads a man to hate all that is unsuitable and sordid and exaggerated and to love all that is excellent and temperate and beautiful." This definition is both comprehensive and inclusive, and the superintendent may well promulgate it in his directions to his teachers. All teaching has to do with Truth and, in the presence of Truth, whether in mathematics, or science, or history, or language, the teacher should feel that he stands in the presence of the Burning Bush and hears the command, "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." It seems a thousand pities that even college students rush into the presence of the Burning Bush in hobnailed shoes, shouting forth the college yell as they go. The man who is reverent disclaims everything that is cheap, or vulgar, or coarse, or unseemly. He is so essentially fine that the gaudy, the bizarre, and the intemperate, in whatever form, grate upon his sensibilities. He respects himself too much to be lacking in respect to others. He instinctively shrinks away from ugly vulgarization as from a pestilence. He is kindly, charitable, sympathetic, and sincere. Exaggeration, insinuation, and caricature are altogether foreign to his spirit. In his society we feel inspired and ennobled. His very presence is a tonic, and his tongue distills only purity. His example is the lodestar of our aspirations, and we fain would be his disciples. We feel him to be something worshipful in that his life constantly beckons to our better selves. To be reverent is to be liberally educated, while to be irreverent is to dwell in darkness and ignorance. To be reverent is to live on the heights, where the air is pure and tonic and where the sunlight is free from taint. To be reverent is to acknowledge our indebtedness to all those who, in art, in science, in literature, in music, or in philanthropy, have caused the waters of life to gush forth in clear abundance. To be reverent is to stand uncovered in the presence of Life and to experience the thrill of the spiritual impulses that only an appreciation of life can generate. If this is reverence, then the school honors itself by giving this quality a place of honor. CHAPTER TEN SENSE OF RESPONSIBILITY Every one who has had to do with Harvey's Grammar will readily recall the sentence, "Milo began to lift the ox when he was a calf." Aside from the interest which this sentence aroused as to the antecedent of the pronoun, it also enunciated a bit of philosophy which caused the pupils to wonder about the possibility of such a feat. They were led to consider such examples of physical strength as Samson, Hercules, and the more modern Sandow and to wonder, perhaps, just what course of training brought these men to their attainment of physical power. It is comparatively easy for adults to realize that such feats as these men accomplished could only come through a long process of training. If a man can lift a given weight on one day, he may be able to lift a slightly heavier weight the next day, and so on until he has achieved distinction by reason of his ability to lift great weights. So it is in this matter of responsibility. It need hardly be said that responsibility is the heaviest burden that men and women are called upon to lift or carry. We need only think of the responsibilities pertaining to the office of the chief ruler of a country in time of war, or of the commanding general of armies, or of the president of large industrial concerns, and so on through the list. Such men bear burdens of responsibility that cannot be estimated in terms of weights or measures. We can easily think of the time when the manager of a great industrial concern was a child in school, but it is not so easy to think of the six-year-old boy performing the functions of this same manager. However, we do know that the future rulers, generals, managers, and superintendents are now sitting at desks in the schools and it behooves all teachers to inquire by what process these pupils may be so trained that in time they will be able to execute these functions. In some such way we gain a right concept of responsibility. We cannot think of the six-year-old boy as a bank president but, in our thinking, we can watch his progress, in one-day intervals, from his initial experience in school to his assumption of the duties pertaining to the presidency of the bank. In thus tracing his progress there is no strain or stress in our thinking nor does the element of improbability obtrude itself. We think along a straight and level road where no hills arise to obstruct the view. Each succeeding day marks an inch or so of progress toward the goal. But should we set the responsibilities of the bank president over against the powers of the child, the disparity would overwhelm our thinking and our minds would be thrown into confusion. Our thinking is level and easy only when we conceive of strength and responsibility advancing side by side and at the same rate. It would be an interesting experience to overhear the teacher inquiring of the superintendent how she should proceed in order to inculcate in her pupils a sense of responsibility. We should be acutely alert to catch every word of the superintendent's reply. If he were dealing with such a concrete problem as Milo and the calf, his response would probably be satisfactory; but when such an abstract quality as responsibility is presented to him his reply might be vague and unsatisfactory. His thinking may have had to do with concrete problems so long that an abstract quality presents a real difficulty to his mental operations. Yet the question which the teacher propounds is altogether pertinent and reasonable and, if he fails to give a satisfactory reply, he will certainly decline in her esteem. The normal child welcomes such a measure of responsibility as falls within the compass of his powers and acquits himself of it in a manner that is worthy of commendation. This open truth encourages the conviction that the superintendent who can give to the teacher a definite plan by which she will be able to develop a sense of responsibility, will commend himself to her favor, if not admiration. They both know full well that if the pupil emerges from the school period lacking this quality he will be a helpless weight upon society and a burden to himself and his family, no matter what his mental attainments. He will be but a child in his ability to cope with situations that confront him and cannot perform the functions of manhood. Though a man in physical stature he will shrink from the ordinary duties that fall to the lot of a man and, like a child, will cling to the hand of his mother for guidance. In all situations he will show himself a spiritual coward. The problem is easy of statement but by no means so easy of solution. At the age of six the boy takes his place at a desk in the school. Twenty years hence, let us say, he will be a railway engineer. As such he must drive his engine at forty miles an hour through blinding storm, or in inky darkness, or through menacing and stifling tunnels, or over dizzy bridges, or around the curve on the edge of the precipice--and do this with no shadow of fear or hint of trepidation, but always with a keen eye, a cool head, and a steady hand. In his keeping are the lives of many persons, and any wavering or unsteadiness, on his part, may lead to speedy disaster. Somewhere along the way between the ages of six and twenty-six he must gain the ability to assume a heavy responsibility, and it would seem a travesty upon rational education to force him to acquire this ability wholly during the eight years succeeding his school experience. If, at the age of eighteen, he does not exhibit some ability in this respect, the school may justly be charged with dereliction. Or, twenty years hence, this boy may be a physician. If so, he will find a weeping mother clinging to him and imploring him to save her baby. He will see a strong man broken with sobs and offering him a fortune to save his wife from being engulfed in the dark shadows. His ears will be assailed with delirious ravings that call to him for relief and life. He will be importuned by the grief-crushed child not to let her mother go. He will be called upon to grapple with plague, with pestilence, with death itself. Unless he can give succor, hope departs and darkness enshrouds and blights. He alone can hold disease and death at bay and bid darkness give place to light and cause sorrow to vanish before the smile of joy. He stands alone at the portal to do battle against the demons of devastation and desolation. And, if he fails, the plaints of grief will penetrate the innermost chambers of his soul. He must not fail. So he toils on through the long night watches, disdaining food and rest, that the breaking day may bring in gladness and crown the arts of healing. And the school that does not share in the glory of such achievement misses a noble opportunity. Again, twenty years hence, the little girl who now sits at her desk, crowned with golden ringlets, will be a wife and mother, and the mistress of a well-conditioned home. She is a composite of Mary and Martha and in her kingdom reigns supreme and benign. In her home there is no hint of "raw haste, half-sister to delay," for long since she acquired the habit of serene mastery. She meets her manifold responsibilities with a smile and sings her way through them all. If clouds arise, she banishes them with the magic of her poise and amiability. She can say with Napoleon, "I do not permit myself to become a victim of circumstances; I make circumstances." Back in the school she learned order, system, method, and acquired the sense of responsibility. At first the teacher's desk was her special care, and by easy gradations the scope of her activities was widened until she came to feel responsible for the appearance of the entire schoolroom. Now in her womanhood she is a delight to her husband, her children, her guests, and her neighbors. Emergencies neither daunt her nor render her timorous, but, serene and masterful, she meets the new situation as a welcome novelty, and, with supreme amiability, accepts it as a friendly challenge to her resourcefulness. She needs not to apologize or explain, for difficulties disappear at her approach because, in the school, responsibility was one of the major goals of her training. Or, again, two decades hence this child may have attained to a position in the world of affairs where good taste, judgment, perseverance, self-control, graciousness, and tact are accounted assets of value. But these qualities, gained through experience, are as much a part of herself as her hands. A thousand times in the past has the responsibility been laid upon her of making selections touching shapes, colors, materials, or types, till now her judgment is regarded as final. Her self-control has become proverbial, but it is not the miracle that it seems, for it has become grooved into a habit by much experience. She met all these lions in her path at school and vanquished them all, with the aid of the teacher's counsel and encouragement. She can perform heroisms now because she long since contracted the habit of heroisms. And responsibility is most becoming to her now because in the years past she learned how to wear it. She has multiplied her powers and usefulness a hundred-fold by reason of having learned to assume responsibility. She has learned to lift her eyes and scan the far horizon and not be afraid. With gentle, kindly eyes she can look into the faces of men and women in all lands and not be abashed in their presence. She can soothe the child to rest and prove herself a scourge to evil-doers, all within the hour. She knows herself equal to the best, but not above the least. She does not need to pose, for she knows her own power without ever vaunting it. Her simplicity and sincerity are the fragrant bloom of her sense of responsibility both to herself and her kind. She gives of herself and her means as a gracious discharge of obligation to the less fortunate, but never as charity. She feels herself bound up in the interests of humanity and would do her full part in helping to make life more worth while. Her touch has the gift of healing and her tongue distills kindness. Her obligations to the human family are privileges to be esteemed and enjoyed and not bur-dens to be endured and reviled. And she thinks of her superintendent and teachers with gratitude for their part in the process of developing her into what she is, and what she may yet become. Only such as the defiant, wicked, and rebellious Cain can ask the question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" The man who feels no responsibility for the character and good name of the community of which he is a member is a spiritual outcast and will become a social pariah if he persists in maintaining his attitude of indifference. For, after all, responsibility amounts to a spiritual attitude. If the man feels no responsibility to his community he will begrudge it the taxes he pays, the improvements he is required to make, and will be irked by every advance that makes for civic betterment. To him the church and school will seem excrescences and superfluities, nor would he grieve to see them obliterated. His exodus would prove a distinct boon to the community. He may have a noble physique, good mentality, much knowledge, and large wealth, and yet, with all these things in his favor, he is nevertheless a liability for the single reason that he lacks a sense of responsibility. Could his teachers have foreseen his present attitude no efforts, on their part, would have seemed too great if only they could have forestalled his misfortune. And it is for the teachers to determine whether the boy of today shall become a duplicate of the man here portrayed. Every man who lives under a democratic form of government has the opportunity before him each day to raise or lower the level of democracy. When the night comes on, if he reflects upon the matter, he must become conscious that he has done either the one or the other. Either democracy is a better thing for humanity because of his day's work and influence, or it is a worse thing. This is a responsibility that he can neither shift nor shirk. It is fastened upon him with or against his will. It rests with him to determine whether he would have every other man and every boy in the land select him as their model and follow his example to the last detail. He alone can decide whether he would have all men indulge in the practices that constitute his daily life, consort with his companions, hold his views on all subjects, read only the books that engage his interest, duplicate his thoughts, aspirations, impulses, and language, and become, each one, his other self. Every boy who now sits in the school must answer these questions for himself sooner or later, nor can he hope to evade them. Happy is that boy, therefore, whose teacher has the foresight and the wisdom to train him into such a sense of responsibility as will enable him to answer them in such a way that the future will bring to him no pang of remorse. Thomas A. Edison is one of the benefactors of his time. He reached out into space and grasped a substance that is both invisible and intangible, harnessed it with trappings, pushed a button, and the world was illumined. There were years of unremitting toil behind this achievement, years of discouragement bordering on despair, but years in which the light of hope was kept burning. We accept his gift with the very acme of nonchalance and with little or no feeling of gratitude. Perhaps he would not have it otherwise. We do not know. But certain it is that his marvelous achievement has made life more agreeable to millions of people and he must be conscious of this fact. At some time in his life he must have achieved a sense of responsibility to his fellows and this worthy sentiment must have become the guiding principle in all his labors. If some teacher fostered in him this sense of responsibility, she did a piece of work for the world that can never be measured in terms of salary. She did not teach arithmetic, or grammar, or geography. She taught Edison. And one of the big results of her teaching was his attainment of this sense of responsibility which far overtops all the arithmetic and history that he ever learned. The man who carried the message to Garcia is another fitting illustration of this same principle. In executing his commission he overcame difficulties that would have seemed insurmountable to a less intrepid man. He kept his eye on the goal and endured almost unspeakable hardships in pressing forward toward this goal. Somehow and somewhere in his life he had learned the meaning of responsibility and so felt that he must not fail. The world came to know him as a hero because he was a hero at heart and his heroic achievement had its origin in the training that led him to feel a sense of responsibility. CHAPTER ELEVEN LOYALTY When the boy overhears a companion put a slight upon the good name of his mother, he does not deliberate but, like a flash, smites the mouth that defames. He may deliberate afterward, for the mind then has a fact upon which to work, but if he is a worthy son it is not till afterwards. Spiritual impulses are as quick as powder and as direct as a shaft of light. So quick are they that we are prone to disregard them in our contemplation of their results. We see the boy strike and conclude, in a superficial way, that his hand initiated the action, nor take pains to trace this action back to the primal cause in the spiritual impulse. True, both mind and body are called into action, but only as auxiliaries to carry out the behests of the spirit. When the man utters an exclamation of delight at sight of his country's flag in a foreign port, the sound that we hear is but the conclusion or completion of the series of happenings. It is not the initial happening at all. On the instant when his eyes caught sight of the flag something took place inside the man's nature. This spiritual explosion was telegraphed to the mind, the mind, in turn, issued a command to the body, and the sound that was noted was the final result. In a general way, education is the process of training mind and body to obey and execute right commands of the spirit. This definition will justify our characterization of education as a spiritual process. Seeing, then, that the body is but a helper whose function is to execute the mandates of the spirit, and seeing, too, that education is a process of the spirit, it follows that our concern must be primarily and always with the spirit as major. It is the spirit that reacts, not the mind or the body, and education is, therefore, the process of inducing right reactions of the spirit. The nature of these reactions depends upon the quality of the external stimuli. If we provide the right sort of stimuli the reactions will be right. If, today, the spirit reacts to a beautiful picture, tomorrow, to the tree in bloom, the next day to an alluring landscape, and the next to the glory of a sunrise, in time its reactions to beauty in every form will become habitual. If we can induce reactions, day by day, to beautiful or sublime passages in literature, in due time the spirit will refuse to react to what is shoddy and commonplace. By inducing reactions to increasingly better musical compositions, day after day, we finally inculcate the habit of reacting only to high-grade music, and the lower type makes no appeal. By such a process we shall finally produce an educated, cultivated man or woman, the crowning glory of education. The measure of our success in this process of education will be the number of reactions we can induce to the right sort of stimuli. In this, we shall have occasion to make many substitutions. The boy who has been reacting to ugliness must be lured away by the substitution of beauty. The beautiful picture will take the place of the bizarre until nothing but such a picture will give pleasure and satisfaction. Indeed, the substitution of beauty for ugliness will, in time, induce a revolt against what is ugly and stimulate the boy to desire to transform the ugly thing into a thing of beauty. Many a home shows the effects of reaction in the school to artistic surroundings. The child reacts to beauty in the school and so yearns for the same sort of stimuli in the home. When the little girl entreats her mother to provide for her such a ribbon as the teacher wears, we see an exemplification of this principle. When only the best in literature, in art, in nature, in music, and in conduct avail to produce reactions, we may well proclaim the one who reacts to these stimuli an educated person. It is well to repeat that these reactions are all spiritual manifestations and that the conduct of mind and body is a resultant. To casual thinking it may seem a far cry from reactions and external stimuli to loyalty, but not so by any means. The man or woman who has been led to react to the Madonna of the Chair, the Plow Oxen, or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel will experience a revival and recurrence of the reaction at every sight of the masterpiece, whether the original or a reproduction. That masterpiece has become this person's standard of art and neither argument, nor persuasion, nor sophistry can divorce him from his ideal. The boy's mother is one of his ideals. He believes her to be the best woman alive, and it were a sorry fact if he did not. Hence, when her good qualities are assailed his spirit explodes and commands his right arm to become a battering-ram. The kindness of the mother has caused the boy's spirit to react a thousand times, and his reaction in defending her name from calumny was but another evidence of an acquired spiritual habit. Hence it is that we find loyalty enmeshed in these elements that pertain to the province of psychology. It must be so, seeing that these elements and loyalty have to do with the spirit, for loyalty is nothing other than a reaction to the same external stimuli that have induced reactions many times before. In setting up loyalty, therefore, as one of the big goals of school endeavor the superintendent has only to make a list of the external stimuli that will induce proper reactions and so groove these reactions into habit. His problem, thus stated, seems altogether simple but, in working out the details, he will find himself facing the entire scheme of education. If he would induce reactions that spell loyalty he must make no mistake in respect of external stimuli, for it must be reiterated that the character of the stimuli conditions the reactions. We may not hope to achieve loyalty unless through the years of training we have provided stimuli of the right sort. If the sentiment of loyalty concerns itself with the teachings of the Bible and the tenets of the church, we call it religion; if it has to do with one's country and what its flag represents, we call it patriotism; and in many another relation we call it fidelity. Hence it is obvious that loyalty is an inclusive quality and in its ramifications reaches out into every phase of life. This gives us clear warrant for making it one of the prime objectives in a rational, as distinguished from a traditional, scheme of education. The progressive superintendent who is endowed with perspicacity, resourcefulness, altruism, and faith in himself will consult the highest interests of the boys and girls of his school before he relegates the matter to oblivion. To such as he we must look for advance and for the redemption of our schools from their traditional moorings. To such as he we must look for the inoculation of the teachers with such virus as will render them vital, dynamic, and eager to essay any new task that gives promise of a larger and better outlook for their pupils. In the second chapter of Revelation, tenth verse, we read, "Be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee the crown of life." Now this is quite as true in a psychological sense as it is in a scriptural sense. It is a great pity that we do not read the Bible far more for lessons in pedagogy. However, too many people misread the quoted passage. They interpret the expression "unto death" as if it were "until death." This interpretation would weaken the expression. The martyrs would not recant even when the fires were blazing all about them or when their bodies were lacerated. They were faithful unto death. In his poem _Invictus_ Henley says, In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud; Under the bludgeonings of chance, My head is bloody but unbowed. And only so can the spirit hope to achieve emancipation and win out into the clear. This is the crown of life. Michael Angelo represents Joseph of Arimathea standing at the tomb of the Master with head erect and with the mien of faith. He did not understand at all, and yet his faithful heart encouraged him to hope and to hold his head from drooping. He was faithful even in the darkness and on the morning of the Resurrection he received his crown. When we set up loyalty as one of our major goals we shall become alert to every illustration of it that falls under our gaze. The story of Nathan Hale will become newly alive and will thrill as never before. Over against Nathan Hale we shall set Philip Nolan for the sake of comparison and contrast. Even though our pupils may regard Joan of Arc as a fanatic, her heroism and her fidelity to her convictions will shine forth as a star in the night and her example as illustrating loyalty will be as seed planted in fertile soil. In our quest for exemplars we shall find the pages of history palpitating with life. We may sow dead dragon's teeth, but armed men will spring into being. Thermopylæ will become a new story, while William Tell and Arnold Winkelried will take rank among the demigods. Sidney Carton will become far more than a mere character of fiction, for on his head we shall find a halo, and Horace Mann will become far more than a mere schoolmaster. Historians, poets, novelists, statesmen, and philanthropists will rally about us to reinforce our efforts and to cite to us men and women of all times who shone resplendent by reason of their loyalty. Our objective being loyalty, we shall omit the lesson in grammar for today in order to induce the spirits of our pupils to react to the story of Jephthah's daughter. For once they have emotionalized it, have really felt its power, this story will become to them a rare possession and will entwine itself in the warp and woof of their lives and form a pattern of exceeding beauty whose colors will not fade. They shall hear the solemn vow of the father to sacrifice unto the Lord the first living creature that meets his gaze after the victory over his enemies. They shall see him returning invested with the glory of the victor. Then the child will be seen running forth to meet him, the first living creature his gaze has fallen upon since the battle. They will note her gladness to see him and to know that he is safe. They will see the dancing of her eyes and hear her rippling, joyous laughter. They will become tense as the father is telling her of his vow. But the climax is reached when they hear her saying, "My father, if thou hast opened thy mouth unto the Lord, do to me according to that which hath proceeded out of thy mouth." And, with bated breath, they see her meeting death with a smile that her father may keep his covenant with the Lord. Ever after this story will mark to them the very zenith of loyalty, and the lesson in grammar can await another day. Again, instead of the regular reading lesson the school may well substitute the story of David, as given in the eleventh chapter of Chronicles. "Now three of the thirty captains went down to the rock to David, into the cave of Adullam; and the host of the Philistines encamped in the valley of Rephaim. And David was then in the hold, and the Philistines' garrison was then at Bethlehem. And David longed, and said, 'O that one would give me drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem that is at the gate.' And the three brake through the host of the Philistines, and drew water out of the well of Bethlehem, that was by the gate, and took it, and brought it to David; but David would not drink of it, but poured it out to the Lord, and said, 'My God forbid it me, that I should do this thing. Shall I drink the blood of these men that have put their lives in jeopardy? for with the jeopardy of their lives they brought.' Therefore he would not drink it." Without any semblance of irreverence we may paraphrase this story slightly and have our own General Pershing stand in the place of David asking for water. Then we can see three of his soldiers going across No Man's Land in quest of the water which he craves. When they return, bearing the water to him from the spring in the enemy's territory, we can see him pouring the water upon the ground and refusing to drink it because of the hazard of the enterprise. No fulsome explanation will need to be given to impress upon the pupils the loyalty of the soldiers to their general, nor yet the loyalty of the general to his soldiers. Or again, in the oral English two of the pupils may be asked to tell the stories of Ruth and Esther, and certain it is, if these stories are told effectively, the pupils will thrill with admiration for the loyalty of these two noble characters. On his way home for vacation a college student was telling his companion on the train of the trip ahead, relating that at such a time he would reach the junction and at a certain hour he would walk into his home just in time for supper; he concluded by paying a tribute to the noble qualities of his mother. This man is now an attorney in a large city and it is inconceivable that he can ever be guilty of apostasy from the ideals and principles to which he reacted in his boyhood in that village home. Whatever temptations may come to him, the mother's face and voice and the memory of her high principles will forbid his yielding and hold him steady and loyal to that mother and her teaching. He must feel that if he should debase himself he would dishonor her, and that he cannot do. He can still hear her voice echoing from the years long gone, and feel the kindly touch of her hand upon his brow. When troubles came, mother knew just what to do and soon the sun was shining again. It was her magic that made the rough places smooth, her voice that exorcised all evil spirits. She it was who drove the lions from his path and made it a place of peace and joy. To be disloyal to her would be to lose his manhood. Whatever vicissitudes befall, we yearn to return to the old homestead, for there, and there alone, can we experience, in full measure, the reactions that came from our early associations with the old well, the bridge that spans the brook, the trees bending low with their luscious fruit, the grape arbor, the spring that bubbles and laughs as it gives forth its limpid treasure, the fields that are redolent of the harvest season, and the royal meal on the back porch. The man who does not smile in recalling such scenes of his boyhood days is abnormal, disloyal, and an apostate. These are the scenes that anchor the soul and give meaning to civilization. The man who will not fight for the old home, and for the memory of father and mother, will not fight for the flag of his country and is, at heart, an alien. But the man who is loyal to the home of his early years, loyal to the memory of his parents, and loyal to the principles which they implanted in his life, such a man can never be less than loyal to the flag that floats over him, loyal to the land in which he finds his home, and ever loyal to the best and highest interests of that land. Never, because of him, will the colors of the flag lose their luster or the stars grow dim. He will be faithful even unto death, because loyalty throbs in his every pulsation, is proclaimed by his every word, is enmeshed in every drop of his blood and has become a vital part of himself. CHAPTER TWELVE DEMOCRACY In a recent book H.G. Wells says that education has lost its way. Whether we give assent to this statement or not, it must be admitted that it is a direct challenge to the school, the home, the pulpit, the press, to government, and to society. If education has indeed lost its way, the responsibility rests with these educational agencies. If education has lost its way, these agencies must unite in a benevolent conspiracy to help it find it again. The war has brought these agencies into much closer fellowship and they are now working in greater harmony than ever before. This is due to the fact that they are working to a common end, that they are animated by a common purpose. The war is producing many readjustments and a new scale of values. Many things that were once considered majors are now thought of as minors, and the work of reconstruction has only just begun. Civilization is now in the throes of a re-birth and people are awakening from their complacency and thinking out toward the big things of life. They are lifting their gaze above and beyond party, and creed, and racial ties, and territorial boundaries, and fixing it upon their big common interests. More and more has their thinking been focused upon democracy, until this has become a watchword throughout the world. About this focal point people's thoughts are rallying day by day, and their community of feeling and thinking is leading to community of action. Primarily, democracy is a spiritual impulse, the quintessence of the Golden Rule. "As a man thinketh in his heart so is he," and this spiritual quality inevitably precedes and conditions democracy in its outward manifestations. Feeling, thinking, willing, doing--these are the stages in the law of life. The Golden Rule in action has its inception in the love of man for his fellow-man. The action is but the visible fruitage of the invisible spiritual impulse. The soldier in the trench, the sailor on the ship, the nurse in the hospital, the worker in the factory, and the official at his desk, all exemplify this principle. The outward manifestations of the inward impulse, democracy, are many and varied, and the demands of the war greatly increased both the number and variety. People essayed tasks that, a few years ago, would have seemed impossible; nor did they demean themselves in so doing. The production and conservation of food has become a national enterprise that has enlisted the active coöperation of men, women, and children of all classes, creeds, and conditions. Rich and poor joined in the work of war gardens, thinking all the while not only of their own larders but quite as much of their friends across the sea. And while they helped win the war, they were winning their own souls, for they were yielding obedience to a spiritual impulse and not a mere animal desire. Thus Americans and the people of other lands, like children at school, are learning the lesson of democracy. Moreover, they are now appalled at the wastage of former years and at the cheapness of many of the things that once held their interest. In this process of achieving an access of democracy it holds true that "There is no impression without expression." Each reaction of the spirit tends to groove the impression into a habit, and this process has had a thousand exemplifications before our eyes since the opening of the war. People who were only mildly inoculated with the democratic spirit at first became surcharged with this spirit because of their many reactions. They have been obeying the behests of spiritual impulse, working in war gardens, eliminating luxuries, purchasing bonds, contributing to benevolent enterprises, until democracy is their ruling passion. Every effort a man puts forth in the interest of humanity has a reflex influence upon his inner self and he experiences a spiritual expansion. So it has come to pass that men and women are doing two, three, or ten times the amount of work they did in the past and doing it better. Their aroused and enlarged spiritual impulses are the enginery that is driving their minds and bodies forward into virgin territory, into new and larger enterprises, and thus into a wider, deeper realization of their own capabilities. So the leaven of democracy is working through difficulties of surpassing obduracy and resolving situations that seemed, in the past, to be beyond human achievement. And of democracy it may be said, as of Dame Rumor of old, "She grows strong by motion and gains power by going. Small at first through fear, she presently raises herself into the air, she walks upon the ground and lifts her head among the clouds." On the side of democracy, at any rate, it would seem that education is beginning to find its way again. In the thinking of most people democracy is a form of government; but primarily it is not this at all. Rather it is a spiritual attitude. The form of government is an outward manifestation of the inward feeling. Our ancestors held democracy hidden in their hearts as they crossed the ocean long before it became visible as a form of government. The form of government was inevitable, seeing that they possessed the feeling of democracy, and that they were journeying to land in obedience to the dictates of this feeling. In education for democracy the form of government is an after-consideration; that will come as a natural sequence. The chief thing is to inoculate the spirits of people with a feeling for democracy. This germ will grow out into a form of government because of the unity of feeling and consequent thinking. When this spiritual attitude is generated, not only does the form of government follow, but people meet upon the plane of a common purpose and give expression to their inner selves in like movements. They come to realize that, in a large way, each one is his brother's keeper. They are drawn together in closer sympathy and good-will; artificial barriers disappear; and they all become interested in the common good. Their interests, purposes, and activities become unified, and life becomes better and richer. Actuated by a common impulse, they exemplify what Kipling says in his _Sons of Martha_: Lift ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat, Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that, Not as a ladder from Earth to Heaven, not as an altar to any creed, But simple Service, simply given, to their own kind, in their common need. As Dr. Henry van Dyke well says, "It is the silent ideal in the hearts of the people which molds character and guides action." It will be admitted without qualification that the school, when well administered, constitutes a force that a altogether favorable to the development of the spirit of democracy, and no one will deny that democracy is a worthy goal toward which the activities of the school should be directed. It is easy to see just how geography, for instance, may be made a means to this end. The members of the class represent many conditions of society, but in the study of geography they unite in a common enterprise and have interests in common. Thus their spirits merge and, for the time, they become unified in a common quest. They become coordinates and confederates in this quest of geography, and the spirit of democracy expands in an atmosphere so favorable to growth. These pupils may differ in race, in creed, or in color, but these differences are submerged in the zeal of a common purpose. Lines of demarcation are obliterated and they are drawn together because of their thinking and feeling in unison. The caste system does not thrive in the geography class and snobbery languishes. The pupils have the same books, the same assignments, the same teacher, and share alike in all the privileges and pleasures which the class provides. Their grades are given on merit, with no semblance of discrimination. In short, they achieve the democratic attitude of spirit by means of the study of geography. If the teacher holds democracy in mind, all the while, as the goal of endeavor, she will find abundant opportunities to inculcate and develop the democratic ideal. By tactful suggestion she directs the activities of the children into channels that lead to unity of purpose. Where help is needed, she arranges that help may be forthcoming. Where sympathy will prove a solace, sympathy will be given, for sympathy grows spontaneously in a democratic atmosphere. Books, pictures, and flowers come forth as if by magic to bear their kindly messages and to render their appointed service. By the subtle alchemy of her very presence, the teacher who is deeply imbued with the spirit of democracy fuses the spirits of her pupils and causes them to blend in the pursuit of truth. Thus she brings it to pass that the spirit of democracy dominates the school and each pupil comes to feel a sense of responsibility for the well-being of all the others. So the school achieves the goal of democracy by means of the studies pursued, and the pupils come to experience the altruism, the impulse to serve, and the centrifugal urge of the democratic spirit. CHAPTER THIRTEEN SERENITY Serenity does not mean either stolidity or lethargy; far otherwise. Nor does it mean sluggishness, apathy or phlegmatism; quite the contrary. It does mean depth as opposed to shallowness, bigness as opposed to littleness, and vision as opposed to spiritual myopia. It means dignity, poise, aplomb, balance. It means that there is sufficient ballast to hold the ship steady on its way, no matter how much sail it spreads. When we see serenity, we are quite aware of other spiritual qualities that foster it and lift it into view. We know that courage is one of the hidden pillars on which it rests and that sincerity contributes to its grace and charm. It is a vital crescent quality as staunch as the oak and as graceful as the rainbow. It evermore stands upon a pedestal, and a host of devotees do it homage. It is as majestic and beautiful as the iceberg but as warm-hearted as love. It has reserve, and yet it attracts rather than repels. A thousand influences are poured into the alembic of the spirit, and serenity issues forth in modest splendor. This quality of the spirit both betokens and embodies power, and power governs the universe. Its power is not that of the storm that harries and devastates, but rather that of the sunshine that fructifies, purifies, chastens, and ripens. It does not rush or crash into a situation but steals in as quietly as the dawn, without noise or bombast, and, by its gentle influence, softens asperities and wins a smile from the face of sorrow, or discouragement, or anger. Its presence transforms discord into harmony, irradiates gloom, and evokes rare flowers from the murky soil of discontent. Whatever storms may rage elsewhere and whatever darkness may enshroud, it ever keeps its place as the center of a circle of calm and light. It is Venus of Milo come to life, silently distilling the beauty and splendor of living. In its presence harshness becomes gentleness, hysteria becomes equanimity, and sound becomes silence. From its presence vaunting and vainglory and arrogance hasten away to be with their own kind. By its power, as of a miracle, it changes the dross into fine gold, the grotesque into the seemly, the vulgar into the pure, the water into wine. Into the midst of commotion and confusion it quietly moves, saying, "Peace, be still!" and there is quiet and repose. Like the sun-crowned summit of the mountain, it stands erect and sublime nor heeds the cloudy tumult at its feet. In the school, the teacher who exemplifies and typifies this quality of serenity is never less than dignified but, withal, is never either cold or rigid. Children nestle about her in their affections and expand in her presence as flowers open in the sunshine. She cannot be a martinet nor, in her presence, can the children become sycophants. Her very presence generates an atmosphere that is conducive to healthy growth. There is that impelling force about her that draws people to her as iron filings are drawn to the magnet. Her smile stills the tumult of youthful exuberance and when the children look at her they gain a comprehensive definition of a lady. Her poise steadies the children in all the ramifications of their work, her complete mastery of herself wins their admiration, and her complete mastery of the situation wins their respect. They become inoculated with her spirit and make daily advances toward the goal of serenity. Knowledge is her meat and drink and, through the subtle alchemy of sublimation, her knowledge issues forth into wisdom. She does not pose, for her simplicity and sincerity have no need of artificial garnishings. Her outward mien is but the expression of her spiritual power, and when we contemplate her we know of a truth that education is a spiritual process. To the teacher without serenity, the days abound in troubles. She is nervous, peevish, querulous, and irritable, and her pupils become equally so. She thinks of them as incorrigibles and tells them so. To her they seem bad and she tells them so. Her animadversions reflect upon their parents and their home life as well as themselves and she takes unction to herself by reason of her strictures. Her spiritual ballast is unequal to the sail she carries and her craft in consequence careens and every day ships water of icy coldness that chills her pupils to the heart. She has knowledge, indeed much knowledge, but she lacks wisdom, hence her knowledge becomes weakness and not power. She has spiritual hysteria which manifests itself in her manner, in her looks, and in her voice. Her spiritual strength is insufficient for the load she tries to carry and her path shows uneven and tortuous. She nags and scolds in strident tones that ruffle and rasp the spirits of her pupils and beget in them a longing to become whatever she is not. She is noisy where quiet is needful; she causes disturbance where there should be peace; and she disquiets where she should soothe. She may have had training, but she lacks education, for her spiritual qualities show only chaos. The waters of her soul are shallow and so are lashed into tumult by the slightest storm. She lacks serenity. The test of a real teacher is not whether she will be good _to_ the children but, rather, whether she will be good _for_ the children, and these concepts are wide apart. If our colleges and normal schools could but gain the notion that their function is to prepare teachers who will be good _for_ children they might find occasion to modify their courses radically. Unless she has serenity the teacher is not good for children, for serenity is one of the qualities which they themselves should possess as the result of their school experience and it is not easy for them to achieve this quality if the teacher's example and influence are adverse. We test prospective teachers for their knowledge of this subject and that, when, in reality, we should be trying to determine whether they will be good for the pupils. But we have contracted the habit of thinking that knowledge is power and so test for knowledge, thinking, futilely, that we are testing for power. We judge of a teacher's efficacy by some marks that examiners inscribe upon a bit of paper, "a thing laughable to gods and men." She may be proficient in languages, sciences, and arts and still not be good for the children by reason of the absence of spiritual qualities. None the less, we admit her to the school as teacher when we would decline to admit her to the hospital as nurse. We say she would not be good for the patients in the hospital but nevertheless accept her as the teacher of our children. In Ephesians we read, "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance," and such an array of excellent spiritual qualities should attract the attention of all the agencies that have to do with the preparation of teachers. We need only to make a list of the opposites of these qualities to be convinced that the teacher who possesses these opposites would not be good for the children. Now serenity embodies all the foregoing excellent qualities and, therefore, the teacher who has serenity has a host of qualities that will make for the success and well-being of her pupils. Again, quoting from Henderson: "My whole point is that these spiritual qualities in a boy are infinitely more important to his present charm and future achievement than any amount of academic training, than the most complete knowledge of reading, writing, arithmetic, history, geography, grammar, spelling, classics, and natural science. For charm and achievement are of the Spirit. It is very clear, then, that we ought to make these spiritual qualities the major end of all our endeavor during those wonderful years of grace; and that we ought to allow the intellectual development, up to fourteen years at least, to be a by-product, valuable and welcome certainly, but not primarily sought after. In the end we should get much the larger harvest of intellectual power, and much the larger man." We cannot hope to achieve the reconstructed school until our notion of teaching and teachers has been reconstructed. When we secure teachers who have education and not mere knowledge, we may begin to hope. We must look to the colleges and normal schools to furnish such teachers. If they cannot do so, our schools must plod along on the path of tradition without hope of finding the better way. There are faint indications, however, here and there, that the colleges and normal schools are beginning to stir in their sleep and are becoming somewhat aware of their opportunities and responsibilities. We shall hail with acclaim the glad day when they come to realize that the preparation of teachers for their work is a task of large import and goes deeper than facts, and statistics, and theories, and knowledge. If they furnish a teacher who has the quality of serenity, we shall all be fully alive to the fact that that quality is the luscious and nutritious fruitage of scholarship, of wide knowledge, of much reading, of deep meditation, and keen observation. But these elements, either singly or in combination, are but veneer unless they strike their roots into the spiritual nature and are thus nourished into spiritual qualities. Excavating into serenity, we shall discover the pure gold of scholarship; we shall find knowledge in great abundance; we shall find the spirit of the greatest and best books; and we shall come upon the cloister in which meditation has done its perfect work. The machine that is run to the extreme limit of its capacity splutters, sizzles, hisses, and quivers, and finally shakes itself into a condition of ineffectiveness. But the machine that is run well within the limits of its capacity is steady, noiseless, serene, effective, and durable. So with people. The person who essays a task that is beyond his capacity is certain to come to grief and to create no end of disturbance to himself and others before the final catastrophe. If the steam-chest or boiler is not equal to the task, wisdom and safety would counsel the installation of a larger one. Here is one of the tragedies of our scheme of education. The spirit is the power-plant of all life's operations and in this plant are many boilers. Instead of calling more and more of these into action, we seem intent upon repressing them and thus we reduce the capacity of the plant as a whole. When we should be lighting or replenishing the fires under the boilers of imagination, initiative, aspiration, and reverence, we spend our time striving to bank or quench these fires and in playing and dawdling with the torches of arithmetic, grammar, and history with which we should be kindling the fires. Thus we diminish the power of the plant while life's activities are calling for extension and enlargement. We seem to be trying to train our pupils to work with one or but few boilers when there are scores of them available if only we knew how to utilize them. Hence, it must appear that reserve-power and serenity are virtually synonymous. The teacher who has achieved serenity never uses all the power at her command and, in consequence, all her actions are easy, quiet, and even. She is always stable and never mercurial or spasmodic. She encounters steep grades, to be sure, but with ease and grace she applies a bit more power from her abundant supply and so compasses the difficulty without disturbing the calm. She is fully conscious of her reservoir of power and can concentrate all her attention upon the work in hand. The ballast in the hold keeps the mast perpendicular and the sails in position to catch the favoring breeze. We admire and applaud the graceful ship as it speeds along its course, giving little heed to the ballast in the hold that gives it poise and balance. But the ballast is there, else the ship would not be moving with such majestic mien. Nor was this ballast provided in a day. Rather it has been accumulating through the years, and bears the mark of college halls, of libraries, of laboratories, of the auditorium, of the mountain, the ocean, the starry night, of the deep forest, of the landscape, and of communion with all that is big and fine. Socrates drinking the hemlock is a fitting and inspiring illustration of serenity. In the presence of certain and imminent death he was far less perturbed than many another man in the presence of a pin-prick. And his imperturbability betokened bigness and not stolidity. While his disciples wept about him, he could counsel them to calmness and discourse to them upon immortality. He wept not, nor did he shudder back from the ordeal, but calm and masterful he raised the cup to his lips and smiled as he drank. His serenity won immortality for his name; for wherever language may be spoken or written, the story of Socrates will be told. History will not permit his name to be swallowed up in oblivion, not alone because he was the victim of ignorance and prejudice but also because his serenity, which was the offspring and proof of his wisdom, did not fail him and his friends in the supreme test. It is not a slight matter, then, to set up serenity as one of the goals in our school work. Nor is it a slight matter for the teacher to show forth this quality in all her work and so inspire her pupils to follow in her footsteps. We hope, of course, that the boys and girls of our schools may attain serenity so that, even in their days of youth, urged on as they are by youthful exuberance, they may be orderly, decorous, and kindly-disposed. We would have them polite, as a matter of course, but we would hope that their politeness may be a part of themselves and not a mere accretion. They will have joy of life, but so does their teacher who is possessed of serenity. Joy is not necessarily boisterous. The strains of music are no less music because they are mellow. We would have our young people think soberly but not solemnly. And when all our people, young and old, reach the goal of serenity they will extol the teachers and the schools that showed them the way. CHAPTER FOURTEEN LIFE Finally, we come to the chief among the goals, which is life itself. In fact, life is the super-goal. We study manual arts, science, and language that we may achieve the goals of integrity, imagination, aspiration, and serenity, and these qualities we weave into the fabric of life. Upon the spiritual qualities we weave into it, depend the texture and pattern of this fabric and the generating and developing of these qualities and the weaving of them into this fabric--this we call life. When we look upon a person who is well-conditioned and whose life is well-ordered, in body, in mind, and in spirit, we know, at once, that he possesses integrity, initiative, a sense of responsibility, reverence, and other high qualities that compose the person as we see him. We do not reflect upon what he knows of history, of geography, or of music, for we are taking note of an exemplification of life. Indeed, the presence or absence of these qualities determines the character of the person's life. Hence it is that life is the supreme goal of endeavor. Life is a composite and the crown-piece of all the qualities toward which we strive by means of arithmetic and grammar--in short, of all our activities both in school and out. One of our mistakes is that we confuse life and lifetime, and construe life to mean the span of life. In this conception the unit of measurement is so large that our concept of life evaporates into a vague generalization. Life is too specific, too definite for that. The quality of life may better be measured and tested in one-hour periods of duration. When the clock strikes nine, we know that in just sixty minutes it will strike ten. In the space of those sixty minutes we may find a cross-section of life. In a single hour we may experience a thousand sensations, arrive at a thousand judgments, and make a thousand responses to things about us. In that hour we may experience joy, sorrow, love, hate, envy, malice, sympathy, kindliness, courage, cowardice, pettiness, magnanimity, egoism, altruism, cruelty, mercy--a list, in fact, that reaches on almost interminably. If we only had a spiritual cyclometer attached to us, when the clock strikes ten we should have an interesting moment in noting the record. Only in some such way may each one of us gain a true notion of what his own life is. The one-hour period is quite long enough for a determination of the spiritual attitude and disposition of the individual. It is no small matter to achieve life, big, full, round, abounding, pulsating life; but it is certainly well worth striving for. Some one has defined sin as the distance between what one is and what he might have been; and this distance measures his decline from the sphere of life to which he had right and title. For life is a sphere, seeing that it extends in all directions. Its limits are conterminous with the boundaries of time and space. The feeble-minded person has life, but only in a very restricted sphere. He eats; he drinks; he sleeps; he wanders in narrow areas; and that is all. His thinking is weak, meager, and fitful. To him darkness means a time for sleeping, and light a time for eating and waiting. He produces nothing either of thought or substance, but is a pensioner upon the thinking and substance of others. His eyesight is strong and his hearing unimpaired; but he neither sees nor hears as normal persons do, because his spirit is incapable of positive reactions, and his mind too weak to give commands to his bodily organs at the behest of the spirit. In the language of psychology, he lacks a sensory foundation by which to react to external stimuli. In striking contrast is the man whose sphere of life is large, whose spirit is capable of reacting to the orient and the occident, to height and depth, and whose mind flashes across the space from the dawn to the sunset, and from nadir to zenith. Space is his playground, and his companions are the stars. Such a man feels and knows more life in an hour than his antithesis could feel and know in a century. To his spirit there are no metes and bounds; it has freedom and strength to make excursions to the far limits of space and time. Life comes to him from a thousand sources and in a thousand ways because he is able to go out to meet it. There has been developed in him a sensory foundation by which he can react to every influence the universe affords, to light and shadow, to joy and sorrow, to the near and the far, to the then and the now, to the lowly and the sublime, and to the finite and the Infinite. He has a big spirit, which is first in command; he has a strong, active mind, which is second in command; and he has a loyal company of bodily organs that are able and willing to obey and execute commands. To such a man we apply all the epithets of compliment and commendation which the language yields and cite him as an exemplification of life at high tide, of life in its supreme fullness and splendor. The knowledge of the world comes to his doors to do his bidding; before him the arts and sciences make their obeisance; and wisdom is his pillar of cloud by day and his pillar of fire by night. Therefore we call him educated; we call him a man of culture; we call him a gentleman; and all because he has achieved life in abundant measure. Having imagination, he is able to peer into the future, anticipate world movements, and visualize the paths on which progress will travel. Having initiative as his badge of leadership, he is able to rally hosts of men to his standard to execute his behests for civic, national, and world betterment. Having aspiration, he obeys the divine urge within him and moves onward and upward, eager to plant the flag of progress upon the summit that others may see and be stimulated to renewed hope and courage. And he has integrity, for he is a real man. He has wholeness, completeness, soundness, and roundness. He is an integer and never counts for less than one in any relation of life. He cannot be a mere cipher, for he is dynamic. He rings true at every impact of life, is free from dross and veneer, and is genuine through and through. There was arithmetic, back along the line somewhere, but it has been absorbed in the big quality which it helped to generate and develop. And it is better so. For if he were now solving decimals and square root he would be but a cog and not the great wheel itself. He has grown beyond his arithmetic as he has grown beyond his boyhood warts and freckles, for the larger life has absorbed them. Yet he feels no disdain either for freckles or arithmetic, but regards them as gracious incidents of youth and growth. He cannot read his Latin as he once could, but he does not grieve; for he knows it has not been lost but, in changed form, is enshrined in the heart of integrity. Again, he has the qualities of thoroughness, concentration, a sense of responsibility, loyalty, and serenity. He is big enough, and true enough both to himself and others, to pursue a straight and steady course. To him, life is a boon, a privilege, an investment, an opportunity, a responsibility, and, therefore, a gift too precious to be squandered or frivoled away. To him, hours are of fine gold and should be seized that they may be fused and fashioned into a statue of beauty. Being loyal to this conception, he moves on from achievement to achievement nor stops to note that fragrant flowers of blessing and benediction are springing forth luxuriantly in his path. His spirit is big with rightness, his brain is clear, his conscience is clean, his eyes look upward, his words are sincere, his thoughts are lofty, his purposes are true, and his acts distill blessings. He is no mere figment of fancy, but rather a noble reality whose prototype may be found on the bench, in the forum, in the study, in the sanctum, in the school and the college, in the factory, on the farm, and in the busy mart. And, withal, he is a success as a human being. His sincerity is proverbial in all things, both great and small. In him there is nothing of the mystic, the hermit, or the sybarite. He has great joy of life, and this joy is true, honest, and real, and never simulated. He drinks in life at every pore, and gives forth life that invigorates and inspires whomsoever it touches. His laugh is the expression of his wholesome nature; his words are jewels of discrimination; his every sentence bears a helpful message; his fine sense of humor mellows and illumines every situation; and his face always shows forth the light within. Children find delight in his society, and the exuberant vitality of his nature wins for him the friendship of all living creatures. Birds seem to sing for him, and flowers to exhale their odors for his delight. For the influences of birds, flowers, streams, trees, meadows, and mountains are enmeshed in his life. Nature reveals her secrets to him and gives to him of her treasures because he goes out to meet her. Because he smiles at nature she smiles back at him, and the union of their smiles gives joy to those who see. Moreover, he is a product of the reconstructed school, for this school does already exist, though in conspicuous isolation. But the oasis is accentuated by its isolation in the desert which spreads about it and is the more inviting by contrast. When, as a child, he entered school, the teacher, who was in advance of her time in her conception of the true function of the school, made a close and sympathetic appraisement of his aptitudes, his native dispositions, his daily environment, and the bent of his inherent spiritual qualities. First of all, she won his confidence. Thus he found freedom, ease, and pleasure in her presence. Thus, too, there ensued unconscious self-revelation and nothing in his life evaded her kindly scrutiny. He opened his mind to her frankly and fully, and never after did she permit the closing of the door. Only so could she become his teacher. She regarded him as an opportunity for the testing of all her knowledge, all her skill, and the full measure of her altruism. Nor was he the proverbial mass of plastic clay to be molded into some preconceived form. Her wisdom and modernity interdicted such a conception of childhood as that. Rather, he was a growing plant, waiting for her skill to nurture him into blossom and fruitage. Some of his qualities she found good; others not. The good ones she made the objects of her special care; the others she allowed to perish from neglect. Her experience in gardening had taught her that, if we cultivate the potatoes assiduously, the weeds will disappear and need not concern us. She discerned in him a tender shoot of imagination and this she nurtured as a priceless thing. She fertilized it with legend, story, song, and myth, and enveloped it in an atmosphere of warmth and joyousness. She led him into nature's realm, that his imagination might plume its wings for greater flights by its efforts to interpret the heart of things that live. Thus his imagination learned to traverse space, to explore sights and sounds his senses could not reach, and to construct for him another world of beauty and delight. So, too, with the other spiritual qualities. Upon these goals her gaze was fixed and she gently led him toward them. She taught the arithmetic with zest, with large understanding, and in a masterly way, for she was causing it to serve a high purpose. Whatever study she found helpful, this she used as a means with gratitude and gladness. If she found the book ill adapted to her purpose, she sought or wrote another. If pictures proved more potent than books, the galleries obeyed the magic of her skill and yielded forth their treasures. She yearned to have her pupil win the goals before him; everything was grist that came to her mill if only it would serve her purpose. She disdained nothing that could afford nourishment to the spirit of the child and give him zeal, courage, and strength for the upward journey. If more arithmetic was needful, she found it; if more history, she gave it; and if the book on geography was inadequate, she supplemented from libraries or from her own abundant storehouse of knowledge. She dared to deviate from the course of study, if thereby the child might more certainly win the goals toward which she ever looked and worked. In the boy, she saw a poet, a philosopher, a prophet, an artist, a musician, a statesman, or a philanthropist, and she worked and prayed that the artist in the child might not die but that he might grow to stalwart manhood to glorify the work of her school. In each girl she saw another Ruth, or Esther, or Cordelia, or Clara Barton, or Frances Willard, or Florence Nightingale, or Rosa Bonheur, or Mrs. Stowe, or Mrs. Browning. And her heart yearned over each one of these and strove with power to nourish them into vigorous life that they might become jewels in her crown of rejoicing. She must not allow one to perish through her ignorance or malpractice, for she would keep her soul free from the charge of murder. And in the fullness of manhood and womanhood her pupils achieved the full symphony of life. They had won the goals toward which their teacher had been leading. Their spiritual qualities had converged and become life, and they had attained the super-goal. In the joy of their achievement their teacher repeated the words of her own Teacher, "I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly." INDEX [Transcriber's Note: Page numbers converted to Chapter numbers.] Altruism, 12 American civilization, 2 Apple tree, 9 Arithmetic, 3 as means, never as end, 3 Aspiration, 5, 7 Bible, 11 Body, mind, spirit, 11 Bogtrup, 6 Browning, 6 Cant, 7 Children, let alone when, 7 Citizenship, concept of, 1 Civilization, 1 Clean living, 2 Columbus, 6 Concept of life, 14 Cooley, 6 Course of study, 3 Culture, 8 David, 11 Democracy, 1, 12 spiritual attitude, 12 Democratic ideal, 12 Destination, 3 Dickens, 8 Draft board, 2 Dynamic teacher, 4 Edison, 6 Education, newer import of, 1 definition of, 5 a spiritual process, 13 Esther, 11 Excelsior, 6 Farmers, 8 Field, 6 Froebel, 6 Future as related to present, 3 Galileo, 8 Geography, 5 Grandchildren, 2 Great Stone Face, 1 Hand, 9 Harvey's Grammar, 10 Henderson, C. Hanford, 8 Hercules, 10 History, 6 Hodge, 9 Hugo, Victor, 9 Hungry pupils, 6 Ideals, 8 Imagination, 8 "Impart instruction," 39 5 Incompleteness, 4 Incorrigibility, 4 Initiative, 7 Integrity, 4 meaning of, 4 Inventions, 8 Job, 9 Jove, 3 Keats, 5 Kipling, 12 Knowledge and wisdom, 3 Life, 14 Lincoln, 4 Loyalty, 11 Madonna of the Chair, 11 Major ends, 3 Man-made course of study, 4 Manual training, 7 Minerva, 3 Minor ends, 3 Model man, 10 Model woman, 10 Mother, 11 Napoleon, 5 North Star, 9 Objects of teaching, 3 Old age, 5 Old Glory, 11 Olympus, 2 Parker, 6 Past as related to the present, 2 Paternalism, 7 Pestalozzi, 6 Physical training, 4 Physician, 10 Preliminary survey of task before reconstructed school, 1 Present, as related to the past, 2 as related to the future, 3 Process of reconstruction, 2 Question and answer method, 5 Reactions, 11 Reconstructed school, survey of, 1 Relation of past to present, 2 Reserve-power, 13 Respect, 9 Responsibility, 10 Revelation, 11 Reverence, 9 Ruth, 11 Samson, 10 Sandow, 10 School is cross-section of life, 7 Serenity, 13 defined, 13 Shakespeare, 5 Sin, 14 Sluggard, 5 Socrates, 13 Spiritual attitude, 10 Spiritual coward, 10 Spiritual hysteria, 13 Standardized children, 4 Statistics, 13 Stimuli, 11 Stuart, Ruth McEnery, 6 Survey of task before reconstructed school, 1 Swift, Edgar James, 7, 8 Teachers, kinds of, 1 test of, 13 Teaching, objects of, 3 Thoroughness, 3 Tractor, 7 Tradition, 3 Traditional teacher, 4 Truth, 9 Unity, dawn of, 1 Van Dyke, Henry, 7, 12 Wall Street, 2 War gardens, 12 Wells, H.G., 12 Words, 9 World-minded superintendents and teachers, 1 World war, 2 * * * * * World Book Company The House of Applied Knowledge Established, 1905, by Caspar W. Hodgson Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York 2126 Prairie Avenue, Chicago Publishers of the following professional works: School Efficiency Series, edited by Paul H. Hanus, complete in thirteen volumes; Educational Survey Series, seven volumes already issued and others projected; School Efficiency Monographs, eleven numbers now ready, others in active preparation. * * * * * SCHOOL EFFICIENCY MONOGRAPHS Anderson Education of Defectives in the Public Schools Arp Rural Education and the Consolidated School Butterworth Problems in State High School Finance Cody Commercial Tests and How to Use Them Baton Record Forms for Vocational Schools McAndrew The Public and Its School Mahoney Standards in English Mead An Experiment in the Fundamentals Pearson The Reconstructed School Reed Newsboy Service Richardson Making a High School Program Tidyman The Teaching of Spelling 
12291	----	THE TEACHER. * * * * * MORAL INFLUENCES EMPLOYED IN THE INSTRUCTION AND GOVERNMENT OF THE YOUNG. A NEW AND REVISED EDITION. BY JACOB ABBOTT. With Engravings. 1873. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-six, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. PREFACE. This book is intended to detail, in a familiar and practical manner, a system of arrangements for the organization and management of a school, based on the employment, so far as is practicable, of _Moral Influences_, as a means of effecting the objects in view. Its design is, not to bring forward new theories or new plans, but to develop and explain, and to carry out to their practical applications such principles as, among all skillful and experienced teachers, are generally admitted and acted upon. Of course it is not designed for the skillful and experienced themselves, but it is intended to embody what they already know, and to present it in a practical form for the use of those who are beginning the work, and who wish to avail themselves of the experience which others have acquired. Although moral influences are the chief foundations on which the power of the teacher over the minds and hearts of his pupils is, according to this treatise, to rest, still it must not be imagined that the system here recommended is one of persuasion. It is a system of authority--supreme and unlimited authority--a point essential in all plans for the supervision of the young; but it is authority secured and maintained as far as possible by moral measures. There will be no dispute about the propriety of making the most of this class of means. Whatever difference of opinion there may be on the question whether physical force is necessary at all, every one will agree that, if ever employed, it must be only as a last resort, and that no teacher ought to make war upon the body, unless it is proved that he can not conquer through the medium of the mind. In regard to the anecdotes and narratives which are very freely introduced to illustrate principles in this work, the writer ought to state that, though they are all substantially true--that is, all except those which are expressly introduced as mere suppositions, he has not hesitated to alter very freely, for obvious reasons, the unimportant circumstances connected with them. He has endeavored thus to destroy the personality of the narratives without injuring or altering their moral effect. From the very nature of our employment, and of the circumstances under which the preparation for it must be made, it is plain that, of the many thousands who are in the United States annually entering the work, a very large majority must depend for all their knowledge of the art, except what they acquire from their own observation and experience, on what they can obtain from books. It is desirable that the class of works from which such knowledge can be obtained should be increased. Some excellent and highly useful specimens have already appeared, and very many more would be eagerly read by teachers, if properly prepared. It is essential, however, that they should be written by experienced teachers, who have for some years been actively engaged and specially interested in the work; that they should be written in a very practical and familiar style, and that they should exhibit principles which are unquestionably true, and generally admitted by good teachers, and not the new theories peculiar to the writer himself. In a word, utility and practical effect should be the only aim. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. INTEREST IN TEACHING. Source of enjoyment in teaching.--The boy and the steam-engine.--His contrivance.--His pleasure, and the source of it.--Firing at the mark.--Plan of clearing the galleries in the British House of Commons.--Pleasure of experimenting, and exercising intellectual and moral power.--The indifferent and inactive teacher.--His subsequent experiments; means of awakening interest.--Offenses of pupils. --Different ways of regarding them. Teaching really attended with peculiar trials and difficulties.--1. Moral responsibility for the conduct of pupils.--2. Multiplicity of the objects of attention. CHAPTER II. GENERAL ARRANGEMENTS. Objects to be aimed at in the general arrangements.--Systematizing the teacher's work.--Necessity of having only one thing to attend to at a time. 1. Whispering and leaving seats.--An experiment.--Method of regulating this.--Introduction of the new plan.--Difficulties.--Dialogue with pupils.--Study-card.--Construction and use. 2. Mending pens.--Unnecessary trouble from this source.--Degree of importance to be attached to good pens.--Plan for providing them. 3. Answering questions.--Evils.--Each pupil's fair proportion of time.--Questions about lessons.--When the teacher should refuse to answer them.--Rendering assistance.--When to be refused. 4. Hearing recitations.--Regular arrangement of them.--Punctuality.--Plan and schedule.--General exercises.--Subjects to be attended to at them. General arrangements of government.--Power to be delegated to pupils.--Gardiner Lyceum.--Its government.--The trial.--Real republican government impracticable in schools.--Delegated power.--Experiment with the writing-books.--Quarrel about the nail.--Offices for pupils.--Cautions.--Danger of insubordination.--New plans to be introduced gradually. CHAPTER III. INSTRUCTION. The three important branches.--The objects which are really most important.--Advanced scholars.--Examination of school and scholars at the outset.--Acting on numbers.--Extent to which it may be carried.--Recitation and Instruction. 1. Recitation.--Its object.--Importance of a thorough examination of the class.--Various modes.--Perfect regularity and order necessary. --Example.--Story of the pencils.--Time wasted by too minute an attention to individuals.--Example.--Answers given simultaneously to save time.--Excuses.--Dangers in simultaneous recitation.--Means of avoiding them.--Advantages of this mode.--Examples.--Written answers. 2. Instruction.--Means of exciting interest.--Variety.--Examples.--Showing the connection between the studies of school and the business of life.--Example from the controversy between general and state governments.--Mode of illustrating it.--Proper way of meeting difficulties.--Leading pupils to surmount them.--True way to encourage the young to meet difficulties.--The boy and the wheel-barrow.--Difficult examples in arithmetic. Proper way of rendering assistance.--(1.) Simply analyzing intricate subjects.--Dialogue on longitude.--(2.) Making previous truths perfectly familiar.--Experiment with the multiplication table.--Latin Grammar lesson.--Geometry. 3. General cautions.--Doing work _for_ the scholar.--Dullness.--Interest in _all_ the pupils.--Making all alike.--Faults of pupils.--The teacher's own mental habits.--False pretensions. CHAPTER IV. MORAL DISCIPLINE. First impressions.--Story.--Danger of devoting too much attention to individual instances.--The profane boy.--Case described.--Confession of the boys.--Success.--The untidy desk.--Measures in consequence. --Interesting the scholars in the good order of the school.--Securing a majority.--Example.--Reports about the desks.--The new College building.--Modes of interesting the boys.--The irregular class.--Two ways of remedying the evil.--Boys' love of system and regularity. --Object of securing a majority, and particular means of doing it.--Making school pleasant.--Discipline should generally be private.--In all cases that are brought before the school, public opinion in the teacher's favor should be secured.--Story of the rescue.--Feelings of displeasure against what is wrong.--The teacher under moral obligation, and governed, himself, by law.--Description of the _Moral Exercise_.--Prejudice.--The scholars' written remarks, and the teacher's comments.--The spider.--List of subjects.--Anonymous writing.--Specimens.--Marks of a bad scholar.--Consequences of being behindhand.--New scholars.--A satirical spirit.--Variety. Treatment of individual offenders.--Ascertaining who they are.--Studying their characters.--Securing their personal attachment.--Asking assistance.--The whistle.--Open, frank dealing.--Example.--Dialogue with James.--Communications in writing. CHAPTER V. RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE. The American mechanic at Paris.--A Congregational teacher among Quakers.--Parents have the ultimate right to decide how their children shall be educated. Agreement in religious opinion in this country.--Principle which is to guide the teacher on this subject.--Limits and restrictions to religious influence in school.--Religious truths which are generally admitted in this country.--The existence of God.--Human responsibility.--Immortality of the soul.--A revelation.--Nature of piety.--Salvation by Christ.--Teacher to do nothing on this subject but what he may do by the common consent of his employers.--Reasons for explaining distinctly these limits. Particular measures proposed.--Opening exercises.--Prayer.--Singing. --Direct instruction.--Mode of giving it.--Example; arrangement of the Epistles in the New Testament.--Dialogue.--Another example; scene in the woods.--Cautions.--Affected simplicity of language.--Evils of it.--Minute details.--Example; motives to study.--Dialogue.--Mingling religious influence with the direct discipline of the school.--Fallacious indications of piety.--Sincerity of the teacher. CHAPTER VI. MOUNT VERNON SCHOOL. Reason for inserting the description.--Advantage of visiting schools, and of reading descriptions of them.--Addressed to a new scholar.--Her personal duty.--Study-card.--Rule.--But one rule.--Cases when this rule maybe waived.--1. At the direction of teachers.--2. On extraordinary emergencies.--Reasons for the rule.--Anecdote.--Punishments.--Incidents described.--Confession. 2. Order of daily exercises.--Opening of the school.--Schedules.--Hours of study and recess.--General exercises.--Business.--Examples.--Sections. 3. Instruction and supervision of pupils.--Classes.--Organization.--Sections.--Duties of superintendents. 4. Officers.--Design in appointing them.--Their names and duties.--Example of the operation of the system. 5. The court.--Its plan and design.--A trial described. 6. Religious instruction.--Principles inculcated.--Measures.--Religious exercises in school.--Meeting on Saturday afternoon.--Concluding remarks. CHAPTER VII. SCHEMING. Time lost upon fruitless schemes.--Proper province of ingenuity and enterprise.--Cautions.--Case supposed.--The spelling class; an experiment with it; its success and its consequences.--System of literary institutions in this country.--Directions to a young teacher on the subject of forming new plans.--New institutions; new schoolbooks.--Ingenuity and enterprise very useful, within proper limits.--Ways of making known new plans.--Periodicals.--Family newspapers.--Teachers' meetings. Rights of committees, trustees, or patrons, in the control of the school.--Principle which ought to govern.--Case supposed.--Extent to which the teacher is bound by the wishes of his employers. CHAPTER VIII. REPORTS OF CASES. Plan of the chapter.--Hats and bonnets.--Injury to clothes.--Mistakes which are not censurable.--Tardiness; plan for punishing it.--Helen's lesson.--Firmness in measures united with mildness of manner.--Insincere confession: scene in a class.--Court.--Trial of a case.--Teacher's personal character.--The way to elevate the character of the employment.--Six hours only to be devoted to school.--The chestnut burr.--Scene in the wood.--Dialogue in school.--An experiment.--Series of lessons in writing.--The correspondence.--Two kinds of management.--Plan of weekly reports.--The shopping exercise. --Example.--Artifices in recitations.--Keeping resolution notes of teacher's lecture.--Topics.--Plan and illustration of the exercise. --Introduction of music.--Tabu.--Mental analysis.--Scene in a class. CHAPTER IX. THE TEACHER'S FIRST DAY. Embarrassments of young teachers in first entering upon their duties.--Preliminary information to be acquired in respect to the school.--Visits to the parents.--Making acquaintance with the scholars.--Opening the school.--Mode of setting the scholars at work on the first day.--No sudden changes to be made.--Misconduct.--Mode of disposing of the cases of it.--Conclusion. THE TEACHER. CHAPTER I. INTEREST IN TEACHING. A most singular contrariety of opinion prevails in the community in regard to the _pleasantness_ of the business of teaching. Some teachers go to their daily task merely upon compulsion; they regard it as intolerable drudgery. Others love the work: they hover around the school-room as long as they can, and never cease to think, and seldom to talk, of their delightful labors. Unfortunately, there are too many of the former class, and the first object which, in this work, I shall attempt to accomplish, is to show my readers, especially those who have been accustomed to look upon the business of teaching as a weary and heartless toil, how it happens that it is, in any case, so pleasant. The human mind is always essentially the same. That which is tedious and joyless to one, will be so to another, if pursued in the same way, and under the same circumstances. And teaching, if it is pleasant, animating, and exciting to one, may be so to all. I am met, however, at the outset, in my effort to show why it is that teaching is ever a pleasant work, by the want of a name for a certain faculty or capacity of the human mind, through which most of the enjoyment of teaching finds its avenue. Every mind is so constituted as to take a positive pleasure in the exercise of ingenuity in adapting means to an end, and in watching the operation of them--in accomplishing by the intervention of instruments what we could not accomplish without--in devising (when we see an object to be effected which is too great for our _direct_ and _immediate_ power) and setting at work some _instrumentality_ which may be sufficient to accomplish it. [Illustration: Steam Engine] It is said that when the steam-engine was first put into operation, such was the imperfection of the machinery, that a boy was necessarily stationed at it to open and shut alternately the cock by which the steam was now admitted and now shut out from the cylinder. One such boy, after patiently doing his work for many days, contrived to connect this stop-cock with some of the moving parts of the engine by a wire, in such a manner that the engine itself did the work which had been intrusted to him; and after seeing that the whole business would go regularly forward, he left the wire in charge, and went away to play. Such is the story. Now if it is true, how much pleasure the boy must have experienced in devising and witnessing the successful operation of his scheme. I do not mean the pleasure of relieving himself from a dull and wearisome duty; I do not mean the pleasure of anticipated play; but I mean the strong interest he must have taken in _contriving and executing his plan_. When, wearied out with his dull, monotonous work, he first noticed those movements of the machinery which he thought adapted to his purpose, and the plan flashed into his mind, how must his eye have brightened, and how quick must the weary listlessness of his employment have vanished. While he was maturing his plan and carrying it into execution--while adjusting his wires, fitting them to the exact length and to the exact position--and especially when, at last, he began to watch the first successful operation of his contrivance, he must have enjoyed a pleasure which very few even of the joyous sports of childhood could have supplied. It is not, however, exactly the pleasure of exercising _ingenuity in contrivance_ that I refer to here; for the teacher has not, after all, a great deal of absolute _contriving_ to do, or, rather, his _principal business_ is not contriving. The greatest and most permanent source of pleasure to the boy, in such a case as I have described, is his feeling that he is accomplishing a great effect by a slight effort of his own; the feeling of _power_; acting through the _intervention of instrumentality_, so as to multiply his power. So great would be this satisfaction, that he would almost wish to have some other similar work assigned him, that he might have another opportunity to contrive some plan for its easy accomplishment. Looking at an object to be accomplished, or an evil to be remedied, then studying its nature and extent, and devising and executing some means for effecting the purpose desired, is, in all cases, a source of pleasure; especially when, by the process, we bring to view or into operation new powers, or powers heretofore hidden, whether they are our own powers, or those of objects upon which we act. Experimenting has a sort of magical fascination for all. Some do not like the trouble of making preparations, but all are eager to see the results. Contrive a new machine, and every body will be interested to witness or to hear of its operation. Develop any heretofore unknown properties of matter, or secure some new useful effect from laws which men have not hitherto employed for their purposes, and the interest of all around you will be excited to observe your results; and, especially, you will yourself take a deep and permanent pleasure in guiding and controlling the power you have thus obtained. This is peculiarly the case with experiments upon mind, or experiments for producing effects through the medium of voluntary acts of others, making it necessary that the contriver should take into consideration the laws of mind in forming his plans. To illustrate this by rather a childish case: I once knew a boy who was employed by his father to remove all the loose small stones, which, from the peculiar nature of the ground, had accumulated in the road before the house. The boy was set at work by his father to take them up, and throw them over into the pasture across the way. He soon got tired of picking up the stones one by one, and so he sat down upon the bank to try to devise some better means of accomplishing his work. He at length conceived and adopted the following plan: He set up in the pasture a narrow board for a target, or, as boys would call it, a mark, and then, collecting all the boys of the neighborhood, he proposed to them an amusement which boys are always ready for--firing at a mark. The stones in the road furnished the ammunition, and, of course, in a very short time the road was cleared; the boys working for the accomplishment of their leader's task, when they supposed they were only finding amusement for themselves. Here, now, is experimenting upon the mind--the production of useful effect with rapidity and ease by the intervention of proper instrumentality--the conversion, by means of a little knowledge of human nature, of that which would have otherwise been dull and fatiguing labor into a most animating sport, giving pleasure to twenty instead of tedious labor to one. Now the contrivance and execution of such plans is a source of positive pleasure. It is always pleasant to bring even the properties and powers of matter into requisition to promote our designs; but there is a far higher pleasure in controlling, and guiding, and moulding to our purpose the movements of mind. It is this which gives interest to the plans and operation of human governments. Governments can, in fact, do little by actual force. Nearly all the power that is held, even by the most despotic executive, must be based on an adroit management of the principles of human nature, so as to lead men voluntarily to co-operate with the leader in his plans. Even an army could not be got into battle, in many cases, without a most ingenious arrangement, by means of which half a dozen men can drive, literally drive, as many thousands into the very face of danger and death. The difficulty of leading men to battle must have been, for a long time, a very perplexing one to generals. It was at last removed by the very simple expedient of creating a greater danger behind than there is before. Without ingenuity of contrivance like this, turning one principle of human nature against another, and making it for the momentary interest of men to act in a given way, no government could stand. I know of nothing which illustrates more perfectly the way by which a knowledge of human nature is to be turned to account in managing human minds than a plan which was adopted for clearing the galleries of the British House of Commons many years ago, before the present Houses of Parliament were built. There was then, as now, a gallery appropriated to spectators, and it was customary to require these visitors to retire when a vote was to be taken or private business was to be transacted. When the officer in attendance was ordered to clear the gallery, it was sometimes found to be a very troublesome and slow operation; for those who first went out remained obstinately as close to the doors as possible, so as to secure the opportunity to come in again first when the doors should be re-opened. The consequence was, there was so great an accumulation around the doors outside, that it was almost impossible for the crowd to get out. The whole difficulty arose from the eager desire of every one to remain as near as possible to the door, _through which they were to come back again_. Notwithstanding the utmost efforts of the officers, fifteen minutes were sometimes consumed in effecting the object, when the order was given that the spectators should retire. The whole difficulty was removed by a very simple plan. One door only was opened when the crowd was to retire, and they were then admitted, when the gallery was opened again, through _the other_. The consequence was, that as soon as the order was given to clear the galleries, every one fled as fast as possible through the open door around to the one which was closed, so as to be ready to enter first, when that, in its turn, should be opened. This was usually in a few minutes, as the purpose for which the spectators were ordered to retire was in most cases simply to allow time for taking a vote. Here it will be seen that, by the operation of a very simple plan, the very eagerness of the crowd to get back as soon as possible, which had been the _sole cause of the difficulty_, was turned to account most effectually to the removal of it. Before, the first that went out were so eager to return, that they crowded around the door of egress in such a manner as to prevent others going out; but by this simple plan of ejecting them by one door and admitting them by another, that very eagerness made them clear the passage at once, and caused every one to hurry away into the lobby the moment the command was given. The planner of this scheme must have taken great pleasure in witnessing its successful operation; though the officer who should go steadily on, endeavoring to remove the reluctant throng by dint of mere driving, might well have found his task unpleasant. But the exercise of ingenuity in studying the nature of the difficulty with which a man has to contend, and bringing in some antagonist principle of human nature to remove it, or, if not an antagonist principle, a similar principle, operating, by a peculiar arrangement of circumstances, in an antagonist manner, is always pleasant. From this source a large share of the enjoyment which men find in the active pursuits of life has its origin. The teacher has the whole field which this subject opens fully before him. He has human nature to deal with most directly. His whole work is one of experimenting upon mind; and the mind which is before him to be the subject of his operation is exactly in the state to be most easily and pleasantly operated upon. The reason now why some teachers find their work delightful, and some find it wearisomeness and tedium itself, is that some do and some do not take this view of the nature of it. One instructor is like the engine-boy, turning, without cessation or change, his everlasting stop-cock, in the same ceaseless, mechanical, and monotonous routine. Another is like the little workman in his brighter moments, arranging his invention, and watching with delight the successful and easy accomplishment of his wishes by means of it. One is like the officer, driving by vociferations, and threats, and demonstrations of violence, the spectators from the galleries. The other like the shrewd contriver, who converts the very desire to return, which was the sole cause of the difficulty, to a most successful and efficient means of its removal. These principles show how teaching may, in some cases, be a delightful employment, while in others its tasteless dullness is interrupted by nothing but its perplexities and cares. The school-room is in reality a little empire of mind. If the one who presides in it sees it in its true light; studies the nature and tendency of the minds which he has to control; adapts his plans and his measures to the laws of human nature, and endeavors to accomplish his purposes for them, not by mere labor and force, but by ingenuity and enterprise, he will take pleasure in administering his little government. He will watch, with care and interest, the operation of the moral and intellectual causes which he sets in operation, and find, as he accomplishes his various objects with increasing facility and power, that he will derive a greater and greater pleasure from his work. Now when a teacher thus looks upon his school as a field in which he is to exercise skill, and ingenuity, and enterprise; when he studies the laws of human nature, and the character of those minds upon which he has to act; when he explores deliberately the nature of the field which he has to cultivate, and of the objects which he wishes to accomplish, and applies means judiciously and skillfully adapted to the object, he must necessarily take a strong interest in his work. But when, on the other hand, he goes to his employment only to perform a certain regular round of daily toil, undertaking nothing and anticipating nothing but this dull and unchangeable routine, and when he looks upon his pupils merely as passive objects of his labors, whom he is to treat with simple indifference while they obey his commands, and to whom he is only to apply reproaches and punishment when they do wrong, such a teacher never can take pleasure in the school. Weariness and dullness must reign in both master and scholars when things, as he imagines, are going right, and mutual anger and crimination when they go wrong. [Illustration: School Master] Scholars never can be successfully instructed by the power of any dull mechanical routine, nor can they be properly governed by the blind, naked strength of the master; such means must fail of the accomplishment of the purposes designed, and consequently the teacher who tries such a course must have constantly upon his mind the discouraging, disheartening burden of unsuccessful and almost useless labor. He is continually uneasy, dissatisfied, and filled with anxious cares, and sources of vexation and perplexity continually arise. He attempts to remove evils by waging against them a useless and most vexatious warfare of threatening and punishment; and he is trying continually _to drive_, when he might know that neither the intellect nor the heart are capable of being driven. I will simply state one case, to illustrate what I mean by the difference between blind force and active ingenuity and enterprise in the management of school. I once knew the teacher of a school who made it his custom to have writing attended to in the afternoon. The school was in the country, and it was the old times when quills, instead of steel pens, were universally used. The boys were accustomed to take their places at the appointed hour, and each one would set up his pen in the front of his desk for the teacher to come and mend them. The teacher would accordingly pass around the school-room, mending the pens, from desk to desk, thus enabling the boys, in succession, to begin their task. Of course, each boy, before the teacher came to his desk, was necessarily idle, and, almost necessarily, in mischief. Day after day the teacher went through this regular routine. He sauntered slowly and listlessly through the aisles, and among the benches of the room, wherever he saw the signal of a pen. He paid, of course, very little attention to the writing, now and then reproving, with an impatient tone, some extraordinary instance of carelessness, or leaving his work to suppress some rising disorder. Ordinarily, however, he seemed to be lost in vacancy of thought, dreaming, perhaps, of other scenes, or inwardly repining at the eternal monotony and tedium of a teacher's life. His boys took no interest in their work, and of course made no progress. They were sometimes unnecessarily idle, and sometimes mischievous, but never usefully or pleasantly employed, for the whole hour was passed before the pens could all be brought down. Wasted time, blotted books, and fretted tempers were all the results which the system produced. The same teacher afterward acted on a very different principle. He looked over the field, and said to himself, "What are the objects which I wish to accomplish in this writing exercise, and how can I best accomplish them? I wish to obtain the greatest possible amount of industrious and careful practice in writing. The first thing evidently is to save the wasted time." He accordingly made preparation for mending the pens at a previous hour, so that all should be ready, at the appointed time, to commence the work together. This could be done quite as conveniently when the boys were engaged in studying, by requesting them to put out their pens at an appointed and _previous_ time. He sat at his table, and the pens of a whole bench were brought to him, and, after being carefully mended, were returned, to be in readiness for the writing hour. Thus the first difficulty, the loss of time, was obviated. "I must make them _industrious_ while they write," was his next thought. After thinking of a variety of methods, he determined to try the following: he required all to begin together at the top of the page, and write the same line, in a hand of the same size. They were all required to begin together, he himself beginning at the same time, and writing about as fast as he thought they ought to write in order to secure the highest improvement. When he had finished his line, he ascertained how many had preceded him and how many were behind. He requested the first to write slower, and the others faster; and by this means, after a few trials, he secured uniform, regular, systematic, and industrious employment throughout the school. Probably there were, at first, difficulties in the operation of the plan, which he had to devise ways and means to surmount; but what I mean to present particularly to the reader is, that he was _interested in his experiments_. While sitting in his desk, giving his command to _begin_ line after line, and noticing the unbroken silence, and attention, and interest which prevailed (for each boy was interested to see how nearly with the master he could finish his work), while presiding over such a scene he must have been interested. He must have been pleased with the exercise of his almost military command, and to witness how effectually order and industry, and excited and pleased attention, had taken the place of listless idleness and mutual dissatisfaction. After a few days, he appointed one of the older and more judicious scholars to give the word for beginning and ending the lines, and he sat surveying the scene, or walking from desk to desk, noticing faults, and considering what plans he could form for securing more and more fully the end he had in view. He found that the great object of interest and attention among the boys was to come out right, and that less pains were taken with the formation of the letters than there ought to be to secure the most rapid improvement. But how shall he secure greater pains? By stern commands and threats? By going from desk to desk, scolding one, rapping the knuckles of another, and holding up to ridicule a third, making examples of such individuals as may chance to attract his special attention? No; he has learned that he is operating upon a little empire of mind, and that he is not to endeavor to drive them as a man drives a herd, by mere peremptory command or half angry blows. He must study the nature of the effect that he is to produce, and of the materials upon which he is to work, and adopt, after mature deliberation, a plan to accomplish his purpose founded upon the principles which ought always to regulate the action of mind upon mind, and adapted to produce the _intellectual effect_ which he wishes to accomplish. In the case supposed, the teacher concluded to appeal to emulation. While I describe the measure he adopted, let it be remembered that I am now only approving of the resort to ingenuity and invention, and the employment of moral and intellectual means for the accomplishment of his purposes, and not of the measures themselves. I am not sure the plan I am going to describe is a wise one; but I am sure that the teacher, while trying it, must _have been interested in his intellectual experiment._ His business, while pursued in such a way, could not have been a mere dull and uninteresting routine. He purchased, for three cents apiece, two long lead pencils--an article of great value in the opinion of the boys of country schools--and he offered them, as prizes, to the boy who would write most carefully; not to the one who should write _best_, but to the one whose book should exhibit most appearance of _effort_ and _care_ for a week. After announcing his plan, he watched with strong interest its operation. He walked round the room while the writing was in progress, to observe the effect of his measure. He did not reprove those who were writing carelessly; he simply noticed who and how many they were. He did not commend those who were evidently making effort; he noticed who and how many they were, that he might understand how far, and upon what sort of minds, his experiment was successful, and where it failed. He was taking a lesson in human nature--human nature as it exhibits itself in boys--and was preparing to operate more and more powerfully by future plans. The lesson which he learned by the experiment was this, that one or two prizes will not influence the majority of a large school. A few of the boys seemed to think that the pencils were possibly within their reach, and _they_ made vigorous efforts to secure them; but the rest wrote on as before. Thinking it certain that they should be surpassed by the others, they gave up the contest at once in despair. The obvious remedy was to _multiply_ his prizes, so as to bring one of them within the reach of all. He reflected, too, that the real prize, in such a case, is not the value of the pencil, but the _honor of the victory_; and as the honor of the victory might as well be coupled with an object of less, as well as with one of greater value, the next week he divided his two pencils into quarters, and offered to his pupils eight prizes instead of two. He offered one to every five scholars, as they sat on their benches, and every boy then saw that a reward would certainly come within five of him. His chance, accordingly, instead of being one in twenty, became one in five. Now is it possible for a teacher, after having philosophized upon the nature of the minds upon which he is operating, and surveyed the field, and ingeniously formed a plan, which plan he hopes will, through his own intrinsic power, produce certain effects--is it possible for him, when he comes, for the first day, to witness its operations, to come without feeling a strong interest in the result? It is not possible. After having formed such a plan, and made such arrangements, he will look forward almost with impatience to the next writing-hour. He wishes to see whether he has estimated the mental capacities and tendencies of his little community aright; and when the time comes, and he surveys the scene, and observes the operation of his measure, and sees many more are reached by it than were influenced before, he feels a strong gratification, and it is a gratification which is founded upon the noblest principles of our nature. He is tracing, on a most interesting field, the operation of cause and effect. From being the mere drudge, who drives, without intelligence or thought, a score or two of boys to their daily tasks, he rises to the rank of an intellectual philosopher, exploring the laws and successfully controlling the tendencies of mind. It will be observed, too, that all the time this teacher was performing these experiments, and watching with intense interest the results, his pupils were going on undisturbed in their pursuits. The exercises in writing were not interrupted or deranged. This is a point of fundamental importance; for, if what I should say on the subject of exercising ingenuity and contrivance in teaching should be the means, in any case, of leading a teacher to break in upon the regular duties of his school, and destroy the steady uniformity with which the great objects of such an institution should be pursued, my remarks had better never have been written. There may be variety in methods and plan, but, through all this variety, the school, and every individual pupil of it, must go steadily forward in the acquisition of that knowledge which is of greatest importance in the business of future life. In other words, the variations and changes admitted by the teacher ought to be mainly confined to the modes of accomplishing those permanent objects to which all the exercises and arrangements of the school ought steadily to aim. More on this subject, however, in another chapter. I will mention one other circumstance, which will help to explain the difference in interest and pleasure with which teachers engage in their work. I mean the different views they take _of the offenses of their pupils_. One class of teachers seem never to make it a part of their calculation that their pupils will do wrong, and when, any misconduct occurs they are discontented and irritated, and look and act as if some unexpected occurrence had broken in upon their plans. Others understand and consider all this beforehand. They seem to think a little, before they go into their school, what sort of beings boys and girls are, and any ordinary case of youthful delinquency or dullness does not surprise them. I do not mean that they treat such cases with indifference or neglect, but that they _expect_ them, and _are prepared for them_. Such a teacher knows that boys and girls are the _materials_ he has to work upon, and he takes care to make himself acquainted with these materials, _just as they are_. The other class, however, do not seem to know at all what sort of beings they have to deal with, or, if they know, do not _consider_. They expect from them what is not to be obtained, and then are disappointed and vexed at the failure. It is as if a carpenter should attempt to support an entablature by pillars of wood too small and weak for the weight, and then go on, from week to week, suffering anxiety and irritation as he sees them swelling and splitting under the burden, and finding fault _with the wood_ instead of taking it to himself; or as if a plowman were to attempt to work a hard and stony piece of ground with a poor team and a small plow, and then, when overcome by the difficulties of the task, should vent his vexation and anger in laying the blame on the ground instead of on the inadequate and insufficient instrumentality which he had provided for subduing it. [Illustration] It is, of course, one essential part of a man's duty, in engaging in any undertaking, whether it will lead him to act upon matter or upon mind, to become first well acquainted with the circumstances of the case, the materials he is to act upon, and the means which he may reasonably expect to have at his command. If he underrates his difficulties, or overrates the power of his means of overcoming them, it is his mistake--a mistake for which _he_ is fully responsible. Whatever may be the nature of the effect which he aims at accomplishing, he ought fully to understand it, and to appreciate justly the difficulties which lie in the way. Teachers, however, very often overlook this. A man comes home from his school at night perplexed and irritated by the petty misconduct which he has witnessed, and been trying to check. He does not, however, look forward and endeavor to prevent the occasions of such misconduct, adapting his measures to the nature of the material upon which he has to operate, but he stands, like the carpenter at his columns, making himself miserable in looking at it after it occurs, and wondering what to do. "Sir," we might say to him, "what is the matter?" "Why, I have such boys I can do nothing with them. Were it not for _their misconduct_, I might have a very good school." "Were it not for their misconduct? Why, is there any peculiar depravity in them which you could not have foreseen?" "No; I suppose they are pretty much like all other boys," he replies, despairingly; "they are all hair-brained and unmanageable. The plans I have formed for my school would be excellent if my boys would only behave properly." "Excellent plans," might we not reply, "and yet not adapted to the materials upon which they are to operate! No. It is your business to know what sort of beings boys are, and to make your calculations accordingly." Two teachers may therefore manage their schools in totally different ways, so that one of them may necessarily find the business a dull, mechanical routine, except as it is occasionally varied by perplexity and irritation, and the other a prosperous and happy employment. The one goes on mechanically the same, and depends for his power on violence, or on threats and demonstrations of violence. The other brings all his ingenuity and enterprise into the field to accomplish a steady purpose by means ever varying, and depends for his power on his knowledge of human nature, and on the adroit adaptation of plans to her fixed and uniform tendencies. I am very sorry, however, to be obliged to say that probably the latter class of teachers are decidedly in the minority. To practice the art in such a way as to make it an agreeable employment is difficult, and it requires much knowledge of human nature, much attention and skill. And, after all, there are some circumstances necessarily attending the work which constitute a heavy drawback on the pleasures which it might otherwise afford. The almost universal impression that the business of teaching is attended with peculiar trials and difficulties proves this. There must be some cause for an impression so general. It is not right to call it a prejudice, for, although a single individual may conceive a prejudice, whole communities very seldom do, unless in some case which is presented at once to the whole, so that, looking at it through a common medium, all judge wrong together. But the general opinion in regard to teaching is composed of a vast number of _separate_ and _independent_ judgments, and there must be some good ground for the universal result. It is best, therefore, if there are any real and peculiar sources of trial and difficulty in this pursuit, that they should be distinctly known and acknowledged at the outset. Count the cost before going to war. It is even better policy to overrate than to underrate it. Let us see, then, what the real difficulties of teaching are. It is not, however, as is generally supposed, _the confinement._ A teacher is confined, it is true, but not more than men of other professions and employments; not more than a merchant, and probably not as much. A physician is confined in a different way, but more closely than a teacher: he can never leave home: he knows generally no vacation, and nothing but accidental rest. The lawyer is confined as much. It is true there are not throughout the year exact hours which he must keep, but, considering the imperious demands of his business, his personal liberty is probably restrained as much by it as that of the teacher. So with all the other professions. Although the nature of the confinement may vary, it amounts to about the same in all. On the other hand, the teacher enjoys, in reference to this subject of confinement, an advantage which scarcely any other class of men does or can enjoy. I mean vacations. A man in any other business may _force_ himself away from it for a time, but the cares and anxieties of his business will follow him wherever he goes. It seems to be reserved for the teacher to enjoy alone the periodical luxury of a _real and entire release from business and care_. On the whole, as to confinement, it seems to me that the teacher has little ground of complaint. There are, however, some real and serious difficulties which always have, and, it is to be feared, always will, cluster around this employment; and which must, for a long time, at least, lead most men to desire some other employment for the business of life. There may perhaps be some who, by their peculiar skill, can overcome or avoid them, and perhaps the science of teaching may, at some future day, be so far improved that all may avoid them. As I describe them, however, now, most of the teachers into whose hands this treatise may fall will probably find that their own experience corresponds, in this respect, with mine. 1. The first great difficulty which the teacher feels is a sort of _moral responsibility for the conduct of others_. If his pupils do wrong, he feels almost personal responsibility for it. As he walks out some afternoon, wearied with his labors, and endeavoring to forget, for a little time, all his cares, he comes upon a group of boys in rude and noisy quarrels, or engaged in mischief of some sort, and his heart sinks within him. It is hard enough for any one to witness their bad conduct with a spirit unruffled and undisturbed, but for their teacher it is perhaps impossible. He feels _responsible_; in fact, he is responsible. If his scholars are disorderly, or negligent, or idle, or quarrelsome, he feels _condemned himself_ almost as if he were himself the actual transgressor. This difficulty is, in a great degree, peculiar to a teacher. A physician is called upon to prescribe for a patient; he examines the case, and writes his prescription. When this is done his duty is ended; and whether the patient obeys the prescription and lives, or neglects it and dies, the physician feels exonerated from all responsibility. He may, and in some cases does, feel _anxious concern_, and may regret the infatuation by which, in some unhappy case, a valuable life may be hazarded or destroyed. But he feels no _moral responsibility_ for another's guilt. It is so with all the other employments in life. They do, indeed, often bring men into collision with other men. But, though sometimes vexed and irritated by the conduct of a neighbor, a client, or a patient, they feel not half the bitterness of the solicitude and anxiety which come to the teacher through the criminality of his pupil. In ordinary cases he not only feels responsible for efforts, but for their results; and when, notwithstanding all his efforts, his pupils will do wrong, his spirit sinks with an intensity of anxious despondency which none but a teacher can understand. This feeling of something very like _moral accountability for the guilt of other persons_ is a continual burden. The teacher in the presence of the pupil never is free from it. It links him to them by a bond which perhaps he ought not to sunder, and which he can not sunder if he would. And sometimes, when those committed to his charge are idle, or faithless, or unprincipled, it wears away his spirits and his health together. I think there is nothing analogous to this moral connection between teacher and pupil unless it be in the case of a parent and child. And here, on account of the comparative smallness of the number under the parent's care, the evil is so much diminished that it is easily borne. 2. The second great difficulty of the teacher's employments is _the immense multiplicity of the objects of his attention and care_ during the time he is employed in his business. His scholars are individuals, and notwithstanding all that the most systematic can do in the way of classification, they must be attended to in a great measure as individuals. A merchant keeps his commodities together, and looks upon a cargo composed of ten thousand articles, and worth a hundred thousand dollars, as one; he speaks of it as one; and there is, in many cases, no more perplexity in planning its destination than if it were a single box of raisins. A lawyer may have a great many important cases, but he has only one at a time; that is, he _attends_ to but one at a time. The one may be intricate, involving many facts, and requiring to be examined in many aspects and relations. But he looks at but few of these facts and regards but few of these relations at a time. The points which demand his attention come one after another in regular succession. His mind may thus be kept calm. He avoids confusion and perplexity. But no skill or classification will turn the poor teacher's hundred scholars into one, or enable him, except to a very limited extent, and for a very limited purpose, to regard them as one. He has a distinct and, in many respects, a different work to do for every one of the crowd before him. Difficulties must be explained in detail, questions must be answered one by one, and each scholar's own conduct must be considered by itself. His work is thus made up of a thousand minute particulars, which are all crowding upon his attention at once, and which he can not group together, or combine, or simplify. He must, by some means or other, attend to them in all their distracting individuality. And, in a large and complicated school, the endless multiplicity and variety of objects of attention and care impose a task under which few intellects can long stand. I have said that this endless multiplicity and variety can not be reduced and simplified by classification. I mean, of course, that this can be done only to a very limited extent compared with what may be effected in the other pursuits of mankind. Were it not for the art of classification and system, no school could have more than ten scholars, as I intend hereafter to show. The great reliance of the teacher is upon this art, to reduce to some tolerable order what would otherwise be the inextricable confusion of his business. He _must be systematic_. He must classify and arrange; but, after he has done all that he can, he must still expect that his daily business will continue to consist of a vast multitude of minute particulars, from one to another of which the mind must turn with a rapidity which few of the other employments of life ever demand. These are the essential sources of difficulty with which the teacher has to contend; but, as I shall endeavor to show in succeeding chapters, though they can not be entirely removed, they can be so far mitigated by the appropriate means as to render the employment a happy one. I have thought it best, however, as this work will doubtless be read by many who, when they read it, are yet to begin their labors, to describe frankly and fully to them the difficulties which beset the path they are about to enter. "The wisdom of the prudent is to understand his way." It is often wisdom to understand it beforehand. CHAPTER II. GENERAL ARRANGEMENTS. The distraction and perplexity of the teacher's life are, as was explained in the last chapter, almost proverbial. There are other pressing and exhausting pursuits, which wear away the spirit by the ceaseless care which they impose, or perplex and bewilder the intellect by the multiplicity and intricacy of their details; but the business of teaching, by a pre-eminence not very enviable, stands, almost by common consent, at the head of the catalogue. I have already alluded to this subject in the preceding chapter, and probably the majority of actual teachers will admit the truth of the view there presented. Some will, however, doubtless say that they do not find the business of teaching so perplexing and exhausting an employment. They take things calmly. They do one thing at a time, and that without useless solicitude and anxiety. So that teaching, with them, though it has, indeed, its solicitudes and cares, as every other responsible employment must necessarily have, is, after all, a calm and quiet pursuit, which they follow from month to month, and from year to year, without any extraordinary agitations, or any unusual burdens of anxiety and care. There are, indeed, such cases, but they are exceptions, and unquestionably a considerable majority, especially of those who are beginners in the work, find it such as I have described. I think it need not be so, or, rather, I think the evil may be avoided to _a very great degree_. In this chapter I shall endeavor to show how order may be produced out of that almost inextricable mass of confusion into which so many teachers, on commencing their labors, find themselves plunged. The objects, then, to be aimed at in the general arrangements of schools are twofold: 1. That the teacher may be left uninterrupted, to attend to one thing at a time. 2. That the individual scholars may have constant employment, and such an amount and such kinds of study as shall be suited to the circumstances and capacities of each. I shall examine each in their order. 1. The following are the principal things which, in a vast number of schools, are all the time pressing upon the teacher; or, rather, they are the things which must every where press upon the teacher, except so far as, by the skill of his arrangements, he contrives to remove them. 1. Giving leave to whisper or to leave seats. 2. Distributing and changing pens. 3. Answering questions in regard to studies. 4. Hearing recitations. 5. Watching the behavior of the scholars. 6. Administering reproof and punishment for offenses as they occur. A pretty large number of objects of attention and care, one would say, to be pressing upon the mind of the teacher at one and the same time--and _all the time_ too! Hundreds and hundreds of teachers in every part of our country, there is no doubt, have all these crowding upon them from morning to night, with no cessation, except perhaps some accidental and momentary respite. During the winter months, while the principal common schools in our country are in operation, it is sad to reflect how many teachers come home every evening with bewildered and aching heads, having been vainly trying all the day to do six things at a time, while He who made the human mind has determined that it shall do but one. How many become discouraged and disheartened by what they consider the unavoidable trials of a teacher's life, and give up in despair, just because their faculties will not sustain a six-fold task. There are multitudes who, in early life, attempted teaching, and, after having been worried, almost to distraction, by the simultaneous pressure of these multifarious cares, gave up the employment in disgust, and now unceasingly wonder how any body can like teaching. I know multitudes of persons to whom the above description will exactly apply. I once heard a teacher who had been very successful, even in large schools, say that he could hear two classes recite, mend pens, and watch his school all at the same time, and that without any distraction of mind or any unusual fatigue. Of course the recitations in such a case must be from memory. There are very few minds, however, which can thus perform triple or quadruple work, and probably none which can safely be tasked so severely. For my part, I can do but one thing at a time; and I have no question that the true policy for all is to learn not _to do every thing at once_, but so to classify and arrange their work that _they shall have but one thing at once to do_. Instead of vainly attempting to attend simultaneously to a dozen things, they should so plan their work that only _one_ will demand attention. Let us, then, examine the various particulars above mentioned in succession, and see how each can be disposed of, so as not to be a constant source of interruption and derangement. 1. _Whispering_ and _leaving seats_. In regard to this subject there are very different methods now in practice in different schools. In some, especially in very small schools, the teacher allows the pupils to act according to their own discretion. They whisper and leave their seats whenever they think it necessary. This plan may possibly be admissible in a very small school, that is, in one of ten or twelve pupils. I am convinced, however, that it is a very bad plan even here. No vigilant watch which it is possible for any teacher to exert will prevent a vast amount of mere talk entirely foreign to the business of the school. I tried this plan very thoroughly, with high ideas of the dependence which might be placed upon conscience and a sense of duty, if these principles are properly brought out to action in an effort to sustain the system. I was told by distinguished teachers that it would not be found to answer. But predictions of failure in such cases only prompt to greater exertions, and I persevered. But I was forced at last to give up the point, and adopt another plan. My pupils would make resolutions enough; they understood their duty well enough. They were allowed to leave their seats and whisper to their companions whenever, _in their honest judgment, it was necessary for the prosecution of their studies_. I knew that it sometimes would be necessary, and I was desirous to adopt this plan to save myself the constant interruption of hearing and replying to requests. But it would not do. Whenever, from time to time, I called them to account, I found that a large majority, according to their own confession, were in the habit of holding daily and deliberate communication with each other on subjects entirely foreign to the business of the school. A more experienced teacher would have predicted this result; but I had very high ideas of the power of cultivated conscience, and, in fact, still have. But then, like most other persons who become possessed of a good idea, I could not be satisfied without carrying it to an extreme. Still it is necessary, in ordinary schools, to give pupils sometimes the opportunity to whisper and leave seats.[1] Cases occur where this is unavoidable. It can not, therefore, be forbidden altogether. How, then, you will ask, can the teacher regulate this practice, so as to prevent the evils which will otherwise flow from it, without being continually interrupted by the request for permission? [Footnote 1: There are some large and peculiarly-organized schools in cities and large towns to which this remark may perhaps not apply.] By a very simple method. _Appropriate particular times at which all this business is to be done_, and _forbid it altogether_ at every other time. It is well, on other accounts, to give the pupils of a school a little respite, at least every hour; and if this is done, an intermission of study for two minutes each time will be sufficient. During this time _general_ permission should be given for the pupils to speak to each other, or to leave their seats, provided they do nothing at such a time to disturb the studies of others. This plan I have myself very thoroughly tested, and no arrangement which I ever made operated for so long a time so uninterruptedly and so entirely to my satisfaction as this. It of course will require some little time, and no little firmness, to establish the new order of things where a school has been accustomed to another course; but where this is once done, I know no one plan so simple and so easily put into execution which will do so much toward relieving the teacher of the distraction and perplexity of his pursuits. In making the change, however, it is of fundamental importance that the pupils should themselves be interested in it. Their co-operation, or, rather, the co-operation of the majority, which it is very easy to obtain, is absolutely essential to success. I say this is very easily obtained. Let us suppose that some teacher, who has been accustomed to require his pupils to ask and obtain permission every time they wish to speak to a companion, is induced by these remarks to introduce this plan. He says, accordingly, to his school, "You know that you are now accustomed to ask me whenever you wish to obtain permission to whisper to a companion or to leave your seats; now I have been thinking of a plan which will be better for both you and me. By our present plan you are sometimes obliged to wait before I can attend to your request. Sometimes I think it is unnecessary, and deny you, when perhaps I was mistaken, and it was really necessary. At other times, I think it very probable that when it is quite desirable for you to leave your seat you do not ask, because you think you may not obtain permission, and you do not wish to ask and be refused. Do you, or not, experience these inconveniences from our present plans?" The pupils would undoubtedly answer in the affirmative. "I myself experience great inconvenience too. I am very frequently interrupted when busily engaged, and it also occupies a great portion of my time and attention to consider and answer your requests for permission to speak to one another and to leave your seats. It requires as much mental effort to consider and decide whether I ought to allow a pupil to leave his seat, as it would to determine a much more important question; therefore I do not like our present plan, and I have another to propose." The pupils are now all attention to know what the new plan is. It will always be of great advantage to the school for the teacher to propose his new plans from time to time to his pupils in such a way as this. It interests them in the improvement of the school, exercises their judgment, establishes a common feeling between teacher and pupil, and in many other ways assists very much in promoting the welfare of the school. "My plan," continues the teacher, "is this: to allow you all, besides the recess, a short time, two or three minutes perhaps, every hour" (or every half hour, according to the character of the school, the age of the pupils, or other circumstances, to be judged of by the teacher), "during which you may all whisper or leave your seats _without_ asking permission." Instead of deciding the question of the _frequency_ of this general permission, the teacher may, if he pleases, leave it to the pupils to decide. It is often useful to leave the decision of such a question to them. On this subject, however, I shall speak in another place. It is only necessary here to say that _this_ point may be safely left to them, since the time is so small which is to be thus appropriated. Even if they vote to have the general permission to whisper every half hour, it will make but eight minutes in the forenoon. There being six half hours in the forenoon, and one of them ending at the close of school, and another at the recess, only _four_ of these _rests_, as a military man would call them, would be necessary; and four, of two minutes each, would make eight minutes. If the teacher thinks that evil would result from the interruption of the studies so often, he may offer the pupils _three_ minutes rest every _hour_ instead of _two_ minutes every _half hour_, and let them take their choice; or he may decide the case altogether himself. Such a change, from _particular permission on individual requests_ to _general permission_ at _stated times_, would unquestionably be popular in every school, if the teacher managed the business properly. And by presenting it as an object of common interest, an arrangement proposed for the common convenience of teacher and pupils, the latter may be much interested in carrying the plan into effect. We must not rely, however, entirely upon their _interest in it_. All that we can expect from such an effort to interest them, as I have described and recommended, is to get a majority on our side, so that we may have only a small minority to deal with by other measures. Still, _we must calculate on having this minority, and form our plans accordingly_, or we shall be greatly disappointed. I shall, however, in another place, speak of this principle of interesting the pupils in our plans for the purpose of securing a majority in our favor, and explain the methods by which the minority is then to be governed. I only mean here to say that, by such means, the teacher may easily interest a large proportion of the scholars in carrying his plans into effect, and that he must expect to be prepared with other measures for those who will not be governed by these. You can not reasonably expect, however, that, immediately after having explained your plan, it will at once go into full and complete operation. Even those who are firmly determined to keep the rule will, from inadvertence, for a day or two, make communication with each other. They must be _trained_, not by threatening and punishment, but by your good-humored assistance, to their new duties. When I first adopted this plan in my school, something like the following proceedings took place. "Do you suppose that you will perfectly keep this rule from this time?" "No, sir," was the answer. "I suppose you will not. Some, I am afraid, may not really be determined to keep it, and others will forget. Now I wish that every one of you would keep an exact account to-day of all the instances in which you speak to another person, or leave your seat, out of the regular times, and be prepared to report them at the close of the school. Of course, there will be no punishment; but it will very much assist you to watch yourselves, if you expect to make a report at the end of the forenoon. Do you like this plan?" "Yes, sir," was the answer; and all seemed to enter into it with spirit. In order to mark more definitely the times for communication, I wrote, in large letters, on a piece of pasteboard, "STUDY HOURS," and making a hole over the centre of it, I hung it upon a nail over my desk. At the close of each half hour a little bell was to be struck, and this card was to be taken down. When it was up, they were, on no occasion whatever (except some such extraordinary occurrence as sickness, or my sending one of them on a message to another, or something clearly out of the common course) to speak to each other; but were to wait, whatever they wanted, until the _Study Card_, as they called it, was taken down. "Suppose now," said I, "that a young lady has come into school, and has accidentally left her book in the entry--the book from which she is to study during the first half hour of the school. She sits near the door, and she might, in a moment, slip out and obtain it. If she does not, she must spend the half hour in idleness, and be unprepared in her lesson. What is it her duty to do?" "To go," "Not to go," answered the scholars, simultaneously. "It would be her duty _not_ to go; but I suppose it will be very difficult for me to convince you of it. "The reason is this," I continued; "if the one case I have supposed were the _only_ one which would be likely to occur, it would undoubtedly be better for her to go; but if it is understood that in such cases the rule may be dispensed with, that understanding will tend very much to cause such cases to occur. Scholars will differ in regard to the degree of inconvenience which they must submit to rather than break the rule. They will gradually do it on slighter and slighter occasions, until at last the rule will be disregarded entirely. We must therefore draw a _precise line_, and individuals must submit to a little inconvenience sometimes to promote the general good." At the close of the day I requested all in the school to rise. While they were standing, I called them to account in the following manner: "Now it is very probable that some have, from inadvertence or from design, omitted to keep an account of the number of transgressions of the rule which they have committed during the day; others, perhaps, do not wish to make a report of themselves. Now as this is a common and voluntary effort, I wish to have none render assistance who do not, of their own accord, desire to do so. All those, therefore, who are not able to make a report, from not having been correct in keeping it, and all those who are unwilling to report themselves, may sit." A very small number hesitatingly took their seats. "I am afraid that all do not sit who really wish not to report themselves. Now I am honest in saying I wish you to do just as you please. If a great majority of the school really wish to assist me in accomplishing the object, why, of course, I am glad; still, I shall not call upon any for such assistance unless it is freely and voluntarily rendered." One or two more took their seats while these things were saying. Among such there would generally be some who would refuse to have any thing to do with the measure simply from a desire to thwart and impede the plans of the teacher. If so, it is best to take no notice of them. If the teacher can contrive to obtain a great majority upon his side, so as to let them see that any opposition which they can raise is of no consequence and is not even noticed, they will soon be ashamed of it. The reports, then, of those who remained standing were called for; first, those who had whispered only once were requested to sit, then those who had whispered more than once and less than five times, and so on, until at last all were down. In such a case the pupils might, if thought expedient, again be requested to rise for the purpose of asking some other questions with reference to ascertaining whether they had spoken most in the former or latter part of the forenoon. The number who had spoken inadvertently, and the number who had done it by design, might be ascertained. These inquiries accustom the pupils to render honest and faithful accounts themselves. They become, by such means, familiarized to the practice, and by means of it the teacher can many times receive most important assistance. In all this, however, the teacher should speak in a pleasant tone, and maintain a pleasant and cheerful air. The acknowledgments should be considered by the pupils not as confessions of guilt for which they are to be rebuked or punished, but as voluntary and free reports of the result of _an experiment_ in which all were interested. Some will have been dishonest in their reports: to diminish the number of these, the teacher may say, after the report is concluded, "We will drop the subject here to-day. To-morrow we will make another effort, when we shall be more successful. I have taken your reports as you have offered them without any inquiry, because I had no doubt that a great majority of this school would be honest at all hazards. They would not, I am confident, make a false report even if, by a true one, they were to bring upon themselves punishment; so that I think I may have confidence that nearly all these reports have been faithful. Still it is very probable that among so large a number some may have made a report which, they are now aware, was not perfectly fair and honest. I do not wish to know who they are; if there are any such cases, I only wish to say to the rest how much pleasanter it is for you that you have been honest and open. The business is now all ended; you have done your duty; and, though you reported a little larger number than you would if you had been disposed to conceal your faults, yet you go away from school with a quiet conscience. On the other hand, how miserable must any boy feel, if he has any nobleness of mind whatever, to go away from school to-day thinking that he has not been honest; that he has been trying to conceal his faults, and thus to obtain a credit which he did not justly deserve. Always be honest, let the consequence be what it may." The reader will understand that the object of such measures is simply _to secure as large a majority as possible_ to make _voluntary_ efforts to observe the rule. I do not expect that by such measures _universal_ obedience can be exacted. The teacher must follow up the plan after a few days by other measures for those pupils who will not yield to such inducements as these. Upon this subject, however, I shall speak more particularly at a future time. In my own school it required two or three weeks to exclude whispering and communication by signs. The period necessary to effect the revolution will be longer or shorter, according to the circumstances of the school and the dexterity of the teacher; and, after all, the teacher must not hope _entirely_ to exclude it. Approximation to excellence is all that we can expect; for unprincipled and deceiving characters will perhaps always be found, and no system whatever can prevent their existence. Proper treatment may indeed be the means of their reformation, but before this process has arrived at a successful result, others similar in character will have entered the school, so that the teacher can never expect perfection in the operation of any of his plans. I found so much relief from the change which this plan introduced, that I soon took measures for rendering it permanent; and though I am not much in favor of efforts to bring all teachers and all schools to the same plans, this principle of _whispering at limited and prescribed times alone_ seems to me well suited to universal adoption. The following simple apparatus has been used in several schools where this principle has been adopted. A drawing and description of it is inserted here, as by this means some teachers, who may like to try the course here recommended, may be saved the time and trouble of contriving something of the kind themselves. The figure _a a a a_ on the next page is a board about 18 inches by 12, to which the other parts of the apparatus are to be attached, and which is to be secured to the wall at the height of about 8 feet, and _b c d c_ is a plate of tin or brass, 8 inches by 12, of the form represented in the drawing. At _c c_, the lower extremities of the parts at the sides, the metal is bent round, so as to clasp a wire which runs from _c_ to _c_, the ends of which wire are bent at right angles, and run into the board. The plate will consequently turn on this axis as on a hinge. At the top of the plate, _d_, a small projection of the tin turns inward, and to this one end of the cord, _m m_, is attached. This cord passes back from _d_ to a small pulley at the upper part of the board, and at the lower end of it a tassel, loaded so as to be an exact counterpoise to the card, is attached. By raising the tassel, the plate will of course fall over forward till it is stopped by the part _b_ striking the board, when it will be in a horizontal position. On the other hand, by pulling down the tassel, the plate will be raised and drawn upward against the board, so as to present its convex surface, with the words STUDY HOURS upon it, distinctly to the school. In the drawing it is represented in an inclined position, being not quite drawn up, that the parts might more easily be seen. At _d_ there is a small projection of the tin upward, which touches the clapper of the bell suspended above every time the plate passes up or down, and thus gives notice of its motions. [Illustration] Of course the construction may be varied very much, and it may be more or less expensive, according to the wishes of the teacher. In the first apparatus of this kind which I used, the plate was simply a card of pasteboard, from which the machine took its name. This was cut out with a penknife, and, after being covered with marble-paper, a strip of white paper was pasted along the middle with the inscription upon it. The wire _c c_, and a similar one at the top of the plate, were passed through a perforation in the pasteboard, and then passed into the board. Instead of a pulley, the cord, which was a piece of twine, was passed through a little staple made of wire and driven into the board. The whole was made in one or two recesses in school, with such tools and materials as I could then command. The bell was a common table bell, with a wire passing through the handle. The whole was attached to such a piece of pine board as I could get on the occasion. This coarse contrivance was, for more than a year, the grand regulator of all the movements of the school. I afterward caused one to be made in a better manner. The plate was of tin, gilded, the border and the letters of the inscription being black. A parlor bell-rope was carried over a brass pulley, and then passed downward in a groove made in the mahogany board to which the card was attached. A little reflection will, however, show the teacher that the form and construction of the apparatus for marking the times of study and of rest may be greatly varied. The chief point is simply to secure the _principle_ of whispering at definite and limited times, and at those alone. If such an arrangement is adopted, and carried faithfully into effect, it will be found to relieve the teacher of more than half of the confusion and perplexity which would otherwise be his hourly lot. I have detailed thus particularly the method to be pursued in carrying this principle into effect, because I am convinced of its importance, and the incalculable assistance which such an arrangement will afford to the teacher in all his plans. Of course, I would not be understood to recommend its adoption in those cases where teachers, from their own experience, have devised and adopted _other_ plans which accomplish as effectually the same purpose. All that I mean is to insist upon the absolute necessity of _some_ plan, to remove this very common source of interruption and confusion, and I recommend this mode where a better is not known. 2. The second of the sources of interruption, as I have enumerated them, is the distribution of pens and of stationery. This business ought, if possible, to have a specific time assigned to it. Scholars are, in general, far too particular in regard to their pens. The teacher ought to explain to them that, in the transaction of the ordinary business of life, they can not always have exactly such a pen as they would like. They must learn to write with various kinds of pens, and when furnished with one that the teacher himself would consider suitable to write a letter to a friend with, he must be content. They should understand that the _form_ of the letters is what is important in learning to write, not the smoothness and clearness of the hair lines; and that though writing looks better when executed with a perfect pen, a person may _learn_ to write nearly as well with one which is not absolutely perfect. So certain is this, though often overlooked, that a person would perhaps learn faster with chalk, upon a black board, than with the best goose-quill ever sharpened. I do not make these remarks to show that it is of no consequence whether scholars have good or bad pens, but only that this subject deserves very much less of the time and attention of the teacher than it usually receives. When the scholars are allowed, as they very often are, to come when they please to change their pens, breaking in upon any business--interrupting any classes--perplexing and embarrassing the teacher, however he may be employed, there is a very serious obstruction to the progress of the scholars, which is by no means repaid by the improvement in this branch. To guard against these evils, a regular and well-considered system should be adopted for the distribution of pens and stationary, and when adopted it should be strictly and steadily adhered to. 3. Answering questions about studies. A teacher who does not adopt some system in regard to this subject will be always at the mercy of his scholars. One boy will want to know how to parse a word, another where the lesson is, another to have a sum explained, and a fourth will wish to show his work to see if it is right. The teacher does not like to discourage such inquiries. Each one, as it comes up, seems necessary; each one, too, is answered in a moment; but the endless number and the continual repetition of them consume his time and exhaust his patience. There is another view of the subject which ought to be taken. Perhaps it would not be far from the truth to estimate the average number of scholars in the schools in our country at fifty. At any rate, this will be near enough for our present purpose. There are three hours in each session, according to the usual arrangement, making one hundred and eighty minutes, which, divided among fifty, give about three minutes and a half to each individual. If the reader has, in his own school, a greater or a less number, he can easily correct the above calculation, so as to adapt it to his own case, and ascertain the portion which may justly be appropriated to each pupil. It will probably vary from two to four minutes. Now a period of four minutes slips away very fast while a man is looking over perplexing figures on a slate, and if he exceeds that time at all in individual attention to any one scholar, he is doing injustice to his other pupils. I do not mean that a man is to confine himself rigidly to the principle suggested by this calculation of cautiously appropriating no more time to any one of his pupils than such a calculation would assign to each, but simply that this is a point which should be kept in view, and should have a very strong influence in deciding how far it is right to devote attention exclusively to individuals. It seems to me that it shows very clearly that one ought to teach his pupils, as much as possible, _in masses_, and as little as possible by private attention to individual cases. The following directions will help the teacher to carry these principles into effect. When you assign a lesson, glance over it yourself, and consider what difficulties are likely to arise. You know the progress which your pupils have made, and can easily anticipate their difficulties. Tell them all together, in the class, what their difficulties will be, and how they may surmount them. Give them directions how they are to act in the emergencies which will be likely to occur. This simple step will remove a vast number of the questions which would otherwise become occasions for interrupting you. With regard to other difficulties, which can not be foreseen and guarded against, direct the pupils to bring them to the class at the next recitation. Half a dozen of the class might, and very probably would, meet with the same difficulty. If they bring this difficulty to you one by one, you have to explain it over and over again, whereas, when it is brought to the class, one explanation answers for all. As to all questions about the lesson--where it is, what it is, and how long it is--never answer them. Require each pupil to remember for himself, and if he was absent when the lesson was assigned, let him ask his class-mate in a rest. You _may_ refuse to give particular individuals the private assistance they ask for in such a way as to discourage and irritate them, but this is by no means necessary. It can be done in such a manner that the pupil will see the propriety of it, and acquiesce pleasantly in it. A child comes to you, for example, and says, "Will you tell me, sir, where the next lesson is?" "Were you not in the class at the time?" "Yes, sir; but I have forgotten." "Well, I have forgotten too. I have a great many classes to hear, and, of course, great many lessons to assign, and I never remember them. It is not necessary for me to remember." "May I speak to one of the class to ask about it?" "You can not speak, you know, till the Study Card is down; you may then." "But I want to get my lesson now." "I don't know what you will do, then. I am sorry you don't remember. "Besides," continues the teacher, looking pleasantly, however, while he says it, "if I knew, I think I ought not to tell you." "Why, sir?" "Because, you know, I have said I wish the scholars to remember where the lessons are, and not come to me. You know it would be very unwise for me, after assigning a lesson once for all in the class, to spend my time here at my desk in assigning it over again to each individual one by one. Now if I should tell _you_ where the lesson is now, I should have to tell others, and thus should adopt a practice which I have condemned." Take another case. You assign to a class of little girls a subject of composition, requesting them to copy their writing upon a sheet of paper, leaving a margin an inch wide at the top, and one of half an inch at the sides and bottom. The class take their seats, and, after a short time, one of them comes to you, saying she does not know how long an inch is. "Don't you know any thing about it?" "No, sir, not much." "Should you think _that_ is more or less than an inch?" (pointing to a space on a piece of paper much too large). "More." "Then you know something about it. Now I did not tell you to make the margins _exactly_ an inch and half an inch, but only as near as you could judge?" "Would _that_ be about right?" asks the girl, showing a distance. "I must not tell you, because, you know, I never in such cases help individuals; if that is as near as you can get it, you may make it so." It may be well, after assigning a lesson to a class, to say that all those who do not distinctly understand what they have to do may remain after the class have taken their seats, and ask: the task may then be distinctly assigned again, and the difficulties, so far as they can be foreseen, explained. By such means these sources of interruption and difficulty may, like the others, be almost entirely removed. Perhaps not altogether, for many cases may occur where the teacher may choose to give a particular class permission to come to him for help. Such permission, however, ought never to be given unless it is absolutely necessary, and should never be allowed to be taken unless it is distinctly given. 4. Hearing recitations. I am aware that many attempt to do something else at the same time that they are hearing a recitation, and there may perhaps be some individuals who can succeed in this. If the exercise to which the teacher is attending consists merely in listening to the reciting word for word some passage committed to memory, it can be done. I hope, however, to show in a future chapter that there are other and far higher objects which every teacher ought to have in view in his recitations, and he who understands these objects, and aims at accomplishing them--who endeavors to _instruct_ his class, to enlarge and elevate their ideas, to awaken a deep and paramount interest in the subject which they are examining, will find that his time must be his own, and his attention uninterrupted while he is presiding at a class. All the other exercises and arrangements of the school are, in fact, preparatory and subsidiary to this. Here, that is, in the classes, the real business of teaching is to be done. Here the teacher comes in contact with his scholars mind with mind, and here, consequently, he must be uninterrupted and undisturbed. I shall speak more particularly on this subject hereafter under the head of instruction; all I wish to secure in this place is that the teacher should make such arrangements that he can devote his exclusive attention to his classes while he is actually engaged with them. Each recitation, too, should have its specified time, which should be adhered to with rigid accuracy. If any thing like the plan I have suggested for allowing rests of a minute or two every half hour should be adopted, it will mark off the forenoon into parts which ought to be precisely and carefully observed. I was formerly accustomed to think that I could not limit the time for my recitations without great inconvenience, and occasionally allowed one exercise to encroach upon the succeeding, and this upon the next, and thus sometimes the last was excluded altogether. But such a lax and irregular method of procedure is ruinous to the discipline of a school. On perceiving it at last, I put the bell into the hands of a pupil, commissioning her to ring regularly, having myself fixed the times, saying that I would show my pupils that I could be confined myself to system as well as they. At first I experienced a little inconvenience; but this soon disappeared, and at last the hours and half hours of our artificial division entirely superseded, in the school-room, the divisions of the clock face. I found, too, that it exerted an extremely favorable influence upon the scholars in respect to their willingness to submit readily to the necessary restrictions imposed upon them in school, to show them that the teacher was subject to law as well as they. But, in order that I may be specific and definite, I will draw up a plan for the regular division of time, for a common school, not to be _adopted_, but to be _imitated_; that is, I do not recommend exactly this plan, but that some plan, precise and specific, should be determined upon, and exhibited to the school by a diagram like the following: FORENOON. IX. X. XI. XII. +---------+---------+---+---+------------+ |READING. |WRITING. |R. |G. |ARITHMETIC. | +----+----+----+----+---+---+-----+------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +----+----+----+----+---+---+-----+------+ AFTERNOON. II. III. IV. V. +-----------+---------+---+---+----------+ |GEOGRAPHY. |WRITING. |R. |G. |GRAMMAR. | +-----+-----+----+----+---+---+----+-----+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-----+-----+----+----+---+---+----+-----+ A drawing on a large sheet, made by some of the older scholars (for a teacher should never do any thing of this kind which his scholars can do for him), should be made and pasted up to view, the names of the classes being inserted in the columns under their respective heads. At the double lines at ten and three, there might be a rest of two minutes, an officer appointed for the purpose ringing a bell at each of the periods marked on the plan, and making the signal for the _rest_, whatever signal might be determined upon. It is a good plan to have the bell _touched_ five minutes before each half hour expires, and then exactly at its close. The first bell would notify the teacher or teachers, if there are more than one in the school, that the time for their respective recitations is drawing to a close. At the second bell the new classes should take their places without waiting to be called for. The scholars will thus see that the arrangements of the school are based upon system, to which the teacher himself conforms, and not subjected to his own varying will. They will thus not only go on more regularly, but they will themselves yield more easily and pleasantly to the necessary arrangements. The fact is, children love system and regularity. Each one is sometimes a little uneasy under the restraint which it imposes upon him individually, but they all love to see its operation upon others, and they are generally very willing to submit to its laws, if the rest of the community are required to submit too. They show this in their love of military parade; what allures them is chiefly the _order_ of it; and even a little child creeping upon the floor will be pleased when he gets his playthings in a row. A teacher may turn this principle to most useful account in forming his plans for his school, in observing that the teacher is governed by them too as well as they. It will be seen by reference to the foregoing plan that I have marked the time for the recesses by the letter R. at the top. Immediately after them, both in the forenoon and in the afternoon, twenty minutes are left, marked G., the initial standing for general exercise. They are intended to denote periods during which all the scholars are in their seats, with their work laid aside, ready to attend to whatever the teacher may desire to bring before the whole school. There are so many occasions on which it is necessary to address the whole school, that it is very desirable to appropriate a particular time for it. In most of the best schools I believe this plan is adopted. I will mention some of the subjects which would come up at such a time. 1. There are some studies which can be advantageously attended to by the whole school together, such as Punctuation, and, to some extent, Spelling. 2. Cases of discipline which it is necessary to bring before the whole school ought to come up at a regularly-appointed time. By attending to them here, there will be a greater importance attached to them. Whatever the teacher does will seem to be more deliberate, and, in fact, _will be_ more deliberate. 3. General remarks, bringing up classes of faults which prevail; also general directions, which may at any time be needed; and, in fact, any business relating to the general arrangements of the school. 4. Familiar lectures from the teacher on various subjects. These lectures, though necessarily brief and quite familiar in their form, may still be very exact and thorough in respect to the knowledge conveyed. When they are upon scientific subjects they may sometimes be illustrated by experiments, more or less imposing, according to the ingenuity of the teacher, the capacity of the older scholars to assist him in the preparations, or the means and facilities at his command.[2] [Illustration] [Footnote 2: In some of the larger institutions of the country the teacher will have convenient apparatus at his disposal, and a room specially adapted to the purpose of experiments. The engraving represents a room at the Spingler Institute at New York. But let not the teacher suppose that these special facilities are essential to enable him to give instruction to his pupils in such a way. I have known a much larger balloon than the one represented in the engraving to be constructed by the teacher and pupils of a common country school from directions in Rees's Cyclopedia, and sent up in the open air. The aeronaut that accompanied it was a hen--poor thing!] The design of such lectures should be to extend the _general knowledge_ of the pupils in regard to those subjects on which they will need information in their progress through life. In regard to each of these particulars I shall speak more particularly hereafter, in the chapters to which they respectively belong. My only object here is to show, in the general arrangements of the school, how a place is to be found for them. My practice has been to have two periods of short duration, each day, appropriated to these objects: the first to the _business of the school_, and the second to such studies or lectures as could be most profitably attended to at such a time. We come now to one of the most important subjects which present themselves to the teacher's attention in settling the principles upon which he shall govern his school. I mean the degree of influence which the boys themselves shall have in the management of its affairs. Shall the government of school be a _monarchy_ or a _republic?_ To this question, after much inquiry and many experiments, I answer, a monarchy; an absolute, unlimited monarchy; the teacher possessing exclusive power as far as the pupils are concerned, though strictly responsible to the committee or to the trustees under whom he holds his office. While, however, it is thus distinctly understood that the power of the teacher is supreme, that all the power rests in him, and that he alone is responsible for its exercise, there ought to be a very free and continual _delegation_ of power to the pupils. As much business as is possible should be committed to them. They should be interested as much as possible in the affairs of the school, and led to take an active part in carrying them forward; though they should, all the time, distinctly understand that it is only _delegated_ power which they exercise, and that the teacher can, at any time, revoke what he has granted, and alter or annul at pleasure any of their decisions. By this plan we have the responsibility resting where it ought to rest, and yet the boys are trained to business, and led to take an active interest in the welfare of the school. Trust is reposed in them, which may be greater or less, as they are able to bear. All the good effects of reposing trust and confidence, and committing the management of important business to the pupils will be secured, without the dangers which would result from the entire surrender of the management of the institution into their hands. There have been, in several cases, experiments made with reference to ascertaining how far a government strictly republican would be admissible in a school. A very fair experiment of this kind was made some years since at the Gardiner Lyceum, in Maine. At the time of its establishment, nothing was said of the mode of government which it was intended to adopt. For some time the attention of the instructors was occupied in arranging the course of study, and attending to the other concerns of the institution; and, in the infant state of the Lyceum, few cases of discipline occurred, and no regular system of government was necessary. Before long, however, complaints were made that the students at the Lyceum were guilty of breaking windows in an old building used as a town-house. The principal called the students together, mentioned the reports, and said that he did not know, and did not wish to know who were the guilty individuals. It was necessary, however, that the thing should be examined into, and that restitution should be made, and, relying on their faithfulness and ability, he should leave them to manage the business alone. For this purpose, he nominated one of the students as judge, some others as jurymen, and appointed the other officers necessary in the same manner. He told them that, in order to give them time to make a thorough investigation, they were excused from farther exercises during the day. The principal then left them, and they entered on the trial. The result was that they discovered the guilty individuals, ascertained the amount of mischief done by each, and sent to the selectmen a message, by which they agreed to pay a sum equal to three times the value of the injury sustained. The students were soon after informed that this mode of bringing offenders to justice would hereafter be always pursued, and arrangements were made for organizing a _regular republican government_ among the young men. By this government all laws which related to the internal police of the institution were to be made, all officers were appointed, and all criminal cases were to be tried. The students finding the part of a judge too difficult for them to sustain, one of the professors was appointed to hold that office, and, for similar reasons, another of the professors was made president of the legislative assembly. The principal was the executive, with power to _pardon_, but not to _sentence_, or even _accuse_. Some time after this a student was indicted for profane swearing; he was tried, convicted, and punished. After this he evinced a strong hostility to the government. He made great exertions to bring it into contempt, and when the next trial came on, he endeavored to persuade the witnesses that giving evidence was dishonorable, and he so far succeeded that the defendant was acquitted for want of evidence, when it was generally understood that there was proof of his guilt, which would have been satisfactory if it could have been brought forward. For some time after this the prospect was rather unfavorable, though many of the students themselves opposed with great earnestness these efforts, and were much alarmed lest they should lose their free government through the perverseness of one of their number. The attorney general, at this juncture, conceived the idea of indicting the individual alluded to for an attempt to overturn the government. He obtained the approbation of the principal, and the grand jury found a bill. The court, as the case was so important, invited some of the trustees, who were in town, to attend the trial. The parent of the defendant was also informed of the circumstances and requested to be present, and he accordingly attended. The prisoner was tried, found guilty, and sentenced, if I mistake not, to expulsion. At his earnest request, however, to be permitted to remain in the Lyceum and redeem his character, he was pardoned and restored, and from that time he became perfectly exemplary in his conduct and character. After this occurrence the system went on in successful operation for some time. The legislative power was vested in the hands of a general committee, consisting of eight or ten, chosen by the students from their own number. They met about once a week to transact such business as appointing officers, making and repealing regulations, and inquiring into the state of the Lyceum. The instructors had a negative upon all their proceedings, but no direct and positive power. They could pardon, but they could assign no punishments, nor make laws inflicting any. Now such a plan as this may succeed for a short time, and under very favorable circumstances; and the circumstance which it is chiefly important should be favorable is, that the man who is called to preside over such an association should possess such talents of _generalship_ that he can really manage the institution _himself_, while the power is _nominally_ and _apparently_ in the hands of the boys. Should this not be the case, or should the teacher, from any cause, lose his personal influence in the school, so that the institution should really be surrendered into the hands of the pupils, things must be on a very unstable footing. And, accordingly, where such a plan has been adopted, it has, I believe, in every instance, been ultimately abandoned. _Real self-government_ is an experiment sufficiently hazardous among men, though Providence, in making a daily supply of food necessary for every human being, has imposed a most powerful check upon the tendency to anarchy and confusion. Let the populace of Paris or of London materially interrupt the order and break in upon the arrangements of the community, and in eight-and-forty hours nearly the whole of the mighty mass will be in the hands of the devourer, hunger, and they will be soon brought to submission. On the other hand, a month's anarchy and confusion in a college or an academy would be delight to half the students, or else times have greatly changed since I was within college walls. Although it is thus evident that the important concerns of a literary institution can not be safely committed into the hands of the students, very great benefits will result from calling upon them to act upon and to decide questions relative to the school within such limits and under such restrictions as are safe and proper. Such a practice will assist the teacher very much if he manages it with any degree of dexterity; for it will interest his pupils in the success of the school, and secure, to a very considerable extent, their co-operation in the government of it. It will teach them self-control and self-government, and will accustom them to submit to the majority--that lesson which, of all others, it is important for a republican to learn. In endeavoring to interest the pupils of a school in the work of co-operating with the teacher in its administration, no little dexterity will be necessary at the outset. In all probability, the formal announcement of this principle, and the endeavor to introduce it by a sudden revolution, would totally fail. Boys, like men, must be gradually prepared for; power, and they must exercise it only so far as they are prepared. This, however, can very easily be done. The teacher should say nothing of his general design, but, when some suitable opportunity presents, he should endeavor to lead his pupils to co-operate with him in some particular instance. For example, let us suppose that he has been accustomed to distribute the writing-books with his own hand when the writing-hour arrives, and that he concludes to delegate this simple business first to his scholars. He accordingly states to them, just before the writing exercise of the day on which he proposes the experiment, as follows: "I have thought that time will be saved if you will help me distribute the books, and I will accordingly appoint four distributors, one for each division of the seats, who may come to me and receive the books, and distribute them each to his own division. Are you willing to adopt this plan?" The boys answer "Yes, sir," and the teacher then looks carefully around the room, and selects four pleasant and popular boys--boys who he knows would gladly assist him, and who would, at the same time, be agreeable to their school-mates. This latter point is necessary in order to secure the popularity and success of the plan. Unless the boys are very different from any I have ever met with, they will be pleased with the duty thus assigned them. They will learn system and regularity by being taught to perform this simple duty in a proper manner. After a week, the teacher may consider their term of service as having expired, and thanking them in public for the assistance they have rendered him, he may ask the scholars if they are willing to continue the plan, and if the vote is in favor of it, as it unquestionably would be, each boy probably hoping that he should be appointed to the office, the teacher may nominate four others, including, perhaps, upon the list, some boy popular among his companions, but whom he has suspected to be not very friendly to himself or the school. I think the most scrupulous statesman would not object to securing influence by conferring office in such a case. If difficulties arise from the operation of such a measure, the plan can easily be modified to avoid or correct them. If it is successful, it may be continued, and the principle may be extended, so as in the end to affect very considerably all the arrangements and the whole management of the school. Or, let us imagine the following scene to have been the commencement of the introduction of the principle of limited self-government into a school. The preceptor of an academy was sitting at his desk, at the close of school, while the pupils were putting up their books and leaving the room. A boy came in with angry looks, and, with his hat in his hands bruised and dusty, advanced to the master's desk, and complained that one of his companions had thrown down his hat upon the floor, and had almost spoiled it. The teacher looked calmly at the mischief, and then asked how it happened. "I don't know, sir. I hung it on my nail, and he pulled it down." "I wish you would ask him to come here," said the teacher. "Ask him pleasantly." The accused soon came in, and the two boys stood together before the master. "There seems to be some difficulty between you boys about a nail to hang your hats upon. I suppose each of you think it is your own nail." "Yes, sir," said both the boys. "It will be more convenient for me to talk with you about this to-morrow than to-night, if you are willing to wait. Besides, we can examine it more calmly then. But if we put it off till then, you must not talk about it in the mean time, blaming one another, and keeping up the irritation that you feel. Are you both willing to leave it just where it is till to-morrow, and try to forget all about it till then? I expect I shall find you both a little to blame." The boys rather reluctantly consented. The next day the master heard the case, and settled it so far as it related to the two boys. It was easily settled in the morning, for they had had time to get calm, and were, after sleeping away their anger, rather ashamed of the whole affair, and very desirous to have it forgotten. That day, when the hour for the transaction of general business came, the teacher stated to the school that it was necessary to take some measures to provide each boy with a nail for his hat. In order to show that it was necessary, he related the circumstances of the quarrel which had occurred the day before. He did this, not with such an air and manner as to convey the impression that his object was to find fault with the boys, or to expose their misconduct, but to show the necessity of doing something to remedy the evil which had been the cause of so unpleasant an occurrence. Still, though he said nothing in the way of reproof or reprehension, and did not name the boys, but merely gave a cool and impartial narrative of the facts, the effect, very evidently, was to bring such quarrels into discredit. A calm review of misconduct, after the excitement has gone by, will do more to bring it into disgrace than the most violent invectives and reproaches directed against the individuals guilty of it at the time. "Now, boys," continued the master, "will you assist me in making arrangements to prevent the recurrence of all temptations of this kind hereafter? It is plain that every boy ought to have a nail appropriated expressly to his use. The first thing to be done is to ascertain whether there are enough for all. I should like, therefore, to have two committees appointed: one to count and report the number of nails in the entry, and also how much room there is for more; the other to ascertain the number of scholars in school. They can count all who are here, and, by observing the vacant desks, they can ascertain the number absent. When this investigation is made, I will tell you what to do next." The boys seemed pleased with the plan, and the committees were appointed, two members on each. The master took care to give the quarrelers some share in the work, apparently forgetting, from this time, the unpleasant occurrence which had brought up the subject. When the boys came to inform him of the result of their inquiries, he asked them to make a little memorandum of it in writing, as he might forget the numbers, he said, before the time came for reading them. The boys brought him, presently, a rough scrap of paper, with the figures marked upon it. He told them he should forget which was the number of nails, and which the number of scholars, unless they wrote it down. "It is the custom among men," said he, "to make out their report, in such a case, fully, so that it would explain itself; and I should like to have you, if you are willing, make out yours a little more distinctly." Accordingly, after a little additional explanation, the boys made another attempt, and presently returned with something like the following: "The committee for counting the nails report as follows: Number of nails. . . . 35 Room for more . . . . 15." The other report was very similar, though somewhat rudely written and expressed, and both were perfectly satisfactory to the preceptor, as he plainly showed by the manner in which he received them. I need not finish the description of this case by narrating particularly the reading of the reports, the appointment of a committee to assign the nails, and to paste up the names of the scholars, one to each. The work, in such a case, might be done in recesses, and out of school hours; and though, at first, the teacher will find that it is as much trouble to accomplish business in this way as it would be to attend to it directly himself, yet, after a very little experience, he will find that his pupils will acquire dexterity and readiness, and will be able to render him very material assistance in the accomplishment of his plans. This, however--the assistance rendered to the teacher--is not the main object of the adoption of such measures as this. The main design is to interest the pupils in the management and the welfare of the school--to identify them, as it were, with it. And such measures as the above will accomplish this object; and every teacher who will try the experiment, and carry it into effect with any tolerable degree of skill, will find that it will, in a short time, change the whole aspect of the school in regard to the feelings subsisting between himself and his pupils. Each teacher who tries such an experiment will find himself insensibly repeating it, and after a time he may have quite a number of officers and committees who are intrusted with various departments of business. He will have a secretary, chosen by ballot by the scholars, to keep a record of all the important transactions in the school for each day. At first he will dictate to the secretary, thus directing him precisely what to say, or even writing it for him, and then merely requiring him to copy it into the book provided for the purpose. Afterward he will give the pupil less and less assistance, till he can keep the record properly himself. The record of each day will be read on the succeeding day at the hour for business. The teacher will perhaps have a committee to take care of the fire, and another to see that the room is constantly in good order. He will have distributors for each division of seats, to distribute books, and compositions, and pens, and to collect votes. And thus, in a short time, his school will become _regularly organized as a society or legislative assembly_. The boys will learn submission to the majority in such unimportant things as may be committed to them; they will learn system and regularity, and every thing else, indeed, that belongs to the science of political self-government. There are dangers, however. What useful practice has not its dangers? One of these is, that the teacher will allow these arrangements to take up too much time. He must guard against this. I have found from experience that fifteen minutes each day, with a school of 135, is enough. This ought never to be exceeded. Another danger is, that the boys will be so engaged in the duties of their _offices_ as to neglect their _studies_. This would be, and ought to be, fatal to the whole plan. This danger may be avoided in the following manner. State publicly that you will not appoint any to office who are not good scholars, always punctual, and always prepared; and when any boy who holds an office is going behindhand in his studies, say to him kindly, "You have not time to get your lessons, and I am afraid it is owing to the fact that you spend so much time in helping me. Now if you wish to resign your office, so as to have more time for your lessons, you can. In fact, I think you ought to do it. You may try it for a day or two, and I will notice how you recite, and then we can decide." Such a communication will generally be found to have a powerful effect. If it does not remedy the evil, the resignation must be insisted on. A few decided cases of this kind will effectually remove the evil I am considering. Another difficulty which is likely to attend the plan of allowing the pupils of a school to take some part in this way in the administration of it is that it may tend to make them insubordinate, so that they will, in many instances, submit with less good humor to such decisions as you may consider necessary. I do not mean that this will be the case with all, but that there will be a few who will be ungenerous enough, if you allow them to decide sometimes what shall be done, to endeavor to make trouble, or at least to show symptoms of impatience and vexation because you do not allow them always to decide. Sometimes this feeling may show itself by the discontented looks, or gestures, or even words with which some unwelcome regulation or order on the part of the teacher will be received. Such a spirit should be immediately and decidedly checked whenever it appears. It will not be difficult to check, and even entirely to remove it. On one occasion when, after learning the wish of the scholars on some subject which had been brought before them, I decided contrary to it, there arose a murmur of discontent all over the room. This was the more distinct, because I have always accustomed my pupils to answer questions asked, and to express their wishes and feelings on any subject I may present to them with great freedom. I asked all those who had expressed their dissatisfaction to rise. About one third of the scholars arose. "Perhaps you understood that when I put the question to vote I meant to abide by your decision, and that, consequently, I ought not to have reversed it, as I did afterward?" "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir," they replied. Do you suppose it would be safe to leave the decision of important questions to the scholars in this school?" "Yes, sir;" "No, sir." The majority were, however, in the affirmative. Thus far, only those who were standing had answered. I told them that, as they were divided in opinion, they might sit, and I would put the question to the whole school. "You know," I continued, addressing the whole, "what sort of persons the girls who compose this school are. You know about how many are governed habitually by steady principle, and how many by impulse and feeling. You know, too, what proportion have judgment and foresight necessary to consider and decide independently such questions as continually arise in the management of a school. Now suppose I should resign the school into your own hands as to its management, and only come in to give instruction to the classes, leaving all general control of its arrangements with you, would it go on safely or not?" As might have been foreseen, there was, when the question was fairly proposed, scarcely a solitary vote in favor of government by scholars. They seemed to see clearly the absurdity of such a scheme. "Besides," I continued, "the trustees of this school have committed it to my charge; they hold me responsible; the public hold _me_ responsible, not you. Now if I should surrender it into your hands, and you, from any cause, should manage the trust unfaithfully or unskillfully, I should necessarily be held accountable. I could never shift the responsibility upon you. Now it plainly is not just or right that one party should hold the power, and another be held accountable for its exercise. It is clear, therefore, in every view of the subject, that I should retain the management of this school in my own hands. Are you not satisfied that it is?" The scholars universally answered "Yes, sir." They seemed satisfied, and doubtless were. It was then stated to them that the object in asking them to vote was, in some cases, to obtain an expression of their opinion or their wishes in order to help _me_ decide, and only in those cases where it was expressly stated did I mean to give the final decision to them. Still, however, if cases are often referred to them, the feeling will gradually creep in that the school is managed on republican principles, as they call it, and they will, unless this point is specially guarded, gradually lose that spirit of entire and cordial subordination so necessary for the success of any school. It should often be distinctly explained to them that a republican government is one where the power essentially resides in the community, and is exercised by a ruler only so far as the community delegates it to him, whereas in the school the government is based on the principle that the power, primarily and essentially, resides in the teacher, the scholars exercising only such as _he_ may delegate to _them_. With these limitations and restrictions, and with this express understanding in regard to what is, in all cases, the ultimate authority, I think there will be no danger in throwing a very large share of the business which will, from time to time, come up in the school, upon the scholars themselves for decision. In my own experience this plan has been adopted with the happiest results. In the Mount Vernon School a small red morocco wrapper lies constantly on a little shelf, accessible to all. By its side is a little pile of papers, about one inch by six, on which any one may write her motion, or her _proposition_, as the scholars call it, whatever it may be, and when written it is inclosed in the wrapper, to be brought to me at the appointed time for attending to the general business of the school. Through this wrapper all questions are asked, all complaints entered, all proposals made. Is there discontent in the school? It shows itself by "_propositions_" in the wrapper. Is any body aggrieved or injured? I learn it through the wrapper. In fact, it is a little safety-valve, which lets off what, if confined, might threaten explosion---an index--a thermometer, which reveals to me, from day to day, more of the state of public opinion in the little community than any thing beside. These propositions are generally read aloud. Some cases are referred to the scholars for decision; some I decide myself; others are laid aside without notice of any kind; others still, merely suggest remarks on the subjects to which they allude. The principles, then, which this chapter has been intended to establish, are simply these: in making your general arrangements, look carefully over your ground, consider all the objects which you have to accomplish, and the proper degree of time and attention which each deserves. Then act upon system. Let the mass of particulars which would otherwise crowd upon you in promiscuous confusion be arranged and classified. Let each be assigned to its proper time and place, so that your time may be your own, under your own command, and not, as is too often the case, at the mercy of the thousand accidental circumstances which may occur. In a word, be, in the government of your school, yourself supreme, and let your supremacy be that of _authority_; but delegate power, as freely as possible, to those under your care. Show them that you are desirous of reposing trust in them just so far as they show themselves capable of exercising it. Thus interest them in your plans, and make them feel that they participate in the honor or the disgrace of success or failure. I have gone much into detail in this chapter, proposing definite measures by which the principles I have recommended may be carried into effect. I wish, however, that it may be distinctly understood that all I contend for is the _principles_ themselves, no matter what the particular measures are by which they are secured. Every good school must be systematic, but all need not be on precisely the same system. As this work is intended almost exclusively for beginners, much detail has been admitted, and many of the specific measures here proposed may perhaps be safely adopted where no others are established. There may also, perhaps, be cases where teachers, whose schools are already in successful operation, may ingraft upon their own plans some things which are here proposed. If they should attempt it, it must be done cautiously and gradually. There is no other way by which they can be safely introduced, or even introduced at all. This is a point of so much importance, that I must devote a paragraph to it before closing the chapter. Let a teacher propose to his pupils, formally, from his desk, the plan of writing propositions, for example, as explained above, and procure his wrapper, and put it in its place, and what would be the result? Why, not a single paper, probably, could he get, from one end of the week to the other. But let him, on the other hand, when a boy comes to him to ask some question, the answer to which many in the school would equally wish to hear, say to the inquirer, "Will you be so good as to write that question, and put it on my desk, and then, at the regular time, I will answer it to all the school." When he reads it, let him state that it was written at his request, and give the other boys permission to leave their proposals or questions on his desk in the same way. In a few days he will have another, and thus the plan may be gently and gradually introduced. So with officers. They should be appointed among the scholars only _as fast as they are actually needed_, and the plan should thus be cautiously carried only so far as it proves good on trial. Be always cautious about innovations and changes. Make no rash experiments on a large scale, but always test your principle in the small way, and then, if it proves good, gradually extend its operation as circumstances seem to require. By thus cautiously and slowly introducing plans, founded on the systematic principles here brought to view, a very considerable degree of quiet, and order, and regularity may be introduced into the largest and most miscellaneous schools. And this order and quiet are absolutely necessary to enable the teacher to find that interest and enjoyment in his work which were exhibited in the last chapter; the pleasure of _directing and controlling mind_, and doing it, not by useless and anxious complaints, or stern threats and painful punishments, but by regarding the scene of labor in its true light, as a community of intellectual and moral beings, and governing it by moral and intellectual power. It is, in fact, the pleasure of exercising _power_. I do not mean arbitrary, personal authority, but the power to produce, by successful but quiet contrivance, extensive and happy results; the pleasure of calmly considering every difficulty, and, without irritation or anger, devising the proper moral means to remedy the moral evil; and then the interest and pleasure of witnessing its effects. CHAPTER III. INSTRUCTION. [Illustration] We come now to consider the subject of Instruction. There are three kinds of human knowledge which stand strikingly distinct from all the rest. They lie at the foundation. They constitute the roots of the tree. In other words, they are the _means_ by which all other knowledge is attained. I need not say that I mean Reading, Writing, and Calculation. Teachers do not perhaps always consider how entirely and essentially distinct these three branches of learning are from all the rest. They are arts; the acquisition of them is not to be considered as knowledge, so much as the means by which knowledge may be obtained. A child who is studying Geography, or History, or Natural Science, is learning _facts_--gaining information; on the other hand, the one who is learning to write, or to read, or to calculate, may be adding little or nothing to his stock of knowledge. He is acquiring _skill_, which, at some future time, he may make the means of increasing his knowledge to any extent. This distinction ought to be kept constantly in view, and the teacher should feel that these three fundamental branches stand by themselves, and stand first in importance. I do not mean to undervalue the others, but only to insist upon the superior value and importance of these. Teaching a pupil to read before he enters upon the active business of life is like giving a new settler an axe as he goes to seek his new home in the forest. Teaching him a lesson in history is, on the other hand, only cutting down a tree or two for him. A knowledge of natural history is like a few bushels of grain gratuitously placed in his barn; but the art of ready reckoning is the plow which will remain by him for years, and help him to draw out from the soil a new treasure every year of his life. The great object, then, of the common schools in our country is to teach the whole population to read, to write, and to calculate. In fact, so essential is it that the accomplishment of these objects should be secured, that it is even a question whether common schools should not be confined to them. I say it is a _question_, for it is sometimes made so, though public opinion has decided that some portion of attention, at least, should be paid to the acquisition of additional knowledge. But, after all, the amount of _knowledge_ which is actually acquired at schools is very small. It must be very small. The true policy is to aim at making all the pupils good readers, writers, and calculators, and to consider the other studies of the school important chiefly as practice in turning these arts to useful account. In other words, the scholars should be taught these arts thoroughly first of all, and in the other studies the main design should be to show them how to use, and interest them in using, the arts they have thus acquired. A great many teachers feel a much stronger interest in the one or two scholars they may have in Surveying or in Latin than they do in the large classes in the elementary branches which fill the school. But a moment's reflection will show that such a preference is founded on a very mistaken view. Leading forward one or two minds from step to step in an advanced study is certainly far inferior in real dignity and importance to opening all the stores of written knowledge to fifty or a hundred. The man who neglects the interests of his school in these great branches to devote his time to two or three, or half a dozen older scholars, is unjust both to his employers and to himself. It is the duty, therefore, of every teacher who commences a common district school for a single season to make, when he commences, an estimate of the state of his pupils in reference to these three branches. How do they all write? How do they all read? How do they calculate? It would be well if he would make a careful examination of the school in this respect. Let them all write a specimen. Let all read, and let him make a memorandum of the manner, noticing how many read fluently, how many with difficulty, how many know only their letters, and how many are to be taught these. Let him ascertain, also, what progress they have made in arithmetic--how many can readily perform the elementary processes, and what number need instruction in these. After thus surveying the ground, let him form his plan, and lay out his whole strength in carrying forward as rapidly as possible the _whole school_ in these studies. By this means he is acting most directly and powerfully on the intelligence of the whole future community in that place. He is opening to fifty or a hundred minds stores of knowledge which they will go on exploring for years to come. What a descent now from such a work as this to the mere hearing of the recitation of two or three boys in Trigonometry! I repeat it, that a thorough and enlightened survey of the whole school should be taken, and plans formed for elevating the whole mass in those great branches of knowledge which are to be of immediate practical use to them in future life. If the school is one more advanced in respect to the age and studies of the pupils, the teacher should, in the same manner, before he forms his plans, consider well what are the great objects which he has to accomplish. He should ascertain what is the existing state of his school both as to knowledge and character; how long, generally, his pupils are to remain under his care; what are to be their future stations and conditions in life, and what objects he can reasonably hope to effect for them while they remain under his influence. By means of this forethought and consideration he will be enabled to work understandingly. It is desirable, too, that what I have recommended in reference to the whole school should be done in respect to the case of each individual. When a new pupil comes under your charge, ascertain (by other means, however, than formal examination) to what stage his education has advanced, and deliberately consider what objects you can reasonably expect to effect for him while he remains under your care. You can not, indeed, always form your plans to suit so exactly your general views in regard to the school and to individuals as you could wish. But these general views will, in a thousand cases, modify your plans, or affect in a greater or less degree all your arrangements. They will keep you to a steady purpose, and your work will go on far more systematically and regularly than it would do if, as in fact many teachers do, you were to come headlong into your school, take things just as you find them, and carry them forward at random without end or aim. This survey of your field being made, you are prepared to commence definite operations, and the great difficulty in carrying your plans into effect is how to act more efficiently on _the greatest numbers at a time._ The whole business of public instruction, if it goes on at all, must go on by the teacher's skill in multiplying his power, by acting on _numbers at once._ In most books on education we are taught, almost exclusively, how to operate on the _individual_. It is the error into which theoretic writers almost always fall. We meet in every periodical, and in every treatise, and, in fact, in almost every conversation on the subject, with remarks which sound very well by the fireside, but they are totally inefficient and useless in school, from their being apparently based upon the supposition that the teacher has but _one_ pupil to attend to at a time. The great question in the management of schools is not how you can take _one_ scholar, and lead him forward most rapidly in a prescribed course, but how you can classify and arrange _numbers_, comprising every possible variety both as to knowledge and capacity, so as to carry them all forward effectually together. The extent to which a teacher may multiply his power by acting on numbers at a time is very great. In order to estimate it, we must consider carefully what it is when carried to the greatest extent to which it is capable of being carried under the most favorable circumstances. Now it is possible for a teacher to speak so as to be easily heard by three hundred persons, and three hundred pupils can be easily so seated as to see his illustrations or diagrams. Now suppose that three hundred pupils, all ignorant of the method of reducing fractions to a common denominator, and yet all old enough to learn, are collected in one room. Suppose they are all attentive and desirous of learning, it is very plain that the process may be explained to the whole at once, so that half an hour spent in that exercise would enable a very large proportion of them to understand the subject. So, if a teacher is explaining to a class in Grammar the difference between a noun and verb, the explanation would do as well for several hundred as for the dozen who constitute the class, if arrangements could only be made to have the hundreds hear it; but there are, perhaps, only a hundred pupils in the school, and of these a large part understand already the point to be explained, and another large part are too young to attend to it. I wish the object of these remarks not to be misunderstood. I do not recommend the attempt to teach on so extensive a scale; I admit that it is impracticable; I only mean to show in what the impracticability consists, namely, in the difficulty of making such arrangements as to derive the full benefit from the instructions rendered. The instructions of the teacher are, _in the nature of things,_ available to the extent I have represented, but in actual practice the full benefit can not be derived. Now, so far as we thus fall short of this full benefit, so far there is, of course, waste; and it is difficult or impossible to make such arrangements as will avoid the waste, in this manner, of a large portion of every effort which the teacher makes. A very small class instructed by an able teacher is like a factory of a hundred spindles, with a water-wheel of power sufficient for a thousand. In such a case, even if the owner, from want of capital or any other cause, can not add the other nine hundred, he ought to know how much of his power is in fact unemployed, and make arrangements to bring it into useful exercise as soon as he can. The teacher, in the same manner, should understand what is the full beneficial effect which it is possible, _in theory_, to derive from his instructions. He should understand, too, that just so far as he falls short of this full effect there is waste. It may be unavoidable; part of it unquestionably is, like the friction of machinery, unavoidable. Still, it is waste; and it ought to be so understood, that, by the gradual perfection of the machinery, it may be more and more fully prevented. Always bear in mind, then, when you are devoting your time to two or three individuals in a class, that your are losing a large part of your labor. Your instructions are conducive to good effect only to the one tenth or one twentieth of the extent to which, under more favorable circumstances, they might be made available. And though you can not always avoid this loss, you ought to be aware of it, and so to shape your measures as to diminish it as much as possible. We come now to consider the particular measures to be adopted in giving instruction. The objects which are to be secured in the management of the classes are twofold: 1. Recitation. 2. Instruction. These two objects are, it is plain, entirely distinct. Under the latter is included all the explanation, and assistance, and additional information which the teacher may give his pupils, and under the former, such an _examination_ of individuals as is necessary to secure their careful attention to their lessons. It is unsafe to neglect either of these points. If the class meetings are mere _recitations_, they soon become dull and mechanical; the pupils generally take little interest in their studies, and imbibe no literary spirit. Their intellectual progress will, accordingly, suddenly cease the moment they leave school, and so cease to be called upon to recite lessons. On the other hand, if _instruction_ is all that is aimed at, and _recitation_ (by which I mean, as above explained, such an examination of individuals as is necessary to ascertain that they have faithfully performed the tasks assigned) is neglected, the exercise soon becomes not much more than a lecture, to which those, and those only, will attend who please. The business, therefore, of a thorough examination of the class must not be omitted. I do not mean that each individual scholar must every day be examined, but simply that the teacher must, in some way or other, satisfy himself by reasonable evidence that the whole class are really prepared. A great deal of ingenuity may be exercised in contriving means for effecting this object in the shortest possible time. I know of no part of the field of a teacher's labors which may be more facilitated by a little ingenuity than this. One teacher, for instance, has a spelling lesson to hear. He begins at the head of the line, and putting one word to each boy, goes regularly down, each successive pupil calculating the chances whether a word which he can accidentally spell will or will not come to him. If he spells it, the teacher can not tell whether he is prepared or not. That word is only one among fifty constituting the lesson. If he misses it, the teacher can not decide that he was unprepared. It might have been a single accidental error. Another teacher, hearing the same lesson, requests the boys to bring their slates, and, as he dictates the words one after another, requires all to write them. After they are all written, he calls upon the pupils to spell them aloud as they have written them, simultaneously, pausing a moment after each, to give those who are wrong an opportunity to indicate it by some mark opposite the word misspelled. They all count the number of errors and report them. He passes down the class, glancing his eye at the work of each one to see that all is right, noticing particularly those slates which, from the character of the boys, need a more careful inspection. A teacher who had never tried this experiment would be surprised at the rapidity with which such work will be performed by a class after a little practice. Now how different are these two methods in their actual results! In the latter case the whole class are thoroughly examined. In the former not a single member of it is. Let me not be understood to recommend exactly this method of teaching spelling as the best one to be adopted in all cases. I only bring it forward as an illustration of the idea that a little machinery, a little ingenuity in contriving ways of acting on the _whole_ rather than on individuals, will very much promote the teacher's designs. In order to facilitate such plans, it is highly desirable that the classes should be trained to military precision and exactness in these manipulations. What I mean by this may perhaps be best illustrated by describing a case: it will show, in another branch, how much will be gained by acting upon numbers at once instead of upon each individual in succession. Imagine, then, that a teacher requested all the pupils of his school who could write to take out their slates at the hour for a general exercise. As soon as the first bustle of opening and shutting the desks was over, he looked around the room, and saw some ruling lines across their slates, others wiping them all over on both sides with sponges, others scribbling, or writing, or making figures. "All those," says he, speaking, however, with a pleasant tone and with a pleasant look, "who have taken out any thing besides slates, may rise." Several, in various parts of the room, stood up. "All those who have written any thing since they took out their slates may rise too, and those who have wiped their slates." "When all were up, he said to them, though not with a frown or a scowl, as if they had committed a great offense, "Suppose a company of soldiers should be ordered to _form a line_, and instead of simply obeying that order they should all set at work, each in his own way, doing something else. One man at one end of the line begins to load and fire his gun; another takes out his knapsack and begins to eat his luncheon; a third amuses himself by going as fast as possible through the exercise; and another still, begins to march about hither and thither, facing to the right and left, and performing all the evolutions he can think of. What should you say to such a company as that?" The boys laughed. "It is better," said the teacher, "when numbers are acting under the direction of one, that they should all act _exactly together_. In this way we advance much faster than we otherwise should. Be careful, therefore, to do exactly what I command, and nothing more. "_Provide a place on your slates large enough to write a single line_," added the teacher, in a distinct voice. I print his orders in Italics, and his remarks and explanations in Roman letters. "_Prepare to write_. "I mean by this," he continued, "that you place your slates before you with your pencils at the place where you are to begin, so that all may commence precisely at the same instant." The teacher who tries such an experiment as this will find at such a juncture an expression of fixed and pleasant attention upon every countenance in school. All will be intent, all will be interested. Boys love order, and system, and acting in concert, and they will obey with great alacrity such commands as these if they are good-humoredly, though decidedly expressed. The teacher observed in one part of the room a hand raised, indicating that the boy wished to speak to him. He gave him liberty by pronouncing his name. "I have no pencil," said the boy. A dozen hands all around him were immediately seen fumbling in pockets and desks, and in a few minutes several pencils were reached out for his acceptance. The boy looked at the pencils and then at the teacher; he did not exactly know whether he was to take one or not. "All those boys," said the teacher, pleasantly, "who have taken out pencils, may rise. "Have these boys done right or wrong?" "Right;" "Wrong;" "Right," answered their companions, variously. "Their motive was to help their class-mate out of his difficulties; that is a good feeling, certainly." "Yes, sir, right;" "Right." "But I thought you promised me a moment ago," replied the teacher, "not to do any thing unless I commanded it. Did I ask for pencils?" A pause. "I do not blame these boys at all in this case; still, it is better to adhere rigidly to the principle of _exact obedience _ when numbers are acting together. I thank them, therefore, for being so ready to assist a companion, but they must put their pencils away, as they were taken out without orders." Now such a dialogue as this, if the teacher speaks in a good-humored, though decided manner, would be universally well received in any school. Whenever strictness of discipline is unpopular, it is rendered so simply by the ill-humored and ill-judged means by which it is attempted to be introduced. But all children will love strict discipline if it is pleasantly, though firmly maintained. It is a great, though very prevalent mistake, to imagine that boys and girls like a lax and inefficient government, and dislike the pressure of steady control. What they dislike is sour looks and irritating language, and they therefore very naturally dislike every thing introduced or sustained by means of them. If, however, exactness and precision in all the operations of a class and of the school are introduced and enforced in the proper manner, that is, by a firm, but mild and good-humored authority, scholars will universally be pleased with them. They like to see the uniform appearance, the straight line, the simultaneous movement. They like to feel the operation of system, and to realize, while they are at the school-room, that they form a community, governed by fixed and steady laws, firmly but kindly administered. On the other hand, laxity of discipline, and the disorder which will result from it, will only lead the pupils to contemn their teacher and to hate their school. By introducing and maintaining such a discipline as I have described, great facilities will be secured for examining the classes. For example, to take a case different from the one before described, let us suppose that a class have been performing a number of examples in Addition. They come together to the recitation, and, under one mode of managing classes, the teacher is immediately beset by a number of the pupils with excuses. One had no slate; another was absent when the lesson was assigned; a third performed the work, but it got rubbed out, and a fourth did not know what was to be done. The teacher stops to hear all these, and to talk about them, fretting himself, and fretting the delinquents by his impatient remarks. The rest of the class are waiting, and, having nothing good to do, the temptation is almost irresistible to do something bad. One boy is drawing pictures on his slate to make his neighbors laugh, another is whispering, and two more are at play. The disorder continues while the teacher goes round examining slate after slate, his whole attention being engrossed by each individual, as the pupils come to him successively, while the rest are left to themselves, interrupted only by an occasional harsh, or even angry, but utterly useless rebuke from him. But, under another mode of managing classes and schools, a very different result would be produced. A boy approaches the teacher to render an excuse; the teacher replies, addressing himself, however, to the whole class, "I shall give all an opportunity to offer their excuses presently. No one must come till he is called." The class then regularly take their places in the recitation seats, the prepared and unprepared together. The following commands are given and obeyed promptly. They are spoken pleasantly, but still in the tone of command. "The class may rise. "All those that are not fully prepared with this lesson may sit." A number sit; and others, doubtful whether they are prepared or not, or thinking that there is something peculiar in their cases, which they wish to state, raise their hands, or make any other signal which is customary to indicate a wish to speak. Such a signal ought always to be agreed upon, and understood in school. The teacher shakes his head, saying, "I will hear you presently. If there is, on any account whatever, any doubt whether you are prepared, you must sit. "Those that are standing may read their answers to No. 1. Unit figure?" _Boys._ "Five." _Teacher._ "Tens?" _B._ "Six." _T._ "Hundreds?" _B._ "Seven." While these numbers are thus reading, the teacher looks at the boys, and can easily see whether any are not reading their own answers, but only following the rest. If they have been trained to speak exactly together, his ear will also at once detect any erroneous answer which any one may give. He takes down the figures given by the majority on his own slate, and reads them aloud. "This is the answer obtained by the majority; it is undoubtedly right. Those who have different answers may sit." These directions, if understood and obeyed, would divide the class evidently into two portions. Those standing have their work done, and done correctly, and those sitting have some excuse or error to be examined. A new lesson may now be assigned, and the first portion may be dismissed, which in a well-regulated school will be two thirds of the class. Their slates may be slightly examined as they pass by the teacher on their way to their seats to see that all is fair; but it will be safe to take it for granted that a result in which a majority agree will be right. Truth is consistent with itself, but error, in such a case, never is. This the teacher can at any time show by comparing the answers that are wrong; they will always be found, not only to differ from the correct result, but to contradict each other. The teacher may now, if he pleases, after the majority of the class have gone, hear the reasons of those who were unprepared, and look for the errors of those whose work was incorrect; but it is better to spend as little time as possible in such a way. If a scholar is not prepared, it is not of much consequence whether it is because he forgot his book or mistook the lesson; or if it is ascertained that his answer is incorrect, it is ordinarily a mere waste of time to search for the particular error. "I have looked over my work, sir," says the boy, perhaps, "and I can not find where it is wrong." He means by it that he does not believe that it is wrong. "It is no matter if you can not," would be the proper reply, "since it certainly is wrong; you have made a mistake in adding somewhere, but it is not worth while for me to spend two or three minutes apiece with all of you to ascertain where. Try to be careful next time." Indeed the teacher should understand and remember what many teachers are very prone to forget, namely, that the mere fact of finding an arithmetical error in a pupil's work on the slate, and pointing it out to him, has very little effect in correcting the false habit in his mind from which it arose. The cases of those who are unprepared at a recitation ought by no means to be passed by unnoticed, although it would be unwise to spend much time in examining each in detail. "It is not of much consequence," the teacher might say, "whether you have good excuses or bad, so long as you are not prepared. In future life you will certainly be unsuccessful if you fail, no matter for what reason, to discharge the duties which devolve upon you. A carpenter, for instance, would certainly lose his custom if he should not perform his work faithfully and in season. Excuses, no matter how reasonable, will do him little good. It is just so in respect to punctuality in time as well as in respect to performance of duty. What we want is that every boy should be in his place at the proper moment; not that he should be late, and have good excuses for it. When you come to be men, tardiness will always be punished. Excuses will not help the matter at all. Suppose, hereafter, when you are about to take a journey, you reach the pier five minutes after the steamer has gone, what good will excuses do you? There you are, left hopelessly behind, no matter if your excuses are the best in the world. So in this school. I want good punctuality and good recitations, not good excuses. I hope every one will be prepared to-morrow." [Illustration] It is not probable, however, that every one would be prepared the next day in such a case, but by acting steadily on these principles the number of delinquencies would be so much diminished that the very few which should be left could easily be examined in detail, and the remedies applied. Simultaneous recitation, by which I mean the practice of addressing a question to all the class to be answered by all together, is a practice which has been for some years rapidly extending in our schools, and, if adopted with proper limits and restrictions, is attended with great advantage. The teacher must guard against some dangers, however, which will be likely to attend it. 1. Some will answer very eagerly, instantly after the question is completed. They wish to show their superior readiness. Let the teacher mention this, expose kindly the motive which leads to it, and tell them it is as irregular to answer before the rest as after them. 2. Some will defer their answers until they can catch those of their comrades for a guide. Let the teacher mention this fault, expose the motive which leads to it, and tell them that if they do not answer independently and at once, they had better not answer at all. 3. Some will not answer at all. The teacher can see by looking around the room who do not, for they can not counterfeit the proper motion of the lips with promptness and decision unless they know what the answer is to be. He ought occasionally to say to such a one, "I perceive you do not answer," and ask him questions individually. 4. In some cases there is danger of confusion in the answers, from the fact that the question may be of such a nature that the answer is long, and may by different individuals be differently expressed. This evil must be guarded against by so shaping the question as to admit of a reply in a single word. In reading large numbers, for example, each figure may be called for by itself, or they may be given one after another, the pupils keeping exact time. When it is desirable to ask a question to which the answer is necessarily long it may be addressed to an individual, or the whole class may write their replies, which may then be read in succession. In a great many cases where simultaneous answering is practiced, after a short time the evils above specified are allowed to grow, until at last some half a dozen bright members of a class answer for all, the rest dragging after them, echoing their replies, or ceasing to take any interest in an exercise which brings no personal and individual responsibility upon them. To prevent this, the teacher should exercise double vigilance at such a time. He should often address questions to individuals alone, especially to those most likely to be inattentive and careless, and guard against the ingress of every abuse which might, without close vigilance, appear. With these cautions, the method here alluded to will be found to be of very great advantage in many studies; for example, all the arithmetical tables may be recited in this way; words may be spelled, answers to sums given, columns of figures added, or numbers multiplied, and many questions in history, geography, and other miscellaneous studies answered, especially the general questions asked for the purpose of a review. But, besides being useful as a mode of examination, this plan of answering questions simultaneously is a very important means of fixing in the mind any facts which the teacher may communicate to his pupils. If, for instance, he says some day to a class that Vasco de Gama was the discoverer of the passage round the Cape of Good Hope, and leaves it here, in a few days not one in twenty will recollect the name. But let him call upon them all to spell it simultaneously, and then to pronounce it distinctly three or four times in concert, and the word will be very strongly impressed upon their minds. The reflecting teacher will find a thousand cases in the instruction of his classes, and in his general exercises in the school, in which this principle will be of great utility. It is universal in its application. What we _say_ we fix, by the very act of saying it, in the mind. Hence, reading aloud, though a slower, is a far more thorough method of acquiring knowledge than reading silently, and it is better, in almost all cases, whether in the family, or in Sabbath or common schools, when general instructions are given, to have the leading points fixed in the mind by questions answered simultaneously. But we are wandering a little from our subject, which is, in this part of our chapter, the methods of _examining_ a class, not of giving or fixing instructions. Another mode of examining classes, which it is important to describe, consists in requiring _written answers_ to the questions asked. The form and manner in which this plan may be adopted is various. The class may bring their slates to the recitation, and the teacher may propose questions successively, the answers to which all the class may write, numbering them carefully. After a dozen answers are written, the teacher may call at random for them, or he may repeat a question, and ask each pupil to read the answer he had written, or he may examine the slates. Perhaps this method may be very successfully employed in reviews by dictating to the class a list of questions relating to the ground they have gone over for a week, and then instructing them to prepare answers written out at length, and to bring them in at the next exercise. This method may be made more formal still by requiring a class to write a full and regular abstract of all they have learned during a specified time. The practice of thus reducing to writing what has been learned will be attended with many advantages so obvious that they need not be described. It will be perceived that three methods of examining classes have now been named, and these will afford the teacher the means of introducing a very great variety in his mode of conducting his recitations, while he still carries his class forward steadily in their prescribed course. Each is attended with its peculiar advantages. The _single replies,_ coming from individuals specially addressed, are more rigid, and more to be relied upon, but they consume a great deal of time, and, while one is questioned, it requires much skill to keep up interest in the rest. The _simultaneous answers_ of a class awaken more general interest, but it is difficult, without special care, to secure by this means a special examination of all. The _written replies_ are more thorough, but they require more time and attention, and while they habituate the pupil to express himself in writing, they would, if exclusively adopted, fail to accustom him to an equally important practice, that of the oral communication of his thoughts. A constant variety, of which these three methods should be the elements, is unquestionably the best mode. We not only, by this means, secure in a great degree the advantages which each is fitted to produce, but we gain also the additional advantage and interest of variety. By these, and perhaps by other means, it is the duty of the teacher to satisfy himself that his pupils are really attentive to their duties. It is not perhaps necessary that every individual should be every day minutely examined; this is, in many cases, impossible; but the system of examination should be so framed and so administered as to be daily felt by all, and to bring upon every one a daily responsibility. * * * * * We come now to consider the second general head which was to be discussed in this chapter. The study of books alone is insufficient to give knowledge to the young. In the first stage, learning to read a book is of no use whatever without the voice of the living teacher. The child can not take a step alone. As the pupil, however, advances in his course, his dependence upon his teacher for guidance and help continually diminishes, until at last the scholar sits in his solitary study, with no companion but his books, and desiring, for a solution of every difficulty, nothing but a larger library. In schools, however, the pupils have made so little progress in this course, that they all need more or less of the oral assistance of a teacher. Difficulties must be explained; questions must be answered; the path must be smoothed, and the way pointed out by a guide who has traveled it before, or it will be impossible for the pupil to go on. This is the part of our subject which we now approach. The great principle which is to guide the teacher in this part of his duty is this: _Assist your pupils in such a way as to lead them, as soon as possible, to do without assistance._ This is fundamental. In a short time they will be away from your reach; they will have no teacher to consult; and unless you teach them how to understand books themselves, they must necessarily stop suddenly in their course the moment you cease to help them forward. I shall proceed, therefore, to consider the subject in the following plan: 1. Means of exciting interest in study. 2. The kind and decree of assistance to be rendered. 3. Miscellaneous suggestions. 1. Interesting the pupils in their studies. There are various principles of human nature which may be of great avail in accomplishing this object. Making intellectual effort and acquiring knowledge are always pleasant to the human mind, unless some peculiar circumstances render them otherwise. The teacher has, therefore, only to remove obstructions and sources of pain, and the employment of his pupils will be of itself a pleasure. "I am going to give you a new exercise to-day," said a teacher to a class of boys in Latin. "I am going to have you parse your whole lesson in writing. It will be difficult, but I think you may be able to accomplish it." The class looked surprised. They did not know _what parsing in writing_ could be. "You may first, when you take your seats, and are ready to prepare the lesson, write upon your slates a list of the ten first nouns that you find in the lesson, arranging them in a column. Do you understand so far?" "Yes, sir." "Then rule lines for another column, just beyond this. In parsing nouns, what is the first particular to be named?" "What the noun is from." "Yes; that is, its nominative. Now you may write, at the head of the first column, the word _Nouns_, and at the head of the second, _Nom._, for nominative. Then rule a line for the third column. What shall this contain!" "The declension." "Yes; and the fourth?" "Gender." "The fifth?" "Number." In the same manner the other columns were designated. The sixth was to contain case; the seventh, the word with which the noun was connected in construction; and the eighth, a reference to the rule. "Now I wish you," continued the teacher, "to fill up such a table as this with _ten_ nouns. Do you understand how I mean?" "Yes, sir;" "No, sir," they answered, variously. "All who do understand may take their seats, as I wish to give as little explanation as possible. The more you can depend upon yourselves, the better." Those who saw clearly what was to be done left the class, and the teacher continued his explanation to those who were left behind. He made the plan perfectly clear to them by taking a particular noun and running it through the table, showing what should be written opposite to the word in all the columns, and then dismissed them. The class separated, as every class would, in such a case, with a strong feeling of interest in the work before them. It was not so difficult as to perplex them, and yet it required attention and care. They were interested and pleased--pleased with the effort which it required them to make, and they anticipated, with interest and pleasure, the time of coming again to the class to report and compare their work. When the time for the class came, the teacher addressed them somewhat as follows: "Before looking at your slates, I am going to predict what the faults are. I have not seen any of your work, but shall judge altogether from my general knowledge of school-boys, and the difficulties I know they meet with. Do you think I shall succeed?" The scholars made no reply, and an unskillful teacher would imagine that time spent in such remarks would be wholly wasted. By no means. The influence of them was to awaken universal interest in the approaching examination of the slates. Every scholar would be intent, watching, with eager interest, to see whether the imagined faults would be found upon his work. The class was, by that single pleasant remark, put into the best possible state for receiving the criticisms of the teacher. "The first fault which I suppose will be found is that some are unfinished." The scholars looked surprised. They did not expect to have that called a fault. "How many plead guilty to it?" A few raised their hands, and the teacher continued: "I suppose that some will be found partly effaced. The slates were not laid away carefully, or they were not clean, so that the writing is not distinct. How many find this the case with their work?" "I suppose that, in some cases, the lines will not be perpendicular, but will slant, probably toward the left, like writing. "I suppose, also, that, in some cases, the writing will be careless, so that I can not easily read it. How many plead guilty to this?" After mentioning such other faults as occurred to him, relating chiefly to the form of the table, and the mere mechanical execution of the work, he said, "I think I shall not look at your slates to-day. You can all see, I have no doubt, how you can considerably improve them in mechanical execution in your next lesson; and I suppose you would a little prefer that I should not see your first imperfect efforts. In fact, I should rather not see them. At the next recitation they probably will be much better." One important means by which the teacher may make his scholars careful of their reputation is to show them, thus, that he is careful of it himself. Now in such a case as this, for it is, except in the principles which it is intended to illustrate, imaginary, a very strong interest would be awakened in the class in the work assigned them. Intellectual effort in new and constantly varied modes is in itself a pleasure, and this pleasure the teacher may deepen and increase very easily by a little dexterous management, designed to awaken curiosity and concentrate attention. It ought, however, to be constantly borne in mind that this variety should be confined to the modes of pursuing an object--the object itself being permanent, and constant, and steadily pursued. For instance, if a little class are to be taught simple addition, after the process is once explained, which may be done, perhaps, in two or three lessons, they will need many days of patient practice to render it familiar, to impress it firmly in their recollection, and to enable them to work with rapidity. Now this object must be steadily pursued. It would be very unwise for the teacher to say to himself, My class are tired of addition; I must carry them on to subtraction, or give them some other study. It would be equally unwise to keep them many days performing example after example in monotonous succession, each lesson a mere repetition of the last. He must steadily pursue his object of familiarizing them fully with this elementary process, but he may give variety and spirit to the work by changing occasionally the modes. One week He may dictate examples to them, and let them come together to compare their results, one of the class being appointed to keep a list of all who are correct each day. At another time each one may write an example, which he may read aloud to all the others, to be performed and brought in at the next time. Again, he may let them work on paper with pen and ink, that he may see how few mistakes they make, as mistakes in ink can not be easily removed. He may excite interest by devising ingenious examples, such as finding out how much all the numbers from one to fifty will make when added together, or the amount of the ages of the whole class, or any such investigation, the result of which they might feel an interest in learning. Thus the object is steadily pursued, though the means of pursuing it are constantly changing. We have the advantage of regular progress in the acquisition of knowledge truly valuable, while this progress is made with all the spirit and interest which variety can give. The necessity of making such efforts as this, however, to keep up the interest of the class in their work, and to make it pleasant to them, will depend altogether upon circumstances; or, rather, it will vary much with circumstances. A class of pupils somewhat advanced in their studies, and understanding and feeling the value of knowledge, will need very little of such effort as this; while young and giddy children, who have been accustomed to dislike books and school, and every thing connected with them, will need more. It ought, however, in all cases, to be made a means, not an end--the means to lead on a pupil to an _interest in progress in knowledge itself,_ which is, after all, the great motive which ought to be brought as soon and as extensively as possible to operate in the school-room. Another way to awaken interest in the studies of the school is to bring out, as frequently and as distinctly as possible, the connection between these studies and the practical business of life. The events which are occurring around you, and which interest the community in which you are placed, may, by a little ingenuity, be connected in a thousand ways with the studies of the school. If the practice, which has been already repeatedly recommended, of appropriating a quarter of an hour each day to a general exercise, should be adopted, it will afford great facilities for doing this. There is no branch of study attended to in school which may, by judicious efforts, be made more effectual in accomplishing this object, leading the pupils to see the practical utility and the value of knowledge, than composition. If such subjects as are suitable themes for _moral essays_ are assigned, the scholars will indeed dislike the work of writing, and derive little benefit from it. The mass of pupils in our schools are not to be writers of moral essays or orations, and they do not need to form that style of empty, florid, verbose declamation which the practice of writing composition in our schools, as it is too frequently managed, tends to form. Assign practical subjects--subjects relating to the business of the school, or the events taking place around you. Is there a question before the community on the subject of the location of a new school-house? Assign it to your pupils as a question for discussion, and direct them not to write empty declamation, but to obtain from their parents the real arguments in the case, and to present them distinctly and clearly, and in simple language, to their companions. Was a building burned by lightning in the neighborhood? Let those who saw the scene describe it, their productions to be read by the teacher aloud, and let them see that clear descriptions please, and that good legible writing can be read fluently, and that correct spelling, and punctuation, and grammar make the article go smoothly and pleasantly, and enable it to produce its full effect. Is the erection of a public building going forward in the neighborhood of your school? You can make it a very fruitful source of subjects and questions to give interest and impulse to the studies of the school-room. Your classes in geometry may measure, your arithmeticians may calculate and make estimates, your writers may describe its progress from week to week, and anticipate the scenes which it will in future years exhibit. By such means the practical bearings and relations of the studies of the school-room may be constantly kept in view; but I ought to guard the teacher, while on this subject, most distinctly against the danger of making the school-room a scene of literary amusement instead of study. These means of awakening interest and relieving the tedium of the uninterrupted and monotonous study of text-books must not encroach on the regular duties of the school. They must be brought forward with judgment and moderation, and made subordinate and subservient to these regular duties. Their design is to give spirit and interest, and a feeling of practical utility to what the pupils are doing; and if resorted to with these restrictions and within these limits, they will produce powerful, but safe results. Another way to excite interest, and that of the right kind, in school, is not to _remove_ difficulties, but to teach the pupils how to _surmount_ them. A text-book so contrived as to make study mere play, and to dispense with thought and effort, is the worst text-book that can be made, and the surest to be, in the end, a dull one. The great source of literary enjoyment, which is the successful exercise of intellectual power, is, by such a mode of presenting a subject, cut off. Secure, therefore, severe study. Let the pupil see that you are aiming to secure it, and that the pleasure which you expect that they will receive is that of firmly and patiently encountering and overcoming difficulty; of penetrating, by steady and persevering effort, into regions from which the idle and the inefficient are debarred, and that it is your province to lead them forward, not to carry them. They will soon understand this, and like it. Never underrate the difficulties which your pupils will have to encounter, or try to persuade them that what you assign is _easy_. Doing easy things is generally dull work, and it is especially discouraging and disheartening for a pupil to spend his strength in doing what is really difficult for him when his instructor, by calling his work easy, gives him no credit for what may have been severe and protracted labor. If a thing is really hard for the pupil, his teacher ought to know it and admit it. The child then feels that he has some sympathy. It is astonishing how great an influence may be exerted over a child by his simply knowing that his efforts are observed and appreciated. You pass a boy in the street wheeling a heavy load in a barrow; now simply stop to look at him, with a countenance which says, "That is a heavy load; I should not think that boy could wheel it;" and how quick will your look give fresh strength and vigor to his efforts. On the other hand, when, in such a case, the boy is faltering under his load, try the effect of telling him, "Why, that is not heavy; you can wheel it easily enough; trundle it along." The poor boy will drop his load, disheartened and discouraged, and sit down upon it in despair. It is so in respect to the action of the young in all cases. They are animated and incited by being told _in the right way_ that they have something difficult to do. A boy is performing some service for you. He is watering your horse, perhaps, at a well by the road-side as you are traveling. Say to him, "Hold up the pail high, so that the horse can drink; it is not heavy." [Illustration] He will be discouraged, and will be ready to set the pail down. Say to him, on the other hand, "I had better dismount myself. I don't think you can hold the pail up. It is very heavy;" and his eye will brighten up at once. "Oh no, sir," he will reply, "I can hold it very easily." Hence, even if the work you are assigning to a class _is_ easy, do not tell them so unless you wish to destroy all their spirit and interest in doing it; and if you wish to excite their spirit and interest, make your work difficult, and let them see that you know it is so; not so difficult as to tax their powers too heavily, but enough so to require a vigorous and persevering effort. Let them distinctly understand, too, that you know it is difficult, that you mean to make it so, but that they have your sympathy and encouragement in the efforts which it calls them to make. You may satisfy yourself that human nature is, in this respect, what I have described by some such experiment as the following. Select two classes not very familiar with elementary arithmetic, and offer to each of them the following example in addition: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1 2 etc., etc. The numbers may be continued, according to the obvious law regulating the above, until each one of the nine digits has commenced the line. Or, if you choose Multiplication, let the example be this: Multiply 123456789 by 123456789 --------- Now, when you bring the example to one of the classes, address the pupils as follows: "I have contrived for you a very difficult sum. It is the most difficult one that can be made with the number of figures contained in it, and I do not think that any of you can do it, but you may try. I shall not be surprised if every answer should contain mistakes." To the other class say as follows: "I have prepared an example for you, which I wish you to be very careful to perform correctly. It is a little longer than those you have had heretofore, but it is to be performed upon the same principles, and you can all do it correctly, if you really try." Now under such circumstances the first class will go to their seats with ardor and alacrity, determined to show you that they can do work, even if it is difficult; and if they succeed, they come to the class the next day with pride and pleasure. They have accomplished something which you admit it was not easy to accomplish. On the other hand, the second class will go to their seats with murmuring looks and words, and with a hearty dislike of the task you have assigned them. They know that they have something to do, which, however easy it may be to the teacher, is really difficult for them; and they have to be perplexed and wearied with the work, without having, at last, even the little satisfaction of knowing that the teacher appreciates the difficulties with which they had to contend. 2. We now come to consider the subject of rendering assistance to the pupil, which is one of the most important and delicate parts of a teacher's work. The great difference which exists among teachers in regard to the skill they possess in this part of their duty, is so striking that it is very often noticed by others; and perhaps skill here is of more avail in deciding the question of success or failure than any thing besides. The first great principle is, however, simple and effectual. _(1.) Divide and subdivide a difficult process, until your steps are so short that the pupil can easily take them._ Most teachers forget the difference between the pupil's capacity and their own, and they pass rapidly forward, through a difficult train of thought, in their own ordinary gait, their unfortunate followers vainly trying to keep up with them. The case is precisely analogous to that of the father, who walks with the step of a man, while his little son is by his side, wearying and exhausting himself with fruitless efforts to reach his feet as far, and to move them as rapidly as a full-grown man. But to show what I mean by subdividing a difficult process so as to make each step simple, I will take a case which may serve as an example. I will suppose that the teacher of a common school undertakes to show his boys, who, we will suppose, are acquainted with nothing but elementary arithmetic, how longitude is determined by means of the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites; not a very simple question, but still one which, like all others, may be, merely by the power of the subdivision alluded to, easily explained. I will suppose that the subject has come up at a general exercise; perhaps the question was asked in writing by one of the older boys. I will present the explanation chiefly in the form of question and answer, that it may be seen that the steps are so short that the boys may take them themselves. "Which way," asks the teacher, "are the Rocky Mountains from us?" "West," answer two or three of the boys. In such cases as this, it is very desirable that the answers should be general, so that throughout the school there should be a spirited interest in the questions and replies. This will never be the case if a small number of the boys only take part in the answers, and many teachers complain that when they try this experiment they can seldom induce many of the pupils to take a part. The reason ordinarily is that they say that _any_ of the boys may answer instead of that _all_ of them may. The boys do not get the idea that it is wished that a universal reply should come from all parts of the room, in which every one's voice should be heard. If the answers were feeble in the instance we are supposing, the teacher would perhaps say, "I only heard one or two answers; do not more of you know where the Rocky Mountains are? Will you all think and answer together? Which way are they from us?" "West," answer a large number of boys. "You do not answer fully enough yet; I do not think more than forty answered, and there are about sixty here. I should like to have _every one in the room_ answer, and all precisely together." He then repeats the question, and obtains a full response. A similar effort will always succeed. "Now does the sun, in going round the earth, pass over the Rocky Mountains, or over us, first?" To this question the teacher hears a confused answer. Some do not reply; some say, "Over the Rocky Mountains;" others, "Over us;" and others still, "The sun does not move at all." "It is true that the sun, strictly speaking, does not move; the earth turns round, presenting the various countries in succession to the sun, but the effect is precisely the same as it would be if the sun moved, and, accordingly, I use that language. Now how long does it take the sun to pass round the earth?" "Twenty-four hours." "Does he go toward the west or toward the east from us?" "Toward the west." But it is not necessary to give the replies; the questions alone will be sufficient. The reader will observe that they inevitably lead the pupil, by short and simple steps, to a clear understanding of the point to be explained. "Will the sun go toward or from the Rocky Mountains after leaving us?" "How long did you say it takes the sun to go round the globe and come to us again?" "How long to go half round?" "Quarter round?" "How long will it take him to go to the Rocky Mountains?" No answer. "You can not tell. It would depend upon the distance. Suppose, then, the Rocky Mountains were half round the globe, how long would it take the sun to go to them?" "Suppose they were quarter round?" "The whole distance is divided into portions called degrees--360 in all. How many will the sun pass in going half round?" "In going quarter round?" "Ninety degrees, then, make one quarter of the circumference of the globe. This, you have already said, will take six hours. In one hour, then, how many degrees will the sun pass over?" Perhaps no answer. If so, the teacher will subdivide the question on the principle we are explaining, so as to make the steps such that the pupils _can_ take them. "How many degrees will the sun pass over in three hours?" "Forty-five." "How large a part of that, then, will he pass in one hour?" "One third of it." "And what is one third of forty-five?" The boys would readily answer fifteen, and the teacher would then dwell for a moment on the general truth thus deduced, that the sun, in passing round the earth, passes over fifteen degrees every hour. "Suppose, then, it takes the sun one hour to go from us to the River Mississippi, how many degrees west of us would the river be?" Having thus familiarized the pupils to the fact that the motion of the sun is a proper measure of the difference of longitude between two places, the teacher must dismiss the subject for a day, and when the next opportunity of bringing it forward occurs, he would, perhaps, take up the subject of the sun's motion as a measure _of time._ "Is the sun ever exactly over our heads?" "Is he ever exactly south of us?" "When he is exactly south of us, or, in other words, exactly opposite to us in his course round the earth, he is said to be in our meridian; for the word meridian means a line drawn exactly north or south from any place." There is no limit to the simplicity which may be imparted, even to the most difficult subjects, by subdividing the steps. This point, for instance, the meaning of meridian, may be the subject, if it were necessary, of many questions, which would render it simple to the youngest child. The teacher may point to the various articles in the room, or buildings, or other objects without, and ask if they are or are not in his meridian. But to proceed: "When the sun is exactly opposite to us, in the south, at the highest point to which he rises, what o'clock is it?" "When the sun is exactly opposite to us, can he be opposite to the Rocky Mountains?" "Does he get opposite to the Rocky Mountains before or after he is opposite to us?" "When he is opposite to the Rocky Mountains, what o'clock is it there?" "Is it twelve o'clock here, then, before or after it is twelve o'clock there?" "Suppose the River Mississippi is fifteen degrees from us, how long is it twelve o'clock here before it is twelve o'clock there?" "When it is twelve o'clock here, then, what time will it be there?" Some will probably answer "one," and some "eleven." If so, the step is too long, and may be subdivided thus: "When it is noon here, is the sun going toward the Mississippi, or has he passed it?" "Then has noon gone by at that river, or has it not yet come?" "Then will it be one hour before or one hour after noon?" "Then will it be eleven or one?" Such minuteness and simplicity would, in ordinary cases, not be necessary. I go into it here merely to show how, by simply subdividing the steps, a subject ordinarily perplexing may be made plain. The reader will observe that in the above there are no explanations by the teacher--there are not even leading questions; that is, there are no questions the form of which suggests the answers desired. The pupil goes on from step to step simply because he has but one short step to take at a time. "Can it be noon, then," continues the teacher, "here and at a place fifteen degrees west of us at the same time?" "Can it be noon here and at a place ten miles west of us at the same time?" It is unnecessary to continue the illustration, for it will be very evident to every reader that, by going forward in this way, the whole subject may be laid out before the pupils so that they shall perfectly understand it. They can, by a series of questions like the above, be led to see, by their own reasoning, that time, as denoted by the clock, must differ in every two places not upon the same meridian, and that the difference must be exactly proportional to the difference of longitude. So that a watch which is right in one place can not, strictly speaking, be right in any other place east or west of the first; and that, if the time of day at two places can be compared, either by taking a chronometer from one to another, or by observing some celestial phenomenon, like the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites, and ascertaining precisely the time of their occurrence, according to the reckoning at both, the distance east or west by degrees may be determined. The reader will observe, too, that the method by which this explanation is made is strictly in accordance with the principle I am illustrating, which is by simply _dividing the process into short steps._ There is no ingenious reasoning on the part of the teacher, no happy illustrations, no apparatus, no diagrams. It is a pure process of mathematical reasoning, made clear and easy by _simple analysis._ In applying this method, however, the teacher should be very careful not to subdivide too much. It is best that the pupils should walk as fast as they can. The object of the teacher should be to smooth the path not much more than barely enough to enable the pupil to go on. He should not endeavor to make it very easy. (2.) Truths must not only be taught to the pupils, but they must _fixed_, and _made familiar._ This is a point which seems to be very generally overlooked. "Can you say the Multiplication Table?" said a teacher to a boy who was standing before him in his class. "Yes, sir." "Well, I should like to have you say the line beginning nine times one." The boy repeated it slowly, but correctly. "Now I should like to have you try again, and I will, at the same time, say another line, to see if I can put you out." The boy looked surprised. The idea of his teacher's trying to perplex and embarrass him was entirely new. "You must not be afraid," said the teacher. "You will undoubtedly not succeed in getting through, but you will not be to blame for the failure. I only try it as a sort of intellectual experiment." The boy accordingly began again, but was soon completely confused by the teacher's accompaniment. He stopped in the middle of his line, saying, "I could say it, only you put me out." "Well, now try to say the Alphabet, and let me see if I can put you out there." As might have been expected, the teacher failed. The boy went regularly onward to the end. "You see, now," said the teacher to the class who had witnessed the experiment, "that this boy knows his Alphabet in a different sense from that in which he knows his Multiplication Table. In the latter, his knowledge is only imperfectly his own; he can make use of it only under favorable circumstances. In the former it is entirely his own; circumstances have no control over him." A child has a lesson in Latin Grammar to recite. She hesitates and stammers, miscalls the cases, and then corrects herself, and, if she gets through at last, she considers herself as having recited well, and very many teachers would consider it well too. If she hesitates a little longer than usual in trying to summon to her recollection a particular word, she says, perhaps, "Don't tell me," and if she happens at last to guess right, she takes her book with a countenance beaming with satisfaction. "Suppose you had the care of an infant school," might the instructor say to such a scholar, "and were endeavoring to teach a little child to count, and she should recite her lesson to you in this way, 'One, two, four--no, three--one, two, three----stop, don't tell me--five--no, four--four--five--------I shall think in a minute--six--is that right? five, six,' &c. Should you call that reciting well?" Nothing is more common than for pupils to say, when they fail of reciting their lesson, that they could say it at their seats, but that they can not now say it before the class. When such a thing is said for the first time it should not be severely reproved, because nine children in ten honestly think that if the lesson were learned so that it could be recited any where, their duty is discharged. But it should be kindly, though distinctly explained to them, that in the business of life they must have their knowledge so much at command that they can use it at all times and in all circumstances, or it will do them little good. One of the most common cases of difficulty in pursuing mathematical studies, or studies of any kind where the succeeding lessons depend upon those which precede, is the fact that the pupil, though he may understand what precedes, is not _familiar_ with it. This is very strikingly the case with Geometry. The class study the definitions, and the teacher supposes they fully understand them; in fact, they do _understand_ them, but the name and the thing are so feebly connected in their minds that a direct effort and a short pause are necessary to recall the idea when they hear or see the word. When they come on, therefore, to the demonstrations, which in themselves would be difficult enough, they have double duty to perform. The words used do not readily suggest the idea, and the connection of the ideas requires careful study. Under this double burden many a young geometrician sinks discouraged. A class should go on slowly, and dwell on details so long as to fix firmly and make perfectly familiar whatever they undertake to learn. In this manner the knowledge they acquire will become their own. It will be incorporated, as it were, into their very minds, and they can not afterward be deprived of it. The exercises which have for their object this rendering familiar what has been learned may be so varied as to interest the pupil very much, instead of being tiresome, as it might at first be supposed. Suppose, for instance, a teacher has explained to a large class in grammar the difference between an adjective and an adverb; if he leave it here, in a fortnight one half of the pupils would have forgotten the distinction, but by dwelling upon it a few lessons he may fix it forever. The first lesson might be to require the pupils to write twenty short sentences containing only adjectives. The second to write twenty containing only adverbs. The third to write sentences in two forms, one containing the adjective, and the other expressing the same idea by means of the adverb, arranging them in two columns, thus: He writes well. | His writing is good. Again, they may make out a list of adjectives, with the adverbs derived from each in another column. Then they may classify adverbs on the principle of their meaning, or according to their termination. The exercise may be infinitely varied, and yet the object of the whole may be to make _perfectly familiar_, and to fix forever in the mind the distinction explained. These two points seem to me to be fundamental, so far as assisting pupils through the difficulties which lie in their way is concerned. Diminish the difficulties as far as is necessary by shortening and simplifying the steps, and make thorough work as you go on. These principles, carried steadily into practice, will be effectual in leading any mind through any difficulties which may occur. And though they can not, perhaps, be fully applied to every mind in a large school, yet they can be so far acted upon in reference to the whole mass as to accomplish the object for a very large majority. 3. _General cautions_. A few miscellaneous suggestions, which we shall include under this head, will conclude this chapter. (1.) Never do any thing _for_ a scholar, but teach him to do it for himself. How many cases occur in the schools of our country where the boy brings his slate to the teacher, saying he can not do a certain sum. The teacher takes the slate and pencil, performs the work in silence, brings the result, and returns the slate to the hands of his pupil, who walks off to his seat, and goes to work on the next example, perfectly satisfied with the manner in which he is passing on. A man who has not done this a hundred times himself will hardly believe it possible that such a practice can prevail, it is so evidently a mere waste of time both for master and scholar. (2.) Never get out of patience with dullness. Perhaps I ought to say, never get out of patience with any thing. That would, perhaps, be the wisest rule. But, above all things, remember that dullness and stupidity--and you will certainly find them in every school--are the very last things to get out of patience with. If the Creator has so formed the mind of a boy that he must go through life slowly and with difficulty, impeded by obstructions which others do not feel, and depressed by discouragements which others never know, his lot is surely hard enough without having you to add to it the trials and suffering which sarcasm and reproach from you can heap upon him. Look over your school-room, therefore, and wherever you find one whom you perceive the Creator to have endued with less intellectual power than others, fix your eye upon him with an expression of kindness and sympathy. Such a boy will have suffering enough from the selfish tyranny of his companions; he ought to find in you a protector and friend. One of the greatest enjoyments which a teacher's life affords is the interest of seeking out such a one, bowed down with burdens of depression and discouragement, unaccustomed to sympathy and kindness, and expecting nothing for the future but a weary continuation of the cheerless toils which have imbittered the past; and the pleasure of taking off the burden, of surprising the timid, disheartened sufferer by kind words and cheering looks, and of seeing in his countenance the expression of ease and even of happiness gradually returning. (3.) The teacher should be interested in _all_ his scholars, and aim equally to secure the progress of all. Let there be no neglected ones in the school-room. We should always remember that, however unpleasant in countenance and manners that bashful boy in the corner may be, or however repulsive in appearance, or unhappy in disposition, that girl, seeming to be interested in nobody, and nobody appearing interested in her, they still have, each of them, a mother, who loves her own child, and takes a deep and constant interest in its history. Those mothers have a right, too, that their children should receive their full share of attention in a school which has been established for the common and equal benefit of all. (4.) Do not hope or attempt to make all your pupils alike. Providence has determined that human minds should differ from each other for the very purpose of giving variety and interest to this busy scene of life. Now if it were possible for a teacher so to plan his operations as to send his pupils forth upon the community formed on the same model, as if they were made by machinery, he would do so much toward spoiling one of the wisest of the plans which the Almighty has formed for making this world a happy scene. Let it be the teacher's aim to co-operate with, not vainly to attempt to thwart, the designs of Providence. We should bring out those powers with which the Creator has endued the minds placed under our control. We must open our garden to such influences as shall bring forward all the plants, each in a way corresponding to its own nature. It is impossible if it were wise, and it would be foolish if it were possible, to stimulate, by artificial means, the rose, in hope of its reaching the size and magnitude of the apple-tree, or to try to cultivate the fig and the orange where wheat only will grow. No; it should be the teacher's main design to shelter his pupils from every deleterious influence, and to bring every thing to bear upon the community of minds before him which will encourage in each one the development of its own native powers. For the rest, he must remember that his province is to cultivate, not to create. Error on this point is very common. Many teachers, even among those who have taken high rank through the success with which they have labored in the field, have wasted much time in attempting to do what never can be done, to form the character of those brought under their influence after a certain uniform model, which they have conceived as the standard of excellence. Their pupils must write just such a hand, they must compose in just such a style, they must be similar in sentiment and feeling, and their manners must be formed according to a fixed and uniform model; and when, in such a case, a pupil comes under their charge whom Providence has designed to be entirely different from the beau ideal adopted as the standard, more time, and pains, and anxious solicitude is wasted in vain attempts to produce the desired conformity than half the school require beside. (5.) Do not allow the faults or obliquities of character, or the intellectual or moral wants of any individual of your pupils to engross a disproportionate share of your time. I have already said that those who are peculiarly in need of sympathy or help should receive the special attention they seem to require; what I mean to say now is, do not carry this to an extreme. When a parent sends you a pupil who, in consequence of neglect or mismanagement at home, has become wild and ungovernable, and full of all sorts of wickedness, he has no right to expect that you shall turn your attention away from the wide field which, in your whole school-room, lies before you, to spend your time, and exhaust your spirits and strength in endeavoring to repair the injuries which his own neglect has occasioned. When you open a school, you do not engage, either openly or tacitly, to make every pupil who may be sent to you a learned or a virtuous man. You do engage to give them all faithful instruction, and to bestow upon each such a degree of attention as is consistent with the claims of the rest. But it is both unwise and unjust to neglect the many trees in your nursery which, by ordinary attention, may be made to grow straight and tall, and to bear good fruit, that you may waste your labor upon a crooked stick, from which all your toil can secure very little beauty or fruitfulness. Let no one now understand me to say that such cases are to be neglected. I admit the propriety, and, in fact, have urged the duty, of paying to them a little more than their due share of attention. What I now condemn is the practice, of which all teachers are in danger, of devoting such a disproportionate and unreasonable degree of attention to them as to encroach upon their duties to others. The school, the whole school, is your field, the elevation _of the mass_ in knowledge and virtue, and no individual instance, either of dullness or precocity, should draw you away from its steady pursuit. (6.) The teacher should guard against unnecessarily imbibing those faulty mental habits to which his station and employment expose him. Accustomed to command, and to hold intercourse with minds which are immature and feeble compared with our own, we gradually acquire habits that the rough collisions and the friction of active life prevent from gathering around other men. Narrow-minded prejudices and prepossessions are imbibed through the facility with which, in our own little community, we adopt and maintain opinions. A too strong confidence in our own views on every subject almost inevitably comes from never hearing our opinions contradicted or called in question, and we express those opinions in a tone of authority, and even sometimes of arrogance, which we acquire in the school-room, for there, when we speak, nobody can reply. These peculiarities show themselves first, and, in fact, most commonly, in the school-room; and the opinions thus formed very often relate to the studies and management of the school. One has a peculiar mode of teaching spelling, which is successful almost entirely through the magic influence of his interest in it, and he thinks no other mode of teaching this branch is even tolerable. Another must have all his pupils write on the angular system, or the anti-angular system, and he enters with all the zeal into a controversy on the subject, as if the destiny of the whole rising generation depended upon its decision. Tell him that all that is of any consequence in any handwriting is that it should be legible, rapid, and uniform, and that, for the rest, it would be better that every human being should write a different hand, and he looks upon you with astonishment, wondering that you can not see the vital importance of the question whether the vertex of an _o_ should, be pointed or round. So in every thing. He has _his way_ in every minute particular--a way from which he can not deviate, and to which he wishes every one else to conform. This set, formal mannerism is entirely inconsistent with that commanding intellectual influence which the teacher should exert in the administration of his school. He should work with what an artist calls boldness and freedom of touch. Activity and enterprise of mind should characterize all his measures if he wishes to make bold, original, and efficient men. (7.) Assume no false appearances in your school either as to knowledge or character. Perhaps it may justly be said to be the common practice of teachers in this country to affect a dignity of deportment in the presence of their pupils which in other cases is laid aside, and to pretend to superiority in knowledge and an infallibility of judgment which no sensible man would claim before other sensible men, but which an absurd fashion seems to require of the teacher. It can, however, scarcely be said to be a fashion, for the temptation is almost exclusively confined to the young and the ignorant, who think they must make up by appearance what they want in reality. Very few of the older, and more experienced, and successful instructors in our country fall into it at all; but some young beginner, whose knowledge is very limited, and who, in manner and habits, has only just ceased to be a boy, walks into his school-room with a countenance of forced gravity, and with a dignified and solemn step, which is ludicrous even to himself. I describe accurately, for I describe from recollection. This unnatural, and forced, and ludicrous dignity cleaves to him like a disease through the whole period of his duty. In the presence of his scholars he is always under restraint, assuming a stiff and formal dignity which is as ridiculous as it is unnatural. He is also obliged to resort to arts which are certainly not very honorable to conceal his ignorance. A scholar, for example, brings him a sum in arithmetic which he does not know how to perform. This may be the case with a most excellent teacher, and one well qualified for his business. In order to be successful as a teacher, it is not necessary to understand every thing. Instead, however, of saying frankly, "I do not understand that example; I will examine it," he looks at it embarrassed and perplexed, not knowing how he shall escape the exposure of his ignorance. His first thought is to give some general directions to the pupil, and send him to his seat to make a new experiment, hoping that in some way or other, he scarcely knows how, he will get through; and, at any rate, if he should not, the teacher thinks that he himself at least gains time by the manoeuvre, and he is glad to postpone his trouble, though he knows it must soon return. All efforts to conceal ignorance, and all affectation of knowledge not possessed, are as unwise as they are dishonest. If a scholar asks a question which you can not answer, or brings you a difficulty which you can not solve, say frankly, "I do not know." It is the only way to avoid continual anxiety and irritation, and the surest means of securing real respect. Let the scholars understand that the superiority of the teacher does not consist in his infallibility, or in his universal acquisitions, but in a well-balanced mind, where the boundary between knowledge and ignorance is distinctly marked; in a strong desire to go forward in mental improvement, and in fixed principles of action and systematic habits. You may even take up in school a study entirely new to you, and have it understood at the outset that you know no more of it than the class commencing, but that you can be their guide on account of the superior maturity and discipline of your powers, and the comparative ease with which you can meet and overcome difficulties. This is the understanding which ought always to exist between master and scholars. The fact that the teacher does not know every thing can not long be concealed if he tries to conceal it, and in this, as in every other case, HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY. CHAPTER IV. MORAL DISCIPLINE. Under the title which I have placed at the head of this chapter I intend to discuss the methods by which the teacher is to secure a moral ascendency over his pupils, so that he may lead them to do what is right, and bring them back to duty when they do what is wrong. I shall use, in what I have to say, a very plain and familiar style; and as very much depends not only on the general principles by which the teacher is actuated, but also on the tone and manner in which, in cases of discipline, he addresses his pupils, I shall describe particular cases, real and imaginary, because by this method I can better illustrate the course to be pursued. I shall also present and illustrate the various principles which I consider important, and in the order in which they occur to my mind. 1. The first duty, then, of the teacher when he enters his school is to beware of the danger of making an unfavorable impression at first upon his pupils. Many years ago, when I was a child, the teacher of the school where my early studies were performed closed his connection with the establishment, and after a short vacation another was expected. On the appointed day the boys began to collect, some from curiosity, at an early hour, and many speculations were started as to the character of the new instructor. We were standing near a table with our hats on--and our position, and the exact appearance of the group, is indelibly fixed on my memory--when a small and youthful-looking man entered the room, and walked up toward us. Supposing him to be some stranger, or, rather, not making any supposition at all, we stood looking at him as he approached, and were thunder-struck at hearing him accost us with a stern voice and sterner brow, "Take off your hats. Take off your hats and go to your seats." The conviction immediately rushed upon our minds that this must be our new teacher. The first emotion was that of surprise, and the second was that of the ludicrous, though I believe we contrived to smother the laugh until we got out into the open air. So long since was this little occurrence that I have entirely forgotten the name of the teacher, and have not the slightest recollection of any other act in his administration of the school. But this recollection of his first greeting of his pupils, and the expression of his countenance at the moment, will go with me to the end of life. So strong are first impressions. Be careful, then, when you first see your pupils, that you meet them with a smile. I do not mean a pretended cordiality, which has no existence in the heart, but think of the relation which you are to sustain to them, and think of the very interesting circumstances under which, for some months at least, your destinies are to be united to theirs, until you can not help feeling a strong interest in them. Shut your eyes for a day or two to their faults, if possible, and take an interest in all their pleasures and pursuits, that the first attitude in which you exhibit yourself before them may be one which shall allure, not repel. 2. In endeavoring to correct the faults of your pupils, do not, as many teachers do, seize only upon _those particular cases_ of transgression which may happen to come under your notice. These individual instances are very few, probably, compared with the whole number of faults against which you ought to exert an influence. And though you perhaps ought not to neglect those which may accidentally come under your notice, yet the observing and punishing such cases is a very small part of your duty. You accidentally hear, I will suppose, as you are walking home from school, two of your boys in earnest conversation, and one of them uses profane language. Now the course to be pursued in such a case is, most evidently, not to call the boy to you the next day and punish him, and there let the matter rest. This would, perhaps, be better than nothing. But the chief impression which it would make upon the individual and upon the other scholars would be, "I must take care how I _let the master hear me_ use such language again." A wise teacher, who takes enlarged and extended views of his duty in regard to the moral progress of his pupils, would act very differently. He would look at the whole subject. "Does this fault," he would say to himself, "prevail among my pupils? If so, how extensively? It is comparatively of little consequence to punish the particular transgression. The great point is to devise some plan to reach the whole evil, and to correct it if possible." In one case where such a circumstance occurred, the teacher managed it most successfully in the following manner. He said nothing to the boy, and, in fact, the boy did not know that he was overheard. He allowed a day or two to elapse, so that the conversation might be forgotten, and then took an opportunity one day, after school, when all things had gone on pleasantly, and the school was about to be closed, to bring forward the whole subject. He told the boys that he had something to say to them after they had laid by their books and were ready to go home. The desks were soon closed, and every face in the room was turned toward the master with a look of fixed attention. It was almost evening. The sun had gone down. The boys' labors were over. Their duties for the day were over; their minds were at rest, and every thing was favorable for making a deep and permanent impression. "A few days ago," says the teacher, when all was still, "I accidentally overheard some conversation between two of the boys of this school, and one of them swore." There was a pause. "Perhaps you expect that I am now going to call the boy out and punish him. Is that what I ought to do?" There was no answer. "I think a boy who uses bad language of any kind does what he knows is wrong. He breaks God's commands. He does what he knows would be displeasing to his parents, and he sets a bad example. He does wrong, therefore, and justly deserves punishment." There were, of course, many boys who felt that they were in danger. Every one who had used profane language was aware that he might be the one who had been overheard, and, of course, all were deeply interested in what the teacher was saying. "He might, I say," continued the teacher, "justly be punished; but I am not going to punish him; for if I should, I am afraid that it would only make him a little more careful hereafter not to commit this sin when I could possibly be within hearing, instead of persuading him, as I wish to, to avoid such a sin in future altogether. I am satisfied that that boy would be far happier, even in this world, if he would make it a principle always to do his duty, and never, in any case, to do wrong. And then, when I think how soon he and all of us will be in another world, where we shall all be judged for what we do here, I feel strongly desirous of persuading him to abandon entirely this practice. I am afraid that punishing him now would not do that. "Besides," continues the teacher, "I think it very probable that there are many other boys in this school who are sometimes guilty of this fault, and I have thought that it would be a great deal better and happier for us all if, instead of punishing this particular boy whom I have accidentally overheard, and who probably is not more to blame than many other boys in school, I should bring up the whole subject, and endeavor to persuade all the boys to reform." I am aware that there are, unfortunately, in our country a great many teachers from whose lips such an appeal as this would be wholly in vain. The man who is accustomed to scold, and storm, and punish with unsparing severity every transgression, under the influence of irritation and anger, must not expect that he can win over his pupils to confidence in him and to the principles of duty by a word. But such an appeal will not be lost when it comes from a man whose daily and habitual management corresponds with it. But to return to the story: The teacher made some farther remarks, explaining the nature of the sin, not in the language of execration and affected abhorrence, but calmly, temperately, and without any disposition to make the worst of the occurrence which had taken place. In concluding what he said, he addressed the boys as follows: "Now, boys, the question is, do you wish to abandon this habit or not? If you do, all is well. I shall immediately forget all the past, and will do all I can to help you resist and overcome temptation in future. But all I can do is only to help you; and the first thing to be done, if you wish to engage in this work of reform, is to acknowledge your fault; and I should like to know how many are willing to do this." "I wish all those who are willing to tell me whether they use profane language would rise." Every individual but one rose. "I am very glad to see so large a number," said the teacher; "and I hope you will find that the work of confessing and forsaking your faults is, on the whole, pleasant, not painful business. Now those who can truly and honestly say that they never do use profane language of any kind may take their seats." Three only of the whole number, which consisted of not far from twenty, sat down. It was in a sea-port town, where the temptation to yield to this vice is even greater than would be, in the interior of our country, supposed possible. "Those who are now standing," pursued the teacher, "admit that they do, sometimes at least, commit this sin. I suppose all, however, are determined to reform; for I do not know what else should induce you to rise and acknowledge it here, unless it is a desire hereafter to break yourselves of the habit. But do you suppose that it will be enough for you merely to resolve here that you will reform?" "No, sir," said the boys. "Why not? If you now sincerely determine never more to use a profane word, will you not easily avoid it?" The boys were silent. Some said faintly, "No, sir." "It will not be easy for you to avoid the sin hereafter," continued the teacher, "even if you do now sincerely and resolutely determine to do so. You have formed the habit of sin, and the habit will not be easily overcome. But I have detained you long enough now. I will try to devise some method by which you may carry your plan into effect, and to-morrow I will tell you what it is." So the boys were dismissed for the day; the pleasant countenance and cheerful tone of the teacher conveying to them the impression that they were engaging in the common effort to accomplish a most desirable purpose, in which they were to receive the teacher's help, not that he was pursuing them, with threatening and punishment, into the forbidden practice into which they had wickedly strayed. Great caution is, however, in such a case, necessary to guard against the danger that the teacher, in attempting to avoid the tones of irritation and anger, should so speak of the sin as to blunt his pupils' sense of its guilt, and lull their consciences into a slumber. At the appointed time on the following day the subject was again brought before the school, and some plans proposed by which the resolutions now formed might be more certainly kept. These plans were readily and cheerfully adopted by the boys, and in a short time the vice of profaneness was, in a great degree, banished from the school. I hope the reader will keep in mind the object of the above illustration, which is to show that it is the true policy of the teacher not to waste his time and strength in contending against _such accidental instances_ of transgression as may chance to fall under his notice, but to take an enlarged and extended view of the whole ground, endeavoring to remove _whole classes of faults_--to elevate and improve _multitudes together_. By these means, his labors will not only be more effectual, but far more pleasant. You can not come into collision with an individual scholar, to punish him for a mischievous spirit, or even to rebuke him for some single act by which he has given you trouble, without an uncomfortable and uneasy feeling, which makes, in ordinary cases, the discipline of a school the most unpleasant part of a teacher's duty. But you can plan a campaign against a whole class of faults, and put into operation a system of measures to correct them, and watch from day to day the operation of that system with all the spirit and interest of a game. It is, in fact, a game where your ingenuity and moral power are brought into the field, in opposition to the evil tendencies of the hearts which are under your influence. You will notice the success or the failure of the means you may put into operation with all the interest with which the experimental philosopher observes the curious processes he guides, though your interest may be much purer and higher, for he works upon matter, but you are experimenting upon mind. Remember, then, as for the first time you take your new station at the head of your school, that it is not your duty simply to watch with an eagle eye for those accidental instances of transgression which may chance to fall under your notice. You are to look over the whole ground. You are to make yourself acquainted, as soon as possible, with the classes of character and classes of faults which may prevail in your dominions, and to form deliberate and well-digested plans for improving the one and correcting the other. And this is to be the course pursued not only with great delinquencies, such as those to which I have already alluded, but to every little transgression against the rules of order and propriety. You can correct them far more easily and pleasantly in the mass than in detail. To illustrate this principle by another case. A teacher, who takes the course I am condemning, approaches the seat of one of his pupils, and asks to see one of his books. As the boy opens his desk, the teacher observes that it is in complete disorder. Books, maps, papers, play-things, are there in promiscuous confusion, and, from the impulse of the moment, the displeased teacher pours out upon the poor boy a torrent of reproach. "What a looking desk! Why, John, I am really ashamed of you! Look!" continues he, holding up the lid, so that the boys in the neighborhood can look in; "see what a mass of disorder and confusion. If ever I see your desk in such a state again, I shall most certainly punish you." The boys around laugh, very equivocally, however, for, with the feeling of amusement, there is mingled the fear that the angry master may take it into his head to inspect their domains. The boy accidentally exposed looks sullen, and begins to throw his books into some sort of arrangement, just enough to shield himself from the charge of absolutely disobeying the injunction that he has received, and there the matter ends. Another teacher takes no apparent notice of the confusion which he thus accidentally witnesses. "I must take up," thinks he to himself, "the subject of order before the whole school. I have not yet spoken of it." He thanks the boy for the book he borrowed, and goes away. He makes a memorandum of the subject, and the boy does not know that the condition of his desk was noticed; perhaps he does not even know that there was any thing amiss. A day or two after, at a time regularly appropriated to such subjects, he addresses the boys as follows: "In our efforts to improve the school as much as possible, there is one subject which we must not forget. I mean the order of the desks." The boys all begin to open their desk lids. "You may stop a moment," says the teacher. "I shall give you all an opportunity to examine your desks presently. "I do not know what the condition of your desks is. I have not examined them, and have not, in fact, seen the inside of more than one or two. As I have not brought up this subject before, I presume that there are a great many which can be arranged better than they are. Will you all now look into your desks, and see whether you consider them in good order? Stop a moment, however. Let me tell you what good order is. All those things which are alike should be arranged together. Books should be in one place, papers in another, and thus every thing should be classified. Again, every thing should be so placed that it can be taken out without disturbing other things. There is another principle, also, which I will mention: the various articles should have _constant_ places, that is, they should not be changed from day to day. By this means you soon remember where every thing belongs, and you can put away your things much more easily every night than if you had every night to arrange them in a new way. Now will you look into your desks, and tell me whether they are, on these three principles, well arranged?" The boys of most schools, where this subject had not been regularly attended to, would nearly all answer in the negative. "I will allow you, then, some time to-day, fifteen minutes to arrange your desks, and I hope you will try to keep them in good order hereafter. A few days hence I shall examine them. If any of you wish for assistance or advice from me in putting them in order, I shall be happy to render it." By such a plan, which will occupy but little more time than the irritating and useless scolding which I supposed in the other case, how much more will be accomplished. Such an address would of itself, probably, be the means of putting in order, and keeping in order, at least one half of the desks in the room, and following up the plan in the same manner and in the same spirit with which it was begun would secure the rest. I repeat it, therefore, make it a principle in all cases to aim as much as possible at the correction of those faults which are likely to be general by _general measures_. You avoid by this means a vast amount of irritation and impatience, both on your own part and on the part of your scholars, and you produce twenty times the useful effect. 3. The next principle which occurs to me as deserving the teacher's attention in the outset of his course is this: Interest your scholars in doing something themselves to elevate the moral character of the school, so as to secure a _decided majority who will, of their own accord, co-operate with you._ Let your pupils understand, not by any formal speech which you make to that effect, but by the manner in which, from time to time, you incidentally allude to the subject, that you consider the school, when you commence it, as _at par_, so to speak--that is, on a level with other schools, and that your various plans for improving and amending it are not to be considered in the light of finding fault, and punishing transgressions, and controlling evil propensities, so as just to keep things in a tolerable state, but as efforts to improve and carry forward the institution to a still higher state of excellence. Such is the tone and manner of some teachers that they never appear to be more than merely satisfied. When the scholars do right, nothing is said about it. The teacher seems to consider that a matter of course. It does not appear to interest or please him at all. Nothing arouses him but when they do wrong, and that only excites him to anger and frowns. Now in such a case there can, of course, be no stimulus to effort on the part of the pupils but the cold and heartless stimulus of fear. Now it is wrong for the teacher to expect that things will go right in his school as a matter of course. All that he can expect _as a matter of course_ is, that things should go on as well as they do ordinarily in schools--the ordinary amount of idleness, the ordinary amount of misconduct. This is the most that he can expect to come as a matter of course. He should feel this, and then all he can gain which will be better than this will be a source of positive pleasure; a pleasure which his pupils have procured for him, and which, consequently, they should share. They should understand that the teacher is engaged in various plans for improving the school, in which they should be invited to engage, not from the selfish desire of thereby saving him trouble, but because it will really be happy employment for them to engage in such an enterprise, and because, by such efforts, their own moral powers will be exerted and strengthened in the best possible way. In another chapter I have explained to what extent, and in what manner, the assistance of the pupils may be usefully and successfully employed in carrying forward the general arrangements of the school. The same _principles_ will apply here, though perhaps a little more careful and delicate management is necessary in interesting them in subjects which relate to moral discipline. One important method of accomplishing this end is to present these plans before the minds of the scholars as experiments--moral experiments, whose commencement, progress, and results they may take a great interest in witnessing. Let us take, for example, the case alluded to under the last head--the plan of effecting a reform in regard to keeping desks in order. Suppose the teacher were to say, when the time had arrived at which he had promised to give them an opportunity to put the desks in order, "I think it would be a good plan to keep some account of our efforts for improving the school in this respect. We might make a record of what we do to-day, noting the day of the month and the number of desks which may be found to be disorderly. Then, at the end of any time you may propose, we will have the desks examined again, and see how many are disorderly then. We can thus see how much improvement has been made in that time. Should you like to adopt the plan?" If the boys should appear not much interested in the proposal, the teacher might, at his own discretion, waive it. In all probability, however, they would like it, and would indicate their interest by their countenances, or perhaps by a response. If so, the teacher might proceed. "You may all examine your desks, then, and decide whether they are in order or not. I do not know, however, but that we ought to appoint a committee to examine them; for perhaps all the boys would not be honest, and report their desks as they really are." "Yes, sir;" "yes, sir," say the boys. "Do you mean that you will be honest, or that you would like to have a committee appointed?" There was a confused murmur. Some answer one, and some the other. "I think," proceeds the teacher, "the boys will be honest, and report their desks just as they are. At any rate, the number of dishonest boys in this school can not be so large as materially to affect the result. I think we had better take your own statements. As soon as the desks are all examined, those who have found theirs in a condition which does not satisfy them are requested to rise and be counted." The teacher then looks around the room, and selecting some intelligent boy who has influence among his companions, and whose influence he is particularly desirous of enlisting on the side of good order, says, "Shall I nominate some one to keep an account of the number?" "Yes, sir," say the boys. "Well, I nominate William Jones. How many are in favor of requesting William Jones to perform this duty?" "It is a vote. William, I will thank you to write upon a piece of paper that on the 8th of December the subject of order in the desks was brought up, and that the boys resolved on making an effort to improve the school in this respect. Then say that the boys reported all their desks which they thought were disorderly, and that the number was thirty-five; and that after a week or two, the desks are to be examined again, and the disorderly ones counted, that we may see how much we have improved. After you have written it you may bring it to me, and I will tell you whether it is right." "How many desks do you think will be found to be disorderly when we come to make the examination?" The boys hesitate. The teacher names successively several numbers, and asks whether they think the real number will be greater or less. He notices their votes upon them, and at last fixes upon one which seems to be about the general sense of the school. Then the teacher himself mentions the number which he supposes will be found to be disorderly. His estimate will ordinarily be larger than that of the scholars, because he knows better how easily resolutions are broken. This number, too, is recorded, and then the whole subject is dismissed. Now, of course, no reader of these remarks will understand me to be recommending, by this imaginary dialogue, a particular course to be taken in regard to this subject, far less the particular language to be used. All I mean is to show by a familiar illustration how the teacher is to endeavor to enlist the interest and to excite the curiosity of his pupils in his plans for the improvement of his school, by presenting them as moral experiments, which they are to assist him in trying--experiments whose progress they are to watch, and whose results they are to predict. If the precise steps which I have described should actually be taken, although it would occupy but a few minutes, and would cause no thought and no perplexing care, yet it would undoubtedly be the means of awakening a very general interest in the subject of order throughout the school. All would be interested in the work of arrangement. All would watch, too, with interest the progress and the result of the experiment; and if, a few days afterward, the teacher should accidentally, in recess, see a disorderly desk, a good-humored remark made with a smile to the by-standers, "I suspect my prediction will turn out the correct one," would have far more effect than the most severe reproaches, or the tingling of a rap over the knuckles with a ratan. I know from experience that scholars of every kind can be led by such measures as these, or rather by such a spirit as this, to take an active interest, and to exert a most powerful influence in regard to the whole condition of the institution. I have seen the experiment successful in boys' schools and in girls' schools, among very little children, and among the seniors and juniors at college. In one of the colleges of New England a new and beautiful edifice was erected. The lecture-rooms were fitted up in handsome style, and the officers, when the time for the occupation of the building approached, were anticipating with regret what seemed to be the unavoidable defacing, and cutting, and marking of the seats and walls. It was, however, thought that if the subject was properly presented to the students, they would take an interest in preserving the property from injury. They were accordingly addressed somewhat as follows: "It seems, young gentlemen, to be generally the custom in colleges for the students to ornament the walls and benches of their recitation-rooms with various inscriptions and caricatures, so that after the premises have been for a short time in the possession of a class, every thing within reach, which will take an impression from a penknife or a trace from a pencil, is covered with names, and dates, and heads, and inscriptions of every kind. The faculty do not know what you wish in this respect in regard to the new accommodations which the trustees have now provided for you, and which you are soon to enter. They have had them fitted up for you handsomely, and if you wish to have them kept in good order, we will assist you. If the students think proper to express by a vote, or in any other way, their wish to keep them in good order, we will engage to have such incidental injuries as may from time to time occur immediately repaired. Such injuries will, of course, be done; for, whatever may be the wish and general opinion of the whole, it is not to be expected that every individual in so large a community will be careful. If, however, as a body, you wish to have the building preserved in its present state, and will, as a body, take the necessary precautions, we will do our part." [Illustration] The students responded to this appeal most heartily. They passed a vote expressing a desire to preserve the premises in order, and for many years, and, for aught I know, to the present hour, the whole is kept as a room occupied by gentlemen should be kept. At some other colleges, and those, too, sustaining the very highest rank among the institutions of the country, the doors of the public buildings are sometimes _studded with nails as thick as they can possibly be driven, and then covered with a thick coat of sand dried into the paint, as a protection from the knives of the students!!_ The particular methods by which the teacher is to interest his pupils in his various plans for their improvement can not be fully described here. In fact, it does not depend so much on the methods he adopts as upon the view which he himself takes of these plans, and the _tone and manner in which he speaks of them to his pupils_. A teacher, for example, perhaps on the first day of his labors in a new school, calls a class to read. They pretend to form a line, but it crooks in every direction. One boy is leaning back against a desk; another comes forward as far as possible, to get near the fire; the rest lounge in every position and in every attitude. John is holding up his book high before his face to conceal an apple from which he is endeavoring to secure an enormous bite. James is, by the same sagacious device, concealing a whisper which he is addressing to his next neighbor, and Moses is seeking amusement by crowding and elbowing the little boy who is unluckily standing next him. "What a spectacle!" says the master to himself, as he looks at this sad display. "What shall I do?" The first impulse is to break forth upon them at once with all the artillery of reproof, and threatening, and punishment. I have seen, in such a case, a scolding and frowning master walk up and down before such a class with a stern and angry air, commanding this one to stand back, and that one to come forward, ordering one boy to put down his book, and scolding at a second for having lost his place, and knocking the knees of another with his ruler because he was out of the line. The boys scowl at their teacher, and, with ill-natured reluctance, they obey just enough to escape punishment. Another teacher looks calmly at the scene, and says to himself, "What shall I do to remove effectually these evils? If I can but interest the boys in reform, it will be far more easy to effect it than if I attempt to accomplish it by the mere exercise of my authority." In the mean time things go on during the reading in their own way. The teacher simply _observes_. He is in no haste to commence his operations. He looks for the faults; watches, without seeming to watch, the movements which he is attempting to control. He studies the materials with which he is to work, and lets their true character develop itself. He tries to find something to approve in the exercise as it proceeds, and endeavors to interest the class by narrating some fact connected with the reading, or making some explanation which interests the boys. At the end of the exercise he addresses them, perhaps, as follows: "I have observed, boys, in some military companies, that the officers are very strict, requiring implicit and precise obedience. The men are required to form a precise line." (Here there is a sort of involuntary movement all along the line, by which it is very sensibly straightened.) "They make all the men stand erect" (at this word heads go up, and straggling feet draw in all along the class), "in the true military posture. They allow nothing to be done in the ranks but to attend to the exercise" (John hastily crowds his apple into his pocket), "and thus they regulate every thing in exact and steady discipline, so that all things go on in a most systematic and scientific manner. This discipline is so admirable in some countries, especially in Europe, where much greater attention is paid to military tactics than in our country, that I have heard it said by travelers that some of the soldiers who mount guard at public places look as much like statues as they do like living men. "Other commanders act differently. They let the men do pretty much as they please. So you will see such a company lounging into a line when the drum beats, as if they took little interest in what was going on. While the captain is giving his commands, one is eating his luncheon, another is talking with his next neighbor. Part are out of the line; part lounge on one foot; they hold their guns in every position; and, on the whole, present a very disorderly and unsoldier-like appearance. "I have observed, too, that boys very generally prefer to _see_ the strict companies, but perhaps they would prefer to _belong_ to the lax ones." "No, sir;" "No, sir," say the boys. "Suppose you all had your choice either to belong to a company like the first one I described, where the captain was strict in all his requirements, or to one like the latter, where you could do pretty much as you pleased, which should you prefer?" Unless I am entirely mistaken in my idea of the inclinations of boys, it would be very difficult to get a single honest expression of preference for the latter. They would say with one voice, "The first." "I suppose it would be so. You would be put to some inconvenience by the strict commands of the captain, but then you would be more than paid by the beauty of regularity and order which you would all witness. There is nothing so pleasant as regularity, and nobody likes regularity more than boys do. To show this, I should like to have you now form a line as exact as you can." After some unnecessary shoving and pushing, increased by the disorderly conduct of a few bad boys, a line is formed. Most of the class are pleased with the experiment, and the teacher takes no notice of the few exceptions. The time to attend to _them_ will come by-and-by. "Hands down." The boys obey. "Shoulders back." "There; there is a very perfect line." "Do you stand easily in that position?" "Yes, sir." "I believe your position is the military one now, pretty nearly; and military men study the postures of the human body for the sake of finding the one most easy; for they wish to preserve as much as possible of the soldiers' strength for the time of battle. I should like to try the experiment of your standing thus at the next lesson. It is a very great improvement upon your common mode. Are you willing to do it?" "Yes, sir," say the boys. "You will get tired, I have no doubt; for the military position, though most convenient and easy in the end, is not to be learned and fixed in practice without effort. In fact, I do not expect you will succeed the first day very well. You will probably become restless and uneasy before the end of the lesson, especially the smaller boys. I must excuse it, I suppose, if you do, as it will be the first time." By such methods as these the teacher will certainly secure a majority in favor of all his plans. But perhaps some experienced teacher, who knows from his own repeated difficulties with bad boys what sort of spirits the teacher of district schools has sometimes to deal with, may ask, as he reads this, "Do you expect that such a method as this will succeed in keeping your school in order? Why there are boys in almost every school whom you would no more coax into obedience and order in this way than you would persuade the northeast wind to change its course by reasoning." I know there are. And my readers are requested to bear in mind that my object is not to show how the whole government of the school may be secured, but how one important advantage may be gained, which will assist in accomplishing the object. All I should expect or hope for, by such measures as these, is _to interest and gain over to our side the majority_. What is to be done with those who can not be reached by such kinds of influence I shall endeavor presently to show. The object now is simply to gain the _majority_--to awaken a general interest, which you can make effectual in promoting your plans, and thus to narrow the field of discipline by getting those right who can be got right by such measures. Thus securing a majority to be on your side in the general administration of the school is absolutely indispensable to success. A teacher may, indeed, by the force of mere authority, so control his pupils as to preserve order in the schoolroom, and secure a tolerable progress in study, but the progress will be slow, and the cultivation of moral principle must be, in such a case, entirely neglected. The principles of duty can not be inculcated by fear; and though pain and terror must in many instances be called in to coerce an individual offender, whom milder measures will not reach, yet these agents, and others like them, can never be successfully employed as the ordinary motives to action. They can not produce any thing but mere external and heartless obedience in the presence of the teacher, with an inclination to throw off all restraint when the pressure of stern authority is removed. We should all remember that our pupils are but for a very short time under our direct control. Even when they are in school the most untiring vigilance will not enable us to watch, except for a very small portion of the time, any one individual. Many hours of the day, too, they are entirely removed from our inspection, and a few months will take them away from us altogether. Subjecting them, then, to mere external restraint is a very inadequate remedy for the moral evil to which they are exposed. What we aim at is to bring forward and strengthen an internal principle which will act when both parent and teacher are away, and control where external circumstances are all unfavorable. I have thus far, under this head, been endeavoring to show the importance of securing, by gentle measures, a majority of the scholars to cooperate with the teacher in his plans. The particular methods of doing this demand a little attention. (1.) The teacher should study human nature as it exhibits itself in the school-room by taking an interest in the sports and enjoyments of the pupils, and connecting, as much as possible, what is interesting and agreeable with the pursuits of the school, so as to lead the scholars to like the place. An attachment to the institution, and to the duties of it, will give the teacher a very strong hold upon the community of mind which exists there. (2.) Every thing which is unpleasant in the discipline of the school should be attended to, as far as possible, privately. Sometimes it is necessary to bring a case forward in public for reproof or punishment, but this is seldom required. In some schools it is the custom to postpone cases of discipline till the close of the day, and then, just before the boys are dismissed at night, all the difficulties are settled. Thus, day after day, the impression which is last made upon their minds is received from a season of suffering, and terror, and tears. Now such a practice may be attended with many advantages, but it seems to be, on the whole, unwise. Awing the pupils, by showing them the painful consequences of doing wrong, should be very seldom resorted to. It is far better to allure them by showing them the pleasures of doing right. Doing right is pleasant to every body, and no persons are so easily convinced of this, or, rather, so easily led to see it, as children. Now the true policy is to let them experience the pleasure of doing their duty, and they will easily be allured to it. In many cases, where a fault has been publicly committed, it seems, at first view, to be necessary that it should be publicly punished; but the end will, in most cases, be answered if it is _noticed_ publicly, so that the pupils may know that it received attention, and then the ultimate disposal of the case may be made a private affair between the teacher and the individual concerned. If, however, every case of disobedience, or idleness, or disorder, is brought out publicly before the school, so that all witness the teacher's displeasure and feel the effects of it (for to witness it is to feel its most unpleasant effects), the school becomes, in a short time, hardened to such scenes. Unpleasant associations become connected with the management of the school, and the scholars are prepared to do wrong with less reluctance, since the consequence is only a repetition of what they are obliged to see every day. Besides, if a boy does something wrong, and you severely reprove him in the presence of his class, you punish the class almost as much as you do him. In fact, in many cases you punish them more; for I believe it is almost invariably more unpleasant for a good boy to stand by and listen to rebukes, than for a bad boy to take them. Keep these things, therefore, as much as possible out of sight. Never bring forward cases of discipline except on mature deliberation, and for a distinct and well-defined purpose. (3.) Never bring forward a case of discipline of this kind unless you are sure that public opinion will go in your favor. If a case comes up in which the sympathy of the scholars is excited for the criminal in such a way as to be against yourself, the punishment will always do more harm than good. Now this, unless there is great caution, will often happen. In fact, it is probable that a very large proportion of the punishments which are ordinarily inflicted in schools only prepare the way for more offenses. It is, however, possible to bring forward individual cases in such a way as to produce a very strong moral effect of the right kind. This is to be done by seizing upon those peculiar emergencies which will arise in the course of the administration of a school, and which each teacher must watch for and discover himself. They can not be pointed out. I may, however, give a clearer idea of what is meant by such emergencies by an example. It is a case which actually occurred as here narrated. In a school where nearly all the pupils were faithful and docile, there were one or two boys who were determined to find amusement in those mischievous tricks so common in schools and colleges. There was one boy, in particular, who was the life and soul of all these plans. Devoid of principle, idle as a scholar, morose and sullen in his manners, he was, in every respect, a true specimen of the whole class of mischief-makers, wherever they are to be found. His mischief consisted, as usual, in such exploits as stopping up the keyhole of the door, upsetting the teacher's inkstand, or fixing something to his desk to make a noise and interrupt the school. It so happened that there was a standing feud between the boys of his neighborhood and those of another situated a mile or two from it. By his malicious activity he had stimulated this quarrel to a high pitch, and was very obnoxious to the boys of the other party. One day, when taking a walk, the teacher observed a number of boys with excited looks, and armed with sticks and stones, standing around a shoemaker's shop, to which his poor pupil had gone for refuge from them. They had got him completely within their power, and were going to wait until he should be wearied with his confinement and come out, when they were going to inflict upon him the punishment they thought he deserved. The teacher interfered, and by the united influence of authority, management, and persuasion, succeeded in effecting a rescue. The boy would probably have preferred to owe his safety to any one else than to the teacher whom he had so often tried to tease, but he was glad to escape in any way. The teacher said nothing about the subject, and the boy soon supposed it was entirely forgotten. But it was not forgotten. The teacher knew perfectly well that the boy would before long be at his old tricks again, and was reserving this story as the means of turning the whole current of public opinion against such tricks, should they again occur. One day he came to school in the afternoon, and found the room filled with smoke; the doors and windows were all closed, though, as soon as he came in, some of the boys opened them. He knew by this circumstance that it was roguery, not accident, which caused the smoke. He appeared not to notice it, however, said he was sorry it smoked, and asked the mischievous boy--for he was sure to be always near in such a case--to assist him in putting up the wood of the fire more compactly. The boy supposed that the smoke was understood to be accidental, and perhaps secretly laughed at the dullness of his master. In the course of the afternoon, the teacher ascertained by private inquiries that his suspicions were correct as to the author of the mischief. At the close of school, when the studies were ended, and the books laid away, he said to the scholars that he wanted to tell them a story. He then, with a pleasant tone and manner, gave a very minute, and, to the boys, a very interesting narrative of his adventure two or three weeks before, when he rescued this boy from his danger. He called him, however, simply _a boy_, without mentioning his name, or even hinting that he was a member of the school. No narrative could excite a stronger interest among an audience of school-boys than such a one as this, and no act of kindness from a teacher would make as vivid an impression as interfering to rescue a trembling captive from such a situation as the one this boy had been in. The scholars listened with profound interest and attention, and though the teacher said little about his share in the affair, and spoke of what he did as if it were a matter of course that he should thus befriend a boy in distress, an impression very favorable to himself must have been made. After he had finished his narrative, he said, "Now should you like to know who this boy was?" "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir," said they, eagerly. "It was a boy that you all know." The boys looked around upon one another. Who could it be? "He is a member of this school." There was an expression of fixed, and eager, and increasing interest on every face in the room. "He is here now," said the teacher, winding up the interest and curiosity of the scholars, by these words, to the highest pitch. "But I can not tell you his name; for what return do you think he made to me? To be sure it was no very great favor that I did him; I should have been unworthy the name of teacher if I had not done it for him, or for any boy in my school. But, at any rate, it showed my good wishes for him; it showed that I was his friend; and what return do you think he made me for it? Why, to-day he spent his time between schools in filling the room with smoke, that he might torment his companions here, and give me trouble, and anxiety, and suffering when I should come. If I should tell you his name, the whole school would turn against him for his ingratitude." The business ended here, and it put a stop, a final stop, to all malicious tricks in the school. Now it is not very often that so fine an opportunity occurs to kill, by a single blow, the disposition to do willful, wanton injury, as this circumstance afforded; but the principle illustrated by it, bringing forward individual cases of transgression in a public manner, only for the sake of the general effect, and so arranging what is said and done as to produce the desired effect upon the public mind in the highest degree, may very frequently be acted upon. Cases are continually occurring, and if the teacher will keep it constantly in mind, that when a particular case comes before the whole school, the object is an influence upon the whole, and not the punishment or reform of the guilty individual, he will insensibly so shape his measures as to produce the desired result. (4.) There should be a great difference made between the _measures which you take_ to prevent wrong, and the _feelings of displeasure which you express_ against the wrong when it is done. The former should be strict, authoritative, unbending; the latter should be mild and gentle. Your measures, if uniform and systematic, will never give offense, however powerfully you may restrain and control those subject to them. It is the morose look, the harsh expression, the tone of irritation and fretfulness, which is so unpopular in school. The sins of childhood are by nine tenths of mankind enormously overrated, and perhaps none overrate them more extravagantly than teachers. We confound the trouble they give us with their real moral turpitude, and measure the one by the other. Now if a fault prevails in school, one teacher will scold and fret himself about it day after day, until his scholars are tired both of school and of him; and yet he will _do_ nothing effectual to remove it. Another will take efficient and decided measures, and yet say very little on the subject, and the whole evil will be removed without suspending for a moment the good-humor and pleasant feeling which should prevail in school. The expression of your displeasure on account of any thing that is wrong will seldom or never do any good. The scholars consider it scolding; it is scolding; and though it may, in many cases, contain many sound arguments and eloquent expostulations, it operates simply as a punishment. It is unpleasant to hear it. General instruction must indeed be given, but not general reproof. (5.) Feel that in the management of the school _you_ are under obligation as well as the scholars, and let this feeling appear in all that you do. Your scholars wish you to dismiss school earlier than usual on some particular occasion, or to allow them an extra holiday. Show by the manner in which you consider and speak of the question that your main inquiry is what is _your duty_. Speak often of your responsibility to your employers--not formally, but incidentally and naturally, as you will speak if you feel this responsibility. It will assist very much, too, in securing cheerful, good-humored obedience to the regulations of the school, if you extend their authority over yourself. Not that the teacher is to have no liberty from which the scholars are debarred; this would be impossible. But the teacher should submit, himself, to every thing which he requires of his scholars, unless it is in cases where a different course is necessary. Suppose, for instance, a study-card, like the one described in a preceding chapter, is made so as to mark the time of recess and of study. The teacher, near the close of recess, is sitting with a group of his pupils around him, telling them some story. They are all interested, and they see he is interested. He looks at his watch, and shows by his manner that he is desirous of finishing what he is saying, but that he knows that the striking of the bell will cut short his story. Perhaps he says not a word about it, but his pupils see that he is submitting to the control which is placed over them; and when the card goes up, and he stops instantly in the middle of his sentence and rises with the rest, each one to go to his own place, to engage at once in their several duties, he teaches them a most important lesson, and in the most effectual way. Such a lesson of fidelity and obedience, and such an example of it, will have more influence than half an hour's scolding about whispering without leave, or a dozen public punishments. At least so I found it, for I have tried both. Show then continually that you see and enjoy the beauty of system and strict discipline, and that you submit to law yourself as well as require submission of others. (6.) Lead your pupils to see that they must share with you the credit or the disgrace which success or failure in the management of the school may bring. Lead them to feel this, not by telling them so, for there are very few things which can be impressed upon children by direct efforts to impress them, but by so speaking of the subject, from time to time, as to lead them to see that you understand it so. Repeat, with judicious caution, what is said of the school, both for and against it, and thus endeavor to interest the scholars in its public reputation. This feeling of interest in the institution may very easily be awakened. It sometimes springs up spontaneously, and, where it is not guided aright by the teacher, sometimes produces very bad effects upon the minds of the pupils in rival institutions. When two schools are situated near each other, evil consequences will result from this feeling, unless the teacher manages it so as to deduce good consequences. I recollect that in my boyish days there was a standing quarrel between the boys of a town school and an academy which were in the same village. We were all ready at any time, when out of school, to fight for the honor of our respective institutions, each for his own, but very few were ready to be diligent and faithful when in it, though it would seem that that might have been rather a more effectual means of establishing the point. If the scholars are led to understand that the school is to a great extent their institution, that they must assist to sustain its character, and that they share the honor of its excellence, if any honor is acquired, a feeling will prevail in the school which may be turned to a most useful account. (7.) In giving instruction on moral duty, the subject should generally be taken up in reference to imaginary cases, or cases which are unknown to most of the scholars. If this is done, the pupils feel that the object of bringing up the subject is to do good; whereas, if questions of moral duty are only introduced from time to time, when some prevailing or accidental fault in school calls for reproof, the feeling will be that the teacher is only endeavoring to remove from his own path a source of inconvenience and trouble. The most successful mode of giving general moral instruction that I have known, and which has been adopted in many schools with occasional variations of form, is the following: When the time has arrived, a subject is assigned, and small papers are distributed to the whole school, that all may write something concerning it. These are then read and commented on by the teacher, and become the occasion of any remarks which he may wish to make. The interest of the pupils is strongly excited to hear the papers read, and the instruction which the teacher may give produces a deeper effect when ingrafted thus upon something which originates in the minds of the pupils. To take a particular case. A teacher addresses his scholars thus: "The subject for the moral exercise to-day is _Prejudice_. Each one may take one of the papers which have been distributed, and you may write upon them any thing you please relating to the subject. As many as have thought of any thing to write may raise their hands." One or two only of the older scholars gave the signal. "I will mention the kinds of communications you can make, and perhaps what I say will suggest something to you. As fast as you think of any thing, you may raise your hands, and as soon as I see a sufficient number up, I will give directions to begin. "You can describe any case in which you have been prejudiced yourselves either against persons or things." Here a number of the hands went up. "You can mention any facts relating to antipathies of any kind, or any cases where you know other persons to be prejudiced. You can ask any questions in regard to the subject--questions about the nature of prejudice, or the causes of it, or the remedy for it." As he said this, many hands were successively raised, and at last directions were given for all to begin to write. Five minutes were allowed, and at the end of that time the papers were collected and read. The following specimens, transcribed verbatim from the originals, with the remarks made as nearly as could be remembered immediately after the exercise, will give an idea of the ordinary operation of this plan. "I am very much prejudiced against spiders and every insect in the known world with scarcely an exception. There is a horrid sensation created by their ugly forms that makes me wish them all to Jericho. The butterfly's wings are pretty, but he is dreadful ugly. The is no affectation in this, for my pride will not permit me to show this prejudice to any great degree when I can help it. I do not fear the little wretches, but I do hate them. ANTI-SPIDER-SPARER." "This is not expressed very well; the phrases '_to Jericho?_' and '_dreadful ugly_' are vulgar, and not in good taste. Such a dislike, too, is more commonly called an antipathy than a prejudice, though perhaps it comes under the general head of prejudices." "How may we overcome prejudice? I think that when we are prejudiced against a person, it is the hardest thing in the world to overcome it." A prejudice is usually founded on some unpleasant association connected with the subject of it. The best way to overcome the prejudice, therefore, is to connect some pleasant association with it. For example (to take the case of the antipathy to the spider, alluded to in the last article), the reason why that young lady dislikes spiders is undoubtedly because she has some unpleasant idea associated with the thought of that animal, perhaps, for example, the idea of their crawling upon her, which is certainly not a very pleasant one for any body. Now the way to correct such a prejudice is to try to connect some pleasant thoughts with the sight of the animal. I once found a spider in an empty apartment hanging in its web on the wall, with a large ball of eggs which it had suspended by its side. My companion and myself cautiously brought up a tumbler under the web, and pressed it suddenly against the wall, so as to inclose both spider and eggs within it. We then contrived to run in a pair of shears, so as to cut off the web, and let both the animal and its treasure fall down into the tumbler. We put a book over the top, and walked off with our prize to a table to see what the spider would do. At first it tried to climb up the side of the tumbler, but its feet slipped on account of the smoothness of the glass. We then inclined the glass so as to favor its climbing, and to enable it to reach the book at the top. As soon as it touched the book, it was safe. It could cling to the book easily, and we placed the tumbler again upright to watch its motions. It attached a thread to the book, and let itself down by it to the bottom of the tumbler, and walked round and round the ball of eggs, apparently in great trouble. Presently it ascended by its thread, and then came down again. It attached a new thread to the ball, and then went up, drawing the ball with it. It hung the ball at a proper distance from the book, and bound it firmly in its place by threads running from it in every direction to the parts of the book which were near, and then the animal took its place quietly by its side. Now I do not say that if any body had a strong antipathy to a spider, seeing one perform such a work as this would entirely remove it, but it would certainly soften it. It would _tend_ to remove it. It would connect an interesting and pleasant association with the object. So if she should watch a spider in the fields making his web. You have all seen those beautiful regular webs in the morning dew ("Yes, sir;" "Yes, sir"), composed of concentric circles, and radii diverging in every direction. ("Yes, sir.") Well, watch a spider when making one of these, or observe his artful ingenuity and vigilance when he is lying in wait for a fly. By thus connecting pleasant ideas with the sight of the animal, you will destroy the unpleasant association which constitutes the prejudice. In the same manner, if I wished to create an antipathy to a spider in a child, it would be very easily done. I would tie her hands behind her, and put three or four upon her to crawl over her face. [Illustration] "Thus you must destroy prejudices in all cases by connecting pleasant thoughts and associations with the objects of them." "I am very often prejudiced against new scholars without knowing why." "We sometimes hear a person talk in this way: 'I do not like such or such a person at all.' "'Why?' "'Oh, I don't know; I do not like her at all. I can't bear her.' "'But why not? What is your objection to her?' "'Oh, I don't know; I have not any particular reason, but I never did like her.' "Now, whenever you hear any person talk so, you may be sure that her opinion on any subject is worth nothing at all. She forms opinions in one case without grounds, and it depends merely upon accident whether she does or not in other cases." "Why is it that so many of our countrymen _are_, or seem to be, prejudiced against the unfortunate children of Africa? Almost every _large white_ boy who meets a _small black_ boy insults him in some way or other." "It is so hard to _overcome_ prejudices, that we ought to be careful how we _form_ them." "When I see a new scholar enter this school, and she does not happen to suit me exactly in her ways and manners, I very often get prejudiced against her; though sometimes I find her a valuable friend after I get acquainted with her." "There is an inquiry I should like very much to make, though I suppose it would not be quite right to make it. I should like to ask all those who have some particular friend in school, and who can recollect the impression which the individual made upon them when they first saw her, to rise, and then I should like to inquire in how many cases the first impression was favorable, and in how many unfavorable." "Yes, sir;" "Yes, sir." "Do you mean you would like to have the inquiry made?" "Yes, sir." "All, then, who have intimate friends, and can recollect the impression which they first made upon them, may rise." [About thirty rose; more than two thirds of whom voted that the first impression made by the persons who had since become their particular friends was unfavorable.] "This shows how much dependence you can justly place on first impressions." "It was the next Monday morning after I had attained the wise age of four years that I was called up into my mother's room, and told that I was the next day going to school. "I called forth all my reasoning powers, and with all the ability of a child of four years, I reasoned with my mother, but to no purpose. I told her that I _hated_ the school-mistress then, though I had never seen her. The very first day I tottered under the weight of the mighty fool's-cap. I only attended her school two quarters; with prejudice I went, and with prejudice I came away. "The old school-house is now torn down, and a large brick house takes the place of it. But I never pass by without remembering my teacher. I am prejudiced to [against] the very spot." "Is it not right to allow prejudice to have influence over our minds as far as this? If any thing comes to our knowledge with which wrong _seems_ to be connected, and one in whom we have always felt confidence is engaged in it, is it not right to allow our prejudice in favor of this individual to have so much influence over us as to cause us to believe that all is really right, though every circumstance which has come to our knowledge is against such a conclusion? I felt this influence, not many weeks since, in a very great degree." "The disposition to judge favorably of a fraud in such a case would not be prejudice; or, at least, if it were so, it would not be a sufficient ground to justify us in withholding blame. Well-grounded confidence in such a person, if there was reason for it, ought to have such an effect, but not prejudice." The above may be considered as a fair specimen of the ordinary operation of such an exercise. It is taken as an illustration, not by selection, from the large number of similar exercises which I have witnessed, but simply because it was an exercise occurring at the time when a description was to be written. Besides the articles quoted above, there were thirty or forty others which were read and commented on. The above will, however, be sufficient to give the reader a clear idea of the exercise, and to show what is the nature of the moral effect it is calculated to produce. The subjects which may be advantageously brought forward in such a way are, of course, very numerous. They are such as the following: 1. DUTIES TO PARENTS.--Anecdotes of good or bad conduct at home. Questions. Cases where it is most difficult to obey. Dialogues between parents and children. Excuses which are often made for disobedience. 2. SELFISHNESS.--Cases of selfishness any of the pupils have observed. Dialogues they have heard exhibiting it. Questions about its nature. Indications of selfishness. 3. FAULTS OF THE SCHOOL.--Any bad practices the scholars may have observed in regard to general deportment, recitations, habits of study, or the scholars' treatment of one another. Each scholar may write what is his own greatest trouble in school, and whether he thinks any thing can be done to remove it. Any thing they think can be improved in the management of the school by the teacher. Unfavorable things they have heard said about it out of school, though without names. 4. EXCELLENCES OF THE SCHOOL.--Good practices which ought to be persevered in. Any little incidents the scholars may have noticed illustrating good character. Cases which have occurred in which scholars have done right in temptation, or when others around were doing wrong. Favorable reports in regard to the school in the community around. 5. THE SABBATH.--Any thing the scholars may have known to be done on the Sabbath which they doubt whether right or wrong. Questions in regard to the subject. Various opinions they have heard expressed. Difficulties they have in regard to proper ways of spending the Sabbath. (8.) We have one other method to describe by which a favorable moral influence may be exerted in school. The method can, however, go into full effect only where there are several pupils who have made considerable advances in mental cultivation. It is to provide a way by which teachers and pupils may write anonymously for the school. This may be done by having a place of deposit for such articles as may be written, where any person may leave what he wishes to have read, nominating by a memorandum upon the article itself the reader. If a proper feeling on the subject of good discipline and the formation of good character prevails in school, many articles, which will have a great deal of effect upon the pupils, will find their way through such an avenue once opened. The teacher can himself often bring forward in this way his suggestions with more effect than he otherwise could do. Such a plan is, in fact, like the plan of a newspaper for an ordinary community, where sentiments and opinions stand on their own basis, and influence the community just in proportion to their intrinsic merits, unassisted by the authority of the writer's name, and unimpeded by any prejudice which may exist against him. The following articles, which were really offered for such a purpose in the Mount Vernon school, will serve as specimens to illustrate the actual operation of the plan. One or two of them were written by teachers. I do not know the authors of the others. I do not offer them as remarkable compositions: every teacher will see that they are not so. The design of inserting them is merely to show that the ordinary literary ability to be found in every school may be turned to useful account by simply opening a channel for it, and to furnish such teachers as may be inclined to try the experiment the means of making the plan clearly understood by their pupils. MARKS OF A BAD SCHOLAR. "At the time when she should be ready to take her seat at school, she commences preparation for leaving home. To the extreme annoyance of those about her, all is now hurry, and bustle, and ill-humor. Thorough search is to be made for every book or paper for which she has occasion; some are found in one place, some in another, and others are forgotten altogether. Being finally equipped, she casts her eye at the clock, hopes to be in tolerable good season (notwithstanding that the hour for opening the school has already arrived), and sets out in the most violent hurry. "After so much haste, she is unfitted for attending properly to the duties of the school until a considerable time after her arrival. If present at the devotional exercises, she finds it difficult to command her attention even when desirous of so doing, and her deportment at this hour is, accordingly, marked with an unbecoming listlessness and abstraction. "When called to recitations, she recollects that some task was assigned, which, till that moment, she had forgotten; of others she had mistaken the extent, most commonly thinking them to be shorter than her companions suppose. In her answers to questions with which she should be familiar, she always manifests more or less of hesitation, and what she ventures to express is very commonly in the form of a question. In these, as in all exercises, there is an inattention to general instructions. Unless what is said be addressed particularly to herself, her eyes are directed toward another part of the room; it may be, her thoughts are employed about something not at all connected with the school. If reproved by her teacher for negligence in any respects, she is generally provided with an abundance of excuses, and however mild the reproof, she receives it as a piece of extreme severity. "Throughout her whole deportment there is an air of indolence and a want of interest in those exercises which should engage her attention. In her seat, she most commonly sits in some lazy posture--either with her elbows upon her desk, her head leaning upon her hands, or with her seat tipped forward or backward. When she has occasion to leave her seat, it is in a sauntering, lingering gait--perhaps some trick is contrived on the way for exciting the mirth of her companions. "About every thing in which it is possible to be so, she is untidy. Her books are carelessly used, and placed in her desk without order. If she has a piece of waste paper to dispose of, she finds it much more convenient to tear it into small pieces and scatter it about her desk, than to put it in a proper place. Her hands and clothes are usually covered with ink. Her written exercises are blotted and full of mistakes." THE CONSEQUENCES OF BEING BEHINDHAND. "The following incident, which I witnessed on a late journey, illustrates an important principle, and I will relate it. "When our steam-boat started from the wharf, all our passengers had not come. After we had proceeded a few yards, there appeared among the crowd on the wharf a man with his trunk under his arm, out of breath, and with a most disappointed and disconsolate air. The captain determined to stop for him; but stopping an immense steam-boat, moving swiftly through the water, is not to be done in a moment; so we took a grand sweep, wheeling majestically around an English ship which was at anchor in the harbor. As we came toward the wharf again, we saw the man in a small boat coming off from it. As the steam-boat swept round, they barely succeeded in catching a rope from the stern, and then immediately the steam-engine began its work again, and we pressed forward, the little boat following us so swiftly that the water around her was all in a foam. "They pulled upon the rope attached to the little boat until they drew it alongside. They then let down a rope, with a hook in the end of it, from an iron crane which projected over the side of the steam-boat, and hooked it into a staple in the front of the small boat. '_Hoist away_!' said the captain. The sailors hoisted, and the front part of the little boat began to rise, the stern plowing and foaming through the water, and the man still in it, with his trunk under his arm. They 'hoisted away' until I began to think that the poor man would actually tumble out behind. He clung to the seat, and looked as though he was saying to himself, 'I will take care how I am tardy the next time.' However, after a while, they hoisted up the stern of the boat, and he got safely on board. "_Moral_--Though coming to school a few minutes earlier or later may not in itself be a matter of much consequence, yet the habit of being five minutes too late, if once formed, will, in actual life, be a source of great inconvenience, and sometimes of lasting injury." NEW SCHOLARS. There is at ------ a young ladies' school, taught by Mr. ------. * * * * * "But, with all these excellences, there is one fault, which I considered a great one, and which does not comport with the general character of the school for kindness and good feeling. It is the little effort made by the scholars to become acquainted with the new ones who enter. Whoever goes there must push herself forward, or she will never feel at home. The young ladies seem to forget that the new-comer must feel rather unpleasantly in the midst of a hundred persons to whom she is wholly a stranger, and with no one to speak to. Two or three will stand together, and instead of deciding upon some plan by which the individual may be made to feel at ease, something like the following conversation takes place: "_Miss X._ How do you like the looks of Miss A., who entered school to-day? "_Miss Y._ I don't think she is very pretty, but she looks as if she might be a good scholar. "_Miss X._ She does not strike me very pleasantly. Did you ever see such a face? And her complexion is so dark, I should think she had always lived in the open air; and what a queer voice she has! "_Miss Y._ I wonder if she has a taste for Arithmetic? "_Miss X._ She does not look as if she had much taste for any thing. See how strangely she arranges her hair! "_Miss S._ Whether she has much taste or not, some one of us ought to go and get acquainted with her. See how unpleasantly she feels! "_Miss X._ I don't want to get acquainted with her until I know whether I shall like her or not. "Thus nothing is done to relieve her. When she does become acquainted, all her first strange appearance is forgotten; but this is sometimes not the case for several weeks. It depends entirely on the character of the individual herself. If she is forward, and willing to make the necessary effort, she can find many friends; but if she is diffident, she has much to suffer. This arises principally from thoughtlessness. The young ladies do not seem to realize that there is any thing for them to do. They feel enough at home themselves, and the remembrance of the time when they entered school does not seem to arise in their minds." A SATIRICAL SPIRIT. I witnessed, a short time since, a meeting between two friends, who had had but little intercourse before for a long while. I thought a part of their conversation might be useful, and I shall therefore relate it, as nearly as I can recollect, leaving each individual to draw her own inferences. For some time I sat silent, but not uninterested, while the days of 'Auld Lang Syne' came up to the remembrance of the two friends. After speaking of several individuals who were among their former acquaintances, one asked, 'Do you remember Miss W.? 'Yes,' replied the former, I remember her as the fear, terror, and abhorrence of all who knew her.' _I_ knew the lady by report, and asked why she was so regarded. The reply was, 'Because she was so severe, so satirical in her remarks upon others. She spared neither friend nor foe.' "The friends resumed their conversation. 'Did you know,' said the one who had first spoken of Miss W., 'that she sometimes had seasons of bitter repentance for indulging in this unhappy propensity of hers? She would, at such times, resolve to be more on her guard, but, after all her good resolutions, she would yield to the slightest temptations. When she was expressing, and apparently really _feeling_ sorrow for having wounded the feelings of others, those who knew her would not venture to express any sympathy, for, very likely, the next moment _that_ would be turned into ridicule. No confidence could be placed in her.' "A few more facts will be stated respecting the same individual, which I believe are strictly true. Miss W. possessed a fine and well-cultivated mind, great penetration, and a tact at discriminating character rarely equaled. She could, if she chose, impart a charm to her conversation that would interest and even fascinate those who listened to it; still, she was not beloved. Weaknesses and foibles met with unmerciful severity, and well-meaning intentions and kind actions did not always escape without the keen sarcasm which it is so difficult for the best regulated mind to bear unmoved. The mild and gentle seemed to shrink from her; and thus she, who might have been the bright and beloved ornament of the circle in which she moved, was regarded with distrust, fear, and even hatred. This dangerous habit of making satirical remarks was evinced in childhood; it was cherished; it 'grew with her growth, and strengthened with her strength,' until she became what I have described. LAURA." Though such a satirical spirit is justly condemned, a little good-humored raillery may sometimes be allowed as a mode of attacking faults in school which can not be reached by graver methods. The teacher must not be surprised if some things connected with his own administration come in sometimes for a share. VARIETY. "I was walking out a few days since, and not being particularly in haste, I concluded to visit a certain school for an hour or two. In a few minutes after I had seated myself on the sofa, the '_Study Card_' was dropped, and the general noise and confusion indicated that recess had arrived. A line of military characters, bearing the title of the 'Freedom's Band,' was soon called out, headed by one of their own number. The tune chosen to guide them was Kendall's March. "'Please to form a regular line,' said the lady commander. 'Remember that there is to be no speaking in the ranks. Do not begin to step until I strike the bell. Miss B., I requested you not to step until I gave the signal.' "Presently the command was given, and the whole line _stepped_ for a few minutes to all intents and purposes. Again the bell sounded. 'Some of you have lost the step,' said the general. 'Look at me, and begin again. Left! right! left! right!' The line was once more in order, and I observed a new army on the opposite side of the room, performing the same manoeuvres, always to the tune of 'Kendall's March.' After a time the recess closed, and order was again restored. In about half an hour I approached a class which was reciting behind the railing. 'Miss A.,' said a teacher, 'how many kinds of magnitude are there?' _Miss A._ (Answer inaudible.) _Several voices._ 'We can't hear.' _Teacher._ 'Will you try to speak a little louder, Miss A.?" "Some of the class at length seemed _to guess_ the meaning of the young lady, but _I_ was unable to do even that until the answer was repeated by the teacher. Finding that I should derive little instruction from the recitation, I returned to the sofa. "In a short time the _propositions_ were read. 'Proposed, that the committee be impeached for not providing suitable pens.' 'Lost, a pencil, with a piece of India-rubber attached to it by a blue ribbon,' &c., &c. "Recess was again announced, and the lines commenced their evolutions to the tune of 'Kendall's March.' Thought I, 'Oh that there were a new tune under the sun!' "Before the close of school some compositions were read. One was entitled 'The Magic King,' and commenced, 'As I was sitting alone last evening, I heard a gentle tap on the door, and immediately a beautiful fairy appeared before me. She placed a ring on my finger, and left me.' The next began, 'It is my week to write composition, but I do not know what to say. However, I must write something, so it shall be a dialogue.' Another was entitled the 'Magical Shoe,' and contained a marvelous narration of adventures made in a pair of shoes more valuable than the far-famed 'seven-league boots.' A fourth began, 'Are you acquainted with that new scholar?' 'No; but I don't believe I shall like her.' And soon the 'Magical Thimble,' the 'Magical Eye-glass,' &c., were read in succession, until I could not but exclaim, 'How pleasing is variety!' School was at length closed, and the young ladies again attacked the piano. 'Oh,' repeated I to myself, '_how pleasing is variety!_ as I left the room to the tune of Kendall's March." By means like these, and others similar to them, it will not be difficult for any teacher to obtain so far an ascendency over the minds of his pupils as to secure an overwhelming majority in favor of good order and co-operation with him in his plans for elevating the character of the school. But let it be distinctly understood that this, and this only, has been the object of this chapter thus far. The first point brought up was the desirableness of making at first a favorable impression; the second, the necessity of taking general views of the condition of the school, and aiming to improve it in the mass, and not merely to rebuke or punish accidental faults; and the third, the importance and the means of gaining a general influence and ascendency over the minds of the pupils. But, though an overwhelming majority can be reached by such methods as these, all can not. We must have the majority secured, however, in order to enable us to reach and to reduce the others. But to this work we must come at last. 4. I am, therefore, now to consider, under a fourth general head, what course is to be taken with _individual_ offenders whom the general influences of the school-room will not control. The teacher must always expect that there will be such cases. They are always to be found in the best and most skillfully-managed schools. The following suggestions will perhaps assist the teacher in dealing with them. (1.) The first point to be attended to is to ascertain who they are. Not by appearing suspiciously to watch any individuals, for this would be almost sufficient to make them bad, if they were not so before. Observe, however; notice, from day to day, the conduct of individuals, not for the purpose of reproving or punishing their faults, but to enable you to understand their characters. This work will often require great adroitness and very close scrutiny, and you will find, as the results of it, a considerable variety of character, which the general influences above described will not be sufficient to control. The number of individuals will not be great, but the diversity of character comprised in it will be such as to call into exercise all your powers of vigilance and discrimination. On one seat you will find a coarse, rough-looking boy, who openly disobeys your commands and opposes your wishes while in school, and makes himself a continual source of trouble and annoyance during play-hours by bullying and hectoring every gentle and timid schoolmate. On another sits a more sly rogue, whose demure and submissive look is assumed to conceal a mischief-making disposition. Here is one whose giddy spirit is always leading him into difficulty, but who is of so open and frank a disposition that you will most easily lead him back to duty; but there is another who, when reproved, will fly into a passion; and then a third, who will stand sullen and silent before you when he has done wrong, and is not to be touched by kindness nor awed by authority. [Illustration] Now all these characters must be studied. It is true that the caution given in a preceding part of this chapter, against devoting undue and disproportionate attention to such persons, must not be forgotten. Still, these individuals will require, and it is right that they should receive, a far greater degree of attention, so far as the moral administration of the school is concerned, than their mere numbers would appear to justify. This is the field in which the teacher is to study human nature, for here it shows itself without disguise. It is through this class, too, that a very powerful moral influence is to be exerted upon the rest of the school. The manner in which such individuals are managed, the tone the teacher assumes toward them, the gentleness with which he speaks of their faults, and the unbending decision with which he restrains them from wrong, will have a most powerful effect upon the rest of the school. That he may occupy this field, therefore, to the best advantage, it is necessary that he should first thoroughly explore it. By understanding the dispositions and characters of such a class of pupils as I have described, I do not mean merely watching them with vigilance in school, so that none of their transgressions shall go unobserved and unpunished. I intend a far deeper and more thorough examination of character. Every boy has something or other which is good in his disposition and character which he is aware of, and on which he prides himself; find out what it is, for it may often be made the foundation on which you may build the superstructure of reform. Every one has his peculiar sources of enjoyment and objects of pursuit, which are before his mind from day to day. Find out what they are, that by taking an interest in what interests him, and perhaps sometimes assisting him in his plans, you can bind him to you. Every boy is, from the circumstances in which he is placed at home, exposed to temptations which have perhaps had far greater influence in the formation of his character than any deliberate and intentional depravity of his own; ascertain what these temptations are, that you may know where to pity him and where to blame. The knowledge which such an examination of character will give you, will not be confined to making you acquainted with the individual. It will be the most valuable knowledge which a man can possess, both to assist him in the general administration of the school and in his intercourse among mankind in the business of life. Men are but boys, only with somewhat loftier objects of pursuit. Their principles, motives, and ruling passions are essentially the same. Extended commercial speculations are, so far as the human heart is concerned, substantially what trading in jack-knives and toys is at school, and building a snow fort, to its own architects, the same as erecting a monument of marble. (2.) After exploring the ground, the first thing to be done as a preparation for reforming individual character in school is to secure the personal attachment of the individuals to be reformed. This must not be attempted by professions and affected smiles, and still less by that sort of obsequiousness, common in such cases, which produces no effect but to make the bad boy suppose that his teacher is afraid of him; which, by the way, is, in fact, in such cases, usually true. Approach the pupil in a bold and manly, but frank and pleasant manner. Approach him as his superior, but still as his friend; desirous to make him happy, not merely to obtain his good-will. And the best way to secure these appearances is just to secure the reality. Actually be the boy's friend. Really desire to make him happy--happy, too, in his own way, not in yours. Feel that you are his superior, and that you must and will enforce obedience; but with this, feel that probably obedience will be rendered without any contest. If these are really the feelings which reign within you, the boy will see it, and they will exert a strong influence over him; but you can not counterfeit appearances. A most effectual way to secure the good-will of a scholar is to ask him to assist you. The Creator has so formed the human heart that doing good must be a source of pleasure, and he who tastes this pleasure once will almost always wish to taste it again. To do good to any individual creates or increases the desire to do it. There is a boy in your school who is famous for his skill in making whistles from the green branches of the poplar. He is a bad boy, and likes to turn his ingenuity to purposes of mischief. You observe him some day in school, when he thinks your attention is engaged in another way, blowing softly upon one which he has concealed in his desk for the purpose of amusing his neighbors without attracting the attention of the teacher. Now there are two remedies. Will you try the physical one? Then call him out into the floor, inflict painful punishment, and send him smarting to his seat, with his heart full of anger and revenge, to plot some new and less dangerous scheme of annoyance. Will you try the moral one? Then wait till the recess, and while he is out at his play, send a message out by another boy, saying that you have heard he is very skillful in making whistles, and asking him to make one for you to carry home to a little child at your boarding-house. What would, in ordinary cases, be the effect? It would certainly be a very simple application, but its effect would be to open an entirely new train of thought and feeling for the boy. "What!" he would say to himself, while at work on his task, "give the master _pleasure_ by making whistles! Who would have conceived of it? I never thought of any thing but giving him trouble and pain. I wonder who told him I could make whistles?" He would find, too, that the new enjoyment was far higher and purer than the old, and would have little disposition to return to the latter. I do not mean by this illustration that such a measure as this would be the only notice that ought to be taken of such an act of willful disturbance in school. Probably it would not. What measures in direct reference to the fault committed would be necessary would depend upon the circumstances of the case. It is not necessary to our purpose that they should be described here. The teacher can awaken in the hearts of his pupils a personal attachment for him by asking in various ways their assistance in school, and then appearing honestly gratified with the assistance rendered. Boys and girls are delighted to have what powers and attainments they possess brought out into action, especially where they can lead to useful results. They love to be of some consequence in the world, and will be especially gratified to be able to assist their teacher. Even if the studies of a turbulent boy are occasionally interrupted for half an hour, that he might help you arrange papers, or rule books, or distribute exercises, it will be time well spent. Get him to co-operate with you in any thing, and he will feel how much more pleasant it is to co-operate than to thwart and oppose; and, by judicious measures of this kind, almost any boy may be brought over to your side. Another means of securing the personal attachment of boys is to notice them, to take an interest in their pursuits, and the qualities and powers which they value in one another. It is astonishing what an influence is exerted by such little circumstances as stopping at a play-ground a moment to notice with interest, though perhaps without saying a word, speed of running, or exactness of aim, the force with which a ball is struck, or the dexterity with which it is caught or thrown. The teacher must, indeed, in all his intercourse with his pupils, never forget his station, nor allow them to lay aside the respect, without which authority can not be maintained. But he may be, notwithstanding this, on the most intimate and familiar footing with them all. He may take a strong and open interest in all their enjoyments, and thus awaken on their part a personal attachment to himself, which will exert over them a constant and powerful control. (3.) The efforts described under the last head for gaining a personal influence over those who, from their disposition and character, are most in danger of doing wrong, will not be sufficient entirely to prevent transgression. Cases of deliberate, intentional wrong will occur, and the question will rise, What is the duty of the teacher in such an emergency? When such cases occur, the course to be taken is, first of all, to come to a distinct understanding on the subject with the guilty individual. Think of the case calmly, until you have obtained just and clear ideas of it. Endeavor to understand precisely in what the guilt of it consists. Notice every palliating circumstance, and take as favorable a view of the thing as you can, while, at the same time, you fix most firmly in your mind the determination to put a stop to it. Then go to the individual, and lay the subject before him, for the purpose of understanding distinctly from his own lips what he intends to do. I can, however, as usual, explain more fully what I mean by describing a particular case, substantially true. The teacher of a school observed himself, and learned from several quarters, that a certain boy was in the habit of causing disturbance during time of prayer, at the opening and close of school, by whispering, playing, making gestures to the other boys, and throwing things about from seat to seat. The teacher's first step was to speak of the subject generally before the whole school, not alluding, however, to any particular instance which had come under his notice. These general remarks produced, as he expected, but little effect. He waited for some days, and the difficulty still continued. Had the irregularity been very great, it would have been necessary to have taken more immediate measures, but he thought the case admitted of a little delay. In the mean time, he took pains to cultivate the acquaintance of the boy, to discover, and to show that he noticed, what was good in his character and conduct, occasionally to ask some assistance from him, and thus to gain some personal ascendency over him. One day, when every thing had gone smoothly and prosperously, the teacher told the boy, at the close of the school, that he wished to talk with him a little, and asked him to walk home with him. It was not uncommon for the teacher to associate thus with his pupils out of school, and this request, accordingly, attracted no special attention. On the walk the teacher thus accosted the criminal: "Do you like frank, open dealing, James?" James hesitated a moment, and then answered, faintly, "Yes, sir." "Most boys do, and I do, and I supposed that you would prefer being treated in that way. Do you?" "Yes, sir." "Well, I am going to tell you of one of your faults. I have asked you to walk with me, because I supposed it would be more agreeable for you to have me see you privately than to bring it up in school." James said it would be more agreeable. "Well, the fault is being disorderly at prayer-time. Now, if you like frank and open dealing, and are willing to deal so with me, I should like to talk with you a little about it, but if you are not willing, I will dismiss the subject. I do not wish to talk with you now about it unless you yourself desire it; but if we talk at all, we must both be open, and honest, and sincere. Now, should you rather have me talk with you or not?" "Yes, sir, I should rather have you talk with me now than in school." The teacher then described his conduct in a mild manner, using the style of simple narration, admitting no harsh epithets, no terms of reproach. The boy was surprised, for he supposed that he had not been noticed. He thought, perhaps, that he should have been punished if he had been observed. The teacher said, in conclusion, "Now, James, I do not suppose you have done this from any designed irreverence toward God, or deliberate intention of giving me trouble and pain. You have several times lately assisted me in various ways, and I know, from the cheerful manner with which you comply with my wishes, that your prevailing desire is to give me pleasure, not pain. You have fallen into this practice through thoughtlessness, but that does not alter the character of the sin. To do so is a great sin against God, and a great offense against good order in school. You see, yourself, that my duty to the school will require me to adopt the most decided measures to prevent the continuance and the spread of such a practice. I should be imperiously bound to do it, even if the individual was the very best friend I had in school, and if the measures necessary should bring upon him great disgrace and suffering. Do you not think it would be so?" "Yes, sir," said James, seriously, "I suppose it would." "I wish to remove the evil, however, in the pleasantest way. Do you remember my speaking on this subject in school the other day?" "Yes, sir." "Well, my object in what I said then was almost entirely to persuade you to reform without having to speak to you directly. I thought it would be pleasanter to you to be reminded of your duty in that way. But I do not think it did you much good. Did it?" "I don't think I have played _so much_ since then." "Nor I. You have improved a little, but you have not decidedly and thoroughly reformed. So I was obliged to take the next step which would be least unpleasant to you, that is, talking with you alone. Now you told me when we began that you would deal honestly and sincerely with me, if I would with you. I have been honest and open. I have told you all about it so far as I am concerned. Now I wish you to be honest, and tell me what you are going to do. If you think, from this conversation, that you have done wrong, and if you are fully determined to do so no more, and to break off at once, and forever, from this practice, I should like to have you tell me, and then the whole thing will be settled. On the other hand, if you feel about it pretty much as you have done, I should like to have you tell me that too, honestly and frankly, that we may have a distinct understanding, and that I may be considering what to do next. I shall not be offended with you for giving me either of these answers, but be sure that you are honest; you promised to be so." The boy looked up in his master's face, and said, with great earnestness, "Mr T. I _will_ do better. I _will not_ trouble you any more." I have detailed this case thus particularly because it exhibits clearly what I mean by going directly and frankly to the individual, and coming at once to a full understanding. In nine cases out of ten this course will be effectual. For four years, with a very large school, I found this sufficient in every case of discipline which occurred, except in three or four instances, where something more was required. To make it successful, however, the work must be done properly. Several things are necessary. It must be deliberate; generally better after a little delay. It must be indulgent, so far as the view which the teacher takes of the guilt of the pupil is concerned; every palliating consideration must be felt. It must be firm and decided in regard to the necessity of a change, and the determination of the teacher to effect it. It must also be open and frank; no insinuations, no hints, no surmises, but plain, honest, open dealing. In many cases the communication may be made most delicately and most successfully in writing. The more delicately you touch the feelings of your pupils, the more tender these feelings will become. Many a teacher hardens and stupefies the moral sense of his pupils by the harsh and rough exposures to which he drags out the private feelings of the heart. A man may easily produce such a state of feeling in his schoolroom, that to address even the gentlest reproof to any individual, in the hearing of the next, would be a most severe punishment; and, on the other hand, he may so destroy that sensitiveness that his vociferated reproaches will be as unheeded as the idle wind. If, now, the teacher has taken the course recommended in this chapter--if he has, by his general influence in the school, done all in his power to bring the majority of his pupils to the side of order and discipline--if he has then studied, attentively and impartially, the characters of those who can not thus be led--if he has endeavored to make them his friends, and to acquire, by every means, a personal influence over them--if, finally, when they do wrong, he goes plainly, but in a gentle and delicate manner, to them, and lays before them the whole case--if he has done all this, he has gone as far as moral influence will carry him. My opinion is, that this course, faithfully and judiciously pursued, will, in almost all instances, succeed; but it will not in all; and where it fails, there must be other, and more vigorous and decided measures. What these measures of restraint or punishment shall be must depend upon the circumstances of the case; but in resorting to them, the teacher must be decided and unbending. The course above recommended is not trying lax and inefficient measures for a long time in hopes of their being ultimately successful, and then, when they are found not to be so, changing the policy. There should be, through the whole, the tone and manner of _authority_, not of _persuasion_. The teacher must be a _monarch_, and, while he is gentle and forbearing, always looking on the favorable side of conduct so far as guilt is concerned; he must have an eagle eye and an efficient hand, so far as relates to arresting the evil and stopping the consequences. He may slowly and cautiously, and even tenderly, approach a delinquent. He may be several days in gathering around him the circumstances of which he is ultimately to avail himself in bringing him to submission; but, while he proceeds thus slowly and tenderly, he must come with the air of authority and power. The fact that the teacher bases all his plans on the idea of his ultimate authority in every case may be perfectly evident to all the pupils, while he proceeds with moderation and gentleness in all his specific measures. Let it be seen, then, that the constitution of your school is a monarchy, absolute and unlimited; but let it also be seen that the one who holds the power is himself under the control of moral principle in all that he does, and that he endeavors to make the same moral principle which guides him go as far as it is possible to make it go in the government of his subjects. CHAPTER V. RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE. [Illustration] In consequence of the unexampled religious freedom possessed in this country, for which it is happily distinguished above all other countries on the face of the earth, there necessarily results a vast variety of religious sentiment and action. We can not enjoy the blessings without the inconveniences of freedom. Where every man is allowed to believe as he pleases, some will, undoubtedly, believe wrong, and others will be divided, by embracing views of a subject which are different, though perhaps equally consistent with truth. Hence we have among us every shade and every variety of religious opinion, and, in many cases, contention and strife, resulting from hopeless efforts to produce uniformity. A stranger who should come among us would suppose, from the tone of our religious journals, and from the general aspect of society on the subject of religion, that the whole community was divided into a thousand contending sects, who hold nothing in common, and whose sole objects are the annoyance and destruction of each other. But if we leave out of view some hundreds, or, if you please, some thousands of theological controversialists who manage the public discussions, and say and do all that really comes before the public on this subject, it will be found that there is vastly more religious truth admitted by common consent among the people of New England than is generally supposed. This common ground I shall endeavor briefly to describe; for it is very plain that the teacher must, in ordinary cases, confine himself to it. By common consent, however, I do not mean the consent of every body; I mean that of the great majority of serious, thinking men. But let us examine first, for a moment, what right any member of the community has to express and to disseminate his opinions with a view to the inquiry whether the teacher is really bound to confine himself to what he can do on this subject with the common consent of his employers. The various monarchical nations of Europe have been for many years, as is well known, strongly agitated with questions of politics. It is with difficulty that public tranquillity is preserved. Every man takes sides. Now, in this state of things, a wealthy gentleman residing in one of these countries is opposed to the revolutionary projects so constantly growing up there, and being, both from principle and feeling, strongly attached to monarchical government, wishes to bring up his children with the same feelings which he himself cherishes. He has a right to do so. No matter if his opinions are wrong. He ought, it will be generally supposed in this country, to be republican. I suppose him to adopt opinions which will generally, by my readers, be considered wrong, that I may bring more distinctly to view the right he has to educate his children as _he thinks_ it proper that they should be educated. He may be wrong to _form_ such opinions; but the opinions once formed, he has a right, with which no human power can justly interfere, to educate his children in conformity with those opinions. It is alike the law of God and nature that the father should control, as he alone is responsible, the education of his child. Now, under these circumstances, he employs an American mechanic, who is residing in Paris, to come to his house and teach his children the use of the lathe. After some time he comes into their little work-shop, and is astonished to find the lathe standing still, and the boys gathered round the Republican turner, who is relating to them stories of the tyranny of kings, the happiness of republicans, and the glory of war. The parent remonstrates. The mechanic defends himself. "I am a Republican," he says, "upon principle, and wherever I go I must exert all the influence in my power to promote free principles, and to expose the usurpations and the tyranny of kings." To this the monarchist might very properly reply, "In your efforts to promote your principles, you are limited, or you ought to be limited, to modes that are proper and honorable. I employ you for a distinct and specific purpose, which has nothing to do with questions of government, and you ought not to allow your love of republican principles to lead you to take advantage of the position in which I place you, and interfere with my plans for the political education of my children." Now for the parallel case. A member of a Congregational society is employed to teach a school in a district occupied exclusively by Friends--a case not uncommon. He is employed there, not as a religious teacher, but for another specific and well-defined object. It is for the purpose of teaching the children of that district _reading, writing,_ and _calculation_, and for such other purposes analogous to this as the law providing for the establishment of district schools contemplated. Now, when he is placed in such a situation, with such a trust confided to him, and such duties to discharge, it is not right for him to make use of the influence which this official station gives him over the minds of the children committed to his care for the accomplishment of _any other purposes whatever_ which the parents would disapprove. It would not be considered right by men of the world to attempt to accomplish any other purposes in such a case; and are the pure and holy principles of piety to be extended by methods more exceptionable than those by which political and party contests are managed? There is a very great and obvious distinction between the general influence which the teacher exerts as a member of the community and that which he can employ in his school-room as teacher. He has unquestionably a right to exert _upon the community, by such means as he shares in common with every other citizen_, as much influence as he can command for the dissemination of his own political, or religious, or scientific opinions. But the strong ascendency which, in consequence of his official station, he has obtained over the minds of his pupils, is sacred. He has no right to use it for any purpose _foreign to the specific objects_ for which he is employed, unless _by the consent, expressed or implied_, of those by whom he is intrusted with his charge. The parents who send their children to him to be taught to read, to write, and to calculate, may have erroneous views of their duty as parents in other respects. He _may know_ that their views are erroneous. They may be taking a, course which the teacher _knows_ is wrong. But he has not, on this account, a right to step in between the parent and child, to guide the latter according to his own opinions, and to violate the wishes and thwart the plans of the former. God has constituted the relation between the parent and the child, and according to any view which a rational man can take of this relation, the parent is alone responsible for the guidance he gives to that mind, so entirely in his power. He is responsible to God; and where our opinions in regard to the manner in which any of the duties arising from the relation are to be performed, differ from his, we have no right to interfere, without his consent, to rectify what we thus imagine to be wrong. I know of but one exception which any man whatever would be inclined to make to this principle, and that is where the parent would, if left to himself, take such a course as would ultimately make his children _unsafe members of society._ The _community_ have a right to interfere in such a case, as they in fact do by requiring every man to provide for the instruction of his children, and in some other ways which need not now be specified. Beyond this, however, no interference contrary to the parent's consent is justifiable. Where parents will do wrong, notwithstanding any persuasions which we can address to them, we must not violate the principles of an arrangement which God has himself made, but must submit patiently to the awful consequences which will in some cases occur, reflecting that the responsibility for these consequences is on the head of those who neglect their duty, and that the being who makes them liable will settle the account. Whatever, then, the teacher attempts to do beyond the _specific_ and _defined_ duties which are included among the objects for which he is employed, must be done _by permission_--by the voluntary consent, whether tacit or openly expressed, of those by whom he is employed. This, of course, confines him to what is generally common ground among his particular employers. In a republican country, where all his patrons are republican, he may, without impropriety, explain and commend to his pupils, as occasion may occur, the principles of free governments, and the blessings which may be expected to flow from them. But it would not be justifiable for him to do this under a monarchy, or in a community divided in regard to this subject, because this question does not come within the objects for the promotion of which his patrons have associated and employed him, and consequently he has no right, while continuing their teacher, to go into it without their consent. In the same manner, an Episcopal teacher, in a private school formed and supported by Episcopalians, may use and commend forms of prayer, and explain the various usages of that church, exhibiting their excellence, and their adaptation to the purposes for which they are intended. He may properly do this, because, in the case supposed, the patrons of the school are _united_ on this subject, and their _tacit consent_ may be supposed to be given. But place the same teacher over a school of Friends, whose parents dislike forms and ceremonies of every kind in religion, and his duty would be changed altogether. So, if a Roman Catholic is intrusted with the instruction of a common district school in a community composed of many Protestant denominations, it would be plainly his duty to avoid all influence, direct or indirect, over the minds of his pupils, except in those religious sentiments and opinions which are common to himself and all his employers. I repeat the principle. _He is employed for a specific purpose, and he has no right to wander from that purpose, except as far as he can go with the common consent of his employers._ Now the common ground on religious subjects in this country is very broad. There are, indeed, many principles which are, in my view, essential parts of Christianity, which are subjects of active discussion among us. But, setting these aside, there are other principles equally essential, in regard to which the whole community are agreed; or, at least, if there is a dissenting minority, it is so small that it is hardly to be considered. Let us look at some of these principles. 1. Our community is agreed that _there is a God._ There is probably not a school in our country where the parents of the scholars would not wish to have the teacher, in his conversation with his pupils, take this for granted, and allude reverently to that great Being, with the design of leading them to realize his existence and to feel his authority. 2. Our community are agreed that _we are responsible to God for all our conduct._ Though some persons absurdly pretend to believe that the Being who formed this world, if, indeed, they think there is any such Being, has left it and its inhabitants to themselves, not inspecting their conduct, and never intending to call them to account, they are too few among us to need consideration. A difference of opinion on this subject might embarrass the teacher in France, and in other countries in Europe, but not here. However negligent men may be in _obeying_ God's commands, they do almost universally in our country admit in theory the authority from which they come, and believing this, the parent, even if he is aware that he himself does not obey these commands, chooses to have his children taught to respect them. The teacher will thus be acting with the consent of his employers, in almost any part of our country, in endeavoring to influence his pupils to perform moral duties, not merely from worldly motives, nor from mere abstract principles of right and wrong, but _from regard to the authority of God._ 3. The community are agreed, too, in the belief of _the immortality of the soul._ They believe, almost without exception, that there is a future state of being to which this is introductory and preparatory, and almost every father and mother in our country wish to have their children keep this in mind, and to be influenced by it in all their conduct. 4. The community are agreed that _we have a revelation from Heaven._ I believe there are very few instances where the parents would not be glad to have the Bible read from time to time, its geographical and historical meanings illustrated, and its moral lessons brought to bear upon the hearts and lives of their children. Of course, if the teacher is so unwise as to make such a privilege, if it were allowed him, the occasion of exerting an influence upon one side or the other of some question which divides the community around him, he must expect to excite jealousy and distrust, and to be excluded from a privilege which he might otherwise have been permitted freely to enjoy. There may, alas! be some cases where the use of the Scriptures is altogether forbidden in school; but probably in almost every such case it would be found that it is from fear of its perversion to sect or party purposes, and not from any unwillingness to have the Bible used in the way I have described. 5. The community are agreed, in theory, that _personal attachment to the Supreme Being is the duty of every human soul;_ and every parent, with exceptions so few that they are not worth naming, wishes that his children should cherish that affection, and yield their hearts to its influence. He is willing, therefore, that the teacher, of course without interfering with the regular duties for the performance of which he holds his office, should, from time to time, so speak of this duty, of God's goodness to men, of his daily protection and his promised favors, as to awaken, if possible, this attachment in the hearts of his children. Of course, it is very easy for the teacher, if he is so disposed, to abuse this privilege also. He can, under pretense of awakening and cherishing the spirit of piety in the hearts of his pupils, present the subject in such aspects and relations as to arouse the sectarian or denominational feelings of some of his employers; but I believe, if this was honestly and fully avoided, there are few, if any parents in our country who would not be gratified to have the great principle of love to God manifest itself in the instructions of the school-room, and showing itself, by its genuine indications, in the hearts and conduct of their children. 6. The community are agreed not only in believing that piety consists primarily in love to God, but that _the life of piety is to be commenced by penitence for past sins, and forgiveness, in some way or other, through a Savior._ I am aware that one class of theological writers, in the heat of controversy, charge the other with believing that Jesus Christ was nothing more nor less than a teacher of religion, and there are unquestionably individuals who take this view. But these individuals are few. There are very few in our community who do not in some sense look upon Jesus Christ as our _Savior_--our Redeemer; who do not feel themselves _in some way_ indebted to him for the offer of pardon. There may be here and there a theological student, or a contributor to the columns of a polemical magazine, who ranks Jesus Christ with Moses and with Paul. But the great mass of the fathers and mothers, of every name and denomination through all the ranks of society, look up to the Savior of sinners with something at least of the feeling that he is the object of extraordinary affection and reverence. I am aware, however, that I am approaching the limit which, in many parts of our country, ought to bound the religious influence of the teacher in a public school, and on this subject, as on every other, he ought to do nothing directly or indirectly which would be displeasing to those who have intrusted children to his care. So much ground, it seems, the teacher may occupy, by common consent, in this country, and it certainly is a great deal. It may be doubted whether, after all our disputes, there is a country in the world whose inhabitants have so much in common in regard to religious belief. There is, perhaps, no country in the world where the teacher may be allowed to do so much toward leading his pupils to fear God and to obey his commands, with the cordial consent of parents, as he can here.[3] [Footnote 3: In speaking of this common ground, and in commenting upon it, I wish not to be understood that I consider these truths as comprising all that is essential in Christianity. Very far from it. A full expression of the Christian faith would go far in advance of all here presented. We must not confound, however, what is essential to prepare the way for the forgiveness of sin with what is essential that a child should understand in order to secure his penitence and forgiveness. The former is a great deal, the latter very little.] The ground which I have been laying out is common all over our country; in particular places there will be even much more that is common. Of course the teacher, in such cases, will be at much greater liberty. If a Roman Catholic community establish a school, and appoint a Roman Catholic teacher, he may properly, in his intercourse with his scholars, allude, with commendation, to the opinions and practices of that church. If a college is established by the Methodist denomination, the teacher of that institution may, of course, explain and enforce there the views of that society. Each teacher is confined only to _those views which are common to the founders and supporters of the particular institution to which he is attached._ I trust the principle which I have been attempting to enforce is fully before the reader's mind, namely, that moral and religious instruction in a school being in a great degree extra-official in its nature, must be carried no farther than the teacher can go with the common consent, either expressed or implied, of those who have founded, and who support his school. Of course, if those founders forbid it altogether, they have a right to do so, and the teacher must submit. The only question that can justly arise is whether he will remain in such a situation, or go and seek employment where a door of usefulness, here closed against him, will be opened. While he remains, he must honestly and fully submit to the wishes of those in whose hands Providence has placed the ultimate responsibility of training up the children of his school. It is only for a partial and specific purpose that they are placed under his care. The religious reader may inquire why I am so anxious to restrain, rather than to urge on, the exercise of religious influence in schools. "There is far too little," some one will say, "instead of too much, and teachers need to be encouraged and led on in this duty, not to be restrained from it." There is, indeed, far too little religious influence exerted in common schools. What I have said has been intended to prepare the way for an increase of it. My view of it is this: If teachers do universally confine themselves to the limits which I have been attempting to define, they may accomplish within these limits a vast amount of good. By attempting, however, to exceed them, the confidence of parents is destroyed or weakened, and the door is closed. In this way, injury to a very great extent has been done in many parts of our country. Parents are led to associate with the very idea of religion, indirect and perhaps secret efforts to influence their children in a way which they themselves would disapprove. They transfer to the cause of piety itself the dislike which was first awakened by exceptionable means to promote it; and other teachers, seeing these evil effects, are deterred from attempting what they might easily have accomplished. Before, therefore, attempting to enforce the duty and to explain the methods of exerting religious influence in school, I thought proper distinctly to state with what restrictions and within what limits the work is to be done. There are many teachers who profess to cherish the spirit and to entertain the hopes of piety, who yet make no effort whatever to extend its influence to the hearts of their pupils. Others appeal sometimes to religious truth merely to assist them in the government of the school. They perhaps bring it before the minds of disobedient pupils in a vain effort to make an impression upon the conscience of one who has done wrong, and who can not by other means be brought to submission. But the pupil in such cases understands, or at least he believes, that the teacher applies to religious truth only to eke out his own authority, and of course it produces no effect. Another teacher thinks he must, to discharge his duty, give a certain amount, weekly, of what he considers religious instruction. Pie accordingly appropriates a regular portion of time to a formal lecture or exhortation, which he delivers without regard to the mental habits of thought and feeling which prevail among his charge. He forgets that the heart must be led, not driven to piety, and that unless his efforts are adapted to the nature of the minds he is acting upon, and suited to influence them, he must as certainly fail of success as when there is a want of adaptedness between the means and the end in any other undertaking whatever. The arrangement which seems to me as well calculated as any for the religious exercises of a school is this: 1. In the morning, open the school with a very short prayer, resembling in its object and length the opening prayer in the morning at Congregational churches. The posture which, from some considerable experience, I would recommend at this exercise, is sitting with the head reclined upon the desk. The prayer, besides being short, should be simple in its language and specific in its petitions. A degree of particularity and familiarity which would be improper elsewhere is not only allowable here, but necessary to the production of the proper effect. That the reader may understand to what extent I mean to be understood to recommend this, I will subjoin a form, such as in spirit I suppose such a prayer ought to be. "Our Father in Heaven, who hast kindly preserved the pupils and the teacher of this school during the past night, come and grant us a continuance of thy protection and blessing during this day. We can not spend the day prosperously and happily without thee. Come, then, and, be in this school-room during this day, and help us all to be faithful and successful in duty. "Guide the teacher in all that he may do. Give him wisdom, and patience, and faithfulness. May he treat all his pupils with kindness; and if any of them should do any thing that is wrong, wilt thou help him, gently but firmly, to endeavor to bring him back to duty. May he sympathize with the difficulties and trials of all, and promote the present happiness as well as the intellectual progress of all who are committed to his care. "Take care of the pupils too. May they spend the day pleasantly and happily together. Wilt thou, who didst originally give us all our powers, direct and assist us all, this day, in the use and improvement of them. Remove difficulties from our path, and give us all fidelity and patience in every duty. Let no one of us destroy our peace and happiness this day by breaking any of thy commands, or encouraging our companions in sins, or neglecting, in any respect, our duty. We ask all in the name of our great Redeemer. Amen." Of course the prayer of each day will be varied, unless in special cases the teacher prefers to read some form like the above. But let every one be _minute and particular,_ relating especially to school--to school temptations, and trials, and difficulties. Let every one be filled with expressions relating to school, so that it will bear upon every sentence the impression that it is the petition of a teacher and his pupils at the throne of grace. 2. If the pupils can sing, there may be a single verse, or sometimes two verses, of some well-known hymn sung after the prayer at the opening of the school. Teachers will find it much easier to introduce this practice than it would at first be supposed. In almost every school there are enough who can sing to begin, especially if the first experiment is made in a recess, or before or after school; and the beginning once made, the difficulty is over. If but few tunes are sung, a very large proportion of the scholars will soon learn them. 3. Let there be no other regular exercise until the close of the afternoon school. When that hour has arrived, let the teacher devote a very short period, five minutes perhaps, to religious _instruction_, given in various ways. At one time he may explain and illustrate some important truth. At another, read and comment upon a very short portion of Scripture. At another, relate an anecdote or fact which will tend to interest the scholars in the performance of duty. The teacher should be very careful not to imitate on these occasions the formal style of exhortation from the pulpit. Let him use no cant and hackneyed phrases, and never approach the subject of personal piety, or speak of such feelings as penitence for sin, trust in God, and love for the Savior, unless his own heart is really at the time warmed by the emotions which he wishes to awaken in others. Children very easily detect hypocrisy. They know very well when a parent or teacher is talking to them on religious subjects merely as a matter of course for the sake of effect, and such constrained and formal efforts never do any good. Let, then, every thing which you do in reference to this subject be done with proper regard to the character and condition of the youthful mind, and in such a way as shall be calculated to _interest_ as well as to _instruct_. A cold and formal exhortation, or even an apparently earnest one, delivered in a tone of affected solemnity, will produce no good effect. Perhaps I ought not to say it will produce _no_ good effect, for good does sometimes result as a sort of accidental consequence from almost any thing. I mean it will have no effectual _tendency_ to do good. You must vary your method, too, in order to interest your pupils. Watch their countenances when you are addressing them, and see if they look interested. If they do not, be assured that there is something wrong, or at least something ill-judged or inefficient in your manner of explaining the truths which you wish to have produce an effect upon their minds. That you may be prepared to bring moral and religious truths before their minds in the way I have described, your own mind must take a strong interest in this class of truths. You must habituate yourself to look at the moral and religious aspects and relations of all that you see and hear. When you are reading, notice such facts and remember such narratives as you can turn to good account in this way. In the same way, treasure up in your mind such occurrences as may come under your own personal observation when traveling, or when mixing with society. That the spirit and manner of these religious exercises may be the more distinctly understood, I will give some examples. Let us suppose, then, that the hour for closing school has come. The books are laid aside; the room is still; the boys expect the few words which the teacher is accustomed to address to them, and, looking up to him, they listen to hear what he has to say. "You may take your Bibles." The boys, by a simultaneous movement, open their desks, and take from them their copies of the sacred volume. "What is the first book of the New Testament?" "Matthew," they all answer at once. "The second?" "Mark." "The third?" "Luke." "The next?" "John." "The next?" "The Acts." "The next?" Many answer, "Romans." "The next?" A few voices say faintly, and with hesitation, "First of Corinthians." "I perceive your answers become fainter and fainter. Do you know what is the last book of the New Testament?" The boys answer promptly, "Revelations." "Do you know what books are between the Acts and the book of Revelation?" Some say "No, sir;" some begin to enumerate such books as occur to them, and some, perhaps, begin to name them promptly and in their regular order. "I do not mean," interrupts the teacher, "the _names_ of the books, but the _kinds_ of books." The boys hesitate. "They are epistles or letters. Do you know who wrote the letters?" "Paul," "Peter," answer many voices at once. "Yes, there were several writers. Now the point which I wish to bring before you is this; do you know in what order, I mean on what principles, the books are arranged?" "No, sir," is the universal reply. I will tell you. First come all Paul's epistles. If you turn over the leaves of the Testament, you will see that Paul's letters are all put together after the book of the Acts; and what I wish you to notice is, that they are arranged in the _order_ of _their length_. The longest comes first, and then the next, and so on to the shortest, which is the epistle to Philemon. This, of course, comes last--no, I am wrong in saying it is the last of Paul's epistles; there is one more to the Hebrews; and this comes after all the others, for there has been a good deal of dispute whether it was really written by Paul. You will see that his name is not at the beginning of it, as it is in his other epistles: so it was put last. Then comes the Epistle of James. Will you see whether it is longer than any that come after it? The boys, after a minute's examination, answer, "Yes, sir;" "Yes, sir." "What comes next?" "The epistles of Peter." "Yes; and you will see that the longest of Peter's epistles is next in length to that of James's; and, indeed, all his are arranged in the order of their length." "Yes, sir." "What comes next?" "John's." "Yes; and they are arranged in the order of their length. Do you now understand the principle of the arrangement of the epistles?" "Yes, sir." "I should like to have any of you who are interested in it to try to express this principle in a few sentences, on paper, and lay it on my desk to-morrow, and I will read what you write. You will find it very difficult to express it. Now you may lay aside your books. It will be pleasanter for you if you do it silently." Intelligent children will be interested even in so simple a point as this--much more interested than a maturer mind, unacquainted with the peculiarities of children, would suppose. By bringing up from time to time some such literary inquiry as this, they will be led insensibly to regard the Bible as opening a field for interesting intellectual research, and will more easily be led to study it. At another time the teacher spends his five minutes in aiming to accomplish a very different object. I will suppose it to be one of those afternoons when all has gone smoothly and pleasantly in school. There has been nothing to excite strong interest or emotion; and there has been (as every teacher knows there sometimes will be), without any assignable cause which he can perceive, a calm, and quiet, and happy spirit diffused over the minds and countenances of the little assembly. His evening communication should accord with this feeling, and he should make it the occasion to promote those pure and hallowed emotions in which every immortal mind must find its happiness, if it is to enjoy any worth possessing. When all is still, the teacher addresses his pupils as follows: "I have nothing but a simple story to tell you to-night. It is true, and the fact interested me very much when I witnessed it, but I do not know that it will interest you now merely to hear it repeated. It is this: "Last vacation, I was traveling in a remote and thinly-settled country, among the mountains, in another state. I was riding with a gentleman on an almost unfrequented road. Forests were all around us, and the houses were small and very few. "At length, as we were passing an humble and solitary dwelling, the gentleman said to me, 'There is a young woman sick in this house; should you like to go in and see her?' 'Yes, sir,' said I, 'very much. She can have very few visitors, I think, in this lonely place, and if you think she would like to see us, I should like to go.' "We turned our horses toward the door, and as we were riding up, I asked what was the matter with the young woman. "'Consumption,' the gentleman replied; 'and I suppose she will not live long.' "At that moment we dismounted and entered the house. It was a very pleasant summer afternoon, and the door was open. We entered, and were received by an elderly lady, who seemed glad to see us. In one corner of the room was a bed, on which was lying the patient whom we had come to visit. She was pale and thin in her countenance, but there was a very calm and happy expression beaming in her eye. I went up to her bedside, and asked her how she did. "I talked with her some time, and found that she was a Christian. She did not seem to know whether she would get well again or not, and, in fact, she did not appear to care much about it. She was evidently happy then, and she believed that she should continue so. She had been penitent for her sins, and had sought and obtained forgiveness, and enjoyed, in her loneliness, not only the protection of God, but also his presence in her heart, diffusing peace and happiness there. When I came into the house, I said to myself, 'I pity, I am sure, a person who is confined by sickness in this lonely place, with nothing to interest or amuse her;' but when I came out, I said to myself, 'I do not pity her at all.'" Never destroy the effect of such a communication as this by attempting to follow it up with an exhortation, or with general remarks, vainly attempting to strengthen the impression. _Never_, do I say? Perhaps there may be some exceptions. But children are not reached by formal exhortations; their hearts are touched and affected in other ways. Sometimes you must reprove, sometimes you must condemn; but indiscriminate and perpetual harangues about the guilt of impenitence, and earnest entreaties to begin a life of piety, only harden the hearts they are intended to soften, and consequently confirm those who hear them in the habits of sin. In the same way a multitude of other subjects, infinite in number and variety, may be brought before your pupils at stated seasons for religious instruction. It is unnecessary to give any more particular examples, but still it may not be amiss to suggest a few general principles, which ought to guide those who are addressing the young on every subject, and especially on the subject of religion. 1. _Make no effort to simplify language when addressing the young._ Children always observe this, and are always displeased with it, unless they are very young; and it is not necessary. They can understand ordinary language well enough, if the _subject_ is within their comprehension, and treated in a manner adapted to their powers. If you doubt whether children can understand language, tell such a story as this, with ardor of tone and proper gesticulation, to a child only two or three years old: "I saw an enormous dog in the street the other day. He was sauntering along slowly, until he saw a huge piece of meat lying down on the ground. He grasped it instantly between his teeth, and ran away with all speed, until he disappeared around a corner so that I could see him no more." In such a description there is a large number of words which such a child would not understand if they stood alone, but the whole description would be perfectly intelligible. The reason is, the _subject_ is simple; the facts are such as a very little child would be interested in; and the connection of each new word, in almost every instance, explains its meaning. That is the way by which children learn all language. They learn the meaning of words, not by definitions, but by their connection in the sentences in which they hear them; and, by long practice, they acquire an astonishing facility of doing this. It is true they sometimes mistake, but not often, and the teacher of children of almost any age need not be afraid that he shall not be understood. There is no danger from his using the _language_ of men, if his subject, and the manner in which he treats it, and the form and structure of his sentences, are what they ought to be. Of course there may be cases, in fact there often will be cases, where particular words will require special explanation, but they will be comparatively few, and instead of making efforts to avoid them, it will be better to let them come. The pupils will be interested and profited by the explanation. Perhaps some may ask what harm it will do to simplify language when talking to children. "It certainly can do no injury," they may say, "and it diminishes all possibility of being misunderstood." It does injury in at least three ways: (1.) It disgusts the young persons to whom it is addressed, and prevents their being interested in what is said. I once met two children, twelve years of age, who had just returned from hearing a very able discourse, delivered before a number of Sabbath-schools assembled on some public occasion. "How did you like the discourse?" said I. "Very well indeed," they replied; "only," said one of them, smiling, "he talked to us as if we were all little children." Girls and boys, however young, never consider themselves little children, for they can always look down upon some younger than themselves. They are mortified when treated as though they could not understand what is really within the reach of their faculties. They do not like to have their powers underrated, and they are right in this feeling. It is common to all, old and young. (2.) Children are kept back in learning language if their teacher makes effort to _come down,_ as it is called, to their comprehension in the use of words. Notice that I say _in the use of words;_ for, as I shall show presently, it is absolutely necessary to come down to the comprehension of children in some other respects. If, however, in the use of words, those who address children confine themselves to such words as children already understand, how are they to make progress in that most important of all studies, the knowledge of language? Many a mother keeps back her child, in this way, to a degree that is hardly conceivable, thus doing all in her power to perpetuate in the child an ignorance of its mother tongue. Teachers ought to make constant efforts to increase their scholars' stock of words by using new ones from time to time, taking care to explain them when the connection does not do it for them; so that, instead of _coming down_ to the language of childhood, they ought rather to go as far away from it as they can, without leaving their pupils behind them. (3.) But perhaps the greatest evil of this practice is, it satisfies the teacher. He thinks he addresses his pupils in the right manner, and overlooks altogether the real peculiarities in which the power to interest the young depends. He talks to them in simple language, and wonders why they are not interested. He certainly is _plain_ enough. He is vexed with them for not attending to what he says, attributing it to their dullness or regardlessness of all that is useful or good, instead of perceiving that the great difficulty is his own want of skill. These three evils are sufficient to deter the teacher from the practice. 2. Present your subject, not in its _general views_, but in its _minute details_. This is the great secret of interesting the young. Present it in its details and in its practical exemplifications; do this with any subject whatever, and children will always be interested. To illustrate this, let us suppose two teachers wishing to explain to their pupils the same subject, and taking the following opposite methods of doing it. One, at the close of school, addresses his charge as follows: "The moral character of any action, that is, whether it is right or wrong, depends upon the _motives_ with which it is performed. Men look only at the outward conduct, but God looks at the heart. In order, now, that any action should be pleasing to God, it is necessary it should be performed from the motive of a desire to please him. "Now there are a great many other motives of action which prevail among mankind besides this right one. There is love of praise, love of money, affection for friends, and many others." By the time the teacher has proceeded thus far, he finds, as he looks around the room, that the countenances of his pupils are assuming a listless and inattentive air. One is restless in his seat, evidently paying no attention. Another has reclined his head upon his desk, lost in a reverie, and others are looking round the room at one another, or at the door, restless and impatient, hoping that the dull lecture will soon be over. The other teacher says: "I have thought of an experiment I might try, which would illustrate to you a very important subject. Suppose I should call one of the boys, A, to me, and should say to him, 'I wish you to go to your seat, and transcribe a piece of poetry as handsomely as you can. If it is written as well as you can possibly write it, I will give you a quarter of a dollar. Suppose I say this to him privately, so that none of the rest of the boys can hear, and he goes to take his seat and begins to work. You perceive that I have presented to him a motive to exertion." "Yes, sir," say the boys, all looking with interest at the teacher, wondering how this experiment is going to end. "Well, what would that motive be?" "Money." "The quarter of a dollar." "Love of money," or perhaps other answers, are heard from the various parts of the room. "Yes, love of money it is called. Now suppose I should call another boy, one with whom I was particularly acquainted, and who I should know would make an effort to please me, and should say to him, 'For a particular reason, I want you to copy this poetry'--giving him the same--'I wish you to copy it handsomely, for I wish to send it away, and have not time to copy it myself. Can you do it for me?' "Suppose the boy should say he could, and should take it to his seat and begin, neither of the boys knowing what the other was doing. I should now have offered to this second boy a motive. Would it be the same with the other?" "No, sir." "What was the other?" "Love of money." "What is this?" The boys hesitate. "It might be called," continues the teacher, "friendship. It is the motive of a vast number of the actions which are performed in this world. "Do you think of any other common motive of action besides love of money and friendship?" "Love of honor," says one; "fear," says another. "Yes," continues the teacher, "both these are common motives. I might, to exhibit them, call two more boys, one after the other, and say to the one, 'I will thank you to go and copy this piece of poetry as well as you can. I want to send it to the school committee as a specimen of improvement made in this school.' "To the other I might say, 'You have been a careless boy to-day; you have not got your lessons well. Now take your seat and copy this poetry. Do it carefully. Unless you take pains, and do it as well as you possibly can, I shall punish you severely before you go home.' "How many motives have I got now? Four, I believe." "Yes, sir," say the boys. "Love of money, friendship, love of honor, and fear. We called the first boy A; let us call the others B, C, and D; no, we shall remember better to call them by the name of their motives. We will call the first M, for money; the second, F, for friendship; the third, H, for honor; and the last, F--we have got an F already; what shall we do? On the whole, it is of no consequence; we will have two F's, but we will take care not to confound them. "But there are a great many other motives entirely distinct from these. For example, suppose I should say to a fifth boy, 'Will you copy this piece of poetry? It belongs to one of the little boys in school: he wants a copy of it, and I told him I would try to get some one to copy it for him.' This motive, now, would be benevolence; that is, if the boy who was asked to copy it was not particularly acquainted with the other, and did it chiefly to oblige him. We will call this boy B, for Benevolence. "Now suppose I call a sixth boy, and say to him, 'I have set four or five boys to work copying this piece of poetry; now I wish you to sit down, and see if you can not do it better than any of them. After all are done, I will compare them, and see if yours is not the best.' This would be trying to excite emulation. We must call this boy, then, E. But the time I intended to devote to talking with you on this subject for to-day is expired. Perhaps to-morrow I will take up the subject again." The reader now will observe that the grand peculiarity of the instructions given by this last teacher, as distinguished from those of the first, consists in this, that the parts of the subject are presented _in detail_, and _in particular exemplification._ In the first case, the whole subject was dispatched in a single, general, and comprehensive description; in the latter, it is examined minutely, one point being brought forward at a time. The discussions are enlivened, too, by meeting and removing such little difficulties as will naturally come up in such an investigation. Boys and girls will take an interest in such a lecture; they will regret to have it come to a conclusion, and will give their attention when the subject is again brought forward on the following day. Let us suppose the time for continuing the exercise to have arrived. The teacher resumes the discussion thus: "I was talking to you yesterday about the motives of action. How many had I made?" Some say "Four," some "Five," some "Six." "Can you name any of them?" The boys attempt to recollect them, and they give the names in the order in which they accidentally occur to the various individuals. Of course the words Fear, Emulation, Honor, Friendship, and others, come in confused and irregular sounds from every part of the school-room. "You do not recollect the order," says the teacher, "and it is of no consequence, for the order I named was only accidental. Now to go on with my account: suppose all these boys to sit down and go to writing, each one acting under the impulse of the motive which had been presented to him individually. But, in order to make the supposition answer my purpose, I must add two other cases. I will imagine that one of these boys is called away a few minutes, and leaves his paper on his desk, and that another boy, of an ill-natured and morose disposition, happening to pass by and see his paper, thinks he will sit down and write upon it a few lines, just to tease and vex the one who was called away. We will also suppose that I call another boy to me, who I have reason to believe is a sincere Christian, and say to him, 'Here is a new duty for you to perform this afternoon. This piece of poetry is to be copied; now do it carefully and faithfully. You know that this morning you committed yourself to God's care during the day; now remember that he has been watching you all the time thus far, and that he will be noticing you all the time you are doing this; he will be pleased if you do your duty faithfully.' "The boys thus all go to writing. Now suppose a stranger should come in, and, seeing them all busy, should say to me, "'What are all these boys doing?' "'They are writing.' "'What are they writing?' "'They are writing a piece of poetry.' "'They seem to be very busy; they are very industrious, good boys.' "'Oh no! it is not by any means certain that they are _good_ boys.' "'I mean that they are good boys _now_; that they are doing right at _this time_." '_That_ is not certain; some of them are doing right and some are doing very wrong, though they are all writing the same piece of poetry.' The stranger would perhaps look surprised while I said this, and would ask an explanation, and I might properly reply as follows: 'Whether the boys are at this moment doing right or wrong depends not so much upon what they are doing as upon the feelings of the heart with which they are doing it. I acknowledge that they are all doing the same thing outwardly; they are all writing the same extract, and they are all doing it attentively and carefully, but they are thinking of very different things.' 'What are they thinking of?' 'Do you see that boy?' I might say, pointing to one of them. 'His name is M. He is writing for money. He is saying to himself all the time, "I hope I shall get the quarter of a dollar." He is calculating what he shall buy with it, and every good or bad letter that he makes, he is considering the chance whether he shall succeed or fail in obtaining it.' 'What is the next boy to him thinking of?' 'His name is B. He is copying to oblige a little fellow whom he scarcely knows, and is trying to make his copy handsome, so as to give him pleasure. He is thinking how gratified his schoolmate will be when he receives it, and is forming plans to get acquainted with him. "'Do you see that boy in the back seat? He has maliciously taken another boy's place just to spoil his work. He knows, too, that he is breaking the rules of the school in being out of his place, but he stays notwithstanding, and is delighting himself with thinking how disappointed and sad his schoolmate will be when he comes in and finds his work spoiled by having another handwriting in it, when he was depending on doing it all himself.' "'I see,' the stranger might say by this time, 'that there is a great difference among these boys; have you told me about them all?' "'No,' I might reply, 'there are several others. I will only mention one more. He sits in the middle of the second desk. He is writing carefully, simply because he wishes to do his duty and please God. He thinks that God is present, and loves him, and takes care of him, and he is obedient and grateful in return. I do not mean that he is all the time thinking of God, but love to him is his motive of effort.' "Do you see now, boys, what I mean to teach you by this long supposition?" "Yes, sir." "I presume you do. Perhaps it would be difficult for you to express it in words; I can express it in general terms thus: "_Our characters depend, not on what we do, but on the spirit and motive with which we do it._ What I have been saying throws light upon one important verse in the Bible, which I should like to have read. James, have you a Bible in your desk?" "Yes, sir." "Will you turn to 1 Samuel, xvi., 7, and then rise and read it? Read it loud, so that all the school can hear." James read as follows: "MAN LOOKETH ON THE OUTWARD APPEARANCE, BUT GOD LOOKETH ON THE HEART." This is the way to reach the intellect and the heart of the young. Go _into detail._ Explain truth and duty, not in an abstract form, but exhibit it _in actual and living examples._ (3.) Be very cautious how you bring in the awful sanctions of religion to assist you directly in the discipline of your school. You will derive a most powerful indirect assistance from the influence of religion in the little community which you govern, but this will be through the prevalence of its spirit in the hearts of your pupils, and not from any assistance which you can usually derive from it in managing particular cases of transgression. Many teachers make great mistakes in this respect. A bad boy, who has done something openly and directly subversive of the good order of the school, or the rights of his companions, is called before the master, who thinks that the most powerful weapon to wield against him is the Bible. So, while the trembling culprit stands before him, he administers to him a reproof, which consists of an almost ludicrous mixture of scolding, entreaty, religious instruction, and threatening of punishment. But such an occasion as this is no time to touch a bad boy's heart. He is steeled at such a moment against any thing but mortification and the desire to get out of the hands of the master, and he has an impression that the teacher appeals to religious principles only to assist him to sustain his own authority. Of course, religious truth, at such a time, can make no good impression. There may be exceptions to this rule. There doubtless are. I have found some; and every successful teacher who reads this will probably call to mind some which have occurred in the course of his own experience. I am only speaking of what ought to be the general rule, which is to reserve religious truths for moments of a different character altogether. Bring the principles of the Bible forward when the mind is calm, when the emotions are quieted, and all within is at rest; and in exhibiting them, be actuated, not by a desire to make your duties of government easier, but to promote the real and permanent happiness of your charge. (4.) Do not be eager to draw from your pupils an expression of their personal interest in religious truth. Lay before them, and enforce, by all the means in your power, the principles of Christian duty, but do not converse with them for the purpose of gratifying your curiosity in regard to their piety, or your spiritual pride by counting up the numbers of those who have been led to piety by your influence. Beginning to act from Christian principle is the beginning of a new life, and it may be an interesting subject of inquiry to you to ascertain how many of your pupils have experienced the change; but, in many cases, it would merely gratify curiosity to know. There is no question, too, that, in very many instances, the faint glimmering of religious interest, which would have kindled into a bright flame, is extinguished at once, and perhaps forever, by the rough inquiries of a religious friend. Besides, if you make inquiries, and form a definite opinion of your pupils, they will know that this is your practice, and many a one will repose in the belief that you consider him or her a Christian, and you will thus increase the number, already unfortunately too large, of those who maintain the form and pretenses of piety without its power; whose hearts are filled with self-sufficiency and spiritual pride, and perhaps zeal for the truths and external duties of religion, while the real spirit of piety has no place there. They trust to some imaginary change, long since passed by, and which has proved to be spurious by its failing of its fruits. The best way--in fact, the only way--to guard against this danger, especially with the young, is to show, by your manner of speaking and acting on this subject at all times, that you regard a truly religious life as the only evidence of piety, and that, consequently, however much interest your pupils may apparently take in religious instruction, they can not know, and you can not know, whether Christian principle reigns within them in any other way than by following them through life, and observing how, and with what spirit, the various duties which devolve upon them are performed. There are very many fallacious indications of piety, so fallacious and so plausible that there are very few, even among intelligent Christians, who are not often greatly deceived. "By their fruits ye shall know them," said the Savior; a direction sufficiently plain, one would think, and pointing to a test sufficiently easy to be applied. But it is slow and tedious work to wait for fruits, and we accordingly seek a criterion which will help us quicker to a result. You see your pupil serious and thoughtful. It is well; but it is not proof of piety. You see him deeply interested when you speak of his obligations to his Maker, and the duties he owes to Him. This is well, but it is no proof of piety. You know he reads his Bible daily, and offers his morning and evening prayers. When you speak to him of God's goodness, and of his past ingratitude, his bosom heaves with emotion, and the tear stands in his eye. It is all well. You may hope that he is going to devote his life to the service of God; but you can not know, you can not even believe with any great confidence. These appearances are not piety. They are not conclusive evidences of it. They are only, in the young, faint grounds of hope that the genuine fruits of piety will appear. I am aware that there are many persons so habituated to judging with confidence of the piety of others from some such indications as I have described, that they will think I carry my cautions to the extreme. Perhaps I do; but the Savior said, "By their fruits ye shall know them," and it is safest to follow his direction. By the word "fruits," however, our Savior unquestionably does not mean the mere moral virtues of this life. The fruits to be looked at are the fruits of _piety_, that is, indications of permanent attachment to the Creator, and a desire to obey his commands. We must look for these. There is no objection to your giving particular individuals special instruction adapted to their wants and circumstances. You may do this by writing or in other ways, but do not lead them to make up their minds fully that they are Christians in such a sense as to induce them to feel that the work is done. Let them understand that becoming a Christian is _beginning_ a work, not _finishing_ it. Be cautious how you form an opinion even yourself on the question of the genuineness of their piety. Be content not to know. You will be more faithful and watchful if you consider it uncertain, and they will be more faithful and watchful too. (5.) Bring very fully and frequently before your pupils the practical duties of religion in all their details, especially their duties at home, to their parents, and to their brothers and sisters. Do not, however, allow them to mistake morality for religion. Show them clearly what piety is in its essence, and this you can do most successfully by exhibiting its effects. (6.) Finally, let me insert as the keystone of all that I have been saying in this chapter, be sincere, and ardent, and consistent in your own piety. The whole structure which I have been attempting to build will tumble into ruins without this. Be constantly watchful and careful, not only to maintain intimate communion with God, and to renew it daily in your seasons of retirement, but to guard your conduct. Let piety control and regulate it. Show your pupils that it makes you amiable, patient, forbearing, benevolent in little things as well as in great things, and your example will co-operate with your instructions, and allure your pupils to walk in the paths which you tread. But no clearness and faithfulness in religious teaching will atone for the injury which a bad example will effect. Conduct speaks louder than words, and no persons are more shrewd than the young to discover the hollowness of empty professions, and the heartlessness of mere pretended interest in their good. I am aware that this book may fall into the hands of some who may take little interest in the subject of this chapter. To such I may perhaps owe an apology for having thus fully discussed a topic in which only a part of my readers can be supposed to be interested. My apology is this: It is obvious and unquestionable that we all owe allegiance to the Supreme. It is so obvious and unquestionable as to be entirely beyond the necessity of proof, for it is plain that nothing but such a bond of union can keep the peace among the millions of distinct intelligences with which the creation is filled. It is therefore the plain duty of every man to establish that connection himself and his Maker which the Bible requires, and to do what he can to bring others to the peace and happiness of piety. These truths are so plain that they admit of no discussion and no denial, and it seems to me highly unsafe for any man to neglect or to postpone the performance of the duty which arises from them. A still greater hazard is incurred when such a man, having forty or fifty fellow-beings almost entirely under his influence, leads them, by his example, away from their Maker, and so far that he must, in many cases, hopelessly confirm the separation. With these views, I could not, when writing on the duties of a teacher of the young, refrain from bringing distinctly to view this which has so imperious a claim. CHAPTER VI. THE MOUNT VERNON SCHOOL. Perhaps there is no way by which teachers can, in a given time, do more to acquire a knowledge of their art, and an interest in it, than by visiting each others' schools. It is not always the case that any thing is observed by the visitor which he can directly and wholly introduce into his own school, but what he sees suggests to him modifications or changes, and it gives him, at any rate, renewed strength and resolution in his work to see how similar objects are accomplished, or similar difficulties removed by others. I have often thought that there ought, on this account, to be far greater freedom and frequency in the inter-change of visits than there is. Next, however, to a visit to a school, comes the reading of a vivid description of it. I do not mean a cold, theoretical exposition of the general principles of its management and instruction, for these are essentially the same in all good schools. I mean a minute account of the plans and arrangements by which these general principles are applied. Suppose twenty of the most successful teachers in New England would write such a description, each of his own school, how valuable would be the volume which should contain them! With these views, I have concluded to devote one chapter to the description of a school which was for several years under my care.[4] The account was originally prepared and _printed_, but not published, for the purpose of distribution among the scholars, simply because this seemed to be the easiest and surest method of making them, on their admission to the school, acquainted with its arrangements and plans. It is addressed, therefore, throughout to a pupil, and I preserve its original form, as, by its being addressed to pupils, and intended to influence them, it is an example of the mode of address and the kind of influence recommended in this work. It was chiefly designed for new scholars; a copy of it was presented to each on the day of her admission to the school, and it was made her first duty to read it attentively. [Footnote 4: The author was still connected with this school at the time when this work was written.] The system which it describes is one which gradually grew up in the institution under the writer's care. The school was commenced with a small number of pupils, and without any system or plan whatever, and the one here described was formed insensibly and by slow degrees, through the influence of various and accidental circumstances. I have no idea that it is superior to the plans of government and instruction adopted in many other schools. It is true that there must necessarily be _some_ system in every large institution; but various instructors will fall upon different principles of organization, which will naturally be such as are adapted to the habits of thought and manner of instruction of their respective authors, and consequently each will be best for its own place. While, therefore, some system--some methodical arrangement is necessary in all schools, it is not necessary that it should be the same in all. It is not even desirable that it should be. I consider this plan as only one among a multitude of others, each of which will be successful, not by the power of its intrinsic qualities, but just in proportion to the ability and faithfulness with which it is carried into effect. There may be features of this plan which teachers who may read it may be inclined to adopt. In other cases, suggestions may occur to the mind of the reader, which may modify in some degree his present plans. Others may merely be interested in seeing how others effect what they, by other methods, are equally successful in effecting. It is in these and similar ways that I have often myself been highly benefited in visiting schools and, in reading descriptions of them, and it is for such purposes that I insert the account here. TO A NEW SCHOLAR ON HER ADMISSION TO THE MOUNT VERNON SCHOOL. As a large school is necessarily somewhat complicated in its plan, and as new scholars usually find that it requires some time and gives them no little trouble to understand the arrangements they find in operation here, I have concluded to write a brief description of these arrangements, by help of which you will, I hope, the sooner feel at home in your new place of duty. That I may be more distinct and specific, I shall class what I have to say under separate heads. I. YOUR PERSONAL DUTY. Your first anxiety as you come into the school-room, and take your seat among the busy multitude, if you are conscientiously desirous of doing your duty, will be, lest, ignorant as you are of the whole plan and of all the regulations of the institution, you should inadvertently do what will be considered wrong. I wish first, then, to put you at rest on this score. There is but one rule of this school. That you can easily keep. You will observe on one side of my desk a clock upon the wall, and not far from it a piece of apparatus that is probably new to you. It is a metallic plate, upon which are marked, in gilded letters, the words "_Study Hours."_ This is upright, but it is so attached by its lower edge to its support by means of a hinge that it can fall over from above, and thus be in a _horizontal_ position; or it will rest in an _inclined_ position--_half down,_ as it is called. It is drawn up and let down by a cord passing over a pulley. When it passes either way, its upper part touches a bell, which gives all in the room notice of its motion. Now when this "_Study Card"_ [5] as the scholars call it, is _up_, so that the words "STUDY HOURS" are presented to the view of the school, it is the signal for silence and study. THERE IS THEN TO BE NO COMMUNICATION AND NO LEAVING OF SEATS EXCEPT AT THE DIRECTION OF TEACHERS. When it is _half down,_ each scholar may leave her seat and whisper, but she must do nothing which will disturb others. When it is _down_, all the duties of school are suspended, and scholars are left entirely to their liberty. [Footnote 5: This apparatus has been previously described. See p. 47.] As this is the only rule of the school, it deserves a little more full explanation; for not only your progress in study, but your influence in promoting the welfare of the school, and, consequently, your peace and happiness while you are a member of it, will depend upon the strictness with which you observe it. Whenever, then, the study card goes up, and you hear the sound of its little bell, immediately and instantaneously stop, whatever you are saying. If you are away from your seat, go directly to it and there remain, and forget in your own silent and solitary studies, so far as you can, all that are around you. You will remember that all _communication_ is forbidden. Whispering, making signs, writing upon paper or a slate, bowing to any one, and, in fact, _every_ possible way by which one person may have any sort of mental intercourse with another, is wrong. A large number of the scholars take a pride and pleasure in carrying this rule into as perfect an observance as possible. They say that as this is the only rule with which I trouble them, they ought certainly to observe this faithfully. I myself, however, put it upon other ground. I am satisfied that it is better and pleasanter for you to observe it most rigidly, if it is attempted to be enforced at all. You will ask, "Can not we obtain permission of you or of the teachers to leave our seats or to whisper if it is necessary?" The answer is "No." You must never ask permission of me or of the teachers. You can leave seats or speak at the _direction_ of the teachers, that is, when they of their own accord ask you to do it, but you are never to ask their permission. If you should, and if any teachers should give you permission, it would be of no avail. I have never given them authority to grant any permissions of the kind. You will then say, "Are we never, on any occasion whatever, to leave our seats in study hours?" Yes, you are. There are two ways: 1. _At the direction of teachers._--Going to and from recitations is considered as at the _direction_ of teachers. So, if a person is requested by a teacher to transact any business, or is elected to a public office, or appointed upon a committee, leaving seats or speaking, so far as is really necessary for the accomplishing such a purpose, is considered as at the direction of teachers, and is consequently right. In the same manner, if a teacher should ask you individually, or give general notice to the members of a class, to come to her seat for private instruction, or to go to any part of the school-room for her, it would be right to do it. The distinction, you observe, is this: the teacher may, _of her own accord,_ direct any leaving of seats which she may think necessary to accomplish the objects of the school. She must not, however, _at the request of an individual,_ for the sake of her mere private convenience, give her permission to speak or to leave her seat. If, for example, a teacher should say to you in your class, "As soon as you have performed a certain work you may bring it to me," you would, in bringing it, be acting under her _direction_, and would consequently do right. If, however, you should want a pencil, and should ask her to give you leave to borrow it, even if she should give you leave you would do wrong to go, for you would not be acting at her _direction,_ but simply by her _consent_, and she has no authority to grant consent. 2. The second case in which you may leave your seat is when some very uncommon occurrence takes place, which is sufficient reason for suspending all rules. If your neighbor is faint, you may speak to her, and, if necessary, lead her out. If your mother or some other friend should come into the school-room, you can go and sit with her upon the sofa, and talk about the school.[6] And so in many other similar cases. Be very careful not to abuse this privilege, and make slight causes the grounds of your exceptions. It ought to be a very clear case. If a young lady is unwell in a trifling degree, so as to need no assistance, you would evidently do wrong to talk to her. The rule, in fact, is very similar to that which all well-bred people observe at church. They never speak or leave their seats unless some really important cause, such as sickness, requires them to break over all rules and go out. You have, in the same manner, in really important cases, such as serious sickness in your own case or in that of your companions, or the coming in of a stranger, or any thing else equally extraordinary, power to lay aside any rule, and to act as the emergency may require. In using this discretion, however, be sure to be on the safe side. In such cases, never ask permission. You must act on your own responsibility. [Footnote 6: A sofa was placed against the wall, by the side of the teachers' for the accommodation of visitors.] _Reasons for this rule._--When the school was first established, there was no absolute prohibition of whispering. Each scholar was allowed to whisper in relation to her studies. They were often, very often, enjoined to be conscientious and faithful, but, as might have been anticipated, the experiment failed. It was almost universally the practice to whisper more or less about subjects entirely foreign to the business of the school. This all the scholars repeatedly acknowledged; and they almost unanimously admitted that the good of the school required the prohibition of all communication during certain hours. I gave them their choice, either always to ask permission when they wished to speak, or to have a certain time allowed for the purpose, during which free intercommunication might be allowed to all the school, with the understanding, however, that, out of this time, no permission should ever be asked or granted. They very wisely chose the latter plan, and the Study Card was constructed and put up, to mark the times of free communication and of silent study. The card was at first down every half hour for one or two minutes. The scholars afterward thinking that their intellectual habits would be improved and the welfare of the school promoted by their having a longer time for uninterrupted study, of their own accord, without any influence from me, proposed that the card should be down only once an hour. This plan was adopted by them by vote. I wish it to be understood that it was not _my_ plan, but _theirs_; and that I am at any time willing to have the Study Card down once in half an hour, whenever a majority of the scholars, voting by ballot, desire it. You will find that this system of having a distinct time for whispering, when all may whisper freely, all communication being entirely excluded at other times, will at first give you some trouble. It will be hard for you, if you are not accustomed to it, to learn conscientiously and faithfully to comply. Besides, at first you will often need some little information or desire to ask for an article which you might obtain in a moment, but which you can not innocently ask for till the card is down, and this might keep you waiting an hour. You will, however, after a few such instances, soon learn to make your preparations beforehand, and if you are a girl of enlarged views and elevated feelings, you will good-humoredly acquiesce in suffering a little inconvenience yourself for the sake of helping to preserve those _distinct_ and well _defined_ lines by which all boundaries must be marked in a large establishment, if order and system are to be preserved at all. Though at first you may experience a little inconvenience, you will soon take pleasure in the scientific strictness of the plan. It will gratify you to observe the profound stillness of the room where a hundred are studying. You will take pleasure in observing the sudden transition from the silence of study hours to the joyful sounds and the animating activity of recess when the Study Card goes down; and then when it rises again at the close of the recess, you will be gratified to observe how suddenly the sounds which have filled the air, and made the room so lively a scene, are hushed into silence by the single and almost inaudible touch of that little bell. You will take pleasure in this; for young and old always take pleasure in the strict and rigid operation of _system_ rather than in laxity and disorder. I am convinced, also, that the scholars do like the operation of this plan, for I do not have to make any efforts to sustain it. With the exception that occasionally, usually not oftener than once in several months, I allude to the subject, and that chiefly on account of a few careless and unfaithful individuals, I have little to say or to do to maintain the authority of the Study Card. Most of the scholars obey it of their own accord, implicitly and cordially. And I believe they consider this faithful monitor not only one of the most useful, but one of the most agreeable friends they have. We should not only regret its services, but miss its company if it should be taken away. This regulation then, namely, to abstain from all communication with one another, and from all leaving of seats, at certain times which are marked by the position of the Study Card, is the only one which can properly be called a _rule_ of the school. There are a great many arrangements and plans relating to the _instruction_ of the pupils, but no other specific _rules_ relating to _their conduct._ You are, of course, while in the school, under the same moral obligations which rest upon you elsewhere. You must be kind to one another, respectful to superiors, and quiet and orderly in your deportment. You must do nothing to encroach upon another's rights, or to interrupt and disturb your companions in their pursuits. You must not produce disorder, or be wasteful of the public property, or do any thing else which you might know is in itself wrong. But you are to avoid these things, not because there are any rules in this school against them, for there are none, but because they are in _themselves wrong_--in all places and under all circumstances, wrong. The universal and unchangeable principles of duty are the same here as elsewhere. I do not make rules pointing them out, but expect that you will, through your own conscience and moral principle, discover and obey them. It is wrong, for instance, for you to speak harshly or unkindly to your companions, or to do any thing to wound their feelings unnecessarily, in any way. But this is a universal principle of duty, not a rule of school. So it is wrong for you to be rude and noisy, and thus disturb others who are studying, or to brush by them carelessly, so as to jostle them at their writing or derange their books. But to be careful not to do injury to others in the reckless pursuit of our own pleasures is a universal principle of duty, not a rule of school. Such a case as this, for example, once occurred. A number of little girls began to amuse themselves in recess with running about among the desks in pursuit of one another, and they told me, in excuse for it, when I called them to account, that they did not know that it was "_against the rule"_. [Illustration] "It is not against the rule," said I; "I have never made any rule against running about among the desks." "Then," asked they, "did we do wrong?" "Do you think it would be a good plan," I inquired, "to have it a common amusement in the recess for the girls to hunt each other among the desks?" "No, sir," they replied, simultaneously. "Why not? There are some reasons. I do not know, however, whether you will have the ingenuity to think of them." "We may start the desks from their places," said one. "Yes," said I, "they are fastened down very slightly, so that I may easily alter their position." "We might upset the inkstands," said another. "Sometimes," added a third, "we run against the scholars who are sitting in their seats." "It seems, then, you have ingenuity enough to discover the reasons. Why did not these reasons prevent your doing it?" "We did not think of them before." "True; that is the exact state of the case. Now, when persons are so eager to promote their own enjoyment as to forget the rights and the comforts of others, it is _selfishness. _ Now is there any rule in this school against selfishness?" "No, sir." "You are right. There is not. But selfishness is wrong, very wrong, in whatever form it appears, here and every where else, and that whether I make any rules against it or not." You will see, from this anecdote, that, though there is but one rule of the school, I by no means intend to say that there is only _one way of doing wrong here._ That would be very absurd. You _must not do any thing which you may know, by proper reflection, to be in itself wrong._ This, however, is a universal principle of duty, not a _rule_ of the Mount Vernon School. If I should attempt to make rules which would specify and prohibit every possible way by which you might do wrong, my laws would be innumerable, and even then I should fail of securing my object, unless you had the disposition to do your duty. No legislation can enact laws as fast as a perverted ingenuity can find means to evade them. You will perhaps ask what will be the consequence if we transgress either the single rule of the school or any of the great principles of duty. In other words, What are the punishments which are resorted to in the Mount Vernon School? The answer is, there are no punishments. I do not say that I should not, in case all other means should fail, resort to the most decisive measures to secure obedience and subordination. Most certainly I should do so, as it would plainly be my duty to do it. If you should at any time be so unhappy as to violate your obligations to yourself, to your companions, or to me--should you misimprove your time, or exhibit an unkind or a selfish spirit, or be disrespectful or insubordinate to your teachers, I should go frankly and openly, but kindly to you, and endeavor to convince you of your fault. I should very probably do this by addressing a note to you, as I suppose this would be less unpleasant to you than a conversation. In such a case, I shall hope that you will as frankly and openly reply, telling me whether you admit your fault and are determined to amend, or else informing me of the contrary. I shall wish you to be _sincere_, and then I shall know what course to take next. But as to the consequences which may result to you if you should persist in what is wrong, it is not necessary that you should know them beforehand. They who wander from duty always plunge themselves into troubles which they do not anticipate; and if you do what, at the time you are doing it, you know to be wrong, it will not be unjust that you should suffer the consequences, even if they were not beforehand understood and expected. This will be the case with you all through life, and it will be the case here. I say it _will_ be the case here; I ought rather to say that it will be the case should you be so unhappy as to do wrong and to persist in it. Such persistance, however, never occurs--at least it occurs so seldom, and at intervals so great, that every thing of the nature of punishment, that is, the depriving a pupil of any enjoyment, or subjecting her to any disgrace, or giving her pain in any way in consequence of her faults, except the simple pain of awakening conscience in her bosom, is almost entirely unknown. I hope that you will always be ready to confess and forsake your faults, and endeavor, while you remain in school, to improve in character, and attain, as far as possible, every moral excellence. I ought to remark, before dismissing this topic, that I place very great confidence in the scholars in regard to their moral conduct and deportment, and they fully deserve it. I have no care and no trouble in what is commonly called _the government of the school._ Neither myself nor any one else is employed in any way in watching the scholars, or keeping any sort of account of them. I should not at any time hesitate to call all the teachers into an adjoining room, leaving the school alone for half an hour, and I should be confident that, at such a time, order, and stillness, and attention to study would prevail as much as ever. The scholars would not look to see whether I was in my desk, but whether the Study Card was up. The school was left in this way, half an hour every day, during a quarter, that we might have a teachers' meeting, and the studies went on generally quite as well, to say the least, as when the teachers were present. One or two instances of irregular conduct occurred. I do not now recollect precisely what they were. They were, however, fully acknowledged and not repeated, and I believe the scholars were generally more scrupulous and faithful then than at other times. They would not betray the confidence reposed in them. This plan was continued until it was found more convenient to have the teachers' meetings in the afternoons. When any thing wrong is done in school, I generally state the case, and request the individuals who have done it to let me know who they are. They inform me sometimes by notes and sometimes in conversation; but they always inform me. The plan _always_ succeeds. The scholars all know that there is nothing to be feared from confessing faults to me; but that, on the other hand, it is a most direct and certain way to secure returning peace and happiness. I can illustrate this by describing a case which actually occurred, though the description is not to be considered so much an accurate account of what took place in a particular instance as an illustration of the _general spirit and manner_ in which such cases are disposed of. I accidentally understood that some of the younger scholars were in the habit, during recesses and after school, of ringing the door-bell and then running away, to amuse themselves with the perplexity of their companions who should go to the door and find no one there. I explained in a few words, one day, to the school, that this was wrong. "How many," I then asked, "have ever been put to the trouble to go to the door when the bell has thus been rung? They may rise." A very large number of scholars stood up. Those who had done the mischief were evidently surprised at the extent of the trouble they had occasioned. "Now," I continued, "I think all will be convinced that the trouble which this practice has occasioned to the fifty or sixty young ladies, who can not be expected to find amusement in such a way, is far greater than the pleasure it can have given to the few who are young enough to have enjoyed it. Therefore it was wrong. Do you think that the girls who rang the bell might have known this by proper reflection?" "Yes, sir," the school generally answered. "I do not mean," said I, "if they had set themselves formally at work to think about the subject, but with such a degree of reflection as ought reasonably to be expected of little girls in the hilarity of recess and of play." "Yes, sir," was still the reply, but fainter than before. "There is one way by which I might ascertain whether you were old enough to know that this was wrong, and that is by asking those who have refrained from doing this, because they supposed it would be wrong, to rise. Then, if some of the youngest scholars in school should stand up, as I have no doubt they would, it would prove that all might have known, if they had been equally conscientious. But if I ask those to rise who have _not_ rung the bell, I shall make known to the whole school who they are that have done it, and I wish that the exposure of faults should be private, unless it is _necessary_ that it should be public. I will, therefore, not do it. I have myself, however, no doubt that all might have known that it was wrong. "There is," continued I, "another injury which must grow out of such a practice. This I should not have expected the little girls could think of. In fact, I doubt whether any in school will think of it. Can any one tell me what it is?" No one replied. "I should suppose that it would lead you to disregard the bell when it rings, and that consequently a gentleman or lady might sometimes ring in vain, the scholars near the door saying, 'Oh, it is only the little girls.'" "Yes, sir," was heard from all parts of the room. I found, from farther inquiry, that this had been the case, and I closed by saying, "I am satisfied that those who have inadvertently fallen into this practice are sorry for it, and that if I should leave it here, no more cases of it would occur, and this is all I wish. At the same time, they who have done this will feel more effectually relieved from the pain which having done wrong must necessarily give them, if they individually acknowledge it to me. I wish, therefore, that all who have thus rung the bell in play would write me notes stating the facts. If any one does not do it, she will punish herself severely, for she will feel for many days to come that while her companions were willing to acknowledge their faults, she wished to conceal and cover hers. Conscience will reproach her bitterly for her insincerity, and, whenever she hears the sound of the door-bell, it will remind her not only of her fault, but of what is far worse, _her willingness to appear innocent when she was really guilty."_ Before the close of the school I had eight or ten notes acknowledging the fault, describing the circumstances of each case, and expressing promises to do so no more. It is by such methods as this, rather than by threatening and punishment, that I manage the cases of discipline which from time to time occur; but even such as this, slight as it is, occur very seldom. Weeks and weeks sometimes elapse without one. When they do occur, they are always easily settled by confession and reform. Sometimes I am asked to _forgive_ the offense. But I have no power to forgive. God must forgive you when you do wrong, or the burden must remain. My duty is to take measures to prevent future transgression, and to lead those who have been guilty of it to God for pardon. If they do not go to Him, though they may satisfy me, as principal of a school, by not repeating the offence, they must remain _unforgiven_. I can _forget_, and I do forget. For example, in this last case I have not the slightest recollection of any individual who was engaged in it. The evil was entirely removed, and had it not afforded me a convenient illustration here, perhaps I should never have thought of it again; still, it may not yet be _forgiven._ It may seem strange that I should speak so seriously of God's forgiveness for such a trifle as that. Does He notice a child's ringing a door-bell in play? He notices when a child is willing to yield to temptation to do what she knows to be wrong, and to act even in the slightest trifle from a selfish disregard for the convenience of others. This spirit He always notices, and though I may stop any particular form of its exhibition, it is for Him alone to forgive it and to purify the heart from its power. But I shall speak more particularly on this subject under the head of Religious Instruction. II. ORDER OF DAILY EXERCISES. There will be given you, when you enter the school, a blank schedule, in which the divisions of each forenoon for one week are marked, and in which your own employments for every half hour are to be written. (A copy of this is inserted on page 222.) This schedule, when filled up, forms a sort of a map for the week, in which you can readily find what are your duties for any particular time. The following description will enable you better to understand it. _Opening of the School._ The first thing which will call your attention as the hour for the commencement of the school approaches in the morning is the ringing of a bell five minutes before the time arrives by the regulator, who sits at the curtained desk before the Study Card. One minute before the time the bell is rung again, which is the signal for all to take their seats and prepare for the opening of the school. When the precise moment arrives, the Study Card is drawn up, and at the sound of its little bell, all the scholars recline their heads upon their desks, and unite with me in a very short prayer for God's protection and blessing during the day. I adopted the plan of allowing the scholars to sit, because I thought it would be pleasanter for them, and they have, in return, been generally, so far as I know, faithful in complying with my wish that they would all assume the posture proposed, so that the school may present the uniform and serious aspect which is proper when we are engaged in so solemn a duty. If you move your chair back a little, you will find the posture not inconvenient; but the only reward you will have for faithfully complying with the general custom is the pleasure of doing your duty, for no one watches you, and you would not be called to account should you neglect to conform to the usage of the school. I hope, however, that you will conform to it. Indeed, all truly refined and well-bred people make it a universal rule of life to conform to the innocent religious usages of those around them, wherever they may be. After the prayer we sing one or two verses of a hymn. The music is led by a piano, and we wish all to join in it who can sing. The exercises which follow are exhibited to the eye by the diagram on the next page. MOUNT VERNON SCHOOL SCHEDULE OF STUDIES. 1833. _Miss_ +---------+---------------+-----------+-----+-----------+-----+-----------+ | |FIRST HOUR. |SECOND HOUR| |THIRD HOUR | |FOURTH HOUR| | +---------------+-----------+--+--+-----------+--+--+-----------+ | |EVENING LESSONS|LANGUAGES. |G.|R.|MATHEMATICS|G.|R.|SECTIONS. | +---------+--------+------+-----+-----+--+--+-----+-----+--+--+-----------+ |MONDAY | | | | | | | | | | | | +---------+--------+------+-----+-----+--+ +-----+-----+--+ +-----------+ |TUESDAY | | | | | | | | | | | | +---------+--------+------+-----+-----+--+ +-----+-----+--+ +-----------+ |WEDNESDAY| | | | | | | | | | | | +---------+--------+------+-----+-----+--+ +-----+-----+--+ +-----------+ |THURSDAY | | | | | | | | | | | | +---------+--------+------+-----+-----+--+ +-----+-----+--+ +-----------+ |FRIDAY | | | | | | | | | | | | +---------+--------+------+-----+-----+--+ +-----+-----+--+ +-----------+ |SATURDAY | | | | | | | | | | | | +---------+--------+------+-----+-----+--+--+-----+-----+--+--+-----------+ I now proceed to describe in detail the several hours, as represented in the diagram. _First Hour._--_Evening Lessons._ The first hour of the day, as you will see by the schedule, is marked evening lessons, because most, though not all, of the studies assigned to it are intended to be prepared out of school. These studies are miscellaneous in their character, comprising Geography, History, Natural and Intellectual Philosophy, and Natural History. This hour, like all the other hours for study, is divided into two equal parts, some classes reciting in the first part, and others in the second. A bell is always rung _five minutes before_ the time for closing the recitation, to give the teachers notice that their time is nearly expired, and then again _at the time,_ to give notice to new classes to take their places. Thus you will observe that five minutes before the half hour expires the bell will ring, soon after which the classes in recitation will take their seats. Precisely at the end of the half hour it will ring again, when new classes will take their places. In the same manner, notice is given five minutes before the second half of the hour expires, and so in all the other three hours. At the end of the first hour the Study Card will be let half down five minutes, and you will perceive that the sound of its bell will immediately produce a decided change in the whole aspect of the room. It is the signal, as has been before explained, for universal permission to whisper and to leave seats, though not for loud talking or play, so that those who wish to continue their studies may do so without interruption. When the five-minute period has expired the card goes up again, and its sound immediately restores silence and order. _Second Hour._--_Languages._ We then commence the second hour of the school. This is devoted to the study of the languages. The Latin, French, and English classes recite at this time. By English classes I mean those studying the English _as a language,_ that is, classes in Grammar, Rhetoric, and Composition. The hour is divided as the first hour is, and the bell is rung in the same way, that is, at the close of each half hour, and also five minutes before the close, to give the classes notice that the time for recitation is about to expire. _First General Exercise._ You will observe, then, that there follows upon the schedule a quarter of an hour marked G. That initial stands for General Exercise, and when it arrives each pupil is to lay aside her work, and attend to any exercise which may be proposed. This quarter of an hour is appropriated to a great variety of purposes. Sometimes I give a short and familiar lecture on some useful subject connected with science or art, or the principles of duty. Sometimes we have a general reading lesson. Sometimes we turn the school into a Bible class. Again, the time is occupied in attending to some _general_ business of the school. The bell is rung one minute before the close of the time, and when the period appropriated to this purpose has actually expired, the Study Card, for the first time in the morning, is let entirely down, and the room is at once suddenly transformed into a scene of life, and motion, and gayety. _First Recess._ The time for the recess is a quarter of an hour, and, as you will see, it is marked R. on the schedule. We have various modes of amusing ourselves, and finding exercise and recreation in recesses. Sometimes the girls bring their battledores to school. Sometimes they have a large number of soft balls with which they amuse themselves. A more common amusement is marching to the music of the piano. For this purpose a set of signals by the whistle has been devised, by which commands are communicated to the school. In these and similar amusements the recesses pass away, and one minute before it expires the bell is rung to give notice of the approach of study hours. At this signal the scholars begin to prepare for a return to the ordinary duties of school, and when, at the full expiration of the recess, the Study Card again goes up, silence, and attention, and order is immediately restored. _Third Hour.--Mathematics_. There follows next, as you will see by reference to the schedule, an hour marked Mathematics. It is time for studying and reciting Arithmetic, Algebra, Geometry, and similar studies. It is divided, as the previous hours were, into two equal parts, and the bell is rung, as has been described, five minutes before the close, and also precisely at the close of each half hour. _Second General Exercise.--Business_. Then follow two quarter hours, appropriated like those heretofore described, the first to a General Exercise, the second to a recess. At the first of these the general business of the school is transacted. As this business will probably appear new to you, and will attract your attention, I will describe its nature and design. At first you will observe a young lady rise at the secretary's desk to read a journal of what was done the day before. The notices which I gave, the arrangements I made, the subjects discussed and decided, and, in fact, every thing important and interesting in the business or occurrences of the preceding day, is recorded by the secretary of the school, and read at this time. This journal ought not to be a mere dry record of votes and business, but, as far as possible, an interesting description, in a narrative style, of the occurrences of the day. The secretary must keep a memorandum, and ascertain that every thing important really finds a place in the record, but she may employ any good writer in school to prepare, from her minutes, the full account. After the record is read, you will observe me take from a little red morocco wrapper which has been brought to my desk a number of narrow slips of paper, which I am to read aloud. In most assemblies, it is customary for any person wishing it to rise in his place and propose any plan, or, as it is called, "make any motion" that he pleases. It would be unpleasant for a young lady to do this in presence of a hundred companions, and we have consequently resorted to another plan. The red wrapper is placed in a part of the room accessible to all, and any one who pleases writes upon a narrow slip of paper any thing she wishes to lay before the school, and deposits it there, and at the appointed time the whole are brought to me. These propositions are of various kinds. I can, perhaps, best give you an idea of them by such specimens as occur to me. "A.B. resigns her office of copyist, as she is about to leave school." "Proposed that a class in Botany be formed. There are many who would like to join it." "When will vacation commence?" "Proposed that a music committee be appointed, so that we can have some marching in recess." "Proposed that school begin at nine o'clock." "Mr. Abbott, will you have the goodness to explain to us what is meant by the Veto Message?" "Proposed that we have locks upon our desks." You see that the variety is very great, and there are usually from four or five to ten or fifteen of such papers daily. You will be at liberty to make in this way any suggestion or inquiry, or to propose any change you please in any part of the instruction or administration of the school. If any thing dissatisfies you, you ought not to murmur at it in private, or complain of it to your companions, thus injuring to no purpose both your own peace and happiness and theirs, but you ought immediately to bring up the subject in the way above described, that the evil may be removed. I receive some of the most valuable suggestions in this way from the older and most reflecting pupils. These suggestions are read. Sometimes I decide the question that arises myself. Sometimes I say that the pupils may decide it. Sometimes I ask their opinion and wishes, and then, after taking them into consideration, come to a conclusion. For example, I will insert a few of these propositions, as these papers are called, describing the way in which they would be disposed of. Most of them are real cases. "Mr. Abbott, the first class in Geography is so large that we have not room in the recitation seats. Can not we have another place?" After reading this, I should perhaps say, "The class in Geography may rise and be counted." They rise. Those in each division are counted by the proper officer, as will hereafter be explained, and the numbers are reported aloud to me. It is all done in a moment. "How many of you think you need better accommodations?" If a majority of hands are raised, I say, "I wish the teacher of that class would ascertain whether any other place of recitation is vacant, or occupied by a smaller class at that time, and report the case to me." "Proposed that we be allowed to walk upon the common in the recesses." "I should like to have some plan formed by which you can walk on the common in recesses, but there are difficulties. If all should go out together, it is probable that some would be rude and noisy, and that others would come back tardy and out of breath. Besides, as the recess is short, so many would be in haste to prepare to go out, that there would be a great crowd and much confusion in the ante-room and passage-ways. I do not mention these as insuperable objections, but only as difficulties which there must be some plan to avoid. Perhaps, however, they can not be avoided. Do any of you think of any plan?" I see, perhaps, two or three hands raised, and call upon the individuals by name, and they express their opinions. One says that a part can go out at a time. Another proposes that those who are tardy one day should not go out again, &c. "I think it possible that a plan can be formed on these or some such principles. If you will appoint a committee who will prepare a plan, and mature its details, and take charge of the execution of it, you may try the experiment. I will allow it to go on as long as you avoid the evils I have above alluded to." A committee is then raised, to report in writing at the business hour of the following day. "Proposed that the Study Card be down every half hour." "You may decide this question yourselves. That you may vote more freely, I wish you to vote by ballot. The boxes will be open during the next recess. The vote-receivers will write the question and place it upon the boxes. All who feel interested in the subject may carry in their votes, Aye or Nay. When the result is reported to me I will read it to the school." In this and similar ways the various business brought up is disposed of. This custom is useful to the scholars, for it exercises and strengthens their judgment and their reflecting powers more than almost any thing besides; so that, if interesting them in this way in the management of the school were of no benefit to me, I should retain the practice as most valuable to them. But it is most useful to me and to the school. I think that nothing has contributed more to its prosperity than the active interest which the scholars have always taken in its concerns, and the assistance they have rendered me in carrying my plans into effect. You will observe that in transacting this business very little is actually done by myself, except making the ultimate decision. All the details of business are assigned to teachers, or to officers and committees appointed for the purpose. By this means we dispatch business very rapidly. The system of offices will be explained in another place; but I may say here that all appointments and elections are made in this quarter hour, and by means of the assistance of these officers the transaction of business is so facilitated that much more can sometimes be accomplished than you would suppose possible. I consider this period as one of the most important in the whole morning. _Second Recess._ After the expiration of the quarter hour above described, the Study Card is dropped, and a recess succeeds. _Fourth Hour._--_Sections_. In all the former part of the day the scholars are divided into _classes_, according to their proficiency in particular branches of study, and they resort to their _recitations_ for _instruction. _ They now are divided into six _sections_, as we call them, and placed under the care of _superintendents_, not for instruction, but for what may be called supervision. _Teaching_ a pupil is not all that is necessary to be done for her in school. There are many other things to be attended to, such as supplying her with the various articles necessary for her use, seeing that her desk is convenient, that her time is well arranged, that she has not too much to do nor too little, and that no difficulty which can be removed obstructs her progress in study or her happiness in school. The last hour is appropriated to this purpose, with the understanding, however, that such a portion of it as is not wanted by the superintendent is to be spent in study. You will see, then, when the last hour arrives, that all the scholars go in various directions to the meetings of their respective sections. Here they remain as long as the superintendent retains them. Sometimes they adjourn almost immediately, perhaps after having simply attended to the distribution of pens for the next day; at other times they remain during the hour, attending to such exercises as the superintendent may plan. The design, however, and nature of this whole arrangement I shall explain more fully in another place. _Close of the School._ As the end of the hour approaches, five minutes' notice is given by the bell, and when the time arrives the Study Card is half dropped for a moment before the closing exercises. When it rises again the room is restored to silence and order. We then sing a verse or two of a hymn, and commend ourselves to God's protection in a short prayer. As the scholars raise their heads from the posture of reverence which they have assumed, they pause a moment till the regulator lets down the Study Card, and the sound of its bell is the signal that our duties at school are ended for the day. III. INSTRUCTION AND SUPERVISION OF PUPILS. For the instruction of the pupils the school is divided into _classes_, and for their general supervision into _sections_, as has been intimated under the preceding caption. The head of a _class_ is called a _teacher_, and the head of a _section_ a _superintendent_. The same individual may be both the teacher of a class and the superintendent of a section. The two offices are, however, entirely distinct in their nature and design. As you will perceive by recalling to mind the daily order of exercises, the classes meet and recite during the first three hours of the school, and the sections assemble on the fourth and last. We shall give each a separate description. 1. CLASSES. The object of the division into classes is _instruction_. Whenever it is desirable that several individuals should pursue a particular study, a list of their names is made out, a book selected, a time for recitation assigned, a teacher appointed, and the exercises begin. In this way a large number of classes have been formed, and the wishes of parents, or the opinion of the principal, and, in many cases, that of the pupil, determines how many and what shall be assigned to each individual. A list of these classes, with the average age of the members, the name of the teacher, and the time of recitation, is posted in a conspicuous place, and public notice is given whenever a new class is formed. You will therefore have the opportunity to know all the arrangements of school in this respect, and I wish you to exercise your own judgment and discretion a great deal in regard to your studies. I do not mean I expect you to _decide_, but to _reflect_ upon them. Look at the list, and consider what are most useful for you. Propose to me or to your parents changes, whenever you think they are necessary; and when you finish one study, reflect carefully, yourself, on the question what you shall next commence. The scholars prepare their lessons when they please. They are expected to be present and prepared at the time of recitation, but they make the preparation when it is most convenient. The more methodical and systematic of the young ladies mark the times of _study_ as well as of _recitation_ upon their schedules, so that the employment of their whole time at school is regulated by a systematic plan. You will observe, too, that by this plan of having a great many classes reciting through the first three hours of the morning, every pupil can be employed as much or as little as her parents desire. In a case of ill health, she may, as has often been done in such cases at the request of parents, join one or two classes only, and occupy the whole forenoon in preparing for them, and be entirely free from school duties at home. Or she may, as is much more frequently the case, choose to join a great many classes, so as to fill up, perhaps, her whole schedule with recitations, in which case she must prepare all her lessons at home. It is the duty of teachers to take care, however, when a pupil pleads want of time as a reason for being unprepared in any lesson, that the case is fully examined, in order that it may be ascertained whether the individual has joined too many classes, in which case some one should be dropped, and thus the time and the employments of each individual should be so adjusted as to give her constant occupation _in school,_ and as much more as her parents may desire. By this plan of the classes, each scholar advances just as rapidly in her studies as her time, and talents, and health will allow. No one is kept back by the rest. Each class goes on regularly and systematically, all its members keeping exactly together in that study; but the various members of it will have joined a greater or less number of other classes, according to their age, or abilities, or progress in study, so that all will or may have full employment for their time. When you first enter the school, you will, for a day or two, be assigned to but few classes, for your mind will be distracted by the excitement of new scenes and pursuits, and the intellectual effort necessary for _joining_ a class is greater than that requisite for _going on_ with it after being once under way. After a few days you will come to me and say, perhaps (for this is ordinarily the process), "Mr. Abbott, I think I have time for some more studies." "I will thank you to bring me your schedule," I say in reply, "so that I can see what you have now to do." By glancing my eye over the schedule in such a case, I see in a moment what duties have been already assigned you, and from my general schedule, containing all the studies of the school, I select what would be most suitable for you after conferring with you about your past pursuits, and your own wishes or those of your parents in regard to your future course. Additions are thus made until your time is fully occupied. The manner of recitation in the classes is almost boundlessly varied. The design is not to have you commit to memory what the book contains, but to understand and digest it--to incorporate it fully into your own mind, that it may come up in future life in such a form as you wish it for use. Do not then, in ordinary cases, endeavor to fix _words_, but _ideas_ in your minds. Conceive clearly--paint distinctly to your imagination what is described--contemplate facts in all their bearings and relations, and thus endeavor to exercise the judgment, and the thinking and reasoning powers, rather than the mere memory, upon the subjects which will come before you. 2. SECTIONS. In describing the order of daily exercises, I alluded to the _sections_ which assemble in the last hour of the school. It is necessary that I should fully describe the system of sections, as it constitutes a very important part of the plan of the school. Besides giving the scholars the necessary intellectual instruction, there are, as I have already remarked, a great many other points which must receive attention in order to promote their progress, and to secure the regular operation and general welfare of the school. These various points have something common in their nature, but it is difficult to give them a common name. They are such as supplying the pupils with pens and paper, and stationery of other kinds; becoming acquainted with each individual; ascertaining that she has enough and not too much to do; arranging her work so that no one of her duties shall interfere with another; assisting her to discover and correct her faults, and removing any sources of difficulty or causes of discontent which may gradually come in her way. These, and a multitude of similar points, constituting what may be called the general _administration_ of the school, become, when the number of pupils is large, a most important branch of the teacher's duty. To accomplish these objects more effectually, the school is divided into six sections, arranged, not according to proficiency in particular studies, as the several classes are, but according to _age and general maturity of mind._ Each one of these sections is assigned to the care of a superintendent. These superintendents, it is true, during most of school hours, are also teachers. Their duties, however, as _Teachers_ and as _Superintendents_, are entirely distinct. I shall briefly enumerate the duties which devolve upon her in the latter capacity. 1. A superintendent ought to prepare an exact list of the members of her section, and to become intimately acquainted with them, so as to be as far as possible their friend and confidante, and to feel a stronger interest in their progress in study and their happiness in school, and a greater personal attachment to them than to any other scholars. 2. She is to superintend the preparation of their schedules; to see that each one has enough and not too much to do, by making known to me the necessity of a change, where such necessity exists; to see that the schedules are submitted to the parents, and that their opinion or suggestions, if they wish to make any, are reported to me. 3. She is to take care that all the daily wants of her section are supplied--that all have pens and paper, and desks of suitable height. If any are new scholars, she ought to interest herself in assisting them to become acquainted in school; if they are friendless and alone, to find companions for them, and to endeavor in every way to make their time pass pleasantly and happily. 4. To watch the characters of the members of her section. To inquire of their several teachers as to the progress they make in study, and the faithfulness and punctuality with which they prepare their lessons. She ought to ascertain whether they are punctual at school and regular in their habits--whether their desks are neat and well arranged, and their exercises carefully executed. She ought to correct, through her own influence, any evils of this kind she may find, or else immediately to refer the cases where this can not be done to me. The better and the more pleasantly to accomplish the object of exerting a favorable influence upon the characters of the members of their section, the superintendents ought often to bring up subjects connected with moral and religious duty in section meetings. This may be done in the form of subjects assigned for composition, or proposed for free discussion in writing or conversation, or the superintendents may write themselves, and read to the section the instructions they wish to give. When subjects for written composition are thus assigned, they should be so presented to the pupils as to lead their minds to a very practical mode of regarding them. For example, instead of simply assigning the subject _Truth_ as the theme of an abstract moral essay, bring up definite points of a practical character, such especially as are connected with the trials and temptations of early life. "I wish you would all give me your opinions," the teacher might say in such a case, "on the question, What is the most frequent inducement that leads children to tell falsehoods? Also, do you think it is right to tell untruths to very little children, as many persons do, or to people who are sick? Also, whether it would be right to tell a falsehood to an insane man in order to manage him?" Sometimes, instead of assigning a subject of composition _verbally_, the superintendent exhibits an engraving, and the several members of the class then write any thing they please which is suggested to them by the engraving. For example, suppose the picture thus exhibited were to represent a girl sewing in an attic. The compositions to which it would give rise might be very various. One pupil would perhaps simply give an account of the picture itself, describing the arrangements of the room, and specifying the particular articles of furniture contained in it. Another would give a soliloquy supposed to be spoken by the sewing-girl as she sits at her work. Another would narrate the history of her life, of course an imaginary one. Another would write an essay on the advantages of industry and independence. This is a very good way of assigning subjects of composition, and, if well managed, it may be the means of awakening a great interest in writing among almost all the pupils of a school. 5. Though the superintendents, as such, have, necessarily speaking, no _teaching_ to do, still they ought particularly to secure the progress of every pupil in what may be called the _essential_ studies, such as reading, writing, and spelling. For this purpose, they either see that their pupils are going on successfully in classes in school in these branches, or they may attend to them in the section, provided that they never allow such instruction to interfere with their more appropriate and important duties. In a word, the superintendents are to consider the members of their sections as pupils confided to their care, and they are not merely to discharge mechanically any mere routine of duty, such as can be here pointed out, but to exert all their powers, their ingenuity, their knowledge of human character, their judgment and discretion, in every way, to secure for each of those committed to their care the highest benefits which the institution to which they belong can afford. They are to keep a careful and faithful record of their plans and of the history of their respective sections, and to endeavor as faithfully and as diligently to advance the interests of the members of them as if the sections were separate and independent schools of their own. A great responsibility is thus evidently intrusted to them, but not a great deal of _power_. They ought not to make changes, except in very plain cases, without referring the subject to me. They ought not to make rash experiments, or even to try many new plans, without first obtaining my approval of them. They ought to refer all cases which they can not easily manage to my care. They ought to understand the distinction between _seeing that a thing is done_ and _doing it_. For example, if a superintendent thinks that one of her section is in too high a class in Arithmetic, her duty is not to undertake, by her own authority, to remove her to a lower one, for, as superintendent, she has no authority over Arithmetic classes, nor should she go to the opposite extreme of saying, "I have no authority over Arithmetic classes, and therefore I have nothing to do with this case." She ought to go to the teacher of the class to which her pupil had been unwisely assigned, converse with her, obtain her opinion, then find some other class more suited to her attainments, and after fully ascertaining all the facts in the case, bring them to me, that I may make the change. This is _superintendence--looking over_ the condition and progress of the scholar. The superintendents have thus great responsibility, and yet, comparatively, little power. They accomplish a great deal of good, and, in its ordinary course, it is by their direct personal efforts; but in making changes, and remedying defects and evils, they act generally in a different way. The last hour of school is devoted to the sections. No classes recite then, but the sections meet, if the superintendents wish, and attend to such exercises as they provide. Each section has its own organization, its own officers and plans. These arrangements of course vary in their character according to the ingenuity and enterprise of the superintendents, and more especially according to the talents and intellectual ardor of the members of the section. The two upper sections are called senior, the next two middle, and the two younger junior. The senior sections are distinguished by using paper for section purposes with a light blue tinge. To the middle sections is assigned a light straw color; and to the junior, pink. These colors are used for the schedules of the members, and for the records and other documents of the section. This account, though it is brief, will be sufficient to explain to you the general principles of the plan. You will soon become acquainted with the exercises and arrangements of the particular section to which you will be assigned, and by taking an active interest in them, and endeavoring to cooperate with the superintendent in all her measures and to comply with her wishes, you will very materially add to her happiness, and do your part toward elevating the character of the circle to which you will belong. IV. OFFICERS. In consequence of the disposition early manifested by the scholars to render me every assistance in their power in carrying into effect the plans of the school and promoting its prosperity, I gradually adopted the plan of assigning to various officers and committees, a number of specific duties relating to the general business of the school. These officers have gradually multiplied as the school has increased and as business has accumulated. The system has, from time to time, been revised, condensed, and simplified, and at the present time it is thus arranged. The particular duties of each officer are minutely described to the individuals themselves at the time of their election; all I intend here is to give a general view of the plan, such as is necessary for the scholars at large. There are, then, _five departments_ of business intrusted to officers of the school. The names of the officers, and a brief exposition of their duties, are as follows: [I omit the particular explanation of the duties of the officers, as the arrangement must vary in different schools, and the details of any one plan can only be useful in the school-room to which it belongs. It will be sufficient to name the officers of each department, with their duties, in general terms.] 1. REGULATORS.--To assist in the ordinary routine of business in school: ringing the bells; managing the Study Card; distributing and collecting papers; counting votes, &c. 2. SECRETARIES.--Keeping the records, and executing writing of various kinds. 3. ACCOUNTANTS.--Keeping a register of the scholars, and various other duties connected with the accounts. 4. LIBRARIANS.--To take charge of books and stationery. 5. CURATORS.--To secure neatness and good order in the apartments. The secretaries and accountants are appointed by the principal, and will generally be chosen from the teachers. The first in each of the other departments are chosen by ballot, by the scholars. Each one thus chosen nominates the second in her department, and they two the assistants. These nominations must be approved at a teachers' meeting; for, if a scholar is inattentive to her studies, disorderly in her desk, or careless and troublesome in her manners, she evidently ought not to be appointed to public office. No person can hold an office in two of these departments. She can, if she pleases, however, resign one to accept another. Each of these departments ought often to assemble and consult together, and form plans for carrying into effect with greater efficiency the objects intrusted to them. They are to keep a record of all their proceedings, the head of the department acting as secretary for this purpose. The following may be given as an example of the manner in which business is transacted by means of these officers. On the day that the above description of their duties was written, I wished for a sort of directory to assist the collector employed to receive payments for the bills, and, to obtain it, I took the following steps: At the business quarter hour I issued the following order: "Before the close of school, I wish the distributors to leave upon each of the desks a piece of paper" (the size I described). "It is for a purpose which I shall then explain." Accordingly, at some leisure moment before the close of school, each one of the regulators went with her box to the stationery shelves, which you will see in the corners of the room, where a supply of paper of all the various sizes used in school is kept, and, taking out a sufficient number, they supplied all the desks in their respective divisions. When the time for closing school arrived, I requested each young lady to write the name of her parent or guardian upon the paper, and opposite to it his place of business. This was done in a minute or two. "All those whose parent's or guardian's name begins with a letter above _m_ may rise." They rose. "The distributors may collect the papers." The officers then passed round in regular order, each through her own division, and collected the papers. "Deliver them at the accountants' desk." They were accordingly carried there, and received by the accountants. In the same manner, the others were collected and received by the accountants, but kept separate. "I wish now the second accountant would copy these in a little book I have prepared for the purpose, arranging them alphabetically, referring all doubtful cases again to me." The second accountant then arranged the papers, and prepared them to go into the book, and the writer who belongs to the department copied them fairly. I describe this case, because it was one which occurred at the time I was writing the above description, and not because there is any thing otherwise peculiar in it. Such cases are continually taking place, and by the division of labor above illustrated, I am very much assisted in a great many of the duties which would otherwise consume a great portion of my time. Any of the scholars may at any time make suggestions in writing to any of these officers or to the whole school; and if an officer should be partial, or unfaithful, or negligent in her duty, any scholar may propose her impeachment. After hearing what she chooses to write in her defense, a vote is taken on sustaining the impeachment. If it is sustained, she is deprived of the office, and another appointed to fill her place. V. THE COURT. I have already described how all serious cases of doing wrong or neglect of duty are managed in the school. I manage them myself, by coming as directly and as openly as I can to the heart and conscience of the offender. There are, however, a number of little transgressions, too small to be individually worthy of serious attention, but which are yet troublesome to the community when frequently repeated. These relate chiefly to _order in the school-rooms_. These misdemeanors are tried, half in jest and half in earnest, by a sort of _court_, whose forms of process might make a legal gentleman smile. They, however, fully answer our purpose. I can best give you an idea of the court by describing an actual trial. I ought, however, first to say that any young lady who chooses to be free from the jurisdiction of the court can signify that wish to me, and she is safe from it. This, however, is never done. They all see the useful influence of it, and wish to sustain it. Near the close of school, I find, perhaps, on my desk a paper, of which the following may be considered a copy. It is called the indictment. We accuse Miss A.B. of having waste papers in the aisle opposite her desk, at 11 o'clock, on Friday, Oct. 12. C.D.} E.F.} Witnesses. I give notice after school that a case is to be tried. Those interested, twenty or thirty perhaps, gather around my desk, while the sheriff goes to summon the accused and the witnesses. A certain space is marked off as the precincts of the court, within which no one must enter in the slightest degree, on pain of imprisonment, that is, confinement to her seat until court adjourns. "Miss A.B., you are accused of having an untidy floor about your desk. Have you any objection to the indictment?" While she is looking over the indictment to discover a misspelled word, or an error in the date, or some other latent flaw, I appoint any two of the by-standers jury. The jury come forward to listen to the cause. The accused returns the indictment, saying she has no objection, and the witnesses are called upon to present their testimony. Perhaps the prisoner alleges in defense that the papers were out _in the aisle_, not _under her desk_, or that she did not put them there, or that they were too few or too small to deserve attention. My charge to the jury would be somewhat as follows: "You are to consider and decide whether she was guilty of disorder, taking into view the testimony of the witnesses and also her defense. It is considered here that each young lady is responsible not only for the appearance of the carpet _under her desk_, but also for _the aisle opposite to it_, so that her first ground of defense must be abandoned. So, also, with the second, that she did not put them there. She ought not to _have_ them there. Each scholar must keep her own place in a proper condition; so that if disorder is found there, no matter who made it, she is responsible if she only had time to remove it. As to the third, you must judge whether enough has been proved by the witnesses to make out real disorder." The jury write _guilty_ or _not guilty_ upon the paper, and it is returned to me. If sentence is pronounced, it is usually confinement to the seat during a recess, or part of a recess, or something that requires a slight effort or sacrifice for the public good. The sentence is always something _real_, though always _slight_, and the court has a great deal of influence in a double way--making amusement and preserving order. The cases tried are very various, but none of the serious business of the school is intrusted to it. Its sessions are always held out of school hours, and, in fact, it is hardly considered by the scholars as a constituent part of the arrangements of the school; so much so, that I hesitated much about inserting an account of it in this description. VI. RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION. In giving you this account, brief as it is, I ought not to omit to speak of one feature of our plan, which we have always intended should be one of the most prominent and distinctive characteristics of the school. The gentlemen who originally interested themselves in its establishment had mainly in view the exertion, by the principal, of a decided moral and religious influence over the hearts of the pupils. Knowing, as they did, how much more dutiful and affectionate at home you would be, how much more successful in your studies at school, how much happier in your intercourse with each other, and in your prospects for the future both here and hereafter, if your hearts could be brought under the influence of Christian principle, they were strongly desirous that the school should be so conducted that its religious influence, though gentle and alluring in its character, should be frank, and open, and decided. I need not say that I myself entered very cordially into these views. It has been my constant effort, and one of the greatest sources of my enjoyment, to try to win my pupils to piety, and to create such an atmosphere in school that conscience, and moral principle, and affection for the unseen Jehovah should reign here. You can easily see how much pleasanter it is for me to have the school controlled by such influence, than if it were necessary for me to hire you to diligence in duty by prizes or rewards, or to deter you from neglect or from transgression by reproaches, and threatenings, and punishments. The influence which the school has thus exerted has always been cordially welcomed by my pupils, and approved, so far as I have known, by their parents, though four or five denominations, and fifteen or twenty different congregations, have been from time to time represented in the school. There are few parents who would not like to have their children _Christians_--sincerely and practically so; for everything which a parent can desire in a child is promoted just in proportion as she opens her heart to the influence of the spirit of piety. But that you may understand what course is taken, I shall describe, first, what I wish to effect in the hearts of my pupils, and then what means I take to accomplish the object. 1. A large number of young persons of your age, and in circumstances similar to those in which you are placed, perform with some fidelity their various outward duties, _but maintain no habitual and daily communion with God_. It is very wrong for them to live thus without God, but they do not see, or, rather, do not feel the guilt of it. They only think of their accountability to _human beings_ like themselves; for example, their parents, teachers, brothers and sisters, and friends. Consequently, they think most of their _external_ conduct, which is all that human beings can see. Their i>hearts_ are neglected, and become very impure, full of evil thoughts, and desires, and passions, which are not repented of, and consequently not forgiven. Now what I wish to accomplish in regard to all my pupils is, that they should begin to _feel their accountability to God_, and to act according to it; that they should explore their _hearts_, and ask God's forgiveness for all their past sins, through Jesus Christ, who died for them that they might be forgiven; and that they should from this time try to live _near to God_, feel his presence, and enjoy that solid peace and happiness which flows from a sense of his protection. When such a change takes place, it relieves the mind from that constant and irritating uneasiness which the great mass of mankind feel as a constant burden; the ceaseless forebodings of a troubled conscience reproaching them for their past accumulated guilt, and warning them of a judgment to come. The change which I endeavor to promote relieves the heart both of the present suffering and of the future danger. After endeavoring to induce you to begin to act from Christian principle, I wish to explain to you your various duties to yourselves, your parents, and to God. 2. The measures to which I resort to accomplish these objects are three: First, _Religious Exercises in School_.--We open and close the school with a very short prayer and one or two verses of a hymn. Sometimes I occupy ten or fifteen minutes at one of the general exercises, or at the close of the school, in giving instruction upon practical religious duty. The subjects are sometimes suggested by a passage of Scripture read for the purpose, but more commonly in another way. You will observe often, at the close of the school or at an appointed general exercise, that a scholar will bring to my desk a dark-colored morocco wrapper containing several small strips of paper, upon which questions relating to moral or religious duty, or subjects for remarks from me, or anecdotes, or short statements of facts, giving rise to inquiries of various kinds, are written. This wrapper is deposited in a place accessible to all the scholars, and any one who pleases deposits in it any question or suggestion on religious subjects which may occur to her. You can at any time do this yourself, thus presenting any doubt, or difficulty, or inquiry which may at any time occur to you. Secondly, _Religious Exercise on Saturday afternoon_.--In order to bring up more distinctly and systematically the subject of religious duty, I established, a long time ago, a religious meeting on Saturday afternoon. It is intended for those who feel interested in receiving such instruction, and who can conveniently attend at that time. If you have no other engagements, and if your parents approve of it, I should be happy to have you attend. There will be very little to interest you except the subject itself, for I make all the instructions which I give there as plain, direct, and practical as is in my power. A considerable number of the scholars usually attend, and frequently bring with them many of their female friends. You can at any time invite any one whom you please to come to the meeting. It commences at half past three, and continues about half an hour. Thirdly, _Personal Religious Instruction._--In consequence of the large number of my pupils, and the constant occupation of my time in school, I have scarcely any opportunity of religious conversation with them, even with those who particularly desire it. The practice has therefore arisen, and gradually extended itself almost universally in school, of writing to me on the subject. These communications are usually brief notes, expressing the writer's interest in the duties of piety, or bringing forward her own peculiar practical difficulties, or making specific inquiries, or asking particular instruction in regard to some branch of religious duty. I answer in a similar way, very briefly and concisely, however, for the number of notes of this kind which I receive is very large, and the time which I can devote to such a correspondence necessarily limited. I should like to receive such communications from all my pupils; for advice or instruction communicated in reply, being directly personal, is far more likely to produce effect. Besides, my remarks, being in writing, can be read a second time, and be more attentively considered and reconsidered than when words are merely spoken. These communications must always be begun by the pupil. I never (unless there may be occasional exceptions in some few very peculiar cases) commence. I am prevented from doing this both by my unwillingness to obtrude such a subject personally upon those who might not welcome it, and by want of time. I have scarcely time to write to all those who are willing first to write to me. Many cases have occurred where individuals have strongly desired some private communication with me, but have hesitated long, and shrunk reluctantly from the first step. I hope it will not be so with you. Should you ever wish to receive from me any direct religious instruction, I hope you will write immediately and freely. I shall very probably not even notice that it is the first time I have received such a communication from you. So numerous and so frequent are these communications, that I seldom observe, when I receive one from any individual for the first time, that it comes from one who has not written me before. Such are the means to which I resort in endeavoring to lead my pupils to God and to duty, and you will observe that the whole design of them is to win and to allure, not to compel. The regular devotional exercises of school are all which you will _necessarily_ witness. These are very short, occupying much less time than many of the pupils think desirable. The rest is all private and voluntary. I never make any effort to urge any one to attend the Saturday meeting, nor do I, except in a few rare and peculiar cases, ever address any one personally, unless she desires to be so addressed. You will be left, therefore, in this school, unmolested, to choose your own way. If you should choose to neglect religious duty, and to wander away from God, I shall still do all in my power to make you happy in school, and to secure for you in future life such a measure of enjoyment as can fall to the share of one over whose prospects in another world there hangs so gloomy a cloud. I shall never reproach you, and perhaps may not even know what your choice is. Should you, on the other hand, prefer the peace and happiness of piety, and be willing to begin to walk in its paths, you will find many, both among the teachers and pupils of the Mount Vernon School, to sympathize with you, and to encourage and help you on your way. CHAPTER VII. SCHEMING. [Illustration] Some of the best teachers in our country, or, rather, of those who might be the best, lose a great deal of their time, and endanger, or perhaps entirely destroy, their hopes of success by a scheming spirit, which is always reaching forward to something new. One has in his mind some new school-book by which Arithmetic, Grammar, or Geography are to be taught with unexampled rapidity, and his own purse to be filled in a much more easy way than by waiting for the rewards of patient industry. Another has the plan of a school, bringing into operation new principles of management or instruction, which he is to establish on some favored spot, and which is to become, in a few years, a second Hofwyl. Another has some royal road to learning, and, though he is trammeled and held down by what he calls the ignorance and stupidity of his trustees or his school committee, yet, if he could fairly put his principles and methods to the test, he is certain of advancing the science of education half a century at least at a single leap. Ingenuity in devising new ways, and enterprise in following them, are among the happiest characteristics of a new country rapidly filling with a thriving population. Without these qualities there could be no advance; society must be stationary; and from a stationary to a retrograde condition, the progress is inevitable. The disposition to make improvements and changes may, however, be too great. If so, it must be checked. On the other hand, a slavish attachment to old established practices may prevail. Then the spirit of enterprise and experiment must be awakened and encouraged. Which of these two is to be the duty of a writer at any time will of course depend upon the situation of the community at the time when he writes, and of the class of readers for which he takes his pen. Now, at the present time, it is undoubtedly true, that while among the great mass of teachers there may be too little originality and enterprise, there is still among many a spirit of innovation and change to which a caution ought to be addressed. But, before I proceed, let me protect myself from misconception by one or two remarks. 1. There are a few individuals in various parts of our country who, by ingenuity and enterprise, have made real and important improvements in many departments of our science, and are still making them. The science is to be carried forward by such men. Let them not, therefore, understand that any thing which I shall say applies at all to those real improvements which are from time to time brought before the public. As examples of this, there might easily be mentioned, were it necessary, several new modes of study, and new text-books, and literary institutions on new plans, which have been brought forward within a few years, and have proved, on actual trial, to be of real and permanent value. These are, or rather they were, when first conceived by the original projectors, new schemes, and the result has proved that they were good ones. Every teacher, too, must hope that such improvements will continue to be made. Let nothing, therefore, which shall be said on the subject of scheming in this chapter be interpreted as intended to condemn real improvements of this kind, or to check those which may now be in progress by men of age or experience, or of sound judgment, who are capable of distinguishing between a real improvement and a whimsical innovation which can never live any longer than it is sustained by the enthusiasm of the original inventor. 2. There are a great many teachers in our country who make their business a mere dull and formal routine, through which they plod on, month after month, and year after year, without variety or change, and who are inclined to stigmatize with the appellation of idle scheming all plans, of whatever kind, to give variety or interest to the exercises of the school. Now whatever may be said in this chapter against unnecessary innovation and change does not apply to efforts to secure variety in the details of daily study, while the great leading objects are steadily pursued. This subject has already been discussed in the chapter on Instruction, where it has been shown that every wise teacher, while he pursues the same great object, and adopts in substance the same leading measures at all times, will exercise all the ingenuity he possesses, and bring all his inventive powers into requisition to give variety and interest to the minute details. To explain now what is meant by such scheming as is to be condemned, let us suppose a case which is riot very uncommon. A young man, while preparing for college, takes a school. When he first enters upon the duties of his office, he is diffident and timid, and walks cautiously in the steps which precedent has marked out for him. Distrusting himself, he seeks guidance in the example which others have set for him, and, very probably, he imitates precisely, though it may be insensibly and involuntarily, the manners and the plans of his own last teacher. This servitude soon, however, if he is a man of natural abilities, passes away; he learns to try one experiment after another, until he insensibly finds that a plan may succeed, even if it was not pursued by his former teacher. So far it is well. He throws greater interest into his school, and into all its exercises, by the spirit with which he conducts them. He is successful. After the period of his services has expired, he returns to the pursuit of his studies, encouraged by his success, and anticipating farther triumphs in his subsequent attempts. He goes on through college, we will suppose, teaching from time to time in the vacations, as opportunity occurs, taking more and more interest in the employment, and meeting with greater and greater success. This success is owing in a very great degree to the _freedom_ of his practice, that is, to his escape from the thraldom of imitation. So long as he leaves the great objects of the school untouched, and the great features of its organization unchanged, his many plans for accomplishing these objects in new and various ways awaken interest and spirit both in himself and in his scholars, and all goes on well. Now in such a case as this, a young teacher, philosophizing upon his success and the causes of it, will almost invariably make this mistake, namely, he will attribute to something essentially excellent in his plans the success which, in fact, results from the novelty of them. When he proposes something new to a class, they all take an interest in it because it is _new_. He takes, too, a special interest in it because it is an experiment which he is trying, and he feels a sort of pride and pleasure in securing its success. The new method which he adopts may not be, _in itself,_ in the least degree better than old methods, yet it may succeed vastly better in his hands than any old method he had tried before. And why? Why, because it is new. It awakens interest in his class, because it offers them variety; and it awakens interest in him, because it is a plan which he has devised, and for whose success, therefore, he feels that his credit is at stake. Either of these circumstances is abundantly sufficient to account for its success. Either of these would secure success, unless the plan was a very bad one indeed. This may easily be illustrated by supposing a particular case. The teacher has, we will imagine, been accustomed to teach spelling in the usual way, by assigning a lesson in the spelling-book, which the scholars, after studying it in their seats, recite by having the words put to them individually in the class. After some time, he finds that one class has lost its interest in this study. He can compel them to study the lesson, it is true, but he perceives, perhaps, that it is a weary task to them. Of course, they proceed with less alacrity, and consequently with less rapidity and success. He thinks, very justly, that it is highly desirable to secure cheerful, not forced, reluctant efforts from his pupils, and he thinks of trying some new plan. Accordingly, he says to them, "Boys, I am going to try a new plan for this class." The mere annunciation of a new plan awakens universal attention. The boys all look up, wondering what it is to be. "Instead of having you study your lessons in your seats, as heretofore, I am going to let you all go together into one corner of the room, and choose some one to read the lesson to you, spelling all the words aloud. You will all listen, and endeavor to remember how the difficult ones are spelled. Do you think you can remember?" "Yes, sir," say the boys. Children always think they _can_ do every thing which is proposed to them as a new plan or experiment, though they are very often inclined to think they _can not_ do what is required of them as a task. "You may have," continues the teacher, "the words read to you once or twice, just as you please. Only, if you have them read but once, you must take a shorter lesson." He pauses and looks round upon the class. Some say "Once," some "Twice." "I am willing that you should decide this question. How many are in favor of having shorter lessons, and having them read but once? How many prefer longer lessons, and having them read twice?" After comparing the numbers, it is decided according to the majority, and the teacher assigns or allows them to assign a lesson. "Now," he proceeds, "I am not only going to have you study in a different way, but recite in a different way too. You may take your slates with you, and after you have had time to hear the lesson read slowly and carefully twice, I shall come and dictate to you the words aloud, and you will all write them from my dictation. Then I shall examine your slates, and see how many mistakes are made." Any class of boys, now, would be exceedingly interested in such a proposal as this, especially if the master's ordinary principles of government and instruction had been such as to interest the pupils in the welfare of the school and in their own progress in study. They will come together in the place assigned, and listen to the one who is appointed to read the words to them, with every faculty aroused, and their whole souls engrossed in the new duties assigned them. The teacher, too, feels a special interest in his experiment. Whatever else he may be employed about, his eye turns instinctively to this group with an intensity of interest which an experienced teacher who has long been in the field, and who has tried experiments of this sort a hundred times, can scarcely conceive; for let it be remembered that I am describing the acts and feelings of a new beginner, of one who is commencing his work with a feeble and trembling step, and perhaps this is his first step away from the beaten path in which he has been accustomed to walk. This new plan is continued, we will suppose, for a week, during which time the interest of the pupils continues. They get longer lessons and make fewer mistakes than they did by the old method. Now, in speculating on this subject, the teacher reasons very justly that it is of no consequence whether the pupil receives his knowledge through the eye or through the ear; whether they study in solitude or in company. The point is to secure their progress in learning to spell the words of the English language, and as this point is secured far more rapidly and effectually by his new method, the inference is to his mind very obvious, that he has made a great improvement--one of real and permanent value. Perhaps he will consider it an extraordinary discovery. But the truth is, that in almost all such cases as this, the secret of the success is not that the teacher has discovered a _better_ method than the ordinary ones, but that he has discovered a _new_ one. The experiment will succeed in producing more successful results just as long as the novelty of it continues to excite unusual interest and attention in the class, or the thought that it is a plan of the teacher's own invention leads him to take a peculiar interest in it. And this may be a month, or perhaps a quarter; and precisely the same effects would have been produced if the whole had been reversed, that is, if the plan of dictation had been the old one, which in process of time had, in this supposed school, lost its interest, and the teacher, by his ingenuity and enterprise, had discovered and introduced what is now the common mode. "Very well," perhaps my reader will reply, "it is surely something gained to awaken and continue interest in a dull study for a quarter, or even a month. The experiment is worth something as a pleasant and useful change, even if it is not permanently superior to the other." It is indeed worth something. It is worth a great deal; and the teacher who can devise and execute such plans, _understanding their real place and value, and adhering steadily through them all to the great object which ought to engage his attention,_ is in the almost certain road to success as an instructor. What I wish is not to discourage such efforts; they ought to be encouraged to the utmost; but to have their real nature and design, and the real secret of their success fully understood, and to have the teacher, above all, take good care that all his new plans are made, not the substitutes for the great objects which he ought to keep steadily in view, but only the means by which he may carry them into more full and complete effect. In the case we are supposing, however, we will imagine that the teacher does not do this. He fancies that he has made an important discovery, and begins to inquire whether _the principle,_ as he calls it, can not be applied to some other studies. He goes to philosophizing upon it, and can find many reasons why knowledge received through the ear makes a more ready and lasting impression than when it comes through the eye. He attempts to apply the method to Arithmetic and Geography, and in a short time is forming plans for the complete metamorphosis of his school. When engaged in hearing a recitation, his mind is distracted with his schemes and plans, and instead of devoting his attention fully to the work he may have in hand, his thoughts are wandering continually to new schemes and fancied improvements, which agitate and perplex him, and which elude his efforts to give them a distinct and definite form. He thinks he must, however, carry out his _principle_. He thinks of its applicability to a thousand other cases. He revolves over and over again in his mind plans for changing the whole arrangement of his school. He is again and again lost in perplexity, his mind is engrossed and distracted, and his present duties are performed with no interest, and consequently with little spirit or success. Now his error is in allowing a new idea, which ought only to have suggested to him an agreeable change for a time in one of his classes, to swell itself into undue and exaggerated importance, and to draw off his mind from what ought to be the objects of his steady pursuit. Perhaps some teacher of steady intellectual habits and a well-balanced mind may think that this picture is fanciful, and that there is little danger that such consequences will ever actually result from such a cause. But, far from having exasperated the results. I am of opinion that I might have gone much farther. There is no doubt that a great many instances have occurred in which some simple idea like the one I have alluded to has led the unlucky conceiver of it, in his eager pursuit, far deeper into the difficulty than I have here supposed. He gets into a contention with the school committee, that formidable foe to the projects of all scheming teachers; and it would not be very difficult to find many actual cases where the individual has, in consequence of some such idea, quietly planned and taken measures to establish some new institution, where he can carry on unmolested his plans, and let the world see the full results of his wonderful discoveries. We have in our country a very complete system of literary institutions, so far as external organization will go, and the prospect of success is far more favorable in efforts to carry these institutions into more complete and prosperous operation, than in plans for changing them, or substituting others in their stead. Were it not that such a course would be unjust to individuals, a long and melancholy catalogue might easily be made out of abortive plans which have sprung up in the minds of young men in the manner I have described, and which, after perhaps temporary success, have resulted in partial or total failure. These failures are of every kind. Some are school-books on a new plan, which succeeds in the inventor's hand chiefly on account of the spirit which carried it into effect, but which in ordinary hands, and under ordinary circumstances, and especially after long-continued use, have failed of exhibiting any superiority. Others are institutions, commenced with great zeal by the projectors, and which prosper just as long as that zeal continues. Zeal will make any thing succeed for a time. Others are new plans of instruction or government, generally founded on some good principle carried to an extreme, or made to grow into exaggerated and disproportionate importance. Examples almost innumerable of these things might be particularized, if it were proper, and it would be found, upon examination, that the amount of ingenuity and labor wasted upon such attempts would have been sufficient, if properly expended, to have elevated very considerably the standard of education, and to have placed existing institutions in a far more prosperous and thriving state than they now exhibit. The reader will perhaps ask, Shall we make no efforts at improvement? Must every thing in education go on in a uniform and monotonous manner, and, while all else is advancing, shall our cause alone stand still? By no means. It must advance; but let it advance mainly by the industry and fidelity of those who are employed in it; by changes slowly and cautiously made; not by great efforts to reach forward to brilliant discoveries, which will draw off the attention from essential duties, and, after leading the projector through perplexities and difficulties without number, end in mortification and failure. Were I to give a few concise and summary directions in regard to this subject to a young teacher, they would be the following: 1. Examine thoroughly the system of public and private schools as now constituted in most of the states of this Union, until you fully understand it and appreciate its excellences and its completeness; see how fully it provides for the wants of the various classes of our population. By this I mean to refer only to the completeness of the _system_ as a system of organization. I do not refer at all to the internal management of these institutions; this last is, of course, a field for immediate and universal effort at progress and improvement. 2. If, after fully understanding this system as it now exists, you are of opinion that something more is necessary; if you think some classes of the community are not fully provided for, or that some of our institutions may be advantageously exchanged for others, the plan of which you have in mind, consider whether your age, and experience, and standing as an instructor are such as to enable you to place confidence in your opinion. I do not mean by this that a young man may not make a useful discovery, but only that he may be led away by the ardor of early life to fancy that essential and important which is really not so. It is important that each one should determine whether this is not the case with himself, if his mind is revolving some new plan. 3. Perhaps you are contemplating only a single new institution, which is to depend for its success on yourself and some coadjutors whom you have in mind and whom you well know. If this is the case, consider whether the establishment you are contemplating can be carried on, after you shall have left it, by such men as can ordinarily be obtained. If the plan is founded on some peculiar notions of your own, which would enable you to succeed in it when others, who might also be interested in such a scheme, would probably fail, consider whether there may not be danger that your plan may be imitated by others who can not carry it into successful operation, so that it may be the indirect means of doing injury. A man is, in some degree, responsible for his example and for the consequences which may indirectly flow from his course, as well as for the immediate results which he produces. The Fellenberg school at Hofwyl was perhaps, by its direct results, as successful for a time as any other institution in the world; but there is a great offset to the good which it has thus done to be found in the history of the thousand wretched imitations of it which have been started only to linger a little while and die, and in which a vast amount of time, and talent, and money have been wasted. [Illustration] 4. Consider the influence you may have upon the other institutions of our country, by attaching yourself to some one under the existing organization. If you take an academy or a private school, constituted and organized like other similar institutions, success in your own will give you influence over others. A successful teacher of an academy raises the general standard of academic instruction. A college professor, if he brings extraordinary talents to bear upon the regular duties of that office, throws light, universally, upon the whole science of college discipline and instruction, and thus aids in infusing a continually renewed life and vigor into those venerable seats of learning that might otherwise sink into decrepitude and decay. By going, however, to some new field, establishing some new and fanciful institution, you take yourself from such a sphere; you exert no influence over others, except upon feeble imitators, who fail in their attempts, and bring discredit upon your plans by the awkwardness with which they attempt to adopt them. How much more service, then, to the cause of education will a man of genius render, by falling in with the regularly organized institutions of the country and elevating them, than if in early life he were to devote his powers to some magnificent project of an establishment to which his talents would unquestionably have given temporary success, but which would have taken him away from the community of teachers, and confined the results of his labors to the more immediate effects which his daily duties might produce. 5. Perhaps, however, your plan is not the establishment of some new institution, but the introduction of some new study or pursuit into the one with which you are connected. Before, however, you interrupt the regular arrangements of your school to make such a change, consider carefully what is the real and appropriate object of your institution. Every thing is not to be done in school. The principles of division of labor apply with peculiar force to this employment; so that you must not only consider whether the branch which you are now disposed to introduce is important, but whether it is really such an one as it is on the whole best to include among the objects to be pursued in such an institution. Many teachers seem to imagine that if any thing is in itself important, and especially if it is an important branch of education, the question is settled of its being a proper object of attention in school. But this is very far from being the case. The whole work of education can never be intrusted to the teacher. Much must of course remain in the hands of the parent; it ought so to remain. The object of a school is not to take children out of the parental hands, substituting the watch and guardianship of a stranger for the natural care of father and mother. Far from it. It is only the association of the children for those purposes which can be more successfully accomplished by association. It is a union for few, specific, and limited objects, for the accomplishment of that part (and it is comparatively a small part of the general objects of education) which can be most successfully effected by public institutions and in assemblies of the young. 6. If the branch which you are desiring to introduce appears to you to be an important part of education, and if it seems to you that it can be most successfully attended to in schools, then consider whether the introduction of it, _and of all the other branches having equal claims_, will or will not give to the common schools too great a complexity. Consider whether it will succeed in the hands of ordinary teachers. Consider whether it will require so much time and effort as will draw off in any considerable degree, the attention of the teacher from the more essential parts of his duty. All will admit that it is highly important that every school should be simple in its plan--as simple as its size and general circumstances will permit, and especially that the public schools in every town and village of our country should never lose sight of what is and must be, after all, their great design--_teaching the whole population to ready write, and calculate._ 7. If it is a school-book which you are wishing to introduce, consider well before you waste your time in preparing it, and your spirits in the vexatious work of getting it through the press; whether it is, _for general use_, so superior to those already published as to induce teachers to make a change in favor of yours. I have italicized the words _for general use_, for no delusion is more common than for a teacher to suppose that because a text-book which he has prepared and uses in manuscript is better for _him_ than any other work which he can obtain, it will therefore be better for _general circulation_. Every man, if he has any originality of mind, has of course some peculiar method of his own, and he can of course prepare a text-book which will be better adapted to this method than those ordinarily in use. The history of a vast number of text-books, Arithmetics, Geographies, and Grammars, is this: A man of somewhat ingenious mind, adopts some peculiar mode of instruction in one of these branches, and is quite successful, not because the method has any very peculiar excellence, but simply because he takes a greater interest in it, both on account of its novelty and also from the fact that it is his own invention. He conceives the plan of writing a text-book to develop and illustrate this method. He hurries through the work. By some means or other he gets it printed. In due time it is regularly advertised. The journals of education give notice of it; the author sends a few copies to his friends, and that is the end of it. Perhaps a few schools may make a trial of it, and if, for any reason, the teachers who try it are interested in the work, probably in their hands it succeeds. But it does not succeed so well as to attract general attention, and consequently does not get into general circulation. The author loses his time and his patience. The publisher, unless, unfortunately, it was published on the author's account, loses his paper, and in a few months scarcely any body knows that such a book ever saw the light. It is in this way that the great multitude of school-books which are now constantly issuing from the press take their origin. Far be it from me to discourage the preparation of good school-books. This department of our literature offers a fine field for the efforts of learning and genius. What I contend against is the endless multiplicity of useless works, hastily conceived and carelessly executed, and which serve no purpose but to employ uselessly talents which, if properly applied, might greatly benefit both the community and the possessor. 8. If, however, after mature deliberation, you conclude that you have the plan of a school-book which you ought to try to mature and execute, be slow and cautious about it. Remember that so great is now the competition in this branch, nothing but superior excellence or very extraordinary exertions will secure the favorable reception of a work. Examine all that your predecessors have done before you. Obtain, whatever may be the trouble and expense, all other text-books on the subject, and examine them thoroughly. If you see that you can make a very decided advance on all that has been done, and that the public will probably submit to the inconvenience and expense of a change to secure the result of your labors, go forward slowly and carefully in your work, no matter how much investigation, how much time and labor it may require. The more difficulty you may find in gaining the eminence, the less likely will you be to be followed by successful competitors. 9. Consider, in forming your text-book, not merely the whole subject on which you are to write, but also look extensively and thoroughly at the institutions throughout the country, and consider carefully the character of the teachers by whom you expect it to be used. Sometimes a man publishes a text-book, and when it fails on trial, he says "it is because they did not know how to use it. The book in itself was good. The whole fault was in the awkwardness and ignorance of the teacher." How absurd! As if, to make a good text-book, it was not as necessary to adapt it to teachers as to scholars. A _good text-book, which the teachers for whom it was intended did not know how to use!!_ In other words, a good contrivance, but entirely unfit for the purpose for which it was intended. 10. Lastly, in every new plan, consider carefully whether its success in your hands, after you have tried it and found it successful, be owing to its novelty and to your own special interest in it, or to its own innate and intrinsic superiority. If the former, use it so long as it will last, simply to give variety and interest to your plans. Recommend it in conversation or in other ways to teachers with whom you are acquainted, not as a wonderful discovery, which is going to change the whole science of education, but as one method among others which may be introduced from time to time to relieve the monotony of the teacher's labors. In a word, do not go away from the established institutions of our country, or deviate from the great objects which are at present, and ought continually to be pursued by them, without great caution, circumspection, and deliberate inquiry. But, within these limits, exercise ingenuity and invention as much as you will. Pursue steadily the great objects which demand the teacher's attention. They are simple and few. Never lose sight of them, nor turn to the right or to the left to follow any ignis fatuus which may arise to allure you away, but exercise as much ingenuity and enterprise as you please in giving variety and interest to the modes by which these objects are pursued. If planning and scheming are confined within these limits, and conducted on these principles, the teacher will save all the agitating perplexity and care which will otherwise be his continual portion. He can go forward peaceably and quietly, and while his own success is greatly increased, he may be of essential service to the cause in which he is engaged, by making known his various experiments and plans to others. For this purpose, it seems to me highly desirable that every teacher should KEEP A JOURNAL of all his plans. In these should be carefully entered all his experiments; the new methods he adopts; the course he takes in regard to difficulties which may arise, and any interesting incidents which may occur which it would be useful for him to refer to at some future time. These, or the most interesting of them, should be made known to other teachers. This may be done in several ways: (1.) By publishing them in periodicals devoted to education. Such contributions, furnished by judicious men, would be among the most valuable articles in such a work. They would be far more valuable than any general speculations, however well conceived or expressed. (2.) In newspapers intended for general circulation. There are very few editors whose papers circulate in families who would not gladly receive articles of this kind to fill a teacher's department in their columns. If properly written, they would be read with interest and profit by multitudes of parents, and would throw much light on family government and instruction. (3.) By reading them in teachers' meetings. If half a dozen teachers who are associated in the same vicinity would meet once a fortnight, simply to hear each other's journals, they would be amply repaid for their time and labor. Teachers' meetings will be interesting and useful, when those who come forward in them will give up the prevailing practice of delivering orations, and come down at once to the scenes and to the business of the school-room. There is one topic connected with the subject of this chapter which deserves a few paragraphs. I refer to the rights of the committee, or the trustees, or patrons in the control of the school. The right to such control, when claimed at all, is usually claimed in reference to the teacher's new plans, which renders it proper to allude to the subject here; and it ought not to be omitted, for a great many cases occur in which teachers have difficulties with the trustees or committee of their school. Sometimes these difficulties result at last in an open rupture; at other times in only a slight and temporary misunderstanding, arising from what the teacher calls an unwise and unwarrantable interference on the part of the committee or the trustees in the arrangements of the school. Difficulties of some sort very often arise. In fact, a right understanding of this subject is, in most cases, absolutely essential to the harmony and co-operation of the teacher and the representatives of his patrons. There are then, it must be recollected, three different parties connected with every establishment for education: the parents of the scholars, the teacher, and the pupils themselves. Sometimes, as, for example, in a common private school, the parents are not organized, and whatever influence they exert they must exert in their individual capacity. At other times, as in a common district or town school, they are by law organized, and the school committee chosen for this purpose are their legal representatives. In other instances, a board of trustees are constituted by the appointment of the founders of the institution, or by the Legislature of a state, to whom is committed the oversight of its concerns, and who are consequently the representatives of the founders and patrons of the school. There are differences between these various modes of organization which I shall not now stop to examine, as it will be sufficiently correct for my purpose to consider them all as only various ways of organizing the _employers_ in the contract by which the teacher is employed. The teacher is the agent; the patrons represented in these several ways are the principals. When, therefore, in the following paragraphs I use the word _employers_, I mean to be understood to speak of the committee, or the trustees, or the visitors, or the parents themselves, as the case in each particular institution may be; that is, the persons for whose purpose and at whose expense the institution is maintained, or their representatives. Now there is a very reasonable and almost universally established rule, which teachers are very frequently prone to forget, namely, _the employed ought always to be responsible to the employers, and to be under their direction._ So obviously reasonable is this rule, and, in fact, so absolutely indispensable in the transaction of all the business of life, that it would be idle to attempt to establish and illustrate it here. It has, however, limitations, and it is applicable to a much greater extent, in some departments of human labor than in others. It is _applicable_ to the business of teaching, and though I confess that it is somewhat less absolute and imperious here, still it is obligatory, I believe, to a far greater extent than teachers have been generally willing to admit. A young lady, I will imagine, wishes to introduce the study of Botany into her school. The parents or the committee object; they say that they wish the children to confine their attention exclusively to the elementary branches of education. "It will do them no good," says the chairman of the committee, "to learn by heart some dozen or two of learned names. We want them to read well, to write well, and to calculate well, and not to waste their time in studying about pistils, and stamens, and nonsense." Now what is the duty of the teacher in such a case? Why, very plainly her duty is the same as that of the governor of a state, where the people, through their representatives, regularly chosen, negative a proposal which he considers calculated to promote the public good. It is his duty to submit to the public will; and, though he may properly do all in his power to present the subject to his employers in such a light as to lead them to regard it as he does, he must still, until they do so regard it, bow to their authority; and every magistrate who takes an enlarged and comprehensive view of his duties as the executive of a republican community, will do this without any humiliating feelings of submission to unauthorized interference with his plans. He will, on the other hand, enjoy the satisfaction of feeling that he confines himself to his proper sphere, and leave to others the full possession of rights which properly pertain to them. It is so with every case where the relation of employer and employed subsists. You engage a carpenter to erect a house for you, and you present your plan; instead of going to work and executing your orders according to your wishes, he falls to criticising and condemning it; he finds fault with this, and ridicules that, and tells you you ought to make such and such an alteration in it. It is perfectly right for him to give his opinion, in the tone and spirit of _recommendation or suggestion_, with a distinct understanding that with his employer rests the power and the right to decide. But how many teachers take possession of their school-room as though it was an empire in which they are supreme, who resist every interference of their employers as they would an attack upon their personal freedom, and who feel that in regard to every thing connected with school they have really no actual responsibility. In most cases, the employers, knowing how sensitive teachers very frequently are on this point, acquiesce in it, and leave them to themselves. Whenever, in any case, they think that the state of the school requires their interference, they come cautiously and fearfully to the teacher, as if they were encroaching upon his rights, instead of advancing with the confidence and directness with which employers have always a right to approach the employed; and the teacher, with the view he has insensibly taken of the subject, being perhaps confirmed by the tone and manner which his employers use, makes the conversation quite as often an occasion of resentment and offense as of improvement. He is silent, perhaps, but in his heart he accuses his committee or his trustees of improper interference in _his_ concerns, as though it was no part of _their_ business to look after work which is going forward for their advantage, and for which they pay. Perhaps some individuals who have had some collision with their trustees or committee will ask me if I mean that a teacher ought to be entirely and immediately under the supervision and control of the trustees, just as a mechanic is when employed by another man. By no means. There are various circumstances connected with the nature of this employment, such as the impossibility of the employers fully understanding it in all its details, and the character and the standing of the teacher himself, which always will, in matter of fact, prevent this. The employers always will, in a great many respects, place more confidence in the teacher and in his views than they will in their own. But still, the ultimate power is theirs. Even if they err, if they wish to have a course pursued which is manifestly inexpedient and wrong, _they still have a right to decide._ It is their work; it is going on at their instance and at their expense, and the power of ultimate decision on all disputed questions must, from the very nature of the case, rest with them. The teacher may, it is true, have his option either to comply with their wishes or to seek employment in another sphere; but while he remains in the employ of any persons, whether in teaching or in any other service, he is bound to yield to the wishes of his employers when they insist upon it, and to submit good-humoredly to their direction when they shall claim their undoubted right to direct. This is to be done, it must be remembered, when they are wrong as well as when they are right. The obligation of the teacher is not founded upon _the superior wisdom_ of his employers in reference to the business for which they have engaged him, for they are very probably his inferiors in this respect, but _upon their right as employers_ to determine _how their own work shall be done._ A gardener, we will suppose, is engaged by a gentleman to lay out his grounds. The gardener goes to work, and, after a few hours, the gentleman comes out to see how he goes on and to give directions. He proposes something which the gardener, who, to make the case stronger, we will suppose knows better than the proprietor of the grounds, considers ridiculous and absurd; nay, we will suppose _it is_ ridiculous and absurd. Now what can the gardener do? There are obviously two courses. He can say to the proprietor, after a vain attempt to convince him he is wrong, "Well, sir, I will do just as you say. The grounds are yours: I have no interest in it or responsibility, except to accomplish your wishes." This would be right. Or he might say, "Sir, you have a right to direct upon your own grounds, and I do not wish to interfere with your plans; but I must ask you to obtain another gardener. I have a reputation at stake, and this work, if I do it even at your direction, will be considered as a specimen of my taste and of my planning, so that I must, in justice to myself, decline remaining in your employment." This, too, would be right, though probably, both in the business of gardening and of teaching, the case ought to be a strong one to render it expedient. But it would not be right for him, after his employer should have gone away, to say to himself, with a feeling of resentment at the imaginary _interference_, "I shall not follow any such directions; I understand my own trade, and shall receive no instructions in it from him," and then, disobeying all directions, go on and do the work contrary to the orders of his employer, who alone has a right to decide. And yet a great many teachers take a course as absurd and unjustifiable as this would be. Whenever the parents, or the committee, or the trustees express, however mildly and properly, their wishes in regard to the manner in which they desire to have their own work performed, their pride is at once aroused. They seem to feel it an indignity to act in any other way than just in accordance with their own will and pleasure; and they absolutely refuse to comply, resenting the interference as an insult; or else, if they apparently yield, it is with mere cold civility, and entirely without any honest desire to carry the wishes thus expressed into actual effect. Parents may, indeed, often misjudge. A good teacher will, however, soon secure their confidence, and they may acquiesce in his opinion. But they ought to be watchful, and the teacher ought to feel and acknowledge their authority on all questions connected with the education of their children. They have originally entire power in regard to the course which is to be pursued with them. Providence has made the parents responsible, and wholly responsible, for the manner in which their children are prepared for the duties of this life, and it is interesting to observe how very cautious the laws of society are about interfering with the parent's wishes in regard to the education of the child. There are many cases in which enlightened governments might make arrangements which would be better than those made by the parents if they are left to themselves. But they will not do it; they ought not to do it. God has placed the responsibility in the hands of the father and mother, and unless the manner in which it is exercised is calculated to endanger or to injure the community, there can rightfully be no interference except that of argument and persuasion. It ought also to be considered that upon the parents will come the consequences of the good or bad education of their children, and not upon the teacher, and consequently it is right that they should direct. The teacher remains, perhaps, a few months with his charge, and then goes to other places, and perhaps hears of them no more. He has thus very little at stake. The parent has every thing at stake; and it is manifestly unjust to give one man the power of deciding, while he escapes all the consequences of his mistakes, if he makes any, and to take away all the _power_ from those upon whose heads all the suffering which will follow an abuse of the power must descend. CHAPTER VIII. REPORTS OF CASES. There is, perhaps, no way by which a writer can more effectually explain his views on the subject of education than by presenting a great variety of actual cases, whether real or imaginary, and describing particularly the course of treatment which he would recommend in each. This method of communicating knowledge is very extensively resorted to in the medical profession, where writers detail particular cases, and report the symptoms and the treatment for each succeeding day, so that the reader may almost fancy himself actually a visitor at the sick-bed, and the nature and effects of the various prescriptions become fixed in the mind with almost as much distinctness and permanency as actual experience would give. This principle has been kept in view, the reader may perhaps think, too closely in all the chapters of this volume, almost every point brought up having been illustrated by anecdotes and narratives. I propose, however, devoting one chapter now to presenting a number of miscellaneous cases, without any attempt to arrange them. Sometimes the case will be merely stated, the reader being left to draw the inference; at others, such remarks will be added as the case suggests. All will, however, be intended to answer some useful purpose, either to exhibit good or bad management and its consequences, or to bring to view some trait of human nature, as it exhibits itself in children, which it may be desirable for the teacher to know. Let it be understood, however, that these cases are not selected with reference to their being strange or extraordinary. They are rather chosen because they are common; that is, they, or cases similar, will be constantly occurring to the teacher, and reading such a chapter will be the best substitute for experience which the teacher can have. Some are descriptions of literary exercises or plans which the reader can adopt in classes or with a whole school; others are cases of discipline, good or bad management, which the teacher can imitate or avoid. The stories are from various sources, and are the results of the experience of several individuals. 1. HATS AND BONNETS.--The master of a district school was accidentally looking out of the window one day, and he saw one of the boys throwing stones at a hat, which was put up for that purpose upon the fence. He said nothing about it at the time, but made a memorandum of the occurrence, that he might bring it before the school at the proper time. When the hour set apart for attending to the general business of the school had arrived, and all were still, he said, "I saw one of the boys throwing stones at a hat to-day: did he do right or wrong?" There were one or two faint murmurs which sounded like "_Wrong_" but the boys generally made no answer. "Perhaps it depends a little upon the question whose hat it was. Do you think it does depend upon that?" "Yes, sir." "Well, suppose then it was not his own hat, and he was throwing stones at it without the owner's consent, would it be plain in that case whether he was doing right or wrong?" "Yes, sir; wrong," was the universal reply. "Suppose it was his own hat, would he have been right? Has a boy a right to do what he pleases with his own hat?" "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir;" "No, sir," "No, sir," answered the boys, confusedly. "I do not know whose hat it was. If the boy who did it is willing to rise and tell me, it will help us to decide this question." The boy, knowing that a severe punishment was not in such a case to be anticipated, and, in fact, apparently pleased with the idea of exonerating himself from the blame of willfully injuring the property of another, rose and said, "I suppose it was I, sir, who did it, and it was my own hat." "Well," said the master, "I am glad that you are willing to tell frankly how it was; but let us look at this case. There are two senses in which a hat may be said to belong to any person. It may belong to him because he bought it and paid for it, or it may belong to him because it fits him and he wears it. In other words, a person may have a hat as his property, or he may have it only as a part of his dress. Now you see that, according to the first of these senses, all the hats in this school belong to your fathers. There is not, in fact, a single boy in this school who has a hat of his own." The boys laughed. "Is not this the fact?" "Yes, sir." It certainly is so, though I suppose James did not consider it. Your fathers bought your hats. They worked for them and paid for them. You are only the wearers, and consequently every generous boy, and, in fact, every honest boy, will be careful of the property which is intrusted to him, but which, strictly speaking, is not his own. 2. MISTAKES.--A wide difference must always be made between mistakes arising from carelessness, and those resulting from circumstances beyond control, such as want of sufficient data, and the like. The former are always censurable; the latter never; for they may be the result of correct reasoning from insufficient data, and it is the reasoning only for which the child is responsible. "What do you suppose a prophet is?" said a teacher to a class of little boys. The word occurred in their reading lesson. The scholars all hesitated; at last one ventured to reply: "If a man should sell a yoke of oxen, and get more for them than they are worth, he would be a prophet." "Yes," said the instructor, "that is right; that is one kind of _profit_, but this is another and a little different," and he proceeded to explain the word, and the difference of the spelling. This child had, without doubt, heard of some transaction of the kind which he described, and had observed that the word _profit_ was applied to it. Now the care which he had exercised in attending to it at the time, and remembering it when the same word (for the difference in the spelling he of course knew nothing about) occurred again, was really commendable. The fact, which is a mere accident, that we affix very different significations to the same sound, was unknown to him. The fault, if any where, was in the language and not in him, for he reasoned correctly from the data he possessed, and he deserved credit for it. The teacher should always discriminate carefully between errors of this kind, and those that result from culpable carelessness. 3. TARDINESS.--"My duty to this school," said a teacher to his pupils, "demands, as I suppose you all admit, that I should require you all to be here punctually at the time appointed for the commencement of the school. I have done nothing on this subject yet, for I wished to see whether you would not come early on principle. I wish now, however, to inquire in regard to this subject, and to ascertain how many have been tardy, and to consider what must be done hereafter." He made the inquiries, and ascertained pretty nearly how many had been tardy, and how often within a week. The number was found to be so great that the scholars admitted that something ought to be done. "What shall I do?" asked he. "Can any one propose a plan which will remedy the difficulty?" There was no answer. "The easiest and pleasantest way to secure punctuality is for the scholars to come early of their own accord, upon principle. It is evident, from the reports, that many of you do so, but some do not. Now there is no other plan which will not be attended with very serious difficulty, but I am willing to adopt the one which will be most agreeable to yourselves, if it will be likely to accomplish the object. Has any one any plan to propose?" There was a pause. "It would evidently," continued the teacher, "be the easiest for me to leave this subject, and do nothing about it. It is of no personal consequence to me whether you come early or not, but as long as I hold this office I must be faithful, and I have no doubt the school committee, if they knew how many of you were tardy, would think I ought to do something to diminish the evil. "The best plan that I can think of is that all who are tardy should lose their recess." The boys looked rather anxiously at one another, but continued silent. "There is a great objection to this plan from the fact that a boy is sometimes necessarily absent, and by this rule he will lose his recess with the rest, so that the innocent will be punished with the guilty." "I should think, sir," said William, "that those who are _necessarily_ tardy might be excused." "Yes, I should be very glad to excuse them, if I could find out who they are." The boys seemed to be surprised at this remark, as if they thought it would not be a difficult matter to decide. "How can I tell?" asked the master. "You can hear their excuses, and then decide." "Yes," said the teacher: "but here are fifteen or twenty boys tardy this morning; now how long would it take me to hear their excuses, and understand each case thoroughly, so that I could really tell whether they were tardy from good reasons or not?" No answer. "Should you not think it would take a minute apiece?" "Yes, sir." "It would, undoubtedly, and even then I could not in many cases tell. It would take fifteen minutes, at least. I can not do this in school hours, for I have not time, and if I do it in recess it will consume the whole of every recess. Now I need the _rest_ of a recess as well as you, and it does not seem to me to be just that I should lose the whole of mine every day, and spend it in a most unpleasant business, when I take pains myself to come punctually every morning. Would it be just?" "No, sir." "I think it would be less unjust to deprive all those of their recess who are tardy; for then the loss of a recess by a boy who had not been to blame would not be very common, and the evil would be divided among the whole; but in the plan of my hearing the excuses it would all come upon one." After a short pause one of the boys said that they might be required to bring written excuses. "Yes, that is another plan," said the teacher; "but there are objections to it. Can any of you think what they are? I suppose you have all been, either at this school or at some other, required to bring written excuses, so that you have seen the plan tried. Now have you never noticed any objection to it?" One boy said that it gave the parents a great deal of trouble at home. "Yes," said the teacher, "this is a great objection; it is often very inconvenient to write. But that is not the greatest difficulty; can any of you think of any other?" There was a pause. "Do you think that these written excuses are, after all, a fair test of the real reasons for tardiness? I understand that sometimes boys will tease their fathers or mothers for an excuse when they do not deserve it, 'Yes, sir,' and sometimes they will loiter about when sent of an errand before school, knowing that they can get a written excuse, when they might easily have been punctual." "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir," said the boys. "Well, now, if we adopt this plan, some unprincipled boy would always contrive to have an excuse, whether necessarily tardy or not; and, besides, each parent would have a different principle and a different opinion as to what was a reasonable excuse, so that there would be no uniformity, and, consequently, no justice in the operation of the system." The boys admitted the truth of this, and, as no other plan was presented, the rule was adopted of requiring all those who were tardy to remain in their seats during the recess, whether they were necessarily tardy or not. The plan very soon diminished the number of loiterers. 4. HELEN'S LESSON.--The possibility of being inflexibly firm in measures, and, at the same time, gentle and mild in manners and language, is happily illustrated in the following description, which is based on an incident narrated by Mrs. Sherwood: "Mrs. M. had observed, even during the few days that Helen had been under her care, that she was totally unaccustomed to habits of diligence and application. After making all due allowance for long-indulged habits of indolence and inattention, she one morning assigned an easy lesson to her pupil, informing her at the same time that she should hear it immediately before dinner. Helen made no objections to the plan, but she silently resolved not to perform the required task. Being in some measure a stranger, she thought her aunt would not insist upon perfect obedience, and besides, in her estimation, she was too old to be treated like a child. "During the whole morning Helen exerted herself to be mild and obliging; her conduct toward her aunt was uncommonly affectionate. By these and various other artifices she endeavored to gain her first victory. Meanwhile Mrs. M. quietly pursued her various avocations, without apparently noticing Helen's conduct. At length dinner-hour arrived; the lesson was called for, but Helen was unprepared. Mrs. M. told Helen she was sorry that she had not learned the lesson, and concluded by saying that she hoped she would be prepared before tea-time. "Helen, finding she was not to come to the table, began to be a little alarmed. She was acquainted in some measure with the character of her aunt, still she hoped to be allowed to partake of the dessert, as she had been accustomed to on similar occasions at home, and soon regained her wonted composure. But the dinner-cloth was removed, and there sat Helen, suffering not a little from hunger; still she would not complain; she meant to convince her aunt that she was not moved by trifles. "A walk had been proposed for the afternoon, and as the hour drew near, Helen made preparations to accompany the party. Mrs. M. reminded her of her lesson, but she just noticed the remark by a toss of the head, and was soon in the green fields, apparently the gayest of the gay. After her return from the excursion she complained of a head-ache, which in fact she had. She threw herself languidly on the sofa, sighed deeply, and took up her History. "Tea was now on the table, and most tempting looked the white loaf. Mrs. M. again heard the pupil recite, but was sorry to find the lesson still imperfectly prepared. She left her, saying she thought half an hour's additional study would conquer all the difficulties she found in the lesson. "During all this time Mrs. M. appeared so perfectly calm, composed, and even kind, and so regardless of sighs and doleful exclamations, that Helen entirely lost her equanimity, and let her tears flow freely and abundantly. Her mother was always moved by her tears, and would not her aunt relent? No. Mrs. M. quietly performed the duties of the table, and ordered the tea-equipage to be removed. This latter movement brought Helen to reflection. It is useless to resist, thought she; indeed, why should I wish to? Nothing too much has been required of me. How ridiculous I have made myself appear in the eyes of my aunt, and even of the domestics! "In less than an hour she had the satisfaction of reciting her lesson perfectly; her aunt made no comments on the occasion, but assigned her the next lesson, and went on sewing. Helen did not expect this; she had anticipated a refreshing cup of tea after the long siege. She had expected that even something nicer than usual would be necessary to compensate her for her past sufferings. At length, worn out by long-continued watching and fasting, she went to the closet, provided herself with a cracker, and retired to bed to muse deliberately on the strange character of her aunt. "Teachers not unfrequently threaten their pupils with some proper punishment, but, when obliged to put the threat into execution, contrive in some indirect way to abate its rigor, and thus destroy all its effects. For example, a mother was in the habit, when her little boy ran beyond his prescribed play-ground, of putting him into solitary confinement. On such occasions, she was very careful to have some amusing book or diverting plaything in a conspicuous part of the room, and not unfrequently a piece of gingerbread was given to solace the runaway. The mother thought it very strange her little boy should so often transgress, when he knew what to expect from such a course of conduct. The boy was wiser than the mother; he knew perfectly well how to manage the business. He could play with the boys beyond the garden gate, and if detected, to be sure he was obliged to spend a quiet hour in the pleasant parlor. But this was not intolerable as long as he could expect a paper of sugar-plums, a cake, or at least something amply to compensate him for the loss of a game at marbles." 5. COMPLAINTS or LONG LESSONS.--A college officer assigned lessons which the idle and ignorant members of the class thought too long. They murmured for a time, and at last openly complained. The other members of the class could say nothing in behalf of the professor, awed by the greatest of all fears to a collegian, the fear of being called a "_fisher_" or a "_blueskin_" The professor paid no attention to the petitions and complaints which were poured in upon him, and which, though originated by the idle, all were compelled to vote for. He coldly, and with uncompromising dignity, went on; the excitement in the class increased, and what is called a college rebellion, with all its disastrous consequences to the infatuated rebels, ensued. Another professor had the dexterity to manage the case in a different way. After hearing that there was dissatisfaction, he brought up the subject as follows: "I understand, gentlemen, that you consider your lessons too long. Perhaps I have overrated the abilities of the class, but I have not intended to assign you more than you can accomplish. I feel no other interest in the subject than the pride and pleasure it would give me to have my class stand high, in respect to the amount of ground it has gone over, when you come to examination. I propose, therefore, that you appoint a committee, in whose abilities and judgment you can confide, and let them examine this subject and report. They might ascertain how much other classes have done, and how much is expedient for this class to attempt; and then, by estimating the number of recitations assigned to this study, they can easily determine what should be the length of the lessons." The plan was adopted, and the report put an end to the difficulty. 6. ENGLISH COMPOSITION.--The great prevailing fault of writers in this country is an affectation of eloquence. It is almost universally the fashion to aim, not at striking thoughts, simply and clearly expressed, but at splendid language, glowing imagery, and magnificent periods. It arises, perhaps, from the fact that public speaking is the almost universal object of ambition, and, consequently, both at school and at college, nothing is thought of but oratory. Vain attempts at oratory result, in nine cases out of ten, in grandiloquence and empty verbiage--common thoughts expressed in pompous periods. The teacher should guard against this, and assign to children such subjects as are within the field of childish observation. A little skill on his part will soon determine the question which kind of writing shall prevail in his school. The following specimens, both written with some skill, will illustrate the two kinds of writing alluded to. Both were written by pupils of the same age, twelve; one a boy, the other a girl. The subjects were assigned by the teacher. I need not say that the following was the writer's first attempt at composition, and that it is printed without alteration. THE PAINS OF A SAILOR'S LIFE. The joyful sailor embarks on board of his ship, the sails are spread to catch the playful gale, swift as an arrow he cuts the rolling wave. A few days thus sporting on the briny wave, when suddenly the sky is overspread with clouds, the rain descends in torrents, the sails are lowered, the gale begins, the vessel is carried with great velocity, and the shrouds, unable to support the tottering mast, gives way to the furious tempest; the vessel is drove among the rocks, is sprung aleak; the sailor works at the pumps till, faint and weary, is heard from below, six feet of water in the hold; the boats are got ready, but, before they are into them, the vessel is dashed against a reef of rocks; some, in despair, throw themselves into the sea; others get on the rocks without any clothes or provisions, and linger a few days, perhaps weeks or months, living on shell fish, or perhaps taken up by some ship; others get on pieces of the wreck, and perhaps be cast on some foreign country, where perhaps he may be taken by the natives, and sold into slavery where he never more returns. In regard to the following specimen, it should be stated that when the subject was assigned, the pupil was directed to see how precisely she could imitate the language and conversation which two little children really lost in the woods would use. While writing, therefore, her mind was in pursuit of the natural and the simple, not of the eloquent. TWO CHILDREN LOST IN THE WOODS. _Emily_. Look here! see how many berries I've got. I don't believe you've got so many. _Charles_. Yes, I'm sure I have. My basket's almost full; and if we hurry, we shall get ever so many before we go home. So pick away as fast as you can, Emily. _Emily_. There, mine is full. Now we'll go and find some flowers for mother. You know somebody told us there were some red ones close to that rock. _Charles_. Well, so we will. We'll leave our baskets here, and come back and get them. _Emily_. But if we can't find our way back, what shall we do? _Charles_. Poh! I can find the way back. I only want a quarter to seven years old, and I sha'n't lose myself, I know. _Emily_. Well, we've got flowers enough, and now I'm tired and want to go home. _Charles. I_ don't; but, if you are tired, we'll go and find our baskets. _Emily_. Where do you think they are? We've been looking a great while for them. I know we are lost, for when we went after the flowers we only turned once, and coming back we have turned three times. _Charles_. Have we? Well, never mind, I guess we shall find them. _Emily_. I'm afraid we sha'n't. Do let's run. _Charles_. Well, so do. Oh, Emily! here's a brook, and I am sure we didn't pass any brook going. _Emily_. Oh dear! we must be lost. Hark! Charles, didn't you hear that dreadful noise just now? Wasn't it a bear? _Charles_. Poh! I should love to see a bear here. I guess, if he should come near me, I would give him one good slap that would make him feel pretty bad. I could kill him at the first hit. _Emily_. I should like to see you taking hold of a bear. Why, didn't you know bears were stronger than men? But only see how dark it grows; we sha'n't see ma to-night, I'm afraid. _Charles_. So am I: do let's run some more. _Emily_. Oh, Charles, do you believe we shall ever find the way out of this dreadful long wood? _Charles_. Let's scream, and see if somebody won't come. _Emily_. Well (screaming), ma! ma! _Charles_ (screaming also). Pa! pa! _Emily_. Oh dear! there's the sun setting. It will be dreadfully dark by-and-by, won't it? We have given enough for a specimen. The composition, though faulty in many respects, illustrates the point we had in view. 7. Insincere Confession.--An assistant in a school informed the principal that she had some difficulty in preserving order in a certain class composed of small children. The principal accordingly went into the class, and something like the following dialogue ensued: "Your teacher informs me," said the principal, "that there is not perfect order in the class. Now if you are satisfied that there has not been order, and wish to help me discover and correct the fault, we can do it very easily. If, on the other hand, you do not wish to co-operate with me, it will be a little more difficult for me to correct it, and I must take a different course. Now I wish to know, at the outset, whether you do or do not wish to help me?" A faint "Yes, sir," was murmured through the class. "I do not wish you to assist me unless you really and honestly desire it yourselves; and if you undertake to do it, you must do it honestly. The first thing which will be necessary will be an open and thorough exposure of all which has been wrong, and this, you know, will be unpleasant. But I will put the question to vote by asking how many are willing that I should know, entirely and fully, all that they have done in this class that has been wrong?" Very nearly all the hands were raised at once, promptly, and the others were gradually brought up, though with more or less of hesitation. "Are you willing not only to tell me yourselves what you have done, but also, in case any one has forgotten something which she has done, that others should tell me of it?" The hands were all raised. After obtaining thus from the class a distinct and universal expression of willingness that all the facts should be made known, the principal called upon all those who had any thing to state to raise their hands, and those who raised them had opportunity to say what they wished. A great number of very trifling incidents were mentioned, such as could not have produced any difficulty in the class, and, consequently, could not have been the real instances of disorder alluded to. Or at least it was evident, if they were, that in the statement they must have been so palliated and softened that a really honest confession had not been made. This result might, in such a case, have been expected. Such is human nature, that in nine cases out of ten, unless such a result had been particularly guarded against, it would have inevitably followed. Not only will such a result follow in individual cases like this, but, unless the teacher watches and guards against it, it will grow into a habit. I mean, boys will get a sort of an idea that it is a fine thing to confess their faults, and by a show of humility and frankness will deceive their teacher, and perhaps themselves, by a sort of acknowledgment, which in fact exposes nothing of the guilt which the transgressor professes to expose. A great many cases occur where teachers are pleased with the confession of faults, and scholars perceive it, and the latter get into the habit of coming to the teacher when they have done something which they think may get them into difficulty, and make a sort of half confession, which, by bringing forward every palliating circumstance, and suppressing every thing of different character, keeps entirely out of view all the real guilt of the transgression. The criminal is praised by the teacher for the frankness and honesty of the confession, and his fault is freely forgiven. He goes away, therefore, well satisfied with himself, when, in fact, he has been only submitting to a little mortification, voluntarily, to avoid the danger of a greater; much in the same spirit with that which leads a man to receive the small-pox by inoculation, to avoid the danger of taking it in the natural way. The teacher who accustoms his pupils to confess their faults voluntarily ought to guard carefully against this danger. When such a case as the one just described occurs, it will afford a favorable opportunity of showing distinctly to pupils the difference between an honest and a hypocritical confession. In this instance the teacher proceeded thus: "Now there is one more question which I wish you all to answer by your votes honestly. It is this. Do you think that the real disorder which has been in this class--that is, the real cases which you referred to when you stated to me that you thought that the class was not in good order--have been now really exposed, so that I honestly and fully understand the case? How many suppose so?" Not a single hand was raised. "How many of you think, and are willing to avow your opinion, that I have _not_ been fully informed of the case?" A large proportion held up their hands. "Now it seems the class pretended to be willing that I should know all the affair. You pretended to be willing to tell me the whole, but when I call upon you for the information, instead of telling me honestly, you attempt to amuse me by little trifles, which in reality made no disturbance, and you omit the things which you know were the real objects of my inquiries. Am I right in my supposition?" They were silent. After a moment's pause, one perhaps raised her hand, and began now to confess something which she had before concealed. The teacher, however, interrupted her by saying, "I do not wish to have the confession made now. I gave you all time to do that, and now I should rather not hear any more about the disorder. I gave an opportunity to have it acknowledged, but it was not honestly improved, and now I should rather not hear. I shall probably never know. "I wished to see whether this class would be honest--really honest, or whether they would have the insincerity to pretend to be confessing when they were not doing so honestly, so as to get the credit of being frank and sincere, when in reality they are not so. Now am I not compelled to conclude that this latter is the case?" Such an example will make a deep and lasting impression. It will show that the teacher is upon his guard; and there are very few so hardened in deception that they would not wish that they had been really sincere rather than rest under such an imputation. 8. Court.--A pupil, quite young (says a teacher), came to me one day with a complaint that one of her companions had got her seat. There had been some changes in the seats by my permission, and probably, from some inconsistency in the promises which I had made, there were two claimants for the same desk. The complainant came to me, and appealed to my recollection of the circumstance. "I do not recollect any thing about it," said I. "Why, Mr. B.!" replied she, with astonishment. "No," said I; "you forget that I have, every day, arrangements, almost without number, of such a kind to make, and as soon as I have made one I immediately forget all about it." "Why, don't you remember that you got me a new baize?" "No; I ordered a dozen new baizes at that time, but I do not remember who they were for." There was a pause; the disappointed complainant seemed not to know what to do. "I will tell you what to do. Bring the case into court, and I will try it regularly." "Why, Mr. B., I do not like to do any thing like that about it; besides, I do not know how to write an indictment." "Oh," I answered, "the scholars will like to have a good trial, and this will make a new sort of case. All our cases thus far have been for _offenses_--that is what they call criminal cases--and this will be only an examination of the conflicting claims of two individuals to the same property, and it will excite a good deal of interest. I think you had better bring it into court." She went slowly and thoughtfully to her seat, and presently returned with an indictment. "Mr. B., is this right?" It was as follows: I accuse Miss A.B. of coming to take away my seat--the one Mr. B. gave me. Witnesses, { C.D. { E.T. "Why--yes--that will do; and yet it is not exactly right. You see this is what they call a _civil_ case." "I don't think it is very _civil_." "No, I don't mean it was civil to take your seat, but this is not a case where a person is prosecuted for having done any thing wrong." The plaintiff looked a little perplexed, as if she could not understand how it could be otherwise than wrong for a girl to usurp her seat. "I mean, you do not bring it into court as a case of wrong. You do not want her to be punished, do you?" "No, I only want her to give me up my seat; I don't want her to be punished." "Well, then, you see that, although she may have done wrong to take your seat, it is not in that point of view that you bring it into court. It is a question about the right of property, and the lawyers call such cases _civil_ cases, to distinguish them from cases where persons are tried for the purpose of being punished for doing wrong. These last are called criminal cases." The aggrieved party still looked perplexed. "Well, Mr. B.," she continued, "what shall I do? How shall I write it? I can not say any thing about _civil_ in it, can I?" A form was given her which would be proper for the purpose, and the case was brought forward, and the evidence on both sides examined. The irritation of the quarrel was soon dissipated in the amusement of a semi-serious trial, and both parties good-humoredly acquiesced in the decision. 9. TEACHERS' PERSONAL CHARACTER.--Much has been said within a few years, by writers on the subject of education in this country, on the desirableness of raising the business of teaching to the rank of a learned profession. There is but one way of doing this, and that is raising the personal characters and attainments of the teachers themselves. Whether an employment is elevated or otherwise in public estimation, depends altogether on the associations, connected with it in the public mind, and these depend altogether on the characters of the individuals who are engaged in it. Franklin, by the simple fact that he was a printer himself, has done more toward giving dignity and respectability to the employment of printing, than a hundred orations on the intrinsic excellence of the art. In fact, all mechanical employments have, within a few years, risen in rank in this country, not through the influence of efforts to impress the community directly with a sense of their importance, but simply because mechanics themselves have risen in intellectual and moral character. In the same manner, the employment of the teacher will be raised most effectually in the estimation of the public, not by the individual who writes the most eloquent oration on the intrinsic dignity of the art, but by the one who goes forward most successfully in the exercise of it, and who, by his general attainments and public character, stands out most fully to the view of the public as a well-informed, liberal-minded, and useful man. If this is so--and it can not well be denied--it furnishes to every teacher a strong motive to exertion for the improvement of his own personal character. But there is a stronger motive still in the results which flow directly to himself from such efforts. No man ought to engage in any business which, as mere business, will engross all his time and attention. The Creator has bestowed upon every one a mind, upon the cultivation of which our rank among intelligent beings, our happiness, our moral and intellectual power, every thing valuable to us, depend; and after all the cultivation which we can bestow, in this life, upon this mysterious principle, it will still be in embryo. The progress which it is capable of making is entirely indefinite. If by ten years of cultivation we can secure a certain degree of knowledge and power, by ten more we can double, or more than double it, and every succeeding year of effort is attended with equal success. There is no point of attainment where we must stop, or beyond which effort will bring in a less valuable return. Look at that teacher, and consider for a moment his condition. He began to teach when he was twenty years of age, and now he is forty. Between the ages of fifteen and twenty he made a vigorous effort to acquire such an education as would fit him for these duties. He succeeded, and by these efforts he raised himself from being a mere laborer, receiving for his daily toil a mere daily subsistence, to the respectability and the comforts of an intellectual pursuit. But this change once produced, he stops short in his progress. Once seated in his desk, he is satisfied, and for twenty years he has been going through the same routine, without any effort to advance or to improve. He does not reflect that the same efforts, which so essentially altered his condition and prospects at twenty, would have carried him forward to higher and higher sources of influence and enjoyment as long as he should continue them. His efforts ceased when he obtained a situation as teacher at fifty dollars a month, and, though twenty years have glided away, he is now exactly what he was then. There is probably no employment whatever which affords so favorable an opportunity for personal improvement--for steady intellectual and moral progress, as that of teaching. There are two reasons for this: First, there is time for it. With an ordinary degree of health and strength, the mind can be vigorously employed at least ten hours a day. As much as this is required of students in many literary institutions. In fact, ten hours to study, seven to sleep, and seven to food, exercise, and recreation, is perhaps as good an arrangement as can be made; at any rate, very few persons will suppose that such a plan allows too little under the latter head. Now six hours is as much as is expected of a teacher under ordinary circumstances, and it is as much as ought ever to be bestowed; for, though he may labor four hours out of school in some new field, his health and spirits will soon sink under the burden, if, after his weary labors during the day in school, he gives up his evenings to the same perplexities and cares. And it is not necessary. No one who knows any thing of the nature of the human mind, and who will reflect a moment on the subject, can doubt that a man can make a better school by expending six hours labor upon it with alacrity and ardor, than he can by driving himself on to ten. Every teacher, therefore, who is commencing his work, should begin with the firm determination of devoting only six hours daily to the pursuit. Make as good a school, and accomplish as much for it as you can in six hours, and let the rest go. When you come from your school-room at night, leave all your perplexities and cares behind you. No matter what unfinished business or unsettled difficulties remain, dismiss them till another sun shall rise, and the hour of duty for another day shall come. Carry no school-work home with you, and do not even talk of your school-work at home. You will then get refreshment and rest. Your mind, during the evening, will be in a different world from that in which you have moved during the day. At first this will be difficult. It will be hard for you, unless your mind is uncommonly well disciplined, to dismiss all your cares; and you will think, each evening, that some peculiar emergency demands your attention _just at that time,_ and that as soon as you have passed the crisis you will confine yourself to what you admit are generally reasonable limits; but if you once allow school, with its perplexities and cares, to get possession of the rest of the day, it will keep possession. It will intrude itself into all your waking thoughts, and trouble you in your dreams. You will lose all command of your powers, and, besides cutting off from yourself all hope of general intellectual progress, you will, in fact, destroy your success as a teacher. Exhaustion, weariness, and anxiety will be your continual portion, and in such a state no business can be successfully prosecuted. There need be no fear that employers will be dissatisfied if the teacher acts upon this principle. If he is faithful, and enters with all his heart into the discharge of his duties during six hours, there will be something in the ardor, and alacrity, and spirit with which his duties will be performed which parents and scholars will both be very glad to receive in exchange for the languid, and dull, and heartless toil in which the other method must sooner or later result. * * * * * If the teacher, then, will confine himself to such a portion of time as is, in fact, all he can advantageously employ, there will be much left which can be devoted to his own private employment--more than is usual in the other avocations of life. In most of these other avocations there is not the same necessity for limiting the hours which a man may devote to his business. A merchant, for example, may be employed nearly all the day at his counting-room, and so may a mechanic. A physician may spend all his waking hours in visiting patients, and feel little more than healthy fatigue. The reason is, that in all these employments, and, in fact, in most of the employments of life, there is so much to diversify, so many little incidents constantly occurring to animate and relieve, and so much bodily exercise, which alternates with and suspends the fatigues of the mind, that the labors may be much longer continued, and with less cessation, and yet the health not suffer. But the teacher, while engaged in his work, has his mind continually on the stretch. There is little relief, little respite, and he is almost entirely deprived of bodily exercise. He must, consequently, limit his hours of attending to his business, or his health will soon sink under labors which Providence never intended the human mind to bear. There is another circumstance which facilitates the progress of the teacher. It is a fact that all this general progress has a direct and immediate bearing upon his pursuits. A lawyer may read in an evening an interesting book of travels, and find nothing to help him with his case, the next day, in court; but almost every fact which the teacher thus learns will come _at once into use_ in some of his recitations at school. We do not mean to imply by this that the members of the legal profession have not need of a great variety and extent of knowledge; they doubtless have. It is simply in the _directness_ and _certainty_ with which the teacher's knowledge may be applied to his purpose that the business of teaching has the advantage over every other pursuit. This fact, now, has a very important influence in encouraging and leading forward the teacher to make constant intellectual progress, for every step brings at once a direct reward. 10. THE CHESTNUT BURR.--_A story for school-boys._--One fine Saturday afternoon, in the fall of the year, the master was taking a walk in the woods, and he came to a place where a number of boys were gathering chestnuts. One of the boys was sitting upon a bank trying to open some chestnut burrs which he had knocked off from the tree. The burrs were green, and he was attempting to open them by pounding them with a stone. [Illustration] He was a very impatient boy, and was scolding in a loud, angry, tone against the burrs. He did not see, he said, what in the world chestnuts were made to grow so for. They ought to grow right out in the open air, like apples, and not have such vile porcupine skins on them, just to plague the boys. So saying, he struck with all his might a fine large burr, crushed it to pieces, and then jumped up, using at the same time profane and wicked words. As soon as he turned round he saw the master standing very near him. He felt very much ashamed and afraid, and hung down his head. "Roger," said the master (for this boy's name was Roger), "can you get me a chestnut burr?" Roger looked up for a moment to see whether the master was in earnest, and then began to look around for a burr. A boy who was standing near the tree, with a red cap full of burrs in his hand, held out one of them. Roger took the burr and handed it to the master, who quietly put it into his pocket, and walked away without saying a word. As soon as he was gone, the boy with the red cap said to Roger, "I expected that the master would have given you a good scolding for talking so." "The master never scolds," said another boy, who was sitting on a log pretty near, with a green satchel in his hand, "but you see if he does not remember it." Roger looked as if he did not know what to think about it. "I wish," said he, "I knew what he is going to do with that burr." That afternoon, when the lessons had been all recited, and it was about time to dismiss the school, the boys put away their books, and the master read a few verses in the Bible, and then offered a prayer, in which he asked God to forgive all the sins which any of them had committed that day, and to take care of them during the night. After this he asked the boys all to sit down. He then took his handkerchief out of his pocket and laid it on the desk, and afterward he put his hand into his pocket again, and took out the chestnut burr, and all the boys looked at it. "Boys," said he, "do you know what this is?" One of the boys in the back seat said, in a half whisper, "It is nothing but a chestnut burr." "Lucy," said the master to a bright-eyed little girl near him, "what is this?" "It is a chestnut burr, sir," said she. "Do you know what it is for?" "I suppose there are chestnuts in it." "But what is this rough, prickly covering for?" Lucy did not know. "Does any body here know?" said the master. One of the boys said that he supposed it was to hold the chestnuts together, and keep them up on the tree. "But I heard a boy say," replied the master, "that they ought not to be made to grow so. The nut itself, he thought, ought to hang alone on the branches, without any prickly covering, just as apples do." "But the nuts themselves have no stems to be fastened by," answered the same boy. "That is true; but I suppose this boy thought that God could have made them grow with stems, and that this would have been better than to have them in burrs." After a little pause the master said that he would explain TO them what the chestnut burr was for, and wished them all to listen attentively. "How much of the chestnut is good to eat, William?" asked he, looking at a boy before him. "Only the meat." "How long does it take the meat to grow?" "All summer, I suppose, it is growing." "Yes; it begins early in the summer, and gradually swells and grows until it has become of full size, and is ripe, in the fall. Now suppose there was a tree out here near the school-house, and the chestnut meats should grow upon it without any shell or covering; suppose, too, that they should taste like good ripe chestnuts at first, when they were very small. Do you think they would be safe?" William said "No; the boys would pick and eat them before they had time to grow." "Well, what harm would there be in that? Would it not be as well to have the chestnuts early in the summer as to have them in the fall?" William hesitated. Another boy who sat next to him said, "There would not be so much meat in the chestnuts if they were eaten before they had time to grow." "Right," said the master; "but would not the boys know this, and so all agree to let the little chestnuts stay, and not eat them while they were small?" William said he thought they would not. If the chestnuts were good, he was afraid they would pick them off and eat them if they were small. All the rest of the boys in the school thought so too. "Here, then," said the master, "is one reason for having prickles around the chestnuts when they are small. But then it is not necessary to have all chestnuts guarded from boys in this way; a great many of the trees are in the woods, which the boys do not see; what good do the burrs do in these trees?" The boys hesitated. Presently the boy who had the green satchel under the tree with Roger, who was sitting in one corner of the room, said, "I should think they would keep the squirrels from eating them. "And besides," continued he, after thinking a moment, "I should suppose, if the meat of the chestnut had no covering, the rain would wet it and make it rot, or the sun might dry and wither it." "Yes," said the master, "these are very good reasons why the nut should be carefully guarded. First the meats are packed away in a hard brown shell, which the water can not get through; this keeps it dry, and away from dust and other things which might injure it. Then several nuts thus protected grow closely together inside this green, prickly covering, which spreads over them and guards them from the larger animals and the boys. Where the chestnut gets its full growth and is ripe, this covering, you know, splits open, and the nuts drop out, and then any body can get them and eat them." The boys were then all satisfied that it was better that chestnuts should grow in burrs. "But why," asked one of the boys, "do not apples grow so?" "Can any body answer that question?" asked the master. The boy with the green satchel said that apples had a smooth, tight skin, which kept out the wet, but he did not see how they were guarded from animals. The master said it was by their taste. "They are hard and sour before they are full grown, and so the taste is not pleasant, and nobody wishes to eat them, except sometimes a few foolish boys, and these are punished by being made sick. When the apples are full grown, they change from sour to sweet, and become mellow--then they can be eaten. Can you tell me of any other fruits which are preserved in this way?" One boy answered, "Strawberries and blackberries;" and another said, "Peaches and pears." Another boy asked why the peach-stone was not outside the peach, so as to keep it from being eaten; but the master said that he would explain this another time. Then he dismissed the scholars, after asking Roger to wait until the rest had gone, as he wished to see him alone. Several of the articles which follow were communicated for this work by different teachers, at the request of the author. 11. THE SERIES OF WRITING LESSONS.--Very many pupils soon become weary of the dull and monotonous business of writing, unless some plans are devised to give interest and variety to the exercise; and, on this account, this branch of education, in which improvement may be most rapid, is often the last and most tedious to be acquired. A teacher, by adopting the following plan, succeeded in awakening a great degree of interest on the subject, and, consequently, of promoting rapid improvement. The plan was this: he prepared, on a large sheet of paper, a series of lessons in coarse-hand, beginning with straight lines, and proceeding to the elementary parts of the various letters, and finally to the letters themselves. This paper was posted up in a part of the room accessible to all. The writing-books were made of three sheets of foolscap paper, folded into a convenient size, making twenty-four pages in the book. The books were to be ruled by the pupil, for it was thought important that each should learn this art. Every pupil in school, then, being furnished with one of these writing-books, was required to commence this series, and to practice each lesson until he could write it well; then, and not till then, he was permitted to pass to the next. A few brief directions were given under each lesson on the large sheet. For example, under the line of straight marks, which constituted the first lesson, was written as follows: _Straight, equidistant, parallel, smooth, well-terminated._ These directions were to call the attention of the pupil to the excellences which he must aim at, and when he supposed he had secured them, his book was to be presented to the teacher for examination. If approved, the word _Passed_, or, afterward, simply _P_., was written under the line, and he could then proceed to the next lesson. Other requisites were necessary, besides the correct formation of the letters, to enable one to pass; for example, the page must not be soiled or blotted, no paper must be wasted, and, in no case, a leaf torn out. As soon as _one line_ was written in the manner required, the scholar was allowed to pass. In a majority of cases, however, not less than a page would be practiced, and in many instances a sheet would be covered, before one line could be produced which would be approved. One peculiar excellency of this method was, that although the whole school were working under a regular and systematic plan, individuals could go on independently; that is, the progress of no scholar was retarded by that of his companion; the one more advanced might easily pass the earlier lessons in a few days, while the others would require weeks of practice to acquire the same degree of skill. During the writing-hour the scholars would practice each at the lesson where he left off before, and at a particular time each day the books were brought from the regular place of deposit and laid before the teacher for examination. Without some arrangement for an examination of all the books together, the teacher would be liable to interruption at any time from individual questions and requests, which would consume much time, and benefit only a few. When a page of writing could not pass, a brief remark, calling the attention of the pupil to the faults which prevented it, was sometimes made in pencil at the bottom of the page. In other cases, the fault was of such a character as to require full and minute oral directions to the pupil. At last, to facilitate the criticism of the writing, a set of arbitrary marks, indicative of the various faults, was devised and applied, as occasion might require, to the writing-books, by means of red ink. These marks, which were very simple in their character, were easily remembered, for there was generally some connection between the sign and the thing signified. For example, the mark denoting that letters were too short was simply lengthening them in red ink; a faulty curve was denoted by making a new curve over the old one, &c. The following are the principal criticisms and directions for which marks were contrived: Strokes rough. Too tall or too short. Curve wrong. Stems not straight. Bad termination Careless work. Too slanting, and the reverse. Paper wasted. Too broad, and the reverse. Almost well enough to pass. Not parallel. Bring your book to the teacher. Form of the letter bad. Former fault not corrected. Large stroke made too fine, and the reverse. A catalogue of these marks, with an explanation, was made out and placed where it was accessible to all, and by means of them the books could be very easily and rapidly, but thoroughly criticised. After the plan had gone on for some time, and its operation was fully understood, the teacher gave up the business of examining the books into the hands of a committee, appointed by him from among the older and more advanced pupils. That the committee might be unbiased in their judgment, they were required to examine and decide upon the books without knowing the names of the writers. Each scholar was, indeed, required to place her name on the right hand upper corner of every page of her writing-book, for the convenience of the distributors; but this corner was turned down when the book was brought in, that it might not be seen by the committee. This committee was invested with plenary powers, and there was no appeal from their decision. In case they exercised their authority in an improper way, or failed on any account to give satisfaction, they were liable to impeachment, but while they continued in office they were to be strictly obeyed. This plan went on successfully for three months, and with very little diminution of interest. The whole school went regularly through the lessons in coarse-hand, and afterward through a similar series in fine-hand, and improvement in this branch was thought to be greater than at any former period in the same length of time. The same principle of arranging the several steps of an art or a study into a series of lessons, and requiring the pupil to pass regularly from one to the other, might easily be applied to other studies, and would afford an agreeable variety. 12. THE CORRESPONDENCE.--A master of a district school was walking through the room with a large rule in his hands, and as he came up behind two small boys, he observed that they were playing with some papers. He struck them once or twice, though not very severely, on the head with the rule which he had in his hand. Tears started from the eyes of one. They were called forth by a mingled feeling of grief, mortification, and pain. The other, who was of "sterner stuff," looked steadily into the master's face, and when his back was turned, shook his fist at him and laughed in defiance. Another teacher, seeing a similar case, did nothing. The boys, when they saw him, hastily gathered up their playthings and put them away. An hour or two after, a little boy, who sat near the master, brought them a note addressed to them both. They opened it, and read as follows: "To EDWARD AND JOHN,--I observed, when I passed you to-day, from your concerned looks, and your hurried manner of putting something into your desk, that you were doing something that you knew was wrong. When you attempt to do any thing whatever which conscience tells you is wrong, you only make yourself uneasy and anxious while you do it, and then you are forced to resort to concealment and deception when you see me coming. You would be a great deal happier if you would always be doing your duty, and then you would never be afraid. Your affectionate teacher,----." As the teacher was arranging his papers in his desk at the close of school, he found a small piece of paper neatly folded up in the form of a note, and addressed to him. He read as follows: "DEAR TEACHER,--We are very much obliged to you for writing us a note. We were making a paper box. We know it was wrong, and are determined not to do so any more. We hope you will forgive us. "Your pupils, EDWARD, JOHN." Which of these teachers understood human nature best? 13. WEEKLY REPORTS.--The plan described by the following article, which was furnished by a teacher for insertion here, was originally adopted, so far as I know, in a school on the Kennebec. I have adopted it with great advantage. A teacher had one day been speaking to her scholars of certain cases of slight disorder in the school, which, she remarked, had been gradually creeping in, and which, as she thought, it devolved upon the scholars, by systematic efforts, to repress. She enumerated instances of disorder in the arrangement of the rooms, leaving the benches out of their places, throwing waste papers upon the floor, having the desk in disorder inside, spilling water upon the entry floor, irregular deportment, such as too loud talking or laughing in recess, or in the intermission at noon, or when coming to school, and making unnecessary noise in going to or returning from recitations. "I have a plan to propose," said the teacher, "which I think may be the pleasantest way of promoting a reform in things of this kind. It is this. Let several of your number be chosen a committee to prepare statedly--perhaps as often as once a week--a written report of the state of the school. The report might be read before the school at the close of each week. The committee might consist, in the whole, of seven or eight, or even of eleven or twelve individuals, who should take the whole business into their hands. This committee might appoint individuals of their number to write in turn each week. By this arrangement, it would not be known to the school generally who are the writers of any particular report, if the individuals wish to be anonymous. Two individuals might be appointed at the beginning of the week, who should feel it their business to observe particularly the course of things from day to day with reference to the report. Individuals not members of the committee can render assistance by any suggestions they may present to this committee. These should, however, generally be made in writing. "Subjects for such a report will be found to suggest themselves very abundantly, though you may not perhaps think so at first. The committee may be empowered not only to state the particulars in which things are going wrong, but the methods by which they may be made right. Let them present us with any suggestions they please. If we do not like them, we are not obliged to adopt them. For instance, it is generally the case, whenever a recitation is attended in the corner yonder, that an end of one of the benches is put against the door, so as to occasion a serious interruption to the exercises when a person wishes to come in or go out. It would come within the province of the committee to attend to such a case as this, that is, to bring it up in the report. The remedy in such a case is a very simple one. Suppose, however, that instead of the _simple_ remedy, our committee should propose that the classes reciting in the said corner should be dissolved and the studies abolished? We should know the proposal was an absurd one, but then it would do no hurt; we should have only to reject it. "Again, besides our faults, let our committee notice the respects in which we are doing particularly well, that we may be encouraged to go on doing well, or even to do better. If they think, for example, that we are deserving of credit for the neatness with which books are kept--for their freedom from blots, or scribblings, or dog's-ears, by which school-books are so commonly defaced, let them tell us so. And the same of any other excellence." With the plan as thus presented, the scholars were very much pleased. It was proposed by one individual that such a committee should be appointed immediately, and a report prepared for the ensuing week. This was done. The committee were chosen by ballot. The following may be taken as a specimen of their reports: WEEKLY REPORT. "The Committee appointed to write the weekly report have noticed several things which they think wrong. In the first place, there have been a greater number of tardy scholars during the past week than usual. Much of this tardiness, we suppose, is owing to the interest felt in building the bower; but we think this business ought to be attended to only in play-hours. If only one or two come in late when we are reading in the morning, or after we have composed ourselves to study at the close of the recess, every scholar must look up from her book--we do not say they ought to do so, but only that they will do so. However, we anticipate an improvement in this respect, as we know 'a word to the wise is sufficient.' "In the two back rows we are sorry to say that we have noticed whispering. We know that this fact will very much distress our teacher, as she expects assistance, and not trouble, from our older scholars. It is not our business to reprove any one's misconduct, but it is our duty to mention it, however disagreeable it may be. We think the younger scholars, during the past week, have much improved in this respect. Only three cases of whispering among them have occurred to our knowledge. "We remember some remarks made a few weeks ago by our teacher on the practice of prompting each other in the classes. We wish she would repeat them, for we fear that, by some, they are forgotten. In the class in Geography, particularly in the questions on the map, we have noticed sly whispers, which, we suppose, were the hints of some kind friend designed to refresh the memory of her less attentive companion. We propose that the following question be now put to vote. Shall the practice of prompting in the classes be any longer continued? "We would propose that we have a composition exercise _this_ week similar to the one on Thursday last. It was very interesting, and we think all would be willing to try their thinking powers once more. We would propose, also, that the readers of the compositions should sit near the centre of the room, as last week many fine sentences escaped the ears of those seated in the remote corners. "We were requested by a very public-spirited individual to mention once more the want of three nails, for bonnets, in the entry. Also, to say that the air from the broken pane of glass on the east side of the room is very unpleasant to those who sit near. "Proposed that the girls who exhibited so much taste and ingenuity in the arrangement of the festoons of evergreen, and tumblers of flowers around the teacher's desk, be now requested to remove the faded roses and drooping violets. We have gazed on these sad emblems long enough. "Finally, proposed that greater care be taken by those who stay at noon to place their dinner-baskets in proper places. The contents of more than one were partly strewed upon the entry floor this morning." If such a measure as this is adopted, it should not be continued uninterrupted for a very long time. Every thing of this sort should be occasionally changed, or it sooner or later becomes only a form. 14. THE SHOPPING EXERCISE.--I have often, when going a shopping, found difficulty and trouble in making change. I could never calculate very readily, and in the hurry and perplexity of the moment I was always making mistakes. I have heard others often make the same complaint, and I resolved to try the experiment of regularly teaching children to make change. I had a bright little class in Arithmetic, the members of which were always ready to engage with interest in any thing new, and to them I proposed my plan. It was to be called the Shopping Exercise. I first requested each individual to write something upon her slate which she would like to buy, if she was going a shopping, stating the quantity she wished and the price of it. To make the first lesson as simple as possible, I requested no one to go above ten, either in the quantity or price. When all were ready, I called upon some to read what she had written. Her next neighbor was then requested to tell us how much the purchase would amount to. Then the first one named a bill, which she supposed to be offered in payment, and the second showed what change was needed. A short specimen of the exercise will probably make it clearer than mere description. _Mary_. Eight ounces of candy at seven cents. _Susan_. Fifty-six cents. _Mary_. One dollar. _Susan_. Forty-four cents. * * * * * _Susan_. Nine yards of lace at eight cents. _Anna_. Seventy-two cents. _Susan_. Two dollars. _Anna_. One dollar and twenty-eight cents. * * * * * _Anna_. Three pieces of tape at five cents. _Jane_. Fifteen cents. _Anna_. Three dollars. _Jane_. Eighty-five cents. _Several voices_. Wrong. _Jane_. Two dollars and eighty-five cents. * * * * * _Jane_. Six pictures at eight cents. _Sarah_. Forty-two cents. _Several voices_. Wrong. _Sarah_. Forty-eight cents. _Jane_. One dollar. _Sarah_. Sixty-two cents. _Several voices_. Wrong. _Sarah_. Fifty-two cents. * * * * * It will be perceived that the same individual who names the article and the price names also the bill which she would give in payment; and the one who sits next her, who calculated the amount, calculated also the change to be returned. She then proposed _her_ example to the one next in the line, with whom the same course was pursued, and thus it passed down the class. The exercise went on for some time in this way, till the pupils had become so familiar with it that I thought it best to allow them to take higher numbers. They were always interested in it, and made great improvement in a short time, and I myself derived great advantage from listening to them. There is one more circumstance I will add which may contribute to the interest of this account. While the class were confined, in what they purchased, to the number ten, they were sometimes inclined to turn the exercise into a frolic. The variety of articles which they could find costing less than ten cents was so small, that, for the sake of getting something new, they would propose examples really ludicrous, such as these: three meeting-houses at two cents; four pianos at nine cents. But I soon found that if I allowed this at all, their attention was diverted from the main object, and occupied in seeking the most diverting and curious examples. 15. ARTIFICES IN RECITATIONS.--The teacher of a small newly-established school had all of his scholars classed together in some of their studies. At recitations he usually sat in the middle of the room, while the scholars occupied the usual places at their desks, which were arranged around the sides. In the recitation in Rhetoric, the teacher, after a time, observed that one or two of the class seldom answered appropriately the questions which came to them, but yet were always ready with some kind of answer--generally an exact quotation of the words of the book. Upon noticing these individuals more particularly, he was convinced that their books were open before them in some concealed situation. Another practice not uncommon in the class was that of _prompting_ each other, either by whispers or writing. The teacher took no notice publicly of these practices for some time, until, at the close of an uncommonly good recitation, he remarked, "I think we have had a fine recitation to-day. It is one of the most agreeable things that I ever do to hear a lesson that is learned as well as this. Do you think it would be possible for us to have as good an exercise every day?" "Yes, sir," answered several, faintly. "Do you think it would be reasonable for me to expect of every member of the class that she should always be able to recite all her lessons without ever missing a single question?" "No, sir," answered all. "I do not expect it," said the teacher. "All I wish is that each of you should be faithful in your efforts to prepare your lessons. I wish you to study from a sense of duty, and for the sake of your own improvement. You know I do not punish you for failures. I have no going up or down, no system of marking. Your only reward, when you have made faithful preparation for a recitation, is the feeling of satisfaction which you will always experience; and when you have been negligent, your only punishment is a sort of uneasy feeling of self-reproach. I do not expect you all to be invariably prepared with every question of your lessons. Sometimes you will be unavoidably prevented from studying them, and at other times, when you have studied them very carefully, you may have forgotten, or you may fail from some misapprehension of the meaning in some cases. Do not, in such a case, feel troubled because you may not have appeared as well as some individual who has not been half as faithful as yourself. If you have done your duty, that is enough. On the other hand, you ought to feel no better satisfied with yourselves when your lesson has not been studied well, because you may have happened to know the parts which came to you. Have I _done_ well? should always be the question, not, Have I managed to _appear_ well? "I will say a word here," continued the teacher, "upon a practice which I have known to be very common in some schools, and which I have been sorry to notice occasionally in this. I mean that of prompting, or helping each other along in some way at recitations. Now where a severe punishment is the consequence of a failure, there might seem to be some reasonableness in helping your companions out of difficulty, though even then such tricks are departures from honorable dealing. But, especially where there is no purpose to be served but that of appearing to know more than you do, it certainly must be considered a very mean kind of artifice. I think I have sometimes observed an individual to be prompted where evidently the assistance was not desired, and even where it was not needed. To whisper to an individual the answer to a question is sometimes to pay her rather a poor compliment at least, for it is the same as saying 'I am a better scholar than you are; let me help you along a little.' "Let us then, hereafter, have only fair, open, honest dealings with each other; no attempts to appear to advantage by little artful manoeuvring; no prompting; no peeping into books. Be faithful and conscientious, and then banish anxiety for your success. Do you not think you will find this the best course?" "Yes, sir," answered every scholar. "Are you willing to pledge yourselves to adopt it?" "Yes, sir." "Those who are may raise their hands," said the teacher. Every hand was raised; and the pledge, there was evidence to believe, was honorably sustained. 16. KEEPING RESOLUTIONS.--The following are notes of a familiar lecture on this subject, given by a teacher at some general exercise in the school. The practice of thus reducing to writing what the teacher may say on such subjects will be attended with excellent effects. This is a subject upon which young persons find much difficulty. The question is asked a thousand times, "How shall I ever learn to keep my resolutions?" Perhaps the great cause of your failures is this. You are not sufficiently _definite_ in forming your purposes. You will resolve to do a thing without knowing with certainty whether it is even possible to do it. Again, you make resolutions which are to run on indefinitely, so that, of course, they can never be fully kept. For instance, one of you will resolve to _rise earlier in the morning._ You fix upon no definite hour, on any definite number of mornings, only you are going to "_rise earlier_." Morning comes, and finds you sleepy and disinclined to rise. You remember your resolution of rising earlier. "But then it is _very_ early," you say. You resolved to rise earlier, but you didn't resolve to rise just then. And this, it may be, is the last of your resolution. Or perhaps you are, for a few mornings, a little earlier; but then, at the end of a week or fortnight, you do not know exactly whether your resolution has been broken or kept, for you had not decided whether to rise earlier for ten days or for ten years. In the same vague and general manner, a person will resolve to be _more studious_ or more diligent. In the case of an individual of a mature and well-disciplined mind, of acquired firmness of character, such a resolution might have effect. The individual will really devote more time and attention to his pursuits. But for one of you to make such a resolution would do no sort of good. It would only be a source of trouble and disquiet. You perceive there is nothing definite--nothing fixed about it. You have not decided what amount of additional time or attention to give to your studies, or when you will begin, or when you will end. There is no one time when you will feel that you are breaking your resolution, because there were no particular times when you were to study more. You waste one opportunity and another, and then, with a feeling of discouragement and self-reproach, conclude to abandon your resolution. "Oh! It does no good to make resolutions," you say; "I never shall keep them." Now, if you would have the business of making resolutions a pleasant and interesting instead of a discouraging, disquieting one, you must proceed in a different manner. Be definite and distinct in your plan; decide exactly what you will do, and how you will do it--when you will begin, and when you will end. Instead of resolving to "rise earlier," resolve to rise at the ringing of the sunrise bells, or at some other definite time. Resolve to try this, as an experiment, for one morning, or for one week, or fortnight. Decide positively, if you decide at all, and then rise when the time comes, sleepy or not sleepy. Do not stop to repent of your resolution, or to consider the wisdom or folly of it, when the time for acting under it has once arrived. In all cases, little and great, make this a principle--to consider well before you begin to act, but after you have begun to act, never stop to consider. Resolve as deliberately as you please, but be sure to keep your resolution, whether a wise one or an unwise one, after it is once made. Never allow yourself to reconsider the question of getting up, after the morning has come, except it be for some unforeseen circumstance. Get up for that time, and be more careful how you make resolutions again. 17. TOPICS.--The plan of the Topic Exercise, as we called it, is this. Six or seven topics are given out, information upon which is to be obtained from any source, and communicated verbally before the whole school, or sometimes before a class formed for this purpose the next day. The subjects are proposed both by teacher and scholars, and if approved, adopted. The exercise is intended to be voluntary, but ought to be managed in a way sufficiently interesting to induce all to join. At the commencement of the exercise the teacher calls upon all who have any information in regard to the topic assigned--suppose, for example, it is _Alabaster_--to rise. Perhaps twenty individuals out of forty rise. The teacher may perhaps say to those in their seats, "Do you not know any thing of this subject? Have you neither seen nor heard of alabaster, and had no means of ascertaining any thing in regard to it? If you have, you ought to rise. It is not necessary that you should state a fact altogether new and unheard-of, but if you tell me its color, or some of the uses to which it is applied, you will be complying with my request." After these remarks, perhaps a few more rise, and possibly the whole school. Individuals are then called upon at random, each to state only one particular in regard to the topic in question. This arrangement is made so as to give all an opportunity to speak. If any scholar, after having mentioned one fact, has something still farther to communicate, she remains standing till called upon again. As soon as an individual has exhausted her stock of information, or if the facts that she intended to mention are stated by another, she takes her seat. The topics at first most usually selected are the common objects by which we are surrounded--for example, glass, iron, mahogany, and the like. The list will gradually extend itself, until it will embrace a large number of subjects. The object of this exercise is to induce pupils to seek for general information in an easy and pleasant manner, as by the perusal of books, newspapers, periodicals, and conversation with friends. It induces care and attention in reading, and discrimination in selecting the most useful and important facts from the mass of information. As individuals are called upon, also, to express their ideas _verbally_, they soon acquire by practice the power of expressing them with clearness and force, and communicating with ease and confidence the knowledge they possess. 18. Music.--The girls of our school often amused themselves in recess by collecting into little groups for singing. As there seemed to be a sufficient power of voice, and a respectable number who were willing to join in the performance, it was proposed one day that singing should be introduced as a part of the devotional exercises of the school. The first attempt nearly resulted in a failure; only a few trembling voices succeeded in singing Old Hundred to the words "Be thou," etc. On the second day Peterborough was sung with much greater confidence on the part of the increased number of singers. The experiment was tried with greater and greater success for several days, when the teacher proposed that a systematic plan should be formed, by which there might be singing regularly at the close of school. It was then proposed that a number of singing-books be obtained, and one of the scholars, who was well acquainted with common tunes, be appointed as chorister. Her duty should be to decide what particular tune may be sung each day, inform the teacher of the metre of the hymn, and take the lead in the exercise. This plan, being approved of by the scholars, was adopted, and put into immediate execution. Several brought copies of the Sabbath School Hymn-Book, which they had in their possession, and the plan succeeded beyond all expectation. The greatest difficulty in the way was to get some one to lead. The chorister, however, was somewhat relieved from the embarrassment which she would naturally feel in making a beginning by the appointment of one or two individuals with herself, who were to act as her assistants. These constituted the _leading_ committee, or, as it was afterward termed, _Singing Committee_. Singing now became a regular and interesting exercise of the school, and the committee succeeded in managing the business themselves. 19. TABU.--An article was one day read in a school relating to the "Tabu" of the Sandwich Islanders. Tabu is a term with them which signifies consecrated--not to be touched--to be let alone--not to be violated. Thus, according to their religious observances, a certain day will be proclaimed _Tabu_; that is, one upon which there is to be no work or no going out. A few days after this article was read, the scholars observed one morning a flower stuck up in a conspicuous place against the wall, with the word TABU in large characters above it. This excited considerable curiosity. The teacher informed them, in explanation, that the flower was a very rare and beautiful specimen, brought by one of the scholars, which he wished all to examine. "You would naturally feel a disposition to examine it by the touch," said he, "but you will all see that, by the time it was touched by sixty individuals, it would be likely to be injured, if not destroyed. So I concluded to label it _Tabu_. And it has occurred to me that this will be a convenient mode of apprising you generally that any article must not be handled. You know we sometimes have some apparatus exposed, which would be liable to injury from disturbance, where there are so many persons to touch it. I shall, in such a case, just mention that an article is Tabu, and you will understand that it is not only not to be _injured_, but not even _touched_." A little delicate management of this sort will often have more influence over young persons than the most vehement scolding, or the most watchful and jealous precautions. The Tabu was always most scrupulously regarded, after this, whenever employed. 20. MENTAL ANALYSIS.--Scene, a class in Arithmetic at recitation. The teacher gives them an example in addition, requesting them, when they have performed it, to rise. Some finish it very soon, others are very slow in accomplishing the work. "I should like to ascertain," says the teacher, "how great is the difference of rapidity with which different members of the class work in addition. I will give you another example, and then notice by my watch the shortest and longest time required to do it." The result of the experiment was that some members of the class were two or three times as long in doing it as others. "Perhaps you think," said the teacher, "that this difference is altogether owing to difference of skill; but it is not. It is mainly owing to the different methods adopted by various individuals. I am going to describe some of these, and, as I describe them, I wish you would notice them carefully, and tell me which you practice." There are, then, three modes of adding up a column of figures, which I shall describe. 1. I shall call the first _counting_. You take the first figure, and then add the next to it by counting up regularly. There are three distinct ways of doing this. (a.) "Counting by your fingers." ("Yes, sir.") "You take the first figure--suppose it is seven--and the one above it, eight. Now you recollect that to add eight, you must count all the fingers of one hand, and all but two again. So you say 'seven--eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.'" "Yes, sir, yes, sir," said the scholars. (b.) The next mode of counting is to do it mentally, without using your fingers at all; but, as it is necessary for you to have some plan to secure your adding the right number, you divide the units into sets of two each. Thus you remember that eight consists of four twos, and you accordingly say, when adding eight to seven, 'Seven; eight, nine; ten, eleven; twelve, thirteen,' &c. (c.) "The third mode is to add by threes in the same way. You recollect that eight consists of two threes and a two; so you say, 'Seven; eight, nine, ten; eleven, twelve, thirteen; fourteen, fifteen.'" The teacher here stops to ascertain how many of the class are accustomed to add in either of these modes. It is a majority. 2. The next general method is _calculating_; that is, you do not unite one number to another by the dull and tedious method of applying the units, one by one, as in the ways described under the preceding head, but you come to a result more rapidly by some mode of calculating. These modes are several. (a.) "Doubling a number, and then adding or subtracting, as the case may require. For instance, in the example already specified, in order to add seven and eight, you say, 'Twice seven are fourteen, and one are fifteen'" ("Yes, sir, yes, sir"); "or, 'Twice eight are sixteen, and taking one off leaves fifteen." ("Yes, sir.") (b.) Another way of calculating is to skip about the column, adding those numbers which you can combine most easily, and then bringing in the rest as you best can. Thus, if you see three eights in one column, you say, 'Three times eight are twenty-four,' and then you try to bring in the other numbers. Often, in such cases, you forget what you have added and what you have not, and get confused ("Yes, sir"), or you omit something in your work, and consequently it is incorrect. (c.) If nines occur, you sometimes add ten, and then take off one, for it is very easy to add ten. (d.) Another method of calculating, which is, however, not very common, is this: to take our old case, adding eight to seven, you take as much from the eight to add to the seven as will be sufficient to make ten, and then it will be easy to add the rest. Thus you think in a minute that three from the eight will make the seven a ten, and then there will be five more to add, which will make fifteen. If the next number was seven, you would say five of it will make twenty, and then there will be two left, which will make twenty-two.' This mode, though it may seem more intricate than any of the others, is, in fact, more rapid than any of them, when one is a little accustomed to it. "These are the four principal modes of calculating which occur to me. Pupils do not generally practice any of them exclusively, but occasionally resort to each, according to the circumstances of the particular case." The teacher here stopped to inquire how many of the class were accustomed to add by calculating in either of these ways or in any simpler ways. 3. "There is one more mode which I shall describe: it is by _memory_. Before I explain this mode, I wish to ask you some questions, which I should like to have you answer as quick as you can. "How much is four times five? Four _and_ five? "How much is seven times nine? Seven _and_ nine? "Eight times six? Eight _and_ six? "Nine times seven? Nine _and_ seven?" After asking a few questions of this kind, it was perceived that the pupils could tell much more readily what was the result when the numbers were to be multiplied than when they were to be added. "The reason is," said the teacher, "because you committed the multiplication table to memory, and have not committed the addition table. Now many persons have committed the addition table, so that it is perfectly familiar to them, and when they see any two numbers, the amount which is produced when they are added together comes to mind in an instant. Adding in this way is the last of the three modes I was to describe. "Now of these three methods the last is undoubtedly the best. If you once commit the addition table thoroughly, you have it fixed for life; whereas if you do not, you have to make the calculation over again every time, and thus lose a vast amount of labor. I have no doubt that there are some in this class who are in the habit of _counting_, who have ascertained that seven and eight, for instance, make fifteen, by counting up from seven to fifteen _hundreds of times_. Now how much better it would be to spend a little time in fixing the fact in the mind once for all, and then, when you come to the case, seven and eight are--say at once 'Fifteen,' instead of mumbling over and over again, hundreds of times, 'Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.' "The reason, then, that some of the class add so slowly, is not, probably, because they want skill and rapidity of execution, but because they work to a great disadvantage by working in the wrong way. I have often been surprised at the dexterity and speed with which some scholars can count with their fingers when adding, and yet they could not get through the sum very quick--at least they would have done it in half the time if the same effort had been made in traveling on a shorter road. We will therefore study the addition table now, in the class, before we go any farther." 21. TARDINESS.--When only a few scholars in a school are tardy, it may be their fault; but if a great many are so, it is the fault of the teacher or of the school. If a school is prosperous, and the children are going on well and happily in their studies, they will like their work in it; but we all come reluctantly to work which we are conscious we are not successfully performing. There may be two boys in a school, both good boys; one, may be going on well in his classes, while the other, from the concurrence of some accidental train of circumstances, may be behindhand in his work, or wrongly classed, or so situated in other respects that his school duties perplex and harass him day by day. Now how different will be the feelings of these two boys in respect to coming to school. The one will be eager and prompt to reach his place and commence his duties, while the other will love much better to loiter in idleness and liberty in the open air. Nor is he, under the circumstances of the case, to blame for this preference. There is no one, old or young, who likes or can like to do what he himself and all around him think that he does not do well. It is true the teacher can not rely wholly on the interest which his scholars take in their studies to make them punctual at school; but if he finds among them any very general disposition to be tardy, he ought to seek for the fault mainly in himself and not in them. The foregoing narratives and examples, it is hoped, may induce some of the readers of this book to keep journals of their own experiments, and of the incidents which may, from time to time, come under their notice, illustrating the principles of education, or simply the characteristics and tendencies of the youthful mind. The business of teaching will excite interest and afford pleasure just in proportion to the degree in which it is conducted by operations of mind upon mind, and the means of making it most fully so are careful practice, based upon and regulated by the results of careful observation. Every teacher, then, should make observations and experiments upon mind a part of his daily duty, and nothing will more facilitate this than keeping a record of results. There can be no opportunity for studying human nature more favorable than the teacher enjoys. The materials are all before him; his very business, from day to day, brings him to act directly upon them; and the study of the powers and tendencies of the human mind is not only the most interesting and the noblest that can engage human attention, but every step of progress he makes in it imparts an interest and charm to what would otherwise be a weary toil. It at once relieves his labors, while it doubles their efficiency and success. CHAPTER IX. THE TEACHER'S FIRST DAY. [Illustration] The teacher enters upon the duties of his office by a much more sudden transition than is common in the other avocations and employments of life. In ordinary cases, business comes at first by slow degrees, and the beginner is introduced to the labors and responsibilities of his employment in a very gradual manner. The young teacher, however, enters by a single step into the very midst of his labors. Having, perhaps, never even heard a class recite before, he takes a short walk some winter morning, and suddenly finds himself instated at the desk, his fifty scholars around him, all looking him in the face, and waiting to be employed. Every thing comes upon him at once. He can do nothing until the day and the hour for opening the school arrives--then he has every thing to do. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that the young teacher should look forward with unusual solicitude to his first day in school, and he desires, ordinarily, special instructions in respect to this occasion. Some such special instructions we propose to give in this chapter. The experienced teacher may think some of them too minute and trivial. But he must remember that they are intended for the youngest beginner in the humblest school; and if he recalls to mind his own feverish solicitude on the morning when he went to take his first command in the district school, he will pardon the seeming minuteness of detail. 1. It will be well for the young teacher to take opportunity, between the time of his engaging his school and that of his commencing it, to acquire as much information in respect to it beforehand as possible, so as to be somewhat acquainted with the scene of his labors before entering upon it. Ascertain the names and the characters of the principal families in the district, their ideas and wishes in respect to the government of the school, the kind of management adopted by one or two of the last teachers, the difficulties they fell into, the nature of the complaints made against them, if any, and the families with whom difficulty has usually arisen. This information must, of course, be obtained in private conversation; a good deal of it must be, from its very nature, highly confidential; but it is very important that the teacher should be possessed of it. He will necessarily become possessed of it by degrees in the course of his administration, when, however, it may be too late to be of any service to him. But, by judicious and proper efforts to acquire it beforehand, he will enter upon the discharge of his duties with great advantage. It is like a navigator's becoming acquainted beforehand with the nature and the dangers of the sea over which he is about to sail. Such inquiries as these will, in ordinary cases, bring to the teacher's knowledge, in most districts in our country, some cases of peculiarly troublesome scholars, or unreasonable and complaining parents; and stories of their unjustifiable conduct on former occasions will come to him exaggerated by the jealousy of rival neighbors. There is danger that his resentment may be roused a little, and that his mind will assume a hostile attitude at once toward such individuals, so that he will enter upon his work rather with a desire to seek a collision with them, or, at least, with secret feelings of defiance toward them--feelings which will lead to that kind of unbending perpendicularity in his demeanor toward them which will almost inevitably lead to a collision. Now this is wrong. There is, indeed, a point where firm resistance to unreasonable demands becomes a duty; but, as a general principle, it is most unquestionably true that it is the teacher's duty _to accommodate himself to the character and expectations of his employers_, not to face and brave them. Those italicized words _may be_ understood to mean something which would be entirely wrong; but in the sense in which I mean to use them there can be no question that they indicate the proper path for one employed by others to do work _for them_ in all cases to pursue. If, therefore, the teacher finds by his inquiries into the state of his district that there are some peculiar difficulties and dangers there, let him not cherish a disposition to face and resist them, but to avoid them. Let him go with an intention to soothe rather than to irritate feelings which have been wounded before, to comply with the wishes of all so far as he can, even if they are not entirely reasonable, and, while he endeavors to elevate the standard and correct the opinions prevailing among his employers by any means in his power, to aim at doing it gently, and in a tone and manner suitable to the relation he sustains--in a word, let him skillfully _avoid_ the dangers of his navigation, not obstinately run his ship against a rock on purpose on the ground that the rock has no business to be there. This is the spirit, then, with which these preliminary inquiries in regard to the patrons of the school ought to be made. We come now to a second point. 2. It will assist the young teacher very much in his first day's labors if he takes measures for seeing and conversing with some of the older or more intelligent scholars on the day or evening before he begins his school, with a view of obtaining from them some acquaintance with the internal arrangements and customs of the school. The object of this is to obtain the same kind of information with respect to the interior of the school that was recommended in respect to the district under the former head. He may call upon a few families, especially those which furnish a large number of scholars for the school, and make as many minute inquiries of them as he can respecting all the interior arrangements to which they have been accustomed, what reading-books and other text-books have been used, what are the principal classes in all the several departments of instruction, and what is the system of discipline, and of rewards and punishments, to which the school has been accustomed. If, in such conversations, the teacher should find a few intelligent and communicative scholars, he might learn a great deal about the past habits and condition of the school, which would be of great service to him. Not, by any means, that he will adopt and continue these methods as a matter of course, but only that a knowledge of them will render him very important aid in marking out his own course. The more minute and full the information of this sort is which he thus obtains, the better. If practicable, it would be well to make out a catalogue of all the principal classes, with the names of those individuals belonging to them who will probably attend the new school, and the order in which they were usually called upon to read or recite. The conversation which would be necessary to accomplish this would of itself be of great service. It would bring the teacher into an acquaintance with several important families and groups of children under the most favorable circumstances. The parents would see and be pleased with the kind of interest they would see the teacher taking in his new duties. The children would be pleased to be able to render their new instructor some service, and would go to the school-room on the next morning with a feeling of acquaintance with him, and a predisposition to be pleased. And if by chance any family should be thus called upon that had heretofore been captious or complaining, or disposed to be jealous of the higher importance or influence of other families, that spirit would be entirely softened and subdued by such an interview with their new instructor at their own fireside on the evening preceding the commencement of his labors. The great object, however, which the teacher would have in view in such inquiries should be the value of the information itself. As to the use which he will make of it, we shall speak hereafter. 3. It is desirable that the young teacher should meet his scholars first in an unofficial capacity. For this purpose, repair to the school-room on the first day at an early hour, so as to see and become acquainted with the scholars as they come in one by one. The intercourse between teacher and pupil should be like that between parents and children, where the utmost freedom is united with the most perfect respect. The father who is most firm and decisive in his family government can mingle most freely in the conversation and sports of his children without any derogation of his authority, or diminution of the respect they owe. Young teachers, however, are prone to forget this, and to imagine that they must assume an appearance of stern authority always, when in the presence of their scholars, if they wish to be respected or obeyed. This they call keeping up their dignity. Accordingly, they wait, on the morning of their induction into office, until their new subjects are all assembled, and then walk in with an air of the highest dignity, and with the step of a king; and sometimes a formidable instrument of discipline is carried in the hand to heighten the impression. Now there is no question that it is of great importance that scholars should have a high idea of the teacher's firmness and inflexible decision in maintaining his authority and repressing all disorder of every kind, but this impression should be created by their seeing how he _acts_ in the various emergencies which will spontaneously occur, and not by assuming airs of importance or dignity, feigned for effect. In other words, their respect for him should be based on _real traits_ of character as they see them brought out into natural action, and not on appearances assumed for the occasion. It seems to me, therefore, that it is best for the teacher first to meet his scholars with the air and tone of free and familiar intercourse, and he will find his opportunity more favorable for doing this if he goes early on the first morning of his labors, and converses freely with those whom he finds there, and with others as they come in. He may take an interest with them in all the little arrangements connected with the opening of the school--the building of the fire, the paths through the snow, the arrangements of seats; calling upon them for information or aid, asking their names, and, in a word, entering fully and freely into conversation with them, just as a parent, under similar circumstances, would do with his children. All the children thus addressed will be pleased with the gentleness and affability of the teacher. Even a rough and ill-natured boy, who has perhaps come to the school with the express determination of attempting to make mischief, will be completely disarmed by being asked politely to help the teacher arrange the fire, or alter the position of his desk. Thus, by means of the half hour during which the scholars are coming together, and of the visits made in the preceding evening, as described under the last head, the teacher will find, when he calls upon the children to take their seats, that he has made a very large number of them his personal friends. Many of these will have communicated their first impressions to the others, so that he will find himself possessed, at the outset, of that which is of vital consequence in the opening of any administration--a strong party in his favor. 4. The time for calling the school to order and commencing exercises of some sort will at length arrive, though if the work of making personal acquaintances is going on prosperously, it may perhaps be delayed a little beyond the usual hour. When, however, the time arrives, we would strongly recommend that the first service by which the regular duties of the school are commenced should be an act of religious worship. There are many reasons why the exercises of the school should every day be thus commenced, and there are special reasons for it on the first day. There are very few districts where parents would have any objection to this. They might, indeed, in some cases, if the subject were to be brought up formally before them as a matter of doubt, anticipate some difficulties, or create imaginary ones, growing out of the supposed sensitiveness of contending sects; but if the teacher were, of his own accord, to commence the plain, faithful, and honest discharge of this duty as a matter of course, very few would think of making any objection to it, and almost all would be satisfied and pleased with its actual operation. If, however, the teacher should, in any case, have reason to believe that such a practice would be contrary to the wishes of his employers, it would, according to views we have presented in another chapter, be wrong for him to attempt to introduce it. He might, if he should see fit, make such an objection a reason for declining to take the school; but he ought not, if he takes it, to act counter to the known wishes of his employers in so important a point. But if, on the other hand, no such objections are made known to him, he need not raise the question himself at all, but take it for granted that in a Christian land there will be no objection to imploring the Divine protection and blessing at the opening of a daily school. If this practice is adopted, it will have a most powerful influence upon the moral condition of the school. It must be so. Though many will be inattentive, and many utterly unconcerned, yet it is not possible to bring children, even in form, into the presence of God every day, and to utter in their hearing the petitions which they ought to present, without bringing a powerful element of moral influence to bear upon their hearts. The good will be made better; the conscientious more conscientious still; and the rude and savage will be subdued and softened by the daily attempt to lead them to the throne of their Creator. To secure this effect, the devotional service must be an honest one. There must be nothing feigned or hypocritical; no hackneyed phrases used without meaning, or intonations of assumed solemnity. It must be honest, heartfelt, simple prayer; the plain and direct expression of such sentiments as children ought to feel, and of such petitions as they ought to offer. We shall speak presently of the mode of avoiding some abuses to which this exercise is liable; but if these sources of abuse are avoided, and the duty is performed in that plain, simple, direct, and honest manner in which it certainly will be if it springs from the heart, it must have a great influence on the moral progress of the children, and, in fact, in all respects on the prosperity of the school. But, then, independently of the _advantages_ which may be expected to result from the practice of daily prayer in school, it would seem to be the imperious _duty_ of the teacher to adopt it. So many human minds committed thus to the guidance of one, at a period when the character receives so easily and so permanently its shape and direction, and in a world of probation like this, is an occasion which seems to demand the open recognition of the hand of God on the part of any individual to whom such a trust is committed. The duty springs so directly out of the attitude in which the teacher and pupil stand in respect to each other, and the relation they together bear to the Supreme, that it would seem impossible for any one to hesitate to admit the duty, without denying altogether the existence of a God. How vast the responsibility _of giving form and character to the human soul!_ How mighty the influence of which the unformed minds of a group of children are susceptible! How much their daily teacher must inevitably exert upon them! If we admit the existence of God at all, and that he exerts any agency whatever in the moral world which he has produced, here seems to be one of the strongest cases in which his intervention should be sought. And then, when we reflect upon the influence which would be exerted upon the future religious character of this nation by having the millions of children training up in the schools accustomed, through all the years of early life, to being brought daily into the presence of the Supreme, with thanksgiving, confession, and prayer, it can hardly seem possible that the teacher who wishes to be faithful in his duties should hesitate in regard to this. Some teacher may perhaps say that he can not perform it because he is not a religious man--he makes no pretensions to piety. But this can surely be no reason. He _ought to be_ a religious man, and his first prayer offered in school may be the first act by which he becomes so. Entering the service of Jehovah is a work which requires no preliminary steps. It is to be done at once by sincere confession, and an honest prayer for forgiveness for the past, and strength for time to come. A daily religious service in school may be, therefore, the outward act by which he, who has long lived without God, may return to his duty. If, from such considerations, the teacher purposes to have a daily religious service in his school, he should by all means begin on the first day, and when he first calls his school to order. He should mention to his pupils the great and obvious duty of imploring God's guidance and blessing in all their ways, and then read a short portion of Scripture, with an occasional word or two of simple explanation, and offer, himself, a short and simple prayer. In some cases, teachers are disposed to postpone this duty a day or two, from timidity or other causes, hoping that, after becoming acquainted a little with the school, and having completed their more important arrangements, they shall find it easier to begin. But this is a great mistake. The longer the duty is postponed, the more difficult and trying it will be. And then the moral impressions will be altogether more strong and salutary if an act of solemn religious worship is made the first opening act of the school. Where the teacher has not sufficient confidence that the general sense of propriety among his pupils will preserve good order and decorum during the exercise, it may be better for him to _read_ a prayer selected from books of devotion, or prepared by himself expressly for the occasion. By this plan his school will be, during the exercise, under his own observation, as at other times. It may, in some schools where the number is small, or the prevailing habits of seriousness and order are good, be well to allow the older scholars to read the prayer in rotation, taking especial care that it does not degenerate into a mere reading exercise, but that it is understood, both by readers and hearers, to be a solemn act of religious worship. In a word, if the teacher is really honest and sincere in his wish to lead his pupils to the worship of God, he will find no serious difficulty in preventing the abuses and avoiding the dangers which some might fear, and in accomplishing vast good, both in promoting the prosperity of the school, and in the formation of the highest and best traits of individual character. We have dwelt, perhaps, longer on this subject than we ought to have done in this place; but its importance, when viewed in its bearings on the thousands of children daily assembling in our district schools must be our apology. The embarrassments and difficulties arising from the extreme sensitiveness which exists among the various denominations of Christians in our land, threaten to interfere very seriously with giving a proper degree of religious instruction to the mass of the youthful population. But we must not, because we have no national _church_, cease to have a national _religion_. All our institutions ought to be so administered as openly to recognize the hand of God, and to seek his protection and blessing; and in regard to none is it more imperiously necessary than in respect to our common schools. 5. After the school is thus opened, the teacher will find himself brought to the great difficulty which embarrasses the beginning of his labors, namely, that of finding immediate employment at once for the thirty or forty children who all look up to him waiting for their orders. I say thirty or forty, for the young teachers first school will usually be a small one. His object should be, in all ordinary cases, for the first few days, twofold: first, to revive and restore, in the main, the general routine of classes and exercises pursued by his predecessor in the same school; and, secondly, while doing this, to become as fully acquainted with his scholars as possible. It is best, then, _ordinarily_, for the teacher to begin the school as his predecessor closed it, and make the transition to his own perhaps more improved method a gradual one. In some cases a different course is wise undoubtedly, as, for example, where a teacher is commencing a private school, on a previously well-digested plan of his own, or where one who has had experience, and has confidence in his power to bring his new pupils promptly and at once into the system of classification and instruction which he prefers. It is difficult, however, to do this, and requires a good deal of address and decision. It is far easier and safer, and in almost all cases better, in every respect, for a young teacher to revive and restore the former arrangements in the main, and take his departure from them. He may afterward make changes, as he may find them necessary or desirable, and even bring the school soon into a very different state from that in which he finds it; but it will generally be more pleasant for himself, and better for the school, to avoid the shock of a sudden and entire revolution. The first thing, then, when the scholars are ready to be employed, is to set them at work in classes or upon lessons, as they would have been employed had the former teacher continued in charge of the school. To illustrate clearly how this may be done, we may give the following dialogue: _Teacher_. Can any one of the boys inform me what was the first lesson that the former master used to hear in the morning? The boys are silent, looking to one another. _Teacher_. Did he hear _any_ recitation immediately after school began? _Boys_ (faintly, and with hesitation). No, sir. _Teacher_. How long was it before he began to hear lessons? Several boys simultaneously. "About half an hour." "A little while." "Quarter of an hour." "What did he do at this time?" "Set copies," "Looked over sums," and various other answers are perhaps given. The teacher makes a memorandum of this, and then inquires, "And what lesson came after this?" "Geography." "All the boys in this school who studied Geography may rise." A considerable number rise. "Did you all recite together?" "No, sir." "There are two classes, then?" "Yes. sir." "Yes, sir." "More than two." "All who belong to the class that recites first in the morning may remain standing; the rest may sit." The boys obey, and eight or ten of them remain standing. The teacher calls upon one of them to produce his book, and assigns them a lesson in regular course. He then requests some one of the number to write out, in the course of the day, a list of the class, and to bring it with him to the recitation the next morning. "Are there any other scholars in the school who think it would be well for them to join this class?" In answer to this question probably some new scholars might rise, or some hitherto belonging to other classes, who might be of suitable age and qualifications to be transferred. If these individuals should appear to be of the proper standing and character, they might at once be joined to the class in question, and directed to take the same lesson. In the same manner, the other classes would pass in review before the teacher, and he would obtain a memorandum of the usual order of exercises, and in a short time set all his pupils at work preparing for the lessons of the next day. He would be much aided in this by the previous knowledge which he would have obtained by private conversation, as recommended under a former head. Some individual cases would require a little special attention, such as new scholars, small children, and others; but he would be able, before a great while, to look around him and see his whole school busy with the work he had assigned them, and his own time, for the rest of the morning, in a great degree at his own command. I ought to say, however, that it is not probable that he would long continue these arrangements unaltered. In hearing the different classes recite, he would watch for opportunities for combining them, or discontinuing those where the number was small; he would alter the times of recitation, and group individual scholars into classes, so as to bring the school, in a very short time, into a condition corresponding more nearly with his own views. All this can be done very easily and pleasantly when the wheels are once in motion; for a school is like a ship in one respect--most easily steered in the right direction when under sail. By this plan, also, the teacher obtains what is almost absolutely necessary at the commencement of his labors, time for _observation_. It is of the first importance that he should become acquainted, as early as possible, with the characters of the boys, especially to learn who those are which are most likely to be troublesome. There always will be a few who will require special watch and care, and generally there will be only a few. A great deal depends on finding these individuals out in good season, and bringing the pressure of a proper authority to bear upon them soon. By the plan I have recommended of not attempting to remodel the school wholly at once, the teacher obtains time for noticing the pupils, and learning something about their individual characters. In fact, so important is this, that it is the plan of some teachers, whenever they commence a new school, to let the boys have their own way, almost entirely, for a few days, in order to find out fully who the idle and mischievous are. This is, perhaps, going a little too far; but it is certainly desirable to enjoy as many opportunities for observation as can be secured on the first few days of the school. 6. Make it, then, a special object of attention, during the first day or two, to discover who the idle and mischievous individuals are. They will have generally seated themselves together in little knots; for, as they are aware that the new teacher does not know them, they will imagine that, though perhaps separated before, they can now slip together again without any trouble. It is best to avoid, if possible, an open collision with any of them at once, in order that they may be the better observed. Whenever, therefore, you see idleness or play, endeavor to remedy the evil for the time by giving the individual something special to do, or by some other measure, without, however, seeming to notice the misconduct. Continue thus adroitly to stop every thing disorderly, while, at the same time, you notice and remember where the tendencies to disorder exist. By this means, the individuals who would cause most of the trouble and difficulty in the discipline of the school will soon betray themselves, and those whose fidelity and good behavior can be relied upon will also be known. The names of the former should be among the first that the teacher learns, and their characters should be among the first which he studies. The most prominent among them--those apparently most likely to make trouble--he should note particularly, and make inquiries out of school respecting them, their characters, and their education at home, so as to become acquainted with them as early and as fully as possible, for he must have this full acquaintance with them before he is prepared to commence any decided course of discipline with them. The teacher often does irreparable injury by rash action at the outset. He sees, for instance, a boy secretly eating an apple which he has concealed in his hand, and which he bites with his book before his mouth, or his head under the lid of his desk. It is perhaps the first day of the school, and the teacher thinks he had better make an example at the outset, and calls the boy out, knowing nothing about his general character, and inflicts some painful or degrading punishment before all the school. A little afterward, as he becomes gradually acquainted with the boy, he finds that he is of mild, gentle disposition, generally obedient and harmless, and that his offense was only an act of momentary thoughtlessness, arising from some circumstances of peculiar temptation at the time; a boy in the next seat, perhaps, had just before given him the apple. The teacher regrets, when too late, the hasty punishment. He perceives that instead of having the influence of salutary example upon the other boys, it must have shocked their sense of justice, and excited dislike toward a teacher so quick and severe, rather than of fear of doing wrong themselves. It would be safer to postpone such decided measures a little--to avoid all open collisions, if possible, for a few days. In such a case as the above, the boy might be kindly spoken to in an under tone, in such a way as to show both the teacher's sense of the impropriety of disorder, and also his desire to avoid giving pain to the boy. If it then turns out that the individual is ordinarily a well-disposed boy, all is right, and if he proves to be habitually disobedient and troublesome, the lenity and forbearance exercised at first will facilitate the effect aimed at by subsequent measures. Avoid, then, for the few first days, all open collision with any of your pupils, that you may have opportunity for minute and thorough observation. And here the young teacher ought to be cautioned against a fault which beginners are very prone to fall into, that of forming unfavorable opinions of some of their pupils from their air and manner before they see any thing in their conduct which ought to be disapproved. A boy or girl comes to the desk to ask a question or make a request, and the teacher sees in the cast of countenance, or in the bearing or tone of the individual, something indicating a proud, or a sullen, or an ill-humored disposition, and conceives a prejudice, often entirely without foundation, which weeks perhaps do not wear away. Every experienced teacher can recollect numerous cases of this sort, and he learns, after a time, to suspend his judgment. Be cautious, therefore, on this point, and in the survey of your pupils which you make during the first few days of your school, trust to nothing but the most sure and unequivocal evidences of character, for many of your most docile and faithful pupils will be found among those whose appearance at first prepossessed you strongly against them. One other caution ought also to be given. Do not judge too severely in respect to the ordinary cases of misconduct in school. The young teacher almost invariably does judge too severely. While engaged himself in hearing a recitation, or looking over a "sum," he hears a stifled laugh, and, looking up, sees the little offender struggling with the muscles of his countenance to restore their gravity. The teacher is vexed at the interruption, and severely rebukes or punishes the boy, when, after all, the offense, in a moral point of view, was an exceedingly light one--at least it might very probably have been so. In fact, a large proportion of the offenses against order committed in school are the mere momentary action of the natural buoyancy and life of childhood. This is no reason why they should be indulged, or why the order and regularity of the school should be sacrificed, but it should prevent their exciting feelings of anger or impatience, or very severe reprehension. While the teacher should take effectual measures for restraining all such irregularities, he should do it with the tone and manner which will show that he understands their true moral character, and deals with them, not as heinous sins, which deserve severe punishment, but as serious inconveniences, which he is compelled to repress. There are often cases of real moral turpitude in school, such as where there is intentional, willful mischief, or disturbance, or habitual disobedience, and there may even be, in some cases, open rebellion. Now the teacher should show that he distinguishes these cases from such momentary acts of thoughtlessness as we have described, and a broad distinction ought to be made in the treatment of them. In a word, then, what we have been recommending under this head is, that the teacher should make it his special study, for his first few days in school, to acquire a knowledge of the characters of his pupils, to learn who are the thoughtless ones, who the mischievous, and who the disobedient and rebellious, and to do this with candid, moral discrimination, and with as little open collision with individuals as possible. 7. Another point to which the teacher ought to give his early attention is to separate the bad boys as soon as he can from one another. The idleness and irregularity of children in school often depends more on accidental circumstances than on character. Two boys may be individually harmless and well-disposed, and yet they may be of so mercurial a temperament that, together, the temptation to continual play will be irresistible. Another case that more often happens is where one is actively and even intentionally bad, and is seated next to an innocent, but perhaps thoughtless boy, and contrives to keep him always in difficulty. Now remove the former away, where there are no very frail materials for him to act upon, and place the latter where he is exposed to no special temptation, and all would be well. This is all very obvious, and known familiarly to all teachers who have had any experience. But beginners are not generally so aware of it at the outset as to make any direct and systematic efforts to examine the school with reference to its condition in this respect. It is usual to go on, leaving the boys to remain seated as chance or their own inclinations grouped them, and to endeavor to keep the peace among the various neighborhoods by close supervision, rebukes, and punishment. Now these difficulties may be very much diminished by looking a little into the arrangement of the boys at the outset, and so modifying it as to diminish the amount of temptation to which the individuals are exposed. This should be done, however, cautiously, deliberately, and with good-nature, keeping the object of it a good deal out of view. It must be done cautiously and deliberately, for the first appearances are exceedingly fallacious in respect to the characters of the different children. You see, perhaps, some indications of play between two boys upon the same seat, and hastily conclude that they are disorderly boys, and must be separated. Something in the air and manner of one or both of them confirms this impression, and you take the necessary measures at once. You then find, when you become more fully acquainted with them, that the appearances which you observed were only momentary and accidental, and that they would have been as safe together as any two boys in the school. And perhaps you will even find that, by their new position, you have brought one or the other into circumstances of peculiar temptation. Wait, therefore, before you make such changes, till you have ascertained _actual character_, doing this, however, without any unnecessary delay. In such removals, too, it is well, in many cases, to keep the motive and design of them as much as possible out of view; for by expressing suspicion of a boy, you injure his character in his own opinion and in that of others, and tend to make him reckless. Besides, if you remove a boy from a companion whom he likes, avowedly to prevent his playing, you offer him an inducement, if he is a bad boy, to continue to play in his new position for the purpose of thwarting you, or from the influence of resentment. It would be wrong, indeed, to use any subterfuge or duplicity of any kind to conceal your object, but you are not bound to explain it; and in the many changes which you will be compelled to make in the course of the first week for various purposes, you may include many of these without explaining particularly the design or intention of any of them. In some instances, however, you may frankly state the whole case without danger, provided it is done in such a manner as not to make the boy feel that his character is seriously injured in your estimation. It must depend upon the tact and judgment of the teacher to determine upon the particular course to be pursued in the several cases, though he ought to keep these general principles in view in all. In one instance, for example, he will see two boys together, James and Joseph we will call them, exhibiting a tendency to play, and after inquiring into their characters, he will find that they are good-natured, pleasant boys, and that he had better be frank with them on the subject. He calls one of them to his desk, and perhaps the following dialogue ensues: "James, I am making some changes in the seats, and thought of removing you to another place. Have you any particular preference for that seat?" The question is unexpected, and James hesitates. He wishes to sit next to Joseph, but doubts whether it is quite prudent to avow it; so he says, slowly and with hesitation, "No, sir, I do not know that I have." "If you have any reason, I wish you would tell me frankly, for I want you to have such a seat as will be pleasant to you." James does not know what to say. Encouraged, however, by the good-humored tone and look which the master assumes, he says, timidly, "Joseph and I thought we should like to sit together, if you are willing." "Oh! you and Joseph are particular friends, then, I suppose?" "Why, yes, sir." "I am not surprised, then, that you want to sit together, though, to tell the truth, that is rather a reason why I should separate you." "Why, sir?" "Because I have observed that when two great friends are seated together, they are always more apt to whisper and play. Have you not observed it?" "Why, yes, sir." "You may go and ask Joseph to come here." When the two boys make their appearance again, the teacher continues: "Joseph, James tells me that you and he would like to sit together, and says you are particular friends; but I tell him," he adds, smiling, "that that is rather a reason for separating you. Now if I should put you both into different parts of the school, next to boys that you are not acquainted with, it would be a great deal easier for you to be still and studious than it is now. Do you not think so yourselves?" The boys look at one another and smile. "However, there is one way you can do. You can guard against the extra temptation by extra care; and, on the whole, as I believe you are pretty good boys, I will let you have your choice. You may stay as you are, and make extra exertion to be perfectly regular and studious, or I will find seats for you where it will be a great deal easier for you to be so. Which do you think you should rather do?" The boys hesitate, look at one another, and presently say that they had rather sit together. "Well," said the teacher, "it is immaterial to me whether you sit together or apart, if you are only good boys, so you may take your seats and try it a little while. If you find it too hard work to be studious and orderly together, I can make a change hereafter. I shall soon see." Such a conversation will have many good effects. It will make the boys expect to be watched, without causing them to feel that their characters have suffered. It will stimulate them to greater exertion to avoid all misconduct, and it will prepare the way for separating them afterward without awakening feelings of resentment, if the experiment of their sitting together should fail. Another case would be managed, perhaps, in a little different way, where the tendency to play was more decided. After speaking to the individuals mildly two or three times, you see them again at play. You ask them to wait that day after school and come to your desk. They have, then, the rest of the day to think occasionally of the difficulty they have brought themselves into, and the anxiety and suspense which they will naturally feel will give you every advantage for speaking to them with effect; and if you should be engaged a few minutes with some other business after school, so that they should have to stand a little while in silent expectation, waiting for their turn, it would contribute to the permanence of the effect. "Well, boys," at length you say, with a serious but frank tone of voice, "I saw you playing in a disorderly manner to-day, and, in the first place, I wish you to tell me honestly all about it. I am not going to punish you, but I wish you to be open and honest about it. What were you doing?" The boys hesitate. "George, what did you have in your hand?" "A piece of paper." "And what were you doing with it?" _George_. William was trying to take it away from me. "Was there any thing on it?" "Yes, sir." "What?" George looks down, a little confused. _William_. George had been drawing some pictures on it. "I see each of you is ready to tell of the other's fault, but it would be much more honorable if each was open in acknowledging his own. Have I ever had to speak to you before for playing together in school?" "Yes, sir, I believe you have," says one, looking down. "More than once?" "Yes, sir." "More than twice?" "I do not recollect exactly; I believe you have." "Well, now, what do you think I ought to do next?" The boys have nothing to say. "Do you prefer sitting together, or are you willing to have me separate you?" "We should rather sit together, sir, if you are willing," says George. "I have no objection to your sitting together, if you could only resist the temptation to play. I want all the boys in the school to have pleasant seats." There is a pause, the teacher hesitating what to do. "Suppose, now, I were to make one more experiment, and let you try to be good boys in your present seat, would you really try?" "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir, we will," are the replies. "And if I should find that you still continue to play, and should have to separate you, will you move into your new seats pleasantly, and with good-humor, feeling that I have done right about if?" "Yes, sir, we will." Thus it will be seen that there may be cases where the teacher may make arrangements for separating his scholars, on an open and distinct understanding with them in respect to the cause of it. We have given these cases, not that exactly such ones will be very likely to occur, or that, when they do, the teacher is to manage them in exactly the way here described, but to exhibit more clearly to the reader than could be done by any general description, the spirit and tone which a teacher ought to assume toward his pupils. We wished to exhibit this in contrast with the harsh and impatient manner which teachers too often assume in such a case, as follows: "John Williams and Samuel Smith, come here to me!" exclaims the master, in a harsh, impatient tone, in the midst of the exercises of the afternoon. The scholars all look up from their work. The culprits slowly rise from their seats, and with a sullen air come down to the floor. "You are playing, boys, all the time, and I will not have it. John, do you take your books, and go and sit out there by the window; and, Samuel, you come and sit here on this front seat; and if I catch you playing again, I shall certainly punish you severely." The boys make the move with as much rattling and distention to make a noise; and when they get their new seats, and the teacher is again engaged upon his work, they exchange winks and nods, and in ten minutes are slyly cannonading each other with paper balls. In regard to all the directions that have been given under this head, I ought to say again, before concluding it, that they are mainly applicable to the case of beginners and of small schools. The general principles are, it is true, of universal application, but it is only where a school is of moderate size that the details of position, in respect to individual scholars, can be minutely studied. More summary processes are necessary, I am aware, when the school is very large, and the time of the teacher is incessantly engaged. 8. In some districts in New England the young teacher will find one or more boys, generally among the larger ones, who will come to the school with the express determination to make a difficulty if they can. The best way is generally to face these individuals at once in the most direct and open manner, and, at the same time, with perfect good-humor and kindness of feeling and deportment toward them personally. An example or two will best illustrate what I mean. A teacher heard a rapping noise repeatedly one day, just after he had commenced his labors, under such circumstances as to lead him to suppose it was designed. He did not appear to notice it, but remained after school until the scholars had all gone, and then made a thorough examination. He found, at length, a broken place in the plastering, where a _lath_ was loose, and a string was tied to the end of it, and thence carried along the wall, under the benches, to the seat of a mischievous boy, and fastened to a nail. By pulling the string he could spring the lath, and then let it snap back to its place. He left every thing as it was, and the next day, while engaged in a lesson, he heard the noise again. He rose from his seat. The scholars all looked up from their books. "Did you hear that noise?" said he. "Yes, sir." "Do you know what it is?" "No, sir." "Very well; I only wished to call your attention to it. I may perhaps speak of it again by-and-by." He then resumed his exercise as if nothing had happened. The guilty boy was agitated and confused, and was utterly at a loss to know what to do. What could the teacher mean? Had he discovered the trick? and, if so, what was he going to do? He grew more and more uneasy, and resolved that, at all events, it was best for him to retreat. Accordingly, at the next recess, as the teacher had anticipated, he went slyly to the lath, cut the string, then returned to his seat, and drew the line in, rolled it up, and put it in his pocket. The teacher, who was secretly watching him, observed the whole manoeuvre. At the close of the school, when the books were laid aside, and all was silence, he treated the affair thus: "Do you remember the noise to which I called your attention early this afternoon"?" "Yes, sir." "I will explain it to you now. One of the boys tied a string to a loose lath in the side of the room, and then, having the end of it at his seat, he was pulling it to make a noise to disturb us." The scholars all looked astonished, and then began to turn round toward one another to see who the offender could be. The culprit began to tremble. "He did it several times yesterday, and would have gone on doing it had I not spoken about it to-day. Do you think this was wrong or not?" "Yes, sir;" "Wrong;" "Wrong," are the replies. "What harm does it do?" "It interrupts the school." "Yes. Is there any other harm?" The boys hesitate. "It gives me trouble and pain. Should you not suppose it would?" "Yes, sir." "Have I ever treated any boy or girl in this school unjustly or unkindly?" "No, sir;" "No, sir." "Then why should any boy or girl wish to give me trouble or pain?" There was a pause. The guilty individual expected that the next thing would be to call him out for punishment. "Now what do you think I ought to do with such a boy?" No answer. "Perhaps I ought to punish him, but I am very unwilling to do that. I concluded to try another plan--to treat him with kindness and forbearance. So I called your attention to it this afternoon, to let him know that I was observing it, and to give him an opportunity to remove the string. And he did. He went, in the recess, and cut off the string. I shall not tell you his name, for I do not wish to injure his character. All I want is to have him a good boy." A pause. "I think I shall try this plan, for he must have some feelings of honor and gratitude, and if he has, he certainly will not try to give me pain or trouble again after this. And now I shall say no more about it, nor think any more about it; only, to prove that it is all as I say, if you look there under that window after school, you will see the lath with the end of the string round it, and, by pulling it, you can make it snap." Another case, a little more serious in its character, is the following: A teacher, having had some trouble with a rude and savage-looking boy, made some inquiry respecting him out of school, and incidentally learned that he had once or twice before openly rebelled against the authority of the school, and that he was now, in the recesses, actually preparing a club, with which he was threatening to defend himself if the teacher should attempt to punish him. The next day, soon after the boys had gone out, he took his hat and followed them, and, turning round a corner of the school-house, found the boys standing around the young rebel, who was sitting upon a log, shaving the handle of the club smooth with his pocket-knife. He was startled at the unexpected appearance of the teacher, and the first impulse was to hide his club behind him; but it was too late, and, supposing that the teacher was ignorant of his designs, he went on sullenly with his work, feeling, however, greatly embarrassed. "Pleasant day, boys," said the teacher. "This is a fine sunny nook for you to talk in. "Seems to me, however, you ought to have a better seat than this old log," continued he, taking his seat at the same time by the side of the boy. "Not so bad a seat, however, after all. What are you making, Joseph?" Joseph mumbled out something inarticulate by way of reply. "I have got a sharper knife," said he, drawing his penknife out of his pocket. And then, "Let me try it," he continued, gently taking the club out of Joseph's hand. The boys looked surprised, some exchanged nods and winks, others turned away to conceal a laugh; but the teacher engaged in conversation with them, and soon put them all at their ease except poor Joseph, who could not tell how this strange interview was likely to end. In the mean time, the teacher went on shaving the handle smooth and rounding the ends. "You want," said he, "a rasp or coarse file for the ends, and then you could finish it finely. But what are you making this formidable club for?" Joseph was completely at a loss what to say. He began to show evident marks of embarrassment and confusion. "I know what it is for; it is to defend yourself against me with. Is it not, boys?" said he, appealing to the others. A faint "Yes, sir" or two was the reply. "Well, now, Joseph, it will be a great deal better for us both to be friends than to be enemies. You had better throw this club away, and save yourself from punishment by being a good boy. Come, now," said he, handing him back his club, "throw it over into the field as far as you can, and we will all forget that you ever made it." Joseph sat the picture of shame and confusion. Better feelings were struggling for admission, and the case was decided by a broad-faced, good-natured-looking boy, who stood by his side, saying almost involuntarily, "Better throw it, Joe." The club flew, end over end, into the field. Joseph returned to his allegiance, and never attempted to rise in rebellion again. The ways by which boys engage in open, intentional disobedience are, of course, greatly varied, and the exact treatment will depend upon the features of the individual case; but the frankness, the openness, the plain dealing, and the kind and friendly tone which it is the object of the foregoing illustrations to exhibit, should characterize all. 9. We have already alluded to the importance of a delicate regard for the _characters_ of the boys in all the measures of discipline adopted at the commencement of a school. This is, in fact, of the highest importance at all times, and is peculiarly so at the outset. A wound to the feelings is sometimes inflicted by a single transaction which produces a lasting injury to the character. Children are very sensitive to ridicule or disgrace, and some are most acutely so. A cutting reproof administered in public, or a punishment which exposes the individual to the gaze of others, will often burn far more deeply into the heart than the teacher imagines. And it is often the cause of great and lasting injury, too. By destroying the character of a pupil, you make him feel that he has nothing more to lose or gain, and destroy that kind of interest in his own moral condition which alone will allure him to virtuous conduct. To expose children to public ridicule or contempt tends either to make them sullen and despondent, or else to arouse their resentment and to make them reckless and desperate. Most persons remember through life some instances in their early childhood in which they were disgraced or ridiculed at school, and the permanence of the recollection is a test of the violence of the effect. Be very careful, then, to avoid, especially at the commencement of the school, publicly exposing those who do wrong. Sometimes you may make the offense public, as in the case of the snapping of the lath, described under a former head, while you kindly conceal the name of the offender. Even if the school generally understand who he is, the injury of public exposure is almost altogether avoided, for the sense of disgrace does not come nearly so vividly home to the mind of a child from hearing occasional allusions to his offense by individuals among his playmates, as when he feels himself, at a particular time, the object of universal attention and dishonor. And then, besides, if the pupil perceives that the teacher is tender of his reputation, he will, by a feeling somewhere between imitation and sympathy, begin to feel a little tender of it too. Every exertion should be made, therefore, to lead children to value their character, and to help them to preserve it, and especially to avoid, at the beginning, every unnecessary sacrifice of it. And yet there are cases where shame is the very best possible remedy for juvenile faults. If a boy, for example, is self-conceited, bold, and mischievous, with feelings somewhat callous, and an influence extensive and bad, an opportunity will sometimes occur to hold up his conduct to the just reprobation of the school with great advantage. By this means, if it is done in such a way as to _secure_ the influence of the school on the right side, many good effects are sometimes attained. His pride and self-conceit are humbled, his bad influence receives a very decided check, and he is forced to draw back at once from the prominent stand he has occupied. Richard Jones, for example, is a rude, coarse, self-conceited boy, often doing wrong both in school and out, and yet possessed of that peculiar influence which a bad boy often contrives to exert in school. The teacher, after watching some time for an opportunity to humble him, one day overhears a difficulty among the boys, and, looking out of the window, observes that he is taking away a sled from one of the little boys to slide down hill upon, having none of his own. The little boy resists as well as he can, and complains bitterly, but it is of no avail. At the close of the school that day, the teacher commences conversation on the subject as follows: "Boys, do you know what the difference is between stealing and robbery?" "Yes, sir." "What!" The boys hesitate, and look at one another. "Suppose a thief were to go into a man's store in the daytime, and take away something secretly, would it be stealing or robbery?" "Stealing." "Suppose he should meet him in the road, and take it away by force?" "Then it would be robbery." "Yes; when that which belongs to another is taken secretly, it is called stealing; when it is taken openly or with violence, it is called robbery. Which, now, do you think is the worst?" "Robbery." "Yes, for it is more barefaced and determined--then it gives a great deal more pain to the one who is injured. To-day I saw one of the boys in this school taking away another boy's sled, openly and with violence." The boys all look round toward Richard. "Was that of the nature of stealing or robbery? "Robbery," say the boys. "Was it real robbery?" They hesitate. "If any of you think of any reason why it was not real robbery, you may name it." "He gave the sled back to him," says one of the boys. "Yes; and therefore, to describe the action correctly, we should not say Richard robbed a boy of his sled, but that he robbed him of his sled _for a time_, or he robbed him of the _use_ of his sled. Still, in respect to the nature and the guilt of it, it was robbery. "There is another thing which ought to be observed about it. Whose sled was it that Richard took away?" "James Thompson's." "James, you may stand up. "Notice his size, boys. I should like to have Richard Jones stand up too, so that you might compare them; but I presume he feels very much ashamed of what he has done, and it would be very unpleasant for him to stand up. You will remember, however, how large he is. Now when I was a boy, it used to be considered dishonorable and cowardly for a large, strong boy to abuse a little one who can not defend himself. Is it considered so now?" "Yes, sir." "It ought to be, certainly; though, were it not for such a case as this, we should not have thought of considering Richard Jones a coward. It seems he did not dare to try to take away a sled from a boy who was as big as himself, but attacked little James, for he knew he was not strong enough to defend himself." Now, in some such cases as this, great good may be done, both in respect to the individual and to the state of public sentiment in school, by openly exposing a boy's misconduct. The teacher must always take care, however, that the state of mind and character in the guilty individual is such that public exposure is adapted to work well as a remedy, and also that, in managing it, he carries the sympathies of the other boys with him. To secure this, he must avoid all harsh and exaggerated expressions or direct reproaches, and while he is mild, and gentle, and forbearing himself, lead the boys to understand and feel the nature of the sin which he exposes. The opportunities for doing this to advantage will, however, be rare. Generally it will be best to manage cases of discipline more privately, so as to protect the characters of those that offend. The teacher should thus, in accordance with the directions we have given, commence his labors with careful circumspection, patience, frankness, and honest good-will toward every individual of his charge. He will find less difficulty at the outset than he would have expected, and soon have the satisfaction of perceiving that a mild but most efficient government is quietly and firmly established in the little kingdom over which he is called to reign. THE END. 
12769	----	HOW TO TEACH BY GEORGE DRAYTON STRAYER AND NAOMI NORSWORTHY February, 1917. PREFACE The art of teaching is based primarily upon the science of psychology. In this book the authors have sought to make clear the principles of psychology which are involved in teaching, and to show definitely their application in the work of the classroom. The book has been written in language as free from technical terms as is possible. In a discussion of the methods of teaching it is necessary to consider the ends or aims involved, as well as the process. The authors have, on this account, included a chapter on the work of the teacher, in which is discussed the aims of education. The success or failure of the work of a teacher is determined by the changes which are brought to pass in the children who are being taught. This book, therefore, includes a chapter on the measurement of the achievements of children. Throughout the book the discussion of the art of teaching is always modified by an acceptance upon the part of the writers of the social purpose of education. The treatment of each topic will be found to be based upon investigations and researches in the fields of psychology and education which involve the measurement of the achievements of children and of adults under varying conditions. Wherever possible, the relation between the principle of teaching laid down and the scientific inquiry upon which it is based is indicated. Any careful study of the mental life and development of children reveals at the same time the unity and the diversity of the process involved. For the sake of definiteness and clearness, the authors have differentiated between types of mental activity and the corresponding types of classroom exercises. They have, at the same time, sought to make clear the interdependence of the various aspects of teaching method and the unity involved in mental development. GEORGE DRAYTON STRAYER. NAOMI NORSWORTHY. NOVEMBER 15, 1916. * * * * * TABLE OF CONTENTS I. THE WORK OF THE TEACHER II. ORIGINAL NATURE, THE CAPITAL WITH WHICH TEACHERS WORK III. ATTENTION AND INTEREST IN TEACHING IV. THE FORMATION OF HABITS V. HOW TO MEMORIZE VI. THE TEACHER'S USE OF THE IMAGINATION VII. HOW THINKING MAY BE STIMULATED VIII. APPRECIATION, AN IMPORTANT ELEMENT IN EDUCATION IX. THE MEANING OF PLAY IN EDUCATION X. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF INDIVIDUAL DIFFERENCES FOR THE TEACHER XI. THE DEVELOPMENT OF MORAL SOCIAL CONDUCT XII. TRANSFER OF TRAINING XIII. TYPES OF CLASSROOM EXERCISES XIV. HOW TO STUDY XV. MEASURING THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF CHILDREN * * * * * I. THE WORK OF THE TEACHER Education is a group enterprise. We establish schools in which we seek to develop whatever capacities or abilities the individual may possess in order that he may become intelligently active for the common good. Schools do not exist primarily for the individual, but, rather, for the group of which he is a member. Individual growth and development are significant in terms of their meaning for the welfare of the whole group. We believe that the greatest opportunity for the individual, as well as his greatest satisfaction, are secured only when he works with others for the common welfare. In the discussions which follow we are concerned not simply with the individual's development, but also with the necessity for inhibitions. There are traits or activities which develop normally, but which are from the social point of view undesirable. It is quite as much the work of the teacher to know how to provide for the inhibition of the type of activity which is socially undesirable, or how to substitute for such reactions other forms of expression which are worthy, as it is to stimulate those types of activity which promise a contribution to the common good. It is assumed that the aim of education can be expressed most satisfactorily in terms of social efficiency. An acceptance of the aim of education stated in terms of social efficiency leads us to discard other statements of aim which have been more or less current. Chief among these aims, or statements of aim, are the following: (1) culture; (2) the harmonious development of the capacities or abilities of the individual; (3) preparing an individual to make a living; (4) knowledge. We will examine these aims briefly before discussing at length the implications of the social aim. Those who declare that it is the aim of education to develop men and women of culture vary in the content which they give to the term culture. It is conceivable that the person of culture is one who, by virtue of his education, has come to understand and appreciate the many aspects of the social environment in which he lives; that he is a man of intelligence, essentially reasonable; and that he is willing and able to devote himself to the common good. It is to be feared, however, that the term culture, as commonly used, is interpreted much more narrowly. For many people culture is synonymous with knowledge or information, and is not interpreted to involve preparation for active participation in the work of the world. Still others think of the person of culture as one who has a type or kind of training which separates him from the ordinary man. A more or less popular notion of the man of culture pictures him as one living apart from those who think through present-day problems and who devote themselves to their solution. It seems best, on account of this variation in interpretation, as well as on account of the unfortunate meaning sometimes attached to the term, to discard this statement of the aim of education. The difficulty with a statement of aim in terms of the harmonious development of the abilities or capacities possessed by the individual is found in the lack of any criterion by which we may determine the desirability of any particular kind of development or action. We may well ask for what purpose are the capacities or abilities of the individual to be developed. It is possible to develop an ability or capacity for lying, for stealing, or for fighting without a just cause. What society has a right to expect and to demand of our schools is that they develop or nourish certain tendencies to behave, and that they strive earnestly to eliminate or to have inhibited other tendencies just as marked. Another difficulty with the statement of aim in terms of the harmonious development of the capacities is found in the difficulty of interpreting what is meant by harmonious development. Do we mean equal development of each and every capacity, or do we seek to develop each capacity to the maximum of the individual's possibility of training? Are we to try to secure equal development in all directions? Of one thing we can be certain. We cannot secure equality in achievement among individuals who vary in capacity. One boy may make a good mechanic, another a successful business man, and still another a musician. It is only as we read into the statement of harmonious development meanings which do not appear upon the surface, that we can accept this statement as a satisfactory wording of the aim of education. The narrow utilitarian statement of aim that asserts that the purpose of education is to enable people to make a living neglects to take account of the necessity for social coöperation. The difficulty with this statement of aim is that it is too narrow. We do hope by means of education to help people to make a living, but we ought also to be concerned with the kind of a life they lead. They ought not to make a living by injuring or exploiting others. They ought to be able to enjoy the nobler pleasures as well as to make enough money to buy food, clothing, shelter, and the like. The bread-and-butter aim breaks down as does the all-around development aim because it fails to consider the individual in relation to the social group of which he is a member. To declare that knowledge is the aim of education is to ignore the issue of the relative worth of that which we call knowledge. No one may know all. What, then, from among all of the facts or principles which are available are we to select and what are we to reject? The knowledge aim gives us no satisfactory answer. We are again thrown back upon the question of purpose. Knowledge we must have, but for the individual who is to live in our modern, industrial, democratic society some knowledges are more important than others. Society cannot afford to permit the school to do anything less than provide that equipment in knowledge, in skill, in ideal, or in appreciation which promises to develop an individual who will contribute to social progress, one who will find his own greatest satisfaction in working for the common good. In seeking to relate the aim of education to the school activities of boys and girls, it is necessary to inquire concerning the ideals or purposes which actuate them in their regular school work. _Ideals of service_ may be gradually developed, and may eventually come to control in some measure the activities of boys and girls, but these ideals do not normally develop in a school situation in which competition is the dominating factor. We may discuss at great length the desirability of working for others, and we may teach many precepts which look in the direction of service, and still fail to achieve the purpose for which our schools exist. An overemphasis upon marks and distinctions, and a lack of attention to the opportunities which the school offers for helpfulness and coöperation, have often resulted in the development of an individualistic attitude almost entirely opposed to the purpose or aim of education as we commonly accept it. There is need for much reorganization in our schools in the light of our professed aim. There are only two places in our whole school system where children are commonly so seated that it is easy for them to work in coöperation with each other. In the kindergarten, in the circle, or at the tables, children normally discuss the problems in which they are interested, and help each other in their work. In the seminar room for graduate students in a university, it is not uncommon to find men working together for the solution of problems in which they have a common interest. In most classrooms in elementary and in high schools, and even in colleges, boys and girls are seated in rows, the one back of the other, with little or no opportunity for communication or coöperation. Indeed, helping one's neighbor has often been declared against the rule by teachers. It is true that pupils must in many cases work as individuals for the sake of the attainment of skill, the acquirement of knowledge, or of methods of work, but a school which professes to develop ideals of service must provide on every possible occasion situations in which children work in coöperation with each other, and in which they measure their success in terms of the contribution which they make toward the achievement of a common end. The socially efficient individual must not only be actuated by ideals of service, but must in the responses which he makes to social demands be governed by his own careful thinking, or by his ability to distinguish from among those who would influence him one whose solution of the problem presented is based upon careful investigation or inquiry. Especially is it true in a democratic society that the measure of the success of our education is found in the degree to which we develop the scientific attitude. Even those who are actuated by noble motives may, if they trust to their emotions, to their prejudices, or to those superstitions which are commonly accepted, engage in activities which are positively harmful to the social group of which they are members. Our schools should strive to encourage the spirit of inquiry and investigation. A large part of the work in most elementary schools and high schools consists in having boys and girls repeat what they have heard or read. It is true that such accumulation of facts may, in some cases, either at the time at which they are learned, or later, be used as the basis for thinking; but a teacher may feel satisfied that she has contributed largely toward the development of the scientific spirit upon the part of children only when this inquiring attitude is commonly found in her classroom. The association of ideas which will result from an honest attempt upon the part of boys and girls to find the solution of a real problem will furnish the very best possible basis for the recall of the facts or information which may be involved. The attempt to remember pages of history or of geography, or the facts of chemistry or of physics, however well they may be organized in the text-book, is usually successful only until the examination period is passed. Children who have engaged in this type of activity quite commonly show an appalling lack of knowledge of the subjects which they have studied a very short time after they have satisfied the examination requirement. The same amount of energy devoted to the solution of problems in which children may be normally interested may be expected not only to develop some appreciation of scientific method in the fields in which they have worked, but also to result in a control of knowledge or a memory of facts that will last over a longer period of time. Recitations should be places where children meet for the discussion of problems which are vital to them. The question by the pupil should be as common as the question by the teacher. Laboratory periods should not consist of following directions, but rather in undertaking, in so far as it is possible, real experiments. We may not hope that an investigating or inquiring turn of mind encouraged in school will always be found operating in the solution of problems which occur outside of school, but the school which insists merely upon memory and upon following instructions may scarcely claim to have made any considerable contribution to the equipment of citizens of a democracy who should solve their common problems in terms of the evidence presented. The unthinking acceptance of the words of the book or the statement of the teacher prepares the way for the blind following of the boss, for faith in the demagogue, or even for acceptance of the statements of the quack. The ideal school situation is one in which the spirit of inquiry and investigation is constantly encouraged and in which children are developing ideals of service by virtue of their _activity_. A high school class in English literature in which children are at work in small groups, asking each other questions and helping each other in the solution of their problems, seems to the writer to afford unusual opportunity for the realization of the social aim of education. A first grade class in beginning reading, in which the stronger children seek to help those who are less able, involves something more significant in education than merely the command of the tool we call reading. A teacher of a class in physics who suggested to his pupils that they find out which was the more economical way to heat their homes,--with hot air, with steam, or with hot water,--evidently hoped to have them use whatever power of investigation they possessed, as well as to have them come to understand and to remember the principles of physics which were involved. In many schools the coöperation of children in the preparation of school plays, or school festivals, in the writing and printing of school papers, in the participation in the school assembly, in the making of shelves, tables, or other school equipment, in the working for community betterment with respect to clean streets and the like, may be considered even more significant from the standpoint of the realization of the social aim of education than are the recitations in which they are commonly engaged. We have emphasized thus far the meaning of the social aim of education in terms of methods of work upon the part of pupils. It is important to call attention to the fact that the materials or content of education are also determined by the same consideration of purposes. If we really accept the idea of participation upon the part of children in modern social life as the purpose of education, we must include in our courses of study only such subject matter as may be judged to contribute toward the realization of this aim. We must, of course, provide children with the tools of investigation or of inquiry; but their importance should not be overemphasized, and in their acquirement significant experiences with respect to life activities should dominate, rather than the mere acquisition of the tool. Beginning reading, for example, is important not merely from the standpoint of learning to read. The teaching of beginning reading should involve the enlarging and enriching of experience. Thought getting is of primary importance for little children who are to learn to read, and the recognition of symbols is important only in so far as they contribute to this end. The best reading books no longer print meaningless sentences for children to decipher. Mother Goose rhymes, popular stories and fables, language reading lessons, in which children relate their own experience for the teacher to print or write on the board, satisfy the demand for content and aid, by virtue of the interest which is advanced, in the mastering of the symbols. It is, of course, necessary for one who would understand modern social conditions or problems, to know of the past out of which our modern life has developed. It is also necessary for one who would understand the problems of one community, or of one nation, to know, in so far as it is possible, of the experiences of other peoples. History and geography furnish a background, without which our current problems could not be reasonably attacked. Literature and science, the study of the fine arts, and of our social institutions, all become significant in proportion as they make possible contributions, by the individual who has been educated, to the common good. Any proper interpretation of the social purpose of education leads inevitably to the conclusion that much that we have taught is of very little significance. Processes in arithmetic which are not used in modern life have little or no worth for the great majority of boys and girls. Partnership settlements involving time, exact interest, the extraction of cube and of square roots, partial payments, and many of the problems in mensuration, might well be omitted from all courses of study in arithmetic. Many of the unimportant dates in history and much of the locational geography should disappear in order that a better appreciation of the larger social movements can be secured, or in order that the laws which control in nature may be taught. In English, any attempt to realize the aim which we have in mind would lay greater stress upon the accomplishment of children in speaking and writing our language, and relatively less upon the rules of grammar. It may well be asked how our conception of aim can be related to the present tendency to offer a variety of courses of instruction, or to provide different types of schools. The answer is found in an understanding and appreciation of the fact that children vary tremendously in ability, and that the largest contribution by each individual to the welfare of the whole group can be made only when each is trained in the field for which his capacity fits him. The movement for the development of vocational education means, above all else, an attempt to train all members of the group to the highest possible degree of efficiency, instead of offering a common education which, though liberal in its character, is actually neglected or refused by a large part of our population. Our interest in the physical welfare of children is accounted for by the fact that no individual may make the most significant contribution to the common good who does not enjoy a maximum of physical efficiency. The current emphasis upon moral training can be understood when we accept that conception of morality which measures the individual in terms of his contribution to the welfare of others. However important it may be that individuals be restrained or that they inhibit those impulses which might lead to anti-social activity, of even greater importance must be the part actually played by each member of the social group in the development of the common welfare. If we think of the problems of teaching in terms of habits to be fixed, we must ask ourselves are these habits desirable or necessary for an individual who is to work as a member of the social group. If we consider the problem of teaching from the standpoint of development in intelligence, we must constantly seek to present problems which are worth while, not simply from the standpoint of the curiosity which they arouse, but also on account of their relation to the life activities with which our modern world is concerned. We must seek to develop the power of appreciating that which is noble and beautiful primarily because the highest efficiency can be secured only by those who use their time in occupations which are truly recreative and not enervating. As we seek to understand the problem of teaching as determined by the normal mental development of boys and girls, we must have in mind constantly the use to which their capacities and abilities are to be put. Any adequate recognition of the social purpose of education suggests the necessity for eliminating, as far as possible, that type of action which is socially undesirable, while we strive for the development of those capacities which mean at least the possibility of contribution to the common good. We study the principles of teaching in order that we may better adapt ourselves to the children's possibilities of learning, but we must keep in mind constantly that kind of learning and those methods of work which look to the development of socially efficient boys and girls. We must seek to provide situations which are in themselves significant in our modern social life as the subject matter with which children may struggle in accomplishing their individual development. We need constantly to have in mind the ideal of school work which will value most highly opportunities for coöperation and for contribution to the common good upon the part of children, which are in the last analysis entirely like the situations in which older people contribute to social progress. More and more we must seek to develop the type of pupil who knows the meaning of duty and who gladly recognizes his obligations to a social group which is growing larger with each new experience and each new opportunity. QUESTIONS 1. Why would you not be satisfied with a statement of the aim of education which was expressed in terms of the harmonious development of an individual's abilities and capacities? 2. Suggest any part of the courses of study now in force in your school system the omission of which would be in accordance with the social aim of education. 3. Name any subjects or parts of subjects which might be added for the sake of realizing the aim of education. 4. How may a teacher who insists upon having children ask permission before they move in the room interfere with the realization of the social aim of education? 5. Can you name any physical habits which may be considered socially undesirable? Desirable? 6. What is the significance of pupil participation in school government? 7. How does the teacher who stands behind his desk at the front of the room interfere with the development of the right social attitude upon the part of pupils? 8. Why is the desire to excel one's own previous record preferable to striving for the highest mark? 9. In one elementary school, products of the school garden were sold and from the funds thus secured apparatus for the playground was bought. In another school, children sold the vegetables and kept the money. Which, in your judgment, was the most worth while from the standpoint of the social development of boys and girls? 10. A teacher of Latin had children collect words of Latin origin, references to Latin characters, and even advertisements in which Latin words or literary references were to be found. The children in the class were enthusiastic in making these collections, and considerable interest was added to the work in Latin. Are you able to discover in the exercise any other value? 11. Describe some teaching in which you have recently engaged, or which you have observed, in which the methods of work employed by teacher and pupils seemed to you to contribute to a realization of the social purpose of education. 12. How can a reading lesson in the sixth grade, or a history lesson in the high school, be conducted to make children feel that they are doing something for the whole group? 13. In what activities may children engage outside of school which may count toward the betterment of the community in which they live? * * * * * II. ORIGINAL NATURE, THE CAPITAL WITH WHICH TEACHERS WORK After deciding upon the aims of education, the goals towards which all teaching must strive, the fundamental question to be answered is, "What have we to work with?" "What is the makeup with which children start in life?" Given a certain nature, certain definite results are possible; but if the nature is different, the results must of necessity differ. The possibility of education or of teaching along any line depends upon the presence of an original nature which possesses corresponding abilities. The development of intellect, of character, of interest, or of any other trait depends absolutely upon the presence in human beings of capacity for growth or development. What the child inherits, his original nature, is the capital with which education must work; beyond the limits which are determined by inheritance education cannot go. All original nature is in terms of a nervous system. What a child inherits is not ideas, or feelings, or habits, as such, but a nervous system whose correlate is human intelligence and emotion. Just what relationship exists between the action of the nervous system and consciousness or intellect or emotion is still an open question and need not be discussed here. One thing seems fairly certain, that the original of any individual is bound up in some way with the kind of nervous system he has inherited. What we have in common, as a human race, of imagination, or reason, or tact, or skill is correlated in some fashion to the inheritance of a human nervous system. What we have as individual abilities, which distinguish us from our fellows, depends primarily upon our family inheritance. Certain traits such as interest in people, and accuracy in perception of details, seem to be dependent upon the sex inheritance. All traits, whether racial, or family, or sex, are inherited in terms of a plastic nervous system. The racial inheritance, the capital which all normal children bring into the world, is usually discussed under several heads: reflexes, physiological actions, impulsive actions, instincts, capacities, etc., the particular heads chosen varying with the author. They all depend for their existence upon the fact that certain bonds of connection are performed in the nervous system. Just what this connection is which is found between the nerve cells is still open to question. It may be chemical or it may be electrical. We know it is not a growing together of the neurones,[1] but further than that nothing is definitely known. That there are very definite pathways of discharge developed by the laws of inner growth and independent of individual learning, there can be no doubt. This of course means that in the early days of a child's life, and later in so far as he is governed by these inborn tendencies, his conduct is machine-like and blind--with no purpose and no consciousness controlling or initiating the responses. Only after experience and learning have had an opportunity to influence these responses can the child be held responsible for his conduct, for only then does his conduct become conscious instead of merely physiological. There are many facts concerning the psychology of these inborn tendencies that are interesting and important from a purely theoretical point of view, but only those which are of primary importance in teaching will be considered here. A fact that is often overlooked by teachers is that these inborn tendencies to connections of various kinds exist in the intellectual and emotional fields just as truly as in the field of action or motor response. The capacity to think in terms of words and of generals; to understand relationships; to remember; to imagine; to be satisfied with thinking,--all these, as well as such special abilities as skill in music, in managing people or affairs, in tact, or in sympathy, are due to just the same factors as produce fear or curiosity. These former types of tendencies differ from the latter in complexity of situation and response, in definiteness of response, in variability amongst individuals of the same family, and in modifiability; but in the essential element they do not differ from the more evident inborn tendencies. Just what these original tendencies are and just what the situations are to which they come as responses are both unknown except in a very few instances. The psychology of original nature has enumerated the so-called instincts and discussed a few of their characteristics, but has left almost untouched the inborn capacities that are more peculiarly human. Even the treatment of instincts has been misleading. For instance, instincts have been discussed under such heads as the "self-preservative instincts," "the social instincts," just as if the child had an inborn, mystical something that told him how to preserve his life, or become a social king. Original nature does not work in that way; it is only as the experience of the individual modifies the blind instinctive responses through learning that these results can just as easily come about unless the care of parents provides the right sort of surroundings. There is nothing in the child's natural makeup that warns him against eating pins and buttons and poisonous berries, or encourages him to eat milk and eggs and cereal instead of cake and sweets. He will do one sort of thing just as easily as the other. All nature provides him with is a blind tendency to put all objects that attract his attention into his mouth. This response may preserve his life or destroy it, depending on the conditions in which he lives. The same thing is true of the "social instinct"--the child may become the most selfish egotist imaginable or the most self-sacrificing of men, according as his surroundings and training influence the original tendencies towards behavior to other people in one way or the other. Of course it is very evident that no one has ever consistently lived up to the idea indicated by such a treatment of original nature, but certain tendencies in education are traceable to such psychology. What the child has by nature is neither good nor bad, right nor wrong--it may become either according to the habits which grow out of these tendencies. A child's inborn nature cannot determine the goal of his education. His nature has remained practically the same from the days of primitive man, while the goals of education have changed. What nature does provide is an immense number of definite responses to definite situations. These provide the capital which education and training may use as it will. It is just because education does need to use these tendencies as capital that the lack of knowledge of just what the responses are is such a serious one. And yet the difficulties of determining just what original nature gives are so tremendous that the task seems a hopeless one to many investigators. The fact that in the human being these tendencies are so easily modified means that from the first they are being influenced and changed by the experiences of the child. Because of the quality of our inheritance the response to a situation is not a one-to-one affair, like a key in a lock, but all sorts of minor causes in the individual are operative in determining his response; and, on the other side, situations are so complex in themselves that they contain that which may call out several different instincts. For example, a child's response to an animal will be influenced by his own physical condition, emotional attitude, and recent mental status and by the conditions of size and nearness of the animal, whether it is shaggy or not, moving or still, whether he is alone or with others, on the floor or in his chair, and the like. It will depend on just how these factors combine as to whether the response is one of fear, of curiosity, of manipulation, or of friendliness. When to these facts are added the fact that the age and previous habits of the child also influence his response, the immense complexity of the problem of discovering just what the situations are to which there are original tendencies to respond and just how these tendencies show themselves is evident. And yet this is what psychologists must finally do if the use by teachers of these tendencies is to be both economical and wise. Just as an illustration of the possibilities of analysis, Thorndike in his "Original Nature of Man" lists eleven different situations which call out an instinctive expression of fear and thirty-one different responses which may occur in that expression. Under fighting he says, "There seem, indeed, to be at least six separable sets of connections in the so-called 'fighting instinct,'" in each of which the situation and the response differ from any other one. Very few of the instincts are present at birth; most of them develop later in the child's life. Pillsbury says, "One may recognize the food-taking instincts, the vocal protests at discomfort, but relatively few others." This delay in the appearance of instincts and capacities is dependent upon the development of the nervous system. No one of them can appear until the connections between nerve centers are ready, making the path of discharge perfect. Just when these various nervous connections mature, and therefore just when the respective tendencies should appear, is largely unknown. In only a few of the most prominent and comparatively simple responses is it even approximately known. Holding the head up is accomplished about the fourth month, walking and talking somewhere near the twelfth, but the more complex the tendency and the more they involve intellectual factors, the greater is the uncertainty as to the time of development. We are told that fear is most prominent at about "three or four" years of age, spontaneous imitation "becomes very prominent the latter part of the first year," the gang instinct is characteristic of the preadolescent period, desire for adventure shows itself in early adolescence, altruism "appears in the early teens," and the sex instinct "after about a dozen years of life." The child of from four to six is largely sensory, from seven to nine he is motor, from then to twelve the retentive powers are prominent. In the adolescent period he is capable of thinking logically and reasoning, while maturity finds him a man of responsibilities and affairs. Although there is some truth in the belief that certain tendencies are more prominent at certain periods in the development of the child than at others, still it must be borne in mind that just when these optimum periods occur is not known. Three of the most important reasons for this lack of knowledge are: first, the fact that all inborn tendencies mature gradually and do not burst into being; second, we do not know how transitory they are; and, third, the fact of the great influence of environment in stimulating or repressing such capacities. Although the tendency to make collections is most prominent at nine, the beginnings of it may be found before the child is five. Moll finds that the sex instinct begins its development at about six years of age, despite the fact that it is always quoted as the adolescent instinct. Children in the kindergarten can think out their little problems purposively, even though reasoning is supposed to mark the high school pupil. The elements of most tendencies show themselves early in crude, almost unrecognizable, beginnings, and from these they grow gradually to maturity. In the second place how quickly do these tendencies fade? How transitory are they? It has always been stated in general psychology that instincts are transitory, that therefore it was the business of teachers to strike while the iron was hot, to seize the wave of interest or response at its crest before the ebb had begun. There was supposed to be a "happy moment for fixing in children skill in drawing, for making collections in natural history," for developing the appreciative emotions, for training the social instinct, or the memory or the imagination. Children are supposed to be interested and attracted by novelty, rhythm, and movement,--to be creatures of play and imagination and to become different merely as a matter of the transitoriness of these tendencies due to growth. When the activities of the adult and the child are analyzed to see what tendencies have really passed, are transitory, it is difficult to find any that have disappeared. True, they have changed their form, have been influenced by the third factor mentioned above, but change the surroundings a little and the tendency appears. Free the adult from the restraints of his ordinary life and turn him out for a holiday and the childish tendencies of interest in novelty and the mysterious, in physical prowess and adventure and play, all make their appearance. In how many adults does the collecting instinct still persist, and the instinct of personal rivalry? In how many has the crude desire for material ownership or the impulse to punish an affront by physical attack died out? Experimental evidence is even proving that the general plasticity of the nervous system, which has always been considered to be transitory, is of very, very much longer duration than has been supposed. In illustration of the third fact, namely, the effect of environment to stimulate or repress, witness the "little mothers" of five and the wage earners of twelve who have assumed all the responsibilities with all that they entail of maturity. On the other side of the picture is the indulged petted child of fortune who never grows up because he has had everything done for him all his life, and therefore the tendencies which normally might be expected to pass and give place to others remain and those others never appear. That inborn tendencies do wax, reach a maximum, and wane is probably true, but the onset is much more gradual and the waning much less frequent than has been taken for granted. Our ignorance concerning all these matters outweighs our knowledge; only careful experimentation which allows for all the other factors involved can give a reliable answer. One reason why the facts of delayedness and transitoriness in instincts have been so generally accepted without being thoroughly tested has been the belief in the recapitulation or repeating by the individual of racial development. So long as this was accepted as explaining the development of inborn tendencies and their order of appearance, transitoriness and delayedness must necessarily be postulated. This theory is being seriously questioned by psychologists of note, and even its strongest advocate, President Hall, finds many questions concerning it which cannot be answered. The chief reasons for its acceptance were first, on logical grounds as an outgrowth of the doctrine of evolution, and second, because of an analogy with the growth of the physical body which was pushed to an extreme. On the physiological side, although there is some likeness between the human embryo and that of the lower animals, still the stages passed through by the two are not the same, being alike only in rough outline, and only in the case of a few of the bodily organs is the series of changes similar. In the case of the physical structure which should be recapitulated most closely, if behavior is to follow the same law,--namely, in that of the brain and nervous system,--there is least evidence of recapitulation. The brain of man does not follow in its development at all the same course taken in the development of brains in the lower animals. And, moreover, it is perfectly possible to explain any similarity or parallelism which does exist between the development of man's embryo and that of lower animals by postulating a general order of development followed by nature as the easiest or most economical, traces of which must then be found in all animal life. When it comes to the actual test of the theory, that of finding actual cases of recapitulation in behavior, it fails. No one has been able to point out just when a child passes through any stage of racial development, and any attempt to do so has resulted in confusion. There is no clear-cut marking off into stages, but, instead, overlapping and coexistence of tendencies characterize the development of the child. The infant of a few days old may show the swimming movements, but at the same time he can support his own weight by clinging to a horizontal stick. Which stage is he recapitulating, that of the fishes or the monkeys? The nine-year-old boy loves to swim, climb trees, and hunt like a savage all at the same period, and, what is more, some of these same tendencies characterize the college man. The late maturing of the sex instinct, so old and strong in the race, and the early appearing of the tendencies towards vocalization and grasping, both of late date in the race, are facts that are hard to explain on the basis of the theory of recapitulation. As has been already suggested, one of the most important characteristics of all these tendencies is their modifiability. The very ease with which they can be modified suggests that this is what has most often to be done with them. On examination of the lists of original tendencies there are none which can be kept and fixed in the form in which they first appear. Even the best of them are crude and impossible from the standpoint of civilized society. Take as an illustration mother-love; what are the original tendencies and behavior? "All women possess originally, from early childhood to death, some interest in human babies, and a responsiveness to the instinctive looks, calls, gestures, and cries of infancy and childhood, being satisfied by childish gurglings, smiles, and affectionate gestures, and moved to instinctive comforting acts of childish signs of pain, grief, and misery." But the mother has to learn not to cuddle the baby and talk to it all the time it is awake and not to run to it and take it up at every cry, to steel her heart against the wheedling of the coaxing gurgles and even to allow the baby to hurt himself, all for his own good. This comes about only as original nature is modified in line with knowledge and ideals. The same need is evidenced by such a valuable tendency as curiosity. So far as original nature goes, the tendency to attend to novel objects, to human behavior, to explore with the eyes and manipulate with the hands, to enjoy having sensations of all kinds merely for their own sakes, make up what is known as the instinct of curiosity. But what a tremendous amount of modification is necessary before these crude responses result in the valuable scientific curiosity. Not blind following where instinct leads, but modification, must be the watchword. On the other hand, there are equally few tendencies that could be spared, could be absolutely voted out without loss to the individual or the race. Bullying as an original tendency seems to add nothing to the possibilities of development, but every other inborn tendency has its value. Jealousy, anger, fighting, rivalry, possessiveness, fear, each has its quota to contribute to valuable manhood and womanhood. Again, not suppression but a wise control must be the attitude of the educator. Inhibition of certain phases or elements of some of the tendencies is necessary for the most valuable development of the individual, but the entire loss of any save one or two would be disastrous to some form of adult usefulness or enjoyment. The method by which valuable elements or phases of an original tendency are fixed and strengthened is the general method of habit formation and will be taken up under that head in Chapter IV. When the modification involves definite inhibition, there are three possible methods,--punishment, disuse, and substitution. As an example of the use of the three methods take the case of a child who develops a fear of the dark. In using the first method the child would be punished every time he exhibited fear of the dark. By using the second method he would never be allowed to go into a dark room, a light being left burning in his bedroom, etc., until the tendency to fear the dark had passed. In the third method the emotion of fear would be replaced by that of joy or satisfaction by making the bedtime the occasion for telling a favorite story or for being allowed to have the best-loved toy, or for being played with or cuddled. The situation of darkness might be met in still another way. If the child were old enough, the emotion of courage might replace that of fear by having him make believe he was a soldier or a policeman. The method of punishment is the usual one, the one most teachers and parents use first. It relies for its effectiveness on the general law of the nervous system that pain tends to weaken the connections with whose activity it is associated. The method is weak in that pain is not a strong enough weapon to break the fundamental connections; it is not known how much of it is necessary to break even weaker ones; it is negative in its results--breaking one connection but replacing it by nothing else. The second method of inhibition is that of disuse. It is possible to inhibit by this means, because lack of use of connections in the nervous system results in atrophy. As a method it is valuable because it does not arouse resistance or anger. It is weak in that as neither the delayedness nor the transitoriness of instincts is known, when to begin to keep the situation from the child, and how long to keep it away in order to provide for the dying out of the connections, are not known. The method is negative and very unsure of results. The method of substitution depends for its use upon the presence in the individual of opposing tendencies and of different levels of development in the same tendency. Because of this fact a certain response to a situation may be inhibited by forming the habit of meeting the situation in another way or of replacing a lower phase of a tendency by a higher one. This method is difficult to handle because of the need of knowledge of the original tendencies of children in general which it implies as well as the knowledge of the capacities and development of the individual child with whom the work is being done. The amount of time and individual attention necessary adds another difficulty. However, it is by far the best method of the three, for it is sure, is economical, using the energy that is provided by nature, is educative, and is positive. To replace what is poor or harmful by something better is one of the greatest problems of human life--and this is the outcome of the method of substitution. All three methods have their place in a system of education, and certain of them are more in place at certain times than at others, but at all times if the method of substitution can be used it should be. The instinct of physical activity is one of the most noticeable ones in babyhood. The young baby seems to be in constant movement. Even when asleep, the twitchings and squirmings may continue. This continued muscular activity is necessary because the motor nerves offer the only possible path of discharge at first. As higher centers in the brain are developed, the ingoing currents, aroused by all sense stimuli, find other connections, and ideas, images, trains of thoughts, are aroused, and so the energy is consumed; but at first all that these currents can do is to arouse physical activity. The strength of this instinct is but little diminished by the time the child comes to school. His natural inclination is to do things requiring movement of all the growing muscles. Inhibition, "sitting still," "being quiet," takes real effort on his part, and is extremely fatiguing. This instinct is extremely valuable in several ways: it gives the exercise necessary to a growing body, provides the experience of muscle movements necessary for control, and stimulates mental growth through the increase and variety of experiences it gives. The tendency to enjoy mental activity, to be satisfied with it for its own sake, is peculiarly a human trait. This capacity shows itself in two important ways--in the interest in sensory stimuli, usually discussed under the head of curiosity, and in the delight in "being a cause" or mental control. The interest in tastes, sounds, sights, touches, etc., merely for their own sake, is very evident in a baby. He spends most of his waking time in just that enjoyment. Though more complex, it is still strong when the child enters school, and for years any object of sense which attracts his attention is material which arouses this instinct. The second form in which the instinct for mental ability shows itself is later in development and involves the secondary brain connections. It is the satisfaction aroused by results of which the individual is the cause. For example, the enjoyment of a child in seeing a ball swing or hearing a whistle blown would be a manifestation of curiosity, while the added interest which is always present when the child not only sees the ball swing but swings it, not only hears the whistle but blows it himself, is a result of the second tendency, that of joy in being a cause. As the child grows older the same tendency shows itself on a higher level when the materials dealt with, instead of being sensations or percepts, are images or ideas. The interest in following out a train of ideas to a logical conclusion, of building "castles in the air," of making plans and getting results, all find their taproot in this instinctive tendency towards mental activity. In close connection with the general tendency towards physical activity is the instinct of manipulation. From this crude root grows constructiveness and destructiveness. As it shows itself at first it has the elements of neither. The child inherits the tendency to respond by "many different arm, hand, and finger movements to many different objects"--poking, pulling, handling, tearing, piling, digging, and dropping objects. Just what habits of using tools, and the like, will grow out of this tendency will depend on the education and training it gets. The habits of constructiveness may be developed in different sorts of media. The order of their availability is roughly as follows: first, in the use of materials such as wood, clay, raffia, etc.; second, in the use of pencil and brush with color, etc.; third, in the use of words. We should therefore expect and provide for considerable development along manual lines before demanding much in the way of literary expression. Indeed, it may be argued that richness of experience in doing is prerequisite to verbal expression. Acquisitiveness and collecting are two closely allied tendencies of great strength. Every child has a tendency to approach, grasp, and carry off any object not too large which attracts his attention, and to be satisfied by its mere possession. Blind hoarding and collecting of objects sometimes valueless in themselves results. This instinct is very much influenced in its manifestation by others which are present at the same time, such as the food-getting instinct, rivalry, love of approval, etc. The time at which the tendency to collect seems strongest is at about nine years, judged by the number of collections per child. Rivalry as an instinct shows itself in increased vigor, in instinctive activity when others are engaged in the same activity, and in satisfaction when superiority is attained. There is probably no inborn tendency whereby these responses of increased vigor and satisfaction are aroused in connection with any kind of activity. We do not try to surpass others in the way we talk or in our moral habits or in our intellectual attainments, as a result of nature, but rather as a result of painstaking education. As an instinct, rivalry is aroused only in connection with other instinctive responses. In getting food, in securing attention or approval, in hunting and collecting, the activity would be increased by seeing another doing the same thing, and satisfaction would be aroused at success or annoyance at failure. The use of rivalry in other activities and at other levels comes as a result of experience. The fighting responses are called out by a variety of situations. These situations are definite and the responses to them differ from each other. In each case the child tries by physical force of some kind, by scratching, kicking, biting, slapping, throwing, and the like, to change the situation into a more agreeable one. This is true whether he be trying to escape from the restraining arms of his mother or to compel another child to recognize his mastery. Original nature endows us with the pugnacious instinct on the physical level and in connection with situations which for various reasons annoy us. If this is to be raised in its manner of response from the physical to the intellectual level, if the occasions calling it out are to be changed from those that merely annoy one to those which involve the rights of others and matters of principle, it must be as a result of education. Nature provides only this crude root. Imitation has long been discussed as one of the most important and influential of human instincts. It has been regarded as a big general tendency to attempt to do whatever one saw any one else doing. As such a tendency it does not exist. It is only in certain narrow lines that the tendency to imitate shows itself, such as smiling when smiled at, yelling when others yell, looking and listening, running, crouching, attacking, etc., when others do. To this extent and in similar situations the tendency to imitate seems to be truly an instinct. Imitating in other lines, such as writing as another writes, talking, dressing, acting like a friend, trying to use the methods used by others, etc., are a result of experience and education. The "spontaneous," "dramatic," and "voluntary" imitation discussed by some authors are the stages of development of _habits_ of imitation. The desire to be with others of the same species, the satisfaction at company and the discomfort aroused by solitude, is one of the strongest roots of all social tendencies and customs. It manifests itself in young babies, and continues a strong force throughout life. As an instinct it has nothing to do with either being interested in taking one's share in the duties or pleasures of the group or with being interested in people for their own sakes. It is merely that company makes one comfortable and solitude annoys one. Anything further must come as a result of experience. Motherliness and kindliness have as their characteristic behavior tendencies to respond by instinctive comforting acts to signs of pain, grief, or misery shown by living things, especially, by children, and by the feeling of satisfaction and the sight of happiness in others. Of course very often these instinctive responses are interfered with by the presence of some other instinct, such as fighting, hunting, ownership, or scorn, but that such tendencies to respond in such situations are a part of the original equipment of man seems beyond dispute. They are possessed by both sexes and manifest themselves in very early childhood. There are original tendencies to respond both in getting and in giving approval and scorn. By original nature, smiles, pats, admiration, and companionship from one to whom submission is given arouses intense satisfaction; and the withdrawal of such responses, and the expression of scorn or disapproval, excites great discomfort. Even the expression of approval or scorn from any one--a stranger or a servant--brings with it the responses of satisfaction or discomfort. Just as strongly marked are original tendencies which cause responses of approval and cause as a result of "relief from hunger, rescue from fear, gorgeous display, instinctive acts of strength, daring and victory," and responses of scorn "to the observation of empty-handedness, deformity, physical meanness, pusillanimity, and defect." The desire for approval is never outgrown--it is one of the governing forces in society. If it is to be shown or desired on any but this crude level of instinctive response, it can only come by education. Children come to school with both an original nature determined by their human inheritance and by their more immediate family relationship, and with an education more significant, perhaps, than any which the school can provide. From earliest infancy up to the time of entering a kindergarten or a first grade, the original equipment in terms of instincts, capacities, and abilities has been utilized by the child and directed by his parents and associates in learning to walk and to talk, to conform to certain social standards or requirements, to accept certain rules or precepts, or to act in accordance with certain beliefs or superstitions. The problem which the teacher faces is that of directing and guiding an individual, who is at the same time both educated and in possession of tendencies and capacities which make possible further development. Not infrequently the education which children have when they come to school may in some measure handicap the teacher. It is unfortunate, but true, that in some homes instinctive tendencies which should have been overcome have been magnified. The control of children is sometimes secured through the utilization of the instinct of fear. The fighting instinct may often have been overdeveloped in a home in which disagreement and nagging, even to the extent of physical violence, have taken the place of reason. Pride and jealousy may have taken deep root on account of the encouragement and approval which have been given by thoughtless adults. The teacher does not attack the problem of education with a clean slate, but rather it is his to discover what results have already been achieved in the education of the child, whether they be good or bad, for it is in the light of original nature or original tendencies to behave, and in the light of the education already secured, that the teacher must work. When one realizes the great variety or differences in ability or capacity, as determined by heredity, and when there is added to this difference in original nature the fact of variety in training which children have experienced prior to their school life, he cannot fail to emphasize the necessity for individualizing children. While it is true that we may assume that all children will take delight in achievement, it may be necessary with one child to stir as much as possible the spirit of rivalry, to give as far as one can the delight which comes from success, while for another child in the same class one may need to minimize success on account of a spirit of arrogance which has been developed before school life began. It is possible to conceive of a situation in which some children need to be encouraged to fight, even to the extent of engaging in physical combat, in order to develop a kind of courage which will accept physical discomfort rather than give up a principle or ideal. In the same group there may be children for whom the teacher must work primarily in terms of developing, in so far as he can, the willingness to reason or discuss the issue which may have aroused the fighting instinct. For all children in elementary and in high schools the possibility of utilizing their original nature for the sake of that development which will result in action which is socially desirable is still present. The problem which the teacher faces will be more or less difficult in proportion as the child's endowment by original nature is large or small, and as previous education has been successful or unsuccessful. The skillful teacher is the one who will constantly seek to utilize to the full those instincts or capacities which seem most potent. This utilization, as has already been pointed out, does not mean a blind following of the instinctive tendencies, but often the substitution of a higher form of action for a lower, which may seem to be related to the instinct in question. It is probably wise to encourage collections of stamps, of pictures, of different kinds of wood, and the like, upon the part of children in the elementary school, provided always that the teacher has in mind the possibility of leading these children, through their interest in objects, to desire to collect ideas. Indeed, a teacher might measure her success in utilizing the collecting instinct in proportion as children become relatively less interested in things collected, and more interested in the ideas suggested by them, or in the mastery of fields of knowledge or investigation in which objects have very little significance. The desire for physical activity upon the part of children is originally satisfied by very crude performances. Development is measured not simply in an increase in manual dexterity, but also in terms of the higher satisfaction which may come from producing articles which have artistic merit, or engaging in games of skill which make for the highest physical efficiency. During the whole period of childhood and adolescence we may never assume that the results of previous education, whether they be favorable or unsatisfactory, are permanent. Whether we succeed or not in achieving the ends which we desire, the fact of modifiability, of docility, and of plasticity remains. The teacher who seeks to understand the individuals with whom he works, both in terms of their original nature and in terms of their previous education, and who at the same time seeks to substitute for a lower phase of an instinctive tendency a higher one, or who tries to have his pupils respond to a situation by inhibiting a particular tendency by forming the habit of meeting the situation in another way, need not despair of results which are socially desirable. QUESTIONS 1. May a teacher ever expect the children in his class to be equal in achievement? Why? 2. Why is it not possible to educate children satisfactorily by following where instincts lead? 3. Which of the instincts seem most strong in the children in your class? 4. Can you give any example of an instinctive tendency which you think should have been outgrown but which seems to persist among your pupils? 5. Give examples of the inhibition of undesirable actions based upon instinctive tendencies by means of (1) punishment, (2) disuse, (3) substitution. 6. How can you use the tendency to enjoy mental activity? 7. Why does building a boat make a stronger appeal to a boy than engaging in manual training exercises which might involve the same amount of activity? 8. Cite examples of collections made by boys and girls in which the ideas associated with the objects collected may be more important than the objects themselves. 9. In what degree are we justified in speaking of the social instinct? The instinct to imitate? 10. How can you use the fighting instinct in your work with children? 11. What can teachers do to influence the education which children have received or are getting outside of school? 12. What differences in action among the children in your class do you attribute to differences in original nature? What to differences in education? * * * * * III. ATTENTION AND INTEREST IN TEACHING Attention is a function of consciousness. Wherever consciousness is, attention must perforce be present. One cannot exist without the other. According to most psychologists, the term attention is used to describe the form consciousness takes, to refer to the fact that consciousness is selective. It simply means that consciousness is always focal and marginal--that some ideas, facts, or feelings stand out in greater prominence than do others, and that the presence of this "perspective" in consciousness is a matter of mechanical adjustment. James describes consciousness by likening it to a series of waves, each having a crest and sides which correspond to the focus and margin of attention. The form of the wave changes from a high sharp crest with almost straight sides in pointed, concentrated attention, to a series of mere undulations, when crests are difficult to distinguish, in so-called states of dispersed attention. The latter states are rare in normal individuals, although they may be rather frequent in certain types of low-grade mental defectives. This of course means that states of "inattention" do not exist in normal people. So long as consciousness is present one must be attending to something. The "day dream" is often accompanied by concentrated attention. Only when we are truly thinking of nothing, and that can only be as unconsciousness approaches, is attention absent. What is true of attention is also true of interest, for interest is coming more and more to be considered the "feeling side" of attention, or the affective accompaniment of attention. The kind of interest may vary, but some kind is always present. The place the interest occupies may also vary: sometimes the affective state itself is so strong that it forces itself into the focal point and becomes the object of attention. The chief fact of importance, however, is that attention and interest are inseparable and both are coexistent with consciousness. This selective action of consciousness is mechanical, due to the inborn tendencies toward attention possessed by human beings. The situations which by their very nature occupy the focal point in consciousness are color and brightness, novelty, sudden changes and sharp contrasts, rhythm and cadence, movement, and all other situations to which there are other instinctive responses, such as hunting, collecting, curiosity, manipulation, etc. In other words, children are born with tendencies to attend to an enormous number of situations because of the number of instinctive responses they possess. So great is this number that psychologists used to talk about the omnivorousness of children's attention, believing that they attended to everything. Such a general attention seems not to be true. However, it is because so many situations have the power to force consciousness to a crest that human beings have developed the intellectual power that puts them so far above other animals. That these situations do attract attention is shown by the fact that individuals respond by movements which enable them to be more deeply impressed or impressed for a longer time by the situations in question. For example, a baby will focus his eyes upon a bright object and then move eyes and head to follow it if it moves from his field of vision. Just what the situations are, then, which will arouse responses of attention in any given individual will depend in the first place upon his age, sex, and maturity, and in the second place upon his experience. The process of learning very quickly modifies the inborn tendencies to attention by adding new situations which demand it. It is the things we learn to attend to that make us human rather than merely animal. The fact of attention or selection must of necessity involve also inhibition or neglect. The very fact of the selection of certain objects and qualities means the neglect of others. This fact of neglect is at first just as mechanical as that of attention, but experiences teach us to neglect some situations which by original nature attracted attention. From the standpoint of education what we neglect is quite as important as what is selected for attention. The breadth of a person's attention, _i.e.,_ the number of lines along which attention is possible, must vary with age and experience. The younger or the more immature an individual is, the greater the number of different lines to which attention is given. It is the little child whose attention seems omnivorous, and it is the old person for whom situations worthy of attention have narrowed down to a few lines. This must of necessity be so, due to the interrelation of attention and neglect. The very fact of continuing to give attention along one line means less and less ability and desire to attend along other lines. The question as to how many things, whether objects or ideas, can be attended to at the same time, has aroused considerable discussion. Most people think that they are attending to several things, if not to many, at the same second of consciousness. Experiments show that if four or five unrelated objects, words, or letters be shown to adults for less than one quarter of a second, they can be apprehended, but the probability is that they are photographed, so to speak, on the eye and counted afterwards. It is the general belief of psychologists at present that the mind attends to only one thing at a time, that only one idea or object can occupy the focal point in consciousness. The apparent contradiction between ordinary experience and psychological experience along this line is due to three facts which are often overlooked. In the first place, the complexity of the idea or thing that can be attended to as a unit varies tremendously. Differences in people account for part of this variation, but training and experience account for still more. Our ideas become more and more complex as experience and familiarity build them up. Qualities which to a little child demand separate acts of attention are with the adult merged into his perception of the object. Just as simple words, although composed of separate letters, are perceived as units, so with training, more complex units may be found which can be attended to as wholes. So (to the ignorant or the uninstructed) what is apparently attending to more than one thing at a time may be explained by the complexity of the unit which is receiving the attention. In the second place _doing_ more than one thing at a time does not imply attending to more than one thing at a time. An activity which is habitual or mechanical does not need attention, but can be carried on by the control exercised by the fringe of consciousness. Attention may be needed to start the activity or if a difficulty of any kind should arise, but that is all. For the rest of the time it can be devoted to anything else. The great speed with which attention can flash from one thing to another and back again must be taken into consideration in all this discussion. So far as attention goes, one can _do_ as many things at a time as he can make mechanical plus one unfamiliar one. Thus a woman can rock the baby's cradle, croon a lullaby, knit, and at the same time be thinking of illustrations for her paper at the Woman's Club, because only one of these activities needs attention. When no one of the activities is automatic and the individual must depend on the rapid change of attention from one to the other to keep them going, the results obtained are likely to be poor and the fatigue is great. The attempt to take notes while listening to a lecture is of this order, and hence the unsatisfactoriness of the results. The third fact which helps to explain the apparent contradiction under discussion is closely related to this one. It is possible when engaged with one object to have several questions or topics close by in the fringe of consciousness so that one or the other may flash to the focal point as the development of the train of thought demands. The individual is apparently considering many questions at the same time, when in reality it is the readiness of these associations plus the oscillations of attention that account for the activity. The ability to do this sort of thing depends partly on the individual,--some people will always be "people of one idea,"--but training and experience increase the power. The child who in the primary can be given only one thing to look for when he goes on his excursion may grow into the youth who can carry half a dozen different questions in his mind to which he is looking for answers. By concentration of attention is meant the depth of the attention, and this is measured by the ease with which a person's attention can be called off the topic with which he is concerned. The concentration may be so great that the individual is oblivious to all that goes on about him. He may forget engagements and meals because of his absorption. Sometimes even physical pain is not strong enough to distract attention. On the other hand, the concentration may be so slight that every passing sense impression, every irrelevant association called up by the topic, takes the attention away from the subject. The depth of concentration depends upon four factors. Certain mental and physical conditions have a great deal to do with the concentration of attention, and these will be discussed later. Individual differences also account for the presence or absence of power of concentration--some people concentrate naturally, others never get very deeply into any topic. Maturity is another factor that is influential. A little child cannot have great concentration, simply because he has not had experience enough to give him many associations with which to work. His attention is easily distracted. Although apparently absorbed in play, he hears what goes on about him and notices many things which adults suppose he does not see. This same lack of power shows itself in any one's attention when a new subject is taken up if he has few associations with it. Of course this means that other things being equal the older one is, up to maturity at least, the greater one's power of concentration. Little children have very little power, adolescents a great deal, but it is the adult who excels in concentration. Although this is true, the fourth factor, that of training in concentration, does much toward increasing the power before full maturity is reached. One can learn to concentrate just as he can learn to do anything else. Habits of concentration, of ignoring distinctions and interruptions, of putting all one's power into the work in hand, are just as possible as habits of neatness. The laws of habit formation apply in the field of attention just as truly as in every other field of mental life. Laboratory experiments prove the large influence which training has on concentration and the great improvement that can be made. It is true that few people do show much concentration of attention when they wish. This is true of adults as well as of children. They have formed habits of working at half speed, with little concentration and no real absorption in the topic. This method of work is both wasteful of time and energy and injurious to the mental stability and development of the individual. Half-speed work due to lack of concentration often means that a student will stay with a topic and fuss over it for hours instead of working hard and then dropping it. Teachers often do this sort of thing with their school work. Not only are the results less satisfactory, because the individual never gets deeply enough into the topic to really get what is there, but the effect on him is bad. It is like "constant dripping wears away the stone." Children must be taught to "work when they work and play when they play," if they are to have habits of concentration as adults. The length of time which it is possible to attend to the same object or idea may be reckoned in seconds. It is impossible to hold the attention on an object for any appreciable length of time. In order to hold the attention the object must change. The simple experiment of trying to pay attention to a blot of ink or the idea of bravery proves that change is necessary if the attention is not to wander. What happens is that either the attention goes to something else, or that you begin thinking about the thing in question. Of course, the minute you begin thinking, new associations, images, memories, come flocking in, and the attention occupies itself with each in turn. All may concern the idea with which you started out, but the very fact that these have been added to the mental content of the instant makes the percept of ink blot or the concept of bravery different from the bare thing with which the attention began. If this change and fluctuation of the mental state does not take place, the attention flits to something else. The length of time that the attention may be engaged with a topic will depend, then, upon the number of associations connected with it. The more one knows about a topic, the longer he can attend to it. If it is a new topic, the more suggestive it is in calling up past experience or in offering incentive for experiment or application, the longer can attention stay with it. Such a topic is usually called "interesting," but upon analysis it seems that this means that for one of the above reasons it develops or changes and therefore holds the attention. This duration of attention will vary in length from a few seconds to hours. The child who is given a problem which means almost nothing, which presents a blank wall when he tries to attend to it, which offers no suggestions for solution, is an illustration of the first. Attention to such a problem is impossible; his attention must wander. The genius who, working with his favorite subject, finds a multitude of trains of thought called up by each idea, and who therefore spends hours on one topic with no vacillation of attention, is an illustration of the second. Attention has been classified according to the kind of feeling which accompanies the activity. Sometimes attention comes spontaneously, freely, and the emotional tone is that accompanying successful activity. On the other hand, sometimes it has to be forced and is accompanied by feelings of strain and annoyance. The first type is called Free[2] attention; the second is Forced attention. Free attention is given when the object of attention satisfies a need; when the situation attended to provides the necessary material for some self-activity. The activity of the individual at that second needs something that the situation in question gives, and hence free, spontaneous attention results. Forced attention is given when there is a lack of just such feeling of need in connection with the object of attention. It does not satisfy the individual--it is distinct from his desires at the time. He attends only because of fear of the results if he does not, and hence the condition is one of strain. All play takes free attention. Work which holds the worker because it is satisfying also takes free attention. Work which has in it the element of drudgery needs forced attention. The girl making clothes for her doll, the boy building his shack in the woods, the inventor working over his machine, the student absorbed in his history lesson,--all these are freely attending to the thing in hand. The girl running her seam and hating it, the, boy building the chicken coop while wishing to be at the ball game, the inventor working over his machine when his thoughts and desires are with his sick wife, the student trying to study his history when the debate in the civics club is filling his mind,--these are cases when forced attention would probably be necessary. It is very evident that there is no one situation which will necessarily take either free or forced attention because the determining factor is not in the situation _per se_, but in the relation it bears to the mind engaged with it. Sometimes the same object will call forth forced attention from one person and free from another. Further, the same object may at one time demand free attention and at another time forced attention from the same person, depending on the operation of other factors. It is also true that attention which was at first forced may change into free as the activity is persevered in. Although these two types of attention are discussed as if they were entirely separated from each other, as if one occurred in this situation and the other in that, still as a matter of fact the actual conditions involve an interplay between the two. It is seldom true that free attention is given for any great length of time without flashes of forced attention being scattered through it. Often the forced attention may be needed for certain parts of the work, although as a whole it may take free attention. The same thing is true of occasions when forced attention is used. There are periods in the activity when free attention will carry the worker on. Every activity, then, is likely to be complex so far as the kind of attention used, but it is also characterized by the predominance of one or the other type. The question as to the conditions which call out each type of attention is an important one. As has already been said, free attention is given when the situation attended to satisfies a need. Physiologically stated, free attention is given when a neurone series which is ready to act is called into activity. The situations which do this, other things being equal, will be those which appeal to some instinctive tendency or capacity, or to the self-activity or the personal experience of the individual and which therefore are in accord with his stage of development and his experience. Forced attention is necessary when the neurone tracts used by the attention are for some reason unready to act. Situations to which attention is given through fear of punishment, or when the activity involves a choice of ideal ends as opposed to personal desires, or when some instinctive tendency must be inhibited or its free activity is blocked or interfered with, or when the laws of growth and experience are violated, take forced attention. Of course fatigue, disease, and monotony are frequent breeders of forced attention. From the above discussion it must be evident that one of the chief characteristics of free attention is its unity. The mental activity of the person is all directed along one line, that which leads to the satisfying of the need. It is unified by the appeal the situation makes. As a result of such a state the attention is likely to be concentrated, and can be sustained over a long period. Of course this means that the work accomplished under such conditions will be greater in amount, more thorough, and more accurate than could be true were there less unity in the process. The opposite in all respects is true of forced attention. It is present when there is divided interest. The topic does not appeal to the need of the individual. He attends to it because he must. Part of his full power of attention is given to keeping himself to the work, leaving only a part to be given to the work itself. If there is any other object in the field of attention which is particularly attractive, as there usually is, that claims its share, and the attention is still further divided. Divided attention cannot be concentrated; it cannot last long. The very strain and effort involved makes it extremely fatiguing. The results of work done under such conditions must be poor. There can be but little thoroughness, for the worker will do just as much as he must to pass muster, and no more. Inaccuracy and superficiality will characterize such work. Just as training in giving concentrated attention results in power along that line, so frequent necessity for forced attention develops habits of divided attention which in time will hinder the development of any concentration. From a psychological viewpoint there can be no question but what free attention is the end to be sought by workers of all kinds. It is an absolutely false notion that things are easy when free attention is present. It is only when free attention is present that results worth mentioning are accomplished. It is only under such conditions that the worker is willing to try and try again, and put up with disappointment and failure, to use his ingenuity and skill to the utmost, to go out of his way for material or suggestions; in other words, to put himself into his work in such a way that it is truly educational. On the other hand, forced attention has its own value and could not be dispensed with in the development of a human being. Its value is that of means to end--not that of an end in itself. It is only as it leads into free attention that forced attention is truly valuable. In that place the part it plays is tremendous because things are as they are. There will always be materials which will not appeal to a need in some individual because of lack of capacity or experience; there will always be parts of various activities and processes which seem unnecessary and a waste of time to some worker; there will always be choices to be made between instinctive desires and ideal needs, and in each case forced attention is the only means, perhaps, by which the necessary conditions can be acquired that make possible free attention. It is evident, therefore, that forced attention should be called into play only when needed. When needed, it should be demanded rigorously, but the sooner the individual in question can pass from it to the other type, the better. This is true in all fields whether intellectual or moral. A second classification of attention has been suggested according to the answer to the question as to why attention is given. Sometimes attention is given simply because the material itself demands it; sometimes for some ulterior reason. The former type is called immediate or intrinsic attention; the latter is called derived, mediate, or extrinsic attention. The former is given to the situation for its own sake; the latter because of something attached to it. Forced attention is always derived; free attention may be either immediate or derived. It is immediate and derived free attention that needs further discussion. It should be borne in mind that there is no sharp line of division between immediate and derived attention. Sometimes it is perfectly evident that the attention is given for the sake of the material--at other times there can be no doubt but that it is the something beyond the material that holds the attention. But in big, complex situations it is not so evident. For instance, the musician composing just for the love of it is an example of immediate attention, while the small boy working his arithmetic examples with great care in order to beat his seatmate is surely giving derived attention. But under some conditions the motives are mixed and the attention may fluctuate from the value of the material itself to the values to be derived from it. However this may be, at the two extremes there is a clear-cut difference between these two types of attention. The value of rewards and incentives depends on the psychology of derived free attention, while that of punishment and deterrents is wrapped up with derived forced attention. Immediate free attention is the more valuable of the two types because it is the most highly unified and most strongly dynamic of all the attention types. The big accomplishments of human lives have been brought to pass through this kind of attention. It is the kind the little child gives to his play--the activity itself is worth while. So with the artist, the inventor, the poet, the teacher, the physician, the architect, the banker--to be engaged in that particular activity satisfies. But this is not true of all artists, bankers, etc., nor with the others all the time. Even for the child at play, sometimes conditions arise when the particular part of the activity does not seem worth while in itself; then if it is to be continued, another kind of attention must be brought in--derived attention. This illustration shows the place of derived attention as a means to an end--the same part played by forced attention in its relation to free. Derived attention must needs be characteristic of much of the activity of human beings. People have few well-developed capacities, and there are many kinds of things they are required to do. If these are to be done with free attention, heartily, it will only be because of some value that is worth while that is attached to the necessary activity. As activities grow complex and as the results of activities grow remote, the need for something to carry over the attention to the parts of the activity that are seen to be worth while in the first place, or to the results in the second, grows imperative. This need is filled by derived attention, and here it shows its value as means to an end, but it is only when the need for this carrier disappears, and the activity as a whole for itself seems worth while, that the best results are obtained. There is a very great difference between the kinds of motives or values chosen for derived attention, and their value varies in accordance with the following principles. Incentives should be closely connected naturally with the subject to which they are attached. They should be suited to the development of the child and be natural rather than artificial. Their appeal should be permanent, _i.e._, should persist in the same situation outside of school. They should really stimulate those to whom they are offered. They should not be too attractive in themselves. Applying these principles it would seem that derived interests that have their source in instincts, in special capacities, or in correlation of subjects are of the best type, while such extremely artificial incentives as prizes, half holidays, etc., are among the poorest. The value of derived attention is that it gets the work done or the habit formed. Of course the hope is always there that it will pass over into the immediate type, but if it does not, at least results are obtained. It has already been shown that results may also be obtained by the use of forced attention, which is also derived. Both derived free attention and forced attention are means to an end. The question as to the comparative value of the two must be answered in favor of the derived free attention. The chief reasons for this conclusion are as follows. First, derived free attention is likely to be more unified than forced attention. Second, it arouses greater self-activity on the part of the worker. Third, the emotional tone is that of being satisfied instead of strain. Fourth, it is more likely to lead to the immediate attention which is its end. Despite these advantages of derived free attention over forced attention, it still has some of the same disadvantages that forced attention has. The chief of these is that it also may result in division of energy. If the means for gaining the attention is nothing but sugar coating, if it results in the mere entertainment of the worker, there is every likelihood that the attention will be divided between the two. The other disadvantage is that because of the attractiveness of the means used to gain attention it may be given just so long as the incentive remains, and no longer. These difficulties may be largely overcome, however, by the application of the principles governing good incentives. This must mean that the choice of types of attention and therefore the provision of situations calling them out should be in this order: immediate free attention, derived free attention, forced attention. All three are necessary in the education of any child, but each should be used in its proper place. The conditions which insure the best attention of whatever type have to do with both physical and mental adjustments. On the physical side there is need for the adaptation of the sense organ and the body to the situation. For this adaptation to be effective the environmental conditions must be controlled by the laws of hygiene. A certain amount of bodily freedom yields better results than rigidity because the latter draws energy from the task in hand for purposes of inhibition. On the mental side there is need for preparation in terms of readiness of the nerve tracts to be used. James calls this "ideational" preparation. This simply means that one can attend better if he knows something of what he is to attend to. Experimental evidence proves without doubt that if the subject knows that he is to see a color, instead of a word, his perception of it is much more rapid and accurate than if he does not have this preparation. This same result is obtained in much more complex sensory situations, and it also holds when the situation is intellectual. Contrary to expectation, great quietness is not the best condition for the maximum of attention; a certain amount of distraction is beneficial. The problem of interest and of attention, from the point of view of teaching, is not simply to secure attention, but rather to have the attention fixed upon those activities which are most desirable from the standpoint of realizing the aim or purpose of education. As has already been suggested, children are constantly attending to something. They instinctively respond to the very great variety of stimuli with which they come in contact. Our schools seek to provide experiences which are valuable. In school work when we are successful children attend to those stimuli which promise most for the formation of habits, or the growth in understanding and appreciation which will fit them for participation in our social life. We seek constantly in our work as teachers to secure either free or forced attention to the particular part of our courses of study or to the particular experiences which are allotted to the grade or class which we teach. One of the very greatest difficulties in securing attention upon the part of a class is found in the variety of experiences which they have already enjoyed, and the differences in the strength of the appeal which the particular situation may make upon the several members of the group. In class teaching we have constantly to vary our appeal and to differentiate our work to suit the individual differences represented in the class, if we would succeed in holding the attention of even the majority of the children. Boys and girls do their best work only when they concentrate their attention upon the work to be done. One of the greatest fallacies that has ever crept into our educational thought is that which suggests that there is great value in having people work in fields in which they are not interested, and in which they do not freely give their attention. Any one who is familiar with children, or with grown-ups, must know that it is only when interest is at a maximum that the effort put forth approaches the limit of capacity set by the individual's ability. Boys concentrate their attention upon baseball or upon fishing to a degree which demands of them a maximum of effort. A boy may spend hours at a time seeking to perfect himself in pitching, batting, or fielding. He may be uncomfortable a large part of the time, he may suffer considerable pain, and yet continue in his practice by virtue of his great enthusiasm for perfecting himself in the game. Interest of a not dissimilar sort leads a man who desires position, or power, or wealth, to concentrate his attention upon the particular field of his endeavor to the exclusion of almost everything else. Indeed, men almost literally kill themselves in the effort which they make to achieve these social distinctions or rewards. We may not hope always to secure so high a degree of concentration of attention or of effort, but it is only as we approach a situation in which children are interested, and in which they freely give their attention to the subject in hand, that we can claim to be most successful in our teaching. The teacher who is able in beginning reading to discover to children the tool which will enable them to get the familiar story or rhyme from the book may hope to get a quality of attention which could never be brought about by forcing them to attend to formal phonetic drill. The teacher of biology who has been able to awaken enthusiasm for the investigation of plant and animal life, and who has allowed children to conduct their own investigations and to carry out their own experiments, may hope for a type of attention which is never present in the carrying out of the directions of the laboratory manual or in naming or classifying plants or animals merely as a matter of memory. Children who are at work producing a school play will accomplish more in the study of the history in which they seek to discover a dramatic situation, by virtue of the concentration of attention given, than they would in reciting many lessons in which they seek to remember the paragraphs or pages which they have read. The boy who gives his attention to the production of a story for his school paper will work harder than one who is asked to write a composition covering two pages. Children who are allowed to prepare for the entertainment of the members of their class a story with which they alone are familiar will give a quality of attention to the work in hand which is never secured when all of the members of the class are asked to reproduce a story which the teacher has read. It is necessary at times to have children give forced attention. There are some things to be accomplished that must be done, regardless of our success in securing free attention. It is entirely conceivable that some boy or girl may not want to learn his multiplication tables, or his words in spelling, or his conjugation or declension in French, and that all that the teacher has done may fail to arouse any great amount of interest or enthusiasm for the work in question. In these cases, and in many others which might be cited, the necessity for the particular habit may be so great as to demand that every pupil do the work or form the habit in question. In these cases we may not infrequently hope that after having given forced attention to the work of the school, children may in time come to understand the importance of the experiences which they are having, or even become interested in the work for its own sake. It is not infrequently true that after a period of forced attention there follows a time during which, on account of the value which children are able to understand as attached to or belonging to the particular exercise, they give free derived attention. Many boys and girls have worked through their courses in science or in modern languages because they believed that these subjects would prove valuable not only in preparing them for college, but in giving them a wider outlook on life. Their attention was of the free derived type. Later on some of these same pupils have become tremendously enthusiastic in their work in the fields in question, and have found such great satisfaction in the work itself, that their attention might properly be characterized as free immediate attention. The importance of making children conscious of their power of concentrating their attention needs to be kept constantly in mind. Exercises in which children are asked to do as much as they can in a period of five or ten minutes may be used to teach children what concentration of attention is and of the economy involved in work done under these conditions. The trouble with a great many adults, as well as with children, is that they have never learned what it is to work up to the maximum of their capacity. All too frequently in our attempts to teach children in classes we neglect to provide even a sufficient amount of work to demand of the more able members of the group any considerable amount of continued, concentrated attention. We seek in our work as teachers not only to secure a maximum of attention to the fields of work in which children are engaged, but also to arouse interests and enthusiasms which will last after school days are over. We think of interest often, and properly too, as the means employed to secure a maximum of attention, and, in consequence, a maximum of accomplishment. It is worth while to think often in our work in terms of interest as the end to be secured. Children should become sufficiently interested in some of the subjects that we teach to care to be students in these fields, or to find enjoyment in further work or activity along these lines, either as a matter of recreation or, not infrequently, as a means of discovering their true vocation in life. That teacher who has aroused sufficient interest in music to enable the student of musical ability to venture all of the hard work which may be necessary in order to become a skillful musician, has made possibly his greatest contribution by arousing interest or creating enthusiasm. The teacher whose enthusiasm in science has led a boy to desire to continue in this field, even to the extent of influencing him to undertake work in an engineering school, may be satisfied, not so much in the accomplishment of his pupil in the field of science, as in the enthusiasm which has carried him forward to more significant work. Even for children who go no farther than the elementary school, interest in history, or geography, in nature study, or in literature, may mean throughout the life of the individuals taught a better use of leisure time and an enjoyment of the nobler pleasures. Successful teaching in any part of our school system demands an adjustment in the amount of work to be done, to the abilities, and even to the interest of individual children. Much may be accomplished by the organization of special classes or groups in large school systems, but even under the most favorable conditions children cannot be expected to work up to the maximum of their capacity except as teachers recognize these differences in interest and in ability, and make assignments and conduct exercises which take account of these differences. QUESTIONS 1. Why do all children attend when the teacher raps on the desk, when she writes on the board, when some one opens the door and comes into the room? 2. Some teachers are constantly rapping with their pencils and raising their voices in order to attract attention. What possible weakness is indicated by this procedure? 3. Why do adults attend to fewer things than do children? 4. In what sense is it possible to attend to two things at the same time? 5. Why are children less able to concentrate their attention than are most adults? 6. Will a boy or girl in your class be more or less easily distracted as he gives free attention or forced attention to the work in hand? 7. What educational value is attached to an exercise which requires that a boy sit at his desk and work, even upon something in which he is not very much interested, for twenty minutes? 8. In what sense is it true that we form the habit of concentrating our attention? 9. Why is it wrong to extend a lesson beyond the period during which children are able to concentrate their attention upon the work in hand, or beyond the period during which they do concentrate their attention? 10. How is it possible to extend the period devoted to a lesson in reading, or in geography, or in Latin, beyond the time required to read a story or draw a map, or translate a paragraph? 11. Why is it possible to have longer recitation periods in the upper grades and in the high school than in the primary school? 12. Give examples from your class work of free attention; of forced attention; of free derived attention. 13. In what sense is it true that we work hardest when we give free attention? 14. In what sense is it true that we work hardest when we give forced attention? 15. Can you give any example of superficiality or inaccuracy which has resulted from divided attention, upon the part of any member of one of your classes? 16. Does free attention imply lack of effort? 17. Name incidents which you think might properly be offered boys and girls in order to secure free derived attention. 18. Can you cite any example in your teaching in which children have progressed from forced to free attention? 19. What interests have been developed in your classes which you think may make possible the giving of free attention in the field in question, even after school days are over? 20. How can you teach children what it is to concentrate their attention and the value of concentrated attention? * * * * * IV. THE FORMATION OF HABITS Habit in its simplest form is the tendency to do, think, or act as one has done, thought, or acted in the past. It is the tendency to repeat activities of all kinds. It is the tendency which makes one inclined to do the familiar action rather than a new one. In a broader sense, habit formation means learning. It is a statement of the fact that conduct _is_ modifiable and that such modifications may become permanent. The fact of learning depends physiologically on the plasticity of the nervous system. The neurones, particularly those concerned with intellectual life, are not only sensitive to nerve currents but are modified by them. The point where the greatest change seems to take place is at the synapses, but what this modification is, no one knows. There are several theories offered as explanations of what happens, but no one of them has been generally accepted, although the theory of chemical change seems to be receiving the strongest support at present. There can be no disagreement, however, as to the effects of this change, whatever it may be. Currents originally passing with difficulty over a certain conduction unit later pass with greater and greater ease. The resistance which seems at first to be present gradually disappears, and to that extent is the conduct modified. This same element of plasticity accounts for the breaking of habits. In this case the action is double, for it implies the disuse of certain connections which have been made and the forming of others; for the breaking of a bad habit means the beginning of a good one. The plasticity of neurone groups seems to vary in two respects--as to modifiability and as to power to hold modifications. The neurone groups controlling the reflex and physiological operations are least easily modified, while those controlling the higher mental processes are most easily modified. The neurone groups controlling the instincts hold a middle place. So far as permanence goes, connections between sensorimotor neurone groups seem to hold modifications longer than do connections between either associative-motor or associative-association. It is probably because of this fact that habit in the minds of so many people refers to some physical activity. Of course this is a misconception. Wherever the nervous system is employed, habits are formed. There are intellectual, moral, emotional, temperamental habits, just as truly as physical habits. In the intellectual field every operation that involves association or memory also involves habits. Good temper, or the reverse, truthfulness, patriotism, thoughtfulness for others, open-mindedness, are as much matters of learning and of habit as talking or skating or sewing. Habit is found in all three lines of mental development: intellect, character, and skill. Not only does the law of habit operate in all fields of mental activity, but the characteristics which mark its operation are the same. Two of these are important. In the first place, habit formation results in a lessening of attention to the process. Any process that is habitual can be taken care of by a minimum of attention. In other words, it need no longer be in the focal point, but can be relegated to the fringe. At the beginning of the modification of the neurone tract focal attention is often necessary, but as it progresses less and less attention is needed until the activity becomes automatic, apparently running by itself. Not all habits reach this stage of perfection, but this is the general tendency. This lessening of the need for attention means that less energy is used by the activity, and the individual doing the work is less likely to be fatigued. In the second place, habit tends to make the process more and more sure in its results. As the resistance is removed from the synapses, and the one particular series of units come to act more and more as a unit, the current shoots along the path with no sidetracking, and the act is performed or the thought reached unwaveringly with very little chance of error. If the habit being formed is that of writing, the appropriate movements are made with no hesitation, and the chances that certain ones will be made the first time increase in probability. This means a saving of time and an increase in confidence as to the results. A consideration of these characteristics of habits makes clear its dangers as well as its values. The fact that habit is based on actual changes which take place in the nervous system, that its foundation is physical, emphasizes its binding power. Most people in talking and thinking of habit regard it as something primarily mental in nature and therefore believe all that is necessary to break any habit is the sufficient exercise of will power. But will power, however strong, cannot break actual physical connections, and it is such connections that bind us to a certain line of activity instead of any other, when once the habit is formed. It is just as logical to expect a car which is started on its own track to suddenly go off on to another track where there is no switch, as to expect a nerve current traveling along its habitual conduction unit to run off on some other line of nervous discharge. Habit once formed binds that particular line of thought to action, either good or bad. Of course habits may be broken, but it is a work of time and must result from definite physical changes. Every habit formed lessens the likelihood of any other response coming in that particular situation. Every interest formed, every act of skill perfected, every method of work adopted, every principle or ideal accepted, limits the recognition of any other possible line of action in that situation. Habit binds to one particular response and at the same time blinds the individual to any other alternative. The danger of this is obvious. If the habits formed are bad or wasteful ones, the individual is handicapped in his growth until new ones can be formed. On the other hand, habit makes for limitation. Despite these dangers, habit is of inestimable value in the development of both the individual and the human race. It is through it that all learning is possible. It makes possible the preservation of our social inheritance. As James says, "Habit is the enormous fly-wheel of society, its most precious conservative agent." Because of its power of limitation it is sometimes considered the foe of independence and originality, but in reality it is the only road to progress. Other things being equal, the more good habits a person has, the greater the probability of his doing original work. The genius in science or in art or in statesmanship is the man who has made habitual many of the activities demanded by his particular field and who therefore has time and energy left for the kind of work that demands thinking. Habit won't make a genius, but all men of exceptional ability excel others in the number and quality of their habits in the field in which they show power. As the little child differs from the adult in the number and quality of his habits, so the ordinary layman differs from the expert. It is scarcity, not abundance, of habits that forces a man into a rut and keeps him mediocre. Just as the three year old, having taken four or five times as long as the adult to dress himself, is tired out at the end of the task, so the amateur in literature or music or morals as compared with the expert. The more habits any one has in any line, the better for him, both from the standpoint of efficiency and productivity, provided that the habits are good and that among them is found the habit of breaking habits. The two great laws of habit formation are the laws of exercise and effect. These laws apply in all cases of habit formation, whether they be the purposeless habits of children or the purposive habits of maturity. The law of exercise says that the oftener and the more emphatically a certain response is connected with a certain situation, the more likely is it to be made to that situation. The two factors of repetition and intensity are involved. It is a common observance that the oftener one does a thing, other things being equal, the better he does it, whether it be good or bad. Drill is the usual method adopted by all classes of people for habit formation. It is because of the recognition of the value of repetition that the old maxim of "Practice makes Perfect" has been so blindly adhered to. Practice may make perfect, but it also may make imperfect. All that practice can do is to make more sure and automatic the activity, whatever it is. It cannot alone make for improvement. A child becomes more and more proficient in bad writing or posture, in incorrect work in arithmetic and spelling, with practice just as truly as under other conditions he improves in the same activities. Evidence from school experiments, which shows that as many as 40 per cent of the children examined did poorer work along such lines in a second test than in the first which had been given several months earlier, bears witness to the inability of mere repetition to get "perfect" results. To get such results the repetition must be only of the improvements. There must be a constant variation towards the ideal, and a selection of just those variations for practice, if perfect as well as invariable results are to be obtained. The amount of repetition necessary in the formation of any given habit is not known. It will, of course, vary with the habit and with the individual, but experimental psychology will some day have something to offer along this line. We could make a great saving if we knew, even approximately, the amount of practice necessary under the best conditions to form some of the more simple and elementary habits, such as learning the facts of multiplication. One other fact in connection with repetition should be noted, namely, that the exercise given any connection by the learner, freely, of his own initiative counts more than that given under purposive learning. This method of learning is valuable in that it is incidental and often saves energy and possible imitation on the part of the child, but it has certain drawbacks. Habits formed this way are ingrained to such an extent that they are very difficult to modify. They were not consciously attended to when they were formed, and hence it is difficult later to raise them to the focal point. Hence it is best whenever habits are partial and will need to be modified later, or when the habits must later be rationalized, or when bad habits must be broken, to have the process focalized in attention. The methods of gaining attention have already been discussed. In the second place, if the habit being formed is connected with an instinct, the element of intensity is added. This, of course, means that a connection already made and one which is strongly ready to act is made to give its support to the new connection being formed. Of course the instinct chosen for this purpose must be in accord with the particular habit and with the nature of the learner. They may vary from the purely personal and physical up to those which have to do with groups and intellectual reactions. The added impetus of the instinct hastens the speed of the direction or supervision. The psychology of the value of self-activity is operative. It should be borne in mind, however, that the two kinds of exercise must be of the same degree of accuracy if this better result in self-initiated practice is to be obtained. Not only is it true that repetition makes for automaticity, but intensity is also an aid. Connections which are made emphatically as well as often tend to become permanent. This is particularly true of mental habits. There are two factors of importance which make for intensity in habit formation. First, the focalization of attention on the connections being made adds intensity. Bagley in his discussion of this topic makes "focalization in attention" a necessity in all habits. Although habits may be formed without such concentration, still it is true that if attention is given to the process, time is saved; for the added intensity secured increases the speed of learning. In certain types of habits, however, when incidental learning plays a large part, much skill may be acquired without focalization of attention in the process. Much of the learning of little children is of this type. Their habits of language, ways of doing things, mannerisms, and emotional attitudes often come as a result of suggestion and imitation rather than as a result of definite formation of the new habit. The second great law of habit formation is the law of effect. This law says that any connection whose activity is accompanied by or followed by satisfaction tends thereby to be strengthened. If the accompanying emotional tone is annoyance, the connection is weakened. This law that satisfaction stamps connections in, and annoyance inhibits connections, is one of the greatest if not the greatest law of human life. Whatever gives satisfaction, that mankind continues to do. He learns only that which results in some kind of satisfaction. Because of the working of this law animals learn to do their tricks, the baby learns to talk, the child learns to tell the truth, the adult learns to work with the fourth dimension. Repetition by itself is a wasteful method of habit formation. The law of effect must work as well as the law of exercise, if the results are to be satisfactory. As has already been pointed out, it is not the practice alone that makes perfect, but the _stressing_ of improvements, and that fixing is made possible only by satisfaction. Pleasure, in the broad sense, must be the accompaniment or the result of any connection that is to become habitual. This satisfaction may be of many different sorts, physical, emotional, or intellectual. It may be occasioned by a reward or recognition from without or by appreciation arising from self-criticism. In some form or other it must be present. Two further suggestions in habit formation which grow out of the above laws should be borne in mind. The first is the effect of primacy. In everyday language, "first impressions last longest." The character of the first responses made in any given situation have great influence on all succeeding responses. They make the strongest impression, they are the hardest to eradicate. From a physiological point of view the explanation is evident. A connection untraversed or used but a few times is much more plastic than later when it has been used often. Hence the first time the connection is used gives a greater set or bent than any equal subsequent activity. This is true both of the nervous system as a whole and of any particular conduction unit. Thus impressions made in childhood count more than those of the same strength made later. The first few attempts in pronouncing foreign words fixes the pronunciation. The first few weeks in a subject or in dealing with any person influences all subsequent responses to a marked degree. The second suggestion has to do with the effect of exceptions. James says, "Never allow an exception to occur" in the course of forming a habit. Not only will the occurrence of one exception make more likely its recurrence, but if the exception does not recur, at least the response is less sure and less accurate than it otherwise would be. It tends to destroy self-confidence or confidence in the one who allowed the exception. Sometimes even one exception leads to disastrous consequences and undoes the work of weeks and months. This is especially true in breaking a bad habit or in forming a new one which has some instinctive response working against it. There has been a great deal of work done in experimental laboratories and elsewhere in the study of the formation of particular habits. The process of habit formation has been shown by learning curves. When these learning curves are compared, it becomes clear that they have certain characteristics in common. This is true whether the learning be directed to such habits as the acquisition of vocabularies in a foreign language or to skill in the use of a typewriter. Several of the most important characteristics follow. In the first place it is true of all learning that there is rapid improvement at first. During the beginning of the formation of a habit more rapid advance is made than at any other time. There are two principal reasons for this fact. The adjustments required at the beginning are comparatively simple and easily made and the particular learning is new and therefore is undertaken with zest and interest. After a time the work becomes more difficult, the novelty wears off, therefore the progress becomes less marked and the curve shows fluctuations. Another characteristic of the learning curve is the presence of the so-called "plateaus." Plateaus show in the curve as flat, level stretches during which there has apparently been no progress. The meaning of these level stretches, and whether or not they can be entirely done away with in any curve, is a matter of dispute. These pauses may be necessary for some of the habits to reach a certain degree of perfection before further progress can be made. However this may be, there are several minor causes which tend to increase the number of plateaus and to lengthen the time spent in any one. In the first place an insecure or an inaccurate foundation must result in an increase of plateaus. If at the beginning, during the initial spurt, for instance, the learner is allowed to go so fast that what he learns is not thoroughly learned, or if he is pushed at a pace that for him makes thoroughness impossible, plateaus must soon occur in his learning curve. In the second place a fruitful cause of plateaus is loss of interest,--monotony. If the learner is not interested, he will not put forth the energy necessary for continued improvement, and a time of no progress is the result. The attitude of the learner toward the work is extremely important, not only in the matter of interest, but in the further attitude of self-confidence. Discouragement usually results in hindering progress, whereas confidence tends to increase it. The psychological explanation of this is very evident. Both lack of interest in the learning and the presence of discouragement are likely to result in divided attention and that, as has already been shown, results in unsatisfactory work. A third cause for plateaus is physiological. Not only must the learner be in the right attitude towards the work, but he must feel physically "fit." There seem to be certain physiological rhythms that may disturb the learning process whose cause cannot be directly determined, but generally the feeling of unfitness can be traced to a simple cause,--such as physical illness, loss of sleep, exercise, or food, or undue emotional strain. The older psychology has left an impression that improvement in any function is limited both as to amount and as to the period during which it must be attained. The physiological limit of improvement has been thought of as one which was rather easily reached. The loss of plasticity of the nervous system has been supposed to be rather rapid, so that marked improvement in a habit after one has passed well into the twenties was considered improbable. Recent experiments, however, seem to show that no such condition of affairs exists. There is very great probability that any function whatsoever is improvable with practice, and in most cases to a very marked degree. To find a function which has reached the physiological limit has been very rare, even in experimental research, and even with extended practice series it has been unusual to reach a stage of zero improvement even with adults. Thorndike says, "Let the reader consider that if he should now spend seven hours, well distributed, in mental multiplication with three place numbers, he would thereby much more than double his speed and also reduce his errors; or that, by forty hours of practice, he could come to typewrite (supposing him to now have had zero practice) approximately as fast as he can write by hand; or that, starting from zero knowledge, he could learn to copy English into German script at a rate of fifty letters per minute, in three hours or a little more."[3] It is probably true that the majority of adults are much below their limit of efficiency in most of the habits required by their profession, and that in school habits the same thing is true of children. Spurious levels of accomplishment have been held up as worthy goals, and efficiency accepted as ultimate which was only two thirds, and often less than that, of what was possible. Of course it may not be worth the time and energy necessary to obtain improvement in certain lines,--that must be determined by the particular case,--but the point is, that improvement; is possible with both children and adults in almost every habit they possess with comparatively little practice. Neither the physiological limit of a function nor the age limit of the individual is reached as easily or as soon as has been believed. There are certain aids to improvement which must be used in order that the best results may be obtained. Some of them have already been discussed and others will be discussed at a later time, so they need only be listed here, the right physiological conditions, the proper distribution of the practice periods, interest in the work, interest in improvement, problem attitude, attention, and absence of both excitement and worry. Habits have been treated in psychology as wholes, just as if each habit was a unit. This has been true, whether the habits being discussed were moral habits, such as sharing toys with a younger brother; intellectual habits, such as reading and understanding the meaning of the word "and"; or motor habits, such as sitting straight. The slightest consideration of these habits makes obvious that they differ tremendously in complexity. The moral habit quoted involves both intellectual and motor habits--and not one, but several. From a physiological point of view, this difference in the complexity of habits is made clear by an examination of the number of neural bonds used in getting the habit response to a given situation. In some cases they are comparatively few--in others the number necessary is astonishing. In no case of habit will the bonds used involve but a single connection. Just what bonds are needed in order that a child may learn to add, or to spell, to appreciate music, or to be industrious, is a question that only experiment and investigation can answer. At present but little is known as to just what happens, just what connections are formed, when from the original tendency towards vocalization the child just learns to say the word "milk," later reads it, and still later writes it. One thing is certain, the process is not a unitary one, nor is it a simple one. Just so long as habit is discussed in general terms, without any recognition of the complexity of the process or to the specific bonds involved, just so long will the process of habit formation be wasteful and inefficient. As a sample of the kind of work being done in connection with special habits, investigation seems to give evidence that in the habit of simple column addition eight or nine distinct functions are involved, each of which involves the use of several bonds. Besides these positive connections, a child in learning must inhibit other connections which are incorrect, and these must often outnumber the correct ones. And yet column addition has always been treated as a simple habit--with perhaps one element of complexity, when carrying was involved. It is evident that, if the habit concerned does involve eight or nine different functions, a child might go astray in any one. His difficulty in forming the habit might be in connection with one or several of the processes involved. Knowledge on the part of the teacher of these different steps in the habit, and appreciation by him of the possibilities of making errors, are the prerequisites of efficient teaching of habits. In each one of the subjects there is much need of definite experimental work, in order that the specific bonds necessary in forming the habits peculiar to the subject be determined. The psychology of arithmetic, or of physics, or of spelling should involve such information. Meanwhile every teacher can do much if she will carefully stop and think just what she is requiring in the given response. An analysis of the particular situation and response will make clear at least some of the largest elements involved, some of the most important connections to be made. It is the specific nature of the connections to be made and the number of those connections that need emphasis in the teaching of habits. Not only must the specific nature of the bonds involved in individual habits be stressed, but also the specific nature of the entire complex which is called the habit. There is no such thing as a general curve of learning that will apply equally well, no matter what the habit. The kind of curve, the rate of improvement, the possibilities of plateaus, the permanence of the improvement, all these facts and others vary with the particular habit. In habit formation, as is the case in other types of activity, we get the most satisfactory results only when we secure a maximum of interest in the work to be done. The teacher who thinks that she can get satisfactory results merely by compelling children to repeat over and over again the particular form to be mastered is doomed to disappointment. Indeed, it is not infrequently true that the dislike which children get for the dreary exercises which have little or no meaning for them interferes to such a degree with the formation of the habit we hope to secure as to develop a maximum of inaccuracies rather than any considerable improvement. The teacher who makes a game out of her word drill in beginning reading may confidently expect to have children recognize more words the next day than one who has used the same amount of time, without introducing the motive which has made children enjoy their work. Children who compare their handwriting with a scale, which enables them to tell what degree of improvement they have made over a given period, are much more apt to improve than are children who are merely asked to fill up sheets of paper with practice writing. A vocabulary in a modern language will be built up more certainly if students seek to make a record in the mastery of some hundreds or thousands of words during a given period, rather than merely to do the work which is assigned from day to day. A group of boys in a continuation school have little difficulty in mastering the habits which are required in order to handle the formal processes in arithmetic, or to apply the formula of algebra or trigonometry, if the application of these habitual responses to their everyday work has been made clear. Wherever we seek to secure an habitual response we should attempt to have children understand the use to which the given response is to be put, or, if this is not possible, to introduce some extraneous motive which will give satisfaction. We cannot be too careful in the habits which we seek to have children form to see to it that the first response is correct. It is well on many occasions, if we have any doubt as to the knowledge of children, to anticipate the response which they should give, and to make them acquainted with it, rather than to allow them to engage in random guessing. The boy who in writing his composition wishes to use a word which he does not know how to spell, should feel entirely free to ask the teacher for the correct spelling, unless there is a dictionary at hand which he knows how to use. It is very much better for a boy to ask for a particular form in a foreign language, or to refer to his grammar, than it is for him to use in his oral or written composition a form concerning which he is not certain. A mistake made in a formula in algebra, or in physics, may persist, even after many repetitions might seem to have rendered the correct form entirely automatic. In matters of habit it does not pay to take it for granted that all have mastered the particular forms which have supposedly been taught, and it never pays to attempt to present too much at any one time. More satisfactory work in habit formation would commonly be done were we to _teach_ fewer words in any one spelling lesson, or attempt to fix fewer combinations in any particular drill lesson in arithmetic, or assign a part of a declension or conjugation in a foreign language, or to be absolutely certain that one or two formulas were fixed in algebra or in chemistry, rather than in attempting to master several on the same day. Teachers ought constantly to ask themselves whether every member of the class is absolutely sure and absolutely accurate in his response before attempting new work. It is of the utmost importance that particular difficulties be analyzed, and that attention be fixed upon that which is new, or that which presents some unusual difficulty. As has already been implied, it is important not simply to start with as strong a motive as possible, but it is also necessary to keep attention concentrated during the exercises which are supposed to result in habit formation. However strong the motive for the particular work may have been at the beginning, it is likely after a few minutes to lack power, if the particular exercise is continued in exactly the same form. Much is to be gained by varying the procedure. Oral work alternated with written work, concert work alternated with individual testing, the setting of one group over against another, the attempt to see how much can be done in a given period of minutes,--indeed, any device which will keep attention fixed is to be most eagerly sought for. In all practice it is important that the pupil strive to do his very best. If the ideal of accuracy or of perfection in form is once lost sight of, the responses given may result in an actual loss rather than in gain in fixing the habit. When a teacher is no longer able to secure attention to the work in hand, it is better to stop rather than to continue in order to provide for a given number of repetitions. Drill periods of from five to fifteen minutes two or three times a day may almost always be found to produce better results than the same amount of time used consecutively. Systematic reviews are most essential in the process of habit formation. The complaint of a fifth-grade teacher that the work in long division was not properly taught in the fourth grade may be due in considerable measure to the fact that she has neglected at the beginning of the fifth grade's work to spend a week or two in careful or systematic review of the work covered in the previous year. The complaint of high school teachers that children are not properly taught in the elementary school would often be obviated if in each of the fields in question some systematic review were given from time to time, especially at the beginning of the work undertaken, in any particular subject which involves work previously done in the elementary school. During any year's work that teacher will be most successful who reviews each day the work of the day before, who reviews each third or fourth day the particularly difficult parts of the work done during the previous periods, who reviews each week and each month, and even each two or three months, the work which has been covered up to that time. When teachers understand that the intervals between repetitions which seem to have fixed a habit may only be gradually lengthened, then will the formation of habits upon the part of boys and girls become more certain, and the difficulties arising from lapses and inaccuracies become less frequent. As has been suggested in previous discussions, it will be necessary in habit formation to vary the requirements among the individuals who compose a group. The motive which we seek to utilize may make a greater appeal to one child than to another. Physiological differences may account for the fact that a small number of repetitions will serve to fix the response for one individual as over against a very much larger number of repetitions required for another. It is of the utmost importance that all children work up to the maximum of their capacity. It is very much better, for example, to excuse a boy entirely from a given drill exercise than to have him dawdle or loaf during the period. In some fields a degree of efficiency may be reached which will permit the most efficient children to be relieved entirely from certain exercises in order that they may spend their time on other work. On the other hand, those who are less capable may need to have special drill exercises arranged which will help them to make up their deficiency. The teacher who is acquainted with the psychology of habit formation should secure from the pupils in her class a degree of efficiency which is not commonly found in our schools. QUESTIONS 1. In what sense is it true that we have habits of thought? 2. What habits which may interfere with or aid in your school work are formed before children enter school? 3. Why is it hard to break a habit of speech? 4. Distinguish among actions to which we attribute a moral significance those which are based upon habit and those which are reasoned. 5. Professor James said, "Habits are the stuff of which behavior consists." Indicate the extent to which this is true for the children in your classes. 6. In how far is it advantageous to become a creature of habit? 7. Which of our actions should be the result of reason? 8. Should school children reason their responses in case of a fire alarm, in passing pencils, in formal work in arithmetic? Name responses which should be the result of reason; others which should be habitual. 9. Why do we sometimes become less efficient when we fix our attention upon an action that is ordinarily habitual? 10. Why do children sometimes write more poorly, or make more mistakes in addition, or in their conjugations or declensions, at the end of the period than they do at the beginning? 11. How would you hope to correct habits of speech learned at home? What particular difficulty is involved? 12. When, are repetitions most helpful in habit formation? 13. When may repetitions actually break down or eliminate habitual responses? 14. How may the keeping of a record of one's improvement add in the formation of a habit? 15. What motives have you found most usable in keeping attention concentrated during the exercises in habit formation which you conduct? 16. The approval or disapproval of a group of boys and girls often brings about a very rapid change in physical, moral, or mental habits on the part of individual children. Why? 17. Why should drill work be discontinued when children grow tired and cease to concentrate their attention? 18. Why should reviews be undertaken at the beginning of a year's work? How can reviews be organized to best advantage during the year? 19. What provision do you make in your work to guard against lapses? * * * * * V. HOW TO MEMORIZE There is no sharp distinction between habit and memory. Both are governed by the general laws of association. They shade off into each other, and what one might call habit another with equal reason might call memory. Their likenesses are greater than their differences. However, there is some reason for treating the topic of association under these two heads. The term memory has been used by different writers to mean at least four different types of association. It has been used to refer to the presence of mental images; to refer to the consciousness of a feeling or event as belonging to one's own past experience; to refer to the presence of connections between situation and motor response; and to refer to the ability to recall the appropriate response to a particular situation. The last meaning of the term is the one which will be used here. The mere flow of imagery is not memory, and it matters little whether the appropriate response be accompanied by the time element and the personal element or not. In fact, most of the remembering which is done in daily life lacks these two elements. Memory then is the recall of the appropriate response in a given situation. It differs from habit in that the responses referred to are more often mental rather than motor; in that it is less automatic, more purposeful. The fact that the elements involved are so largely mental makes it true that the given fact is usually found to have several connections and the given situation to be connected with many facts. Which particular one will be "appropriate" will depend on all sorts of subtle factors, hence the need of the control of the connection aeries by a purpose and the diminishing of the element of automaticity. As was said before, there is no hard and fast line of division between habit and memory. The recall of the "sqrt(64)" or of how to spell "home" or of the French for "table" might be called either or both. All that was said in the discussion of habit applies to memory. This ability to recall appropriate facts in given situations is dependent primarily on three factors: power of retention, number of associations, organization of associations. The first factor, power of retention, is the most fundamental and to some extent limits the usefulness of the other two. It is determined by the character of the neurones and varies with different brains. Neurones which are easily impressed and retain their impression simply because they are so made are the gift of nature and the corner stone of a good memory. This retention power is but little, if at all, affected by practice. It is a primary quality of the nervous system, present or absent to the degree determined by each individual's original nature. Hence memory as a whole cannot be unproved, although the absence of certain conditions may mean that it is not being used up to its maximum capacity. Change in these conditions, then, will enable a person to make use of all the native retentiveness his nervous system has. One of the most important of these conditions is good health. To the extent that good blood, sleep, exercise, etc., put the nervous system in better tone, to that extent the retentive power present is put in better working order. Every one knows how lack of sleep and illness is often accompanied by loss in memory. Repetition, attention, interest, vividness of impression, all appeal primarily to this so-called "brute memory," or retentive power. Pleasurable results seem not to be quite so important, and repetition to be more so when the connections are between mental states instead of between mental states and motor responses. An emphasis on, or an improvement in, the use of any one of these factors may call into play to a greater extent than before the native retentive power of a given child. The power to recall a fact or an event depends not only upon this quality of retentiveness, but also upon the number of other facts or events connected with it. Each one of these connections serves as an avenue of approach, a clew by means of which the recall may operate. Any single blockade therefore may not hinder the recall, provided there are many associates. This is true, no matter how strong the retentive power may be. It is doubly important if the retentive power is weak. Suppose a given fact to be held rather weakly because of comparatively poor retentive power, then the operation of one chain of associates may not be energetic enough to recall it. But if this same fact may be approached from several different angles by means of several chains of associations, the combined power of the activity in the several neurone chains will likely be enough to lift it above the threshold of recall. Other things being equal, the likelihood that a needed fact will be recalled is in proportion to the number of its associations. The third factor upon which goodness in memory depends is the organization of associates. Number of connections is an aid to memory--but systematization among these connections is an added help. Logical arrangement of facts in memory, classification according to various principles, orderly grouping of things that belong together, make the operation of memory more efficient and economical. The difference between mere number of associations and orderly arrangement of those associations may be illustrated by the difference in efficiency between the housekeeper who starts more or less blindly to look all over the house for a lost article, and the one who at least knows that it must be in a certain room and probably in a certain bureau drawer. Although memory as a whole cannot be improved because of the limiting power of native retentiveness, memory for any fact or in any definite field may be improved by emphasizing these two factors: number of associations and organization among associations. Although all three factors are operative in securing the best type of memory, still the efficiency of a given memory may be due more to the unusual power of one of them than to the combined effect of the three. It is this difference in the functioning of these three factors which is primarily responsible for certain types of memory which will be discussed later. It must also be borne in mind that the power of these factors to operate in determining recall varies somewhat with age. Little children and old people are more dependent upon mere retentiveness than upon either of the others, the former because of lack of experience and lack of habits of thought, the latter because of the loss of both of these factors. The adult depends more on the organization of his material, while in the years between the number of the clews is probably the controlling factor. Here again there is no sharp line of division; all three are needed. So in the primary grades we begin to require children to organize, and as adults we do all we can to make the power of retention operate at its maximum. Many methods of memorizing have been used by both children and adults. Recently experimental psychology has been testing some of them. So far as the learner is concerned, he may use repetition, or concentration, or recall as a primary method. Repetition means simply the going over and over again the material to be learned--the element depended upon being the number of times the connection is made. Concentration means going over the material with attention. Not the number of connections is important, but the intensity of those connections. In recall the emphasis is laid upon reinstating the desired connections from within. In using this method, for instance, the learner goes over the material as many times as he sees necessary, then closes the book and recalls from memory what he can of it. The last of the three methods is by far the best, whether the memory desired be rote or logical, for several reasons. In the first place it involves both the other methods or goes beyond them. Second, it is economical, for the learner knows when he knows the lesson. Third, it is sure, for it establishes connections as they will be used--in other words, the learning provides for recall, which is the thing desired, whereas the other two methods establish only connections of impression. Fourth, it tends to establish habits that are of themselves worth while, such as assuming responsibility for getting results, testing one's own power and others. Fifth, it encourages the use of the two factors upon which memory depends, which are most capable of development, _i.e.,_ number and organization of associations. In connection with the use of the material two methods have been employed--the part method and the whole method. The learner may break the material up into sections, and study just one, then the next, and so on, or he may take all the material and go through with it from the beginning to the end and then back again. Experimental results show the whole method to be the better of the two. However, in actual practice, especially with school children, probably a combination of the two is still better, because of certain difficulties arising from the exclusive use of the whole method. The advantages of the whole method are that it forms the right connections and emphasizes the complete thought and therefore saves time and gives the right perspective. Its difficulties are that the material is not all of equal difficulty and therefore it is wasteful to put the same amount of time on all parts; it is discouraging to the learner, as no part may be raised above the threshold of recall at the first study period (particularly true if it is rote memory); it is difficult to use recall, if the whole method is rigidly adhered to. A combination of the two is therefore wise. The learner should be encouraged to go over the material from beginning to end, until the difficult parts become apparent, then to concentrate on these parts for a time and again go over from the beginning--using recall whenever possible. A consideration of the time element involved in memorizing has given use to two other methods, the so-called concentrated and distributive. Given a certain amount of time to spend on a certain subject, the learner may distribute it in almost an infinite number of ways, varying not only the length of the period of practice, but also the length of time elapsing between periods. The experimental work done in connection with these methods has not resulted in agreement. No doubt there is an optimum length of period for practice and an optimum interval, but too many factors enter in to make any one statement. "The experimental results justify in a rough way the avoidance of very long practice periods and of very short intervals. They seem to show, on the other hand, that much longer practice periods than are customary in the common schools are probably entirely allowable, and that much shorter intervals are allowable than those customary between the just learning and successive 'reviews' in schools."[4] This statement leaves the terms very long and very short to be defined, but at present the experimental results are too contradictory to permit of anything more specific. However, a few suggestions do grow from these results. The practice period should be short in proportion as these factors are present: first, young or immature minds; second, mechanical mental processes as opposed to thought material; third, a learner who "warms up" quickly; the presence of fatigue; a function near its limit. Thus the length of the optimum period must vary with the age of the learner, the subject matter, the stage of proficiency in the subject, and the particular learner. The same facts must be taken into consideration in deciding on the optimum interval. One fact seems pretty well established in connection with the interval, and that is that a comparatively short period of practice with a review after a night's rest counts more than a much longer period added to the time spent the evening before. There are certain suggestions which if carried out help the learner in his memorizing. In the first place, as the number of associates is one factor determining recall, the fact to be remembered should be presented in many ways, _i.e.,_ appealing to as many senses as possible. In carrying this out, it has been the practice of many teachers to require the material to be remembered to be acted out or written. This is all right in so far as the muscular reactions required are mechanical and take little attention. If, on the other hand, the child has to give much attention to how he is to dramatize it, or if writing in itself is as yet a partially learned process, the attention must be divided between the fact to be memorized and its expression, and hence the desired result is not accomplished. Colvin claims that "writing is not an aid to learning until the sixth or seventh grade in the schools." This same fact that an association only partly known is a hindrance rather than a help in fixing another is often violated both in teaching spelling and language. If the spelling of "two" is unknown or only partly known, it is a hindrance instead of a help to teach it at the same time "too" is being taught. Second, the learner should be allowed to find his own speed, as it varies tremendously with the individual. Third, rhythm is always an aid when it can be used, such as learning the number of days in each month in rhyme. Fourth, after a period of hard mental work a few minutes (Pillsbury thinks three to six) should elapse before definitely taking up a new line of work. This allows for the so-called "setting" of associations, due to the action of the general law of inertia, and tends to diminish the possibility of interference from the bonds called into play by the new work. Fifth, mnemonic devices of simple type are sometimes an aid. Most of these devices are of questionable value, as they themselves require more memory work than the facts they are supposed to be fixing. However, if devised by the learner, or if suggested by some one else after failure on the part of the learner to fix the material, they are permissible. Memory has been classified in various ways, according to the time element, as immediate and permanent. Immediate memory is the one which holds for a short time, whereas permanent memory holds for a long time. People differ markedly in this respect. Some can if tested after the study period reproduce the material with a high degree of accuracy, but lose most of it in a comparatively short time. Others, if tested in the same way, reproduce less immediately, but hold what they have over a long period. Children as a whole differ from adults in having poorer immediate memories, but in holding what is fixed through years. Of course permanent memory is the more valuable of the two types for most of life, but on the other hand immediate memory has its own special value. Lawyers, physicians, politicians, ministers, lecturers, all need great power of immediate memory in their particular professions. They need to be able to hold a large amount of material for a short time, but then they may forget a great deal of it. Memory is also classified according to the arrangement of the material as desultory, rote, and logical memory. In desultory memory the facts just "stick" because of the great retentive power of the brain, there are few connections, the material is disconnected and disjointed. Rote memory depends on a special memory for words, aided by serial connections and often rhythm. Logical is primarily a memory for meanings and depends upon arrangement and system for its power. Little children as a class have good desultory memories and poor logical memories. Rote memory is probably at its best in the pre-adolescent and early adolescent years. Logical memory is characteristic of mature, adult minds. However, some people excel in one rather than another type, and each renders its own peculiar service. A genius in any line finds a good desultory memory of immense help, despite the fact that logical memory is the one he finds most valuable. Teachers, politicians, linguists, clerks, waiters, and others need a well-developed desultory memory. Rote memory is, of course, necessary if an individual is to make a success as an actor, a singer, or a musician. According to the rate of acquisition memory has been classified into quick and slow. One learner gets his material so much more quickly than another. Up to rather recent years the quick learner has been commiserated, for we believed, "quickly come, quickly go." Experimental results have proved this not to be true, but in fact the reverse is more true, _i.e.,_ "quickly come, slowly go." The one who learns quickly, provided he really learns it, retains it just as long and on the average longer than the one who learns much more slowly. The danger, from a practical point of view, is that the quick learner, because of his ability, gets careless and learns the material only well enough to reproduce at the time, whereas the slow learner, because of his lack of ability, raises his efficiency to a higher level and therefore retains. If the quick learner had spent five minutes more on the material, he would have raised his work to the same level as that of the slow one and yet have finished in perhaps half the time. All through the discussion of kinds of memory the term "memory" should have been used in the plural, for after all we possess "memories" and not a single faculty memory which may be quick, or desultory, or permanent. The actual condition of affairs is much more complex, for although it has been the individual who has been designated as quick or logical, it would be much more accurate to designate the particular memory. The same person may have a splendid desultory memory for gossip and yet in science be of the logical type. In learning French vocabularies he may have only a good immediate memory, whereas his memory for faces may be most lasting. His ability to learn facts in history may class him as a quick learner, whereas his slowness in learning music may be proverbial. The degree to which quickness of learning or permanence of memory in one line is correlated with that same ability in others has not yet been ascertained. That there is some correlation is probable, but at present the safest way is to think in terms of special memories and special acquisitions. Some experimental work has been done to discover the order in which special memories develop in children. The results, however, are not in agreement and the experiments themselves are unsatisfactory. That there is some more or less definite order of development, paralleling to a certain extent the growth of instincts, is probable, but nothing more definite is known than observation teaches. For instance, every observer of children knows that memory for objects develops before memory for words; that memory for gestures preceded memory for words; that memory for oral language preceded memory for written language; that memory for concrete objects preceded memory for abstractions. Further knowledge of the development of special memories should be accompanied by knowledge as to how far this development is dependent on training and to what extent lack of memory involves lack of understanding before it can be of much practical value to the teacher. Just as repetition or exercise tends to fix a fact in memory, so disuse of a connection results in the fact fading from memory. "Forgetting" is a matter of everyday experience for every one. The rate of forgetting has been the subject of experimental work. Ebbinghaus's investigation is the historical one. The results from this particular series of experiments are as follows: During the first hour after study over half of what was learned had been forgotten; at the end of the first day two thirds, and at the end of a month about four fifths. These results have been accepted as capable of rather general application until within the last few years. Recent experiments in learning poetry, translation of French into English, practice in addition and multiplication, learning to toss balls and to typewrite, and others, make clear that there is no general curve of forgetting. The rate of forgetting is more rapid soon after the practice period than later, but the total amount forgotten and the rate of deterioration depend upon the particular function tested. No one function can serve as a sample for others. No one curve of forgetting exists for different functions at the same stage of advancement or for the same function at different stages of advancement in the same individual, much less for different functions, at different stages of advancement, in different individuals. Much more experimental work is needed before definite general results can be stated. This experimental work, however, is suggestive along several lines, (1) It seems possible that habits of skill, involving direct sensori-motor bonds, are more permanent than memories involving connections between association bonds. In other words, that physical habits are more lasting than memories of intellectual facts. (2) Overlearning seems a necessary correlate of permanence of connection. That is, what seems to be overlearning at beginning stages is really only raising the material to the necessary level above the threshold for retention. How far overlearning is necessary and when it becomes wasteful are yet to be determined. (3) Deterioration is hastened by competing connections. If during the time a particular function is lying idle other bonds of connection are being formed into some parts or elements of it, the rate of forgetting of the function in question is hastened and the possibility of recall made more problematic. The less the interference, the greater will be the permanence of the particular bonds. A belief maintained by some psychologists is in direct opposition to this general law that disuse causes deterioration. It is usually stated something like this, that periods of incubation are necessary in acquiring skill, or that letting a function lie fallow results in greater skill at the end of that period, or briefly one learns to skate in summer and swim in winter. To some extent this is true, but as stated it is misleading. The general law of the effect of disuse on a memory is true, but under some circumstances its effect is mitigated by the presence of other factors whose presence has been unnoted. Sometimes this improvement without practice is explained by the fact that at the last practice period the actual improvement was masked by fatigue or boredom, so that disuse involving rest and the disappearance of fatigue and boredom produces apparent gain, when in reality it but allows the real improvement to become evident. Sometimes a particular practice period was accompanied by certain undesirable elements such as worry, excitement, misunderstandings, and so on, and therefore the improvement hindered or masked, whereas at the next period under different conditions there would be less interference and therefore added gain. All experimental evidence is against the opinion that mere disuse in and of itself produces gain. In fact, all results point to the fact that disuse brings deterioration. In the case of memory, as has already been described in habit formation, reviews which are organized with the period between repetitions only gradually lengthened may do much to insure permanence. It is entirely feasible to have children at the end of any school year able to repeat the poems or prose selections which they have memorized, provided that they have been recalled with sufficient frequency during the course of the year. In a subject like geography or history, or in the study of mathematics or science, in which logical memory is demanded, systematic reviews, rather than cramming for examinations, will result in permanence of command of the facts or principles involved, especially when these reviews have involved the right type of organization and as many associations as is possible. It is important in those subjects which involve a logical organization of ideas to have ideas associated around some particular problem or situation in which the individual is vitally interested. Children may readily forget a large number of facts which they have learned about cats in the first grade, while the same children might remember, very many of them, had these facts been organized round the problem of taking care of cats, and of how cats take care of themselves. A group of children in an upper grade may forget with great rapidity the facts of climate, soil, surface drainage, industries, and the like, while they may remember with little difficulty facts which belong under each of these categories on account of the interest which they have taken in the problem, "Why is the western part of the United States much more sparsely populated than the Mississippi Valley?" Boys and girls who study physics in the high school may find it difficult to remember the principles involved in their study of heat if they are given only in their logical order and are applied only in laboratory exercises which have little or no meaning for them, while the same group of high school pupils may remember without difficulty these same laws or principles if associated round the issue of the most economical way of heating their houses, or of the best way to build an icehouse. There has been in our school system during the past few years more or less of a reaction against verbatim memorization, which is certainly justified when we are considering those subjects which involve primarily an organization of ideas in terms of problems to be solved, rather than memory for the particular form of expression of the ideas in question. It is worth while, however, at every stage of education to use whatever power children may possess for verbatim memorization, especially in the field of literature, and to some extent in other fields as well. It seems to the writers to be worth while to indicate as clearly as possible in the illustration which follows the method to be employed in verbatim memorization. As will be easily recognized, the number and organization of associations are an important consideration. It is especially important to call attention to the fact that any attempt at verbatim memorization should follow a very careful thinking through of the whole selection to be memorized. An organization of the ideas in terms of that which is most important, and that which can be subordinated to these larger thoughts, a combination of method of learning by wholes and by parts, is involved. It is not easy to indicate fully the method by which one would attempt to teach to a group of sixth-grade boys or girls Wordsworth's "Daffodils." The main outline of the method may, however, be indicated as follows: The first thing to be done is to arouse, in so far as is possible, some interest and enthusiasm for the poem in question. One might suggest to the class something of the beauty of the high, rugged hills, and of the lakes nestling among them in the region which is called the "Lake Region" in England. The Wordsworth cottage near one of the lakes, and at the foot of one of the high hills, together with the walk which is to this day called Wordsworth's Walk, can be brought to the mind, especially by a teacher who has taken the trouble to know something of Wordsworth's home life. The enthusiasm of the poet for the beauties of nature and his enjoyment in walking over the hills and around the lakes, is suggested by the poem itself. One might suggest to the pupils that this is the story of a walk which he took one morning early in the spring. The attempt will be made from this point on to give the illustration as the writer might have hoped to have it recorded as presented to a particular class. The poet tells us first of his loneliness and of the surprise which was his when he caught sight for the first time of the daffodils which had blossomed since the last time that he had taken this particular walk: "I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." You see, he was not expecting to meet any one or to have any unusual experience. He "wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills," and his surprise was complete when he saw suddenly,--"all at once I saw a crowd, a _host_ of _golden_ daffodils, beside the lake, beneath the trees." You might have said that they were waving in the wind, but he saw them "fluttering and dancing in the breeze." The daffodils as they waved and danced in the breeze suggested to him the experience which he had had on other walks which he had taken when the stars were shining, and he compares the golden daffodils to the shining, twinkling stars: "Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance." The daffodils were as "continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way." There was no beginning and no end to the line,--"They stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay." He saw as many daffodils as one might see stars,--"Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance." The poet has enjoyed the beauty of the little rippling waves in the lake, and he tells us that "The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed,--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:" The daffodils have really left the poet with a great joy,--the waves beside the daffodils are dancing, "but they outdid the _sparkling_ waves in glee," and of course "a poet could not but be gay in such a jocund company." Had you ever thought of flowers as a jocund company? You remember they fluttered and danced in the breeze, they lifted their heads in sprightly dance. Do you wonder that the poet says of his experience, "I gazed--and gazed,--but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought"? I wonder if any of you have ever had a similar experience. I remember the days when I used to go fishing, and there is a great joy even now in recalling the twitter of the birds and the hum of the bees as I lay on the bank and waited for the fish to bite. And what is the great joy which is his, and which may belong to us, if we really see the beautiful things in nature? He tells us when he says "For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils." There are days when we cannot get out of doors,--"For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood,"--these are the days when we recall the experiences which we have enjoyed in the days which are gone,--"they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude." And then for the poet, as well as for us, "And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils." Now let us get the main ideas in the story which the poet tells us of his adventure. "I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills," "I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils," they were "beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze." They reminded me as I saw the beautiful arched line of "the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way," because "they stretched in never-ending line along the margin of a bay"; and as I watched "ten thousand" I saw, "tossing their heads in sprightly dance." And then they reminded me of the waves which sparkled near by, "but they outdid the sparkling waves in glee," and in the happiness which was mine, "I gazed--and gazed,--but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought." And that happiness I can depend upon when upon my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood, for "they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude," and my heart will fill with pleasure and dance with the daffodils. These, then, are the big ideas which the poet has,--he wanders lonely as a cloud, he enjoys the great surprise of the daffodils, the great crowd, the host, of golden daffodils, fluttering and dancing in the breeze; he thinks of the stars that twinkle in the Milky Way, because the line of daffodils seems to have no beginning and no end,--he sees ten thousand of them at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. And as he looks at them he thinks of the beauty of the sparkling waves, and thinks of them as they dance with glee, and he gazes and gazes without thinking of the wealth of the experience. But later when he writes the poem, he tells us of the wealth of the experience which can last through all of the days when he lies on his couch in vacant or in pensive mood, for it is then that this experience flashes upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude, and his heart fills with pleasure and dances with the daffodils. Now let us say it all over again, and see how nearly we are able to recall the story of his experience in just the words that he used. I will read it for you first, and then you may all try to repeat it after me. The teacher then reads the whole poem through, possibly more than once, and then asks all of the children to recite it with him, repeating possibly the first stanza twice or three times until they get it, and then the second stanza two or three times, then the third as often as may be necessary, and finally the fourth. It may be well then to go back and again analyze the thought, and indicate, using as far as possible the author's own words, the development of ideas through the poem. Then the poem should be recited as a whole by the teacher and children. The children may then be left to study it so that they may individually on the next day recite it verbatim. The writer has found it possible to have a number of children in a sixth grade able to repeat the poem verbatim after the kind of treatment indicated above, and at the end of a period of fifteen minutes. QUESTIONS 1. Distinguish in so far as you can between habit and memory. 2. Name the factors which determine one's ability to recall. 3. How can you hope to improve children's memories? Which of the factors involved are subject to improvement? 4. In what way can you improve the organization of associations upon the part of children in any one of the subjects which you teach? How increase the number of associations? 5. What advantage has the method of concentration over the method of repetition in memorization? 6. Give the reasons why the method of recall is the best method of memorization. 7. If you were teaching a poem of four stanzas, would you use the method of memorization by wholes or by parts? Indicate clearly the degree to which the one or the other method should be used or the nature of the combination of methods for the particular selection which you use for the purposes of illustration. 8. How long do children in your classes seem to be able to work hard at verbatim memorization? 9. Under what conditions may the writing of the material being memorized actually interfere with the process? When may it help? 10. Why may it not be wise to attempt to teach "their" and "there" at the same time? 11. What is the type of memory employed by children who have considerable ability in cramming for examinations? Is this type of memory ever useful in later life? 12. What precaution do we need to take to insure permanence in memory upon the part of those who learn quickly? 13. What is meant by saying that we possess memories rather than a power or capacity called memory? 14. Do we forget with equal rapidity in all fields in which we have learned? What factors determine the rate of forgetting? 15. Why should a boy think through a poem to be memorized rather than beginning his work by trying to repeat the first two lines? * * * * * VI. THE TEACHER'S USE OF THE IMAGINATION Imagination is governed by the same general laws of association which control habit and memory. In these two former topics the emphasis was upon getting a desired result without any attention to the form of that result. Imagination, on the other hand, has to do with the way past experience is used and the form taken by the result. It merges into memory in one direction and into thinking in another. No one definition has been found acceptable--in fact, in no field of psychology is there more difference of opinion, in no topic are terms used more loosely, than in this one of imagination. Stated in very general terms, imagination is the process of reproducing, or reconstructing any form of experience. The result of such a process is a mental image. When the fact that it is reproduction or reconstruction is lost sight of, and the image reacted to as if it were present, an illusion or hallucination results. Images may be classified according to the sense through which the original experience came, into visual, auditory, gustatory, tactile, kinæsthetic, and so on. In many discussions of imagery the term "picture" has been used to describe it, and hence in the thought of many it is limited rather definitely to the visual field. Of course this is entirely wrong. The recall of a melody, or of the touch of velvet, or of the fragrance of a rose, is just as much mental imagery as the recall of the sight of a friend. Three points of dispute in connection with image types are worth while noting. First, the question is raised by some psychologists as to whether kinæsthetic or motor images really exist. An example of such an image would be to imagine yourself as dancing, or walking downstairs, or writing your name, or saying the word "bubble." Those who object to such an image type claim that when one tries to get such an image, the attempt initiates slight muscle movements and the result is a sense experience instead of an imaged one. They believe this always happens and that therefore a motor image is an impossibility. Others agree that this reinstatement of actual movements often happens, but contend that in such cases the image precedes the movement and that the resulting movement does not always take place. The question is still in dispute. The second question in dispute is as to the possibility of classifying people according to the predominant type of their imagery. People used to be classed as "visualizers," "audiles." etc., the supposition being that their mental imagery was predominantly in terms of vision or hearing. This is being seriously questioned, and experimental work seems to show that such a classification, at least with the majority of people, is impossible. The results which are believed to warrant such a conclusion are as follows: First, no one has ever been tested who always used one type of image. Second, the type of image used changed with the following factors: the material, the purpose of the subject, the familiarity of the subject with the experience imagined. For example, the same person would, perhaps, visualize if he were imaging landscape, but get an auditory image of a friend's voice instead of a visual image of him. He might, when under experimental conditions with the controlling purpose,--that of examining his images,--get visual images, but, when under ordinary conditions, get a larger number of auditory and kinæsthetic images. He might when thought was flowing smoothly be using auditory and motor images, but upon the appearance of some obstacle or difficulty in the process find himself flooded with visual images. Third, subjects who ranked high in one type of imagery ranked high in others, and subjects who ranked low in one type ranked low also in others. The ability seems to be that of getting clear image types, or the lack of it, rather than the ability to get one type. Fourth, most of the subjects reported that the first image was usually followed by others of different types. The conclusions then, that individuals, children as well as adults, are rarely of one fixed type, the mixed type being the usual one, is being generally accepted. In fact, it seems much more probable that materials and outside conditions can more easily be classified as usually arousing a certain type of image, than people can be classified into types. The third point of controversy grows out of the second. Some psychologists are asking what is the value of such a classification? Suppose people could be put under types in imagery, what would be the practical advantage? Such an attempt at classification is futile and not worth while, for two reasons. First, the result of the mental processes--the goal arrived at is the important thing, and the particular type of image used is of little importance. Does it make any difference to the business man whether his clerk thinks in terms of the visual images of words or in terms of motor images so long as he sells the goods? To the teacher of geography, does it make any difference whether John in his thinking of the value of trees is seeing them in his mind's eye, or hearing the wind rustle through the leaves, or smelling the moist earth, leaf-mold, or having none of these images, if he gets the meaning, and reaches a right conclusion? Second, the sense which gives the clearest, most dependable impressions is not the one necessarily in terms of which the experience is recalled. One of the chief values urged for a classification according to image type of people, especially children, has been that the appeal could then be made through the corresponding sense organs. For instance, Group A, being visualizers, will be asked to read the material silently; Group B, audiles, will have the material read to them; Group C, motiles, will be asked to read the material orally, or asked to dramatize it. For each group the major appeal should be made in terms of the sense corresponding to their image type. But such a correspondence as this does not exist. An individual may learn best by use of his eyes and yet very seldom use visual images in recall. This is true of most people in reading. Most people grasp the meaning of a passage better when they read it than when they hear it read, and yet the predominant type of word image is auditory-motor. Hence if any classification of children is attempted it should be according to the sense by means of which they learn best, and not according to some supposed image type. Many methods of appeal for all children is the safest practical suggestion. Images may also be classified according to the use made of past experience. Past experience may be recalled in approximately the same form in which it occurred, or it may be reconstructed. In the former case the image is called reproductive image or memory image; in the latter form it is called productive or creative image, or image of the imagination. The reproductive image never duplicates experience, but in its major features it closely corresponds to it, whereas the productive image breaks up old experiences and from them makes new wholes which correspond to no definite occurrence. The elements found in both kinds of imagery must come from experience. One cannot imagine anything the elements of which he has not experienced. Creative imagination transcends experience only in the sense that it remodels and remakes, but the result of that activity produces new wholes as far removed from the actual occurrences as "Alice in Wonderland" is from the humdrum life of a tenement dweller. Just the same, the fact that the elements used in creative work must be drawn from experience is extremely suggestive from a practical point of view. It demonstrates the need of a rich sensory life for every child. It also explains the reason for the lack of appreciation on the part of immature children of certain types of literature and certain moral questions. No more need be said here of the reproductive image, as it is synonymous with the memory image and was therefore treated fully under the topic of memory. One fact should be borne in mind, however, and that is, that the creative image is to some extent dependent on the reproductive image as it involves recall. However, as productive imagery involves the recall of elements or parts rather than wholes, an individual may have talent in creative imagery without being above the average in exact reproduction. Productive imagery may be classified as fanciful, realistic, and idealistic according to the character of the material used. Fanciful productive imagery is characterized by its spontaneity, its disregard of the probable and possible, its vividness of detail. It is its own reward, and does not look to any result beyond itself. Little children's imaginations are of this type--it is their play world of make-believe. The incongruity and absurdity of their images have been compared to the dreams of adults. Lacking in experience, without knowledge of natural laws, their imagination runs riot with the materials it has at its command. Some adults still retain it to a high degree--witness the myths and fairy stories, "Alice in Wonderland," and the like. All adults in their "castle-building" indulge in this type of imagery to some extent. Realistic productive imagery, as its name implies, adheres more strictly to actual conditions, it deals with the probable. It usually is constructed for a purpose, being put to some end beyond itself. It lacks much of the emotional element possessed by the other two types. This is the kind most valuable in reasoning and thinking. It deals with new situations--constructs them, creates means of dealing with them, and forecasts the results. It is the type of productive imagery called into play by inventors, by craftsmen, by physicians, by teachers--in fact, by any one who tries to bring about a change in conditions by the functioning of a definite thought process. This is the kind of imagery which most interests grammar school pupils. They demand facts, not fancies. They are most active in making changes in a world of things. Idealistic productive imagery does not fly in the face of reality as does the fanciful, nor does it adhere so strictly to facts as does the realistic. It deals with the possible--with what may be, but with what is not yet. It always looks to the future, for if realized it is no longer idealistic. It is enjoyed for its own sake but does not exist for that alone, but looks towards some result. It is concerned primarily with human lives and has a strong emotional tone. It is the heart of ideals. The adolescent revels in this type of productive imagery. His dreams concerning his own future, his service to his fellow men, his success, and the like involve much idealistic imagery. Hero worship involves it. It is one of the differences between the man with "vision" and the man without. The importance of productive imagery cannot be overemphasized. This power to create the new out of the old is one of the greatest possessions of mankind. All progress in every field, whether individual or racial, depends upon it. From the fertility and richness of man's productive imagination must come all the suggestions which will make this world other than what it is. Therefore one of the greatest tasks of education at present is to cherish and cultivate this power. One cannot fail to recognize, however, that with the emphasis at present so largely upon memory, the cultivation of the imagination is being pushed into the background despite all our theories to the contrary. Not only is productive imagery as a whole worth while, but each type is valuable. An adult lacking power of fanciful imagination lacks power to enjoy certain elements in life and lacks a very definite means of recreation. Lacking in realistic imagination he is unable to deal successfully with new situations, but must forever remain in bondage to the past. Without idealistic imagination he lacks the motive which makes men strive to be better, more efficient--other than what they are. At certain times in child development one type may need special encouragement, and at another time some other. All should, however, be borne in mind and developed along right and wholesome lines; otherwise, left to itself, any one of these, and especially the last, may be a source of danger to the character. Images may be classified according to the material dealt with into object images or concrete images and into word or abstract images. No one of these terms is very good as a name of the image referred to. The first group--object or concrete image--refers to an image in which the sensory qualities, such as color, size, rhythm, sweetness, harmony, etc., are present. The images of a friend, of a text-book, of the national anthem, of an orange, of the schoolroom, and so on, would all be object images. A word or abstract image is one which is a symbol. It stands for and represents certain sensory experiences, the quality of which does not appear in the image. Any word, number, mathematical or chemical symbol--in fact, any abstract symbol will come under this type of image. If in the first list of illustrations, instead of having images of the real objects, an individual had images of words in each case, the images would be abstract or verbal images. Abstract images shade into concrete by gradual degrees--there is no sharp line of division between the two; however, they do form two different kinds of images, two forms which may have the same meaning. The question as to the respective use and value of these two kinds of images is given different answers. There is no question but that the verbal image is more economical than the object image. It saves energy and time. It brings with it less of irrelevant detail and is more stable than the object image, and therefore results in more accurate thinking. It is abstract in nature and therefore has more general application. On the other hand, it has been claimed for the object image that it necessarily precedes the verbal image--is fundamental to it; that it is essential in creative work dealing with materials and sounds and in the appreciation of certain types of descriptive literature, and that in any part of the thinking process when, because of difficulty of some kind, a percept would help, an object image would be of the same assistance. It is concerning these supposed advantages of the object image that there has been most dispute. There is no proof that the line of growth is necessarily from percept, through object image, to verbal image. In certain fields, notably smell, the object image is almost absent and yet the verbal images in that field carry meaning. It is also true that people whose power of getting clear-cut, vivid object images is almost nil seem to be in nowise hampered by that fact in their use of the symbols. Knowing the unreliability of the object image, it would seem very unsafe to use it as the link between percept and symbol. Much better to connect the symbol directly with the experience and let it gain its meaning from that. As to its value in constructive work in arts, literature, drama, and invention, the testimony of some experts in each field bears witness that it is not a necessary accompaniment of success. The musician need not hear, mentally, all the harmonies, changes, intervals; he may think them in terms of notes, rests, etc., as he composes. The poet need not see the scene he is describing; verbal images may bear his meanings. Of course this does not mean that object images may not be present too, but the point is that the worker is not dependent on them. The aid offered by object images in time of difficulty is still more open to doubt. As an illustration of what is meant by this: Suppose a child to be given a carpeting example in arithmetic which he finds himself unable to solve. The claim is made that if he will then call up a concrete image of the room, he will see that the carpet is laid in strips and that suggestion may set him right. But it has been proved experimentally over and over again that if he doesn't know that carpets are laid that way, he will never get it from the image, and if he does know it, he doesn't need an object image. It seems to be a fact that object images do not function, in the sense that one cannot get a correct answer as to color, or form, or number from them. One can read off from a concrete image what he knows to be true of it--or else it is just guessing. "Knowing" in each case involves observation and judgment, and that means verbal images. Students whose power of concrete imagery is low do, on the average, in situations where a concrete image would supposedly help, just as well as students whose power in this field is high. It does seem to be true that object images give a vividness and color to mental life which may result in a keener appreciation of certain types of literature. This warmth and vividness which object images add to the mental processes of those who have them is a boon. On the whole, then, word images are the more valuable of the two types. Upon them depends, primarily, the ability to handle new situations, and even in the constructive fields they are all sufficient. These two facts, added to the fact that they are more accurate, speedy, and general in application, makes them a necessary part of the mental equipment of an efficient worker, and means that much more attention must be given to the development of productive symbol images. Two warnings should be borne in mind: First, although the object images are not necessary in general, as discussed above, to any given individual, because of his particular habits of thought, they may be necessary accompaniments to his mental processes. Second, although object images may not help in giving understanding or appreciation under new conditions, still the method of asking students to try to image certain conditions is worth while because it makes them stop and think, which is always a help. Whether they get object or word images in the process makes no difference. The discussion concerning the possibility of "imageless" thought, while an interesting one, cannot be entered into here. Whether "meanings" can exist in the human mind apart from any carrier in the form of some sensory or imaginal state is unsettled, but the discussion has drawn attention to at least the very fragmentary nature of those carriers. A few fragments of words, a mental shrug of the shoulder, a feeling of the direction in which a certain course is leading, a consciousness of one's attitude towards a plan or person--and the conclusion is reached. The thinking, or it may even have been reasoning, involved few clear-cut images of any kind. The fragmentary, schematic nature of the carriers and the large part played by feelings of direction and attitude are the rather astonishing results of the introspective analysis resulting from this discussion. This sort of thinking is valuable for the same reasons that thinking in terms of words is valuable--it only goes a step further, but it needs direction and training. Images of all kinds have been discussed as if they stood out clearly differentiated from all other types of mental states. This is necessary in order that their peculiar characteristics and functions may be clear. However, they are not so clearly defined in actual mental life, but shade into each other and into other mental states, giving rise to confusion and error. The two greatest sources of error are: first, the confusion of image with percept, and second, the confusion of memory image with image of the imagination. The chief difference between these mental states as they exist is a difference in kind and amount of associations. These different associates usually give to the percept a vividness and material reality which the other two lack. They give to the memory image a feeling of pastness and trueness which the image of imagination lacks. Therefore lack of certain associations, due to lack of experience or knowledge, or presence of associations due to these same causes and to the undue vividness of other connections, could easily result in one of these states being mistaken for another. There is no inherent difference between them. The first type of confusion, between percept and image, has been recently made the subject of investigation. Perky found that even with trained adults, if the perceptual stimulus was slight, it was mistaken for an image. All illusions would come under this head. Children's imaginary companions, when really believed in, are explained by this confusion. However, the confusion is much more general than these illustrations would seem to imply. The fact that "Love is blind," that "We see what we look for" are but statements of this same confusion, and these two facts enter into multitudes of situations all through life. The need to "see life clearly and see it whole" is an imperative one. The second type of confusion, between reproductive and productive memory, is even more common. The "white lies" of children, the embroidering of a story by the adult, the adding to and adding to the original experience until all sense of what really happened is lost, are but ordinary facts of everyday experiences. The unreliability of witness and testimony is due, in part, to this confusion. QUESTIONS 1. How is the process of imagination like memory? 2. What is the relation of imagination to thinking? 3. What kind of images do you seek to have children use in their work in the subjects which you teach? 4. Can you classify the members of your class as visualizers, audiles, and the like? 5. If one learns most readily by reading rather than hearing, does it follow that his images will be largely visual? Why? 6. Give examples from your own experience of memory images; of creative images. 7. To what degree does creative imagination depend upon past experiences? 8. What type of imagery is most important for the work of the inventor? The farmer? The social reformer? 9. Of what significance in the life of an adult is fanciful imagery? 10. What, if any, is the danger involved in reveling in idealistic productive imagery? 11. What advantages do verbal images possess as over against object images? 12. Why would you ask children to try to image in teaching literature, geography, history, or any other subject for which you are responsible? 13. How would you handle a boy who is hi the habit of confusing memory images with images of imagination? 14. In what sense is it true that all progress, is dependent upon productive imagination? * * * * * VII. HOW THINKING MAY BE STIMULATED The term "thinking" has been used almost as loosely as the term "imagination," and used to mean almost as many different things. Even now there is no consensus of opinion as to just what thinking is. Dewey says, "Active, persistent, and careful consideration of any belief or supposed form of knowledge in the light of the grounds that support it, and the further conclusions to which it tends, constitutes reflective thought."[5] Miller says, "Thinking is not so much a distinct conscious process as it is an organisation of all the conscious processes which are relevant in a problematic situation for the performance of the function of consciously adjusting means to end."[6] Thinking always presupposes some lack in adjustment, some doubt or uncertainty, some hesitation in response. So long as the situation, because of its simplicity or familiarity, receives immediately a response which satisfies, there is no need for thinking. Only when the response is inadequate or when no satisfactory response is forthcoming is thinking aroused. By far the majority of the daily adjustments made by people, both mental and physical, require no thinking because instinct, habit, and memory suffice. It is only when these do not serve to produce a satisfactory response that thinking is needed--only when there is something problematic in the situation. Even in new situations thinking is not always used to bring about a satisfactory adjustment. Following an instinctive prompting when confronted by a new situation; blindly following another's lead; using the trial and error method of response; reacting to the situation as to the old situation most like it; or response by analogy: all are methods of dealing with new situations which often result in correct adjustments, and yet none of which need involve thinking. This does not mean that these methods, save the first mentioned, may not be accompanied by thinking; but that each of them may be used without the conscious adjustment of means to end demanded by thinking. That these methods, and not thinking, are the ones most often used, even by adults, in dealing with problems, cannot be denied. They offer an easy means of escape from the more troublesome method of thinking. It is so much easier to accept what some one else says, so much easier to agree with a book's answer to a question than to think it out for oneself. Following the first suggestion offered, just going at things in a hit-or-miss fashion, uncritical response by analogy, saves much time and energy apparently, and therefore these methods are adopted and followed by the majority of people in most of the circumstances of life. It is human nature to think only when no other method of mental activity brings the desired response. We think only when we must. Not only is it true that problems are often solved correctly by other methods than that of thinking, but on the other hand much thinking may take place and yet the result be an incorrect conclusion, or perhaps no solution at all be reached. Think of the years of work men have devoted to a single problem, and yet perhaps at the end of that time, because of a wrong premise or some incorrect data, have arrived at a result that later years have proved to have been utterly false. Think of the investigations being carried on now in medicine, in science, in invention, which because of the lack of knowledge are still incomplete, and yet in each case thinking of the most technical and rigorous type has been used. Thinking cannot be considered in terms of the result. Correct results may be obtained, even in problematic situations, with no thinking, and on the other hand much thinking may be done and yet the results reached be entirely unsatisfactory. Thinking is a process involving a certain definite procedure. It is the organisation of all mental states toward a certain definite end, but is not any one mental state. In certain types of situations this procedure is the one most certain of reaching correct conclusions, in some situations it is the only possible one, but the conclusion is not the thinking and its correctness does not differentiate the process from others. From the foregoing discussions it must not be deduced that because of the specific nature and the difficulty of thinking that the power is given only to adults. On the contrary, the power is rooted in the original equipment of the human race and develops gradually, just as all other original capacities do. Children under three years of age manifest it. True, the situations calling it out are very simple, and to the adult seem often trivial, as they most often occur in connection with the child's play, but they none the less call for the adjustment of means to end, which is thinking. A lost toy, the absence of a playmate, the breaking of a cup, a thunderstorm, these and hundreds of other events of daily life are occasions which may arouse thinking on the part of a little child. It is not the type of situation, nor its dignity, that is the important thing in thinking, but the way in which it is dealt with. The incorrectness of a child's data, their incompleteness and lack of organization, often result in incorrect conclusions, and still his thinking may be absolutely sound. The difference between the child and the adult in this power is a difference in degree--both possess the power. As Dewey says, "Only by making the most of the thought-factor, already active in the experience of childhood, is there any promise or warrant for the emergence of superior reflective power at adolescence, or at any later period."[7] Thinking, then, is involved in any response which comes as a result of the conscious adaptation of means to end in a problematic situation. Many of the processes of mental activity which have been given other names may involve this process. Habit formation--when the learner analyzes his progress or failure, when he tries to find a short cut, or when he seeks for an incentive to insure greater improvement--may serve as a situation calling for thinking. The process of apperceiving or of assimilation may involve it. Studying and trying to remember may involve it. Constructive imagination often calls for it. Reasoning, always requires it. In the older psychology reasoning and thinking were often used as synonyms, but more recently it has been accepted by most psychologists that reasoning is simply one type of thinking, the most advanced type, and the most demanding type, but not the only one. Thinking may go on (as in the other processes just mentioned) without reasoning, but all reasoning must involve thinking. It is this lack of differentiation between reasoning and thinking, the attempt to make of all thinking, reasoning, that has limited teachers in their attempts to develop thinking upon the part of their pupils. The essentials of the thinking process are three: (1) a state of doubt or uncertainty, resulting in suspended judgment; (2) an organization and control of mental states in view of an end to be attained; (3) a critical attitude involving selection and rejection of suggestions offered. The recognition of some lack of adjustment, the feeling of need for something one hasn't, is the only stimulus toward thinking. This problematic situation, resulting in suspended judgment, caused by the inadequacy of present power or knowledge, may arise in connection with any situation. It is unfortunate that the terms "problematic situation" and "feeling of inadequacy" have been discussed almost entirely in connection with situations when the result has some pragmatic value. There is no question but what the situation arousing thinking must be a live one and a real one, but it need not be one the answer to which will be useful. It is true that with the majority of people, both children and adults, a problem of this type will be more often effective in arousing the thinking process than a problem of a more abstract nature, but it is not always so, nor necessarily so. Most children sometimes, and some children most of the time, enjoy thinking simply for the sake of the activity. They do not need the concrete, pragmatic situation--anything, no matter how abstract, that arouses their curiosity or appeals to their love of mastery offers enough of a problem. Sometimes children are vitally interested in working geometrical problems, translating difficult passages in Latin, striving to invent the perpetual motion machine, even though there is no evident and useful result. It is not the particular type of situation that is the thing to be considered, but the attitude that it arouses in the individual concerned. Educators in discussion of the situations that make for thinking must allow for individual differences and must plan for the intellectually minded as well as for others. The thinker confronted by a situation for which his present knowledge is not adequate, recognizes the difficulty and suspends judgment; in other words, does not jump at a conclusion but undertakes to think it out. To do this control is continually necessary. He must keep his problem continually before him and work directly for its solution, avoiding delays, avoiding being side-tracked. This means, of course, the critical attitude towards all suggestions offered. Each one as it comes must be inspected in the light of the end to be reached--if it does not seem to help towards that goal, it must be rejected. Criticism, selection, and rejection of suggestions offered must continue as long as the thinking process goes on. "To maintain the state of doubt and to carry on systematic and protracted inquiry--these are the essentials of thinking." In order to maintain this critical attitude to select and reject suggestions with reference to a goal, the suggestions as they come cannot be accepted as units and followed. Such a procedure is possible only when the mental process is not controlled by an end. Control by a goal necessitates analysis of the suggestions and abstraction of what in them is essential for the particular problem in hand. It is because no complete association at hand offers a satisfactory response to the situation that the need for thinking arises. Each association as it comes must be broken up, certain parts or elements emerge, certain relationships, implications, or functions are made conscious. Each of these is examined in turn; as they seem to be valueless for the purpose of the thinker, they are rejected. If one element or relationship seems significant for the problem, it is seized upon, abstracted from its fellows, and becomes the center of the next series of suggestions. A part, element, quality, or what not, of the situation is accepted as significant of it for the time being. The part stands for the whole--this is characteristic of all thinking. As a very simple illustration, consider the following one reported by Dewey: "Projecting nearly horizontally from the upper deck of the ferryboat on which I daily cross the river, is a long white pole, bearing a gilded ball at its tip. It suggested a flag pole when I first saw it; its color, shape, and gilded ball agreed with this idea, and these reasons seemed to justify me in this belief. But soon difficulties presented themselves. The pole was nearly horizontal, an unusual position for a flag pole; in the next place, there was no pulley, ring, or cord by which to attach a flag; finally, there were elsewhere two vertical staffs from which flags were occasionally flown. It seemed probable that the pole was not there for flag-flying. "I then tried to imagine all possible purposes of such a pole, and to consider for which of these it was best suited: (_a_) Possibly it was an ornament. But as all the ferryboats and even the tugboats carried like poles, this hypothesis was rejected. (_b_) Possibly it was the terminal of a wireless telegraph. But the same considerations made this improbable. Besides, the more natural place for such a terminal would be the highest part of the boat, on top of the pilot house, (_c_) Its purpose might be to point out the direction in which the boat is moving. "In support of this conclusion, I discovered that the pole was lower than the pilot house, so that the steersman could easily see it. Moreover, the tip was enough higher than the base, so that, from the pilot's position, it must appear to project far out in front of the boat. Moreover, the pilot being near the front of the boat, he would need some such guide as to its direction. Tugboats would also need poles for such a purpose. This hypothesis was so much more probable than the others that I accepted it. I formed the conclusion that the pole was set up for the purpose of showing the pilot the direction in which the boat pointed, to enable him to steer correctly."[8] The problem was to find out the use of the flag pole. No adequate explanation came as the problem presented itself; it therefore caused a state of uncertainty, of suspended judgment, and a process of thinking in order to get an answer. Each suggestion that came was analyzed, its requirements and possibilities checked up by the actual facts and the goal. The suggestions that the pole was simply to carry a flag, was an ornament, was the terminal of a wireless telegraph, were examined and rejected. The final one, that the pole was to point out the direction in which the boat was moving, upon analysis seemed most probable and was accepted. The one characteristic of the pole, that it points direction, and its position, need to be accepted as the essential facts in the situation, for the particular problem. Without control of the process, without the two steps of analysis and abstraction, no conclusion could have been reached. Analysis and abstraction may be facilitated in three ways. First, by attentive piecemeal examination. The total situation is examined, element by element, attentively, until the element needed is reached or approximated. This method of procedure helps to emphasize minor bonds of association which the element possesses in the learner's experience but which he needs to have brought to his attention. It can only be used when the element is known to some degree. It is the method to use when elements are known in a hazy, incomplete, or indefinite way and need clearing up. Second, by varying the concomitant. An element associated with many situations, which vary in other respects, comes to be felt and recognized as independent. This is the method to use when a new element in a complex is to be taught. Third, by contrast. A new element is brought into consciousness more quickly if it is set side by side with its opposite. Of course, this is only true provided the opposite has already been learned. To present opposites, both of which are new or only partially learned, confuses the analysis instead of facilitating it. Reasoning, as the highest type of thinking, includes all that thinking in general does, and adds some particular requirement which differentiates it from the simpler forms. Further discussion of it, then, should make clearer the essential in thinking as a process, as well as make clear its most difficult form. Reasoning is defined by Miller as "controlled thinking,--thinking organized and systematized according to laws and principles and carried on by use of superior technique."[9] Reasoning, then, is the kind of thinking that deals directly with laws and principles. Much thinking may be carried on without any overt, definite use of laws and principles, as in constructive imagination or in apperception, but, if this is so, it seems better to call the thinking by one of the other names. Of course this classification is somewhat arbitrary, but there can be no question that types of thinking do differ. As has already been noted, some psychologists have used the terms thinking and reasoning as synonyms, but such usage has resulted in confusion and has not been of practical value. It is only as the mental process desired becomes clearly conceived of, its connotations and denotation clearly defined, that it becomes a real goal towards Which a teacher or learner may strive. This, then, is the primary criterion of reasoning--that the thinker be dealing consciously with laws and principles. An acceptance of this first essential makes clear that the particular process of reasoning cannot be carried on in subjects which lack laws and principles. Spelling, elementary reading, vocabulary study, most of the early work in music and art, the acquisition of facts wherever found--these situations may offer opportunity for thinking, but little if any for reasoning. Because a teacher is using the development method does not mean necessarily that her students are reasoning. The two terms are not in any way synonymous. The second essential in reasoning is the presence of a definite technique. This technique consists of two factors: first, certain definite mental states, and second, the use of the process of thinking by either the inductive or the deductive method. First as to the mental states involved. The fact that the thinking deals with laws and principles necessitates the presence, in the thinking process, of constructive verbal or symbolic imagery, logical relationships, logical concepts, and explicit judgments. This does not at all exclude other types of these mental states and entirely different mental states. The kind of analysis involved simply necessitates the presence of these types, whatever others may be present. Constructive symbolic imagery has already been discussed. Logical relationships are those that are independent of accidental conditions, are not dependent on mere contiguity in time and space, but are inherent in the association involved. Such relationships are those of likeness and difference, cause and effect, subject and object, equality, concession, and the like. Logical concepts are those which are the result of thinking, whose definite meaning has been brought clearly into consciousness so that a definition could be framed. A child has some notion of the meaning of tree, or man, or chemist, and therefore possesses a concept of some kind, but the exact meaning, the particular qualities necessary, are usually lacking, and so it could not be called a logical concept. Explicit judgments are those which contain within themselves the reasons for the inference. They, too, are the result of thinking. One may say that "cheating is wrong," or that "water will not rise above its source level," or that "cleanliness is necessary to health," or that "this is a Rembrandt"--as a matter of experience, habit, but without any reflection and with no reasons for such judgment. If, on the other hand, the problems to which these judgments are answers had been a matter of thinking, the reasons or the ground for such judgment would have become conscious and the judgment then become explicit. It must be evident that in any problems dealing with laws and principles the mental states involved must be definite, clear cut, logically sound, and their implications thoroughly appreciated and understood. The second element in the technique necessary in reasoning is the use of either the inductive or the deductive method in the process. Induction requires--a problem, search for facts with which to solve it, comparison and analysis of those facts, abstraction of the essential likenesses, and conclusion. Deduction requires--a problem, the analysis of the situation and abstraction of its essential elements, search for generals under which to classify it, comparison of it with each general found, and conclusion. It is unfortunate that in the discussions of induction and deduction the differences have been so emphasized that they have been regarded as different processes, whereas the likenesses far outweigh the differences. An examination of the requirements of each as stated above shows that the process in the two is the same. Not only do both involve reasoning and therefore require the major steps of analysis and abstraction present in all thinking, but both also involve search and comparison. Both, of course, involve the same kind of mental states. At times it is very difficult to distinguish between them. Although for practical purposes it is necessary, sometimes, to stress the differences, the inherent similarity should not be lost sight of. The differences between these two methods of reasoning are, first, in the locus of the problem; second, in the order of the steps of the process; third, in the relative proportion of particulars and generals used; fourth, in the devices used, (1) In induction the problem is concerned with a general. In some situation a concept, law, or principle has proven inadequate as a response. The question is then raised as to what is wrong with it and the inductive process is instigated. The problem is solved when the principle or concept is perfected or enlarged--in other words, is made adequate. In deduction the problem is concerned with the individual situation. Some problem is raised by a particular fact or experience and is answered when it is placed under the law or concept to which it belongs. Deduction is, practically the classification of particulars. (2) The order of steps is different. In induction, because present knowledge falls short, the major step of analysis necessary to abstraction of the essential is impossible, and therefore the search for new facts must come first, whereas in deduction, the analysis of the particular situation results in a search for generals and a classification of the situation in question. (3) In induction many particular facts may be necessary before one concept or principle is made adequate, while in deduction many concepts or principles may be examined before one particular is classified. (4) In induction the hypothesis is used as a device to make clear the possible goal; in deduction the syllogism is used as a device to make clear the conclusion which has been reached, to throw into relief the classification and the result coming from it. In this discussion, induction and deduction have been treated, for the sake of clearness, as if they acted independently of each other, as if a thinker might at one time use deduction and at another time induction. They have been outlined in such a way that one might think that the movement of the mind in one process was such that it precluded the possibility of the other process. This is not so--the two are inextricably mingled in the actual process of reasoning, and further, induction as used in practical life always involves deduction at two points, as an initial starting point and as an end point. The knowledge that a certain principle is inadequate comes to consciousness through the attempt to classify some particular experience under it. Failure results and the inductive process may then be initiated, but this initial attempt is deductive and if it had been successful there would have been no need of induction. After the inductive process is complete and the general principle has been classified or perfected, the final step is testing it to see if it is adequate, first by applying it to the particular problem which caused the whole process, and then to new situations. If it tests, it is accepted,--if not, further induction is necessary. This again is deduction. Not only is induction not complete without deduction, but each deduction influences the principle which is applied, making it more sure and more flexible. Even in the process of induction, there are attempts to classify these facts which are being gathered under suggested old principles, or half-formed new ones, before the process is completed. This is a deductive movement, even though it prove unsatisfactory or impossible. Dewey describes this interaction by saying, "There is thus a double movement in all reflection: a movement from the given partial and confused data to a suggested comprehension (or inclusive) entire situation; and back from this suggested whole--which as suggested is a meaning, an idea--to the particular facts, so as to connect these with one another and with additional facts to which the suggestion has directed attention."[10] However true this intermingling of induction and deduction may be, the fact still remains true that in any given case the major movement is in one direction or the other, and that therefore in order to insure effective thinking measures must be taken accordingly. As a child formulates his conception of a verb, or words the characteristic essentials of the lily-family, or frames the rule for addition of fractions or the action of a base on a metal, he is concerned primarily with the form of the reasoning process known as induction. When he classes a certain word as a conjunction, a certain city as a trade center, a certain problem as one in percentage, he is using deduction. Complexes and gradual shadings of one state into another, not clearly defined and sharply differentiated processes and states, are characteristic of all mental life. Another unfortunate statement with regard to induction and deduction is that the former "proceeds from particulars to generals" and the latter from "generals to particulars." Both of these statements omit the starting point and leave the thinker with no ground for either the particulars or the generals with which he works. The thinker is supposed, let us say, to collect specimens of flowers in order to arrive at a notion of the characteristics of a certain class--but why collect these rather than any others? True, in the artificial situation of a schoolroom or college, the learner often collects in a certain field rather than another, simply because he is told to. But in daily life he would not be told to---the incentive must come from some particular situation which presents a problem and therefore limits the field of search. The starting point must be a particular experience or situation. The same thing is true in deduction, although the syllogistic form has often been misleading. "Metals are hard; iron is a metal, therefore iron is hard." But why talk about metals at all--and if so why hardness rather than color or effect on bases or some other characteristic? Of course, here again it is some particular problem that defines the search for the general and directs attention to some class characteristics rather than to others. Not only is the starting point of all reasoning some definite situation for which there is no adequate response, but the end point must naturally be the same. A particular problem demanding solution is the cause for reasoning, and, of course, the end of the process must be the solution of that problem. From the foregoing it must not be concluded that the processes of induction and deduction are manifested only in connection with reasoning. In fact, their use as a conscious tool of technique in reasoning comes only after considerable experience of their use when there was no conscious purpose and no control. A little child's notion of dog, or tree, or city--in fact, all his psychological concepts necessitate the inductive movement, but it has taken place in his spontaneous thinking and the meanings have evolved after considerable experience without any definite control on his part. So with deduction. As he recognizes this as a chestnut tree, that as a rocking chair, as he decides that this is wrong or that it is going to clear, he is classifying things, or conduct, or conditions, and so is following the deductive movement. But the judgments may come as a result of past experience, may be spontaneous and involve no protracted controlled activity which has been defined as thinking. Man's mind works spontaneously both inductively and deductively, and hence the possibility of control of these operations later. Thinking is an outgrowth of spontaneous activity; reasoning is but an application of the natural laws of mental activity to certain situations. The laws of readiness, exercise, and effect govern thinking just as they do all other mental processes. Thinking is not independent of habit; it is not a mysterious force other than association which deals with novel data. Thinking is merely an exhibition of the laws of habit under certain definite situations. At first sight this seems to be impossible, because, as has been emphasized throughout this chapter, thinking takes place when no satisfactory response is at hand and when nothing is offered by past experience which is adequate. As a result of the thinking, responses are reached which never before have occurred as a result of that situation. Just the same they are reached only because of the operation of the laws of habit. It must be borne in mind that the laws of association do not work in such a way that only gross total situations are bound to total responses. In man particularly, situations are being continually broken up into elements, and those elements connected with responses. Responses are being continually disintegrated, and elements, instead of the whole response, being bound to situations. Analysis is continually taking place merely as a result of the working of these laws. If the nervous mechanism of man were not of this hair-trigger variety, if elements did not emerge from a total complex as a result of bonds formed, of readiness of certain tracts, no willing, no attention on the part of the thinker, would ever bring about analysis. This is made very vivid when one is met by a problem he cannot solve. If the situation does not break up, if the right element does not emerge, if the right cue is not given, he is helpless. All he can do is to hold fast to his problem and wait. As the associations are offered, he can select and reject, but that is all. The marvelous power of the genius, the inventor, the reasoner in all fields, is merely an exhibition of the laws of association working with extremely subtle elements. It seems to transcend all experience because these elements and the bonds which experience has formed cannot be observed. A child fails in his thinking often because he uses his past experience and responds by analogy--we note that fact and criticize him for it. But he succeeds for just the same reason and by the use of just the same laws. James long ago showed conclusively that association by similarity, which is one of the prominent types used in reasoning, was only the law of habit working with elements of novel data. The fact that thinking is determined by its aim rather than by its antecedents has also been given a mysterious place as apart from association. The thinker who chose the right associate, the one that led him towards his goal rather than some other, was called sagacious. But, after all, this being governed by an aim is nothing more than the operation of the law of readiness among intellectual bonds. One associate is chosen and another rejected because one is more satisfying than another. Certain bonds are made more ready than others because of the general set or attitude of the thinker, and therefore any associate using those bonds brings satisfaction and is retained. "The power that moves the man of science to solve problems correctly is the same that moves him to eat, sleep, rest, and play. The efficient thinker is not only more fertile in ideas and more often productive of the 'right' ideas than the incompetent is; he is also more satisfied by them when he gets them, and more rebellious against the futile and misleading ones. We trust to the laws of cerebral nature to present us spontaneously with the appropriate idea, and also _to prefer that idea to others."_[11] The reasons for failure of teachers and educators of all kinds to train people to think are numerous. (1) Scarcity of brains which work primarily in terms of connections between subtle elements, relationships, etc. (2) Lack of knowledge or incorrect knowledge, due to narrow experience or poor memory. (3) Lack of the necessary habits of attention and criticism. (4) Lack of power of the more abstract and intellectual operations to bring satisfaction, due partly to original equipment and partly to training. (5) Lack of power to do independent work, due to poor training. Schools cannot in any way make good the deficiency which is due to a lack of mental capacity. They can, and should, do something to provide knowledge which is well organized around experiences which have proved vital to pupils. Something can undoubtedly be done in the way of cultivating the habit of concentration of attention, and of making more or less habitual the critical attitude. Within the range of the ability which the individuals to be educated possess, the school may do much to give training which will make independent work or thinking more common in the experience of school pupils, and therefore much more apt to be resorted to in the case of any problematic situation. Possibly the greatest weakness in our schools, as they are at present constituted, is in the dependence of both teachers and children upon text-books, laboratory manuals, lectures, and the like. In almost every field of knowledge which is presented in our elementary and high schools, more opportunity should be given for contact with life activities. Such contacts should, in so far as it is possible, involve the organization of the observations which are made with relation to problems and principles which the subject seeks to develop. In nature study or in geography in the elementary school many of the principles involved are never really mastered by children, by virtue of the fact that they merely memorize the words which are involved, rather than solve any of the problems which may occur, either by virtue of their intellectual interests, or on account of their meaning in everyday life. The following of the instructions given in the laboratory manual does not necessarily result in developing the spirit of inquiry or investigation, nor even acquaint pupils with the method of the science which is supposed to be studied. Possibly the greatest contribution which a teacher can make to the development of thinking upon the part of children is in discovering to them problems which challenge their attention, the solution of which for them is worth while. As has already been indicated, an essential element in thinking is constantly to select from among the many associations which may be available that one which will contribute to the particular problem which we have in mind. The mere grouping of ideas round some topic does not satisfy this requirement, for such a reciting of paragraphs or chapters may amount simply to memorization and nothing more. If a teacher can in geography or in history send children to their books to find such facts as are available for the solution of a particular problem, she is stimulating thought upon their part, and may at the same time be giving them some command of the technique of inquiry or of investigation. The class that starts to work, either in the discussion during the recitation period, or when they work at their seats, or at home, with a clear statement of the aim or problem may be expected to do much more in the way of thinking than will occur in the experience of those who are merely told to read certain parts of a book. In a well-conducted recitation which involves thinking, the aim needs to be restated a number of times in order that the selection of those associations which are important, and the rejection of those which are not pertinent, may continue over a considerable period. In so far as it is possible, children should be made to feel responsibility for the progress which is made in the solution of their problems. They should be critical of the contributions made by each other. They should be sincere in their expression of doubt, and in questioning whenever they do not understand. Above all, if they are really thinking, they need to have an opportunity for free discussion. In classrooms in which children are seated in rows looking at the backs of each other's heads and reciting to the teacher, the tendency is simply to satisfy what the pupils conceive to be the demands of the teacher, rather than to think and to attempt to resolve one's doubts. In classes in which teachers provide not only for a statement of the problem which is to be solved during the study period, but also for a variety in assignments, children may be expected to bring to class differences in points of view and in the data which they have collected. In such a situation discussion is a perfectly normal process, and thinking is stimulated. As children pass through the several grades of the school system, they ought to become increasingly conscious of the process of reasoning. They should be asked to tell how they have arrived at their conclusions. They should give the reason for their judgments. A great deal of loose thinking would be avoided if we could in some measure establish the habit upon the part of boys and girls of asking, "Will it work in all cases?"; "What was assumed as a basis for arriving at the conclusion which I have accepted?"; "Are the data which have been brought together adequate?"; "To what degree have the fallacies which are more or less common in reasoning entered into my thinking?" It is not that one would hope to give a course in logic to elementary or to high school children, but rather that they should learn, out of the situations which demand thought, constantly to check up their conclusions and to verify them in every possible way. We may not expect by this method to create any unusual power of thought, but we may in some degree provide for the development of a critical attitude which will enable these same boys and girls, both now and as they grow older, to discriminate between those who merely dogmatize, and those who present a sound basis for their reasoning, either in terms of a principle which can be accepted, or in terms of observations or experiments which establish the conclusions which they are asked to accept. In all of the work which involves thinking, it is of the utmost importance that we preserve upon the part of pupils, in so far as it is possible, an open-minded attitude. It is well to have children in the habit of saying with respect to their conclusions that in so far as they have the evidence, this or that conclusion seems to be justified. It may even be well to have them reach the conclusion in some parts of their work that there are not sufficient data available upon which to base a generalization, or that certain principles which are accepted as valid by some thinkers are questioned by others, and that the conclusions which are based upon principles which are not commonly accepted must always be stated by saying: it follows, if you accept a particular principle, that this particular conclusion will hold. We need more and more to encourage the habit of independent work. We must hope as children pass through our school system that they will grow more and more independent in their statement of conclusions and of beliefs. We can never expect that boys and girls, or men and women, will reach conclusions on all of the questions which are of importance to them, but it ought to be possible, especially for those of more than usual capacity, to distinguish between the conclusions of a scientific investigation and the statements of a demagogue. The use of whatever capacity for independent thought which children possess should result in the development of a group of open-minded, inquiring, investigating boys and girls, eager and willing in confronting their common community problems to do their own thinking, or to be guided by those who present conclusions which are recognized as valid. They should learn to act in accordance with well-established conclusions, even though they may have to break with the traditions or superstitions which have operated to interfere with the development of the social welfare of the group with which they are associated. QUESTIONS 1. How do children (and adults) most frequently solve their problems? 2. Under what conditions do children think and yet reach wrong conclusions? Give examples. 3. Can first-grade children think? Give examples which prove your contention. 4. What are the important elements to be found in all thinking? 5. Show how these elements may be involved in a first-grade lesson in nature study. In an eighth-grade lesson in geography. In the teaching of any high school subject. 6. When may habit formation involve thinking? Memorization? 7. Give five examples of problems which you believe will challenge the brightest pupils in your class. Which would seem real and worth solving to the duller members of the group? 8. How may the analysis of such ideas as come to mind, and the abstraction of the part which is valuable for the solution of a particular problem, be facilitated? 9. How do you distinguish between thinking and reasoning? 10. What are the essential elements in reasoning? Give an example of reasoning as carried on by one solving a problem in arithmetic or geometry, in geography, physics, or chemistry. 11. In what respects are the processes of induction and deduction alike? In what do they differ? 12. At what stage of the inductive process is deduction involved? 13. Give examples of reasoning demanded in school work in which the process is predominantly inductive. Deductive. 14. Why are the statements "Induction proceeds from particulars to generals" and "Deduction from generals to particulars" inadequate to describe either process? 15. In what sense is thinking dependent upon the operation of the laws of habit? 16. To what degree is it possible to teach your pupils to think? Under what limitations do you work? * * * * * VIII. APPRECIATION, AN IMPORTANT ELEMENT IN EDUCATION Appreciation belongs to the general field of feeling rather than that of knowing. The element which distinguishes appreciation from memory or imagination or perception is an affective one. Any one of these mental states may be present without the state being an appreciative one. But appreciation does not occur by itself as an elementary state, it is rather a complex--a feeling tone accompanying a mental state or process and coloring it. In other words, appreciation involves the presence of some intellectual states, but its addition makes the total complex of an emotional rather than a cognitive nature. The difficulty found in discussing emotions in general, that of defining or describing them in language, which is a tool of the intellect, is felt here. The only way to know what appreciation means is to appreciate. No phase of feeling can be adequately described--its essence is then lost--it must be felt. Nevertheless something may be done to differentiate this type of feeling from others. Appreciation is an attitude of mind which is passive, contemplative. It may grow out of an active attitude or emotion, or it may lead to one, but in either case the state changes from one of appreciation to something else. In appreciation the individual is quiescent. Appreciation, therefore, has no end outside of itself. It is a sufficient cause for being. The individual is satisfied with it. This puts appreciation into the category of recreation. Appreciation then always involves the pleasure tone, otherwise it could not be enjoyed. It is always impersonal. It takes the individual outside and beyond his own affairs; it is an other-regarding feeling. Possession, achievement, and the like do not arouse appreciation, but rather an egoistical emotion. One of the salient characteristics of emotions is their unifying power. It has aptly been said that in extreme emotional states one _is_ the emotion. The individual and his emotional state become one--a very different state of affairs from what is true in cognition. This element of unification is present to some extent in appreciation, although, because of its complex nature, to a lesser extent than in a simpler, more primitive feeling state. Still, in true appreciation one does become absorbed in the object of appreciation; he, for the time being, to some extent becomes identified with what he is appreciating. In, order to appreciate this submerging of one's self, this identification is necessary. Appreciation is bound up with four different types of situations which are of most importance to the teacher--(1) appreciation of the beautiful, (2) appreciation of human nature, (3) appreciation of the humorous, (4) appreciation of intellectual powers. The appreciation found in these four types of situations must vary somewhat because of the concomitants, but the characteristics which mark appreciation as such seem to be present in all four. True, in certain of the situations occurring under these types the emotional element may be stronger than in others--in some the intellectual element may seem to almost outweigh the affective, but still the predominant characteristics will be found to be those of an attitude which has the earmarks of appreciation. Appreciation of beauty has usually been discussed under the head of aesthetic emotions. As to what rightfully belongs under the head of aesthetics is in dispute--writers on the subject varying tremendously in their opinions. Most of the recent writers, however, agree that the stimulus for aesthetic appreciation must be a sense percept or an image of some sense object. Ideas, meanings, in and of themselves, are not then objects of aesthetic enjoyment. The two senses which furnish the stimuli for this sort of appreciation are the eye and the ear--the former combining sensations under space form and the latter under time form to produce aesthetic feelings. Our senses may cause feelings of pleasure, but the enjoyment is sensuous rather than aesthetic. Nature, in all its myriad forms, art, architecture, music, literature, and the dance are the chief sources of aesthetic appreciation. That there is a definite connection between physiological processes and the feeling of appreciation is without doubt true, but just what physiological conditions in connection with visual and auditory perception are fulfilled when some experience gives rise to aesthetic appreciation, and just what is violated when there is lack of such appreciation, is not known. It is known that both harmony and rhythm must be considered in music, and that the structure and muscular control of the eye plus the ease of mental apprehension play important parts in rousing aesthetic feelings in connection with vision, but further than that little is known. The chief danger met in developing the aesthetic appreciation is the tendency to overestimate its dependence on, in the first place, skill in creative work and the active emotions involved in achievement, and in the second place, the intellectual understanding of the situation. It has been largely taken for granted that the constructive work in the arts or in music increased one's power of appreciation. That, if a child used color and painted a little picture, or composed a melody, or modeled in clay, he would therefore be able to appreciate better in these fields. And further that the very development of this power to do necessarily developed the power to appreciate. These two beliefs are true to some extent, but only to a limited extent, and not nearly so far as practice has taken for granted. It is true that some power to do increases power to appreciate, but they parallel each other only for a short time and then diverge, and either may be developed at the expense of the other. In most people the power to appreciate, the passive, contemplative enjoyment, far surpasses the ability to create. On the other hand, men of creative genius often lack power of aesthetic appreciation. This result is natural if one thinks of the mental processes involved in the two. Power to do is associated with muscular skill, with technique, and with the personal emotions of active achievement. Æsthetic appreciation, on the other hand, is associated with neither, but with a mental attitude and feelings which are quite different. Cultivating one set of processes will not develop the other to any great extent and may, on the other hand, be antagonistic to their development. If the aesthetic emotions, if appreciations of the beautiful, are desired, they must be trained and developed directly. The second danger to be avoided in developing aesthetic appreciation is that of magnifying its dependence on the intellectual factors. To understand, to be able to analyze, to pick out the flaws in a musical selection, or a painting, is not necessary to its appreciation. True, some understanding is necessary, but, as in the case of skill, it is much less than has been taken for granted. Appreciation can go far ahead of understanding. The intellectual factor and the feeling response are not absolutely interdependent in degree. Not only so, but the prominence of the intellectual factor precludes that of the feeling. When one is emphasized the other cannot be, as they are different sorts of mental stuff. Continuous and emphatic development of the intellectual may result in the atrophy of the power of appreciation in any given field either temporarily or permanently. Many a boy's power to enjoy the rhythm and melody of poetry has been destroyed by the overemphasis of the critical facility during his high school course. The fact that a person can analyze the painting, point out the plans in its composition, and so on, does not at all mean that he can aesthetically appreciate. Contemplative enjoyment may be impossible for him--it bores him. Botanists are not noted for their power of aesthetic appreciation. It is an acknowledged fact that some art and music critics have lost their power of appreciation of the things they are continually criticizing. This discussion is not intended to minimize the value of creative skill, or of power of intellectual criticism. Both are talents that are well worth while cultivating. But it is necessary for one to decide which of the three, aesthetic appreciation, creative skill, or intellectual criticism, in the fields of art, nature, and music, is most worth while for the majority of people and then make plans accordingly. No one of the three can be best developed and brought to its highest perfection by emphasizing any one of the others. The second type of appreciation is appreciation of human nature: appreciation of the value of human life, appreciation of its virtues and trials, appreciation of great characters, and so on. Some writers would probably class this type of appreciation under moral feelings--but moral feelings usually are thought of as active, as accompaniments of conduct, whereas these appreciations are feelings aroused in the onlooker--they are passive and for the time being are an end in themselves. These feelings are stimulated by such studies as literature and history particularly. Geography and civics offer some opportunity for their development, and, of course, contact with people is the greatest stimulus. In this latter type of situation the feelings of appreciation easily pass over into active emotions, but so long as one remains an onlooker, they need not do so. This appreciation, sympathy with and enjoyment and approval of human nature, finds its source in the social instincts, but it needs development and training if it is to be perfected. Very much of the time this appreciation is inhibited by the emphasis put on understanding. The intellectual faculties of memory, judgment, and criticism are the ones called into play in the study of history and often of literature. These studies leave the learner cold. He knows, but it does not make any difference to him. He can analyze the period or the character, but he lacks any feeling response, any appreciation of the qualities of endurance and loyalty portrayed, lacks any _sympathetic_ understanding of the difficulties met and conquered. As was true of the aesthetic appreciation, a certain amount of understanding is necessary for true appreciation of any kind, but overemphasis of the intellectual element destroys the feeling element. The third type of appreciation to be discussed is the appreciation of humor. Perhaps this does not belong with the other type, but it certainly has many of the same characteristics. Calkins defines a sense of humor as "enjoyment of an unessential incongruity.... This incongruity must be, as has been said, an unessential one, else the mood of the observer changes from happiness to unhappiness, and the comic becomes the pathetic. A fall on the ice which seemed to offer only a ludicrous contrast between the dignity and grace of the man erect and the ungainly attitude of the falling figure ceases utterly to be funny when it is seen to entail some physical injury; and wit which burns and sears is not amusing to its victim."[12] The ability to appreciate the humorous in life is a great gift and should be cultivated to a much greater extent than it is at present. A fourth type of appreciation has been called appreciation of intellectual powers--a poor name perhaps, but the feeling is a real one. Enjoyment of style, of logical sequence, of the harmony of the whole, of the clear-cut, concise, telling sentences, are illustrations of what is meant. Enjoyment of a piece of literature, of a debate, of an argument, of a piece of scientific research, is not limited to the appreciation of the meanings expressed--in fact, in many cases the only factor that can arouse the feeling element, the appreciation, is this element of form. One may _understand_ an argument or a debate as he hears it, but appreciation, enjoyment of it, comes only as a result of the consciousness of these elements of form. _That_ one possesses these feelings of appreciation, at least to some degree, is a matter of human equipment, but _what_ one appreciates in art, literature, human nature, etc., depends primarily on training. There is almost no situation in life that with all people at all times will arouse appreciative feelings. Although there are a few fundamental conditions established by the physical make-up of the sense organs and by the original capacities of the human race, still they are few, and at present largely unknown, and experience does much to modify even these. What is crude, vulgar, inharmonious, in art and music to some people, arouses extreme aesthetic appreciation in others. Literature that causes one person to throw the book down in disgust will give greatest enjoyment to another. What is malice to one person is humorous to another. What people enjoy and appreciate depends primarily on their experience for the development of these feelings, depends upon the laws of association, readiness, exercise, and effect. To raise power of appreciation from low levels to high, from almost nothing to a controlling force, needs but the application of these laws. But no one of them can be neglected with impunity. It must be a gradual growth, beginning with tracks that are ready, because of the presence of certain instincts, and working on to others through the law of association. To expect a child of seven to appreciate a steel engraving, or a piece of classic music, or moral qualities in another person is to violate the law of readiness. To expect any one in adult life to enjoy music, or art, or nature, who has not had experience with each and enjoyed each continually as a child, is to violate the laws of exercise and effect. Two or three suggestions as to aids in the application of these laws may be in place. First, a wealth of images is an aid to appreciation. Second, the absence for the time of the critical attitude. Third, an encouragement of the passive contemplative attitude. Fourth, the example of others. Suggestion and association with other people who do appreciate and enjoy are among the best means of securing it. The value of feelings of appreciation are threefold: First, they serve as recreation. It is in enjoyment of this kind that most of the leisure of civilized races is spent. It serves on the mental level much the same purpose that play does, in fact, much of it is mental play of a kind. Second, they are impersonal. They are valuable in that they take us out of ourselves, away from self-interests, and therefore make for mental health and sanity as well as for a sympathetic character. They are also a means of broadening one's experience. Third, they have a close relationship with ideals and therefore have an active bearing on conduct. It is not necessarily true that one will tend in himself or in his surroundings to be like what he enjoys and appreciates, but the tendency will be strongly in that direction. If an individual truly appreciates, enjoys, beautiful pictures, good music and books, he will be likely, so far as he can, to surround himself with them. If he appreciates loyalty, openmindedness, tolerance, as he meets them in literature and history, he may become more so himself. At least, the developing of appreciations is the first step towards conduct in those lines. In order to insure the conduct, other means must be taken, but without the appreciation the conduct will be less sure. One who would count most in developing power of appreciation upon the part of children may well inquire concerning his own power of appreciation. There is not very much possibility of the development of joy in poetry, in music, or any other artistic form of expression through association with the teacher who finds little satisfaction in these artistic forms, who has little power of aesthetic appreciation. It is only as teachers themselves are sincere in their appreciation of the nobility of character possessed by the men and women whose lives are portrayed in history, in literature, or in contemporary social life that one may expect that their influence will be important in developing such appreciation upon the part of children. Those pupils are fortunate who are taught by teachers who have a sense of humor, who are able to grow enthusiastic over the intellectual achievement of the leaders in the field of study or investigation in which the children are at work. Children are, indeed, quick to discover sentimentalism or pseudo-appreciation upon the part of teachers, but even though they may not give any certain expression to their enjoyment, they are usually largely influenced by the attitude and genuine power of appreciation possessed by the teacher. In our attempt to have children grow in the field of appreciation we have often made the mistake of attempting to impose upon them adult standards. A great librarian in one of our eastern cities has said that he would rather have children read dime novels than to have them read nothing. From his point of view it was more important to have children appreciating and enjoying something which they read than to have their lives barren in this respect. In literature, in music, and in fine art the development in power of appreciation is undoubtedly from the simple, cruder forms to those which we as adults consider the higher or nobler forms of expression. Mother Goose, the rhymes of Stevenson, of Field, or of Riley, may be the beginning of the enjoyment of literature which finds its final expression in the reading and in the possession of the greatest literature of the English language. The simple rote songs which the children learn in the first grade, or which they hear on the phonograph, may lead through various stages of development to the enjoyment of grand opera. Pictures in which bright color predominates may be the beginning of power of appreciation which finds its fruition in a home which is decorated with reproductions of the world's masterpieces. It is not only in the artistic field that this growth in power of appreciation from the simpler to the more complex is to be found. Children instinctively admire the man who is brave rather than the man who endures. Achievement is for most boys and girls of greater significance than self-sacrifice. It is only as we adapt our material to their present attainment, or to an attempt to have them reach the next higher stage of development, that we may expect genuine growth. All too often instead of growth we secure the development of a hypocritical attitude, which accepts the judgment of others, and which never really indicates genuine enjoyment. While it is best not to insist upon an analysis of the feelings that one has in enjoying a picture or a poem or a great character, it is worth while to encourage choice. Of many stories which have been told, children may very properly choose one which they would like to tell to others. Of many poems which have been read in class, a group of boys may admire one and commit it to memory, while the girls may care for another and be allowed to memorize it. Wherever such coöperation is possible, the picture which you enjoy most is the one that will mean most in power of appreciation if placed in your room at home. Spontaneous approval, rather than an agreement with an adult teacher who is considered an authority, is to be sought for. There is more in the spontaneous laughter which results as children read together their "Alice in Wonderland" than could possibly result from an analysis of the quality of humor which is involved. We are coming to understand as a matter of education that we may hope to develop relatively few men and women of great creative genius. The producers of work of great artistic worth are, for the most part, to be determined by native capacity rather than by school exercises. We must think of the great majority of school children as possible consumers rather than as producers. Schools which furnish a maximum of opportunity to enjoy music and pictures may hope to develop in their community a power of discrimination in these fields which will result in satisfaction with nothing less than the best. The player-piano and the phonograph may mean more in the development of musical taste in a community than all of the lessons which are given in the reading of music. The art gallery in the high school, the folk dances which have been produced as a part of the school festivals, the reading of the best stories, may prepare the way for the utilization of leisure time in the pursuit of the nobler pleasures. The teacher with a saving sense of humor, large in his power of appreciation of the great men and women of his time, and all of the time keen in his own enjoyment and in his ability to interpret for others those things which are most worth while in literature and in art, may count more largely in the life of the community than the one who is a master in some field of investigation. QUESTIONS 1. What are the characteristics of the mental states which are involved in appreciation? 2. Name the different types of situations in which appreciation may be developed. Give examples. 3. Does the power to criticize poetry or music necessarily involve appreciation? 4. To what degree may skill in creative work result in power of appreciation? 5. What are the elements involved in appreciating human nature? 6. Give an example of appreciation of intellectual powers. 7. What is the essential element in the appreciation of humor? 8. Explain how the power of appreciation is dependent upon training. 9. What values in the education of an individual are realized through growth in power of appreciation? 10. Why is it important for a teacher to seek to cultivate his own power of appreciation? 11. What poems, or pictures, or music would you expect first-grade children to enjoy? Why? 12. Would you expect fifth-grade children to grow in appreciation of poetry by having them commit to memory selections from Milton's Paradise Lost? Why? 13. Why is it important to allow children to choose the poems that they commit to memory, or the pictures which they hang on their walls? 14. Why would you accept spontaneous expression of approval of the characters in literature or in history, rather than seek to control the judgments of children in this respect? 15. How may teachers prove most effective in developing the power of appreciation upon the part of children? * * * * * IX. THE MEANING OF PLAY IN EDUCATION All human activity might be classified under three heads,--play, work, and drudgery,--but just what activities belong under each head and just what each of the terms means are questions of dispute. That the boundaries between the three are hazy and undefined, and that they shade gradually into each other, are without doubt true, but after all play is different from work, and work from drudgery. Much of the disagreement as to the value of play is due to this lack of definition. Even to-day when the worth of play is so universally recognized, we still hear the criticism's of "soft pedagogy" and "sugar coating" used in connection with the application of the principle of play in education. Although what we call play has its roots in original equipment, still there is no such thing as the play instinct, in the sense that there is a hunting instinct or a fighting instinct. Instead of being a definite instinct, which means a definite response to a definite situation, it is rather a tendency characteristic of all instincts and capacities. It is an outgrowth of the general characteristic of all original nature towards activity of some kind. This tendency is so broad and so complex, the machinery governing it is so delicate, that it produces responses that vary tremendously with subtle changes in the individual, and with slight modifications of the situation. What we call play, then, is nothing more than the manifestations of the various instincts and capacities as they appear at times when they are not immediately useful. The connections in the nervous system are ripe and all other factors have operated to put them in a state of readiness: a situation occurs which stimulates these connections and the child plays. These connections called into activity may result in responses which are primarily physical, intellectual, or emotional--all are manifestations of this tendency towards activity. All habits of all kinds grow out of this same activity: habits which we call work and those which we call play. Man has not two original natures, one defined in terms of the play instinct, and the other in terms of work. Most of the original tendencies involved in play are not peculiar to it, but also are the source of work. Manifestation results in making "mud pies and apple pies"; physical activity results in the kicking, squirming, and wriggling of the infant and the monotonous wielding of the hammer of the road mender. The conditions under which an activity occurs, its concomitants, and the attitude of the individual performing it determine whether it is play or work--not its source or root. Much, then, of what we call play is simply the manifestation of instincts and capacities not immediately useful to the child. If they were immediately useful, they would probably be put under the head of work, not play. Many of the activities which seem playful to us and not of immediate service do so because of the conditions of civilized life. Were the infants living under primitive conditions, "in such a community as a human settlement seems likely to have been twenty-five thousand years ago, their restless examination of small objects would perhaps seem as utilitarian as their fathers' hunting."[13] Certainly the tendency of little children to chase a small object going away from them, and to run from a large object approaching slowly, their tendency to collect and hoard, their tendency to outdo another engaged in any instinctive pursuit, would under primitive conditions have a distinct utilitarian value, and yet all such tendencies are ranked as play when manifested by the civilized child. Other tendencies become playful rather than useful because of the complexity of the environment and of the nervous system responding to it. In actual life we don't find activity following a neatly arranged situation--response system. On the contrary, a situation seldom stimulates one response, and a response seldom occurs in the typical form required by theory. It is this mingling of responses brought about by varying elements in the situation that gives the playful effect. In a less complex environment this complexity would be lessened. Also experience, habit, tends to pin one type of response to a given situation and the minor connections gradually become eliminated. For example, if a boy of nine, alone in the woods, was approached by another with threatening gestures and scowls, the fighting response would be called out, and we would not call it play, because it served as protection. If the same boy in his own garden, with a group of companions, was approached by another with scowls, a perfectly good-natured tussle might take place and we would call it play. The difference between the two would be in minor elements of the situation. Some of these differences are absence or presence of companions, the strangeness or familiarity of the surroundings, the suddenness of the appearance of the other boy, and so on. Most of the older theories of play did not take into account these three facts, _i.e.,_ the identity in original nature of the roots of play and work; the fact that man's original nature fits him for primitive not civilized society; the complexity of the situation--response connection and its necessary variation with minor elements in the external situation and in the individual. Earlier writers, therefore, felt the need of special theories of play. The best known of these theories are, first, the Schiller-Spencer surplus energy theory; second, the Groos preparation for life theory; third, the G. Stanley Hall atavistic theory; fourth, the Appleton biological theory. Each of the theories has some element of truth in it, for play is complex enough to include them all, but each, save perhaps the last, falls short of an adequate explanation. Two facts growing out of the theory of play accepted by the last few paragraphs need further discussion. First, the order of development in play. The play activities must follow along the line of the developing instincts and capacities. As the nerve tracts governing certain responses become ready to act, these responses become the controlling ones in play. So it is that for a time play is controlled largely by the instinct of manipulation, at another time physical activity combined with competition is most prominent, at another period imagination controls, still later the puzzle-solving tendency comes to the point followed by all the games involving an intellectual factor. This being true, it is not surprising to find certain types of play characterizing certain ages and to find that though the particular games may vary, there is a strong resemblance between plays of children of the same age all over the world. It must not be forgotten, however, that the readiness of nerve tracts to function, and therefore the play responses, depends on other factors as well as maturity. The readiness of other tracts to function; past experience and habits; the stimulus provided by the present situation; absence of competing stimuli; sex, health, fatigue, tradition--all these and many more factors modify the order of development of the play tendencies. Still, having these facts in mind, it is possible to indicate roughly the type of play most prominent at different ages. Children from four to seven play primarily in terms of sensory responses, imagination, imitation, and curiosity of the cruder sort. Love of rhythm also is strong at this period. From seven to ten individual competition or rivalry becomes very strong and influences physical games, the collecting tendency, and manipulation, all of which tendencies are prominent at this time. Ten to twelve or thirteen is characterized by the "gang" spirit which shows itself in connection with all outdoor games and adventures; memory is a large factor in some of the plays of this period, and independent thinking in connection with situations engendered by manipulation and the gang spirit becomes stronger. At this period the differences between girls and boys become more marked. The girls choose quieter indoor games, chumming becomes prominent, and interest in books, especially of the semi-religious and romantic type, comes to the front. In the early adolescent period the emotional factor is strong and characterizes many of the playful activities; the intellectual element takes precedence over the physical; the group interest widens, although the interest in leadership and independent action still remains strong; teasing and bullying are also present. This summary is by no means complete, but it indicates in a very general way the prominent tendencies at the periods indicated. The second fact needing further elaboration is that of the complexity of the play activity. Take, for instance, a four-year-old playing with a doll. She fondles, cuddles, trundles it, and takes it to bed with her. It is jumped up and down and dragged about. It is put through many of the experiences that the child is having, especially the unpleasant ones. Its eyes and hair, its arms and legs, are examined. Questions are asked such as, "Where did it come from?" "Who made it?" "Has it a stomach?" "Will it die?" In many instances it is personified. The child is often perfectly content to play with it alone, without the presence of other children. This activity shows the presence of the nursing instinct, the tendency towards manipulation, physical activity, imitation and curiosity of the empirical type. The imagination is active but still undifferentiated from perception. The contentment in playing alone, or with an adult, shows the stage of development of the gregarious instinct. A girl of nine no longer cuddles or handles her doll just for the pleasure she gets out of that, nor is the doll put through such violent physical exercises. The child has passed beyond the aimless manipulation and physical activity that characterized the younger child. Instead she makes things for it, clothes, furniture, or jewelry, still manipulation, and still the nursing instincts, but modified and directed towards more practical ends. Imitation now shows itself in activities that are organized. The child plays Sunday, or calling, or traveling, or market day, in which the doll takes her part in a series of related activities. But in these activities constructive imagination appears as an element. Situations are not absolutely duplicated, occurrences are changed to suit the fancy of the player, as demanded by the dramatic interest. A fairy prince, or a godmother, may be participants, but at this age the constructive imagination is likely to work along more practical lines. Curiosity is also present, but now the questions asked are such as, "What makes her eyes work?" "Why can't she stand up?" or they often pertain to the things that are being made for the doll. They have to do with "How" or "Why" instead of the "What." The doll may still be talked to and even be supposed to talk back, but the child knows it is all play; it is no longer personified as in the earlier period. For the child fully to enjoy her play, she must now have companions of her own age, the older person no longer suffices. The outdoor games of boys show the same kind of complexity,--for instance, take any of the running games. With little boys they are unorganized manifestations of mere physical activity. The running is more or less at random, arms and vocal organs are used as much as the legs and trunk. Imitation comes in-what one does others are likely to do. The mere "follow" instinct is strong, and they run after each other. The beginnings of the fighting instinct appear in the more or less friendly tussles they have. The stage of the gregarious instinct is shown by the fact that they all play together. Later with boys of nine or ten the play has become a game, with rules governing it. The general physical activity has been replaced by a specialized form. Imitation is less of a factor. The hunting instinct often appears unexpectedly, and in the midst of the play the elements of the chase interfere with the proper conduct of the game. The fighting instinct is strong, and is very easily aroused. The boys now play in gangs or groups, and the tendency towards leadership manifests itself within the group. The intellectual element appears again and again, in planning the game, in judging of the possibility of succeeding at different stages, or in settling disputes that are sure to arise. So it is with all the plays of children: they are complexes of the various tendencies present, and the controlling elements change as the inner development continues. All activities when indulged in playfully have certain common characteristics. First, the activity is enjoyed for its own sake. The process is satisfying in itself. Results may come naturally, but they are not separated from the process; the reason for the enjoyment is not primarily the result, but rather the whole activity. Second, the activity is indulged in by the player because it satisfies some inner need, and only by indulging in it can the need be satisfied. It uses neurone tracts that were "ready." Growing out of these two major characteristics are several others. The attention is free and immediate; much energy is used with comparatively little fatigue; self-activity and initiative are freely displayed. At the other extreme of activity is drudgery. Its characteristics are just the opposite of these. First, the activity is engaged in merely for the result--the process counting for nothing and the result being the only thing of value. Second, the process, instead of satisfying some need, is rather felt to be in violation of the nature of the one engaged. It uses neurone tracts that are not "ready" and at the same time prevents the action of tracts that are "ready." It becomes a task. The attention necessarily must be of the forced, derived type, in which fatigue comes quickly as a result of divided attention, results are poor, and there is no chance for initiative. Between these two extremes lies work. It differs from play in that the results are usually of more value and in that the attention is therefore often of the derived type. It differs from drudgery in that there is not the sharp distinction between the process and the result and in that the attention may often be of the free spontaneous type. It was emphasized at the beginning of this chapter that the boundaries between the three were hazy and ill defined. This is especially true of work; it may be indistinguishable from play as it partakes of its characteristics, or it may swing to the other extreme and be almost drudgery. The difference between the three activities is a subjective matter--a difference largely in mood, in attitude of the person concerned, due to the readiness or unreadiness of the neurone tracts exercised. The same activity may be play for one person, work for another, and drudgery for still another. Further, for the same person the same activity may be play, work, or drudgery, at different times, even within the same day. Which of the three is the most valuable for educational purposes? Certainly not drudgery. It is deadening, uneducative, undevelopmental. Any phase of education, though it may be a seemingly necessary one, that has the characteristics of drudgery is valueless in itself. As a means to an end it may serve--but with the antagonistic attitude, the annoyance aroused by drudgery, it seems a very questionable means. Education that can obtain the results required by a civilized community and yet use the play spirit is the ideal. But to have children engaged in play, in the sense of free play, cannot be the only measure. There must be supervision and direction. The spirit that characterizes the activities which are not immediately useful must be incorporated into those that are useful by means of the shifting of association bonds. Nor can all parts of the process seem worth while to the learner. Sometimes the process or parts of it must become a means to an end, for the end is remote. But all this is true to some extent in free play--digging the worms in order to go fishing, finding the scissors and thread in order to make the doll's dress, making arrangements with the other team to play ball, finding the right pieces of wood for the hut, and so on, may not be satisfactory in and of themselves, but may be almost drudgery. They are _not_ drudgery because they become fused in the whole process, they take over and are lost in the joy of the undertaking as a whole; they become a legitimate means to an end, and in so far take over in derived form the interest that is roused by the whole. It is this fusion of work and play that is desirable in education. This is the great lesson of play--it shows the value and encourages the logical combination of the two activities. Children learn to work as they play. They learn the meaning and value of work. Work becomes a means to an end, and that end not something remote and disconnected from the activity itself, but as part and parcel of it. Thus the activity as a whole imbued with the play spirit becomes motivated. The play spirit is the spirit of art. No great result was achieved in any line of human activity without much work, and yet no great result was ever gained unless the play spirit controlled. It is to this interaction of work and play that each owes much of its value. Work in and of itself apart from play lacks educative power; it is only as it leads to and increases the power of play that it is of greatest value. Its logical place in education is as a means to an end, not as an end in itself. Play, on the other hand, that does not necessitate some work, that does not need work in order that it may function more fully, has lost most of its educational value. To work in play and to play while working is the ideal combination. Either by itself is dangerous. Two misconceptions should be mentioned. First, the play spirit advocated as one of the greatest educational factors must not be limited to the merely physical activities, nor should it be considered synonymous with what is easy. This characterization of play as being the aimless trivial physical activities of a little child is a misconception of the whole play tendency. It has already been pointed out that any activity which in itself satisfies, whether that be physical, emotional, or intellectual, is play, and all these phases of human activity show themselves in play first. Also the fact that play does not mean ease of accomplishment has been noted. It is only in the play spirit that the full resources of child or adult are tested. It is only when the activity fully satisfies some need that the individual throws himself whole-souled into it. It is only under the stimulus of the play spirit that all one's energy is spent, and great results, clear, accurate, and far reaching, are obtained. Ease of performance often results in drudgery. To be play, the activity must be suited to the child's capacity, but leave chance for initiative and change and development. The second misconception is that because present-day educators advocate play in education, they believe that the child should do nothing that he doesn't want to. This is wrong on two accounts. First, it is part of the business of an environment to stimulate--readiness depends partly on stimulation. The child may never play unless the stimulation is forcibly and continually applied. Second, after all it is the result we are most anxious for in education, and that result is an educated adult. By all means let us obtain this result by the most economical and effective method, and that is by use of the play spirit. But if the result cannot be obtained by this means because of the character of civilized ideals, or the difficulties of group education, or lack of capacity of the individual--then surely other methods, even that of drudgery, must be resorted to. The point is, with the goal in mind, adapt the material of education to the needs of the individual child; in other words, use the play spirit so far as is possible--after that gain the rest by any means whatsoever. So far the discussion has been concerned with the characteristics of the play spirit and its use in connection with the more formal materials of education. However, the free plays of children are valuable in two ways--first, as sources of information as to the particular tendencies ready for exercise at different times, and second, as a means of education in themselves. A knowledge of just which tendencies are most prominent in the plays of a group of children, when they change from "play" to "games," the increase in complexity and organization, the predominance of the intellectual factors,--all this could be of direct service to a teacher in the schoolroom. But it means, to some extent, the observation by the teacher of his particular group of children. Such observation is extremely fruitful. The more vigorously, the more wholeheartedly, the more completely a child plays, other things being equal, the better. A deprivation of opportunity to play, or a loss of any particular type of play, means a loss of the development of certain traits or characteristics. An all-round, well-developed adult can grow only from a child developed in an all-round way because of many-sided play. Hence the value of public playgrounds and of time to play. Hence the danger of the isolated, lonely child, for many plays demand the group. Hence the opportunities and the dangers of supervision of play. Supervision of play is valuable in so far as it furnishes opportunities and suggestions which develop the elements most worth while in play and which keep play at its highest level, and in so far as it concerns the nature of the individual child, protecting, admonishing, or encouraging, as the case may require. It is dangerous to the child's best good, in so far as it results in domination; for domination will mean, usually, the introduction of plays beyond the child's stage of development and the destruction of the independence and initiative which are two of the most valuable characteristics of free play. Valuable supervision of play is art that must be acquired. To influence, while effacing oneself, to guide, while being one of the players, to have an adult's understanding of the needs of child nature and yet to be one with the children--these are the essentials of the supervision of play. QUESTIONS 1. Distinguish between the fighting instinct and the instinctive basis of play. 2. Under what conditions may an activity which we classify as play for a civilized child be called work for a child living under primitive conditions? 3. What kinds of plays are characteristic of different age periods in the life of children? 4. Trace the development of some game played by the older boys in your school from its simpler beginnings in the play of little children to its present complexity. 5. Name the characteristics common to all playful activity. 6. Distinguish between play and drudgery. 7. What is the difference between work and play? 8. To what degree may the activities of the school be made play? 9. Explain why the same activity may be play for one individual, work for another, and drudgery for a third. 10. Why should we seek to make the play element prominent in school activity? 11. When is one most efficient in individual pursuits--when his activity is play, when he works, or when he is a drudge? 12. Under what conditions should we compel children to work, or even to engage in an activity which may involve drudgery? 13. Explain how play may involve the maximum of utilization of the abilities possessed by the individual, rather than a type of activity easy of accomplishment. 14. In what does skill in the supervision of play consist? * * * * * X. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF INDIVIDUAL DIFFERENCES FOR THE TEACHER It has been indicated here and there throughout the previous chapters that, despite the fact that there are certain laws governing the various mental traits and processes, still there is variation in the working of those laws. It was pointed out that people differ in kind of memory or imagination in which they excel, in their ability to appreciate, in the speed with which they form habits, and so on. In other words, that boys and girls are not exact duplicates of each other, but that they always differ from each other. Now a knowledge of these differences, their amounts, interrelations, and causes are very necessary for the planning of a school system or for the planning of the education of a particular child. What we plan and how we plan educational undertakings must always be influenced by our opinion as to inborn traits, sex differences, specialization of mental traits, speed of development, the respective power of nature and of nurture. The various plans of promotion and grouping of children found in different cities are in operation because of certain beliefs concerning differences in general mental ability. Coeducation is urged or deplored largely on the ground of belief in the differing abilities of the sexes. Exact knowledge of just what differences do exist between people and the causes of these differences is important for two reasons. First, in order that the most efficient measures may be taken for the education of the individual, and second, in order that the race as a whole may be made better. Education can only become efficient and economical when we know which differences between people and which achievements of a given person are due to training, and which are due more largely to original equipment or maturity. It is a waste of time on the one hand for education to concern itself with trying to make all children good spellers--if spelling is a natural gift; and on the other hand, it is lack of efficiency for schools to be largely neglecting the moral development of the children, if morality is dependent primarily on education. Exact knowledge, not opinions, along all these lines is necessary if progress is to be made. The principal causes for individual differences are sex, remote ancestry, near ancestry, maturity, and training. The question to be answered in the discussion of each of these causes is how important a factor is it in the production of differences and just what differences is it responsible for. That men differ from women has always been an accepted fact, but exact knowledge of how much and how they differ has, until recent years, been lacking. Recently quantitative measurement has been made by a number of investigators. In making these investigations two serious difficulties have to be met. First, that the tests measure only the differences brought about by differences in sex, and not by any other cause, such as family or training. This difficulty has been met by taking people of all ages, from all sorts of families, with all kinds of training, the constant factor being the difference in sex. The second difficulty is that of finding groups in which the selection agencies have been the same and equally operative. It would be obviously unfair to compare college men and women, and expect to get a fair result as to sex differences, because college women are a more highly selected group intellectually than the college men. It is the conventional and social demands that are primarily responsible for sending boys to college, while the intellectual impulse is responsible to a greater extent for sending girls. Examination of children in the elementary schools, then, gives a fairer result than of the older men and women. The general results of all the studies made point to the fact that the differences between the sexes are small. Sex is the cause of only a small fraction of the differences between individuals. The total difference of men from men and women from women is almost as great as the difference between men and women, for the distribution curve of woman's ability in any trait overlaps the men's curve to at least half its range. In detail the exact measurements of intellectual abilities show a slight superiority of the women in receptivity and memory, and a slight superiority of the men in control of movement and in thought about concrete mechanical situations. In interests which cannot be so definitely measured, women seem to be more interested in people and men in things. In instinctive equipment women excel in the nursing impulse and men in the fighting impulse. In physical equipment men are stronger and bigger than women. They excel in muscular tests in ability to "spurt," whereas women do better in endurance tests. The male sex seems on the whole to be slightly more variable than the female, i.e., its curve of distribution is somewhat flatter and extends both lower and higher than does that of the female; or, stated another way, men furnish more than their proportion of idiots and of geniuses. Slight though these differences are, they are not to be disregarded, for sometimes the resulting habits are important. For instance, girls should be better spellers than boys. Boys should excel in physics and chemistry. Women should have more tact than men, whereas men should be more impartial in their judgments. With the same intellectual equipment as women, men should be found more often in positions of prominence because of the strength of the fighting instinct. The geniuses of the world, the leaders in any field, as well as the idiots, should more often be men than women. That these differences do exist, observation as well as experiment prove, but that they are entirely due to essential innate differences in sex is still open to question. Differences in treatment of the sexes in ideals and in training for generation after generation _may_ account for some of the differences noted. What these differences mean from the standpoint of practice is still another question. Difference in equipment need not mean difference in treatment, nor need identity of equipment necessarily mean identity of training. The kind of education given will have to be determined not only by the nature of the individual, but also by the ideals held for and the efficiency demanded from each sex. Another cause of the differences existing between individuals is difference in race inheritance. In causing differences in physical traits this factor is prominent. The American Indians have physical traits in common which differentiate them from other races; the same thing is true of the Negroes and the Mongolians. It has always been taken for granted that the same kind of difference between the races existed in mental traits. To measure the mental differences caused by race is an extremely difficult problem. Training, environment, tradition, are such potent factors in confusing the issue. The difficulty is to measure inborn traits, not achievement. Hence the results from actual measurement are very few and are confined to the sensory and sensorimotor traits. Woodworth, in summing up the results of these tests, says, "On the whole, the keenness of the senses seems to be about on a par in the various races of mankind.... If the results could be taken at their face value, they would indicate differences in intelligence between races, giving such groups as the Pygmy and Negrito a low station as compared with most of mankind. The fairness of the test is not, however, beyond question."[14] The generality of this conclusion concerning the differences in intelligence reveals the lack of data. No tests of the higher intellectual processes, such as the ability to analyze, to associate in terms of elements, to formulate new principles, and the like, have, been given. Some anthropologists are skeptical of the existence of any great differences, while others believe that though there is much overlapping, still differences of considerable magnitude do exist. At present we do not know how much of the differences existing between individuals is due to differences in remote ancestry. Maturity as a cause of differences between individuals gives quite as unsatisfactory results as remote ancestry. Every thoughtful student of children must realize that inner growth, apart from training, has something to do with the changes which take place in a child; that he differs from year to year because of a difference in maturity. This same cause, then, must account to some extent for the differences between individuals of different ages. But just how great a part it plays, what per cent of the difference it accounts for, and what particular traits it affects much or little, no one knows. We say in general that nine-year-old children are more suggestible than six-year-old, and than fourteen-year-old; that the point of view of the fifteen-year-old is different from that of the eleven-year-old; that the power of sense discrimination gradually increases up to about sixteen, and so on. That these facts are true, no one can question, but how far they are due to mere change in maturity and how far to training or to the increase in power of some particular capacity, such as understanding directions, or power of forced attention, is unknown. The studies which have been undertaken along this line have failed in two particulars: first, to distribute the actual changes found from year to year among the three possible causes, maturity, general powers of comprehension and the like, and training; second, to measure the same individuals from year to year. This last error is very common in studies of human nature. It is taken for granted that to examine ten year olds and then eleven year olds and then twelve year olds will give what ten year olds will become in one and two years' time respectively. To test a group of grammar grade children and then a group of high school and then a group of college students will not show the changes in maturity from grammar school to college. The method is quite wrong, for it tests only the ten year olds that stay in school long enough to become twelve year olds; it measures only the very small per cent of the grammar school children who get to college. In other words, it is measuring a more highly selected group and accepting the result obtained from them as true of the entire group. Because of these two serious errors in the investigations our knowledge of the influence of maturity as a cause of individual differences is no better than opinion. Two facts, however, such studies do make clear. First, the supposition that "the increases in ability due to a given amount of progress toward maturity are closely alike for all children save the so-called 'abnormally-precocious' or 'retarded' is false. The same fraction of the total inner development, from zero to adult ability, will produce very unequal results in different children. Inner growth acts differently according to the original nature that is growing. The notion that maturity is the main factor in the differences found amongst school children, so that grading and methods of teaching should be fitted closely to 'stage of growth,' is also false. It is by no means very hard to find seven year olds who can do intellectual work in which one in twenty seventeen year olds would fail."[15] The question as to how far immediate heredity is a cause of differences found between individuals, can only be answered by measuring how much more alike members of the same family are in a given trait than people picked at random, and then making allowance for similarity in their training. The greater the likenesses between members of the same family, and the greater the differences between members of different families, despite similarities in training, the more can individual differences be traced to differences in ancestry as a controlling cause. The answer to this question has been obtained along four different lines: First, likenesses in physical traits; second, likenesses in particular abilities; third, likenesses in achievement along intellectual and moral lines; fourth, greater likenesses between twins, than ordinary siblings. In physical traits, such as eye color, hair color, cephalic index, height, family resemblance is very strong (the coefficient of correlation being about .5), and here training can certainly have had no effect. In particular abilities, such as ability in spelling, the stage reached by an individual is due primarily to his inheritance, the ability being but little influenced by the differences in home or school training that commonly exist. In general achievement, Galton's results show that eminence runs in families, that one has more than three hundred times the chance of being eminent if one has a brother, father, or son eminent, than the individual picked at random. Wood's investigation in royal families points to the same influence of ancestry in determining achievement. The studies of the Edwards family on one hand and the so-called Kallikak family on the other, point to the same conclusion. Twins are found to be twice as much alike in the traits tested as other brothers and sisters. Though the difficulty of discounting the effect of training in all these studies has been great, yet in every case the investigators have taken pains to do so. The fact that the investigations along such different lines all bear out the same conclusion, namely, that intellectual differences are largely due to differences in family inheritance, weighs heavily in favor of its being a correct one. The fifth factor that might account for individual differences is environment. By environment we mean any influence brought to bear on the individual. The same difficulty has been met in attempting to measure the effect of environment that was met in trying to measure the effect of inner nature--namely, that of testing one without interference from the other. The attempts to measure accurately the effect of any one element in the environment have not been successful. No adequate way of avoiding the complications involved by different natures has been found. One of the greatest errors in the method of working with this problem has been found just here. It has been customary when the effect of a certain element in the environment is to be ascertained to investigate people who have been subject to that training or who are in the process of training, thus ignoring the selective influence of the factor itself in original nature. For instance, to study the value of high school training we compare those in training with those who have never had any; if the question is the value of manual training or Latin, again the comparison is made between those who have had it and those who haven't. To find out the influence of squalor and misery, people living in the slums are compared with those from a better district. In each case the fact is ignored that the original natures of the two groups examined are different before the influence of the element in question was brought to bear. Why do some children go to high school and others not? Why do some choose classical courses and some manual training courses? Why are some people found in the slums for generations? The answer in each case is the same--the original natures are different. It isn't the slums make the people nearly so often as it is the people make the slums. It isn't training in Latin that makes the more capable man, but the more intellectual students, because of tradition and possibly enjoyment of language study, choose the Latin. It is unfair to measure a factor in the environment and give it credit or discredit for results, when those results are also due to original nature as well, which has not been allowed for. It must be recognized by all those working in this field that, after all, man to some extent selects his own environment. In the second place, it must be remembered that the environment will influence folks differently according as their natures are different. There can be no doubt that environment is accountable for some individual differences, but just which ones and to what extent are questions to which at present the answers are unsatisfactory. The investigations which have been carried on agree that environment is not so influential a cause for individual differences in intellect as is near ancestry. One rather interesting line of evidence can be quoted as an illustration. If individual differences in achievement are due largely to lack of training or to poor training, then to give the same amount and kind of training to all the individuals in a group should reduce the differences. If such practice does not reduce the differences, then it is not reasonable to suppose that the differences were caused in the first place by differences in training. As a matter of fact, equalizing training _increases_ the differences. The superior man becomes more superior, the inferior is left further behind than ever. A common occurrence in school administration bears out this conclusion reached by experimental means. The child who skips a grade is ready at the end of three years to skip again, and the child who fails a grade is likely at the end of three years to fail again. Though environment seems of little influence as compared with near ancestry in determining intellectual ability _per se_, yet it has considerable influence in determining the line along which this ability is to manifest itself. The fact that between 1840-44, 9.4 per cent of the college men went into teaching as a profession and 37.5 per cent into the ministry, while between 1890-94, 25.4 per cent chose the former and only 14 per cent the latter, can be accounted for only on the basis of environmental influence of some kind.[16] Another fact concerning the influence of environment is that it is very much more effective in influencing morality than intellect. Morality is the outcome of the proper direction of capacities and tendencies possessed by the individual, and therefore is extremely susceptible to environmental influences. We are all familiar with the differences in moral standards of different social groups. One boy may become a bully and another considerate of the rights of others, one learns to steal and another to be honest, one to lie and another to be truthful, because of the influence of their environments rather than on account of differences in their original natures. We are beginning to recognize the importance of environment in moral training in the provisions made to protect children from immoral influences, in the opportunities afforded for the right sort of recreation, and even in the removal of children from the custody of their parents when the environment is extremely unfavorable. Though changes in method and ideals cannot reduce the differences between individuals in the intellectual field to any marked extent, such changes can raise the level of achievement of the whole group. For instance, more emphasis on silent reading may make the reading ability of a whole school 20 per cent better, while leaving the distance between the best and worst reader in the school the same. Granting that heredity, original nature, is the primary cause of individual differences in intellect (aside from those sex differences mentioned) there remains for environment, education in all its forms, the tremendous task of: First, providing conditions favorable for nervous health and growth; second, providing conditions which stimulate useful capacities and inhibit futile or harmful capacities; third, providing conditions which continually raise the absolute achievement of the group and of the race; fourth, providing conditions that will meet the varying original equipments; fifth, assuming primary responsibility for development along moral and social lines. Concerning those individual differences of which heredity is the controlling cause, two facts are worthy of note. First, that human nature is very highly specialized and that inheritance may be in terms of special abilities or capacities. For instance, artistic, musical, or linguistic ability, statesmanship, power in the field of poetry, may be handed down from one generation to the next. This also means that two brothers may be extremely alike along some lines and extremely different along others. Second, that there seems to be positive combinations between certain mental traits, whereby the presence of one insures the presence of the other to a greater degree than chance would explain. For instance, the quick learner is slow in forgetting, imagery in one field implies power to image in others, a high degree of concentration goes with superior breadth, efficiency in artistic lines is more often correlated with superiority in politics or generalship or science than the reverse, ability to deal with abstract data implies unusual power to deal with the concrete situation. In fact, as far as exact measures go, negative correlations between capacities, powers, efficiencies, are extremely rare, and, when they occur, can be traced to the influence of some environmental factor. Individuals differ from each other to a much greater degree than has been allowed for in our public education. The common school system is constructed on the theory that children are closely similar in their abilities, type of mental make-up, and capacities in any given line. Experimentation shows each one of these presuppositions to be false. So far as general ability goes, children vary from the genius to the feeble-minded with all the grades between, even in the same school class. This gradation is a continuous one--there are no breaks in the human race. Children cannot be grouped into the very bright, bright, mediocre, poor, very poor, failures--each group being distinct from any other. The shading from one to the other of these classes is gradual, there is no sharp break. Not only is this true, but a child may be considered very bright along one line and mediocre along another. Brilliancy or poverty in intellect does not act as a unit and apply to all lives equally. The high specialization of mental powers makes unevenness in achievement the common occurrence. Within any school grade that has been tested, even when the gradings are as close as those secured by term promotions, it has been found in any subject there are children who do from two to five times as well as others, and from two to five times as much as others. Of course this great variation means an overlapping of grades on each side. In Dr. Bonser's test of 757 children in reasoning he found that 90 per cent of the 6A pupils were below the best pupils of 4A grade and that 4 per cent of 6A pupils were below the mid-pupils of the 4A, and that the best of the 4A pupils made a score three times as high as the worst pupils of 6A. Not only is this tremendous difference in ability found among children of the same class, but the same difference exists in rate of development. Some children can cover the same ground in one half or one third the time as others and do it better. Witness the children already quoted who, skipping a grade, were ready at the end of three years to skip again. Variability, not uniformity, is what characterizes the abilities and rate of intellectual growth of children in the schools, and these differences, as has already been pointed out, are caused primarily by a difference in original nature. There is also great difference between the general mental make-up of children--a difference in type. There is the child who excels in dealing with abstract ideas. He usually has power also in dealing with the concrete, but his chief interest is in the abstract. He is the one who does splendid work in mathematics, formal grammar, the abstract phases of the sciences. Then there is the child who is a thinker too, but his best work is done when he is dealing with a concrete situation. Unusual or involved applications of principles disturb him. So long as his work is couched in terms of the concrete, he can succeed, but if that is replaced by the _x, y, z_ elements, he is prone to fail. There is another type of child--the one who has the executive ability, the child of action. True, he thinks, too, but his forte is in control of people and of things. He is the one who manages the athletic team, runs the school paper, takes charge of the elections, and so on. For principles to be grasped he must be able to put them into practice. The fourth type is the feeling type, the child who excels in appreciative power. As has been urged so many times before, these types have boundaries that are hazy and ill defined; they overlap in many cases. Some children are of a well-defined mixed type, and most children have something of each of the four abilities characteristic of the types. Still it is true that in looking over a class of children these types emerge, not pure, but controlled by the dominant characteristics mentioned. The same variation is found among any group of children if they are tested along one line, such as memory. Some have desultory, some rote, some logical memories; some have immediate memories, others the permanent type. In imagery, some have principally productive imagination, others the matter-of-fact reproductive; some deal largely with object images that are vivid and clear-cut, others fail almost entirely with this type, but use word images with great facility. In conduct, some are hesitating and uncertain, others just the reverse; some very open to suggestions, others scarcely touched at all by it; some can act in accordance with principle, others only in terms of particular associations with a definite situation. So one might run the whole gamut of human traits, and in each one any group of individuals will vary: in attention, in thinking, in ideals, in habits, in interests, in sense discrimination, in emotions, and so on. This is one of the greatest contributions of experimental psychology of the past ten years, the tremendous differences between people along all lines, physical as well as mental. It is lack of recognition of such differences that makes possible such a list of histories of misfits as Swift quotes in his chapter on Standards of Human Power in "Mind in the Making." Individual differences exist, education cannot eliminate them, they are innate, due to original nature. Education that does not recognize them and plan for them is wasteful and, what is worse, is criminal. The range of ability possessed by children of the same grade in the subjects commonly taught seems not always to be clear in the minds of teachers. It will be discussed at greater length in another chapter, but it is important for the consideration of individual differences to present some data at this time. If we rate the quality of work done in English composition from 10 to 100 per cent, being careful to evaluate as accurately as possible the merit of the composition written, we will find for a seventh and an eighth grade a condition indicated by the following table: ========================================== QUALITY OF COMPOSITION GRADES 7 8 ------------------------------------------ _No. of Pupils_ Rated at 10 2 1 Rated at 20 6 6 Rated at 30 8 8 Rated at 40 7 8 Rated at 50 2 4 Rated at 60 1 1 Rated at 70 1 1 Rated at 80 1 1 Rated at 90 1 1 ========================================== The table reads as follows: two pupils in the seventh grade and one in the eighth wrote compositions rated at 10; six seventh-grade and six eighth-grade pupils wrote compositions rated at 20, and so on for the whole table. A similar condition of affairs is indicated if we ask how many of a given type of addition problems are solved correctly in eight minutes by a fifth- and a sixth-grade class. ============================================= NUMBER OF GRADES PROBLEMS 5 6 --------------------------------------------- _No. of Pupils_ 0 2 3 1 6 6 2 6 6 3 6 6 4 4 5 5 4 5 6 3 4 7 1 2 8 1 1 9 1 1 ============================================= In like manner, if we measure the quality of work done in penmanship for a fifth and sixth grade, with a system of scoring that ranks the penmanship in equal steps from a quality which, is ranked four up to a quality which is ranked eighteen, we find the following results: =============================================== QUALITY OF PENMANSHIP GRADES 5 6 ----------------------------------------------- _No. of Pupils_ Rated at 4 5 6 Rated at 5 1 1 Rated at 6 0 0 Rated at 7 2 4 Rated at 8 10 4 Rated at 9 12 1 Rated at 10 3 6 Rated at 11 3 8 Rated at 12 3 3 Rated at 13 1 2 Rated at 14 1 1 Rated at 15 0 1 Rated at 16 1 1 Rated at 17 0 0 Rated at 18 0 0 =============================================== Results similar to those recorded above will be found if any accurate measurement is made of the knowledge possessed by children in history or in geography, or of the ability to apply or derive principles in physics or in chemistry, or of the knowledge of vocabulary in Latin or in German, and the like. All such facts indicate clearly the necessity for differentiating our work for the group of children who are classified as belonging to one grade. Under the older and simpler form of school organization, the one-room rural school, it was not uncommon for children to recite in one class in arithmetic, in another in geography or history, and in possibly still another in English. In our more highly organized school systems, with the attempt to have children pass regularly from grade to grade at each promotion period, we have in some measure provided for individual differences through allowing children to skip a grade, or not infrequently by having them repeat the work of a grade. In still other cases an attempt has been made to adapt the work of the class to the needs and capacities of the children by dividing any class group into two or more groups, especially in those subjects in which children seem to have greatest difficulty. Teachers who are alive to the problem presented have striven to adjust their work to different members of the class by varying the assignments, and in some cases by excusing from the exercises in which they are already proficient the abler pupils. Whatever adjustment the school may be able to make in terms of providing special classes for those who are mentally or physically deficient, or for those who are especially capable, there will always be found in any given group a wide variation in achievement and in capacity. Group teaching and individual instruction will always be required of teachers who would adapt their work to the varying capacities of children. A period devoted to supervised study during which those children who are less able may receive special help, and those who are of exceptional ability be expected to make unusual preparation both in extent and in quality of work done, may contribute much to the efficiency of the school. As paradoxical as the statement may seem, it is true that the most retarded children in our school systems are the brightest. Expressed in another way, it can be proved that the more capable children have already achieved in the subjects in which they are taught more than those who are tow or three grades farther advanced. Possibly the greatest contribution which teachers can make to the development of efficiency upon the part of the children with whom they work is to be found in special attention which is given to capable children with respect to both the quantity and quality of work demanded of them, together with provision for having them segregated in special classes or passed through the school system with greater rapidity than is now common. In an elementary school with which the writer is acquainted, and in which there were four fifth grades, it was discovered during the past year that in one of these fifth grades in which the brighter children had been put they had achieved more in terms of ability to solve problems in arithmetic, in their knowledge of history and geography, in the quality of English composition they wrote, and the like, than did the children in any one of the sixth grades. In this school this particular fifth grade was promoted to the seventh grade for the following year. Many such examples could be found in schools organized with more than one grade at work on the same part of the school course, if care were taken to segregate children in terms of their capacity. And even where there is only one teacher per grade, or where one teacher teaches two or three grades, it should be found possible constantly to accelerate the progress of children of more than ordinary ability. The movement throughout the United States for the organization of junior high schools (these schools commonly include the seventh, eighth, and ninth school years) is to be looked upon primarily as an attempt to adjust the work of our schools to the individual capacities of boys and girls and to their varying vocational outlook. Such a school, if it is to meet this demand for adjustment to individual differences, must offer a variety of courses. Among the courses offered in a typical junior high school is one which leads directly to the high school. In this course provision is made for the beginning of a foreign language, of algebra, and, in some cases, of some other high school subject during the seventh and eighth years. In another course emphasis is placed upon work in industrial or household arts in the expectation that work in these fields may lead to a higher degree of efficiency in later vocational training, and possibly to the retention of children during this period who might otherwise see little or no meaning in the traditional school course. The best junior high schools are offering in the industrial course a variety of shop work. In some cases machine shop practice, sheet metal working, woodworking, forging, printing, painting, electrical wiring, and the like are offered for boys; and cooking, sewing, including dressmaking and designing, millinery, drawing, with emphasis upon design and interior decoration, music, machine operating, pasting, and the like are provided for girls. Another type of course has provided for training which looks toward commercial work, even though it is recognized that the most adequate commercial training may require a longer period of preparation. In some schools special work in agriculture is offered. Our schools cannot be considered as satisfactorily organized until we make provision for every boy or girl to work up to the maximum of his capacity. The one thing that a teacher cannot do is to make all of his pupils equal in achievement. Whatever adjustment may have been made in terms of special classes or segregation in terms of ability, the teacher must always face the problem of varying the assignment to meet the capacities of individual children, and she ought, wherever it is possible, especially to encourage the abler children to do work commensurate with their ability, and to provide, as far as is possible, for the rapid advancement of these children through the various stages of the school system. QUESTIONS 1. What are the principal causes of differences in abilities or in achievement among school children? 2. What, if any, of the differences noticed among children may be attributed to sex? 3. Are any of the sex differences noticeable in the achievements of the school children with whom you are acquainted? 4. To what extent is maturity a cause of individual differences? 5. What evidence is available to show the fallacy of the common idea that children of the same age are equal in ability? 6. How important is heredity in determining the achievement of men and women? 7. To what extent, if any, would you be interested in the immediate heredity of the children in your class? Why? 8. To what extent is the environment in which children live responsible for their achievements in school studies? 9. What may be expected in the way of achievement from two children of widely different heredity but of equal training? 10. For what factor in education is the environment most responsible? Why? 11. If you grant that original nature is the primary cause of individual differences in intellectual achievements, how would you define the work of the school? 12. Why are you not justified in grouping children as bright, ordinary, and stupid? 13. Will a boy who has unusual ability in music certainly be superior in all other subjects? 14. Why are children who skip a grade apt to be able to skip again at the end of two or three years? 15. Are you able to distinguish differences in type of mind (or general mental make-up) among the children in your classes? Give illustrations. 16. What changes in school organization would you advocate for the sake of adjusting the teaching done to the varying capacities of children? 17. How should a teacher adjust his work to the individual differences in capacity or in achievement represented by the usual class group? * * * * * XI. THE DEVELOPMENT OF MORAL SOCIAL CONDUCT Morality has been defined in many ways. It has been called "a regulation and control of immediate promptings of impulses in conformity with some prescribed conduct"; as "the organization of activity with reference to a system of fundamental values." Dewey says, "Interest in community welfare, an interest that is intellectual and practical, as well as emotional--an interest, that is to say, in perceiving whatever makes for social order and progress, and in carrying these principles into execution--is the moral habit."[17] Palmer defines it as "the choice by the individual of habits of conduct that are for the good of the race." All these definitions point to control on the part of the individual as one essential of morality. Morality is not, then, a matter primarily of mere conduct. It involves conduct, but the essence of morality lies deeper than the act itself; motive, choice, are involved as well. Mere law-abiding is not morality in the strict sense of the word. One may keep the laws merely as a matter of blind habit. A prisoner in jail keeps the laws. A baby of four keeps the laws, but in neither case could such conduct be called moral. In neither of these cases do we find "control" by the individual of impulses, nor "conscious choice" of conduct. In the former compulsion was the controlling force, and in the second blind habit based on personal satisfaction. Conduct which outwardly conforms to social law and social progress is unmoral rather than moral. A moment's consideration will suffice to convince any one that the major part of conduct is of this non-moral type. This is true of adults and necessarily true of children. As Hall says, most of the supposedly moral conduct of the majority of men is blind habit, not thoughtful choosing. In so far as we are ruled by custom, by tradition, in so far as we do as the books or the preacher says, or do as we see others do, without principles to guide us, without thinking, to that extent the conduct is likely to be non-moral. This is the characteristic reaction of the majority of people. We believe as our fathers believed, we vote the same ticket, hold in horror the same practices, look askance on the same doctrines, cling to the same traditions. Morality, on the other hand, is rationalized conduct. Now this non-moral conduct is valuable so far as it goes. It is a conservative force, making for stability, but it has its dangers. It is antagonistic to progress. So long as the conditions surrounding the non-moral individual remain unchanged, he will be successful in dealing with them, but if conditions change, if he is confronted by a new situation, if strong temptation comes, he has nothing with which to meet it, for his conduct was blind. It is the person whose conduct is non-moral that suffers collapse on the one hand, or becomes a bigot on the other, when criticism attacks what he held as true or right. Morality requires that men have a reason for the faith that is in them. In the second place, morality is conduct. Ideals, ideas, wishes, desires, all may lead to morality, but in so far as they are not expressed in conduct, to that extent they do not come under the head of morality. One may express the sublimest idea, may claim the highest ideals, and be immoral. Conduct is the only test of morality, just as it is the ultimate test of character. Not only is morality judged in terms of conduct, but it is judged according as the conduct is consistent. "Habits of conduct" make for morality or immorality. It is not the isolated act of heroism that makes a man moral, or the single unsocial act that makes a man immoral. The particular act may be moral or immoral, and the person be just the reverse. It is the organization of activity, it is the habits a man has that places him in one category or the other. In the third place, morality is a matter of individual responsibility. It is "choice by the individual," the "perceiving whatever makes for social order and progress." No one can choose for another, no one can perceive for another. The burden of choosing for the good of the group rests on the individual, it cannot be shifted to society or the Church, or any other institution. Each individual is moral or not according as he lives up to the light that he has, according as he carries into execution principles that are for the good of his race. A particular act, then, may be moral for one individual and immoral for another, and non-moral for still another. In the third place, morality is a matter of individual responsibility. It is "choice be the individual," the "perceiving whatever makes for social order and progress." No one can choose for another, no one can perceive for another. The burden of Choosing for the good of the group rests on the individual, it cannot be shifted to society or the Church, or any other institution. Each individual is moral or not according as he lives up to the light that he has, according as he carries into execution principles that are for the good of his race. A particular act, then, may be moral for one individual and immoral for another, and non-moral for still another. To go off into the forest to die if one is diseased may be a moral act for a savage in central Africa; but for a civilized man to do so would probably be immoral because of his greater knowledge. To give liquor to babies to quiet them may be a non-moral act on the part of ignorant immigrants from Russia; but for a trained physician to do so would be immoral. Morality, then, is a personal matter, and the responsibility for it rests on the individual. Of course this makes possible the setting up of individual opinion as to what is for the good of the group in opposition to tradition and custom. This is, of course, dangerous if it is mere opinion or if it is carried to an extreme. Few men have the gift of seeing what makes for social well-being beyond that of the society of thoughtful people of their time. And yet if a man has the insight, if his investigations point to a greater good for the group from doing something which is different from the standards held by his peers, then morality requires that he do his utmost to bring about such changes. If it is borne in mind that every man is the product of his age and that it is evolution, not revolution, that is constructive, this essential of true morality will not seem so dangerous. All the reformers the world has ever seen, all the pioneers in social service, have been men who, living up to their individual responsibility, have acted as they believed for society's best good in ways that were not in accord with the beliefs of the majority of their time. Shirking responsibility, not living up to what one believes is right, is immoral just as truly as stealing from one's neighbor. The fourth essential in moral conduct is that it be for the social good. It is the governing of impulses, the inhibition of desires that violate the good of the group, and the choice of conduct that forwards its interests. This does not mean that the group and the individual are set over against each other, and the individual must give way. It means, rather, that certain impulses, tendencies, motives, of the individual are chosen instead of others; it means that the individual only becomes his fullest self as he becomes a social being; it means that what is for the good of the group in the long run is for the good of the units that make up that group. Morality, then, is a relative term. What is of highest moral value in one age may be immoral in another because of change in social conditions. As society progresses, as different elements come to the front because of the march of civilization, so the acts that are detrimental to the good of the whole must change. To-day slander and stealing a man's good name are quite as immoral as stealing his property. Acts that injure the mental and spiritual development of the group are even more immoral than those which interfere with the physical well-being. A strong will is not necessarily indicative of a good character. A strong will may be directed towards getting what gives pleasure to oneself, irrespective of the effect on other people. It is the goal, the purpose with which it is exercised, that makes a man with a strong will a moral man or an immoral man. Only when one's will is used to put into execution those principles that will bring about social progress is it productive of a good character. Thus it is seen that morality can be discussed only in connection with group activity. It is the individual as a part of a group, acting in connection with it, that makes the situation a moral one. Individual morality is discussed by some authors, but common opinion limits the term to the use that has been discussed in the preceding paragraphs. If social well-being is taken in its broadest sense, then all moral behavior is social, and all social behavior comes under one of the three types of morality. Training for citizenship, for social efficiency, for earning a livelihood, all have a moral aspect. It is only as the individual is trained to live a complete life as one of a group that he can be trained to be fully moral, and training for complete social living must include training in morality. Hence for the remainder of this discussion the two terms will be considered as synonymous. We hear it sometimes said, "training in morals and manners," as if the two were distinct, and yet a full, realization of what is for social betterment along emotional and intellectual lines must include a realization of the need of manners. Of course there are degrees of morality or immorality according as the act influences society much or little--all crimes are not equally odious, nor all virtues equally commendable, but any act that touches the well-being of the group must come under this category. From the foregoing paragraph, the logical conclusion would be that there is no instinct or inborn tendency that is primarily and distinctly moral as over against those that are social. That is the commonly accepted belief to-day. There is no moral instinct. Morality finds its root in the original nature of man, but not in a single moral instinct. It is, on the other hand, the outgrowth of a number of instincts all of which have been listed under the head of the social instinct. Man has in his original equipment tendencies that will make him a moral individual _if_ they are developed, but they are complex, not simple. Some of these social tendencies which are at the root of moral conduct are gregariousness, desire for approval, dislike of scorn, kindliness, attention to human beings, imitation, and others. Now, although man possesses these tendencies as a matter of original equipment, he also possesses tendencies which are opposed to these, tendencies which lead to the advancement of self, rather than the well-being of the group. Some of these are fighting, mastery, rivalry, jealousy, ownership. Which of these sets of tendencies is developed and controls the life of the individual is a matter of training and environment. In the last chapter it was pointed out that morality was much more susceptible to environmental influences than intellectual achievement, because it was much more a direction and guidance of capacities and tendencies possessed by every one. One's character is largely a product of one's environment. In proof of this, read the reports of reform schools, and the like. Children of criminal parents, removed from the environment of crime, grow up into moral persons. The pair of Jukes who left the Juke clan lost their criminal habits and brought up a family of children who were not immoral. Education cannot produce geniuses, but it can produce men and women whose chief concern is the well-being of the group. From a psychological point of view the "choice by the individual of habits of conduct that are for the good of the group" involves three considerations: First, the elements implied in such conduct; second, the stages of development; third, the laws governing this development. First, moral conduct involves the use of habits, but these must be rational habits, so it involves the power to think and judge in order to choose. But thinking that shall result in the choice of habits that are for the well-being of the group must use knowledge. The individual must have facts and standards at his disposal by means of which he may evaluate the possible lines of action presented. Further, an individual may know intellectually what is right and moral and yet not care. The interest, the emotional appeal, may be lacking, hence he must have ideals to which he has given his allegiance, which will force him to put into practice what his knowledge tells him is right. And then, having decided what is for the social good and having the desire to carry it out, the moral man must be able to put it into execution. He must have the "will power." Morality, then, is an extremely complex matter, involving all the powers of the human being, intellectual, emotional, and volitional--involving the coöperation of heredity and environment. It is evident that conduct that is at so high a level, involving experience, powers of judgment, and control, cannot be characteristic of the immature individual, but must come after years of growth, if at all. Therefore we find stages of development towards moral conduct. The first stage of development, which lasts up into the pre-adolescent years, is the non-moral stage. The time when a child may conform outwardly to moral law, but only as a result of blind habit--not as a result of rational choice. It is then that the little child conforms to his environment, reflecting the characters of the people by whom he is surrounded. Right to him means what those about him approve and what brings him satisfaction. If stealing and lying meet with approval from the people about him, they are right to him. To steal and be caught is wrong to the average child of the streets, because that brings punishment and annoyance. He has no standards of judging other than the example of others and his own satisfaction and annoyance. The non-moral period, then, is characterized by the formation of habits--which outwardly conform to moral law, or are contrary to it, according as his environment directs. The need to form habits that do conform, that are for the social good, is evident. By having many habits of this kind formed in early childhood, truthfulness, consideration for others, respect for poverty, promptness, regularity, taking responsibility, and so on, the dice are weighted in favor of the continuation of such conduct when reason controls. The child has then only to enlarge his view, build up his principles in accord with conduct already in operation--he needs only to rationalize what he already possesses. On the other hand, if during early years his conduct violates moral law, he is in the grip of habits of great strength which will result in two dangers. He may be blind to the other side, he may not realize how his conduct violates the laws of social progress; or, knowing, he may not care enough to put forth the tremendous effort necessary to break these habits and build up the opposite. From the standpoint of conduct this non-moral period is the most important one in the life of the child. In it the twig is bent. To urge that a child cannot understand and therefore should be excused for all sorts of conduct simply evades the issue. He is forming habits--that cannot be prevented; the question is, Are those habits in line with the demands of social efficiency or are they in violation of it? But character depends primarily on deliberate choice. We dare not rely on blind habit alone to carry us through the crises of social and spiritual adjustment. There will arise the insistent question as to whether the habitual presupposition is right. Occasions will occur when several possible lines of conduct suggest themselves; what kind of success will one choose, what kind of pleasure? Choice, personal choice, will be forced upon the individual. This problem does not usually grow acute until early adolescence, although it may along some lines present itself earlier. When it appears will depend to a large extent on the environment. For some people in some directions it never comes. It should come gradually and spontaneously. This period is the period of transition, when old habits are being scrutinized, when standards are being formulated and personal responsibility is being realized, when ideals are made vital and controlling. It may be a period of storm and stress when the youth is in emotional unrest; when conduct is erratic and not to be depended on; when there is reaction against authority of all kinds. These characteristics are unfortunate and are usually the result of unwise treatment during the first period. If, on the other hand, the period of transition is prepared for during the preadolescent years by giving knowledge, opportunities for self-direction and choice, the change should come normally and quietly. The transition period should be characterized by emphasis upon personal responsibility for conduct, by the development of social ideals, and by the cementing of theory and practice. This period is an ever recurring one. The transition period is followed by the period of true morality during which the conduct chosen becomes habit. The habits characteristic of this final period are different from the habits of the non-moral period, in that they have their source in reason, whereas those of the early period grew out of instincts. This is the period of most value, the period of steady living in accordance with standards and ideals which have been tested by reason and found to be right. The transition period is wasteful and uncertain. True morality is the opposite. But so long as growth in moral matters goes on there is a continuous change from transition period to truly moral conduct and back again to a fresh transition period and again a change to morality of a still higher order. Each rationalized habit but paves the way for one still higher. Morality, then, should be a continual evolution from level to level. Only so is progress in the individual life maintained. Morality, then, requires the inhibition of some instincts and the perpetuation of others, the formation of habits and ideals, the development of the power to think and judge, the power to react to certain abstractions such as ought, right, duty, and so on, the power to carry into execution values accepted. The general laws of instinct, of habit, the response by piecemeal association, the laws of attention and appreciation, are active in securing these responses that we call moral, just as they are operative in securing other responses that do not come under this category. It is only as these general psychological laws are carried out sufficiently that stable moral conduct is secured. Any violation of these laws invalidates the result in the moral field just as it would in any other. There is not one set of principles governing moral conduct and another set governing all other types of conduct. The same general laws govern both. This being true, there is no need of discussing in detail the operation of laws controlling moral conduct--that has all been covered in the previous chapters. However, there are some suggestions which should be borne in mind in the application of these laws to this field. First, it is a general principle that habits, to be fixed and stable, must be followed by satisfactory results and that working along the opposite line, that of having annoyance follow a lapse in the conduct, is uneconomical and unreliable. This principle applies particularly to moral habits. Truth telling, bravery, obedience, generosity, thought for others, church going, and so on must be followed by positive satisfaction, if they are to be part of the warp and woof of life. Punishing falsehood, selfishness, cowardice, and so on is not enough, for freedom from supervision will usually mean rejection of such forced habits. A child must find that it pays to be generous; that he is happier when he coöperates with others than when he does not. Positive satisfaction should follow moral conduct. Of course this satisfaction must vary in type with the age and development of the child, from physical pleasure occasioned by an apple as a reward for self-control at table to the satisfaction which the consciousness of duty well done brings to the adolescent. Second, the part played by suggestion in bringing about moral habits and ideals must be recognized. The human personalities surrounding the child are his most influential teachers in this line. This influence of personalities begins when the child is yet a baby. Reflex imitation first, and later conscious imitation plus the feeling of dependence which a little child has for the adults in his environment, results in the child reflecting to a large extent the characters of those about him. Good temper, stability, care for others, self-control, and many other habits; respect for truth, for the opinion of others, and many other ideals, are unconsciously absorbed by the child in his early years. Example not precept, actions not words, are the controlling forces in moral education. Hence the great importance of the characters of a child's companions, friends, and teachers, to say nothing of his parents. Next to personalities, theaters, moving pictures, and books, all have great suggestive power. Third, there is always a danger that theory become divorced from practice, and this is particularly true here because morality is conduct. Knowing what is right is one thing, doing it is another, and knowing does not result in doing unless definite connections are made between the two. Instruction in morals may have but little effect on conduct. It is only as the knowledge of what is right and good comes in connection with social situations when there is the call for action that true morality can be gained. Mere classroom instruction cannot insure conduct. It is only as the family and the school become more truly social institutions, where group activity such as one finds in life is the dominant note, that we can hope to have morality and not ethics, ideals and not passive appreciation, as a result of our teaching. Fourth, it is without question true that in so far as the habits fixed are "school habits" or "Sunday habits," or any other special type of habits, formed only in connection with special situations, to that extent we have no reason to expect moral conduct in the broader life situations. The habits formed are those that will be put into practice, and they are the only ones we are sure of. Because a child is truthful in school, prompt in attendance, polite to his teacher, and so on is no warrant that he will be the same on the playground or on the street. Because a child can think out a problem in history or mathematics is no warrant that he will therefore think out moral problems. The only sure way is to see to it that he forms many useful habits out of school as well as in, that he has opportunity to think out moral problems as well as problems in school subjects.[18] Fifth, individual differences must not be forgotten in moral training. Individual differences in suggestibility will influence the use of this factor in habit formation. Individual differences in power of appreciation will influence the formation of ideals. Differences in interest in books will result in differing degrees of knowledge. Differences in maturity will mean that certain children in a class are ready for facts concerning sex, labor and capital, crime, and so on, long before other children in the same class should have such knowledge. Differences in thinking power will determine efficiency in moral situations just as in others. The more carefully we consider the problem of moral social conduct, the more apparent it becomes that the work of the school can be modified so as to produce more significant results than are commonly now secured. Indeed, it may be contended that in some respects the activities of the school operate to develop an attitude which is largely individualistic, competitive, and, if not anti-social, at least non-social. Although we may not expect that the habits and attitudes which are developed in the school will entirely determine the life led outside, yet one may not forget that a large part of the life of children is spent under school supervision. As children work in an atmosphere of coöperation, and as they form habits of helpfulness and openmindedness, we may expect that in some degree these types of activity will persist, especially in their association with each other. In a school which is organized to bring about the right sort of moral social conduct we ought to expect that children would grow in their power to accept responsibility for each other. The writer knows of a fourth grade in which during the past year a boy was absent from the room after recess. The teacher, instead of sending the janitor, or she herself going to find the boy, asked the class what they were going to do about it, and suggested to them their responsibility for maintaining the good name which they had always borne as a group. Two of the more mature boys volunteered to go and find the boy who was absent. When they brought him into the room a little while later, they remarked to the teacher in a most matter-of-fact way, "We do not think that he will stay out after recess again." In the corridor of an elementary school the writer saw during the past year two boys sitting on a table before school hours in the morning. The one was teaching the multiplication tables to the other. They were both sixth-grade pupils,--the one a boy who had for some reason or other never quite thoroughly learned his tables. The teacher had suggested that somebody might help him, and a boy had volunteered to come early to school in order that he might teach the boy who was backward. A great many teachers have discovered that the strongest motive which they can find for good work in the field of English is to be found in providing an audience, both for the reading or story-telling, and for the English composition. The idea which prevails is that if one is to read, he ought to read well enough to entertain others. If one has enjoyed a story, he may, if he prepares himself sufficiently well, tell it to the class or to some other group. Much more emphasis on the undertakings in the attempt to have children accept responsibility, and to engage in a type of activity which has a definite moral social value, is to be found in the schools in which children are responsible for the morning exercises, or for publishing a school paper, or for preparing a school festival. One of the most notable achievements in this type of activity which the writer has ever known occurred in a school in which a group of seventh-grade children were thought to be particularly incompetent. The teachers had almost despaired of having them show normal development, either intellectually or socially. After a conference of all of the teachers who knew the members of this group, it was decided to allow them to prepare a patriot's day festival. The idea among those teachers who had failed with this group was that if the children had a large responsibility, they would show a correspondingly significant development. The children responded to the motive which was provided, became earnest students of history in order that they might find a dramatic situation, and worked at their composition when they came to write their play, some of them exercising a critical as well as a creative faculty which no one had known that they possessed. But possibly the best thing about the whole situation was that every member of the class found something to do in their coöperative enterprise. Some members of the class were engaged in building and in decorating the stage scenery; others were responsible for costumes; those who were strong in music devoted themselves to this field. The search for a proper dramatic situation in history and the writing of the play have already been suggested. The staging of the play and its presentation to a large group of parents and other interested patrons of the school required still further specialization and ability. Out of it all came a realization of the possibility of accomplishing great things when all worked together for the success of a common enterprise. When the festival day came, the most common statement heard in the room on the part of the parents and others interested in the work of the children was expressed by one who said: "This is the most wonderful group of seventh-grade children that I have ever seen. They are as capable as most high school boys and girls." It is to be recalled that this was the group in whom the teachers originally had little faith, and who had sometimes been called in their school a group of misfits. Some schools have found, especially in the upper grades, an opportunity for a type of social activity which is entirely comparable with the demand made upon the older members of our communities. This work for social improvement or betterment is carried on frequently in connection with a course in civics. In some schools there is organized what is known as the junior police. This organization has been in some cases coordinated with the police department. The boys who belong pledge themselves to maintain, in so far as they are able, proper conditions on the streets with respect to play, to abstain from the illegal use of tobacco or other narcotics, and to be responsible for the correct handling of garbage, especially to see that paper, ashes, and other refuse are placed in separate receptacles, and that these receptacles are removed from the street promptly after they are emptied by the department concerned. In one city with which the writer is acquainted, the children in the upper grades, according to the common testimony of the citizens of their community, have been responsible for the cleaning up of the street cars. In other cities they have become interested, and have interested their parents, in the question of milk and water supply. In some cases they have studied many different departments of the city government, and have, in so far as it was possible, lent their coöperation. In one case a group of children became very much excited concerning a dead horse that was allowed to remain on a street near the school, and they learned before they were through just whose responsibility it was, and how to secure the action that should have been taken earlier. Still another type of activity which may have significance for the moral social development of children is found in the study of the life activities in the communities in which they live. There is no reason why children, especially in the upper grades or in the high school, should not think about working conditions, especially as they involve sweat-shops or work under unsanitary conditions. They may very properly become interested in the problems of relief, and of the measures taken to eliminate crime. Indeed, from the standpoint of the development of socially efficient children, it would seem to be more important that some elementary treatment of industrial and social conditions might be found to be more important in the upper grades and in the high school than any single subject which we now teach. Another attempt to develop a reasonable attitude concerning moral situations is found in the schools which have organized pupils for the participation in school government. There is no particular value to be attached to any such form of organization. It may be true that there is considerable advantage in dramatizing the form of government in which the children live, and for that purpose policemen, councilmen or aldermen, mayors, and other officials, together with their election, may help in the understanding of the social obligations which they will have to meet later on. But the main thing is to have these children come to accept responsibility for each other, and to seek to make the school a place where each respects the rights of others and where every one is working together for the common good. In this connection it is important to suggest that schemes of self-government have succeeded only where there has been a leader in the position of principal or other supervisory officer concerned. Children's judgments are apt to be too severe when they are allowed to discipline members of their group. There will always be need, whatever attempt we may make to have them accept responsibility, for the guidance and direction of the more mature mind. We seek in all of these activities, as has already been suggested, to have children come to take, in so far as they are able, the rational attitude toward the problems of conduct which they have to face. It is important for teachers to realize the fallacy of making a set of rules by which all children are to be controlled. It is only with respect to those types of activity in which the response, in order to further the good of the group, must be invariable that we should expect to have pupils become automatic. It is important in the case of a fire drill, or in the passing of materials, and the like, that the response, although it does involve social obligation, should be reduced to the level of mechanized routine. Most school situations involve, or may involve, judgment, and it is only as pupils grow in power of self-control and in their willingness to think through a situation before acting, that we may expect significant moral development. In the case of offenses which seem to demand punishment, that teacher is wise who is able to place responsibility with the pupil who has offended. The question ought to be common, "What can I do to help you?" The question which the teacher should ask herself is not, "What can I do to punish the pupil?" but rather, "How can I have him realize the significance of his action and place upon him the responsibility of reinstating himself with the social group?" The high school principal who solved the problem of a teacher who said that she would not teach unless a particular pupil were removed from her class, and of the pupil who said that she would not stay in school if she had to go to that teacher, by telling them both to take time to think it through and decide how they would reconcile their differences, is a case in point. What we need is not the punishment which follows rapidly upon our feeling of resentment, but rather the wisdom of waiting and accepting the mistake or offense of the pupil as an opportunity for careful consideration upon his part and as a possible means of growth for him. There has been considerable discussion during recent years concerning the obligation of the school to teach children concerning matters of sex. Traditionally, our policy has been one of almost entire neglect. The consequence has been, on the whole, the acquisition upon the part of boys and girls of a large body of misinformation, which has for the most part been vicious. It is not probable that we can ever expect most teachers to have the training necessary to give adequate instruction in this field. For children in the upper grades, during the preadolescent period especially, some such instruction given by the men and women trained in biology, or possibly by men and women doctors who have made a specialty of this field, promises a large contribution to the development of the right attitudes with respect to the sex life and the elimination of much of the immorality which has been due to ignorance or to the vicious misinformation which has commonly been spread among children. The policy of secrecy and ignorance cannot well be maintained if we accept the idea of responsibility and the exercise of judgment as the basis of moral social activity. In no other field are the results of a lack of training or a lack of morality more certain to be disastrous both for the individual and for the social group. QUESTIONS 1. How satisfactory is the morality of the man who claims that he does no wrong? 2. How is it possible for a child to be unmoral and not immoral? 3. Are children who observe school rules and regulations necessarily growing in morality? 4. Why is it important, from the standpoint of growth in morality, to have children form socially desirable habits, even though we may not speak of this kind of activity as moral conduct? 5. What constitutes growth in morality for the adult? 6. In what sense is it possible for the same act to be immoral, unmoral, and moral for individuals living under differing circumstances and in different social groups? Give an example. 7. Why have moral reformers sometimes been considered immoral by their associates? 8. What is the moral significance of earning a living? Of being prompt? Of being courteous? 9. What are the instincts upon which we may hope to build in moral training? What instinctive basis is there for immoral conduct? 10. To what extent is intellectual activity involved in moral conduct? What is the significance of one's emotional response? 11. What stages of development are distinguishable in the moral development of children? Is it possible to classify children as belonging to one stage or the other by their ages? 12. Why is it true that one's character depends upon the deliberate choices which he makes among several possible modes or types of action? 13. Why is it important to have positive satisfaction follow moral conduct? 14. How may the conduct of parents and teachers influence conduct of children? 15. What is the weakness of direct moral instruction, e.g. the telling of stories of truthfulness, the teaching of moral precepts, and the like? 16. What opportunities can you provide in your class for moral social conduct? 17. Children will do what is right because of their desire to please, their respect for authority, their fear of unpleasant consequences, their careful, thoughtful analysis of the situation and choice of that form of action which they consider right. Arrange these motives in order of their desirability. Would you be satisfied to utilize the motive which brings results most quickly and most surely? 18. In what sense is it true that lapses from moral conduct are the teacher's best opportunity for moral teaching? 19. How may children contribute to the social welfare of the school community? Of the larger social group outside of the school? 20. How may pupil participation in school government be made significant in the development of social moral conduct? * * * * * XII. TRANSFER OF TRAINING Formal discipline or transfer of training concerns itself with the question as to how far training in one subject, along one line, influences other lines. How far, for instance, training in reasoning in mathematics helps a child to reason in history, in morals, in household administration; how far memorizing gems of poetry or dates in history aids memory when it is applied to learning stenography or botany; how far giving attention to the gymnasium will insure attention to sermons and one's social engagements. The question is, How far does the special training one gets in home and school fit him to react to the environment of life with its new and complex situations? Put in another way, the question is what effect upon other bonds does forming this particular situation response series of bonds have. The practical import of the question and its answer is tremendous. Most of our present school system, both in subject matter and method, is built upon the assumption that one answer is correct--if it is false, much work remains to be done by the present-day education. The point of view which was held until recent years is best made clear by a series of quotations. "Since the mind is a unit and the faculties are simply phases or manifestations of its activity, whatever strengthens one faculty indirectly strengthens all the others. The _verbal_ memory seems to be an exception to this statement, however, for it may be abnormally cultivated without involving to any profitable extent the other faculties. But only things that are rightly perceived and rightly understood can be _rightly_ remembered. Hence whatever develops the acquisitive and assimilative powers will also strengthen memory; and, conversely, rightly strengthening the memory necessitates the developing and training of the other powers." (R.N. Roark, Method in Education, p. 27.) "It is as a means of training the faculties of perception and generalization that the study of such a language as Latin in comparison with English is so valuable." (C.L. Morgan, Psychology for Teachers, p. 186.) "Arithmetic, if judiciously taught, forms in the pupil habits of mental attention, argumentative sequence, absolute accuracy, and satisfaction in truth as a result, that do not seem to spring equally from the study of any other subject suitable to this elementary stage of instruction." (Joseph Payne, Lectures on Education, Vol. I, p. 260.) "By means of experimental and observational work in science, not only will his attention be excited, the power of observation, previously awakened, much strengthened, and the senses exercised and disciplined, but the very important habit of doing homage to the authority of facts rather than to the authority of men, be initiated." (_Ibid_., p. 261.) The view maintained by these writers is that the mind is made up of certain elemental powers such as attention, reasoning, observation, imagination, and the like, each of which acts as a unit. Training any one of these powers means simply its exercise irrespective of the material used. The facility gained through this exercise may then be transferred to other subjects or situations, which are quite different. The present point of view with regard to this question is very different, as is shown by the following quotations: "We may conclude, then, that there is something which may be called formal discipline, and that it may be more or less general in character. It consists in the establishment of habitual reactions that correspond to the form of situations. These reactions foster adjustments, attitudes, and ideas that favor the successful dealing with the emergencies that arouse them. On the other hand, both the form that we can learn to deal with more effectively, and the reactions that we associate with it, are definite. There is no general training of the powers or faculties, so far as we can determine." (Henderson, 10, p. 307 f.) "One mental function or activity improves others in so far as and because they are in part identical with it, because it contains elements common to them. Addition improves multiplication because multiplication is largely addition; knowledge of Latin gives increased ability to learn French because many of the facts learned in the one case are needed in the other. The study of geometry may lead a pupil to be more logical in all respects, for one element of being logical in all respects is to realize that facts can be absolutely proven and to admire and desire this certain and unquestionable sort of demonstration...." (Thorndike, '06, pp. 243-245, _passim_.) "Mental discipline is the most important thing in education, but it is specific, not general. The ability developed by means of one subject can be transferred to another subject only in so far as the latter has elements in common with the former. Abilities should be developed in school only by means of those elements of subject-matter and of method that are common to the most valuable phases of the outside environment. In the high school there should also be an effort to work out general concepts of method from the specific methods used." (Heck, '09, Edition of '11, p. 198.) "... No study should have a place in the curriculum for which this general disciplinary characteristic is the chief recommendation. Such advantage can probably be gotten in some degree from every study, and the intrinsic values of each study afford at present a far safer criterion of educational work than any which we can derive from the theory of formal discipline." (Angell, '08, p. 14.) These writers also believe in transfer of training, but they believe the transfer to be never complete, to be in general a very small percentage of the special improvement gained and at times to be negative and to interfere with responses in other fields instead of being a help. They also emphasize the belief that when the transfer does occur, it is for some perfectly valid reason and under certain very definite conditions. They reject utterly the machine-like idea of the mind and its elemental faculties held by the writers first quoted. They hold the view of mental activity which has been emphasized in the discussion of original tendencies and inheritance from near ancestry, _i.e._, that the physical correlate of all types of mental activity is a definite forming of connections between particular bonds-these connections, of course, according to the laws of readiness exercise, and effect, would be determined by the situation acting as a stimulus and would, therefore, vary as the total situation varied. They believe in a highly specialized human brain, which reacts in small groups of nerve tracts--not in gross wholes. They would express each of the "elemental" powers in the plural and not in the singular. The basis of this change of view within the last fifteen or twenty years is to be found in experimental work. The question has definitely been put to the test as to how far training in one line did influence others. For a full description of the various types of experiments performed the reader is referred to Thorndike's "Psychology of Learning," Chapter 12. Only an indication of the type of work done and the general character of the results can be given here. Experiments in the effect of cross education, in memorizing, in observing and judging sensory and perceptual data, and in forming sensori-motor association habits have been conducted in considerable numbers. A few experiments in special school functions have also been carried out. Investigations in the correlation between various parts of the same subject and between different subjects supposed to be closely allied also throw light upon this subject. The results from these different lines of experiment, although confusing and sometimes contradictory, seem to warrant the belief stated above. They have made it very clear that the question of transfer is not a simple one, but, on the contrary, that it is extremely complex. They make plain that in some cases where large transfer was confidently expected, that little resulted, while, on the other hand, in some cases when little was expected, much more occurred. It is evident that the old idea of a large transfer in some subtle and unexplained way of special improvements to a general faculty is false. But, on the other hand, it would be equally false to say that no transfer occurred. The general principle seems to be that transfer occurs when the same bonds are used in the second situation to the extent that the alteration in these particular connections affects the second response. Both the knowledge of what bonds are used in various responses and to what extent alteration in them will affect different total responses is lacking. Therefore, all that is at present possible is a statement of conditions under which transfer is probable. In general, then, transfer of training will occur to the extent that the two responses use the same bonds--to the extent, then, that there is identity of some sort. This identity which makes transfer possible may be of all degrees of generality and of several different types. First, there may be identity of content. For instance, forming useful connections with six, island, and, red, habit, Africa, square root, triangle, gender, percentage, and so on, in this or that particular context should be of use in other contexts and therefore allow of transfer of training. The more common the particular responses are to all sorts of life situations, the greater the possibility of transfer. Second, the identity may be that of method or procedure. To be able to add, to carry, to know the method of classifying an unknown flower, to have a definite method of meeting a new situation in hand-work, to know how to use source material in history, to have gained the technique of laboratory skill in chemistry, to know how to study in geography, should be useful in other departments where the same method would serve. Some of these methods are, of course, of much more general service than others. In establishing skill in the use of these various procedures, two types of responses are needed. The learner must form connections of a positive nature, such as analyzing, collecting material, criticizing according to standard, picking out the essential and so on, and he must also form connections of a negative character which will cause him to neglect certain tendencies. He must learn not to accept the first idea offered, to neglect suggestions, to hurry or to leave half finished, to ignore interruptions, to prevent personal bias to influence criticism, and so on. These connections which result in neglecting certain elements are quite as important as the positive element, both in the production of the particular procedure and in the transfer to other fields. Third, the identity may be of still more general character and be in terms of attitude or ideal. To learn to be thorough in connection with history, accurate in handwork, open-minded in science, persistent in Latin, critical in geometry, thorough in class and school activities; to form habits of allegiance to ideals of truth, coöperation, fair play, tolerance, courage, and so on, _may_ help the learner to exhibit these same attitudes in other situations in life. Here again the connections of neglect are important. To neglect selfish suggestions, to ignore the escape from consequences that falsehood might make possible, to be dead to fear, to ignore bodily aches and pains, are quite as necessary in producing conduct that is generous, truthful, and courageous as are the positive connections made in building up the ideal. In the discussion of transfer because of identity, it was emphasised that the presence of identity of various types explained cases of transfer that exist and made transfer possible. In no case must it be understood, however, that the presence of these identical elements is a warrant of transfer. Transfer _may_ take place under such conditions, but it need not do so. Transfer is most sure to occur in cases of identity of substance and least likely in cases of identity of attitude or ideals. To have useful responses to six, above, city, quart, and so on, in one situation will very likely mean responses of a useful nature in almost all situations which have such elements present. It is very different with the ideals. A child may be very accurate in handwork, and yet almost nothing of it show elsewhere; he may be truthful to his teacher and lie to his parents; he may be generous to his classmates and the reverse to his brothers and sisters. Persistence in Latin may not influence his work in the shop, and the critical attitude of geometry be lacking in his science. Transfer in methods holds a middle ground. It seems that the more complex and the more subtle the connections involved, the less is the amount and the surety of the transfer. In order to increase the probability of transfer when connections of method or attitudes are being formed, first, it should be made conscious, and second, it should be put into practice in several types of situations. There is grave danger that the method will not be differentiated from the subject, the ideal from the context of the situation. To many children learning how to study in connection with history, or to be critical in geometry, or to be scientific in the laboratory, has never been separated from the particular situation. The method or the ideal and the situation in which they have been acquired are one--one response. The general elements of method or attitude have never been made conscious, they are submerged in the particular subject or situation, and therefore the probability of transfer is lessened. If, on the other hand, the question of method, as an idea by itself, apart from any particular subject, is brought to the child's attention; if truth as an ideal, independent of context, is made conscious, it is much more likely to be reacted to in a different situation, for it has become a free idea and therefore crystallized. Then having freed the general somewhat from its particular setting, the learner should be given opportunity to put it in practice in other settings. To simply form the method connections or the attitude responses in Latin and then blindly trust that they will be of general use is unsafe. It is the business of the educator to make as sure as he can of the transfer, and that can only be done by practicing in several fields. These two procedures which make transfer more sure, i.e., making the element conscious and giving practice in several fields, are not sharply divided, but interact. Practice makes the idea clearer and freer, and this in turn makes fresh practice profitable. It is simply the application of the law of analysis by varying concomitants. In all this matter of transfer it must be borne in mind that a very slight amount of transfer of some of these more general responses may be of tremendous value educationally, provided it is over a very wide field. If a boy's study of high school science made him at all more scientific in his attitude towards such life situations as politics, morals, city sanitation, and the like, it would be of much more value than the particular habit formed. If a girl's work in home economics resulted in but a slight transfer of vital interest to the actual problems of home-making, it would mean much to the homes of America. If a boy's training in connection with the athletics of his school fosters in him an ideal of fair play which influences him at all in his dealings with men in business, with his family, with himself, the training would have been worth while. To discount training simply because the transfer is slight is manifestly unfair. The kind of responses which transfer are quite as important as the amount of the transfer. The idea that every subject will furnish the same amount of discipline provided they are equally well taught is evidently false. Every school subject must now be weighed from two points of view,--first, as to the worth of the particular facts, responses, habits, which it forms, and second, as to the opportunity it offers for the formation of connections which are of general application. The training which educators are sure of is the particular training offered by the subject; the general training is more problematic. Hence no subject should be retained in our present curriculum whose only value is a claim to disciplinary training. Such general training as the subject affords could probably be gained from some other subject whose content is also valuable. Just because a subject is difficult, or is distasteful, is no sign that its pursuit will result in disciplinary training. In fact, the psychology of play and drudgery make it apparent that the presence of annoyance, of distaste, will lessen the disciplinary value. Only those subjects and activities which are characterized by the play spirit can offer true educational development. The more the play spirit enters in, the greater the possibility of securing not only special training, but general discipline as well. Thorndike sums up the present attitude towards special subjects by saying, "An impartial inventory of the facts in the ordinary pupil of ten to eighteen would find the general training from English composition greater than that from formal logic, the training from physics and chemistry greater than that from geometry, and the training from a year's study of the laws and institutions of the Romans greater than that from equal study of their language. The grammatical studies which have been considered the chief depositories of disciplinary magic would be found in general inferior to scientific treatments of human nature as a whole. The superiority for discipline of pure overapplied science would be referred in large measure to the fact that pure science could be so widely applied. The disciplinary value of geometry would appear to be due, not to the simplicity of its conditions, but to the rigor of its proofs; the greatest disciplinary value of Latin would appear in the case, not of those who disliked it and found it hard, but of those to whom it was a charming game." QUESTIONS 1. It has been experimentally determined that the ease with which one memorizes one set of facts may be very greatly improved without a corresponding improvement in ability to memorize in some other field. How would you use this fact to refute the argument that we possess a general faculty of memory? 2. How is it possible for a man to reason accurately in the field of engineering and yet make very grave mistakes in his reasoning about government or education? 3. What assurance have we that skill or capacity for successful work developed in one situation will be transferred to another situation involving the same mental processes of habit formation, reasoning, imagination, and the like? 4. What are the different types of identity which make possible transfer of training? 5. How can we make the identity of methods of work most significant for transfer of training and for the education of the individual? 6. Why do ideals which seem to control in one situation fail to affect other activities in which the same ideal is called for? 7. Under what conditions may a very slight amount of transfer of training become of the very greatest importance for education? 8. Why may we not hope for the largest results in training by compelling children to study that which is distasteful? Do children (or adults) work hardest when they are forced to attend to that from which they derive little or no satisfaction? 9. Which student gets the most significant training from his algebra, the boy who enjoys work in this field or the boy who worries through it because algebra is required for graduation from the high school? 10. Why may we hope to secure more significant training in junior high schools which offer a great variety of courses than was accomplished by the seventh and eighth grades in which all pupils were compelled to study the same subjects? 11. Why is Latin a good subject from the standpoint of training for one student and a very poor subject with which to seek to educate another student? * * * * * XIII. TYPES OF CLASSROOM EXERCISES The exercises which teachers conduct in their classrooms do not commonly involve a single type of mental activity. It is true, however, that certain lessons tend to involve one type of activity predominantly. There are lessons which seek primarily to fix habits, others in which thinking of the inductive type is primarily involved, and still others in which deductive thinking or appreciation are the ends sought. As has already been indicated in the discussion of habit, thinking, and appreciation in the previous chapters, these types of mental activity are not to be thought of as separate and distinct. Habit formation may involve thinking. In a lesson predominantly inductive or deductive, some element of drill may enter, or appreciation may be sought with respect to some particular part of the situation presented. These different kinds of exercises, drills, thinking (inductive or deductive), and appreciation are fairly distinct psychological types. In addition to the psychological types of exercises mentioned above, exercises are conducted in the classroom which may be designated under the following heads: lecturing, the recitation lesson, examination and review lessons. In any one of these the mental process involved may be any of those mentioned above as belonging to the purely psychological types of lessons or a combination of any two or more of them. It has seemed worth while to treat briefly of both sorts of lesson types, and to discuss at some length, lecturing, about which there is considerable disagreement, and the additional topic of questioning, which is the means employed in all of these different types of classroom exercises. _The Inductive Lesson_. It has been common in the discussion of the inductive development lesson to classify the stages through which one passes from his recognition of a problem to his conclusion in five steps. These divisions have commonly been spoken of as (1) preparation; (2) presentation; (3)comparison and abstraction; (4) generalization; and (5) application. It has even been suggested that all lessons should conform to this order of procedure. From the discussions in the previous chapters, the reader will understand that such a formal method of procedure would not conform to what we know about mental activity and its normal exercise and development. There is some advantage, however, in thinking of the general order of procedure in the inductive lesson as outlined by these steps. The step of preparation has to do with making clear to the pupil the aim or purpose of the problem with which he is to deal. It is not always possible in the classroom to have children at work upon just such problems as may occur to them. The orderly development of a subject to be taught requires that the teacher discover to children problems or purposes which may result in thinking. The skill of the teacher depends upon his knowledge of the previous experiences of the children in the class and his skill in having them word the problem which remains unsolved in their experience in such a way as to make it attractive to them. Indeed, it may be said that children never have a worthy aim unless it is one which is intellectually stimulating. A problem exists only when we desire to find the answer. The term "presentation" suggests a method of procedure which we would not want to follow too frequently; that is, we may hope not simply to present facts for acceptance or rejection, but, rather, we want children to search for the data which they may need in solving their problem. From the very beginning of their school career children need, in the light of a problem stated, to learn to utilize all of the possible sources of information available. Their own experience, the questions which they may put to other people, observations which they may undertake with considerable care, books or other sources of information which they may consult, all are to be thought of as tools to be used or sources of information available for the solution of problems. It cannot be too often reiterated that it is not simply getting facts, reading books, performing experiments, which is significant, but, rather, which of these operations is conducted in the light of a problem clearly conceived by children. The step of presentation, as above described, is not one that may be begun and completed before other parts of the inductive lesson are carried on. As soon as any facts are available they are either accepted or rejected, as they may help in the solution of the problem; comparisons are instituted, the essential elements of likeness are noticed, and even a partial solution of the problem may be suggested in terms of a new generalization. The student may then begin to gather further facts, to pass through further steps of comparison, and to make still further modifications of his generalization as he proceeds in his work. At any stage of the process the student may stop to apply or test the validity of a generalization which has been formed. It is even true that the statement of the problem with which one starts may be modified in the light of new facts found, or new analyses instituted, or new elements of likeness which have been discovered. In the conduct of an inductive lesson it is of primary importance that the teacher discover to children problems, the solutions of which are important for them, that he guide them in so far as it is possible for them to find all of the facts necessary in their search for data, that he encourage them to discuss with each other, even to the extent of disagreeing, with respect to comparisons which are instituted or generalizations which are premature, and above all, that he develop, in so far as it is possible, the habit of verifying conclusions. _The Deductive Lesson._ The interdependence of induction and deduction has been discussed in the chapter devoted to thinking. The procedure in a deductive lesson is from a clear recognition of the problem involved, through the analysis of the situation and abstraction of the essential elements, to a search for the laws or principles in which to classify the particular element or individual with which we are dealing, to a careful comparison of this particular with the general that we have found, to our conclusion, which is established by a process of verification. Briefly stated, the normal order of procedure might be indicated as follows: (1) finding the problem; (2) finding the generalization or principles; (3) inference; (4) verification. It is important in this type of exercise, as has been indicated in the discussion of the inductive lesson, that the problem be made clear. So long as children indulge in random guesses as to the process which is involved in the solution of a problem in arithmetic, or the principle which is to be invoked in science, or the rule which is to be called to mind in explaining a grammatical construction, we may take it for granted that they have no very clear conception of the process through which they must pass, nor of the issues which are involved. In the search for the generalization or principle which will explain the problem, a process of acceptance and rejection is involved. It helps children to state definitely, with respect to a problem in arithmetic, that they know that this particular principle is not the one which they need. It is often by a process of elimination that a child can best explain a grammatical construction, either in English or in a foreign language. Of course the elimination of the principle or law which is not the right one means simply that we are reducing the number of chances of making a mistake. If out of four possibilities we can immediately eliminate two of them, there are only two left to be considered. After children have discovered the generalization or principle involved, it is well to have them state definitely the inference which they make. Just as in the inductive process we pass almost immediately from the step of comparison and abstraction to the statement of generalization, so in the deductive lesson, when once we have related the particular case under consideration to the principle which explains it, we are ready to state our inference. Verification involves the trying out of our inference to see that it certainly will hold. This may be done by proposing some other inference which we find to be invalid, or by seeking to find any other law or principle which will explain our particular situation. Here again, as in the inductive lesson, the skillful teacher makes his greatest contribution by having children become increasingly careful in this step of verification. Almost any one can pass through the several stages involved in deductive thinking and arrive at a wrong conclusion. That which distinguishes the careful thinker from the careless student is the sincerity of the former in his unwillingness to accept his conclusions until they are verified. _The Drill Lesson._ The drill lesson is so clearly a matter of fixing habits that little needs to be added to the chapter dealing with this subject. If one were to attempt to give in order the steps of the process involved, they might be stated as follows: (1) establishing a motive for forming the habit; (2) knowing exactly what we wish to do, or the habit or skill to be acquired; (3) recognition of the importance of the focusing of attention during the period devoted to repetitions; (4) variation in practice in order to lessen fatigue and to help to fix attention; (5) a recognition of the danger of making mistakes, with consequent provision against lapses; (6) the principle of review, which may be stated best by suggesting that the period between practice exercises may only gradually be lengthened. Possibly the greatest deficiency in drill work, as commonly conducted, is found in the tendency upon the part of some teachers to depend upon repetition involving many mistakes. This is due quite frequently to the assignment of too much to be accomplished. Twenty-five words in spelling, a whole multiplication table, a complete conjugation in Latin, all suggest the danger of mistakes which will be difficult to eliminate later on. The wise teacher is the one who provides very carefully against mistakes upon the part of pupils. He assigns a minimum number of words, or a number of combinations, or a part of a conjugation, and takes care to discover that children are sure of themselves before indulging in that practice which is to fix the habit. In much of the drill work there is, of course, the desirability of gaining in speed. In this field successful teachers have discovered that much is gained by more or less artificial stimuli which seem to be altogether outside of the work required to form a habit. In drill on column addition successful work is done by placing the problem on the board and following through the combinations by pointing the pointer and making a tap on the board as one proceeds through the column. Concert work of this sort seems to have the effect of speeding up those who would ordinarily lag, even though they might get the right result. The most skillful teachers of typewriting count or clap their hands or use the phonograph for the sake of speeding up their students. They have discovered that the same amount of time devoted to typewriting practice will produce anywhere from twenty-five to one hundred per cent more speed under such artificial stimulation as they were in the habit of getting merely by asking the students to practice. These experiences, of course, suggest that drill work will require an expenditure of energy and an alertness upon the part of teachers, and not merely an assignment of work to be done by pupils. _Appreciation Lesson._ The work which the teacher does in securing appreciation has been suggested in a previous chapter. It will suffice here briefly to state what may be thought of as the order of procedure in securing appreciation. It is not as easy in this case to state the development in terms of particular steps or processes, since, as has already been indicated in the chapter on appreciation, the student is passive rather than active, is contemplating and enjoying, rather than attacking and working to secure a particular result. The work of the teacher may, however, be organized around the following heads: (1) it is of primary importance that the teacher bring to the class an enthusiasm and joy for the picture, music, poetry, person, or achievement which he wishes to present; (2) children must not be forced to accept nor even encouraged to repeat the evaluation determined by teachers; (3) spontaneous and sincere response upon the part of children should be accepted, even though it may not conform to the teacher's estimate; (4) children should be encouraged to choose from among many of the forms or situations presented for their approval those which they like best; (5) the technique involved in the creation of the artistic form should be subordinated to enjoyment in the field of the fine arts; (6) throughout, the play spirit should be predominant, for if the element of drudgery enters, appreciation disappears. Teachers who get good results in appreciation secure them mainly by virtue of the fact that they have large capacity for enjoyment in the fields which they present to children. A teacher who is enthusiastic, and who really finds great joy in music, will awaken and develop power of appreciation upon the part of his pupils. The teacher who can enter into the spirit of the child poetry, or of the fairy tale, will get a type of appreciation not enjoyed by the teacher who finds delight only in adult literature. It is of the utmost importance to recognize the fact that children only gradually grow from an appreciation or joy in that which is crude to that which represents the highest type of artistic production. It is important to have children try themselves out in creative work; but the influence of a teacher may be far greater than that of the attempts of the children to produce in these fields. _Lecturing_. Among the various types of methods used in teaching there is probably no one which has received such severe criticism as the so-called lecture method. The result of this criticism has been, theoretically at least, to abolish lecturing from the elementary school and to diminish the use of this method in the high school, although in the colleges and universities it is still the most popular method. Although it is true that the lecture method is not the best one for continual use in elementary and high school, still its entire disuse is unfortunate. So is its blind use by those who still adhere to the old ways of doing things. The chief criticisms of the method are, first, that it makes of the learner a mere recipient instead of a thinker; second, that the material so gained does not become part of the mental life of the hearers and so is not so well remembered nor so easily applied as material gained in other ways; third, that the instructor has no means of determining whether his class is getting the right ideas or wholly false ones; fourth, the method lacks interest in the majority of cases. Despite the truth of these criticisms, there are occasions when the lecture or telling method is the best one--in fact the only one that can accomplish the desired result. First, the lecture method may sometimes take the place of books. Often, even in the elementary school, there is need for the children to get facts,--information in history or geography or literature,--and the getting of these facts from books would be too difficult or too wasteful. In such a case telling the facts is certainly the best way to give them. A teacher in half a period can give material that it might take the children hours to find. By telling them the facts, he not only saves waste of time, but also retains the interest. Very often discouragement and even dislike results from a prolonged search for a few facts. Of course in the higher schools, when the material to be given is not in print, when the professor is the source of certain theories, methods, and explanations, lecturing is the only way for students to get the material. It must be borne in mind that human beings are naturally a source of interest, particularly to children, and therefore having the teacher tell, other things being equal, will make a greater impression than reading it in a book. Second, the lecture method is valuable as a means of explanation. Despite the fact that the material given may be adapted to the child's level of development, still it often happens that it is not clear. Then, instead of sending the child to the same material again, an explanation by teacher or fellow pupil is much better. It may be just the inflection used, or the choice of different words, that will clear up the difficulty. Third, the telling method should be used for illustration. Very often when illustration is necessary the lecture method is supplemented by illustrative material of various types--objects, experiments, pictures, models, diagrams, and so on. None of this material, however, is used to its best advantage unless it is accompanied by the telling method. It is through the telling that the essentials of the illustrative material gain the proper perspective. Without such explanation some unimportant detail may focus the attention and the value of the material be lost. It has been customary to emphasize the need for and the value of this concrete illustrative material. Teachers have felt that if it was possible to have the actual object, it should be obtained; if that was not possible, why then have pictures, but diagrams and words should only be used as a last resort. There can be no doubt as to the value of the concrete material, especially with little children--but its use has been carried to an extreme because it has been used blindly. For instance, sometimes the concrete material because of its general inherent interest, or because of its special appeal to some instinct, attracts the attention of the child in such a way that the point which was to be illustrated is lost sight of. Witness work in nature study in the lower grades, and in chemistry in the high school. The concrete material may be so complex that again the essential point is lost in the mass of detail. No perspective can be obtained because of the complexity--witness work with principles of machines in physics and the circulation of the blood in biology. Sometimes the diagram or word explanation with nothing of the more concrete material is the best type of illustration. A fresh application of the principle or lesson by the teacher is another means of illustration and one of the best, for it not only broadens the student's point of view and gives another cue to the material, but it may also make direct connection with his own experience. Illustrations in the book often fail to do this, but the teacher knowing his particular class can make the application that will mean most. Telling a story or incident is another way of illustration. The personal element is nearly always present in this means, and is a valuable spur to interest. Illustrations of all kinds, from the concrete to the story form, have been grossly misused in teaching, so that to-day teachers are almost afraid to use any. The difficulty has been that illustrations have been used as a means of regaining wandering attention. It has been the sugar-coating. The illustration, then, has become the important thing and the material nonimportant. The class has watched the experiment or listened to the story, but when that was over the attention was gone again. Illustrations should not be the means of holding the attention; that is the function of the material itself. If the lesson cannot hold the interest, illustrations are worse than useless. Illustrations, then, of all kinds must be subordinated to the material--they are only a means to an end, and that end is a better understanding of the material. Illustrations, further, should have a vital, necessary connection with the point they are used to make clearer. Illustrations that are dragged in, that are not vitally connected with the point, are entirely out of place. If illustrations always truly illustrated, then children would not remember the illustration and forget the point, for remembering the illustration they would be led directly to the point because of the closeness of the connection. Fourth, telling or lecturing is the best way to get appreciation. This was discussed in the chapter on appreciation, so need only be mentioned here. The interpretation by the teacher of the character, the picture, the poem, the policy, or what not, not only increases the understanding of the listener, but also calls up feeling responses. It is in this telling that the personality of the teacher, his experiences, his ideals, make themselves felt. One can often win appreciation of and allegiance to the best in life by the use of the telling method in the appropriate situations. Fifth, the lecture method should sometimes be used as a means of getting the desired mental attitude. The general laws of learning emphasize the importance of the mind's set as a condition to readiness of neurone tracts. Five or ten minutes spent at the beginning of a subject, or a new section of work, in introducing the class to it, may give the keynote for the whole course. A whole period may be profitably be spent this way. Not only will the telling method used on such occasions give the right emotional attitude towards a subject, but also the right intellectual set as well. It is evident then that the lecture or telling method has its place in all parts of the educational system, but its place should be clearly and definitely recognized. The danger is not in using it, but in using it at the wrong time, and in overusing it. Bearing in mind the dangers that adhere to its use, it is always well, whether the method is used in grades or in college, to mix it with other methods or to follow it by another method that will do the things that the lecture method may have left undone. _The Recitation Lesson._ As has been suggested in the opening of this chapter, the recitation lesson is not a type involving any particular psychological process. It is, rather, a method of procedure which may involve any of the other types of work already discussed. When the recitation lesson means merely reciting paragraphs from the book with little or no reference to problems to be solved or skill to be developed, it has no place in a schoolroom. When, however, the teacher uses the recitation lesson as an exercise in which he assures himself that facts needed for further progress in thinking have been secured, or that habits have been established, or verbatim memorization accomplished, this type of exercise is justified. It is well to remember that the thought process involved in the development of a subject, or the solution even of a single problem, may extend over many class periods. The recitation lesson may be important in organizing the material which is to be used in the larger thought whole. Again, this type of exercise may involve the presentation of material which is to be used as a basis for appreciation in literature, in music, in art, in history, and the like. The organization of experiences of children, whether secured through observations, discussions, or from books, around certain topics may furnish a most satisfactory basis for the development of problems or of the gathering of the material essential for their solution. A better understanding of the conditions which make for success in habit formation, in thinking, and the development of appreciation, will tend to eliminate from our schools that type of exercise in which teachers ask merely that children recite to them what they have been able to remember from the books which they have read or the lectures which they have heard. _The Examination and Review Lessons._ In the establishment of habits, the development of appreciation, or the growth in understanding which we seek to secure through thinking, there will be many occasions for checking up our work. Successful teaching requires that the habit that we think we have established be called for and additional practice given from time to time in order to be certain that it is fixed. In like manner, the development of our thought in any field is not something which is accomplished without respect to later neglect. We, rather, build a system of thought with reference to a particular field or subject as a result of thinking, and rethinking through the many different situations which are involved. In like manner, in the field of appreciation the very essence of our enjoyment is to be found in the fact that that which we have enjoyed we recall, and strengthen our appreciation through the revival of the experience. The review is, of course, most successful when it is not simply going over the whole material in exactly the same way. In habit formation it is often advisable to arrange in a different order the stimuli which are to bring the desired responses, for the very essence of habit formation is found in the fact that the particular response can be secured regardless of the order in which they are called for. In thinking, as a subject is developed, our control is measured by the better perspective which we secure. This means, of course, that in review we will not be concerned with reviving all of the processes through which we have passed, but, rather, in a reorganization quite different from that which was originally provided. The examination lesson is classified here as of the same type as the review because a good examination involves all that has been suggested by review. The writer has no sympathy with those who argue against examinations. The only proof that we can get of the success or failure of our work is to be found in the achievement of pupils. It is not desirable to set aside a particular period of a week devoted entirely to examinations, because examinations in all subjects cannot to best advantage be given during the same period. There are stages in the development of our thinking, or in the acquiring of skill, or in our understanding and appreciation which occur at irregular intervals and which call for a summing up of what has gone before, in order that we may be sure of success in the work which is to follow. It is, of course, undesirable to devote a whole week to examinations on account of the strain and excitement under which children labor. It is entirely possible to know of the achievements of children through examinations which have been given at irregular intervals throughout the term. It would be best, probably, never to give more than one examination on any one day, and, as a rule, to devote only the regular class period to such work. In another chapter the discussion of more exact methods of measuring the achievements of children will be discussed at some length. In all of the lesson types mentioned above, one of the most important means employed by teachers for the stimulation of pupils is the question. It seems wise, therefore, to devote some paragraphs to a consideration of questioning as determining skill in teaching. _Questioning_. The purpose of a question is to serve as a situation which shall arouse to activity certain nerve connections and thus bring a response. Questions, oral or written, are the chief tools used in schools to gain responses. In some situations it is the only means a teacher may have of arousing the response. Psychologically, then, the value of the question must be judged by the response. Questions may be considered from the point of view of the kind of response they call for. Probably the most common kind of question is the one that calls for facts as answers. It involves memory--but memory of a rote type. It does not require thinking. All drill questions are of this type. The connections aroused are definitely final in a certain order, and the question simply sets off the train of bonds that leads directly to the answer. Another type of question involving the memory process is the one which initiates recall, but here thought is active. The answer cannot be gained in a mechanical way, but selection and rejection are involved. The answer is to be found by examining past experience, but only in a thoughtful way. Questions which call for comparison form another type. These may vary from those which involve the comparison of sense material to those which involve the comparison of policies or epochs. Words, characters, plots, definitions, plans, subjects--everything with which intellectual life deals is open to comparison. Comparison is one of the steps in the process of reasoning, and hence questions of this type are extremely important. Then there are the questions which arouse the response of analysis. These questions vary among themselves according to the type of analysis needed, whether piecemeal attention or analysis due to varying concomitants. The former drives the thinker through gradual recognition and elimination of the known elements to a consciousness of the only partly known. The latter, by attracting the attention to unvarying factors in the changing situations, forces out the new and until then unknown element. Some questions require judgment as a response. The judgment may be one concerning relationships, or concerning worth or value, or be merely a matter of definition--all questions calling for criticism are of this type. In any case this type of question involves the thought element at its best. The question requiring organization forms another type. There is no sharp line of division between these types of questions. No one of them should be used exclusively. Some of them imply operations of a simple type as well as the particular response demanded by that form. For instance, some of the questions involving analysis imply comparison and recalling. A judgment question might call for all the simple processes noted above and others as well. The responses then vary in complexity and difficulty. The order of advance in both complexity and difficulty of the response is from the mere drill question to the judgment question. Another type of question is the one which desires appreciation as a response. This question is one of the most difficult to frame, for it must tend to inhibit the critical attitude and by means of the associations it arouses or its own suggestive power get the appreciative response. Questions of this type often call for constructive imagery as a means to the desired end. Some questions are directive in their tendency. They require as response an attitude or set of the mind. They set the child thinking in this direction rather than that. In a sense they are suggestive, but they suggest the line of search rather than the response. A final type of question is akin to the one just discussed--the question whose response is further questions. Here again the response desired is an attitude, but in this case it is more than an attitude, it is also a definite response that shall come in the form of questions. The questions of a good teacher should result in students asking questions both of people and of books. These last three types of questions are perhaps the most difficult of all. Because of their complexity and subtlety they often miss fire and fail of their purpose. Properly handled they are among the most powerful tools a teacher has. The type of question used must vary, not only with the particular group of children, and the type of lesson, but also with the subject. Questions that would be the best type in mathematics might not be so good for an art lesson. The kinds of questions used must be adapted to the particular situation. Psychologically a question is valuable not only in accordance with the kind of response it gets, but also in proportion to the readiness of the response. A question that is of such a character that the response is hazy, stumbling, hesitating--a question that brings no clear-cut response because the child does not understand what is wanted, is a poor question. This does not at all mean that the right response must always come immediately. Some of the best questions are put with the intention of forcing the child to realize that he can't answer--that he doesn't know. If that type of response comes to that question, it is the best possible answer. Nor need the whole answer come immediately. For instance, in many of the judgment questions the thinking process aroused may take some time before the judgment is reached, and meanwhile several partial answers may be given. But if the question asked started the process, without waste of time in trying to find out what it meant, the question is good. With these explanations, then, the second qualification of a good question is that it secures the appropriate response readily. In order to do this, these factors must be considered: First, the principle of apperception must be recognized. Every question must deal with material that is on a level with the stage of development of the one questioned. Not only so, but the question must connect somewhere with the learner's experience. This means a recognition also of individual differences. The question must also be couched in language that can be understood easily by the one questioned. To have to try to understand the language of the question as well as the question, results in divided attention and delayed responses. Second, the question should be clear and definite. A question that has these characteristics will challenge the attention of the class. It is directed straight at the point at issue, and no time will be lost in wondering what the question means, or in trying two or three tentative answers. Third, the younger the child, the simpler the question must be. With little children, to be good a question may involve only one idea, or relationship. The amount involved in the question, its scope and content, must be adapted to the mental development of the learner. It is only a mature thinker who can carry simultaneously two or three points of issue, or possibilities. Fourth, the question to gain a ready response must be interesting. Not only must the lesson as a whole be interesting, but the questions themselves must have the same quality. Dull questions can kill an otherwise good lesson. The form of the question is thus a big factor in gaining a ready response. All the qualities which gain involuntary attention can be used in framing an interesting question--novelty, exaggeration, contrast, life, color, and so on. The third point to be considered in determining a good question is whether or not it satisfies the demands of economy. This demand is a fair one both from the standpoint of the best use of the time at the disposal of the learner, and also from the standpoint of the best means of gaining the greatest development on the part of the learner in a given time. The number of questions asked thus enters in as a factor. When a teacher asks four or five questions when one would serve the same purpose, she is not only wasting time, but the child is not getting the opportunity to do any thinking and therefore is not developing. Recent studies on the actual number of questions asked in a recitation point to the conclusion that economy both of time and in development is being seriously overlooked. Economy in response may also be brightened by preserving a logical sequence between questions. It is a matter of fact in psychology that associations are systematized about central ideas; it is also a fact that the set of the mind, in this direction rather than that, is characteristic of all work. Logical sequence, then, makes use of both these facts--both of the systematization of ideas and of the mental attitude. The fourth test of good questioning is the universality of its appeal. Some questions which are otherwise good appeal but to comparatively few in the class. This, of course, means that responses are being gained but from few. The best questioning stimulates most of the class; all members of the class are working. In order to secure this result the questions must be properly distributed over the class. The bright pupils must not be allowed to do all the work; or, on the other hand, all the attention of the teachers must not be given to the dull pupils. Not only should the questions be well distributed, but they must vary according to the individual ability of the particular child. This has already been emphasized in dealing with readiness of response. Many a lesson has been unsuccessful because the teacher gave too difficult a question to a dull child, and while she was struggling with him, she lost the rest of the class. The reverse is also true, to give a bright child a question that requires almost no thinking means that a mechanical answer will be given and no further activity stimulated. The extent to which all the class are mentally active is one measure of a good question. QUESTIONS 1. Give an example of a lesson which you have taught which was predominantly inductive. Show how you proceeded from the discovery of the problem to your pupils to the solution attained. 2. What is involved in the "step" of presentation? 3. Why may we not consider the several "steps" of the inductive lesson as occurring in a definite and mutually exclusive sequence? 4. In what respect is the procedure in a deductive lesson like that which you follow in an inductive lesson? 5. Show how verification is an important element in both inductive and deductive lessons. 6. Give illustrations of successful drill lessons and make clear the reason for the degree of success achieved. 7. What measures have you found most advantageous in securing speed in drill work? 8. What are the elements which make for success in an appreciation lesson? 9. Upon what grounds and to what extent can lecturing be defended as a method of instruction? 10. What may be the relation between a good recitation lesson and the solution of a problem? Growth in power of appreciation? 11. For what purposes should examinations be given? When should examinations be given? 12. When are questions which call for facts justified? 13. Why are questions which call for comparisons to be considered important? 14. Why is it important to phrase questions carefully? 15. Why should a teacher ask some questions which cannot be answered immediately? 16. What criteria would you apply in testing the questions which you put to your class? 17. Write five questions which in your judgment will demand thinking upon some topic which you plan to teach to your class. * * * * * XIV. HOW TO STUDY The term study has been used very loosely by both teachers and children. As used by teachers it frequently meant something very different from what children had in mind when they used it. Further, teachers themselves have often used the term in connection with mental activities which, technically speaking, could not possibly come under that head. Much confusion and lack of efficient work has been the result. Recently various attempts have been made to give the term study a more exact meaning. McMurry defines it as "the work that is necessary in the assimilation of ideas"--"the vigorous application of the mind to a subject for the satisfaction of a felt need." In other words, study is thinking. Psychologically, what makes for good thinking makes for good study. Study is controlled mental activity working towards the realization of a goal. It is the adaptation of means to end, in the attempt to satisfy a felt need. It involves a definite purpose or goal, which is problematic, the selection and rejection of suggestions, tentative judgments, and conclusion. The mind of the one who studies is active, vigorously active, not in an aimless fashion, but along sharply defined lines. This is the essential characteristic of all study. There are, however, various types of study which differ materially from each other according to the subject matter or to the type of response required. Some study involves comparatively little thinking. The directed activity must be present, but the choice, the judgment, may need to be exercised only in the beginning when methods of procedure need to be selected, and later on, perhaps, when successes or failures need to be noted and changes made in the methods accordingly. Another type of study needs continual thinking of the most active sort all the way through the period. Just the proportion of the various factors involved in thinking which is present at any given study period must be determined by the response. A type of study which would be completely satisfactory for one subject needing one response, would be entirely inadequate for another subject needing another response. To illustrate, in some cases the study must deal with habit formation. The need felt is to learn a mechanical response of a very definite nature to this situation; the problem is to get that response. The thinking would come in in deciding upon the method, in watching for successes, in criticizing progress, and in judging when the end was obtained. A large part of the time spent in study would, however, need to be spent in repetition, in drill. Of such character is study of spelling, of vocabularies, of dates; study in order to gain skill in adding, or speed in reading, or to improve in writing or sewing. Much of habit formation goes on without study--in fact, to some it may seem to be ludicrous to use the word "study" in connection with the formation of habits. It is just because the study elements in connection with responses of this type have been omitted that there has been such a tremendous waste of time in teaching children to form right habits. This omission also explains the poor results, for the process has been mechanical and blind on the part of the student. At the other extreme in types of study is that which can be used in science and mathematics, in geography and history, when the major part of the time is given to selecting and rejecting suggestions and seems required by the goal. In this type the habituation, the fixing of the material, comes largely as a by-product of the factors used in the thinking. Study may, then, be classified according as the response required is physical habit, memory, appreciation, or judgment. These types overlap, no one of them can exist absolutely alone, but it is possible to name them according to the response. Study may also be classified into supervised study, or unsupervised study, into individual or group study. We might also classify study as it has to do with books, with people, or with materials. The term has been rather arbitrarily applied to activities that dealt with books, but surely much study is accomplished when people are consulted instead of books, and also when the sources of information or the standards are flowers, or rocks, or textiles. Study, then, is a big term, including many different varieties of activities, of varying degrees of difficulty and responsibility. It cannot possibly be taught all at once, according to one method, at one spot in the school curriculum. Power to study is of very gradual growth. It must proceed slowly, from simple to complex types. From easy to difficult problems, from situations where there is close supervision and direction to situations where the student assumes full responsibility. Knowing how to study is not an inborn gift--it does not come as a matter of intuition, nor does it come in some mysterious way when the child is of high school age. It is governed by the laws of learning, or readiness, exercise, and effect, just as truly as any other ability is. If adults are to know how to study, if they are to use the technique of the various kinds of study efficiently, children must be taught how. Nor can we expect the upper grammar grade or the high school teachers to do this. Habits of study must be formed just as soon as the responses to which it leads are needed. Beginning down in the kindergarten with study in connection with physical and mental habits, the child should be taught how to study. The type must gradually become more complex; he must pass from group to individual study, from supervised to unsupervised, but it must all come logically, from step to step. True, it is not easy to teach how to study. A careful analysis of the various types with their peculiar elements should be a help. First, however, there are some general principles that underlie all study which must be discussed. Study must have, as has already been stated, a purpose. The individual, in order to exercise his mind in a controlled way, must have an aim. The clearer and more definite the aim, whether it be little or big, the better the study will be. From the beginning, then, children must be taught to make sure they know what they are going to do before beginning to study. It may be necessary to teach them in the early grades to say to themselves or to the class just what they are going to accomplish in the study. Teach them when the lesson is assigned to write down in their books just what the problem for study is. Warn them never to begin study without definitely knowing the aim--if they don't know it, make them realize that the first thing to do is to find out the purpose by asking some one else. Better no study at all than aimless or misdirected activity, because of lack of purpose. No study worthy of the name can be carried on without interest. The child who studies well must be brought to realize this. The value of interest can be brought home to him by having him compare the work he does, the time he spends, and how he feels when studying something in which he has a vital interest with the results when the topic is uninteresting. Of course, as will be pointed out later, much of the gaining of interest lies in the hands of the teacher necessarily, but if the child realizes the need of it in efficient study, some responsibility will rest on him to find an interest if it is not already there. No matter how expert the teacher may be, because of individual differences no problem will be equally interesting to all pupils in itself, and no incentive will have an equal appeal to all children. Therefore children should be taught to find interest for themselves. Certain devices can be suggested, such as working with another child and competing with him, "making believe" in study, and finding some connection with something in which he is interested, working against his own score, and the like. Not only do the demands of economy require that the topic of study receive concentrated attention, but the results themselves are better when such is the case. Half an hour of concentrated work gives much better results than an hour of study with scattered attention. An hour spent when half an hour would do is thus not only wasteful of time, but is productive of poorer results and bad habits of study as well. Children need to be taught this from the beginning. Much time is wasted even by mature university students when they suppose themselves to be studying. Children can be taught to ignore distractions--to train themselves to keep their eyes on the book, despite the fact that the door is opened, or a seat mate is looking for a book. They should be encouraged to set themselves time limits in various subjects and adhere to them. It is economical to follow a regular schedule in study--either in the school or at home. Let each child make out his study schedule and keep to it. Teach children that the best work is done when they are calm and steady. That either excitement or worry is a hindrance. Therefore they should avoid doing their studying under those conditions, and should do all they can to remove such conditions. Training children to do their best and then not to worry would not only improve the health of many upper grammar grade and high school children, but would also improve their work. Study requires a certain critical attitude, a checking up of results against the problem set. In order to be efficient in study a child should know when he has reached the solution, when the means have been adapted to the end, when he has reached the goal. This checking up, of course, means habits of self-criticism and standards. Sometimes all that is necessary is for the child to be made conscious of this fact so that he can test himself, for instance, in memory work, or in solving a problem in mathematics. On the other hand, sometimes he will have to compare his work with definite standards, such as the Thorndike Handwriting Scale, or the Hillegas Composition Scale.[19] In other instances, he will have to search for standards. He will need to know what his classmates have accomplished, what other people think, what other text-books say, and so on. Gradually he must be made conscious that study is a controlled activity, and unless it reaches the goal, and the correct one, it is useless. He must be made to feel that the responsibility to see that such results are reached rests on him. These, then, are the general factors involved in all types of study, and therefore are fundamental to good habits of study: a clear purpose; vital interest of some kind; concentrated attention, and a critical attitude. There are further additional suggestions which are peculiar to the special type of study. In study which is directed to habit formation, the student should be taught the danger of allowing exceptions. He should know the possibility of undoing much good work through a little carelessness. Preaching won't bring this home to him--it must come through having his attention attracted to such an occurrence in his own work or in that of his mates. After that knowledge of the actual experiences of others, athletes, musicians, and others will help to intensify the impression. The value of repetition as one of the chief factors in habit formation must be emphasized. The child should be encouraged to make opportunities for practice both in free minutes during the school program, and outside of school. He must be taught in habit formation to practice the new habit in the way it is to be used: practicing the sounds of letters in words, the writing movements in writing words, swimming movements in the water, and so on. Practicing the whole movements, not trying to gain perfection in parts of it and then putting it together. It is important also that the learner be taught to keep his attention on the result to be obtained, instead of the movements. He should attend to the swing of the club, the lightness of the song, the cut the saw is making, the words he is writing, instead of the muscle movements involved. In breaking up bad habits it is sometimes necessary to concentrate on a part or a movement, when that is the crux of the error, but in general it is a bad practice when forming a new habit. The child must also learn to watch the habit of skill he is forming for signs of improvement and then to try to find out the reason for it. It has been proved experimentally that much of the improvement in habits of skill comes unconsciously to the learner, and necessarily so, but that in order for the improvement to continue and be effective, it must become conscious. Of course, at the beginning and for a long time it must be the teacher's duty to point out the improvement and to help the child to think out the reasons for it, but if he is to learn to study by himself the child must finally come to habits of self-criticism which will enable him to recognize success or failure in his own work. In all this discussion of teaching children to study it must be constantly borne in mind that it is a gradual process--and only very slowly does the child become conscious of the technique. Which elements can be made conscious, how much he can be left to himself, must depend on his maturity and previous training. In time, however, he should be able to apply them all--for only by so doing will he become capable of independent study. When the study is primarily concerned with memory responses, all the elements which have just been discussed in connection with habit apply, for, after all, memory is but mental habit. There are other factors which enter into and which should be used in this type of study. First, the child should realize the need for understanding the material that is to be learned, before beginning to memorize it. He will then be taught to read the entire assignment through--look up difficult words and references, master the content, whether prose or poetry, whether the learning is to be verbatim or not, before doing anything further. Second, he will need to know the value of the modified whole method of learning, as well as its difficulties. If in the supervised periods of study and in class work, this method has been followed, it is very easy to make him conscious of it and willing to adopt it when he comes to do independent study. Third, he must be taught to distribute his time so that he does not devote too long a stretch to one subject. The value of going over work in the morning, after having studied the night or two nights before, should be emphasized. Also the value of beginning on assignments some time ahead, even if there is not time to finish them. Fourth, the child should be taught not to stop his work the minute he can give it perfectly. The need for overlearning, for permanent retention, must be made clear. How much overlearning is necessary, each child should find out for himself. Fifth, the value of outlining material as a means of aiding memory must be stressed. Sixth, the child should be taught to search for associations, connections of all types, in order to help himself remember facts. He might even be encouraged to make up some mnemonic device as an aid if these measures fail. If instead of simply trying to hammer material in by mere repetition children had been taught in their study to consciously make use of the other elements in a good memory, much time would be saved. But the responsibility should rest finally on the child to make use of these helps. The teacher must make him conscious of them, sometimes from their value by experiment, and then teach him to use them himself. Much less can be done as a matter of conscious technique when the occasion of study is to further appreciation. A few suggestions might be offered. First, the child should be taught the value of associating with those who do appreciate in the line in which he is striving for improvement. He should be encouraged to consciously associate with them when opportunities for appreciation come. Second, he should know the need for coming in contact with the objects of appreciation if true feeling is to be developed. It is only by mingling with people, reading books, listening to music, that appreciation in those fields can be developed. Third, the value of concrete imagery and of connections with personal experience in arousing emotional tone should be emphasized. The child might be encouraged to consciously call up images and make connections with his own experience during study. Study, when the object is to arrive at responses of judgment, is the type which has received most attention. This type of study includes within itself several possibilities. Although judgment is the only response that can solve the problem, still the problem may be one of giving the best expression in art or music or drama. It may be the analysis of a course of action or of a chemical compound. It may be the comparison of various opinions. It may be the arriving at a new law or principle. It is to one of these types of thinking that the term "study" is usually applied. Important as it is, the other three types already discussed cannot be neglected. If children are taught to study in connection with the simpler situations provided by the first two types, they will be the better prepared to deal with this complex type, for this highest type of study involves habit formation often and memory work always. In the type of study involving reasoning, because of its complexity, and because the individual must work more independently, the child must learn the danger of following the first suggestion which offers itself. He must learn to weigh each suggestion offered with reference to the goal aimed at. Each step in the process must be tested and weighed in this manner. To go blindly ahead, following out a line of suggestions until the end is reached, which is then found to be the wrong one, wastes much time and is extremely discouraging. No suggestion of the way to adapt means to end should be accepted without careful criticism. The pupil should gradually be made conscious of the technique of reasoning, analysis, comparison, and abstraction. He must know that the first thing to do is to analyze the problem and see just what it requires. He must know that the abstraction depends upon the goal. The learner should be taught the sources of some of the commonest mistakes in judgment. For instance, if he knows of the tendency to respond in terms of analogy, and sees some of the errors to which accepting a minor likeness between two situations as identity lead, he will be much more apt to avoid such mistakes than would otherwise be true. If he knows how unsafe it is to form a judgment on limited data,--if from his own and his classmates' thinking first, and later from the history of science, illustrations are drawn of the disastrous effect of such thinking, he will see the value of seeking sources of information and several points of view before forming his own judgment. In his study the child should be taught not to be satisfied until he has tested the correctness of his judgment by verifying the result. This is a very necessary part of studying. He should check up his own thinking by finding out through appeal to facts if it is so; by putting the judgment into execution; by consulting the opinion of others, and so on. Study may be considered from the point of view of the type of material which is used in the process. The student may be engaged on a problem which involves the use of apparatus or specimens of various kinds, or he may need to consult people, or he may have to use books. So far as the first type is concerned, it is obviously unwise to have a student at work on a problem which involves the use of material, unless the technique of method of use is well known. Until he can handle the material with some degree of facility it is waste of time for him to be struggling with problems which necessitate such use. Such practice results in divided attention, poor results from the study, and often bad habits in technique as well. Gaining the technique must be in itself a problem for separate study. Children should be taught to ask questions which bear directly on the point they wish to know. If they in working out some problem are dependent on getting some information from the janitor, or the postman, or a mason, they must be able to ask questions which will bring them what they want to know. Much practice in framing questions, having them criticized, having them answered just as they are asked, is necessary. Children should be aware of the question as a tool in their study and therefore they must know how to handle it. In connection with this second type of material, the problem of the best source of information will arise. Children must then be made conscious of the relative values of various persons as sources of a particular piece of information. Training in choice of the source of information is very important both when that source is people and also when it is books. Teaching children to use books in their study is one of the big tasks of the teacher. They must learn that books are written in answer to questions. In order to thoroughly understand a book, students must seek to frame the questions which it answers. They must also know how to use books to answer their own questions. This means they must know how to turn from part to part, gleaning here or there what they need. It means training in the ability to skim, omitting unessentials and picking out essentials. It means the ability to recognize major points, minor points, and illustrative material. Children must be taught to use the table of contents, the index, and paragraph headings. They must, in their search for fuller information or criticism, be able to interpret different authors, use different language, and attack from different angles, even when treating the same object. Children must in their studying be taught to use books as a means to an end--not an infallible means, but one which needs continual criticism, modification, and amplification. Study may be supervised study, or unsupervised study. To some people the requirements in learning to study may seem too difficult to be possible, but it should be remembered that the process is gradual--that one by one these elements in study are taught to the children in their supervised study periods. These periods should begin in the primary grades, and require from the teacher quite as much preparation as any other period. Many teachers have taught subjects, but not how to study subjects. The latter is the more important. The matter of distributed learning periods, of search for motive, of asking questions, of criticizing achievement, of use of books; each element is a topic for class discussion before it is accepted as an element in study. Even after it is accepted, it may be raised by some child as a source of particular difficulty and fresh suggestions added. Very often with little children it is necessary for the teacher to study the lesson with them. Teachers need much more practice in doing this, for one of the best ways to teach a child to study is to study with him. Not to tell him, and do the work for him, but to really study with him. Later on the supervised study period is one in which each child is silently engaged upon his own work and the teacher passes from one to the other. In order to do this well, the teacher needs to be able to do two things. First, to find out when the child is in difficulty and to locate it, and second, to help him over the trouble without giving too much assistance. Adequate questioning is needed in both cases. It is probably true that comparatively little new work should be given for unsupervised study. There is too much danger of error as well as lack of interest unless a start is given under supervision. Studying, especially unsupervised, may be done in groups or individually. The former is a stepping-stone to the latter. There is a greater chance for suggestions, for getting the problem worded, for arousing interest and checking results, when a group of children are working together than when a child is by himself. Two things must be looked after. First, that the children in the group be taught not to waste time, and second, that the personnel of the group be right. It is not very helpful if one child does all the work, nor if one is so far below the level of the group that he is always tagging along behind. More opportunities for group study in the grammar grades would be advantageous. When it comes to individual study, the student then assumes all responsibility for his methods of study. He should be taught the influence of physical conditions or mental reactions. He will therefore be responsible for choosing in the home and in the school the best possible conditions for his study. He will see to it that, in so far as possible, the air and light are good, that there are no unnecessary distractions, and that he is as comfortable bodily as can be. He must think not only in terms of the goal to be reached, but also with respect to the methods to be employed. He should be asked by the teacher to report his methods of work as well as his results. QUESTIONS 1. Are children always primarily engaged in thinking when they study? 2. What type of study is involved in learning a multiplication table, a list of words in spelling, a conjugation in French? 3. How would you teach a pupil to study his spelling lesson? 4. In what sense may one study in learning to write? In acquiring skill in swimming? 5. How would you teach your pupils to memorize? 6. Show how ability to study may be developed over a period of years in some subject with which you are familiar. Reading? Geography? History? Latin translation? 7. Is the boy who reads over and over again his lesson necessarily studying? 8. Can one study a subject even though he may dislike it? Can one study without interest? 9. How can you teach children what is meant by concentration of attention? 10. How have you found it possible to develop a critical attitude toward their work upon the part of children? 11. Of what factors in habit formation must children become conscious, if they are to study to best advantage in this field? 12. How may we hope to have children learn to study in the fields requiring judgment? Why will not consciousness of the technique of study make pupils equally able in studying? 13. What exercises can you conduct which will help children to learn how to use books? 14. How can a teacher study with a pupil and yet help him to develop independence in this field? 15. How may small groups of children work together advantageously in studying? * * * * * XV. MEASURING THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF CHILDREN The success or failure of the teacher in applying the principles which have been discussed in the preceding chapters is measured by the achievements of the children. Of course, it is also possible that the validity of the principle which we have sought to establish may be called in question by the same sort of measurement. We cannot be sure that our methods of work are sound, or that we are making the best use of the time during which we work with children, except as we discover the results of our instruction. Teaching is after all the adaptation of our methods to the normal development of boys and girls, and their education can be measured only in terms of the changes which we are able to bring about in knowledge, skill, appreciation, reasoning, and the like. Any attempt to measure the achievements of children should result in a discovery of the progress which is being made from week to week, or month to month, or year to year. It would often be found quite advantageous to note the deficiencies as well as the achievements at one period as compared with the work done two or three months later. It will always be profitable to get as clearly in mind as is possible the variation among members of the same class, and for those who are interested in the supervision of schools, the variation from class to class, from school to school, or from school system to school system. For the teacher a study of the variability in achievement among the members of his own class ought to result in special attention to those who need special help, especially a kind of teaching which will remove particular difficulties. There should also be offered unusual opportunity and more than the ordinary demand be made of those who show themselves to be more capable than the ordinary pupils. The type of measurement which we wish to discuss is something more than the ordinary examination. The difficulties with examinations, as we have commonly organized them, has* been their unreliability, either from the standpoint of discovering to us the deficiencies of children, or their achievements. Of ten problems in arithmetic or of twenty words in spelling given in the ordinary examination, there are very great differences in difficulty. We do not have an adequate measure of the achievements of children when we assign to each of the problems or words a value of ten or of five per cent and proceed to determine the mark to be given on the examination paper. If we are wise in setting our examinations, we usually give one problem or one word which we expect practically everybody to be able to get right. On the other hand, if we really measure the achievements of children, we must give some problems or some words that are too hard for any one to get right. Otherwise, we do not know the limit or extent of ability possessed by the abler pupils. It is safe to say that in many examinations one question may actually be four or five times as hard as some other to which an equal value is assigned. Another difficulty that we have to meet in the ordinary examination is the variability among teachers in marking papers. We do not commonly assign the same values to the same result. Indeed, if a set of papers is given to a group of capable teachers and marked as conscientiously as may be by each of them, it is not uncommon to find a variation among the marks assigned to the same paper which may be as great as twenty-five per cent of the highest mark given. Even more interesting is the fact that upon re-marking these same papers individual teachers will vary from their own first mark by almost as great an amount. Still another difficulty with the ordinary examination is the tendency among teachers to derive their standards of achievement from the group itself, rather than from any objective standard by which all are measured. It is possible, for example, for children in English composition to write very poorly for their grade and still to find the teacher giving relatively high marks to those who happen to belong to the upper group in the class. As a result of the establishment of such a standard, the teacher may not be conscious of the fact that children should be spurred to greater effort, and that possibly he himself should seek to improve his methods of work. Out of the situation described above, which includes on the one hand the necessity for measurement as a means of testing the success of our theories and of our practice, and on the other hand of having objective standards, has grown the movement for measurement by means of standard tests and scales. A standard test which has been given to some thousands of children classified by grades or by ages, if given to another group of children of the same grade or age group will enable the teacher to compare the achievement of his children with that which is found elsewhere. For example, the Courtis tests in arithmetic, which consist of series of problems of equal difficulty in addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division may be used to discover how far facility in these fields has been accomplished by children of any particular group as compared with the achievements of children in other school systems throughout the country. In these tests each of the problems is of equal difficulty. The measure is made by discovering how many of these separate problems can be solved in a given number of minutes.[20] A scale for measuring the achievements of children in the fundamental operations of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division has been derived by Dr. Clifford Woody,[21] which differs from the Courtis tests in that it affords opportunity to discover what children can achieve from the simplest problem in each of these fields to a problem which is in each case approximately twice as difficult as the problems appearing on the Courtis tests. The great value of this type of test is in discovering to teachers and to pupils, as well, their particular difficulties. A pupil must be able to do fairly acceptable work in addition before he can solve one problem on the Courtis tests. Considerable facility can be measured on the Woody tests before an ability sufficient to be registered on the Courtis tests has been acquired. In his monograph on the derivation of these tests Mr. Woody gives results which will enable the teacher to compare his class with children already tested in other school systems. In the case of all of these standard tests, school surveys and superintendents' reports are available which will make it possible to institute comparisons among different classes and different school systems. One form of the Woody tests is as follows: * * * * * SERIES A ADDITION SCALE BY CLIFFORD WOODY Name...................... When is your next birthday?...... How old will you be?..... Are you a boy or girl?....... In what grade are you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ft. 6in. 2yr. 5mo. 16 1/3 49.6097 .28 3ft. 5in. 3yr. 6mo. 12 1/8 19.9 .63 4ft. 9in. 4yr. 9mo. 21 1/2 9.87 .95 --------- 5yr. 2mo. 32 3/4 .0086 1.69 6yr. 7mo. ------ 18.253 .22 --------- 6.04 .33 -------- .36 (38) 1.01 25.091+100.4+25+98.28+19.3614= (32) .56 3/4+1/2+1/4= .88 .75 .56 1.10 .18 .56 ---- * * * * * SERIES A SUBTRACTION SCALE BY CLIFFORD WOODY Name...................... When is your next birthday?......How old will you be?..... Are you a boy or girl?.......In what grade are you?....... (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) 8 6 2 9 4 11 13 59 78 7-4= 76 5 0 1 3 4 7 8 12 37 60 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) 27 16 50 21 270 393 1000 567482 2 3/4-1= 3 9 25 9 190 178 537 106493 -- -- -- -- --- --- ---- ------ (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) 10.00 3 1/2-1/2= 80836465 8 7/8 27 4yd. 1ft. 6in. 3.49 49178036 5 3/4 12 5/8 2yd. 2ft. 3in. ----- -------- ----- ------ -------------- (27) (28) (29) (30) 5yd. 1ft. 4in. 10-6.25 75 3/4 9.8063-9.019= 2yd. 2ft. 8in. 52 1/4 -------------- ------ (31) (32) (33) (34) (35) 7.3-3.00081= 1912 6mo. 8da. 5/12-2/10= 6 1/8 3 7/8-1 5/8= 1910 7mo. 15da. 2 7/8 --------------- ----- * * * * * SERIES A DIVISION SCALE BY CLIFFORD WOODY Name............................... When is your next birthday?....... How old will you be?...... Are you a boy or girl?.......... In what grade are you?...... (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) __ ___ ___ __ ___ ___ 3)6 9)27 4)28 1)5 9)36 3)39 (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) 4 ÷ 2 = __ __ 6 × __ = 30 ___ 2 ÷ 2 = 9)0 1)1 2)13 (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) ______________ _____ 1/4 of 128= _____ 50 ÷ 7 = 4)24 lbs. 8 oz. 8)5856 68)2108 (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) ______ 248 ÷ 7 = _____ _____ ______ 13)65065 2.1)25.2 25)9750 2)13.50 (23) (24) (25) (26) ____ ________ _______ _____ 23)469 75)2250300 2400)504000 12)2.76 (27) (28) (29) (30) 7/8 of 624 = ______ 3 1/2 ÷ 9 = 3/4 ÷ 5 = .003).0936 (31) (32) (33) 5/4 ÷ 3/5 = 9 5/8 ÷ 3 3/4 = _____ 52)3756 (34) (35) (36) 62.50 ÷ 1 1/4 = ______ ______________ 531)37722 9)69 lbs. 9 oz. * * * * * SERIES A MULTIPLICATION SCALE BY CLIFFORD WOODY Name...................... When is your next birthday?...... How old will you be?..... Are you a boy or girl?....... In what grade are you?....... (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) 3 × 7 = 5 × 1 = 2 × 3 = 4 × 8 = 23 310 7 × 9 = 3 4 -- --- (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) 50 254 623 1036 5096 8754 165 235 3 6 7 8 6 8 40 23 -- --- --- ---- ---- ---- --- --- (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) 7898 145 24 9.6 287 24 8 × 53/4 9 206 234 4 .05 21/2 ---- --- --- --- --- -- (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) 11/4 × 8 = 16 7/8 × 3/4 = 9742 6.25 .0123 1/8 × 2 = 2 5/8 59 3.2 9.8 ------ ---- ---- ----- (30) (31) (32) (33) (34) 2.49 12 15 6 dollars 49 cents 2-1/2 × 3-1/2 = 1/2 × 1/2 = 36 -- × -- 8 ---- 25 32 ------------------ (35) (36) (37) (38) (39) 9873/4 3ft. 5in. 21/4 × 41/2 × 11/2 = .0963 1/8 8ft. 91/2in. 25 5 .084 9 ---- --------- --------- ---------- * * * * * A series of problems in reasoning in arithmetic which were given in twenty-six school systems by Dr. C.W. Stone furnish a valuable test in this field, as well as an opportunity for comparison with other schools in which these problems have been used.[22] A list of problems follows. Solve as many of the following problems as you have time for; work them in order as numbered: 1. If you buy 2 tablets at 7 cents each and a book for 65 cents, how much change should you receive from a two-dollar bill? 2. John sold 4 Saturday Evening Posts at 5 cents each. He kept 1/2 the money and with the other 1/2 he bought Sunday papers at 2 cents each. How many did he buy? 3. If James had 4 times as much money as George, he would have $16. How much money has George? 4. How many pencils can you buy for 50 cents at the rate of 2 for 5 cents? 5. The uniforms for a baseball nine cost $2.50 each. The shoes cost $2 a pair. What was the total cost of uniforms and shoes for the nine? 6. In the schools of a certain city there are 2200 pupils; 1/2 are in the primary grades, 1/4 in the grammar grades, 1/8 in the High School, and the rest in the night school. How many pupils are there in the night school? 7. If 3-1/2 tons of coal cost $21, what will 5-1/2 tons cost? 8. A news dealer bought some magazines for $1. He sold them for $1.20, gaining 5 cents on each magazine. How many magazines were there? 9. A girl spent 1/8 of her money for car fare, and three times as much for clothes. Half of what she had left was 80 cents. How much money did she have at first? 10. Two girls receive $2.10 for making buttonholes. One makes 42, the other 28. How shall they divide the money? 11. Mr. Brown paid one third of the cost of a building; Mr. Johnson paid 1/2 the cost. Mr. Johnson received $500 more annual rent than Mr. Brown. How much did each receive? 12. A freight train left Albany for New York at 6 o'clock. An express left on the same track at 8 o'clock. It went at the rate of 40 miles an hour. At what time of day will it overtake the freight train if the freight train stops after it has gone 56 miles? A different type of measurement is accomplished by using Thorndike's scale for measuring the quality of handwriting.[23] A typical distribution of the scores which children receive on the handwriting scale reads as follows: For a fourth grade one child writes quality four, two quality six, five quality seven, seven quality eight, eight quality nine, three quality ten, two quality eleven, two quality twelve, one quality thirteen, one quality fourteen. In a table the distributions of scores in penmanship for a large number of papers selected at random show the following results: ============================================================ | GRADES SCORES +------+------+------+------+------+------+----- | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 ------------+-------------+------+------+------+------+----- 0 | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- 1 | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- 2 | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- 3 | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- 4 | 5 | 2 | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- 5 | 22 | 2 | 3 | 3 | -- | 1 | -- 6 | 21 | 21 | 16 | 3 | 2 | -- | 1 7 | 29 | 44 | 24 | 12 | 1 | 3 | 3 8 | 28 | 86 | 42 | 56 | 20 | 15 | 7 9 | 42 | 41 | 55 | 61 | 25 | 29 | 11 10 | 7 | 8 | 20 | 16 | 9 | 11 | 1 11 | 29 | 13 | 21 | 17 | 32 | 25 | 23 12 | 5 | 2 | 15 | 15 | 44 | 12 | 21 13 | 7 | 2 | 2 | 6 | 17 | 19 | 9 14 | -- | -- | 3 | 4 | 10 | 16 | 9 15 | -- | -- | 1 | -- | 9 | 6 | 15 16 | 1 | -- | -- | 1 | 10 | 12 | 17 17 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 6 | 2 | 3 18 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 3 | 1 | -- ------------+------+------+------+------+------+------+----- Total papers| 196 | 221 | 202 | 194 | 188 | 152 | 124 ============================================================ * * * * * A SCALE FOR HANDWRITING OF CHILDREN IN GRADES 5-8 The Unit of the Scale Equals approximately One-Tenth of the Difference between the Best and Worst of the Formal Writings of 1,000 Children in Grades 5-8. The Differences 16-15, 15-14, 14-13, etc., represent Equal Fractions of the Combined Mental Scale of Merit of from 23-55 Competent Judges. Sample 140, representing zero merit in handwriting. Zero merit is arbitrarily defined as that of a handwriting, recognizable as such, but yet not legible at all and possessed of no beauty. [Illustration: qual0.png: ] Quality 4. [Illustration: qual4.png: ] Quality 5. [Illustration: qual5.png: ] Quality 6. [Illustration: qual6.png: ] Quality 7. [Illustration: qual7.png: ] Quality 8. [Illustration: qual8a.png: ] [Illustration: qual8b.png: ] Quality 9. [Illustration: qual9a.png: ] [Illustration: qual9b.png: ] [Illustration: qual9c.png: ] Quality 10. [Illustration: qual10.png: ] Quality 11. [Illustration: qual11a.png: ] [Illustration: qual11b.png: ] [Illustration: qual11c.png: ] Quality 12. [Illustration: qual12a.png: ] [Illustration: qual12b.png: ] [Illustration: qual12c.png: ] Quality 13. [Illustration: qual13a.png: ] [Illustration: qual13b.png: ] [Illustration: qual13c.png: ] [Illustration: qual13d.png: ] Quality 14. [Illustration: qual14a.png: ] [Illustration: qual14b.png: ] Quality 15. [Illustration: qual15a.png: ] [Illustration: qual15b.png: ] [Illustration: qual15c.png: ] [Illustration: qual15d.png: ] Quality 16. [Illustration: qual16a.png: ] Quality 17. [Illustration: qual17.png: ] Quality 18. [Illustration: qual18.png: ] * * * * * This table reads as follows: Quality four was written by five children in the second grade and two in the third grade, quality five was written by twenty-two children in the second grade, two children in the third grade, three in the fourth grade, three in the fifth grade, none in the sixth grade, one in the seventh grade, and none in the eighth grade, and so on for the whole table.[24] A scale for measuring ability in spelling prepared by Dr. Leonard P. Ayres arranges the thousand words most commonly used in the order of their difficulty. From this sheet it is possible to discover words of approximately the same difficulty for each grade. A test could therefore be derived from this scale for each of the grades with the expectation that they would all do about equally well. There would also be the possibility of determining how well the spelling was done in the particular school system in which these words were given as compared with the ability of children as measured by an aggregate of more than a million spellings by seventy thousand children in eighty-four cities throughout the United States. Such a list could be taken from the scale for the second grade, which includes words which have proved to be of a difficulty represented by a seventy-three percent correct spelling for the class. Such a list might be composed of the following words: north, white, spent, block, river, winter, Sunday, letter, thank, and best. A similar list could be taken from the scale for a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth grade. For example, the words which have approximately the same difficulty,--seventy-three percent to be spelled correctly by the class for the sixth grade,--read as follows: often, stopped, motion, theater, improvement, century, total, mansion, arrive, supply. The great value of such a measuring scale, including as it does the thousand words most commonly used, is to be found not only in the opportunity for comparing the achievements of children in one class or school with another, but also in the focusing of the attention of teachers and pupils upon the words most commonly used.[25] One of the fields in which there is greatest need for measurement is English composition. Teachers have too often thought of English composition as consisting of spelling, punctuation, capitalization, and the like, and have ignored the quality of the composition itself in their attention to these formal elements. A scale for measuring English composition derived by Dr. M.B. Hillegas,[26] consisting of sample compositions of values ranging from 0 to 9.37, will enable the teacher to tell just how many pupils in the class are writing each different quality of composition. The use of such a scale will tend to make both teacher and pupil critical of the work which is being done not only with respect to the formal elements, but also with respect to the style or adequacy of the expression of the ideas which the writer seeks to convey. Probably in no other field has the teacher been so apt to derive his standard from the performance of the class as in work in composition. Even though some teachers find it difficult to evaluate the work of their pupils in terms of the sample compositions given on the scale, much good must come, it seems to the writer, from the attempt to grade compositions by such an objective scale. If such measurements are made two or three times during the year, the performance of individual pupils and of the class will be indicated much more certainly than is the case when teachers feel that they are getting along well without any definite assurance of the amount of their improvement. In one large school system in which the writer was permitted to have the principals measure compositions collected from the sixth and the eighth grades, it was discovered that almost no progress in the quality of composition had been accomplished during these two years. This lack of achievement upon the part of children was not, in the opinion of the writer, due to any lack of conscientious work upon the part of teachers, but, rather, developed out of a situation in which the whole of composition was thought of in terms of the formal elements mentioned above. The Hillegas scale, together with the values assigned to each of the samples, is given below. A SCALE FOR THE MEASUREMENT OF THE QUALITY OF ENGLISH COMPOSITION BY MILO B. HILLEGAS VALUE 0. Artificial sample _Letter_ Dear Sir: I write to say that it aint a square deal Schools is I say they is I went to a school. red and gree green and brown aint it hito bit I say he don't know his business not today nor yeaterday and you know it and I want Jennie to get me out. VALUE 183. Artificial sample _My Favorite Book_ the book I refer to read is Ichabod Crane, it is an grate book and I like to rede it. Ichabod Crame was a man and a man wrote a book and it is called Ichabod Crane i like it because the man called it ichabod crane when I read it for it is such a great book. VALUE 260. Artificial sample _The Advantage of Tyranny_ Advantage evils are things of tyranny and there are many advantage evils. One thing is that when they opress the people they suffer awful I think it is a terrible thing when they say that you can be hanged down or trodden down without mercy and the tyranny does what they want there was tyrans in the revolutionary war and so they throwed off the yok. VALUE 369. Written by a boy in the second year of the high school, aged 14 years _Sulla as a Tyrant_ When Sulla came back from his conquest Marius had put himself consul so sulla with the army he had with him in his conquest siezed the government from Marius and put himself in consul and had a list of his enemys printy and the men whoes names were on this list we beheaded. VALUE 474. Written by a girl in the third year of the high school, aged 17 years _De Quincy_ First: De Quincys mother was a beautiful women and through her De Quincy inhereted much of his genius. His running away from school enfluenced him much as he roamed through the woods, valleys and his mind became very meditative. The greatest enfluence of De Quincy's life was the opium habit. If it was not for this habit it is doubtful whether we would now be reading his writings. His companions during his college course and even before that time were great enfluences. The surroundings of De Quincy were enfluences. Not only De Quincy's habit of opium but other habits which were peculiar to his life. His marriage to the woman which he did not especially care for. The many well educated and noteworthy friends of De Quincy. VALUE 585. Written by a boy in the fourth year of the high school, aged 16 years _Fluellen_ The passages given show the following characteristic of Fluellen: his inclination to brag, his professed knowledge of History, his complaining character, his great patriotism, pride of his leader, admired honesty, revengeful, love of fun and punishment of those who deserve it. VALUE 675. Written by a girl in the first year of the high school, aged 18 years _Ichabod Crane_ Ichabod Crane was a schoolmaster in a place called Sleepy Hollow. He was tall and slim with broad shoulders, long arms that dangled far below his coat sleeves. His feet looked as if they might easily have been used for shovels. His nose was long and his entire frame was most loosely hung to-gether. VALUE 772. Written by a boy in the third year of the high school, aged 16 years _Going Down with Victory_ As we road down Lombard Street, we saw flags waving from nearly every window. I surely felt proud that day to be the driver of the gaily decorated coach. Again and again we were cheered as we drove slowly to the postmasters, to await the coming of his majestie's mail. There wasn't one of the gaily bedecked coaches that could have compared with ours, in my estimation. So with waving flags and fluttering hearts we waited for the coming of the mail and the expected tidings of victory. When at last it did arrive the postmaster began to quickly sort the bundles, we waited anxiously. Immediately upon receiving our bundles, I lashed the horses and they responded with a jump. Out into the country we drove at reckless speed--everywhere spreading like wildfire the news, "Victory!" The exileration that we all felt was shared with the horses. Up and down grade and over bridges, we drove at breakneck speed and spreading the news at every hamlet with that one cry "Victory!" When at last we were back home again, it was with the hope that we should have another ride some day with "Victory." VALUE 838. Written by a boy in the Freshman class in college _Venus of Melos_ In looking at this statue we think, not of wisdom, or power, or force, but just of beauty. She stands resting the weight of her body on one foot, and advancing the other (left) with knee bent. The posture causes the figure to sway slightly to one side, describing a fine curved line. The lower limbs are draped but the upper part of the body is uncovered. (The unfortunate loss of the statue's arms prevents a positive knowledge of its original attitude.) The eyes are partly closed, having something of a dreamy langour. The nose is perfectly cut, the mouth and chin are moulded in adorable curves. Yet to say that every feature is of faultless perfection is but cold praise. No analysis can convey the sense of her peerless beauty. VALUE 937. Written by a boy in the Freshman class in college _A Foreigner's Tribute to Joan of Arc_ Joan of Arc, worn out by the suffering that was thrust upon her, nevertheless appeared with a brave mien before the Bishop of Beauvais. She knew, had always known that she must die when her mission was fulfilled and death held no terrors for her. To all the bishop's questions she answered firmly and without hesitation. The bishop failed to confuse her and at last condemned her to death for heresy, bidding her recant if she would live. She refused and was lead to prison, from there to death. While the flames were writhing around her she bade the old bishop who stood by her to move away or he would be injured. Her last thought was of others and De Quincy says, that recant was no more in her mind than on her lips. She died as she lived, with a prayer on her lips and listening to the voices that had whispered to her so often. The heroism of Joan of Arc was wonderful. We do not know what form her great patriotism took or how far it really led her. She spoke of hearing voices and of seeing visions. We only know that she resolved to save her country, knowing though she did so, it would cost her her life. Yet she never hesitated. She was uneducated save for the lessons taught her by nature. Yet she led armies and crowned the dauphin, king of France. She was only a girl, yet she could silence a great bishop by words that came from her heart and from her faith. She was only a woman, yet she could die as bravely as any martyr who had gone before. The following compositions have been evaluated by Professor Thorndike, and may be used to supplement the scale given above. VALUE 13 Last Monday the house on the corner of Jay street was burned down to the ground and right down by Mrs. brons house there is a little child all alone and there is a bad man sleeping in the seller, but we have a wise old monkey in the coal ben so the parents are thankful that they don't have to pay any reward. VALUE 20 Some of the house burned and the children were in bed and there were four children and the lady next store broke the door in and went up stars and woke the peple up and whent out of the house when they moved and and the girl was skard to look out of the window and all the time thouhth that she saw a flame. And the wise monkey reward from going to the firehouse and jumping all round and was thankful from his reward and was thankful for what he got. $15. was his reward. VALUE 30 A long time ago, I do not know, how long but a man and a woman and a little boy lived together also a monkey a pet for the little boy it happened that the man and the woman were out, and the monkey and little boy, and the house started to burn, and the monkey took the little boys hand, and, went out. The father had come home and was glad that the monkey had saved his little boy. And that, monkey got a reward. VALUE 40 Once upon a time a woman went into a dark room and lit a match. She dropped it on the floor and it of course set the house afire. She jumped out of the window and called her husband to come out too. They both forgot all about the baby. All of a sudden he appeared in the window calling his mother. His father had gone next door to tel afone to the fire house. They had a monkey in the house at the time and he heard the child calling his mother. He had a plan to save the baby. He ran to the window where he was standing. He put his tail about his waist and jumped off the window sill with the baby in his tail. When the people were settled again they gave him a silver collar as a reward. VALUE 50 A University out west, I cannot remember the name, is noted for its hazing, and this is what the story is about. It is the hazing of a freshman. There was a freshman there who had been acting as if he didn't respect his upper class men so they decided to teach him a lesson. The student brought before the Black Avenger's which is a society in all college to keep the freshman under there rules so they desided to take him to the rail-rode track and tie him to the rails about two hours before a train was suspected and leave him there for about an hour, which was a hour before the 9.20 train was expected. The date came that they planned this hazing for so the captured the fellow blindfolded him and lead him to the rail rode tracks, where they tied him. VALUE 60 I should like to see a picture, illustrating a part of L'allegro. Where the godesses of Mirth and Liberty trip along hand in hand. Two beautiful girls dressed in flowing garments, dancing along a flower-strewn path, through a pretty garden. Their hair flowing down in long curls. Their countenances showing their perfect freedom and happiness. Their arms extended gracefully smelling some sweet flower. In my mind this would make a beautiful picture. VALUE 70 It was between the dark and the daylight when far away could be seen the treacherous wolves skulking over the hills. We sat beside our campfires and watched them for awhile. Sometimes a few of them would howl as if they wanted to get in our camp. Then, half discouraged, they would walk away and soon there would be others doing the same thing. They were afraid to come near because of the fires, which were burning brightly. I noticed that they howled more between the dark and the daylight than at any time of the night. VALUE 80 The sun was setting, giving a rosy glow to all the trees standing tall black against the faintly tinted sky. Blue, pink, green, yellow, like a conglomeration of paints dropped carelessly onto a pale blue background. The trees were in such great number that they looked like a mass of black crepe, each with its individual, graceful form in view. The lake lay smooth and unruffled, dimly reflecting the beautiful coloring of the sky. The wind started madly up and blew over the lake's glassy surface making mysterious murmurings blending in with the chirping songs of the birds blew through the tree tops setting the leaves rustling and whispering to one another. A squirrel ran from his perch chattering, to the lofty branches--a far and distant hoot echoed in the silence, and soon night, over all came stealing, blotting out the scenery and wrapping all in restful, mysterious darkness. VALUE 90 Oh that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld it! Blessed were the wanderers of old, who heard its deep roar, sounding through the woods, as the summons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful brink, in all the freshness of native feeling. Had its own mysterious voice been the first to warn me of its existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down and worshipped. But I had come thither, haunted with a vision of foam and fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean tumbling down out of the sky--a scene, in short, which nature had too much good taste and calm simplicity to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt these false conceptions to the reality, and finding the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and threw myself on the earth feeling that I was unworthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about beholding them again. A scale for measuring English composition in the eighth grade, which takes account of different types of composition, such as narration, description, and the like, has been developed by Dr. Frank W. Ballou, of Boston.[27] For those interested in the following up of the problem of English composition this scale will prove interesting and valuable. Several scales have been developed for the measurement of the ability of children in reading. Among them may be mentioned the scale derived by Professor Thorndike for measuring the understanding of sentences.[28] This scale calls attention to that element in reading which is possibly the most important of them all, that is, the attempt to get meanings. We are all of us, for the most part, concerned not primarily with giving expression through oral reading, but, rather, in getting ideas from the printed page. A sample of this scale is given on the following page. * * * * * SCALE ALPHA. FOR MEASURING THE UNDERSTANDING OF SENTENCES Write your name here............................... Write your age.............years............months. SET _a_ Read this and then write the answers. Read it again as often as you need to. John had two brothers who were both tall. Their names were Will and Fred. John's sister, who was short, was named Mary. John liked Fred better than either of the others. All of these children except Will had red hair. He had brown hair. 1. Was John's sister tall or short?..................... 2. How many brothers had John?.......................... 3. What was his sister's name?.......................... SET _b_ Read this and then write the answers. Read it again as often as you need to. Long after the sun had set, Tom was still waiting for Jim and Dick to come. "If they do not come before nine o'clock," he said to himself, "I will go on to Boston alone." At half past eight they came bringing two other boys with them. Tom was very glad to see them and gave each of them one of the apples he had kept. They ate these and he ate one too. Then all went on down the road. 1. When did Jim and Dick come?................................... 2. What did they do after eating the apples?..................... 3. Who else came besides Jim and Dick?........................... 4. How long did Tom say he would wait for them?.................. 5. What happened after the boys ate the apples?.................. SET _c_ Read this and then write the answers. Read it again as often as you need to. It may seem at first thought that every boy and girl who goes to school ought to do all the work that the teacher wishes done. But sometimes other duties prevent even the best boy or girl from doing so. If a boy's or girl's father died and he had to work afternoons and evenings to earn money to help his mother, such might be the case. A good girl might let her lessons go undone in order to help her mother by taking care of the baby. 1. What are some conditions that might make even the best boy leave school work unfinished?............................................ ................................................................... 2. What might a boy do in the evenings to help his family?......... 3. How could a girl be of use to her mother?....................... 4. Look at these words: _idle, tribe, inch, it, ice, ivy, tide, true, tip, top, tit, tat, toe._ Cross out every one of them that has an _i_ and has not any _t_ (T) in it. SET _d_ Read this and then write the answers. Read it again as often as you need to. It may seem at first thought that every boy and girl who goes to school ought to do all the work that the teacher wishes done. But sometimes other duties prevent even the best boy or girl from doing so. If a boy's or girl's father died and he had to work afternoons and evenings to earn money to help his mother, such might be the case. A good girl might let her lessons go undone in order to help her mother by taking care of the baby. 1. What is it that might seem at first thought to be true, but really is false? ....................................................................... 2. What might be the effect of his father's death upon the way a boy spent his time?................................................................. 3. Who is mentioned in the paragraph as the person who desires to have all lessons completely done?.............................................. ....................................................................... 4. In these two lines draw a line under every 5 that comes just after a 2, unless the 2 comes just after a 9. If that is the case, draw a line under the next figure after the 5: 5 3 6 2 5 4 1 7 4 2 5 7 6 5 4 9 2 5 3 8 6 1 2 5 4 7 3 5 2 3 9 2 5 8 4 7 9 2 5 6 1 2 5 7 4 8 5 6 * * * * * Many tests have been devised which have been thought to have more general application than those which have been mentioned above for the particular subjects. One of the most valuable of these tests, called technically a completion test, is that derived by Dr. M.R. Trabue.[29] In these tests the pupil is asked to supply words which are omitted from the printed sentences. It is really a test of his ability to complete the thought when only part of it is given. Dr. Trabue calls his scales language scales. It has been found, however, that ability of this sort is closely related to many of the traits which we consider desirable in school children. It would therefore be valuable, provided always that children have some ability in reading, to test them on the language scale as one of the means of differentiating among those who have more or less ability. The scores which may be expected from different grades appear in Dr. Trabue's monograph. Three separate scales follow. * * * * * _Write only one word on each blank_ _Time Limit: Seven minutes_ NAME .......................... TRABUE LANGUAGE SCALE B 1. We like good boys................girls. 6. The................is barking at the cat. 8. The stars and the................will shine tonight. 22. Time................often more valuable................money. 23. The poor baby................as if it.....................sick. 31. She................if she will. 35. Brothers and sisters ................ always ................ to help..............other and should................quarrel. 38. ................ weather usually................ a good effect ................ one's spirits. 48. It is very annoying to................................tooth-ache, ................often comes at the most................time imaginable. 54. To................friends is always................the........ it takes. _Write only one word on each blank_ _Time Limit: Seven minutes_ NAME.......................... TRABUE LANGUAGE SCALE D 4. We are going................school. 76. I................to school each day. 11. The................plays................her dolls all day. 21. The rude child does not................many friends. 63. Hard................makes................tired. 27. It is good to hear................voice....................... ..........friend. 71. The happiest and................contented man is the one........ ........lives a busy and useful................. 42. The best advice................usually................obtained ................one's parents. 51.................things are................ satisfying to an ordinary ................than congenial friends. 84.................a rule one................association.......... friends. _Write only one word on each blank_ _Time Limit: Five minutes_ NAME ............................ TRABUE LANGUAGE SCALE J 20. Boys and................soon become................and women. 61. The................are often more contented.............. the rich. 64. The rose is a favorite................ because of................ fragrance and................. 41. It is very................ to become................acquainted ................persons who................timid. 93. Extremely old..................sometimes..................almost as .................. care as ................... 87. One's................in life................upon so............ factors ................ it is not ................ to state any single................for................ failure. 89. The future................of the stars and the facts of............ history are................now once for all,................I like them................not. * * * * * Other standard tests and scales of measurement have been derived and are being developed. The examples given above will, however, suffice to make clear the distinction between the ordinary type of examination and the more careful study of the achievements of children which may be accomplished by using these measuring sticks. It is important for any one who would attempt to apply these tests to know something of the technique of recording results. In the first place, the measurement of a group is not expressed satisfactorily by giving the average score or rate of achievement of the class. It is true that this is one measure, but it is not one which tells enough, and it is not the one which is most significant for the teacher. It is important whenever we measure children to get as clear a view as we can of the whole situation. For this purpose we want not primarily to know what the average performance is, but, rather, how many children there are at each level of achievement. In arithmetic, for example, we want to know how many there are who can do none of the Courtis problems in addition, or how many there are who can do the first six on the Woody test, how many can do seven, eight, and so on. In penmanship we want to know how many children there are who write quality eight, or nine, or ten, or sixteen, or seventeen, as the case may be. The work of the teacher can never be accomplished economically except as he gives more attention to those who are less proficient, and provides more and harder work for those who are capable, or else relieves the able members of the class from further work in the field. It will be well, therefore, to prepare, for the sake of comparing grades within the same school or school system, or for the sake of preparing the work of a class at two different times during the year, a table which shows just how many children there are in the group who have reached each level of achievement. Such tables for work in composition for a class at two different times, six months apart, appear as follows: DISTRIBUTION OF COMPOSITION SCORES FOR A SEVENTH GRADE ====================================== | NUMBER OF CHILDREN +----------------------- | NOVEMBER | FEBRUARY --------------+-----------+----------- Rated at 0 | 0 | 0 1.83 | 1 | 1 2.60 | 6 | 4 3.69 | 12 | 6 4.74 | 8 | 11 5.85 | 3 | 4 6.75 | 1 | 3 7.72 | 1 | 2 8.38 | 0 | 1 9.37 | 0 | 0 ====================================== A study of such a distribution would show not only that the average performance of the class has been raised, but also that those in the lower levels have, in considerable measure, been brought up; that is, that the teacher has been working with those who showed less ability, and not simply pushing ahead a few who had more than ordinary capacity. It would be possible to increase the average performance by working wholly with the upper half of the class while neglecting those who showed less ability. From a complete distribution, as has been given above, it has become evident that this has not been the method of the teacher. He has sought apparently to do everything that he could to improve the quality of work upon the part of all of the children in the class. It is very interesting to note, when such complete distributions are given, how the achievement of children in various classes overlaps. For example, the distribution of the number of examples on the Courtis tests, correctly finished in a given time by pupils in the seventh grades, makes it clear that there are children in the fifth grade who do better than many in the eighth. THE DISTRIBUTION OF THE NUMBER OF EXAMPLES CORRECTLY FINISHED IN THE GIVEN TIME BY PUPILS IN THE SEVERAL GRADES =================================================================== ADDITION | SUBTRACTION No. OF |----------------------+ No. OF |------------------------ EXAMPLES| GRADES | EXAMPLES | GRADES FINISHED| 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | FINISHED | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 --------+----+-----+-----+-----+----------+----+-----+-----+------- 0 | 12 | 15 | 5 | 4 | 0 | 6 | 2 | 2 | -- 1 | 26 | 23 | 14 | 9 | 1 | 5 | 6 | 2 | 1 2 | 27 | 31 | 8 | 6 | 2 | 7 | 8 | 1 | -- 3 | 31 | 27 | 27 | 9 | 3 | 13 | 21 | 3 | 1 4 | 25 | 28 | 19 | 16 | 4 | 21 | 18 | 13 | 2 5 | 16 | 23 | 16 | 15 | 5 | 26 | 30 | 12 | 7 6 | 15 | 22 | 12 | 12 | 6 | 17 | 27 | 15 | 9 7 | 1 | 11 | 8 | 9 | 7 | 15 | 27 | 18 | 9 8 | 3 | 4 | 6 | 11 | 8 | 15 | 20 | 12 | 12 9 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 13 | 9 | 12 10 | -- | -- | -- | 6 | 10 | 8 | 6 | 13 | 11 11 | -- | -- | 1 | -- | 11 | 6 | 2 | 3 | 12 12 | -- | -- | 1 | 2 | 12 | 3 | 1 | 7 | 9 13 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 13 | 2 | 2 | 3 | 5 14 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 14 | 1 | 1 | 3 | 7 15 | -- | -- | -- | 2 | 15 | -- | -- | 2 | 3 16 | -- | -- | -- | 1 | 16 | -- | -- | 1 | 2 17 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 17 | -- | 1 | -- | 1 18 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 18 | -- | -- | -- | 1 19 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 19 | -- | -- | -- | 4 20 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 20 | -- | -- | -- | 2 21 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 21 | -- | -- | -- | 1 22 | -- | -- | -- | -- | 22 | -- | -- | -- | -- --------+----+-----+-----+-----+----------+----+-----+-----+------- Total | | | | | | | | | papers |157 | 86 | 119 | 111 | |155 | 185 | 119 | 111 =================================================================== THE DISTRIBUTION OF THE NUMBER OF EXAMPLES CORRECTLY FINISHED IN THE GIVEN TIME BY PUPILS IN THE SEVERAL GRADES ======================================================================= MULTIPLICATION | DIVISION ------------------------------------|---------------------------------- No. of | GRADES |No. of | GRADES Examples|---------------------------|Examples|------------------------- Finished| 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 |Finished| 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 --------|------+-----+-----+--------|--------|------+-----+-----+------ 0 . . .| 10 | 4 | -- | -- | 0 . . .| 17 | 7 | 1 | -- 1 . . .| 10 | 4 | 3 | -- | 1 . . .| 19 | 17 | 2 | 1 2 . . .| 19 | 20 | 5 | 1 | 2 . . .| 18 | 22 | 8 | 4 3 . . .| 21 | 17 | 11 | 5 | 3 . . .| 21 | 26 | 6 | 2 4 . . .| 28 | 31 | 16 | 3 | 4 . . .| 25 | 27 | 8 | 6 5 . . .| 26 | 34 | 12 | 13 | 5 . . .| 21 | 27 | 11 | 7 6 . . .| 24 | 27 | 13 | 13 | 6 . . .| 9 | 15 | 12 | 4 7 . . .| 9 | 20 | 16 | 10 | 7 . . .| 10 | 15 | 16 | 18 8 . . .| 5 | 14 | 21 | 19 | 8 . . .| 6 | 7 | 20 | 9 9 . . .| 3 | 9 | 11 | 13 | 9 . . .| 4 | 7 | 11 | 6 10 . . .| -- | 4 | 6 | 10 |10 . . .| 4 | 9 | 7 | 13 11 . . .| 1 | -- | 2 | 9 |11 . . .| 1 | 3 | 3 | 7 12 . . .| -- | -- | 2 | 6 |12 . . .| -- | 2 | 10 | 10 13 . . .| -- | -- | 1 | 3 |13 . . .| -- | 2 | -- | 10 14 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 3 |14 . . .| 1 | -- | 1 | 4 15 . . .| -- | -- | -- | -- |15 . . .| -- | 1 | 2 | 9 16 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 1 |16 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 2 17 . . .| -- | -- | -- | -- |17 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 4 18 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 1 |18 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 2 19 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 1 |19 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 1 20 . . .| -- | -- | -- | -- |20 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 1 21 . . .| -- | -- | -- | -- |21 . . .| -- | -- | -- | 1 22 . . .| -- | -- | -- | -- |22 . . .| -- | -- | -- | -- --------+------+-----+-----+--------|--------|------+-----+-----+------- Total | | | | | | | | | Papers | 156 | 184 | 119 | 111 | | 156 | 187 | 118 | 111 ======================================================================= If the tests had been given in the fourth or the third grade, it would have been found that there were children, even as low as the third grade, who could do as well or better than some of the children in the eighth grade. Such comparisons of achievements among children in various subjects ought to lead at times to reorganizations of classes, to the grouping of children for special instruction, and to the rapid promotion of the more capable pupils. In many of these measurements it will be found helpful to describe the group by naming the point above and below which half of the cases fall. This is called the median. Because of the very common use of this measure in the current literature of education, it may be worth while to discuss carefully the method of its derivation.[30] [31]The _median point_ of any distribution of measures is that point on the scale which divides the distribution into two exactly equal parts, one half of the measures being greater than this point on the scale, and the other half being smaller. When the scales are very crude, or when small numbers of measurements are being considered, it is not worth while to locate this median point any more accurately than by indicating on what step of the scale it falls. If the measuring instrument has been carefully derived and accurately scaled, however, it is often desirable, especially where the group being considered is reasonably large, to locate the exact point within the step on which the median falls. If the unit of the scale is some measure of the variability of a defined group, as it is in the majority of our present educational scales, this median point may well be calculated to the nearest tenth of a unit, or, if there are two hundred or more individual measurements in the distribution, it may be found interesting to calculate the median point to the nearest hundredth of a scale unit. Very seldom will anything be gained by carrying the calculation beyond the second decimal place. The best rule for locating the median point of a distribution is to _take as the median that point on the scale which is reached by counting out one half of the measures_, the measures being taken in the order of their magnitude. If we let _n_ stand for the number of measures in the distribution, we may express the rule as follows: Count into the distribution, from either end of the scale, a distance covered by *_n/2_ measures. For example, if the distribution contains 20 measures, the median is that point on the scale which marks the end of the 10th and the beginning of the 11th measure. If there are 39 measures in the distribution, the median point is reached by counting out 19-1/2 of the measures; in other words, the median of such a distribution is at the mid-point of that fraction of the scale assigned to the 20th measure. The _median step_ of a distribution is the step which contains within it the median point. Similarly, the _median measure_ in any distribution is the measure which contains the median point. In a distribution containing 25 measures, the 13th measure is the median measure, because 12 measures are greater and 12 are less than the 13th, while the 13th measure is itself divided into halves by the median point. Where a distribution contains an even number of measures, there is in reality no median measure but only a median point between the two halves of the distribution. Where a distribution contains an uneven number of measures, the median measure is the (_n_+1)/2 measurement, at the mid-point of which measure is the median point of the distribution. Much inaccurate calculation has resulted from misguided attempts to secure a _median point_ with the formula just given, which is applicable only to the location of the _median measure_. It will be found much more advantageous in dealing with educational statistics to consider only the median point, and to use only the _n_/2 formula given in a previous paragraph, for practically all educational scales are or may be thought of as continuous scales rather than scales composed of discrete steps. The greatest danger to be guarded against in considering all scales as continuous rather than discrete, is that careless thinkers may refine their calculations far beyond the accuracy which their original measurements would warrant. One should be very careful not to make such unjustifiable refinements in his statement of results as are often made by young pupils when they multiply the diameter of a circle, which has been measured only to the nearest inch, by 3.1416 in order to find the circumference. Even in the ordinary calculation of the average point of a series of measures of length, the amateur is sometimes tempted, when the number of measures in the series is not contained an even number of times in the sum of their values, to carry the quotient out to a larger number of decimal places than the original measures would justify. Final results should usually not be refined far beyond the accuracy of the original measures. It is of utmost importance in calculating medians and other measures of a distribution to keep constantly in mind the significance of each step on the scale. If the scale consists of tasks to be done or problems to be solved, then "doing 1 task correctly" means, when considered as part of a continuous scale, anywhere from doing 1.0 up to doing 2.0 tasks. A child receives credit for "2 problems correct" whether he has just barely solved 2.0 problems or has just barely fallen short of solving 3.0 problems. If, however, the scale consists of a series of productions graduated in quality from very poor to very good, with which series other productions of the same sort are to be compared, then each sample on the scale stands at the middle of its "step" rather than at the beginning. The second kind of scale described in the foregoing paragraph may be designated as "scales for the _quality_ of products," while the other variety may be called "scales for _magnitude_ of achievement." In the one case, the child makes the best production he can and measures its quality by comparing it with similar products of known quality on the scale. Composition, handwriting, and drawing scales are good examples of scales for quality of products. In the other case, the scales are placed in the hands of the child at the very beginning, and the magnitude of his achievement is measured by the difficulty or number of tasks accomplished successfully in a given time. Spelling, arithmetic, reading, language, geography, and history tests are examples of scales for quantity of achievement. Scores tend to be more accurate on the scales for magnitude of achievement, because the judgment of the examiner is likely to be more accurate in deciding whether a response is correct or incorrect than it is in deciding how much quality a given product contains. This does not furnish an excuse for failing to employ the quality-of-products scales, however, for the qualities they measure are not measurable in terms of the magnitude of tasks performed. The fact appears, however, that the method of employing the quality-of-products scales is "by comparison" (of child's production with samples reproduced on the scale), while the method of employing the magnitude-of-achievement scales is "by performance" (of child on tasks of known difficulty). In this connection it may be well to take one of the scales for quality of products and outline the steps to be followed in assigning scores, making tabulations, and finding the medians of distributions of scores. When the Hillegas scale is employed in measuring the quality of English composition, it will be advisable to assign to each composition the score of that sample on the scale to which it is nearest in merit or quality. While some individuals may feel able to assign values intermediate to those appearing on the Hillegas scale, the majority of those persons who use this scale will not thereby obtain a more accurate result, and the assignment of such intermediate values will make it extremely difficult for any other person to make accurate use of the results. To be exactly comparable, values should be assigned in exactly the same manner. The best result will probably be obtained by having each composition rated several times, and if possible, by a number of different judges, the paper being given each time that value on the Hillegas scale to which it seems nearest in quality. The final mark for the paper should be the median score or step (not the median point or the average point) of all the scores assigned. For example, if a paper is rated five times, once as in step number five (5.85), twice as in step number six (6.75), and twice as in step number seven (7.72), it should be given a final mark indicating that it is a number six (6.75) paper. After each composition has been assigned a final mark indicating to what sample on the Hillegas scale it is most nearly equal in quality, proceed as follows: Make a distribution of the final marks given to the individual papers, showing how many papers were assigned to the zero step on the scale, how many to step number one, how many to step number two, and so on for each step of the scale. We may take as an example the distribution of scores made by the pupils of the eighth grade at Butte, Montana, in May, 1914. No. of papers 1 9 32 39 43 22 6 2 Rated at 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 All together there were 154 papers from the eighth grade, so that if they were arranged in order according to their merit we might begin at the poorest and count through 77 of them (n/2 = 154/2 = 77) to find the median point, which would lie between the 77th and the 78th in quality. If we begin with the 1 composition rated at 0 and count up through the 9 rated at 1 and the 32 rated at 2 in the above distribution, we shall have counted 42. In order to count out 77 cases, then, it will be necessary to count out 35 of the 39 cases rated at 3. Now we know (if the instructions given above have been followed) that the compositions rated at 3 were so rated by virtue of the fact that the judges considered them nearer in quality to the sample valued at 3.69 than to any other sample on the scale. We should expect, then, to find that some of those rated at 3 were only slightly nearer to the sample valued at 3.69 than they were to the sample valued at 2.60, while others were only slightly nearer to 3.69 than they were to 4.74. Just how the 39 compositions rated on 3 were distributed between these two extremes we do not know, but the best single assumption to make is that they are distributed at equal intervals on step 3. Assuming, then, that the papers rated at 3 are distributed evenly over that step, we shall have covered .90 (35/39 = .897 = .90) of the entire step 3 by the time we have counted out 35 of the 39 papers falling on this step. It now becomes necessary to examine more closely just what are the limits of step 3. It is evident from what has been said above that 3.69 is the middle step 3 and that step 3 extends downward from 3.69 halfway to 2.60, and upward from 3.69 halfway to 4.74. The table given below shows the range and the length of each step in the Hillegas Scale for English Composition. THE HILLEGAS SCALE FOR ENGLISH COMPOSITION ====================================================== STEP No.|VALUE or SAMPLE|RANGE OF STEP |LENGTH OF STEP --------+---------------+--------------+-------------- 0. . . .| 0 | 0- .91[32] | .91 1. . . .| 1.83 | .92-2.21 | 1.30 2. . . .| 2.60 |2.22-3.14 | .93 3. . . .| 3.69 |3.15-4.21 | 1.07 4. . . .| 4.74 |4.22-5.29 | 1.08 5. . . .| 5.85 |5.30-6.30 | 1.00 6. . . .| 6.75 |6.30-7.23 | .93 7. . . .| 7.72 |7.24-8.05 | .81 8. . . .| 8.38 |8.05-8.87 | .82 9. . . .| 9.37 |8.88- | ====================================================== From the above table we find that step 3 has a length of 1.07 units. If we count out 35 of the 39 papers, or, in other words, if we pass upward into the step .90 of the total distance (1.07 units), we shall arrive at a point .96 units (.90 × 1.07 = .96) above the lower limit of step 3, which we find from the table is 3.15. Adding .96 to 3.15 gives 4.11 as the median point of this eighth grade distribution. The median and the percentiles of any distribution of scores on the Hillegas scale may be determined in a manner similar to that illustrated above, if the scores are assigned to the individual papers according to the directions outlined above. A similar method of calculation is employed in discovering the limits within which the middle fifty per cent of the cases fall. It often seems fairer to ask, after the upper twenty-five per cent of the children who would probably do successful work even without very adequate teaching have been eliminated, and the lower twenty-five per cent who are possibly so lacking in capacity that teaching may not be thought to affect them very largely have been left out of consideration, what is the achievement of the middle fifty per cent. To measure this achievement it is necessary to have the whole distribution and to count off twenty-five per cent, counting in from the upper end, and then twenty-five per cent, counting in from the lower end of the distribution. The points found can then be used in a statement in which the limits within which the middle fifty per cent of the cases fall. Using the same figures that are given above for scores in English composition, the lower limit is 2.64 and the limit which marks the point above which the upper twenty-five per cent of the cases are to be found is 5.08. The limits, therefore, within which the middle fifty per cent of the cases fall are from 2.64 to 5.08. It is desirable to measure the relationship existing between the achievements (or other traits) of groups. In order to express such relationship in a single figure the coefficient or correlation is used. This measure appears frequently in the literature of education and will be briefly explained. The formula for finding the coefficient of correlation can be understood from examples of its application. Let us suppose a group of seven individuals whose scores in terms of problems solved correctly and of words spelled correctly are as follows:[33] ====================================== INDIVIDUALS|No. OF |No. OF WORDS MEASURED |PROBLEMS|SPELLED CORRECTLY CORRECTLY | | -----------+--------+----------------- A | 1 | 2 B | 2 | 4 C | 3 | 6 D | 4 | 8 E | 5 | 10 F | 6 | 12 G | 7 | 14 ====================================== From such distributions it would appear that as individuals increase in achievement in one field they increase correspondingly in the other. If one is below or above the average in achievement in one field, he is below or above and in the same degree in the other field. This sort of positive relationship (going together) is expressed by a coefficient of +1. The formula is expressed as follows: (Sum x · y) r = ------------------------------ (sqrt(Sum x^2))(sqrt(Sum y^2)) Here _r_ = coefficient of correlation. _x_ = deviations from average score in arithmetic (or difference between score made and average score). _y_ = deviations from average score in spelling. Sum = is the sign commonly used to indicate the algebraic sum (_i.e._ the difference between the sum of the minus quantities and the plus quantities). _x · y _= products of deviation in one trait multiplied by deviation in the other trait with appropriate sign. Applying the formula we find: =================================================================== |ARITH-| | | SPEL- | | | | |METIC | x | x^2 | LING | y | y^2 | x·y | --+------+---+------------+-------+---+-------------+-------------+ A | 1|-3 | 9| 2|-6 | 36| +18| B | 2|-2 | 4| 4|-4 | 16| +8| C | 3|-1 | 1| 6|-2 | 4| +2| D | 4| 0 | 0| 8| 0 | | | E | 5|+1 | 1| 10|+2 | 4| +2| F | 6|+2 | 4| 12|+4 | 16| +8| G | 7|+3 | 9| 14|+6 | 36| +18| | ___| | __| ___| | ___| __| | 7 |28| |Sum x^2 = 28| 7 |56| |Sum y^2 = 112|Sum x·y = +56| |Av. =4| | |Av. =8 | | | | =================================================================== Sum x · y +56 +56 r = ---------------------------- = --------------------- = ---- = +1 (sqrt(Sum x^2)(sqrt(Sum y^2) (sqrt(28))(sqrt(112)) 56 If instead of achievement in one field being positively related (going together) in the highest possible degree, these individuals show the opposite type of relationship, _i.e.,_ the maximum negative relationship (this might be expressed as opposition--a place above the average in one achievement going with a correspondingly great deviation below the average in the other achievement), then our coefficient becomes -1. Applying the formula: =================================================================== |ARITH-| | | SPEL- | | | | |METIC | x | x^2 | LING | y | y^2 | x*y | --+------+---+------------+-------+---+-------------+-------------+ A | 1|-3 | 9| 14|+6 | 36| -18| B | 2|-2 | 4| 12|+4 | 16| -8| C | 3|-1 | 2| 10|+2 | 4| -2| D | 4| 0 | | 8| 0 | | | E | 5|+1 | 2| 6|-2 | 4| -2| F | 6|+2 | 4| 4|-4 | 16| -8| G | 7|+3 | 9| 2|-6 | 36| -18| | ___| | __| ___| | ___| __| | 7 |28| |Sum x^2 = 28| 7 |56| |Sum y^2 = 112|Sum x·y = -56| |Av. =4| | |Av. =8 | | | | =================================================================== It will be observed that in this case each plus deviation in one achievement is accompanied by a minus deviation for the other trait; hence, all of the products of _x_ and _y_ are minus quantities. (A plus quantity multiplied by a plus quantity or a minus quantity multiplied by a minus quantity gives us a plus quantity as the product, while a plus quantity multiplied by a minus quantity gives us a minus quantity as the product.) (Sum x·y) -56 -56 r = ------------------------------ = ------------------- = ---- = -1. (sqrt(Sum x^2))(sqrt(Sum y^2)) (sqrt(28)sqrt(112)) = 56 If there is no relationship indicated by the measures of achievements which we have found, then the coefficient of correlation becomes 0. A distribution of scores which suggests no relationship is as follows: ================================================================= |ARITH- | | | | | | |METIC | x | x^2 |Spelling | y | y^2 | x.y --+-------+----+-----------+---------+----+-------------+-------- | | | | | | | - + A | 2 | -2 | 4 | 12 | +4 | 16 | -8 +6 B | 1 | -3 | 9 | 8 | 0 | | 0 +4 C | 4 | 0 | | 2 | -6 | 36 | 0 +4 D | 5 | +1 | 1 | 14 | +6 | 36 | -6 E | 3 | -1 | 1 | 4 | -4 | 16 | -14 +14 F | 7 | +3 | 9 | 6 | -2 | 4 | G | 6 | +2 | 4 | 10 | +2 | 4 | | ____| | | ___ | | | | |28 | |Sum x^2=28 | 7|56 | | Sum y^2=112 | x·y=0 | AV.=4 | | | AV.=8 | | | =================================================================== (Sum x·y) 0 r = ---------------------------- = ------------------- = 0. (sqrt(Sum x^2)sqrt(Sum y^2)) (sqrt(28)sqrt(112)) In a similar manner, when the relationship is largely positive as would be indicated by a displacement of each score in the series by one step from the arrangement which gives a +1 coefficient, the coefficient will approach unity in value. =============================================================== ARITHMETIC| x | x^2 |SPELLING| y | y^2 | ---+------+----+-----------+--------+----+------------+-------- A |1 | -3 |9 |4 | -4 | 16 |+ 12 B |2 | -2 |4 |2 | -6 | 36 |+ 12 C |3 | -1 |1 |8 | 0 | |+ 4 D |4 | 0 | |6 | -2 | 4 |+ 4 E |5 | +1 |1 |12 | +4 | 16 |+ 18 F |6 | +2 |4 |10 | +2 | 4 |Sx·y=50 G |7 | +3 |9 |14 | +6 | 36 | |Av. =4| |Sum x^2 =28|Av. = 8 | |Sum y^2= 112| =============================================================== Sum x·y +50 r= -------------------------- = ---- = +.89. sqrt(Sum x^2)sqrt(Sum y^2) 56 Other illustrations might be given to show how the coefficient varies from + 1, the measure of the highest positive relationship (going together) through 0 to -1, the measure of the largest negative relationship (opposition). A relationship between traits which we measure as high as +.50 is to be thought of as quite significant. It is seldom that we get a positive relationship as large as +.50 when we correlate the achievements of children in school work. A relationship measured by a coefficient of ±.15 may _not_ be considered to indicate any considerable positive or negative relationship. The fact that relationships among the achievements of children in school subjects vary from +.20 to +.60 is a clear indication of the fact that abilities of children are variable, or, in other words, achievement in one subject does not carry with it an _exactly corresponding_ great or little achievement in another subject. That there is some positive relationship, _i.e.,_ that able pupils tend on the whole to show all-round ability and the less able or weak in one subject _tend_ to show similar lack of strength in other subjects, is also indicated by these positive coefficients. QUESTIONS 1. Calculate the median point in the following distribution of eighth-grade composition scores on the Hillegas scale. Quality 0 18 26 37 47 58 67 Frequency 2 68 73 3 2. Calculate the median point in the following distribution of third-grade scores on the Woody subtraction scale. No. problems 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 Frequency 2 2 2 3 3 5 4 5 8 16 16 16 23 20 21 11 22 11 2 22 23 24 + 1 3. Compare statistically the achievements of the children in two eighth-grade classes whose scores on the Courtis addition tests were as follows: Class A--6, 5, 8, 9, 7, 10, 13, 4, 8, 7, 8, 7, 6, 8, 15, 6, 7, 0, 6, 9, 5, 8, 7, 10, 8, 4, 7, 8, 6, 9, 5, 7, 2, 6, 8, 5, 7, 8, 7, 8, 5, 8, 10, 6, 3, 6, 8, 17, 5, 7. Class B--10, 4, 8, 13, 11, 9, 8, 10, 7, 9, 11, 10, 18, 7, 12, 9, 10, 8, 11, 10, 12, 9, 2, 11, 8, 10, 9, 14, 11, 7, 10, 12, 10, 6, 11, 8, 10, 9, 10, 17, 8, 11, 9, 7, 9, 11, 8, 12, 9, 13. 4. If the marks received in algebra and in geometry by a group of high school pupils were as given below, what relationship is indicated by the coefficient of correlation? |GEOMETRY |ALGEBRA |MARKS |MARKS 1. |80 |60 2. |68 |73 3. |65 |80 4. |96 |80 5. |59 |62 6. |75 |65 7. |90 |75 8. |86 |90 9. |52 |63 10. |70 |55 11. |63 |54 12. |85 |95 13. |93 |90 14. |87 |70 15. |82 |68 16. |79 |75 17. |78 |86 18. |79 |75 19. |82 |60 20. |70 |82 21. |52 |86 22. |94 |85 23. |72 |73 24. |53 |62 25. |94 |85 5. Compare the abilities of the 10-year-old pupils in the sixth grade with the abilities of the 14-year-old pupils in the same grade, in so far as these abilities are measured by the completion of incomplete sentences. (Note: 5 = 5.0-5.999.) ================================================== NO. SENTENCES | | COMPLETED | 10-YEAR-OLDS | 14-YEAR-OLDS --------------+--------------+-------------------- 24 |-- |-- 23 |-- |-- 22 |-- |-- 21 |1 |-- 20 |-- |-- 19 |-- |-- 18 |-- |-- 17 |-- |1 16 |3 |-- 15 |-- |2 14 |7 |4 13 |10 |3 12 |18 |7 11 |9 |10 10 |7 |9 9 |8 |10 8 |2 |10 7 |3 |10 6 |-- |2 5 |2 |3 4 |-- |2 3 |-- |-- 2 |-- |1 1 |-- |-- 0 |-- |-- =========================================== 6. From the scores given here, calculate the relationship between ability to spell and ability to multiply. Use the average as the central tendency. ============================== PUPIL|SPELLING|MULTIPLICATION -----+--------+--------------- A |9 |22 B |10 |16 C |2 |19 D |6 |14 E |13 |24 F |8 |22 G |10 |17 H |7 |20 I |3 |21 J |2 |21 K |14 |20 L |8 |18 M |7 |23 N |11 |25 O |8 |25 P |17 |24 Q |10 |21 R |4 |16 S |9 |15 T |6 |19 U |12 |22 V |14 |19 W |8 |17 X |3 |20 Y |11 |18 ============================== * * * * * INDEX Achievements of children, measuring the, and examinations, in English composition, in arithmetic, arithmetic scale, reasoning problems in arithmetic, distribution of hand-writing scores, handwriting scale, spelling scale, scale for English composition. Æsthetic emotions, appreciation and skill, appreciation, intellectual factors in. Aim of education, I Analysis and abstraction, III. Angell, J.R. Appreciation, types of, passive attitude in, development in, value of, lesson. Associations, organization of, number of. Attention, situations arousing response of, and inhibition, breadth of, to more than one thing, concentration of, span of, free, forced, immediate free, immediate and derived, derived, forced, and habit formation, focalization of, divided. Ayres, L.P. Ballou, F.W. Bread-and-butter aim. Classroom exercises, types of. Coefficient of correlation, calculation of, values of. Comparison and abstraction, step of. Concentration, of attention. habits of. Conduct, moral social. Consciousness, fringe of. Correlation, coefficient of. Courtis, S.A. Culture as aim of education. Curriculum, omissions from. Deduction lesson, the, steps in. Deduction, process of. Dewey, John. Differences, individual, sex. Disuse, method of. Drill, lesson, the, work, deficiency in. Education, before school age. Effect, law of. Emotions, aesthetic. Environment and individual differences. Examinations, limitations of. Exceptions, danger of. Fatigue and habits. Formal discipline. Gray, W.S. Habit formation, and attention, laws of, and instinct, complexity of, and interest, and mistakes. Habits, of concentration, modification of the nervous system involved, and fatigue, and will power, and original work. Harmonious development of aim. Heck, W.H. Henderson, E.N. Heredity and individual differences. Hillegas, M.B. Illustrations, use of. Imagery, type of, and learning, productive, types of. Images, classified, object and concrete. Imagination. Individual differences, causes of, and race inheritance, and maturity, and heredity, and environment, and organization of public education in composition in arithmetic in penmanship Induction and deduction differences in relationship of Induction, process of Inductive lesson, the Inquiry in school work Instinctive tendencies modifiability of inhibition of Instincts transitoriness of delayedness of of physical activity to enjoy mental activity of manipulation of collecting of rivalry of fighting of imitation of gregariousness of motherliness Interest an end Judd, C.H. Junior high school, the Kelly, F.J. Knowledge aim Learning incidental and imagery curves Lecturing and appreciation Lesson the inductive McMurry, F.M. Maturity and individual differences Measurement of group comparison of seventh-grade scores in composition comparison of scores in arithmetic Measuring results in education Median calculation of point step measure Memorization verbatim whole-part method illustrated Memory factors in and native retentiveness and recall part and whole methods practice periods immediate desultory rote logical and forgetting permanence of Miller, I.E. Moral conduct development of Morality defined and conduct and habit and choice and individual opinion social nature of and training for citizenship and original nature and environment stages of development in and habit formation transition period in direct teaching of and classroom work and service by pupils and social responsibility and school rules Morgan, C.L. Openmindedness Original nature of children and racial inheritance and aim of education utilization of and morality Original work and habits Payne, Joseph Physical welfare of children Play theories of types of complexity of characteristics of and drudgery and work and ease of accomplishment and social demands supervision of Preparation steps of Presentation steps of Problems as stimulus to thinking Punishment Questioning Questions types of responses to number of appeal of Reasoning and thinking technique of Recapitulation theory Recitation social purpose of Recitation lesson, the Repetition Retention power of Review Review lesson, the Roark, R.N. Satisfaction result of Scales of measurement School government participation in Sex differences education Social aim of education and curriculum and special types of schools Stone, C.W. Study how to types of and habit formation and memorization and interest necessity for aim in and concentrated attention involves critical attitude general factors in for appreciation involving thinking use of books in supervised Substitution method of Thinking defined Thinking stimulation of and problematic situations by little children and habit formation essentials in process of for its own sake and critical attitude laws governing and association failure in and classroom exercises Thorndike, E.L. Thought imageless Trabue, M.R. Training transfer of identity of response probability of amount of Transfer of training Will power and habits Woody, Clifford Work, independent Work and play Footnote 1: The nervous system is composed of units of structure called neurones or nerve cells. "If we could see exactly the structure of the brain itself, we should find it to consist of millions of similar neurones each resembling a bit of string frayed out at both ends and here and there along its course. So also the nerves going out to the muscles are simply bundles of such neurones, each of which by itself is a thread-like connection between the cells of the spinal cord or brain and some muscle. The nervous system is simply the sum total of all these neurones, which form an almost infinitely complex system of connections between the sense organs and the muscles." The word synapses, meaning clasping together, is used as a descriptive term for the connections that exist between neurone and neurone. Footnote 2: This is synonymous with James's Involuntary Attention, Angell's Non-Voluntary Attention, and Titchener's Secondary-Passive Attention. Footnote 3: Educational Psychology, Briefer Course, pp. 194-5. Footnote 4: Thorndike, Psychology of Learning, p. 194. Footnote 5: How We Think, p. 6. Footnote 6: The Psychology of Thinking, p. 98. Footnote 7: How We Think, p. 66. Footnote 8: How We Think, pp. 69-70. Footnote 9: Psychology of Thinking, p. 291. Footnote 10: How We Think, p. 79. Footnote 11: Thorndike, Educational Psychology, Briefer Course, p. 172. Footnote 12: Introduction to Psychology, p. 284. Footnote 13: Thorndike, Origin of Man, p. 146. Footnote 14: Racial Differences in Mental Traits, pp. 177 and 181. Footnote 15: Thorndike, Educational Psychology, Briefer Course, p. 374. Footnote 16: Thorndike, Educational Psychology, Vol. III, p. 304. Footnote 17: Moral Principles in Education, p. 17. Footnote 18: For a fuller discussion of this topic see next chapter. Footnote 19: For a discussion of these scales see Chapter XV. Footnote 20: The Courtis Tests, Series B, for Measuring the Achievements of Children in the Fundamentals of Arithmetic, can be secured from Mr. S.A. Curtis, 82 Eliot Street, Detroit, Mich. Footnote 21: Measurements of Some Achievements in Arithmetic, by Clifford Woody, published by the Teachers College Bureau of Publications, Columbia University, 1916. Footnote 22: Reasoning Test in Arithmetic, by C.W. Stone, published by the Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University, 1916. Footnote 23: A Scale for Handwriting of Children, by E.L. Thorndike, published by the Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Footnote 24: A scale derived by Dr. Leonard P. Ayres of the Russell Sage Foundation is also valuable for measuring penmanship, and can be purchased from the Russell Sage Foundation. Footnote 25: Copies of the Spelling Scale can be secured from the Russell Sage Foundation, New York, for five cents a copy. Footnote 26: A Scale for the Measurement of Quality in English Composition, by Milo B. Hillegas, published by the Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Footnote 27: The Harvard-Newton Scale for the Measurement of English Composition, published by the Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass. Footnote 28: Scale Alpha. For Measuring the Understanding of Sentences, by E.L. Thorndike, published by the Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Scales for measuring the rate of silent reading and oral reading have been derived by Dr. W.S. Gray, of the University of Chicago, and by Dr. F.J. Kelly, of the University of Kansas. Reference to the use of Dr. Gray's scale will be found in Judd's Measuring Work of the Schools, one of the volumes of the Cleveland survey, published by the Russell Sage Foundation. Dr. Kelly's test, called The Kansas Silent Reading Test, can be had from the Emporia, Kansas, State Normal School. Footnote 29: Completion Test Language Scales, by M.R. Trabue, published by the Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Footnote 30: The student who is not interested in the statistical methods involved in measuring with precision the achievements of pupils may omit the remainder of this chapter. Footnote 31: This explanation of the method of finding the median was prepared for one of the classes in Teachers College by Dr. M.R. Trabue. Footnote 32: The third decimal place is omitted in this table. Footnote 33: In order to discover the relationship which exists between two traits which we have measured we would use many more than seven cases. The illustrations given are made short in order to make it easy to follow through the application of the formula. 
18698	----	Riverside Educational Monographs Edited by Henry Suzzallo President of the University of Washington Seattle, Washington THE RECITATION by GEORGE HERBERT BETTS, Ph. D. Professor of Psychology Cornell College, Iowa Houghton Mifflin Company Boston New York Chicago San Francisco The Riverside Press Cambridge Copyright, 1910, by George Herbert Betts Copyright, 1911, by Houghton Mifflin Company CONTENTS EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION I. THE PURPOSES OF THE RECITATION II. THE METHOD OF THE RECITATION III. THE ART OF QUESTIONING IV. CONDITIONS NECESSARY TO A GOOD RECITATION V. THE ASSIGNMENT OF THE LESSON OUTLINE EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION Teachers are not always clear as to what they mean when they speak of the recitation. Many different meanings are associated with the term. Some of these are suggestive but quite vague; and others, although more definite, are but partial truths that hinder as much as they help. It is not surprising that a confused usage of the term is current among teachers. From one point of view, the recitation is a recitation-period, a segment of the daily time schedule. In this sense it is an administrative unit, valuable in apportioning to each school subject its part of the time devoted to the curriculum. Thus, we speak of five recitations in arithmetic, three in music, or two in drawing, having in mind merely the number of times the class meets for instruction in a particular school study. A recitation here means no more than a class-period, a more or less arbitrary device for controlling the teacher's and pupils' distribution of energy among the various subjects taught. From another point of view, the recitation is a form of educative activity rather than a mere time allotment. In this sense the recitation is a process of instruction, a mode of teaching, wherein pupils and teacher, facing a common situation, proceed toward a more or less conscious end. It is a distinct movement in classroom experience, so organized that a definite beginning, progression, and end are clearly distinguishable. Thus we speak of the method of the recitation, the five formal steps of the recitation, or the various types of recitation. Such a usage makes "recitation" synonymous with "lesson." Indeed, when we pass from general pedagogical discussion to a detailed treatment of special methods of teaching, we usually abandon the term "recitation" and use the word "lesson." Although there is always some notion of a time-period in the curriculum in our idea of a lesson, yet the term "lesson" is more intimately connected with the thought of a teaching exercise in which ideas are developed and fixed in memory. It is through the lesson or recitation that pupils and teachers influence one another's thought and action; and when this condition exists, there is always educative activity. These two ways of thinking of the recitation, one primarily administrative and the other primarily educative, need to be somewhat sharply differentiated in our thinking. However closely related they are in actual schoolroom work, however greatly they influence each other in practice, they require a theoretic separation. Only by this method can we avoid some of the error and confusion current in teaching theory and practice. A single instance will suffice to show the value of the distinction. No one of us would deliberately assume that the teaching process required for the instruction of a child would just cover the twenty, thirty, or forty minutes allotted to the class-period, day after day and year after year, regardless of the subject presented or the child taught. Yet this is precisely the sort of assumption that is implied throughout a considerable portion of our current discussion of the teaching process. We talk about a "developmental-lesson" or a "review-recitation" in, say, geography, as though it began and ended with the recitation-period of the day. The daily lesson-plans we demand of apprentice-teachers in training-schools are largely built upon this basis. Of course the fact that one must begin a theme at a given moment and close at a similar arbitrary point affects the teacher's procedure somewhat. He will always have to attack the problem anew at ten o'clock and pull together the loose ends of discussion at ten-thirty, if these happen to be the limits of time assigned him. But who will be bold enough to assert that the psychological movement for the development and solution of the particular problem at hand will always be exactly thirty minutes long? It is possible, and quite probable, that the typical movements in instruction--development, drill, examination, practice, and review--may occur within a single class-period, following fast upon the heels of each other as the situation may demand. It is equally probable that in many cases any one of them may reach across several class-periods. We need a more flexible way of thinking of the recitation and of the teaching activities involved in class-periods and of other administrative factors which condition the effectiveness of teaching. Such a clear, flexible treatment of the recitation is offered in this volume. We feel that it will be particularly welcome to the practical teacher since so many previous treatments of this subject have been formal or obscure. Combining the training of a psychologist with the experience of a class teacher, Professor Betts has given us a lucid, helpful, and common-sense treatment of the recitation without falling into scientific technicality or pedagogical formalism. I THE PURPOSES OF THE RECITATION The teacher has two great functions in the school; one is that of organizing and managing, the other, that of teaching. In the first capacity he forms the school into its proper divisions or classes, arranges the programme of daily recitations and other exercises, provides for calling and dismissing classes, passing into and out of the room, etc., and controls the conduct of the pupils; that is, keeps order. The organization and management of the school is of the highest importance, and fundamental to everything else that goes on in the school. A large proportion of the teachers who are looked upon as unsuccessful fail at this point. Probably at least two out of three who lose their positions are dropped from inability to organize and manage a school. While this is true, however, the organizing and managing of the school is wholly secondary; it exists only that the _teaching_ may go on. Teaching is, after all, the primary thing. Lacking good teaching, no amount of good management or organization can redeem the school. 1. _The teacher and the recitation_ Teaching goes on chiefly in what we call the _recitation_. This is the teacher's point of contact with his pupils; here he meets them face to face and mind to mind; here he succeeds or fails in his function of teaching. Failure in teaching is harder to measure than failure in organization and management. It quickly becomes noised abroad if the children are not well classified, or if the teacher cannot keep order. If the machinery of the school does not run smoothly, its creaking soon attracts public attention, and the skill of the teacher is at once called into question. But the teacher may be doing indifferent work in the recitation, and the class hardly be aware of it and the patrons know nothing about it. There is no definite measure for the amount of inspiration a teacher is giving daily to his pupils, and no foot-rule with which to test the worth of his instruction in the recitation. And it is this very fact that makes it so necessary that the teacher should study the principles of teaching as applied to the recitation. The difficulty of accurately measuring failure in actual teaching tends to make us all careless at this point. Yet this is the very point above all others that is vital to the pupil. Inspiring teaching may compensate in large degree for poor management, but nothing can make up to a pupil for dull and unskillful teaching. If the recitations are for him a failure, nothing else can make the school a success so far as he is concerned. _The ultimate measure of a teacher, therefore, is the measure taken before his class, while he is conducting a recitation._ 2. _The necessity of having a clear aim_ Any discussion of the recitation should begin with its aims or purposes; for upon aim or purpose everything else depends. For example, if you ask me the best method of conducting a recitation, I shall have to inquire before answering, whether your purpose in this recitation is to discover what the pupils have prepared of the work assigned them; or to introduce the class to a new subject, such as percentage in arithmetic; or to drill them, as upon the multiplication table. Each of these purposes would demand a different method in the recitation. Again, if your purpose is to show off a class before visitors, you will need to use a very different method from what you will employ if your aim is to encourage the class in self-expression and independence in thinking. There are three great purposes to be accomplished through the recitation: _testing_, _teaching_, and _drilling_. These three aims may all be accomplished at times in the same recitation, may even alternate with each other in successive questions, but they are nevertheless wholly distinct from each other, and require different methods for their accomplishment. The skillful teacher will have one or the other of these three aims before him either consciously or unconsciously at each moment of the recitation, and will know when he changes from one to the other and for what reason. Let us proceed to consider each of these aims somewhat more in detail. 3. _Testing as an aim in the recitation_ Testing deals with ground already covered, with matter already learned, or with powers already developed. It concerns itself with the old, instead of progressing into the new. It seeks to find out what the child knows or what he can do of that which he has already been over in his work. Of course every new lesson or task attempted is in some measure a test of all that has preceded it, but testing needs to be much more definite and specific than this. The testing discussed here must not be confused with what we sometimes call "tests," but which really are examinations, given at more or less infrequent intervals. Testing may and should be carried on in the regular daily recitations by questions and answers either oral or written, bearing on matter previously assigned; by discussions of topics of the lesson assigned; or by requiring new work involving the knowledge or power gained in the past work which is being tested. The following are some of the principal things which we should test in the recitation:-- _a. The preparation of the lesson assigned._--The preparation of every lesson assigned should be tested in some definite way. This is of the utmost importance, especially in all elementary grades. We are all so constituted mentally that we have a tendency to grow careless in assigned tasks if their performance is not strictly required of us. No matter how careful may be the assignment of the lesson, and no matter how much the teacher may urge upon the class at the time of the assignment that they prepare the lesson well, the pupils must be held responsible for this preparation day by day, without fail, if we are to insure their mastery of it. Nor is it enough to inquire, "How many understand this lesson?" or "How many got all the examples?" It is the teacher's business to test thoroughly for himself the pupil's mastery of the lesson or the knowledge or power required for the examples, in some definite and concrete way. It will not suffice to take the pupil's judgment of his own preparation and mastery, for many will allow a hazy or doubtful point to go by unexplained rather than confess before teacher and class their lack of study or inability to grasp the topic. Further, pupils seldom have the standards of mastery which enable them to judge what constitutes an adequate grasp of the subject. _b. The pupil's knowledge and his methods of study._--Entirely aside from the question of the preparation of the lesson assigned, the teacher must constantly test the pupil's knowledge in order that he may know how and what next to teach him; for no maxim of teaching is better established than that we should proceed from the known to the related unknown. And this is only another way of saying that we should build all new knowledge upon the foundation of knowledge already mastered. To illustrate: Pupils must have a thorough mastery and ready knowledge of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division before we can proceed to teach them measurements or fractions. And without doubt much time is wasted in attempting to teach these subjects without a ready command of the fundamental operations. Further, pupils must know well both common and decimal fractions before they can proceed to percentage. They must know and be able to recognize readily the different "parts of speech" before they can analyze sentences in grammar. But not less important than what the pupil knows is _how_ he knows the thing; that is, what are his methods of study and learning. The pupil in a history class may be able to recite whole pages of the text almost verbatim, but when questioned as to the meaning of the events and facts show very little knowledge about them. A student confessed to her teacher that she had committed all her geometry lessons to memory instead of reasoning them out. She could in this way satisfy a careless teacher who did not take the trouble to inquire how the pupil had prepared her lessons, but she knew little or no geometry. The mind has what may be called three different levels. The first is the _sensory_ level, represented by the phrase "in at one ear and out of the other." Every one has experienced reading a page when the mind would wander and only the eyes follow the lines on down to the bottom of the page, nothing remaining as to the meaning of the text. It is easy to glance a lesson over just before reciting, and have it stick in the memory only long enough to serve the purposes of the recitation. Things learned in this way are not permanently serviceable and really constitute no part of an education. The second level of the mind may be called the _memory_ level. Matter which enters the mind only to this depth may be retained for a considerable time but is little understood and hence of small value. All rules and definitions committed without knowing their meaning or seeing their application, and all lessons learned merely to recite without a reasonable grasp of their meaning, sink only as deep as the memory level. The third and deepest level is that of the _understanding_. Matter which permeates down through the sensory and memory levels, getting thoroughly into the understanding level, is not only remembered but is understood and applied, and therefore becomes of real service in our education. Of course it is clear that the ideal in teaching should be to lead our pupils so to learn that most of what enters their memory shall also be mastered by their understanding. Therefore, in the recitation we should test not alone to see what the pupil knows, but also to see _how he knows it_; not only to find out whether he can recite, but also what are his methods of learning. We should discover not alone whether the facts learned have entered the memory, but whether they have sunk down into the understanding, so that they can be used in the acquisition of further education. _c. The pupil's points of failure and the cause thereof._--Every teacher has been surprised many times to discover weak places in the pupil's work when everything had seemingly been thoroughly learned. With the best teaching these weak places will occasionally occur. It is not less essential to know these points of failure than to know the foundations of knowledge which the pupil has already mastered. For these weak spots must be remedied as we go along if the later work is to be successful. Very frequently classes are unable to proceed satisfactorily because of lack of thoroughness in the foundation work which precedes. To know where a pupil is failing is the first requisite if we are to help him remedy his weakness. But not only must the teacher know where the pupil is failing, but also the cause of his failure. Only when we know this can we intelligently apply the remedy for the failure. A physician friend of mine tells me that almost any quack can prescribe successfully for sickness if he has an expert at hand to diagnose the case and tell him what is the matter. This is the hardest part of a physician's work and requires the most skill. So it is with the teacher's work as well. If we are sure that a certain boy is failing in his recitations because he is lazy, it is not so difficult to devise a remedy to fit the case. If we know that another is failing because the work is too advanced for his preparation, we select a different remedy. But in every case we must first know the cause of failure if we hope to prescribe a remedy certain to produce a cure. Some teachers prescribe for poorly learned lessons much after the patent medicine method. A recent advertisement of one particular nostrum promises the cure of any one of thirty-seven different diseases. Surely with such a remedy as this at hand there will be no need to diagnose a case of sickness to find out what is the trouble. All we need to do is to take the regulation dose. And all patients will be treated just alike whatever their ailment. This is the quack doctor's method as it is the quack teacher's. If the teacher is unskillful or lazy the remedy for poor recitations usually is, "Take the same lesson for to-morrow." There is even no attempt to discover the cause of failure and no thought put on the question of how best to remedy the failure and prevent its recurrence. 4. _Teaching as an aim in the recitation_ While testing deals with the old,--reviewing and fixing more firmly that which we have already learned,--teaching, by using the old, leads on to the new. To _educate_ means to _lead out_--to lead the child out from what he already has attained and mastered to new attainments and new mastery. This is accomplished through teaching. It is not enough, therefore, to employ the recitation as a time for testing the class; the recitation is also the teacher's opportunity to teach. Teaching as distinguished from testing becomes, therefore, one of the great aims of the recitation. Teaching should accomplish the following objects in the recitation:-- _a. Give the child an opportunity for self-expression._--"We learn to do by doing," providing the doing is really ours. If the doing holds our interest and thought nothing will serve to clear up faulty thinking and partly mastered knowledge like attempting to express it. One really never fully knows a thing until he can so express it that others are caused to know it also. Further, every person needs to cultivate the power of expression for its own sake. Expression consists not only of language, but the work of the hand in the various arts and handicrafts, bodily poise and carriage, facial expression, gesture, laughter, and any other means which the mind has of making itself known to others. These various forms of expression are the only way we have of causing others to know what we think or feel. And the world cares very little how much we may know or how deeply we may feel if we have not the power to express our thoughts and emotions. The child should have, therefore, the fullest possible opportunity in the recitation for as many of these different kinds of expression as are suitable to the work of the recitation. Not only must the teacher be careful not to monopolize the time of the class himself, but he must even lead the children out, encouraging them to express in their own words or through their drawings and pictures, or through maps they make or through the things they construct with their hands, or in any other way possible, their own knowledge and thought. The timid child who shrinks from reciting or going to the blackboard to draw or write needs encouragement and teaching especially. The constant danger with all teachers is that of calling upon the unusually quick and bright pupil who is ready to recite, thus giving him more than his share of training in expression and robbing thereby the more timid ones who need the practice. _b. Give help on difficult points._--A complaint frequently heard in some schools, and no doubt in some degree merited in all, is, "Teacher will not help," or, "Teacher does not explain." No matter how excellent the work being done by the class or how skillful the teaching, there will always be hard points in the lessons which need analysis or explanation. This should usually be done when the lesson is assigned. A teacher who knows both the subject-matter and the class thoroughly can estimate almost precisely where the class will have trouble with the lesson, or what important points will need especial emphasis. And in the explanation and elaboration of these points is one of the best opportunities for good teaching. The good teacher will help just enough, but not too much; just enough so that the class will know how to go to work with the least loss of time and the greatest amount of energy; not enough so that the lesson is already mastered for the class before they begin their study. But it is necessary to help the class on the hard points not only in assigning the lesson, but also in the recitation. The alert teacher will in almost every recitation discover some points which the class have failed to understand or master fully. It is the overlooking of such half-mastered points as these that leaves weak places in the pupil's knowledge and brings trouble to him later on. These weak points left unstrengthened in the recitation are the lazy teacher's greatest reproach; the occasion of the unskillful teacher's greatest bungling; and the inexperienced teacher's greatest "danger points." _c. Bring in new points supplementing the text._--While the lesson of the textbook should be followed in the main, and most of the time devoted thereto, yet nearly every lesson gives the wide-awake teacher opportunity to supplement the text with interesting material drawn from other sources. This rightly done lends life and interest to the recitation, broadens the child's knowledge, and increases his respect for the teacher. In this way many lessons in history, geography, literature--in fact, in nearly all the studies,--can have their application shown, and hence be made more real to the pupils. _d. Inspire the pupils to better efforts and higher ideals._--The recitation is the teacher's mental "point of contact" with his pupils. He meets them socially in a friendly way at intermissions and on the playground. His moral character and personality are a model to the children at all times. But it is chiefly in the recitation that the _mental_ stimulus is given. The teacher who is lifeless and uninspiring in the teaching of the recitation cannot but fail to inspire his school to a strong mental growth, whatever else he may accomplish. Most pupils have powers far in excess of those they are using. They only need to be inspired, to be wakened up mentally by a teacher whose mind is alive and growing. They need to be made hungry for education, and this can be accomplished only by a teacher who is himself full of enthusiasm. Inspiration is caught, not taught. _e. Lead pupils into good habits of study._--It is probably not too much to say that one third or one half of the pupil's time is lost in school because of not knowing how to study. Over and over pupils say to the teacher, "I didn't know how to get this." Many times children labor hard over a lesson without mastering it, simply because they do not know how to pick out and classify its principal points. They work on what is to them a mere jumble, because they lack the power of analysis or have never been taught its use. Very early in school life the pupil should be taught to look for and make a list of the principal points in the lesson. If the lesson starts with a Roman numeral I, the child should be taught to look for II and III, and to see how they are related to I. An Arabic 1 usually means that 2, and perhaps 3 and 4 are to follow; the letter _a_ at the head of a paragraph should start the pupil to looking for _b_, _c_, etc. And if the text does not contain such numbering or lettering, the pupil should be led to search for the main divisions and topics of the lesson for himself. Of course these principles will not apply to spelling lessons, mere lists of sentences to be analyzed or problems to be solved, but they do apply to almost every other type of lesson. The best time to teach the child to make the kind of analysis suggested is when we are assigning the lesson. We can then go over the text with the class, helping them to select the chief points of the lesson until they themselves have learned this method of study. 5. _Drill as an aim in the recitation_ There is a great difference between merely knowing a thing and knowing it so well that we can use it easily and with skill. Perhaps all of us know the alphabet backwards; yet if the order of the dictionary were reversed so that it would run from Z to A, we would for a time lack the skill we now have in quickly finding any desired words in the dictionary. Certain fundamentals in our education need to be so well learned that they are practically automatic, and can hence be skillfully performed without thought or attention. We must know our spelling in this way, so that we do not have to stop and think how to spell each word. In the same manner we must know the mechanics of reading, that is, the recognition and pronunciation of words, the meaning of punctuation marks, etc.; and similarly multiplication and the other fundamental operations in arithmetic. Pupils should come to know these things so well that they are as automatic as speech, or as walking, eating, or any other of the many acts which "do themselves." If this degree of skill is not reached, it means halting and inefficient work in all these lines farther on. Many are the children who are crippled in their work in history, geography, and other studies because they cannot read well enough to understand the text. Many are struggling along in the more advanced parts of the arithmetic, unable to master it because they are deficient in the fundamentals, because they lack skill. And many are wasting time trying to analyze sentences when they cannot recognize the different parts of speech. Skill is efficiency in doing. It is always a growth, and never comes to us ready-made. To be sure, some pupils can develop skill much faster than others, but the point is, that _skill has to be developed_. Skill is the result of repetition, or practice, that is, of _drill_. The following principles should guide in the use of drill in the recitation: _a. Drill should be employed wherever a high degree of skill is required._--This applies to what have been called the "tools of knowledge," or those things which are necessary in order to secure all other knowledge. Such are the "three R's," reading, (w)riting, and (a)rithmetic, to which we may add spelling. Without a good foundation in these, all other knowledge will be up-hill work, if not wholly impossible. _b. Drill must be upon correct models, and with alert interest and attention._--Mere repetition is not enough to secure skill. What teacher has not been driven to her wits' ends to prevent the successive lines in the copy book from growing steadily worse as they increase in number from the copy on down the page! Surely drill with such a result would be long in arriving at skill. Such practice is not only wholly wasted, but actually results in establishing false models and careless habits in the pupil's mind. Each line must be written with correct models in mind, and with the effort to make it better than any preceding one, if skill is to be the outcome. Much of the value of drill is often lost through lack of interest and attention. The child lazily sing-songing the multiplication table may learn to say it as he would a verse of poetry, and yet not know the separate combinations when he needs them in problems. What he needs is drill upon the different combinations hit-and-miss, and in simple problems, rapidly and many times over, with sufficient variety and spice, so that his interest and attention are always alert. A certain boy persisted in saying "have went" instead of "have gone." Finally his teacher said, "Johnny, you may stay to-night after school and write 'have gone' on the blackboard one hundred times. Then you will not miss it again." Johnny stayed after school and wrote "have gone" one hundred times as the teacher had directed. When he had completed his task the teacher had gone to another part of the building. Before leaving for home Johnny politely left this note on the teacher's desk: "Dear Teacher: I have went home." Plenty of drill, but it was not accompanied by interest and attention, and hence left no effect. _c. Drill must not stop short of a reasonable degree of efficiency, or skill._--Most teachers would rather _test_ or _teach_ than _drill_. Others do not see the necessity of drill. Hence it happens that a large proportion of our pupils are not given practice or drill enough to arrive at even a fair degree of skill. Set ten pupils of the intermediate grades to adding up four columns of figures averaging a footing of 100 to the column, and you will probably have at least five different answers. And so with many of the fundamentals in other branches as well. _We too often stop practice just short of efficiency, and thereby waste both time and effort._ _d. Drill must be governed by definite aims._--Probably drilling requires more planning and care on the part of the teacher than any other work of the recitation. Drill applied indiscriminately wastes time and kills interest. To study a spelling lesson over fifteen times as some teachers require is folly. Every spelling list will contain some words which the pupil already knows. He should put little or no drill on these, but only on the troublesome ones. In learning and using the principal parts of verbs it is always the few that cause the difficulty. "He _done_ it"; "Has the bell _rang_?" "_Set_ down." These and a few other forms are the ones which give the trouble; they should receive the drill. Likewise in arithmetic, there are certain combinations in the tables, and certain operations in fractions, measurements, etc., which always make trouble. They are the "danger points," and upon these the practice should be put. The teacher must aim, therefore, to select the difficult and the important points and drill upon these until they are mastered, being careful not to stop at the "half-way house," but steadily to go on until skill is obtained. He must be resourceful in methods and devices which will relieve the monotony of repetition; he must be persistent and patient, insisting on the attainment of skill, but realizing that it takes time to develop it; he must possess a good pedagogical conscience which will be satisfied with nothing short of success in his aims. 6. _A desirable balance among the three aims_ The aims to be accomplished through the recitation are, then, _testing_, _teaching_, and _drilling_. These three aims may, as said before, all be carried on in the same recitation, or they may come in different recitations, as the needs of the subject require. Not infrequently they may alternate with each other within a few moments. In every case, however, the teacher should have clearly in mind which one of the three processes he is employing and why. Not that the teacher must always stop to reason the matter out before he employs one or the other, but that he should become so familiar with the nature and use of each that he almost unconsciously passes from one to the other as the need for it arises. Not many teachers are equally skilled in the use of testing, teaching, and drilling. Some have a tendency to put most of the recitation time on testing whether the class have prepared the assignment, and devote but little time to teaching or drilling. Others love to teach, but do not like to test or drill. It is highly desirable that every teacher, young or old in experience, should examine himself on this question and, if he finds himself lacking in any one of the three, carefully set to work to remedy the defect. The ideal for us all to reach is equal skill in each of the three processes of the recitation, testing, teaching, and drilling. II THE METHOD OF THE RECITATION 1. _Method varies with aim_ In the last chapter we discussed the aims or purposes of the recitation. We now come to see how these aims affect the methods we employ. For it is evident at the outset that the method we choose must depend on the aim sought in the recitation. If we seek to-day to make the recitation chiefly a test of how well the lesson has been prepared, or how much of yesterday's work has been retained, we will select a method suited for _testing_. If we aim to introduce the class to the subject of percentage for the first time, the method must be adapted to _teaching_. If we wish to make the recitation a drill in the diacritical markings or the multiplication table, the method must be still a different one. In other words, _the method must be planned to accomplish certain definite ends if the teaching is to be purposeful and effective._ 2. _Fundamental principles of method_ There are certain fundamental principles of method which underlie all teaching, and which, therefore, are to be sought in every recitation, no matter what the special method used may chance to be. The first of these principles may be stated as follows:-- _a. Interest is the first requisite for attention and all mental activity._--A recitation without interest is a dead recitation. Because it possesses no life it cannot lead to growth. Nothing can take the place of interest. Fear may drive to work for a time, but it does not result in development. Only interest can bring all the powers and capacities of the child into play. Hence the teacher's first and greatest problem in the recitation is the problem of interest. To secure interest he must use every resource at his command. This does not mean that he is to bid for the children's interest with sensational methods and cheap devices. This is not the way to secure true interest. It means, rather, that he is to offer to the class subject-matter suited to their age and experience, and presented in a way adapted to their capacity and understanding; that he is to have all conditions surrounding the recitation as favorable as possible; and that he is himself to be constantly a source of interest and enthusiasm. If these conditions are all met the problem of interest will present few difficulties. _b. The natural mode of learning is to proceed from the known to the related unknown._--This is a statement of what is known as the principle of _apperception_ or the learning of the new by connecting it with the old already in the mind. To make use of this principle it is necessary to freshen up what the pupil knows on a topic by asking him questions or otherwise causing him to think anew the facts previously learned that are related to what he is about to learn. For example, when beginning the subject of percentage, the subject of decimals should be reviewed, since percentage is but an application of decimals and can most easily be learned and understood as such. Likewise in beginning the study of the Civil War, the question of slavery and that of the doctrine of states' rights should be reviewed, since these are fundamental to an understanding of the causes of the war. In similar manner we might apply the illustration to every branch of study, Indeed there is hardly a single recitation which should not start with a brief review or a few questions to freshen up in the minds of the pupils the points related to the coming lesson. Not only will this insure that the lessons themselves shall be better understood, but the entire subject will in this way come to possess a unity instead of consisting of a series of more or less disconnected lessons in the mind of the child. 3. _The use of special forms of method_ Having stated these two general principles of method, we will now consider some of the special forms of method to be employed in the recitation. In discussing these methods and comparing them it is not to be forgotten that attention and interest are dependent in large measure on change and variety. The same method used day after day in the recitation palls upon a class and invites listlessness and inattention. A teacher should never employ cheap or sensational devices in a recitation just to have something new, but neither should he work a good method to death by too constant use. 4. _The question-and-answer method_ The question-and-answer method is so familiar to every one that it requires no formal definition. It is employed in all grades from the primary to the university, and it is adapted alike to testing, teaching, and drilling. This method admits of wide modification to suit it to specific uses. The questions asked may require but a short and simple answer, such as can be given by a primary pupil. They may also require a long and complex answer which will test the powers of the most advanced student. The questions may be detailed and searching, covering every point of the lesson, as when we are testing preparation. They may deal only with certain related truths, as when we "develop" a new subject intentionally by questions and answers. Or they may select only the most important points upon which the class needs drill. _a. When and where to employ the question-and-answer method._--The question-and-answer method is particularly adapted to the lower grades, in which the children have not yet developed the ability to recite independently on long topics. This method allows the teacher to encourage and draw out the child by what is really a conversation between the two, the teacher asking simple questions and the child responding to them. In more advanced grades the questions may be so arranged as to require longer and more complex answers, and thus lead up to the topical method of reciting. The question-and-answer method is also suitable to employ at the beginning of a recitation to recall to the minds of the class previous lessons to which the lesson of the day is related. There is hardly one recitation in a hundred that does not require an introduction of this kind. The only true method in teaching is to build the new knowledge on the related old knowledge which is already in the mind. This is what is meant in pedagogy by "proceeding from the known to the related unknown." And the known must always be fresh and immediately present to the mind. Hence the necessity for the introductory review. This method is also serviceable in reviewing former lessons. By the use of well-selected questions a large number of important points already passed over can be brought before the class in a short time. On the whole, it is probable that we do not review frequently enough in our recitation work. We review a subject when we have finished the text upon it, or before examination time, but this is not enough. Careful psychological tests have shown that the mind forgets within the first three days a large proportion of what it will finally fail to retain. Further, there is great economy in catching up a fading fact before it gets wholly away from us. This would suggest the constant use of the question-and-answer method to fix more firmly the important points in ground we have already passed over. One of the most important uses of this method is found in _inductive teaching_. The famous "Socratic method" was simply the question-and-answer method applied by Socrates to teaching new truths. This noted teacher would, by a series of skillful questions calculated to call forth what the pupil already knew, lead him on to new knowledge without actually telling the youth anything himself. And this is the very height of good teaching--the goal toward which we all should strive. It is a safe maxim never to tell a child what one can lead him by questioning to see for himself. To illustrate: Suppose an elementary arithmetic class already know thoroughly how to find the area of a rectangle by multiplying its base by its altitude, and that we are now ready to teach them how to find the area of a triangle. Let us see whether we can lead them to "develop" the rule instead of learning it out of the text; that is, we will proceed inductively. First draw a rectangle 4 by 6 on the board. Q. What do we call this figure? A. A rectangle. Q. How shall we find its area? A. Multiply its base 4 by its altitude 6; the area is 24. Q. Now I draw a line diagonally across the rectangle; how many figures are there? A. Two. (Teacher here gives new word "triangle" and explains it.) Q. How do the base and altitude of the triangles compare with the base and altitude of the rectangle? A. They are the same. Q. How do the two triangles compare in area? A. They are equal; each is half of the rectangle. Q. Then, if each is half of the rectangle, what must be the area of one of the triangles? A. The area of each triangle is 12, for the area of the rectangle is 24, and the area of each triangle is half that of the rectangle. Q. Then, how may we find the area of a triangle? A. Multiply the base by the altitude and take one half the product. Of course the teacher may have to supplement questions like the above by others to assist the child in arriving at the desired answer, but the method is the same in any case. The inductive method is the child's natural way of learning, and should be applied to nearly all school branches. Too many teachers have children learn rules and definitions which mean little or nothing to them. This is not only discouraging to the child and a serious waste of time, but it develops bad habits of study by making the pupil think he is learning something when he is not. Only when the fact or process learned is _understood_ is it true knowledge. The inductive method begins with what the child already knows and, step by step, leads him to understand the new truths. It comes last to the rule or definition after the meaning is clearly seen. _b. Dangers of the question-and-answer method._--No matter how good a method may be, there are always some dangers connected with its use, some points at which a teacher needs to be on guard to see that the method is not misused or over-used. The question-and-answer method is no exception to this rule. One of the greatest dangers in the use of this method is that pupils will come to depend on the questions as a crutch to help them along mentally when they should be able to proceed by themselves. Not infrequently do pupils say to the teacher when called upon for a topical discussion, "If you will ask me questions upon the topic I can answer them, but I cannot recite upon the topic." It is very much easier to answer a series of questions upon a subject than to discuss it independently. This method is well adapted to younger children; and this very reason makes it a danger when over-used with more advanced pupils. We need to learn to think a subject through and talk about topics without the help of a teacher to stand by and ask questions; we need to become independent in our thinking; we need practice in organizing and expressing our thoughts for ourselves. The second danger we note in the question-and-answer method is that it does not give as much opportunity for training in self-expression as the topical method. In teaching by the question-and-answer method, the teacher occupies nearly or quite as much time with the questions as the class do with the answers. This does not give opportunity for practice enough in reciting on the part of the pupil, if the question-and-answer method is employed exclusively. The only way for a child to learn to recite well is by reciting; the only way to learn to express one's self is by having opportunity for expression. 5. _The topical method_ The topical method is too familiar to require definition. In this method the teacher suggests a topic of the lesson or asks a question which requires the pupil to go on in his own way and tell what he can about the point under discussion. There is really no hard and fast line between the topical method and the question-and-answer method. The fundamental difference between the two is this: In the question-and-answer method, the question is definitely upon some fact or point, and requires a specific answer bearing on the fact or point of the question; in the topical method, the question or topic suggested requires the pupil to decide upon what facts or points need discussion, and then to plan his own discussion. _a. Where the topical method is most serviceable._--As has already been explained, the topical method requires more independence of thought than the question-and-answer method, and will therefore find its greatest use in the higher grades. We are not to think, however, that the topical method is not to be used until some certain grade has been reached, and that then the child will suddenly find himself able to use it. The ability to think independently and speak one's thoughts freely is a growth, and is not attained suddenly at a given age. Even little children, telling their language stories, are using the topical method, and should be encouraged in its use. As the grades advance, however, the use of this method should increase, and the length and difficulty of the topics should grow, so that recitation by topics can be efficiently carried on in the higher intermediate and grammar grades. Probably the easiest forms of the topical recitation are found in history or reading lessons, where _narration_ abounds. Narration deals with a succession of events, and is always found one of the easiest forms of discourse. In proof of this, one has but to note the fluency and ease with which a child will narrate the events of a game, a trip, or an accident, whereas if you call upon him for logical explanations or even for description, as for example, "Just what kind of looking team was it that ran away?" much more difficulty will be experienced in telling about it. Another great field for topical recitations is found in all lines where _description_ is required. This applies to all nature study and science, to geography, to certain phases of literature and history. To describe even a commonplace object accurately and well is an art more rare than most of us would think. Suppose you ask the first person you meet to describe fully the house in which he lives or the sunset which he has just seen. If he seriously tries to comply with your request, you will probably be surprised both by the difficulty he has in his attempt, and the little that he really can say upon these familiar subjects. The interesting story teller is a rarity, which is only another way of saying that the ability to narrate and describe needs cultivation. There is no better opportunity possible than that of the topical recitation. The topical method can manifestly be used to supplement the question-and-answer method in testing the pupils on the preparation of the lesson, or in reviewing former lessons. It can also be well used in teaching new subject-matter which does not particularly require the developmental, or "Socratic," method. Illustrations of such material are to be found in much of the work in history and in literature; also in the descriptive parts of geography, nature study, and science. When the topical method is being employed it will nearly always need to be supplemented by questions and answers. Very rarely will a pupil recite upon any important topic with such accuracy and completeness that nothing more needs to be said concerning it. Hence, after the pupil has completed his topical discussion, the teacher can round out the subject, impress the more important points, or correct wrong impressions, by a few questions to be answered either by the pupil who has had the discussion or by the remainder of the class. The topical method gives the teacher the best opportunity to teach the pupils how to study. It is safe to say that most pupils consider that they "have their lesson" when they understand it, or think they can remember it. But if the child is to be taught expression, as well as given knowledge, it is evident that this is not enough. Not only should a pupil be sure that he understands his lesson and can remember it, but also he should think how best to express it in the recitation. The teacher can help the class in this when assigning the topics by showing the pupils how to pick out the main points of the topics, and arrange them in order for discussion. This is, of course, really training in analysis--a power that all pupils need to cultivate. _b. The question of standards in topical recitations._--The success of the topical method will depend much on the teacher's standards of thoroughness applied to its use. Children, particularly of the lower grades, have not yet developed much grasp of mind, and consequently are not able to judge when they have sufficiently covered a topic given them for recitation. They are likely to think that if they stand up and say _something_ about the topic, this is sufficient. It is at this point that the teacher needs to exercise great care. The child must not be discouraged by harsh criticism, but neither must an incomplete recitation be accepted as a complete one. The teacher must judge carefully how full a discussion should be expected from a child of the given age, taking into account the treatment of the topic in the pupil's textbook. Then by questions, further discussion by other pupils, kindly criticisms, and helpful suggestions, the standard should be placed as high as the class can attain. Nor is it to be forgotten that the standard is to be a constantly advancing one. 6. _The lecture, or supplemental method_ The lecture method is rather too formal a name for the method in which the teacher talks to the class instead of asking them to recite. He may either take the entire period in a lecture, or talk, or he may only supplement now and then the answers or topical recitations of the pupils. This method is almost exclusively used in many universities and colleges, but is not suited for extensive use in more elementary schools. _a. How the lecture method is to be used._--While the lecture method should be employed sparingly in the elementary school, yet it is most valuable to supplement other methods. First, in introducing a class to a new subject or section of work, it is frequently desirable that the teacher should take a part or the whole of a recitation period to explain the nature of the work or to interest the pupils in it. For example: In taking up the discovery of America, the teacher can create interest by telling the class of the wonderful events going on in Europe during the fifteenth century, of the life of Columbus as a boy, of the ships then in use, comparing them with our present steamships, etc. Similarly for almost every new section taken up in any study. The lecture method is also useful in supplementing the recitations of the pupils. The teacher's knowledge must be much broader than the textbook; and a little explanation added, an incident told, or an application of the lesson made will often do much to broaden the pupil's knowledge of the subject, and will at the same time lend interest to the recitation, besides increasing respect for the teacher's education. There is nothing more deadening to the recitation than a mechanical plodding through the questions and answers of a textbook without any explanation or amplification, and often without much comprehension on the part of the class. The teacher who has nothing of his own to add is incapable of _teaching_ in the true sense of the word. At best he can only _test_ as to the preparation from the textbook. _b. Dangers from the lecture method._--While we justly condemn the teacher who has nothing of his own to add to the recitation, we must not forget that there is a danger on the other side. Ask any assemblage of teachers how many think that, in general, their own teachers used to talk too much in the recitation, thereby monopolizing the time, and two thirds will blame their former teachers for over-using the lecture method. Most people, when they are sure of an audience, like to talk, and probably teachers are no exception to the rule. The teacher who is full of information and enthusiasm for the recitation is led by this very fact into temptation. Some point in the lesson suggests an interesting story or illustration, or some additional bit of information, and the teacher starts to tell it to the class. He becomes himself so interested in it that the lesson is forgotten and the class period ended long before the story is completed. This may do occasionally; but, once it becomes a habit, it is fatal to good teaching. The recitation as prepared by the class should be the chief interest of the class period. The teacher must learn to supplement without monopolizing. 7. _The written recitation_ The written recitation can hardly be called a method, since it can be itself applied to any or all of the methods of reciting. Like all other methods, the written recitation has its strong points of excellence and also its dangers. _a. The use of the written recitation._--The written recitation is especially useful in cases where all of the class should recite upon all of the lesson. It is easy to see that by having each of a class of ten answer ten questions, a far larger amount of answering is done in the aggregate than if only one could answer at a time, as in oral recitation. There are certain kinds of knowledge that are seldom used except in writing. For example, we are never called upon to spell or to use letter forms, business forms, punctuation marks, etc., except in writing. It is safe to say that matter of such kinds should usually be taught by having it written. The written recitation also leads to accuracy and precision of thought and expression. We all formulate more carefully what we write than what we speak. The written recitation also gives an opportunity for training in verbal expression. Every person needs to be able to express himself easily and forcibly in writing. But this requires much practice, and there is no better practice than in formulating in writing the thoughts of the daily lessons. _b. Dangers in the use of the written method._--Valuable as the written method is, there are certain cautions to be observed in its use. This method does not ordinarily possess the interest and spontaneity of the oral recitation. There is no opportunity for the teacher to supplement with points brought in. Misconceptions are not cleared up in the minds of the pupils, at least during that recitation period, unless the written papers are read at once. Usually time does not permit this. Many children do not like to write, and hence find the lesson tiresome, especially if continued for a whole class period. The amount of writing required of children may be too great. Few pupils can write long at a time without eye-strain, muscle cramp, and bad bodily positions. Where this is the case, over-fatigue results if the amount of written work required is large. It is not unusual to find schools in which children are required to spend almost half of their school hours in some form of written work. This is a serious mistake both educationally and from the standpoint of health. There is also still another side of the matter to consider. One of the great advantages of written work is that the pupil may have his errors shown him, so that he may reflect upon them and correct them. But not infrequently, where the amount of written work is too large, the errors are not carefully corrected by the teacher, and not corrected at all by the pupil. This is why many pupils will keep on making the same error time after time on their papers. The correction has not sufficiently impressed them. All written work, with perhaps rare exceptions, should be carefully gone over by the teacher, and all serious or oft-repeated errors corrected by the pupils who make them. Not infrequently may children be seen to glance over a paper upon which the teacher has put precious time and some red ink in making corrections, and then crumple the paper and throw it into the waste basket. Sometimes this is done in sheer carelessness, and sometimes in petulance because of the many corrections. This is all a loss of time and opportunity. The teacher should have tact enough to show the pupils that corrections are made on their papers for their benefit, and not as a punishment. And then the pupils should take the trouble to correct the errors, that they may not occur again. Better a thousand times correct carefully an old paper than write a new one containing the same errors. III THE ART OF QUESTIONING 1. _The importance of good questioning_ Skill in the art of questioning lies at the basis of all good teaching. When we were children it looked so easy for the teacher to sit and ask the questions which we were expected to answer. When we become teachers we find that it is much harder to ask the questions than to answer them. For to question well, one must not only know the subject thoroughly, but must also constantly interpret the mind of the pupil to discover what question next to ask, and whether he is mastering what we are teaching him. Good questioning stimulates thought, leads to inquiry, and results in understanding and mastery. Poor questioning leaves the mental powers unawakened, cripples thought, and results in inefficiency and lack of mastery. 2. _Need of fundamental principles_ Good questioning is dependent upon the teacher's having a firm command of a few essential principles which apply to all questioning used in teaching. The teacher's constant self-criticism in the light of these will greatly improve his control of discussion in the class room. 3. _The principle of freedom from textbooks_ The questions of the recitation must of course deal with the matter of the textbook and be directly suggested by it. Yet there are two dangers to be avoided in this connection: (1) Questions should not follow the language of the text, and (2) the teacher should not be dependent on the textbook to suggest the question itself or to determine the correctness of the answer. The teacher who has not the lesson well prepared, or who is mentally lazy, has a constant temptation to ask questions in the words of the book. This is much easier than to know the subject and the textbook both well enough to formulate original, appropriate questions. An illustration of what is meant is found in the following account of a recitation conducted from "Montgomery's American History," the lesson being on the landing of the Pilgrims (pp. 77, 78):-- Q. On a morning late in November, what did the Pilgrims do? A. They sighted Cape Cod. Q. Two days later, where did the Mayflower come to anchor? A. In Provincetown Harbor. Q. While the Mayflower remained at anchor, what did Captain Standish and a boatload of men do? A. They went out to explore. Q. On the shore of Plymouth harbor what is there lying? A. A granite bowlder. It is seen that each of these questions follows the words of the text, and that the answer but completes the sentence of which the question is a part. Questions of this kind only suggest to the memory the statement of the text, and do not cause the pupil to use his own thought in realizing the actual event. Hence they arouse little interest and leave little impression. They train the verbal memory, but leave imagination, thought, and understanding untouched. How much better such questions as these:-- When did the Pilgrims first sight land? What land did they see? What was its appearance? Have you ever seen a stretch of shore like this one? Why did not the Pilgrims land at this point? Where did they finally anchor? What measures did they take to see whether this was a suitable place to land? Why is the name "Plymouth Rock" so famous in American history? These questions cover just the same ground as the ones above, but they suggest living pictures and actual events rather than the language of the textbook. The unprepared or lazy teacher is also in danger of relying on the textbook for his questions even when he does not formulate them in the language of the printed page. Not infrequently teachers conduct the whole of a recitation with the text open before them, hardly taking their eyes from the book, and seeming to have no inspiration or questions not immediately gleaned from the page before them. In extreme cases of unpreparedness they may even have to test the correctness of the answers given by the class by reference to the text. Of course this is all the highest degree of inefficiency. It should not be called teaching at all, for no one can teach another that which he does not himself possess as a part of his own mental equipment. Nothing can be more deadening to a class than to see a teacher, whom they look upon as their intellectual leader, floundering in such a vain attempt to teach something that he does not himself know. The eyes and the mind of the teacher must both be free in the recitation--the eyes to look interest and encouragement into the eyes of the class, the mind to marshal the points of the lesson and watch the effects of their presentation on the minds of the pupils. A recitation at its best consists of an animated and interesting conversation between teacher and class. And no conversation can be live and interesting when one of its participants has mind and eyes riveted to a book; for conversation involves an interchange of expression, of spirit, and of personality as well as of words. It is not meant that a teacher must never have a textbook open before him during a recitation. Often it is not only desirable, but necessary that he should do so; but only for suggestion and reference, and never to supply questions and test answers. It is certainly much better to have the textbook before one than to teach the lesson after a disconnected and haphazard fashion from lack of familiarity with its points. An excellent substitute for the text, however, is an outline, or plan of the lesson embodying the main points, illustrations, and applications to be made. Such an outline will save the teacher from wandering too far afield in the discussions, will insure unity in the lesson, and make certain that important points shall not be overlooked. A desirable rule for the teacher to set for himself would be so to prepare for the recitation by mastery of the subject, and by lesson plan or outline, _that he does not need to have the textbook open before him when the pupils do not also have their books open_. The teacher who will heroically meet this standard will soon find growing in himself a feeling of mastery of his subjects and of joy in his teaching. 4. _The principle of unity or continuity in questions_ Questions should be so planned that they develop or bring out the unity of the lesson. It is possible for questions to be so haphazard and disconnected that the pupil receives the impression of a series of unrelated facts, rather than a unified and related subject. In good questioning, one question naturally grows out of another, so that the series develops step by step the truth contained in the lesson, and brings it to the mind of the child as a complete whole. This means that the teacher must know the whole subject so thoroughly that the right questions come to him easily and naturally, and in the right order to bring out the successive steps of the lesson in their logical relations. The difference between a related series of questions and an unrelated is shown in two lists which follow. Both deal with the same subject-matter, a physiology lesson on respiration. The questions of the first list are not themselves faulty, but there is no continuity among them; one does not grow out of another so as to "develop" the subject in the minds of the class. What change takes place in the air while in the lungs? What change takes place in the blood while in the lungs? How many cubic inches of air will the lungs contain? How much of this cannot be expelled by breathing out? How many times do we naturally breathe in a minute? What are some of the effects of breathing impure air? How is the oxygen carried by the blood? What is animal heat? What is the temperature of the body? These questions were all answered fairly well by the class, but the answers contained only so many bits of isolated information, and the pupils did not understand the subject after they had recited upon it. Another teacher asked the following questions: Why must the body have air to breathe? Of what use is oxygen in the body? Where does this oxidization, or burning up of worn-out cells, take place? But how is the oxygen carried to every part of the body and brought into contact with the tissues? Where do the corpuscles of the blood get their loads of oxygen? What gas do they give up in exchange for the oxygen? Where do they get the carbon dioxide? How does air entering the lungs differ from air leaving them? What corresponding change takes place in the blood while it is in the lungs? Explain how the change is effected in each case. Suppose we breathe air that contains too little oxygen, what will be the effect on the corpuscles? What will be the effect on oxidization in the tissues? And what is the effect of poor oxidization on physical vitality? On mental vitality? The class that answered these questions not only had the information belonging to each separate question, but also understood the lesson as a whole, because each question grew out of the ones that preceded it, thus making the recitation a unified whole. 5. _The principle of clearness_ Questions must be made clear, so that their meaning may be understood. This is not always an easy task, and the teacher frequently misses being wholly clear. This is evidenced by the fact that often when a pupil fails to answer a question asked in one way, he can answer it easily when the wording is changed. This means that the difficulty for the pupil existed in the question, and not in the answer. Clearness in questioning involves three factors: (1) Freedom from ambiguity or obscurity of wording; (2) adaptation to the age and understanding of the pupil; (3) reasonable brevity. _a. Freedom from ambiguity or obscurity of wording._--This is fundamentally a matter of the use of good English. It requires such a choice and arrangement of words and clauses that there can be no doubt as to the meaning to be conveyed. Assuming a fair command of the language and care in its use, the basis of clearness at this point is thorough mastery of the subject-matter of the questions, so that the teacher himself understands clearly just what he means to ask. The following illustrations show some questions that are faulty from the standpoint of obscurity of meaning:-- What caused Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863? (Not clear whether question means why did he issue the Emancipation Proclamation at all, or why did he issue it in 1863 instead of at some other time.) What are the effects of attention to a moving object? (Not clear whether question means effects on the person attending or the effect which the moving of an object has in making itself seen.) Who chased whom down what valley? Why has a cat fur and a duck feathers? _b. Adaptation to the age and understanding of the child._--Questions that are perfectly clear to an adult may be hazy or incomprehensible to a child because he does not understand the terms used in the question, or because it deals with matters beyond his grasp. The teacher must keep within the vocabulary of the child in formulating his questions. Where it is necessary or desirable to introduce new words into questions, care must be taken that the child knows fully the meaning of the new terms. A teacher asked a class in elementary physiology, "What measures would you take to resuscitate a person asphyxiated with carbon dioxide?" The class all looked blank. No one seemed to know what to do. It chanced that the superintendent was visiting the school, and he said to the teacher, "Let me try." Then he asked the class, "What would you do for a person who had been smothered by breathing coal gas?" The class brightened up, and every hand was raised indicating readiness to answer the question. Another teacher bewildered his class by asking, "Which phenomena of the fratricidal strife in the American Republic were most determinative of the ultimate fate of the nation?" No one knew. Had he asked his question in plain terms, no doubt the class could have answered it. In an elementary history class, a teacher propounded this question: "What American institutions have been founded on the principle of social democracy?" Not only the terms of the question, but the thought also is beyond the comprehension of children. Such questions are not only useless as a means of testing, teaching, or drilling, but serve to confuse and discourage the child, and cause him to lose interest in school. _c. Brevity._--No matter how well a question is worded, or how well it is adapted to the age and capacity of the pupil, it may fail in clearness because it is too long and disjointed, or because it deals with too many points. Far better break a complicated question up into several simple ones, concerning whose meaning there can be no doubt. A teacher who had not yet mastered the art of questioning asked his physiology class a question somewhat like this: "Do you consider it advisable, taking into account the fact that none of the vital processes go on as vigorously during sleep as during the waking hours (you remember that the breathing and the pulse are less rapid and the temperature of the body also lower), to eat just before retiring at night, especially if one is very tired and exhausted--a condition which still further lowers the vitality and hence decreases the powers of digestion and assimilation, and would your answer be different if it is understood that the food taken is to be light and easily digested?" It is needless to say that the class found themselves lost in the maze of conditions and parenthetical expressions and did not attempt an answer. The question contains material for a dozen different questions, and probably the class could have answered them all had they been properly asked. 6. _The principle of definiteness_ Questions should be definite, so that they can have but one meaning. It is possible to ask a question so that its general meaning is clear enough, but so that its _precise_ meaning is in doubt. Such questions leave the pupil puzzled, and usually lead to indirectness or guessing in the answer. Failure to make questions definite, so that they can have but one meaning is responsible for much of the difference of opinion on disputed questions. Many a stock question upon which amateur debating societies have exercised their talents would admit of no debate at all, if once the question were made definite. For the ground for debate lies in the difference in interpretation of the question and not in the facts themselves. For example: If a cannon ball were to be fired off by some mechanical device a million miles from where there was any ear to hear, would there be any sound? The lack of definiteness here which permits difference of opinion lies in the word "sound." If we add after the word "sound" the phrase, "in the sense of a conscious auditory sensation," the answer would obviously be, No, since there can be no auditory sensation without an ear to hear it. If, on the other hand, instead of the above phrase we add, "in the sense of wave-vibrations in the air," the answer will obviously be, Yes, since the wave-vibrations in the air do not depend on the presence of an ear to be affected by them. Likewise, in the question, If a man starts to walk around a squirrel which is clinging to the limb of a tree, and if, as the man circles the tree, the squirrel also circles the tree so that he constantly faces the man, when the man has gone completely around the tree, has he gone around the squirrel? Here the indefiniteness lies in the meaning of to "go around." With this indefiniteness remedied, there is no longer any possibility of difference of opinion. Indefiniteness may come from the use of certain words that from their very nature are indefinite in meaning. Such are the verbs _be_, _do_, _have_, _become_, _happen_, and the prepositions _of_ and _about_. Examples of indefiniteness growing out of such colorless words are found in the following questions, which are types of many asked in our schools daily:-- What does water _do_ when heated? (Expands, evaporates, boils.) What _happens_ when it lightnings? (Thunder, discharge of electricity, flash.) What must immigrants coming into this country _have_? (Money, freedom from disease, character.) What did Arnold _become_? (A traitor, a British general, an outcast, a repentant man.) What _is_ the cow? (A mammal, a quadruped, a producer of milk, butter, and beef; an herbivorous animal.) What _about_ the Monroe Doctrine? (A dozen different things.) What _of_ the animals in the temperate zone? Questions may be so general as to be indefinite. The teacher asks, "Where is Chicago?" The class may answer, "In Illinois on Lake Michigan; in North America; in Cook County." The teacher should know just what answer he desires, and then ask, "In what State; on what continent; on what lake; or in what county?" Other illustrations of vagueness coming from the use of words of too general a meaning are found in such questions as, What _kind_ of man was George Washington? _When_ does a person need food? _How_ does tobacco grow? _What_ do birds like? All indefinite questions deserve and usually receive an indefinite answer, and hence lead to and encourage guessing. If the answers to such questions as the above are not indefinite, they must be purely memoriter, merely reproducing the words of the text without comprehension of any real meaning. Indefinite questioning usually comes from a lack of clear thinking on the part of the questioner. The teacher himself does not know precisely what he means to ask, and hence cannot be definite. It is safe to say that the teacher's questions covering a subject will never be any more clear or definite than the subject itself is in his mind. Indeed it is hard for one to be wholly definite in questioning even when he is a perfect master of his subject. Certainly, then, eternal vigilance will be the price of clearness and definiteness on the part of the young teacher who is as yet striving for mastery of what he is teaching. 7. _Secondary principles of good questioning_ Besides the foregoing fundamental principles underlying the art of questioning, there are a few secondary principles, some of which are of hardly less importance:-- 1. Questions should be asked naturally, and in a conversational tone, and not explosively _demanded_ of pupils. 2. Usually the question should be addressed to the entire class and, after all have had a moment to think, some one then designated to answer. The reason for this is obvious. If the one who is to answer is designated before the question is asked, the incentive to the rest of the class to think the answer is greatly lessened. 3. No regular order should be followed in calling on pupils. If such an order is established, the lazy and uninterested ones have a tendency to remain inactive until called upon. By the hit-and-miss method of calling no one knows at what moment he may be the next one, hence there is a strong incentive to attend to the lesson. It is also desirable to call on a pupil occasionally the second time very soon after he has previously been called upon. This prevents him from thinking that as soon as he has recited once he can then safely relax his attention. 4. Inattentive or mischievous pupils should be the mark for frequent questions. If it comes to be known that any inattention is sure to bring questions to the pupil at fault, the battle for attention is half won. There is a strong tendency on the part of the teacher to ask for the answer to a question from those whose eyes show that they are attentive and ready with an answer. While this readiness and attention should be rewarded by giving an opportunity to answer, it must not lead the teacher to neglect those who may need the question more than the more ready ones. The questions should be impartially distributed among the bright and the dull pupils. 5. It is highly important that questions shall be asked so that they demand thought in answering, and usually so that the answer must be given in a full statement. Seldom should a question be asked in such form that a simple Yes or No will answer it. This does not require sufficient thought on the part of the pupil, it permits guess-work, and fails to cultivate ability in expression. Answers that may be given in a word or two, or by Yes or No, may be accepted in rapid drill or review work, and also in the inductive questioning used in developing a new subject, but should be used very sparingly in other places in the recitation. 6. The "pumping" question should not be used. In this type of question, the teacher formulates the answer and leaves only the key word for the pupil to supply. The teacher sometimes goes so far as to suggest the necessary word by pronouncing the first syllable or two of it. A dialogue like the following was heard in one school:-- Q. "Columbus was an ----?" A. "Explorer." Q. "No, he was an It----?" A. "Oh, an Italian." Such an attempt at teaching would be amusing, were it not so serious for the child. 8. _The treatment of answers_ The teacher's treatment of the answers given is of hardly less importance than the formulation of the questions themselves. It is to be remembered that the recitation is an interchange of thought and expression between teacher and class. To this end, the response must be mutual. Not alone when the question is being asked is the teacher to be animated and interested, but likewise while the answer is being given. It is neither good pedagogy nor good manners for a teacher to sit unresponsive and inattentive when a pupil is reciting. Not that the teacher needs always to comment on an answer, or say that it is correct; it is rather a matter of manner, of attention and interest to the answer. We find it embarrassing either in a recitation or out of it to talk to a person who seems not to be listening. Right at this point, however, there lurks an insidious danger. It comes easily and naturally to one to give some sign of assent or disapproval as to the correctness of the answer while it is being spoken. The slightest inclination of the head, the dropping of the eyelids, or a certain expression of the face, comes to be read by the pupil as a signboard to guide him in his statements. This is, of course, all wrong. The teacher should give absolutely no sign while the answer is going on. Thus to help the child leads him to depend on the teacher instead of relying on his own knowledge. It leads to guessing, and so skillful does this sometimes become that a bright but unprepared pupil is able to steer through a recitation guided by the unsuspecting teacher. Answers should not be repeated by the teacher. This is a very common fault, and a habit that is usually acquired before the teacher is aware of it. The tendency to repeat answers probably arises at first from a mental unreadiness on the part of the teacher. He has not his next question quite ready, and so bridges over the interval by saying over the answer just given by the pupil. It is a method of gaining time, but really finally results in great loss of time in the recitation. By actual count, many teachers have been found to repeat as many as 75% of the answers given in the recitation. Besides the great waste of time, the repetition of answers is a source of distraction and annoyance to pupils. No one enjoys having his words said over after him constantly. Of course answers may sometimes need to be repeated to emphasize some important point. But when repetition has become a habit, no emphasis is gained by the repetition. Finally, answers should be required in good English, clear and definite, like the questions. Pupils who say, "An improper fraction is 'where' the numerator is greater than the denominator"; "A compound sentence is 'when' it has two or more independent clauses," should be led to restate their answers in clear and correct language. IV CONDITIONS NECESSARY TO A GOOD RECITATION We have now discussed the aim of the recitation, its methods, and the principles governing the art of questioning. But no matter how well defined the aim for the recitation, no matter how excellent its method, no matter how skilled the teacher may be in the art of questioning, these things alone cannot make a good recitation. Certain other fundamental conditions must obtain if the recitation is to be a success. Let us now discuss the more important of these conditions. 1. _Freedom from distractions_ Distractions of any nature result in a double waste. First, a waste of power through preventing concentration and continuity of thought. Try as hard as one may, he cannot secure the best results from his mental effort, if his stream of thought is being broken in upon. The loss by this process is comparable to that involved in running a train of cars, stopping it every ten rods instead of every ten or every one hundred miles. But this form of waste is not all. There is also a serious waste of interest and enthusiasm resulting from interrupted recitations. Every teacher has at times felt the sudden drop in attention and interest on the part of the class after some interruption which took the minds of the class off the subject. Try as hard as the teacher may, it is impossible to go back to the same level of efficiency after such a break. The following show some of the chief sources of distractions:-- _a. Distractions by the teacher._--Strange as it may seem, many teachers are to be criticised on this point. Any striking feature or peculiarity of manner, dress, or carriage which attracts the attention of the class is a distraction. A loud or ill-modulated voice, tones too low or indistinct to be heard well, the habit of walking up and down the aisles or back and forth before the class, assuming awkward positions standing or sitting before the class--these are all personal factors which the teacher needs to keep constantly under surveillance. The teacher may also distract the class by answering questions asked by the pupils at their seats, or by rebuking misdemeanors seen among those not in the recitation. Most of such interruptions are wholly unnecessary, and could be avoided by a little foresight and management. The lesson should be so clearly assigned that the pupils can have no excuse to ask later about the assignment, and then there should be a penalty for forgetting it. The drinks of water should be had and the errands attended to between classes. The pencils should be supplied and sharpened before the session begins. The mischievous culprits should be taught that it is a serious offense to interrupt a recitation. The teacher who permits these distractions by the school has not yet learned the secret of good management, and could hardly advertise his inefficiency in this regard any more effectively than by permitting such interruptions to continue. It is also possible for the teacher to distract the person reciting by interrupting when there is a slight pause to think of the next point, or a hesitation before pronouncing a word. Teachers sometimes even interrupt a pupil who is reciting and themselves offer explanations, make remarks, or continue the discussion, leaving the child standing and not knowing whether he is excused or not. Of course this is bad manners on the part of the teacher, and it is even worse pedagogy. It is not encouraging to the pupil to feel that he may be interrupted at any moment, and few can think clearly or recite well when expecting such interruptions. The pupil should not expect to be allowed to think out a lesson or a point when he is reciting, which he should have thought out before coming to class. On the other hand, the teacher must remember that the child's mind is working on what to him is new and difficult matter, and hence cannot move as rapidly as the teacher's. _b. Distractions by the class._--Inattention, restlessness, and mischief are great sources of distraction from the class themselves. All these things have a tendency to be contagious, and in any case always break in upon the train of thought of the recitation. Because of this the teacher _must_ win the inattentive and restless, and _must_ check the restless, if he would save his recitation. Not infrequently, in the more elementary classes, a certain kind of distraction is fostered and encouraged by the teacher with the aim of securing the attention of the whole class to the one who is reciting. This form of distraction consists in having the whole class watch the one who is reciting, and, if they observe an error in the recitation, at once raise their hands, when the one reciting must stop. This is a mistake from almost every standpoint, and has very little to redeem it. It may result in closer attention on the part of the class; but the motive which prompts the attention is bad. It leads to elation and rejoicing over the mistakes and failures of another, and it centres attention on the mistakes rather than on the facts to be brought out. Attention should be trained so that it will not have to depend on this kind of motive, and the memory should be trained to note and hold a correction until the one reciting has finished. Further, it is a most serious distraction to the one who is reciting to be expecting that a forest of hands may at any moment be wildly waving about his ears, gleefully announcing that he has made an error. Condemnation of this method of securing attention can hardly be too severe. _c. Distractions by the school._--In any busy school there is bound to be more or less of hum and confusion. In many schools, however, there is much more than is warranted. It is true that children get tired of sitting still for an entire session, and that they find relief in going for a drink, or going to the dictionary, or on some other errand about the room. In some schools, one or more pupils may be found walking about the room at almost any time of the day, and not infrequently several are on errands at the same time. This, as previously noted, is usually a fault in management on the part of the teacher. The larger part of these interruptions can just as well be saved by a little foresight and firmness. Some teachers even leave the class which they are hearing to answer questions or give help to pupils in the school who have not been trained to wait for their requests until the class is dismissed. Usually, only a very small percentage of these questions should have been asked at all, or would have been with the proper management of the school. And all the necessary questions and requests should almost without exception be held for the interval between recitations. The school should be taught that nothing short of the direst necessity will warrant asking a question or making a request during a recitation. Likewise in the case of misdemeanors. The class which is reciting should not be interrupted for minor misdemeanors which occur during the recitation. This does not mean that the misdemeanor is to go by unnoticed. On the contrary, the settlement for it may be all the more severe for having to wait until the class is dismissed. _d. Physical distractions._--Distractions from the physical environment may be of several kinds. Not infrequently, especially in the older schoolhouses, the seats are so placed with reference to windows that the light strikes the eyes of the pupils, instead of the pages of the books; or it may be that a stray sunbeam strikes athwart the class and dazzles the eyes. It need hardly be suggested that no such distraction as this should go unremedied. In the rural schools the recitation seats are often near the stove, where the temperature becomes unbearably hot when the stove must be generously fired to heat the remainder of the room. Not infrequently the ventilation is bad, and the room is filled with foul air, from which the major part of the oxygen has been exhausted. No matter how good the intentions of the class or how zealous the teacher, such conditions will kill the recitation. Whatever may be the cause of physical discomfort or unrest should be remedied. One's body should be so comfortable and healthy that it does not attract attention to itself, except when needing food or other care, and it is the duty of the school to do all possible to bring this condition about. 2. _Interest and enthusiasm_ Interest is the foundation of all mental activity. Its very nature is to lead to thought and action. Grown ardent, interest becomes enthusiasm, "without which," says Emerson, "nothing great was ever accomplished." On the other hand, the absence of interest leaves the pupil lifeless and inert mentally, his work a bore and achievement impossible. Interest is, therefore, a first consideration in the recitation. Interest is contagious. No one ever saw an interested and enthusiastic teacher with a dull and lifeless class. Nor can interest and enthusiasm on the part of a class continue in the presence of a mechanical and lifeless teacher. The teacher is the model, and he sets the standard and pace for his class. Unconsciously the pupils come, under the influence of the teacher's personality, to reflect his type of mind and attitude toward the work of the school. The teacher's interest and vivacity in the recitation depend on many factors, some of which are largely under his own control. _a. The teacher's command of the subject-matter of the recitation._--A teacher whose grasp of the lesson is doubtful, who does not feel sure that he is a master of all its points, who fears that questions may be asked that he cannot answer or points raised that he cannot explain, can hardly possess an attitude of true interest toward the recitation. His mind is too full of worry and strain and embarrassment. He lacks the sense of ease and freedom which comes from a feeling of mastery. Command of the subject-matter of the recitation depends, _first_ on the teacher's general mastery of the branch, and, _second_, on being freshly prepared upon it. It behooves every young teacher, therefore, to strive for mastery as he teaches. But no matter how good the preliminary preparation, this cannot take the place of the fresh daily review, which gives the mind a new readiness and grasp on the subject. Let the teachers who feel that their recitations are slow and dull, seek the cause first of all in their own lack of preparation in one of the two lines mentioned. _b. The teacher's attitude toward his work._--If the teacher looks upon teaching as a mechanical process; if he looks on the recitation as "hearing the class recite"; if he realizes nothing of the opportunities and responsibilities connected with teaching children, then he can command little interest and no enthusiasm. If, on the other hand, teaching is to the teacher a joy; if he loves to watch the minds of children unfold; if he rejoices in his opportunities and responsibilities as a teacher, then he is sure to develop an interest which will soon intensify with enthusiasm. _c. The teacher's health._--All have experienced the mental depression and lack of interest in things which comes from over-fatigue. The most interesting occupation palls on us when we are fagged, or when our vitality is low from derangement of health. A case of indigestion may sweep us out of our usual cheery mood into a mood of discouragement and pessimism. Frayed nerves and an ill-nourished or exhausted brain are fatal to enthusiasm. Teaching is found to be a very trying occupation on the general health, and particularly on the nervous system. Many girls break down or develop a chronic nervous trouble in a few years in the schoolroom. The combined work and worry prove too much for their strength; and not infrequently, also, the teacher who boards and carries a cold luncheon to school fails to secure the right kind of food. This is especially true in the rural schools. Farmers have enough to eat, but often the food suitable for men engaged in heavy manual labor is wholly unsuited for one who works with the brain and does not have a large amount of out-door exercise. Nor do teachers always secure enough pure air. The air of schoolrooms is usually vitiated to such a degree that one on coming in from the out-door air can detect a foul odor. But the air of a room ceases to be fit to breathe long before an odor can be detected from its impurities. These are some of the chief factors which are proving so fatal to the health of many of our teachers, and to interest and enthusiasm on the part of the teacher in his work. Both for the sake of his health and his work, every teacher should seek to control these three factors as far as possible. Strain and worry and wear of nerves can be greatly lessened by careful planning of work, by good organization and careful management, and by exercise of the will to prohibit worry over matters large or small when worry will not help solve them. The teacher can in some degree determine what food he will eat, even if it means a change of boarding-place. And surely every teacher can control the supply of fresh air for the schoolroom and his bedroom, and this is perhaps the most important of all. _d. Experience._--The young teacher, without experience, may from sheer embarrassment and lack of mastery fail to show the enthusiasm which he feels, for embarrassment of any kind and enthusiasm do not thrive well together. But if the teacher is really fundamentally interested in his teaching, the enthusiasm will soon come. And better a thousand times the young teacher who is earnestly fighting for freedom and mastery in the recitation, than the old teacher who has grown wearied of the routine and has made out of the recitation a machine process. 3. _Well-mastered lessons_ Probably the worst of all drawbacks to good recitations is poorly prepared lessons. One of the greatest criticisms to which our educational system is open is that teachers try to teach and pupils try to recite lessons which are badly or indifferently prepared by both. There is nothing more stupefying to the mind, or more fatal to interest in school work than the halting, stumbling, ineffective recitations heard in many schools. Teachers who try to teach lessons with which they are not thoroughly familiar are but blind leaders of the blind, and both they and their pupils are sure to fall into the ditch. _a. Preparation by the teacher._--The teacher is the key to the situation. If he himself lacks in preparation, he can neither lead nor compel his pupils to the preparation of their lessons. He sets the standard. A stream does not rise higher than its source. The teacher's preparation has two different aspects: (1) The general fundamental knowledge of the subject as a whole obtained by previous study; and (2) the daily preparation by study, thought, or reading for the recitation. In general it is safe to say that teachers enter upon their vocation without sufficient education. Our certificate requirements are low, and many enter upon teaching with little or no more schooling than that obtained in the schools where they begin teaching. Of course this is radically wrong, but it is the fault of our school system and not of the teacher. It behooves teachers entering upon their work with this scanty preparation to recognize their limitations, however, and to do their best to remedy them. Low grade of certificate, low standings in any branches, or the teacher's own consciousness of lack of mastery should be sufficient to send the sincere and earnest teacher to school again, even if this must be to summer schools instead of longer sessions. This sacrifice will not only pay abundantly in higher salary, but also in greater teaching power and in the sense of greater mastery and personal growth. But no amount of preparation in a branch will relieve a teacher of the necessity of daily preparation for the recitation. Dr. Arnold expressed this thought when he said: "I prefer that my pupils shall drink from a running stream, rather than from a stagnant pool." In order that one may develop a line of thought easily it must be _fresh_ in his mind; it is not enough that he has once known it well. One of the master teachers of our country, a university professor who is recognized as a great authority in his chosen subject, Latin, recently said to a group of Latin teachers: "I have taught Cicero for twenty years, until I know it by heart. But yet, every day, one hour before the time for my Cicero class, I go to my study and spend an hour with Cicero, just to get into the spirit of it. I would not dare to meet my class without this." It is true that the teacher with twenty classes a day cannot spend an hour on the preparation of each lesson. But most of the lessons will not require so much--sometimes the preparation will be the making of an outline or plan, sometimes reading the lesson over to freshen the mind upon it, sometimes only thinking the lesson through, for its plan and topics. It may at times, however, mean hard and serious study to master the difficult points and their presentation. But whatever it means, the conscientious and growing teacher will go to the lesson prepared to teach it in such a way as to inspire to high standards and mastery on the part of the pupils. _b. Preparation by the class._--But in addition to the well-prepared teacher, there must also be a well-prepared class. The teacher cannot make bricks without straw. Every failure to recite when called upon is a dead weight upon the progress of the recitation; and each failure makes it easier for the next one to fail with impunity, or at least without disgrace. It therefore behooves the teacher who would have inspiring recitations to lead the pupils to a high standard of preparation. The pupil's preparation of the lesson should include two distinct lines: (1) Mastery of the facts, thought, or meaning of the lesson; and (2) thought or plans how best to express the lesson in the recitation. Most pupils think they "have their lesson" when they have memorized it or come to understand it. They must also be made to see that an important part of their preparation lies in _the ability to tell well what they have learned_. 4. _High standards in the recitation_ There is no more potent force than public opinion to compel to high achievement or restrain from unworthy acts. A school in which the standards of preparation and recitation are low presents a difficult problem for the teacher in the recitation. In some schools pupils who are diffident about reciting, or who do not care to take the trouble, shake their heads in refusal almost before they hear the question in full. Others sit in stolid silence when called upon, and make no response of any kind. In still other cases the class smile or giggle when several have been called upon and have failed to recite, thus taking the failure as a joke. Of course such a lack of standards proclaims the previous teaching to have been weak and bungling. It shows the effects of a teacher without standards or skill. But the immediate question is how to remedy such an evil situation when one finds it existing in a school. It is probable that low standards come as often from work that is too difficult or too great in amount as from any other source. If the child fails to understand the lesson, or has not had time to master it, he cannot recite, however much he may desire to. All that is left for him is to decline when called upon. He may be chagrined at first over his failure; but if failure follows failure, he soon ceases to care when unable to recite. The remedy suggests itself at once; assign lessons that are within the child's ability, and also within the time available for their preparation. Then _insist that the work be done and the recitation be made_. If the failure comes from laziness, lack of study, indulgence in mischief, or any such cause, the remedy will be a different one. But a remedy must be devised and applied. No school can run successfully without good standards well maintained for the recitation. The teacher who feels that the standards of the school are too low in this particular should never be satisfied until the cause for such a condition is discovered, and worthy standards instituted. This will be one of the hardest tests upon the teacher's ingenuity and skill. The public opinion of the school must be brought to take the recitation seriously. It must not be a cause for levity when several pupils fail. Failure must come to be looked forward to with apprehension, and looked back upon with humiliation. And all this must be done without scolding and bickering. It must be done with great patience and good nature, but it must be done. The teacher must himself have a high standard of excellence, and must persistently impress this upon his class. Here again the ideals of the teacher are contagious. 5. _A spirit of coöperation_ Much depends on the spirit with which class and teacher enter upon the recitation. If the spirit of coöperation is lacking; if the relations between teacher and pupils are strained or not cordial; if the class look upon the recitation as a kind of game in which the teacher tries to corner and catch the class, and the class try to avoid being cornered and caught, then the recitation is certain to be a failure. Under skillful teaching the pupils should come to look forward to the recitation with pleasure and anticipation. It should be a time when teacher and class work together in whole-hearted, enthusiastic effort, with the common aim of bringing the class to master more fully the matter of the lesson. There should be no feeling that the teacher has one aim and the class another aim, or that their interests are in any way antagonistic; no feeling that the teacher's highest ambition is to catch pupils in errors, and the pupil's highest achievement to avoid being caught. There should be no attempt at bluffing, or covering up errors or points not understood. Probably the greatest factor in establishing and maintaining a spirit of coöperation between teacher and class is a deep-seated and sympathetic desire on the part of the teacher to be helpful. If his attitude is that of a friend and co-worker, and his criticisms and corrections are all made in the spirit of helping to a better understanding rather than in the spirit of fault-finding, this will go far toward establishing a spirit of coöperation in the class. This does not mean that the teacher shall be weak, and let mistakes or failures go by unnoticed. Weak teachers are never liked or respected. It only means that the teacher, in making corrections or calling attention to failures, shall manifest the spirit of a helper and not of a faultfinder. It means that no matter how many times a teacher may have to correct or even punish a pupil, his attitude toward the pupil will still be cordial and friendly. There are many persons who cannot correct a fault without having some enmity arise toward the one corrected. But what the teacher needs is to be able to correct, rebuke or punish, and at the same time keep the heart warm toward the wrongdoer. This will not only secure better results from the corrections, but will also foster the spirit of helpfulness and coöperation between teacher and school. Finally, the class should be brought to see that the school is _their_ school, and not the teacher's school or the board's school. They should realize that failure or low achievement is their loss, and not the teacher's loss. They should feel that their interests and those of the teacher, the board, and the taxpayers who support the school are all _common interests_, and that only as the pupils do their part will the interests of all be conserved. V THE ASSIGNMENT OF THE LESSON 1. _The importance of proper assignment_ Upon the proper assignment of the lesson depends much of the success of the recitation, and also much of the pupils' progress in learning how to study. The assignment of the lesson thus becomes one of the most important duties of the recitation period. Too many times this is left until the very close of the class hour, when there is no time left for proper assignment, and the teacher can only say, "Take the next four pages," or "Work out the next twenty problems." 2. _Good assignment and teaching the art of study_ We forget that children do not understand how to go to work at the lesson as we know how. The result is that they come back to the next recitation listless and uninterested, with the lesson not prepared. Or, it may happen that the less timid ones, when they come to study the lesson, call upon the teacher to show them how to go to work. The teacher has then to take time needed for other things to show different individuals what should have been presented to the entire class when the lesson was assigned. Such a method is comparable with giving a set of tools into the hands of novices who do not know how to use them, and then, without any instruction in the use of the tools, expecting them to turn out good work, without loss of time. Little children are unfamiliar with books,--with the paragraphs, outlines, divisions, and subdivisions of a subject. They hardly know how to "gather thought" from a printed page, and yet we expect them to "get their lesson" without being shown how to go at it. Much time is lost in this way, and many children are discouraged in their work and caused to dislike going to school. The Germans far excel us in this feature of their school work. No class of German children are ever sent to their seats with the simple direction to take so many pages in advance. Teacher and class together go over the next lesson, the teacher calling the attention of the class to the points of the lesson, asking them to hunt out subdivisions, etc., and instructing them how to prepare the lesson. And the class, having this necessary help, are able to prepare their lesson better and recite it better than the American children of the same age. 3. _The teacher's preparation for assignment_ There are three chief reasons why teachers do not give more attention to the assignment of the lesson: (1) Lack of time, (2) failure themselves to prepare the lesson in advance so as to be able to assign it, and (3) lack of understanding of proper methods of study. Lack of time is not an adequate excuse for failure properly to assign the lesson. If there is but fifteen minutes for the recitation, all the more reason why this time should be used to the best advantage for the pupils. If one third of this time should be taken for the assignment of the next lesson (and this is usually not too large a proportion in elementary classes), then this much time should be taken. And, besides, if the lesson is well assigned, so that it is better understood and prepared by the class, more can be accomplished in ten minutes of actual reciting than in fifteen under the old method. It may sometimes be advisable to assign the advance lesson at the beginning of the recitation, but usually it is better to wait until the close; for then the connection between the present lesson and the next can better be brought out. Failure to look ahead in the textbook and become familiar with the next lesson renders it impossible properly to make the assignment. The teacher must know the scope of the lesson, its chief points, and the main difficulties it will present to the class. How often teachers are obliged to say to an unprepared class: "I did not realize how hard that lesson was, or I would not have assigned so much"; or, "That lesson was longer than I intended." All of which is a confession that the teacher was unprepared to make the assignment properly. It is true that the teacher is very busy and has many lessons to prepare; but, on the other hand, the teacher who keeps a day ahead of the class in his preparation will find that it abundantly pays in the greater mastery of his subject and the time saved in reviewing it preparatory to the recitation. This is not time lost, it is time saved. The young teacher's lack of knowledge of the principles underlying the art of study is a more serious matter, and a difficulty harder to overcome. Every teacher should make a special study of the psychology of attention and interest. He should also come to know how the mind naturally approaches any new subject, first securing a _synthetic_ or bird's-eye view of it as a whole; how next it _analyzes_ it into its elements; and how finally it thinks them together, or _synthesizes_ them, into a new and better-understood whole. 4. _How to assign a lesson_ There may, of course, be some lessons that can properly be assigned in a moment by telling the class how much to take in advance. This is true of lessons that are only a continuation of matter with which the class are already somewhat familiar, which they know how to study, and which contains no special difficulties. For example, spelling lessons presenting no new difficulties or especially hard words; arithmetic lessons containing practice problems intended for drill, but no new topics for study; grammar lessons consisting of applications of principles or rules already mastered. But all lessons that are built upon a logical outline, or contain new or difficult principles, or involve especial difficulties of any kind should be assigned carefully and with sufficient detail to make sure that the class know how to go to work in preparing the lesson without loss of time and interest. It is necessary, however, to observe a caution in this connection. There is some danger of assigning lessons in such a way as to render too much help, and thus relieve the pupil of the necessity of mastering it for himself. It is difficult to say whether the mistake of helping too much in the assignment, or not helping enough is the more serious. The teacher must know his class and his textbook, and then use the best judgment he has in making just such suggestions as will result in the best effort and mastery by the pupils without robbing them of the necessity for work. 5. _Principles governing the assignment_ The following are the chief points to be observed in assigning the lesson:-- 1. Go over the lesson with the class in such a way as to give them a _bird's-eye view_ of the whole, a general idea of what the entire lesson is about, or what it is meant to teach. Sometimes this can best be done with the books open in the hands of the pupils, the teacher calling attention to the topics treated. Occasionally the teacher may himself state the aim or scope of the lesson without the use of the text. Getting this synthetic view of the lesson enables the pupil to begin study with better intelligence, and also helps him better to understand the relation of the separate parts to the lesson as a whole. In this bird's-eye view of the lesson its relation to the lesson just recited, or other previous lessons, should be brought out so as to unite the separate lessons into a continuous view of the subject. 2. Suggestions should be given as to the analysis of the lesson into its different topics. If the text uses a system of numerals in designating the points, the pupils should form the habit of using these in studying the lesson. For example, finding I, they should look for II, III, etc., thus getting the main heads. Under these main topic numerals will often be found a series of paragraphs numbered 1, 2, 3, etc., indicating the different topics under each head. The system may even extend to sub-topics lettered _a_, _b_, _c_, etc. The pupil should early learn to look for and make use of these helps in the analysis of the lesson. And even when the author does not introduce any such system of numbering he still follows some outline more or less logically arranged. No better training in analysis, and no better method of mastering a lesson can be found than for the pupil himself to make a written outline of the lesson, using such a system of numbering the topics and sub-topics as that suggested above. 3. Children should be taught to make a final summary, or synthesis, of the lesson after they have analyzed it into its separate points. Of course a large proportion of the details learned and recited in any lesson will finally be forgotten. But this does not mean that such details were unnecessary. It rather means that their part was to help in bringing out the few main facts or points and making them clear. For most lessons can be reduced to a few chief points. These are the ones to be remembered and used in further learning. It is these important points which the pupil should summarize and fix in his memory and understanding as the final act in preparing the lesson. Not to do this is to fail to reap the best results from the work put upon the lesson, for these more important points are lost almost as readily as the less important details unless they are emphasized in some such way as has been suggested. It is of course not meant that this summary of points should be worked out by the teacher when the lesson is being assigned. That is for the pupils to do as a result of their analysis of the lesson. But the teacher should specifically call attention to the necessity for such a summary until the habit is so fixed that the pupils follow this method of study without further direction. The pupil's summary of the lesson should be tested in the recitation just as much as his analysis of the facts of the lesson. This is done by few teachers. 4. Particularly difficult points, or points of importance as a basis for later work, should be especially emphasized in the assignment of the lesson. This will go far toward saving the fatal weakness on fundamental points which is shown in later work by so many pupils. Not having been over the ground before and therefore not realizing the importance or difficulty of the critical points in a subject, the pupils must of necessity be largely dependent on the teacher for such suggestions. 5. Pupils need to be taught to look up and come to understand the allusions and various references often used in history, reading, or other lessons. The younger pupils will often have to be shown how to do this. Therefore such points should be referred to in making the assignment, and any necessary directions should be given. 6. Not infrequently new or unusual words or phrases are encountered by pupils in preparing their lessons, and they are hampered in their study by failing to understand the new terms. The teacher, knowing his pupils, should be able to anticipate any trouble of this kind, and give such explanations or help as may be necessary when assigning the lesson. 7. In case written work is to constitute a part of the preparation, the directions governing what is to be done should be so clear and explicit that there is no possibility of their not being understood, and the teacher's being interrupted next day to explain to members of the class. Much time can be saved for both teacher and pupils, and many distractions prevented from disturbing recitations if this simple direction is followed. 8. If the principles suggested above are followed in assigning lessons, there will be little excuse for a pupil's forgetting the assignment. It will therefore be a safe rule not to repeat assignments for the benefit of careless or inattentive pupils. The teacher who will refuse to be interrupted during recitation hours to tell pupils what the lesson is, but who will reassign the lesson for the pupil at recess-time, or after school, will very soon find all such troubles vanish, and will at the same time be giving his pupils valuable and necessary training in attention and memory. * * * * * OUTLINE I. THE PURPOSES OF THE RECITATION 1. The teacher and the recitation, 2 2. The necessity of having a clear aim, 3 3. Testing as an aim in the recitation, 5 _a._ The preparation of the lesson assigned, 6 _b._ The pupil's knowledge and his methods of study, 7 _c._ The pupil's points of failure and the cause thereof, 10 4. Teaching as an aim in the recitation, 12 _a._ Give the child an opportunity for self-expression, 13 _b._ Give help on difficult points, 15 _c._ Bring in new points supplementing the text, 16 _d._ Inspire the pupils to better efforts and higher ideals, 17 _e._ Lead pupils into good habits of study, 17 5. Drill as an aim in the recitation, 19 _a._ Drill should be employed wherever a high degree of skill is required, 21 _b._ Drill must be upon correct models, and with alert interest and attention, 21 _c._ Drill must not stop short of a reasonable degree of efficiency, or skill, 23 _d._ Drill must be governed by definite aims, 23 6. A desirable balance among the three aims, 25 II. THE METHOD OF THE RECITATION 1. Method varies with aim, 29 2. Fundamental principles of method, 30 _a._ Interest is the first requisite for attention and all mental activity, 30 _b._ The natural mode of learning is to proceed from the known to the related unknown, 31 3. The use of special forms of method, 32 4. The question-and-answer method, 33 _a._ When and where to employ the question-and-answer method, 34 _b._ Dangers of the question-and-answer method, 38 5. The topical method, 40 _a._ Where the topical method is most serviceable, 41 _b._ The question of standards in topical recitations, 44 6. The lecture, or supplemental, method, 45 _a._ How the lecture method is to be used, 46 _b._ Dangers from the lecture method, 47 7. The written recitation, 48 _a._ The use of the written recitation, 48 _b._ Dangers in the use of the written method, 49 III. THE ART OF QUESTIONING 1. The importance of good questioning, 55 2. Need of fundamental principles, 56 3. The principle of freedom from textbooks, 56 4. The principle of unity or continuity in questions, 61 5. The principle of clearness, 64 _a._ Freedom from ambiguity or obscurity of wording, 65 _b._ Adaptation to the age and understanding of the child, 66 _c._ Brevity, 67 6. The principle of definiteness, 68 7. Secondary principles of good questioning, 73 8. The treatment of answers, 76 IV. CONDITIONS NECESSARY TO A GOOD RECITATION 1. Freedom from distractions, 81 _a._ Distractions by the teacher, 82 _b._ Distractions by the class, 84 _c._ Distractions by the school, 86 _d._ Physical distractions, 87 2. Interest and enthusiasm, 89 _a._ The teacher's command of the subject-matter of the recitation, 90 _b._ The teacher's attitude toward his work, 91 _c._ The teacher's health, 91 _d._ Experience, 93 3. Well-mastered lessons, 94 _a._ Preparation by the teacher, 94 _b._ Preparation by the class, 97 4. High standards in the recitation, 98 5. A spirit of coöperation, 100 V. THE ASSIGNMENT OF THE LESSON 1. The importance of proper assignment, 107 2. Good assignment and teaching the art of study, 107 3. The teacher's preparation for assignment, 109 4. How to assign a lesson, 111 5. Principles governing the assignment, 113 * * * * * RIVERSIDE EDUCATIONAL MONOGRAPHS Edited by HENRY SUZZALLO Andress's The Teaching of Hygiene in the Grades Atwood's The Theory and Practice of the Kindergarten Bailey's Art Education Betts's New Ideals In Rural Schools Betts's The Recitation Bloomfield's Vocational Guidance of Youth Cabot's Volunteer Help to the Schools Cole's Industrial Education in the Elementary School Cooley's Language Teaching in the Grades Cubberley's Changing Conceptions of Education Cubberley's The Improvement of Rural Schools Dewey's Interest and Effort in Education Dewey's Moral Principles in Education Dooley's The Education of the Ne'er-Do-Well Earhart's Teaching Children to Study Eliot's Education for Efficiency Eliot's Concrete and Practical In Modern Education Emerson's Education Evans's The Teaching of High School Mathematics Fairchild's The Teaching of Poetry in the High School Fiske's The Meaning of Infancy Freeman's The Teaching of Handwriting Haliburton and Smith's Teaching Poetry in the Grades Hartwell's The Teaching of History Haynes's Economics in the Secondary School Hill's The Teaching of Civics Horne's The Teacher as Artist Hyde's The Teacher's Philosophy Jenkins's Reading in the Primary Grades Judd's The Evolution of a Democratic School System Kendall and Stryker's History in the Elementary Grades Kilpatrick's The Montessori System Examined Leonard's English Composition as a Social Problem Lewis's Democracy's High School Maxwell's The Observation of Teaching Maxwell's The Selection of Textbooks Meredith's The Educational Bearings of Modern Psychology Palmer's Ethical and Moral Instruction in the Schools Palmer's Self-Cultivation in English Palmer's The Ideal Teacher Palmer's Trades and Professions Perry's Status of the Teacher Prosser's The Teacher and Old Age Russell's Economy in Secondary Education Smith's Establishing Industrial Schools Snedden's The Problem of Vocational Education Stockton's Project Work in Education Stratton's Developing Mental Power Suzzallo's The Teaching of Primary Arithmetic Suzzallo's The Teaching of Spelling Swift's Speech Defects in School Children Terman's The Teacher's Health Thorndike's Individuality Tuell's The Study of Nations Weeks's The People's School * * * * * RIVERSIDE TEXTBOOKS IN EDUCATION _General Educational Theory_ AVERILL: Psychology for Normal Schools FREEMAN: Experimental Education FREEMAN: How Children Learn FREEMAN: The Psychology of the Common Branches PERRY: Discipline as a School Problem SMITH: An Introduction to Educational Sociology THOMAS: Training for Effective Study WADDLE: An Introduction to Child Psychology _History of Education_ CUBBERLEY: The History of Education CUBBERLEY: A Brief History of Education CUBBERLEY: Readings in the History of Education CUBBERLEY: Public Education in the United States _Administration and Supervision of Schools_ AYRES, WILLIAMS, WOOD: Healthful Schools CUBBERLEY: Public School Administration CUBBERLEY: Rural Life and Education HOAG AND TERMAN: Health Work in the Schools MONROE: Introduction to the Theory of Educational Measurements MONROE: Measuring the Results of Teaching MONROE, DEVOSS, KELLY: Educational Tests and Measurements NUTT. The Supervision of Instruction RUGG: Statistical Methods Applied to Education SEARS: Classroom Organization and Control SHOWALTER: A Handbook for Rural School Officers TERMAN: The Hygiene of the School Child TERMAN: The Measurement of Intelligence TERMAN: The Intelligence of School Children _Methods of Teaching_ BOLENIUS: Teaching Literature in the Grammar Grades and High School KENDALL, MIRICK: How to Teach the Fundamental Subjects KENDALL, MIRICK: How to Teach the Special Subjects STONE: Silent and Oral Reading TRAFTON: The Teaching of Science in the Elementary School WOOFTER: Teaching in Rural Schools _Secondary Education_ BRIGGS: The Junior High School INGLIS: Principles of Secondary Education SNEDDEN: Problems of Secondary Education THOMAS: The Teaching of English in the Secondary School HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
16987	----	CRAFTSMANSHIP IN TEACHING by WILLIAM CHANDLER BAGLEY Author Of "The Educative Process," "Classroom Management," "Educational Values," Etc. New York The MacMillan Company 1912 All rights reserved Copyright, 1911, by the MacMillan Company. Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1911. Reprinted June, October, 1911; May, 1912. Norwood Press J.S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. TO MY PARENTS PREFACE The following papers are published chiefly because they treat in a concrete and personal manner some of the principles which the writer has developed in two previously published books, _The Educative Process_ and _Classroom Management_, and in a forthcoming volume, _Educational Values_. It is hoped that the more informal discussions presented in the following pages will, in some slight measure, supplement the theoretical and systematic treatment which necessarily characterizes the other books. In this connection, it should be stated that the materials of the first paper here presented were drawn upon in writing Chapter XVIII of _Classroom Management_, and that the second paper simply states in a different form the conclusions reached in Chapter I of _The Educative Process_. The writer is indebted to his colleague, Professor L.F. Anderson, for many criticisms and suggestions and to Miss Bernice Harrison for invaluable aid in editing the papers for publication. But his heaviest debt, here as elsewhere, is to his wife, to whose encouraging sympathy and inspiration whatever may be valuable in this or in his other books must be largely attributed. URBANA, ILLINOIS, March 1, 1911 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. CRAFTSMANSHIP IN TEACHING 1 II. OPTIMISM IN TEACHING 23 III. HOW MAY WE PROMOTE THE EFFICIENCY OF THE TEACHING FORCE? 43 IV. THE TEST OF EFFICIENCY IN SUPERVISION 63 V. THE SUPERVISOR AND THE TEACHER 77 VI. EDUCATION AND UTILITY 96 VII. THE SCIENTIFIC SPIRIT IN EDUCATION 123 VIII. THE POSSIBILITY OF TRAINING CHILDREN TO STUDY 144 IX. A PLEA FOR THE DEFINITE IN EDUCATION 164 X. SCIENCE AS RELATED TO THE TEACHING OF LITERATURE 191 XI. THE NEW ATTITUDE TOWARD DRILL 204 XII. THE IDEAL TEACHER 229 CRAFTSMANSHIP IN TEACHING ~I~ CRAFTSMANSHIP IN TEACHING[1] I "In the laboratory of life, each newcomer repeats the old experiments, and laughs and weeps for himself. We will be explorers, though all the highways have their guideposts and every bypath is mapped. Helen of Troy will not deter us, nor the wounds of Cæsar frighten, nor the voice of the king crying 'Vanity!' from his throne dismay. What wonder that the stars that once sang for joy are dumb and the constellations go down in silence."--ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY: _The Wind of Destiny_. We tend, I think, to look upon the advice that we give to young people as something that shall disillusionize them. The cynic of forty sneers at what he terms the platitudes of commencement addresses. He knows life. He has been behind the curtains. He has looked upon the other side of the scenery,--the side that is just framework and bare canvas. He has seen the ugly machinery that shifts the stage setting--the stage setting which appears so impressive when viewed from the front. He has seen the rouge on the cheeks that seem to blush with the bloom of youth and beauty and innocence, and has caught the cold glint in the eyes that, from the distance, seem to languish with tenderness and love. Why, he asks, should we create an illusion that must thus be rudely dispelled? Why revamp and refurbish the old platitudes and dole them out each succeeding year? Why not tell these young people the truth and let them be prepared for the fate that must come sooner or later? But the cynic forgets that there are some people who never lose their illusions,--some men and women who are always young,--and, whatever may be the type of men and women that other callings and professions desire to enroll in their service, this is the type that education needs. The great problem of the teacher is to keep himself in this class, to keep himself young, to preserve the very things that the cynic pleases to call the illusions of his youth. And so much do I desire to impress these novitiates into our calling with the necessity for preserving their ideals that I shall ask them this evening to consider with me some things which would, I fear, strike the cynic as most illusionary and impractical. The initiation ceremonies that admitted the young man to the privileges and duties of knighthood included the taking of certain vows, the making of certain pledges of devotion and fidelity to the fundamental principles for which chivalry stood. And I should like this evening to imagine that these graduates are undergoing an analogous initiation into the privileges and duties of schoolcraft, and that these vows which I shall enumerate, embody some of the ideals that govern the work of that craft. II And the first of these vows I shall call, for want of a better term, the vow of "artistry,"--the pledge that the initiate takes to do the work that his hand finds to do in the best possible manner, without reference to the effort that it may cost or to the reward that it may or may not bring. I call this the vow of artistry because it represents the essential attitude of the artist toward his work. The cynic tells us that ideals are illusions of youth, and yet, the other day I saw expressed in a middle-aged working-man a type of idealism that is not at all uncommon in this world. He was a house painter; his task was simply the prosaic job of painting a door; and yet, from the pains which he took with that work, an observer would have concluded that it was, to the painter, the most important task in the world. And that, after all, is the true test of craft artistry: to the true craftsman the work that he is doing must be the most important thing that can be done. One of the best teachers that I know is that kind of a craftsman in education. A student was once sent to observe his work. He was giving a lesson upon the "attribute complement" to an eighth-grade grammar class. I asked the student afterward what she had got from her visit. "Why," she replied, "that man taught as if the very greatest achievement in life would be to get his pupils to understand the attribute complement,--and when he had finished, they did understand it." In a narrower sense, this vow of artistry carries with it an appreciation of the value of technique. From the very fact of their normal school training, these graduates already possess a certain measure of skill, a certain mastery of the technique of their craft. This initial mastery has been gained in actual contact with the problems of school work in their practice teaching. They have learned some of the rudiments; they have met and mastered some of the rougher, cruder difficulties. The finer skill, the delicate and intangible points of technique, they must acquire, as all beginners must acquire them, through the strenuous processes of self-discipline in the actual work of the years that are to come. This is a process that takes time, energy, constant and persistent application. All that this school or any school can do for its students in this respect is to start them upon the right track in the acquisition of skill. But do not make the mistake of assuming that this is a small and unimportant matter. If this school did nothing more than this, it would still repay tenfold the cost of its establishment and maintenance. Three fourths of the failures in a world that sometimes seems full of failures are due to nothing more nor less than a wrong start. In spite of the growth of professional training for teachers within the past fifty years, many of our lower schools are still filled with raw recruits, fresh from the high schools and even from the grades, who must learn every practical lesson of teaching through the medium of their own mistakes. Even if this were all, the process would involve a tremendous and uncalled-for waste. But this is not all; for, out of this multitude of untrained teachers, only a small proportion ever recognize the mistakes that they make and try to correct them. To you who are beginning the work of life, the mastery of technique may seem a comparatively unimportant matter. You recognize its necessity, of course, but you think of it as something of a mechanical nature,--an integral part of the day's work, but uninviting in itself,--something to be reduced as rapidly as possible to the plane of automatism and dismissed from the mind. I believe that you will outgrow this notion. As you go on with your work, as you increase in skill, ever and ever the fascination of its technique will take a stronger and stronger hold upon you. This is the great saving principle of our workaday life. This is the factor that keeps the toiler free from the deadening effects of mechanical routine. It is the factor that keeps the farmer at his plow, the artisan at his bench, the lawyer at his desk, the artist at his palette. I once worked for a man who had accumulated a large fortune. At the age of seventy-five he divided this fortune among his children, intending to retire; but he could find pleasure and comfort only in the routine of business. In six months he was back in his office. He borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars on his past reputation and started in to have some fun. I was his only employee at the time, and I sat across the big double desk from him, writing his letters and keeping his accounts. He would sit for hours, planning for the establishment of some industry or running out the lines that would entangle some old adversary. I did not stay with him very long, but before I left, he had a half-dozen thriving industries on his hands, and when he died three years later he had accumulated another fortune of over a million dollars. That is an example of what I mean by the fascination that the technique of one's craft may come to possess. It is the joy of doing well the work that you know how to do. The finer points of technique,--those little things that seem so trivial in themselves and yet which mean everything to skill and efficiency,--what pride the competent artisan or the master artist takes in these! How he delights to revel in the jargon of his craft! How he prides himself in possessing the knowledge and the technical skill that are denied the layman! I am aware that I am somewhat unorthodox in urging this view of your work upon you. Teachers have been encouraged to believe that details are not only unimportant but stultifying,--that teaching ability is a function of personality, and not a product of a technique that must be acquired through the strenuous discipline of experience. One of the most skillful teachers of my acquaintance is a woman down in the grades. I have watched her work for days at a time, striving to learn its secret. I can find nothing there that is due to genius,--unless we accept George Eliot's definition of genius as an infinite capacity for receiving discipline. That teacher's success, by her own statement, is due to a mastery of technique, gained through successive years of growth checked by a rigid responsibility for results. She has found out by repeated trial how to do her work in the best way; she has discovered the attitude toward her pupils that will get the best work from them,--the clearest methods of presenting subject matter; the most effective ways in which to drill; how to use text-books and make study periods issue in something besides mischief; and, more than all else, how to do these things without losing sight of the true end of education. Very frequently I have taken visiting school men to see this teacher's work. Invariably after leaving her room they have turned to me with such expressions as these: "A born teacher!" "What interest!" "What a personality!" "What a voice!"--everything, in fact, except this,--which would have been the truth: "What a tribute to years of effort and struggle and self-discipline!" I have a theory which I have never exploited very seriously, but I will give it to you for what it is worth. It is this: elementary education especially needs a literary interpretation. It needs a literary artist who will portray to the public in the form of fiction the real life of the elementary school,--who will idealize the technique of teaching as Kipling idealized the technique of the marine engineer, as Balzac idealized the technique of the journalist, as Du Maurier and a hundred other novelists have idealized the technique of the artist. We need some one to exploit our shop-talk on the reading public, and to show up our work as you and I know it, not as you and I have been told by laymen that it ought to be,--a literature of the elementary school with the cant and the platitudes and the goody-goodyism left out, and in their place something of the virility, of the serious study, of the manful effort to solve difficult problems, of the real and vital achievements that are characteristic of thousands of elementary schools throughout the country to-day. At first you will be fascinated by the novelty of your work. But that soon passes away. Then comes the struggle,--then comes the period, be it long or short, when you will work with your eyes upon the clock, when you will count the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes that lie between you and vacation time. Then will be the need for all the strength and all the energy that you can summon to your aid. Fail here, and your fate is decided once and for all. If, in your work, you never get beyond this stage, you will never become the true craftsman. You will never taste the joy that is vouchsafed the expert, the efficient craftsman. The length of this period varies with different individuals. Some teachers "find themselves" quickly. They seem to settle at once into the teaching attitude. With others is a long, uphill fight. But it is safe to say that if, at the end of three years, your eyes still habitually seek the clock,--if, at the end of that time, your chief reward is the check that comes at the end of every fourth week,--then your doom is sealed. III And the second vow that I should urge these graduates to take is the vow of fidelity to the spirit of their calling. We have heard a great deal in recent years about making education a profession. I do not like that term myself. Education is not a profession in the sense that medicine and law are professions. It is rather a craft, for its duty is to produce, to mold, to fashion, to transform a certain raw material into a useful product. And, like all crafts, education must possess the craft spirit. It must have a certain code of craft ethics; it must have certain standards of craft excellence and efficiency. And in these the normal school must instruct its students, and to these it should secure their pledge of loyalty and fidelity and devotion. A true conception of this craft spirit in education is one of the most priceless possessions of the young teacher, for it will fortify him against every criticism to which his calling is subjected. It is revealing no secret to tell you that the teacher's work is not held in the highest regard by the vast majority of men and women in other walks of life. I shall not stop to inquire why this is so, but the fact cannot be doubted, and every now and again some incident of life, trifling perhaps in itself, will bring it to your notice; but most of all, perhaps you will be vexed and incensed by the very thing that is meant to put you at your ease--the patronizing attitude which your friends in other walks of life will assume toward you and toward your work. When will the good public cease to insult the teacher's calling with empty flattery? When will men who would never for a moment encourage their own sons to enter the work of the public schools, cease to tell us that education is the greatest and noblest of all human callings? Education does not need these compliments. The teacher does not need them. If he is a master of his craft, he knows what education means,--he knows this far better than any layman can tell him. And what boots it to him, if, with all this cant and hypocrisy about the dignity and worth of his calling, he can sometimes hold his position only at the sacrifice of his self-respect? But what is the relation of the craft spirit to these facts? Simply this: the true craftsman, by the very fact that he is a true craftsman, is immune to these influences. What does the true artist care for the plaudits or the sneers of the crowd? True, he seeks commendation and welcomes applause, for your real artist is usually extremely human; but he seeks this commendation from another source--from a source that metes it out less lavishly and yet with unconditioned candor. He seeks the commendation of his fellow-workmen, the applause of "those who know, and always will know, and always will understand." He plays to the pit and not to the gallery, for he knows that when the pit really approves the gallery will often echo and reëcho the applause, albeit it has not the slightest conception of what the whole thing is about. What education stands in need of to-day is just this: a stimulating and pervasive craft spirit. If a human calling would win the world's respect, it must first respect itself; and the more thoroughly it respects itself, the greater will be the measure of homage that the world accords it. In one of the educational journals a few years ago, the editors ran a series of articles under the general caption, "Why I am a teacher." It reminded me of the spirited discussion that one of the Sunday papers started some years since on the world-old query, "Is marriage a failure?" And some of the articles were fully as sickening in their harrowing details as were some of the whining matrimonial confessions of the latter series. But the point that I wish to make is this: your true craftsman in education never stops to ask himself such questions. There are some men to whom schoolcraft is a mistress. They love it, and their devotion is no make-believe, fashioned out of sentiment, and donned for the purpose of hiding inefficiency or native indolence. They love it as some men love Art, and others Business, and others War. They do not stop to ask the reason why, to count the cost, or to care a fig what people think. They are properly jealous of their special knowledge, gained through years of special study; they are justly jealous of their special skill gained through years of discipline and training. They resent the interference of laymen in matters purely professional. They resent such interference as would a reputable physician, a reputable lawyer, a reputable engineer. They resent officious patronage and "fussy" meddling. They resent all these things manfully, vigorously. But your true craftsman will not whine. If the conditions under which he works do not suit him, he will fight for their betterment, but he will not whine. IV And yet this vow of fidelity and devotion to the spirit of schoolcraft would be an empty form without the two complementary vows that give it worth and meaning. These are the vow of poverty and the vow of service. It is through these that the true craft spirit must find its most vigorous expression and its only justification. The very corner stone of schoolcraft is service, and one fundamental lesson that the tyro in schoolcraft must learn, especially in this materialistic age, is that the value of service is not to be measured in dollars and cents. In this respect, teaching resembles art, music, literature, discovery, invention, and pure science; for, if all the workers in all of these branches of human activity got together and demanded of the world the real fruits of their self-sacrifice and labor,--if they demanded all the riches and comforts and amenities of life that have flowed directly or indirectly from their efforts,--there would be little left for the rest of mankind. Each of these activities is represented by a craft spirit that recognizes this great truth. The artist or the scientist who has an itching palm, who prostitutes his craft for the sake of worldly gain, is quickly relegated to the oblivion that he deserves. He loses caste, and the caste of craft is more precious to your true craftsman than all the gold of the modern Midas. You may think that this is all very well to talk about, but that it bears little agreement to the real conditions. Let me tell you that you are mistaken. Go ask Röntgen why he did not keep the X-rays a secret to be exploited for his own personal gain. Ask the shade of the great Helmholtz why he did not patent the ophthalmoscope. Go to the University of Wisconsin and ask Professor Babcock why he gave to the world without money and without price the Babcock test--an invention which is estimated to mean more than one million dollars every year to the farmers and dairymen of that state alone. Ask the men on the geological survey who laid bare the great gold deposits of Alaska why they did not leave a thankless and ill-paid service to acquire the wealth that lay at their feet. Because commercialized ideals govern the world that we know, we think that all men's eyes are jaundiced, and that all men's vision is circumscribed by the milled rim of the almighty dollar. But we are sadly, miserably mistaken. Do you think that these ideals of service from which every taint of self-seeking and commercialism have been eliminated--do you think that these are mere figments of the impractical imagination? Go ask Perry Holden out in Iowa. Go ask Luther Burbank out in California. Go to any agricultural college in this broad land and ask the scientists who are doing more than all other forces combined to increase the wealth of the people. Go to the scientific departments at Washington where men of genius are toiling for a pittance. Ask them how much of the wealth for which they are responsible they propose to put into their own pockets. What will be their answer? They will tell you that all they ask is a living wage, a chance to work, and the just recognition of their services by those who know and appreciate and understand. But let me hasten to add that these men claim no especial merit for their altruism and unselfishness. They do not pose before the world as philanthropists. They do not strut about and preen themselves as who would say: "See what a noble man am I! See how I sacrifice myself for the welfare of society!" The attitude of cant and pose is entirely alien to the spirit of true service. Their delight is in doing, in serving, in producing. But beyond this, they have the faults and frailties of their kind,--save one,--the sin of covetousness. And again, all that they ask of the world is a living wage, and the privilege to serve. And that is all that the true craftsman in education asks. The man or woman with the itching palm has no place in the schoolroom,--no place in any craft whose keynote is service. It is true that the teacher does not receive to-day, in all parts of our country, a living wage; and it is equally true that society at large is the greatest sufferer because of its penurious policy in this regard. I should applaud and support every movement that has for its purpose the raising of teachers' salaries to the level of those paid in other branches of professional service. Society should do this for its own benefit and in its own defense, not as a matter of charity to the men and women who, among all public servants, should be the last to be accused of feeding gratuitously at the public crib. I should approve all honest efforts of school men and school women toward this much-desired end. But whenever men and women enter schoolcraft because of the material rewards that it offers, the virtue will have gone out of our calling,--just as the virtue went out of the Church when, during the Middle Ages, the Church attracted men, not because of the opportunities that it offered for social service, but because of the opportunities that it offered for the acquisition of wealth and temporal power,--just as the virtue has gone out of certain other once-noble professions that have commercialized their standards and tarnished their ideals. This is not to say that one condemns the man who devotes his life to the accumulation of property. The tremendous strides that our country has made in material civilization have been conditioned in part by this type of genius. Creative genius must always compel our admiration and our respect. It may create a world epic, a matchless symphony of tones or pigments, a scientific theory of tremendous grasp and limitless scope; or it may create a vast industrial system, a commercial enterprise of gigantic proportions, a powerful organization of capital. Genius is pretty much the same wherever we find it, and everywhere we of the common clay must recognize its worth. The grave defect in our American life is not that we are hero worshipers, but rather that we worship but one type of hero; we recognize but one type of achievement; we see but one sort of genius. For two generations our youth have been led to believe that there is only one ambition that is worth while,--the ambition of property. Success at any price is the ideal that has been held up before our boys and girls. And to-day we are reaping the rewards of this distorted and unjust view of life. I recently met a man who had lived for some years in the neighborhood of St. Paul and Minneapolis,--a section that is peopled, as you know, very largely by Scandinavian immigrants and their descendants. This man told me that he had been particularly impressed by the high idealism of the Norwegian people. His business brought him in contact with Norwegian immigrants in what are called the lower walks of life,--with workingmen and servant girls,--and he made it a point to ask each of these young men and young women the same question. "Tell me," he would say, "who are the great men of your country? Who are the men toward whom the youth of your land are led to look for inspiration? Who are the men whom your boys are led to imitate and emulate and admire?" And he said that he almost always received the same answer to this question: the great names of the Norwegian nation that had been burned upon the minds even of these workingmen and servant girls were just four in number: Ole Bull, Björnson, Ibsen, Nansen. Over and over again he asked that same question; over and over again he received the same answer: Ole Bull, Björnson, Ibsen, Nansen. A great musician, a great novelist, a great dramatist, a great scientist. And I conjectured as I heard of this incident, What would be the answer if the youth of our land were asked that question: "Who are the great men of _your_ country? What type of achievement have you been led to imitate and emulate and admire?" How many of our boys and girls have even heard of our great men in the world of culture,--unless, indeed, such men lived a half century ago and have got into the school readers by this time? How many of our boys and girls have ever heard of MacDowell, or James, or Whistler, or Sargent? I have said that the teacher must take the vow of service. What does this imply except that the opportunity for service, the privilege of serving, should be the opportunity that one seeks, and that the achievements toward which one aspires should be the achievements of serving? The keynote of service lies in self-sacrifice,--in self-forgetfulness, rather,--in merging one's own life in the lives of others. The attitude of the true teacher in this respect is very similar to the attitude of the true parent. In so far as the parent feels himself responsible for the character of his children, in so far as he holds himself culpable for their shortcomings and instrumental in shaping their virtues, he loses himself in his children. What we term parental affection is, I believe, in part an outgrowth of this feeling of responsibility. The situation is precisely the same with the teacher. It is when the teacher begins to feel himself responsible for the growth and development of his pupils that he begins to find himself in the work of teaching. It is then that the effective devotion to his pupils has its birth. The affection that comes prior to this is, I think, very likely to be of the sentimental and transitory sort. In education, as in life, we play altogether too carelessly with the word "love." The test of true devotion is self-forgetfulness. Until the teacher reaches that point, he is conscious of two distinct elements in his work,--himself and his pupils. When that time comes, his own _ego_ drops from view, and he lives in and for his pupils. The young teacher's tendency is always to ask himself, "Do my pupils like me?" Let me say that this is beside the question. It is not, from his standpoint, a matter of the pupils liking their teacher, but of the teacher liking his pupils. That, I take it, must be constantly the point of view. If you ask the other question first, you will be tempted to gain your end by means that are almost certain to prove fatal,--to bribe and pet and cajole and flatter, to resort to the dangerous expedient of playing to the gallery; but the liking that you get in this way is not worth the price that you pay for it. I should caution young teachers against the short-sighted educational theories that are in the air to-day, and that definitely recommend this attitude. They may sound sweet, but they are soft and sticky in practice. Better be guided by instinct than by "half-baked" theory. I have no disposition to criticize the attempts that have been made to rationalize educational practice, but a great deal of contemporary theory starts at the wrong end. It has failed to go to the sources of actual experience for its data. I know a father and mother who have brought up ten children successfully, and I may say that you could learn more about managing boys and girls from observing their methods than from a half-dozen prominent books on educational theory that I could name. And so I repeat that the true test of the teacher's fidelity to this vow of service is the degree in which he loses himself in his pupils,--the degree in which he lives and toils and sacrifices for them just for the pure joy that it brings him. Once you have tasted this joy, no carping sneer of the cynic can cause you to lose faith in your calling. Material rewards sink into insignificance. You no longer work with your eyes upon the clock. The hours are all too short for the work that you would do. You are as light-hearted and as happy as a child,--for you have lost yourself to find yourself, and you have found yourself to lose yourself. V And the final vow that I would have these graduates take is the vow of idealism,--the pledge of fidelity and devotion to certain fundamental principles of life which it is the business of education carefully to cherish and nourish and transmit untarnished to each succeeding generation. These but formulate in another way what the vows that I have already discussed mean by implication. One is the ideal of social service, upon which education must, in the last analysis, rest its case. The second is the ideal of science,--the pledge of devotion to that persistent unwearying search after truth, of loyalty to the great principles of unbiased observation and unprejudiced experiment, of willingness to accept the truth and be governed by it, no matter how disagreeable it may be, no matter how roughly it may trample down our pet doctrines and our preconceived theories. The nineteenth century left us a glorious heritage in the great discoveries and inventions that science has established. These must not be lost to posterity; but far better lose them than lose the spirit of free inquiry, the spirit of untrammeled investigation, the noble devotion to truth for its own sake that made these discoveries and inventions possible. It is these ideals that education must perpetuate, and if education is successfully to perpetuate them, the teacher must himself be filled with a spirit of devotion to the things that they represent. Science has triumphed over superstition and fraud and error. It is the teacher's duty to see to it that this triumph is permanent, that mankind does not again fall back into the black pit of ignorance and superstition. And so it is the teacher's province to hold aloft the torch, to stand against the materialistic tendencies that would reduce all human standards to the common denominator of the dollar, to insist at all times and at all places that this nation of ours was founded upon idealism, and that, whatever may be the prevailing tendencies of the time, its children shall still learn to live "among the sunlit peaks." And if the teacher is imbued with this idealism, although his work may take him very close to Mother Earth, he may still lift his head above the fog and look the morning sun squarely in the face. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: An address to the graduating class of the Oswego, New York, State Normal School, February, 1907.] ~II~ OPTIMISM IN TEACHING[2] Although the month is March and not November, it is never unseasonable to count up the blessings for which it is well to be thankful. In fact, from the standpoint of education, the spring is perhaps the appropriate time to perform this very pleasant function. As if still further to emphasize the fact that education, like civilization, is an artificial thing, we have reversed the operations of Mother Nature: we sow our seed in the fall and cultivate our crops during the winter and reap our harvests in the spring. I may be pardoned, therefore, for making the theme of my discussion a brief review of the elements of growth and victory for which the educator of to-day may justly be grateful, with, perhaps, a few suggestions of what the next few years may reasonably be expected to bring forth. And this course is all the more necessary because, I believe, the teaching profession is unduly prone to pessimism. One might think at first glance that the contrary would be true. We are surrounded on every side by youth. Youth is the material with which we constantly deal. Youth is buoyant, hopeful, exuberant; and yet, with this material constantly surrounding us, we frequently find the task wearisome and apparently hopeless. The reason is not far to seek. Youth is not only buoyant, it is unsophisticated, it is inexperienced, in many important particulars it is crude. Some of its tastes must necessarily, in our judgment, hark back to the primitive, to the barbaric. Ours is continually the task to civilize, to sophisticate, to refine this raw material. But, unfortunately for us, the effort that we put forth does not always bring results that we can see and weigh and measure. The hopefulness of our material is overshadowed not infrequently by its crudeness. We take each generation as it comes to us. We strive to lift it to the plane that civilized society has reached. We do our best and pass it on, mindful of the many inadequacies, perhaps of the many failures, in our work. We turn to the new generation that takes its place. We hope for better materials, but we find no improvement. And so you and I reflect in our occasional moments of pessimism that generic situation which inheres in the very work that we do. The constantly accelerated progress of civilization lays constantly increasing burdens upon us. In some way or another we must accomplish the task. In some way or another we must lift the child to the level of society, and, as society is reaching a continually higher and higher level, so the distance through which the child must be raised is ever increased. We would like to think that all this progress in the race would come to mean that we should be able to take the child at a higher level; but you who deal with children know from experience the principle for which the biologist Weismann stands sponsor--the principle, namely, that acquired characteristics are not inherited; that whatever changes may be wrought during life in the brains and nerves and muscles of the present generation cannot be passed on to its successor save through the same laborious process of acquisition and training; that, however far the civilization of the race may progress, education, whose duty it is to conserve and transmit this civilization, must always begin with the "same old child." This, I take it, is the deep-lying cause of the schoolmaster's pessimism. In our work we are constantly struggling against that same inertia which held the race in bondage for how many millenniums only the evolutionist can approximate a guess,--that inertia of the primitive, untutored mind which we to-day know as the mind of childhood, but which, for thousands of generations, was the only kind of a mind that man possessed. This inertia has been conquered at various times in the course of recorded history,--in Egypt and China and India, in Chaldea and Assyria, in Greece and Rome,--conquered only again to reassert itself and drive man back into barbarism. Now we of the Western world have conquered it, let us hope, for all time; for we of the Western world have discovered an effective method of holding it in abeyance, and this method is universal public education. Let Germany close her public schools, and in two generations she will lapse back into the semi-darkness of medievalism; let her close both her public schools and her universities, and three generations will fetch her face to face with the Dark Ages; let her destroy her libraries and break into ruin all of her works of art, all of her existing triumphs of technical knowledge and skill, from which a few, self-tutored, might glean the wisdom that is every one's to-day, and Germany will soon become the home of a savage race, as it was in the days of Tacitus and Cæsar. Let Italy close her public schools, and Italy will become the same discordant jumble of petty states that it was a century ago,--again to await, this time perhaps for centuries or millenniums, another Garibaldi and Victor Emmanuel to work her regeneration. Let Japan close her public schools, and Japan in two generations will be a barbaric kingdom of the Shoguns, shorn of every vestige of power and prestige,--the easy victim of the machinations of Western diplomats. Let our country cease in its work of education, and these United States must needs pass through the reverse stages of their growth until another race of savages shall roam through the unbroken forest, now and then to reach the shores of ocean and gaze through the centuries, eastward, to catch a glimpse of the new Columbus. Like the moving pictures of the kinetoscope when the reels are reversed, is the picture that imagination can unroll if we grant the possibility of a lapse from civilization to savagery. And so when we take the broader view, we quickly see that, in spite of our pessimism, we are doing something in the world. We are part of that machine which civilization has invented and is slowly perfecting to preserve itself. We may be a very small part, but, so long as the responsibility for a single child rests upon us, we are not an unimportant part. Society must reckon with you and me perhaps in an infinitesimal degree, but it must reckon with the institution which we represent as it reckons with no other institution that it has reared to subserve its needs. In a certain sense these statements are platitudes. We have repeated them over and over again until the words have lost their tremendous significance. And it behooves us now and again to revive the old substance in a new form,--to come afresh to a self-consciousness of our function. It is not good for any man to hold a debased and inferior opinion of himself or of his work, and in the field of schoolcraft it is easy to fall into this self-depreciating habit of thought. We cannot hope that the general public will ever come to view our work in the true perspective that I have very briefly outlined. It would probably not be wise to promulgate publicly so pronounced an affirmation of our function and of our worth. The popular mind must think in concrete details rather than in comprehensive principles, when the subject of thought is a specialized vocation. You and I have crude ideas, no doubt, of the lawyer's function, of the physician's function, of the clergyman's function. Not less crude are their ideas of our function. Even when they patronize us by saying that our work is the noblest that any man or woman would engage in, they have but a vague and shadowy perception of its real significance. I doubt not that, with the majority of those who thus pat us verbally upon the back, the words that they use are words only. They do not envy us our privileges,--unless it is our summer vacations,--nor do they encourage their sons to enter service in our craft. The popular mind--the nontechnical mind,--must work in the concrete;--it must have visible evidences of power and influence before it pays homage to a man or to an institution. Throughout the German empire the traveler is brought constantly face to face with the memorials that have been erected by a grateful people to the genius of the Iron Chancellor. Bismarck richly deserves the tribute that is paid to his memory, but a man to be honored in this way must exert a tangible and an obvious influence. And yet, in a broader sense, the preëminence of Germany is due in far greater measure to two men whose names are not so frequently to be found inscribed upon towers and monuments. In the very midst of the havoc and devastation wrought by the Napoleon wars,--at the very moment when the German people seemed hopelessly crushed and defeated,--an intellect more penetrating than that of Bismarck grasped the logic of the situation. With the inspiration that comes with true insight, the philosopher Fichte issued his famous Addresses to the German people. With clear-cut argument couched in white-hot words, he drove home the great principle that lies at the basis of United Germany and upon the results of which Bismarck and Von Moltke and the first Emperor erected the splendid structure that to-day commands the admiration of the world. Fichte told the German people that their only hope lay in universal, public education. And the kingdom of Prussia--impoverished, bankrupt, war-ridden, and war-devastated--heard the plea. A great scheme that comprehended such an education was already at hand. It had fallen almost stillborn from the only kind of a mind that could have produced it,--a mind that was suffused with an overwhelming love for humanity and incomparably rich with the practical experiences of a primary schoolmaster. It had fallen from the mind of Pestalozzi, the Swiss reformer, who thus stands with Fichte as one of the vital factors in the development of Germany's educational supremacy. The people's schools of Prussia, imbued with the enthusiasm of Fichte and Pestalozzi,[3] gave to Germany the tremendous advantage that enabled it so easily to overcome its hereditary foe, when, two generations later, the Franco-Prussian War was fought; for the _Volksschule_ gave to Germany something that no other nation of that time possessed; namely, an educated proletariat, an intelligent common people. Bismarck knew this when he laid his cunning plans for the unification of German states that was to crown the brilliant series of victories beginning at Sedan and ending within the walls of Paris. William of Prussia knew it when, in the royal palace at Versailles, he accepted the crown that made him the first Emperor of United Germany. Von Moltke knew it when, at the capitulation of Paris, he was asked to whom the credit of the victory was due, and he replied, in the frank simplicity of the true soldier and the true hero, "The schoolmaster did it." And yet Bismarck and Von Moltke and the Emperor are the heroes of Germany, and if Fichte and Pestalozzi are not forgotten, at least their memories are not cherished as are the memories of the more tangible and obvious heroes. Instinct lies deeply embedded in human nature and it is instinctive to think in the concrete. And so I repeat that we cannot expect the general public to share in the respect and veneration which you and I feel for our calling, for you and I are technicians in education, and we can see the process as a comprehensive whole. But our fellow men and women have their own interests and their own departments of technical knowledge and skill; they see the schoolhouse and the pupils' desks and the books and other various material symbols of our work,--they see these things and call them education; just as we see a freight train thundering across the viaduct or a steamer swinging out in the lake and call these things commerce. In both cases, the nontechnical mind associates the word with something concrete and tangible; in both cases, the technical mind associates the same word with an abstract process, comprehending a movement of vast proportions. To compress such a movement--whether it be commerce or government or education--in a single conception requires a multitude of experiences involving actual adjustments with the materials involved; involving constant reflection upon hidden meanings, painful investigations into hidden causes, and mastery of a vast body of specialized knowledge which it takes years of study to digest and assimilate. It is not every stevedore upon the docks, nor every stoker upon the steamers, nor every brakeman upon the railroads, who comprehends what commerce really means. It is not every banker's clerk who knows the meaning of business. It is not every petty holder of public office who knows what government really means. But this, at least, is true: in proportion as the worker knows the meaning of the work that he does,--in proportion as he sees it in its largest relations to society and to life,--his work is no longer the drudgery of routine toil. It becomes instead an intelligent process directed toward a definite goal. It has acquired that touch of artistry which, so far as human testimony goes, is the only pure and uncontaminated source of human happiness. And the chief blessing for which you and I should be thankful to-day is that this larger view of our calling has been vouchsafed to us as it has been vouchsafed no former generation of teachers. Education as the conventional prerogative of the rich,--as the garment which separated the higher from the lower classes of society,--this could scarcely be looked upon as a fascinating and uplifting ideal from which to derive hope and inspiration in the day's work; and yet this was the commonly accepted function of education for thousands of years, and the teachers who did the actual work of instruction could not but reflect in their attitude and bearing the servile character of the task that they performed. Education to fit the child to earn a better living, to command a higher wage,--this myopic view of the function of the school could do but little to make the work of teaching anything but drudgery; and yet it is this narrow and materialistic view that has dominated our educational system to within a comparatively few years. So silently and yet so insistently have our craft ideals been transformed in the last two decades that you and I are scarcely aware that our point of view has been changed and that we are looking upon our work from a much higher point of vantage and in a light entirely new. And yet this is the change that has been wrought. That education, in its widest meaning, is the sole conservator and transmitter of civilization to successive generations found expression as far back as Aristotle and Plato, and has been vaguely voiced at intervals down through the centuries; but its complete establishment came only as an indirect issue of the great scientific discoveries of the nineteenth century, and its application to the problems of practical schoolcraft and its dissemination through the rank and file of teachers awaited the dawn of the twentieth century. To-day we see expressions and indications of the new outlook upon every hand, in the greatly increased professional zeal that animates the teacher's calling; in the widespread movement among all civilized countries to raise the standards of teachers, to eliminate those candidates for service who have not subjected themselves to the discipline of special preparation; in the increased endowments and appropriations for schools and seminaries that prepare teachers; and, perhaps most strikingly at the present moment, in that concerted movement to organize into institutions of formal education, all of those branches of training which have, for years, been left to the chance operation of economic needs working through the crude and unorganized though often effective apprentice system. The contemporary fervor for industrial education is only one expression of this new view that, in the last analysis, the school must stand sponsor for the conservation and transmission of every valuable item of experience, every usable fact or principle, every tiniest perfected bit of technical skill, every significant ideal or prejudice, that the race has acquired at the cost of so much struggle and suffering and effort. I repeat that this new vantage point from which to gain a comprehensive view of our calling has been attained only as an indirect result of the scientific investigations of the nineteenth century. We are wont to study the history of education from the work and writings of a few great reformers, and it is true that much that is valuable in our present educational system can be understood and appreciated only when viewed in the perspective of such sources. Aristotle and Quintilian, Abelard and St. Thomas Aquinas, Sturm and Philip Melanchthon, Comenius, Pestalozzi, Rousseau, Herbart, and Froebel still live in the schools of to-day. Their genius speaks to us through the organization of subject-matter, through the art of questioning, through the developmental methods of teaching, through the use of pictures, through objective instruction, and in a thousand other forms. But this dominant ideal of education to which I have referred and which is so rapidly transforming our outlook and vitalizing our organization and inspiring us to new efforts, is not to be drawn from these sources. The new histories of education must account for this new ideal, and to do this they must turn to the masters in science who made the middle part of the nineteenth century the period of the most profound changes that the history of human thought records.[4] With the illuminating principle of evolution came a new and generously rich conception of human growth and development. The panorama of evolution carried man back far beyond the limits of recorded human history and indicated an origin as lowly as the succeeding uplift has been sublime. The old depressing and fatalistic notion that the human race was on the downward path, and that the march of civilization must sooner or later end in a cul-de-sac (a view which found frequent expression in the French writers of the eighteenth century and which dominated the skepticism of the dark hours preceding the Revolution)--this fatalistic view met its death-blow in the principle of evolution. A vista of hope entirely undreamed of stretched out before the race. If the tremendous leverage of the untold millenniums of brute and savage ancestry could be overcome, even in slight measure, by a few short centuries of intelligence and reason, what might not happen in a few more centuries of constantly increasing light? In short, the principle of evolution supplied the perspective that was necessary to an adequate evaluation of human progress. But this inspiriting outlook which was perhaps the most comprehensive result of Darwin's work had indirect consequences that were vitally significant to education. It is with mental and not with physical development that education is primarily concerned, and yet mental development is now known to depend fundamentally upon physical forces. The same decade that witnessed the publication of the _Origin of Species_ also witnessed the birth of another great book, little known except to the specialist, and yet destined to achieve immortality. This book is the _Elements of Psychophysics_, the work of the German scientist Fechner. The intimate relation between mental life and physical and physiological forces was here first clearly demonstrated, and the way was open for a science of psychology which should cast aside the old and threadbare raiment of mystery and speculation and metaphysic, and stand forth naked and unashamed. But all this was only preparatory to the epoch-making discoveries that have had so much to do with our present attitude toward education. The Darwinian hypothesis led to violent controversy, not only between the opponents and supporters of the theory, but also among the various camps of the evolutionists themselves. Among these controversies was that which concerned itself with the inheritance of acquired characteristics, and the outcome of that conflict has a direct significance to present educational theory. The principle, now almost conclusively established,[5] that the characteristics acquired by an organism during its lifetime are not transmitted by physical heredity to its offspring, must certainly stand as the basic principle of education; for everything that we identify as human as contrasted with that which is brutal must look to education for its preservation and support. It has been stated by competent authorities that, during the past ten thousand years, there has been no significant change in man's physical constitution. This simply means that Nature finished her work as far as man is concerned far beyond the remotest period that human history records; that, for all that we can say to-day, there must have existed in the very distant past human beings who were just as well adapted by nature to the lives that we are leading as we are to-day adapted; that what they lacked and what we possess is simply a mass of traditions, of habits, of ideals, and prejudices which have been slowly accumulated through the ages and which are passed on from generation to generation by imitation and instruction and training and discipline; and that the child of to-day, left to his own devices and operated upon in no way by the products of civilization, would develop into a savage undistinguishable in all significant qualities from other savages. The possibilities that follow from such a conception are almost overwhelming even at first glance, and yet the theory is borne out by adequate experiments. The transformation of the Japanese people through two generations of education in Western civilization is a complete upsetting of the old theory that as far as race is concerned, there is anything significantly important in blood, and confirms the view that all that is racially significant depends upon the influences that surround the young of the race during the formative years. The complete assimilation of foreign ingredients into our own national stock through the instrumentality of the public school is another demonstration that the factors which form the significant characteristics in the lower animals possess but a minimum of significance to man,--that color, race, stature, and even brain weight and the shape of the cranium, have very little to do with human worth or human efficiency save in extremely abnormal cases. And so we have at last a fundamental principle with which to illumine the field of our work and from which to derive not only light but inspiration. Unite this with John Fiske's penetrating induction that the possibilities of progress through education are correlated directly with the length of the period of growth or immaturity,--that is, that the races having the longest growth before maturity are capable of the highest degree of civilization,--and we have a pair of principles the influence of which we see reflected all about us in the great activity for education and especially in the increased sense of pride and responsibility and respect for his calling that is animating the modern teacher. And what will be the result of this new point of view? First and foremost, an increased general respect for the work. Until a profession respects itself, it cannot very well ask for the world's respect, and until it can respect itself on the basis of scientific principles indubitably established, its respect for itself will be little more than the irritating self-esteem of the goody-goody order which is so often associated with our craft. With our own respect for our calling, based upon this incontrovertible principle, will come, sooner or later, increased compensation for the work and increased prestige in the community. I repeat that these things can only come after we have established a true craft spirit. If we are ashamed of our calling, if we regret openly and publicly that we are not lawyers or physicians or dentists or bricklayers or farmers or anything rather than teachers, the public will have little respect for the teacher's calling. As long as we criticize each other before laymen and make light of each other's honest efforts, the public will question our professional standing on the ground that we have no organized code of professional ethics,--a prerequisite for any profession. I started out to tell you something that we ought to be thankful for,--something that ought to counteract in a measure the inevitable tendencies toward pessimism and discouragement. The hopeful thing about our present status is that we have an established principle upon which to work. A writer in a recent periodical stoutly maintained that education was in the position just now that medicine was in during the Middle Ages. The statement is hardly fair, either to medicine or to education. If one were to attempt a parallel, one might say that education stands to-day where medicine stood about the middle of the nineteenth century. The analogy might be more closely drawn by comparing our present conception of education with the conception of medicine just prior to the application of the experimental method to a solution of its problems. Education has still a long road to travel before it reaches the point of development that medicine has to-day attained. It has still to develop principles that are comparable to the doctrine of lymph therapy or to that latest triumph of investigation in the field of medicine,--the theory of opsonins,--which almost makes one believe that in a few years violent accident and old age will be the only sources of death in the human race. Education, we admit, has a long road to travel before it reaches so advanced a point of development. But there is no immediate cause for pessimism or despair. We need especially, now that the purpose of education is adequately defined, an adequate doctrine of educational values and a rich and vital infusion of the spirit of experimental science. For efficiency in the work of instruction and training, we need to know the influence of different types of experience in controlling human conduct,--we need to know just what degree of efficiency is exerted by our arithmetic and literature, our geography and history, our drawing and manual training, our Latin and Greek, our ethics and psychology. It is the lack of definite ideas and criteria in these fields that constitutes the greatest single source of waste in our educational system to-day. And yet even here the outlook is extremely hopeful. The new movement toward industrial education is placing greater and greater emphasis upon those subjects of instruction and those types of methods whose efficiency can be tested and determined in an accurate fashion. The intimate relation between the classroom, on the one hand, and the machine shop, the experimental farm, the hospital ward and operating room, and the practice school, on the other hand, indicates a source of accurate knowledge with regard to the way in which our teachings really affect the conduct and adjustment of our pupils that cannot fail within a short time to serve as the basis for some illuminating principle of educational values. This, I believe, will be the next great step in the development of our profession. There has been no intention in what I have said to minimize the disadvantages and discouragements under which we are to-day doing our work. My only plea is for the hopeful and optimistic outlook which, I maintain, is richly justified by the progress that has already been made and by the virile character of the forces that are operating in the present situation. On the whole, I can see no reason why I should not encourage young men to enter the service of schoolcraft. I cannot say to them that they will attain to great wealth, but I can safely promise them that, if they give to the work of preparation the same attention and time that they would give to their education and training for medicine or law or engineering, their services will be in large demand and their rewards not to be sneered at. Their incomes will not enable them to compete with the captains of industry, but they will permit as full an enjoyment of the comforts of life as it is good for any young man to command. But the ambitious teacher must pay the price to reap these rewards,--the price of time and energy and labor,--the price that he would have to pay for success in any other human calling. What I cannot promise him in education is the opportunity for wide popular adulation, but this, after all, is a matter of taste. Some men crave it and they should go into those vocations that will give it to them. Others are better satisfied with the discriminating recognition and praise of their own fellow-craftsmen. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 2: An address before the Oswego, New York, County Council of Education, March 28, 1908.] [Footnote 3: It should be added that the movement toward universal education in Germany owed much to the work of pre-Pestalozzian reformers,--especially Francke and Basedow.] [Footnote 4: While the years from 1840 to 1870 mark the period of intellectual revolution, it should not be inferred that the education of this period reflected these fundamental changes of outlook. On the contrary, these years were in general marked by educational stagnation.] [Footnote 5: The writer here accepts the conclusions of J.A. Thomson (_Heredity_ New York, 1908, ch. vii).] ~III~ HOW MAY WE PROMOTE THE EFFICIENCY OF THE TEACHING FORCE?[6] I Efficiency seems to be a word to conjure with in these days. Popular speech has taken it in its present connotation from the technical vocabulary of engineering, and the term has brought with it a very refreshing sense of accuracy and practicality. It suggests blueprints and T-squares and mathematical formulæ. A faint and rather pleasant odor of lubricating oil and cotton waste seems to hover about it. The efficiency of a steam engine or a dynamo is a definitely determinable and measurable factor, and when we use the term "efficiency" in popular speech we convey through the word somewhat of this quality of certainty and exactitude. An efficient man, very obviously, is a man who "makes good," who surmounts obstacles, overcomes difficulties, and "gets results." Rowan, the man who achieved immortality on account of a certain message that he carried to Garcia, is the contemporary standard of human efficiency. He was given a task to do, and he did it. He did not stop to inquire whether it was interesting, or whether it was easy, or whether it would be remunerative, or whether Garcia was a pleasant man to meet. He simply took the message and brought back the answer. Here we have efficiency in human endeavor reduced to its lowest terms: to take a message and to bring back an answer; to do the work that is laid out for one to do without shirking or "soldiering" or whining; and to "make good," to get results. Now if we are to improve the efficiency of the teacher, the first thing to do is to see that the conditions of efficiency are fulfilled as far as possible at the outset. In other words, efficiency is impossible unless one is set a certain task to accomplish. Rowan was told to carry a message to Garcia. He was to carry it to Garcia, not to Queen Victoria or Li Hung Chang or J. Pierpont Morgan, or any one else whom he may have felt inclined to choose as its recipient. And that is just where Rowan had a decided advantage over many teachers who have every ambition to be just as efficient as he was. To expect a young teacher not only to get results, but also to determine the results that should be obtained, multiplies his chances of failure, not by two, as one might assume at first thought, but almost by infinity. Let me give an example of what I mean. A young man graduated from college during the hard times of the middle nineties. It was imperative that he secure some sort of a remunerative employment, but places were very scarce and he had to seek a long time before he found anything to which he could turn his hand. The position that he finally secured was that of teacher in an ungraded school in a remote settlement. School-teaching was far from his thoughts and still farther from his ambitions, but forty dollars a month looked too good to be true, especially as he had come to the point where his allowance of food consisted of one plate of soup each day, with the small supply of crackers that went with it. He accepted the position most gratefully. He taught this school for two years. He had no supervision. He read various books on the science and art of teaching and upon a certain subject that went by the name of psychology, but he could see no connection between what these books told him and the tasks that he had to face. Finally he bought a book that was advertised as indispensable to young teachers. The first words of the opening paragraph were these: "Teacher, if you know it all, don't read this book." The young man threw the volume in the fire. He had no desire to profit by the teaching of an author who began his instruction with an insult. From that time until he left the school, he never opened a book on educational theory. His first year passed off with what appeared to be the most encouraging success. He talked to his pupils on science and literature and history. They were very good children, and they listened attentively. When he tired of talking, he set the pupils to writing in their copy books, while he thought of more things to talk about. He covered a great deal of ground that first year. Scarcely a field of human knowledge was left untouched. His pupils were duly informed about the plants and rocks and trees, about the planets and constellations, about atoms and molecules and the laws of motion, about digestion and respiration and the wonders of the nervous system, about Shakespeare and Dickens and George Eliot. And his pupils were very much interested in it all. Their faces had that glow of interest, that look of wonderment and absorption, that you get sometimes when you tell a little four-year-old the story of the three bears. He never had any troubles of discipline, because he never asked his pupils to do anything that they did not wish to do. There were six pupils in his "chart class." They were anxious to learn to read, and three of them did learn. Their mothers taught them at home. The other three were still learning at the end of the second year. He concluded that they had been "born short," but he liked them and they liked him. He did not teach his pupils spelling or writing. If they learned these things they learned them without his aid, and it is safe to say that they did not learn them in any significant measure. He did not like arithmetic, and so he just touched on it now and then for the sake of appearances. This teacher was elected for the following year at a handsome increase of salary. He took this to mean a hearty indorsement of his methods; consequently he followed the same general plan the next year. He had told his pupils about everything that he knew, so he started over again, much to their delight. He left at the close of the year, amidst general lamentation. School-teaching was a delightful occupation, but he had mastered the art, and now he wished to attack something that was really difficult. He would study law. It is no part of the story that he did not. Neither is it part of the story that his successor had a very hard time getting that school straightened out; in fact, I believe it required three or four successive successors to make even an impression. Now that man's work was a failure, and the saddest kind of a failure, for he did not realize that he had failed until years afterward. He failed, not because he lacked ambition and enthusiasm; he had a large measure of both these indispensable qualities. He failed, not because he lacked education and a certain measure of what the world calls culture; from the standpoint of education, he was better qualified than most teachers in schools of that type. He failed, not because he lacked social spirit and the ability to coöperate with the church and the home; he mingled with the other members of the community, lived their life and thought their thoughts and enjoyed their social diversions. The community liked him and respected him. His pupils liked him and respected him; and yet what he fears most of all to-day is that he may come suddenly face to face with one of those pupils and be forced to listen to a first-hand account of his sins of omission. This man failed simply because he did not do what the elementary teacher must do if he is to be efficient as an elementary teacher. He did not train his pupils in the habits that are essential to one who is to live the social life. He gave them a miscellaneous lot of interesting information which held their attention while it lasted, but which was never mastered in any real sense of the term, and which could have but the most superficial influence upon their future conduct. But, worst of all, he permitted bad and inadequate habits to be developed at the most critical and plastic period of life. His pupils had followed the lines of least effort, just as he had followed the lines of least effort. The result was a well-established prejudice against everything that was not superficially attractive and intrinsically interesting. Now this man's teaching fell short simply because he did not know what results he ought to obtain. He had been given a message to deliver, but he did not know to whom he should deliver it. Consequently he brought the answer, not from Garcia, but from a host of other personages with whom he was better acquainted, whose language he could speak and understand, and from whom he was certain of a warm welcome. In other words, having no definite results for which he would be held responsible, he did the kind of teaching that he liked to do. That might, under certain conditions, have been the best kind of teaching for his pupils. But these conditions did not happen to operate at that time. The answer that he brought did not happen to be the answer that was needed. That it pleased his employers does not in the least mitigate the failure. That a teacher pleases the community in which he works is not always evidence of his success. It is dangerous to make a statement like this, for some are sure to jump to the opposite conclusion and assume that one who is unpopular in the community is the most successful. Needless to say, the reasoning is fallacious. The matter of popularity is a secondary criterion, not a primary criterion of the efficiency of teaching. One may be successful and popular or successful and unpopular; unsuccessful and popular or unsuccessful and unpopular. The question of popularity is beside the question of efficiency, although it may enter into specific cases as a factor. II And so the first step to take in getting more efficient work from young teachers, and especially from inexperienced and untrained teachers fresh from the high school or the college, is to make sure that they know what is expected of them. Now this looks to be a very simple precaution that no one would be unwise enough to omit. As a matter of fact, a great many superintendents and principals are not explicit and definite about the results that they desire. Very frequently all that is asked of a teacher is that he or she keep things running smoothly, keep pupils and parents good-natured. Let me assert again that this ought to be done, but that it is no measure of a teacher's efficiency, simply because it can be done and often is done by means that defeat the purpose of the school. As a young principal in a city system, I learned some vital lessons in supervision from a very skillful teacher. She would come to me week after week with this statement: "Tell me what you want done, and I will do it." It took me some time to realize that that was just what I was being paid to do,--telling teachers what should be accomplished and then seeing that they accomplished the task that was set. When I finally awoke to my duties, I found myself utterly at a loss to make prescriptions. I then learned that there was a certain document known as the course of study, which mapped out the general line of work and indicated the minimal requirements. I had seen this course of study, but its function had never impressed itself upon me. I had thought that it was one of those documents that officials publish as a matter of form but which no one is ever expected to read. But I soon discovered that a principal had something to do besides passing from room to room, looking wisely at the work going on, and patting little boys and girls on the head. Now a definite course of study is very hard to construct,--a course that will tell explicitly what the pupils of each grade should acquire each term or half-term in the way of habits, knowledge, ideals, attitudes, and prejudices. But such a course of study is the first requisite to efficiency in teaching. The system that goes by hit or miss, letting each teacher work out his own salvation in any way that he may see fit, is just an aggregation of such schools as that which I have described. It is true that reformers have very strenuously criticized the policy of restricting teachers to a definite course of study. They have maintained that it curtails individual initiative and crushes enthusiasm. It does this in a certain measure. Every prescription is in a sense a restriction. The fact that the steamship captain must head his ship for Liverpool instead of wherever he may choose to go is a restriction, and the captain's individuality is doubtless crushed and his initiative limited. But this result seems to be inevitable and he generally manages to survive the blow. The course of study must be to the teacher what the sailing orders are to the captain of the ship, what the stated course is to the wheelsman and the officer on the bridge, what the time-table is to the locomotive engineer, what Garcia and the message and the answer were to Rowan. One may decry organization and prescription in our educational system. One may say that these things tend inevitably toward mechanism and formalism and the stultifying of initiative. But the fact remains that, whenever prescription is abandoned, efficiency in general is at an end. And so I maintain that every teacher has a right to know what he is to be held responsible for, what is expected of him, and that this information be just as definite and unequivocal as it can be made. It is under the stress of definite responsibility that growth is most rapid and certain. The more uncertain and intangible the end to be gained, the less keenly will one feel the responsibility for gaining that end. Unhappily we cannot say to a teacher: "Here is a message. Take it to Garcia. Bring the answer." But we may make our work far more definite and tangible than it is now. The courses of study are becoming more and more explicit each year. Vague and general prescriptions are giving place to definite and specific prescriptions. The teachers know what they are expected to do, and knowing this, they have some measure for testing the efficiency of their own efforts. III But to make more definite requirements is, after all, only the first step in improving efficiency. It is not sufficient that one know what results are wanted; one must also know how these results may be obtained. Improvement in method means improvement in efficiency, and a crying need in education to-day is a scientific investigation of methods of teaching. Teachers should be made acquainted with the methods that are most economical and efficient. As a matter of fact, whatever is done in that direction at the present time must be almost entirely confined to suggestions and hints. Our discussions of methods of teaching may be divided into three classes: (1) Dogmatic assertions that such and such a method is right and that all others are wrong--assertions based entirely upon _a priori_ reasoning. For example, the assertion that children must never be permitted to learn their lessons "by heart" is based upon the general principle that words are only symbols of ideas and that, if one has ideas, one can find words of his own in which to formulate them. (2) A second class of discussions of method comprises descriptions of devices that have proved successful in certain instances and with certain teachers. (3) Of a third class of discussions there are very few representative examples. I refer to methods that have been established on the basis of experiments in which irrelevant factors have been eliminated. In fact, I know of no clearly defined report or discussion of this sort. An approach to a scientific solution of a definite problem of method is to be found in Browne's monograph, _The Psychology of Simple Arithmetical Processes_. Another example is represented by the experiments of Miss Steffens, Marx Lobsien, and others, regarding the best methods of memorizing, and proving beyond much doubt that the complete repetition is more economical than the partial repetition. But these conclusions have, of course, only a limited field of application to practical teaching. We stand in great need of a definite experimental investigation of the detailed problems of teaching upon which there is wide divergence of opinion. A very good illustration is the controversy between the how and the why in primary arithmetic. In this case, there is a vast amount of "opinion," but there are no clearly defined conclusions drawn from accurate tests. It would seem possible to do work of this sort concerning the details of method in the teaching of arithmetic, spelling, grammar, penmanship, and geography. IV Lacking this accurate type of data regarding methods, the next recourse is to the actual teaching of those teachers who are recognized as efficient. Wherever such a teacher may be found, his or her work is well worth the most careful sort of study. Success, of course, may be due to other factors than the methods employed,--to personality, for example. But, in every case of recognized efficiency in teaching that I have observed, I have found that the methods employed have, in the main, been productive of good results when used by others. The experienced teacher comes, through a process of trial and error, to select, perhaps unconsciously, the methods that work best. Sometimes these are not always to be identified with the methods that theoretical pedagogy had worked out from _a priori_ bases. For example, the type of lesson which I call the "deductive development" lesson[7] is one that is not included in the older discussions of method; yet it accurately describes one of the methods employed by a very successful teacher whose work I observed. One way, then, to improve the efficiency of young teachers, in so far as improvement in methods leads to improved efficiency, is to encourage the observation of expert teaching. The plan of giving teachers visiting days often brings excellent results, especially if the teacher looks upon the privilege in the proper light. The hyper-critical spirit is fatal to growth under any condition. Whenever a teacher has come to the conclusion that he or she has nothing to learn from studying the work of others, anabolism has ceased and katabolism has set in. The self-sufficiency of our craft is one of its weakest characteristics. It is the factor that more than any other discounts it in the minds of laymen. Fortunately it is less frequently a professional characteristic than in former years, but it still persists in some quarters. I recently met a "pedagogue" who impressed me as the most "knowing" individual that it had ever been my privilege to become acquainted with. An enthusiastic friend of his, in dilating upon this man's virtues, used these words: "When you propose a subject of conversation in whatever field you may choose, you will find that he has mastered it to bed rock. He will go over it once and you think that he is wise. He starts at the beginning and goes over it again, and you realize that he is deep. Once more he traverses the same ground, but he is so far down now that you cannot follow him, and then you are aware that he is profound." That sort of profundity is still not rare in the field of general education. The person who has all possible knowledge pigeonholed and classified is still in our midst. The pedant still does the cause of education incalculable injury. Of the use to which reading circles may be put in improving the efficiency of teaching, it is necessary to say but little. Such organizations, under wise leadership, may doubtless be made to serve a good purpose in promoting professional enthusiasm. The difficulty with using them to promote immediate and direct efficiency lies in the paucity of the literature that is at our disposal. Most of our present-day works upon education are very general in their nature. They are not without their value, but this value is general and indirect rather than immediate and specific. A book like Miss Winterburn's _Methods of Teaching_, or Chubb's _Teaching of English_[8] is especially valuable for young teachers who are looking for first-hand helps. But books like this are all too rare in our literature. On the whole, I think that the improvement of teachers in the matter of methods is the most unsatisfactory part of our problem.[9] All that one can say is that the work of the best teachers should be observed carefully and faithfully, that the methods upon which there is little or no dispute should be given and accepted as standard, but that one should be very careful about giving young teachers an idea that there is any single form under which all teaching can be subsumed. I know of no term that is more thoroughly a misnomer in our technical vocabulary than the term "general method." I teach a subject that often goes by that name, but I always take care to explain that the name does not mean, in my class, what the words seem to signify. There are certain broad and general principles which describe very crudely and roughly and inadequately certain phases of certain processes that mind undergoes in organizing experience--perception, apperception, conception, induction, deduction, inference, generalization, and the like. But these terms have only a vague and general connotation; or, if their connotation is specific and definite, it has been made so by an artificial process of definition in which counsel is darkened by words without meaning. The only full-fledged law that I know of in the educative process is the law of habit building--(1) focalization, (2) attentive repetition at intervals of increasing length, (3) permitting no exception--and I am often told that this "law" is fallacious. It has differed from some other so-called laws, however, in this respect: it always works. Whenever a complex habit is adduced that has not been formed through the operation of this law, I am willing to give it up. V A third general method of improving the efficiency of teaching is to build up the notion of responsibility for results. The teacher must not only take the message and deliver it to Garcia, or to some other individual as definite and tangible, but he must also bring the answer. So far as I know there is no other way to insure a maximum of efficiency than to demand certain results and to hold the individual responsible for gaining these results. The present standards of the teaching craft are less rigorous than they should be in this respect. We need a craft spirit that will judge every man impartially by his work, not by secondary criteria. You remember Finlayson in Kipling's _Bridge Builders_, and the agony with which he watched the waters of the Ganges tearing away at the caissons of his new bridge. A vital question of Finlayson's life was to be answered by the success or failure of those caissons to resist the flood. If they should yield, it meant not only the wreck of the bridge, but the wreck of his career; for, as Kipling says, "Government might listen, perhaps, but his own kind would judge him by his bridge as that stood or fell." President Hall has said that one of the last sentiments to be developed in human nature is "the sense of responsibility, which is one of the highest and most complex psychic qualities." How to develop this sentiment of responsibility is one of the most pressing problems of education. And the problem is especially pressing in those departments of education that train for social service. To engender in the young teacher an effective prejudice against scamped work, against the making of excuses, against the seductive allurements of ease and comfort and the lines of least resistance is one of the most important duties that is laid upon the normal school, the training school, and the teachers' college. To do well the work that has been set for him to do should be the highest ambition of every worker, the ambition to which all other ambitions and desires are secondary and subordinate. Pride in the mastery of the technique of one's calling is the most wholesome and helpful sort of pride that a man can indulge in. The joy of doing each day's work in the best possible manner is the keenest joy of life. But this pride and this joy do not come at the outset. Like all other good things of life, they come only as the result of effort and struggle and strenuous self-discipline and dogged perseverance. The emotional coloring which gives these things their subjective worth is a matter very largely of contrast. Success must stand out against a background of struggle, or the chief virtue of success--the consciousness of conquest--will be entirely missed. That sort of success means strength; for strength of mind is nothing more than the ability to "hew to the line," to follow a given course of effort to a successful conclusion, no matter how long and how tedious be the road that one must travel, no matter how disagreeable are the tasks involved, no matter how tempting are the insidious siren songs of momentary fancy. What teachers need--what all workers need--is to be inspired with those ideals and prejudices that will enable them to work steadfastly and unremittingly toward the attainment of a stated end. What inspired Rowan with those ideals of efficiency that enabled him to carry his message and bring back the answer, I do not know, but if he was a soldier, I do not hesitate to hazard an opinion. Our regular army stands as the clearest type of efficient service which is available for our study and emulation. The work of Colonel Goethals on the Panama Canal bids fair to be the finest fruit of the training that we give to the officers of our army. If we wish to learn the fundamental virtues of that training, it is not sufficient to study the curriculum of the Military Academy. Technical knowledge and skill are essential to such results, but they are not the prime essentials. If you wish to know what the prime essentials are, let me refer you to a series of papers, entitled _The Spirit of Old West Point_, which ran through a recent volume of the _Atlantic Monthly_ and which has since been published in book form. They constitute, to my mind, one of the most important educational documents of the present decade. The army service is efficient because it is inspired with effective ideals of service,--ideals in which every other desire and ambition is totally and completely subordinated to the ideal of duty. To those who maintain that close organization and definite prescription kill initiative and curtail efficiency, the record of West Point and the army service should be a silencing argument. And yet education is more important than war; more important, even, than the building of the Panama Canal. We believe, and rightly, that no training is too good for our military and naval officers; that no discipline which will produce the appropriate habits and ideals and prejudices is too strenuous; that no individual sacrifice of comfort or ease is too costly. Equal or even commensurable efficiency in education can come only through a like process. From the times of the ancient Egyptians to the present day, one vital truth has been revealed in every forward movement; the homely truth that you cannot make bricks without straw; you cannot win success without effort; you cannot attain efficiency without undergoing the processes of discipline; and discipline means only this: doing things that you do not want to do, for the sake of reaching some end that ought to be attained. The normal schools and the training schools and the teachers' colleges must be the nurseries of craft ideals and standards. The instruction that they offer must be upon a plane that will command respect. The intolerable pedantry and the hypocritical goody-goodyism must be banished forever. The crass sentimentalism by which we attempt to cover our paucity of craft ideals must also be eliminated. Those who are most strongly imbued with ideals are not those who cheapen the value of ideals by constant verbal reiteration. Ideals do not often come through explicitly imparted precepts. They come through more impalpable and hidden channels,--now through stately buildings with vine-covered towers from which the past speaks in the silence of great halls and cloistered retreats; now through the unwritten and scarcely spoken traditions that are expressed in the very bearing and attitude of those to whom youth looks for inspiration and guidance; now through a dominant and powerful personality, sometimes rough and crude, sometimes warm-hearted and lovable, but always sincere. Traditions and ideals are the most priceless part of a school's equipment, and the school that can give these things to its students in richest measure will have the greatest influence on the succeeding generations. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 6: A paper read before the Normal and Training Teachers' Conference of the New York State Teachers' Association, December 27, 1907.] [Footnote 7: See _Educative Process_, New York, 1910, Chapter XX.] [Footnote 8: Rowe's _Habit Formation_ (New York, 1909), Briggs and Coffman's _Reading in Public Schools_ (Chicago, 1908), Foght's _The American Rural School_, Adams's _Exposition and Illustration in Class Teaching_ (New York, 1910), and Perry's _Problems of Elementary Education_ (New York, 1910) should certainly be added to this list.] [Footnote 9: "It seems to me one of the most pressing problems in pedagogy to-day is that of method.... It is the subject in which teachers of pedagogy in Colleges and Universities are weakest to-day. Of what practical value is all our study of educational psychology or the history of education, our child study, our experimental pedagogy, if it does not finally result in the devising of better methods of teaching, and make the teacher more skillful and effective in his work."--T.M. BALLIET: "Undergraduate Instruction in Pedagogy," _Pedagogical Seminary_, vol. xvii, 1910, p. 67.] ~IV~ THE TEST OF EFFICIENCY IN SUPERVISION[10] I I know of no way in which I can better introduce my subject than to describe very briefly the work of a superintendent who once furnished me with an example of a definite and effective method of supervision. This man was a "long range" superintendent. It was impossible for him to visit his schools very frequently, and so he did the next best thing: he had the schools brought to him. When I first saw him he was poring over a pile of papers that had just come in from one of his schools. I soon discovered that these papers were arranged in sets, each set being made up of samples taken each week from the work of the pupils in the schools under his supervision. The papers of each pupil were arranged in chronological order, and by looking through the set, he could note the growth that the pupil in question had made since the beginning of the term. Upon these papers, the superintendent recorded his judgment of the amount of improvement shown both in form and in content. I was particularly impressed by the character of his criticisms. There was nothing vague or intangible about them. Every annotation was clear and definite. If penmanship happened to be the point at issue, he would note that the lines were too close together; that the letters did not have sufficient individuality; that the spaces between the words were not sufficiently wide; that the indentation was inadequate; that the writing was cramped, showing that the pen had not been held properly; that the margin needed correction. If the papers were defective from the standpoint of language, the criticisms were equally clear and definite. One pupil had misspelled the same word in three successive papers. "Be sure that this word appears in the next spelling list," was the comment of the superintendent. Another pupil habitually used a bit of false syntax: "Place this upon the list of errors to be taken up and corrected." Still others were uncertain about paragraphing: "Devote a language lesson to the paragraph before the next written exercise." On the covers of each bundle of class papers, he wrote directions and suggestions of a more general nature; for example: "Improvement is not sufficiently marked; try for better results next time"; or: "I note that the pupils draw rather than write; look out for free movement." Often, too, there were words of well-merited praise: "I like the way in which your pupils have responded to their drill. This is good. Keep it up." And not infrequently suggestions were made as to content: "Tell this story in greater detail next time, and have it reproduced again"; or: "The form of these papers is good, but the nature study is poor; don't sacrifice thought to form." In similar fashion, the other written work was gone over and annotated. Every pupil in this system of schools had a sample of his written work examined at regular and frequent intervals by the superintendent. Every teacher knew just what her chief demanded in the way of results, and did her best to gain the results demanded. I am not taking the position that the results that were demanded represented the highest ideals of what the elementary school should accomplish. Good penmanship and good spelling and good language, in the light of contemporary educational thought, seem to be something like happiness--you get them in larger measure the less you think about getting them. But this possible objection aside, the superintendent in question had developed a system which kept him in very close touch with the work that was being done in widely separated schools. He told me further that, on the infrequent occasions when he could visit his classrooms, he gave most of his time and attention to the matters that could not be supervised at "long range." He found out how the pupils were improving in their reading, and especially in oral expression, in its syntax, its freedom from errors of construction, its clearness and fluency. He listed the common errors, directing his teachers to take them up in a systematic manner and eradicate them, and he did not fail to note at his next visit how much progress had been made. He noted the condition of the blackboard work, and kept a list of the improvements that he suggested. He tested for rapidity in arithmetical processes, for the papers sent to his office gave him only an index of accuracy. He noted the habits of personal cleanliness that were being developed or neglected. In fact, he had a long list of specific standards that he kept continually in mind, the progress toward which he constantly watched. And last, but by no means least, he carried with him wherever he went an atmosphere of breezy good nature and cheerfulness, for he had mastered the first principle in the art of both supervision and teaching; he had learned that the best way to promote growth in either pupils or teachers is neither to let them do as they please nor to force them to do as you please, but to get them to please to do what you please to have them do. I instance this superintendent as one type of efficiency in supervision. He was efficient, not simply because he had a system that scrutinized every least detail of his pupils' growth, but because that scrutiny really insured growth. He obtained the results that he desired, and he obtained uniformly good results from a large number of young, untrained teachers. We have all heard of the superintendent who boasted that he could tell by looking at his watch just what any pupil in any classroom was doing at just that moment. Surely here system was not lacking. But the boast did not strike the vital point. It is not what the pupil is doing that is fundamentally important, but what he is gaining from his activity or inactivity; what he is gaining in the way of habits, in the way of knowledge, in the way of standards and ideals and prejudices, all of which are to govern his future conduct. The superintendent whom I have described had the qualities of balance and perspective that enabled him to see both the woods and the trees. And let me add that he taught regularly in his own central high school, and that practically all of his supervision was accomplished after school hours and on Saturdays. But my chief reason for choosing his work as a type is that it represents a successful effort to supervise that part of school work which is most difficult and irksome to supervise; namely, the formation of habits. Whatever one's ideals of education may be, it still remains true that habit building is the most important duty of the elementary school, and that the efficiency of habit building can be tested in no other way than by the means that he employed; namely, the careful comparison of results at successive stages of the process. II The essence of a true habit is its purely automatic character. Reaction must follow upon the stimulus instantaneously, without thought, reflection, or judgment. One has not taught spelling efficiently until spelling is automatic, until the correct form flows from the pen without the intervention of mind. The real test of the pupil's training in spelling is his ability to spell the word correctly when he is thinking, not about spelling, but about the content of the sentence that he is writing. Consequently the test of efficiency in spelling is not an examination in spelling, although this may be valuable as a means to an end, but rather the infrequency with which misspelled words appear in the composition work, letter writing, and other written work of the pupil. Similarly in language and grammar, it is not sufficient to instruct in rules of syntax. This is but the initial process. Grammatical rules function effectively only when they function automatically. So long as one must think and judge and reflect upon the form of one's expression, the expression is necessarily awkward and inadequate. The same rule holds in respect of the fundamental processes of arithmetic. It holds in penmanship, in articulation and enunciation, in word recognition, in moral conduct and good manners; in fact, in all of the basic work for which the elementary school must stand sponsor. And one source of danger in the newer methods of education lies in the tendency to overlook the importance of carrying habit-building processes through to a successful issue. The reaction against drill, against formal work of all sorts, is a healthful reaction in many ways. It bids fair to break up the mechanical lock step of the elementary grades, and to introduce some welcome life, and vigor, and wholesomeness. But it will sadly defeat its own purpose if it underrates the necessity of habit building as the basic activity of early education. What is needed, now that we have got away from the lock step, now that we are happily emancipated from the meaningless thralldom of mechanical repetition and the worship of drill for its own sake--what is needed now is not less drill, but better drill. And this should be the net result of the recent reforms in elementary education. In our first enthusiasm, we threw away the spelling book, poked fun at the multiplication tables, decried basal reading, and relieved ourselves of much wit and sarcasm at the expense of formal grammar. But now we are swinging back to the adequate recognition of the true purpose of drill. And in the wake of this newer conception, we are learning that its drudgery may be lightened and its efficiency heightened by the introduction of a richer content that shall provide a greater variety in the repetitions, insure an adequate motive for effort, and relieve the dead monotony that frequently rendered the older methods so futile. I look forward to the time when to be an efficient drillmaster in this newer sense of the term will be to have reached one of the pinnacles of professional skill. III But there is another side of teaching that must be supervised. Although habit is responsible for nine tenths of conduct, the remaining tenth must not be neglected. In situations where habit is not adequate to adjustment, judgment and reflection must come to the rescue, or should come to the rescue. This means that, instead of acting without thought, as in the case of habit, one analyzes the situation and tries to solve it by the application of some fact or principle that has been gained either from one's own experience or from the experience of others. This is the field in which knowledge comes to its own; and a very important task of education is to fix in the pupils' minds a number of facts and principles that will be available for application to the situations of later life. How, then, is the efficiency of instruction (as distinguished from training or habit building) to be tested? Needless to say, an adequate test is impossible from the very nature of the situation. The efficiency of imparting knowledge can be tested only by the effect that this knowledge has upon later conduct; and this, it will be agreed, cannot be accurately determined until the pupil has left the school and is face to face with the problems of real life. In practice, however, we adopt a more or less effective substitute for the real test--the substitute called the examination. We all know that the ultimate purpose of instruction is not primarily to enable pupils successfully to pass examinations. And yet as long as we teach as though this were the main purpose we might as well believe it to be. Now the examination may be made a very valuable test of the efficiency of instruction if its limitations are fully recognized and if it does not obscure the true purpose of instruction. And if we remember that the true purpose is to impart facts in such a manner that they may not only "stick" in the pupil's mind, but that they may also be amenable to recall and practical application, and if we set our examination questions with some reference to this requirement, then I believe that we shall find the examination a dependable test. One important point is likely to be overlooked in the consideration of examinations,--the fact, namely, that the form and content of the questions have a very powerful influence in determining the content and methods of instruction. Is it not pertinent, then, to inquire whether examination questions cannot be so framed as radically to improve instruction rather than to encourage, as is often the case, methods that are pedagogically unsound? Granted that it is well for the child to memorize verbatim certain unrelated facts, even to memorize some facts that have no immediate bearing upon his life, granted that this is valuable (and I think that a little of it is), is it necessary that an entire year or half-year be given over almost entirely to "cramming up" on old questions? Would it not be possible so to frame examination questions that the "cramming" process would be practically valueless? What the pupil should get from geography, for instance, is not only a knowledge of geographical facts, but also, and more fundamentally, the power to see the relation of these facts to his own life; in other words, the ability to apply his knowledge to the improvement of adjustment. Now this power is very closely associated with the ability to grasp fundamental principles, to see the relation of cause and effect working below the surface of diverse phenomena. Geography, to be practical, must impress not only the fact, but also the principle that rationalizes or explains the fact. It must emphasize the "why" as well as the "what." For example: it is well for the pupil to know that New York is the largest city in the United States; it is better that he should know why New York has become the largest city in the United States. It is well to know that South America extends very much farther to the east than does North America, but it is better to know that this fact has had an important bearing in determining the commercial relations that exist between South America and Europe. Questions that have reference to these larger relations of cause and effect may be so framed that no amount of "cramming" will alone insure correct answers. They may be so framed that the pupil will be forced to do some thinking for himself, will be forced to solve an imaginary situation very much as he would solve a real situation. Examination questions of this type would react beneficially upon the methods of instruction. They would tend to place a premium upon that type of instruction that develops initiative in solving problems, instead of encouraging the memoriter methods that tend to crush whatever germs of initiative the pupil may possess. This does not mean that the memoriter work should be excluded. A solid basis of fact is essential to the mastery of principles. Personally I believe that the work of the intermediate grades should be planned to give the pupil this factual basis. This would leave the upper grades free for the more rational work. In any case, I believe that the efficiency of examinations may be greatly increased by giving one or two questions that must be answered by a reasoning process for every question that may be answered by verbal memory alone. IV Thus far it seems clear that an absolute standard is available for testing the efficiency of training or habit building, and that a fairly accurate standard may be developed for testing the efficiency of instruction. Both training and instruction, however, are subject to the modifying influence of a third factor of which too little account has hitherto been taken in educational discussions. Training results in habits, and yet a certain sort of training may not only result in a certain type of habit, but it may also result in the development of something which will quite negate the habit that has been developed. In the process of developing habits of neatness, for example, one may employ methods that result in prejudicing the child against neatness as a general virtue. In this event, although the little specific habits of neatness may function in the situations in which they have been developed, the prejudice will effectually prevent their extension to other fields. In other words, the general emotional effect of training must be considered as well as the specific results of the training. The same stricture applies with equal force to instruction. Instruction imparts knowledge; but if a man knows and fails to feel, his knowledge has little influence upon his conduct. This factor that controls conduct when habit fails, this factor that may even negate an otherwise efficient habit, is the great indeterminate in the work of teaching. To know that one has trained an effective habit or imparted a practical principle is one thing; to know that in doing this, one has not engendered in the pupil's mind a prejudice against the very thing taught is quite another matter. That phase of teaching which is concerned with the development of these intangible forces may be termed "inspiration"; and it is the lack of an adequate test for the efficiency of inspiration that makes the task of supervision so difficult and the results so often unsatisfactory. Nevertheless, even here the outlook is not entirely hopeless. One may be tolerably certain of at least two things. In the first place, the great "emotionalized prejudices" that must come predominantly from school influences are the love of truth, the love of work, respect for law and order, and a spirit of coöperation. These factors undoubtedly have their basis in specific habits of honesty, industry, obedience, and regard for the rights and feelings of others; and these habits may be developed and tested just as thoroughly and just as accurately as habits of good spelling and correct syntax. Without the solid basis of habit, ideals and prejudices will be of but little service. The one caution must be taken that the methods of training do not defeat their own purpose by engendering prejudices and ideals that negate the habits. It is here that the personality of the teacher becomes the all-important factor, and the task of the supervisor is to determine whether the influence of the personality is good or evil. Most supervisors come to judge of this influence by an undefined factor that is best termed the "spirit of the classroom." The second hopeful feature of the task of supervision in respect of inspiration is that this "spirit" is an extremely contagious and pervasive thing. In other words, the principal or the superintendent may dominate every classroom under his supervision, almost without regard to the limitations of the individual teachers. Typical schools in every city system bear compelling testimony to this fact. The principal _is_ the school. And if I were to sum up the essential characteristics of the ideal supervisor, I could not neglect this point. After all, the two great dangers that beset him are, first, the danger of sloth--the old Adam of laziness--which will tempt him to avoid the details, to shirk the drudgery, to escape the close and wearisome scrutiny of little things; and, secondly, the sin of triviality--the inertia which holds him to details and never permits him to take the broader view and see the true ends toward which details are but the means. The proper combination of these two factors is all too rare, but it is in this combination that the ideal supervisor is to be found. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 10: A paper read before the fifty-second annual meeting of the New York State Association of School Commissioners and Superintendents, November 8, 1907.] ~V~ THE SUPERVISOR AND THE TEACHER I It is difficult not to be depressed by the irrational radicalism of contemporary educational theory. It would seem that the workers in the higher ranges of educational activity should, of all men, preserve a balanced judgment and a sane outlook, and yet there is probably no other human calling that presents the strange phenomenon of men who are called experts throwing overboard everything that the past has sanctioned, and embarking without chart or compass upon any new venture that happens to catch popular fancy. The non-professional character of education is nowhere more painfully apparent than in the expression of this tendency. The literature of teaching that is written directly out of experience--out of actual adjustment to the teaching situation--is almost laughed out of court in some educational circles. But if one wishes to win the applause of the multitude one may do it easily enough by proclaiming some new and untried plan. At our educational gatherings you notice above everything else a straining for spectacular and bizarre effects. It is the novel that catches attention; and it sometimes seems to me that those who know the least about the educational situation in the way of direct contact often receive the largest share of attention and have the largest influence. It is in the attitude of the public and of a certain proportion of school men toward elementary teaching and the elementary teacher that this destructive criticism finds its most pronounced expression. Throughout the length and breadth of the land, the efficiency of the public school and the sincerity and intelligence of those who are giving their lives to its work are being called into question. It is discouraging to think that years of service in a calling do not qualify one to speak authoritatively upon the problems of that calling, and especially upon technique. And yet it is precisely upon that point of technique that the criticisms of elementary education are most drastic. Our educational system is sometimes branded as a failure, and yet this same educational system with all its weaknesses has accomplished the task of assimilating to American institutions and ideals and standards the most heterogeneous infusion of alien stocks that ever went to the making of a united people. The elementary teacher is criticized for all the sins of omission that the calendar enumerates, and yet this same elementary teacher is daily lifting millions of children to a plane of civilization and culture that no other people in history have even thought possible. I am willing to admit the deficiencies of American education, but I also maintain that the teachers of our lower schools do not deserve the opprobrium that has been heaped upon them. I believe that in education, as in business, it would be a good thing if we saw more of the doughnut and less of the hole. When I hear a prominent educator say that we must discard everything that we have produced thus far and begin anew in the realm of educational materials and methods, I confess that I am discouraged, especially when that same authority is extremely obscure as to the materials and methods that we should substitute for those that we are now employing. I heard that statement at a recent meeting of the Department of Superintendence, and I heard other things of like tenor,--for example, that normal schools were perpetuating types of skill in teaching that were unworthy of perpetuation, that the observation of teaching was valueless in the training of teachers because there was nothing that was being done at the present time that was worthy of imitation, that practice teaching in the training of young teachers is a farce, a delusion, and a snare. Those very words were employed by one man of high position to express his opinion of contemporary practices. You cannot pick up an educational journal of the better sort, nor open a new educational book, without being brought face to face with this destructive criticism. I protest against this, not only in the name of justice, but in the name of common sense. It cannot be possible that generations of dealing with immature minds should have left no residuum of effective practice. The very principle of progress by trial and error will inevitably mean that certain practices that are possible and helpful and effective are perpetuated, and that certain other processes that are ineffective and wasteful are eliminated. To repudiate all this is the height of folly. If the history of progress shows us anything, it shows us that progress is not made by repudiating the lessons of experience. Theory is the last word, not the first. Theory should explain: it should take successful practice and find out what principles condition its efficiency; and if these principles are inconsistent with those heretofore held, it is the theory that should be modified to suit the facts, not the facts to suit the theory. My opponents may point to medicine as a possible example of the opposite procedure. And yet if there is anything that the history of medical science demonstrates, it is that the first cues to new discoveries were made in the field of practice. Lymph therapy, which is one of the triumphs of modern medicine, was discovered empirically. It was an accident of practice, a blind procedure of trial and success that led to Jenner's discovery of the virtues of vaccination. A century passed before theory adequately explained the phenomenon, and opened the way to those wider applications of the principle that have done so much to reduce the ravages of disease. The value of theory, I repeat, is to explain successful practice and to generalize experience in broad and comprehensive principles which can be easily held in mind, and from which inferences for further new and effective practices may be derived. We have a small body of sound principles in education to-day,--a body of principles that are thoroughly consistent with successful practice. But the sort of principles that are put forth as the last words of educational theory are often far from sound. Personally I firmly believe that a vast amount of damage is being done to children by the application of fallacious principles which, because they emanate from high authority, obtain an artificial validity in the minds of teachers in service. I cannot understand why, when an educational experiment fails lamentably, it is not rejected as a failure. And yet you and I know a number of instances where certain educational experiments that have undeniably reversed the hypotheses of those who initiated them are excused on the ground that conditions were not favorable. That, it seems to me, should tell the whole story, for precisely what we need in educational practice is a body of doctrine that will work where conditions _are_ unfavorable. We are told that the successful application of mooted theories depends upon the proper kind of teachers. I maintain that the most effective sort of theory is the sort that brings results with such teachers as we must employ in our work. It would be a poor recommendation for a theory of medicine to say that it worked all right when people are healthy but failed to help the sick. Nor is it true that good teachers can get good results by following bad theory. They often obtain the results by evading the theory, and when they live up to it, the results faithfully reflect the theory, no matter how skillful the teaching. II Statements like these are very apt to be misconstrued or misinterpreted unless one is very careful to define one's position; and, after what I have said, I should do myself an injustice if I did not make certain that my position is clear. I believe in experimentation in education. I believe in experimental schools. But I should wish these schools to be interpreted as experiments and not as models, and I should wish that the failure of an experiment be accepted with good, scientific grace, and not with the unscientific attitude of making excuses. The trouble with an experimental school is that, in the eyes of the great mass of teachers, it becomes a model school, and the principles that it represents are applied _ad libitum_ by thousands of teachers who assume that they have heard the last word in educational theory. No one is more favorably disposed toward the rights of children than I am, and yet I am thoroughly convinced that soft-heartedness accompanied by soft-headedness is weakening the mental and moral fiber of hundreds of thousands of boys and girls throughout this country. No one admires more than I admire the sagacity and far-sightedness of Judge Lindsey, and yet when Judge Lindsey's methods are proposed as models for school government, I cannot lose sight, as so many people seem to lose sight, of the contingent factor; namely, that Judge Lindsey's leniency is based upon authority, and that if Judge Lindsey or anybody else attempted to be lenient when he had no power to be otherwise than lenient, his "bluff" would be called in short order. If you will give to teachers and principals the same power that you give to the police judge, you may well expect them to be lenient. The great trouble in the school is simply this: that just in the proportion that leniency is demanded, authority is taken away from the teacher. And I should perhaps say a qualifying word with regard to my attitude toward educational theory. I have every feeling of affection for the science of psychology. I have every faith in the value of psychological principles in the interpretation of educational phenomena. But I also recognize that the science of psychology is a very young science, and that its data are not yet so well organized that it is safe to draw from them anything more than tentative hypotheses which must meet their final test in the crucible of practice. Some day, if we work hard enough, psychology will become a predictive science, just as mathematics and physics and chemistry and, to a certain extent, biology, are predictive sciences to-day. Meantime psychology is of inestimable value in giving us a point of view, in clarifying our ideas, and in rationalizing the truths that empirical practice discovers. A very few psychological principles are strongly enough established even now to form the basis of prediction. Among the most important of these are the laws of habit building, some laws of memory, and the larger principles of attention. Successful educational practice is and must be in accord with these indisputable tenets. But the bane of education to-day is in the pseudo-science, the "half-baked" psychology, that is lauded from the house-tops by untrained enthusiasts, turned from the presses by irresponsible publishing houses, and foisted upon the hungry teaching public through the ever-present medium of the reading circle, the teachers' institute, the summer school, and I am very sorry to admit (for I think that I represent both institutions in a way) sometimes by the normal schools and universities. Most of the doctrines that are turning our practice topsy-turvy have absolutely no support from competent psychologists. The doctrine of spontaneity and its attendant _laissez-faire_ dogma of school government is thoroughly inconsistent with good psychology. The radical extreme to which some educators would push the doctrine of interest when they maintain that the child should never be asked to do anything for which he fails to find a need in his own life,--this doctrine can find no support in good psychology. The doctrine that the preadolescent child should understand thoroughly every process that he is expected to reduce to habit before that process is made automatic is utterly at variance with long-established principles which were well understood by the Greeks and the Hebrews twenty-five hundred years ago, and to which Mother Nature herself gives the lie in the instincts of imitation and repetition. It is conceivable that these radical doctrines were justified as means of reform, especially in secondary and higher education, but, even granting this, their function is fulfilled when the reform that they exploited has been accomplished. That time has come and, as palpable untruths, they should either be modified to meet the facts, or be relegated to oblivion. III It is safe to say that formalism is no longer a characteristic feature of the typical American school. It is so long since I have heard any rote learning in a schoolroom that I am wondering if it is not almost time for some one to show that a little rote learning would not be at all a bad thing in preadolescent education. We ridicule the memoriter methods of Chinese education and yet we sometimes forget that Chinese education has done something that no other system of education, however well planned, has even begun to do in the same degree. It has kept the Chinese empire a unit through a period of time compared with which the entire history of Greece and Rome is but an episode. We may ridicule the formalism of Hebrew education, and yet the schools of rabbis have preserved intact the racial integrity of the Jewish people during the two thousand years that have elapsed since their geographical unity was destroyed. I am not justifying the methods of Chinese or Hebrew education. I am quite willing to admit that, in China at any rate, the game may not have been worth the candle; but I am still far from convinced that it is not a good thing for children to reduce to verbal form a good many things that are now never learned in such a way as to make any lasting impression upon the memory; and our criticism of oriental formalism is not so much concerned with the method of learning as with the content of learning,--not so much with learning by heart as with the character of the material that was thus memorized. But, although formalism is no longer a distinctive feature of American education, formalism is the point from which education is most frequently attacked,--and this is the chief source of my dissatisfaction with the present-day critics of our elementary schools. In a great many cases, they have set up a man of straw and demolished him completely. And in demolishing him, they have incidentally knocked the props from under the feet of many a good teacher, leaving him dazed and uncertain of his bearings, stung with the conviction that what he has been doing for his pupils is entirely without value, that his life of service has been a failure, that the lessons of his own experience are not to be trusted, nor the verdicts of his own intelligence respected. Go to any of the great summer schools and you will meet, among the attending teachers, hundreds of faithful, conscientious men and women who could tell you if they would (and some of them will) of the muddle in which their minds are left after some of the lectures to which they have listened. Why should they fail to be depressed? The whole weight of academic authority seems to be against them. The entire machinery of educational administration is wheeling them with relentless force into paths that seem to them hopelessly intricate and bewildering. If it is true, as I think it is, that some of the proposals of modern education are an attempt to square the circle, it is certainly true that the classroom teacher is standing at the pressure points in this procedure. We hear expressed on every side a great deal of sympathy for the child as the victim of our educational system. Sympathy for childhood is the most natural thing in the world. It is one of the basic human instincts, and its expressions are among the finest things in human life. But why limit our sympathy to the child, especially to-day when he is about as happy and as fortunate an individual as anybody has ever been in all history. Why not let a little of it go out to the teacher of this child? Why not plan a little for her comfort and welfare and encouragement? It is her skill that is assimilating the children of our alien population. It is her strength that is lifting bodily each generation to the ever-advancing race levels. Her work must be the main source of the inspiration that will impel the race to further advancement. And yet when these half-million teachers who mean so much to this country gather at their institutes, when they attend the summer schools, when they take up their professional journals, what do they hear and read? Criticisms of their work. Denunciations of their methods. Serious doubts of their intelligence. Aspersions cast upon their sincerity, their patience, and their loyalty to their superiors. This, mingled with some mawkish sentimentalism that passes under the name of inspiration. Only occasionally a word of downright commendation, a sign of honest and heartfelt appreciation, a note of sympathy or encouragement. Carnegie gives fifteen million dollars to provide pensions for superannuated college professors; but the elementary teacher who is not fortunate enough to die in harness must look forward to the almshouse. The people tax themselves for magnificent buildings and luxurious furnishings, but not one cent do they offer for teachers' pensions. What a blot upon Western civilization is this treatment of the teachers in our lower schools. These people are doing the work that even the savage races universally consider to be of the highest type. Benighted China places her teachers second only to the literati themselves in the place of honor. The Hindus made the teaching profession the highest caste in the social scale. The Jews intrusted the education of their children to their Rabbis, the most learned and the most honored of their race. It is only Western civilization--it is almost only our much-lauded Anglo-Saxon civilization--that denies to the teacher a station in life befitting his importance as a social servant. IV But what has all this to do with school supervision? As I view it, the supervisor of schools as the overseer and director of the educational process, is just now confronted with two great problems. The first of these is to keep a clear head in the present muddled condition of educational theory. From the very fact of his position, the supervisor must be a leader, whether he will or not. It is a maxim of our profession that the principal is the school. In our city systems the supervising principal is given almost absolute authority over the school of which he has charge. In him is vested the ultimate responsibility for instruction, for discipline, for the care and condition of the material property. He may be a despot if he wishes, benevolent or otherwise. With this power goes a corresponding opportunity. His school can stand for something,--perhaps for something new and strange which will bring him into the limelight to-day, no matter what its character; perhaps for something solid and enduring, something that will last long after his own name has been forgotten. The temptation was never so strong as it is to-day for the supervisor to seek the former kind of glory. The need was never more acute than it is to-day for the supervisor who is content with the impersonal glory of the latter type. I admit that it is a somewhat thankless task to do things in a straightforward, effective way, without fuss or feathers, and I suppose that the applause of the gallery may be easily mistaken for the applause of the pit. But nevertheless the seeker for notoriety is doing the cause of education a vast amount of harm. I know a principal who won ephemeral fame by introducing into his school a form of the Japanese jiu-jitsu physical exercises. When I visited that school, I was led to believe that jiu-jitsu would be the salvation of the American people. Whole classes of girls and boys were marched to the large basement to be put through their paces for the delectation of visitors. The newspapers took it up and heralded it as another indication that the formalism of the public school was gradually breaking down. Visitors came by the hundreds, and my friend basked in the limelight of public adulation while his colleagues turned green with envy and set themselves to devising some means for turning attention in their direction. And yet, there are some principals who move on in the even tenor of their ways, year after year, while all these currents and countercurrents are seething and eddying around them. They hold fast to that which they know is good until that which they know is better can be found. They believe in the things that they do, so the chances are greatly increased that they will do them well. They refuse to be bullied or sneered at or laughed out of court because they do not take up with every fancy that catches the popular mind. They have their own professional standards as to what constitutes competent schoolmanship,--their own standards gained from their own specialized experience. And somehow I cannot help thinking that just now that is the type of supervisor that we need and the type that ought to be encouraged. If I were talking to Chinese teachers, I might preach another sort of gospel, but American education to-day needs less turmoil, less distraction, fewer sweeping changes. It needs to settle itself, and look around, and find out where it is and what it is trying to do. And it needs, above all, to rise to a consciousness of itself as an institution manned by intelligent individuals who are perfectly competent themselves to set up craft standard and ideals. IV [Transcriber's note: This is a typographical error in the original, and should read "V"] But in whatever way the supervisor may utilize the opportunity that his position presents, his second great problem will come up for solution. The supervisor is the captain of the teaching corps. Directly under his control are the mainsprings of the school's life and activity,--the classroom teachers. It is coming to be a maxim in the city systems that the supervisor has not only the power to mold the school to the form of his own ideals, but that he can, if he is skillful, turn weak teachers into strong teachers and make out of most unpromising material, an efficient, homogeneous school staff. I believe that this is coming to be considered the prime criterion of effective school supervision,--not what skill the supervisor may show in testing results, or in keeping his pupils up to a given standard, or in choosing his teachers skillfully, but rather the success with which he is able to take the teaching material that is at his hand, and train it into efficiency. A former Commissioner of Education for one of our new insular possessions once told me that he had come to divide supervisors into two classes,--(1) those who knew good teaching when they saw it, and (2) those who could make poor teachers into good teachers. Of these two types, he said, the latter were infinitely more valuable to pioneer work in education than the former, and he named two or three city systems from which he had selected the supervisors who could do this sort of thing,--for there is no limit to this process of training, and the superintendent who can train supervisors is just as important as the supervisor who can train teachers. It would take a volume adequately to treat the various problems that this conception of the supervisor's function involves. I can do no more at present than indicate what seems to me the most pressing present need in this direction. I have found that sometimes the supervisors who insist most strenuously that their teachers secure the coöperation of their pupils are among the very last to secure for themselves the coöperation of their teachers. And to this important end, it seems to me that we have an important suggestion in the present condition of the classroom teacher as I have attempted to describe it. As a type, the classroom teacher needs just now some adequate appreciation and recognition of the work that she is doing. If the lay public is unable adequately to judge the teacher's work, there is all the more reason that she should look to her supervisor for that recognition of technical skill, for that commendation of good work, which can come only from a fellow-craftsman, but which, when it does come, is worth more in the way of real inspiration than the loudest applause of the crowd. Upon the whole, I believe that the outlook in this direction is encouraging. While the teacher may miss in her institutes and in the summer school that sort of encouragement, she is, I believe, finding it in larger and larger measure in the local teachers' meetings and in her consultations with her supervisors. And when all has been said, that is the place from which she should look for inspiration. The teachers' meeting must be the nursery of professional ideals. It must be a place where the real first-hand workers in education get that sanity of outlook, that professional point of view, which shall fortify them effectively against the rising tide of unprofessional interference and dictation which, as I have tried to indicate, constitutes the most serious menace to our educational welfare. And it is in the encouragement of this craft spirit, in this lifting of the teacher's calling to the plane of craft consciousness, it is in this that the supervisor must, I believe, find the true and lasting reward for his work. It is through this factor that he can, just now, work the greatest good for the schools that he supervises and the community that he serves. The most effective way to reach his pupils is through the medium of their teachers, and he can help these pupils in no better way than to give their teachers a justifiable pride in the work that they are doing through his own recognition of its worth and its value, through his own respect for the significance of the lessons that experience teaches them, through his own suggestive help in making that experience profitable and suggestive. And just at the present moment, he can make no better start than by assuring them of the truth that Emerson expresses when he defines the true scholar as the man who remains firm in his belief that a popgun is only a popgun although the ancient and honored of earth may solemnly affirm it to be the crack of doom. ~VI~ EDUCATION AND UTILITY[11] I I wish to discuss with you some phases of the problem that is perhaps foremost in the minds of the teaching public to-day: the problem, namely, of making education bear more directly and more effectively upon the work of practical, everyday life. I have no doubt that some of you feel, when this problem is suggested, very much as I felt when I first suggested to myself the possibility of discussing it with you. You have doubtless heard some phases of this problem discussed at every meeting of this association for the past ten years--if you have been a member so long as that. Certain it is that we all grow weary of the reiteration of even the best of truths, but certain it is also that some problems are always before us, and until they are solved satisfactorily they will always stimulate men to devise means for their solution. I should say at the outset, however, that I shall not attempt to justify to this audience the introduction of vocational subjects into the elementary and secondary curriculums. I shall take it for granted that you have already made up your minds upon this matter. I shall not take your time in an attempt to persuade you that agriculture ought to be taught in the rural schools, or manual training and domestic science in all schools. I am personally convinced of the value of such work and I shall take it for granted that you are likewise convinced. My task to-day, then, is of another type. I wish to discuss with you some of the implications of this matter of utility in respect of the work that every elementary school is doing and always must do, no matter how much hand work or vocational material it may introduce. My problem, in other words, concerns the ordinary subject-matter of the curriculum,--reading and writing and arithmetic, geography and grammar and history,--those things which, like the poor, are always with us, but which we seem a little ashamed to talk about in public. Truly, from reading the educational journals and hearing educational discussion to-day, the layman might well infer that what we term the "useful" education and the education that is now offered by the average school are as far apart as the two poles. We are all familiar with the statement that the elementary curriculum is eminently adapted to produce clerks and accountants, but very poorly adapted to furnish recruits for any other department of life. The high school is criticized on the ground that it prepares for college and consequently for the professions, but that it is totally inadequate to the needs of the average citizen. Now it would be futile to deny that there is some truth in both these assertions, but I do not hesitate to affirm that both are grossly exaggerated, and that the curriculum of to-day, with all its imperfections, does not justify so sweeping a denunciation. I wish to point out some of the respects in which these charges are fallacious, and, in so doing, perhaps, to suggest some possible remedies for the defects that every one will acknowledge. II In the first place, let me make myself perfectly clear upon what I mean by the word "useful." What, after all, is the "useful" study in our schools? What do men find to be the useful thing in their lives? The most natural answer to this question is that the useful things are those that enable us to meet effectively the conditions of life,--or, to use a phrase that is perfectly clear to us all, the things that help us in getting a living. The vast majority of men and women in this world measure all values by this standard, for most of us are, to use the expressive slang of the day, "up against" this problem, and "up against" it so hard and so constantly that we interpret everything in the greatly foreshortened perspective of immediate necessity. Most of us in this room are confronting this problem of making a living. At any rate, I am confronting it, and consequently I may lay claim to some of the authority that comes from experience. And since I have made this personal reference, may I violate the canons of good taste and make still another? I was face to face with this problem of getting a living a good many years ago, when the opportunity came to me to take a college course. I could see nothing ahead after that except another struggle with this same vital issue. So I decided to take a college course which would, in all probability, help me to solve the problem. Scientific agriculture was not developed in those days as it has been since that time, but a start had been made, and the various agricultural colleges were offering what seemed to be very practical courses. I had had some early experience on the farm, and I decided to become a scientific farmer. I took the course of four years and secured my degree. The course was as useful from the standpoint of practical agriculture as any that could have been devised at the time. But when I graduated, what did I find? The same old problem of getting a living still confronted me as I had expected that it would; and alas! I had got my education in a profession that demanded capital. I was a landless farmer. Times were hard and work of all kinds was very scarce. The farmers of those days were inclined to scoff at scientific agriculture. I could have worked for my board and a little more, and I should have done so had I been able to find a job. But while I was looking for the place, a chance came to teach school, and I took the opportunity as a means of keeping the wolf from the door. I have been engaged in the work of teaching ever since. When I was able to buy land, I did so, and I have to-day a farm of which I am very proud. It does not pay large dividends, but I keep it up for the fun I get out of it,--and I like to think, also, that if I should lose my job as a teacher, I could go back to the farm and show the natives how to make money. This is doubtless an illusion, but it is a source of solid comfort just the same. Now the point of this experience is simply this: I secured an education that seemed to me to promise the acme of utility. In one way, it has fulfilled that promise far beyond my wildest expectations, but that way was very different from the one that I had anticipated. The technical knowledge that I gained during those four strenuous years, I apply now only as a means of recreation. So far as enabling me directly to get a living, this technical knowledge does not pay one per cent on the investment of time and money. And yet I count the training that I got from its mastery as, perhaps, the most useful product of my education. Now what was the secret of its utility? As I analyze my experience, I find it summed up very largely in two factors. In the first place, I studied a set of subjects for which I had at the outset very little taste. In studying agriculture, I had to master a certain amount of chemistry, physics, botany, and zoölogy, for each and every one of which I felt, at the outset, a distinct aversion and dislike. A mastery of these subjects was essential to a realization of the purpose that I had in mind. I was sure that I should never like them, and yet, as I kept at work, I gradually found myself losing that initial distaste. First one and then another opened out its vista of truth and revelation before me, and almost before I was aware of it, I was enthusiastic over science. It was a long time before I generalized that experience and drew its lesson, but the lesson, once learned, has helped me more even in the specific task of getting a living than anything else that came out of my school training. That experience taught me, not only the necessity for doing disagreeable tasks,--for attacking them hopefully and cheerfully,--but it also taught me that disagreeable tasks, if attacked in the right way, and persisted in with patience, often become attractive in themselves. Over and over again in meeting the situations of real life, I have been confronted with tasks that were initially distasteful. Sometimes I have surrendered before them; but sometimes, too, that lesson has come back to me, and has inspired me to struggle on, and at no time has it disappointed me by the outcome. I repeat that there is no technical knowledge that I have gained that compares for a moment with that ideal of patience and persistence. When it comes to real, downright utility, measured by this inexorable standard of getting a living, let me commend to you the ideal of persistent effort. All the knowledge that we can learn or teach will come to very little if this element is lacking. Now this is very far from saying that the pursuit of really useful knowledge may not give this ideal just as effectively as the pursuit of knowledge that will never be used. My point is simply this: that beyond the immediate utility of the facts that we teach,--indeed, basic and fundamental to this utility,--is the utility of the ideals and standards that are derived from our school work. Whatever we teach, these essential factors can be made to stand out in our work, and if our pupils acquire these we shall have done the basic and important thing in helping them to solve the problems of real life,--and if our pupils do not acquire these, it will make little difference how intrinsically valuable may be the content of our instruction. I feel like emphasizing this matter to-day, because there is in the air a notion that utility depends entirely upon the content of the curriculum. Certainly the curriculum must be improved from this standpoint, but we are just now losing sight of the other equally important factor,--that, after all, while both are essential, it is the spirit of teaching rather than the content of teaching that is basic and fundamental. Nor have I much sympathy with that extreme view of this matter which asserts that we must go out of our way to provide distasteful tasks for the pupil in order to develop this ideal of persistence. I believe that such a policy will always tend to defeat its own purpose. I know a teacher who holds this belief. He goes out of his way to make tasks difficult. He refuses to help pupils over hard places. He does not believe in careful assignments of lessons, because, he maintains, the pupil ought to learn to overcome difficulties for himself, and how can he learn unless real difficulties are presented? The great trouble with this teacher is that his policy does not work out in practice. A small minority of his pupils are strengthened by it; the majority are weakened. He is right when he says that a pupil gains strength only by overcoming difficulties, but he neglects a very important qualification of this rule, namely, that a pupil gains no strength out of obstacles that he fails to overcome. It is the conquest that comes after effort,--this is the factor that gives one strength and confidence. But when defeat follows defeat and failure follows failure, it is weakness that is being engendered--not strength. And that is the trouble with this teacher's pupils. The majority leave him with all confidence in their own ability shaken out of them and some of them never recover from the experience. And so while I insist strenuously that the most useful lesson we can teach our pupils is how to do disagreeable tasks cheerfully and willingly, please do not understand me to mean that we should go out of our way to provide disagreeable tasks. After all, I rejoice that my own children are learning how to read and write and cipher much more easily, much more quickly, and withal much more pleasantly than I learned those useful arts. The more quickly they get to the plane that their elders have reached, the more quickly they can get beyond this plane and on to the next level. To argue against improved methods in teaching on the ground that they make things too easy for the pupil is, to my mind, a grievous error. It is as fallacious as to argue that the introduction of machinery is a curse because it has diminished in some measure the necessity for human drudgery. But if machinery left mankind to rest upon its oars, if it discouraged further progress and further effortful achievement, it _would_ be a curse: and if the easier and quicker methods of instruction simply bring my children to my own level and then fail to stimulate them to get beyond my level, then they are a curse and not a blessing. I do not decry that educational policy of to-day which insists that school work should be made as simple and attractive as possible. I do decry that misinterpretation of this policy which looks at the matter from the other side, and asserts so vehemently that the child should never be asked or urged to do something that is not easy and attractive. It is only because there is so much in the world to be done that, for the sake of economizing time and strength, we should raise the child as quickly and as rapidly and as pleasantly as possible to the plane that the race has reached. But among all the lessons of race experience that we must teach him there is none so fundamental and important as the lesson of achievement itself,--the supreme lesson wrung from human experience,--the lesson, namely, that every advance that the world has made, every step that it has taken forward, every increment that has been added to the sum total of progress has been attained at the price of self-sacrifice and effort and struggle,--at the price of doing things that one does not want to do. And unless a man is willing to pay that price, he is bound to be the worst kind of a social parasite, for he is simply living on the experience of others, and adding to this capital nothing of his own. It is sometimes said that universal education is essential in order that the great mass of humanity may live in greater comfort and enjoy the luxuries that in the past have been vouchsafed only to the few. Personally I think that this is all right so far as it goes, but it fails to reach an ultimate goal. Material comfort is justified only because it enables mankind to live more effectively on the lower planes of life and give greater strength and greater energy to the solution of new problems upon the higher planes of life. The end of life can never be adequately formulated in terms of comfort and ease, nor even in terms of culture and intellectual enjoyment; the end of life is achievement, and no matter how far we go, achievement is possible only to those who are willing to pay the price. When the race stops investing its capital of experience in further achievement, when it settles down to take life easily, it will not take it very long to eat up its capital and revert to the plane of the brute. III But I am getting away, from my text. You will remember that I said that the most useful thing that we can teach the child is to attack strenuously and resolutely any problem that confronts him whether it pleases him or not, and I wanted to be certain that you did not misinterpret me to mean that we should, for this reason, make our school tasks unnecessarily difficult and laborious. After all, while our attitude should always be one of interesting our pupils, their attitude should always be one of effortful attention,--of willingness to do the task that we think it best for them to do. You see it is a sort of a double-headed policy, and how to carry it out is a perplexing problem. Of so much I am certain, however, at the outset: if the pupil takes the attitude that we are there to interest and entertain him, we shall make a sorry fiasco of the whole matter, and inasmuch as this very tendency is in the air at the present time, I feel justified in at least referring to its danger. Now if this ideal of persistent effort is the most useful thing that can come out of education, what is the next most useful? Again, as I analyze what I obtained from my own education, it seems to me that, next to learning that disagreeable tasks are often well worth doing, the factor that has helped me most in getting a living has been the method of solving the situations that confronted me. After all, if we simply have the ideal of resolute and aggressive and persistent attack, we may struggle indefinitely without much result. All problems of life involve certain common factors. The essential difference between the educated and the uneducated man, if we grant each an equal measure of pluck, persistence, and endurance, lies in the superior ability of the educated man to analyze his problem effectively and to proceed intelligently rather than blindly to its solution. I maintain that education should give a man this ideal of attacking any problem; furthermore I maintain that the education of the present day, in spite of the anathemas that are hurled against it, is doing this in richer measure than it has ever been done before. But there is no reason why we should not do it in still greater measure. I once knew two men who were in the business of raising fruit for commercial purposes. Each had a large orchard which he operated according to conventional methods and which netted him a comfortable income. One of these men was a man of narrow education: the other a man of liberal education, although his training had not been directed in any way toward the problems of horticulture. The orchards had borne exceptionally well for several years, but one season, when the fruit looked especially promising, a period of wet, muggy weather came along just before the picking season, and one morning both these men went out into their orchards, to find the fruit very badly "specked." Now the conventional thing to do in such cases was well known to both men. Each had picked up a good deal of technical information about caring for fruit, and each did the same thing in meeting this situation. He got out his spraying outfit, prepared some Bordeaux mixture, and set vigorously at work with his pumps. So far as persistence and enterprise went, both men stood on an equal footing. But it happened that this was an unusual and not a conventional situation. The spraying did not alleviate the condition. The corruption spread through the trees like wildfire, and seemed to thrive on copper sulphate rather than succumb to its corrosive influence. Now this was where the difference in training showed itself. The orchardist who worked by rule of thumb, when he found that his rule did not work, gave up the fight and spent his time sitting on his front porch bemoaning his luck. The other set diligently at work to analyze the situation. His education had not taught him anything about the characteristics of parasitic fungi, for parasitic fungi were not very well understood when he was in school. But his education had left with him a general method of procedure for just such cases, and that method he at once applied. It had taught him how to find the information that he needed, provided that such information was available. It had taught him that human experience is crystallized in books, and that, when a discovery is made in any field of science,--no matter how specialized the field and no matter how trivial the finding,--the discovery is recorded in printer's ink and placed at the disposal of those who have the intelligence to find it and apply it. And so he set out to read up on the subject,--to see what other men had learned about this peculiar kind of apple rot. He obtained all that had been written about it and began to master it. He told his friend about this material and suggested that the latter follow the same course, but the man of narrow education soon found himself utterly at sea in a maze of technical terms. The terms were new to the other too, but he took down his dictionary and worked them out. He knew how to use indices and tables of contents and various other devices that facilitate the gathering of information, and while his uneducated friend was storming over the pedantry of men who use big words, the other was making rapid progress through the material. In a short time he learned everything that had been found out about this specific disease. He learned that its spores are encased in a gelatinous sac which resisted the entrance of the chemicals. He found how the spores were reproduced, how they wintered, how they germinated in the following season; and, although he did not save much of his crop that year, he did better the next. Nor were the evidences of his superiority limited to this very useful result. He found that, after all, very little was known about this disease, so he set himself to find out more about it. To do this, he started where other investigators had left off, and then he applied a principle he had learned from his education; namely, that the only valid methods of obtaining new truths are the methods of close observation and controlled experiment. Now I maintain that the education which was given that man was effective in a degree that ought to make his experience an object lesson for us who teach. What he had found most useful at a very critical juncture of his business life was, primarily, not the technical knowledge that he had gained either in school or in actual experience. His superiority lay in the fact that he knew how to get hold of knowledge when he needed it, how to master it once he had obtained it, how to apply it once he had mastered it, and finally how to go about to discover facts that had been undetected by previous investigators. I care not whether he got this knowledge in the elementary school or in the high school or in the college. He might have secured it in any one of the three types of institution, but he had to learn it somewhere, and I shall go further and say that the average man has to learn it in some school and under an explicit and conscious method of instruction. IV But perhaps you would maintain that this statement of the case, while in general true, does not help us out in practice. After all, how are we to impress pupils with this ideal of persistence and with these ideals of getting and applying information, and with this ideal of investigation? I maintain that these important useful ideals may be effectively impressed almost from the very outset of school life. The teaching of every subject affords innumerable opportunities to force home their lessons. In fact, it must be a very gradual process--a process in which the concrete instances are numerous and rich and impressive. From these concrete instances, the general truth may in time emerge. Certainly the chances that it will emerge are greatly multiplied if we ourselves recognize its worth and importance, and lead our pupils to see in each concrete case the operation of the general principle. After all, the chief reason why so much of our education miscarries, why so few pupils gain the strength and the power that we expect all to gain, lies in the inability of the average individual to draw a general conclusion from concrete cases--to see the general in the particular. We have insisted so strenuously upon concrete instruction that we have perhaps failed also to insist that fact without law is blind, and that observation without induction is stupidity gone to seed. Let me give a concrete instance of what I mean. Not long ago, I visited an eighth-grade class during a geography period. It was at the time when the discovery of the Pole had just set the whole civilized world by the ears, and the teacher was doing something that many good teachers do on occasions of this sort: she was turning the vivid interest of the moment to educative purposes. The pupils had read Peary's account of his trip and they were discussing its details in class. Now that exercise was vastly more than an interesting information lesson, for Peary's achievement became, under the skillful touch of that teacher, a type of all human achievement. I wish that I could reproduce that lesson for you--how vividly she pictured the situation that confronted the explorer,--the bitter cold, the shifting ice, the treacherous open leads, the lack of game or other sources of food supply, the long marches on scant rations, the short hours and the uncomfortable conditions of sleep; and how from these that fundamental lesson of pluck and endurance and courage came forth naturally without preaching the moral or indulging in sentimental "goody-goodyism." And then the other and equally important part of the lesson,--how pluck and courage in themselves could never have solved the problem; how knowledge was essential, and how that knowledge had been gained: some of it from the experience of early explorers,--how to avoid the dreaded scurvy, how to build a ship that could withstand the tremendous pressure of the floes; and some from the Eskimos,--how to live in that barren region, and how to travel with dogs and sledges;--and some, too, from Peary's own early experiences,--how he had struggled for twenty years to reach the goal, and had added this experience to that until finally the prize was his. We may differ as to the value of Peary's deed, but that it stands as a type of what success in any undertaking means, no one can deny. And this was the lesson that these eighth-grade pupils were absorbing,--the world-old lesson before which all others fade into insignificance,--the lesson, namely, that achievement can be gained only by those who are willing to pay the price. And I imagine that when that class is studying the continent of Africa in their geography work, they will learn something more than the names of rivers and mountains and boundaries and products,--I imagine that they will link these facts with the names and deeds of the men who gave them to the world. And when they study history, it will be vastly more than a bare recital of dates and events,--it will be alive with these great lessons of struggle and triumph,--for history, after all, is only the record of human achievement. And if those pupils do not find these same lessons coming out of their own little conquests,--if the problems of arithmetic do not furnish an opportunity to conquer the pressure ridges of partial payments or the Polar night of bank discount, or if the intricacies of formal grammar do not resolve themselves into the North Pole of correct expression,--I have misjudged that teacher's capacities; for the great triumph of teaching is to get our pupils to see the fundamental and the eternal in things that are seemingly trivial and transitory. We are fond of dividing school studies into the cultural and the practical, into the humanities and the sciences. Believe me, there is no study worth the teaching that is not practical at basis, and there is no practical study that has not its human interest and its humanizing influence--if only we go to some pains to search them out. V I have said that the most useful thing that education can do is to imbue the pupil with the ideal of effortful achievement which will lead him to do cheerfully and effectively the disagreeable tasks that fall to his lot. I have said that the next most useful thing that it can do is to give him a general method of solving the problems that he meets. Is there any other useful outcome of a general nature that we may rank in importance with these two? I believe that there is, and I can perhaps tell you what I mean by another reference to a concrete case. I know a man who lacks this third factor, although he possesses the other two in a very generous measure. He is full of ambition, persistence, and courage. He is master of the rational method of solving the problems that beset him. He does his work intelligently and effectively. And yet he has failed to make a good living. Why? Simply because of his standard of what constitutes a good living. Measured by my standard, he is doing excellently well. Measured by his own standard, he is a miserable failure. He is depressed and gloomy and out of harmony with the world, simply because he has no other standard for a good living than a financial one. He is by profession a civil engineer. His work is much more remunerative than is that of many other callings. He has it in him to attain to professional distinction in that work. But to this opportunity he is blind. In the great industrial center in which he works, he is constantly irritated by the evidences of wealth and luxury beyond what he himself enjoys. The millionaire captain of industry is his hero, and because he is not numbered among this class, he looks at the world through the bluest kind of spectacles. Now, to my mind that man's education failed somewhere, and its failure lay in the fact that it did not develop in him ideals of success that would have made him immune to these irritating factors. We have often heard it said that education should rid the mind of the incubus of superstition, and one very important effect of universal education is that it does offer to all men an explanation of the phenomena that formerly weighted down the mind with fear and dread, and opened an easy ingress to the forces of superstition and fraud and error. Education has accomplished this function, I think, passably well with respect to the more obvious sources of superstition. Necromancy and magic, demonism and witchcraft, have long since been relegated to the limbo of exposed fraud. Their conquest has been one of the most significant advances that man has made above the savage. The truths of science have at last triumphed, and, as education has diffused these truths among the masses, the triumph has become almost universal. But there are other forms of superstition besides those I have mentioned,--other instances of a false perspective, of distorted values, of inadequate standards. If belief in witchcraft or in magic is bad because it falls short of an adequate interpretation of nature,--if it is false because it is inconsistent with human experience,--then the worship of Mammon that my engineer friend represents is tenfold worse than witchcraft, measured by the same standards. If there is any lesson that human history teaches with compelling force, it is surely this: Every race which has yielded to the demon of individualism and the lust for gold and self-gratification has gone down the swift and certain road to national decay. Every race that, through unusual material prosperity, has lost its grip on the eternal verities of self-sacrifice and self-denial has left the lesson of its downfall written large upon the pages of history. I repeat that if superstition consists in believing something that is inconsistent with rational human experience, then our present worship of the golden calf is by far the most dangerous form of superstition that has ever befuddled the human intellect. But, you ask, what can education do to alleviate a condition of this sort? How may the weak influence of the school make itself felt in an environment that has crystallized on every hand this unfortunate standard? Individualism is in the air. It is the dominant spirit of the times. It is reënforced upon every side by the unmistakable evidences of national prosperity. It is easy to preach the simple life, but who will live it unless he has to? It is easy to say that man should have social and not individual standards of success and achievement, but what effect will your puerile assertion have upon the situation that confronts us? Yes; it is easier to be a pessimist than an optimist. It is far easier to lie back and let things run their course than it is to strike out into midstream and make what must be for the pioneer a fatal effort to stem the current. But is the situation absolutely hopeless? If the forces of education can lift the Japanese people from barbarism to enlightenment in two generations; if education can in a single century transform Germany from the weakest to the strongest power on the continent of Europe; if five short years of a certain type of education can change the course of destiny in China;--are we warranted in our assumption that we hold a weak weapon in this fight against Mammon? I have intimated that the attitude of my engineer friend toward life is the result of twisted ideals. A good many young men are going out into life with a similar defect in their education. They gain their ideals, not from the great wellsprings of human experience as represented in history and literature, in religion and art, but from the environment around them, and consequently they become victims of this superstition from the outset. As a trainer of teachers, I hold it to be one important part of my duty to fortify my students as strongly as I can against this false standard of which my engineer friend is the victim. It is just as much a part of my duty to give my students effective and consistent standards of what a good living consists in as it is to give them the technical knowledge and skill that will enable them to make a good living. If my students who are to become teachers have standards of living and standards of success that are inconsistent with the great ideal of social service for which teaching stands, then I have fallen far short of success in my work. If they are constantly irritated by the evidences of luxury beyond their means, if this irritation sours their dispositions and checks their spontaneity, their efficiency as teachers is greatly lessened or perhaps entirely negated. And if my engineer friend places worldly emoluments upon a higher plane than professional efficiency, I dread for the safety of the bridges that he builds. His education as an engineer should have fortified him against just such a contingency. It should have left him with the ideal of craftsmanship supreme in his life. And if his technical education failed to do this, his general education ought, at least, to have given him a bias in the right direction. I believe that all forms of vocational and professional education are not so strong in this respect as they should be. Again you say to me, What can education do when the spirit of the times speaks so strongly on the other side? But what is education for if it is not to preserve midst the chaos and confusion of troublous times the great truths that the race has wrung from its experience? How different might have been the fate of Rome, if Rome had possessed an educational system touching every child in the Empire, and if, during the years that witnessed her decay and downfall, those schools could have kept steadily, persistently at work, impressing upon every member of each successive generation the virtues that made the old Romans strong and virile--the virtues that enabled them to lay the foundations of an empire that crumbled in ruins once these truths were forgotten. Is it not the specific task of education to represent in each generation the human experiences that have been tried and tested and found to work,--to represent these in the face of opposition if need be,--to be faithful to the trusteeship of the most priceless legacy that the past has left to the present and to the future? If this is not our function in the scheme of things, then what is our function? Is it to stand with bated breath to catch the first whisper that will usher in the next change? Is it to surrender all initiative and simply allow ourselves to be tossed hither and yon by the waves and cross-waves of a fickle public opinion? Is it to cower in dread of a criticism that is not only unjust but often ill-advised of the real conditions under which we are doing our work? I take it that none of us is ready to answer these questions in the affirmative. Deep down in our hearts we know that we have a useful work to do, and we know that we are doing it passably well. We also know our defects and shortcomings at least as well as one who has never faced our problems and tried to solve them. And it is from this latter type that most of the drastic criticism, especially of the elementary and secondary school, emanates. I confess that my gorge rises within me when I read or hear the invectives that are being hurled against teaching as a profession (and against the work of the elementary and secondary school in particular) by men who know nothing of this work at first hand. This is the greatest handicap under which the profession of teaching labors. In every other important field of human activity a man must present his credentials before he takes his seat at the council table, and even then he must sit and listen respectfully to his elders for a while before he ventures a criticism or even a suggestion. This plan may have its defects. It may keep things on too conservative a basis; but it avoids the danger into which we as a profession have fallen,--the danger of "half-baked" theories and unmatured policies. To-day the only man that can get a respectable hearing at our great national educational meetings is the man who has something new and bizarre to propose. And the more startling the proposal, the greater is the measure of adulation that he receives. The result of this is a continual straining for effect, an enormous annual crop of fads and fancies, which, though most of them are happily short-lived, keep us in a state of continual turmoil and confusion. * * * * * Now, it goes without saying that there are many ways of making education hit the mark of utility in addition to those that I have mentioned. The teachers down in the lower grades who are teaching little children the arts of reading and writing and computation are doing vastly more in a practical direction than they are ever given credit for doing; for reading and writing and the manipulation of numbers are, next to oral speech itself, the prime necessities in the social and industrial world. These arts are being taught to-day better than they have ever been taught before,--and the technique of their teaching is undergoing constant refinement and improvement. The school can do and is doing other useful things. Some schools are training their pupils to be well mannered and courteous and considerate of the rights of others. They are teaching children one of the most basic and fundamental laws of human life; namely, that there are some things that a gentleman cannot do and some things that society will not stand. How many a painful experience in solving this very problem of getting a living could be avoided if one had only learned this lesson passing well! What a pity it is that some schools that stand to-day for what we call educational progress are failing in just this particular--are sending out into the world an annual crop of boys and girls who must learn the great lesson of self-control and a proper respect for the rights of others in the bitter school of experience,--a school in which the rod will never be spared, but whose chastening scourge comes sometimes, alas, too late! There is no feature of school life which has not its almost infinite possibilities of utility. But after all, are not the basic and fundamental things these ideals that I have named? And should not we who teach stand for idealism in its widest sense? Should we not ourselves subscribe an undying fidelity to those great ideals for which teaching must stand,--to the ideal of social service which lies at the basis of our craft, to the ideals of effort and discipline that make a nation great and its children strong, to the ideal of science that dissipates the black night of ignorance and superstition, to the ideal of culture that humanizes mankind? FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 11: An address before the Eastern Illinois Teachers' Association, October 15, 1909. Published as a Bulletin of the Eastern Illinois Normal School, October, 1909.] ~VII~ THE SCIENTIFIC SPIRIT IN EDUCATION[12] I I know that I do not need to plead with this audience for a recognition of the scientific spirit in the solution of educational problems. The long life and the enviable record of this Society of Pedagogy testify in themselves to that spirit of free inquiry, to the calm and dispassionate search for the truth which lies at the basis of the scientific method. You have gathered here, fortnight after fortnight, to discuss educational problems in the light of your experience. You have reported your experience and listened to the results that others have gleaned in the course of their daily work. And experience is the corner stone of science. Some of the most stimulating and clarifying discussions of educational problems that I have ever heard have been made in the sessions of this Society. You have been scientific in your attitude toward education, and I may add that I first learned the lessons of the real science of education in the St. Louis schools, and under the inspiration that was furnished by the men who were members of this Society. What I knew of the science of education before I came to this city ten years ago, was gleaned largely from books. It was deductive, _a priori_, in its nature. What I learned here was the induction from actual experience. My very first introduction to my colleagues among the school men of this city was a lesson in the science of education. I had brought with me a letter to one of your principals. He was in the office down on Locust Street the first Saturday that I spent in the city. I presented my letter to him, and, with that true Southern hospitality which has always characterized your corps, he took me immediately under his wing and carried me out to luncheon with him. We sat for hours in a little restaurant down on Sixth Street,--he was my teacher and I was his pupil. And gradually, as the afternoon wore on, I realized that I had met a master craftsman in the art of education. At first I talked glibly enough of what I intended to do, and he listened sympathetically and helpfully, with a little quizzical smile in his eyes as I outlined my ambitious plans. And when I had run the gamut of my dreams, he took his turn, and, in true Socratic fashion, yet without making me feel in the least that I was only a dreamer after all, he refashioned my theories. One by one the little card houses that I had built up were deftly, smoothly, gently, but completely demolished. I did not know the ABC of schoolcraft--but he did not tell me that I did not. He went at the task of instruction from the positive point of view. He proved to me, by reminiscence and example, how different are actual and ideal conditions. And finally he wound up with a single question that opened a new world to me. "What," he asked, "is the dominant characteristic of the child's mind?" I thought at first that I was on safe ground--for had I not taken a course in child study, and had I not measured some hundreds of school children while working out a university thesis? So I began with my list. But, at each characteristic that I mentioned he shook his head. "No," he said, "no; that is not right." And when finally I had exhausted my list, he said to me, "The dominant characteristic of the child's mind is its _seriousness_. The child is the most _serious_ creature in the world." The answer staggered me for a moment. Like ninety-nine per cent of the adult population of this globe, the seriousness of the child had never appealed to me. In spite of the theoretical basis of my training, that single, dominant element of child life had escaped me. I had gained my notion of the child from books, and, I also fear, from the Sunday supplements. To me, deep down in my heart, the child was an animated joke. I was immersed in unscientific preconceptions. But the master craftsman had gained his conception of child life from intimate, empirical acquaintance with the genus boy. He had gleaned from his experience that fundamental truth: "The child is the most serious creature in the world." Sometime I hope that I may make some fitting acknowledgment of the debt of gratitude that I owe to that man. The opportunities that I had to talk with him were all too few, but I did make a memorable visit to his school, and studied at first hand the great work that he was doing for the pupils of the Columbia district. He died the next year, and I shall never forget the words that stood beneath his picture that night in one of the daily papers: "Charles Howard: Architect of Character." II The essence of the scientific spirit is to view experience without prejudice, and that was the lesson that I learned from the school system of St. Louis. The difference between the ideal child and the real child,--the difference between what fancy pictures a schoolroom to be and what actual first-hand acquaintance shows that it is, the difference between a preconceived notion and an actual stubborn fact of experience,--these were among the lessons that I learned in these schools. But, at the same time, there was no crass materialism accompanying this teaching. There was no loss of the broader point of view. A fact is a fact, and we cannot get around it,--and this is what scientific method has insisted upon from its inception. But always beyond the fact is its significance, its meaning. That the St. Louis schools have for the last fifty years stood for the larger view; that they have never, so far as I know, exploited the new and the bizarre simply because it was new and strange,--this is due, I believe, to the insight and inspiration of the man[13] who first fashioned the framework of this system, and breathed into it as a system the vitalizing element of idealism. Personally, I have not always been in sympathy with the teachings of the Hegelian philosophy,--I have not always understood them,--but no man could witness the silent, steady, unchecked growth of the St. Louis schools without being firmly and indelibly impressed with dynamic value of a richly conceived and rigidly wrought system of fundamental principles. The cause of education has suffered much from the failure of educators to break loose from the shackles of the past. But it has, in some places, suffered still more from the tendency of the human mind to confuse fundamental principles with the shackles of tradition. The rage for the new and the untried, simply because it is new and untried,--this has been, and is to-day, the rock upon which real educational progress is most likely to be wrecked. This is a rock, I believe, that St. Louis has so far escaped, and I have no doubt that its escape has been due, in large measure, to the careful, rigid, laborious, and yet illuminating manner in which that great captain charted out its course. III Fundamentally, there is, I believe, no discrepancy, no inconsistency, between the scientific spirit in education and what may be called the philosophical spirit. As I have suggested, there are always two dangers that must be avoided: the danger, in the first place, of thinking of the old as essentially bad; and, on the other hand, the danger of thinking of the new and strange and unknown as essentially bad; the danger of confusing a sound conservatism with a blind worship of established custom; and the danger of confusing a sound radicalism with the blind worship of the new and the bizarre. Let me give you an example of what I mean. There is a rather bitter controversy at present between two factions of science teachers. One faction insists that physics and chemistry and biology should be taught in the high school from the economic point of view,--that the economic applications of these sciences to great human arts, such as engineering and agriculture, should be emphasized at every point,--that a great deal of the material now taught in these sciences is both useless and unattractive to the average high-school pupil. The other faction maintains that such a course would mean the destruction of science as an integral part of the secondary culture course,--that science to be cultural must be pure science,--must be viewed apart from its economic applications,--apart from its relations to the bread-and-butter problem. Now many of the advocates of the first point of view--many of the people that would emphasize the economic side--are animated by the spirit of change and unrest which dominates our latter-day civilization. They wish to follow the popular demand. "Down with scholasticism!" is their cry; "Down with this blind worship of custom and tradition! Let us do the thing that gives the greatest immediate benefit to our pupils. Let us discard the elements in our courses that are hard and dry and barren of practical results." Now these men, I believe, are basing their argument upon the fallacy of immediate expediency. The old is bad, the new is good. That is their argument. They have no sheet anchor out to windward. They are willing to drift with the gale. Many of the advocates of the second point of view--many of the people who hold to the old line, pure-science teaching--are, on the other hand, animated by a spirit of irrational conservatism. "Down with radicalism!" they shout; "Down with the innovators! Things that are hard and dry are good mental discipline. They made our fathers strong. They can make our children strong. What was good enough for the great minds of the past is good enough for us." Now these men, I believe, have gone to the other extreme. They have confused custom and tradition with fundamental and eternal principles. They have thought that, just because a thing is old, it is good, just as their antagonists have thought that just because a thing is new it is good. In both cases, obviously, the scientific spirit is lacking. The most fundamental of all principles is the principle of truth. And yet these men who are teachers of science are--both classes of them--ruled themselves by dogma. And meantime the sciences are in danger of losing their place in secondary education. The rich promise that was held out a generation ago has not been fulfilled. Within the last decade, the enrollment in the science courses has not increased in proportion to the total enrollment, while the enrollment in Latin (which fifteen years ago was about to be cast upon the educational scrap heap) has grown by leaps and bounds. Now this is a type of a great many controversies in education. We talk and theorize, but very seldom do we try to find out the actual facts in the case by any adequate tests. It was the lack of such tests that led us at the University of Illinois to enter upon a series of impartial investigations to see whether we could not take some of these mooted questions out of the realm of eternal controversy, and provide some definite solutions. We chose among others this controversy between the economic scientists and the pure scientists. We took a high-school class and divided it into two sections. We tried to place in each section an equal number of bright and mediocre and dull pupils, so that the conditions would be equalized. Then we chose an excellent teacher, a man who could approach the problem with an open mind, without prejudice or favor. During the present year he has been teaching these parallel sections. In one section he has emphasized economic applications; in the other he has taught the class upon the customary pure-science basis. He has kept a careful record of his work, and at stated intervals he has given both sections the same tests. We propose to carry on this investigation year after year with different classes, different teachers, and in different schools. We are not in a hurry to reach conclusions. Now I said that the safeguard in all work of this sort is to keep our grip firm and fast on the eternal truths. In this work that I mention we are not trying to prove that either pure science or applied science interests our pupils the more or helps them the more in meeting immediate economic situations. We do not propose to measure the success of either method by its effect upon the bread-winning power of the pupil. What we believe that science teaching should insure, is a grip on the scientific method and an illuminating insight into the forces of nature, and we are simply attempting to see whether the economic applications will make this grip firmer or weaker, and this insight clearer or more obscure. I trust that this point is plain, for it illustrates what I have just said regarding the danger of following a popular demand. We need no experiment to prove that economic science is more useful in the narrow sense than is pure science. What we wish to determine is whether a judicious mixture of the two sorts of teaching will or will not enable us to realize this rich cultural value much more effectively than a traditional purely cultural course. Now that illustrates what I think is the real and important application of the scientific spirit to the solution of educational problems. You will readily see that it does not do away necessarily with our ideals. It is not necessarily materialistic. It is not necessarily idealistic. Either side may utilize it. It is a quite impersonal factor. But it does promise to take some of our educational problems out of the field of useless and wasteful controversy, and it does promise to get men of conflicting views together,--for, in the case that I have just cited, if we prove that the right admixture of methods may enable us to realize both a cultural and a utilitarian value, there is no reason why the culturists and the utilitarians should not get together, cease their quarreling, take off their coats, and go to work. Few people will deny that bread and butter is a rather essential thing in this life of ours; very few will deny that material prosperity in temperate amounts is good for all of us; and very few also will deny that far more fundamental than bread and butter--far more important than material prosperity--are the great fundamental and eternal truths which man has wrought out of his experience and which are most effectively crystallized in the creations of pure art, the masterpieces of pure literature, and the discoveries of pure science. Certainly if we of the twentieth century can agree upon any one thing, it is this: That life without toil is a crime, and that any one who enjoys leisure and comfort and the luxuries of living without paying the price of toil is a social parasite. I believe that it is an important function of public education to impress upon each generation the highest ideals of living as well as the arts that are essential to the making of a livelihood, but I wish to protest against the doctrine that these two factors stand over against one another as the positive and negative poles of human existence. In other words, I protest against the notion, that the study of the practical everyday problems of human life is without what we are pleased to call a culture value,--that in the proper study of those problems one is not able to see the operation of fundamental and eternal principles. I shall readily agree that there is always a grave danger that the trivial and temporary objects of everyday life may be viewed and studied without reference to these fundamental principles. But this danger is certainly no greater than that the permanent and eternal truths be studied without reference to the actual, concrete, workaday world in which we live. I have seen exercises in manual training that had for their purpose the perfection of the pupil in some little art of joinery for which he would, in all probability, have not the slightest use in his later life. But even if he should find use for it, the process was not being taught in the proper way. He was being made conscious only of the little trivial thing, and no part of his instruction was directed toward the much more important, fundamental lesson,--the lesson, namely, that "a little thing may be perfect, but that perfection itself is not a little thing." I say that I have witnessed such an exercise in the very practical field of manual training. I may add that I went through several such exercises myself, and emerged with a disgust that always recurs to me when I am told that every boy will respond to the stimulus of the hammer and the jack plane. But I should hasten to add that I have also seen what we call the humanities so taught that the pupil has emerged from them with a supreme contempt for the life of labor and a feeling of disgust at the petty and trivial problems of human life which every one must face. I have seen art and literature so taught as to leave their students not with the high purpose to mold their lives in accordance with the high ideals that art and literature represent, not the firm resolution to do what they could to relieve the ugliness of the world where they found it ugly, or to do what they could to ennoble life when they found it vile; but rather with an attitude of calm superiority, as if they were in some way privileged to the delights of æsthetic enjoyment, leaving the baser born to do the world's drudgery. I have seen the principles of agriculture so taught as to leave with the student the impression that he could raise more corn than his neighbor and sell it at a higher price if he mastered the principles of nitrification; and all without one single reference to the basic principle of conservation upon which the welfare of the human race for all time to come must inevitably depend,--without a single reference to the moral iniquity of waste and sloth and ignorance. But I have also seen men who have mastered the scientific method,--the method of controlled observation, and unprejudiced induction and inference,--in the laboratories of pure science; and who have gained so overweening and hypertrophied a regard for this method that they have considered it too holy to be contaminated by application to practical problems,--who have sneered contemptuously when some adventurer has proposed, for example, to subject the teaching of science itself to the searchlight of scientific method. I trust that these examples have made my point clear, for it is certainly simple enough. If vocational education means simply that the arts and skills of industrial life are to be transmitted safely from generation to generation, a minimum of educational machinery is all that is necessary, and we do not need to worry much about it. If vocational education means simply this, it need not trouble us much; for economic conditions will sooner or later provide for an effective means of transmission, just as economic conditions will sooner or later perfect, through a blind and empirical process of elimination, the most effective methods of agriculture, as in the case of China and other overpopulated nations of the Orient. But I take it that we mean by vocational education something more than this, just as we mean by cultural education something more than a veneer of language, history, pure science, and the fine arts. In the former case, the practical problems of life are to be lifted to the plane of fundamental principles; in the latter case, fundamental principles are to be brought down to the plane of present, everyday life. I can see no discrepancy here. To my mind there is no cultural subject that has not its practical outcome, and there is no practical subject that has not its humanizing influence if only we go to some pains to seek it out. I do not object to a subject of instruction that promises to put dollars into the pockets of those that study it. I do object to the mode of teaching that subject which fails to use this effective economic appeal in stimulating a glimpse of the broader vision. I do not object to the subject that appeals to the pupil's curiosity because it informs him of the wonderful deeds that men have done in the past. I do object to that mode of teaching this subject which simply arouses interest in a spectacular deed, and then fails to use this interest in the interpretation of present problems. I do not contend that in either case there must be an explicit pointing of morals and drawing of lessons. But I do contend that the teacher who is in charge of the process should always have this purpose in the forefront of his consciousness, and--now by direct comparison, now by indirection and suggestion--guide his pupils to the goal desired. I hope that through careful tests, we shall some day be able to demonstrate that there is much that is good and valuable on both sides of every controverted educational question. After all, in this complex and intricate task of teaching to which you and I are devoting our lives, there is too much at stake to permit us for a moment to be dogmatic,--to permit us for a moment to hold ourselves in any other attitude save one of openness and reception to the truth when the truth shall have been demonstrated. Neither your ideas nor mine, nor those of any man or group of men, living or dead, are important enough to stand in the way of the best possible accomplishment of that great task to which we have set our hands. IV But I did not propose this morning to talk to you about science as a part of our educational curriculum, but rather about the scientific spirit and the scientific method as effective instruments for the solution of our own peculiar educational problems. I have tried to give you reasons for believing that an adoption of this policy does not necessarily commit us to materialism or to a narrowly economic point of view. I have attempted to show that the scientific method may be applied to the solution of our problems while we still retain our faith in ideals; and that, unless we do retain that faith, our investigations will be without point or meaning. This problem of vocational education to which I have just referred is one that is likely to remain unsolved until we have made a searching investigation of its factors in the light of scientific method. Some people profess not to be worried by the difficulty of finding time in our elementary and secondary schools for the introduction of the newer subjects making for increased vocational efficiency. They would cut the Gordian knot with one single operation by eliminating enough of the older subjects to make room for the new. I confess that this solution does not appeal to me. Fundamentally the core of the elementary curriculum must, I believe, always be the arts that are essential to every one who lives the social life. In other words, the language arts and the number arts are, and always must be, the fundamentals of elementary education. I do not believe that specialized vocational education should ever be introduced at the expense of thorough training in the subjects that already hold their place in the curriculum. And yet we are confronted by the economic necessity of solving in some way this vocational problem. How are we to do it? It is here that the scientific method may perhaps come to our aid. The obvious avenue of attack upon this problem is to determine whether we cannot save time and energy, not by the drastic operation of eliminating old subjects, but rather by improving our technique of teaching, so that the waste may be reduced, and the time thus saved given to these new subjects that are so vociferously demanding admission. In Cleveland, for example, the method of teaching spelling has been subjected to a rigid scientific treatment, and, as a result, spelling is being taught to-day vastly better than ever before and with a much smaller expenditure of time and energy. It has been due, very largely, to the application of a few well-known principles which the science of psychology has furnished. Now that is vastly better than saying that spelling is a subject that takes too much time in our schools and consequently ought forthwith to be eliminated. In all of our school work enough time is undoubtedly wasted to provide ample opportunity for training the child thoroughly in some vocation if we wish to vocationalize him, and I do not think that this would hurt him, even if he does not follow the vocation in later life. To-day we are attempting to detect these sources of waste in technique. The problems of habit building or memorizing are already well on the way to solution. Careful tests have shown the value of doing memory work in a certain definite way--learning by unit wholes rather than by fragments, for example. Experiments have been conducted to determine the best length of time to give to drill processes, such as spelling, and penmanship, and the fundamental tables of arithmetic. It is already clearly demonstrated that brief periods of intense concentration are more economical than longer periods during which the monotony of repetition fags the mind to a point where it can no longer work effectively. We are also beginning to see from these tests, that a systematic method of attacking such a problem as the memorizing of the tables will do much to save time and promote efficiency. We are finding that it is extremely profitable to instruct children in the technique of learning,--to start them out in the right way by careful example, so that much of the time and energy that was formerly dissipated, may now be conserved. And there is a suggestion, also, that in the average school, the vast possibilities of the child's latent energy are only imperfectly realized. A friend of mine stumbled accidentally upon this fact by introducing a new method of grading. He divided his pupils into three groups or streams. The group that progressed the fastest was made up of those who averaged 85 per cent and over in their work. A middle group averaged between 75 per cent and 85 per cent in their work, and a third, slow group was made up of those who averaged below 75 per cent. At the end of the first month, he found that a certain proportion of his pupils, who had formerly hovered around the passing grade of 70, began to forge ahead. Many of them easily went into the fastest stream, but they were still satisfied with the minimum standing for that group. In other words, whether we like to admit it or not, most men and women and boys and girls are content with the passing grades, both in school and in life. So common is the phenomenon that we think of the matter fatalistically. But supply a stimulus, raise the standard, and you will find some of these individuals forging up to the next level. Professor James's doctrine of latent energies bids fair to furnish the solution of a vast number of perplexing educational problems. Certain it is that our pupils of to-day are not overburdened with work. They are sometimes irritated by too many tasks, sometimes dulled by dead routine, sometimes exhilarated to the point of mental _ennui_ by spectacular appeals to immediate interest. But they are seldom overworked, or even worked to within a healthful degree of the fatigue point. Elementary education has often been accused of transacting its business in small coin,--of dealing with and emphasizing trivialities,--and yet every time that the scientific method touches the field of education, it reveals the fundamental significance of little things. Whether the third-grade pupil should memorize the multiplication tables in the form, "8 times 9 equals 72" or simply "8-9's--72" seems a matter of insignificance in contrast with the larger problems that beset us. And yet scientific investigation tells us clearly and unequivocally that any useless addition to a formula to be memorized increases the time for reducing the formula to memory, and interferes significantly with its recall and application. It may seem a matter of trivial importance whether the pupil increases the subtrahend number or decreases the minuend number when he subtracts digits that involve taking or borrowing; and yet investigation proves that to increase the subtrahend number is by far the simpler process, and eliminates both a source of waste and a source of error, which, in the aggregate, may assume a significance to mental economy that is well worth considering. In fact, if we are ever to solve the broader, bigger, more attractive problems,--like the problem of vocational education, or the problem of retardation,--we must first find a solution for some of the smaller and seemingly trivial questions of the very existence of which the lay public may be quite unaware, but which you and I know to mean an untold total of waste and inefficiency in the work that we are trying to do. And one reason why the scientific attitude toward educational problems appeals to me is simply because this attitude carries with it a respect for these seemingly trivial and commonplace problems; for just as the greatest triumph of the teaching art is to get our pupils to see in those things of life that are fleeting and transitory the operation of fundamental and eternal principles, so the glory of the scientific method lies in its power to reveal the significance of the commonplace and to teach us that no slightest detail of our daily work is necessarily devoid of inspiration; that every slightest detail of school method and school management has a meaning and a significance that it is worth our while to ponder. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 12: An address delivered before the St. Louis Society of Pedagogy, April 16, 1910.] [Footnote 13: Dr. W.T. Harris.] ~VIII~ THE POSSIBILITY OF TRAINING CHILDREN HOW TO STUDY[14] I In its widest aspects, the problem of teaching pupils how to study forms a large part of the larger educational problem. It means, not only teaching them how to read books, and to make the content of books part of their own mental capital, but also, and perhaps far more significantly, teaching them how to draw lessons from their own experiences; not only how to observe and classify and draw conclusions, but also how to evaluate their experience--how to judge whether certain things that they do give adequate or inadequate results. In the narrower sense, however, the art of study may be said to consist in the ability to assimilate the experiences of others, and it is in this narrower sense that I shall discuss the problem to-day. It is not only in books that human experience is recorded, and yet it is true that the reading of books is the most economical means of gaining these experiences; consequently, we may still further narrow our problem to this: How may pupils be trained effectively to glean, through the medium of the printed page, the great lessons of race experience? The word "study" is thus used in the sense in which most teachers employ it. When we speak of a pupil's studying his lessons, we commonly mean that he is bending over a text-book, attempting to assimilate the contents of the text. Just what it means to study, even in this narrow sense of the term,--just what it means, psychologically, to assimilate even the simplest thoughts of others,--I cannot tell you, and I do not know of any one who can answer this seemingly simple question satisfactorily. We all study, but what happens in our minds when we do study is a mystery. We all do some thinking, and yet the psychology of thinking is the great undiscovered and unexplored region in the field of mental science. Until we know something of the psychology of thinking, we can hope for very little definite information concerning the psychology of study, for study is so intimately bound up with thinking that the two are not to be separated. But even if it is impossible at the present time to analyze the process of studying, we are pretty well agreed as to what constitutes successful study, and many rules have been formulated for helping pupils to acquire effective habits of study. These rules concern us only indirectly at the present time, for our problem is still narrower in its scope. It has to do with the possibility of so training children in the art of study, not only that they may study effectively in school, but also that they may carry over the habits and methods of study thus acquired into the tasks of later life. In other words, the topic that we are discussing is but one phase of the problem of formal discipline,--the problem of securing a transfer of training from a specific field to other fields; and my purpose is to view this topic of "study" in the light of what we know concerning the possibilities of transfer. Let me take a specific example. I am not so much concerned with the problem of getting a pupil to master a history lesson quickly and effectively,--not how he may best assimilate the facts concerning the Missouri Compromise, for example. My task is rather to determine how we can make his mastery of the Missouri Compromise a lesson in the general art of study,--how that mastery may help him develop what we used to call the general power of study,--the capacity to apply an effective method of study to other problems, perhaps, very far removed from the history lesson; in other words, how that single lesson may help him in the more general task of finding any type of information when he needs it, of assimilating it once he has found it, and of applying it once he has assimilated it. In an audience of practical teachers, it is hardly necessary to emphasize the significance of doing this very thing. From one point of view, it may be asserted that the whole future of what we term general education, as distinguished from technical or vocational education, depends upon our ability to solve problems like this, and solve them satisfactorily. We can never justify universal general education beyond the merest rudiments unless we can demonstrate acceptably that the training which general education furnishes will help the individual to solve the everyday problems of his life. Either we must train the pupil in a general way so that he will be able to acquire specialized skill more quickly and more effectively than will the pupil who lacks this general training; or we must give up a large part of the general-culture courses that now occupy an important part in our elementary and secondary curriculums, and replace these with technical and vocational subjects that shall have for their purpose the development of specialized efficiency. All teachers, I take it, are alive to the grave dangers of the latter policy. Whether we have thought the matter through logically or not we certainly _feel_ strongly that too early specialization will work a serious injury to the cause of education, and, through education, to the larger cause of social advancement and enlightenment. We view with grave foreboding any policy that will shut the door of opportunity to any child, no matter how humble or how unpromising. And yet we also know that, unless the general education that we now offer can be distinctly shown to have a beneficial influence upon specialized efficiency, we shall be forced by economic conditions into this very policy. It is small wonder, then, that so many of our educational discussions and investigations to-day turn upon this problem; and among the various phases of the problem none is more significant than that which is covered by our topic of to-day,--How may we develop in the pupil a general power or capacity for gaining information independently of schools and teachers? If we could adequately develop this power, there is much in the way of specialized instruction that could be safely left to the individual himself. If we could teach him how to study, then we could perhaps trust him to master some of the principles of any calling that he undertakes in so far as these principles can be mastered from books. To teach the child to study effectively is to do the most useful thing that could be done to help him to adjust himself to any environment of modern civilized life into which he may be thrown. For there is one thing that the more radical advocates of a narrow vocational education commonly forget, and that is the constant change that is going on in industrial processes. When we limit our vocational teaching to a mere mastery of technique, there is no guarantee that the process which we teach to-day may not be discarded in five or ten years from to-day. Even the narrower technical principles which are so extremely important to-day may be relatively insignificant by the time that the child whom we are training takes his place in the industrial world. But if we can arm the individual with the more fundamental principles which are fixed for all time; and if, in addition to this, we can teach him how to master the specialized principles which may come into the field unheralded and unexpected, and turn topsy-turvy the older methods of doing his work, then we shall have done much toward helping him in solving that perplexing problem of gaining a livelihood. II I shall not try in this discussion of the problem of study to summarize completely the principles and precepts that have been presented so well in the four books on the subject that have appeared in the last two years. I do not know, in fact, of any book that is more useful to the teacher just at present than Professor Frank McMurry's _How to Study and Teaching how to Study_. It is a book that is both a help and a delight, for it is clear and well-organized, and written in a vivacious style and with a wealth of concrete illustration that holds the attention from beginning to end. The chief fault that I have to find with it is the fault that I have to find with almost every educational book that comes from the press to-day,--the tendency, namely, to imply that the teacher of to-day is doing very little to solve these troublesome problems. As a matter of fact, many teachers are securing excellent results from their attempts to teach pupils how to study. Otherwise we should not find so many energetic young men to-day who are making an effective individual mastery of the principles of their respective trades and professions independently of schools and teachers. Our attitude toward these questions, far from being that of the pessimist, should be that of the optimist. Our task should be to seek out these successful teachers, and find out how they do their work. Among the most important points emphasized by the recent writers upon the art of study is the necessity for some form of motivation in the work of mastering the text. We all know that if a pupil feels a distinct need for getting information out of a book, the chances are that he will get it if the book is available and if he can read. To create a problem that will involve in its solution the gaining of such information is, therefore, one of the best approaches to a mastery of the art of study. It is, however, only the beginning. It furnishes the necessary energy, but does not map out the path along which this energy is to be expended. And this is where the greater emphasis, perhaps, is needed. One of the best teachers that I ever knew taught the subject that we now call agronomy,--a branch of agricultural science that has to do with field crops. I was a mere boy when I sat under his instruction, but certain points in his method of teaching made a most distinct impression upon me. Lectures we had, of course, for lecturing was the orthodox method of class instruction. But this man did something more than merely lecture. He assigned each one of his students a plat of ground on the college farm. Upon this plat of ground, a definite experiment was to be conducted. One of my experiments had to do with the smut of oats. I was to try the effect of treating the seed with hot water in order to see whether it would prevent the fungus from later destroying the ripening grain. The very nature of the problem interested me intensely. I began to wonder about the life-history of this fungus,--how it looked and how it germinated and how it grew and wrought its destructive influence. It was not long before I found myself spending some of my leisure moments in the library trying to find out what was known concerning this subject. I was not so successful as I might have been, but I am confident that I learned more about parasitic fungi under the spur of that curiosity than I should have done in five times the number of hours spent in formal, meaningless study. But the point of my experience is not that a problem interest had been awakened, but rather that the white heat of that interest was not utilized so completely as it might have been utilized in fixing upon my mind some important details in the general method of running down references and acquiring information. That was the moment to strike, and one serious defect of our school organization to-day is that most teachers, like my teacher at that time, have so much to do that anything like individual attention at such moments is out of the question. Next to individual attention, probably, the best way to overcome the difficulty is to give class instruction in these matters,--to set aside a definite period for teaching pupils the technique of using books. If one could arouse a sufficiently general problem interest, this sort of instruction could be made most effective. But even if the problem interest is not general, I think that it is well to assume that it exists in some pupils, at least, and to give them the benefit of class instruction in the art of study,--even if some of the seed should fall upon barren soil. This aspect of teaching pupils how to study is particularly important in the upper grades and the high school, where pupils have sufficiently mastered the technique of reading to be intrusted with individual problems, and where some reference books are commonly available. Chief among these always is the dictionary, and to get pupils to use this ponderous volume effectively is one of the important steps in teaching them how to study. Here, too, it is easy to be pedantic. As I shall insist strenuously a little later, the chief factor in insuring a transfer of training from one subject to another is to leave in the pupil's mind a distinct consciousness that the method that he has been trained to follow is worth while,--that it gets results. The dictionary habit is likely to begin and end within the schoolroom unless steps are taken to insure the operation of this factor. It is easy to overwork the dictionary and to use it fruitlessly, in so great a measure, in fact, that the pupil will never want to see a dictionary again. Aside from the use of the dictionary, is the use of the helps that modern books provide for finding the information that may be desired,--indices, tables of contents, marginal and cross-references, and the like. These, again, are most significant in the work of the upper grades and the high school, and here again if we wish the skill that is developed in their use to be transferred, we must take pains to see that the pupil really appreciates their value,--that he realizes their time-saving and energy-saving functions. I do not know that there is any better way to do this than to let him flounder around without them for a little so that his sense of their value may be enhanced by contrast. III Another important step emphasized by the recent writers is the need for training children to pick out the significant features in the text or portion of the text that they are reading. This, of course, is work that is to be undertaken from the very moment that they begin to use books. How to do it effectively is a puzzling problem and one that will amply repay study and experimentation by the individual teacher. Much studying of lessons by teachers and pupils together will help, provided that the exercise is spirited and vital, and is not looked upon by the pupils as an easy way of getting out of recitation work. McMurry strongly recommends the marking of books to indicate the topic sentences and the other salient features. Personally, I am sure from my own experience that the assignment is all-important here, and that study questions and problems which can be answered or solved by reference to the text will help matters very much; but care must, of course, be taken that the continued use of such questions does not preclude the pupil's own mastery of the art of study. To eliminate this danger, it is well that the pupils be requested frequently to make out their own lists of questions, and, as speedily as possible, both the questions made by the pupil and those made by the teacher, should be replaced by topical outlines. By taking care that the questions are logically arranged,--that is, that a general question refer to the topic of the paragraph, and other subordinate questions to the subordinate details of the paragraph,--the transition from the questions to the topical outline may be readily made. Simultaneously with this will go the transition in recitation from the question-and-answer type to the topical type; and when you have trained a class into the habit of topical recitation,--when each pupil can talk right through a topic (not around it or underneath it or above it) without the use of "pumping" questions by the teacher,--you have gone a long way toward developing the art of study. The transfer of this training, however, is quite another matter. There are pupils who can work up excellent topical recitations from their school text-books but who are utterly at sea in getting a grasp on a subject treated in other books. Here again the problem lies in getting the pupil to see the method apart from its content, and to show him that it really brings results that are worth while. If, in our training in the topical method, we are too formal and didactic, the art of study will begin and end right there. It is here that the factor of motivation is of supreme importance. When real problems are raised which require for their solution intelligent reading, the general worth of the method of study can be clearly shown. I do not go so far as to say that the pupil should never be required to study unless he has a real problem that he wishes to solve. In fact, I think that we still have a large place for the formal, systematic mastery of texts by every pupil in our schools. I do contend, however, that the frequent introduction of real problems will give us an opportunity to show the pupil that the method that he has utilized in his more formal school work is adequate and essential to do the thing that appeals to him as worth while. Only in this way, I believe, can we insure that transfer of training which is the important factor from our present standpoint. And I ought also to say, parenthetically, that we should not interpret too narrowly this word "motivation." Let us remember that what may appeal to the adult as an effective motive does not always appeal to the child as such. Economic motives are the most effective, probably, in our own adult lives, and probably very effective with high-school pupils, but economic motives are not always strong in young children, nor should we wish them to be. It is not always true that the child will approach a school task sympathetically when he knows that the task is an essential preparation for the life that is going on about him. He may work harder at a task in order to get ahead of his fellow-pupils than he would if the motive were to fit him to enter a shop or a factory. Motive is largely a matter of instinct with the child, and he may, indeed, be perfectly satisfied with a school task just as it stands. For example, we all know that children enjoy the right kind of drill. Repetition, especially rhythmic repetition, is instinctive,--it satisfies an inborn need. Where such a condition exists, it is an obvious waste of time to search about for more indirect motives. The economical thing to do is to turn the ready energy of the child into the channel that is already open to it, so long as this procedure fits in with the results that we must secure. I feel like emphasizing this fact, inasmuch as the terms "problem interest" and "motivation" seem most commonly to be associated in the minds of teachers with what we adults term "real" or economic situations. To learn a lesson well may often be a sufficient motive,--may often constitute a "real" situation to the child,--and if it does, it will serve very effectively our purposes in this other task,--namely, getting the pupil to see the worth of the method that we ask him to employ. IV There are one or two points of a general nature in connection with the art of study that should be emphasized. In the first place, the upper-grade and high-school pupils are, I believe, mature enough to appreciate in some degree what knowledge really means. One of the fallacies of which I was possessed on completing my work in the lower schools was the belief that there are some men who know everything. I naturally concluded that the superintendent of schools was one of these men; the family physician was another; the leading man in my town was a third; and any one who ever wrote a book was put, _ex officio_ so to speak, into this class without further inquiry. One of the most astounding revelations of my later education was to learn that, after all, the amount of real knowledge in this world, voluminous though it seems, is after all pitiably small. Of opinion and speculation we have a surplus, but of real, downright, hard fact, our capital is still most insignificant. And I wonder if something could not be done in the high school to teach pupils the difference between fact and opinion, and something also of the slow, laborious process through which real facts are accumulated. How many mistakes of life are due to the lack of the judicial attitude right here. What mistakes we all make when we try to evaluate writings outside of our own special field of knowledge or activity. Nothing depresses me to-day quite so much as the readiness with which laymen mistake opinion for fact in the field of psychology and education,--and I suppose that my own hasty acceptance of statements in other fields would have a similar effect upon the specialists of those fields. Can general education help us out at all in this matter? I have only one or two suggestions to make, and even these may not be worth a great deal. In the recent Polar controversy, the sympathies of the general public were, I think, at the outset with Cook. This was perhaps, natural, and yet the trained mind ought to have withheld judgment for one reason if for no other,--and that one reason was Peary's long Arctic service, his unquestioned mastery of the technique of polar travel, his general reputation for honesty and caution in advancing opinions. By all the lessons that history teaches, Peary's word should have had precedence over Cook's, for Peary was a specialist, while Cook was only an amateur. And yet the general public discounted entirely those lessons, and trusted rather the novice, with what results it is now unnecessary to review,--and in nine cases out of ten, the results will be the same. Could we not, as part of our work in training pupils to study, also teach them to give some sort of an evaluation to the authorities that they consult? Could we not teach them that, in nine cases out of ten, at least, the man who has the message most worth listening to is the man who has worked the hardest and the longest in his field, and who enjoys the best reputation among his fellow-workers? Sometimes, I admit, the rule does not work, and especially with men whose reputations as authorities have outlived their period of productivity, but even this mistake could be guarded against. Certainly high-school pupils ought distinctly to understand that the authors of their text-books are not always the most learned men or the greatest authorities in the fields that they treat. The use of biographical dictionaries, of the books that are appearing in various fields giving brief biographies and often some authoritative estimate of the workers in these fields, is important in this connection. McMurry recommends that pupils be encouraged to take a critical attitude toward the principles they are set to master,--to judge, as he says, the soundness and worth of the statements that they learn. This is certainly good advice, and wherever the pupil can intelligently deal with real sources, it is well frequently to have him check up the statements of secondary sources. But, after all, this is the age of the specialist, and to trust one's untrained judgment in a field remote from one's knowledge and experience is likely to lead to unfortunate results. We have all sorts of illustrations from the ignorant man who will not trust the physician or the health official in matters of sanitation; because he lacks the proper perspective, he jumps to the conclusion that the specialist is a fraud. Would it not be well to supplement McMurry's suggestion by the one that I have just made,--that is, that we train pupils how to evaluate authorities as well as facts,--how to protect themselves from the quack and the faker who live like parasites upon the ignorance of laymen, both in medicine, in education, and in Arctic exploration? And I believe that there is a place, also, in the high school, especially in connection with the work in science and history, for giving pupils some idea of how knowledge is really gained. I should not teach science exclusively by the laboratory method, nor history exclusively by the source method, but I should certainly take frequent opportunity to let pupils work through some simple problems from the beginnings, struggling with the conditions somewhat as the discoverers themselves struggled; following up "blind leads" and toilsomely returning for a fresh start; meeting with discouragement; and finally feeling, perhaps, some of the joy that comes with success after struggle; and all in order that they may know better and appreciate more fully the cost and the worth of that intellectual heritage which the master-minds of the world have bequeathed to the present and the future. And along with this, as they master the principles of science, let them learn also the human side of science,--the story of Newton, withholding his great discovery for years until he could be absolutely certain that it was a law; until he could get the very commonplace but obstreperous moon into harmony with his law of falling bodies;--the story of Darwin, with his twenty-odd years of the most patient and persistent kind of toil; delving into the most unpromising materials, reading the driest books, always on the lookout for the facts that would point the way to the explanation of species;--the story of Morse and his bitter struggle against poverty, and sickness, and innumerable disappointments up to the time when, in advancing years, success crowned his efforts. All this may seem very remote from the prosaic task of teaching pupils how to study; and yet it will lend its influence toward the attainment of that end. For, after all, we must lead our pupils to see that some books, in spite of their formidable difficulties and their apparent abstractions, are still close to life, and that the truth which lies in books, and which we wish them to assimilate, has been wrought out of human experience, and not brought down miraculously from some remote storehouse of wisdom that is accessible only to the elect. We poke a good deal of fun at book learning nowadays, and there is a pedantic type of book learning that certainly deserves all the ridicule that can be heaped upon it. But it is not wise to carry satire and ridicule too far in any direction, and especially when it may mean creating in young minds a distrust of the force that, more than any other single factor, has operated to raise man above the savage. V To teach the child the art of study means, then, that we take every possible occasion to impress upon his mind the value of study as a means of solving real and vital problems, and that, with this as an incentive, we gradually and persistently and systematically lead him to grasp the method of study as a method,--that is, slowly and gradually to abstract the method from the particular cases to which he applies it and to emotionalize it,--to make it an ideal. Only in this way, so far as we may know, can the art be so generalized as to find ready application in his later life. To this end, it is essential that the steps be taken repeatedly,--not begun to-day and never thought of again until next year,--but daily, even hourly, insuring a little growth. This means, too, not only that the teacher must possess a high degree of patience,--that first principle of pedagogic skill,--but also that he have a comprehensive grasp of the problem, and the ability to separate the woods from the trees, so that, to him at least, the chief aim will never be lost to view. But, even at its best, the task is a severe one, and we need, here as elsewhere in education, carefully controlled tests and experiments, that will enable us to get at the facts. Above all, let me protest against the incidental theory of teaching pupils how to study. To adopt the incidental policy in any field of education,--whether in arithmetic, or spelling, or reading; whether in developing the power of reasoning or the memory, or the art of study,--is to throw wide open the doors that lead to the lines of least resistance, to lax methods, to easy honors, to weakened mental fiber, and to scamped work. Just as the pernicious doctrine of the subconscious is the first and last refuge of the psycho-faker, so incidental learning is the first and last refuge of soft pedagogy. And I mean by incidental learning, going at a teaching task in an indolent, unreflective, hit-or-miss fashion in the hope that somehow or other from this process will emerge the very definite results that we desire. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 14: A paper read before the Superintendents' Section of the Illinois State Teachers' Association, December 29, 1910.] ~IX~ A PLEA FOR THE DEFINITE IN EDUCATION[15] I One way to be definite in education is to formulate as clearly as we can the aims that we hope to realize in every stage of our work. The task of teaching is so complex that, unless we strive earnestly and persistently to reduce it to the simplest possible terms, we are bound to work blindly and ineffectively. It is only one phase of this topic that I wish to discuss with you this morning. My plea for the definite in education will be limited not only to the field of educational aims and values, but to a small corner of that field. Your morning's program has dealt with the problem of teaching history in the elementary school. I should like, if you are willing, to confine my remarks to this topic, and to attack the specific question, What is the history that we teach in the grades to do for the pupil? I wish to make this limitation, not only because what I have to say will be related to the other topics on the program, but also because this very subject of history is one which the lack of a definite standard of educational value has been keenly felt. I should admit at the outset that my interest in history is purely educational. I have had no special training in historical research. As you may perhaps infer from my discussion, my acquaintance with historical facts is very far from comprehensive. I speak as a layman in history,--and I do it openly and, perhaps, a little defiantly, for I believe that the last person to pass adequate judgment upon the general educational value of a given department of knowledge is a man who has made the department a life study. I have little faith in what the mathematician has to say regarding the educational value of mathematics _for the average elementary pupil_, because he is a special pleader and his conclusions cannot escape the coloring of his prejudice. I once knew an enthusiastic brain specialist who maintained that, in every grade of the elementary school, instruction should be required in the anatomy of the human brain. That man was an expert in his own line. He knew more about the structure of the brain than any other living man. But knowing more about brain morphology also implied that he knew less about many other things, and among the things that he knew little about were the needs and capacities of children in the elementary school. He was a special pleader; he had been dealing with his special subject so long that it had assumed a disproportionate value in his eyes. Brain morphology had given him fame, honor, and worldly emoluments. Naturally he would have an exaggerated notion of its value. It is the same with any other specialist. As specialists in education, you and I are likely to overemphasize the importance of the common school in the scheme of creation. Personally I am convinced that the work of elementary education is the most profoundly significant work in the world; and yet I can realize that I should be no fit person to make comparisons if the welfare of a number of other professions and callings were at stake. I should let an unbiased judge make the final determination. II The first question for which we should seek an answer in connection with the value of any school subject is this: How does it influence conduct? Let me insist at the outset that we cannot be definite by saying simply that we teach history in order to impart instruction. If there is one thing upon which we are all agreed to-day it is this: that it is what our pupils do that counts, not what they know. The knowledge that they may possess has value only in so far as it may directly or indirectly be turned over into action. Let us not be mistaken upon this point. Knowledge is of the utmost importance, but it is important only as a means to an end--and the end is conduct. If my pupils act in no way more efficiently after they have received my instruction than they would have acted had they never come under my influence, then my work as a teacher is a failure. If their conduct is less efficient, then my work is not only a failure,--it is a catastrophe. The knowledge that I impart may be absolutely true; the interest that I arouse may be intense; the affection that my pupils have for me may be genuine; but all these are but means to an end, and if the end is not attained, the means have been futile. We have faith that the materials which we pour in at the hopper of sense impression will come out sooner or later at the spout of reaction, transformed by some mysterious process into efficient conduct. While the machinery of the process, like the mills of the gods, certainly grinds slowly, it is some consolation to believe that, at any rate, it _does_ grind; and we are perhaps fain to believe that the exceeding fineness of the grist is responsible for our failure to detect at the spout all of the elements that we have been so careful to pour in at the hopper. What I should like to do is to examine this grinding process rather carefully,--to gain, if possible, some definite notion of the kind of grist we should like to produce, and then to see how the machinery may be made to produce this grist, and in what proportions we must mix the material that we pour into the hopper in order to gain the desired result. I have said that we must ask of every subject that we teach, How does it influence conduct? Now when we ask this question concerning history a variety of answers are at once proposed. One group of people will assert that the facts of history have value because they can be directly applied to the needs of contemporary life. History, they will tell us, records the experiences of the race, and if we are to act intelligently we must act upon the basis of this experience. History informs us of the mistakes that former generations have made in adjusting themselves to the world. If we know history, we can avoid these mistakes. This type of reasoning may be said to ascribe a utilitarian value to the study of history. It assumes that historical knowledge is directly and immediately applicable to vital problems of the present day. Now the difficulty with this value, as with many others that seem to have the sanction of reason, is that it does not possess the sanction of practical test. While knowledge doubtless affects in some way the present policy of our own government, it would be very hard to prove that the influence is in any way a direct influence. It is extremely doubtful whether the knowledge that the voters have of the history of their country will be recalled and applied at the ballot box next November. I do not say that the study of history that has been going on in the common schools for a generation will be entirely without effect upon the coming election. I simply maintain that this influence will be indirect,--but I believe that it will be none the less profound. One's vote at the next election will be determined largely by immediate and present conditions. But the way in which one interprets these conditions cannot help being profoundly influenced by one's historical study or lack of such study. If it is clear, then, that the study of history cannot be justified upon a purely utilitarian basis, we may pass to the consideration of other values that have been proposed. The specialist in history, whose right to legislate upon this matter I have just called into question, will probably emphasize the disciplinary value of this study. Specialists are commonly enthusiastic over the disciplinary value of their special subjects. Their own minds have been so well developed by the pursuit of their special branches that they are impelled to recommend the same discipline for all minds. Again, we must not blame the specialist in history, for you and I think the same about our own special type of activity. From the disciplinary point of view, the study of history is supposed to give one the mastery of a special method of reasoning. Historical method involves, above all else, the careful sifting of evidence, the minutest scrutiny of sources in order to judge whether or not the records are authentic, and the utmost care in coming to conclusions. Now it will be generally agreed that these are desirable types of skill to possess whether one is an historian or a lawyer or a teacher or a man of business. And yet, as in all types of discipline, the difficulty lies, not so much in acquiring the specific skill, as in transferring the skill thus acquired to other fields of activity. Skill of any sort is made up of a multitude of little specific habits, and it is a current theory that habit functions effectively only in the specific situation in which it has been built up, or in situations closely similar. But whether this is true or not it is obvious that the teaching of elementary history provides very few opportunities for this type of training. A third view of the way in which historical knowledge is thought to work into action may be discussed under the head of the cultural value. History, like literature, is commonly assumed to give to the individual who studies it, a certain amount of that commodity which the world calls culture. Precisely what culture consists in, no one, apparently, is ready to tell us, but we all admit that it is real, if not tangible and definable, nor can we deny that the individual who possesses culture conducts himself, as a rule, differently from the individual who does not possess it. In other words, culture is a practical thing, for the only things that are practical are the things that modify or control human action. It is doubtless true that the study of history does add to this intangible something that we call "culture," but the difficulty with this value lies in the fact that, even after we have accepted it as valid, we are in no way better off regarding our methods. Like many other theories, its truth is not to be denied, but its truth gives us no inkling of a solution of our problem. What we need is an educational value of history, the recognition of which will enable us to formulate a method for realizing the value. III The unsatisfactory character of these three values that have been proposed for history--the utilitarian, the disciplinary, and the cultural--is typical of the values that have been proposed for other subjects. Unless the aim of teaching any given subject can be stated in definite terms, the teacher must work very largely in the dark; his efforts must be largely of the "hit-or-miss" order. The desired value may be realized under these conditions, but, if it is realized, it is manifestly through accident, not through intelligent design. It is needless to point out the waste that such a blundering and haphazard adjustment entails. We all know how much of our teaching fails to hit the mark, even when we are clear concerning the result that we desire; we can only conjecture how much of the remainder fails of effect because we are hazy and obscure concerning its purpose. Let us return to our original basic principle and see what light it may throw upon our problem. We have said that the efficiency of teaching must always be measured by the degree in which the pupil's conduct is modified. Taking conduct as our base, then, let us reason back and see what factors control conduct, and, if possible, how these "controls" may be influenced by the processes of education working through the lesson in history. I shall start with a very simple and apparently trivial example. When I was living in the Far West, I came to know something of the Chinese, who are largely engaged, as you know, in domestic service in that part of the country. Most of the Chinese servants that I met corresponded very closely with what we read concerning Chinese character. We have all heard of the Chinese servant's unswerving adherence to a routine that he has once established. They say in the West that when a housewife gives her Chinese servant an object lesson in the preparation of a certain dish, she must always be very careful to make her demonstration perfect the first time. If, inadvertently, she adds one egg too many, she will find that, in spite of her protestations, the superfluous egg will always go into that preparation forever afterward. From what I know of the typical Oriental, I am sure that this warning is not overdrawn. Now here is a bit of conduct, a bit of adjustment, that characterizes the Chinese cook. Not only that, but, in a general way, it is peculiar to all Chinese, and hence may be called a national trait. We might call it a vigorous national prejudice in favor of precedent. But whatever we call it, it is a very dominant force in Chinese life. It is the trait that, perhaps more than any other, distinguishes Chinese conduct from European or American conduct. Now one might think this trait to be instinctive,--to be bred in the bone rather than acquired,--but this I am convinced is not altogether true. At least one Chinese whom I knew did not possess it at all. He was born on a western ranch and his parents died soon after his birth. He was brought up with the children of the ranch owner, and is now a prosperous rancher himself. He lacks every characteristic that we commonly associate with the Chinese, save only the physical features. His hair is straight, his skin is saffron, his eyes are slightly aslant,--but that is all. As far as his conduct goes,--and that is the essential thing,--he is an American. In other words, his traits, his tendencies to action, are American and not Chinese. His life represents the triumph of environment over heredity. When you visit England you find yourselves among a people who speak the same language that you speak,--or, perhaps it would be better to say, somewhat the same; at least you can understand each other. In a great many respects, the Englishman and the American are similar in their traits, but in a great many other respects they differ radically. You cannot, from your knowledge of American traits, judge what an Englishman's conduct will be upon every occasion. If you happened on Piccadilly of a rainy morning, for example, you would see the English clerks and storekeepers and professional men riding to their work on the omnibuses that thread their way slowly through the crowded thoroughfare. No matter how rainy the morning, these men would be seated on the tops of the omnibuses, although the interior seats might be quite unoccupied. No matter how rainy the morning, many of these men would be faultlessly attired in top hats and frock coats, and there they would sit through the drizzling rain, protecting themselves most inadequately with their opened umbrellas. Now there is a bit of conduct that you cannot find duplicated in any American city. It is a national habit,--or, perhaps, it would be better to say, it is an expression of a national trait,--and that national trait is a prejudice in favor of convention. It is the thing to do, and the typical Englishman does it, just as, when he is sent as civil governor to some lonely outpost in India, with no companions except scantily clad native servants, he always dresses conscientiously for dinner and sits down to his solitary meal clad in the conventional swallow-tail coat of civilization. Now the way in which a Chinese cook prepares a custard, or the way in which an English merchant rides in an omnibus, may be trivial and unimportant matters in themselves, and yet, like the straw that shows which way the wind blows, they are indicative of vast and profound currents. The conservatism of the Chinese empire is only a larger and more comprehensive expression of the same trait or prejudice that leads the cook to copy literally his model. The present educational situation in England is only another expression of that same prejudice in favor of the established order, which finds expression in the merchant on the Piccadilly omnibus. Whenever you pass from one country to another you will find this difference in tendencies to action. In Germany, for example, you will find something that amounts almost to a national fervor for economy and frugality. You will find it expressing itself in the care with which the German housewife does her marketing. You will find it expressing itself in the intensive methods of agriculture, through which scarcely a square inch of arable land is permitted to lie fallow,--through which, for example, even the shade trees by the roadside furnish fruit as well as shade, and are annually rented for their fruit value to industrious members of the community,--and it is said in one section of Germany that the only people known to steal fruit from these trees along the lonely country roads are American tourists, who, you will see, also have their peculiar standards of conduct. You will find this same fervor for frugality and economy expressing itself most extensively in that splendid forest policy by means of which the German states have conserved their magnificent timber resources. But, whatever its expression, it is the same trait,--a trait born of generations of struggle with an unyielding soil, and yet a trait which, combined with the German fervor for science and education, has made possible the marvelous progress that Germany has made within the last half century. What do we mean by national traits? Simply this: prejudices or tendencies toward certain typical forms of conduct, common to a given people. It is this community of conduct that constitutes a nation. A country whose people have different standards of action must be a divided country, as our own American history sufficiently demonstrates. Unless upon the vital questions of human adjustment, men are able to agree, they cannot live together in peace. If we are a distinctive and unique nation,--if we hold a distinctive and unique place among the nations of the globe,--it is because you and I and the other inhabitants of our country have developed distinctive and unique ideals and prejudices and standards, all of which unite to produce a community of conduct. And once granting that our national characteristics are worth while, that they constitute a distinct advance over the characteristics of the other nations of the earth, it becomes the manifest duty of the school to do its share in perpetuating these ideals and prejudices and standards. Once let these atrophy through disuse, once let them fail of transmission because of the decay of the home, or the decay of the school, or the decay of the social institutions that typify and express them, and our country must go the way of Greece and Rome, and, although our blood may thereafter continue pure and unmixed, and our physical characteristics may be passed on from generation to generation unchanged in form, our nation will be only a memory, and its history ancient history. Some of the Greeks of to-day are the lineal descendants of the Athenians and Spartans, but the ancient Greek standards of conduct, the Greek ideals, died twenty centuries ago, to be resurrected, it is true, by the renaissance, and to enjoy the glorious privilege of a new and wider sphere of life,--but among an alien people, and under a northern sun. And so the true aim of the study of history in the elementary school is not the realization of its utilitarian, its cultural, or its disciplinary value. It is not a mere assimilation of facts concerning historical events, nor the memorizing of dates, nor the picturing of battles, nor the learning of lists of presidents,--although each of these factors has its place in fulfilling the function of historical study. The true function of national history in our elementary schools is to establish in the pupils' minds those ideals and standards of action which differentiate the American people from the rest of the world, and especially to fortify these ideals and standards by a description of the events and conditions through which they developed. It is not the facts of history that are to be applied to the problems of life; it is rather the emotional attitude, the point of view, that comes not from memorizing, but from appreciating, the facts. A mere fact has never yet had a profound influence over human conduct. A principle that is accepted by the head and not by the heart has never yet stained a battle field nor turned the tide of a popular election. Men act, not as they think, but as they feel, and it is not the idea, but the ideal, that is important in history. IV But what are the specific ideals and standards for which our nation stands and which distinguish, in a very broad but yet explicit manner, our conduct from the conduct of other peoples? If we were to ask this question of an older country, we could more easily obtain an answer, for in the older countries the national ideals have, in many cases, reached an advanced point of self-consciousness. The educational machinery of the German empire, for example, turns upon this problem of impressing the national ideals. It is one aim of the official courses of study, for instance, that history shall be so taught that the pupils will gain an overweening reverence for the reigning house of Hohenzollern. Nor is that newer ideal of national unity which had its seed sown in the Franco-Prussian War in any danger of neglect by the watchful eye of the government. Not only must the teacher impress it upon every occasion, but every attempt is also made to bring it daily fresh to the minds of the people through great monuments and memorials. Scarcely a hamlet is so small that it does not possess its Bismarck _Denkmal_, often situated upon some commanding hill, telling to each generation, in the sublime poetry of form, the greatness of the man who made German unity a reality instead of a dream. But in our country, we do not thus consciously formulate and express our national ideals. We recognize them rather with averted face as the adolescent boy recognizes any virtue that he may possess, as if half-ashamed of his weakness. We have monuments to our heroes, it is true, but they are often inaccessible, and as often they fail to convey in any adequate manner, the greatness of the lessons which the lives of these heroes represent. Where Germany has a hundred or more impressive memorials to the genius of Bismarck, we have but one adequate memorial to the genius of Washington, while for Lincoln, who represents the typical American standards of life and conduct more faithfully than any other one character in our history, we have no memorial that is at all adequate,--and we should have a thousand. Some day our people will awake to the possibilities that inhere in these palpable expressions of the impalpable things for which our country stands. We shall come to recognize the vast educative importance of perpetuating, in every possible way, the deep truths that have been established at the cost of so much blood and treasure. To embody our national ideals in the personages of the great figures of history who did so much to establish them is the most elementary method of insuring their conservation and transmission. We are beginning to appreciate the value of this method in our introductory courses of history in the intermediate and lower grammar grades. The historical study outlined for these grades in most of our state and city school programs includes mainly biographical materials. As long as the purpose of this study is kept steadily in view by the teacher, its value may be very richly realized. The danger lies in an obscure conception of the purpose. We are always too prone to teach history didactically, and to teach biographical history didactically is to miss the mark entirely. The aim here is not primarily instruction, but inspiration; not merely learning, but also appreciation. To tell the story of Lincoln's life in such a way that its true value will be realized requires first upon the part of the teacher a sincere appreciation of the great lesson of Lincoln's life. Lincoln typifies the most significant and representative of American ideals. His career stands for and illustrates the greatest of our national principles,--the principle of equality,--not the equality of birth, not the equality of social station, but the equality of opportunity. That a child of the lowliest birth, reared under conditions apparently the most unfavorable for rich development, limited by the sternest poverty, by lack of formal education, by lack of family pride and traditions, by lack of an environment of culture, by the hard necessity of earning his own livelihood almost from earliest childhood,--that such a man should attain to the highest station in the land and the proudest eminence in its history, and should have acquired from the apparently unfavorable environment of his early life the very qualities that made him so efficient in that station and so permanent in that eminence,--this is a miracle that only America could produce. It is this conception that the teacher must have, and this he must, in some measure, impress upon his pupils. V In the teaching of history in the elementary school, the biographical treatment is followed in the later grammar grades by a systematic study of the main events of American history. Here the method is different, but the purpose is the same. This purpose is, I take it, to show how our ideals and standards have developed, through what struggles and conflicts they have become firmly established; and the aim must be to have our pupils relive, as vividly as possible, the pain and the struggles and the striving and the triumph, to the end that they may appreciate, however feebly, the heritage that is theirs. Here again it is not the facts as such that are important, but the emotional appreciation of the facts, and to this end, the coloring must be rich, the pictures vivid, the contrasts sharply drawn. The successful teacher of history has the gift of making real the past. His pupils struggle with Columbus against a frightened, ignorant, mutinous crew; they toil with the Pilgrim fathers to conquer the wilderness; they follow the bloody trail of the Deerfield victims through the forest to Canada; they too resist the encroachments of the Mother Country upon their rights as English citizens; they suffer through the long winter at Valley Forge and join with Washington in his midnight vigils; they rejoice at Yorktown; they dream with Jefferson and plead with Webster; their hearts are fired with the news of Sumter; they clinch their teeth at Bull Run; they gather hope at Donelson, but they shudder at Shiloh; they struggle through the Wilderness with Grant; tired but triumphant, they march home from Appomattox; and through it all, in virtue of the limitless capacities of vicarious experience, they have shared the agonies of Lincoln. Professor Mace, in his essay on _Method in History_, tells us that there are two distinct phases to every historical event. These are the event itself and the human feeling that brought it forth. It has seemed to me that there are three phases,--the event itself, the feeling that brought it forth, and the feeling to which it gave birth; for no event is historically important unless it has transformed in some way the ideals and standards of the people,--unless it has shifted, in some way, their point of view, and made them act differently from the way in which they would have acted had the event never occurred. One leading purpose in the teaching of history is to show how ideals have been transformed, how we have come to have standards different from those that were once held. Many of our national ideals have their roots deep down in English history. Not long ago I heard a seventh-grade class discussing the Magna Charta. It was a class in American history, and yet the events that the pupils had been studying occurred three centuries before the discovery of America. They had become familiar with the long list of abuses that led to the granting of the charter. They could tell very glibly what this great document did for the English people. They traced in detail the subsequent events that led to the establishment of the House of Commons. All this was American history just as truly as if the events described had occurred on American soil. They were gaining an appreciation of one of the most fundamental of our national ideals,--the ideal of popular government. And not only that, but they were studying popular government in its simplest form, uncomplicated by the innumerable details and the elaborate organizations which characterize popular government to-day. And when these pupils come to the time when this ideal of self-government was transplanted to American soil, they will be ready to trace with intelligence the changes that it took on. They will appreciate the marked influence which geographical conditions exert in shaping national standards of action. How richly American history reveals and illustrates this influence we are only just now beginning to appreciate. The French and the English colonists developed different types of national character partly because they were placed under different geographical conditions. The St. Lawrence and the Great Lakes gave the French an easy means of access into the vast interior of the continent, and provided innumerable temptations to exploitation rather than a few incentives to development. Where the French influence was dispersed over a wide territory, the English influence was concentrated. As a consequence, the English energy went to the development of resources that were none too abundant, and to the establishment of permanent institutions that would conserve these resources. The barrier of the Appalachians hemmed them in,--three hundred miles of alternate ridge and valley kept them from the West until they were numerically able to settle rather than to exploit this country. Not a little credit for the ultimate English domination of the continent must be given to these geographical conditions. But geography does not tell the whole story. The French colonists differed from the English colonists from the outset in standards of conduct. They had brought with them the principle of paternalism, and, in time of trouble, they looked to France for support. The English colonists brought with them the principle of self-reliance and, in time of trouble, they looked only to themselves. And so the old English ideals had a new birth and a broader field of application on American soil. There is nothing finer in our country's history than the attitude of the New England colonists during the intercolonial wars. Their northern frontier covering two hundred miles of unprotected territory was constantly open to the incursions of the French from Canada and their Indian allies, to appease whom the French organized their raids. And yet, so deeply implanted was this ideal of self-reliance that New England scarcely thought of asking aid of the mother country and would have protested to the last against the permanent establishment of a military garrison within her limits. For a period extending over fifty years, New England protected her own borders. She felt the terrors of savage warfare in its most sanguinary forms. And yet, uncomplaining, she taxed herself to repel the invaders. The people loved their own independence too much to part with it, even for the sake of peace, prosperity, and security. At a later date, unknown to the mother country, they raised and equipped from their own young men and at their own expense, the punitive expedition that, in the face of seemingly certain defeat, captured the French fortress at Louisburg, and gave to English military annals one of its most brilliant victories. To get the pupil to live through these struggles, to feel the impetus of idealism upon conduct, to appreciate what that almost forgotten half-century of conflict meant to the development of our national character, would be to realize the greatest value that colonial history can have for its students. It lays bare the source of that strength which made New England preëminent in the Revolution, and which has placed the mint mark of New England idealism upon the coin of American character. Could a pupil who has lived vicariously through such experiences as these easily forsake principle for policy? A newspaper cartoon published a year or so ago, gives some notion of the danger that we are now facing of losing that idealism upon which our country was founded. The cartoon represents the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The worthies are standing about the table dressed in the knee breeches and flowing coats of the day, with wigs conventionally powdered and that stately bearing which characterizes the typical historical painting. John Hancock is seated at the table prepared to make his name immortal. A figure, however, has just appeared in the doorway. It is the cartoonist's conventional conception of the modern Captain of Industry. His silk hat is on the back of his head as if he had just come from his office as fast as his forty-horse-power automobile could carry him. His portly form shows evidences of intense excitement. He is holding his hand aloft to stay the proceedings, while from his lips comes the stage whisper: "Gentlemen, stop! You will hurt business!" What would those old New England fathers think, could they know that such a conception may be taken as representing a well-recognized tendency of the present day? And remember, too, that those old heroes had something of a passion for trade themselves. But when we seek for the source of our most important national ideal,--the ideal that we have called equality of opportunity,--we must look to another part of the country. The typical Americanism that is represented by Lincoln owes its origin, I believe, very largely to geographical factors. It could have been developed only under certain conditions and these conditions the Middle West alone provided. The settling of the Middle West in the latter part of the eighteenth and the early part of the nineteenth centuries was part and parcel of a rigid logic of events. As Miss Semple so clearly points out in her work on the geographic conditions of American history, the Atlantic seaboard sloped toward the sea and its people held their faces eastward. They were never cut off from easy communication with the Old World, and consequently they were never quite freed from the Old World prejudices and standards. But the movement across the mountains gave rise to a new condition. The faces of the people were turned westward, and cut off from easy communication with the Old World, they developed a new set of ideals and standards under the stress of new conditions. Chief among these conditions was the immensity and richness of the territory that they were settling. The vastness of their outlook and the wealth of their resources confirmed and extended the ideals of self-reliance that they had brought with them from the seaboard. But on the seaboard, the Old World notion of social classes, the prestige of family and station, still held sway. The development of the Middle West would have been impossible under so severe a handicap. With resources so great, every stimulus must be given to individual achievement. Nothing must be permitted to stand in its way. The man who could do things, the man who could most effectively turn the forces of nature to serve the needs of society, was the man who was selected for preferment, no matter what his birth, no matter what the station of his family. We might, in a similar fashion, review the various other ideals, which have grown out of our history, but, as I have said, my purpose is not historical but educational, and the illustrations that I have given may suffice to make my contention clear. I have attempted to show that the chief purpose of the study of history in the elementary school is to establish and fortify in the pupils' minds the significant ideals and standards of conduct which those who have gone before us have gleaned from their experience. I have maintained that, to this end, it is not only the facts of history that are important, but the appreciation of these facts. I have maintained that these prejudices and ideals have a profound influence upon conduct, and that, consequently, history is to be looked upon as a most practical branch of study. * * * * * The best way in this world to be definite is to know our goal and then strive to attain it. In the lack of definite standards based upon the lessons of the past, our dominant national ideals shift with every shifting wind of public sentiment and popular demand. Are we satisfied with the individualistic and self-centered idealism that has come with our material prosperity and which to-day shames the memory of the men who founded our Republic? Are we negligent of the serious menace that confronts any people when it loses its hold upon those goods of life that are far more precious than commercial prestige and individual aggrandizement? Are we losing our hold upon the sterner virtues which our fathers possessed,--upon the things of the spirit that are permanent and enduring? A study of history cannot determine entirely the dominant ideals of those who pursue it. But the study of history if guided in the proper spirit and dominated by the proper aim may help. For no one who gets into the spirit of our national history,--no one who traces the origin and growth of these ideals and institutions that I have named,--can escape the conviction that the elemental virtues of courage, self-reliance, hardihood, unselfishness, self-denial, and service lie at the basis of every forward step that this country has made, and that the most precious part of our heritage is not the material comforts with which we are surrounded, but the sturdy virtues which made these comforts possible. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 15: An address delivered March 18, 1910, before the Central Illinois Teachers' Association.] ~X~ SCIENCE AS RELATED TO THE TEACHING OF LITERATURE[16] The scientific method is the method of unprejudiced observation and induction. Its function in the scheme of life is to furnish man with facts and principles,--statements which mirror with accuracy and precision the conditions that may exist in any situation of any sort which man may have to face. In other words, the facts of science are important and worthy because they help us to solve the problems of life more satisfactorily. They are instrumental in their function. They are means to an end. And whenever we have a problem to solve, whenever we face a situation that demands some form of adjustment, the more accurate the information that we possess concerning this situation, the better we shall be able to solve it. Now when I propose that we try to find out some facts about the teaching of English, and that we apply the scientific method in the discovery of these facts, I am immediately confronted with an objection. My opponent will maintain that the subject of English in our school curriculum is not one of the sciences. Taking English to mean particularly English literature rather than rhetoric or composition or grammar, it is clear that we do not teach literature as we teach the sciences. Its function differs from that of science in the curriculum. If there is a science of literature, that is not what we are teaching in the secondary schools, and that is not what most of us believe should be taught in the secondary schools. We think that the study of literature should transmit to each generation the great ideals that are crystallized in literary masterpieces. And we think that, in seeing to it that our pupils are inspired with these ideals, we should also teach literature in such a way that our pupils will be left with a desire to read good literature as a source of recreation and inspiration after they have finished the courses that we offer. When I speak of "inspiration," "appreciation," the development of "taste," and the like, I am using terms that have little direct relation to the scientific method; for, as I have said, science deals with facts, and the harder and more stubborn and more unyielding the facts become, the better they represent true science. What right have I, then, to speak of the scientific study of the teaching of English, when science and literature seem to belong to two quite separate rubrics of mental life? I refer to this point of view, not because its inconsistencies are not fully apparent to you even upon the surface, but because it is a point of view that has hitherto interfered very materially with our educational progress. It has sometimes been assumed that, because we wish to study education scientifically, we wish to read out of it everything that cannot be reduced to a scientific formula,--that, somehow or other, we intend still further to intellectualize the processes of education and to neglect the tremendous importance of those factors that are not primarily intellectual in their nature, but which belong rather to the field of emotion and feeling. I wish, therefore, to say at the outset that, while I firmly believe the hope of education to lie in the application of the scientific method to the solution of its problems, I still hold that neither facts nor principles nor any other products of the scientific method are the most important "goods" of life. The greatest "goods" in life are, and always must remain, I believe, its ideals, its visions, its insights, and its sympathies,--must always remain those qualities with which the teaching of literature is primarily concerned, and in the engendering of which in the hearts and souls of his pupils, the teacher of literature finds the greatest opportunity that is vouchsafed to any teacher. The facts and principles that science has given us have been of such service to humanity that we are prone to forget that they have been of service because they have helped us more effectively to realize our ideals and attain our ends; and we are prone to forget also that, without the ideals and the ends and the visions, the facts and principles would be quite without function. I have sometimes been taken to account for separating these two factors in this way. But unless we do distinguish sharply between them, our educational thinking is bound to be hopelessly obscure. You have all heard the story of the great chemist who was at work in his laboratory when word was brought him that his wife was dead. As the first wave of anguish swept over him, he bowed his head upon his hands and wept out his grief; but suddenly he lifted up his head, and held before him his hands wet with tears. "Tears!" he cried; "what are they? I have analyzed them: a little chloride of sodium, some alkaline salts, a little mucin, and some water. That is all." And he went back to his work. The story is an old one, and very likely apocryphal, but it is not without its lesson to us in the present connection. Unless we distinguish between these two factors that I have named, we are likely either to take this man's attitude or something approaching it, or to go to the other extreme, renounce the accuracy and precision of the scientific method, and give ourselves up to the cult of emotionalism. Now, while we do not wish to read out of the teaching of literature the factors of appreciation and inspiration, we do wish to find out how these important functions of our teaching may be best fulfilled. And it is here that facts and principles gained by the scientific method not only can but must furnish the ultimate solution. We have a problem. That problem, it is true, is concerned with something that is not scientific, and to attempt to make it scientific is to kill the very life that it is our problem to cherish. But in solving that problem, we must take certain steps; we must arrange our materials in certain ways; we must adjust hard and stubborn facts to the attainment of our end. What are these facts? What is their relation to our problem? What laws govern their operation? These are subordinate but very essential parts of our larger problem, and it is through the scientific investigation of these subordinate problems that our larger problem is to be solved. Let me give you an illustration of what I mean. We may assume that every boy who goes out of the high school should appreciate the meaning and worth of self-sacrifice as this is revealed (not expounded) in Dickens's delineation of the character of Sidney Carton. There is our problem,--but what a host of subordinate problems at once confront us! Where shall we introduce _The Tale of Two Cities_? Will it be in the second year, or the third, or the fourth? Will it be best preceded by the course in general history which will give the pupil a time perspective upon the crimson background of the French Revolution against which Dickens projected his master character? Or shall we put _The Tale of Two Cities_ first for the sake of the heightened interest which the art of the novelist may lend to the facts of the historian? Again, how may the story be best presented? What part shall the pupils read in class? What part shall they read at home? What part, if any, shall we read to them? What questions are necessary to insure appreciation? How many of the allusions need be run down in order to give the maximal effect of the masterpiece? How may the necessarily discontinuous discussions of the class--one period each day for several days--be so counteracted as to insure the cumulative emotional effect which the appreciation of all art presupposes? Should the story be sketched through first, and then read in some detail, or will one reading suffice? These are problems, I repeat, that stand to the chief problem as means stand to end. Now some of these questions must be solved by every teacher for himself, but that does not prevent each teacher from solving them scientifically. Others, it is clear, might be solved once and for all by the right kind of an investigation,--might result in permanent and universal laws which any one could apply. There are, of course, several ways in which answers for these questions may be secured. One way is that of _a priori_ reasoning,--the deductive procedure. This method may be thoroughly scientific, depending of course upon the validity of our general principles as applied to the specific problem. Ordinarily this validity can be determined only by trial; consequently these _a priori_ inferences should be looked upon as hypotheses to be tested by trial under standard conditions. For example, I might argue that _The Tale of Two Cities_ should be placed in the third year because the emotional ferment of adolescence is then most favorable for the engendering of the ideal. But in the first place, this assumed principle would itself be subject to grave question and it would also have to be determined whether there is so little variation among the pupils in respect of physiological age as to permit the application to all of a generalization that might conceivably apply only to the average child. In other words, all of our generalizations applying to average pupils must be applied with a knowledge of the extent and range of variation from the average. Some people say that there is no such thing as an average child, but, for all practical purposes, the average child is a very real reality,--he is, in fact, more numerous than any other single class; but this does not mean that there may be not enough variations from the average to make unwise the application of our principle. I refer to this hypothetical case to show the extreme difficulty of reaching anything more than hypotheses by _a priori_ reasoning. We have a certain number of fairly well established general principles in secondary education. Perhaps those most frequently employed are our generalizations regarding adolescence and its influences upon the mental and especially the emotional life of high-school pupils. Stanley Hall's work in this field is wonderfully stimulating and suggestive, and yet we should not forget that most of his generalizations are, after all, only plausible hypotheses to be acted upon as tentative guides for practice and to be tested carefully under controlled conditions, rather than to be accepted as immutable and unchangeable laws. We sometimes assume that all high-school pupils are adolescents, when the likelihood is that an appreciable proportion of pupils in the first two years have not yet reached this important node of their development. I say this not to minimize in any way the importance that attaches to adolescent characteristics, but rather to suggest that you who are daily dealing with these pupils can in the aggregate add immeasurably to the knowledge that we now have concerning this period. A tremendous waste is constantly going on in that most precious of all our possible resources,--namely, human experience. How many problems that are well solved have to be solved again and again because the experience has not been crystallized in a well-tested fact or principle; how many experiences that might be well worth the effort that they cost are quite worthless because, in undergoing them, we have neglected some one or another of the rules that govern inexorably the validity of our inferences and conclusions. That is all that the scientific method means in the last analysis: it is a system of principles that enable us to make our experience worth while in meeting later situations. We all have the opportunity of contributing to the sum total of human knowledge, if only we know the rules of the game. I said that one way of solving these subordinate problems that arise in the realization of our chief aims in teaching is the _a priori_ method of applying general principles to the problems. Another method is to imitate the way in which we have seen some one else handle the situation. Now this may be the most effective way possible. In fact, if a sufficient number of generations of teachers keep on blindly plunging in and floundering about in solving their problems, the most effective methods will ultimately be evolved through what we call the process of trial and error. The teaching of the very oldest subjects in the curriculum is almost always the best and most effective teaching, for the very reason that the blundering process has at last resulted in an effective procedure. But the scientific method of solving problems has its very function in preventing the tremendous waste that this process involves. English literature is a comparatively recent addition to the secondary curriculum. Its possibilities of service are almost unlimited. Shall we wait for ten or fifteen generations of teachers to blunder out the most effective means of teaching it, or shall we avail ourselves of these simple principles which will enable us to concentrate this experience within one or two generations? I should like to emphasize one further point. No one has greater respect than I have for what we term experience in teaching. But let me say that a great deal of what we may term "crude" experience--that is, experience that has not been refined by the application of scientific method--is most untrustworthy,--unless, indeed, it has been garnered and winnowed and sifted through the ages. Let me give you an example of some accepted dictums of educational experience that controlled investigations have shown to be untrustworthy. It is a general impression among teachers that specific habits may be generalized; that habits of neatness and accuracy developed in one line of work, for example, will inevitably make one neater and more accurate in other things. It has been definitely proved that this transfer of training does not take place inevitably, but in reality demands the fulfillment of certain conditions of which education has become fully conscious only within a comparatively short time, and as a result of careful, systematic, controlled experimentation. The meaning of this in the prevention of waste through inadequate teaching is fully apparent. Again, it has been supposed by many teachers that the home environment is a large factor in the success or failure of a pupil in school. In every accurate and controlled investigation that has been conducted so far it has been shown that this factor in such subjects as arithmetic and spelling at least is so small as to be absolutely negligible in practice. Some people still believe that a teacher is born and not made, and yet a careful investigation of the efficiency of elementary teachers shows that, when such teachers were ranked by competent judges, specialized training stood out as the most important factor in general efficiency. In this same investigation, the time-honored notion that a college education will, irrespective of specialized training, adequately equip a teacher for his work was revealed as a fallacy,--for twenty-eight per cent of the normal-school graduates among all the teachers were in the first and second ranks of efficiency as against only seventeen per cent of the college graduates; while, in the two lowest ranks, only sixteen per cent of the normal-school graduates are to be found as against forty-four per cent of the college graduates. These investigations, I may add, were made by university professors, and I am giving them here in a university classroom and as a university representative. And of course I shall hasten to add that general scholarship is one important essential. Our mistake has been in assuming sometimes that it is the only essential. Very frequently the controlled experience of scientific investigation confirms a principle that has been derived from crude experience. Most teachers will agree, for example, that a certain amount of drill and repetition is absolutely essential in the mastery of any subject. Every time that scientific investigation has touched this problem it has unmistakably confirmed this belief. Some very recent investigations made by Mr. Brown at the Charleston Normal School show conclusively that five-minute drill periods preceding every lesson in arithmetic place pupils who undergo such periods far in advance of others who spend this time in non-drill arithmetical work, and that this improvement holds not only in the number habits, but also in the reasoning processes. Other similar cases could be cited, but I have probably said enough to make my point, and my point is this: that crude experience is an unsafe guide for practice; that experience may be refined in two ways--first by the slow, halting, wasteful operation of time, which has established many principles upon a pinnacle of security from which they will never be shaken, but which has also accomplished this result at the cost of innumerable mistakes, blunders, errors, futile efforts, and heartbreaking failures; or secondly, by the application of the principles of control and test which are now at our service, and which permit present-day teachers to concentrate within a single generation the growth and development and progress that the empirical method of trial and error could not encompass in a millennium. The teaching of English merits treatment by this method. I recommend strongly that you give the plan a trial. You may not get immediate results. You may not get valuable results. But in any case, if you carefully respect the scientific proprieties, your experience will be worth vastly more than ten times the amount of crude experience; and, whether you get results or not, you will undergo a valuable discipline from which may emerge the ideals of science if you are not already imbued with them. I always tell my students that, even in the study of science itself, it is the ideals of science,--the ideals of patient, thoughtful work, the ideals of open-mindedness and caution in reaching conclusions, the ideals of unprejudiced observation from which selfishness and personal desire are eliminated,--it is these ideals that are vastly more important than the facts of science as such,--and these latter are significant enough to have made possible our present progress and our present amenities of life. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 16: A paper read before the English Section of the University of Illinois High School Conference, November 17, 1910.] ~XI~ THE NEW ATTITUDE TOWARD DRILL[17] Wandering about in a circle through a thick forest is perhaps an overdrawn analogy to our activity in attempting to construct educational theories; and yet there is a resemblance. We push out hopefully--and often boastfully--into the unknown wilderness, absolutely certain that we are pioneering a trail that will later become the royal highway to learning. We struggle on, ruthlessly using the hatchet and the ax to clear the road before us. And all too often we come back to our starting point, having unwittingly described a perfect circle, instead of the straight line that we had anticipated. But I am not a pessimist, and I like to believe that, although our course frequently resembles a circle, it is much better to characterize it as a spiral, and that, although we do get back to a point that we recognize, it is not, after all, our old starting point; it is an homologous point on a higher plane. We have at least climbed a little, even if we have not traveled in a straight line. Now in a figurative way this explains how we have come to take our present attitude toward the problem of drill or training in the process of education. Drill means the repetition of a process until it has become mechanical or automatic. It means the kind of discipline that the recruit undergoes in the army,--the making of a series of complicated movements so thoroughly automatic that they will be gone through with accurately and precisely, at the word of command. It means the sort of discipline that makes certain activities machine-like in their operation,--so that we do not have to think about which one comes next. Thus the mind is relieved of the burden of looking after the innumerable details and may use its precious energy for a more important purpose. In every adult life, a large number of these mechanized responses are absolutely essential to efficiency. Modern civilized life is so highly organized that it demands a multitude of reactions and adjustments which primitive life did not demand. It goes without saying that there are innumerable little details of our daily work that must be reduced to the plane of unvarying habit. These details vary with the trade or profession of the individual; hence general education cannot hope to supply the individual with all of the automatic responses that he will need. But, in addition to these specialized responses, there is a large mass of responses that are common to every member of the social group. We must all be able to communicate with one another, both through the medium of speech, and through the medium of written and printed symbols. We live in a society that is founded upon the principle of the division of labor. We must exchange the products of our labor for the necessities of life that we do not ourselves produce, and hence arises the necessity for the short cuts to counting and measurement which we call arithmetic. And finally we must all live together in something at least approaching harmony; hence the thousand and one little responses that mean courtesy and good manners must be made thoroughly automatic. Now education, from the very earliest times, has recognized the necessity of building up these automatic responses,--of fixing these essential habits in all individuals. This recognition has often been short-sighted and sometimes even blind; but it has served to hold education rather tenaciously to a process that all must admit to be essential. Drill or training, however, is unfortunate in one important particular. It invariably involves repetition; and conscious, explicit repetition tends to become monotonous. We must hold attention to the drill process, and yet attention abhors monotony as nature abhors a vacuum. Consequently no small part of the tedium and irksomeness of school work has been due to its emphasis of drill. The formalism of the older schools has been described, criticized, and lampooned in professional literature, and even in the pages of fiction. The disastrous results that follow from engendering in pupils a disgust for school and all that it represents have been eloquently portrayed. Along with the tendency toward ease and comfort in other departments of human life has gone a parallel tendency to relieve the school of this odious burden of formal, lifeless, repetitive work. This "reform movement," as I shall call it, represents our first plunge into the wilderness. We would get away from the entanglements of drill and into the clearings of pleasurable, spontaneous activities. A new sun of hope dawned upon the educational world. You are all familiar with some of the more spectacular results of this movement. You have heard of the schools that eliminated drill processes altogether, and depended upon clear initial development to fix the facts and formulæ and reactions that every one needs. You have heard and perhaps seen some of the schools that were based entirely upon the doctrine of spontaneity, governing their work by the principle that the child should never do anything that he did not wish to do at the moment of doing,--although the advocates of this theory generally qualified their principle by insisting that the skillful teacher would have the child wish to do the right thing all the time. Let me describe to you a school of this type that I once visited. I learned of it through a resident of the city in which it was located. He was delivering an address before an educational gathering on the problems of modern education. He told the audience that, in the schools of this enlightened city, the antiquated notions that were so pernicious had been entirely dispensed with. He said that pupils in these schools were no longer repressed; that all regimentation, line passing, static posture, and other barbaric practices had been abolished; that the pupils were free to work out their own destiny, to realize themselves, through all forms of constructive activity; that drills had been eliminated; that corporal punishment was never even mentioned, much less practiced; that all was harmony, and love, and freedom, and spontaneity. I listened to this speaker with intense interest, and, as his picture unfolded, I became more and more convinced that this city had at last solved the problem. I took the earliest opportunity to visit its schools. When I reached the city I went to the superintendent's office. I asked to be directed to the best school. "Our schools are all 'best,'" the secretary told me with an intonation that denoted commendable pride, and which certainly made me feel extremely humble, for here even the laws of logic and of formal grammar had been transcended. I made bold to apologize, however, and amended my request to make it apparent that I wished to see the largest school. I was directed to take a certain car and, in due time, found myself at the school. I inferred that recess was in progress when I reached the building, and that the recess was being celebrated within doors. After some time spent in dodging about the corridors, I at last located the principal. I introduced myself and asked if I could visit his school after recess was over. "We have no recesses here," he replied (I could just catch his voice above the din of the corridors); "this is a relaxation period for some of the classes." He led the way to the office, and I spent a few moments in getting the "lay of the land." I asked him, first, whether he agreed with the doctrines that the system represented, and he told me that he believed in them implicitly. Did he follow them out consistently in the operation of his school? Yes, he followed them out to the letter. We then went to several classrooms, where I saw children realizing themselves, I thought, very effectively. There were three groups at work in each room. One recited to the teacher, another studied at the seats, a third did construction work at the tables. I inquired about the mechanics of this rather elaborate organization, but I was told that mechanics had been eliminated from this school. Mechanical organization of the classroom, it seems, crushes the child's spontaneity, represses his self-activity, prevents the effective operation of the principle of self-realization. How, then, did these three groups exchange places, for I felt that the doctrine of self-realization would not permit them to remain in the same employment during the entire session. "Oh," the principal replied, "when they get ready to change, they change, that's all." I saw that a change was coming directly, so I waited to watch it. The group had been working with what I should call a great deal of noise and confusion. All at once this increased tenfold. Pupils jumped over seats, ran into each other in the aisles, scurried and scampered from this place to that, while the teacher stood in the front of the room wildly waving her arms. The performance lasted several minutes. "There's spontaneity for you," the principal shouted above the roar of the storm. I acquiesced by a nod of the head,--my lungs, through lack of training, being unequal to the emergency. We passed to another room. The same group system was in evidence. I noticed pupils who had been working at their seats suddenly put away their books and papers and skip over to the construction table. I asked concerning the nature of the construction work. "We use it," the principal told me, "as a reward for good work in the book subjects. You see arithmetic is dead and dry. You must give pupils an incentive to master it. We make the privileges of the construction table the incentive." "What do they make at this table?" I asked. "Whatever their fancy dictates," he replied. I was a little curious, however, to know how it all come out. I saw one child start to work on a basket, work at it a few minutes, then take up something else, continue a little time, go back to the basket, and finally throw both down for a third object of self-realization. I called the principal's attention to this phenomenon. "How do you get the beautiful results that you exhibit?" I asked. "For those," he said, "we just keep the pupils working on one thing until it is finished." "But," I objected, "is that consistent with the doctrine of spontaneity?" His answer was lost in the din of a change of groups, and I did not follow the investigation further. Noon dismissal was due when I went into the corridor. Lines are forbidden in that school. At the stroke of the bell, the classroom doors burst open and bedlam was let loose. I had anticipated what was coming, and hurriedly betook myself to an alcove. I saw more spontaneity in two minutes than I had ever seen before in my life. Some boys tore through the corridors at breakneck speed and down the stairways, three steps at a time. Others sauntered along, realizing various propensities by pushing and shoving each other, snatching caps out of others' hands, slapping each other over the head with books, and various other expressions of exuberant spirits. One group stopped in front of my alcove, and showed commendable curiosity about the visitor in their midst. After exhausting his static possibilities, they tempted him to dynamic reaction by making faces; but this proving to be of no avail, they went on their way,--in the hope, doubtless, of realizing themselves elsewhere. I left that school with a fairly firm conviction that I had seen the most advanced notions of educational theory worked out to a logical conclusion. There was nothing halfway about it. There was no apology offered for anything that happened. It was all fair and square and open and aboveboard. To be sure, the pupils were, to my prejudiced mind, in a condition approaching anarchy, but I could not deny the spontaneity, nor could I deny self-activity, nor could I deny self-realization. These principles were evidently operating without let or hindrance. Before leaving the school, I took occasion to inquire concerning the effect of such a system upon the teachers. I led up to it by asking the principal if there were any nervous or anæmic children in his school. "Not one," he replied enthusiastically; "our system eliminates them." "But how about the teachers?" I ventured to remark, having in mind the image of a distracted young woman whom I had seen attempting to reduce forty little ruffians to some semblance of law and order through moral suasion. If I judged conditions correctly, that woman was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. My guide became confidential when I made this inquiry. "To tell the truth," he whispered, "the system is mighty hard on the women." A few years ago I had the privilege of visiting a high school which was operated upon this same principle. I visited in that school some classes that were taught by men and women, whom I should number among the most expert teachers that I have ever seen. The instruction that these men and women were giving was as clear and lucid as one could desire. And yet, in spite of that excellent instruction, pupils read newspapers, prepared other lessons, or read books during the recitations, and did all this openly and unreproved. They responded to their instructors with shameless insolence. Young ladies of sixteen and seventeen coming from cultured homes were permitted in this school to pull each other's hair, pinch the arms of schoolmates who were reciting, and behave themselves in general as if they were savages. The pupils lolled in their seats, passed notes, kept up an undertone of conversation, arose from their seats at the first tap of the bell, and piled in disorder out of the classroom while the instructor was still talking. If the lessons had been tedious, one might perhaps at least have palliated such conduct, but the instruction was very far from tedious. It was bright, lively, animated, beautifully clear, and admirably illustrated. It is simply the theory of this school never to interfere with the spontaneous activity of the pupils. And I may add that the school draws its enrollment very largely from wealthy families who believe that their children are being given the best that modern education has developed, that they are not being subjected to the deadening methods of the average public school, and above all that their manners are not being corrupted by promiscuous mingling with the offspring of illiterate immigrants. And yet soon afterward, I visited a high school in one of the poorest slum districts of a large city. I saw pupils well-behaved, courteous to one another, to their instructors, and to visitors. The instruction was much below that given in the first school in point of quality, and yet the pupils were getting from it, even under these conditions, vastly more than were the pupils of the other school from their masterly instructors. The two schools that I first described represent one type of the attempt that education has made to pioneer a new path through the wilderness. I have said that many of these attempts have ended by bringing the adventurers back to their starting point. I cannot say so much for these schools. The movement that they represent is still floundering about in the tamarack swamps, getting farther and farther into the morass, with little hope of ever emerging. May I tax your patience with one more concrete illustration: this time, of a school that seems to me to have reached the starting point, but on that new and higher plane of which I have spoken? This school is in a small Massachusetts town, and is the model department of the state normal school located at that place. The first point that impressed me was typified by a boy of about twelve who was passing through the corridor as I entered the building. Instead of slouching along, wasting every possible moment before he should return to his room, he was walking briskly as if eager to get back to his work. Instead of staring at the stranger within his gates with the impudent curiosity so often noticed in children of this age, he greeted me pleasantly and wished to know if I were looking for the principal. When I told him that I was, he informed me that the principal was on the upper floor, but that he would go for him at once. He did, and returned a moment later saying that the head of the school would be down directly, and asked me to wait in the office, into which he ushered me with all the courtesy of a private secretary. Then he excused himself and went directly to his room. Now that might have been an exceptional case, but I found out later that is was not. Wherever I went in that school, the pupils were polite and courteous and respectful. That was part of their education. It should be part of every child's education. But many schools are too busy teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic, and others are too busy preserving discipline, and others are too busy coquetting for the good will of their pupils and trying to amuse them--too busy to give heed to a set of habits that are of paramount importance in the life of civilized society. This school took up the matter of training in good manners as an essential part of its duty, and it accomplished this task quickly and effectively. It did it by utilizing the opportunities presented in the usual course of school work. It took a little time and a little attention, for good manners cannot be acquired incidentally any more than the multiplication tables can be acquired incidentally; but it utilized the everyday opportunities of the schoolroom, and did not make morals and manners the subject of instruction for a half-hour on Friday afternoons to be completely forgotten during the rest of the week. When the principal took me through the school, I noted everywhere a happy and courteous relation between pupils and teachers. They spoke pleasantly to one another. I heard no nagging or scolding. I saw no one sulking or pouting or in bad temper. And yet there was every evidence of respect and obedience on the part of the pupils. There was none of that happy-go-lucky comradeship which I have sometimes seen in other modern schools, and which leads the pupil to understand that his teacher is there to gain his interest, not to command his respectful attention. Pupils were too busy with their work to talk much with one another. They were sitting up in their seats as a matter of habit, and it did not seem to hurt them seriously to do so. And everywhere they were working like beavers at one task or another, or attending with all their eyes and ears to a recitation. Now it seemed to me that this school was operated with a minimum of waste or loss. Every item of energy that the pupils possessed was being given to some educative activity. Nothing was lost by conflict between pupil and teacher. Nothing was lost by bursts of anger or by fits of depression. These sources of waste had been eliminated so far as I could determine. The pupils could read well and write well and cipher accurately. They even took a keen delight in the drills. And I found that this phase of their work was enlightened by the modern content that had been introduced. In their handwork and manual training they could see that arithmetic was useful,--that it had something to do with the great big buzzing life of the outer world. They learned that spelling was useful in writing,--that it was not something that began and ended within the covers of the spelling book, but that it had a real and vital relation to other things that they found to be important. They had their dramatic exercises in which they and their fellows, and, on occasions, their parents, took a keen delight, and they were glad to afford them pleasure and to receive congratulations at the close. And yet they found that, in order to do these things well, they must read and study and drill on speaking. They liked to have their drawings inspected and praised at the school exhibitions, but they soon found that good drawing and painting and designing were strictly conditioned by a mastery of technique, and they wished to master technique in order to win these rewards. Now what was the secret of the efficiency of this school? Not merely the fact that it had introduced certain types of content such as drawing, manual training, domestic science, dramatization, story work,--but also that it had not lost sight of the fundamental purpose of elementary education, but had so organized all of its studies that each played into the hands of the others, and that everything that was done had some definite and tangible relation to everything else. The manual training exercises and the mechanical drawing were exercises in arithmetic, but, let me remind you, there were other lessons, and formal lessons, in arithmetic as well. But the one exercise enlightened and made more meaningful the other. In the same way the story and dramatization were intimately related to the reading and the language, but there were formal lessons in reading and formal lessons in language. The geography illustrated nature study and employed language and arithmetic and drawing in its exercises. And so the whole structure was organized and coherent and unified, and what was taught in one class was utilized in another. There was no needless duplication, no needless or meaningless repetition. But repetition there was, over and over again, but always it was effective in still more firmly fixing the habits. One would be an ingrate, indeed, if one failed to recognize the great good that an extreme reform movement may do. Some very precious increments of progress have resulted even from the most extreme and ridiculous reactions against the drill and formalism of the older schools. Let me briefly summarize these really substantial gains as I conceive them. In the first place, we have come to recognize distinctly the importance of enlisting in the service of habit building the native instincts of the child. Up to a certain point nature provides for the fixing of useful responses, and we should be unwise not to make use of these tendencies. In the spontaneous activities of play, certain fundamental reactions are continually repeated until they reach the plane of absolute mechanism. In imitating the actions of others, adjustments are learned and made into habits without effort; in fact, the process of imitation, so far as it is instinctive, is a source of pure delight to the young child. Finally, closely related to these two instincts, is the native tendency to repetition,--nature's primary provision for drill. You have often heard little children repeat their new words over and over again. Frequently they have no conception of the meanings of these words. Nature seems to be untroubled by a question that has bothered teachers; namely, Should a child ever be asked to drill on something the purpose of which he does not understand? Nature sees to it that certain essential responses become automatic long before the child is conscious of their meaning. Just because nature does this is, of course, no reason why we should imitate her. But the fact is an interesting commentary upon the extreme to which we sometimes carry our principle of rationalizing everything before permitting it to be mastered. I repeat that the reform movement has done excellent service in extending the recognition in education of these fundamental and inborn adaptive instincts,--play, imitation, and rhythmic repetition. It has erred when it has insisted that we could depend upon these alone, for nature has adapted man, not to the complicated conditions of our modern highly organized social life, but rather to primitive conditions. Left to themselves, these instinctive forces would take the child up to a certain point, but they would still leave him on a primitive plane. I know of one good authority on the teaching of reading who maintains that the normal child would learn to read without formal teaching if he were placed in the right environment,--an environment of books. This may be possible with some exceptional children, but even an environment reasonably replete with books does not effect this miracle in the case of certain children whom I know very well and whom I like to think of as perfectly normal. These children learned to talk by imitation and instinctive repetition. But nature has not yet gone so far as to provide the average child with spontaneous impulses that will lead him to learn to read. Reading is a much more complicated and highly organized process. And so it is with a vast number of the activities that our pupils must master. Another increment of progress that the reform movement has given to educational practice is a recognition of the fact that we have been requiring pupils to acquire unnecessary habits, under the impression, that even if the habits were not useful, something of value was gained in their acquisition. As a result, we have passed all of our grain through the same mill, unmindful of the fact that different life activities required different types of grist. To-day we are seeing the need for carefully selecting the types of habit and skill that should be developed in _all_ children. We are recognizing that there are many phases of the educative process that it is not well to reduce to an automatic basis. When I was in the elementary school I memorized Barnes's _History of the United States_ and Harper's _Geography_ from cover to cover. I have never greatly regretted this automatic mastery; but I have often thought that I might have memorized something rather more important, for history and geography could have been mastered just as effectively in another way. In the third place, and most important of all, we have been led to analyze this complex process of habit building,--to find out the factors that operate in learning. We have now a goodly body of principles that may even be characterized by the adjective "scientific." We know that in habit building, it is fundamentally essential to get the pupil started in the right way. A recent writer states that two thirds of the difficulty that the teacher meets fixing habits is due to the neglect of this principle. Inadequate and inefficient habits get started and must be continually combated while the desirable habit is being formed. How important this is in the initial presentation of material that is to be memorized or made automatic we are just now beginning to appreciate. One writer insists that faulty work in the first grade is responsible for a large part of the retardation which is bothering us so much to-day. The wrong kind of a start is made, and whenever a faulty habit is formed, it much more than doubles the difficulty of getting the right one well under way. We are slowly coming to appreciate how much time is wasted in drill processes by inadequate methods. Technique is being improved and the time thus saved is being given to the newer content subjects that are demanding admission to the schools. Again, we are coming to appreciate as never before the importance of motivating our drill work,--of not only reading into it purpose and meaning so that the pupil will understand what it is all for, but also of engendering in him the _desire_ to form the habits,--to undergo the discipline that is essential for mastery. Here again the reform movement has been helpful, showing us the waste of time and energy that results from attempting to fix habits that are only weakly motivated. All this is a vastly different matter from sugar-coating the drill processes, under the mistaken notion that something that is worth while may be acquired without effort. I think that educators are generally agreed that such a policy is thoroughly bad,--for it subverts a basic principle of human life the operation of which neither education nor any other force can alter or reverse. To teach the child that the things in life that are worth doing are easy to do, or that they are always or even often intrinsically pleasant or agreeable, is to teach him a lie. Human history gives us no examples of worthy achievements that have not been made at the price of struggle and effort,--at the price of doing things that men did not want to do. Every great truth has had to struggle upward from defeat. Every man who has really found himself in the work of life has paid the price of sacrifice for his success. And whenever we attempt to give our pupils a mastery of the complicated arts and skills that have lifted civilized man above the plane of his savage ancestors, we must expect from them struggle and effort and self-denial. Let me quote a paragraph from the report of a recent investigation in the psychology of learning. The habit that was being learned in this experiment was skill in the use of the typewriter. The writer describes the process in the following words: "In the early stages of learning, our subjects were all very much interested in the work. Their whole mind seemed to be spontaneously held by the writing. They were always anxious to take up the work anew each day. Their general attitude and the resultant sensations constituted a pleasant feeling tone, which had a helpful reactionary effect upon the work. Continued practice, however, brought a change. In place of the spontaneous, rapt attention of the beginning stages, attention tended, at certain definite stages of advancement, to wander away from the work. A general feeling of monotony, which at times assumed the form of utter disgust, took the place of the former pleasant sensations and feelings. The writing became a disagreeable task. The unpleasant feelings now present in consciousness exerted an ever-restraining effect on the work. As an expert skill was approached, however, the learners' attitude and mood changed again. They again took a keen interest in the work. Their whole feeling tone once more became favorable, and the movements delightful and pleasant. The expert typist ... so thoroughly enjoyed the writing that it was as pleasant as the spontaneous play activities of a child. But in the course of developing this permanent interest in the work, there were many periods in nearly every test, many days, as well as stages in the practice as a whole, when the work was much disliked, periods when the learning assumed the rôle of a very monotonous task. Our records showed that at such times as these no progress was made. Rapid progress in learning typewriting was made only when the learners were feeling good and had an attitude of interest toward the work."[18] Who has not experienced that feeling of hopelessness and despair that comes at these successive levels of the long process of acquiring skill in a complicated art? How desperately we struggle on--striving to put every item of energy that we can command into our work, and yet feeling how hopeless it all seems. How tempting then is the hammock on the porch, the fascinating novel that we have placed on our bedside table, the happy company of friends that are talking and laughing in the next room; or how we long for the green fields and the open road; how seductive is that siren call of change and diversion,--that evil spirit of procrastination! How feeble, too, are the efforts that we make under these conditions! We are not making progress in our art, we are only marking time. And yet the psychologists tell us that this marking time is an essential in the mastery of any complicated art. Somewhere, deep down in the nervous system, subtle processes are at work, and when finally interest dawns,--when finally hope returns to us, and life again becomes worth while,--these heartbreaking struggles reap their reward. The psychologists call them "plateaus of growth," but some one has said that "sloughs of despond" would be a far better designation. The progress of any individual depends upon his ability to pass through these sloughs of despond,--to set his face resolutely to the task and persevere. It would be the idlest folly to lead children to believe that success or achievement or even passing ability can be gained in any other manner. And this is the danger in the sugar-coating process. But motivation does not mean sugar-coating. It means the development of purpose, of ambition, of incentive. It means the development of the willingness to undergo the discipline in order that the purpose may be realized, in order that the goal may be attained. It means the creating of those conditions that make for strength and virility and moral fiber,--for it is in the consciousness of having overcome obstacles and won in spite of handicaps,--it is in this consciousness of conquest that mental strength and moral strength have their source. The victory that really strengthens one is not the victory that has come easily, but the victory that stands out sharp and clear against the background of effort and struggle. It is because this subjective contrast is so absolutely essential to the consciousness of power,--it is for this reason that the "sloughs of despond" still have their function in our new attitude toward drill. But do not mistake me: I have no sympathy with that educational "stand-pattism" that would multiply these needlessly, or fail to build solid and comfortable highways across them wherever it is possible to do so. I have no sympathy with that philosophy of education which approves the placing of artificial barriers in the learner's path. But if I build highways across the morasses, it is only that youth may the more readily traverse the region and come the more quickly to the points where struggle is absolutely necessary. You remember in George Eliot's _Daniel Deronda_ the story of Gwendolen Harleth. Gwendolen was a butterfly of society, a young woman in whose childhood drill and discipline had found no place. In early womanhood, she was, through family misfortune, thrown upon her own resources. In casting about for some means of self-support her first recourse was to music, for which she had some taste and in which she had had some slight training. She sought out her old German music teacher, Klesmer, and asked him what she might do to turn this taste and this training to financial account. Klesmer's reply sums up in a nutshell the psychology of skill: "Any great achievement in acting or in music grows with the growth. Whenever an artist has been able to say, 'I came, I saw, I conquered,' it has been at the end of patient practice. Genius, at first, is little more than a great capacity for receiving discipline. Singing and acting, like the fine dexterity of the juggler with his cup and balls, require a shaping of the organs toward a finer and finer certainty of effect. Your muscles, your whole frame, must go like a watch,--true, true, true, to a hair. This is the work of the springtime of life before the habits have been formed." And I can formulate my own conception of the work of habit building in education no better than by paraphrasing Klesmer's epigram. To increase in our pupils the capacity to receive discipline; to show them, through concrete example, over and over again, how persistence and effort and concentration bring results that are worth while; to choose from their own childish experiences the illustrations that will force this lesson home; to supplement, from the stories of great achievements, those illustrations which will inspire them to effort; to lead them to see that Peary conquering the Pole, or Wilbur Wright perfecting the aëroplane, or Morse struggling through long years of hopelessness and discouragement to give the world the electric telegraph,--to show them that these men went through experiences differing only in degree and not in kind from those which characterize every achievement, no matter how small, so long as it is dominated by a unitary purpose; to make the inevitable sloughs of despond no less morasses, perhaps, but to make their conquest add a permanent increment to growth and development: this is the task of our drill work as I view it. As the prophecy of Isaiah has it: "Precept must be upon precept; precept upon precept; line upon line; line upon line; here a little and there a little." And if we can succeed in giving our pupils this vision,--if we can reveal the deeper meaning of struggle and effort and self-denial and sacrifice shining out through the little details of the day's work,--we are ourselves achieving something that is richly worth while; for the highest triumph of the teacher's art is to get his pupils to see, in the small and seemingly trivial affairs of everyday life, the operation of fundamental and eternal principles. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 17: An address before the Kansas State Teachers' Association, Topeka, October 20, 1910.] [Footnote 18: W.F. Book, _Journal of Educational Psychology_, vol. i, 1910, p. 195.] ~XII~ THE IDEAL TEACHER[19] I wish to discuss with you briefly a very commonplace and oft-repeated theme,--a theme that has been handled and handled until its once-glorious raiment is now quite threadbare; a theme so full of pitfalls and dangers for one who would attempt its discussion that I have hesitated long before making a choice. I know of no other theme that lends itself so readily to a superficial treatment--of no theme upon which one could find so easily at hand all of the proverbs and platitudes and maxims that one might desire. And so I cannot be expected to say anything upon this topic that has not been said before in a far better manner. But, after all, very few of our thoughts--even of those that we consider to be the most original and worth while--are really new to the world. Most of our thoughts have been thought before. They are like dolls that are passed on from age to age to be dressed up and decorated to suit the taste or the fashion or the fancy of each succeeding generation. But even a new dress may add a touch of newness to an old doll; and a new phrase or a new setting may, for a moment, rejuvenate an old truth. The topic that I wish to treat is this, "The Ideal Teacher." And I may as well start out by saying that the ideal teacher is and always must be a figment of the imagination. This is the essential feature of any ideal. The ideal man, for example, must possess an infinite number of superlative characteristics. We take this virtue from one, and that from another, and so on indefinitely until we have constructed in imagination a paragon, the counterpart of which could never exist on earth. He would have all the virtues of all the heroes; but he would lack all their defects and all their inadequacies. He would have the manners of a Chesterfield, the courage of a Winkelried, the imagination of a Dante, the eloquence of a Cicero, the wit of a Voltaire, the intuitions of a Shakespeare, the magnetism of a Napoleon, the patriotism of a Washington, the loyalty of a Bismarck, the humanity of a Lincoln, and a hundred other qualities, each the counterpart of some superlative quality, drawn from the historic figure that represented that quality in richest measure. And so it is with the ideal teacher: he would combine, in the right proportion, all of the good qualities of all of the good teachers that we have ever known or heard of. The ideal teacher is and always must be a creature, not of flesh and blood, but of the imagination, a child of the brain. And perhaps it is well that this is true; for, if he existed in the flesh, it would not take very many of him to put the rest of us out of business. The relentless law of compensation, which rules that unusual growth in one direction must always be counterbalanced by deficient growth in another direction, is the saving principle of human society. That a man should be superlatively good in one single line of effort is the demand of modern life. It is a platitude to say that this is the age of the specialist. But specialism, while it always means a gain to society, also always means a loss to the individual. Darwin, at the age of forty, suddenly awoke to the fact that he was a man of one idea. Twenty years before, he had been a youth of the most varied and diverse interests. He had enjoyed music, he had found delight in the masterpieces of imaginative literature, he had felt a keen interest in the drama, in poetry, in the fine arts. But at forty Darwin quite by accident discovered that these things had not attracted him for years,--that every increment of his time and energy was concentrated in a constantly increasing measure upon the unraveling of that great problem to which he had set himself. And he lamented bitterly the loss of these other interests; he wondered why he had been so thoughtless as to let them slip from his grasp. It was the same old story of human progress; the sacrifice of the individual to the race. For Darwin's loss was the world's gain, and if he had not limited himself to one line of effort, and given himself up to that work to the exclusion of everything else, the world might still be waiting for the _Origin of Species_, and the revolution in human thought and human life which followed in the wake of that great book. Carlyle defined genius as an infinite capacity for taking pains. George Eliot characterized it as an infinite capacity for receiving discipline. But to make the definition complete, we need the formulation of Goethe, who identified genius with the power of concentration: "Who would be great must limit his ambitions; in concentration is shown the Master." And so the great men of history, from the very fact of their genius, are apt not to correspond with what our ideal of greatness demands. Indeed, our ideal is often more nearly realized in men who fall far short of genius. When I studied chemistry, the instructor burned a bit of diamond to prove to us that the diamond was, after all, only carbon in an "allotropic" form. There seems to be a similar allotropy working in human nature. Some men seem to have all the constituents of genius, but they never reach very far above the plane of the commonplace. They are like the diamond,--except that they are more like the charcoal. I wish to describe to you a teacher who was not a genius, and yet who possessed certain qualities that I should abstract and appropriate if I were to construct in my imagination an ideal teacher. I first met this man five years ago out in the mountain country. I can recall the occasion with the most vivid distinctness. It was a sparkling morning, in middle May. The valley was just beginning to green a little under the influence of the lengthening days, but on the surrounding mountains the snow line still hung low. I had just settled down to my morning's work when word was brought that a visitor wished to see me, and a moment later he was shown into the office. He was tall and straight, with square shoulders and a deep chest. His hair was gray, and a rather long white beard added to the effect of age, but detracted not an iota from the evidences of strength and vigor. He had the look of a Westerner,--of a man who had lived much of his life in the open. There was a ruggedness about him, a sturdy strength that told of many a day's toil along the trail, and many a night's sleep under the stars. In a few words he stated the purpose of his visit. He simply wished to do what half a hundred others in the course of the year had entered that office for the purpose of doing. He wished to enroll as a student in the college and to prepare himself for a teacher. This was not ordinarily a startling request, but hitherto it had been made only by those who were just starting out on the highroad of life. Here was a man advanced in years. He told me that he was sixty-five, and sixty-five in that country meant old age; for the region had but recently been settled, and most of the people were either young or middle-aged. The only old men in the country were the few surviving pioneers,--men who had come in away back in the early days of the mining fever, long before the advent of the railroad. They had trekked across the plains from Omaha, and up through the mountainous passes of the Oregon trail; or, a little later, they had come by steamboat from St. Louis up the twelve-hundred-mile stretch of the Missouri until their progress had been stopped by the Great Falls in the very foothills of the Rockies. What heroes were these graybeards of the mountains! What possibilities in knowing them, of listening to the recounting of tales of the early days,--of running fights with the Indians on the plains, of ambushments by desperadoes in the mountain passes, of the lurid life of the early mining camps, and the desperate deeds of the Vigilantes! And here, before me, was a man of that type. You could read the main facts of his history in the very lines of his face. And this man--one of that small band whom the whole country united to honor--this man wanted to become a student,--to sit among adolescent boys and girls, listening to the lectures and discussions of instructors who were babes in arms when he was a man of middle life. But there was no doubt of his determination. With the eagerness of a boy, he outlined his plan to me; and in doing this, he told me the story of his life,--just the barest facts to let me know that he was not a man to do things half-heartedly, or to drop a project until he had carried it through either to a successful issue, or to indisputable defeat. And what a life that man had lived! He had been a youth of promise, keen of intelligence and quick of wit. He had spent two years at a college in the Middle West back in the early sixties. He had left his course uncompleted to enter the army, and he had followed the fortunes of war through the latter part of the great rebellion. At the close of the war he went West. He farmed in Kansas until the drought and the grasshoppers urged him on. He joined the first surveying party that picked out the line of the transcontinental railroad that was to follow the southern route along the old Santa Fé trail. He carried the chain and worked the transit across the Rockies, across the desert, across the Sierras, until, with his companions, he had-- "led the iron stallions down to drink Through the cañons to the waters of the West." And when this task was accomplished, he followed the lure of the gold through the California placers; eastward again over the mountains to the booming Nevada camp, where the Comstock lode was already turning out the wealth that was to build a half-dozen colossal fortunes. He "prospected" through this country, with varying success, living the life of the camps,--rich in its experiences, vivid in its coloring, calling forth every item of energy and courage and hardihood that a man could command. Then word came by that mysterious wireless and keyless telegraphy of the mountains and the desert,--word that back to the eastward, ore deposits of untold wealth had been discovered. So eastward once more, with the stampede of the miners, he turned his face. He was successful at the outset in this new region. He quickly accumulated a fortune; he lost it and amassed another; lost that and still gained a third. Five successive fortunes he made successively, and successively he lost them. But during this time he had become a man of power and influence in the community. He married and raised a family and saw his children comfortably settled. But when his last fortune was swept away, the old _Wanderlust_ again claimed its own. Houses and lands and mortgages and mills and mines had slipped from his grasp. But it mattered little. He had only himself to care for, and, with pick and pan strapped to his saddlebow, he set his face westward. Along the ridges of the high Rockies, through Wyoming and Montana, he wandered, ever on the lookout for the glint of gold in the white quartz. Little by little he moved westward, picking up a sufficient living, until he found himself one winter shut in by the snows in a remote valley on the upper waters of the Gallatin River. He stopped one night at a lonely ranch house. In the course of the evening his host told him of a catastrophe that had befallen the widely scattered inhabitants of that remote valley. The teacher of the district school had fallen sick, and there was little likelihood of their getting another until spring. That is a true catastrophe to the ranchers of the high valleys cut off from every line of communication with the outer world. For the opportunities of education are highly valued in that part of the West. They are reckoned with bread and horses and cattle and sheep, as among the necessities of life. The children were crying for school, and their parents could not satisfy that peculiar kind of hunger. But here was the relief. This wanderer who had arrived in their midst was a man of parts. He was lettered; he was educated. Would he do them the favor of teaching their children until the snow had melted away from the ridges, and his cayuse could pick the trail through the cañons? Now school-keeping was farthest from this man's thoughts. But the needs of little children were very near to his heart. He accepted the offer, and entered the log schoolhouse as the district schoolmaster, while a handful of pupils, numbering all the children of the community who could ride a broncho, came five, ten, and even fifteen miles daily, through the winter's snows and storms and cruel cold, to pick up the crumbs of learning that had lain so long untouched. What happened in that lonely little school, far off on the Gallatin bench, I never rightly discovered. But when spring opened up, the master sold his cayuse and his pick and his rifle and the other implements of his trade. With the earnings of the winter he made his way to the school that the state had established for the training of teachers; and I count it as one of the privileges of my life that I was the first official of that school to listen to his story and to welcome him to the vocation that he had chosen to follow. And yet, when I looked at his face, drawn into lines of strength by years of battle with the elements; when I looked at the clear, blue eyes, that told of a far cleaner life than is lived by one in a thousand of those that hold the frontiers of civilization; when I caught an expression about the mouth that told of an innate humanity far beyond the power of worldly losses or misfortunes to crush and subdue, I could not keep from my lips the words that gave substance to my thought; and the thought was this: that it were far better if we who were supposed to be competent to the task of education should sit reverently at the feet of this man, than that we should presume to instruct him. For knowledge may come from books, and even youth may possess it, but wisdom comes only from experience, and this man had that wisdom in far greater measure than we of books and laboratories and classrooms could ever hope to have it. He had lived years while we were living days. I thought of a learned scholar who, through patient labor in amassing facts, had demonstrated the influence of the frontier in the development of our national ideals; who had pointed out how, at each successive stage of American history, the heroes of the frontier, pushing farther and farther into the wilderness, conquering first the low coastal plain of the Atlantic seaboard, then the forested foothills and ridges of the Appalachians, had finally penetrated into the Mississippi Valley, and, subduing that, had followed on westward to the prairies, and then to the great plains, and then clear across the great divide, the alkali deserts, and the Sierras, to California and the Pacific Coast; how these frontiersmen, at every stage of our history, had sent back wave after wave of strength and virility to keep alive the sturdy ideals of toil and effort and independence,--ideals that would counteract the mellowing and softening and degenerating influences of the hothouse civilization that grew up so rapidly in the successive regions that they left behind. Turner's theory that most of what is typical and unique in American institutions and ideals owes its existence to the backset of the frontier life found a living exemplar in the man who stood before me on that May morning. But he would not be discouraged from his purpose. He had made up his mind to complete the course that the school offered; to take up the thread of his education at the point where he had dropped it more than forty years before. He had made up his mind, and it was easy to see that he was not a man to be deterred from a set purpose. I shall not hide the fact that some of us were skeptical of the outcome. That a man of sixty-five should have a thirst for learning was not remarkable. But that a man whose life had been spent in scenes of excitement, who had been associated with deeds and events that stir the blood when we read of them to-day, a man who had lived almost every moment of his life in the open,--that such a man could settle down to the uneventful life of a student and a teacher, could shut himself up within the four walls of a classroom, could find anything to inspire and hold him in the dull presentation of facts or the dry elucidation of theories,--this seemed to be a miracle not to be expected in this realistic age. But, miracle or not, the thing actually happened. He remained nearly four years in the school, earning his living by work that he did in the intervals of study, and doing it so well that, when he graduated, he had not only his education and the diploma which stood for it, but also a bank account. He lived in a little cabin by himself, for he wished to be where he would not disturb others when he sang or whistled over his work in the small hours of the night. But his meals he took at the college dormitory, where he presided at a table of young women students. Never was a man more popular with the ladies than this weather-beaten patriarch with the girls of his table. No matter how gloomy the day might be, one could always find sunshine from that quarter. No matter how grievous the troubles of work, there was always a bit of cheerful optimism from a man who had tasted almost every joy and sorrow that life had to offer. If one were in a blue funk of dejection because of failure in a class, he would lend the sympathy that came from his own rich experience in failures,--not only past but present, for some things that come easy at sixteen come hard at sixty-five, and this man who would accept no favors had to fight his way through "flunks" and "goose-eggs" like the younger members of the class. And even with it all so complete an embodiment of hope and courage and wholesome light-heartedness would be hard to find. He was an optimist because he had learned long since that anything but optimism is a crime; and learning this in early life, optimism had become a deeply seated and ineradicable prejudice in his mind. He could not have been gloomy if he had tried. And so this man fought his way through science and mathematics and philosophy, slowly but surely, just as he had fought inch by inch and link by link, across the Arizona desert years before. It was a much harder fight, for all the force of lifelong habit, than which there is none other so powerful, was against him from the start. And now came the human temptation to be off on the old trail, to saddle his horse and get a pick and a pan and make off across the western range to the golden land that always lies just under the sunset. How often that turbulent _Wanderlust_ seized him, I can only conjecture. But I know the spirit of the wanderer was always strong within him. He could say, with Kipling's _Tramp Royal_: "It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die Unless you get the page you're reading done, An' turn another--likely not so good; But what you're after is to turn them all." And I knew that he fought that temptation over and over again; for that little experience out on the Gallatin bench had only partially turned his life from the channels of wandering, although it had bereft him of the old desire to seek for gold. Often he outlined to me a well-formulated plan; perhaps he had to tell some one, lest the fever should take too strong a hold upon him, and force his surrender. His plan was this: He would teach a term here and there, gradually working his way westward, always toward the remote corners of the earth into which his roving instinct seemed unerringly to lead him. Alaska, Hawaii, and the Philippines seemed easy enough to access; surely, he thought, teachers must be needed in all those regions. And when he should have turned these pages, he might have mastered his vocation in a degree sufficient to warrant his attempting an alien soil. Then he would sail away into the South Seas, with New Zealand and Australia as a base. And gradually moving westward through English-speaking settlements and colonies he would finally complete the circuit of the globe. And the full fruition of that plan might have formed a fitting climax to my tale, were I telling it for the sake of its romance; but my purpose demands a different conclusion. My hero is now principal of schools in a little city of the mountains,--a city so tiny that its name would be unknown to most of you. And I have heard vague rumors that he is rising rapidly in his profession and that the community he serves will not listen to anything but a permanent tenure of his office. All of which seems to indicate to me that he has abandoned, for the while at least, his intention to turn quite all the pages of the world's great book, and is content to live true to the ideal that was born in the log schoolhouse--the conviction that the true life is the life of service, and that the love of wandering and the lure of gold are only siren calls that lead one always toward, but never to, the promised land of dreams that seems to lie just over the western range where the pink sunset stands sharp against the purple shadows. The ending of my story is prosaic, but everything in this world is prosaic, unless you view it either in the perspective of time or space, or in the contrasts that bring out the high lights and deepen the shadows. But if I have left my hero happily married to his profession, the courtship and winning of which formed the theme of my tale, I may be permitted to indulge in a very little moralizing of a rather more explicit sort than I have yet attempted. It is a simple matter to construct in imagination an ideal teacher. Mix with immortal youth and abounding health, a maximal degree of knowledge and a maximal degree of experience, add perfect tact, the spirit of true service, the most perfect patience, and the most steadfast persistence; place in the crucible of some good normal school; stir in twenty weeks of standard psychology, ten weeks of general method, and varying amounts of patent compounds known as special methods, all warranted pure and without drugs or poison; sweeten with a little music, toughen with fifteen weeks of logic, bring to a slow boil in the practice school, and, while still sizzling, turn loose on a cold world. The formula is simple and complete, but like many another good recipe, a competent cook might find it hard to follow when she is short of butter and must shamefully skimp on the eggs. Now the man whose history I have recounted represents the most priceless qualities of this formula. In the first place he possessed that quality the key to which the philosophers of all ages have sought in vain,--he had solved the problem of eternal youth. At the age of sixty-five his enthusiasm was the enthusiasm of an adolescent. His energy was the energy of an adolescent. Despite his gray hair and white beard, his mind was perennially young. And that is the only type of mind that ought to be concerned with the work of education. I sometimes think that one of the advantages of a practice school lies in the fact that the teachers who have direct charge of the pupils--whatever may be their limitations--have at least the virtue of youth, the virtue of being young. If they could only learn from my hero the art of keeping young, of keeping the mind fresh and vigorous and open to whatever is good and true, no matter how novel a form it may take, they might, like him, preserve their youth indefinitely. And I think that his life gives us one clew to the secret,--to keep as close as we can to nature, for nature is always young; to sing and to whistle when we would rather weep; to cheer and comfort when we would rather crush and dishearten; often to dare something just for the sake of daring, for to be young is to dare; and always to wonder, for that is the prime symptom of youth, and when a man ceases to wonder, age and decrepitude are waiting for him around the next corner. It is the privilege of the teaching craft to represent more adequately than any other calling the conditions for remaining young. There is time for living out-of-doors, which some of us, alas! do not do. And youth, with its high hope and lofty ambition, with its resolute daring and its naive wonder, surrounds us on every side. And yet how rapidly some of us age! How quickly life seems to lose its zest! How completely are we blind to the opportunities that are on every hand! And closely related to this virtue of being always young, in fact growing out of it, the ideal teacher will have, as my hero had, the gift of gladness,--that joy of living which takes life for granted and proposes to make the most of every moment of consciousness that it brings. And finally, to balance these qualities, to keep them in leash, the ideal teacher should possess that spirit of service, that conviction that the life of service is the only life worth while--that conviction for which my hero struggled so long and against such tremendous odds. The spirit of service must always be the cornerstone of the teaching craft. To know that any life which does not provide the opportunities for service is not worth the living, and that any life, however humble, that does provide these opportunities is rich beyond the reach of earthly rewards,--this is the first lesson that the tyro in schoolcraft must learn, be he sixteen or sixty-five. And just as youth and hope and the gift of gladness are the eternal verities on one side of the picture, so the spirit of service, the spirit of sacrifice, is the eternal verity that forms their true complement; without whose compensation, hope were but idle dreaming, and laughter a hollow mockery. And self-denial, which is the keynote of service, is the great sobering, justifying, eternal factor that symbolizes humanity more perfectly than anything else. In the introduction to _Romola_, George Eliot pictures a spirit of the past who returns to earth four hundred years after his death, and looks down upon his native city of Florence. And I can conclude with no better words than those in which George Eliot voices her advice to that shade: "Go not down, good Spirit: for the changes are great and the speech of the Florentines would sound as a riddle in your ears. Or, if you go, mingle with no politicians on the marmi, or elsewhere; ask no questions about trade in Calimara; confuse yourself with no inquiries into scholarship, official or monastic. Only look at the sunlight and shadows on the grand walls that were built solidly and have endured in their grandeur; look at the faces of the little children, making another sunlight amid the shadows of age; look, if you will, into the churches and hear the same chants, see the same images as of old--the images of willing anguish for a great end, of beneficent love and ascending glory, see upturned living faces, and lips moving to the old prayers for help. These things have not changed. The sunlight and the shadows bring their old beauty and waken the old heart-strains at morning, noon, and even-tide; the little children are still the symbol of the eternal marriage between love and duty; and men still yearn for the reign of peace and righteousness--still own that life to be the best which is a conscious voluntary sacrifice." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 19: An address to the graduating class of the Oswego, New York, State Normal School, February, 1908.] 
17588	----	Transcriber's note: Italicized words are enclosed by underscores (_italic_). Bold-faced words are enclosed by equal signs (=bold=). THE VITALIZED SCHOOL by FRANCIS B. PEARSON Superintendent of Public Instruction of Ohio Author of "The Evolution of the Teacher" "The High School Problem" "Reveries of a Schoolmaster" New York The MacMillan Company 1918 Copyright, 1917, by the MacMillan Company. Published February, 1917. Reprinted January, 1918. PREFACE The thoughtful observer must have noted in the recent past many indications of an awakened interest both in the concept of education and in school procedure on the part of school officials, teachers, and the public. Educators have been developing pedagogical principles that strike their roots deep into the philosophy of life, and now their pronouncements are invading the consciousness of people of all ranks and causing them to realize more and more that the school process is an integral part of the life process and not something detached from life. The following pages constitute an attempt to interpret some of the school processes in terms of life processes, and to suggest ways in which these processes may be made identical. It is hoped that teachers who may read these pages may find running through them a strand of optimism that will give them increased faith in their own powers, a larger hope for the future of the school, and an access of zeal to press valiantly forward in their efforts to excel themselves. F. B. P. COLUMBUS, OHIO, January, 1917. TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER I. TEACHING SCHOOL II. THE TEACHER III. THE CHILD IV. THE CHILD OF THE FUTURE V. THE TEACHER-POLITICIAN VI. SUBLIME CHAOS VII. DEMOCRACY VIII. PATRIOTISM IX. WORK AND LIFE X. WORDS AND THEIR CONTENT XI. COMPLETE LIVING XII. THE TIME ELEMENT XIII. THE ARTIST TEACHER XIV. THE TEACHER AS AN IDEAL XV. THE SOCIALIZED RECITATION XVI. AGRICULTURE XVII. THE SCHOOL AND THE COMMUNITY XVIII. POETRY AND LIFE XIX. A SENSE OF HUMOR XX. THE ELEMENT OF HUMAN INTEREST XXI. BEHAVIOR XXII. BOND AND FEAR XXIII. EXAMINATIONS XXIV. WORLD-BUILDING XXV. A TYPICAL VITALIZED SCHOOL THE VITALIZED SCHOOL CHAPTER I TEACHING SCHOOL =Life and living compared.=--There is a wide difference between school-teaching and teaching school. The question "Is she a school-teacher?" means one thing; but the question "Can she teach school?" means quite another. School-teaching may be living; but teaching school is life. And any one who has a definition of life can readily find a definition for teaching school. Much of the criticism of the work of the schools emanates from sources that have a restricted concept of life. The artisan who defines life in terms of his own trade is impatient with much that the school is trying to do. He would have the scope of the school narrowed to his concept of life. If art and literature are beyond the limits of his concept, he can see no warrant for their presence in the school. The work of the schools cannot be standardized until life itself is standardized, and that is neither possible nor desirable. The glory of life is that it does not have fixity, that it is ever crescent. =Teaching defined.=--Teaching school may be defined, therefore, as the process of interpreting life by the laboratory method. The teacher's work is to open the gates of life for the pupils. But, before these gates can be opened, the teacher must know what and where they are. This view of the teacher's work is neither fanciful nor fantastic; quite the contrary. Life is the common heritage of people young and old, and the school should be so organized and administered as to teach people how to use this heritage to the best advantage both for themselves and for others. If a child should be absent from school altogether, or if he should be incarcerated in prison from his sixth to his eighteenth year, he would still have life. But, if he is in school during those twelve years, he is supposed to have life that is of better quality and more abundant. Life is not measured by years, but by its own intensity and scope. It has often been said that some people have more life in threescore and ten years than Methuselah had in his more than nine hundred years. =Life measured by intensity.=--This statement is not demonstrable, of course, but it serves to make evident the fact that some people have more of life in a given time than others in the same time. In this sense, life may be measured by the number of reactions to objectives. These reactions may be increased by training. Two persons, in passing a shop-window, may not see the same objects; or one may see twice as many as the other, according to their ability to react. The man who was locked in a vault at the cemetery by accident, and was not discovered for an hour, thought he had spent four days in his imprisonment. He had really lived four days in a single hour by reason of the intensity of life during that hour. =Illustrations.=--In the case of dreams, we are told that years may be condensed into minutes, or even seconds, by reason of the rapidity of reactions. The rapidity and intensity of these reactions make themselves manifest on the face of the dreamer. Beads of perspiration and facial contortions betoken intensity of feeling. In such an experience life is intense. If a mental or spiritual cyclometer could be used in such a case, it would make a high record of speed. Life sometimes touches bottom, and sometimes scales the heights. But the distance between these extremes varies greatly in different persons. The life of one may have but a single octave; of the other, eight, or a hundred, or a thousand. The life of Job is an apt illustration. No one has been able to sound the depths of his suffering, nor has any one been able to measure the heights of his exaltation. We may not readily compute the octaves in such a life as his. =The complexity of life.=--It is not easy to think life, much less define it. The elements are so numerous as to baffle and bewilder the mind. It looks out at one from so many corners that it seems Argus-eyed. At one moment we see it on the Stock Exchange where men struggle and strive in a mad frenzy of competition; at another, in a quiet home, where a mother soothes her baby to sleep, where there is no competition but, rather, a sublime monopoly. Again, it manifests itself in the clanking of machinery where men are tunneling the mountain or constructing a canal to unite oceans; or, again, in the laboratory where the microscope is revealing the form of the snow crystal. One man is watching the movements of the heavenly bodies as they file by his telescope, while another writes a proclamation that makes free a race of people. Another man is leading an army into battle, while some Doctor MacClure is breasting the storm in the darkness as he goes forth on his mission of mercy. =Manifestations of life.=--These manifestations of life men call trade, commerce, history, mathematics, science, nature, and philanthropy. And men write these words in books, and other men write other books trying to explain their meaning. Then, still others divide and subdivide, and science becomes the sciences, and mathematics becomes arithmetic, and algebra, and geometry, and trigonometry, and calculus, and astronomy. Here mathematics and science seem to merge. And, in time, history and geography come together, and sometimes strive for precedence. Thus, books accumulate into libraries and so add another to the many elements of life. Then magazines are written to explain the books and their authors. The motive behind the book is analyzed in an effort to discover the workings of the author's mind and heart. In these revelations we sometimes hear the rippling of the brook, and sometimes the moan of the sea; sometimes the cooing of the dove, and sometimes the scream of the eagle; sometimes the bleating of the lamb, and sometimes the roaring of the lion. In them we see the moonbeams that play among the flowers and the lightning that rends the forest; the blossoms that filter from the trees and the avalanche that carries destruction; the rain that fructifies the earth and the hurricane that destroys. =Life in literature.=--Back of these sights and sounds we discover men--Cicero, Demosthenes, Homer, Isaiah, Shakespeare, Milton, Dante. We trace the thoughts and emotions of these men and find literature. And in literature, again, we come upon another manifestation of life. Literature is what it is because these men were what they were. They saw and felt life to be large and so wrote it down large; and because they wrote it thus, what they wrote endures. They stood upon the heights and saw the struggles of man with himself, with other men, and with nature. This panorama generated thoughts and feelings in them, and these they could not but portray. And so literature and life are identical and not coördinates, as some would have us think. =Life as subject matter in teaching.=--In teaching school, therefore, the subject matter with which we have to do is life--nothing more and nothing less. We may call it history, or mathematics, or literature, or psychology,--but it still remains true that life is the real objective of all our activities. And, as has been already said, we are teaching life by the laboratory method. We are striving to interpret the thing in which we are immersed. We feel, and think, and aspire, and love, and enjoy. All these are life; and from this life we are striving to extract strength that our feeling may be deeper, our thinking higher, our aspirations wider and more lofty, our love purer and nobler, and our own enjoyment greater. By absorbing the life that is all about us we strive to have more abundant and abounding life. =The teacher's province.=--Such is the province of one who essays the task of teaching school. School is life, as we have been told; but, at the same time, it is a place and an occasion for teaching life. If we could detach history from life, it would cease to be history. If literature is not life, it is not literature; and so with the sciences. These branches are but variants or branches of life, and all emanate from a common center. Whether we scan the heavens, penetrate the depths of the sea, pore over the pages of books, or look into the minds and hearts of men, we are striving after an interpretation of life. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Distinguish between a "school teacher" and a "man or woman who teaches school." 2. Discuss the importance of the following agencies of the school in securing for children "life of a better quality and more abundant": play; revitalized curricula; vitalized teachers; medical inspection; social centers; moral instruction. 3. Discuss both from the standpoint of present practice and ideal educational principles: "More abundant life rather than knowledge is the chief end of instruction." 4. What changes are necessary in school curricula and in the methods of school organization, instruction, and discipline, in order that the chief purpose of our schools, "more abundant _life_," may be realized? 5. Justify the apparent length of the school day to teachers and pupils, as a means of determining the quality of the work of the school. 6. Some teachers maintain that school is a preparation for life, while the author maintains that "school is _life_." Is this difference in the concept of the school a vital one? 7. How may this difference of concept affect the work of the teacher? the attitude of the pupil? 8. What definition of education will best harmonize with the ideals of this chapter? CHAPTER II THE TEACHER =Teachers contrasted.=--The vitalized school is an expression of the vitalized teacher. In the hands of the teacher of another sort, the vitalized school is impossible. Unless she can see in the multiplication table the power that throws the bridge across the river, that builds pyramids, that constructs railways, that sends ships across the ocean, that tunnels mountains and navigates the air, this table becomes a stupid thing, a dead thing, and an incubus upon the spirits of her pupils. To such a teacher mathematics is a lifeless thing, without hope or potency, the school is a mere convenience for the earning of a livelihood, the work is the drudgery of bondage, and the children are little less than an impertinence. The vitalized teacher is different. To her the multiplication table pulsates with life. It stretches forth its beneficent hand to give employment to a million workers, and food to a million homes. It pervades every mart of trade; it loads trains and ships with the commerce of nations; and it helps to amplify and ennoble civilization. =Vitalized mathematics.=--In this table she sees a prophecy of great achievements in engineering, architecture, transportation, and the myriad applications of science. In brief, mathematics to her is vibrant with life both in its present uses and in its possibilities. She knows that it is a part of the texture of the daily life of every home as well as of national life. She knows that it pertains to individual, community, and national well-being. Knowing this, she feels that it is quite worth while for herself and her pupils, both for the present and for the future. She feels that, if she would know life, she must know mathematics, because it is a part of life; that, if she would teach life to her pupils, she must teach them mathematics as an integral part of life; and that she must teach it in such a way that it will be as much a part of themselves as their bodily organs. She wants them to know the mathematics as they know that the rain is falling or that the sun is shining, because the rain, the sunshine, and the mathematics are all elements of life. Her great aim is to have her pupils experience the study just as they experience other phases of life. =The teacher's attitude.=--Such a teacher with such a conception of life and of her work finds teaching school the very reverse of drudgery. Each day is an exhilarating experience of life. Her pupils are a part of life to her. She enjoys life and, hence, enjoys them. They are her confederates in the fine game of life. The bigness and exuberance of her abundant life enfolds them all, and from the very atmosphere of her presence they absorb life. Their studies, under the influence of her magic, are as much a part of life to them as the air they breathe or the food they eat. No two days are alike in her school, for life to-day is larger than it was yesterday and so presents a new aspect. Her spirit carries over into their spirits the truths of the books, and these truths thus become inherent. =College influences.=--She teaches life, albeit through the medium of subjects and books, because she knows life. Her college work did not consist in the gathering together of many facts, but in accumulating experiences of life. Many of these experiences were acquired vicariously, but they were no less real on that account. Her generous nature was able to withstand the most assiduous efforts of some of her teachers to quench the flames of life that glowed in the pages of books, with the wet blanket of erudition. She was able to relive the thoughts and feelings of the authors whose books she studied and so make their experiences her own. She could reconstitute the emotional life of her authors and gain potency through the transfusion of spirit. Her books were living things, and she gleaned life from their pages. =Reading and life.=--She can teach reading because she can read. Reading to her is an experience in life. The words on the printed page are not meaningless hieroglyphics. They are the electric wires which connect the soul of the author with her own, and through which the current is continually passing. When she reads Dickens, Tiny Tim is never a mere boy with a crutch, but he is Tiny Tim, and, as such, neither men nor angels can supplant him on the printed page. She knows the touch of him and the voice of him. She laughs with him; she cries with him; she prays with him; she lives with him. In her teaching she causes Tiny Tim to stand forth like a cameo to her pupils, with no rival and no peer. This she can do because he is a part of her life. She has no occasion either to pose or to rhapsodize. Sincerity is its own explanation and justification. =Power of understanding.=--When she reads "Little Boy Blue" she can hear the sobbing of a heartbroken mother and thus, vicariously, comes to know the universality of death and sorrow. But she finds faith and hope in the poem, also, and so can see the sunlight suffusing the clouds of the mother's grief. Thus she enters into the feeling of motherhood and so shares the life of all the mothers whose children are her pupils. In every page she reads she crosses anew the threshold of life and gains a knowledge of its joys, its sorrows, its triumphs, or its defeats. In short, she reads with the spirit and not merely with the mind, and thus catches the spiritual meaning of what she reads. She can feel as well as think and so can emotionalize the printed page. Nature has endowed her with a sensory foundation that reacts to the emotional situations that the author produces. Thus she understands, and that is the prime desideratum in reading. And because she understands, she can interpret, and cause her pupils to understand. Thus they receive another endowment of life. =Books as exponents of life.=--She has time for reading as she has time for eating and drinking, and for the same reason. To her they are all coördinate elements of life. She eats, and sleeps, and reads because she is alive; and she is more alive because she eats, and sleeps, and reads. She taps the sources of spiritual refreshment, without parade, and rejoices in the consequent enrichment of her life. She does not smite the rock, but speaks to it, and smiles upon it, and the waters gush forth. She descends into Hades with Dante, and ascends Sinai with Moses, and is refreshed and strengthened by her journeys. She sits enrapt as Shakespeare turns the kaleidoscope of life for her, or stands enthralled by Victor Hugo's picture of the human soul. Her sentient spirit is ignited by the fires of genius that glow between the covers of the book, and her fine enthusiasm carries the divine conflagration over into the spirits of her pupils. There is, therefore, no drag or listlessness in her class in reading, because, during this exercise, life is as buoyant and spontaneous as it is upon the playground. =The meaning of history.=--In her teaching of history she invests all the characters with life, because to her they are alive. And because they are alive to her they are alive to her pupils. They are instinct with power, action, life. She rehabilitates the scenes in which they moved, and, therefore, they must be alive in order to perform their parts. They are all flesh and blood people with all the attributes of people. They are all actuated by motives and move along their appointed ways obedient to the laws of cause and effect. They are not named in the book to be learned and recited, but to be known. She causes her pupils to know them as they would come to know people in her home. Nor do they ever mistake one for the other or confuse their actions. They know them too well for that. These characters are made to stand wide apart, so that, being thus seen, they will ever after be known. History is not a directory of names, but groups of people going about their tasks. They hunger, and thirst, and love, and hate, and struggle with their environment as their descendants are doing to-day. =Language and vitality.=--When she is teaching a language, it is never less than a living language. In Latin the syntax is learned as a means, never an end. The big things in the study loom too large for that. The pupils become so eager to see what Cæsar will do next that they cannot afford the time to stare long at a mere ablative absolute. They are following the parade, and are not to be turned aside from their large purpose by minor matters. They are made to see and hear Cicero; and Rome becomes a reality, with its Forum, its Senate, and its Mamertine. When Dido sears the soul of the faithless Æneas with her words of scorn, the girls applaud and the boys tremble. When Troy burns, there is a real fire, and Achates is as real as the man Friday. When the shipwrecked Trojans regale themselves with venison, it is no make-believe dinner, but a real one. Where such a teacher is, there can be no dead language, no dry bones of history, and no stagnation in the stream of life. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What suggestions are offered for the vitalization of mathematics? history? reading? language? 2. In what ways is vitalization of subject matter related to its socialization? 3. How may motivation in teaching the multiplication table be assisted by vitalization? 4. What is to be included in the term "read" in the sentence "She can teach reading because she can read"? 5. Add to the author's list of children in literature whom the vitalized teacher may introduce as companions to her pupils. 6. Why is extended reading essential to success in teaching? 7. What works of Dante have you read? of Victor Hugo? of Shakespeare? How will the reading of such authors improve the teaching ability of elementary teachers? 8. What are the distinguishing characteristics of the vitalized teacher? CHAPTER III THE CHILD =The child as the center in school procedure.=--The child is the center of school procedure in all its many ramifications. For the child the building is erected, the equipment is provided, the course of study is arranged and administered, and the teacher employed. The child is major, and all else is subsidiary. In the general scheme even the teacher takes secondary place. Teachers may come and go, but the child remains as the focus of all plans and purposes. The teacher is secured for the child, and not the child for the teacher. Taxpayers, boards of education, parents, and teachers are all active in the interests of the child; and all school legislation, to be important, must have the child as its prime objective. Colleges of education and normal schools, in large numbers, are working at the educational problem in an effort to develop more effective methods of training the teachers of the child. A host of authors and publishers are giving to the interest of the child the products of their skill. In every commonwealth may be found a large number of men and women whose time and energies are devoted to the work of the schools for the child. =All children should have school privileges.=--All these facts are freely admitted, wherever attention is called to them, but we still have truant officers, and child labor laws. We admit the facts, but, in our practices, strive to circumvent their application. If the school is good for one child, it is good for all children. Indeed, the school is maintained on the assumption that all children will take advantage of and profit by its presence. If there were no schools, our civilization would surely decline. If school attendance should cease at the end of the fifth year, then we would have a fifth-year civilization. It rests, therefore, with the parents of the children, in large measure, whether we are to have an eighth-grade civilization, a high-school civilization, or a college civilization. =Parental attitude.=--Schools are administered on the assumption that every child is capable of and worthy of training, and that training the child will make for a better quality of civilization. The state regards the child as a liability during his childhood in the hope that he may be an asset in his manhood. In this hope time and money are devoted to his training. But, in the face of all this, there are parents, here and there, who still look upon their own children as assets and would use them for their own comfort or profit. They seem to think that their children are indebted to them for bringing them into the world and that their obligation to the children is canceled by meager provision of food, shelter, and clothing. They seem not to realize that "life is more than fruit or grain," and deny to their children the elements of life. =The rights of the child.=--All this is a sort of preface to the statement that the child comes into the world endowed with certain inherent rights that may not be abrogated. He has a right to life in its best and fullest sense, and no one has a right to abridge this measure of life, or to deprive him of anything that will contribute to such a life. He goes to the school as one of the sources of life, and any one who denies him this boon is doing violence to his right to have life. He does not go to school to study arithmetic, but studies arithmetic as one of the elements of life; and experience has demonstrated that arithmetic may be learned in the school more advantageously than elsewhere. He goes to school to have agreeable and profitable life. Each day is an integer of life and must be made to abound in life if it is to be accounted a success. =Child life.=--Again, the child has a right to the quality of life that is consistent with and congenial to his age. A seven-year-old should be a seven-year-old, in his thinking, in his activities, in his amusements, and in his feeling. We should never ask or want him to "put away childish things" at this age, for these childish things are a proof of his normality and good health. His buoyant life and good health may prove disastrous to the furniture in his home, but far better marred furniture than marred childhood. If, at this age, he should become as quiet and sedate as his father, his parents and teacher would have cause for alarm. It is the high privilege of the parent and the teacher to direct his activities, but not to abridge or interdict them. If the teacher would reduce him to inaction and silence, she may well reflect that if he were an imbecile he would be quiet. He will not pass this way again; and if he is ever to have the sort of life that is in harmony with his age, he must have it now. =Childhood curtailed.=--He has a right, also, to the full measure of childhood. This period is relatively short, and any curtailment does violence to his physiological and psychological nature. All the years of his childhood are necessary for a proper balancing of his physical and mental powers, that they may do their appointed work in after years. Entire volumes have been devoted to this subject, but, in spite of these volumes, some mothers still try to hurry their daughters into the duties and responsibilities of adult life. One such mother went to the high school to get the books of her fifteen-year-old daughter and, upon being asked why the daughter was leaving school, replied, "Oh, she's keeping company now." That daughter will never be the hardy plant in civilization that she ought to be, because she was reared in a hothouse atmosphere. That mother had no right to cripple the life of her child by thwarting nature's decrees. =Detrimental effects.=--The pity of it all is that the child is at the mercy of the parent, or of the teacher, as the case may be. We become so eager to have "old heads on young shoulders" that we begrudge the child the years that are necessary for the shoulders to attain that maturity of strength that is needful for supporting the "old heads." Then ensues a lack of balance, and, were all children thus denied their right to the full period of youth, we should have a distorted civilization. Dickens inveighs against this curtailment of youth prodigiously, and the marvel is that we have failed to learn the lesson from his pages. We need not have recourse to Victor Hugo to know the life of little Cosette, for we can see her prototype by merely looking about us. =The child's right to the best.=--As the child has a right to life in its fullness, so he has a right to all the agencies that can promote this type of life. If he meets with an accident he has a right to the best surgical skill that can be secured, and this right we readily concede; and equally he has a right to the best teacher that money will secure. If he has a teacher that is less than the best, the time thus lost can never be restored to him. A lady who had an unskillful teacher in her first year in the high school now avers that he maimed her for life in that particular study. Life is such a delicate affair that it demands expert handling. If we hope to have the child attain his right to be an intelligent coöperating agent in promoting life in society, then no price is too great to pay for the expert teaching which will nurture the sort of life in him that will make him effective. =The child's native tendencies.=--Then, again, the child has a right to the exercise of the native tendencies with which he is endowed. In fact, these tendencies should be the working capital of the teacher, the starting points in her teaching. There was a time when the teacher punished the child who was caught drawing pictures on his slate. Happily that sort of barbarity disappeared, in the main, along with the slate. The vitalized teacher rejoices in the pictures that the child draws and turns this tendency to good account. Through this inclination to draw she finds the real child and so, as the psychologists direct, she begins where the child is and sets about attaching to this native tendency the work in nature study, geography, or history. When she discovers a constructive tendency in the child, she at once uses this in shifting from analytic to synthetic exercises in the school order. If he enjoys making things, he will be glad of an opportunity to make devices, or problems, or maps. =The play instinct.=--She makes large use, also, of the play instinct that is one of his native tendencies. This instinct is constantly reaching out for objects of play. The teacher is quick to note the child's quest for objects and deftly substitutes some phase of school work for marbles, balls, or dolls, and his playing proceeds apace without abatement of zest. The vitalized teacher knows how to attach the arithmetic to this play instinct and make it a fascinating game. During the games of arithmetic, geography, history, or spelling, life is at high tide in her school and the work is thorough in consequence. Work is relieved of the onus of drudgery whenever it appears in the guise of a game, and the teacher who has skill in attaching school studies to the play instinct of the child will make her school effective as well as a delight to herself and her pupils. In such a plan there is neither place nor occasion for coercion. =Self-expression.=--Another right of the child is the right to express himself. The desire for self-expression is fundamental in the human mind, as the study of archæology abundantly proves. Since this is true, every school should be a school of expression if the nature of the child is to have full recognition. Without expression there is no impression, and without impression there is no education that has real value. The more and better expression in the school, therefore, the more and better the education in that school. In the vitalized school we shall find freedom of expression, and the absence of unreasoning repression. The child expresses himself by means of his hands, his feet, his face, his entire body, and his organs of speech, and his expression through either of these means gives the teacher a knowledge of what to do. These expressions may not be what the teacher would wish, but the expression necessarily precedes intelligent teaching. =Imagination.=--These expressions may reveal a vivid imagination, but they are no less valuable as indices of the child's nature on that account. It is the very refinement of cruelty to try to interdict or stifle the child's imagination. But for the imagination of people in the past we should not have the rich treasures of mythology that so delight us all. Every child with imagination is constructing a mythology of his own, and from the gossamer threads of fancy is weaving a pattern of life that no parent or teacher should ever wish to forbid or destroy. Day by day, he sees visions and dreams dreams, and so builds for himself a world in which he finds delight and profit. In this world he is king, and only profane hands would dare attempt to dethrone him. =The child's experiences.=--His experiences, whether in the real world, or in this world of fancy, are his capital in the bank of life; and he has every right to invest this capital so as to achieve further increments of life. In this enterprise, the teacher is his counselor and guide, and, in order that she may exercise this function sympathetically and rationally, she must know the nature and extent of his capital. If he knows a bird, he may invest this knowledge so as to gain a knowledge of many birds, and so, in time, compass the entire realm of ornithology. If he knows a flower, from this known he may be so directed that he may become a master in the unknown field of botany. If he knows coal, this experience may be made the open sesame to the realms of geology. In short, all his experiences may be capitalized under the direction of a skillful teacher, and made to produce large dividends as an investment in life. =Relation to school work.=--Thus the school becomes, for the child, a place of and for real life, and not a place detached from life. There he lives effectively, and joyously, because the teacher knows how to utilize his experiences and native dispositions for the enlargement of his life. He has no inclination to become a deserter or a tenant, for life is agreeable there, and the school is made his chief interest. His work is not doled out to him in the form of tasks, but is graciously presented as a privilege, and as such he esteems it. There he learns to live among people of differing tastes and interests without abdicating his own individuality. There he learns that life is work and that work is the very quintessence of life. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. How should dividends on school investments be estimated? 2. What are the inherent rights of childhood? 3. What use may be made of play in the education of children? 4. Explain why adults are often unwilling to coöperate through lack of opportunity to play in childhood. 5. Illustrate from your own knowledge and experience how the exercise of native tendencies may be the means of education. 6. What modes of self-expression should be used by pupils of elementary schools? of high schools? 7. What may the vitalized teacher do to assist in the development of self-expression? What should she refrain from doing? 8. Suggest methods whereby the teacher may discover the content of the child's world. 9. How may the child's experience, imagination, and expression be interrelated? 10. Why is the twentieth century called the "age of the child"? CHAPTER IV THE CHILD OF THE FUTURE =Rights of the coming generations.=--Any school procedure that limits its interests and activities to the present generation takes a too restricted view of the real scope of education. The children of the next generation, and the next, are entitled to consideration if education is to do its perfect work and have complete and convincing justification. The child of the future has a right to grandfathers and grandmothers of sound body and sound mind, and the schools and homes of the present are charged with the responsibility of seeing to it that this right is vouchsafed to him. In actual practice our plans seem not to previse grandfathers and grandmothers, and stop short even of fathers and mothers. The child of the next generation has a right to a father and a mother of untainted blood, and neither the home nor the school can ignore this right. =Transmitted weaknesses.=--If these rights are not scrupulously respected by the present generation, the child of the future may come into the world under a handicap that all the educational agencies combined can neither remove nor materially mitigate. If he is crippled in mind or in body because of excesses on the part of his progenitors, the schools and hospitals may help him through life in a sorry sort of fashion, but his condition is evermore a reminder to him of how much he has missed in comparison with the child of sound body and mind. If such a child does not imprecate even the memory of the ancestors whose vitiated blood courses through his stricken body, it will be because his mind is too weak to reason from effect to cause or because his affliction has taught him large charity. He will feel that he has been shamefully cheated in the great game of life, with no hope of restitution. By reason of this, his gaze is turned backward instead of forward, and this is a reversal of the rightful attitude of child life. Instead of looking forward with hope and happiness, he droops through a somber life and constantly broods upon what might have been. =Attitude of ancestors.=--Whether he realizes it or not, he reduces the average of humanity and is a burden upon society both in a negative and in a positive sense. In him society loses a worker and gains a dependent. Every taxpayer of the community must contribute to the support which he is unable to provide for himself. He watches other children romp and play and laugh; but he neither romps, nor plays, nor laughs. He is inert. Some ancestor chained him to the rock, and the vultures of disease and unhappiness are feeding at his vitals. He asks for bread, and they give him a stone; he asks for life, and they give him a living death; he asks for a heaven of delight, and they give him a hell of despair. He has a right to freedom, but, in place of that, he is forced into slavery of body and soul to pay the debts of his grandfather. Nor can he pay these debts in full, but must, perforce, pass them on to his own children. Sad to relate, the father and grandfather look upon such a child and charge Providence with unjust dealing in burdening them with such an imperfect scion to uphold the family name. They seem blind to the patent truth before them; they seem unable to interpret the law of cause and effect; they charge the Almighty and the child with their own defections; they acquit themselves of any responsibility for what is before their eyes. =Hospitals cited.=--Our hospitals for abnormal and subnormal children, and our eleemosynary institutions, in general, are a sad commentary upon our civilization and something of a reflection upon the school as an exponent of and a teacher of life. If the wards of these institutions, barring the victims of accidents, are the best we can do in the way of coming upon a solution of the problem of life, neither society nor the school has any special warrant for exultation. These defectives did not just happen. The law of life is neither fortuitous nor capricious. On the contrary, like begets like, and the law is immutable. With lavish hand, society provides the pound of cure but gives only superficial consideration to the ounce of prevention. The title of education will be cloudy until such time as these institutions have become a thing of the past. Both pulpit and press extol the efforts of society to build, equip, and maintain these institutions, and that is well; but, with all that, we are merely trying to make the best of a bad situation. Education will not fully come into its own until it takes into the scope of its interests the child of the future as well as the child of the present; not until it comes to regard the children of the present as future ancestors as well as future citizens. =The child as a future ancestor.=--If the children of the future are to prove a blessing to society and not a burden, then the children of the present need to become fully conscious of their responsibilities as agencies in bringing to pass this desirable condition. If the teacher or parent can, somehow, cause the boy of to-day to visualize his own grandson, in the years to come, pointing the finger of scorn at him and calling down maledictions upon him because of a taint in the family blood, that picture will persist in his consciousness, and will prove a deterrent factor in his life. The desire for immortality is innate in every human breast, we are taught, but certainly no boy will wish to achieve that sort of immortality. He will not consider with complacency the possibility of his becoming a pariah in the estimation of his descendants, and will go far in an effort to avert such a misfortune. There is no man but will shudder when he contemplates the possibility of having perpetuated upon his gravestone or in the memory of his grandchild the word "Unclean." =The heart of the problem.=--Here we arrive at the very heart of the problem that confronts the home and the school. We may close our eyes, or look another way, but the problem remains. We may not be able to solve it, but we cannot evade it. Each day it calls loudly to every parent and every teacher for a solution. The health and happiness of the coming generations depend upon the right education of the present one, and this responsibility the home and the school can neither shirk nor shift. We take great unction to ourselves for the excellence of the horses, pigs, and cattle that we have on exhibition at the fairs, but are silent as to our failures in the form of children, that drag out a half-life in our hospitals. In one state it costs more to care for the defectives and unfortunates than to provide schooling facilities for all the normal children, but this fact is not written into party platforms nor proclaimed from the stump. In the face of such a fact society seems to proceed upon the agreeable assumption that the less said the better. =Misconceptions.=--We temporize with the fundamental situation by the use of such soporifics as the expressions "necessary evil" and the like, but that leaves us exactly at the starting point. Many well-meaning people use these expressions with great frequency and freedom and seem to think that in so doing they have given a proof of virtue and public spirit. It were worthy only of an iconoclast to deprecate or disparage the legislative attempts to foster clean living. All such efforts are worthy of commendation; but in sadness it must be confessed that, laudable as these efforts are, they have not produced results that are wholly satisfactory. Defectives are still granted licenses to perpetuate their kind; children still enervate their bodies and minds by the use of narcotics; and society daintily lifts its skirts as it hurries past the evil, pretending not to see. Legislation is an attempt to express public sentiment in statutory form; but public sentiment must precede legislation if it is to become effective. Efforts have been made through the process of legislation to deny the granting of marriage licenses to people who are physically unsound, but the efforts came to naught because public sentiment has not attained to this plane of thinking. Hence, we shall not have much help from legislation in solving our problem, until public sentiment has been educated. =The responsibility of the school.=--This education must come, in large part, through the schools, but even these will fail until they come into a full realization of the fact that their field of effort is life in the large. Time was when the teacher thought she was employed to teach geography, grammar, and arithmetic. Then she enlarged this to include boys and girls. And now she needs to make another addition and realize that her function is to teach boys and girls the subject of Life, using the branches of study as a means to this end. In a report on the work of the schools at Gary, Indiana, the statement is made that the first purpose of these schools seems to be to produce efficient workers for the mills. This seems to savor of the doctrine of educational foreordination, and would make millwork and life synonymous. Life is larger than any mill. We may be justified in educating one horse for the plow and another for the race track, but this justification rests upon the fact that horses are assets and not liabilities. =Clean living.=--Clean living in this generation will, undeniably, project itself into the next, and we have only to see to it that all the activities of the school function in clean living in the child of to-day, and we shall surely be safeguarding the interests of the child of the future. But clean living means more than mere externals. The daily bath, pure food, fresh air, and sanitary conditions are essential but not sufficient in themselves. Clean thinking, right motives, and a high respect for the rights and interests of the future must enter into the scheme of life. There must be no devious ways, no back alleys, in the scheme, but only the broad highway of life, open always to the sunlight and to the gaze of all mankind. All this must become thoroughly enmeshed in the social consciousness and in the daily practice of every individual, before the school can lay claim to success in the art of teaching efficient living. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Investigate the following agencies as means for providing future generations with ancestors of untainted blood: legislation; moral education; physical education; sex hygiene and eugenics; penal institutions; medical science. 2. Enumerate some of the physical and mental handicaps of the child who is not well born. 3. What powerful appeal for clean living may be made to the adolescent youth? 4. As a concrete example of children being punished for the sins of their fathers even unto the third and fourth generation, read the history of the Juke family. 5. To what extent does the school share the responsibility for the improvement of the physical and moral quality of the children of the future? 6. What kind of teaching is needed to meet this responsibility? 7. Reliable authorities have estimated that 60 per cent or 12,000,000 of the school children of America are suffering from removable physical defects; that 93 per cent of the school children of the country have defective teeth; and that on the average the health of children who are not in attendance at school is better than that of those who are in school. In the light of these facts discuss the failure or success of our schools in providing fit material for efficient citizenship. CHAPTER V THE TEACHER-POLITICIAN =The politician defined.=--The politician has been defined as one who makes a careful study of the wants of his community and is diligent in his efforts to supply these wants. This definition has, at the very least, the merit of mitigating, if not removing, the stigma that attaches to politicians in the popular thought. Conceding the correctness of this definition, it must be evident that society is the beneficiary of the work of the politician, and would be the gainer if the number of politicians were multiplied. The motive of self-interest lies back of all human activities, and education is constantly striving to stimulate and accentuate this motive. Even in altruism we may find an admixture of self-interest. The merchant who arranges his goods artistically may hope by this means to win more patronage, but, aside from this, he wins a feeling of gratification. His self-interest may look either toward a greater volume of business or to a better class of patrons, or both. While he is enlarging the scope of his business, he may be elevating the taste of his customers. In either case his self-interest is commendable. A successful merchant is better for the community than an unsuccessful one. =Self-interest.=--The physician is actuated by the motive of self-interest, also. His years of training are but a preparation for the competition that is certain to fall to his lot. He is gratified at the increase of his popularity as a successful practitioner. But he prescribes modes of living as well as remedies, and so tries to forestall and prevent disease, while he is exercising his curative skill. He tries not only to restore health, but also to promote good health in the community by his recommendations of pure food, pure water, fresh air, and exercise. His motives are altruistic even while he is consulting self-interest. None but the censorious will criticize the minister for accepting a larger parish even with a larger salary attached. The larger parish will afford him a wider field for usefulness, and the larger salary will enable him to execute more of his laudable plans. =The methods of the politician.=--Hence it will be seen that, in the right sense, merchants, physicians, and ministers are all politicians in that they seek to expand the sphere of their activities. Like the politician they study the wants of the people in order to win a starting point for leadership. True, there are quacks, charlatans, hypocrites, and demagogues, but none of these, nor all combined, avail to disprove the validity of the principle. It has often been said that the churches would do well to study and use the art of advertising that is so well understood by the saloons. This is another way of saying that the methods of the politician will avail in promoting right activities as well as wrong ones. The politician, whether he is a business man or a professional man, proceeds from the known to the related unknown, and thus shows himself a conscious or unconscious student of psychology. He studies that which is in order to promote that which should be. =Leadership.=--The politician aspires to leadership, and that is praiseworthy, provided his cause is a worthy one. If the cause is unworthy, the cloven foot will soon appear and repudiation will ensue, which will mark him unsuccessful as a politician. He may be actuated by the motive of self-interest, in common with all others, but this interest may focus in the amelioration of conditions as they are or in the advancement of his friends. The satisfaction of leadership is the sole reward of many a politician, with the added pleasure of seeing his friends profit by this leadership. A statesman is a politician grown large--large in respect to motives, to plans and purposes, and to methods. The fundamental principle, however, remains constant. =The politician worthy of imitation.=--The successful politician must know people and their wants. He must know conditions in order to direct the course of his activities. Otherwise, he will find himself moving at random, and this may prove disastrous to his purposes. Much misdirected effort has been expended in disparaging the politician and his methods. If the man and his methods were better understood, they would often be found worthy of close imitation in the home, in the school, in the church, in the professions, and in business. =Education and substitution.=--Education, in the large, is the process of making substitutions. Evermore, in school work, we are striving to substitute something better for something not so good. In brief, we are striving to substitute needs for wants. But before we can do this we must determine, by careful study and close observation, what the wants are. Ability to substitute needs for wants betokens a high type of leadership. The boy wants to read Henty, but needs to read Dickens or Shakespeare. How shall the teacher proceed in order to make the substitution? Certainly it cannot be done by any mere fiat or ukase. Those who are incredulous as to the wisdom of establishing colleges of education and normal schools to generate and promote methods of teaching have here a concrete and pertinent question: Can a college of education or normal school give to an embryo teacher any method by which she may effectively substitute Shakespeare for Henty? =Methods contrasted.=--Some teachers have attempted to make this substitution by means of ridicule and sarcasm and then called the boy stupid because he continued to read his Henty. Others have indulged in rhapsodies on Shakespeare, hoping to inoculate the boy with the Shakespearean virus, and then called the boy stolid because he failed to share their apparent rapture. The politician would have pursued neither of these plans. His inherent or acquired psychology would have admonished him to begin where the boy is. He would have gone to Henty to find the boy. Having found him, he would have sat down beside him and entered into his interest in the book. In time he would have found something in the book to remind him of a passage in Shakespeare. This passage he would have read in his best style and then resumed the reading of Henty. Thus, by degrees, he would have effected the substitution, permitting the boy to think that this had been done on his own initiative. =The principle illustrated.=--The vitalized teacher observes, profits by, and initiates into her work the method of the politician and so makes her school work vital. Beginning with what the boy wants, she lures him along, by easy stages, until she has brought him within the circle of her own wants, which are, in reality, the needs of the boy. The boy walks along in paces, let us say, of eighteen inches. The teacher moderates her gait to harmonize with his, but gradually lengthens her paces to two feet. At first, she kept step with him; now he is keeping step with her and finds the enterprise an exhilarating adventure. She is teaching the boy to walk in strides two feet in length, and begins with his native tendency to step eighteen inches. Thus she begins where the boy is, by acquainting herself with his wants, attaches her teaching to his native tendencies, and then proceeds from the known to the related unknown. Libraries abound in books that explain lucidly this simple elementary principle of teaching, but many teachers still seem to find it difficult of application. =Substitution illustrated.=--This method of substitution becomes the rule of the school through the skill of the vitalized teacher. The lily of the valley is substituted for the sunflower, in the children's esteem, and there is generated a taste for the exquisite. The copy of the masterpiece of art supplants the bizarre chromo; correct forms of speech take the place of incorrect forms; the elegant usurps the place of the inelegant; and the inartistic gives place to the artistic. The circle of their wants is extended until it includes their needs, and these, in turn, are transformed into wants. Thus all the pupils ascend to a higher level of appreciation of the things that make for a more comfortable and agreeable civilization. They work under the spell of leadership, for real leadership always inspires confidence. =Society and the school.=--At its best, society is but an enlarged copy of the vitalized school. Or, to put it in another way, the vitalized school is society in miniature. As the school is engaged in the work of making substitutions, so, in fact, is society. Legislative bodies are striving to substitute wise laws for the laws that have fallen behind the needs of the times, that the interests of society may be fully conserved. The church is substituting better methods of work in all its activities for the methods that have become antiquated or ineffective. This it does in the hope that its influence may be broadened and deepened. Ministers and officials are constantly pondering the question of substitutions. The farmer is substituting better methods of tilling the soil for the methods that were in vogue in a former time before science had invaded the realms of agriculture, to the end that he may increase the yield of his fields, make larger contributions to commerce, increase his profits, and so be better able to gratify some of the higher desires of his nature. =The automobile factory.=--Each successive model in an automobile factory is a concrete illustration of the process of making substitutions, and each substituted part bears witness to a close scrutiny of past experiences as well as of the wants of prospective purchasers. The self-starter was a want at first; but now it is a need, and, therefore, a necessity. If the school would but make as careful study of the boy's experiences and his wants as the manufacturer does in the case of automobiles, and then would attach the substitutions to these experiences and wants, the boy would very soon find himself in happy possession of a self-starter which would prove to be the very crown of school work. The automobile manufacturer is both a psychologist and a politician. =Results of substitutions.=--As a result of substitutions we have better roads, better houses, better laws, cleaner streets, better fences, better machinery, more sanitary conditions, and a higher type of conduct. We step to a higher level upon the experiences of the past and make substitutions as we move upward. The progress of civilization is measured by the character of these substitutions and the rapidity with which they are made. The people on the Isle of Marken make but few substitutions, and these only at long intervals, and so they are looked upon as curiosities among humans. In all our missionary enterprises we are endeavoring to persuade the peoples among whom we are working to make substitutions. Instead of their own, we would have them accept our books, our styles of clothing, our plans of government, our modes of living, our means of transportation, and, in short, our standards of life. But, first of all, we must learn their standards of life; otherwise we cannot proceed intelligently or effectively in the line of substitutions. We must know their language before we can teach them ours, and we must translate our books into their language before we can hope to substitute our books for theirs. All the substitutions we hope to make presuppose a knowledge of their wants. Hence the methods of the missionary bear a close analogy to the methods of the politician. =The Idealist.=--This is equally true of the vitalized teacher. She is a practical idealist. In the words of the poet, her reach is beyond her grasp, and this proclaims her an idealist. In her capacity as a politician she makes a close study of the wants of her constituents, both pupils and parents, and so learns how best to articulate school work with the interests of the community. She does not hold aloof from her pupils or their homes, but studies them at close range, as do the missionary and the politician. She lives among them and so learns their language and their modes of thinking and living. Only so can she come into sympathetic relations with them and be of greatest service to them in promoting right substitutions. She finds one boy surcharged with the instinct of pugnacity. This tendency manifests itself both in school and at home. Her own conclusions are ratified by the parents. He wants to fight. His whole nature cries aloud for battle. In such a case, neither repression nor suppression will avail. So she attaches a phase of school work to this native disposition and gives his pugnacious instinct a fair field. =An example.=--Enlisting him as her champion in a tournament, she pits against him a doughty antagonist in the form of a problem in arithmetic. In tones of encouragement she gives the signal and the fight is on. The boy pummels that problem as he would belabor a schoolmate on the playground. His whole being is focused upon the adventure. And when he has won his meed of praise, he feels himself a real champion. The teacher merely substituted mind for hands in the contest and so fell in with his notion that fighting is quite right if only the cause is a worthy one. He is quick to see the distinction and so makes the substitution with alacrity and with no loss of self-respect. Ever after he disdains the vulgar brawl and does not lose the fighting instinct. Thus the vitalized teacher by knowing how to make substitutions wins for society a valiant champion. If we multiply this example, we shall readily see how such a teacher-politician deserves the distinction of being termed a practical idealist. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Distinguish the following terms: demagogue; politician; statesman; and practical idealist. 2. Subject to what limitations should a successful teacher be a politician? 3. Enumerate the qualities of a successful politician that teachers should possess. 4. How does the author define education? Criticize this definition. 5. What resemblances has the process of education to the evolution of machinery? to the evolution of biological species? 6. Describe methods by which the tactful teacher may secure helpful substitutions in the child's life. 7. In what respects does society resemble a vitalized school? 8. Illustrate how teachers may utilize for the education of the child seemingly harmful instincts. CHAPTER VI SUBLIME CHAOS =Acquisitiveness.=--In fancy, at least, we may attain a position over and far above the city of London and from this vantage-place, with the aid of strong glasses, watch a panorama that is both entrancing and bewildering. The scene bewilders not alone by its scope, but still more by its complexity. The scene is a shifting one, too, never the same in two successive minutes. Here is Trafalgar Square, with its noble monument and the guardian lions, reminding us of Nelson in what is accounted one of the most heroic naval engagements recorded in history. As we look, we reconstitute the scene, far away, in which he was conspicuous, and reread in our books his stirring appeal to his men. Thence we glance up Regent Street and see it thronged with equipages that betoken wealth and luxury. Richly dressed people in great numbers are moving to and fro and giving color to the picture. A shabby garb cannot be made to fit into this picture. When it appears, there is discord in the general harmony. All this motion must have motives behind it somewhere; but we can only conjecture the motives. We have only surface indications to guide us in our quest for these. But we are reasonably certain that these people are animated by the instinct of acquisition. They seem to want to get things, and so come where things are to be had. =Desires for things intangible.=--There are miles of vehicles of many kinds wending their tortuous, sinuous ways in and out along streets that radiate hither and thither. They stay their progress for a moment and people emerge at Robinson's, at Selfridge's, at Liberty's. Each of these is the Mecca of a thousand desires, and faces beam with pleasure when they reappear. Some desire has evidently been gratified. Others alight at the National Gallery and enter its doors. When they come forth it is obvious that something happened to them inside that building. The lines of care on their faces are not so evident, and their step is more elastic and buoyant. Their desires did not have tangible things as their objectives as in the case of the people who entered the shops for merchandise, but their faces shine with a new light and, therefore, their quest must have been successful. As we look, we realize that desires for intangible things may be as acute as for tangible ones, and that the gratification of these desires produces equal satisfaction. =Westminster Abbey.=--Not far away other throngs are invading Westminster Abbey. In those historic and hallowed precincts they are communing with the Past, the Present, and the Future. All about them is the sacred dust of those who once wrought effectively in affairs of state and in the realm of letters. History and literature have their shrine there, and these people are worshipers at that shrine. All about them are reminders of the Past, while the worshipers before the Cross direct their thoughts to the Future. Earth and Heaven both send forth an invitation for supreme interest in their thoughts and feelings. History and literature call to them to emulate the achievements whose monuments they see about them, while the Cross admonishes them that these achievements are but temporal. Here they experience a fulfillment of their desires. Their knowledge is broadened, and their faith is lifted up. The Past thrills them; the Future inspires them; and thus the Present is far more worth while. =House of Parliament.=--Across the way is Parliament, and this conjures up a long train of events of vast import. The currents that flow out from this power-house have encircled the globe. Here conquests have been planned that electrified nations. Here have been generated vast armies and navies as messengers of Desire. Here have been voted vast treasures in execution of the desires of men for territorial extension and national aggrandizement. These halls have resounded with the eloquence of men who were striving to inoculate other men with the virus of their desires; and the whole world has stood on tiptoe awaiting the issue of this eloquence. Momentous scenes have been enacted here, all emanating from the desires of men, and these scenes have touched the lives of untold millions of people. =Commerce.=--We see the Thames near by, teeming with ships from the uttermost corners of the earth, and we think of commerce. We use the word glibly, but no mind is able to comprehend its full import. We know that these ships ply the seas, bearing food and clothing to the peoples who live far away, but when we attempt to estimate the magnitude of commerce, the mind confesses to itself that the problem is too great. We may multiply the number of ships by their tonnage, but we get, in consequence, an array of figures so great that they cease to have any meaning for the finite mind. The best and most that they can do for us is to make us newly aware that the people who dwell in the jungles of Africa, who roam the pampas of South America, who climb the Alps, the Rockies, the Andes, and the Himalayas, all have desires that these ships are striving to gratify. =Social intercourse.=--Going up the river to Hampton Court we see people out for a holiday. There are house-boats with elaborate and artistic fittings and furnishings, and other craft of every sort that luxury can suggest. One could imagine that none but fairies could stage such a scene. The blending of colors, the easy dalliance, the rippling laughter, the graceful feasting, and the eddying wavelets all conspire to produce a scene that serves to emphasize the beauty of the shores. Underneath this enchanting scene of variegated beauty we discover the fundamental fact that man is a gregarious animal, that he not only craves association with his kind but that playing with them brings him into more harmonious communion with them. In their play they meet upon the plane of a common purpose and are thus unified in spirit. Hence, all this beauty and gayety is serving a beneficent purpose in the way of gratifying the inherent desire of mankind for social intercourse. =The travel instinct.=--At Charing Cross the commerce drama is reënacted, only here with trains instead of boats, and, mainly, people instead of merchandise. Here we see hurry and bustle, and hear the shriek of the engine and the warning blast of the guard. Trains are going out, trains are coming in. When the people step out upon the platforms, they seem to know exactly whither they are bound. There are porters all about to help them achieve their desires, and cabs stand ready at the curb to do their bidding. Here is human commerce, and the trains are the answer to the call of the human family to see their own and other lands. These trains are swifter and more agreeable for nomads than the camel of the desert or the Conestoga wagon of the prairie. The nomadic instinct pulls and pushes people away from their own door-yards; hence railways, trains, engines, air brakes, telegraph lines, wireless apparatuses, and all the many other devices that the mind of man has designed at the behest of this desire to roam about. =Monuments.=--Further down the Thames we see Greenwich, which regulates the clocks for the whole world, and furnishes the sea captain the talisman by which he may know where he is. Over against St. Paul's is the Bank of England, which for long years ruled the finances of the world. Yonder is the Museum, the conservator of the ages. There is the Rosetta Stone, which is the gateway of history; there the Elgin Marbles, which proclaim the glory of the Greece that was; there the palimpsests which recall an age when men had time to think; and there the books of all time by means of which we can rethink the big thoughts of men long since gone from sight. There are things that men now call curiosities that mark the course of minds in their struggles toward the light; and there are the sentiments of lofty souls that will live in the hearts of men long after these giant stones have crumbled. =Desire for pastoral beauty.=--Beyond the city, in the alluring country places, we see a landscape that delights the senses, ornate with hedges, flowers, vine-clad cottages, highways of surpassing smoothness, fertile fields, and thrifty flocks and herds. There are carts and wagons on the roads bearing the products of field and garden to the marts of trade. Men, women, and children zealously ply the hoe, the plow, or the shovel, abetting Nature in her efforts to feed the hungry. In this pastoral scene there is dignity, serenity, and latent power. Its beauty answers back to the æsthetic nature of mankind, and nothing that is artificial can ever supplant it in the way of gratifying man's desire for the beautiful. =Economic articulation.=--Through all the diversified phases of this panorama there runs a fundamental principle of unity. There are no collisions. In the economy of civilization the farmer is coördinate with the artist, the artisan, and the tradesman. But, if all men were farmers, the economic balance would be disturbed. The railroad engineer is major because he is indispensable. So, also, is the farmer, the legislator, the artist, and the student. There is a degree of interdependence that makes for economic harmony. The articulation of all the parts gives us an economic whole. =Aspirations.=--This panorama is a picture of life; and the school is life. Hence the panorama and the school are identical; only the school is larger than the panorama, even though the picture is reduced in size to fit the frame of the school. The pupils in the school have dreams and aspirations that reach far beyond the limits of the picture of our fancy. And all these aspirations are a part of life and so are indigenous in the vitalized school. And woe betide the teacher who would abridge or repress these dreams and aspirations. They are the very warp and woof of life, and the teacher who would eliminate them would suppress life itself. That teacher is in sorry business who would fit her pupils out with mental or spiritual strait-jackets, or mold them to some conventional pattern, even though it be her own. These pupils are the prototypes of the people in our panorama, and are, therefore, animated by like inclinations and desires. =Desire is fundamental.=--Here is a boy who is hungry; he desires food. But so does the man who is passing along the street. The man is focusing all his mental powers upon the problem of how he shall procure food. The man's problem is the boy's problem and each has a right to a solution of his problem. The school's business is to help the boy solve his problem and not to try to quench his desire for food or try to persuade him that no such desire exists. This desire is one of the native dispositions to which the work of the school is to attach itself. Desires are fundamental in the scheme of education, the very tentacles that will lay hold upon the school activities and render them effective. The teacher's large task is to strengthen and nourish incipient desires and to cause the pupil to hunger and thirst after the means of gratifying them. =Innate tendencies.=--Each pupil has a right to his inherent individuality. The school should not only begin where the boy is, but should begin its work upon what he is. Only so can it direct him toward what he ought to be. If the boy would alight at the National Gallery in order to regale himself with the masterpieces of art, why, pray, should the teacher try to curtail this desire and force him into Westminster Abbey? If she will accompany him into the Gallery and prove herself his friend and guide among the treasures of art, she will, doubtless, experience the joy of hearing him ask her to be his companion through the Abbey later on. The Abbey is quite right in its way and the boy must visit it soon or late, but to this particular boy the Gallery comes first and he should be led to the Abbey by way of the Gallery. In school work the parties are all personally conducted, but the rule is that a party is composed of but one person. =Illustration.=--The girl is not to be condemned because she desires to visit the Selfridge shop rather than the Museum. The teacher may rhapsodize upon the Museum to the limit of her strength, but the girl is thinking of the beautiful fabrics to be seen at the shop, and, especially, of the delicious American ice cream that can be had nowhere else in London. It is rather a poor teacher who cannot lead the girl to the British Museum by way of Selfridge's. If the teacher finds the task difficult, she would do well to traverse the route a few times in advance. The ice cream will help rather than hinder when they stand, at length, before the Rosetta Stone or read the original letter to Mrs. Bixby. The store and the Museum are both in the picture, and the teacher must determine which should come first in the itinerary of this girl. The native dispositions and desires will point out the way to the teacher. The old-time schoolmaster was fond of setting as a copy in the old-fashioned copy book "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"; but, later, when he caught Jack playing he gave him a flogging, thus proving himself both inconsistent and deficient in a knowledge of psychology and fair play. If we are going to Greenwich we shall save time by taking the longer journey by way of Hampton Court. As we disport ourselves amid the beauties and gayeties of the Court we can prolong our pleasures by anticipating Greenwich, and so make our play the anteroom of our work. =Variety in excellence.=--In the vitalized school we shall find each pupil eager in his quest of food for the hunger he feels, and the teacher rejoicing in the development of his individuality. She would not have all her pupils attain the same level even of excellence. They are different, and she would have them so. Nor would she have her school exemplify the kind of order that is to be found in a gallery of statues. Her school is a place of life, eager, yearning, pulsating life, and not a place of dead and deadening silence. Her pupils have diversified tastes and desires and, in consequence, diversified activities, but work is the golden cord that binds them in a healthy and healthful unity. This is sublime chaos, a busy, happy throng, all working at full strength at tasks that are worth while, and all animated by hopes and aspirations that reach out to the very limits of space. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What may the school do to give helpful direction and needed modifications to the instinct of acquisition? 2. The ultimate ends of education are more efficient production and more intelligent consumption. How and by what means may the school bring about a more intelligent choice of tangible and intangible things? 3. What hint may the teacher of geography receive from the brief description of London's points of interest? 4. Compare a vitalized school with the panorama of London. 5. To what extent must individual differences be recognized by the teacher in the recitation? in discipline? 6. Suggest means whereby pupils may be induced to spend their evenings with Dickens, Eliot, Macaulay, or Irving in preference to the "movies." CHAPTER VII DEMOCRACY =A conflict.=--There was a fight on a railway train--a terrific fight. The conductor and two other Americans were battling against ten or more foreigners. These foreigners had come aboard the train at a mining town en route to the city for a holiday. The train had hardly got under way, after the stop, when the fight was on. The battle raged back and forth from one car to the other across the platform amid the shouts and cursing of men and the screams of women. Bloody faces attested the intensity of the conflict. One foreigner was knocked from the train, but no account was taken of him. The train sped on and the fight continued. Nor did its violence abate until the train reached the next station, where the conductor summoned reënforcements and invoked the majesty of the law in the form of an officer. The affray, from first to last, was most depressing and gave to the unwilling witness a feeling that civilization is something of a misnomer and that men are inherently ferocious. =Misconceptions.=--More mature reflection, however, served to modify this judgment, and the application of some philosophy resolved the distressing combat into a relatively simple proposition. The conductor and his assistants were fighting for their conception of order, and their opponents were fighting for their conception of manhood. Reduced to its primal elements, the fight was the result of a dual misconception. The conductor was battling to vindicate his conception of order; the foreigners were battling to vindicate their conception of the rights of men in a democracy. Neither party to the contest understood the other, and each one felt himself to be on the defensive. Neither one would have confessed himself the aggressor, and yet each one was invading the supposed rights of the other. Judicial consideration could readily have averted the whole distressing affair. =Foreign concept of democracy.=--The foreigners had come to our country with roseate dreams of democracy. To their conception, this is the land where every man is the equal of every other man; where equal rights and privileges are vouchsafed to all men without regard to nationality, position, or possessions; where there is no faintest hint of the caste system; and where there are no possible lines of demarcation. Their disillusionment on that train was swift and severe, and the observer could not but wonder what was their conception of a democracy as they walked about the streets of the city or gave attention to their bruised faces. Their dreams of freedom and equal rights must have seemed a mockery. They must have felt that they had been lured into a trap by some agency of cruelty and injustice. After such an experience they must have been unspeakably homesick for their native land. ="Melting pot."=--Their primary trouble arose from the fact that they had not yet achieved democracy, but had only a hazy theoretical conception of its true meaning. Nor did the conductor give them any assistance. On the contrary he pushed them farther away into the realm of theory, and rendered them less susceptible to the influence of the feeling for democracy. Before these foreigners can become thoroughly assimilated they must know this feeling by experience; and until this experience is theirs they cannot live comfortably or harmoniously in our democracy. To do this effectively is one of the large tasks that confront the American school and society as a whole. If we fail here, the glory of democracy will be dimmed. All Americans share equally in the responsibility of this task. The school, of course, must assume its full share of this responsibility if it would fully deserve the name of melting pot. =Learning democracy.=--Meeting this responsibility worthily is not the simple thing that many seem to conceive it to be. If it were, then any discussion appertaining to the teaching of democracy would be superfluous. This subject of democracy is, in fact, the most difficult subject with which the school has to do, and by far the most important. Its supreme importance is due to the fact that all the pupils expect to live in a democracy, and, unless they learn democracy, life cannot attain to its maximum of agreeableness for them nor can they make the largest possible contributions to the well-being of society. It has been said that the seventeenth century saw Versailles; the eighteenth century saw the Earth; and the nineteenth century saw Humanity. Then the very pertinent question is asked, "Which century will see Life?" We who love our country and our form of government fondly hope that we may be the first to see Life, and, if this privilege falls to our lot, we must come to see life through the medium of democracy. =The vitalized school a democracy.=--Life seems to be an abstract something to many people, but it must become concrete before they can really see it as it is. Democracy is a means, therefore, of transforming abstract life into concrete life, and so we are to come into a fuller comprehension of life through the gateway of democracy. The vitalized school is a laboratory of life and, at the same time, it is the most nearly perfect exemplification of democracy. The nearer its approach to perfection in exemplifying the spirit and workings of a democracy, the larger service it renders society. If the outflow from the school into society is a high quality of democracy, the general tone of society will be improved. If society deteriorates, the school may not be wholly at fault, but it evidently is unable to supply to society reënforcement in such quantity and of such quality as will keep the level up to normal. =Responsibility of the individual.=--In society each individual raises or lowers the level of democracy according to what he is and does. The idler fails to make any contributions to the well-being of society and thus lowers the average of citizenship. The trifler and dawdler lower the level of democracy by reason of their inefficiency. They may exercise their right to vote but fail to exercise their right to act the part of efficient citizens. If all citizens emulated their example, democracy would become inane and devitalized. Tramps, burglars, feeble-minded persons, and inebriates lower the level of democracy because of their failure to render their full measure of service, and because, in varying degrees, they prey upon the resources of society and thus add to its burdens. Self-reliance, self-support, self-respect, as well as voting, are among the rights that all able-bodied citizens must exercise before democracy can come into its rightful heritage. =The function of the school.=--All this and much more the schools must teach effectively so that it shall be thoroughly enmeshed in the social consciousness or their output will reveal a lack of those qualities that make for the larger good of democratic society. Democracy must be grooved into habits of thought and action or the graduates of the schools will fall short of achieving the highest plane of living in the community. They will not be in harmony with their environment, and friction will ensue, which will reduce, in some degree, the level of democracy. Hence, the large task of the school is to inculcate the habit of democracy with all that the term implies. Twelve years are none too long for this important work, even under the most favorable conditions and under the direction of the most skillful teaching. Indeed, civic economy will be greatly enhanced if, in the twelve years, the schools accomplish this one big purpose. =Manifestations of democratic spirit.=--We may not be able to resolve democracy into its constituent elements, but the spirit that is attuned to democracy is keenly alive to its manifestations. The spirit so attuned is quick to detect any slightest discord in the democratic harmony. This is especially true in the school democracy. A discordant note affects the entire situation and militates against effective procedure. In the school democracy we look for a series and system of compromises,--for a yielding of minor matters that major ones may be achieved. We look for concessions that will make for the comfort and progress of the entire body, and we experience disappointment if we fail to discover some pleasure in connection with these concessions. We expect to see good will banishing selfishness and every semblance of monopoly. We expect to find every pupil glad to share the time and strength of the teacher with his fellows even to the point of generosity, and to find joy in so doing. We expect to find each pupil eager to deposit all his attainments and capabilities as assets of the school and to find his chief joy in the success of all that the school represents. =Obstacles in the path.=--But it is far easier to depict democracy than to teach it. In fact, the teacher is certain to encounter obstacles, and many of these have their source in American homes. Indeed, some of the most fertile sources of discord in the school may be traced to a misconception of democracy on the part of the home. One of these misconceptions is a species of anarchy, which appropriates to itself the gentler name of democracy. But, none the less, it is anarchy. It disdains all law and authority, treads under foot the precepts of the home and the school, flouts the counsels of parents and teachers, and is self-willed, obstinate, and defiant. Democracy obeys the law; anarchy scorns it. Democracy respects the rights of others, anarchy overrides them. Democracy exalts good will; anarchy exalts selfishness. Democracy respects the Golden Rule; anarchy respects nothing, not even itself. =Anarchy.=--When this spirit of anarchy gains access to the school, it is not easily eradicated for the reason that the home is loath to recognize it as anarchy, and resents any such implication on the part of the school. The father may be quite unable to exercise any control over the boy, but he is reluctant to admit the fact to the teacher. Such a boy is an anarchist and no sophistry can gloss the fact. What he needs is a liberal application of monarchy to fit him for democracy. He should read the Old Testament as a preparation for an appreciative perusal of the New Testament. If the home cannot generate in him due respect for constituted authority, then the school must do so, or he will prove a menace to society and become a destructive rather than a constructive agency. Here we have a tense situation. Anarchy is running riot in the home; the home is arrayed against the attempts of the school to correct the disorder; and Democracy is standing expectant to see what will be done. =Snobbery.=--Scarcely less inimical to democracy than anarchy is snobbery. The former is violent, while the latter is insidious. Both poison the source of the stream of democracy. If the home instills into the minds of children the notion of inherent superiority, they will carry this into the school and it will produce a discord. A farmer and a tenant had sons of the same age. These lads played together, never thinking of superiority or inferiority. Now the son of the tenant is president of one of the great universities, and the son of the proprietor is a janitor in one of the buildings of that university. Democracy presents to view many anomalies, and the school age is quite too early for anything approaching the caste system or snobbery. The time may come when the rich man's son will consider it an honor to drive the car for his impecunious classmate. =Restatement.=--It needs to be repeated, therefore, that democracy is the most difficult subject which the school is called upon to teach, not only because it is difficult in itself, but also because of the attitude of many homes that profess democracy but do not practice it. To the influence of such homes one may trace the exodus of many children from the schools. The parents want things done in their way or not at all, and so withdraw their children to vindicate their own autocracy. They are willing to profit by democracy but are unwilling to help foster its growth. They not only lower the level of democracy but even compel their children to lower it still more. The teacher may yearn for the children and the children for the teacher, but the home is inexorable and sacrifices the children to a misconception of democracy. =Coöperation.=--Democracy does not mean fellowship, but it does mean coöperation. It means that people in all walks of life are animated by the common purpose to make all their activities contribute to the general good of society. It means that the railroad president may shake hands with the brakeman and talk with him, man to man, encouraging him to aspire to promotion on merit. It means that this brakeman may become president of the road with no scorn for the stages through which he passed in attaining this position. It means that he may understand and sympathize with the men in his employ without fraternizing with them. It means that every boy may aspire to a place higher than his father has attained with no loss of affection for him. It does not mean either sycophancy or truculence, but freedom to every individual to make the most of himself and so help others to make the most of themselves. =The democratic teacher.=--Democracy is learned not from books but from the democratic spirit that obtains in the school. If the teacher is surcharged with democracy, her radiating spirit sends out currents into the life of each pupil, and the spirit of democracy thus generated in them fuses them into homogeneity. Thus they become democratic by living in the atmosphere of democracy, as the boy grew into the likeness of the Great Stone Face. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. How may elementary teachers inculcate the principles of true democracy? 2. By what means may public schools assist in the transformation of illiterate foreigners into "intelligent American citizens"? 3. What are some of the weaknesses of democracy which the public school may remedy? the press? public officials? the people? 4. Are such affairs as are described in the beginning of the chapter peculiar to democracies? Why or why not? 5. How may school discipline recognize democratic principles, thereby laying the foundation of respect for law and order by our future citizens? 6. What qualities of citizens are inconsistent with a high level of democracy? 7. Discuss the extent to which the management of the classroom should be democratic. 8. How may the monarchical government of a school fit pupils for a democracy? How may it unfit them? 9. In what ways may the following institutions raise the level of democracy: centralized schools? vocational schools? junior high schools? moonlight schools? evening schools? CHAPTER VIII PATRIOTISM =Patriotism as a working principle.=--The vitalized school generates and fosters patriotism, not merely as a sentiment, but more particularly as a working principle. Patriotism has in it a modicum of sentiment, to be sure, as do religion, education, the home, and civilization; but sentiment alone does not constitute real or true patriotism. The man who shouts for the flag but pursues a course of conduct that brings discredit upon the name of his country, belies the sentiment that his shouting would seem to express. The truly patriotic man feels that he owes to his country and his race his whole self,--his mind, his time, and his best efforts,--and the payment of this obligation spells life to him. Thus he inevitably interprets patriotism in terms of industry, economy, thrift, and the full conservation of time and energy, that he may render a good account of his stewardship to his country. =Spelling as patriotism.=--With this broad conception in mind the teacher elevates patriotism to the rank of a motive and proceeds to organize all the school activities in consonance with this conception. Actuated by this high motive the pupils, in time, come to look upon correct spelling not only as a comfort and a convenience, but also as a form of patriotism in that it is an exponent of intelligent observation and as such wins respect and commendation from people at home and people abroad. Or, to put the case negatively, if we were all deficient in the matter of spelling, the people of other lands would hold us up to ridicule because of this defect; but if we are expert in the art of spelling, they have greater respect for us and for our schools. Hence, such a simple matter as spelling tends to invest the flag of our country with better and fuller significance. Thus spelling becomes woven into the life processes, not as a mere task of the school, but as a privilege vouchsafed to every one who yearns to see his country win distinction. =Patriotism a determining motive.=--In like manner the teacher runs the entire gamut of school studies and shows how each one may become a manifestation of patriotism. If she has her pupils exchange letters with pupils in the schools of other countries, they see, at once, that their spelling, their writing, and their composition will all be carefully assessed in the formation of an estimate of ourselves and our schools. It is evident, therefore, that the pupils will give forth their best efforts in all these lines that the country they represent may appear to the best advantage. In such an exercise the motive of patriotism will far outweigh in importance the motive of grades. Besides, the letters are written to real people about real life, and, hence, life and patriotism become synonymous in their thinking, and all their school work becomes more vital because of their patriotism. =History.=--In the study of history, the pupils readily discover that the men and women who have given distinction to their respective countries have done so, in the main, by reason of their attainments in science, in letters, and in statesmanship. They are led to think of Goethals in the field of applied mathematics; of Burbank in the realm of botany; of Edison in physics; of Scott and Burns in literature; of Max Müller in philology; of Schliemann in archæology; of Washington and Lincoln in the realm of statesmanship; and of Florence Nightingale and Clara Barton in philanthropy. They discover that France deemed it an honor to have Erasmus as her guest so long as he found it agreeable to live in that country, and that many countries vied with one another in claiming Homer as their own. Phillips Brooks was a patriot, not alone because of his profession of love for his country, but because of what he did that added luster to the name of his country. =Efficiency.=--The study of physiology and hygiene affords a wide field for the contemplation and practice of patriotic endeavor. The care of the body is a patriotic exercise in that it promotes health and vigor, and these underlie efficiency. Anything short of efficiency is unpatriotic because it amounts to a subtraction from the possible best that may be done to advance the interests of society. The shiftless man is not a patriot, nor yet the man who enervates his body by practices that render him less than efficient. The intemperate man may shout lustily at sight of the flag, but his noise only proclaims his lack of real patriotism. An honest day's work would redound far more to the glory of his country than his noisy protestations. Seeing that behind every deliberate action there lies a motive, the higher the motive the more noble will be the action. If, then, we can achieve temperance through the motive of patriotism, society will be the beneficiary, not only of temperance itself, but also of many concomitant benefits. =Temperance.=--Temperance may be induced, of course, through the motives of economy, good health, and the like, but the motive of patriotism includes all these and, therefore, stands at the summit. Waste, in whatever form, is evermore unpatriotic. Conservation is patriotism, whether of natural resources, human life, human energy, or time. The intemperate man wastes his substance, his energies, his opportunities, his self-respect, and his moral fiber. Very often, too, he becomes a charge upon society and abrogates the right of his family to live comfortably and agreeably. Hence, he must be accounted unpatriotic. If all men in our country were such as he, our land would be derided by the other nations of the world. He brings his country into disrepute instead of glorifying it because he does less than his full share in contributing to its well-being. He renders himself less than a typical American and brings reproach upon his country instead of honor. =Sanitation.=--One of the chief variants of the general subject of physiology and hygiene is sanitation, and this, even yet, affords a field for aggressive and constructive patriotism. Grime and crime go hand in hand; but, as a people, we have been somewhat slow in our recognition of this patent truth. Patriotism as well as charity should begin at home, and the man who professes a love for his country should make that part of his country which he calls his home so sanitary and so attractive that it will attest the sincerity of his profession. If he loves his country sincerely, he must love his back yard, and what he really loves he will care for. It does him no credit to have the flag floating above a home that proclaims his shiftlessness. His feeling for sanitation, attractiveness, and right conditions as touching his own home surroundings will expand until it includes his neighborhood, his county, his State, and his entire country. =A typical patriot.=--A typical patriot is the busy, intelligent, frugal, cultured housewife whose home is her kingdom and who uses her powers to make that kingdom glorious. She regrets neither the time nor the effort that is required to make her home clean, artistic, and comfortable. She places upon it the stamp of her character, industry, and good taste. She supplies it with things that delight the senses and point the way to culture. To such a home the crude and the bizarre are a profanation. She administers her home as a sacred trust in the interests of her family and never for exhibition purposes. Her home is an expression of herself, and her children will carry into life the standards that she inculcates through the agency of the home. Life is better for the family and for the community because her home is what it is, and, in consequence, her patriotism is far-reaching in its influence. If all homes were such as this, our country would be exploited as representing the highest plane of civilization the world has yet attained. The vitalized teacher is constantly striving to have this standard of home and home life become the standard of her pupils. =Mulberry Bend.=--In striking contrast with this home are conditions in Mulberry Bend, New York, as described by a writer thoroughly conversant with conditions as they were until recently--conditions, however, now much bettered: "These alleys, running from nowhere to nowhere, alongside cellars where the light never enters and where nothing can live but beast-men and beast-women and rats; behind foul rookeries where skulk the murderer and the abandoned tramp; beside hideous plague-spots where the stench is overpowering--Bottle Alley, where the rag-pickers pile their bags of stinking stuff, and the Whyo Roost where evil-visaged beings prowl about, hunting for prey; dozens of alleys winding in and out and intersecting, so that the beast may slay his prey, and hide in the jungle, and be safe; these foul alleys--who shall picture them, or explore their depths, or describe their wretchedness and their hideousness?... Upon the doorsteps weary mothers are nursing little babies who will never know the meaning of innocent childhood, but will be versed in the immoral lore of the Underworld before they learn their alphabet. Ragged children covered with filth play about the pushcarts and the horses in the street, while their mothers chatter in greasy doorways, or shout from upper windows into the hordes below, or clatter about creaky floors, preparing the foul mess of tainted edibles which constitutes a meal." With many other phases of this gruesome picture this author deals, and then concludes with the following: "But in the rookeries which, like their inmates, skulk and hide out of sight in the crowded street; in these ramshackle structures which line the back alleys, and there breed their human vermin amid dirt and rags--in these there is no direct sunlight throughout the long year. Rookeries close to the front windows, shutting out light and air, and rookeries close to the rear windows, and rookeries close to each side, and never a breath of fresh air to ventilate one of these holes wherein men and women and children wallow in dirt, and live and fight and drink and die, and finally give way to others of their kind." So long as such conditions as these continue in our country, sanitation as a manifestation of patriotism will not have done its perfect work, and the stars and stripes of our flag will lack somewhat of their rightful luster. =Patriotism in daily life.=--When the influences of hygiene and of home economics, taught as life processes and not merely as prerequisites for graduation, by teachers who regard them as forms of patriotism,--when these influences have percolated to every nook and cranny of our national life,--to the homes, the streets and alleys, the farms, the shops, the factories, and the mines, such conditions as these will disappear, and we as a nation shall then have a clearer warrant for our profession of patriotic interest in and devotion to the welfare of our country as a whole. But so long as we can look upon insanitary conditions without a shudder; so long as we permit dirt to breed disease and crime; so long as we make our streams the dumping places for débris; so long as we tolerate ugliness where beauty should obtain; and so long as our homes and our farms betray the spirit of shiftlessness,--so long shall we have occasion to blush when we look at our flag and confess our dereliction of our high privilege of patriotism. =The American restaurant.=--Perhaps no single detail of the customs that obtain in our country impresses a cultivated foreigner more unfavorably than the régime in our popular restaurants. The noise, the rattle and clatter and bang, the raucous calling of orders, and the hurry and confusion give him the impression that we are content to have feeding places where we might have eating places. He regards all that he sees and hears as being less than proper decorum, less than a high standard of intelligence, less than refined cultivation, and less than agencies that contribute to the graces of life. He marvels that we have not yet attained the conception that partaking of food amounts to a gracious and delightful ceremony rather than a gastronomic orgy. His surprise is not limited to the people who administer these establishments, but extends to the people who patronize them. He marvels that the patrons do not seek out places where there is quiet, and serenity, and pleasing decorum. He returns to his own land wondering if the noisy restaurant is typical of American civilization. He may not know that the study of domestic science in our schools has not had time to attain its full fruition in the way of inculcating a lofty conception of life in the dining room. =Thrift as patriotism.=--Another important phase of patriotism is thrift; and here, again, we have come short of realizing our possibilities. There are far too many people who have failed to lay in store against times of emergency, far too many who care only for to-day with slight regard for to-morrow. Moreover, there are far too many who, despite sound bodies, are dependents, contributing nothing to the resources of society, but constantly preying upon those resources. There are in our country not fewer than one hundred thousand tramps, and by some the number has been estimated at a half-million. If this vast army of dependents could be transferred to the ranks of producers, tilling our fields, harvesting our crops, constructing our highways of travel, redeeming our waste places, and beautifying our streams, life would be far more agreeable both for them and for the rest of our people. They would become self-supporting and so would win self-respect; they would subtract their number from the number of those who live at public expense; and they would make contributions to the general store. They would thus relieve society of the incubus of their dependence, and largely increase the number of our people who are self-supporting. =Some contrasts.=--We are making some progress in the line of thrift through our school savings and postal savings, but we have not yet attained to a national conception of thrift as an element of patriotism. This is one of the large yet inspiring privileges of the vitalized school. Thrift is so intimately identified with life that they naturally combine in our thinking, and we have only to reach the conception that our mode of life is the measure of our patriotism in order to realize that thrift and patriotism are in large measure identical. The industrious, frugal, thrifty man is patriotic; the unthrifty, lazy, shiftless man is unpatriotic. The one ennobles and honors his country; the other dishonors and degrades his country. =Conclusion.=--If the foregoing conclusions are valid, and to every thoughtful person they must seem well-nigh axiomatic, then the school has a wide field of usefulness in the way of inculcating a loftier and broader conception of patriotism. The teacher who worthily fills her place in the vitalized school will give the boys and girls in her care such a conception of patriotism as will give direction, potency, and significance to every school activity and lift these activities out of the realm of drudgery into the realm of privilege. Her pupils will be made to feel that what they are doing for themselves, their school, and their homes, they are doing for the honor and glory of their country. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. In what ways and to what extent should patriotism affect conduct? 2. Indicate methods in which patriotism may be used as an incentive to excel in the different branches of study. 3. What branches of study should have for their sole function to stimulate the growth of patriotism? Discuss methods and give instances. 4. Distinguish from patriotism each of the following counterfeits: sectionalism; partisanship; nationalism; and jingoism. Should teachers try to eradicate or sublimate these sentiments? How? 5. What should be the attitude of the teacher of history toward Commodore Decatur's toast: "My country, may she always be in the right; but right or wrong, my country"? 6. Cite recent history to prove that temperance and sanitation are necessary for the realization of national victories and the perpetuation of the common welfare. 7. Is the "Golden Rule" a vital principle of patriotism? Why? 8. How are culture and refinement related to patriotism? thrift? 9. Make a list of songs, poems, novels, paintings, and orations that are characterized by lofty patriotic sentiments. Name some that are usually regarded as patriotic but which are tainted with inferior sentiments. 10. Discuss the adaptability of these to the different periods of youthful development and the methods whereby their appeal may be made most effective. CHAPTER IX WORK AND LIFE =Tom Sawyer.=--Tom Sawyer was one of the most effective teachers that has figured in the pages of the books; and yet we still regard Mark Twain as merely the prince of humorists. He was that, of course, but much more; and some day we shall read his books in quest of pedagogical wisdom and shall not be disappointed. It will be recalled that Tom Sawyer sat on the top of a barrel and munched apples while his boy companions whitewashed the fence in his stead. Tom achieved this triumph because he knew how to emancipate work from the plane of drudgery and exalt it to the plane of a privilege. Indeed, it loomed so large as a privilege that the other boys were eager to barter the treasures of their pockets in exchange for this privilege. And never did a fence receive such a whitewashing! There wasn't fence enough and, therefore, the process must needs be repeated again and again. The best part of the entire episode was that everybody was happy, Tom included. Tom was happy in seeing his plan work, and the other boys were happy because they were doing work that Tom had caused them to become eager to do. =Work as a privilege.=--To make work seem a privilege is a worthy task for the school to set before itself, and if it but achieves this it will prove itself worth all it costs. At first thought, it seems a stupendous task, and so it is. But Tom Sawyer accomplished it in an easy, natural way, with no parade or bombast. He had habit and tradition to contend against, just as the school has, but he overbore these obstacles and won the contest. Some of those boys, before that morning, may have thought it ignoble to perform menial tasks; but Tom soon overcame that feeling and led them to feel that only an artist can whitewash a fence properly. Some of them may have been interpreting life as having a good time, but, under the tutorage of Tom, they soon came to feel that having a good time means whitewashing a fence. =The persistency of habit.=--In striving to exalt and ennoble work, the school runs counter to habits of thought that have been formed in the home, and these habits prove stubborn. The home has so long imposed work as a task that the school finds it difficult to make it seem a privilege. The father and mother have so often complained of their work, in the presence of their children, that all work comes to assume the aspect of a hardship, if not a penalty. It often happens, too, that the parents encourage their children to think that education affords immunity from work, and the children attend school with that notion firmly implanted in their minds. They seem to think that when they have achieved an education they will receive their reward in the choicest gifts that Fortune has to bestow, and that their only responsibility will be to indicate their choices. =Misconceptions of work.=--Still further, when children enter school imbued with this conception of work, they feel that the work of the school is imposed upon them as a task from which they would fain be free. If their parents had only been as wise as Tom Sawyer and had set up motives before them in connection with their home activities and thus exalted all their work to the plane of privilege, the work of the school would be greatly simplified. It is no slight task to eradicate this misconception of work, but somehow it must be done before the work of the school can get on. Until this is done, the work of the school will be done grudgingly instead of buoyantly, and work that is done under compulsion is never joyous work. Nor will work that is done under compulsion ever be done in full measure, as the days of slavery clearly prove. =Illustrations.=--Life and work are synonymous, and no amount or form of sophistry can abrogate their relation. The man who does not work does not have real life, as the invalid will freely witness. The tramp on the highway manages to exist, but he does not really live, no matter what his philosophy may be. Many children interpret life to mean plenty of money and nothing to do, but this conception merely proves that they are children with childish misconceptions. They see the railway magnate riding in his private car and conceive his life to be one of ease and luxury. They do not realize that the private car affords him the opportunity to do more and better work. They see the president of the bank sitting in his private office and imagine that he is idle, not realizing that his mind is busy with problems of great magnitude, problems that would appall his subordinates. They cannot know, as he sits there, that he is projecting his thoughts into far-off lands, and is watching the manifold and complex processions of commerce in their relations to the world of finance. =Concrete examples.=--They see the architect in his luxurious apartments, but do not realize that his brain is directing every movement of a thousand men who are causing a colossal building to tower toward the sky. They see a Grant sitting beneath a tree in apparent unconcern, but do not know that he is bearing the responsibility of the movements of a vast army. They see the pastor in his study among his books, but do not know the travail of spirit that he experiences in his yearning for his parishioners. They see the farmer sitting at ease in the shade, but do not know that he is visualizing every detail of his farm, the men at their tasks, the flocks and herds, the crops, the streams, the machinery, the fences, and the orchards and vineyards. They see the master of the ship, standing on the bridge clad in his smart uniform, and imagine that he is merely enjoying the sea breezes the same as themselves, not knowing that his thoughts are concentrated upon the safety of his hundreds of passengers and his precious cargo. =The potency of mental work.=--Only by experience may children come to know that work may be mental as well as physical, and the school is charged with the responsibility of affording this experience. Through experience they will come to know that mind transcends matter, and that in life the body yields obedience to the behests of the mind. They will come to know that mental work is more far-reaching than physical work, in that a single mind plans the work for a thousand hands. They will learn that mental work has redeemed the world from its primitive condition and is making life more agreeable even if more complex. They will come to see the mind busy in its work of tunneling mountains, building canals and railways, navigating oceans, and exploring the sky. They will come to realize that mental work has produced our libraries, designed our machinery, made our homes more comfortable and our fields more fertile. =Work a blessing.=--As a knowledge of all these things filters into their minds, their conception of life broadens, and they see more and more clearly that life and work are fundamentally identical. They see that work directs the streams of life and gives to life point, potency, and significance. They soon see that knowledge is power only because it is the agency that generates power, and that knowledge touches life at every point. They will come to realize that work is the one great luxury in life, and that education is designed to increase the capacity for work in order that people may indulge in this luxury more abundantly. The more work one can do, the more life one has; and the better the work one can do, the higher the quality of that life. They learn that the adage "Work to live and live to work" is no fiction but a reality. =Work and enjoyment.=--The school, therefore, becomes to them a workshop of life, and unless it is that, it is not a worthy school. It is not a something detached from life, but, rather, an integral part of life and therefore a place and an occasion for work. The school is the Burning Bush of work that is to grow into the Tree of Life. But life ought to teem with joy in order to be at its best, and never be a drag. Work, therefore, being synonymous with life, should be a joyous experience, even though it taxes the powers to the utmost. If the child comes to the work of the school as the galley-slave goes to his task, there is a lack of adjustment and balance somewhere, and a readjustment is necessary. It matters not that a boy spends two hours over a problem in arithmetic if only he enjoys himself during the time. But, if he works two hours merely to get a passing grade or to escape punishment, the time thus spent does not afford him the pleasure that rightfully belongs to him, and some better motive should be supplied. =The teacher's problem.=--The teacher's mission is not to make school work easy, but, rather, to make the hardest work alluring and agreeable. Here, again, she may need to take counsel with Tom Sawyer. Whitewashing a fence is quite as hard work as solving a problem in decimals or cube root. Much depends upon the mental attitude of the boy, and this in turn depends upon the skill of the teacher and her fertility of mind in supplying motives. Whitewashing a fence causes the arms to grow weary and the back to ache, but the boys recked not of that. On the contrary, they clamored for more of the same kind of work. This same spirit characterizes the work of the vitalized school. The pupils live as joyously in the schoolroom as they do outside, and the harder the work the greater their joy. When work is made a privilege by the expert teacher, school procedure becomes well-nigh automatic and there is never any occasion for nagging, hectoring, or badgering. Such things are abnormal in life and no less so in the vitalized school. They are a confession on the part of the teacher that she has reached the limit of her resources. She admits that she cannot do what Tom Sawyer did so well, and so proclaims her inability to articulate life and work effectively. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Read that chapter of "Tom Sawyer" which deals with the whitewashing episode. 2. What principles of teaching did Tom Sawyer apply? 3. Discuss, from the pupils' viewpoint, how the study of different subjects may be made a privilege. 4. In accordance with Tom Sawyer pedagogy, discuss plans for the formation of the reading habit in pupils. How direct the pupils' choice of reading matter? 5. How would you demonstrate to pupils that mental work is more exhausting than manual labor? 6. Why is work a blessing? How convince an indolent pupil of this truth? 7. State the chief problem of the teacher. 8. Show that the pedagogical doctrines of this chapter are not to be classified under the head of "soft pedagogy." CHAPTER X WORDS AND THEIR CONTENT =Initial statement.=--Life and words are so closely interwoven that we have only to study words with care in order to achieve an apprehension of life. Indeed, education may be defined as the process of enlarging the content of words. No two of us speak the same language even though we use the same words. The schoolboy and the savant speak of education, using the same word, but the boy has only the faintest conception of the meaning of the word as used by the savant. We must know the content of the words that are used before we can understand one another, either in speaking or in writing. For one man, a word is big with meaning; for another, the same word is so small as to be well-nigh meaningless. To the ignorant boor, the word "education" means far less than the three R's, while to the scholar the word includes languages, ancient and modern, mathematics through many volumes, sciences that analyze the dewdrop, determine the weight of the earth and the distances and movements of the planets, history from the Rosetta Stone to the latest presidential election, and philosophy from Plato to the scholar of to-day. =The word "education."=--And yet both these men spell and pronounce the word alike. The ignorant man has only the faintest glimmering of the scholar's meaning of the word when he speaks or writes it. Still the word is in common use, and people who use it are wont to think that their conception of its meaning is universal. If the boor could follow the expansion of the word as it is invested with greater and greater content, he would, in time, understand Aristotle, Shakespeare, Gladstone, and Max Müller. And, understanding these men, he would come to know philosophy, literature, and language, and so would come to appreciate more fully what education really is. In contemplating the expansion of the word, one might easily visualize the ever widening circle produced by throwing a pebble into a pool; but a better conception would be the expansion of a balloon when it is being inflated. This comparison enables one to realize that education enlarges as a sphere rather than as a circle. =The scholar's concept of the sea.=--The six-year-old can give the correct spelling of the word _sea_ as readily as the sage, but the sage has spent a lifetime in putting content into the word. For him, the word epitomizes his life history. Through its magic leading he retraces his journeys through physiography and geology, watching the sea wear away two thousand feet of the Appalachian Mountains and spread the detritus over vast areas, making the great fertile corn and wheat belt of our country. He knows that this section produces, annually, such a quantity of corn as would require for transportation a procession of teams that would encircle the earth nine times, at the equator, and he interprets all this as sea. The word leads him, also, through the mazes and mysteries of meteorology, revealing to him the origin of the rain, the snow, the dew, and the frost, with all the wonders of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation. =Further illustration.=--He can discern the sea in every blade of grass, in every leaf, and in every flower. In the composition of his own body, he finds that ninety per cent of it is sea. He finds his heart pumping the sea through his veins and arteries as a vital part of the life process; and through the power of capillary attraction, the sea is coursing through every hair of his head. In the food upon his table, the meat, the bread, the milk, the vegetables, and the fruits, he finds the sea. Not his poetry, but his science follows the raindrop from the roof to the rivulet, on to the river, then to the ocean, then into vapor and on into rain down into the earth, then up into the tree, out into the orange, until it finally reappears as a drop of juice upon the rosy lip of his little six-year-old. =The child's conception.=--Whether the child ever wins the large conception of the sea that her father has depends, in part, upon the father himself, but, in a still larger degree, upon her teacher. If the teacher thinks of the sea merely as a word to be spelled, or defined, or parsed, that she may inscribe marks in a grade book or on report cards, then the child will never know the sea as her father knows it, unless this knowledge comes to her from sources outside the school. Instead of becoming a living thing and the source of life, her sea will be a desert without oasis, or grass, or tree, or bird, or bubbling spring to refresh and inspire. It would seem a sad commentary upon our teaching if the child is compelled to gain a right conception of the sea outside the school and in spite of the school, rather than through and by means of the school. =The quest of teacher and child.=--The vitalized teacher knows the sea as the sage knows it, and can infuse her conception into the consciousness of the child. She feels it to be her high privilege to lead the child on in quest of the sea and to find, in this quest, pulsating life. In this alluring quest, she is putting content into the word, and thus discovering, by experience, what life is. This is education. This is the inviting vista that stretches out before the eyes of the child under the spell and leadership of such a teacher. In their quest for the meaning of the sea, these companions, the child and the teacher, will come upon the fields of grain, the orchards, the flocks and herds, the ships, the trains, and the whole intricate world of commerce. They will find commerce to be a manifestation of the sea and moreover a big factor in life. It will mean far more than mere cars to be counted or cargoes to be estimated in the form of problems for the class in arithmetic. The cargoes of grain that they see leaving the port mean food for the hungry in other lands, and the joy and vigor that only food can give. =The sea as life.=--At every turn of their ramified journey, these learners find life and, best of all, are having a rich experience in life, throughout the journey. They are immersed in life and so are absorbing life all the while. Wider and wider becomes their conception of life as exemplified by the sea, and their capacity for life is ever increasing. Day by day they ascend to higher levels and find their horizon receding farther and farther. For them, life enlarges until it embraces all lands, the arts, the sciences, the languages, and all history. Whether they pursue the sea into the mountains; to the steppes, plateaus, or pampas; to the palace or the hovel; to the tropics or the poles,--they find it evermore representing life. =The word "automobile."=--It would seem to be quite possible to construct a twelve-year course of study based upon this sort of study of words and their content with special emphasis upon the content. Since life is conterminous with the content of the words that constitute one's vocabulary, it is evident that the content of words becomes of major importance in the scheme of education. To be able to spell the word "automobile" will not carry a young man very far in his efforts to qualify as a chauffeur, important though the spelling may be. As a mere beginning, the spelling is essential, but it is not enough. Still the child thinks that his education, so far as this word is concerned, is complete when he can spell it correctly, and carry home a perfect grade. No one will employ the young man as a driver until he has put content into the word, and this requires time and hard work. He must know the mechanism of the machine, in every detail, and the articulation of all its parts. He must be able to locate trouble on the instant and be able to apply the remedy. He must be sensitive to every slightest sound that indicates imperfect functioning. This, of course, carries far beyond the mere spelling of the word, but all this is essential to the safety of his passengers. =Etymology.=--Etymology has its place, of course, in the study of words, but it stops short of the goal. It may be well to take the watch apart in order to make an examination of its parts, but until it is reconstituted and set going, it is useless as a watch. So with a word. We may give its etymology and rhapsodize over its parts, but thus analyzed it is an inert thing and really inane so far as real service is concerned. If word study does not carry beyond the mere analysis, it is futile as a real educative process. To be really effective, the word must be instinct with life and busy in the affairs of life, and not a mere specimen in a museum. Too often our work in etymology seems to be considered an end in itself, rather than a means to an end. =The word in use.=--Arlo Bates says that the word "highly" in the Gettysburg Speech is the most ornate word in the language in the setting that Lincoln gave it. The merest tyro can give its etymology, but only when it was set to work by a master did it gain potency and distinction. The etymology of the word "fidelity" is reasonably easy, but this analysis is powerless to cause the child to thrill at the story of Casabianca, or of Ruth and Naomi, or of Esther, or Antigone, or Cordelia, or Nathan Hale, or the little Japanese girl who deliberately bit through her tongue that she might not utter a syllable that would jeopardize the interests or safety of her father. The word analyzed is a dead thing; the word in use is a living thing. The word merely analyzed is apt to be ephemeral; the word in use is abiding and increasingly significant. As the child puts more and more content into the word, he, himself, expands at the same rate in the scope and power of his thinking. Words are the materials out of which he weaves the fabric of life, and the pattern depends upon the content of his words. =Illustrations from art.=--The child can spell the word "art" and can repeat the words of the book by way of a memorized definition, but he cannot define the word with even a fair degree of intelligence. He cannot know the meaning of the word until its significance becomes objectified in his life processes. This requires time, and thought, and experiences with books, with people, and with galleries. In short, he must live art before he can define the word; and his living art invests the word with content. The word will grow just as he grows in his conception of art. At first, he may denominate as art the simple little daubs of pictures that he makes with the teacher's hand guiding his brush. But, later on, as he gains a larger conception, these things will appear puerile if not silly. The time may come when he can read the thoughts of the masters as expressed in their masterpieces. Then, and only then, will he be able to define the word. =Michael Angelo.=--At the age of fifteen, Michael Angelo wrought the Mask of the Satyr, which would not be considered a work of art if that were the only product of his chisel. What he did later was the fulfillment of the prophecy embodied in the Mask. At the age of eighty, he produced the Descent from the Cross, which glorifies the Duomo in Florence. In between these productions, we find his David, his Moses, the Sistine Ceiling, with many others scarcely less notable. He rose to a higher and higher conception of art as he lived art more and more fully, and his execution kept pace with the expansion of his conception. He gave content to the word both for himself and for the world until now we associate, in our thinking, art with his name. He himself is now, in large measure, our definition of art--and that because he lived art. =The child's conception of truth.=--In his restricted conception, the boy conceives truth to be the mere absence of peccadillos. He thinks that his denial of the charge that he was impolite to his sister, or that he went on a foraging expedition to the pantry, is the whole truth and, indeed, all there is to truth. It requires a whole lifetime to realize the full magnitude of his misconception. In the vitalized school, he finds himself busy all day long trying to find answer to the question: What is Truth? In the Alps, there is a place called Echo Glen where a thousand rocks, cliffs, and crags send back to the speaker the words he utters. So, when this boy asks What is Truth? a thousand voices in the school and outside the school repeat the question to him: What is Truth? Abraham Lincoln tried to find the answer as he figured on the bit of board with a piece of charcoal by the firelight. Later on, he wrote the Emancipation Proclamation, and in both exercises he was seeking for the meaning of truth. =The work of the school.=--Christopher Columbus was doing the same thing in his quest, and thought no hardship too great if he could only come upon the answer. Galileo, Huxley, Newton, Tyndall, Humboldt, Darwin, Edison, and Burbank are only the schoolboys grown large in their search for the meaning of truth. They have enlarged the content of the word for us all, and by following their lead we may attain to their answers. Every school study gives forth a partial answer, and the sum of all these answers constitutes the answer which the boy is seeking. Mathematics tells part of the story, but not all of it; science tells another part, but not all of it; history tells still another part, but not all of it. Hence, it may be reiterated that one of the prime functions of the vitalized school is to invest words with the largest possible content. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. To what extent is education the process of enlarging the content of words? 2. As a concrete illustration of the differences in the content of words, compare various definitions of education. Choose typical definitions of education to reflect the ideas of different educational periods. 3. Suggest other methods than the use of the dictionary for the enlargement of the pupil's content of words. 4. How may words be vitalized in composition? 5. Should the chief aim of language work in the grades be force, accuracy, or elegance in the use of language? 6. Add to the author's list of words, other words the content of which may be expanded by education. 7. How may the vitalized teacher encourage in pupils the formation of habits of careful diction? 8. How remove unnatural stilted words and expressions from the oral and written expressions of pupils? CHAPTER XI COMPLETE LIVING =The question raised.=--That education is a preparation for complete living has been quoted by every teacher who lays any sort of claim to the standard definitions. Indeed, so often and so glibly has the quotation been made that it is well-nigh axiomatic and altogether trite. But we still await any clear explanation of what is meant by complete living. On this point we are still groping, with no prophetic voice to tell us the way. By implication we have had hints, and much has been said on the negative side, but the positive side still lies fallow. When asked for an explanation, those who give the quotation resort to circumlocution and, at length, give another definition of education, apparently conscious of the mathematical dictum that things that are equal to the same thing are equal to each other. So we continue to travel in a circle, with but feeble attempts to deviate from the course. =The vitalized school an exemplification.=--Nor will this chapter attempt to resolve the difficult situation in which we are placed. It is not easy to define living, much less complete living. All that is hoped for here is to bring the matter to the attention of all teachers and to cause them to realize that the quest for a definition of complete living will be for them and for their pupils an exhilarating experience. The vitalized school will belie its name if it does not strive toward a solution of the difficulty, and any school that approximates a satisfactory definition will be proclaimed a public benefactor. In fact, the school cannot lay claim to the distinction of being vitalized if it fails to exemplify complete living, in some appreciable degree, and if it fails to groove this sort of living into a habit that will persist throughout the years. This is the big task that the school must essay if it would emancipate itself from the trammels of tradition and become a leader in the larger, better way. Complete living must become the ideal of the school if it would realize the conception of education of which it is a professed exponent. =Incomplete living.=--The man who walks with a crutch; the man who is afflicted with a felon; the man who lacks a hand or even a finger,--cannot experience complete living. Through the power of adaptation the man with a crutch may compass more difficult situations than the man with sound legs will attempt, but he cannot realize all the possibilities of life that a sound body would vouchsafe to him. The man without hands may learn to write with his toes, but he is not employed as a teacher of penmanship. His life is a restricted one and, therefore, less than complete. We marvel at the exhibitions of skill displayed by the maimed, but we feel no envy. We may not be able to duplicate their achievements, but we feel that we have ample compensation in the normal use of our members. We know instinctively that, in the solitude of their meditations, they must experience poignant regrets that they are not as other people, and that they must pass through life under a handicap. =The sound body.=--It is evident, therefore, that soundness of body is a condition precedent to complete living. The body is the organism by means of which the mind and the spirit function in terms of life; and, if this organism is imperfect, the functioning will prove less than complete. Hence, it is the province of the school to so organize all its activities that the physical powers of the pupils shall be fully conserved. The president of a large university says that during his incumbency of seventeen years they have found only one young woman of physical perfection and not a single young man, although the tests have been applied to thousands. College students, it will be readily conceded, are a selected group; and yet even in such a group not a physically perfect young man was found in tests extending over seventeen years. If a like condition should be discovered in the scoring of live stock at our fairs, there would ensue a careful investigation of causes in the hope of finding a remedy. =Personal efficiency.=--We shall not achieve national efficiency until every citizen has achieved personal efficiency, and physical fitness is one of the fundamental conditions precedent to personal efficiency. Here we have the blue print for the guidance of society and the school. If we are ever to achieve national efficiency, we must see to it that every man and woman, every boy and girl, has a strong, healthy body that is fully able to execute the behests of mind and spirit. This may require a stricter censorship of marriage licenses, including physical examinations; it may require more stringent laws on our statute books; it may require radical changes in our methods of physical training; and it may require the state to assume some of the functions of the home when the home reveals its inability or unwillingness to cope with the situation. Heroic treatment may be necessary; but until we as a people have the courage to apply the remedies that the diagnosis shows to be necessary, we shall look in vain for improvement. =Physical training.=--Seeing that it is so difficult to find a man or a woman among our people who has attained physical perfection, it behooves society and the schools to take a critical inventory of their methods of physical training and their meager accomplishments as a preliminary survey looking to a change in our procedure. We seem to have delegated scientific physical training to athletics and pugilism, with but scant concern for our people as a whole. If pink-tea calisthenics as practiced mildly in our schools has failed to produce robust bodies, then it is incumbent upon us to adopt a régime of beefsteak. What the traditional school has failed to do the vitalized school must attempt to do or suffer the humiliation of striking its colors. There is no middle course; it must either win a victory or admit defeat in common with the traditional school. The standard is high, of course, but every standard of the vitalized school is and ought to be high. =Cigarettes.=--If the use of cigarettes is devitalizing our boys, and this can be determined, then the manufacture and sale must be prohibited unless our legislative bodies would plead guilty to the charge of impotence. But we are told that public sentiment conditions the enactment of laws. If such be the case, then the school and its auxiliaries should feel it a duty to generate public sentiment. If cigarettes are harmful, then they should be banished, and the task is not an impossible one by any means. As to the injurious effects of cigarettes, as distinguished an authority as Thomas A. Edison says the following: "The injurious agent in cigarettes comes principally from the burning paper wrapper. The substance thereby formed is called 'acrolein.' It has a violent action on the nerve centers, producing degeneration of the cells of the brain, which is quite rapid among boys. Unlike most narcotics, this degeneration is permanent and uncontrollable. I employ no person who smokes cigarettes." We have eliminated dangerous explosives from our Fourth of July celebrations, and the ban can as easily be placed upon any other dangerous product. Just here we inevitably meet the cry of paternalism, but we shall always be confronted by the question to what extent the government should stand aside and see its citizens follow the bent of their appetites and passions over the brink of destruction. It is the inherent right of government to maintain its own integrity, and this it can do only through the conservation of the powers of its citizens. If paternalism is necessary to this end, then paternalism is a governmental virtue. Better, by far, some paternalism than a race of weaklings. =Military training.=--We may shrink away from military training in the schools, just as we shrink from the régime of pugilism; but we may profit by observing both these types of training in our efforts to develop some method of training that will render our young people physically fit. We need some type of training that will eliminate round and drooping shoulders, weak chests, shambling gait, sluggish circulation, and shallow breathing. The boys and girls need to be, first of all, healthy animals with large powers of endurance, elastic, buoyant, graceful, and in general well set up. These conditions constitute the foundation for the superstructure of education. The placid, anæmic, fiberless child is ill prepared in physique to attain to that mastery of the mental and spiritual world that makes for an approximation to complete living. =Examples cited.=--If one will but make a mental appraisement of the first one hundred people he meets, he will see among the number quite a few who reveal a lack of physical vigor. They droop and slouch along and seem to be dragging their bodies instead of being propelled through space by their bodies. They can neither stand nor walk as a human being ought to stand and walk, and their entire ensemble is altogether unbeautiful. We feel instinctively that, being fashioned in the image of their Maker, they have sadly declined from their high estate. Their bodily attitude seems a sort of apology for life, and we long to invoke the aid of some teacher of physical training to rescue them from themselves and restore them to their rightful heritage. They are weak, apparently ill-nourished, scrawny, ill-groomed; and we know, without the aid of words, that neither a vigorous mind nor a great spirit would choose that type of body as its habitation. =The body subject to the mind.=--A healthy, vigorous, symmetrical body that performs all its functions like a well-articulated, well-adjusted mechanism is the beginning, but only a beginning. Next comes a mind that is so well trained that it knows what orders to give to the body and how to give them. Many a strong body enters the door of a saloon because the mind is not sufficiently trained to issue wise orders. The mind was befuddled before the body became so, and the body becomes so only because the mind commands. Intoxication, primarily, is a mental apostasy, and the body cannot do otherwise than obey. If the mind were intent upon securing a book at the library, the body would not have seen the door of the saloon, but would have been urgent to reach the library. There is neither fiction nor facetiousness in the adage, "An idle brain is the devil's workshop." On the contrary, the saying is crammed full of psychology for the thoughtful observer. Hence, when we are training the mind we are wreaking destruction upon this workshop. =Freedom a condition precedent.=--Complete living is impossible outside the domain of freedom. The prisons show forth no examples of complete living. But mental thralldom is quite as inimical to complete living as thralldom of the body. The mind must know in order to move among the things of life in freedom. Ignorance is slavery. The mind that is unable to read the inscription on a monument stands baffled and helpless, and no form of slavery can be more abject. The man who cannot read the bill of fare of life is in no position to revel in the good things that life offers. The man who cannot read the signboards of life gropes and flounders about in the byways and so misses the charms. If he knows the way, he has freedom; otherwise he is in thralldom. The man who cannot interpret life as it shows itself in hill, in valley, in stream and rock and tree, goes through life with bandaged eyes, and that condition affords no freedom. =Street signs.=--A man who had been traveling through Europe for several weeks, and had finally reached London, wrote enthusiastically of his pleasure at being able to read the street signs. All summer he had felt restricted and hampered, but when he reached a country where the street signs were intelligible, he gained his freedom. Had he been as familiar with Italian, German, and French as he is with English, life would have been for him far more nearly complete during that summer and therefore much more agreeable and fertile. There is no more exhilarating experience than to be able to read the street signs along the highway of life, and this ability is one of the great objectives of every vitalized school. =Trained minds.=--Nature reveals her inmost secrets only to the trained mind. No power can force her, no wealth can bribe her, to disclose these secrets to others. Only the mind that is trained can gain admission to her treasure house to revel in its glories. John Burroughs lives in a world that the ignorant man cannot know. The trained mind alone has the key that will unlock libraries, art galleries, the treasure houses of science, language, history, and art. The untrained minds must stand outside and win what comfort they can from their wealth, their social status, or whatever else they would fain substitute for the training that would admit them. All these things are parts of life, and those who cannot gain admission to these conservatories of knowledge cannot know life in its completeness. =Achievements of trained minds.=--In order to know life in the large, the mind must be able to leap from the multiplication table to the stars; must become intimate with the movements of the tides, the glacier, and the planets; must translate the bubbling fountain and the eruption of Vesuvius; must be able to interpret the whisper of the zephyr and the diapason of the forest; must be able to hear music in the chirp of the cricket as well as in the oratorios; must be able to delve into the recesses of the mine and scale the mountain tops; must know the heart throbs of Little Nell as well as of Cicero and Demosthenes; must be able to see the processions of history from the cradle of the race to the latest proclamation; and must sit in the councils of the poets, the statesmen, the orators, the artists, the scientists, and the historians of all time. A mind thus trained can enter into the very heart of life and know it by experience. =Things of the spirit.=--But education is a spiritual process, as we have been told; and, therefore, education is without value unless it touches the spirit. Indeed, it is only by the spirit that we may test the quality of education. It is spirit that sets metes and bounds and points the way to the fine things of life. A man may live in the back alley of life or on the boulevard, according to the dictates of the spirit. If his spirit cannot react to the finer things, his way will lie among the coarse and bizarre. If he cannot appreciate the glory that is revealed upon the mountain, he will gravitate to the lower levels. If his spirit is not attuned to majestic harmonies, he will drift down to association with his own kind. If he cannot thrill with pleasure at the beauty and fragrance of the lily of the valley, he will seek out the gaudy sunflower. If his spirit cannot rise to the plane of Shakespeare and Victor Hugo, he will roam into fields that are less fruitful. The spirit that is rightly attuned lifts him away from the sordid into the realms of the chaste and the glorified; away from the coarse and ugly into the realm of things that are fine and beautiful; and away from the things that are mean and petty into the zone of the big, the true, the noble, and the good. And so with body, mind, and spirit thus doing their perfect work, he can, at least, look over into the promised land of complete living. =Altruism.=--We are commanded to let our light shine, and this command is a noble and an inspiring one. A man who by such training as has been depicted approximates complete living is prepared to let his light shine primarily because he has light, and in the next place because his training has made him generous in spirit and altruistic; and his greatest joy comes from letting his light so shine that others may catch his spirit and move up to higher planes of living. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Why is education not satisfactorily defined by saying that it is a preparation for complete living? Who first stated this definition? 2. What is the relation of the school to complete living? 3. What further training should the school give in better living than to teach the pupils what it is? 4. Give an idea of what is meant by incomplete living so far as the body is concerned. 5. Show that soundness of body is necessary to realize one's best. 6. What are some reasons for the scarcity of physically perfect men and women? 7. Have we been able to eliminate physical defects and develop physical merits in people to the same extent that we have in domestic animals? 8. What are some of the things that have been done to improve physical man? Which of these have to do primarily with heredity and which with rearing or training? 9. Why is the possession of healthy bodies a matter of national concern? 10. Wherein does physical training seem to have failed to attain its ends? 11. What are the arguments, from the standpoint of the physically efficient life, for the regulation or prohibition by the government of the sale of injurious products? 12. What are the benefits of such a type of training as military training? 13. Show how the lack of proper training of the mind may result in a less efficient body. 14. In our present civilization what conditions may give rise to mental thralldom? Upon what is mental freedom conditioned? 15. How can the trained mind get the most out of life and contribute the most to it? 16. Explain how the spirit is the dominant element in complete living. 17. Why is one who is living the complete life sure to be altruistic? CHAPTER XII THE TIME ELEMENT =The question stated.=--There are many, doubtless, who will deny, if not actually resent, the statement that some do more real teaching in ten minutes than others do in thirty minutes. But, in spite of denials, the statement can be verified by the testimony of a host of expert observers and supervisors. Indeed, stenographic reports have been made of many class exercises by way of testing the truth of this statement, and these reports are a matter of record. Assuming the validity of the statement, therefore, it is pertinent to inquire into the causes that underlie the disparity in the teaching ability of the ten-minute teacher and the thirty-minute teacher. The efficiency expert would be quick to seize upon this disparity in the rate of progress as the starting point in his critical examination. In a factory a like disparity would lead to unpleasant consequences. The workman who consumes thirty minutes in accomplishing a piece of work that another does in ten minutes would be admonished to accelerate his progress or else give way to a more efficient man. If we had instruments of sufficient delicacy to test the results of teaching, we should probably discover that the output of the ten-minute teacher is superior in quality to that of the thirty-minute teacher. For we must all have observed in our own experience that the clarity of our thinking depends upon its intensity. =Examples.=--A young man who won distinction as a college student had a wide shelf fitted up on one side of his room at which he stood in the preparation of all his lessons. His theory was that the attitude of the body conditions the attitude of the mind. Professor James gives assent to this theory and avers that an attitude of mind may be generated by placing the body in such an attitude as would naturally accompany this mental attitude. This theory proclaims that, if the body is slouching, the mind will slouch; but that, if the body is alert, the mind will be equally so. Another college student always walked to and fro in his room when preparing his history lesson. A fine old lady, in a work of fiction, explained her mental acumen by the single statement, "I never slouch." Every person must have observed many exemplifications of this theory in his own experience even if he has not reduced it to a working formula. =Basic considerations.=--Any consideration of the time element, in school work, must take into account, therefore, not only the number of minutes involved in a given piece of work, but also the intensity of effort during those minutes. Two minds, of equal natural strength, may be fully employed during a given period and yet show a wide difference in the quality and quantity of the results. The one may be busy all the while but slouch through the minutes. The other may be taut and intensive, working at white heat, and the output will be more extensive and of better quality. The mind that ambles through the period shows forth results that are both meager and mediocre; but the mind whose impact is both forceful and incisive produces results that serve to magnify the work of the school. Thus we have placed before us two basic considerations, one of which is the time itself, in actual minutes, and the other is the character of the reactions to external stimuli during those minutes. =Two teachers compared.=--In order to consider these factors of the teaching process with some degree of definiteness it will be well to have the ten-minute teacher and the thirty-minute teacher placed in juxtaposition in our thinking. We shall thus be able to compare and contrast and so arrive at some clear judgments that may be used as a basis for generalizations. We may assume, for convenience and for concreteness, that the lesson is division of fractions. There will be substantial agreement that the principle involved in this subject can be taught in one recitation period. The reasons for some of the steps in the process may come later, but the child should be able to find his way to the correct answer in a single period. Now if one teacher can achieve this result in thirty minutes and the other in ten minutes, there is a disparity in the effectiveness of the work of these teachers which is worthy of serious consideration. The ten-minute teacher proves that the thirty-minute teacher has consumed twenty minutes of somebody's time unnecessarily. If the salary of this thirty-minute teacher should be reduced to one third its present amount, she would inveigh against the reduction. =School and factory compared.=--If she were one of the operators in a factory, she would not escape with the mere penalization of a salary reduction. The owner would argue that he needed some one who could operate the machine up to its full capacity, and that, even if she should work without salary, her presence in the factory would entail a loss in that the output of her machine was so meager. If one operator can produce a shoe in ten minutes and the other requires thirty minutes for the same work, the money that is invested in the one machine pays dividends, while the other machine imposes a continuous tax upon the owner. This, of course, will be recognized as the line of argument of the efficiency expert, but it certainly is not out of place to call attention to the matter in connection with school work. The subject of efficiency is quite within the province of the school, and it would seem to be wholly within reason for the school to exemplify its own teachings. =Appraisal of teaching expertness.=--The teacher who requires thirty minutes for division of fractions which the other teacher compasses in ten minutes consumes twenty minutes unnecessarily in each recitation period, or two hundred minutes in the course of the day. The efficiency expert would ask her to account for these two hundred minutes. In order to account for them satisfactorily she would be compelled to take an inventory of her acquired habits, her predilections, her attitude toward her pupils and her subjects, and any shortcomings she may have in regard to methods of teaching. She would, at first, resent the implication that the other teacher's method of teaching division of fractions is better than her own and would cite the many years during which her method has been used. When all else fails, tradition always proves a convenient refuge. We can always prove to-day by yesterday; only, by so doing, we deny the possibility of progress. =The potency of right methods.=--A teacher of Latin once used twenty minutes in a violent attempt to explain the difference between the gerund construction and the gerundive construction. At the end of the time she had the pupils so completely muddled that, for months, the appearance of either of these constructions threw them into a condition of panic. To another class, later, this teacher explained these constructions clearly and convincingly in three minutes. In the meantime she had studied methods in connection with subject matter. Another teacher resigned her position and explained her action by confessing that she had become so accustomed to the traditional methods of teaching a certain phase of arithmetic that it was impossible for her to learn the newer one. Such a teacher must be given credit for honesty even while she illustrates tragedy. =The waste of time.=--In explaining the loss of two hundred minutes a day the teacher will inevitably come upon the subject of methods of teaching, and she may be put to it to justify her method in view of its results. The more diligently she tries to justify her method, the more certainly she proclaims her responsibility for a wrong use of the method. Those twenty minutes point at her the accusing finger, and she can neither blink nor escape the facts. The other teacher led her pupils into a knowledge of the subject in ten minutes, and this one may neither abrogate nor amend the record. As an operative in the factory she holds in her hand one shoe as the result of her thirty minutes while the other holds three. Conceding that results in the school are not so tangible as the results in the factory, still we have developed methods of estimating results in the school that have convincing weight with the efficiency expert. We can estimate results in school work with sufficient accuracy to enable us to assess teaching values with a goodly degree of discrimination. =Possibilities.=--It would be a comparatively simple matter to compute in days and weeks the time lost during the year by the thirty-minute teacher, and then estimate the many things that the pupils could accomplish in that time. If the thirty-minute teacher could be transformed into a ten-minute teacher, the children could have three more hours each day for play, and that would be far better for them than the ordeal of sitting there in the class, the unwilling witnesses, or victims, of the time-wasting process. Or they might read a book in the two hundred minutes and that would be more enjoyable, and the number of books thus read in the course of a year would aggregate quite a library. Or, again, they might take some additional studies and so make great gains in mental achievements in their twelve years of school life. Or they might learn to work with their hands and so achieve self-reliance, self-support, and self-respect. =Conservation.=--In a word, there is no higher type of conservation than the conservation of childhood, in terms of time and interest. The two hundred minutes a day are a vital factor in the life of the child and must be regarded as highly valuable. The teacher, therefore, who subtracts this time from the child's life is assuming a responsibility not to be lightly esteemed. She takes from him his most valuable possession and one which she can never return, try as she may. Worst of all, she purloins this element of time clandestinely, albeit seductively, in the guise of friendship. The child does not know that he is the victim of unfair treatment until it is too late to set up any defense. He is made to think that that is the natural and, therefore, only way of school, and that he must take things as they come if he is to prove himself a good soldier. So he musters what heroism he can and tries to smile while the teacher despoils him of the minutes he might better be employing in play, in reading, or in work. =The teacher's complacency.=--This would seem a severe indictment if it were incapable of proof, but having been proved by incontrovertible evidence its severity cannot be mitigated. We can only grieve that the facts are as they are and ardently hope for a speedy change. The chief obstacle in the way of improvement is the complacency of the teacher. Habits tend to persist, and if she has contracted the habit of much speaking, she thinks her volubility should be accounted a virtue and wonders that the children do not applaud the bromidic platitudes which have been uttered in the same form and in the same tones a hundred times. She is so intoxicated with her own verbosity that she can neither listen to the sounds of her own voice nor analyze her own utterances. While her neighbor is teaching she is talking, and then with sublime nonchalance she ascribes the retardation of her pupils to their own dullness and never, in any least degree, to her own unprofitable use of their time. =The voluble teacher.=--And while she rambles on in her aimless talking the children are bored, inexpressibly bored. It is axiomatic that the learning process does not flourish in a state of boredom. Under the ordeal of verbal inundation the children wriggle and squirm about in their seats and this affords her a new point of attack. She calls them ill-bred and unmannerly and wonders at the homes that can produce such children. She does not realize that if these children were grown-ups they would leave the room regardless of consequences. When they yawn, she reminds them of the utter futility of casting pearls before swine. All the while the twenty minutes are going and the pupils have not yet learned how to divide fractions. Over in the next room the pupils know full well how to divide fractions and the teacher is rewarding their diligence with a cookie in the form of a story, while they wait for the bell to ring. Out of the room of the thirty-minute teacher come the children glowering and resentful; out of the other room the children come buoyant and happy. =The test of teaching.=--Not alone did the former teacher use the time of her pupils for her own ends, but, even more, she dulled their interest, and the damage thus inflicted cannot be estimated. Many a child has deserted the school because the teacher made school life disagreeable. She was the wet blanket upon his enthusiasm and chilled him to the marrow when he failed to go forward upon her traditional track. The teacher who can generate in the minds of her pupils a spiritual ignition by her every movement and word will not be humiliated by desertions. Indeed, the test of the teacher is the mental attitude of her pupils. The child who drags and drawls through the lesson convicts the teacher of a want of expertness. On the other hand, when the pupils are all wide-awake, alert, animated, eager to respond, and dynamic, we know that the teacher has brought this condition to pass and that she is a ten-minute teacher. =Meaningless formalities.=--One of the influences that tends to deaden the interest of children is the ponderous formality that sometimes obtains. The teacher solemnly calls the roll, although she can see at a glance that there are no absentees. This is exceedingly irksome to wide-awake boys and girls who are avid for variety. The same monotonous calling of the roll day after day with no semblance of variation induces in them a sort of mental dyspepsia for which they seek an antidote in what the teacher denominates disorder. This so-called disorder betokens good health on their part and is a revelation of the fact that they have a keen appreciation of the fitness of things. They cannot brook monotony and it irks them to dawdle about in the anteroom of action. They are eager to do their work if only the teacher will get right at it. But they are impatient of meaningless preliminaries. They see no sense in calling the roll when everybody is present and discredit the teacher who persists in the practice. =Repeating answers.=--Still another characteristic of the thirty-minute teacher is her habit of repeating the answers that pupils give, with the addition of some inane comment. Whether this repeating of answers is merely a bad habit or an effort on the part of the teacher to appropriate to herself the credit that should otherwise accrue to the pupils, it is not easy to say. Certain it is that school inspectors inveigh against the practice mightily as militating against the effectiveness of the teaching. Teachers who have been challenged on this point make a weak confession that they repeat the answers unconsciously. They thus make the fatal admission that for a part of the time of the class exercise they do not know what they are doing, and admitting so much we can readily classify them as belonging among the thirty-minute teachers. =Meanderings.=--Another characteristic is her tendency to wander away from the direct line and ramble about among irrelevant and inconsequential trifles. Sometimes these rambles are altogether entertaining and enable her pupils to pass the time pleasantly, but they lack "terminal facilities." They lead from nowhere to nowhere in the most fascinating and fruitless meanderings. Such expeditions bring back no emoluments. They leave a pleasant taste in the mouth but afford no nourishment. They use the time but exact no dividends. Like sheet lightning they are beautiful but never strike anything. They are soothing sedatives that never impel to action. They lull to repose but never vitalize. =The ten-minute teacher.=--It is evident, therefore, that only the ten-minute teacher is worthy of a place in the vitalized school. She alone is able and willing to conserve, with religious zeal, the time and interest of the pupils. To her their time and interest are sacred and she deems it a sacrilege to trifle with them. She knows the market value of her own time but does not know the value of the time of the possible Edison who sits in her class. She gives to every child the benefit of the doubt and respects both herself and her pupils too much to take chances by pitting herself against them and using their time for her own purposes. Moreover, she never permits their interest to flag, but knows how to keep their minds tense. Their reactions are never less than incisive, and, therefore, the truths of the lesson groove themselves deep in their consciousness. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What is meant by the time element in teaching? 2. How is an operation in a factory timed? For what purpose? What are some of the results that have accrued from the timing of work by efficiency experts? 3. How can teaching be timed approximately? Is it probable that more of this will be done in the future by supervisors and investigators? Would you resent the timing of your work? Would you appreciate it? Why? 4. What may be done, in the matter of bodily positions, to improve mental time-reactions of the student? Of the teacher? 5. The literature of a typewriter manufacturer carries the precept "Sit erect." What are the reasons? 6. What two factors must be considered in estimating mental work with a view to time considerations? 7. If the attainment of school results by the teacher were treated as the attainment of factory results by the operator, what would happen if a large per cent of the time spent on a process were unnecessary? 8. Apply the factory manager's argument in detail to the teacher's efficiency. If you can, show wherein it fails to apply. 9. What result besides waste of time may come of a cumbersome method of teaching? 10. How can one acquire a clear-cut method? 11. A professor of physics was asked by a former student who was beginning to teach for suggestions on the teaching of physics. His only reply was "Know your subject thoroughly." Was this a satisfactory response? Give reasons for your opinion. 12. If the teacher can have lessons finished with greater rapidity, what can be done with the time thus remaining? 13. Show that the teacher must attend to the conservation of time in order to protect the child. 14. In what way besides the direct waste of the minutes is the expenditure of undue time unfortunate? 15. In what particular way do many teachers lose much of the recitation-lesson or study-lesson period? 16. What are the results of an undue expenditure of time in this way? 17. What is the relation between the waste of time in school and the exodus of children from the upper grades? 18. What do you think of a teacher who persists in "meaningless formalities"? 19. How does the repeating of answers by the teacher affect the pupils? 20. A teacher says she repeats answers often because pupils speak low and indistinctly. What are the proper remedies for this? 21. What should be the teacher's rule in regard to digressions? 22. Why should every teacher strive to be a "ten-minute" teacher, and why should every supervisor strive to recommend no others? 23. What corollary can be drawn on the advisability of the employment of no teachers except those recommended by competent supervisors? CHAPTER XIII THE ARTIST TEACHER =Teaching as a fine art.=--Teaching is an art. This fact has universal recognition. But it may be made a fine art, a fact that is not so generally recognized. The difference between the traditional school and the vitalized school lies in the fact, to a large degree, that, in the former, teaching is regarded merely as an art, while in the latter it becomes a fine art. In the former, the teacher is an artisan; in the latter the teacher is an artist. The difference is broadly significant. The artisan, in his work, follows directions, plans, specifications, and blue-prints that have been devised and designed by others; the artist imbues his work with imagination. The artisan works by the day--so much money for so many hours' work with pay day as his large objective; the artist does not disdain pay day, but he has an objective beyond this and has other sources of pleasure besides the pay envelope. The artisan thinks and talks of pay day; the artist thinks and talks of his work. The artisan drops his work when the bell rings; the artist is so engrossed in his work that he does not hear the bell. The artisan plods at his task with a grudging mien; the artist works in a fine frenzy. =Characteristic qualities.=--It is not easy to find the exact words by which to differentiate the traditional teacher from the artist teacher. There is an elusive quality in the artist teacher which is not easily reduced to or described by formal words. We know that the one is an artist teacher and that the other is not. The formal examination may not be able to discover the artist teacher, but there is a sort of knowledge that transcends the findings of an examination, that makes her identity known. She is a real flesh and blood person and yet she has a distinctive quality that cannot be mistaken even though it eludes description. She exhales a certain exquisiteness that reveals itself in the delicacy and daintiness of her contact with people and the objective world. Her impact upon the consciousness is no more violent than the fragrance of the rose, but, all at once, she is there and there to stay, modest, serene, and masterful. She is as gentle as the dawn but as staunch as the oak. She has knowledge and wisdom, and, better still, she has understanding; she needs no diagram. Her gaze penetrates the very heart of a situation but is never less than kindly, and her eyes are never shifty. Her aplomb, her pose, and her poise belong to her quite as evidently as her hands. She is genuine and altogether free from affectation. Her presence stimulates without intoxicating, and she accepts the respect of people with the same naturalness and grace as would accompany her acceptance of a glass of water. Both the giver and the recipient of this respect are ennobled by the giving. Indeed she would far rather have the respect of people, her pupils included, than mere admiration, for she knows full well that respect is far more deeply rooted in the spirit and bears fruit that is more worth while. Her nature knows not inertia, but it abounds in enterprise, endeavor, and courage that are born of a high purpose. =Joy in her work.=--Her teaching and her life do not occupy separate compartments but are identical in time and space; only her teaching is but one phase or manifestation of her life. She fitly exemplifies the statement that "Art is the expression of man's joy in his work." She has great joy in her work and, therefore, it is done as any other artist does his work. She enjoys all life, including her work. Indeed, she has contracted the habit of happiness and is so engrossed in the big elemental things of life that she can laugh at the incidental pin-pricks that others call troubles. She differentiates major from minor and never permits a minor to usurp the throne. Being an integral part of her life, her work takes on all the hues of her life. For her, culture is not something added; rather it is a something that permeates her whole nature and her whole life. She does not read poetry and other forms of literature, study the great masterpieces of music and art, and seek communion with the great, either in person or through their works--she does not do these things that she may acquire culture, but does them because she has culture. =Dynamic qualities.=--Her character is the sum of all her habits of thinking, feeling, and action and, therefore, is herself. Since she is an artist, her habits are all pitched in a high key and she is culture personified. Her immaculateness of body and spirit is not a superficial acquisition but a fundamental expression of her real self. Just as the electric bulb diffuses light, so she diffuses an atmosphere of culture. She gives the artistic touch to every detail of her work because she is an artist, a genuine, sincere artist in all that makes up life. She has the heart of an artist, the eyes of an artist, the touch of an artist. Whether these qualities are inherent or acquired is beside the point, at present, but it may be remarked, in passing, that unless they were capable of cultivation, the world would be at a standstill. There is no place in her exuberant vitality for a jaundiced view, and hence her world does not become "stale, flat, and unprofitable." =Aspiration and worship.=--Every sincere, noble aspiration is a prayer; hence, she prays without ceasing in obedience to the admonition of the Apostle. And, let it be said in reverence, she helps to answer her own prayers. Her spirit yearns out toward higher and wider attainments every hour of the day, not morbidly but exultantly. And while she aspires she worships. The starry sky holds her in rapt attention and admiration, and the modest flower does no less. She is thankful for the rain, and revels in the beauty and abundance of the snow. The heat may enervate, but she is grateful, none the less, because of its beneficent influence upon the farmer's work. Like food and sleep, her attitude of worship conserves her powers and preserves her balance. When physical weariness comes, she sends her spirit out to the star, or the sea, or the mountain, and so forgets her burden in the contemplation of majesty and beauty. In short, her spirit is attuned to all beauty and sublimity and truth, and so she is inherently an artist. =Professor Phelps quoted.=--In his very delightful book, "Teaching in School and College," the author, Professor William Lyon Phelps, says: "I do not know that I could make entirely clear to an outsider the pleasure I have in teaching. I had rather earn my living by teaching than in any other way. In my mind, teaching is not merely a life work, a profession, an occupation, a struggle; it is a passion. I love to teach. I love to teach as a painter loves to paint, as a musician loves to play, as a singer loves to sing, as a strong man rejoices to run a race. Teaching is an art--an art so great and so difficult to master that a man or a woman can spend a long life at it, without realizing much more than his limitations and mistakes, and his distance from the ideal. But the main aim of my happy days has been to become a good teacher, just as every architect wishes to be a good architect, and every professional poet strives toward perfection. For the chief difference between the ambition of the artist and the ambition of a money-maker--both natural and honorable ambitions--is that the money-maker is after the practical reward of his toil, while the artist wants the inner satisfaction that accompanies mastery." =Attitude toward work.=--To these sentiments the artist teacher subscribes whole-heartedly, if not in words, certainly by her attitude and practices. She regards her work not as a task but as a privilege, and thinking it a privilege she appreciates it as she would any other privilege. She would esteem it a privilege to attend a concert by high-class artists, or to visit an art gallery, or to witness a presentation of a great drama, or to see the Jungfrau; and she feels the same exaltation as she anticipates her work as a teacher. She sings on her way to school because of the privileges that await her. She experiences a fine flow of sentiment without becoming sentimental. Teaching, to her, is a serious business, but not, in the least, somber. Painting is a serious business, but the artist's zeal and joy in his work give wings to the hours. Laying the Atlantic cable was a serious business, but the vision of success was both inspiring and inspiriting, and temporary mishaps only served to stimulate to greater effort. =The element of enthusiasm.=--To this teacher, each class exercise is an enterprise that is big with possibilities; and, in preparation for the event, she feels something of the thrill that must have animated Columbus as he faced the sea. She estimates results more by the faces of her pupils than by the marks in a grade book, for the field of her endeavors is the spirit of the child, and the face of the child telegraphs to her the awakening of the spirit. Like the sculptor, she is striving to bring the angel of her dream into the face of the child; and when this hope is realized, the privilege of being a teacher seems the very acme of human aspirations. The animated face and the flashing eye betoken the sort of life that her teaching aims to stimulate; and when she sees these unmistakable manifestations, she knows that her big enterprise is a success and rejoices accordingly. If, for any reason, her enthusiasm is running low, she takes herself in hand and soon generates the enthusiasm that she knows is indispensable to the success of her enterprise. =Redemption of common from commonplace.=--She has the supreme gift of being able to redeem the common from the plane of the commonplace. Indeed, she never permits any fact of the books to become commonplace to her pupils. They all know that Columbus discovered America in 1492, but when the recitation touches this fact she invests it with life and meaning and so makes it glow as a factor in the class exercise. The humdrum traditional teacher asks the question; and when the pupil drones forth the answer, "Columbus discovered America in 1492," she dismisses the whole matter with the phonographic response, "Very good." What a farce! What a travesty upon the work of the teacher! Instead of being very good, it is bad, yea, inexpressibly bad. The artist teacher does it far better. By the magic of her touch she causes the imagination of her pupils to be fired and their interest to thrill with the mighty significance of the great event. They feel, vicariously, the poverty of Columbus in his appeals for aid and wish they might have been there to assist. They find themselves standing beside the intrepid mariner, watching the angry waves striving to beat him back. They watch him peering into space, day after day, and feel a thousand pities for him in his suspense. And when he steps out upon the new land, they want to shout out their salvos and proclaim him a victor. =The voyage of Columbus.=--They have yearned, and striven, and prayed with Columbus, and so have lived all the events of his great achievements. Hence, it can never be commonplace in their thinking. The teacher lifted it far away from that plane and made it loom high and large in their consciousness. A dramatic critic avers that the action of the play occurs, not upon the stage, but in the imagination of the auditors; that the players merely cause the imagination to produce the action; and that if nothing were occurring in the imagination of the people in the seats beyond what is occurring on the stage, the audience would leave the theater by way of protest. The artist teacher acts upon this very principle in every class exercise. Neither the teacher nor the book can possibly depict even a moiety of all that she hopes to produce in the imagination of the pupils. She is ever striving to find the one word or sentence that will evoke a whole train of events in their minds. Just here is where her superb art is shown. A whole volume could not portray all that the imagination of the pupils saw in connection with the voyage of Columbus, and yet the teacher caused all these things to happen by the use of comparatively few words. This is high art; this proclaims the artist teacher. =Resourcefulness.=--In her work there is a fineness and a delicacy of touch that baffles a satisfactory analysis. She has the power to call forth Columbus from the past to reënact his great discovery in the imagination of her pupils--all without noise, or bombast, or gesticulation. She does what she does because she is what she is; and she needs neither copyright nor patent for protection. Her work is suffused with a rare sort of enthusiasm that carries conviction by reason of its genuineness. This enthusiasm gives to her work a tone and a flavor that can neither be disguised nor counterfeited. Her work is distinctive, but not sensational or pyrotechnic. Least of all is it ever hackneyed. So resourceful is she in devising new plans and new ways of saying and doing things that her pupils are always animated by a wholesome expectancy. She is the dynamo, but the light and heat that she generates manifest themselves in the minds of her pupils, while she remains serene and quiet. =The thirteen colonies.=--With the poet Keats she can sing: Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Animated by this sentiment, she disdains no form of truth, whether large or small, for in every form of truth she finds beauty; and her spirit reacts to it on the instant, and joy is the resultant. This is the basis for her superb enthusiasm in every detail of her work as well as the source of her joyous living. Her pupils may name the thirteen original colonies without a slip, but that is not enough for her. The establishing of these colonies formed a mighty epoch in history, and she must dwell upon the events until they throb through the life currents of her pupils. Names in books must mean people with all their hopes, their aspirations, their trials and hardships, their sorrows and their joys. The conditions of life, the food, the clothing, the houses, the modes of travel, and the dangers must all come into the mental picture. Hence it is that she prepares for the lesson on the colonies as she would make ready for a trip with the pupils around the world, and the mere giving of names is negligible in her inspiring enterprise. =Every subject invested with life.=--She finds in the circulation of the blood a subject of great import and makes ready for the lesson with enthusiastic anticipation. Her step is elastic as she takes her way to school on this particular day, and her face is beaming, for to-day comes to the children this stupendous revelation. She feels as did the college professor when he was just ready to begin an experiment in his laboratory and said to his students, "Gentlemen, please remove your hats; I am about to ask God a question." She approaches every truth reverently, albeit joyously, for she feels that she is the leader of the children over into the Promised Land. In the book already quoted, Professor Phelps says, "I read in a German play that the mathematician is like a man who lives in a glass room at the top of a mountain covered with eternal snow--he sees eternity and infinity all about him, but not much humanity." Not so in her teaching of mathematics; for every subject and every problem transports her to the Isle of Patmos, and the hour is crowded with revelations. =Human interest.=--And wherever she is, there is humanity. There are no dry bones in her work, for she invests every subject with human interest and causes it to pulsate in the consciousness of her pupils. If there are dry bones when she arrives, she has but to touch them with the magic of her humanity, and they become things of life. Whether long division or calculus, it is to her a part of the living, palpitating truth of the world, and she causes it to live before the minds of the pupils. The so-called dead languages spring to life in her presence, and, like Aaron's rod, blossom and bring forth at her touch. Wherever she walks there are resurrections because life begets life. No science, no mathematics, no history, no language, can be dull or dry when touched by her art, but all become vital because she is vital. By the subtle alchemy of her artistic teaching all the subjects of her school are transmuted into the pure gold of truth and beauty. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What kinds of arts are there other than the fine arts? 2. How do the motives of the artisan differ from those of the artist? 3. What are some of the characteristics that gain one the distinction of being an "artist" teacher? 4. Show that to enjoy respect is more worth while than to attract admiration. 5. Under what conditions can one have joy in his work? Can one do his best without it? 6. What is the result on one's work of brooding over troubles? 7. Henry Ford employs trained sociologists who see that the home relations of his employees are satisfactory. Why? 8. Is one who reads good literature to acquire culture as yet an "artist" teacher? 9. What constitutes character? 10. What is the inference concerning one's culture if his clothes and body are not clean? If his property at the school is not in order? 11. How can one add to his culture? Is what one knows or what one does the more important part of it? Has a high degree of culture been attained by a person who must ever be on his guard? 12. Is feeling an important element of culture? Illustrate. 13. What is the teacher's chief reward? 14. Can a teacher lead pupils to regard work as a privilege rather than as a task, unless she has that attitude herself? 15. In what respects do you regard teaching as a privilege? In what respects is it drudgery to you? 16. Can enthusiasm result if there is a lack of joy in one's work? If there is a deficiency of physical strength? If there is a poor knowledge of the subject? 17. What causes historical facts to seem commonplace? 18. What elements should be emphasized in history to make it seem alive with meaning? 19. What principle of the drama comes into play in teaching, when a teacher desires to invest the subject with life? 20. What advantages are there in having variety in one's plans? 21. Why should one avoid the sensational in school work? What are the characteristics of sensationalism? Is the fact that a class is unusually aroused a reason for decrying a method as sensational? 22. With what spirit should a teacher prepare to teach about the thirteen colonies? 23. Why should a teacher have great joy in the teaching of science? 24. Is interest in a subject as an abstract science likely to be an adequate interest? If so, is it the best sort of interest? Why? 25. From what should interest start, and in what should it function? 26. Summarize the ways in which the artist teacher will show herself the artist. CHAPTER XIV THE TEACHER AS AN IDEAL =Responsibility of the exemplar.=--If the teacher could be convinced that each of her pupils is to become a replica of herself, she would more fully appreciate the responsibilities of her position. At first flush, she might feel flattered; but when she came into a full realization of the magnitude of the responsibility, she would probably seek release. If she could know that each pupil is striving to copy her in every detail of her life, her habits of speech, her bodily movements, her tone of voice, her dress, her walk, and even her manner of thinking, this knowledge would appall her, and she would shrink from the responsibility of becoming the exemplar of the child. She cannot know, however, to what extent and in what respects the pupils imitate her. Nor, perhaps, could they themselves give definite information on these points, if they were put to the test. Children imitate their elders both consciously and unconsciously; so, whether the teacher wills it so or not, she must assume the functions of an exemplar as well as a teacher. =Absorbing standards.=--If we give full credence to Tennyson's statement, "I am a part of all that I have met," then it follows that we have become what we are, in some appreciable measure, through the process of absorption. In other words, we are a composite of all our ideals. The vase of flowers, daintily arranged, on the breakfast table becomes the standard of good taste thenceforth, and all through life a vase of flowers arranged less than artistically gives one a sensation of discomfort. A traveler relates that in a hotel in Brussels he saw window curtains of a delicate pattern; and, since that time, he has sought in many cities for curtains that will fill the measure of the ideal he absorbed in that hotel. Beauty is not in the thing itself, but in the eye of the beholder, and the eye is but the interpreter of the ideal. One person rhapsodizes over a picture that another turns away from, because the latter has absorbed an ideal that is unknown to the former. =Education by absorption.=--This subject of absorption has not received the careful attention that its importance warrants. In the social consciousness education has been so long associated with books, and formal processes, that we find it difficult to conceive of education outside of or beyond books. If, as we so confidently assert, education is a spiritual process, then whatever stimulates the spirit must be education, whether a landscape, a flower, a picture, or a person. The traveler who sits enrapt before the Jungfrau for an hour or a day is becoming more highly educated, even in the absence of books and formalities. The beauty of the mountain touches his spirit, and there is a consequent reaction that fulfills all the claims of the educational processes. In short, he is lifted to a higher plane of appreciation, and that is what the books and the schools are striving to achieve. =The principle illustrated.=--In the presence of this mountain the tourist gains an ideal of grandeur which becomes his standard of estimating scenery throughout life. A boy once heard "The Dead March" played by an artist, and when he was grown to manhood that was still his ideal of majestic music. A traveler asserts that no man can stand for an hour on the summit of Mt. Rigi and not become a better and a stronger man for the experience. A writer on art says that it is worth a trip across the ocean to see the painting of the bull by Paul Potter; but that, of course, depends upon the ideals of the beholder. All these illustrations conform to and are in harmony with the psychological dictum that in the educational process the spirit reacts to its environment. =The teacher as environment.=--But the environment may include people as well as inanimate objects, mountains, rivers, flowers, and pictures. And, as a part of the child's environment, the teacher takes her place in the process of education by absorption. A city superintendent avers that there is one teacher in his corps who would be worth more to his school than the salary she receives even if she did no teaching. This means that her presence in the school is a wholesome influence, and that she is the sort of environment to which the pupils react to their own advantage. It might not be a simple thing to convince some taxpayers of the truth of the superintendent's statement, but this fact only proves that they have not yet come into a realization of the fact that there can be education by absorption. =The Great Stone Face.=--The people of Florence maintain that they need not travel abroad to see the world, for the reason that the world comes to them. It is true that many thousands visit that city annually to win a definition of art. There they absorb their ideals of art and thus attain abiding standards. In like manner the child may sojourn in the school to gain an ideal of grace of manner and personal charm as exemplified by the teacher, and no one will have the temerity to assert that this phase of the child's education is less important than those that are acquired through the formal processes. The boy in the story grew into the likeness of the "Great Stone Face" because that had become his ideal, and not because he had had formal instruction in the subject of stone faces, or had taken measurements of or computed the dimensions of the one stone face. He grew into its likeness because he thought of it, dreamed of it, absorbed it, and was absorbed by it, and reacted to it whenever it came into view. =Pedagogy in literature.=--Hawthorne, in this story, must have been trying to teach the lesson of unconscious education or education by absorption, but his readers have not all been quick to catch his meaning. Teachers often take great unction in the reflection that they afford to the child his only means of education, and that but for them the child would never become educated at all. We are slow to admit that there are many sources of education besides the school, and that formal instruction is not the only road to the acquisition of knowledge. Tennyson knew and expressed this conception in the quotation already given, but we have not acquired the habit of consulting the poets and novelists for our pedagogy. When we learn to consult these, we shall find them expressing many tenets of pedagogy that are basic. =The testimony of experience.=--But we need not go beyond our own experiences to realize that much of our education has been unconsciously gained, that we have absorbed much of it, and, possibly, what we now regard as the most vital part of it. We have but to explore our own experiences to discover some person whose standards have been effective in luring us out of ourselves and causing us to yearn toward higher levels; who has been the beacon light toward which our feet have been stumbling; who has been the pattern by which we have sought to shape our lives; and for whom we feel a sense of gratitude that cannot be quenched. The influence of that person has been a liberal education in the vital things that the books do not teach, and we shudder to think what we might have been had that influence not come into our lives. This ideal is not some mythical, far-away person, but a real man or woman who has challenged our admiration by looks, by conduct, by position, and by general bearing in society. =The one teacher.=--This preliminary part of the subject has been dwelt upon thus at length in an effort to win assent to the general proposition that unconscious education is not only possible, but an actuality. This assent being once given, the mind feels out at once for applications of the principle and, inevitably, brings the parent and the teacher into the field of view. But the parent is too near to us in time, in space, and in relation to afford the illustration that we seek, and we pass on to the teacher. In the experience of each one of us there stands out at least one teacher as clear in definition as a cameo. This teacher may not have been the most scholarly, or the most successful in popular esteem, or even the most handsome, but she had some quality that differentiates her in our thinking from all others. Others may seem but a sort of blur in our memory, but not so this one. She alone is distinct, distinctive, and regnant. =Her supremacy.=--The vicissitudes of life have not availed to dethrone her, nor have the losses, perplexities, and sorrows of life caused the light of her influence to grow dim. She is still an abiding presence with us, nor can we conceive of any influence that could possibly obliterate her. She may have been idealized by degrees, but when she came fully into our lives she came to stay. She came not as a transient guest, but as a lifelong friend and comrade. She crept into our lives as gently as the dawn comes over the hills, and since her arrival there has been no sunset. Nor was there ever by pupil or teacher any profession or protestation, but we simply accepted each other with a frankness that would have been weakened by words. =The rôle of ideal.=--But the rôle of ideal is not an easy one. It is a comparatively simple matter to give instruction in geography, arithmetic, and history, but to know one's self to be the ideal of a child, or to conceive of the possibility of such a situation and relation, is sufficient to render the teacher deeply thoughtful. Once it is borne in upon her that the child will grow into her likeness, she cannot dismiss the matter from her thinking as she can the lesson in grammar. The child may be unconscious of the matter, but the teacher is acutely conscious. When she stands before her class she sees the child growing into her image, and this reflection gives cause and occasion for a careful and critical introspection. She feels constrained to take an inventory of herself to determine whether she can stand a test that is so searching and so far-reaching. =The teacher's other self.=--As she stands thus in contemplation she sees the child grown to maturity with all her own predilections--physical, mental, spiritual--woven into the pattern of its life. In this child grown up she sees her other self and can thus estimate the qualities of body, mind, and spirit that now constitute herself, as they reveal themselves in another. She thus gains the child's point of view and so is able to see herself through the child's eyes. When she is reading a book, she is aware that the child is looking over her shoulder to note the quality of literature that engages her interest. When she is making a purchase at the shop, she finds the child standing at her elbow and duplicating her order. When she is buying a picture, she is careful to see to it that there are two copies, knowing that a second copy must be provided for the child. When she is arranging her personal adornment, she is conscious of the child peeping through the door and absorbing her with languishing eyes. =The status irrevocable.=--Wherever she goes or whatever she does, she knows that the child is walking in her footsteps and reënacting her conduct. Her status is irrevocably fixed in the life of the child, nor can any philosophy or sophistry absolve her from the situation. She cannot abdicate her place in favor of another, nor can she win immunity from responsibility. She is the child's ideal for weal or woe, nor can men or angels change this big fact. Through all the hours of the day she hears the child saying, "Whither thou goest I will go," and there is no escape. =The child's viewpoint.=--This is no flight of fancy. Rather it is a reality in countless schoolrooms of the land if only the teachers were alive to the fact. But we have been so busy measuring, estimating, scoring, and surveying the child for our purposes that we have given but scant consideration to the child's point of view as regards the teacher. We have not been quick to note the significant fact that the child is estimating, measuring, scoring, and surveying the teacher for purposes of its own and in the strictest obedience to the laws of its nature. =The child's need of ideals.=--Every child needs and has a right to ideals, and finds the teacher convenient both in space and in the nature of her work to act in this capacity. Because of the character of her work and her peculiar relation to the child, the teacher assumes a place of leadership, and the child naturally appropriates her as the lodestar for which his nature is seeking. And so, whether the teacher leads into the morass or into the jungle, the child will follow; but if she elects to take her way up to the heights, there will be the child as faithful as her shadow. If the teacher plucks flowers by the way, then, in time, gathering flowers will become habitual to the child, nor will there be any need to admonish the child to gather flowers. The teacher plucks flowers, and that becomes the child's command. Education by absorption needs neither admonition nor homilies. =The ideal a perpetual influence.=--And all this is life--actual life, fundamental life, and inevitable life. Moreover, the inevitableness of this phase of life serves to accentuate its importance. The idealized teacher gives to the child his ideals of conduct, literature, art, music, home, school, and service. Take this teacher out of his life and these ideals vanish. Better by far eliminate the formal instruction, important as that may be made to be, than to rob the child of his ideals. They are the influences that are ever active even when formal instruction is quiescent. They are potent throughout the day and throughout the year. They induce reactions and motor activities that groove into habits, and they are the external stimuli to which the spirit responds. =The teacher's attitude.=--The vitalized school takes full cognizance of this phase and means of education and gives large scope and freedom for its exercise and development. The teacher is more concerned with who and what her pupils are to be twenty years hence than she is in getting them promoted to the next grade. She knows full well that vision clarifies sight, and she is eager to enlarge their vision in order to make their sight more keen and clear. She, therefore, adopts as her own standards of life and conduct what she wishes for her pupils when they have come to maturity. She may not proclaim herself an ideal teacher or a model teacher, but she is cognizant of the fact that she is the model and the ideal of one or more pupils in her school and bases her rule of life upon this fact. =Prophetic conduct.=--In her dress she decides between ornateness and simplicity as a determining factor in the lives of her pupils both for the present and for the years to come. In this she feels that she is but doing her part in helping to determine the trend and quality of civilization. She is reading such books as she hopes to find in their libraries when they have come to administer homes of their own. She is directing her thinking into such channels as will bear the thoughts of her pupils out into the open sea of bigness and sublimity. Knowing that pettiness will be inimical to society in the next generation, she is careful to banish it from her own life. =Her rule of life.=--In her thinking she comes into intimate relations with the sea and all its ramified influences upon life. She invites the mountains to take her into their confidence and reveal to her the mysteries of their origin, and their influence upon the winds, the seasons, the products of the earth, and upon life itself. She communes with the great of all times that she may learn of their concepts as to the immensities which the mind can explore, as well as intricate and infinite manifestations of the human soul. She associates with the planets and rides the spaces in their company. She asks the flowers, the sunrise glow of the morning, the hues of the rainbow, and the drop of dew to explain to her what God is, and rejoices in their responses. =Her growth.=--And so, through her thinking she grows big--big in her aspirations, big in her sympathies with all nature and mankind, big in her altruism, and big in her conceptions of the universe and all that it embraces. And when people come to know her they almost lose sight of the teacher in their contemplation of the woman. Her pupils, by their close contact and communion, became inoculated with the germs of her bigness and so follow the lead of her thinking, her aspirations, her sympathies, and her conceptions of life. Thus they grow into her likeness by absorbing her thoughts, her ideals, her standards, in short, herself. =Seeing life large.=--The bigness of her spirit and her ability to see and feel life in the large superinduce dignity, poise, and serenity. She never flutters; but, calm and masterful, she moves on her majestic way with regal mien. Nor is her teaching less thorough or less effective because she has a vision. On the contrary, she teaches cube root with accuracy and still is able to see and to cause her pupils to see the index finger pointing out and up toward the mathematical infinities. She can give the latitude and longitude of Rome, and, while doing so, review the achievements of that historic city. She can explain the action of the geyser and still find time and inclination to take delight in its wonders. She can analyze the flower and still revel in its beauty. She can teach the details of history and find in them the footprints of great historical movements. All these things her pupils sense and so invest her with the attributes of an ideal. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Do most teachers realize to what extent they have influence? 2. Is it comfortable to think that one is an example? If not, why not? Is it only teachers who need to feel that they are examples? Is it fair to demand a higher standard of the teacher and preacher? 3. Give from your own experience instances in which you have absorbed an ideal which has persisted. Is there danger of adopting an ideal that, while it is worthy as far as it goes, is merely incidental and not worth while? (Such are an accurate memory of unimportant details, certain finesse in manners and speech, punctiliousness in engagements, exhaustiveness in shopping before making purchases, perfection in penmanship and other arts at the expense of speed: suggest others.) 4. How can the contemplation of a rainbow educate? What education should result from a view of Niagara Falls? 5. What qualities would a teacher have to possess that her influence aside from her teaching might be of more value than the teaching itself? 6. That one may have influence is it enough for one to be good, or is it what one does that counts? Suggest lines of action for a teacher that would increase her influence for good. 7. Explain how a fine unconscious influence exerted by a teacher helps to keep pupils in school. 8. In Hawthorne's story of the _Great Stone Face_ what qualities were attained by those whom Ernest expected to grow into the likeness? 9. Why did Ernest's face come to resemble that of the great stone face? 10. In what ways is good fiction of value to teachers? 11. Cite something that you have gained from the unconscious influence of another. 12. What attainments or qualities have you yet to acquire in order to stand out as "distinctive and regnant" to a good many pupils? 13. A bacteriologist makes a "culture" of a drop of blood, multiplying many times the bacteria in it, to determine whether serious disease germs are prevalent. If the influence of a person could be observed in a large way, would that be conclusive as to the person's character, just as the result of the culture proves the condition of the blood? May there not be an obscure element in the teacher's character that is having a deleterious effect? Or is it only the outstanding features of his conduct that affect the pupils? 14. Why is it more important to acquire ideals than to acquire knowledge? 15. Describe the attitude of the teacher toward the pupils in the "vitalized" school. 16. Show how the teacher should have in view the future of the pupils. 17. Is it a compliment to be easily recognized as a teacher? Why or why not? 18. Just what is meant by "narrowness" in a teacher? What is meant by "bigness"? What is their effect if the teacher is taken as an ideal? 19. Can one instill high ideals in others without frequently absorbing inspiration himself? What are suitable sources? CHAPTER XV THE SOCIALIZED RECITATION =The term defined.=--The socialized recitation, as its name implies, is a recitation in which teacher and pupils form themselves into a committee of the whole for the purpose of investigating some phase of a school study. In this committee the line of cleavage between teacher and pupils is obliterated as nearly as possible, the teacher exercising only so much of authority as will preserve the integrity of the group and forestall its disintegration. The teacher thus becomes a coördinate and coöperating member of the group, and her superior knowledge of the subject is held in abeyance to be called into requisition only in an emergency and as a last resort. It will readily be seen, however, that the teacher's knowledge of the subject must be far more comprehensive in such a procedure than in the question-and-answer type of recitation, for the very cogent reason that the discussion is both liable and likely to diverge widely from the limits of the book; and the teacher must be conversant, therefore, with all the auxiliary facts. She must be able to cite authorities in case of need, and make specific data readily accessible to all members of the group. This presupposes wide reading on her part, and a consequent familiarity with all the sources of knowledge that have a bearing upon the subject under consideration. =The pupil-teacher.=--In order to make the coöperative principle of the recitation active in practice a pupil acts as chairman of the meeting, serving in rotation, and gives direction to the discussion. He is clothed with authority, also, to restrict the discussion to time limits that there may be no semblance of monopoly and that the same rights and privileges may be accorded to each member of the class. The chairman, in short, acts both as captain and as umpire, with the teacher in the background as the court of final appeal. Knowing the order of rotation, each pupil knows in advance upon what day he is to assume the functions of chairman and makes preparation accordingly, that he may acquit himself with credit in measuring up to the added responsibilities which the position imposes. In taking the chair he does not affect an air of superiority for the reason that he knows the position to have come to him by rotation and that upon his conduct of the duties depend his chances for honor; and acting for his peers he is careful not to do anything that will lead to a forfeiture of their respect and good will. =Some advantages.=--It requires far more time to describe these preliminary arrangements than it does to put them into operation. Indeed, after the first day, they become well-nigh automatic. Because of their adaptableness the pupils look upon the new order as the established order, and, besides, the rotation in the chair affords a pleasing antidote to monotony. Each day brings just enough novelty to generate a wholesome degree of anticipation. They are all stimulated by an eagerness to know just what the day will bring forth. The class exercise is relieved of much of the heavy formalism that characterizes the traditional recitation and that is so irksome to children of school age. The socialized recitation is a worthy enterprise that enlists the interest of all members of the group and unifies them upon the plane of a common purpose. In the common quest they become members in a social compact whose object is the investigation of some subject that has been found worthy the attention and thoughtful consideration of scholars and authors. =The gang element.=--The members of the group represent all strata of society, and the group is, in consequence, a working democracy. Moving in the same direction under a common impulse and intent upon a laudable enterprise, race and class distinctions are considered negligible, if, indeed, they are not entirely overlooked or forgotten. The group is, in truth, a sublimated gang with the undesirable elements eliminated and the potential qualities of the gang retained. The gang spirit when impelling in right directions and toward worthy ends is to be highly commended. In the gang, each member stimulates and reënforces the other members, and their achievements in combination amply justify their coöperation. The potency of the gang spirit is well exemplified in such enterprises as "tag day" for the benefit of charity, the sale of Red Cross stamps, and the sale of special editions of papers. People willingly enlist in these enterprises who would not do so but for the element of coöperation. We have come to recognize and write upon the psychology of the gang, and the socialized recitation strives to utilize these psychological principles for the advancement and advantage of the enterprise in hand. =Proprietary interest.=--In a coöperative enterprise such as the one under consideration each member of the group feels a sense of responsibility for the success of the enterprise as a whole, and this makes for increased effort. In the traditional recitation the pupil feels responsibility only for that part of the lesson upon which he is called to recite. In his thinking the enterprise belongs to the teacher, and therefore he feels no proprietary interest. If the lesson is a failure, he experiences no special compunction; if a success, he feels no special elation. If the trunk with which he struggles up the stairs is his own, he has the feeling of a victor when he reaches the top; but since it belongs to the teacher, he feels that he has finished a disagreeable task, takes his compensating pittance in the form of a grade, and goes on his complacent way. The boy who digs potatoes from his own garden thinks them larger and smoother than the ones he digs for wages. The latter are potatoes, while the former are his potatoes. Proprietary interest sinks its roots deep into the motives that impel to action. =This interest in practice.=--The recitation in question strives to generate a proprietary interest in the enterprise on the part of every member of the class so that each one may have a share in the joy of success. Such an interest gives direction and efficacy to the work of the class exercise. Given such an interest, the pupil will not sit inert through the period unless stimulated by a question from the teacher, but will ask intelligent and pertinent questions to help the enterprise along. Moreover, each pupil, because of his proprietary interest in the enterprise, will feel constrained to bring to class such subsidiary aids as his home affords. His interest causes him to react to clippings, pictures, magazine articles, books, and conversations that have a bearing upon the topic, and these he contributes opportunely in his zeal for the success of the recitation. His pockets become productive of a varied assortment of materials that the tentacles of his interest have seized upon in his preparation for the event, and so all members of the class become beneficiaries of his explorations and discoveries. =The potency of ownership.=--A child is interested in his own things. The little girl fondles her doll in the most tender way, even though it does not measure up to the accepted standards of excellence or elegance. But it is her doll; hence her affection. Volumes have been written upon the general subject of interest, and we have been admonished to attach our teaching to the native interests of the child, but the fundamental interest of proprietorship has strangely enough been overlooked. If we want to discover and localize the child's interest, we have but to make an inventory of his possessions. His pony, his dog, or his cart will discover to us one of his interests. Again, if we would generate an interest in the child, we have but to make him conscious that he is the owner of the thing for which we hope to awaken his interest. This is fundamental in this type of recitation. The teacher effaces herself as much as possible in order to develop in the pupils a feeling of proprietorship in the exercise in progress, and the pupils are quick to take the advantage thus afforded to make the work their own. =Exemplified in society.=--The socialized recitation has its counterpart in many a group in society. In the blacksmith shop, at the grocery, in the barber shop, in the office, at the club, and in the field, we find groups of people in earnest, animated conversation or discussion. They are discussing politics, religion, community affairs, public improvements, tariff, war, fashions, crops, live stock, or machinery. Whatever the topic, they pursue the give-and-take policy in their efforts to arrive at the truth. They contest every point and make concessions only when they are confronted by indisputable facts. Some feeling, or even acrimony, may be generated in the course of the discussion, but this is always accounted a weakness and a substitute for valid argument. The recitation is rather more decorous than some of these other discussions, but, in principle, they are identical. Every one has freedom to express his convictions and to adduce contributory arguments or evidence. There are no restrictions save the implied one of decorum. The utmost courtesy obtains in the recitation, even at the sacrifice of some eagerness. There may be a half-dozen members of the group on their feet and anxious to be heard, but they do not interrupt one another without due apology. =Abiding resultants.=--Unlike some of their elders, they are ready to acknowledge mistakes and to make concessions. They do not scruple to correct the mistakes of others, knowing that corrections will be gratefully received, but they do not accept mere statements from one another. They must have evidence. They combat statements with evidence from books or other sources that are regarded as authorities. They read extracts, or draw diagrams, or display pictures or specimens in support of their contentions. There is animation, to be sure; and, at times, the flushed face and the flashing eye betoken intense feeling. But the psychologist knows full well that these expressions intensify and make abiding the impressions. Both in victory and in defeat the pupil comes to an appreciation of the truth. Defeat may humiliate, but he will evermore know the rock on which his craft was wrecked. Victory may elate and exalt, but he will not forget the occasion or the facts. The truths of the lesson become enmeshed in his nervous system and throughout life they will be a part of himself. =Reflex influence.=--Still further, this type of recitation reaches back into the home and begets a wholesome coöperation between the home and the school, and this is a desideratum of no slight import. The events of the day are recounted at the home in the evening, and the contributions of the members of the family are deposited as assets in the recitation the next day. Then the family is eager to learn of the reactions of the class to their contributions. Such a community of interests cannot be confined to the four walls of a home, but finds its way to other homes and to places of business; the discussions of the class become the property of society, and the influence is most salutary. Indirectly, the school is affording the people of the community many profitable topics of conversation, and these readily supplant the futile and less profitable topics. It is easy to measure the intelligence of an individual or of a community by noting the topics of conversation. Gossip and small talk do not thrive in a soil that has been thoroughly inoculated with history, art, music, literature, economics, and statecraft. =Influence upon pupils.=--From the foregoing it will be seen that this type of recitation represents, not a _modus operandi_, but, rather, a _modus vivendi_, not a way of doing things, merely, but a manner of living. The work of the school is redeemed from the plane of a task and lifted to the plane of a privilege. The pupil's initiative is given full recognition and inspiriting freedom ensues. The teacher is not a taskmaster but a friend in need. Pupils and teacher live and work together in an enterprise in which they have common interests. The emoluments attending success are shared equally and there is no place for envy in the distribution of dividends. There is fair dealing in every detail of the work, with no semblance of discrimination. There is a cash basis in every transaction. If a pupil's offerings are rejected, he sees at once that they are inferior to others and becomes a willing shareholder in the ones that are superior to his own. Nothing that is spurious or counterfeit can gain currency in the enterprise, because of the critical inspection of the members of the group, all of whom are jealous for the preservation of the integrity of their organization. In this cross section of life we find young people learning, by the laboratory method, the real meaning of reciprocity; we find them winning the viewpoints of others with no abatement or abrogation of their own individuality; we find them able and willing to make concessions for the general good; we find them learning justice and discrimination in their assessment of values; we find them enlarging their horizons by ascending to higher levels of intelligence. This work is as much a part of life for them as their food or their games and they accept it on the same terms. They are becoming upright, intelligent, effective citizens by performing some of the work that engages the time and energies of such citizens. They are learning how to live by the experience of actual living. =Part of an actual recitation given.=--Some schools have developed this type of recitation to a very complete degree and in a very effective way. In one such school the young woman who teaches the subject of history makes the following report of a part of one of her recitations in this study: The class was called to order by the chairman for the assignment for the next day's lesson, which proceeded as follows: Teacher:--To-morrow we shall have for the work of this convention the New Constitution as a whole. We are ready for suggestions as to how we had best proceed. Earl:--It seems to me that a good way would be to compare it with the Articles of Confederation. Joe:--I don't quite get your idea. Do you mean to take them article by article? Earl:--Yes. (Joe and Frank begin at the same time. Teacher indicates Joe by nod.) Joe:--But there are so many things in the new that are not in the old. Earl:--That is just it. Let's make a list of the points in one that do not appear in the other. Then by investigation and discussion see if we can tell why. Teacher:--Frank, you had something to say a moment ago. Frank:--Not on Earl's plan, which I think an excellent one, but I wished to ask the class if they think it important while looking through these two documents to keep in mind the questions: "Is this the way things are done to-day?" and "Does this apply in our own city?" and "In case the President or Congress failed in their duty, what could the people do about it?" Ella:--It seems to me that Frank's suggestion is a good one for it bears upon what we decided in the beginning, that we must apply the history of the past to see how it affects us to-day. Violet:--I should like to know how the people received the work of this convention. You know that it was all so secret no one knew what they were doing behind their closed doors. If the people were like they are to-day there would certainly be some opposition to the New Constitution. Elsie:--Good. Mr. Chairman, I move that Violet report the reception and rejection of the New Constitution by the people of the several States as a special topic for to-morrow. Robert:--Second the motion. Chairman:--Miss Brown, have you any suggestion as to time limit? Teacher:--I suggest ten minutes. (Chairman puts vote and suggestion is carried.) Teacher:--Mr. Chairman, may we have the secretary read the several points in the assignment? At the chairman's request the secretary reads and the class note as follows: Study of the New Constitution, emphasizing points of similarity and difference. Seek reasons for same. Application of Constitution to our present-day life. Remedy for failures if officers fail to do their duty. Special topic ten minutes in length on the reception of the Constitution by the people of the different States. Teacher:--I think that will be enough--consult the text. In connection with the special topic some valuable material may be found in the Civics section in the reference room. The other references on this subject you had given you. Mr. Chairman, may we have the secretary read the points brought out by yesterday's recitation? QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What is meant by the "socialized recitation" as the term is here used? 2. Define separately the word "socialized" as used in this connection. 3. What are the teacher's functions in such a recitation? 4. What are the teacher's functions in the traditional recitation? 5. Compare the kinds of knowledge required of a teacher in connection with the two types of recitations. 6. Suggest a method of proceeding in a socialized recitation and show the advantages of the method. 7. Give some of the reasons why the socialized recitation enhances interest. 8. What is the essence of the "gang spirit"? 9. Compare the character and extent of the individual's responsibility in the two types of recitations. 10. In what other ways is the socialized recitation likely to produce better reactions? 11. Some one says that the convention style of recitation will not do, because a few do all of the work. From your experience or observation do you find this true? If so, is this condition peculiar to that type of recitation? Suggest methods of counteracting this tendency in the socialized class. Would these prove effective in a class taught in the ordinary way? 12. Is one likely to overestimate the value of one's possessions, mental or physical? Are the pupils (and perhaps the teacher) likely to overestimate what is done in the socialized recitation? What things may offset this tendency? 13. Compare the socialized recitation with a debate. 14. Compare it with an ordinary discussion or argument. 15. Show just why the results of the socialized recitation are likely to be permanent. 16. How does socialized class work affect the home and society? 17. Though school is a preparation for life, it, at the same time, is life. Show that the socialized recitation presupposes this truth. 18. Compare the value of the assignment of a history lesson in the manner described in the notes quoted with the value of an ordinary assignment. 19. Describe at least one other socialized recitation. 20. Compare socialized work as described in Scott's Social Education (C. A. Scott, Ginn & Co., 1908) with the socialized recitation here described, as to (_a_) aim, (_b_) method, (_c_) results. 21. "Lessons require two kinds of industry, the private individual industry and the social industry or class work." Is this true? If so, what sort of recitation-lesson will stimulate each kind? CHAPTER XVI AGRICULTURE =Agriculture a typical study.=--In the vitalized school the subject of agriculture is typical and may profitably be elaborated somewhat by way of illustrating the relation of a subject to school procedure. From whatever angle we approach the subject of agriculture we find it inextricably connected with human life. This fact alone gives to it the rank of first importance. Its present prominence as a school study is conclusive evidence that those who are charged with the responsibility of administering the schools are becoming conscious of the need for vitalizing them. Time was when arithmetic was regarded as the most practical subject in the school and, therefore, it was given precedence over all others. History, grammar, and geography were relegated to secondary rank, and agriculture was not even thought of as a school study. But as population increased and the problem of providing food began to loom large in the public consciousness, the subject of agriculture assumed an importance that rendered it worthy a place in the school curriculum. It is a high tribute to the school that whenever any subject takes hold of the public mind the school is thought of at once as the best agency for promulgating that subject. The subjects of temperance and military training aptly illustrate this statement of fact. =Its rapid development.=--So soon, therefore, as the subject of agriculture became prominent in the public consciousness there ensued a speedy development of colleges and schools of agriculture for the training of teachers. This movement was prophetic of the plan and purpose to incorporate this study in the school régime. And this prophecy has been fulfilled, for the school now looks upon agriculture as a basic study. True, we are as yet only feeling our way, and that for the very good reason that the magnitude of the subject bewilders us. We have written many textbooks on the subject that were soon supplemented by better ones. The more the subject is studied, the more we appreciate its far-reaching ramifications. We find it attaching itself to many other subjects to which it seemed to have but remote relation in the earlier stages of our study. In brief, we are now on the borderland of a realization of the fact that agriculture is as broad as life and, therefore, must embrace many other studies that have a close relation to life. =Relation to geology and other sciences.=--In the beginning, geology and agriculture seemed far apart, but our closer study of agriculture has revealed the fact that they are intimately related. It remained for agriculture to lay the right emphasis upon geology. The study of the composition and nature of the soil carried us at once to a study of its origin and we found ourselves at the very door of geology. When we began to inquire how the soil came to be where it is and what it is, we found ourselves yearning for new and clearer lines of demarcation in science, for we could scarcely distinguish between geology and physiography. We soon traced our alluvial plains back to their upland origin, and then we were compelled to explain their migration. This led us inevitably into the realm of meteorology, for, if we omit meteorology, the chain is broken and we lose our way in our search for the explanation we need. But having availed ourselves of the aid of meteorology, we have a story that is full of marvelous interest--the great story of the evolution of the cornfield. In this story we find many alluring details of evaporation, air movements, precipitation, erosion, and the attraction of gravitation. But in all this we are but lingering in the anteroom of agriculture. =The importance of botany.=--Advancing but a single step we find ourselves in the realm of botany, which is a field so vast and so fascinating that men have devoted an entire lifetime to its wonders, and then realized that they had but made a beginning in the way of exploring its possibilities. In our own time Mr. Burbank has made his name known throughout the world by his work in one phase of this subject, and a score of other Burbanks might be working with equal success in other branches of the subject and still not trench upon one another's domain. Venturesome, indeed, would be the prophet who would attempt to predict the developments in the field of botany in the next century in the way of providing food, shelter, and clothing for the race. The possibilities stagger the imagination and the prophet stands bewildered as he faces this ever-widening field. But botany, vast as it is seen to be, is only one of the branching sciences connected with agriculture. =Physics and chemistry.=--Another advance brings us into the wide and fertile field of physics and chemistry, for in these subjects we find the means of interpreting much in agriculture that without their aid would elude our grasp. We have only to resolve a grain of corn into its component elements to realize the potency and scope of chemistry. Then if we inquire into the sources of these elements as they have come from the soil to form this grain of corn, the indispensability of a knowledge of chemistry will become more apparent. In our explanations we shall soon come upon capillary attraction, and the person is dull, indeed, who does not stand in awe before the mystery of this subject. If we broaden our inquiry so as to compass the evolution of an ear of corn, we shall realize that we have entered upon an inquiry of vast and fascinating import. The intricate and delicate processes of growth, combining, as they do, the influences of sunshine and moisture and the conversion into food products of elements whose origin goes back to primeval times,--these processes are altogether worthy of the combined enthusiasms of scientist and poet. =Physiology.=--But no mention has been made, as yet, of the science of physiology, which, alone, requires volumes. We have but to ask how wheat is converted into brain power to come upon a realization of the magnitude of the study of this science. We have only to relax the leash of fancy to see that there are no limits to the excursions that may be made in this field. If we allow fancy to roam, taking the _a posteriori_ course, we might begin with "Paradise Lost" and reach its sources in garden and field, in orchard, and in pasture where graze flocks and herds. But in any such fanciful meandering we should be well within the limits of physiology, and should be trying to interpret the adaptation of means to end, or, to use the language of the present, we should be making a quest to determine how the products of field, orchard, and pasture may be utilized that they may function in poetry, in oratory, in discoveries, and in inventions. In short, we should be trying to explain to ourselves how agriculture functions in life. =Art as an auxiliary.=--In a recent work of fiction a chapter opens with a picture of a little girl eating a slice of bread and butter which is further surmounted by apple sauce and sugar. If the author of the book "Agriculture and Life" had only caught a glimpse of this picture, he might have changed the title of his book to "Life and Agriculture." He certainly would have given to the life element far more prominence than his book in its present form affords. His title makes a promise which the book itself does not redeem, more's the pity. If science would use art as an ally, it need not be less scientific, and its teachings would prove far more palatable. The little girl with her bread and butter would prove quite as apt as an introductory picture for a book on agriculture as for a work of fiction. It matters not that agriculture includes so many other sciences, for life is the great objective of the study of all these, and the little girl exemplifies life. =Relation of sciences to life.=--The pictures are practically endless with which we might introduce the study of agriculture--a boy in the turnip field, a milkmaid beside the cow, or Millet's celebrated picture "Feeding the Birds." And, sooner or later, pursuing our journey from such a starting point, we shall arrive at physiology, chemistry, botany, physics, meteorology, and geology, and still never be detached from the subject of life. In the school consciousness agriculture and domestic science seem far apart, but by right teaching they are made to merge in the subject of life. Upon that plane we find them to be complementary and reciprocal. In the same way chemistry, botany, and physiology merge in agriculture for the reason that all these sciences as well as agriculture have to do with life. In the traditional school chemistry is taught as chemistry--as a branch of science, and the learner is encouraged to seek for knowledge. In the vitalized school the truths of chemistry are no less clearly revealed, but, in addition, their relations to life are made manifest, and the learner has a fuller appreciation of life, because of his study of chemistry. =Traditional methods.=--In the traditional school domestic science is taught that the girl may learn how to cook; but in the vitalized school the girl learns how to cook that she may be able to make life more agreeable and productive both for herself and for others. In the traditional school the study of agriculture consists of the testing of soils and seeds, working out scientific theories on the subject of the rotation of crops, testing for food values the various products of the farm, judging stock, studying the best method of propagating and caring for orchards, and testing for the most economic processes for conserving and marketing crops. In the vitalized school all this is done, but this is not the ultimate goal of the study. The end is not reached until all these ramifications have touched life. =The child as the objective.=--Reverting once more to the little girl of the picture, it will be conceded, upon careful consideration, that she is the center and focus of all the activities of mind and hand pertaining to agriculture. Every furrow that is plowed is plowed for her; every tree that is planted is planted for her; every crop that is harvested is harvested for her; and every trainload of grain is moving toward her as its destination. But for her, farm machinery would be silent, orchards would decay, trains would cease to move, and commerce would be no more. She it is that causes the wheels to turn, the harvesters to go forth to the fields, the experiment stations to be equipped and operated, the markets to throb with activity, and the ships of commerce to ply the ocean. For her the orchard, the granary, the dairy, and the loom give of their stores, and a million willing hands till, and toil, and spin. =The story of bread.=--But the bread and butter, the apple sauce, and the sugar! They may not be omitted from the picture. The bread transports us to the fields of waving grain and conjures up in our imagination visions of harvesters with their implements, wagons groaning beneath their golden loads, riches of grain pouring forth from machines, and brings to our nostrils the tang of the harvest time. Into this slice of bread the sun has poured his wealth of sunshine all the summer long, and into it the kindly clouds have distilled their treasures. In it we find the glory of the sunrise, the sparkling dewdrop, the song of the robin, the gentle mooing of the cows, the murmur of the brook, and the creaking of the mill wheel. In it we read the poetry of the morning and of the evening, the prophecy of the noontide heat, and the mighty proclamations of Nature. And it tells us charming stories of health, of rosy cheeks, of laughing eyes, of happiness, of love and service. =Food and life.=--The butter, the apple sauce, and the sugar each has a story of its own to tell that renders fiction weak by comparison. If our hearts were but attuned to the charm and romance of the stories they have to tell, every breakfast-table would be redolent with the fragrance of thanksgiving. If our hearts were responsive to the eloquence of these stories, then eating would become a ceremony and upon the farmer who provides our food would descend our choicest benedictions. If the scales could but fall from our eyes that we might behold the visions which our food foretells, we could look down the vista of the years and see the children grown to manhood and womanhood, happy and busy in their work of enlarging and beautifying civilization. =Agriculture the source of life.=--Agriculture is not the sordid thing that our dull eyes and hearts would make it appear. In it we shall find the romance of a Victor Hugo, the poetry of a Shelley or a Shakespeare, the music of a Mozart, the eloquence of a Demosthenes, and the painting of a Raphael, when we are able to interpret its real relation to life. When the morning stars sang together they were celebrating the birth of agriculture, but man became bewildered in the mazes of commercialism and forgot the music of the stars. It is the high mission of the vitalized school to lead us back from our wanderings and to restore us to our rightful estate amid the beauties, the inspiration, the poetry, and the far-reaching prophecies of agriculture. This it can do only by revealing to us the possibilities, the glories, and the joy of life and causing us to know that agriculture is the source of life. =Synthetic teaching.=--The analytic teaching of agriculture will not avail; we must have the synthetic also. Too long have we stopped short with analysis. We have come within sight of the promised land but have failed to go up and possess it. We have studied the skeleton of agriculture but have failed to endow it with life. We must keep before our eyes the picture of the little girl. We must feel that the quintessence and spirit of agriculture throbs through all the arteries of life. Here lies the field in which imagination can do its perfect work. Here is a subject in which the vitalized school may find its highest and best justification. By no means is it the only study that fitly exemplifies life, but, in this respect, it is typical, and therefore a worthy study. On the side of analysis the teacher finds the blade of grass to be a thing of life; on the side of synthesis she finds the blade of grass to be a life-giving thing. And the synthesis is no less in accord with science than the analysis. =The element of faith.=--Then again agriculture and life meet and merge on the plane of faith. The element of faith fertilizes life and causes it to bring forth in abundance. Man must have faith in himself, faith in the people about him, and faith in his own plans and purposes to make his life potent and pleasurable. By faith he attaches the truths of science to his plans and thus to the processes of life; for without the faith of man these truths of science are but static. Faith gives them their working qualities. There is faith in the plowing of each furrow, faith in the sowing of the seed, faith in the planting of each tree, and faith in the purchase of each machine. The farmer who builds a silo has faith that the products of the summer will bring joy and health to the winter. By faith he transmutes the mountains of toil into valleys of delight. Through the eyes of faith he sees the work of his hands bringing in golden sheaves of health and gladness to his own and other homes. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. In what ways is agriculture a typical study? 2. Why was its importance not realized until recently? 3. What educational agency in your state first reflected the need of scientific instruction in agriculture? 4. The study of agriculture in the public school was at first ridiculed. Why? What is now the general attitude toward it? 5. To what extent is the study of agriculture important in the city school? Is there another subject as important for the city school as agriculture is for the rural school? 6. Mention some school subjects that are closely related to agriculture. Show how each is related to agriculture. 7. Is Luther Burbank's work to be regarded as botanical or as agricultural? Why? To which of these sciences do plant variation and improvement properly belong? 8. In many schools agriculture and domestic science are associated in the curriculum. What have they in common to justify this? 9. In the chemistry class in a certain school food products are examined for purity. How will this increase the pupils' knowledge of chemistry? 10. In a certain school six girls appointed for the day cook luncheon for one hundred persons, six other girls serve it, and six others figure the costs. Criticize this plan. 11. Show how some particular phase of agricultural instruction may function in agricultural practice. 12. What benefits accrue to a teacher from the study of a subject in its ramifications? 13. In what respects is agriculture a noble pursuit? Compare it in this respect with law. How does agriculture lead to the exercise of faith? Teaching? Law? Electrical engineering? CHAPTER XVII THE SCHOOL AND THE COMMUNITY =An analogy.=--If we may win a concept of the analogy between the vitalized school and a filtration-plant, we shall, perhaps, gain a clearer notion of the purpose of the school and come upon a juster estimate of its processes. The purpose of the filtration-plant is to purify, clarify, and render more conducive to life the stream that passes through, and the function of the school may be stated in the same terms. The stream that enters the plant is murky and deeply impregnated with impurities; the same stream when it issues from the plant is clear, free from impurities, and, therefore, better in respect to nutritive qualities. The stream of life that flows into the school is composed of many heterogeneous elements; the stream that issues from the school is far more homogeneous, clearer, more nearly free from impurities, and, therefore, more conducive to the life and health of the community. The stream of life that flows into the school is composed of elements from all countries, languages, and conditions. In this are Greeks and barbarians, Jews and Gentiles, saints and sinners, the washed and the unwashed, the ignorant, the high, the low, the depraved, the weak, and the strong. =Life-giving properties.=--The stream that issues from the school is the very antithesis of all this. Instead of all these heterogeneous elements, the stream when it comes from the school is composed wholly of Americans. A hundred flags may be seen in the stream that enters the school, but the stream that flows out from the school bears only the American flag. The school has often been called the melting-pot, in which the many nationalities are fused; but it is far more than that. True, somehow and somewhere in the school process these elements have been made to coalesce, but that is not the only change that is wrought. The volume of life that issues from the school is the same as that which enters, barring the leakage, but the resultant stream is far more potent in life-giving properties because of its passage through the school. =Changes wrought.=--When we see the stream entering the filtration-plant polluted with impurities and then coming forth clear and wholesome, we know that something happened to that stream in transit. Similarly, when we see the stream of life entering the school as a mere aggregation of more or less discordant elements and then coming forth in a virtually unified homogeny, we know that something has happened to that stream in its progress through the school. To determine just what happens in either case is a task for experts and a task, moreover, that is well worth while. In either case we may well inquire whether the things that happen are the very best things that could possibly be made to happen; and, if not, what improvements are possible and desirable. =Another misconception.=--The analogy between the plant and the school will not hold if we still retain in the parlance of school procedure the expression "getting an education." The act of getting implies material substance. Education is not a substance but a process, and it is palpably impossible to get a process. So there can be no such thing as getting an education, in spite of the tenacity of the expression. Even to state the fact would seem altogether trite, were we not confronted every day with the fact that teachers and parents are either unable or unwilling to substitute some right expression for this wrong one. Education is not the process of getting but, rather, the process of becoming, and the difference is as wide as the difference between the true and the false. Just how long it will require to eradicate this conception from the school and society no one can well conjecture. Its presence in our nomenclature reveals, in a marked way, the strength of habit. Many teachers will give willing assent to the fact and then use the expression again in their next sentence. Certainly we shall not even apprehend the true function and procedure of the vitalized school until we have eliminated this expression. If we admit the validity of the contention as to this expression, then we may profitably resume the consideration of our analogy, for, in that case, we shall find in this analogy no ineptitude. =The validity of the analogy.=--We cause the stream of water to pass through the filtration-plant that it may become rectified; we cause the stream of life to pass through the school that it may become rectified. When the stream of water becomes rectified, bodily disease is averted; when the stream of life is rectified, mental and spiritual disease is averted. The analogy, therefore, holds good whether we consider the process itself or its effect. We have only to state the case thus to have opened up for us a wide field for profitable speculation. The diseases of mind and spirit that invade society are the causes that lie back of our police courts, our prisons, and, very often, our almshouses. Hence, if the stream of life could be absolutely rectified, these undesirable institutions would disappear, and life for the entire community would be far more agreeable by reason of their absence. =Function of the school.=--The school, then, is established and administered to carry on this process of rectification. By means of this process ignorance becomes intelligence, coarseness becomes culture, strife becomes peace, impurity becomes purity, disease becomes health, and darkness becomes light. The child comes into the school not to get something but to have something done to and for him that he may become something that he was not before, and, therefore, that he may the better execute his functions as a member of society. In short, he comes into the school that he may pass through the process of rectification. In this process he loses neither his name, his extraction, his identity, nor his individuality. On the contrary, all these attributes are so acted upon by the process that they become assets of the community. =Language.=--In order to lead to a greater degree of clarity it may be well to be even more specific in explaining this process of rectification. Language is fundamental in all the operations of society. It is indispensable to the grocer, the farmer, the lawyer, the physician, the manufacturer, the housewife, and the legislator. It is the means by which members of society communicate with one another, and without communication, in some form, there can be no social intercourse, and, therefore, no society. People are all interdependent, and language is the bond of union. They must use the same language, of course, and the words must be invested with the same meaning in order to be intelligible. =Language a social study.=--Just here great care must be exercised or we shall go astray in depicting the work of the school in dealing with this subject of language. The child comes into the school with language of a sort, but it needs rectification in order to render it readily available for the purposes of society. Herein lies the crux of the whole matter. If this child were not to become a member of society, it would matter little what sort of language he uses or whether he uses any language. If he were to be banished to some island there to dwell alone, language would be unnecessary. Hence, his study of language in the school is, primarily, for the well-being of society and not for himself. Language is so essential to the life processes that, without it, society would be thrown out of balance. The needs of society are paramount, and hence language as it concerns the child relates to him chiefly if not wholly as a member of society. =Grammar.=--Grammar is nothing else than language reduced to a system of common terms that have been agreed upon in the interests of society. People have entered into a linguistic compact, an agreement that certain words and combinations of words shall be understood to mean certain things. The tradesman must understand the purchaser or there can be no exchange. The ticket-agent must understand the prospective traveler or the latter cannot take the journey and reach his destination. Hence, grammar, with all that the term implies, is a means of facilitating the activities of society and pertains to the individual only in his relation to society. =Needs of society.=--True, the individual will find life more agreeable in society if he understands the common language, just as the traveler is more comfortable in a foreign country if he understands its language. But we need emphasis upon the statement that we have grammar in the school because it is one of the needs of society. The individual may not need chemistry, but society does need it, and the school must somehow provide it because of this need. Hence we place chemistry in the school as one of the ingredients of the solvent which we employ in the process of rectification. Those who are susceptible to the influences of this ingredient will become inoculated with it and bear it forth into the uses of society. =Caution.=--But just here we find the most delicate and difficult task of the school. Here we encounter some of the fundamental principles of psychology as explained and emphasized by James, McDougall, and Strayer. Here we must begin our quest for the native tendencies that condition successful teaching. We must discover what pupils are susceptible to chemistry before we can proceed with the work of inoculation. This has been the scene and source of many tragedies. We have been wont to ask whether chemistry will be good for the boy instead of making an effort to discover whether the boy will be good for chemistry--whether his native tendencies render him susceptible to chemistry. =Some mistakes.=--Our procedure has often come but little short of an inquisition. We have followed our own predilections and prejudices instead of being docile at the feet of Nature and asking her what to do. We have applied opprobrious epithets and resorted to ostracism. We have been freely dispensing suspensions and expulsions in a vain effort to prove that the school is both omniscient and omnipotent. We have tried to transform a poet into a mechanic, a blacksmith into an artist, and an astronomer into a ditcher. And our complacency in the presence of the misfits of the school is the saddest tragedy of all. We have taken counsel with tradition rather than with the nature of the pupil, the while rejoicing in our own infallibility. =Native dispositions.=--Society needs only a limited number of chemists and only such as have the native tendencies that will make chemistry most effective in the activities of society. But we have been proceeding upon the agreeable assumption that every pupil has such native tendencies. Such an assumption absolves the school, of course, from the necessity of discovering what pupils are susceptible to chemistry and of devising ways and means of making this important discovery. Because we do not know how to make this discovery we find solace in the assumption that it cannot or need not be made. We then proceed to apply the Procrustean bed principle with the very acme of _sang froid_. Here is work for the efficiency expert. When children are sitting at the table of life, the home and the school in combination ought to be able to discover what food they crave and not insist upon their eating olives when they really crave oatmeal. =The ideal of the school.=--We shall not have attained to right conditions until such time as the stream of life that issues from the school shall combine the agencies, in right proportions and relations, that will conserve the best interests of society and administer its activities with the maximum of efficiency. This is the ideal that the school must hold up before itself as the determining plan in its every movement. But this ideal presupposes no misfits in society. If there are such, then it will decline in some degree from the plane of highest efficiency. If there are some members of society who are straining at the leash which Nature provided for them and are trying to do work for which they have neither inclination nor aptitude, they cannot render the best service, and society suffers in consequence. =Misfits.=--The books teem with examples of people who are striving to find themselves by finding their work. But nothing has been said of society in this same strain. We have only to think of society as composed of all the people to realize that only by finding its work can society find itself. And so long as there is even one member of society who has not found himself, so long must we look upon this one exception as a discordant note in the general harmony. If one man is working at the forge who by nature is fitted for a place at the desk, then neither this man nor society is at its best. And a large measure of the responsibility for such discord and misfits in society must be laid at the door of the school because of its inability to discover native tendencies. =Common interests.=--There are many interests that all children have in common when they enter the school in the morning, and these interests may well become the starting points in the day's work. The conversations at breakfast tables and the morning paper beget and stimulate many of these interests and the school does violence to the children, the community, and itself if it attempts to taboo these interests. Its work is to rectify and not to suppress. When the children return to their homes in the evening they should have clearer and larger conceptions of the things that animated them in the morning. If they come into the school all aglow with interest in the great snowstorm of the night before, the teacher does well to hold the lesson in decimals in abeyance until she has led around to the subject by means of readings or stories that have to do with snowstorms. The paramount and common interest of the children in the morning is snow and, therefore, the day should hold snow in the foreground in their thinking, so that, at the close of the day, their horizon in the snow-world may be extended, and so that they may thus be able to make contributions to the home on the subject of snow. =Real interests.=--In the morning the pupils had objective snow in which they rollicked and gamboled in glee. All day long they had subjective snow in which the teacher with fine technique caused them to revel; and, in the evening, their concept of snow was so much enlarged that they experienced a fresh access of delight. And that day was their snow epiphany. On that day there was no break in the stream of life at the schoolhouse door. There was no supplanting of the real interests of the morning with fictitious interests of the school, to be endured with ill grace until the real interests of the morning could be resumed in the evening. On the contrary, by some magic that only the vitalized teacher knows, every exercise of the day seemed to have snow as its center. Snow seemed to be the major in the reading, in the spelling, in the geography, and in the history. On that day they became acquainted with Hannibal and his struggles through the snow of the Alps. On that day they learned of the avalanche, its origin, its devastating power, and, of course, its spelling. On that day they read "Snow Bound" and the snow poems of Longfellow and Lowell. Thus the stream of life was clarified, rectified, and amplified as it passed through the school, and, incidentally, the teacher and the school were glorified in their thoughts. =Circus day.=--But snow is merely typical. On other days other interests are paramount. On circus day the children, again, have a common interest which affords the teacher a supreme opportunity. The day has been anticipated by the teacher, and the pupils have cause to wonder how and whence she ever accumulated such a wealth of pictures of animal life. All day long they are regaled with a subjective menagerie, and when they attend the circus in the evening they astonish their parents by the extent and accuracy of their information. They know the animals by name, their habitat, their habits, their food, and their uses. In short, they seemed to have compassed a working knowledge of the animal kingdom in a single day through the skill of the teacher who knows how to make the school reënforce their life interests. =The quality of life.=--If we now extend the scope of common interests that belong in the category with the snow and the animals, we shall readily see that the analogy of the filtration-plant holds good in the entire régime of the vitalized school. But we must never lose sight of the additional fact that the quality of life that issues from the school is far better because of its passage through the school. The volume may be less, through unfortunate leakage, but the quality is so much better that its value to society is enhanced a hundred- or a thousand-fold. The people who pass through the school have learned a common language, have been imbued with a common purpose, have learned how to live and work in hearty accord, have come to revere a common flag, and have become citizens of a common country. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What is the general function of the school? 2. What is meant by the school's being the "melting-pot"? 3. What objection is there to the expression "getting an education"? What would be a better expression to indicate the purpose of attending school? 4. What diseases that invade society would be checked if in school the stream of life were rectified? 5. Why is it desirable that pupils shall not lose their individuality in passing through school? 6. What is the primary purpose of each school study, for instance, language? 7. What is the true purpose of grammar? 8. What do these functions of the school and of its studies teach us regarding the adaptation of subjects and methods to the individual? 9. Tell something of the work done in vocational guidance in Boston. 10. Tell something of the methods employed by some corporations in choosing employees naturally fitted for the work. 11. Tell something of the psychological tests for vocations devised by Professor Münsterberg. (Psychology and Industrial Efficiency, Hugo Münsterberg, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1913.) 12. What do you think is the practicable way of helping the pupils in your school to develop along the lines of their natural endowment? 13. What is the effect on society when a man does work for which he is not fitted? 14. Show some ways in which the interests of the school as a whole may be fostered and a natural development of the class as a whole be secured. 15. There has been a big fire in town. Show how the interest in this event may be used in the day's work. 16. In what ways is one who has had private instruction likely to be a poorer citizen than one who has attended school? 17. What conditions might cause some of those who go through school to be polluted instead of rectified? Whose fault would it be? 18. What questions should we ask ourselves about the things that are being done in our schools? CHAPTER XVIII POETRY AND LIFE =Poetry defined.=--Poetry has been defined as "a message from the heart of the artist to the heart of the man"; and, seeing that the heart is the center and source of life, it follows that poetry is a means of effecting a transfusion of life. The poet ponders life long and deeply and then gives forth an interpretation in artistic form that is surcharged with the very quintessence of life. The poet absorbs life from a thousand sources--the sky, the forest, the mountain, the sunrise, the ocean, the storm, the child in the mother's arms, and the man at his work, and then transmits it that the recipient may have a new influx of life. The poet's quest is life, his theme is life, and his gift to man is life. His mission is to gain a larger access of life and to give life in greater abundance. He gains the meaning of life from the snowflake and the avalanche; from the grain of sand and the fertile valley; from the raindrop and the sea; from the chirp of the cricket and the crashing of the thunder; from the firefly and the lightning's flash; and from Vesuvius and Sinai. To know life he listens to the baby's prattle, the mother's lullaby, and the father's prayer; he looks upon faces that show joy and sorrow, hope and despair, defeat and triumph; and he feels the pulsations of the tides, the hurricane, and the human heart. =How the poet learns life.=--He sits beside the bed of sickness and hears the feeble and broken words that tell of the past, the present, and the future; he visits the field of battle and sees the wreckage of the passions of men; he goes into the dungeon and hears the ravings and revilings of a distorted soul; he visits pastoral scenes where peace and plenty unite in a song of praise; he rides the mighty ship and knows the heartbeats of the ocean; he sits within the church and opens the doors of his soul to its holy influences; he enters the hovel whose squalor proclaims it the abode of ignorance and vice; he visits the home of happiness where industry and frugality pour forth their bounteous gifts and love sways its gentle scepter; and he sits at the feet of his mother and imbibes her gracious spirit. =Transfusion of life.=--And then he writes; and as he writes his pen drips life. He knows and feels, and, therefore, he expresses, and his words are the distillations of life. His spiritual percipience has rendered his soul a veritable garden of emotions, and with his pen he transplants these in the written page. And men see and come to pluck the flowers to transplant again in their own souls that they, too, may have a garden like unto his. His _élan_ carries over into the lives of these men and they glow with the ardor of his emotions and are inspired to deeds of courage, of service, and of solace. For every flower plucked from his garden another grows in its stead more beautiful and more fragrant than its fellow, and he is reinspired as he inspires others. And thus in this transfusion of life there is an undertow that carries back into his own life and makes his spirit more fertile. =Aspiration.=--When he would teach men to aspire he writes "Excelsior" and so causes them to know that only he who aspires really lives. They see the groundling, the boor, the drudge, and the clown content to dwell in the valley amid the loaves and fishes of animal desires, while the man who aspires is struggling toward the heights whence he may gain an outlook upon the glories that are, know the throb and thrill of new life, and experience the swing and sweep of spiritual impulses. He makes them to know that the man who aspires recks not of cold, of storm, or of snow, if only he may reach the summit and lave his soul in the glory that crowns the marriage of earth and sky. They feel that the aspirant is but yielding obedience to the behests of his better self to scale the heights where sublimity dwells. =Perseverance.=--Or he writes the fourth "Æneid" to make men feel that the palm of victory comes only to those who persevere to the end; that duty does not abdicate in favor of inclination; and that the high gods will not hold guiltless the man who stops short of Italy to loiter and dally in Carthage even in the sunshine of a Dido's smile. When Italy is calling, no siren song of pleasure must avail to lure him from his course, nor must his sail be furled until the keel grates upon the Italian shore. His navigating skill must guide him through the perils of Scylla and Charybdis and the stout heart of manhood must bear him past Mount Ætna's fiery menace. His dauntless courage must brave the anger of the greedy waves and boldly ride them down. Nor must his cup of joy be full until the wished-for land shall greet his eager eyes. =Overweening ambition.=--Or, again, the poet may yearn to teach the wrong of overweening, vaulting ambition and he writes "Paradise Lost" and "Recessional." He pictures Satan overthrown, like the Giants who would climb into the throne on Olympus. He pictures Hell as the fitting place for Satan overthrown, and in his own place he pictures the outcast and downcast Satan writhing and cursing because he was balked of his unholy ambition. And, lest mortals sink from their high estate, borne down by their sins of unsanctified ambition, he prays, and prays again, "Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, lest we forget, lest we forget." And the prayer echoes and reëchoes in the soul of the man, and the world sees his lips moving in the prayer of the poet, "Lest we forget, lest we forget." =Native land.=--Or, again, he writes Bannockburn and the spirit is fired with patriotic devotion to native land. We hear the bagpipe and the drum and see the martial clans gathering in serried ranks and catch the glint of their arms and armor as they flash back the sunlight. We hear their lusty calls as they rush together to defend the hills and the homes they love. We see, again, the Wallace and the Bruce inciting valorous men to deeds of heroism and hear the hills reëchoing with the shock of steel upon steel. From hill to hill the pibroch leaps, and hearts and feet quicken at its sound. And mothers are pressing their bairns to their bosoms as they cheer their loved ones away to the strife. And while their eyes are weeping their hearts are saying: "Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha so base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!" =Faith.=--And after the sounds of battle are hushed he sings "To Mary in Heaven" and causes the man to stand in the presence of the Burning Bush and to hear the command "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." And the heart of the man grows tender as the poet opens his eyes to catch a glimpse of the life of faith that the star foretells even as the Star of Bethlehem was prophetic. And, through the eyes of the lover, he looks over into the other life and knows that his faith is not in vain. And when faith sits enthroned, the music of the brook at his feet becomes sweeter, the stars shine more brightly, the earth becomes a place of gladness, and life is far more worth while. The poet has caused the scales to fall from his eyes and through them the light of Heaven has streamed into his soul. =The teacher's influx of life.=--And the teacher imbibes the spirit of the poet and becomes vital and thus becomes attuned to all life. Flowers spring up in her pathway because they are claiming kinship with the flowers that are blooming in her soul. The insect chirps forth its music, and her own spirit joins in the chorus of the forest. The brooklet laughs as it ripples its way toward the sea, and her spirit laughs in unison because the poet has poured his laughter into her soul. She stands unafraid in the presence of the storm because her feeling for majesty overmasters her apprehension of danger. The lightning's flash may rend the oak but, even so, she stands in mute admiration at this wondrous manifestation of life. Her quickened spirit responds to the roll and reverberation of the thunder because she has grown to womanhood through the poet's copious draughts of life. =The book of life.=--The voices of the night enchant her and the stars take her into their counsels. The swaying tree speaks her language because both speak the language of life. She takes delight in the lexicon of the planets because it interprets to her the book of life, and in the revelations of this book she finds her chief joy. For her there are no dull moments whether she wanders by the river, through the glades, or over the hills, because she is ever turning the pages of this book. She moves among the things of life and accounts them all her friends and companions. She knows their moods and their language and with them holds intimate communion. They smile upon her because she can reciprocate their smiles. Life to her is a buoyant, a joyous experience each hour of the day because the poet has poured into her spirit its fuller, deeper meanings. =The teaching.=--And because the poet has touched her spirit with the wand of his power the waters of life gush forth in sparkling abundance. And children come to the fountain of her life and drink of its waters and are thereby refreshed and invigorated. Then they smile back their gratitude to her in their exuberance of joyous life. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What is poetry? 2. What is the purpose of rhyme? 3. May writing have the essentials of poetry and yet have no regular rhythm? What of the Psalms? 4. Why is poetry especially valuable to the teacher? 5. Show how some poem other than those mentioned in the chapter teaches a lesson or gives an inspiration. 6. Name, if you can, some methods of treatment that cause poetry to fail to affect the lives of the pupils as it should. 7. Suggest uses of poetry and the treatment that will insure the right results. 8. Is there danger that a teacher may become too appreciative or susceptible--too poetic in temperament? Recall observations of those who were either too much so or too little. 9. Is there danger that one may have too much of a good quality, or is the danger not in having too little of some other quality? 10. Show how a wide and appreciative reading of poetry makes for a proper balance of temperament. CHAPTER XIX A SENSE OF HUMOR =An American story.=--There is a story to the effect that a certain Mr. Jones was much given to boasting of his early rising. He stoutly maintained that he was going about his work every morning at three o'clock. Some of his friends were inclined to be incredulous as to his representations and entered into a kindly conspiracy to put them to the test. Accordingly one of the number presented himself at the kitchen door of the Jones residence one morning at half-past three and made inquiry of Mrs. Jones as to the whereabouts of her husband, asking if he was at home. In a very gracious manner Mrs. Jones replied: "No, he isn't here now. He was around here early this morning but I don't really know where he is now." This is a clean, fine, typical American story, and, by means of such a story, we can test for a sense of humor. The boy in school will laugh at this story both because it is a good one and because he is a normal boy. If he does not laugh at such a story, there is cause for anxiety as to his mental condition or attitude. If the teacher cannot or does not laugh, a disharmony is generated at once between teacher and pupil which militates against the well-being of the school. If the teacher reprimands the boy, the boy as certainly discredits the teacher and all that she represents. If she cannot enjoy such a wholesome story, he feels that her arithmetic, geography, and grammar are responsible, and these studies decline somewhat in his esteem. Moreover, he feels that the teacher's reprimand was unwarranted and unjust and he fain would consort with people of his own kind. Many a boy deserts school because the teacher is devoid of the saving grace of humor. Her inability to see or have any fun in life makes him uncomfortable and he seeks a more agreeable environment. =Humor in its manifestations.=--A sense of humor diffuses itself through all the activities of life, giving to them all a gentle quality that eliminates asperities and renders them gracious and amiable. Like fireflies that bespangle the darkness of the night, humor scintillates through all life's phases and activities and causes the day to go more pleasantly and effectively on. It twinkles through the thoughts and gives to language a sparkle and a nicety that cause it to appeal to the artistic sense. It gives to discourse a piquancy that stimulates but does not irritate. It is the flavor that gives to speech its undulatory quality, and redeems it from desert sameness. It pervades the motives and gives direction as well as a pleasing fertility to all behavior. It is pervasive without becoming obtrusive. It steals into the senses as quietly as the dawn and causes life to smile. Wit may flash, but humor blithely glides into the consciousness with a radiant and kindly smile upon its face. Wit may sting and inflame, but humor soothes and comforts. The man who has a generous admixture of humor in his nature is an agreeable companion and a sympathetic friend to grown-up people, to children, and to animals. His spirit is genial, and people become kindly and magnanimous in his presence. =One of John B. Gough's stories.=--The celebrated John B. Gough was wont to tell a story that was accounted one of his many masterpieces. It was a story of a free-for-all convention where any one, according to inclination, had the privilege of freely speaking his sentiments. When the first speaker had concluded, a man in the audience called lustily for a speech from Mr. Henry. Then another spoke, and, again, more lustily than before, the man demanded Mr. Henry. More and more vociferous grew the call for Mr. Henry after each succeeding speech until, at last, the chairman with some acrimony exclaimed: "The man who is calling for Mr. Henry will please be quiet. It is Mr. Henry who is now speaking." The man thus rebuked was somewhat crestfallen, but managed to say, as if in a half-soliloquy: "Mr. Henry! Why, that ain't Mr. Henry. That's the little chap that told me to holler." At the conclusion of one of his lectures in which Mr. Gough told this story in his inimitable style, a man came to the platform and explained to him that he had a friend who seemed to lack a sense of humor and wondered if he might not prevail upon Mr. Gough to tell him this particular story in the hope that it would cause him to laugh. In a spirit of adventure Mr. Gough consented, and at the time appointed told the story to the old gentleman in his own best style. The old gentleman seemed to be deeply interested, but at the conclusion of the story, instead of laughing heartily as his friend had hoped, he solemnly asked, "What did he tell him to holler fur?" =The man who lacks a sense of humor.=--There was no answer to this question, or, rather, he himself was the answer. Such a man is obviously outside the pale, without hope of redemption. If such a story, told by such a _raconteur_, could not touch him, he is hopeless. In his spiritual landscape there are no undulations, but it reveals itself as a monotonous dead-level without stream or verdure. He eats, and sleeps, and walks about, but he walks in a spiritual daze. To him life must seem a somber, drab affair. If he were a teacher in a traditional school, he would chill and depress, but he might be tolerated because a sense of humor is not one of the qualifications of the teacher. But, in the vitalized school, he would be intolerable. If children should go to such a teacher for spiritual refreshment, they would return thirsty. He has nothing to give them, no bubbling water of life, no geniality, no such graces of the spirit as appeal to buoyant childhood. He lacks a sense of humor, and that lack makes arid the exuberant sources of life. He may solve problems in arithmetic, but he cannot compass the solution of the problem of life. The children pity him, and no greater calamity can befall a teacher than to deserve and receive the pity of a child. He might, in a way, teach anatomy, but not physiology. He might be able to deal with the analytic. He might succeed as curator in a museum of mummies, but he will fail as a teacher of children. =Story of a boy.=--A seven-year-old boy who was lying on his back on the floor asked his father the question, "How long since the world was born?" The father replied, "Oh, about four thousand years." In a few moments the child said in a tone of finality, "That isn't very long." Then after another interval, he asked, "What was there before the world was born?" To this the father replied, "Nothing." After a lapse of two or three minutes the child gave vent to uncontrollable laughter which resounded throughout the house. When, at length, the father asked him what he was laughing at, he could scarcely control his laughter to answer. But at last he managed to reply, "I was laughing to see how funny it was when there wasn't anything." =The child's imagination.=--The philosopher could well afford to give the half of his kingdom to be able to see what that child saw. Out of the gossamer threads of fancy his imagination had wrought a pattern that transcends philosophy. The picture that his imagination painted was so extraordinary that it produced a paroxysm of laughter. That picture is far beyond the ken of the philosopher and he will look for it in vain because he has grown away from the child in power of imagination and has lost the child's sense of humor. What that child saw will never be known, for the pictures of fancy are ephemeral, but certain it is that the power of imagination and a keen sense of humor are two of the attributes of childhood whose loss should give both his father and his teacher poignant regrets. =The little girl and her elders.=--The little girl upon the beach invests the tiny wavelets not only with life and intelligence, but, also, with a sense of humor as she eludes their sly advances to engulf her feet. She laughs in glee at their watery pranks as they twinkle and sparkle, now advancing, now receding, trying to take her by surprise. She chides them for their duplicity, then extols them for their prankish playfulness. She makes them her companions, and they laugh in chorus. If she knows of sprites, and gnomes, and nymphs, and fairies, she finds them all dancing in glee at her feet in the form of rippling wavelets. And while she is thus refreshing her spirit from the brimming cup of life, her matter-of-fact elders are reproaching her for getting her dress soiled. To the parent or the teacher who lacks a sense of humor and cannot enter into the little girl's conception of life, a dress is of more importance than the spirit of the child. But the teacher or the parent who has the "aptitude for vicariousness" that enables her to enter into the child's life in her fun and frolic with the playful water, and can feel the presence of the nymphs among the wavelets,--such a teacher or parent will adorn the school or the home and endear herself to the child. =Lincoln's humor.=--The life of Abraham Lincoln affords a notable illustration of the saving power of humor. Reared in conditions of hardship, his early life was essentially drab and prosaic. In temperament he was serious, with an inclination toward the morbid, but his sense of humor redeemed the situation. When clouds of gloom and discouragement lowered in his mental sky, his keen sense of humor penetrated the darkness and illumined his pathway. He was sometimes the object of derision because men could not comprehend the depth and bigness of his nature, and his humor was often accounted a weakness. But the Gettysburg speech rendered further derision impossible and the wondrous alchemy of that address transmuted criticism into willing praise. =Humor betokens deep feeling.=--Laughter and tears issue from the same source, we are told, and the Gettysburg speech revealed a depth and a quality of tenderness that men had not, before, been able to recognize or appreciate. The absence of a sense of humor betokens shallowness in that it reveals an inability to feel deeply. People who feel deeply often laugh in order to forestall tears. Lincoln was a great soul and his sense of humor was one element of his greatness. His apt stories and his humorous personal experiences often carried off a situation where cold logic would have failed. Whether his sense of humor was a gift or an acquisition, it certainly served the nation well and gave to us all an example that is worthy of emulation. =The teacher of English.=--Many teachers could, with profit to themselves and their schools, sit at the feet of Abraham Lincoln, not only to learn English but also to imbibe his sense of humor. Nothing is more pathetic than the efforts of a teacher who lacks a sense of humor to teach a bit of English that abounds in humor, by means of the textual notes. The notes are bad enough, in all conscience, but the teacher's lack of humor piles Ossa upon Pelion. The solemnity that pervades such mechanical teaching would be farcical were it not so pathetic. The teacher who cannot indulge in a hearty, honest, ringing laugh with her pupils in situations that are really humorous is certain to be laughed at by her pupils. In her work, as in Lincoln's, a sense of humor will often save the day. =Mark Twain as philosopher.=--Mark Twain will ever be accounted a very prince of humorists, and so he was. But he was more than that. Upon the current of his humor were carried precious cargoes of the philosophy of life. His humor is often so subtle that the superficial reader fails to appreciate its fine quality and misses the philosophy altogether. To extract the full meaning from his writing one must be able to read not only between the lines but also beneath the lines. The subtle quality of his humor defies both analysis and explanation. If it fails to tell its own story, so much the worse for the reader. To such humor as his, explanation amounts to an impertinence. People can either appreciate it or else they cannot, and there's the end of the matter. In the good time to come when the school teaches reading for the purpose of pleasure and not for examination purposes, we shall have Mark Twain as one of our authors; and it is to be hoped that we shall have editions devoid of notes. The notes may serve to give the name of the editor a place on the title page, but the notes cannot add to the enjoyment of the author's genial humor. Mark Twain reigns supreme, and the editor does well to stand uncovered in his presence and to withhold his pen. =A Twain story.=--One of Mark Twain's stories is said to be one of the most humorous stories extant. The story relates how a soldier was rushing off the battlefield in retreat when a companion, whose leg was shattered, begged to be carried off the field. The appeal met a willing response and soon the soldier was bearing his companion away on his shoulder, his head hanging down the soldier's back. Unknown to the soldier a cannon ball carried away the head of his companion. Accosted by another soldier, he was asked why he was carrying a man whose head had been shot away. He stoutly denied the allegation and, at length, dropped the headless body to prove the other's hallucination. Seeing that the man's head was, in truth, gone, he exclaimed, "Why, the durn fool told me it was his leg." =Humor defies explanation.=--The humor of this story is cumulative. We may not parse it, we may not analyze it, we may not annotate it. We can simply enjoy it. And, if we cannot enjoy it, we may pray for a spiritual awakening, for such an endowment of the sense of humor as will enable us to enjoy, that we may no longer lead lives that are spiritually blind. Bill Nye wrote: "The autumn leaves are falling, They are falling everywhere; They are falling through the atmosphere And likewise through the air." Woe betide the teacher who tries to explain! There is no explanation--there is just the humor. If that eludes the reader, an explanation will not avail. A teacher of Latin read to his pupils "The House-Boat on the Styx" in connection with their reading of the "Æneid." It was good fun for them all, and never was Virgil more highly honored than in the assiduous study which those young people gave to his lines. They were eager to complete the study of the lesson in order to have more time for the "House-Boat." The humor of the book opened wide the gates of their spirits through which the truths of the regular lesson passed blithely in. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What is the source of humor in a humorous story? 2. When should the teacher laugh with the school? When should she not do so? 3. How does the response of the school to a laughable incident reflect the leadership of the teacher? 4. What can be done to bring more or better humor into the school? 5. Compare as companions those whom you know who exhibit a sense of humor with those who do not. 6. Compare their influence on others. 7. What can be done to bring humor into essays written by the students? 8. Distinguish between wit and humor. Does wit or humor cause most of the laughter in school? 9. What is meant by an "aptitude for vicariousness"? 10. How did Lincoln make use of humor? Is there any humor in the Gettysburg speech? Why? 11. What is the relation of pathos to humor? 12. Give an example from the writings of Mark Twain that shows him a philosopher as well as a humorist. 13. What books could you read to the pupils to enliven some of the subjects that you teach? CHAPTER XX The Element of Human Interest =Yearning toward betterment.=--Much has been said and written in recent times touching the matter and manner of vitalizing and humanizing the studies and work of the school. The discussions have been nation-wide in their scope and most fertile in plans and practical suggestions. No subject of greater importance or of more far-reaching import now engages the interest of educational leaders. They are quite aware that something needs to be done, but no one has announced the sovereign remedy. The critics have made much of the fact that there is something lacking or wrong in our school procedure, but they can neither diagnose the case nor suggest the remedy. They can merely criticize. We are having many surveys, but the results have been meager and inadequate. We have been working at the circumference of the circle rather than at the center. We have been striving to reform our educational training, hoping for a reflex that would be sufficient to modify the entire school régime. We have added domestic science, hoping thereby to reconstruct the school by inoculation. We have looked to agriculture and other vocational studies as the magnetic influences of our dreams. Something has been accomplished, to be sure, but we are still far distant from the goal. The best that writers can do in their books or educational conferences can do in their meetings, is to report progress. =The obstacle of conservatism.=--One of the greatest obstacles we have to surmount in this whole matter of vitalizing school work is the habitual conservatism of the school people themselves. The methods of teaching that obtained in the school when we were pupils have grooved themselves into habits of thinking that smile defiance at the theories that we have more recently acquired. When we venture out from the shore we want to feel a rope in our hands. The superintendent speaks fervently to patrons or teachers on the subject of modern methods in teaching, then retires to his office and takes intimate and friendly counsel with tradition. In sailing the educational seas he must needs keep in sight the buoys of tradition. This matter of conservatism is cited merely to show that our progress, in the very nature of the case, will be slow. =Schools of education.=--Another obstacle in the way of progress toward the vitalized school is the attitude and teaching of many who are connected with colleges of education and normal schools. We have a right to look to them for leadership, but we find, instead, that their practices lag far in the rear of their theories. They teach according to such devitalized methods and in such an unvitalized way as to discredit the subjects they teach. It is only from such of their students as are proof against their style of teaching that we may hope for aid. One such teacher in a college of education in a course of eight weeks on the subject of School Administration had his students copy figures from statistical reports for several days in succession and for four and five hours each day. The students confessed that their only objective was the gaining of credits, and had no intimation that the work they were doing was to function anywhere. =The machine teacher.=--Such work is deadening and disheartening. It has in it no inspiration, no life, nothing, in short, that connects with real life. Such a teacher could not maintain himself in a wide-awake high school for a half year. The boys and girls would desert him even if they had to desert the school. And yet teachers and prospective teachers must endure and not complain. Those who submit supinely will attempt to repeat in their schools the sort of teaching that obtains in his classes, and their schools will suffer accordingly. His sort of teaching proclaims him either more or less than a human being in the estimation of normal people. Such a teacher drones forth weary platitudes as if his utterances were oracular. The only prerequisite for a position in some schools of education seems to be a degree of a certain altitude without any reference to real teaching ability. =Statistics versus children.=--Such teaching palliates educational situations without affording a solution. It is so steeped in tradition that it resorts to statistics as it would consult an oracle. We look to see it establishing precedents only to find it following precedents. When we would find in it a leader we find merely a follower. To such teaching statistical numbers mean far more than living children. Indeed, children are but objects that become useful as a means of proving theories. It lacks vitality, and that is sad; but, worst of all, it strives unceasingly to perpetuate itself in the schools. Real teaching power receives looks askance in some of these colleges as if it bore the mark of Cain in not being up to standard on the academic side. And yet these colleges are teaching the teachers of our schools. =Teaching power.=--Hence, the work of vitalizing the school must begin in our colleges of education and normal schools, and this beginning will be made only when we place the emphasis upon teaching power. The human qualities of the teachers must be so pronounced that they become their most distinguished characteristics. It is a sad commentary upon our educational processes if a man must point to the letters of his degree to prove that he is a teacher. His teaching should be of such a nature as to justify and glorify his degree. As the preacher receives his degree because he can preach, so the teacher should receive his degree because he can teach, even if we must create a new degree by which to designate the real teacher. =Degrees and human qualities.=--There is no disparagement of the academic degree in the statement that it proves absolutely nothing touching the ability to teach. It proclaims its possessor a student but not a teacher. Yet, in our practices, we proceed upon the assumption that teacher and student are synonymous. We hold examinations for teachers in our schools, but not for teachers in our colleges of education. His degree is the magic talisman that causes the doors to swing wide open for him. Besides, his very presence inside seems to be prima facie evidence that he is a success, and all his students are supposed to join in the general chorus of praise. =Life the great human interest.=--The books are eloquent and persistent in their admonitions that we should attach all school work to the native interests of the child. To this dictum there seems to be universal and hearty assent. But we do not seem to realize fully, as yet, that the big native interest of the child is life itself. We have not, as yet, found the way to enmesh the activities of the school in the life processes of the child so that these school activities are as much a part of his life as his food, his games, his breathing, and his sleep. We have been interpreting some of the manifestations of life as his native interests but have failed thus to interpret his life as a whole. The child is but the aggregate of all his inherent interests, and we must know these interests if we would find the child so as to attach school work to the child himself. =The child as a whole.=--Here is the crux of the entire matter, here the big problem for the vitalized school. We have been taking his pulse, testing his eyes, taking his temperature, and making examinations for defects--and these things are excellent. But all these things combined do not reveal the child to us. We need to go beyond all these in order to find him. We must know what he thinks, how he feels as to people and things, what his aspirations are, what motives impel him to action, what are his intuitions, what things he does involuntarily and what through volition or compulsion. With such data clearly before us we can proceed to attach school work to his native interests. We have been striving to bend him to our preconceived notion instead of finding out who and what he is as a condition precedent to intelligent teaching. =Three types of teachers.=--The three types of teachers that have been much exploited in the books are the teacher who conceives it to be her work to teach the book, the one who teaches the subject, and the one who teaches the child. The number of the first type is still very large in spite of all the books that inveigh against this conception. It were easy to find a teacher whose practice indicates that she thinks that all the arithmetic there is or ought to be is to be found in the book that lies on her desk. It seems not to occur to her that a score of books might be written that would be equal in merit to the one she is using, some of which might be far better adapted to the children in her particular school. If she were asked to teach arithmetic without the aid of a book, she would shed copious tears, if, indeed, she did not resign. =The first type.=--To such a teacher the book is the Ultima Thule of all her endeavors, and when the pupils can pass the examination she feels that her work is a success. If the problem in the book does not fit the child, so much the worse for the child, and she proceeds to try to make him fit the problem. It does not occur to her to construct problems that will fit the child. When she comes to the solution of the right triangle, the baseball diamond does not come to her mind. She has the boy learn a rule and try to apply it instead of having him find the distance from first base to third in a direct line. In her thinking such a proceeding would be banal because it would violate the sanctity of the book. She must adhere to the book though the heavens fall, and the boy with them. =The book supreme.=--She seems quite unable to draw upon the farm, the grocery, the store, or the playground for suitable problems. These things seem to be obscured by her supreme devotion to the book. She lacks fertility of resources, nor does she realize this lack, because her eyes are fastened upon the book rather than upon the child. Were she as intent upon the child as she is upon the book, his interests would direct attention to the things toward which his inclinations yearn and toward which his aptitudes lure him. In such a case, her ingenuity and resourcefulness would roam over wide fields in quest of the objects of his native interests and she would return to him laden with material that would fit the needs of the child far better than the material of the book. =The child supreme.=--The teacher whose primary consideration is the child and who sees in the child the object and focus of all her activities, never makes a fetish of the book. It has its use, to be sure, but it is subordinate in the scheme of education. It is not a necessity, but a mere convenience. She could dispense with it entirely and not do violence to the child's interests. No book is large enough to compass all that she teaches, for she forages in every field to obtain proper and palatable food for the child. She teaches with the grain of the child and not against the grain. If the book contains what she requires in her work, she uses it and is glad to have it; but, if it does not contain what she needs, she seeks it elsewhere and does not return empty-handed. =Illustrations.=--She places the truth she hopes to teach in the path of the child's inclination, and this is taken into his life processes. Life does not stop at way-stations to take on supplies, but absorbs the supplies that it encounters as it moves along. This teacher does not stop the ball game to teach the right triangle, but manages to have the problem solved in connection with or as a part of the game. She does not taboo the morning paper in order to have a lesson in history, but begins with the paper as a favorable starting point toward the lesson. She does not confiscate the contents of the boy's pocket as contraband, but is glad to avail herself of all these as indices of the boy's interests, and, therefore, guides for her teaching. =Attitude toward teaching materials.=--When the boy carries a toad to school, she does not shudder, but rather rejoices, because she sees in him a possible Agassiz. When he displays an interest in plant life, she sees in him another Burbank. When she finds him drawing pictures at his desk, she smiles approval, for she sees in him another Raphael. She does not disdain the lowliest insect, reptile, or plant when she finds it within the circle of the child's interests. She is willing, nay eager, to ransack the universe if only she may come upon elements of nutrition for her pupils. From every flower that blooms she gathers honey that she may distill it into the life of the child. She does not coddle the child; she gives him nourishment. =History.=--Her history is as wide as human thought and as high as human aspiration. It includes the Rosetta stone and the morning paper. It travels back from the clothing of the child to the cotton gin. The stitch in the little girl's dress is the index finger that points to the page that depicts the invention of the sewing machine. Every engine leads her back to Watt, and she takes the children with her. Every foreign message in the daily paper revives the story of Field and the laying of the Atlantic cable. Every mention of the President's cabinet gives occasion for reviewing the cabinets of other Presidents with comparisons and contrasts. At her magic touch the libraries and galleries yield forth rich treasures for her classroom. Life is the textbook of her study, and the life of the child is the goal of her endeavors. =The child's native interests.=--In brief, she is teaching children and not books or subjects, and the interests of the children take emphatic precedence over her own. She enters into the life of the child and makes excursions into all life according to the dictates of his interests. The child is the big native interest to which she attaches the work of the school. The program is elastic enough to encompass every child in her school. Her program is a garden in which something is growing for each child, and she cultivates every plant with sympathetic care. She considers it no hardship to learn the plant, the animal, the place, or the fact in which the child finds interest. Because of the child and for the sake of the child she invests all these things with the quality of human interest. =The school and the home.=--Arithmetic, language, history, and geography touch life at a thousand points, and we have but to select the points of contact with the life of each pupil to render any or all of these a vital part of the day's work and the day's life. They are not things that are detached from the child's life. The child's errand to the shop involves arithmetic, and the vitalized teacher makes this fact a part of the working capital of the school. The dinner table abounds in geography, and the teacher is quick to turn this fact to account in the school. Her fertility of resources, coupled with her vital interest in human beings and human affairs, soon establishes a reciprocal relation between the home and the school. Similarly, she causes the language of the school to flow out into the home, the factory, and the office. =The skill of the teacher.=--History is not a school affair merely. It is a life affair, and through all the currents of life it may be made to flow. The languages, Latin, German, French, Spanish, are expressions and interpretations of life, and they may be made to appear what they really are if the teacher is resourceful enough and skillful enough to attach them to the life of the pupil by the human ligaments that are ever at hand. Chemistry, physics, botany, and physiology all throb with life if only the teacher can place the fingers of the pupils on their pulses. Given the human teacher, the human child, and the humanized teaching, the vitalized school is inevitable. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What agencies have been employed with the expectation that they would improve the school? 2. What are the reasons why some of these have not accomplished more? 3. Give instances in which the conservatism of teachers seems to have stood in the way of utilizing the element of human interest. 4. What do you think of a teacher who asserts that no important advance has been made in educational theory and practice since, say, 1910? 5. Make an outline of what you think a college of education should do for the school. 6. What would you expect to gain from a course in school administration? 7. The president of at least one Ohio college personally inspects and checks up the work of the professors from the standpoint of proper teaching standards, and has them visit one another's classes for friendly criticism and observation. He reports improvement in the standard of teaching. How is his plan applicable in your school? 8. A city high school principal states that it is not his custom to visit his teachers' classes; that he knows what is going on and that he interferes only if something is wrong. What do you think of his practice? How is the principle applicable in your school? 9. Do the duties of a superintendent have to do only with curriculum and discipline, or have they to do also with teaching power? 10. What are some of the ways in which you have known superintendents successfully to increase the teaching power of the teachers? 11. What things do we need to know about a child in order to utilize his interests? 12. Distinguish three types of teachers. 13. What are the objections to teaching the book? 14. What are the objections to teaching the subject? 15. What are some items of school work upon which some teachers spend time that they should devote to finding materials suited to the child's interests? 16. Can one teacher utilize all of the interests of a child within a nine-month term? What is the measure of how far she should be expected to do so? CHAPTER XXI BEHAVIOR =Behavior in retrospect.=--The caption of this chapter implies the behavior of human beings, as a matter of course, and the study of this subject is, at once, both alluring and illusive. No sooner has the student arrived at deductions that seem conclusive than exceptions begin to loom up on his speculative horizon that disintegrate his theories and cause him to retrace the steps of his reasoning. Such a study affords large scope for introspection, but too few people incline to examine their own behavior in any mental attitude that approaches the scientific. The others seem to think that things just happen, and that their own behavior is fortuitous. They seem not to be able to reason from effect back to cause, or to realize that there may be any possible connection between what they are doing at the present moment and what they were doing twenty years ago. =Environment.=--In what measure is a man the product of his environment? To what extent is a man able to influence his environment? These questions start us on a line of inquiry that leads toward the realm of, at least, a hypothetical solution of the problem of behavior. After we have reached the conclusion, by means of concrete examples, that many men have influenced their environment, it becomes pertinent, at once, to inquire still further whence these men derived the power thus to modify their environment. We may not be able to reach final or satisfactory answers to these questions, but it will, none the less, prove a profitable exercise. We need not trench upon the theological doctrine of predestination, but we may, with impunity, speculate upon the possibility of a doctrine of educational predestination. =Queries.=--Was Mr. George Goethals predestined to become the engineer of the Panama Canal from the foundation of the world, or might he have become a farmer, a physician, or a poet? Could Julius Cæsar have turned back from the Rubicon and refrained from saying, "The die is cast"? Could Abraham Lincoln have withheld his pen from the Emancipation Proclamation and permitted the negro race to continue in slavery? Could any influence have deterred Walter Scott from writing "Kenilworth"? Was Robert Fulton's invention of the steamboat inevitable? Could Christopher Columbus possibly have done otherwise than discover America? Does education have anything whatever to do in determining what a man will or will not do? =Antecedent causes.=--Here sits a man, let us say, who is writing a musical selection. He works in a veritable frenzy, and all else seems negligible for the time. He well-nigh disdains food and sleep in the intensity of his interest. Is this particular episode in his life merely happening, or does some causative influence lie back of this event somewhere in the years? Did some influence of home, or school, or playground give him an impulse and an impetus toward this event? Or, in other words, are the activities of his earlier life functioning on the bit of paper before him? If this is an effect, what and where was the cause? In the case of any type of human behavior can we postulate antecedent causes? If a hundred musicians were writing musical compositions at the same moment, would they offer similar explanations of their behavior? =Leadership.=--As a working hypothesis, it may be averred that ability to influence environment betokens leadership. With such a measuring-rod in hand we may go out into the community and determine, with some degree of accuracy, who are leaders and who are mere followers. Then we should need to go further and discover degrees of leadership, whether small or large, and, also, the quality of the leadership, whether good or bad, wise or foolish, selfish or altruistic, noisy or serene, and all the many other variations. Having done all this, we are still only on the threshold of our study, for we must reason back from our accumulated facts to their antecedent causes. If we score one man's leadership fifty and another's eighty, have we any possible warrant for concluding that the influences in their early life that tend to generate leadership were approximately as five to eight? =Restricted concepts.=--This question is certain to encounter incredulity, just as it is certain to raise other questions. Both results will be gratifying as showing an awakening of interest, which is the most and the best that the present discussion can possibly hope to accomplish. Very many, perhaps most, teachers in the traditional school do their teaching with reference to the next examination. They remind their pupils daily of the on-coming examination and remind them of the dire consequences following their failure to attain the passing grade of seventy. They ask what answer the pupil would give to a certain question if it should appear in the examination. If they can somehow get their pupils to surmount that barrier of seventy at promotion time, they seem quite willing to turn their backs upon them and let the teacher in the next grade make what she can of such unprofitable baggage. =Each lesson a prophecy.=--And we still call this education. It isn't education at all, but the merest hack work, and the tragedy of it is that the child is the one to suffer. The teacher goes on her complacent way happy in the consciousness that her pupils were promoted and, therefore, she will retain her place on the pay roll. It were more logical to have the same teacher continue with the pupil during his entire school life of twelve years, for, in that case, her interest in him would be continuous rather than temporary and spasmodic. But the present plan of changing teachers would be even better than that if only every teacher's work could be made to project itself not only to graduation day, but to the days of mature manhood and womanhood. If only every teacher were able to make each lesson a vital prophecy of what the pupil is to be and to do twenty years hence, then that lesson would become a condition precedent to the pupil's future behavior. =Outlook.=--Groping about in the twilight of possibilities we speculate in a mild and superficial way as to the extent to which heredity, environment, and education either singly or in combination are determining factors in human behavior. But when no definite answer is forthcoming we lose interest in the subject and have recourse to the traditional methods of our grandfathers. We lose sight of the fact that in our quest for the solution of this problem we are coming nearer and nearer to the answer to the perennial question, What is education? Hence, neither the time nor the effort is wasted that we devote to this study. We may not understand heredity; we may find ourselves bewildered by environment; we may not apprehend what education is; but by keeping all these closely associated with behavior in our thinking we shall be the gainers. =Long division ramified.=--We are admonished so to organize the activities of the school that they may function in behavior. That is an admonition of stupendous import as we discover when we attempt to compass the content of behavior. One of the activities of the school is Long Division. This is relatively simple, but the possible behavior in which it may function is far less simple. In the past, this same Long Division has functioned in the Brooklyn Bridge, in the Hoosac Tunnel, and Washington Monument, in the Simplon Pass, and in Eiffel Tower. It has helped us to travel up the mountain side on funicular railways, underneath rivers and cities by means of subways, under the ocean in submarines, and in the air by means of aircraft, and over the tops of cities on elevated railways. Only the prophet would have the temerity to predict what further achievements the future holds in store. But all that has been done and all that will yet be done are only a part of the behavior in which this activity functions. =Behavior amplified.=--Human behavior runs the entire gamut, from the bestial to the sublime, with all the gradations between. It has to do with the mean thief who pilfers the petty treasures of the little child, and with the high-minded philanthropist who walks and works in obedience to the behests of altruism. It includes the frowzy slattern who offends the sight and also the high-born lady of quality whose presence exhales and, therefore, inspires to, refinement and grace. It has to do with the coarse boor who defiles with his person and his speech and the courtly, cultured gentleman who becomes the exemplar of those who come under his influence. It touches the depraved gamin of the alley and the celebrated scholar whose pen and voice shed light and comfort. It concerns itself with the dark lurking places of the prowlers of the night who prey upon innocence, virtue, and prosperity and with the cultured home whose members make and glorify civilization. =Its scope.=--It swings through the mighty arc, from the anarchist plotting devastation and death up to Socrates inciting his friends to good courage as he drinks the hemlock. It takes cognizance of the slave in his cabin no less than of Lincoln in his act of setting the slaves free. It touches the extremes in Mrs. Grundy and Clara Barton. It concerns itself with Medea scattering the limbs of her murdered brother along the way to delay her pursuers and with Antigone performing the rites of burial over the body of her brother that his soul might live forever. It has to do with Circe, who transformed men into pigs, and with Frances Willard, who sought to restore lost manhood. It includes all that pertains to Lucrezia Borgia and Mary Magdalene; Nero and Phillips Brooks; John Wilkes Booth and Nathan Hale; Becky Sharp and Evangeline; Goneril and Cordelia; and Benedict Arnold and George Washington. =Behavior in history.=--Before the teacher can win a starting-point in her efforts to organize the activities of her school in such a manner that they may function in behavior, she must have a pretty clear notion as to what behavior really is. To gain this comprehensive notion she must review in her thinking the events that make up history. In the presence of each one of these events she must realize that this is the behavior in which antecedent activities functioned. Then she will be free to speculate upon the character of those activities, what modifications, accretions, or abrasions they experienced in passing from the place of their origin to the event before her, and whether like activities in another place or another age would function in a similar event. She need not be discouraged if she finds no adequate answer, for she will be the better teacher because of the speculation, even lacking a definite answer. =Machinery.=--She must challenge every piece of machinery that meets her gaze with the question "Whence camest thou?" She knows, in a vague way, that it is the product of mind, but she needs to know more. She needs to know that the machine upon which she is looking did not merely happen, but that it has a history as fascinating as any romance if only she cause it to give forth a revelation of itself. She may find in tracing the evolution of the plow that the original was the forefinger of some cave man, in the remote past. For a certainty, she will find, lurking in some machine, in some form, the multiplication table, and this fact will form an interesting nexus between behavior in the form of the machine and the activities of the school. She will be delighted to learn that no machine was ever constructed without the aid of the multiplication table, and when she is teaching this table thereafter she does the work with keener zest, knowing that it may function in another machine. =Art.=--When she looks at the "Captive Andromache" by Leighton she is involved in a network of speculations. She wonders by what devious ways the mind of the artist had traveled in reaching this type and example of behavior. She wonders whether the artistic impulse was born in him or whether it was acquired. She sees that he knew his Homer and she would be glad to know just how his reading of the "Iliad" had come to function in this particular picture. She further wonders what lessons in drawing and painting the artist had had in the schools that finally culminated in this masterpiece, and whether any of his classmates ever achieved distinction as artists. She wonders, too, whether there is an embryo artist in her class and what she ought to do in the face of that possibility. Again she wonders how geography, grammar, and spelling can be made to function in such a painting as Rosa Bonheur's "The Plough Oxen," and her wonder serves to invest these subjects with new meaning and power. =Shakespeare.=--In the school at Stratford they pointed out to her the desk at which Shakespeare sat as a lad, with all its boyish hieroglyphics, and her thought instinctively leaped across the years to "The Tempest," "King Lear," and "Hamlet." She pondered deeply the relation between the activities of the lad and the behavior of the man, wondering how much the school had to do with the plays that stand alone in literature, and whether he imbibed the power from associations, from books, from people, or from his ancestors. She wondered what magic ingredient had been dropped into the activities of his life that had proven the determining factor in the plays that set him apart among men. She realizes that his behavior was distinctive, and she fain would discover the talisman whose potent influence determined the bent and power of his mind. And she wonders, again, whether any pupil in her school may ever exemplify such behavior. =History.=--When she reads her history she has a keener, deeper, and wider interest than ever before, for she now realizes that every event of history is an effect, whose inciting causes lie back in the years, and is not fortuitous as she once imagined. She realizes that the historical event may have been the convergence of many lines of thinking emanating from widely divergent sources, and this conception serves to make her interest more acute. In thus reasoning from effect back to cause she gains the ability to reason from cause to effect and, therefore, her teaching of history becomes far more vital. She is studying the philosophy of history and not a mere catalogue of isolated and unrelated facts. History is a great web, and in the events she sees the pattern that minds have worked. She is more concerned now with the reactions of her pupils to this pattern than she is with mere names and dates, for these reactions give her a clew to tendencies on the part of her pupils that may lead to results of vast import. =Poetry.=--In every poem she reads she finds an illustration of mental and spiritual behavior, and she fain would find the key that will discover the mental operations that conditioned the form of the poem. She would hark back to the primal impulse of each bit of imagery, and she analyzes and appraises each word and line with the zeal and skill of a connoisseur. She would estimate justly and accurately the activities that functioned in this sort of behavior. She seeks for the influences of landscapes, of sky, of birds, of sunsets, of clouds,--in short, of all nature, as well as of the manifestations of the human soul. Thus the teacher gains access into the very heart of nature and life and can thus cause the poem to become a living thing to her pupils. In all literature she is ever seeking for the inciting causes; for only so can she prove an inspiring guide and counselor in pointing to them the way toward worthy achievements. =Attitude of teacher.=--In conclusion, then, we may readily distinguish the vitalized teacher from the traditional teacher by her attitude toward the facts set down in the books. The traditional teacher looks upon them as mere facts to be noted, connoted, memorized, reproduced, and graded, whereas the vitalized teacher regards them as types of behavior, as ultimate effects of mental and spiritual activities. The traditional teacher knows that seven times nine are sixty-three, and that is quite enough for her purpose. If the pupil recites the fact correctly, she gives him a perfect grade and recommends him for promotion. For the vitalized teacher the bare fact is not enough. She does not disdain or neglect the mechanics of her work, but she sees beyond the present. She sees this same fact merging into the operations of algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus, physics, and engineering, until it finally functions in some enterprise that redounds to the well-being of humanity. =Conclusion.=--To her every event of history, every fact of mathematics and science, every line of poetry, every passage of literature is pregnant with meaning, dynamic, vibrant, dramatic, and prophetic. Nothing can be dull or prosaic to her electric touch. All the facts of the books, all the emotions of life, and all the beauties of nature she weaves into the fabric of her dreams for her pupils. The goal of her aspirations is far ahead, and around this goal she sees clustered those who were her pupils. In every recitation this goal looms large in her vision. She can envisage the viewpoint of her pupils, and thus strives to have them envisage hers. She yearns to have them join with her in looking down through the years when the activities of the school will be functioning in worthy behavior. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Discuss the relative importance of environment as a factor in the behavior of plants; animals; children; men. 2. How may an understanding of the mutual reaction of the child and his environment assist the teacher in planning for character building in pupils? 3. Make specific suggestions by which children may influence their environment. 4. Discuss the vitalized teacher's contribution to the environment of the child. 5. After reading this chapter give your definition of "behavior." 6. Discuss the author's idea of leadership. 7. Define education in terms of behavior, environment, and heredity. 8. Account for the difference in behavior of some of the characters mentioned in the chapter. 9. How may the vitalized teacher be distinguished from the traditional teacher in her attitude toward facts? 10. Discuss the doctrine of educational predestination. CHAPTER XXII BOND AND FREE =Spiritual freedom.=--There is no slavery more abject than the bondage of ignorance. John Bunyan was not greatly inconvenienced by being incarcerated in jail. His spirit could not be imprisoned, but the imprisonment of his body gave his mind and spirit freedom and opportunity to do work that, otherwise, might not have been done. If he had lived a mere physical life and had had no resources of the mind upon which to draw, his experience in the jail would have been most irksome. But, being equipped with mental and spiritual resources, he could smile disdain at prison bars, and proceed with his work in spiritual freedom. Had he been dependent solely, or even mainly, upon food, sleep, drink, and other contributions to his physical being for his definition of life, then his whole life would have been restricted to the limits of his cell; but the more extensive and expansive resources of his life rendered the jail virtually nonexistent. =Illustrations.=--It is possible, therefore, so to furnish the mind that it can enjoy freedom in spite of any bondage to which the body may be subjected. Indeed, the whole process of education has as its large objective the freedom of the mind and spirit. Knowledge of truth gives freedom; ignorance of truth is bondage. A man's knowledge may be measured by the extent of his freedom; his ignorance, by the extent of his bondage. In the presence of truth the man who knows stands free and unabashed, while the man who does not know stands baffled and embarrassed. In a chemical laboratory the man who knows chemistry moves about with ease and freedom, while the man who does not know chemistry stands fixed in one spot, fearing to move lest he may cause an explosion. To the man who knows astronomy the sky at night presents a marvelous panorama full of interest and inspiration, to the man who is ignorant of astronomy the same sky is merely a dome studded with dots of light. =Rome.=--The man who lacks knowledge of history is utterly bewildered and ill at ease in the Capitoline Museum at Rome. All about him are busts that represent the men who made Roman history, but they have no meaning for him. Nero and Julius Cæsar are mere names to him and, as such, bear no relation to life. Cicero and Caligula might exchange places and it would be all one to him. He takes a fleeting glance at the statue of the Dying Gaul, but it conveys no meaning to him. He has neither read nor heard of Byron's poem which this statue inspired. He sees near by the celebrated Marble Faun, but he has not read Hawthorne's romance and therefore the statue evokes no interest. In short, he is bored and uncomfortable, and importunes his companions to go elsewhere. When he looks out upon the Forum he says it looks the same to him as any other stone quarry, and he roundly berates the shiftlessness of the Romans in permitting the Coliseum to remain when the stone could be used for building purposes, for bridges, and for paving. The Tiber impresses him not at all for, as he says, he has seen much larger rivers and, certainly, many whose water is more clear. In the Sistine Chapel he cannot be persuaded to give more than a passing glance at the ceiling because it makes his neck ache to look up. The Laocoön and Apollo Belvedere he will not see, giving as a reason that he is more than tired of looking at silly statuary. He feels it an imposition that he should be dragged around to such places when he cares nothing for them. His evident boredom is pathetic, and he repeatedly says that he'd far rather be visiting in the corner grocery back home, than to be spending his time in the Vatican. =Contrasts.=--In this, he speaks but the simple truth. In the grocery he has comfort while, in the Vatican, he is in bondage. His ignorance of art, architecture, history, and literature reduces him to thralldom in any place that exemplifies these. In the grocery he has comfort because he can have a share in the small talk and gossip that obtain there. His companions speak his language and he feels himself to be one of them. Were they, by any chance, to begin a discussion of history he would feel himself ostracized and would leave them to their own devices. If they would retain him as a companion they must keep within his range of interests and thinking. To go outside his small circle is to offer an affront. He cannot speak the language of history, or science, or art, and so experiences a feeling of discomfort in any presence where this language is spoken. =History.=--In this concrete illustration we find ample justification for the teaching of history in the schools. History is one of the large strands in the web of life, and to neglect this study is to deny to the pupil one of the elements of freedom. It is not easy to conceive a situation that lacks the element of history in one or another of its phases or manifestations. Whether the pupil travels, or embarks upon a professional life, or associates, in any relation, with cultivated people, he will find a knowledge of history not only a convenience but a real necessity, if he is to escape the feeling of thralldom. The utilitarian value of school studies has been much exploited, and that phase is not to be neglected; but we need to go further in estimating the influence of any study. We need to inquire not only how a knowledge of the study will aid the pupil in his work, but also how it will contribute to his life. =Restricted concepts.=--We lustily proclaim our country to be the land of the free, but our notion of freedom is much restricted. In the popular conception freedom has reference to the body. A man can walk the streets without molestation and can vote his sentiments at the polls, but he may not be able to take a day's ride about Concord and Lexington with any appreciable sense of freedom. He may walk about the Congressional Library and feel himself in prison. He may desert a lecture for the saloon in the interests of his own comfort. He may find the livery stable more congenial than the drawing-room. His body may experience a sort of freedom while his mind and spirit are held fast in the shackles of ignorance. A Burroughs, an Edison, a Thoreau, might have his feet in the stocks and still have more freedom than such a man as this. He walks about amid historic scenes with his spiritual eyes blindfolded, and that condition of mind precludes freedom. =Real freedom.=--We shall not attain our high privileges as a free people until freedom comes to mean more than the absence of physical restraint. Our conception of freedom must reach out into the world of mind and spirit, and our educational processes must esteem it their chief function to set mental and spiritual prisoners free. We have only to read history, science, and literature to realize what sublime heights mind can attain in its explorations of the realms of truth, and, since the boys and girls of our schools are to pass this way but once, every effort possible should be made to accord to them full freedom to emulate the mental achievements of those who have gone before. They have a right to become the equals of their predecessors, and only freedom of mind and spirit can make them such. Every man should be larger than his task, and only freedom of mind and spirit can make him so. The man who works in the ditch can revel among the sublime manifestations of truth if only his mind is rightly furnished. =Spelling.=--The man who is deficient in spelling inevitably confines his vocabulary to narrow limits and so lacks facility of expression and nicety of diction. Accordingly, he suffers by comparison with others whose vocabulary is more extensive and whose diction is, therefore, more elegant. The consciousness of his shortcomings restricts the exuberance of his life, and he fails of that sense of large freedom that a knowledge of spelling would certainly give. So that even in such an elementary study as spelling the school has an opportunity to generate in the pupils a feeling of freedom, and this feeling is quite as important in the scheme of life as the ability to spell correctly. In this statement, there is no straining for effects. On the contrary, many illustrations might be adduced to prove that it is but a plain statement of fact. A cultured lady confesses that she is thrown into a panic whenever she has occasion to use the word _Tuesday_ because she is never certain of the spelling. =The switchboard.=--Life may be likened to an extensive electric switchboard, and only that man or woman has complete freedom who can press the right button without hesitation or trepidation. The ignorant man stands paralyzed in the presence of this mystery and knows not how to proceed to evoke the correct response to his desires. It has been said that everything is infinitely high that we cannot see over. Hence, to the man who does not know, cube root is infinitely high and, as such, is as far away from his comprehension as the fourth dimension or the precession of the equinoxes. In the presence of even such a simple truth as cube root he stands helpless and enthralled. He lives in a small circle and cannot know the joy of the man whose mind forgathers with the big truths of life. =Comparisons.=--The ignorant man cannot accompany this man upon his mighty excursions, but must remain behind to make what he can of his feeble resources. The one can penetrate the mysteries of the planets and bring back their secrets; the other must confine his thinking to the weather and the crops. The one can find entertainment in the Bible and Shakespeare; the other seeks companionship among the cowboys and Indians of the picture-films. The one sits in rapt delight through an evening of grand opera, reveling on the sunlit summits of harmony; the other can rise no higher in the scale of music than the raucous hand organ. The one finds keen delight among the masterpieces of art; the other finds his definition of art in the colored supplement. The one experiences the acme of pleasure in communing with historians, musicians, artists, scientists, and philologists; the other finds such associations the very acme of boredom. The one finds freedom among the big things of life; the other finds galling bondage. =Three elements of freedom.=--There are three elements of freedom that are worthy of emphasis. These are self-reliance, self-support, and self-respect. These elements are the trinity that constitute one of the major ultimate aims of the vitalized school. The school that inculcates these qualities must prove a vital force in the life of the pupil; and the pupil who wins these qualities is well equipped for the work of real living. These qualities are the golden gateways to freedom, nor can there be a full measure of freedom if either of these qualities be lacking. Moreover, these qualities are cumulative in their relations to one another. Self-reliance leads to and engenders self-support, and both these underlie and condition self-respect. Or, to put the case conversely, there cannot be self-respect in the absence of self-reliance and self-support. =Self-reliance.=--It would not be easy to over-magnify the influence of the school that is rightly conducted in the way of inculcating the quality of self-reliance and in causing it to grow into a habit. Every problem that the boy solves by his own efforts, every obstacle that he surmounts, every failure that he transforms into a success, and every advance he makes towards mastery gives him a greater degree of self-reliance, greater confidence in his powers, and greater courage to persevere. It is the high privilege of the teacher to cause a boy to believe in himself, to have confidence in his ability to win through. To this end, she adds gradually to the difficulties of his work, always keeping inside the limits of discouragement, and never fails to give recognition to successful achievements. In this way the boy gains self-reliance and so plumes himself for still loftier flights. Day after day he moves upward and onward, until at length he exemplifies the sentiment of Virgil, "They can because they think they can." =This quality in practice.=--The self-reliance that becomes ingrained in a boy's habits of life will not evaporate in the heat of the activities and competition of the after-school life. On the contrary, it will be reënforced and crystallized by the opportunities of business or professional life, and, in calm reliance upon his own powers, he will welcome competition as an opportunity to put himself to the test. He is no weakling, for in school he made his independent way in spite of the lions in his path, and so gained fiber and courage for the contests of daily life. And because he has industry, thrift, perseverance, and self-reliance the gates of success swing wide open and he enters into the heritage which he himself has won. =The sterling man.=--His career offers an emphatic negation to the notion that obtains here and there to the effect that education makes a boy weak and ineffective, robbing him of the quality of sterling elemental manhood, and fitting him only for the dance-hall and inane social functions. The man who is rightly trained has resources that enable him to add dignity and character to social functions in that he exhales power and bigness. People recognize in him a real man, capable, alert, and potential, and gladly pay him the silent tribute that manhood never fails to win. He can hold his own among the best, and only the best appeal to him. =Self-respect.=--And, just as he wins the respect of others, so he wins the respect of himself, and so the triumvirate of virtues is complete. Having achieved self-respect he disdains the cheap, the bizarre, the gaudy, and the superficial. He knows that there are real values in life that are worthy of his powers and best efforts, and these real values are the goal of his endeavors. Moreover, he has achieved freedom, and so is not fettered by precedent, convention, or fads. He is free to establish precedents, to violate the conventions when a great principle is at stake, and to ignore fads. He can stand unabashed in the presence of the learned of the earth, and can understand the heartbeats of life, because he has had experience both of learning and of life. And being a free man his life is fuller and richer, and he knows when and how to bestow the help that will give to others a sense of freedom and make life for them a greater boon. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Account for the production of some of our greatest religious literature in prison or in exile. Give other instances than the one mentioned by the author. 2. Give your idea of the author's concept of the terms "bondage" and "freedom." 3. Add to the instances noted in this chapter where ignorance has produced bondage. 4. Defend the assertion that the cost of ignorance in our country exceeds the cost of education. The total amount spent for public education in 1915 slightly exceeded $500,000,000. 5. How do the typical recitations of your school contribute to the happiness of your pupils? Be specific. 6. How may lack of thoroughness limit freedom? Illustrate. 7. How may education give rise to self-reliance? Self-respect? 8. Show that national and religious freedom depend upon education. CHAPTER XXIII EXAMINATIONS =Prelude.=--When the vitalized school has finally been achieved there will result a radical departure from the present procedure in the matter of examinations. A teacher in the act of preparing a list of examination questions of the traditional type is not an edifying spectacle. He has a text-book open before him from which he extracts nuts for his pupils to crack. It is a purely mechanical process and only a mechanician could possibly debase intelligence and manhood to such unworthy uses. Were it not so pathetic it would excite laughter. But this teacher is the victim of tradition. He knows no other way. He made out examination questions in accordance with this plan fifteen years ago and the heavens didn't fall; then why, pray, change the method? Besides, men and women who were thus examined when they were children in school have achieved distinction in the world's affairs, and that, of itself, proves the validity of the method, according to his way of thinking. =Mental atrophy.=--It seems never to occur to him that children have large powers of resistance and that some of his pupils may have won distinction in spite of his teaching and his methods of examination and not because of them. His trouble is mental and spiritual atrophy. He thinks and feels by rule of thumb, "without variableness or shadow of turning." In the matter of new methods he is quite immune. He settled things to his complete satisfaction years ago, and what was good enough for his father, in school methods, is quite good enough for him. His self-satisfaction would approach sublimity, were it not so extremely ludicrous. He has a supercilious sneer for innovations. How he can bring himself to make concessions to modernity to the extent of riding in an automobile is one of the mysteries. =Self-complacency.=--His complacency would excite profound admiration did it not betoken deadline inaction. He became becalmed on the sea of life years ago, but does not know it. When the procession of life moves past him he thinks he is the one who is in motion, and takes great unction to himself for his progressiveness--"and not a wave of trouble rolls across his peaceful breast." So he proceeds to copy another question from the text-book, solemnly writing it on a bit of paper, and later copying on the blackboard with such a show of bravery and gusto as would indicate that some great truth had been revealed to him alone. In an orotund voice he declaims to his pupils the mighty revelations that he copied from the book. His examination régime is the old offer of a mess of pottage for a birthright. =Remembering and knowing.=--In our school practices we have become so inured to the question-and-answer method of the recitation that we have made the examination its counterpart. As teachers we are constantly admonishing our pupils to remember, as if that were the basic principle in the educational process. In reality we do not want them to remember--we want them to know; and the distinction is all-important. The child does not remember which is his right hand; he knows. He does not remember the face of his mother; he knows her. He does not remember which is the sun and which is the moon; he knows. He does not remember snow, and rain, and ice, and mud; he knows. =Questions and answers.=--But, none the less, we proceed upon the agreeable assumption that education is the process of memorizing, and so reduce our pupils to the plane of parrots; for a parrot has a prodigious memory. Hence, it comes to pass that, in the so-called preparation of their lessons, the pupils con the words of the book, again and again, and when they can repeat the words of the book we smile approval and give a perfect grade. It matters not at all that they display no intelligent understanding of the subject so long as they can repeat the statements of the book. It never seems to occur to the teacher that the pupil of the third grade might give the words of the binomial theorem without the slightest apprehension of its meaning. We grade for the repetition of words, not for intelligence. =Court procedure.=--In our school practices we seem to take our cue from court procedure and make each pupil who recites feel that he is on the witness stand experiencing all its attendant discomforts, instead of being a coöperating agent in an agreeable enterprise. We suspend the sword of Damocles above his head and demand from him such answers as will fill the measure of our preconceived notions. He may know more of the subject, in reality, than the teacher, but this will not avail. In fact, this may militate against him. She demands to know what the book says, with small concern for his own knowledge of the subject. We proclaim loudly that we must encourage the open mind, and then by our witness-stand ordeal forestall the possibility of open-mindedness. =Rational methods.=--When we have learned wisdom enough, and humanity enough, and pedagogy enough to dispense with the quasi-inquisition type of recitation, the transition to a more rational method of examination will be well-nigh automatic. Let it not be inferred that to inveigh against the question-and-answer type of recitation is to advocate any abatement of thoroughness. On the contrary, the thought is to insure greater thoroughness, and to make evident the patent truth that thoroughness and agreeableness are not incompatible. Experience ought to teach us that we find it no hardship to work with supreme intensity at any task that lures us; and, in that respect, we are but grown-up children. We have only to generate a white-heat of interest in order to have our pupils work with intensity. But this sort of interest does not thrive under compulsion. =Analysis and synthesis.=--The question-and-answer method evermore implies analysis. But children are inclined to synthesis, which shows at once that the analytic method runs counter to their natural bent. They like to make things, to put things together, to experiment along the lines of synthesis. Hence the industrial arts appeal to them. But constructing problems satisfies their inclination to synthesis quite as well as constructing coat-hangers or culinary compounds, if only the incitement is rational. The writers of our text-books are coming to recognize this fact, and it does them credit. In time, we may hope to have books that will take into account the child's natural inclinations, and the schools will be the beneficiaries. =Thinking.=--In the process of synthesis the pupil is free to draw upon the entire stock of his accumulated resources, whereas in the question-and-answer method he is circumscribed. In the question-and-answer plan he is encouraged to remember; in the other he is encouraged to think. In our theories we exalt thinking to the highest pinnacle, but in our practice we repress thinking and exalt memory. We admonish our pupils to think, sometimes with a degree of emphasis that weakens our admonition, and then bestow our laurel wreaths upon those who think little but remember much. Our inconsistency in this respect would be amusing if the child's interests could be ignored. But seeing that the child pays the penalty, our inconsistency is inexcusable. =Penalizing.=--The question-and-answer régime, in its full application, is not wholly unlike a punitive expedition, in that the teacher asks the question and sits with pencil poised in air ready to blacklist the unfortunate pupil whose memory fails him for the moment. The child is embarrassed, if not panic-stricken, and the teacher seems more like an avenging nemesis than a friend and helper. Just when he needs help he receives epithets and a condemning zero. He sinks into himself, disgusted and outraged, and becomes wholly indifferent to the subsequent phases of the lesson. He feels that he has been trapped and betrayed, and days are required for his redemption from discouragement. =Traditional method.=--In the school where this method is in vogue the examination takes on the color and character of the recitation. At the close of the term, or semester, the teacher makes out the proverbial ten questions which very often reflect her own bias, or predilections, and in these ten questions are the issues of life and death. A hundred questions might be asked upon the subjects upon which the pupils are to be tested, but these ten are the only ones offered--with no options. Then the grading of the papers ensues, and, in this ordeal, the teacher thinks herself another Atlas carrying the world upon her shoulders. The boy who receives sixty-seven and the one who receives twenty-seven are both banished into outer darkness without recourse. The teacher may know that the former boy is able to do the work of the next grade, but the marks she has made on the paper are sacred things, and he has fallen below the requisite seventy. Hence, he is banished to the limbo of the lost, for she is the supreme arbiter of his fate. No allowance is made for nervousness, illness, or temperamental conditions, but the same measuring-rod is applied to all with no discrimination, and she has the marks on the papers to prove her infallibility. If a pupil should dare to question the correctness of her grades, he would be punished or penalized for impertinence. Her grades are oracular, inviolable, and therefore not subject to review. She may have been quite able to grade the pupils justly without any such ordeal, but the school has the examination habit, and all the sacred rites must be observed. In that school there is but one way of salvation, and that way is not subject either to repeal or amendment. It is _via sacra_ and must not be profaned. Time and long usage have set the seal of their approval upon it and woe betide the vandal who would dare tamper with it. =Testing for intelligence.=--This emphatic, albeit true, representation of the type of examinations that still obtains in some schools has been set out thus in some detail that we may have a basis of comparison with the other type of examinations that tests for intelligence rather than for memory. For children, not unlike their elders, are glad to have people proceed upon the assumption that they are endowed with a modicum of intelligence. They will strive earnestly to meet the expectations of their parents and teachers. Many wise mothers and teachers have incited children to their best efforts by giving them to know that much is expected of them. It is always far better to expect rather than to demand. Coercion may be necessary at times, but coercion frowns while expectation smiles. Hence, in every school exercise the teacher does well to concede to the pupils a reasonable degree of intelligence and then let her expectations be commensurate with their intelligence. =Concessions.=--It is an affront to the intelligence of a child not to concede that he knows that the days are longer in the summer than in winter. We may fully expect such a degree of intelligence, and base our teaching upon this assumption. In our examinations we pay a delicate compliment to the child by giving him occasion for thinking. We may ask him why the days are longer in summer than in winter and thus give him the feeling that we respect his intelligence. Our examinations may always assume observed facts. Even if he has never noted the fact that his shadow is shorter in summer than in winter, if we assume such knowledge on his part and ask him why such is the case, we shall stimulate his powers of observation along with his thinking. If the teacher asks a boy when and by whom America was discovered, he resents the implication of crass ignorance; but if she asks how Columbus came to discover America in 1492, he feels that it is conceded that there are some things he knows. =Illustrations.=--If we ask for the width of the zones, we are placing the emphasis upon memory; but, if we ask them to account for the width of the zones, we are assuming some knowledge and are testing for intelligent thinking. If we ask why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west we are, once again, assuming a knowledge of the facts and testing for intelligence. If we ask for the location of the Suez, Kiel, and Welland canals, we are testing for mere memory; but, if we ask what useful purpose these canals serve, we are testing for intelligence. When we ask pupils to give the rule for division of fractions, we are testing again for mere memory; but when we ask why we invert the terms of the divisor, we are treating our pupils as rational beings. Our pedagogical sins bulk large in geography when we continually ask pupils to locate places that have no interest for them. Such teaching is a travesty on pedagogy and a sin against childhood. =Intelligence of teacher.=--If the teacher is consulting her own ease and comfort, then she will conduct the examination as a test for memory. It requires but little work and less thinking to formulate a set of examination questions on this basis. She has only to turn the pages of the text-book and make a check-mark here and there till she has accumulated ten questions, and the trick is done. But if she is testing for intelligence, the matter is not so simple. To test for intelligence requires intelligence and a careful thinking over the whole scope of the subject under consideration. To do this effectively the teacher must keep within the range of the pupil's powers and still stimulate him to his best efforts. =Major and minor.=--She must distinguish between major and minor, and this is no slight task. Her own bias may tend to elevate a minor into a major rank, and this disturbs the balance. Again, she must see things in their right relations and proportions, and this requires deliberate thinking. In "King Lear" she may regard the Fool as a negligible minor, but some pupil may have discovered that Shakespeare intended this character to serve a great dramatic purpose, and the teacher suffers humiliation before her class. If she were testing for memory, she would ask the class to name ten characters of the play and like hackneyed questions, so that her own intelligence would not be put to the test. Accurate scholarship and broad general intelligence may be combined in the same person and, certainly, we are striving to inculcate and foster these qualities in our pupils. =Books of questions and answers.=--When the examinations for teachers shall become tests for intelligence and not for memory, we may fully expect to find the same principle filtering into our school practices. It is a sad travesty upon education that teachers, even in this enlightened age, still try to prepare for examinations by committing to memory questions and answers from some book or educational paper. But the fault lies not so much with the teachers themselves as with those who prepare the questions. The teachers have been led to believe that to be able to recall memorized facts is education. There are those, of course, who will commercialize this misconception of education by publishing books of questions and answers. Of course weak teachers will purchase these books, thinking them a passport into the promised land. The reform must come at the source of the questions that constitute the examination. When examiners have grown broad enough in their conception of education to construct questions that will test for intelligence, we shall soon be rid of such an incubus upon educational progress as a book of questions and answers. The field is wide and alluring. History, literature, the sciences, and the languages are rich in material that can be used in testing for intelligence, and we need not resort to petty chit-chat in preparing for examinations. =The way of reform.=--We must take this broader view of the whole subject of examinations before we can hope to emerge from our beclouded and restricted conceptions of education. And it can be done, as we know from the fact that it is being done. Here and there we find superintendents, principals, and teachers who are shuddering away from the question-and-answer method both in the recitation and in the examination. They have outgrown the swaddling-clothes and have risen to the estate of broad-minded, intelligent manhood and womanhood. They have enlarged their concept of education and have become too generous in their impulses to subject either teachers or pupils to an ordeal that is a drag upon their mental and spiritual freedom. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. What purposes are actually achieved by examinations? 2. What evils necessarily accompany examinations? What evils usually accompany them? 3. Outline a plan by which these purposes may be achieved unaccompanied by the usual evils. 4. Is memory of facts the best test of knowledge? Suggest other tests by which the value of a pupil's knowledge may be judged. 5. Experts sometimes vary more than 70 per cent in grading the same manuscript. The same person often varies 20 per cent or more in grading the same manuscript at different times. An experiment with your own grading might prove interesting. 6. Do you and your pupils in actual practice regard examinations as an end or as a means to an end? As corroborating evidence or as a final proof of competence? 7. How may examinations test intelligence? 8. Suggest methods by which pupils may be led to distinguish major from minor and to see things in their right relations. 9. Is it more desirable to have the pupils develop these powers or to memorize facts? Why? 10. Why are "question and answer" publications antagonistic to modern educational practice? Why harmful to students? CHAPTER XXIV WORLD-BUILDING =An outline.=--Education is the process of world-building. Every man builds his own world and is confined, throughout life, to the world which he himself builds. He cannot build for another, nor can another build for him. Neither can there be an exchange of worlds. Moreover, the process of building continues to the end of life. In building their respective worlds all men have access to the same materials, and the character of each man's world, then, is conditioned by his choice and use of these materials. If one man elects to build a small world for himself, he will find, at hand, an abundant supply of petty materials that he is free to use in its construction. But, if he elects to build a large world, the big things of life are his to use. If he chooses to spend his life in an ugly world, he will find ample materials for his purpose. If, however, he prefers a beautiful world, the materials will not be lacking, and he will have the joy and inspiration that come from spending a lifetime amid things that are fraught with beauty. =Exemplifications.=--This conception of education is not a figment of fancy but a reality whose verification can be attested by a thousand examples. We have only to look about us to see people who are living among things that are unbeautiful and who might be living in beautiful worlds had they elected to do so. Others are spending their lives among things that are trivial and inconsequential, apparently blind to the great and significant things that lie all about them. Some build their worlds with the minor materials, while others select the majors. Some select the husks, while others choose the grain. Some build their worlds from the materials that others disdain and seem not to realize the inferiority of their worlds as compared with others. Their supreme complacency in the midst of the ugliness or pettiness of their worlds seems to accentuate the conclusion that they have not been able to see, or else have not been able to use, the other materials that are available. =Flowers.=--To the man who would live in a beautiful world flowers will be a necessity. To such a man life would be robbed of some of its charm if his world should lack flowers. But unless he has subjective flowers he cannot have objective ones. He must have a sensory foundation that will react to flowers or there can be no flowers in his world. There may be flowers upon his breakfast table, but unless he has a sensory foundation that will react to them they will be nonexistent to him. He can react to the bacon, eggs, and potatoes, but not to the flowers, unless he has cultivated flowers in his spirit before coming to the table. =Lily-of-the-valley civilization.=--All the flowers that grow may adorn his world if he so elects. He may be content with dandelions and sunflowers if he so wills, or he may reach forth and gather about him for his delight the entire gamut of roses from the Maryland to the American Beauty, the violet and its college-bred descendant the pansy, the heliotrope, the gladiolus, the carnation, the primrose, the chrysanthemum, the sweet pea, the aster, and the orchid. But, if he can reach the high plane of the lily-of-the-valley, in all its daintiness, delicacy, chastity, and fragrance, he will have achieved distinction. When society shall have attained to the lily-of-the-valley plane, life will be fine, fragrant, and beautiful. Intemperance will be no more, and profanity, vulgarity, and coarseness will disappear. Such things cannot thrive in a lily-of-the-valley world, but shrink away from the presence of beauty and purity. =Music.=--Again, the man who is building such a world will elect to have music as one of the elements. But here, again, we find that he must have a sensory foundation or there will be no music for him. Moreover, the nature of this sensory foundation will determine the character of the music to be found in his world. He may be satisfied with "Tipperary" or he may yearn for Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Melba, and Schumann-Heink. He may not be able to rise above the plane of ragtime, or he may attain to the sublime plane of "The Dead March in Saul." He has access to all the music from the discordant hand organ to the oratorio and grand opera. In his introduction of a concert company, the chairman said: "Ladies and gentlemen, the artists who are to favor us this evening will render nothing but high-grade selections. If any of you are inclined to be critical and to say that their music is above your heads, I beg to remind you that it will not be above the place where your heads ought to be." In substance he was saying that the nature of the music depended not so much upon the singers as upon the sensory foundation of the auditors. =Music and life.=--Having a sensory foundation capable of reacting to the best music, this man opens wide the portals of his world for the reception of the orchestra, the concert, the opera, and the choir, and his spirit revels in the "concord of sweet sounds." Through the toil of the day he anticipates the music of the evening, and the next day he goes to his work buoyant and rejuvenated by reason of the musical refreshment. He has music in anticipation and music in retrospect, and thus his world is regaled with harmony. His world cannot be a dead level or a desert, for it is diversified by the alluring undulations of music and made fertile by the perennial fountains of inspiring harmony, and his world "shall be filled with music And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away." =Children.=--Again, this man elects to have children in his world, for he has come to know that there is no sweeter music on earth than the laughter of a child. Were he sojourning five hundred miles away from the abode of children he would soon be glad to walk the entire distance that he might again hear the prattle, the laughter, or even the crying of a child. Cowboys on the plains have been thrown into a frenzy of delight at the sight of a little child. Full well the man knows that, if he would have children in his world, he must find these children for himself; for this task may not be delegated. If he would bring Paul and Florence Dombey into his world, he must win them to himself by living with them throughout all the pages of the book. In order to lure Pollyanna into his world to imbue it with the spirit of gladness, he must establish a community of interests with her by imbibing her spirit as revealed in the book. =Characterizations.=--He may not have Little Joe in his world unless his spirit becomes attuned to the pathos of _Bleak House_. And he both wants and needs Little Joe. Echoing and reëchoing through his soul each day are the words of the little chap, "He wuz good to me, he wuz," and acting vicariously for the little fellow he touches the lives of other unfortunates as the hours go by and brings to them sunshine and hope and courage. And he must needs have Tiny Tim, also, to banish the cobwebs from his soul with his fervent "God bless us every one." The day cannot go far wrong with this simple prayer clinging in his memory. It permeates the perplexities of the day, gives resiliency to his spirit, and encourages and reënforces all the noble impulses that come into his consciousness. Wherever he goes and whatever he is doing he feels that Tiny Tim is present to bestow his childish benediction. =Lessons from childhood.=--In _Laddie_ he finds a whole family of children to his liking and feels that his world is the better for their presence. To _Old Curiosity Shop_ and _Silas Marner_ he goes and brings thence Little Nell and Eppie, feeling that in their boon companionship they will make his world more attractive to himself and others by their gentle graces of kindness and helpfulness. In his quest for children of the right sort he lingers long with Dickens, the apostle and benefactor of childhood, but passes by the colored supplement. For all the children in his world he would have the approval and blessing of the Master. He would know, when he hears the words "Except ye become as little children," that reference is made to such children as he has about him. At the feet of these children he sits and learns the lessons of sincerity, guilelessness, simplicity, and faith, and through their eyes he sees life glorified. =Stars=.--Nor must his world lack stars. He needs these to draw his thoughts away from sordid things out into the far spaces. He would not spend a lifetime thinking of nothing beyond the weather, the ball-score, his clothes, and his ailments. He wants to think big thoughts, and he would have stars to guide him. He knows that a man is as high, as broad, and as deep as his thoughts, and that if he would grow big in his thinking he must have big objects to engage his thoughts. He would explore the infinite spaces, commune with the planets in their courses, attain the sublime heights where the masters have wrought, and discover, if possible, the sources of power, genius, and inspiration. He would find delight in the colors of the rainbow, the glory of the morning, and the iridescence of the dewdrop. He would train his thoughts to scan the spaces behind the clouds, to transcend the snow-capped mountain, and to penetrate the depths of the sea. He would visualize creation, evolution, and the intricate processes of life. So he must have stars in his world. =Books.=--In addition to all these he must have books in his world, and he is cognizant of the fact that his neighbors judge both himself and his world by the character of the books he selects. He may select _Mrs. Wiggs_ or _Les Miserables_. If he elects to have about him books of the cabbage patch variety, he condemns himself to that sort of reading for a whole lifetime. Nor is any redemption possible from such standards save by his own efforts. Neither men nor angels can draw him up to the plane of Victor Hugo if he elects to abide in the cabbage patch. If he prefers _Graustark_ to _Macbeth_, all people, including his dearest friends, will go on their way and leave him to his choice. If he says he cannot read Shakespeare, Massinger, Milton, or Wordsworth, he does no violence to the reputation of these writers, but merely defines and classifies himself. =Authors as companions.=--Having learned or sensed these distinctions, he elects to consort with Burns, Keats, Shelley, Southey, Homer, Dante, Virgil, Hawthorne, Scott, Maupassant, Goethe, Schiller, and George Eliot. In such society he never has occasion to explain or apologize for his companions. He reads their books in the open and gains a feeling of elation and exaltation. When he would see life in the large, he sits before the picture of Jean Valjean. When he would see integrity and fidelity in spite of suffering, he sits before the portrait of Job. When he would see men of heroic size, he has the characters of Homer file by. If he would see the panorama of the emotions of the human soul, he selects Hugo as his guide. If he would laugh, he reads _Tam O'Shanter_; if he would weep, he reads of the death of Little Nell. If he would see real heroism, he follows Sidney Carton to the scaffold, or Esther into the presence of the King. He goes to Shelley's _Skylark_ to find beauty, Burns's _Highland Mary_ to find tenderness, Hawthorne's _Scarlet Letter_ to find tragedy, and the _Book of Job_ to find sublimity. Through his books he comes to know Quasimodo and Sir Galahad; Becky Sharp and Penelope; Aaron Burr and Enoch Arden; and Herodias and Florence Nightingale. =People.=--But his world would be incomplete without people, and here, again, he is free to choose. And, since he wants people in his world who will be constant reminders to him of qualities that he himself would cultivate, he selects Ruth and Jephthah's daughter to represent fidelity. When temptation assails him he finds them ready to lead him back and up to the plane of high resolves. To remind him of indomitable courage and perseverance he selects William the Silent, Christopher Columbus, and Moses. When his courage is waning and he is becoming flaccid and indolent, their very presence is a rebuke, and a survey of their achievements restores him to himself. As examples of patriotic thinking and action he invites into his world Samuel Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and Alexander Hamilton. They remind him that he is a product of the past and that it devolves upon him to pass on to posterity without spot or blemish the heritage that has come to him through the patriotic service and sacrifice of his progenitors. =Influence of people.=--That he may never lose sight of the fact that it is cowardly and degrading to recede from high ideals he opens the doors of his world for Milton, Beethoven, and Michael Angelo. Their superb achievements, considered in connection with their afflictions and hardships, are a source of inspiration to him and keep him up to his best. As a token of his appreciation of these exemplars he strives to excel himself, thus proving himself a worthy disciple. They need not chide him, for in their presence he cannot do otherwise than hold fast to his ideals and struggle upward with a courage born of inspiration. Living among such goodly people, he finds his world resplendent with the virtues that prove a halo to life. With such people about him he can be neither lonely nor despondent. If the cares of life fret him for the moment, he takes counsel with them and his equilibrium is restored. In their company he finds life a joyous experience, for their very presence exhales the qualities that make life worth while. As an inevitable result of all the influences that constitute his world he finds himself yearning for meliorism as the crownpiece. Drinking from the fount of inspiration that gushes forth at the behest of all these wholesome influences, he longs for betterment. Good as he finds the things about him, he feels that they are not yet good enough. So he becomes the eloquent apostle of meliorism, proclaiming his gospel without abatement. The roads are not good enough, and he would have better ones. Our houses are not good enough, and he would have people design and build better ones. Our music is not good enough as yet, and he would encourage men and women to write better. Our books are not good enough, and he would incite people to write better ones. Our conduct of civic affairs is not good enough, and he would stimulate society to strive for civic betterment. Our municipal government is not good enough, and he proclaims the need to make improvement. Our national government is not all that it might be, and he would have all people join in a benevolent conspiracy to make it better. =Influence of the school.=--Thus day by day this man continues the building of a world for himself. And day by day he strives to make his world better, not only as an abiding place for himself but also as an example for others. In short, this man is a product of the vitalized school, and is weaving into the pattern of his life the teachings of the school. In exuberance of spirit and in fervent gratitude he looks back to the school that taught him to know that education is the process of world-building. And to the school he gives the credit for the large and beautiful world in which he lives. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Show how the world that one builds depends upon one's own choosing. 2. Do people seem to realize this truth when they do not build their world as they might? If pupils fail to realize it, what can the teacher do to help them? 3. Suppose a pupil is interested in petty things; the school must utilize his interests. How can this be done? How can he be led to larger aims? 4. To what extent does the richness of our lives depend on the way we react to stimuli? 5. Explain how each of the influences alluded to in this chapter helps the teacher. 6. Why does the character of the books one reads most serve as an index of one's own character? 7. What do you think of a person who prefers new books? 8. What do you think of one who prefers sensational books? 9. Why is it especially important for a teacher to be thoroughly acquainted with the great characters of history? 10. Does acquaintance with the great in history tend to produce merely a good static character, or does it do more? CHAPTER XXV A TYPICAL VITALIZED SCHOOL =The school an expression of the teacher.=--The vitalized school may be a school of one room or of forty rooms; it may be in the city, in the village, in the hamlet, or in the heart of the country; it may be a kindergarten, a grade school, a high school, or a college. The size or the location of the school does not determine its vital quality. This, on the contrary, is determined by the character of its work and the spirit that obtains. In general it may be said that the vitalized teacher renders the school vital. This places upon her a large measure of responsibility, but she accepts it with equanimity, and rejoices in the opportunity to test out her powers. It needs to be oft repeated that if the teacher is static, the school will be static; but if the teacher is dynamic, the school will be dynamic. The teacher can neither delegate, abrogate, abate, nor abridge her responsibility. The school is either vitalized or it is not, according to what the teacher is and does, and what the teacher does depends upon what she is. In short, the school is an expression of the teacher, and, if the school is not vitalized, the reason is not far to seek. =A centralized school.=--For the purpose of illustration we may assume that the typical vitalized school is located in the country, and is what is known as a centralized school. The grounds comprise about ten acres, and the building contains, all told, not fewer than twenty rooms, large and small. This building was designed by a student of school problems, and is not merely a theory of the architect. Each room, and each detail, articulates with every other room in harmony with a general scheme of which the child and his interests are the prime considerations. The well-being of the child takes precedence over the reputation of the architect. Every nook of the building has its specific function, and this function has vital reference to the child. The location of each piece of furniture can be explained from the viewpoint of the child, and the architectural scheme is considered subsidiary. The seats conform to the child, and not the reverse. The scheme of lighting concerns itself with the child's welfare rather than with the external appearance. =Integrity in construction and decoration.=--The decorations throughout the building are all chaste and artistic. Nothing below this standard can win admission. No picture is admitted that does not represent art. The theory is that the school has a reflex influence upon the homes that attracts them to its standards, and experience reveals the fact that the decorations in the homes are constantly rising in artistic tone. The standards of the school become the standards of the pupils, and the pupils, in turn, modify and improve the standards of the homes. There is a degree of simplicity and dignity throughout the building that banishes from the homes the ornate and the bizarre. There is integrity in every detail of construction, and the absence of veneer gives to the pupils a definition of honesty and sincerity. There is nothing either in the building or in the work of the school that savors of the show element. The teachers of history and mathematics cannot display the products of their teaching and, therefore, there is no display of her products by the teacher of drawing. This school believes in education but not in exhibition. Words of commendation may be dispensed in the classrooms, but there is no exhibit of any department in the halls. The teachers are too polite and too considerate to sanction any such display. =Simplicity and sincerity.=--The library is notable for the character of the books, but not for the number. The teachers and pupils are too genuine ever to become thrasonical, and no teacher or pupil is ever heard to boast of anything pertaining to the school. They neither boast nor apologize, but leave every visitor free to make his own appraisement of their school and its belongings. The teachers are too truly cultured and the pupils are too well trained ever to exploit themselves, their school, or their work. The pictures, the statuary, the fittings, and the equipment are all of the best, and, hence, show for themselves without exploitation. To teachers and pupils it would seem a mark of ill-breeding to expatiate upon their own things. Such a thing is simply not done in this school. The auditorium is a stately, commodious, and beautiful room, and everybody connected with the school accepts it as a matter of course with no boastful comment. Anything approaching braggadocio would prove a discordant note in this school, and, in this respect, it represents the American ideal that is to be. =Rooms are phases of life.=--The home economics room, the industrial arts room, the laboratories, the dining room, the rest rooms, and the hospital room are all supplied with suitable fittings and equipment and all represent phases of life. At luncheon each pupil is served a bowl of soup or other hot dish to supplement his own private lunch, and this food is supplied at public expense. The school authorities have the wisdom to realize that health is an asset of the community and is fundamental in effective school work. The pupils serve their schoolmates in relays, wash the dishes, and restore them to their places. The boys do not think they demean themselves by such service, but enter into it in the true spirit of democracy. A teacher is present to modify and chasten the hurry and heedlessness of childhood, and there is decorum without apparent repression. =Industrial work.=--In connection with the industrial arts department there is a repair shop where all the implements that are used in caring for the school farm, gardens, orchards, and lawns are kept in repair. Here the auto trucks in which the pupils are brought to the school are repaired by the drivers, assisted by the boys. In this shop the boys gain the practical knowledge that enables them to keep in repair the tools and machinery, including automobiles, at their homes. The farmers who have no sons in school avail themselves of the skill and fidelity that obtain in the shop, bringing in their tools, their harness, and their automobiles for needed repairs. The money thus earned is expended for school equipment. The products of the orchards, farm, and garden are the property of the school and are all preserved for use in the home economics department for school lunches. The man in charge of the farm is employed by the year and is a member of the teaching staff. The farm, gardens, orchard, and lawn are integral parts of the school, and perform the functions of laboratories. =School a life enterprise.=--There are all grades in the school, from the kindergarten through the high school. There is but slight disparity in the size of the classes, for the parents instinctively set apart thirteen years of the time of their children for life in the school. To these parents school and life are synonymous, and when a child enters the kindergarten he enlists in the enterprise for a term of thirteen years. The homes as well as the school are arranged on this basis, and this plan of procedure is ingrained in the social consciousness. Deserting the school is no more thought of than any other form of suicide. If, by any chance, a boy should desert the school, he would be a pariah in that community and could not live among the people in any degree of comfort. He would be made to feel that he had debased himself and cast aspersion upon society. The looks that the people would bestow upon him would sting more than flagellation. He would be made to feel that he had expatriated himself, and neither himself nor his parents would be in good standing in the community. They would be made to feel that their conduct was nothing short of sacrilege. =Public sentiment.=--In view of the school sentiment that obtains in the community the eighth grade is practically as populous as the first grade. Attendance upon school work is a habit of thinking both with the children and with their parents, and school is taken for granted the same as eating and sleeping. If a boy should, for any cause, fail to graduate from the high school, every patron of the school would regard it as a personal calamity. They would feel that he had, somehow, been dropped off the train before he reached his destination, and the whole community would be inclined to wear badges of mourning. Every parent is vitally interested in each child of the community, whether he has children in school or not, and thus school taxes are paid with pride and elation. The school is regarded as a safe investment that pays large dividends. Patrons rally to the calls of the school with rare unanimity and heartiness. Differences in politics and religion evaporate in their school, for the school is the high plane upon which they meet in fraternal concord. =The course of study.=--The course of study is flexible, and because of its resiliency it adapts itself easily and gracefully to the native dispositions and the aptitudes of the various pupils. If the boy has a penchant for agriculture, provision is made for him, both in the theory and in the practical applications of the subject. If he inclines to science, the laboratories accord him a gracious welcome. The studies are adapted to the boy and not the boy to the studies. No boy need discontinue school to find on the outside something that is congenial, for, within the school, he may find work that represents life in all its phases. If he yearns for horticulture, then this study is made his major and, all in good time, he is made foreman of the group who care for the gardens. If the course of study lacks the element which he craves and for which he has a natural aptitude, this branch is added to the course. The economy of life demands the conservation of childhood and youth and the school deems it the part of wisdom as well as civic and social economy to provide special instruction for this boy, as was done in the case of Helen Keller. This school, in theory and in practice, is firm in its opposition to wasting boys and girls. Hence, ample provision is made for the child of unusual inclinations. =Electives.=--The pupils do not elect a study because it is easy, but because their inclinations run in that direction. Indeed, there are no easy courses, no snap courses in the school. Diligent, careful, thorough work is the rule, and there can be found no semblance of approval for loafing or dawdling. The school stands for purposes that are clear in definition and for work that is intense. There are no prizes offered for excellent work, but the approbation of parents, teachers, and schoolmates, in the estimation of the pupils, far transcends any material or symbolic prizes that could be offered. In school work and in conduct the pupils all strive to win this approval. There is no coarseness nor boorishness, for that would forfeit this approval. The cigarette is under ban, for public sentiment is against it; and, after all, public sentiment is the final arbiter of conduct. Hence, no boy will demean himself by flying in the face of public sentiment through indulging in any practice that this sentiment proclaims unclean or enervating. =The school the focus of community life.=--This school is the focus of the community. Hither come the patrons for music, for lectures, for art, for books and magazines, for social stimulus, and, in short, for all the elements of their avocational life. Indeed, in educational matters, the community is a big wholesome family and the school is the shrine about which they assemble for educational and cultural communion. It is quite a common practice for mothers to sit in the classrooms engaged in knitting or sewing while their children are busy with their lessons. For, in their conception of life, geography and sewing are coördinate elements, and so blend in perfect harmony in the school régime. At the luncheon period these mothers go to the dining room with their children in the same spirit of coöperation that gives distinction to the school and to the community. There is an interflow of interests between the school and the homes that makes for unity of purpose and practice. There is freedom in the school but not license. People move about in a natural way but with delicate consideration for the rights and sentiments of others. The atmosphere of the school interdicts rudeness. There is a quiet dignity, serenity, and intensity, with no abatement of freedom. In this school it is not good form for a boy to be less than a gentleman or for a girl to be less than a lady. =The teachers.=--The atmosphere in which the pupils live is, mainly, an exhalation from the spirit of the teachers. They live and work together in a delightful spirit of concord and coöperation. They are magnanimous and would refuse to be a part of any life that would decline from this high plane. In this corps there are no hysterics, no heroics, no strain, no stress. They are, first of all, successful human beings; and their expert teaching is an expression of their human qualities. Their teaching is borne along on the tones of conversation. They know that well-modulated tones of voice contribute to the culture and well-being of the school. Should a teacher ever indulge in screeching, nagging, hectoring, badgering, or sarcasm, she would find herself ostracized. Such things are simply not done in this school. Hence, she would soon realize that this school is no place for her and would voluntarily resign. The school is simply above and beyond her kind. =Unity of purpose.=--Among the teachers there are no jealousies, because each one is striving to exalt the others. They are so generous in their impulses, and have such exalted conceptions of life, that they incline to catalogue their colleagues among the very elect. The teacher in the high school and the teacher in the primary grade hold frequent conversations concerning each other's work, and no teacher ever loses interest in the pupils when they advance to the next grade. To such teachers, education is not parceled out in terms of years but is a continuous process, even as life itself. They use the text-book merely as a convenience, but never as a necessity. If all the text-books in the school should be destroyed overnight, the work would proceed as usual the next day, barring mere inconvenience. They respect themselves and others too highly ever to assume a patronizing air toward their pupils. On the contrary, they treat them as coördinates and confederates in the noble and exhilarating game of life. =The vitalized school.=--They have due regard to their personal appearance, but, once they have decided for the day, they dismiss the matter from their thinking and devote their attention to major considerations. Neither in dress, in manner, nor in conversation do they ever bring into the school a discordant note. School hours are not a detached portion of life but, rather, an integral part of life, and to them life is quite as agreeable during these hours as before and after. Such as they cannot do otherwise than render the school vital. And when such teachers and patrons as these join in such a benevolent conspiracy, then shall we realize not only a typical school but the vitalized school. QUESTIONS AND EXERCISES 1. Upon what does the vitalization of a school mainly depend? Upon what else does it depend in part? 2. What suggestion is made in this chapter in regard to the planning of school buildings? 3. Why should care be taken in choosing the decorations of a school? 4. Why is it unwise for teacher or pupils to boast of the achievements of the school? 5. Why has the question of school lunches gained so much prominence recently? 6. How should the industrial work in a school be linked with that in the community? 7. Why are there fewer students in the higher than in the lower grades of most schools? Make a careful analysis of the situation in this respect in your school. 8. Why is it a calamity to a community for a boy to fail to graduate from the high school? 9. What may be done to prevent a child going outside the school to find something congenial? 10. What should be a student's motive in choosing a course? 11. How do you make your school a center for community life? How can you make it more of a center than it is? 12. How is the spirit of jealousy among teachers injurious to our school system? What usually makes one teacher disparage the work of another? 13. What is essential in vitalizing a school? INDEX Absorbing standards, 160. Acquisitiveness, 52. Advantages of socialized recitation, 178. Agriculture; a typical study, 192; its rapid development, 193; relation to geology, 194; the source of life, 202. Altruism, 124. Ambition, 226. American restaurants, 86. American story, 231. Analysis and synthesis, 293. Anarchy, 73. Ancestor, child as a future, 34. Ancestors, attitude of, 31. Answers, repetition of, 139. Antecedent causes, 261. Art, 197, 268; teaching as an, 143. Aspiration, 224; and worship, 149. Aspirations, 59. Attitude of teacher, 11, 272. Attitude towards work, 148. Authors, 311. Automobile, 105; factory, 47. Beauty, desire for pastoral, 58. Behavior, amplified, 265; in history, 267; in retrospect, 259; scope of, 256. Betterment, 244. Body subject to the mind, 120. Books, 311; as exponents of life, 14; of questions and answers, 300; of life, 228; supreme, 252. Botany, importance of, 195. Boy, story of a, 236. Bread, 200. Centralized school, 318. Characterizations, 308. Child; as a future ancestor, 34; as a whole, 250; as the objective, 200; and teacher, quest of, 104; as the center in school procedure, 18; imagination of, 26; supreme, 252; right to express himself, 25; play instinct of, 24; relation of to school work, 27; life, 21; rights of, 20. Child's; conception of truth, 109; conception, 103; need of ideals, 169; viewpoint of teacher, 168; experiences, 27; native tendencies, 24; right to the best, 23; native interests, 255; imagination, 236. Childhood curtailed, 22. Children, 307; parental attitude towards, 19; common interests, 216; should have school privileges, 19; real interests, 217; _vs._ statistics, 247. Cigarettes, 117. Circus day, 118. Civilization, 305. Clean living, 37. College influences, 11. Columbus, voyage of, 152. Commerce, 55. Common from commonplace, 151. Comparison of life and living, 1. Comparison of two teachers, 129. Complacency of teacher, 135. Complete living defined, 112. Complexity of life, 4. Concepts restricted, 262, 279. Concessions, 297. Conclusion, 272. Conduct of teacher, 171. Conflict, 65. Conservation, 245. Contrasted methods, 44. Contrasts, 278. Coöperation, 75. Course of study, 324. Court procedure, 291. Curtailment of childhood, 22. Definition; of complete living, 112; of poetry, 222; of politician, 40; of socialized recitation, 176; of teaching, 2. Degrees and human qualities, 248. Democracy; foreign concept of, 66; the vitalized school a, 69. Democratic spirit, manifestations of, 71. Democratic teacher, 75. Desire is fundamental, 60. Desires for things intangible, 53. Domestic science, 199. Dynamic qualities, 146. Economic articulation, 59. Education, 101, 303; and substitution, 43; by absorption, 160; schools of, 246; unconsciously gained, 164. Efficiency, 80. Electives, 325. English, teacher of, 239. Enthusiasm, element of, 150. Environment, 259. Etymology, 106. Examinations, 288; traditional method, 294; testing for intelligence, 296; way of reform, 301. Expertness, appraisal of teaching, 131. Faith, 203, 227. Filtration plant and a vitalized school, 206. Flowers, 304. Food and life, 201. Foreign concept of democracy, 66. Formalities, meaningless, 128. Freedom, 120, 275; elements of, 283; real, 280. Function of the school, 70, 210. Gang element, 179. Generations, rights of the coming, 30. Girl and her elders, 237. Grammar, 212. Great Stone Face, 162. Habit, persistency of, 92. History, 79, 254, 270, 278; behavior in, 267; meaning of, 14. Home and the school, 255. Hospitals cited, 32. House of Parliament, 55. Human interest, 155. Human qualities, degrees of, 248. Humor, 232; betokens deep feeling, 239; defies explanation, 242; lack of, 235; of Lincoln, 238. Ideal; of the school, 215; rôle of, 166. Idealist, 49. Ideals, a perpetual influence, 169. Imagination of children, 26, 236. Imitation, politician worthy of, 43. Incomplete living, 113. Individual, responsibility of the, 69. Industrial work, 321. Influence; of people, 313; of the school, 315; upon pupils, 185. Influences of college, 11. Initial statement, 100. Innate tendencies, 61. Intelligence of teacher, 298. Intensity, life measured by, 2. Interest in practice, 180. Interest, life the great human, 249. Joy in work of artist teacher, 145. Language, 211; a social study, 211; and vitality, 15. Leadership, 42, 261. Learning democracy, 268. Lesson a prophecy, 263. Lessons from childhood, 309. Life; and living compared, 1; and music, 307; and reading, 12; as subject matter in teaching, 6; books as exponents of, 14; book of, 228; complexity of, 4; every subject invested with, 155; how the poet learns, 223; in literature, 6; quality of, 219; manifestations of, 5; measured by intensity, 2; sea as, 104; teachers' influx of, 228; the great human interest, 249; transfusion of, 224. Life and food, 201. Lincoln's humor, 238. Literature; life in, 6; pedagogy in, 163. Long division ramified, 264. Machine teacher, 246. Machinery, 268. Major and minor, 299. Man, 285. Manifestations of life, 5. Mark Twain as a philosopher, 240. Mathematics vitalized, 10. Meanderings, 139. Melting pot, 67. Mental atrophy, 289. Methods, 292; contrasted, 44; potency of right, 132; of the politician, 41. Michael Angelo, 108. Military training, 118. Minor and major, 299. Misconceptions, 35, 66. Misfits, 216. Mistakes, 214. Monuments, 58. Mulberry Bend, 83. Music, 306; and life, 307. Native land, 226. Needs of society, 212. Outlook, 264. Ownership, potency of, 181. Parental attitude towards children, 19. Parliament, House of, 55. Patriot, a typical, 82. Patriotism; a determining motive, 78; as a working principle, 77; conclusions, 89; in daily life, 85; thrift as, 87. Pedagogy in literature, 163. Penalizing, 294. People, 312; influence of, 313. Perseverance, 225. Personal efficiency, 115. Physical training, 116. Physics and Chemistry, 196. Physiology, 196. Poetry, 271; defined, 222. Poet learns life how, 223. Politician defined, 40; methods of, 41; worthy of imitation, 43. Possibilities, 134. Potency of right methods, 132. Power of understanding, 13. Problem of the teacher, 98. Proprietary interests, 180. Public sentiment, 323. Pupil teacher, 177. Question stated, 127. Questions and answers, 290; books of, 300. Rational methods, 292. Reading and life, 12. Recitation, example of socialized, 187. Reflex influence, 184. Remembering and knowing, 290. Repeating answers, 139. Resourcefulness, 153. Responsibility of the school, 36. Restricted concepts, 262. Resultants, 183. Rights of the child, 20. Rome, 276. Rooms, 320. Sanitation, 82. Scholar's concept of the sea, 102. School; and society, 46; and the home, 255; an expression of the teacher, 317; and factory compared, 130; a life enterprise, 322; function of the, 70; function of, 210; ideal of the, 215; influence of, 315. Schoolhouse, 319; the community center, 326. Schools; of education, 246; responsibility of, 36; work of the, 110. Sciences, relation of, to life, 198. Sea; as life, 104; scholar's concept of, 102. Self-complacency, 289. Self-interest, 41. Self-reliance, 284. Self-respect, 286. Shakespeare, 269. Simplicity and sincerity, 320. Snobbery, 73. Social intercourse, 56. Social study, language a, 211. Socialized recitation; definition of, 176; sample of, 187; exemplified in society, 182. Society; and the school, 46; needs of, 212. Sound body, 114. Spelling, 281; as patriotism, 77. Spirit, things of the, 123. Spiritual freedom, 275. Stars, 310. Statistics _vs._ children, 247. Stories, 233. Story of a boy, 236. Street signs, 121. Substitutions, results of, 48. Switchboard, 282. Synthesis and analysis, 293. Synthetic teaching, 203. Teacher, 165; and child, 104; as a machine, 246; as environment, 162; attitude towards children, 254; conduct of, 171; characteristic qualities of, 144; intelligence of, 298; growth of, 172; her supremacy, 166; of English, 239; responsibility of, 159; rule of life, 171; seeing life large, 172; school an expression of, 317; skill of the, 256; status irrevocable, 168; volubility, 136. Teachers, 327; attitude, 11, 170; complacency, 135; contrasted, 9; first type, 251; influx of life, 228; problem, 89; province, 7; other self, 167; three types of, 250. Teaching, 229; as a fine art, 143; defined, 2; test of, 137; life as subject matter in, 6; power, 248. Temperance, 81. Tests of teaching, 137. Things of the spirit, 123. Thinking, 293. Thirteen colonies, 154. Three types of teachers, 250. Thrift as patriotism, 87. Time element, basic considerations, 129. Time, waste of, 133. Tom Sawyer, 91. Trained minds, 122; achievements of, 123. Transfusion of life, 224. Travel instinct, 57. Truth, child's conception of, 109. Twain story, 241. Two teachers compared, 129. Typical patriot, 82. Understanding, power of, 13. Unity of purpose, 328. Variety in excellence, 63. Vitalized mathematics, 10. Vitalized School, 329; a democracy, 69; an exemplification of complete living, 113; filtration plant, 206. Voluble teacher, 136. Waste of time, 133. Weaknesses transmitted, 30. Westminster Abbey, 54. Word automobile, 105. Word in use, 107. Work; a blessing, 96; as a privilege, 92; and enjoyment, 97; of the school, 110; potency of mental, 95; misconceptions of, 93. World-building, 303. The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan books on kindred subjects. MODERN PEDAGOGY =Alexander= The Prussian Elementary School System $2.50 =Bagley= Classroom Management. Its Principles and Technique 1.25 Craftsmanship in Teaching 1.10 Educational Values 1.10 Educative Process, The 1.25 School Discipline 1.25 =Bigelow= Sex Education 1.25 =Brewer= The Vocational Guidance Movement 1.25 =Bricker= Teaching of Agriculture in the High School 1.00 =Brown= American High School 1.40 =Chubb= The Teaching of English in Elementary and Secondary Schools 1.00 =Cloyd= Modern Education in Europe and the Orient 1.40 =Cubberley= State and County Educational Reorganization 1.25 =Cubberley and Elliott= State and County School Administration 2.50 =Curtis= Education Through Play (Educational Edition) 1.25 Practical Conduct of Play (Educational Edition) 1.50 The Play Movement and Its Significance 1.50 =De Garmo= Interest and Education 1.00 Principles of Secondary Education 3 Vols. I, $1.25; II, 1.00; III, 1.00 =Dewey= Democracy and Education, A Philosophy of Education 1.40 =Dobbs= Illustrative Handwork 1.10 =Dresslar= School Hygiene 1.25 =Dutton= Social Phases of Education in the School and the Home 1.25 =Eaton and Stevens= Commercial Work and Training for Girls 1.50 =Farrington= Commercial Education in Germany 1.10 =Foght= The American Rural School 1.25 Rural Denmark and its Schools 1.40 The Rural Teacher and His Work 1.40 =Ganong= The Teaching Botanist 1.25 =Graves= A History of Education. Vol. I. Before the Middle Ages 1.10 Vol. II. A History of Education During the Middle Ages 1.10 Vol. III. Modern Times 1.10 Great Educators of Three Centuries 1.10 Peter Ramus and the Educational Reformation of the 16th Century 1.25 A Students' History of Education 1.25 =Halleck= Education of the Central Nervous System 1.00 =Hall-Quest= Supervised Study 1.25 =Hanus= Educational Aims and Values 1.00 Modern School, A 1.25 =Hart= Educational Resources of Village and Rural Communities 1.00 =Heatwole= A History of Education in Virginia 1.25 =Henderson= Principles of Education 1.75 =Herrick= Meaning and Practice of Commercial Education 1.25 =Holtz= Principles and Methods of Teaching Geography 1.10 =Home= Philosophy of Education 1.50 Psychological Principles of Education 1.75 Idealism in Education 1.25 Story-Telling, Questioning and Studying 1.10 =Howerth= The Art of Education 1.00 =Huey= Psychology and Pedagogy of Reading 1.40 =Hummel and Hummel= Materials and Methods in High School Agriculture 1.25 =Jessup and Coffman= The Supervision of Arithmetic 1.10 =Johnson, Henry= Teaching of History in Elementary and Secondary Schools 1.40 =Kahn and Klein= Commercial Education, Principles and Methods in 1.40 =Kennedy= Fundamentals in Methods 1.25 =Kerschensteiner= The Idea of the Industrial School .50 =Kilpatrick, V. E.= Departmental Teaching in Elementary Schools .60 =Kilpatrick, W. B.= Froebel's Kindergarten Principles Critically Examined .90 =Kirkpatrick, E. A.= Fundamentals of Child Study 1.30 =Lee= Play in Education 1.50 =McKeever= Training the Girl 1.50 The Industrial Training of the Boy .50 =MacVannel= Outline of a Course in the Philosophy of Education .90 =Miller= Education for the Needs of Life 1.25 =Monroe= Principles of Secondary Education 2.00 Text-Book in the History of Education 2.00 Syllabus of a Course of Study on the History and Principles of Education .50 Source Book in the History of Education for the Greek and Roman Period 2.40 Brief Course in the History of Education 1.40 Cyclopedia of Education, 5 Vols. 25.00 =O'Shea= Dynamic Factors in Education 1.25 =Pearson= Vitalized School 1.40 =Perry= Management of a City School 1.25 Outlines of School Administration 1.40 =Pyle= The Examination of School Children .50 =Sachs= The American Secondary School 1.10 =Sisson= Essentials of Character 1.00 =Smith= All the Children of All the People (Teachers' Edition) 1.10 =Sneath and Hodges= Moral Training in the School and Home .80 =Starch= Educational Measurements 1.25 Experiments in Educational Psychology 1.00 =Strayer= A Brief Course in the Teaching Process 1.25 =Strayer and Norsworthy= How to Teach 1.40 =Strayer and Thorndike= Educational Administration Quantitative Studies 2.00 =Taylor= Handbook of Vocational Education 1.00 Principles and Methods of Teaching Reading .90 =Thorndike= Education: A First Book 1.25 =Vandewalker= Kindergarten, The, in American Education 1.25 =Ward= The Montessori Method and the American School 1.25 =Wayland= How to Teach American History 1.10 The MacMillan Company Boston New York Atlanta Chicago San Francisco Dallas 
30296	----	_The Philosophy of Teaching._ THE TEACHER, THE PUPIL, THE SCHOOL. BY NATHANIEL SANDS. _NEW YORK_: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1869. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. _THE TEACHER, THE PUPIL, THE SCHOOL._ _TEACHER AND PUPIL._ Of the various callings to which the division of labor has caused man specially to devote himself, there is none to be compared for nobility or usefulness with that of the true teacher. Yet neither teachers nor people at present realize this truth. Among the very few lessons of value which might be derived from so-called "classical" studies, is that of the proper estimate in which the true teacher should be held; for among the Greeks no calling or occupation was more honored. Yet with a strange perversity, albeit for centuries the precious time of youth has been wasted, and the minds and morals of the young perverted by "classical" studies, this one lesson has been disregarded. What duty can be more responsible, what vocation more holy, than that of training the young in habits of industry, truthfulness, economy, and sobriety; of giving to them that knowledge and skill without which their lives would become a burden to themselves and to society? Yet, while the merchant seeks to exercise the greatest caution in selecting the persons to whom he intrusts his merchandise, and yields respect to him who faithfully performs his commercial engagements; he makes but scant inquiry as to the character or qualifications of the MIND-BUILDER upon whose skill, judgment, and trustworthiness the future of his children will greatly depend. The position assigned by our social rules to the teacher accords, not with the nobility of his functions, but with the insufficient appreciation entertained of them by the people, and is accompanied by a corresponding inadequate remuneration. And what is the result? Except a few single-hearted, noble men and women, by whom the profession of the teacher is illustrated and adorned; except a few self-sacrificing heroes and heroines whose love of children and of mankind reconciles them to an humble lot and ill-requited labors, the class of school-teachers throughout the whole civilized world barely reaches the level of that mediocrity which in all other callings suffices to obtain not merely a comfortable maintenance in the present, but a provision against sickness and for old age. What aspiring father, what Cornelia among mothers, select for their children the profession of a teacher as a field in which the talents and just ambition of such children may find scope? Nor can we hope for any improvement until a juster appreciation of the nobility of the teacher's vocation, and a more generous remuneration of his labors shall generally prevail. It is to the desire to aid somewhat in bringing about a juster appreciation in the minds alike of teachers and of people of the utility and nobleness of the teacher's labors and vocation that these pages owe their origin. When we consider the nature of the Being over whose future the teacher is to exercise so great an influence, whose mind he is to store with knowledge, and whom he is to train in the practice of such conduct as shall lead to his happiness and well-being, we are lost in amazement at the extent of the knowledge and perfection of the moral attributes which should have been acquired by the teacher. It is his duty to make his pupils acquainted with that nature of which they form a part, by which they are surrounded, and which is "rubbing against them at every step in life." But he can not teach that of which he himself is ignorant. Every science then may in turn become necessary or desirable to be employed as an instructive agent, every art may be made accessory to illustrate some item of knowledge or to elucidate some moral teaching. Man is his subject, and with the nature of that subject and of his surroundings he must be acquainted, that the object to be attained and the means for its attainment may be known to him. What is man? What are his powers, what is his destiny, and for what purpose and for what object was he created? Let us enter the laboratory of the chemist and commence our labors. Let us take down the crucible and begin the analysis, and endeavor to solve this important problem. In studying the great Cosmos we perceive each being seeking its happiness according to the instincts implanted in him by the Creator, and only in man we see his happiness made dependent on the extent to which he contributes to the happiness of others. What, so far as we can see, would this earth be without any inhabitants? What great purpose in the economy of nature could it serve? A palace without a king, a house without an occupant, a lonely and tenantless world, while we now see it framed in all its beauty for the enjoyment of happiness. The Being upon whom the art and science of the teacher is to be exercised is one to whom food, clothing, fuel, and shelter are needful; possessed of organs of digestion, whose functions should be made familiar to their possessor; of breathing organs, to whose healthful exercise pure air is essential; a being full of life and animation, locomotive--desirous of moving from place to place; an emotional being, susceptible to emotions of joy and sorrow, love and hate, hope and fear, reverence and contempt, and whose emotions should be so directed that their exercise should be productive of happiness to others. He is also an intellectual being, provided with senses by which to receive impressions and acquire a knowledge of external things; with organs of comparison and of reason, by which to render available for future use the impressions received through the senses in the past. Lastly: he is also a social being, to whom perpetual solitude would be intolerable; sympathizing in the pains and pleasures of others, needing their protection, sympathy and co-operation for his own comfort, and desirous of conferring protection upon and of co-operating with them. But, further, he is a being who desires to be loved and esteemed, and finds the greatest charm of existence in the love and esteem he receives; to be loved and esteemed and cared for, he must love, esteem and care for others, and be generally amiable and useful. Such is the Being, susceptible of pain and pleasure, of sorrow and joy, whom the MIND-BUILDER is to train up so that, as far as possible, the former may be averted and the latter secured. The teacher, then, must train him in habits of industry and skill, that work may be pleasant and easy to him, and held in honorable esteem; for without work, skillfully performed, neither food, clothing, fuel nor shelter can be obtained in sufficient quantity to avoid poverty and suffering. Knowledge also must be acquired by the laborer, in order that the work which is to be skillfully performed may be performed with that attention to the conditions of mechanical, chemical, electrical, and vital agencies necessary to render labor productive. A knowledge of the conditions of mechanics, of chemistry, of electricity, and of vital phenomena should be imparted by the teacher; and to impart this knowledge, he must first possess it. How sublime, then, are the qualifications, natural and acquired, which the true teacher should possess! How deep should be our reverence for him who, by his skill and knowledge, is capable, and by his moral qualities willing, to perform duties so onerous and so difficult. What station in life can be regarded as more exalted; whose utility can be compared with that of him who proves himself faithful to the duties he assumes, when he takes upon himself the office of a teacher of youth? The question which is ever present to the mind of the true teacher is: What can I do to insure the happiness of these beings confided to my charge, whose minds it is given to me to fashion, not according to my will, but according as my skill and judgment shall, more or less, enable me to adapt my teachings to their natures? What shall I seek to engrave upon the clear tablets of their young and tender minds, in order that their future lot may be a joyous one? Let me illustrate (he will say) my profession. I will raise it high as the most honored among men, and for my monument I will say: "Look around; see the good works of those whom I have taught and trained; they are my memorials!" Such may, such will become the hope and aspiration common to teachers in that good day to come, when their labors shall be honored as they deserve; when parents, in all the different ranks into which society falls, shall vie with each other in the respect and honor tendered to the teacher, whose true place in society is at least not beneath that of the Judge. The teachers to be developed by such a state of society will, as their first step, seek to obtain a clear and comprehensive view of the work they propose to accomplish, and will then seek to adopt the most judicious means to reach the end proposed. They will adapt their methods of teaching to the nature of the object to be taught and to the order in which the faculties of the human mind naturally unfold themselves, for true education is the natural unfolding of the intellectual germ. In order to obtain the knowledge necessary of the object to be taught, the true teacher turns to nature as his guide, for the voice of nature is the voice of God, and in reading her statutes we read that grand volume in which He has left an impress of Himself. The science of nature is nothing more than the ability to read and interpret correctly the lessons taught. There was a period when mankind knew very little of the planet upon which they lived and moved and had their being; _there was_ a time when they knew almost nothing; and there _will_ come a time when they will know almost every thing that can be known by finite man. The earth is our _mother_, and _nature_ is our teacher, and if we listen to her voice, she will lead us higher and higher until we will stand the master and the king in the glorified temple of wisdom. To reach results so grand and a position so exalted, our natures must unfold in exact harmony with all the laws and forces which surround and control us from the time our existence commences until its close. From the period of conception until birth the child draws to itself all the essential elements required for the organization of a human being; the capabilities and powers of the parent are taxed and called upon to contribute their material to enable nature to reproduce itself. The child is born, and then, in a higher and more enlarged and more independent state of existence, commences drawing to itself the materials and substances necessary for its growth and unfolding. It draws in its mother's milk, it draws in the air, and it builds up in itself the unseen forces of life. Nature, true to her mission, goes on unfolding the child, and teaches it daily and hourly the lessons best adapted to its condition. In a few days after it is born, its powers of observation begin to show signs of life and action, and it can distinguish light from darkness; in a few weeks its mother and nurse are known--in a few months quickened intelligence displays itself in all its actions; in about twelve months it has learned the most difficult art of balancing itself so as to walk, and also to speak a few words; at from two to two and a half years of age, only thirty months from birth, it has learned a language which it speaks, and has become familiar with a vast number of things surrounding it. From a state of entire ignorance it has in thirty months learned what would fill volumes. Horses, cows, pigs, dogs, toys, whips, birds, people, trees, houses, fruit, food, clothes, music, sounds, parents, friends, and a thousand other things are all familiar to it. Without professional teachers, almost without effort, all this valuable and indispensable knowledge has been acquired, through the unconscious adoption on the part of the mother of the true system of education--_e duco_--I lead forth, and hence nurse, cherish, build up, develop. The child feels or reaches out, like the tendril, to the material world, seeking to make itself acquainted with that world; even the young infant soon begins to observe closely, soon knows its mother from all other persons, clings to her, loves her above all; soon it recognizes light from darkness, sweet from bitter; soon, when it sees a dog it will recognize it and jump with delight almost out of its mother's arms; it will show an eager delight to watch the motions of the horse, and imitates the sounds employed by adults when driving. He spreads forth the tentacles of his feeble mind for knowledge, and his mind "grows by what it feeds upon," and it is for those intrusted with the infant's training to respond intelligently to the child's desire, to place within its reach the mental food adapted to its digestion, to nourish and develop it so that its mental hunger shall be at once gratified and excited anew. It is here, and to this end, that the able teacher steps in, to perfect the development of the future man and woman. He educates, by assisting the natural unfolding of the intellectual germ, he places within reach of the child-mind the food needed to its growth, and the child-mind reaches out its tentacles and absorbs the nourishment offered to it. Thus the mind grows from _within outward_, and the teacher aids its development, as the careful husbandman by tilling and enriching the soil according to the nature of the plant he cultivates, produces a healthy and fruitful plant. The true teacher does not seek to teach by simply putting books into the child's hand, and bidding it to learn; he addresses himself to those faculties and powers of the child's mind, which bring it in relation with the world in which it lives. Sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste, and thence observation, judgment, perception, reason, memory, hope, imagination, and the love of the beautiful are appealed to, developed and strengthened by natural exercise, even as the organs and limbs of the body are developed and strengthened by gymnastic and other appropriate exercises. Education, mental and physical, is but the ABSORPTION of surrounding elements into the mind and body--an arrangement an assimilation of materials so as to incorporate them into the being to whose nourishment they are applied, just as the tree or plant assimilates to its growth and subsistence the materials which it draws from the air and the soil. It is thus apparent that a great change in the system and principles now adopted in teaching is required, and if we change the principles we must, of course, change the instruments. These are now adapted to the method of teaching from WITHOUT inward. If we are to invert the system, and teach from within outward, then must our means and appliances be adapted to this change. The task, the forcing process, the stuffing and cramming must all give way to the natural mental growth, fostered, cherished, unfolded by culture, in accord with nature and with law. The inquiry then arises: What are to be the new means and appliances for mental culture? We have but to turn again to Nature as our teacher and our guide; her instincts are unerring. The seed germinates and pushes forth its root from within outward. The expansion or growth takes place by means of the elements which it attracts to itself, when these are placed within its reach, and towards which it stretches forth its organs. These elements it assimilates into and makes a part of itself. This process of Nature, so familiar to most of us, serves to illustrate exactly what should take place in intellectual growth. The mind hungers and feels out for and is impelled by a natural internal impulse to gather to itself the elements of knowledge; the wise teacher steps forward and becomes to the germinating intellect what the sun and dew and rain are to the plant. The mind must be fed in conformity with its longings, its wants, its desires. "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness." The teacher develops this hunger and thirst by stimulating inquiry, and by presenting to the mind the use and beauty of knowledge; and when the mind gives signs that its hunger is temporarily appeased, that time is now required for mental digestion and assimilation, the wise teacher rests, and would no more attempt to stuff and cram the mind than the wise mother would seek to force food into her child's stomach. Intellectual growth of some kind, not less than bodily growth, whether good or evil, is constantly taking place. It should be the teacher's care to render that growth a healthy one, calculated to insure the happiness of the subject, and, in securing his own happiness, to contribute to the happiness of others. The body being visible to the physical eye, its growth is also visible, and we do not think of feeling impatient at the long months and years required for it to attain its full proportions; nor do we seek by any forcing process to produce a man at 10 instead of at 20 or 30 years of age. Were the mind and its growth also visible to the eye, we would be equally careful in our treatment of it. Man's first impulse in an uncivilized state has generally been a resort to force for the accomplishment of his objects; and as he took his first step forward the habits of his barbaric life remained with him. Hence, the first steps in teaching were by force--the lash, the rod, the school penal code; but even as when hungry, wholesome and well-dressed food rejoices us, so will the mind gladly accept the mental food carefully prepared for it by the true teacher. We live in a world adapted by its Creator to our happiness and highest well-being. It is not only possible, but easy, to win from Nature all that is necessary or desirable, for our sustenance and comfort. It is the true teacher's duty to fit the child thus to win its happiness; and such a teacher has ever present to his mind the question: How am I to perform this duty? What sort of teaching and training am I to give to the subjects of my care? Let us endeavor to find some direction to guide us to Nature's answer to this question. _TEACHING AND TRAINING_ Whether we regard private schools or public schools, boarding or day schools, we find that much which goes on at them affords an important lesson, not as to what to follow, but what to avoid. Is there any thing worthy of the name, of confiding intercourse between teacher and pupil known upon this continent, or to extend our inquiry, we may say, known anywhere? Here and there exceptional instances will be found, as we have before said, both in this country and in Europe, of men and women devoted to their noble profession, between whom and their pupils there has grown up the strongest bond of parental and fraternal affection. To these teachers the pupils run in every difficulty for its solution, in every danger for protection; but with these exceptions the teacher is looked upon as a task-master, sometimes even as a spy; the tasks set to be shirked as much as possible, the observation of the teacher to be eluded and deceived. Lesson-time over, the children resort to their tame animals, to their weaving-machines, their wind-mills and dams; to their gardens, kites and ships; to swimming, rowing, foot-ball, marbles, leap-frog, base-ball and cricket. In the practice of these games, skill, dexterity and knowledge are acquired of which the pupils appreciate the utility, and enjoy not only for present, but for anticipated future use. Natural History, to be taught in school and made a reality, by following the guide given us by nature in the amusements to which children resort of their own accord, should be a prominent subject of instruction and training in the school. Cultivating the faculties of observation and of analysis, it should be among the earliest subjects of instruction, and, at the same time, of amusement. But they ought not to be taught from books; nature and the teacher are the only books to be employed until considerable progress has been made by the pupils. It is so easy to procure the things themselves for the study of botany; an abundant supply of wild flowers can be so readily obtained, sufficient to enable each child to be supplied with specimens for examination and dissection. The interest of the children in their study can be so easily awakened and sustained by the judicious teacher, the difficulties of the supposed hard words of scientific names disappear so readily, that the real difficulty is to understand how so obvious a subject of instruction is either wholly banished from the schools, or sought to be taught only from books, without any reference to living nature. The variety and multiplicity of insect life affords ample opportunity for the study of that branch of natural history--and entomology would be found not less beautiful and interesting than botany; the delightful excursions in which teachers and pupils would join for the gathering of objects of natural history would at the same time serve to strengthen the bond of affection which should exist between them. The nature of his own body and the functions of his various organs will soon interest the pupil, and along with instruction therein he would learn the qualities of the different kinds of animal and vegetable substances in use for food, their relative value and importance in building up his body; he would learn to compare the food now in use with that which was employed by our ancestors, and what has given rise to the adoption of the new and abandonment of the old; the methods of cookery best adapted to each kind of food, and what kinds of food are suitable for particular ages and states of health; what material, vegetable or animal, is most suitable for clothing, separately or in combination. He would learn to compare our present style of clothing with that adopted in past ages; he would learn the history of the changes which have been adopted, and while feeling desirous of retaining such as have been wisely adopted, might learn from past experience to desire to return to some good habits as to clothing which have been abandoned. The tight-fitting garments in which we unhealthily clothe our bodies, a fashion for which we are indebted to the use of armor in times when the chief occupation of man was mutual slaughter, and the great object of desire to secure protection against hostile weapons, might some time come to be discarded for the more healthful practices of the ancient Asiatics and Romans, if a general knowledge of the unhealthfulness of our present practices should come to prevail. The necessity and meaning of light and cleanliness, the indifference of the human body to all natural changes of temperature, when strengthened and maintained in health by wholesome food and efficient bathing, might lead to the taking of effective measures to restore the old Roman bath to general use. As regards shelter, why a building on the ground is generally to be preferred to a cave or shelter in the ground--what materials are best adapted for roofs, what for walls, floors, windows, why we use stone or brick in one part of the country and wood in another; what sizes, shapes, means of warmth and ventilation, for privacy and social enjoyment, should be adopted, and as regards furniture and utensils, what are most suitable for the several parts of a dwelling; what should guide our selection of material, fabrics, shape, size and pattern; how to establish a communication from one part of a building to another; how water and light are to be had most readily. All these things should form the subject of school study and inquiry. The means of locomotion, how streets, roads and paths should be laid out and maintained; the construction and use of carriages, cars, wagons, tramways, railroads, ships, steamers, propelling power; where bridges should be built, and how; viaducts and embankments to cross valleys, cuttings and tunnels to penetrate hills and mountains; these, too, simply at first, and afterwards in more elaborate detail, should form subjects of school instruction, the rules determining the selection of each and the methods of their construction not being preached in lectures, _ex Cathedra_, but evolved by a patient questioning of nature, by experiment and the Socratic method of inquiry. Exercise of the limbs under the direction of a skilled instructor, so that all the muscles of the body may be duly trained, and a healthy body built up to support a healthy mind. The kinds of recreation to be selected, whether bull-baiting, cock-fighting, rat-catching or prize-fighting, should be preferred to games of skill and strength, to the drama, literature, works of art, public walks, gardens, and museums; the comparative influence of all these upon the health, strength, courage, activity, humanity, refinement and happiness of society; how people may be led to prefer such as tend to general well-being to those which have a tendency to brutalize and debase. All these also should be dwelt upon in the school. How stores of food, of clothing, of fuel and of the materials for building may be collected and preserved; how present labor may be made to supply future wants, and the thought of future enjoyment be made to sweeten the present toil. How the means of instruction and of amusement may be secured. How all engaged in supplying one need of society co-operate with all who are engaged in supplying its other needs. What form of government is best, and how it may be best administered. How upright judges may be secured, justice administered, and society protected against internal and external foes. These and all the other subjects enumerated would, if handled by a true teacher, be found most attractive to children. The names given to the subjects at which we have glanced are: Natural History, the Mathematical and Physical Sciences in all their branches, Vegetable and Animal Physiology, the Political and Social Sciences; which should be presented in the order in which the attention and desire to learn could be aroused. It will hardly fail to strike the mind of the reader that nothing has yet been said about giving instruction in the use of those tools for acquiring knowledge, reading, writing, ciphering and drawing. The true teacher will understand the omission. The commencement of the instruction in reading, writing, ciphering, drawing, and in spelling, would take place as part of the object lesson which should be adopted as the first step to knowledge, and should be retained in the most advanced classes as the most perfect method of applying the knowledge which has been acquired. It would soon be understood by the pupils that the power of reading, of writing, of designing and of calculating is essential to the acquirement of knowledge, and to any thing like extent and variety of information on subjects relating to individual and social well-being. The desire of acquiring this knowledge would quicken the faculties of the children, augment their industry, and lighten the labors of the teacher to an indefinable extent. The teacher who should fail to impart a moderate degree of skill in these arts to most, and of excellence to many, at the same time that adequate progress was made in the study of the sciences we have named, should be deemed unfit for his profession, and not be allowed to relieve himself from disgrace by magnifying the difficulties of his task or by complaints of the idleness or want of capacity of his pupils. As children will take interest in what they learn in proportion to their understanding of its bearing upon their own happiness, and upon their actual life and surroundings, the knowledge of themselves as beings acted upon by surrounding objects and by their own kind, should be carefully imparted to them simultaneously with the knowledge of the qualities of the surrounding objects destined to act upon them. Children thus worked upon by skilled and earnest instructors; led to find out and observe the properties of that Nature of which they form a part; their minds nourished by the enjoyment which follows the mastering of every difficulty, and the addition of every fresh item of knowledge to their previous store; trained also in habits of healthfulness and of amiability; will not only cheerfully give themselves to study, but will also seek to dignify by their conduct and to improve by practice the knowledge they progressively acquire, soon understanding, among other things, why they are sent to school and the importance of that education, part of which they are to acquire at school. As the object of the school-teaching should be to prepare the pupils for actual life, they should be made familiar with the idea that all their means of subsistence and enjoyment can only be obtained by labor; not only should their attention be called to the fact, but they should be made sensible how much skill, knowledge and labor and economy were needed for the creation of existing stores, and are needed for their maintenance in undiminished quantity; nor can this be done in any way more fitly or completely than by performing under their eyes, and causing them to take part in, the actual business of production. The well-ordered school is an industrial school, in which every industrial occupation, manufacturing or agricultural, for the carrying on of which convenience can be made, should be successively practised by the children, under the direction of skilled workers. The farm, the factory, the shop, the counting-house and the kitchen, should each have its type in the school, and present to the minds of the children a picture of real life; while their practice would impart a skill and adaptability to the pupils which would insure their preparedness for all the vicissitudes of the most eventful life. Can any reason be suggested for adopting a different system of instruction for girls than that which shall be determined on as best fitted for boys? We confess to our inability to perceive any--both are organisms of the same all-pervading nature--to both the most intimate knowledge of that which skill and perseverance secure, seems to be desirable for their happiness, and that of all mankind. Of the two, perhaps, the greatest knowledge is needed for the woman, FOR HERS IS THE MORE IMPORTANT AND MORE PERFECTED ORGANISM; to her is committed the performance of the chief functions of the highest act of organized beings, viz., reproduction; therefore, upon her knowledge and conduct, far more than upon that of the man, depends the future of the beings in whom she is to live again. Another great object with the true teacher, will be so to train the judgment of his pupils as to avoid that forming of unconsidered opinion which is the parent of prejudice and a chief obstacle to progress. Trained to investigate the foundations of every fact in nature and in science, to weigh the evidences on which they are asked to receive assertions, whether of a physical, moral or social nature, they will ever have a reason for the faith that is in them; and will know how to SUSPEND JUDGMENT when the means of knowledge are insufficient. Such pupils will not be apt to form opinions either in physical science, politics, or industrial life, without having first thoroughly examined the bases of the opinions they form and express, while the prejudices imbibed from nurses or parents, will be subjected to vigorous investigation, and either received as sound doctrine, or discarded as ill-founded and superstitious. Of how many prejudices are we not the victims, without being ourselves in the least conscious of the fact! Our political opinions, our social customs, are taken up like the fashion of a coat, without reason or reflection; and habit and association, but too often hold us captive long after reason has pronounced her condemnation; our minds have been warped from truth, and we fail to perceive our own deficiency, to recognize the mental dishonesty with which we are afflicted. All this will be averted in the case of those who in their youth are trained to a rigorous investigation of every fact presented to their minds, until the habit of truth, not merely of speaking and telling the truth, but that mental truthfulness which shrinks from accepting a falsehood for truth, and acknowledges ignorance rather than utter what is not assured--will become as much a part of the pupil's nature as is his desire for food. In short, he would be so trained as to feel as great a repugnance to plunge his mind into moral, as his body into material filth. Again, while ever merciful and pitying to the criminal, he would be intolerant of falsehood wherever it might be found; and he would deem himself derelict in his duty, as a man and as a citizen, did he leave corruption to rot and fester in the Commonwealth, because he and others like him would not take the trouble to raise their voices against wrongdoers! What a different aspect would not this great city of New York offer to our inspection to what it now presents, had a generation been trained in the knowledge, and practised in the observance of their duties as citizens! Did those merchants and traders, who, in their private dealings would scorn a lie, but recognize the duty they owe as citizens and as men of truth, they would, by uniting, soon sweep away the serious discredit to our country and to Republican Institutions, the festering corruption of this city and of the State; yet it is to their supine, nay wicked tolerance of the evil that we owe the specimens of judicial corruption by which we are robbed and dishonored. Can it be said that any system of education can be sound, which shall fail to demonstrate, at least to the older pupils, their duties as citizens, to take an active, intelligent and upright interest in public affairs; that shall fail to instruct them in the principles by which their judgments should be guided, and lead them to discard every action in public affairs, which they would not approve in private life? We must cease to live in books, in past mystifications, in useless theories, in foolish and unprofitable discussions, in ancient ideas and customs, and grasp the living present with all the richness, fullness and beauty of its life. The chemistry of nature, the work of her great laboratory, should be the study of youth as of age, instead of dead languages and the vain and foolish mythology of Greeks and Romans wherewith at present we poison the minds of the young. "Can we take burning coals into our bosom and not be burned?" Can we suffer the impressionable minds of youth to be impregnated with the filth of the heathen poets in their imaginings of gods as disgusting as themselves, without staining the pure tablet of the mind with spots and grossness, while the children acquire a distaste for that glorious nature whose volume should be their constant study? We have to deal with the great present, with life, not with death--to promote health, physical and moral, not to propagate infectious sickness. The present, wisely improved, leads to a happy future, and is the only road to that goal. We can not jump the present and its duties and reach the future so as to enjoy it, neither can the dead past lighten the labors of the living present. There is a past which still lives and vivifies the present, but the quaint and filthy imagery in which the ancient priests disguised from the profane--from all but the initiated--the mysteries of their lore, can be of small account to a people whose great duty is the dissemination of light and truth. Every thing that has any relation to man's comfort and well-being, or to his happiness as a social being, that it is, and not the dead past that we should learn, and of the things that affect us most nearly we should learn first. What did the ancients know of steam, of electricity, of the material elements of nature, of her forces? And little as we know, how much of that little could be learned from a lifelong study of ancient lore? If there be aught of value in the laws of ancient Rome which has not been translated into our native tongue, let it be translated; but let not our youth waste precious years in learning to play upon an instrument (Greek or Latin) which when learned can give forth no sound. But if we turn to Nature and to her grand volume, we there find all the knowledge man can acquire. From her study, too, we can learn a lesson, not perhaps among the least important, as to the limits fixed by nature to human knowledge. To know of a surety what those things are which never can be known to mortal man, is a knowledge, the want of which has driven many to puerile and superstitious practices, and many more to madness and despair. From the great book of Nature, God's book, is to be learned the principle of justice, of love, of wisdom, of truth; and as the germ of justice is developed in the mind, the mind is brought in contact with the Great Fountain, absorbs a portion of its light, enlarges, develops, becomes stronger, assimilates to itself the essence of the great Godhead, and renders man godlike. So with each of the other faculties of man; each draws its nourishment from its special FOUNTAIN. Wisdom, love, justice, and truth should preside; and if judgment, sympathy and conscientiousness be judiciously trained and developed, they will help to develop harmoniously all the other faculties. But to this end they, and each and all of man's faculties, must be brought into a wholesome, natural contact, each with its proper food; and by natural we mean not that contact which might peradventure happen if left uncared for, but such as the nature of the faculty demands for its development in due harmony, to produce the greatest amount of happiness to its possessor. To supply this food, to bring to each faculty its proper aliment, is the business of the true teacher. If we desire a child to be truthful, we must bring it in contact with truth, and bring it to love truth by causing its practice to inure to the child's enjoyment. If we wish it to be wise, we must bring its mind in contact with wisdom, exercise its analytical powers, and train its judgment; let it see sound judgment producing happiness; let it see how beautiful and desirable is the possession of wisdom, and the child will soon learn to seek it for its own sake. To chastise a child for speaking that which is untrue may fill it with fear, but does not make it love truth. The love of truth and of wisdom must be cultivated as we cultivate the love of music. "Seek me early, and ye shall find me." "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you." That which the mind seeks it will find. The natural relationships are established, and it is only for us to work in harmony with, and not obstruct or interfere with them. It is the "true relationship of things" we need to learn. There is nothing in us that is not in nature. All the forces developed in man are but developments of nature; and all the forces required for his nourishment and strength exist in the bosom of Nature. Matter, light, heat, electricity are not produced by him. In nature they exist; remove any one of them and he perishes. To Nature then must we ever turn as the reservoir of nourishment and as the teacher, by the study of whose volume we learn all of wisdom that can be known of mortal man, or that can tend to his well-being; and her true relationships must be the constant object of our search. Before the knowledge of her true relationships disappear superstition and fear and mystery. The lightning's flash, the thunder's roar, the falling meteor and the sun's eclipse cease to terrify and alarm. Witches, hobgoblins and demons come no longer to trouble us; the most unusual phenomena awaken only philosophical research and curiosity. And what is true of the full-grown man is not less true of the child. That school wherein children above the age of infancy fail to assist the teacher in his instruction, is an ill-ordered school. It is not the subject, but the teacher who is uninteresting; he scolds, worries and punishes his pupils, when he himself is the fitter subject for the lash. He awakens the sense of fear which should lie dormant, while the other faculties of his pupils slumber in spiritless inactivity. As the object of education is to prepare children to enter successfully and happily into life, and wisely to discharge all the duties devolving upon them as they unfold into men and women, and occupy the sphere assigned to them, the simple rule for the course of instruction seems to be, that they should learn those things in the order in which they can be received by the child's mind, which most vitally affect their well-being and happiness. As only a healthy, well-developed body can afford a home to a healthy, well-developed mind, physical culture claims early and constant attention, and should receive that careful regard to which the truth contained in the well-known aphorism: "We are fearfully and wonderfully made," entitles it. The teachings of the sciences of Pathology and of sanitary science should be judiciously and carefully elucidated, practically and theoretically; presented step by step to the mind of the child; and the child's body and mind should be carefully trained, so as to develop all its physical and mental powers in harmony. Gymnasiums for the body, conducted by men who have made themselves masters of anatomy and physiology, should be an essential feature in every school, so that ignorance and the desire to excel may not lead to putting a strain upon the system calculated materially to injure organs which need careful and judicious development. Plays, games, dancing, marching and the gymnasium all require the careful supervision of a teacher well versed in a practical knowledge of the human system, and thoroughly appreciative of the great truth, "We are fearfully and wonderfully made." But the foundation for the school as for the life career must be laid at home, and much as the teacher can do, he can never supply deficiencies resulting from the want of a well-ordered home or of a healthy home training. Never, save under necessity, should the parent yield up his sacred duty to another, at least during the tender years of childhood. The education of the heart and of the affections, is as essential as the school education, and these can never be so well cultivated as under the influence of home. All must be developed in order to maintain the true equilibrium. The boarding-school is not the place for children to attain a sound moral development, and the sooner parents generally understand this truth, the better for their children, for themselves and for society. As well uproot the flower, or shrub or tree, and expect it to flourish, as to cut the child off from the influence of home, and the care of a loving mother, father, brother and sister, and hope that the sympathetic faculties of its mind can attain their just development. Physical culture, heretofore neglected among us--the body being left to grow up as it may happen or chance--will form a prominent feature of training in every well-ordered school. All the muscles of the body will be in turn exercised, developed. The ancient Greeks afforded us here also a wise example, which we have signally failed to imitate. Let us secure for our children all the advantages we can from an enlightened and natural system of education, and do all we can to perfect both mind and body. How often is the cry repeated, "Mamma, tell me a story," and mamma, tired and weary, says she is too busy, or, for the want of a better, tells over again for the hundredth time, "Little Red Riding Hood," or some other equally foolish or more injurious tale, such as Bluebeard or Cinderella. Anecdotes of great men, suitably arranged, events in history and biography, carrying with them valuable and important morals, will afford all the amusement the child desires, without developing a love for the marvellous and false, which leads it away in infancy from the simple, truthful, and natural. If children are to be taught to think naturally and truthfully, we can not begin too young, and it is the duty of parents to remember that Valentine and Orson, Cinderella, Bluebeard, and such stories, are a web of false and exaggerated statements that will, and do produce injurious effects upon the child's mind. The story of Aladdin's Lamp has made many a child desire to enjoy wealth without labor, and has exerted a most pernicious, though unsuspected, influence upon his future. Children, not less than men, seek an easy road to the objects of their desires; and while works of imagination are to be by no means discarded in mental training, such should not be selected as give false notions of the busy and industrial life into which the child is to be introduced. Even in the choice and use of the finest works of fiction, the greatest caution is necessary. The little one can hardly distinguish between a fable that amuses it, and a lie told to shield it from punishment. If it hear nothing but truth, it will know nothing but truth; and a truthful mind is a glorious thing to behold in children as in men. "An idle brain is the devil's workshop;" therefore let there be no idle brains, but let all work usefully and pleasantly. Usefully we say, for even amusement is useful. We live in a world of use, in a world of beauty, a world that can be greatly improved, and human happiness largely increased, according as we avail ourselves of the knowledge already acquired for the right teaching and training of the young, so that they may grow up and develop into happy, self-supporting men and women, diffusing happiness to all around, themselves happy in proportion to the happiness they cause. _THE SCHOOL._ Upon the organization and arrangement of the school largely depends the success of the educator. Two things must be borne constantly in mind. First, to create truthful and intellectual atmosphere, where wisdom, honor, and knowledge can be inhaled as with the breath, and second, to make the school cheerful and attractive in every way possible. We must get rid of the idea now generally prevailing among children, that the school is to be resorted to with regret and escaped from with pleasure. So soon as the child will look at and become interested in pictures and toys, and will listen to tales and little stories, it can profitably be introduced in the school, the first department of which should be the Infant-school, or, as the Germans so aptly term it, the children's garden, or Kinder Garten. Here plaiting, modelling, and building, with simple object lessons for the older infants, develop their powers of observation, and give employment and impart skill to little fingers which might else be engaged in destroying furniture or clothes, or in pilfering from the sugar-bowl. Practical familiarity with the properties of lines, angles, circles, spheres, cylinders, cubes, cones, and the conic sections will be acquired, which will give a life and reality to the geometrical studies which will occupy them in their school career. Dancing and singing will relieve the tedium of sitting, shake off the surplus energy, give rest to the body, and power, time, and tune to the voice. Models of houses, stores, workshops, kitchens, farms, and factories, which later on they will assist in making, will be a source alike of amusement and instruction. In the children's garden no teacher should have charge of more than about twelve children, who should regard her as their mother-teacher, while she should seek to win the love and confidence of the little ones as the beginning of her work. Each class of twelve should have their own special room, while for general purposes, such as music, drilling, gymnastic exercises, games, tableaux, and exhibitions of the magic lantern, the oxyhydrogen microscope, the stereopticon, and the like, they should assemble in a large hall. The details of arrangements will readily suggest themselves. The main feature is to have all things natural, free, pleasant, cheerful, bright, refined, and unrestrained by external forms or rigid rules, at the same time that order is secured by an easy discipline. So deeply are we impressed with the importance and utility of the kinder garten, and with the high qualities required by the teacher of the very young, that we are more and more disposed to believe that the true order in rank and promotion among teachers should be, to speak in paradox, downwards; that is to say, the younger the children to be taught, the higher the rank and remuneration of the teacher; for not only is an extensive range of knowledge necessary to enable the teacher truthfully to answer the innumerable questions of inquisitive infancy, and to avoid giving false notions, to be afterwards with greater or less difficulty removed--always with a shock to the moral sentiment when the child discovers it has been deceived--but also a knowledge of the infant mind, a perception of the thoughts and fancies which chase one another through the infant brain, a knowledge and perceptive power which only a watchful and loving experience can acquire. An industry and a patience far beyond any needed by the teacher of more advanced pupils are also required by the highly-cultivated men and women, to whom alone the training of infant minds should be intrusted. Advanced pupils go more than half-way to meet their teacher--the infant can render no assistance to his, all has to be borne, suffered and done for him--his future habits depend mainly on those given to him in his earliest years. Yet the care of him in these important days is generally confided to ignorant nurses and to the less-skilled class of teachers. In building the school, a pleasing style of architecture should be adopted, and the walls of the main hall should be hung with diagrams of all kinds, illustrative of natural history in its largest sense, of the sciences and of the mechanical arts, and with portraits or busts of distinguished men. The walls of the class-rooms should be decorated with diagrams and maps and figures referring to the special branches taught therein. A large and commodious laboratory should be fitted up in the building, to enable every pupil to acquire experimentally that knowledge of chemical forces and action which books alone can never impart. A convenient observatory should afford facility for astronomical study and observation. On the top floors or around the building should be arranged workshops, where the use of tools and machinery could be taught. The classes should assemble in the large hall, in the morning, where they might join in singing or light gymnastic exercises, or listen to some short appropriate address before betaking themselves to their class-rooms. The teaching in these latter should be conducted, wherever practicable, upon the Socratic method, and every branch of science and of art could be thus explained. The mother unconsciously uses this method in educating or drawing out the first perceptions of infancy and early youth; and the impressions derived from this method of acquiring knowledge are the most lasting, being such as become most absolutely assimilated with the pupil's mind. The teacher would also, at frequent intervals, conduct his class into the fields and woods for the study of botany, entomology, and geology, where Nature would supply in abundance the materials, and the teacher would be the only book. Instruction in the various trades which could be conveniently practised should receive attention, the taste of the pupils being made a guide to selection. Some portion of the teaching which goes on in school should be performed by the pupils, under the supervision of the teacher. No adult can so thoroughly enter into a child's mind as can another child; nor is this the only reason. That is not fully known which can not be thoroughly used and applied, and knowledge can not be applied which its possessor can not himself impart. A perfect illustration of this truth is furnished us in the training of the soldier. Upon nothing, perhaps, have the knowledge and skill of the most powerful intellects been more concentrated than upon the science and art of mutual slaughter; and in establishing the soldiers' drill, an exhaustive analysis of the means by which the desired object was to be attained has been pursued. The men whose intellects have developed that drill, have not been content to treat the soldier as a pupil only. Each recruit has in turn to teach, as well as to learn to practise what he has learned, by drilling others whom he is made temporarily to command, as well as to practise his drill under the command of his officer; for only by such means could the highest degree of efficiency be secured. The reasons which led to the adoption of this principle in the barrack apply equally to the school. This principle of giving and receiving we also see exemplified in Nature. Animals inhale oxygen from the air and return carbonic acid, which serves to build up the structure of the plant, and the latter in its turn gives out oxygen to supply the consumption of animals. Every day--in the middle of the day, in winter, in the summer, early in the morning, or in the evening--gymnastic training on the system of the Swedish anatomist Ling or of the German Turners would form a portion of the curriculum, for which convenient apparatus would be provided. Biography should form an important feature in the course of reading, its subjects being arranged in groups; and the true glory of a Washington, a Bentham, a Stevenson, a Morse, and a Cobden distinguished from the false glare and tinsel of a Louis XIV. and a Marlborough. Music, both vocal and instrumental, would be taught to all, but only those more gifted by nature would be educated to perform solo. Nearly all persons can be trained to sing part-music pleasantly and intelligently, and to perform moderately on some instrument. The cultivation of the musical faculties harmonizes the mind, and affords a never-failing source of solace and recreation. The attempt to convert all persons into solo performers, and the hypocritical applause with which their discordant notes are indiscriminately greeted, deprives society of the pleasures which part-music well performed would afford, by encouraging all to attempt what they are pretty sure to do badly, to the exclusion of what they would be equally likely to do well. We have reserved for the last, to enumerate what is, perhaps, the most important of all the subjects of instruction. TO ALL children, so soon as they can be promoted from the _kinder garten_--perhaps even to the higher grades therein--instruction in the conditions of human well-being, and in the phenomena and arrangements of social life should be given, and should be continued throughout their school career. What! teach political economy to children? Even so. It will be conceded, that to teach the future laborers the laws by which the wages of their labor will be regulated, how high wages may be secured and low wages prevented--to teach the future capitalists the laws by which their profits will be determined, how large profits may be secured, and loss, failure, crises, and panics avoided--must be a desirable, if it be a practicable thing. Is it practicable? The experience of twenty years has proved that it is. The experiment has been tried by Mr. Wm. Ellis, the wise and noble founder of the Birkbeck schools of London, England, who not only devoted his surplus means to the endowment of true schools, but gave also his time to instruct in the principles of the science of human well-being--alike the poor children by whom his schools were attended and the children of the Queen of England. He also instructed and trained a corps of teachers, professional and volunteer, and by one of the latter a class was conducted in the winter of 1867, '68 at the Normal School of this city of some 35 to 40 teachers engaged in the practical work of teaching in our common schools, who, under his guidance, became, after a short course of some twenty or more lessons, enthusiastic advocates for the introduction of this study into the schools; for not only does it teach the conditions of industrial success, but it is also a science of morals and of ethics far more worthy of the attention it has never yet received in this or, indeed, in any country, than that which is given to what goes under the name of moral teaching and training. It is by gradual steps--by the employment of the Socratic method of instruction--with a rare use of text-books, that the most intricate problems of this science can be unfolded to pupils with such effect that a child of fourteen or fifteen years of age, who shall have passed through a course of four or five years' instruction, would put to the blush, with few exceptions, alike the members of both houses of the United States Congress and of the British Parliament. A museum and a library would be necessary adjuncts to such a school as we have described. It would need but a few seasons to get together in the various excursions taken by pupils and teachers, quite a collection of botanical, entomological, and geological specimens. These would serve as objects for illustrating the teacher's lessons, and for examination by the pupils. The drying, preservation, and arrangement of plants, animals, and minerals, in which the pupils would assist, would serve to impart to them a skill and dexterity, which they would know how to value, and would be eager to acquire, and, together with their frequent visits to the museum, would serve to cultivate a love of nature and devotion to the study of her works. The library, besides containing treatises on science and for reference, would be filled with books of travels, and the nobler English and foreign classics; the books would be loaned to the pupils as in ordinary circulating libraries, and a pleasant reading-room would be furnished with the better class of periodicals and newspapers. To be deprived for a time of the right to visit the museum or reading-room, or to borrow books from the library, would be one of the severest punishments known in the school. It is hardly necessary to say that the selection of the principal of such a school as we have indicated is among the most difficult problems of its establishment. His qualifications should be as near the perfection of manhood as can possibly be found. Invited by a large and generous salary (to be dependent, beyond a stated sum, on the number of the pupils), it is to be hoped such a teacher could be found. Such a principal, after a fixed period of probation, should not be removable except on a very large vote of the proprietors of the school to that effect, but his office should be vacated on his attaining the age of 60 or 65 years. The selection of teachers to assist him in his duties should be left to himself. The remuneration of the assistant teachers should also be large, and should be such as not only to enable them to live in comfort, but to make ample provision for their future when the age of labor shall have passed. The chief position in society should be assured to the principal and his assistants by the proprietors of the school. The visits of the former to the houses of the latter should be regarded as an honor, the greatest respect and deference should be paid to them, and the pupils should be taught to look upon them with love and respect next only to that they pay their parents. The best investment a parent can make of his wealth is in the proper education of his children. Life is not merely to be born, to grow, to eat, to drink, and breathe. Noise is not music. Life is such as we take it and make it, or rather as it is taken hold of and made for us by those to whom the care of our youthful days is intrusted. Let us endeavor to picture to ourselves the being likely to be produced by a system of teaching and training, continued for successive generations, such as we have indicated above. Let us imagine the full development of the most complex of nature's organisms--a part of the one living organism of the Universe, the latest product of her laboratory; considered, as a part of the great Cosmos, the most perfect, yet but an integer in the whole; the ultimate development of nature's chemistry, yet forming an atom of her living unity; combining and possessing the widest relationships, even embracing therein the entire volume of that nature whose true relationships comprise all knowledge, truly "the noblest study of mankind." Let us try and draw the picture of the developed man! Robust and supple of limb, symmetrical of shape, his muscles swelling beneath their healthy development; with head erect, conscious of his strength and skill, which he puts forth for the protection of the weak, and for the purpose of drawing from nature her bounteous stores; free from sickness or disease, in harmony with nature, at peace with his fellow-men, possessing a competent knowledge of nature's laws, and guiding his conduct to be in accord therewith, "sitting beneath his own vine and fig-tree," "blessed in all the works of his hands," and diffusing blessings and happiness around. Such is the picture of THE HEALTHY MIND IN A HEALTHY FRAME, which it is in man's power to procreate and rear! _APPENDIX._ DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION,} CORNER OF GRAND AND ELM STREETS, } NEW YORK, June 5th, 1869. } TO MAGNUS GROSS, Esq., _Chairman of the "Executive Committee for the Care, Government and Management of the College of the City of New York:"_ DEAR SIR,--I have observed with surprise, and with a sense of deep regret, that the proposition is entertained by a large number of the Trustees of filling the chair of Latin and Greek, now vacant, and even of establishing separate chairs for each, at the College of the City of New York; involving, with the necessary tutors, an outlay of not less than $20,000 per annum. The subject in all its bearings is one of too vast importance to be treated in the ordinary method of discussion by the Committee, and I therefore beg leave to place my views in writing, to insure their receiving more matured consideration than oral observations could secure. I pass over the question (on which considerable difference of opinion exists) as to the propriety of sustaining at all, at the enforced expense of the public, an educational institution to supply the needs which the College of the City of New York is intended to meet. The College exists by law; we are its guardians, and the only question we have to consider is, how most efficiently and most economically to secure the attainment of the ends desired by the Legislature. These ends we shall no doubt all agree to be--first: that any of the youth of this city possessed of special talents, but lacking means for their cultivation, may have placed within their reach an education the best possible for the development of their powers for the benefit of themselves and of the community; and, second, to provide for the comparatively well-to-do the means of pursuing useful studies in compensation for compelling them to provide for the instruction of their less fortunate citizens. As it is self-evident that whatever course of studies will tend to secure the first of these ends will tend also to secure the second and less important, we are spared the necessity of a two-fold investigation. A very few statistics suffice to show that neither of these ends has been hitherto attained by the College of the City of New York. It is immaterial what year we select for examination, the numbers which follow will be found to bear about the same relative proportions in every year. I quote from the Trustees' Report for 1866 merely because it is the latest document at hand which furnishes the numbers in the different classes and of the graduates; from this report I find, that while there were three hundred and eighty-one students in the introductory class, only twenty-five graduated in that year. The number of graduates in 1867 was thirty, and twenty-nine in July, 1868. Of the three hundred and eighty-one who composed the introductory class in 1866, one hundred and fifty-one left the College during the year, and doubtless the two hundred and thirty who remained will have dwindled to about twenty-five or thirty by the year 1871. Without doubt some proportion of the three hundred and eighty-one leave the College because of the necessity they are under of obtaining, by their labor, the means of subsistence; but when it is remembered that these three hundred and eighty-one are the _picked youth from the many thousands attending the public schools_, and when the sacrifices and privations which men and youth imbued with a love of learning will make and undergo for the acquirement of knowledge are borne in mind, we must look to something in the constitution of the College itself to account for this result. In short, we can but come to the conclusion that the main cause of this falling off is to be found in the feeling which grows upon the pupils and their guardians, of the comparative uselessness of the studies to which they are consigned. Let us examine the course of studies, as given from pages 8 to 14 of the Report of the Board of Trustees for the year 1866, or from pages 24 to 28 of the Manual of the College. The first observation which must strike the mind of every thinker is the fact that the primary analysis--the main classification which has been adopted of studies which ought to be framed to fit the students for "complete living"--is one of "words," _i. e._, the tools of knowledge, instead of knowledge itself. Or in the words of the Report: "There are two courses of studies--ancient and modern--differing only in the languages studied." On examining the course for the introductory and freshman classes, a feeling of astonishment must fill the mind at the marked want of wisdom by which it was dictated, but which at the same time affords a sufficient explanation for the abandonment of the College by its students. Even if "_words_" ought to be the real object of education, it would be supposed that English words would be more useful to a people whose mother-tongue is English, than the words of any other language; yet the students of the introductory and freshman classes of the ancient course receive instruction _five hours a week through both terms in Latin and Greek_, and _one lesson per week during one term in the English language_. The students of the modern course substitute for Latin and Greek the French and Spanish languages. I purposely abstain from saying any thing as to the method of instruction, which is the converse of that adopted by nature, and as a consequence signally fails. This has been so forcibly put by President Barnard, of Columbia College, that I need only refer the members of our Committee to his essay on "Early Mental Training, and the Studies best fitted for it." What steps are taken to familiarize the students of, say the freshman class, with that great nature of which they form a part? What, for instance, do they learn of the structure of their own bodies, and of the means of preserving health? _One lesson a week_ is given on Physiology and Hygiene, and that is all! The fear of making this letter too long compels me merely to refer the Committee to pages 40 to 42 of Mr. Herbert Spencer's chapter on "What Knowledge is of Most Worth," in his work on Education, in farther illustration of this subject, instead of making extracts from it as I would otherwise like to do. Attention, it is true, is paid throughout the college course to mathematical studies, yet very little to their practical application; while to Chemistry, the parent of modern physics, the manual (which is our guide) prescribes two lessons per week to the introductory class, and to the freshman, sophomore, and junior classes absolutely _none at all_! Mining, Mechanical Engineering, Architecture, Theoretical Agriculture, Biology, and Botany are utterly ignored; and no branch of Zoology is even mentioned in the curriculum. We next come to a science more important, because universal in its application and in its need than any other, viz.: The Science of Human Well-being, commonly called Political or Social Economy. Here, too, like exclusion! except that in the sophomore class, for one term, one hour per week is given to it. That is to say, a people who are to live by labor are left by the guardians of their education in ignorance of the laws by which the reward for that labor must be regulated; they who are to administer capital are to be left to blind chance whether to act in accordance with those laws of nature which determine its increase, or ignorantly to violate them! Restrained again from quotation by the fear of wearying the Committee, permit me to refer them to the lecture of Dr. Hodgson, delivered at the Royal Institution of Great Britain, on "The Importance of the Study of Economic Science," which will be found in the work of Professor Youmans, on "The Culture demanded by Modern Life." I confess to a feeling of deep discouragement at the perusal of such a record as that presented by the course of studies at the College of the City of New York, especially when I find that this is the state of things a large number of the Trustees seem desirous of perpetuating. My views on this subject are confirmed by the following remarks found in President Barnard's Essay on "Early Mental Training, and the Studies best fitted for it." "Whatever may be the value of the study of the classics in a subjective point of view, _nothing could possibly more thoroughly unfit a man for any immediate usefulness_ in this matter-of-fact world, or make him _more completely a stranger in his own home_, than the purely classical education which used recently to be given, and which, with some slight improvement, is believed to be still given by the universities of England. This proposition is very happily enforced by a British writer, whose strictures on the system appeared in the London _Times_ some twelve or thirteen years ago. "Common things are quite as much neglected and despised in the education of the rich as in that of the poor. It is wonderful _how little_ a young gentleman may know when he has taken his university degrees, _especially if he has been industrious, and has stuck to his studies_. He may really _spend a long time in looking for somebody more ignorant than himself_. If he talks with the driver of the stage-coach that lands him at his father's door, he finds he knows nothing of horses. If he falls into conversation with a gardener, he knows nothing of plants or flowers. If he walks into the fields, he does not know the difference between barley, rye, and wheat; between rape and turnips; between natural and artificial grass. If he goes into a carpenter's yard, he does not know one wood from another. If he comes across an attorney, he has no idea of the difference between common and statute law, and is wholly in the dark as to those securities of personal and political liberty on which we pride ourselves. If he talks with a country magistrate, he finds his only idea of the office is that the gentleman is a sort of English Sheik, as the Mayor of the neighboring borough is a sort of Cadi. If he strolls into any workshop or place of manufacture, it is always to find his level, and that a level far below the present company. If he dines out, and as a youth of proved talents and perhaps university honors is expected to be literary, his literature is confined to a few popular novels--the novels of the last century, or even of the last generation--history and poetry having been almost studiously omitted in his education. _The girl who has never stirred from home, and whose education has been economized, not to say neglected, in order to send her own brother to college_, knows vastly more of those things than he does. The same exposure awaits him wherever he goes, and whenever he has the audacity to open his mouth. _At sea he is a landlubber; in the country a cockney; in town a greenhorn; in science an ignoramus; in business a simpleton; in pleasure a milksop_--everywhere out of his element, everywhere at sea, in the clouds, adrift, or by whatever word _utter ignorance_ and _incapacity_ are to be described. In society and in the work of life, he finds himself beaten by the youth whom at college he despised as frivolous or abhorred as profligate." Take the preparation of our youth for their duties as citizens. Here, again, a knowledge of political and social economy is indispensable. We have seen the attention it receives; and while two lessons a week for one hour, and that only to the senior class in its last term, are given to American citizens on the Constitution of the United States and on International Law, _none whatever is given on the science of Government throughout the entire course of five years_! I might go through the whole course of studies with similar results. Here and there, in this or that class, a small amount of attention is given to some of the sciences omitted in the other classes; but the entire record is one of the most disheartening character. _Words! words!_ engross almost exclusively the attention of the students from the hour they enter the College until they leave it; and it is not to the five-and-twenty graduates the palm of useful industry should be awarded, but to the many who, in discouragement, abandon a course which tends to _unfit_ them for the great battle of life! What, then, are the reasons generally assigned for this perverse conventionalism of devoting the time of youth to the acquirement of dead words, to the unavoidable exclusion of nearly every thing that is of value? First, we are told that we can not understand the English language without a knowledge of Latin, from which it is derived. The inaccuracy of this pretension is at once made manifest by reference to Webster, where he states: "That English is composed of-- "_First._ Saxon and Danish words of Teutonic and Gothic origin. "_Second._ British or Welsh, Cornish and Amoric, which may be considered as of Celtic origin. "_Third._ Norman, a mixture of French and Gothic. "_Fourth._ Latin, a language formed on the Celtic and Teutonic. "_Fifth._ French, chiefly Latin corrupted, but with a mixture of Celtic. "_Sixth._ Greek formed on the Celtic and Teutonic, with some Coptic. "_Seventh._ A few words directly from the Italian, Spanish, German, and other languages of the Continent. "_Eighth._ A few foreign words, introduced by commerce, or by political and literary intercourse. "Of these, _the Saxon words constitute our mother-tongue_, being words which our ancestors brought with them from Asia. "The Danish and Welsh also are primitive words, and may be considered as a part of our vernacular language. They are of equal antiquity with the Chaldee and Syriac." But even were it true that our language was derived from the Latin, wherein lies the difficulty in the way of the teacher explaining to his pupils the meanings of the parts of English words which are of Latin origin, without the necessity of the pupil's acquiring the same knowledge by the roundabout process of learning one thousand words he will never need, for one that may at some time be to him of some service as a mnemonic? Driven from this position, the advocates of "_classical_" studies tell us that the study of Latin and Greek serves as a training for the intellect. Unquestionably the exercise of the faculties of the mind serves to develop the faculties so exercised; yet if this were the object to be attained, Hebrew, nay, Chinese, would be preferable to Latin; but SCIENCE develops the same faculties, and far more efficiently. The facts of science to be stored up in the mind are so infinite in number and magnitude that no man, however gifted, could ever hope to master them all, though he were to live a thousand years. But their arrangement in scientific order not only develops the analytical powers of the mind, but exercises the memory in a method infinitely more useful and powerful than the study of any language. Finally we are told classical studies develop the taste. If then to this the advocates of such studies are driven, its mere announcement must suffice to banish Latin and Greek from all schools supported by taxation; for however essential it may be to provide the means of the best possible instruction, it is as absolutely out of the sphere of the Trustees of Public Moneys to provide, at the public expense, so _mere a luxury_ as on this hypothesis Latin and Greek must be, as it would be to provide the public with costly jewels! But even for the cultivation and development of art and taste, SCIENCE is the true curriculum! He who is ignorant of anatomy can not appreciate either sculpture or painting! A knowledge of optics, of botany and of natural history, are necessary, equally to the artist or to the connoisseur; a knowledge of acoustics to the musician and musical critic. "No artist," says Mr. Spencer, "can produce a healthful work of whatever kind without he understands the laws of the phenomena he represents; he must also understand how the minds of the spectator or listener will be affected by his work--a question of psychology." The spectator or listener must equally be acquainted with the laws of such phenomena, or he fails to attain to the highest appreciation. I now come to the last and most serious aspect of this question, and I fearlessly assert that classical studies have a most pernicious influence upon the morals and character of their votaries. It should not be forgotten that Greeks and Romans alike lived by slavery (which is robbery), by rapine, and by plunder; yet we, born into a Christian community which lives by honest labor, propose to impregnate the impressionable minds of youth with the morals and literature of nations of robbers! This letter has already extended to so great a length that I am compelled to abstain from making extracts from the works of the greatest thinkers, which I had desired: and I can now but cite them in support, more or less pronounced, of the views above put forward, viz.: President Barnard, of Columbia College, who with rare honesty and boldness has spoken loudly against the conventional folly of classical studies; Professor Newman, himself Professor of Latin at the University of London, England; Professors Tindall, Henfry, Huxley, Forbes, Pajet, Whewell, Faraday, Liebig, Draper, De Morgan, Lindley, Youmans, Drs. Hodgson, Carpenter, Hooker, Acland, Sir John Herschell, Sir Charles Lyell, Dr. Seguin, and, rising above them all in _educational science_, _Bastiat_ and _Herbert Spencer_. To a modified extent, the name of Mr. John Stuart Mill may be quoted--for he loudly advocates science for all--science, which is unavoidably excluded by the introduction of, or at least the prominence given to, Latin and Greek in our College. Mr. Mill, it is true also, advocates classical studies, but for certain special classes which exist in England who have no regular occupations in life. Neither is it without importance as a guide to ourselves to observe that in the very best school in this country--a school perhaps not surpassed by any in the world, viz., the Military Academy at West Point--neither Latin nor Greek studies are permitted. If now, in any career whatever, any use could be found for Latin, it must be in that of the professional soldier, to whom, if to any one, the language and literature of the most military people the world has ever seen, should be of some service. But no! the wise men who framed the curriculum of West Point, though they knew that the study of the campaigns of the Romans would be serviceable to their students, provided for their study, _not_ by the roundabout method of first learning a language which could never be of any other use, but by the direct method of the study of those campaigns! Are the pupils of West Point generally found deficient in intellect? Is not, on the contrary, the fact of having graduated at that school a passport to the _highest scientific_ and _practical_ employment? Our duty to the people is clear; let us neither waste the precious time of our youth on worse than useless studies, nor the money of the citizens on worse than useless expenditure. I do earnestly hope that our Committee will give to my observations their most serious deliberation. Let us come to no hasty conclusion on this subject: accustomed as we have been to hear constantly repeated such conventional phrases as that "Latin and Greek are essential to the education of a gentleman;" that "classical studies are indispensable to a liberal education;" to hear applauded to the echo orators who have introduced into their speeches quotations of bad Latin or worse Greek by audiences of whom not one in one thousand understand what was said. We have been apt to receive such phrases as embodying truths, without ever examining their foundations. I respectfully urge the Committee to consider well before they act, to study the reasons assigned by the great thinkers I have named for condemning, as, humbly following in their wake, I venture to condemn, as worse than mere waste of time, the years devoted to Latin and Greek studies. Let us endeavor to make the College of this city worthy of the city and of the state; let us cast aside the trammels of mediæval ignorance, and supply to the pupils of the College "the culture demanded by modern life." Let us in this, the first important matter which has come before our Committee, act in harmony and without prejudice, for the welfare of the College and "for the advancement of learning," and so prove ourselves worthy of the sacred trust we have assumed. I am, dear sir, very truly yours, NATHANIEL SANDS, _Member of "The Executive Committee for the Care, Government, and Management of the College of the City of New York."_ _The Philosophy of Teaching._ THE TEACHER, THE PUPIL, THE SCHOOL. BY NATHANIEL SANDS. 8vo, Cloth, $1 00. An interesting and valuable work, in which the science of teaching is treated in a philosophical and practical manner, and a sketch is given of a school to be established on the principles developed in his pages. Mr. Sands takes the view that education, mental and physical, is but the absorption of surrounding elements into the mind and body--an arrangement and assimilation of materials so as to incorporate them into the being to whose nourishment they are applied, just as the tree or plant assimilates to its growth and subsistence the materials which it draws from the air and the soil; and his theory of teaching is based on these truths.--_N. Y. Times._ He advocates a radical change in the system of teaching youth. He proposes a school where pupils shall be taught by illustrations from nature as well as from books; where the museum, chemical laboratory, and workshop shall find a place; where, in short, the mind of the learner shall not be forced, but shall have just the kind of food suitable for its age and development.--_N. Y. World._ Much has been written upon education--much that is both wise and thoughtful, and much that has been but sound. Among the most thoughtful and suggestive recent writings is an unpretentious work bearing the title of "The Teacher, the Pupil, the School," by Mr. Nathaniel Sands. Small as it is, it contains more ideas than many bulky volumes.--_N. Y. Tribune._ The question with which he mainly concerns himself is whether Latin and Greek, and certain other branches, shall be taught to the exclusion of more practical studies. He thinks that what is commonly known as the "culture demanded by modern life"--chemistry, mining, anatomy, natural history, political and social economy, the science of government, etc.--should take the place now usurped by classical studies. Mr. Sands believes in making no compromise between the useful sciences and the classics. He condemns "as worse than mere waste of time the years devoted to Greek and Latin," and would bar them out altogether.--_Journal of Commerce._ Mr. Sands, who has just been appointed one of the new Board of Education, has long been known as an advanced thinker on the subject he is now called upon to deal with. He has published a pamphlet on the Philosophy of Education.--_N. Y. Sun._ We have in this compact and unpretentious treatise a great deal of pith and acumen, brought to bear upon a most important subject--that of educational first principles. Mr. Sands has gone to the base of human teaching, discarding pretentious themes, in order to illustrate the simpler beauty of that eductive and inductive co-relationship which, beginning at the mother's breast, proceeds through all the quiet processes of mental development in infancy, childhood, and maturity.--_N. Y. Dispatch._ His hints may well arrest the attention of thoughtful men.--_N. Y. Tribune._ We commend it to the thoughtful consideration of all, but especially of our public men. * * * Commissioners of Schools and others charged with youthful training may advantageously consider the reflections.--_N. Y. Evening Post._ HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE, NEW YORK. HARPER & BROTHERS _will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of $1 00_. WORKS ON EDUCATION PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. HARPER & BROTHERS _will send any of the following books by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price_. HARPER'S CATALOGUE _and_ TRADE-LIST _will be sent by mail on receipt of Five Cents, or they may be obtained gratuitously on application to the Publishers personally_. RANDALL'S POPULAR EDUCATION. First Principles of Popular Education and Public Instruction. By S. S. RANDALL, Superintendent of Public Schools of the City of New York. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. SANDS'S PHILOSOPHY OF TEACHING. The Teacher, the Pupil, the School. By NATHANIEL SANDS. 8vo, Cloth. BURTON'S OBSERVING FACULTIES. The Culture of the Observing Faculties in the Family and the School; or, Things about Home, and how to make them Instructive to the Young. By WARREN BURTON, Author of "The District School as it was," "Helps to Education," &c. 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents. CALKINS'S PRIMARY OBJECT LESSONS. Primary Object Lessons for a Graduated Course of Development. A Manual for Teachers and Parents, with Lessons for the Proper Training of the Faculties of the Children. By N. A. CALKINS. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. WILLSON'S OBJECT LESSONS A Manual of Information and Suggestions for Object Lessons, in a Course of Elementary Instruction. Adapted to the Use of the School and Family Charts, and other Aids in Teaching. By MARCIUS WILLSON. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. ABBOTT'S TEACHER. Moral Influences Employed in the Instruction and Government of the Young. By JACOB ABBOTT. With Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75. BOES�'S EDUCATION IN NEW YORK CITY. Public Education in the City of New York: its History, Condition, and Statistics. An Official Report to the Board of Education. By THOMAS BOES�, Clerk of the Board. With Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $1 50. BEECHER'S TRAINING OF CHILDREN. The Religious Training of Children in the Family, the School, and the Church. By CATHARINE E. BEECHER. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75. EDGEWORTH'S PRACTICAL EDUCATION. A Treatise on Practical Education. By RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH and MARIA EDGEWORTH. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON'S ESSAYS. Discussions on Philosophy and Literature, Education and University Reform. Chiefly from the Edinburgh Review. Corrected, Vindicated, and Enlarged, in Notes and Appendices. By Sir WILLIAM HAMILTON, Bart. With an Introductory Essay, by Rev. ROBERT TURNBULL, D.D. 8vo, Cloth, $3 00. DR. OLIN'S COLLEGE ADDRESSES. College Life: its Theory and Practice. By Rev. STEPHEN OLIN, D.D., L.L.D., late President of the Wesleyan University. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. POTTER & EMERSON'S MANUAL. The School and the Schoolmaster. A Manual for the Use of Teachers, Employers, Trustees, Inspectors, &c., &c. In Two Parts. Part I. By Rt. Rev. ALONZO POTTER, D.D. Part II. By GEORGE B. EMERSON, A.M., of Massachusetts. Part I. The School; its Objects, Relations, and Uses. With a Sketch of the Education most needed in the United States, the present State of Common Schools, the best Means of Improving them, and the consequent Duties of Parents, Trustees, Inspectors, &c. Part II. The proper Character, Studies, and Duties of the Teacher, with the best Methods for the Government and Instruction for the Common Schools, and the Principles on which School-Houses should be Built, Arranged, Warmed, and Ventilated. Engravings. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. EVERETT ON PRACTICAL EDUCATION. Importance of Practical Education and Useful Knowledge: being a Selection from the Orations and Discourses of EDWARD EVERETT, President of Harvard University. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. Additional spacing after block quotes is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text. 
19659	----	THE ELEMENTS OF GENERAL METHOD Based on the Principles of Herbart. by CHARLES A. McMURRY, PH.D. Second Edition Public-School Publishing Co., Publishers, Bloomington, Illinois. 1893 Copyright, 1893. By C. A. McMurry, Normal, Ill. PREFACE. The Herbart School of Pedagogy has created much stir in Germany in the last thirty years. It has developed a large number of vigorous writers on all phases of education and psychology, and numbers a thousand or more positive disciples among the energetic teachers of Germany. Those American teachers and students who have come in contact with the ideas of this school have been greatly stimulated. In such a miscellaneous and many-sided thing as practical education, it is deeply gratifying to find a clear and definite leading purpose that prevails throughout and a set of mutually related and supporting principles which in practice contribute to the realization of this purpose. The following chapters cannot be regarded as a full, exact, and painfully scientific account of Herbartian ideas, but as a simple explanation of their leading principles in their relations to each other and in their application to our own school problems. In the second edition the last chapter of the first edition has been omitted, while the other chapters have been much modified and enlarged. The chapter on the Formal Steps is reserved for enlargement and publication in a separate form. Normal, Ill., November 4, 1893. TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Chief Aim of Education CHAPTER II. Relative Value of Studies CHAPTER III. Nature of Interest CHAPTER IV. Concentration CHAPTER V. Induction CHAPTER VI. Apperception CHAPTER VII. The Will CHAPTER VIII. Herbart and His Disciples Books of Reference CHAPTER I. THE CHIEF AIM OF EDUCATION. What is the central purpose of education? If we include under this term all the things commonly assigned to it, its many phases as represented by the great variety of teachers and pupils, the many branches of knowledge and the various and even conflicting methods in bringing up children, it is difficult to find a definition sufficiently broad and definite to compass its meaning. In fact we shall not attempt in the beginning to make a definition. We are in search not so much of a comprehensive definition as of a central truth, a key to the situation, an aim that will simplify and brighten all the work of teachers. Keeping in view the end from the beginning, we need a central organizing principle which shall dictate for teacher and pupil the highway over which they shall travel together. We will assume at least that education means the whole bringing up of a child from infancy to maturity, not simply his school training. The reason for this assumption is that home, school, companions, environment, and natural endowment, working through a series of years, produce a character which is a unit as the resultant of these different influences and growths. Again, we are compelled to assume that this aim, whatever it is, is the same for all. Now what will the average man, picked up at random, say to our question: What is the chief end in the education of your son? A farmer wishes his boy to read, write, and cipher, so as to meet successfully the needs of a farmer's life. The merchant desires that his boy get a wider reach of knowledge and experience so as to succeed in a livelier sort of business competition. A university professor would lay out a liberal course of training for his son so as to prepare him for intellectual pursuits among scholars and people of culture. This utilitarian view, which points to success in life in the ordinary sense, is the prevailing one. We could probably sum up the wishes of a great majority of the common people by saying, "They desire to give their children, through education, a better chance in life than they themselves have had." Yet even these people, if pressed to give reasons, would admit that the purely utilitarian view is a low one and that there is something better for every boy and girl than the mere ability to make a successful living. Turn for a moment to the great _systems_ of education which have held their own for centuries and examine their aims. The Jesuits, the Humanists, and the Natural Scientists all claimed to be liberal, culture-giving, and preparatory to great things; yet we only need to quote from the histories of education to show their narrowness and incompleteness. The training of the Jesuits was linguistic and rhetorical, and almost entirely apart from our present notion of human development. The Humanists or Classicists who for so many centuries constituted the educational elite, belonged to the past with its glories rather than to the age in which they really lived. Though standing in a modern age, they were almost blind to the great problems and opportunities it offered. They stood in bold contrast to the growth of the modern spirit in history, literature, and natural science. But in spite of their predominating influence over education for centuries, there has never been the shadow of a chance for making the classics of antiquity the basis of common, popular education. The modern school of Natural Scientists is just as one-sided as the Humanists in supposing that human nature is narrow enough to be compressed within the bounds of natural science studies, however broad their field may be. But the systems of education in vogue have always lagged behind the clear views of educational _reformers_. Two hundred fifty years ago Comenius projected a plan of education for every boy and girl of the common people. His aim was to teach all men all things from the highest truths of religion to the commonest things of daily experience. Being a man of simple and profound religious faith, religion and morality were at the foundation of his system. But even the principles of intellectual training so clearly advocated by Comenius have not yet found a ready hearing among teachers, to say nothing of his great moral-religious purpose. Among later writers, Locke, Rousseau, and Pestalozzi have set up ideals of education that have had much influence. But Locke's "gentleman" can never be the ideal of all because it is intrinsically aristocratic and education has become with us broadly democratic. After all, Locke's "gentleman" is a noble ideal and should powerfully impress teachers. The perfect human animal that Rousseau dreamed of in the Emile, is best illustrated in the noble savage, but we are not in danger in America of adopting this ideal. In spite of his merits the noblest savage falls short in several ways. Yet it is important in education to perfect the physical powers and the animal development in every child. Pestalozzi touched the hearts of even the weakest and morally frailest children, and tried to make improved physical conditions and intellectual culture contribute to heart culture, or rather to combine the two in strong moral character. He came close upon the highest aim of education and was able to illustrate his doctrine in practice. The educational reformers have gone far ahead of the schoolmasters in setting up a high aim in education. Let us examine a few well-known definitions of education by great thinkers, and try to discover a central idea. "The purpose of education is to give to the body and to the soul all the beauty and all the perfection of which they are capable."--_Plato_. "Education includes whatever we do for ourselves and whatever is done for us by others for the express purpose of bringing us nearer to the perfection of our nature."--_John Stuart Mill_. "Education is the preparation for complete living."--_Herbert Spencer_. "Education is the harmonious and equable evolution of the human faculties by a method based upon the nature of the mind for developing all the faculties of the soul, for stirring up and nourishing all the principles of life, while shunning all one-sided culture and taking account of the sentiments upon which the strength and worth of men depend."--_Stein_. "Education is the sum of the reflective efforts by which we aid nature in the development of the physical, intellectual, and moral faculties of man in view of his perfection, his happiness, and his social destination."--_Compayre_. These attempts to bring the task of education into a comprehensive, scientific formula are interesting and yet disappointing. They agree in giving great breadth to education. But in the attempt to be comprehensive, to omit nothing, they fail to specify that wherein the _true worth_ of man consists; they fail to bring out into relief the highest aim as an organizing idea in the complicated work of education and its relation to secondary aims. We desire therefore to approach nearer to this problem: _What is the highest aim of education_? We will do so by an inquiry into the aims and tendencies of our public schools. To an outward observer the schools of today confine their attention almost exclusively to the acquisition of certain forms of knowledge and to intellectual training, to the mental discipline and power that come from a varied and vigorous exercise of the faculties. The great majority of good schoolmasters stand squarely upon this platform, knowledge and mental discipline. But they are none the less deeply conscious that this is not the highest aim of education. We scarcely need to be told that a person may be fully equipped with the best that this style of education can give, and still remain a criminal. A good and wise parent will inevitably seek for a better result in his child than mere knowledge, intellectual ability, and power. All good schoolmasters know that behind school studies and cares is the still greater task of developing manly and womanly character. Perhaps, however, this is too high and sacred a thing to formulate. Perhaps in the attempt to reduce it to a scientific form we should lose its spirit. Admitting that strong moral character is the noblest result of right training, is it not still incidental to the regular school work? Perhaps it lies in the teacher and in his manner of teaching subjects, and not in the subject-matter itself nor in any course of study. This is exactly the point at which we wish to apply the lever and to lift into prominence the _moral character-building aim_ as the central one in education. This aim should be like a loadstone, attracting and subordinating all other purposes to itself. It should dominate in the choice, arrangement, and method of studies. Let us examine more carefully the convictions upon which the moral aim rests. Every wise and benevolent parent knows that the first and last question to ask and answer regarding a child is "What are his moral quality and strength?" Now, who is better able to judge of the true aim than thoughtful and solicitous _parents_? In the second place, it is inconceivable that a conscientious _teacher_ should close his eyes to all except the intellectual training of his pupils. It is as natural for him to touch and awaken the moral qualities as it is for birds to sing. Again, the _state_ is more concerned to see the growth of just and virtuous citizens than in seeing the prosperity of scholars, inventors, and merchants. It is also concerned with the success of the latter, but chiefly when their knowledge, skill, and wealth are equaled by their virtues. Our country may have vast resources and great opportunities, but everything in the end depends upon the _moral quality_ of its men and women. Undermine and corrupt this and we all know that there is nothing to hope for. The uncorrupted stock of true patriots in our land is firmly rooted in this conviction, which is worth more to the country than corn-fields and iron mines. The perpetual enticement and blandishment of worldly success so universal in our time can not move us if we found one theory and practice upon the central doctrine of moral education. Education, therefore, in its popular, untrammeled, moral sense, is the greatest concern of society. In projecting a general plan of popular education we are beholden to the prejudices of no man nor class of men. Not even the traditional prejudices of the great body of teachers should stand in the way of setting up the noblest ideal of education. Educational thinkers are in duty bound to free themselves from utilitarian notions and narrowness, and to adopt the best platform that children by natural birthright can stand upon. They are called upon to find the best and to apply it to as many as possible. Let it be remembered that each child has a complete growth before him. His own possibilities and not the attainments of his parents and elders are the things to consider. Shall we seek to avoid responsibility for the moral aim by throwing it upon the family and the church? But the more we probe into educational problems the more we shall find the essential unity of all educational forces. The citadel of a child's life is his moral character, whether the home, the school, or the church build and strengthen its walls. If asked to define the relation of the school to the home we shall quickly see that they are one in spirit and leading purpose, that instead of being separated they should be brought closer together. In conclusion, therefore, shall we make _moral character_ the clear and conscious aim of school education, and then subordinate school studies and discipline, mental training and conduct, to this aim? It will be a great stimulus to thousands of teachers to discover that this is the real purpose of school work, and that there are abundant means not yet used of realizing it. Having once firmly grasped this idea, they will find that there is no other having half its potency. It will put a substantial foundation under educational labors, both theoretical and practical, which will make them the noblest of enterprises. Can we expect the public school to drop into such a purely subordinate function as that of intellectual training; to limit its influence to an almost mechanical action, the sharpening of the mental tools? Stated in this form, it becomes an absurdity. Is it reasonable to suppose that the rank and file of our teachers will realize the importance of this aim in teaching so long as it has no recognition in our public system of instruction? The moral element is largely present among educators as an _instinct_, but it ought to be evolved into a _clear purpose_ with definite means of accomplishment. It is an open secret in fact, that while our public instruction is ostensibly secular, having nothing to do directly with religion or morals, there is nothing about which good teachers are more thoughtful and anxious than about the means of moral influence. Occasionally some one from the outside attacks our public schools as without morals and godless, but there is no lack of staunch defenders on moral grounds. Theoretically and even practically, to a considerable extent, we are all agreed upon the great value of moral education. But there is a striking inconsistency in our whole position on the school problem. While the supreme value of the moral aim will be generally admitted, it has no open recognition in our school course, either as a principal or as a subordinate aim of instruction. Moral education is not germane to the avowed purposes of the public school. If it gets in at all it is by the back door. It is incidental, not primary. The importance of making the leading aim of education clear and _conscious_ to teachers, is great. If their conviction on this point is not clear they will certainly not concentrate their attention and efforts upon its realization. Again, in a business like education, where there are so many important and necessary results to be reached, it is very easy and common to put forward a subordinate aim, and to lift it into undue prominence, even allowing it to swallow up all the energies of teacher and pupils. Owing to this diversity of opinion among teachers as to the results to be reached, our public schools exhibit a chaos of conflicting theory and practice, and a numberless brood of hobby-riders. How to establish the moral aim in the center of the school course, how to subordinate and realize the other educational aims while keeping this chiefly in view, how to make instruction and school discipline contribute unitedly to the formation of vigorous moral character, and how to unite home, school, and other life experiences of a child in perfecting the one great aim of education--these are some of the problems whose solution will be sought in the following chapters. It will be especially our purpose to show how _school instruction_ can be brought into the direct service of character-building. This is the point upon which most teachers are skeptical. Not much effort has been made of late to put the best moral materials into the school course. In one whole set of school studies, and that the most important (reading, literature, and history), there is opportunity through all the grades for a vivid and direct cultivation of moral ideas and convictions. The second great series of studies, the natural sciences, come in to support the moral aims, while the personal example and influence of the teacher, and the common experiences and incidents of school life and conduct, give abundant occasion to apply and enforce moral ideas. That the other justifiable aims of education, such as physical training, mental discipline, orderly habits, gentlemanly conduct, practical utility of knowledge, liberal culture, and the free development of individuality will not be weakened by placing the moral aim in the forefront of educational motives, we are convinced. To some extent these questions will be discussed in the following pages. CHAPTER II. RELATIVE VALUE OF STUDIES. Being convinced that the controlling aim of education should be moral, we shall now inquire into the relative value of different studies and their fitness to reach and satisfy this aim. As measured upon this cardinal purpose, what is the intrinsic value of each school study? The branches of knowledge furnish the materials upon which a child's mind works. Before entering upon such a long and up-hill task as education, with its weighty results, it is prudent to estimate not only the end in view, but the best means of reaching it. Many means are offered, some trivial, others valuable. A careful measurement, with some reliable standard, of the materials furnished by the common school, is our first task. To what extent does history contribute to our purpose? What importance have geography and arithmetic? How do reading and natural science aid a child to grow into the full stature of a man or woman? These questions are not new, but the answer to them has been long delayed. Since the time of Comenius, to say the least, they have seriously disturbed educators. But few have had the courage, industry, and breadth of mind of a Comenius, to sound the educational waters and to lay out a profitable chart. In spite of Comenius' labors, however, and those of other educational reformers be they never so energetic, practical progress toward a final answer, as registered in school courses, has been extremely slow. Herbert Spencer says: "If there needs any further evidence of the rude, undeveloped character of our education, we have it in the fact that the comparative worths of the different kinds of knowledge have been as yet scarcely even discussed, much less discussed in a methodic way with definite results. Not only is it that no standard of relative values has yet been agreed upon, but the existence of any such standard has not been conceived in any clear manner. And not only is it that the existence of such a standard has not been clearly conceived, but the need of it seems to have been scarcely even felt. Men read books on this topic and attend lectures upon that, decide that their children shall be instructed in these branches and not in those; and all under the guidance of mere custom, or liking, or prejudice, without ever considering the enormous importance of determining in some rational way what things are really most worth learning. * * * * * Men dress their children's minds as they do their bodies, in the prevailing fashion." Spencer, _Education_, p. 26. Spencer sees clearly the importance of this problem and gives it a vigorous discussion in his first chapter, "What knowledge is of most worth?" But the question is a broad and fundamental one and in his preference for the natural sciences he seems to us not to have maintained a just balance of educational forces in preparing a child for "complete living." His theory needs also to be worked out into greater detail and applied to school conditions before it can be of much value to teachers. It can scarcely be said that any other Englishman or American has seriously grappled with this problem. Great changes and reforms indeed have been started, especially within the last fifty years, but they have been undertaken under the pressure of general popular demands and have resulted in compromises between traditional forces and urgent popular needs. An adequate philosophical inquiry into the relative merit of studies and their adaptability to nurture mental, moral, and physical qualities has not been made. The Germans have worked to a better purpose. Quite a number of able thinkers among them have given their best years to the study of this problem of relative educational values and to a working out of its results. Herbart, Ziller, Stoy, and Rein have been deeply interested in philosophy and psychology as life-long teachers of these subjects at the university, but in their practice schools in the same place they also stood daily face to face with the primary difficulties of ordinary teaching. At the outset, and before laying out a course of study, they were compelled to meet and settle the aim of education and the problem of relative values. Having answered these questions to their own satisfaction, they proceeded to work out in detail a common school course. The Herbart school of teachers has presumed to call its interpretation of educational ideas "scientific pedagogy," a somewhat pretentious name in view of the fact that many leading educators in Germany, England, and elsewhere, deny the existence of such a science. But if not a science, it is at least a serious attempt at one. The exposition of principles that follow is chiefly derived from them. With us the present time is favorable to a rational inquiry into relative educational values and to a thorough-going application of the results to school courses and methods. _In the first place_ the old _classical monopoly_ is finally and completely broken, at least so far as the common school is concerned. It ruled education for several centuries, but now even its methods of discipline are losing their antique hold. The natural sciences, modern history, and literature have assumed an equal place with the old classical studies in college courses. Freed from old traditions and prejudice, our common school is now grounded in the vernacular, in the national history and literature, and in home geography and natural science. Its roots go deep into native soil. _Secondly_, the door of the common school has been thrown open to the new studies and they have entered in a troop. History, drawing, natural science, modern literature, and physical culture have been added to the old reading, writing, and arithmetic. The common school was never so untrammeled. It is free to absorb into its course the select materials of the best studies. Teachers really enjoy more freedom in selecting and arranging subjects and in introducing new things than they know how to make use of. There is no one in high authority to check the reform spirit and even local boards are often among the advocates of change. _In the third place_, by multiplying studies, the common school course has grown more complex and heterogeneous. The old reading, writing, arithmetic, and grammar could not be shelved for the sake of the new studies and the same amount of time must be divided now among many branches. It is not to be wondered at if all the studies are treated in a shallow and fragmentary way. Some of the new studies, especially, are not well taught. There is less of unity in higher education now than there was before the classical studies and "the three R's" lost their supremacy. Our common school course has become a batch of miscellanies. We are in danger of overloading pupils, as well as of making a superficial hodge-podge of all branches. There is imperative need for sifting the studies according to their value, as well as for bringing them into right connection and dependence upon one another. _Fourthly_, there is a large body of thoughtful and inquiring teachers and principals who are working at a revision of the school course. They seek something tangible, a working plan, which will help them in their present perplexities and show them a wise use of drawing, natural science, and literature, in harmony with the other studies. _Finally_, since we are in the midst of such a breaking-up period, we need to take our bearings. In order to avoid mistakes and excesses there is a call for deep, impartial, and many-sided thinking on educational problems. Supposing that we know what the controlling aim of education is, we are next led to inquire about and to determine the relative value of studies as tributary to this aim. It is not however our purpose to give an original solution to this problem and to those which follow it. We must decline to attempt a philosophical inquiry into fundamental principles and their origin. Ours is the humbler task of explaining and applying principles already worked out by others; that is, to give the results of Herbartian pedagogy as applied to our schools. Instead of discussing the many branches of study one after another, it will be well to make a broad division of them into three classes and observe the marked features and value of each. First, _history_, including the subject matter of biography, history, story, and other parts of literature. Second, the _natural sciences_. Third, _the formal studies_, grammar, writing, much of arithmetic, and the symbols used in reading. The first two open up the great fields of real knowledge and experience, the world of man and of external nature, the two great reservoirs of interesting facts. We will first examine these two fields and consider their value as constituent parts of the school course. _History_, in our present sense, includes what we usually understand by it, as U. S. history, modern and ancient history, also biography, tradition, fiction as expressing human life and the novel or romance, and historical and literary masterpieces of all sorts, as the drama and the epic poem, so far as they delineate man's experience and character. In a still broader sense, history includes language as the expression of men's thoughts and feelings. But this is the formal side of history with which we are not at present concerned. History deals with men's motives and actions as individuals or in society, with their dispositions, habits, and institutions, and with the monuments and literature they have left. The relations of persons to each other in society give rise to morals. How? The act of a person--as when a fireman rescues a child from a burning building--shows a disposition in the actor. We praise or condemn this disposition as the deed is good or bad. But each moral judgment, rightly given, leaves us stronger. To appreciate and judge fairly the life and acts of a woman like Mary Lyon, or of a man such as Samuel Armstrong, is to awaken something of their spirit and moral temper in ourselves. Whether in the life of David or of Shylock, or of the people whom they represent, the study of men is primarily a study of morals, of conduct. It is in the personal hardships, struggles, and mutual contact of men that motives and moral impulses are observed and weighed. In such men as John Bunyan, William the Silent, and John Quincy Adams, we are much interested to know what qualities of mind and heart they possessed, and especially what human sympathies and antipathies they felt. Livingstone embodied in his African life certain Christian virtues which we love and honor the more because they were so severely and successfully tested. Although the history of men and of society has many uses, its best influence is in illustrating and inculcating moral ideas. It is teaching morals by example. Even living companions often exert less influence upon children than the characters impressed upon their minds from reading. The deliberate plan of teachers and parents might make this influence more salutary and effective. It will strike most teachers as a surprise to say that _the chief use of history study is to form moral notions in children_. Their experience with this branch of school work has been quite different. They have not so regarded nor used history. It has been generally looked upon as a body of useful information that intelligent persons must possess. Our history texts also have been constructed for another purpose, namely, to summarize and present important facts in as brief space as possible, not to reveal personal actions and character as a formative moral influence in the education of the young. Even as sources of valuable information, Spencer shows that our histories have been extremely deficient; but for moral purposes they are almost worthless. Now, moral dispositions are a better fruitage and test of worth in men than any intellectual acquirements. History is already a recognized study of admitted value in the schools. It is a shame to strip it of that content and of that influence which are its chief merit. To study the conduct of persons as illustrating right actions is, in quality, the highest form of instruction. Other very important things are also involved in a right study of history. There are economic, political, and social institutions evolved out of previous history; there are present intricate problems to be approached and understood. But all these questions rest to a large extent upon moral principles. But while these political, social, and economic interests are beyond the present reach of children, biography, individual life and action in their simple forms, are plain to their understanding. They not only make moral conduct real and impressive, but they gradually lead up to an appreciation of history in its social and institutional forms. Some of the best historical materials (from biography, tradition, and fiction) should be absorbed by children in each grade as an essential part of the substratum of moral ideas. This implies more than a collection of historical stories in a supplementary reader for intermediate grades. It means that history in the broad sense is to be an important study in every grade, and that it shall become a center and reservoir from which reading books and language lessons draw their supplies. These biographies, stories, and historical episodes must be the best which our history and classic literature can furnish, and whatever is of like virtue in the life of other kindred peoples, of England, Germany, Greece, etc. If history in this sense can be made a strong auxiliary to moral education in common schools, the whole body of earnest teachers will be gratified. For there is no theme among them of such perennial interest and depth of meaning as _moral culture_ in schools. It is useless to talk of confining our teachers to the intellectual exercises outlined in text books. They are conscious of dealing with children of moral susceptibility. In our meetings, discussions on the means of moral influence are more frequent and earnest than on any other topic; and in their daily work hundreds of our teachers are aiming at moral character in children more than at anything else. As they free themselves from mechanical requirements and begin to recognize their true function, they discover the transcendent importance of moral education, that it underlies and gives meaning to all the other work of the teacher. But teachers heretofore have taken a narrow view of the moral influences at their disposal. Their ever-recurring emphatic refrain has been "_the example of the teacher_," and, to tell the truth, there is no better means of instilling moral ideas than the presence and inspiration of a high-toned teacher. We know, however, that teachers need moral stimulus and encouragement as much as anybody. It will not do to suppose that they have reached the pinnacle of moral excellence and can stand as all-sufficient exemplars to children. The teacher himself must have food as well as the children. He must partake of the loaf he distributes to them. The clergyman also should be an example of Christian virtue, but he preaches the gospel as illustrated in the life of Christ, of St. Paul, and of others. In pressing home moral and religious truths his appeal is to great sources of inspiration which lie outside of himself. Why should the teacher rely upon his own unaided example more than the preacher? No teacher can feel that he embodies in himself, except in an imperfect way, the strong moral ideas that have made the history of good men worth reading. No matter what resources he may have in his own character, the teacher needs to employ moral forces that lie outside of himself, ideals toward which he struggles and towards which he inspires and leads others. The very fact that he appreciates and admires a man like Longfellow or Peter Cooper will stir the children with like feelings. In this sense it is a mistake to center all attention upon the conduct of the teacher. He is but a guide, or, like Goldsmith's preacher, he allures to brighter worlds and leads the way. It is better for pupil and teacher to enter into the companionship of common aims and ideals. For them to study together and admire the conduct of Roger Williams is to bring them into closer sympathy, and what do teachers need more than to get into _personal sympathy_ with their children? Let them climb the hill together, and enjoy the views together, and grow so intimate in their aims and sympathies that afterlife cannot break the bond. When the inspirations and aims thus gained have gradually changed into tendencies and habits, the child is morally full-fledged. It is high ground upon which to land youth, or aid in landing him, but it is clearly in view. It is only gradually that moral ideas gain an ascendency, first over the thoughts and feelings of a child and later still over his conduct. Many good impressions at first seem to bear no fruit in action. But examples and experience reiterate the truth till it finds a firm lodgment and begins to act as a check upon natural impulses. Many a child reads the stories in the _Youth's Companion_ with absorbing interest but in the home circle fails noticeably to imitate the conduct he admires. But moral ideas must grow a little before they can yield fruit. The seed of example must drop into the soil of the mind under favorable conditions; it must germinate and send up its shoots to some height before its presence and nature can be clearly seen. The application of moral ideas to conduct is very important even in childhood, out patience and care are necessary in most cases. There must be timely sowing of the seed and judicious cultivation, if good fruits are to be gathered later on. There is indeed much anxiety and painful uncertainty on the part of those who charge themselves with the moral training of children. Labor and birth pains are antecedent to the delivery of a moral being. Then again a child must develop according to what is in him, his nature and peculiar disposition. The processes of growth are within him and the best you can do is to give them scope. He is _free_ and you are _bound_ to minister to his best freedom. The common school age is the _formative period_. At six a child is morally immature; at fifteen the die has been stamped. This youthful wilderness must be crossed. We can't turn back. There is no other way of reaching the promised land. But there are rebellions and baitings and disorderly scenes. This is a tortuous road! Isn't there a quicker and easier way? The most speedily constructed road across this region is _a short treatise_ on morals for teacher and pupil. In this way it is possible to have all the virtues and faults tabulated, labeled, and transferred in brief space to the minds of the children (if the discipline is rigorous enough). Swallow a catechism, reduced to a verbal memory product. Pack away the essence of morals in a few general laws and rules and have the children learn them. Some day they may understand. What astounding faith in memory cram and dry forms! We _can_ pave such a road through the fields of moral science, but when a child has traveled it is he a whit the better? No such paved road is good for anything. It isn't even comfortable. It has been tried a dozen times in much less important fields of knowledge than morals. Moral ideas spring up out of experience with persons either in real life or in the books we read. Examples of moral action drawn from life are the only thing that can give meaning to moral precepts. If we see a harsh man beating his horse, we get an ineffaceable impression of harshness. By reading the story of the Black Beauty we acquire a lively sympathy for animals. Then the maxim "A merciful man is merciful to his beast" will be a good summary of the impressions received. Moral ideas always have a concrete basis or origin. Some companion with whose feelings and actions you are in close personal contact, or some character from history or fiction by whose personality you have been strongly attracted, gives you your keenest impressions of moral qualities. To begin with abstract moral teaching, or to put faith in it, is to misunderstand children. In morals as in other forms of knowledge, children are overwhelmingly interested in personal and individual examples, things which have form, color, action. The attempt to sum up the important truths of a subject and present them as abstractions to children is almost certain to be a failure, pedagogically considered. It has been demonstrated again and again, even in high schools, that botany, chemistry, physics, and zoology can not be taught by such brief scientific compendia of rules and principles--"Words, words, words," as Hamlet said. We can not learn geography from definitions and map questions, nor morals from catechisms. And just as in natural science we are resorting perforce to plants, animals, and natural phenomena, so in morals we turn to the deeds and lives of men. Columbus in his varying fortunes leaves vivid impressions of the moral strength and weakness of himself and of others. John Winthrop gives frequent examples of generous and unselfish good-will to the settlers about Boston. Little Lord Fauntleroy is a better treatise on morals for children than any of our sermonizers have written. We must get at morals without moralizing and drink in moral convictions without resorting to moral platitudes. Educators are losing faith in words, definitions, and classifications. It is a truism that we can't learn chemistry or zoology from books alone, nor can moral judgments be rendered except from individual actions. A little reflection will show that we are only demanding _object lessons_ in the field of moral education, extensive, systematic object lessons; choice experiences and episodes from human life, simple and clear, painted in natural colors, as shown by our best history and literature. To appreciate the virtues and vices, to sympathize with better impulses, we must travel beyond words and definitions till we come in contact with the personal deeds that first give rise to them. The life of Martin Luther, with its faults and merits honestly represented, is a powerful moral tonic to the reader; the autobiography of Franklin brings out a great variety of homely truths in the form of interesting episodes in his career. Adam Bede and Romola impress us more powerfully and permanently than the best sermons, because the individual realism in them leads to a vividness of moral judgment of their acts unequalled. King Lear teaches us the folly of a rash judgment with overwhelming force. Evangeline awakens our sympathies as no moralist ever dreamed of doing. Uncle Tom in Mrs. Stowe's story was a stronger preacher than Wendell Phillips. William Tell in Schiller's play kindles our love for heroic deeds into an enthusiasm. The best myths, historical biographies, novels, and dramas, are the richest sources of moral stimulus because they lead us into the immediate presence of those men and women whose deeds stir up our moral natures. In the representations of the masters we are in the presence of moral ideas clothed in flesh and blood, real and yet idealized. Generosity is not a name but the act of a person which wins our interest and, favor. To get the impress of kindness we must see an act of kindness and feel the glow it produces. When Sir Philip Sidney, wounded on the battle field and suffering with thirst, reached out his hand for a cup of water that was brought, his glance fell upon a dying soldier who viewed the cup with great desire; Sidney handed him the water with the words, "Thy necessity is greater than mine." No one can refuse his approval for this act. After telling the story of the man who went down to Jericho and fell among thieves, and then of the priest, the Levite, and the Samaritan who passed that way, Jesus put the question to his critic, "Who was neighbor to him that fell among thieves?" And the answer came even from unwilling lips, "He that showed mercy." When Nathan Hale on the scaffold regretted that he had but one life to lose for his country, we realize better what patriotism is. On the other hand it is natural to _condemn wrong deeds_ when presented clearly and objectively in the action of another. Nero caused Christians to be falsely accused and then to be condemned to the claws of wild beasts in the arena. When such cruelty is practiced against the innocent and helpless, we condemn the act. When Columbus was thrown into chains instead of being rewarded, we condemn the Spaniards. In the same way the real world of persons about us, the acts of parents, companions, and teachers are powerful in giving a good or bad tone to our sentiments, because, as living object lessons, their impress is directly and constantly upon us. In such cases taken from daily experience and from illustrations of personal conduct in books, it is possible to observe _how moral judgments originate_ and by repetition grow into convictions. They spring up naturally and surely when we understand well the circumstances under which an act was performed. The interest and sympathy felt for the persons lends great vividness to the judgments expressed. Each individual act stands out clearly and calls forth a prompt and unerring approval or disapproval. (But later the judgment must react upon our own conduct.) The examples are simple and objective, free from selfish interest on the child's part, so that good and bad acts are recognized in their true quality. These simple moral judgments are only a beginning, only a sowing of the seed. But harvests will not grow and ripen unless seed has been laid in the ground. It is a long road to travel before these early moral impressions develop into firm convictions which rule the conduct of an adult. But education is necessarily a slow process, and it is likely to be a perverted one unless the foundation is carefully laid in early years. The fitting way then to cultivate moral judgments, that is, to start just ideas of right and wrong, of virtues and vices, is by a regular and systematic presentation of persons illustrating noble and ignoble acts. A preference for the right and an aversion for the wrong will be the sure result of careful teaching. Habits of judging will be formed and strong moral convictions established which may be gradually brought to influence and control action. A good share of the influences that are thrown around an ordinary child need to be counteracted. It can be done to a considerable extent _by instruction_. Many of the interesting characters of history are better company for us and for children than our neighbors and contemporaries. For the purposes of moral example and inspiration we may select as companions for them the best persons in history, provided we know how to select for ourselves and others. Their acts are personal, biographical, and interesting, and appeal at once to children as well as to their elders. There is no good reason why a much greater number of our school children should not be brought under the influence of the best books suited to their age. Here is a source of educational influence of high quality which is left too much to accident and to the natural, unaided instinct of children. A few get the benefit but many more are capable of receiving it. How much better the school choice and treatment of such books may be than the loose and miscellaneous reading of children, is discussed in Special Method. A fit introduction of children to this class of literature should be in the hands of teachers, and all the later reading of pupils will feel the salutary effect. If this is the proper origin and culture of moral ideas, we desire to know how to utilize it in the common school course. It can only be done by an extensive use of historical and literary materials in all grades with the _conscious purpose_ of shaping moral ideas and character. That the school has such influence at its disposal can not be reasonably denied by any one who believes that the family or the church can affect the moral character of their children. It may be objected that the school thus takes up the proper work of the home, when it ought to be occupied with other things. Would that the homes were all good! But even if they were the teacher could not fold his arms over a responsibility removed. As soon as a boy enters school, if not sooner, he begins, in some sense, to outgrow the home. New influences and interests find a lodgment in his affections. Companions, the wider range of his acquaintances, studies, and ambitions, share now with the home. John Locke objected radically to English public schools on this account. But even if we desired, we could not resort to private tutors as Locke did. The child is growing and changing. Who shall organize unity out of this maze of thoughts, interests, and influences, casting out the useless and bad, combining and strengthening the good? The more service the home renders the better. The child's range of thought and ambition is expanding. Who has the best survey of the field? In many cases at least, the teacher, especially where parents lack the culture and the children need a guide. Who spends six hours a day directing these currents of thought and interest? We are not disposed to underestimate the magnitude of the task here laid upon the teacher. The rights and duties of the home are not put in question. Indeed the spirit of this kind of teaching is best illustrated in a good home. A teacher who has a father's anxiety in the real welfare of children will not forget his duty in watching their moral growth. The moral atmosphere of a good home will remain the ideal for the school. In fact, Herbart's plan of education originated not in a school-room, but in an excellent home in Switzerland, where he spent three years in the private instruction of three boys. The conscientious zeal with which he devoted himself to the moral and mental growth of these children is a model for teachers. The shaping of three characters was, according to his view, entrusted to him. The common notion of intellectual growth and strength which rules in such cases was at once subordinated to _character development_ in the moral sense. Not that the two ideas are at all antagonistic, but one is more important than the other. The selection of reading matter, of studies, and of employments, was adapted to each boy with a view to influencing conduct and moral action. The Herbart school adheres to this view of education, and has _transferred its spirit and method to the schools_. The Herbartians have the hardihood, in this age of moral skeptics, to believe not only in moral example but also in moral teaching. (By moral skeptics we mean those who believe in morals but not in moral instruction.) They seek first of all historical materials of the richest moral content, in vivid personification, upon which to nourish the moral spirit of children. If properly treated, this subject matter will soon win the children by its power over feeling and judgment. With Crusoe the child goes through every hardship and success; with Abraham he lives in tents, seeks pastures for his flocks, and generously marches out to the rescue of his kinsmen. He should not read Caesar with a slow and toilsome drag (parsing and construing) that would render a bright boy stupid. If he goes with Caesar at all, he must build an _agger_, fight battles, construct bridges, and approve or condemn Caesar's acts. But we doubt the moral value of Caesar's Gallic wars. By reading Plutarch we may see that the Latins and Greeks, before the days of their degeneracy, nourished their rising youth upon the traditions of their ancestry. The education produced a tough and sinewy brood of moral qualities. Their great men were great characters, largely because of the mother-milk of national tradition and family training. In Scotch, English, and German history we are familiar with Alfred, Bruce, Siegfried, and many other heroes of similar value in the training of youth. It will be well for us to look into our own history and see what sort of a moral heritage of educative materials it has left us. What noble examples does it furnish of right thought and action? Have we any home-bred food like this for the nourishment of our growing youth? Our native American history is indeed nobler in tone and more abundant. For moral educative purposes in the training of the young the history of America, from the early explorations and settlements along the Atlantic coast to the present, has scarcely a parallel in history. It was a race of moral heroes that led the first colonies to many of the early settlements. Winthrop, Penn, Williams, Oglethorpe, Raleigh, and Columbus were great and simple characters, deeply moral and practical. For culture purposes, where can their equals be found? And where was given a better opportunity for the display of personal virtues than by the leaders of these little danger-encircled communities? The leaven of purity, piety, and manly independence which they brought with them and illustrated, has never ceased to work powerfully among our people. Why not bring the children into direct contact with these characters in the intermediate grades, not by short and sketchy stories, but by full life pictures of these men and their surroundings? We have not been wholly lacking in literary artists who have worked up a part of these materials into a more durable and acceptable form for our schools. We need to make an abundant use of this and other history for our boys and girls, not by devoting a year in the upper grades to a barren outline of American annals, but by a proper distribution of these and other similar rich treasures throughout the grades of the common school. Tradition and fiction are scarcely less valuable than biography and history because of their vivid portrayal of strong and typical characters. Our own literature, and the world's literature at large, are a store-house well-stocked with moral educative materials, properly suited to children at different ages, if only sorted, selected, and arranged. But this requires broad knowledge of our best literature and clear insight into child character at different ages. This problem will not be solved in a day, nor in a life-time. In making a progressive series of our best historical and literary products, it is necessary to select those materials which are better adapted than anything else to interest, influence, and mould the character of children at each time of life. It is now generally agreed by the best teachers that these selections shall be classical masterpieces, not in fragments but as wholes. They should be those classical materials that bear the stamp of genuine nobility. Goethe says "_The best is good enough for children_." For some years past in our grammar grades we have been using some of the best selections of Whittier, Longfellow, Bryant, and others, and we are not even frightened by the length of such productions as Evangeline, The Lady of the Lake, or Julius Caesar. A simple, adapted version of Robinson Crusoe is used in some schools as a second reader. From time immemorial choice selections of prose and verse have formed the staple of our readers above the third. But generally these selections are scrappy or fragmentary. Few of the great masterpieces have been used because most of them are supposed to be too long. Broken fragments of our choice literary products have been served up, but the best literary works as wholes have never been given to the children in the schools. The Greek youth were better served with the Iliad and Odyssey, and some of our grandfathers with the tales of the Old Testament. We now go still further back in the child-life and make use of fairy tales in the first grade. But many are not yet able to realize that select fairy stories are genuinely classical, that they are as well adapted to stimulate the minds of children as Hamlet the minds of adults. (See Special Method.) The chief aim of our schools all along has not been an appreciation of literary masterpieces either in their moral or art value, but to acquire skill in reading, fluency, and naturalness, of expression. Our schools have been almost completely absorbed in the purely _formal_ use of our literary materials, learning to read in the earlier grades and learning to read with rhetorical expression and confidence in the later ones. In the present argument our chief concern is not with the formal use of literary materials for practice in reading, but with the moral culture, conviction, and habit of life they may foster. Nor have we chiefly in view the _art_ side of our best literary pieces. Appreciation of beauty in poetry and of strength in prose, admirable as they may be, are quite secondary to the main purpose. Coming in direct and vivid contact with manly deeds or with unselfish acts as personified in choice biography, history, fiction, and real life, will inspire children with thoughts that make life worth living. Neither formal skill in reading nor appreciation of literary art can atone for the lack of _direct moral incentive_ which historical studies should give. All three ends should be reached. Many teachers are now calling for a change in the spirit with which the best biography and literature are used. They call for an improvement in the quality and an increase in the quantity of complete historical episodes and of literary masterpieces. An appreciative reading of Ivanhoe revives the spirit of that age. The life of Samuel Adams is an epic that gives the youth a chance to live amid the stirring scenes of Boston in a notable time. Children are to live in thought and interest the lives of many men of other generations, as of Tell, Columbus, Livingstone, Lincoln, Penn, Franklin, Fulton. They are to partake of the experiences of the best typical men in the story of our own and of other countries. The use of the best historical and literary works as a means of strengthening moral motives and principles with children whose minds and characters are developing, is a high aim in itself. And it will add _interest and life_ to the formal studies, such as reading, spelling, grammar, and composition, which spring out of this valuable subject-matter. History, in the broad sense, should be the chief constituent of a child's education. That subject-matter which contains the essence of moral culture in generative form deserves to constitute the chief mental food of young people. The conviction of the high moral value of historic subjects and of their peculiar adaptability to children at different ages, brings us to a positive judgment as to their relative value among studies. The first question, preliminary to all others in the common school course, "What is the most important study?" is answered by putting _history_ at the head of the list. _Natural science_ takes the second place. In many respects it is co-ordinate with history. The object-world, which is so interesting, so informing, and so intimately interwoven with the needs, labors, and progress of men, furnishes the second great constituent of education for all children. Botany, zoology, and the other natural sciences, taken as a unit, constitute the field of nature apart from man. They furnish us an understanding of the varied objects and complex phenomena of nature. It is one of the imperative needs of all human minds that have retained their childlike thoughtfulness and spirit of inquiry, to desire to understand nature, to classify the variety of objects and appearances, to trace the chain of causes, and to search out the simple laws of nature's operations. The command early came to men to subdue the earth, and we understand better than primitive man that it is subdued through investigation and study. All the forces and bounties of nature are to be made serviceable to us and it can only be done by understanding her facts and laws. The road to mastery leads through patient observation, experiment, and study. But we are concerned with the _educational_ value of the natural sciences. Waitz says: "A correct philosophy of the world and of life is possible to a person only on the basis of a knowledge of one's self and of one's relation to surrounding nature." Diesterweg says: "No one can afford to neglect a knowledge of nature who desires to get a comprehension of the world and of God according to human possibility, or who desires to find his proper relation to Him and to real things. He who knows nothing of human history is an ignoramus, likewise he who knows nothing of natural science. To know nothing of either is a pure shame. Ignorance of nature is an unpardonable perversion." Kraepelin speaks as follows; "Instruction should open up to a pupil an understanding of the present, and thereby furnish a basis for a frank and many-sided philosophy of life, resting upon reality. But to the present belongs the world outside of us. Of this present there can be no such thing as an understanding unless it relates not only to inter-human relations but also to relations of man to animal, of animal to plant, and of organic life to inorganic life. The necessity of assuming a relation to our environment is unavoidable and this can only be done by acquainting ourselves with the surrounding world in every direction. This requirement would remain in force though man, like a god, were set above nature and her laws. But man lives, acts, and dies not outside of, but within the circle of nature's laws. This maxim is axiomatic and contains the final judgment against those who claim that a comprehensive but unified philosophy of life is possible without a knowledge of nature." Herbart says: "Here (in nature) lies the abode of real truth, which does not retreat before tests into an inaccessible past (as does history). This genuinely empirical character distinguishes the natural sciences and makes their loss irretrievable. It is here (in nature) that the object disentangles itself from all fancies and opinions and constantly stimulates the spirit of observation. Here then is found an obstruction to extravagant thinking such as the sciences themselves could not better devise." Ziller says: "The natural sciences are necessary in education because from the province of nature (as well as from history) are derived those means and resources which are necessary to accomplish the purposes of the will in action. Means and forces are the natural conditions for the realization of aims. Without knowledge of and intelligent power over nature, it is difficult to realize that certain aims are possible; action cannot be successful; will effort, based upon the firm conviction of ability, that is, judicious exercise of will, is impossible." We quote also from Professor Rein: "Let us observe in passing that in the great industrial contest between civilized nations, that people will suffer defeat which falls behind in the culture of natural science, and for this reason the motive of self-protection would demand natural science instruction. In favor of this teaching, the claim is further made that no science is so well adapted to train the mind to inductive thought processes as that which rests entirely upon induction, and that natural science study is in a position to resist more easily and successfully than all other studies, the deeply-rooted tendency in all branches to substitute words for ideas." Rein (das vierte Schuljahr) explains further the leading ideas and standpoints which have appeared in historical order among science teachers in the common school. From the first crude ideas there has been marked progress toward higher aims in science teaching. 1. Natural history stories for _entertainment_. Many curious and entertaining facts in connection with animal life were searched out, more especially unusual and spicy anecdotes of shrewdness and intelligence. Some of the old readers, and even of the recent ones, are enriched with such marvels. 2. _Utility_, or the study of things in nature that are directly useful or hurtful to man. Whatever fruits or animals or herbs are of plain service to man, as well as things poisonous or dangerous, were studied because such information would be of future service. It was a purely practical aim, at first very narrow, but in an enlarged and liberal sense of much importance. 3. _Training of the senses_ and of _the observing power_. By a study and description of natural objects, sense perception was to be sharpened and a habit of close observation formed. Among science teachers today no aim is more emphasized than this. It also stores away a body of useful ideas of great future value. This is an intellectual aim that accords better with the purpose of the school than the preceding. 4. _Analysis_ and _determination of specimens_. To examine and trace a plant, mineral, or insect, to its true classification and name, has occupied much of the time of students. It requires nice discrimination, a comprehensive grasp of relations, and a power to seize and hold common characteristics. Many of our text-books and courses of study are based chiefly upon this idea. 5. _System-making_, or the reduction of all things in nature to a systematic whole, with a place for everything. Some of the greatest scientists, Linnaeus, for example, looked upon scientific classification as the chief aim of nature study. It has had a great influence upon schools and teachers. The attempt to compress everything into a system has led to many text-books which are but brief summaries of sciences like zoology, botany, and physics. Scientific classification is very important, but the attempt to make it a leading aim in teaching children is a mistake. We may add that nature study is felt by all to offer abundant scope to the exercise of the esthetic faculty. There is great variety of beauty and gracefulness in natural forms in plant and animal; the rich or delicate coloring of the clouds, of birds, of insects, and of plants, gives constant pleasure. Then there are grand and impressive scenery and phenomena in nature, and melody and harmony in nature's voices. These various aims of science study are valuable to the teacher as showing him the scope of his work. But a higher and more comprehensive standpoint has been reached. We now realize that the great purpose of this study is _insight into nature_, into this whole physical environment, with a view to a better appreciation of her objects, forces, and laws, and of their bearing on human life and progress. All these purposes thus far developed in schools are to be considered as valuable subsidiary aims, leading up to the central purpose of the study of natural sciences, which is, "An understanding of life and of the powers and of the unity which express themselves in nature;" or, as Kraepelin says: "Nature should not appear to man as an inextricable chaos, but as a well-ordered mechanism, the parts fitting exactly to each other, controlled by unchanging laws, and in perpetual action and production." Humboldt is further quoted: "Nature to the mature mind is unity in variety, unity of the manifold in form and combination, the content or sum total of natural things and natural forces as a living whole. The weightiest result, therefore, of deep physical study is, by beginning with the individual, to grasp all that the discoveries of recent times reveal to us, to separate single things critically and yet not be overcome by the mass of details, mindful of the high destiny of man, to comprehend the mind of nature, which lies concealed under the mantle of phenomena." This sounds visionary and impracticable for children of the common school, especially when we know that much lower aims have not been successfully reached. In fact it cannot be said that the natural sciences have any recognized standing in the common school course. But it is worth the while to inquire whether natural sciences will ever be taught as they should be until the best attainable aims become the dominant principles for guiding teachers. Stripped of its rhetoric, the above mentioned aim, "an understanding of life and of the unity in nature," may prove a practical and inspiring guide to the teacher. If we look upon nature as a field of observation and study which can be grasped as a whole both as a work of creation and as contributing in multiplied ways to man's needs, its proper study gives a many-sided culture to the mind. This leading purpose will bring into relation and unity all the subordinate aims of science teaching, such as information, utility, training of the senses and judgment, and of the power to compare and classify. For the accomplishment of this great purpose of gaining _insight_ into nature's many-sided activities, there are several simple means not yet mentioned. Running through nature are great principles and laws which can be studied upon concrete examples, plain and interesting to a child. The study of the squirrel in its home, habits, organs, and natural activities in the woods, will show how strangely adapted it is to its surroundings. But an observation of birds in the air and of fishes in water reveals the same curious fitness to surrounding nature. The study of plants and animals in their adaptation to environment, of the relation between organ and function; between organs, mode of life, and environment, leads up to a general law which applies to all plants and animals. The law of growth and development from the simple germ to the mature life form can be seen in the butterfly, the frog, and the sunflower. These laws and others in biology, if developed on concrete specimens, give much insight into the whole realm of nature, more stimulating by far than that based on scientific classifications, as orders, families and species. The great and simple outlines of nature's work begin to appear out of such laws. Again the study of the whole _life history_ of a plant or animal, in its relations to the inorganic world and to other plants and animals, is always a cross-section in the sciences and shows how all the natural sciences are knit together into a causal unity. Take the life history of a _hickory tree_. As it germinates and grows from the seed how it draws from the earth and air; the effect of storms, seasons, and lightning upon it; how it later furnishes nuts to the squirrels and boys; its branches may be the nesting place for birds and its bark for insects. Finally, the uses of its tough wood for man are seen. The life of a squirrel or of a honey-bee furnishes also a cross-section through all the sciences from the inorganic world up to man. If in tracing life histories we take care to select _typical_ subjects which exemplify perhaps thousands of similar cases, we shall materially shorten the road leading toward insight into nature. These types are concrete and have all the interest and attractiveness of individual life, but they also bring out characteristics which explain myriads of similar phenomena. A careful and detailed study of a single tree like the maple, with the circulation of the sap and the function of roots, bark, leaves, and woody fiber, will give an insight into the processes of growth upon which the life of the tree depends and these processes will easily appear to be true of all tree and plant forms. In nature as it shows itself in the woods or in the pond, there is such a _mingling and interdependence_ of the natural sciences upon each other that the book of nature seems totally different from books of botany, physics, and zoology as made by men. In the forest we find close together trees of many kinds, shrubs, flowering plants, vines, mosses, and ferns; grasses, beetles, worms, and birds; squirrels, owls and sunshine; rocks, soil, and springs; summer and winter; storms, frost, and drouth. Plants depend upon the soil and upon each other. The birds and squirrels find their home and food among the trees and plants. The trees seem to grow together as if they needed each other's companionship. All the plants and animals depend upon the soil, air, and climate, and the whole wood changes its garb and partly its guests with the seasons. A forest is a _life society_, consisting of mutually dependent parts. How nature disregards our conventional distinctions between the natural sciences! We need no better proof than this that they should not be taught chiefly from books. A child might learn a myriad of things in the woods and gain much insight into nature's ways without making any clear distinction between botany, zoology, and geology. Herein is also the proof that text-books are needed as a guide in nature's labyrinth. If the frequency and intimacy of mutual relations are any proof of unity, the natural sciences are a unit and have a right to be called by one name, _nature study_. In the study of laws, life histories, and life groups, the _causal relations_ in nature are found to be wonderfully stimulating to those who have begun to trace them out. The child as well as the mature scientist finds in these causal connections materials of absorbing interest. It is plain, therefore, that the lines tending toward unity in nature study are numerous and strong; such as the scientific classifications of our text-books, the working out of general laws whether in biology or physics, the study of life histories in vegetable and animal, and the observation of life societies in the close mutual relations of the different parts or individuals. If a course of nature studies is begun in the first grade and carried systematically through all the years up to the eighth grade, is it not reasonable to suppose that real insight into nature, based on observation taken at first hand, may be reached? It will involve a study of living plants and animals, minerals, physical apparatus and devices, chemical experiments, the making of collections, regular excursions for the observation of the neighboring fields, forests, and streams, and the working over of these and other concrete experiences from all sources through skillful class teaching. The first great result to a child of such a series of studies is an intelligent and rational understanding of his home, the world, his natural environment. He will have a seeing eye and an appreciative mind for the thousand things surrounding his daily life where the ignorant toiler sees and understands nothing. A second advantage which we can only hint at, while incidental is almost equally important. We have been considering nature chiefly as a realm by itself, apart from man. But the utilities of natural science in individual life and in society are so manifold that we accept many of the finest products of skill and art as if they were natural products--as if gold coins, silk dresses, and fine pictures grew on the bushes and only waited to be picked. The thousand-fold applications of natural science to human industry and comfort deserve to be perceived as _the result of labor and inventive skill_. Our much-lauded steam engines, telegraph microscopes, sewing machines, reapers, iron ships, and printing presses, are not examples of a few, but of myriads of things that natural science has secured. But how many children on leaving the common school understand the principle involved in any one of the machines mentioned, subjects of common talk as they are? As children leave the schools at fourteen or fifteen they should know and appreciate many such things, wherein man, by his wit and ingenious use of natures forces, has triumphed over difficulties. How are glass and soap made? What has a knowledge of natural science to do with the construction of stoves, furnaces, and lamps? How are iron, silver, and copper ore mined and reduced? How is sugar obtained from maple trees, cane, and beet root? How does a suction pump work and why? Without a knowledge of such applications of natural science we should be thrown back into barbarism. These things also, since they form such an important part of every child's environment, should be understood, but not for direct utility. Historically considered, the study of natural science is the study of man's long continued struggle with nature and of his gradual triumph. It ends with insight into nature and into those contrivances of men by which her laws and forces are utilized. The whole subject of nature, her laws and powers, must not remain a sealed book to the masses of the people. Scientists, inventors, and scholars may lead the way, but they are only pioneers. The thousands of the children of the people are treading at their heels and must be initiated into the mysteries. Our knowledge of these principles and appliances constitute in fact a good share of the foundation upon which our whole _culture status_ rests. Without natural science we should understand neither nature nor society. Spencer shows the wide-reaching value of science knowledge in our modern life: "For leaving out only some very small classes, what are all men employed in? They are employed in the production, preparation, and distribution of commodities. And on what does efficiency in the production, preparation, and distribution of commodities depend? It depends on the use of methods fitted to the respective nature of these commodities, it depends on an adequate knowledge of their physical, chemical, or vital properties, as the case may be; that is, it depends on science. This order of knowledge which is in great part ignored in our school courses, is the order of knowledge underlying the right performance of all those processes by which civilized life is made possible. Undeniable as is this truth, and thrust upon us as it is at every turn, there seems to be no living consciousness of it. Its very familiarity makes it unregarded. To give due weight to our argument, we must therefore realize this truth to the reader by a rapid review of the facts." He then illustrates, in interesting detail, the varied applications of mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology, and social science to the industries and economies of real life, and concludes as follows: "That which our school courses leave almost entirely out, we thus find to be that which most nearly concerns the business of life. All our industries would cease were it not for that information which men begin to acquire as they best may after their education is said to be finished. And were it not for this information that has been from age to age accumulated and spread by unofficial means, these industries would never have existed. Had there been no teaching but such as is given, in our public schools, England would now be what it was in feudal times. That increasing acquaintance with the laws of nature which has through successive ages enabled us to subjugate nature to our needs, and in these days gives to the common laborer comforts which a few centuries ago kings could not purchase, is scarcely in any degree owed to the appointed means of instructing our youth. The vital knowledge--that by which we have grown as a nation to what we are, and which now underlies our whole existence--is a knowledge that has got itself taught in nooks and corners, while the ordained agencies for teaching have been mumbling little else but dead formulas." Spencer, _Education_, pp. 44, 54. Not only the specialists in natural science, whose interest and enthusiasm are largely absorbed in these studies, but many other energetic teachers are persuaded that the culture value of nature studies is on a par with that of historical studies. But on account of the present lack of system and of clear purpose in natural science teachers, the first great problem in this field of common school effort is to select the material and perfect the method of studying nature with children. Our estimate of the value of natural science for culture and for discipline is confirmed by the opinion of educational _reformers_ and by the changes and progress in schools. An inquiry into the history of education in Europe and in America since the Reformation will show that the movement towards nature study has been accumulating momentum for more than three hundred years. In spite of the failure of such men as Comenius, Ratich, Basedow, and Rousseau to secure the introduction of these studies in a liberal degree, in spite of the enormous influence of custom and prejudice in favor of Latin and other traditional studies, the natural sciences have made recently such surprising advances and have so penetrated and transformed our modern life that we are simply compelled, even in the common school, to take heed of these great, living educational forces already at work. The _universities_ of England and of the United States have been largely transformed within the last forty years by the introduction, on a grand scale, of modern studies, particularly of the natural sciences. The fitting schools, academies, and high schools have had no choice but to follow this lead. Since the forces that produced this result in higher education sprang up largely outside of our institutions of learning, the movement is not likely to cease till the common school has been changed in the same way. The educational question of the future is not whether historical or natural science or formal studies are to monopolize the school course, but rather how these three indispensable elements of every child's education may be best harmonized and wrought into a unit. But the question that confronts us at every turn is, _What is the disciplinary value of nature study_? We know, say the opponents, what a vigorous training in ancient languages and mathematics can do for a student. What results in this direction can the natural sciences tabulate? The champions of natural science point with pride to the great men who have been trained and developed in such studies. For inductive thinking the natural sciences offer the best materials. To cultivate self-reliance there is nothing like turning a student loose in nature under a skilled instructor. The spirit of investigation and of accurate thinking is claimed as a peculiar product of nature study. It is called, _par excellence_, "the scientific spirit." The undue reverence for authority produced by literary studies is not a weakness of natural science pursuits. But intense interest and devotion are combined with scientific accuracy and fidelity to nature and her laws. We do not feel called upon to attempt a settlement of this dispute. We have already assumed that _history_ in the broad sense (including languages) and _natural science_ (or nature study) are the two great staples of the common school course, and that so far as discipline is concerned one is as important as the other. But we believe that those educators whose first, middle, and last question in education is, "What is the _disciplinary_ value of a study?" have mistaken the primary problem of education. Just as in the proper training of the body, the strength and skill of a professional athlete are, in no sense, the true aim, but physical soundness, health, and vigor; so in mind culture, not extraordinary skill in mental gymnastics of the severest sort, is the essential aim, but mental soundness, integrity, and motive. The under-lying question in education is not, How strong or incisive is his mind? (This depends largely upon heredity and native endowment) but, What is its quality and its temper? If might is right, then mental strength is to be gained at all hazards. But if right is higher than might, then mental skill and power are only secondary aims. So long as we are dealing with fundamental aims in such a serious business as education, why stop short of that ideal which is manifestly the best? We have no controversy with the highest mental discipline and strength that are consistent with all-round mental soundness. Our better teachers are not lacking in appreciation for the value of what is called _formal mental discipline_, but they do generally lack faith in the innate power of the best studies to arouse interest and mental life. They emphasize the _drill_ more than the _content_ and the inspiration of the author. Both in theory and in practice they are greatly lacking in the intellectual sympathy and moral power which result from bringing the minds of students into direct contact with the noblest products of God's work in history and in the object world. Here we can put our finger on the radical weakness of our school work. The really soul-inspiring teachers have not been formalists nor drill-masters alone. Friedrich August Wolf, for example, the great German philologist, was probably the most inspiring teacher of classical languages that Germany has had. But to what was his remarkable influence as a teacher of young men due? We usually think of a philologist as one who digs among the roots of dead languages, who worships the forms of speech and the laws of grammar. Doubtless he and his pupils were much taken up with these things, but they were not the prime source of his and their interest. Wolf defined philology as "the knowledge of human nature as exhibited in antiquity." He studied with great avidity everything that could throw light upon the lives, character, and language of the ancients. Their biographies, histories, geography, climate, dress, implements, their sculpture, monuments, buildings, tombs. Approaching the literature and language of the Greeks with this abundant knowledge of their real surroundings and conditions of life, he saw the deeper, fuller significance of every classical author and the great literary masterpieces were perceived as the expression of the national life. He appreciated language as the wonderful medium through which the more wonderful life of the versatile Greek expressed itself. The reason he was such a great philologist was because he was so great a realist, a man who was intensely interested in the Greek people, their history and life. Words alone had little charm for him. No great teacher has been simply a word-monger. For the present we leave the question of discipline unanswered, though we are disposed to think that those studies which introduce children to the two great fields of real knowledge, and which arouse a strong desire to solve the problems found there, will also furnish the most valuable discipline. The _formal studies_ such as reading, spelling, writing, language, and much of arithmetic, have thus far appropriated the best share of school time. They are the tools for acquiring and formulating knowledge rather than knowledge itself. They are so indispensable in life that people have acquired a sort of superstitious respect for them. They are generally considered as of primary importance while other things are taken as secondary. By virtue of this excessive estimation the formal studies have become so strongly intrenched in the practice of the schools that they are really a heavy obstacle to educational progress. They have been so long regarded as the only gateway to knowledge that anyone who tries to climb in some other way is regarded as a thief and robber. We forget that Homer's great poems were composed and preserved for centuries before letters were invented. As more thought is expended on studies and methods of learning, the more the thinkers are inclined to exactly reverse the educational machinery. They say: "Thought studies must precede form studies." We should everywhere begin with valuable and interesting thought materials in history and natural science and let language, reading, spelling, and drawing follow. It is a thing much more easily said than done, but many active teachers are really doing it, and many others are wondering how it may be done. The advantage of putting the concrete realities of thought before children at first is that they give a powerful impetus to mental life, while pure formal studies in most cases have a deadening effect and gradually put a child to sleep. One of the great problems of school work is how to get more interest and instructive thought into school exercises. We are now in a position to give a concluding estimate upon the relative value of these three elements in school education. History contributes the materials from which motives and moral impulses spring. It cultivates and strengthens moral convictions by the use of inspiring examples. The character of each child should be drawn into harmony with the highest impulses that men have felt. A desire to be the author of good to others should be developed into a practical ruling motive. Natural science on the other hand supplies a knowledge of the ordinary means and appliances by which the purposes of life are realized. It gives us proper insight into the conditions of life and puts us into intelligent relation to our environment. Not only must a child be supplied with the necessaries of life but he must appreciate the needs of health and understand the economies of society, such as the necessity of mental and manual labor, the right use of the products and forces of nature, and the advantage of men's inventions and devices. In a plan of popular education these two culture elements should mingle (history and natural science). In the case of all sorts of people in society the ability to execute high moral purposes depends largely upon a ready, practical insight into natural conditions. We are not thinking of the bread-and-butter phase of life and of the aid afforded by the sciences in making a living, but of the all-round, practical utility of natural science as a necessary supplement to moral training. One of the best tests of a system of education is the preparation it gives for life in a liberal sense. When a child, leaving school behind, develops into a citizen, what tests are applied to him? The questions submitted to his judgment in his relations to the family and to society call for a quick and varied knowledge of men, insight into character, and for a large amount of practical information of natural science. He is asked to vote intelligently on social, political, sanitary, and economic questions; to judge of men's motives, opinions, and character; to vote upon or perhaps to direct the management of poor-houses, asylums, and penitentiaries; in towns to decide questions of drainage, police, water supply, public health, and school administration; to make contracts for public buildings, and bridges; to grant licenses and franchises; to serve on juries or as representatives of the people. These are not professional matters alone; they are the common duties of all citizens of a sound mind. These things each person should know how to judge, whether he be a blacksmith, a merchant, or a house keeper. In all such matters he must be not only a judge of others but an actor under the guidance of right motives and information. Again, in the bringing up of children, in the domestic arrangements of every home and in a proper care for the minds and bodies of both parents and children, a multitude of practical problems from each of the great fields of real knowledge must be met and solved. A medical missionary illustrates this combination of historical and natural science elements. His life purpose is drawn from history, from the life of Christ, and from the traditional incentives of the church. The means by which he is to make himself practically felt are obtained from his study of medicine and from the sciences upon which it depends. These elements form the basis of his influence. This illustration however savors of professional rather than of general education, and we are concerned only with the latter. But the education of every child is analogous to that of the medical missionary in its two constituent elements. As a matter of fact neither history nor natural science occupies any such prominence in the school course as we have judged fitting. Much thoughtful study, experience in teaching, and pioneer labor in partially new fields will be necessary in order to bring into existence such a course of study based upon the best materials. Many teachers already recognize the necessity for it and see before them a land of plenty as compared with the half-desert barrenness revealed in our present school course. Two powerful convictions in the minds of those responsible for education have contributed to produce this desert-like condition in children's school employments, and this brings us to a discussion of the overestimation in which purely _formal studies_ are held. The first article of faith rests upon the unshaken belief in the _practical studies_, reading, writing, and arithmetic. They are still looked upon as a barrier that must be scaled before the real work of education can begin. Learn to read, write, and figure and then the world of knowledge as well as of business is at your command. But many children find the barrier so difficult to scale that they really never get into the fields of knowledge. Many of our most thorough-going educators still firmly believe that a child can not learn anything worth mentioning till he has first learned to read. But however deeply rooted this confidence in the purely formal work of the early school years may be, it must break down as soon as means are devised for putting the realities of interesting knowledge before and underneath all the forms of expression. Let the necessity for expression spring from the real objects of study. Those children to whom the memorizing and drill upon forms of expression becomes tedious deserve our sympathy. There is a kind of knowledge adapted to arouse these dull ones to their full capacity of interest. "Or what man is there of you whom if his son ask bread will he give him a stone?" With many a child the first reader, the arithmetic, or the grammar becomes a veritable stone. There is no good reason why the sole burden of work in early school grades should rest upon the learning of the pure formalities of knowledge. Children's minds are not adapted to an exclusive diet of this kind. The fact that children have good memories is no reason why their minds should be gorged with the dryest memory materials. They have a healthy interest in people, whether in life or in story, and in the objects in nature around them. What is thus pre-eminently true of the primary grades is true to a large extent throughout all the grades of the common school. It seems almost curious that the more tender the plants the more barren and inhospitable the soil upon which they are expected to grow. Fortunately these little ones have such an exuberance of life that it is not easily quenched. Formal knowledge stands first in our common school course and real studies are allowed to pick up such crumbs of comfort as may chance to fall. We believe in formal studies and in their complete mastery in the common school, but they should stand in the place of service to real studies. How powerful the tendency has been and still is toward pure formal drill and word memory is apparent from the fact that even geography and history, which are not at all formal studies, but full to overflowing with interesting facts and laws, have been reduced to a dry memorizing of words, phrases, and stereotyped sentences. It is not difficult to understand why the numerous body of teachers, who easily drift into mechanical methods, has a preference for formal studies. They are comparatively easy and humdrum and keep pupils busy. Real studies, if taught with any sort of fitness, require energy, interest, and versatility, besides much outside work in preparing materials. The second article of faith is a still stronger one. The better class of energetic teachers would never have been won over to formal studies on purely utilitarian grounds. A second conviction weighs heavily in their minds. "_The discipline of the mental faculties_" is a talisman of unusual potency with them. They prize arithmetic and grammar more for this than for any direct practical value. The idea of mental discipline, of training the faculties, is so ingrained into all our educational thinking that it crops out in a hundred ways and holds our courses of study in the beaten track of formal training with a steadiness that is astonishing. These friends believe that we are taking the back-bone out of education by making it interesting. The culmination of this educational doctrine is reached when it is said that the most valuable thing learned in school or out of it is to do and do vigorously that which is most disagreeable. The training of the will to meet difficulties unflinchingly is their aim, and we can not gainsay it. These stalwart apostles of educational hardship and difficulty are in constant fear lest we shall make studies interesting and attractive and thus undermine the energy of the will. But the question at once arises: Does not the will always act from _motives_ of some sort? And is there any motive or incentive so stimulating to the will as a steady and constantly increasing _interest_ in studies? It is able to surmount great difficulties. We wish to assure our stalwart friends that we still adhere to the good old doctrine that "there is no royal road to learning." There is no way of putting aside the real difficulties that are found in every study, no way of grading up the valleys and tunneling through the hills so as to get the even monotony of a railroad track through the rough or mountainous part of education. Every child must meet and master the difficulties of learning for himself. There are no palace cars with reclining chairs to carry him to the summit of real difficulties. The _character-developing power_ that lies in the mastery of hard tasks constitutes one of their chief merits. Accepting this as a fundamental truth in education, the problem for our solution is, how to stimulate children to encounter difficulties. Many children have little inclination to sacrifice their ease to the cause of learning, and our dull methods of teaching confirm them in their indifference to educational incentives. Any child, who, like Hugh Miller or Abraham Lincoln, already possesses an insatiable thirst for knowledge, will allow no difficulties or hardships to stand in the way of progress. This original appetite and thirst for knowledge which the select few have often manifested in childhood is more valuable than anything the schools can give. With the majority of children we can certainly do nothing better than to nurture such a taste for knowledge into vigorous life. It will not do to assume that the average of children have any such original energy or momentum to lead them to scale the heights of even ordinary knowledge. Nor will it do to rely too much upon a _forcing process_, that is, by means of threats, severity, and discipline, to carry children against their will toward the educational goal. "Be not like dumb driven cattle, Be a hero in the strife" is sound educational doctrine. The thing for teachers to do is to cultivate in children all healthy appetites for knowledge, to set up interesting aims and desires at every step, to lead the approach to different fields of knowledge in the spirit of conquest. In the business world and in professional life men and women work with abundant energy and will because they have desirable ends in view. The hireling knows no such generous stimulus. Business life is full of irksome and difficult tasks but the aim in view carries people through them. We shall not eliminate the disagreeable and irksome from school tasks, but try to create in children such a spirit and ambition as will lead to greater exertions. To implant vigorous aims and incentives in children is the great privilege of the teacher. We shall some day learn that when a boy cracks a nut he does so because there may be a kernel in it, not because the shell is hard. In concluding the discussion of relative values we will summarize the results. _History_, in the liberal sense, surveys the field of human life in its typical forms and furnishes the best illustrative moral materials. _Nature study_ opens the door to the real world in all its beauty, variety, and law. The _formal studies_ constitute an indispensable part of useful and disciplinary knowledge, but they should occupy a secondary place in courses of study because they deal with the _form_ rather than with the _content_ of the sciences. It is a fundamental error to place formal studies in the center of the school course and to subordinate everything to their mastery. History and natural science, on the contrary, having the richest knowledge content, constitute a natural center for all educative efforts. They make possible a strong development of will-energy because their interesting materials furnish strong and legitimate incentives to mental activity and an enlarged field and opportunity to voluntary effort in pursuit of clear and attractive aims. CHAPTER III. NATURE OF INTEREST. By interest we mean the natural bent or inclination of the mind to find satisfaction in a subject when it is properly presented. It is the natural attractiveness of the subject that draws and holds the attention. Interest belongs to the feelings but differs from the other feelings, such as desire or longing for an object, since it is satisfied with the simple contemplation without asking for possession. The degree of interest with which different kinds of knowledge are received, varies greatly. Indeed, it is possible to acquire knowledge in such a manner as to produce dislike and disgust. A proper interest in a subject leads to a quiet, steady absorption of the mind with it, but does not imply an impetuous, passionate, and one-sided devotion to one thing. Interest keeps the mind active and alert without undue excitement or partiality. It would be well if every study and every lesson could be sustained by such an interest as this. It would be in many cases like lubricating oil poured upon dry and creaking axles. Knowledge might then have a flavor to it and would be more than a consumption of certain facts and formulas coldly turned over to the memory machine. The child's own personality must become entangled in the facts and ideas acquired. There should be a sort of affinity established between the child's soul and the information he gains. At every step the sympathy and life experiences from without the school should be intertwined with school acquisitions. All would be woven together and permeated by _feeling_. We forget that the feelings or sensibilities awakened by knowledge are what give it personal significance to us. The interest we have in mind is _intrinsic_, native to the subject, and springs up naturally when the mind is brought face to face with something attractive. The things of sense in nature and the people whom we see and read about, have a perennial and inexhaustible attraction for us all. It is among these objects that poets and artists find their materials and their inspiration. For the same reason the pictures drawn by the artist or poet have a charm which does not pass away. They select something concrete and individual; they clothe it with beauty and attractiveness; they give it some inherent quality that appeals to our admiration and love. It must call forth some esthetic or moral judgment by virtue of its natural quality. Like luscious grapes the objects presented to the thought of the children should have an unquestionable quality that is desirable. We just spoke of interest, not as fluctuating and variable, but steady and persistent. It contains also the elements of ease, pleasure, and needed employment; that is, in learning something that has a proper interest, there is greater ease and pleasure in the acquisition, and occupation with the object satisfies an inner need. "When interest has been fully developed, it must always combine pleasure, facility, and the satisfaction of a need. We see again that in all exertions, power and pleasure are secured to interest. It does not feel the burden of difficulties but often seems to sport with them."--_Ziller_. A natural interest is also awakened by what is strange, mysterious, and even frightful, but these kinds of interest concern us from a speculative rather than a pedagogical point of view. We are seeking for those interests which contribute to a normal and permanent mental action. _Severe effort and exertion_ are a necessary part of instruction, but a proper interest in the subject will lead children to exert themselves with greater energy even when encountering disagreeable tasks. There are places in every subject when work is felt as a burden rather than as a pleasure, but the interest and energy aroused in the more attractive parts will carry a child through the swamps and mires at a speedier rate. It is not at all desirable to conceal difficulties under the guise of amusement. But by means of a natural interest it is possible to bring the mind into the most favorable state for action. In opposition to a lively and humane treatment of subjects, a dry and dull routine has often been praised as the proper discipline of the mind and will. "It was a mistake," says Ziller, "to find in the simple pressure of difficulties a source of culture, for it is the opposite of culture. It was a mistake to call the pressure of effort, the feeling of burden and pain, a source of proper training, simply because will power and firmness of character are thus secured and preserved to youth. Pedagogical efforts looking towards a lightening and enlivening of instruction should not have been answered by an appeal to severe methods, to strict, dry, and dull learning, that made no attempt to adapt itself to the natural movement of the child's mind." (Ziller, Lehre vom E. U., p. 355.) Not those studies which are driest, dullest, and most disagreeable should be selected upon which to awaken the mental forces of a child, but those which naturally arouse his interest and prompt him to a lively exercise of his powers. For children of the third and fourth grade to narrate the story of the Golden Fleece is a more suitable exercise than to memorize the CXIXth Psalm, or a catechism. A proper interest aims, finally, at the highest form of _quiet, sustained will exertion_. The succession of steps leading up to will energy, is interest, desire, and will. Before attempting to realize the higher forms of will effort, we must look to the fountains and sources out of which it springs. If a young man has laid up abundant and interesting stores of knowledge of architecture, he only needs an opportunity, and there is likely to be great will-energy in the work of planning and constructing buildings. But without this interest and knowledge there will be no effort along this line. In like manner children cannot be expected to show their best effort unless the subject is made strongly interesting from the start, or unless interest-awakening knowledge has already been stored in the mind. To make great demands upon the will power in early school years, is like asking for ripe fruits before they have had time to mature. Knowledge, feelings, and will-incentives of every sort must be first planted in the mind, before a proper will-energy can be expected. In teaching, we should aim to develop will power, not to take it for granted as a ready product. As the will should ultimately control all the mental powers, its proper maturity is a later outcome of education. Even supposing that the will has considerable original native power, it is a power that is likely to lie dormant or be used in some ill-direction, unless proper incentives are brought to bear upon it. The will is so constituted that it is open to appeal, and in all the affairs of school and life, incentives of all sorts are constantly brought to bear upon it. Why not make an effort to bring to bear the incentives that spring out of interest, that steady force, which is able to give abiding tendency and direction to the efforts? Why not cultivate those nobler incentives that spring out of culture-bringing-knowledge? There are, therefore, important preliminaries to full will energy, which are secured by the cultivation of knowledge, the sensibilities, and desires. There is a common belief that any subject can be made interesting if only the teacher knows the secret of the how; if only he has proper _skill_. But it is hard even for a skillful workman "to make bricks without straw," to awaken mental effort where interest in the subject is entirely lacking. It is often claimed that if there is dullness and disgust with a study it is the fault of the teacher. As Mr. Quick says, "I would go so far as to lay it down as a rule, that whenever children are inattentive and apparently take no interest in a lesson, the teacher should always look first to himself for the reason. There are perhaps no circumstances in which a lack of interest does not originate in the mode of instruction adopted by the teacher." This statement assumes that all knowledge is about equally interesting to pupils, and everything depends upon the _manner_ in which the teacher deals with it. But different kinds of knowledge differ widely in their power to awaken interest in children. The true idea of interest demands that the subject matter be _in itself_ interesting, adapted to appeal to a child, and to secure his participation. If the interest awakened by bringing the mind in contact with the subject is not spontaneous, it is not genuine and helpful in the best sense. One of the first and greatest evils of all school courses has been a failure to select those subjects, which in themselves are adapted to excite the interest of children at each age of progress. If we could assume that lessons had been so arranged, we might then with Mr. Quick justly demand of a teacher a manner of teaching that must make the subjects interesting, or in other words a manner of treatment that would be appropriate to an interesting subject. There are two kinds of interest that need to be clearly distinguished: _direct_ interest, which is felt for the thing itself, for its own sake, and _indirect_ interest which points to something else as the real source. A miser loves gold coins for their own sake, but most people love them only because of the things for which they may be exchanged. The poet loves the beauty and fragrance of flowers, the florist adds to this a mercenary interest. A snow-shovel may have no interest for us ordinarily, but just when it is needed, on a winter morning, it is an object of considerable interest. It is simply a means to an end. The kind of interest which we think is so valuable for instruction is direct and intrinsic. The life of Benjamin Franklin calls out a strong direct interest in the man and his fortunes. A humming bird attracts and appeals to us for its own sake. Indirect interest, so called, has more of the character of _desire_. A desire to restore one's health will produce great interest in a certain health resort, like the Hot Springs, or in some method of treatment, as the use of Koch's lymph. The desire for wealth and business success will lead a merchant in the fur trade to take interest in seals and seal-fishing, and in beavers, trapping, etc. The wish to gain a prize will cause a child to take deep interest in a lesson. But in all these cases desire _precedes_ interest. Interest, indeed, in the thing itself for its own sake, is frequently not present. It is true in many cases that indirect interest is not interest at all. It is a dangerous thing in education to substitute _indirect_ for _direct_ or true interest. The former often means the cultivation, primarily, of certain inordinate desires or feelings, such as rivalry, pride, jealousy, ambition, reputation, love of self. By appealing to the selfish pride of children in getting lessons, hateful moral qualities are sometimes started into active growth in the very effort to secure the highest intellectual results and discipline. Giving a prize for superiority often produces jealousy, unkindness, and deep-seated ill-will where the cultivation of a proper natural interest would lead to more kindly and sympathetic relations between the children. The cultivation of direct interest in all valuable kinds of knowledge, on the other hand, leads also to the cultivation of desires, but the desires thus generated are pure and generous, the desire for further knowledge of botany or history, the desire to imitate what is admirable in human actions and to shun what is mean. The desires which spring out of direct interest are elevating, while the desires which are associated with indirect interest are in many cases egotistic and selfish. We often say that it is necessary to make a subject interesting so that it may be more _palatable_, more easily learned. This is the commonly accepted idea. It is a means of helping us to swallow a distasteful medicine. If the main purpose were to get knowledge into the mind, and interest only a means to this end, the cultivation of such indirect interests would be all right. But interest is one of the qualities which we wish to see permanently associated with knowledge even after it is safely stored in the mind. If interest is there, future energy and activity will spring spontaneously out of the acquirements. Indirect interest indeed is often necessary and may be a sign of tact in teaching. But it is negative and weak in after results. So far as it produces motives at all they may be dangerous. It cannot build up and strengthen character but threatens to undermine it by cultivating wrong motives. There is no assurance that knowledge thus acquired can affect the will and bear fruit in action, even though it be the right kind of knowledge, because it is not the knowledge in this case that furnishes the incentives. The interest that is awakened in a subject because of its innate attractiveness, leaves incentives which may ripen sooner or later into action. The higher kind of interest is direct, intrinsic, not simply receptive, but active and progressive. In the knowledge acquired it finds only incentives to further acquisition. It is life giving and is prompted by the objects themselves, just as the interest of boys is awakened by deeds of adventure and daring or by a journey into the woods. The interest in an object that springs from some other source than the thing itself, is indirect, as the desire to master a lesson so as to excel others, or gain a prize, or make a money profit out of it. In speaking of interest in school studies, teachers quite commonly have only the indirect in mind; _i.e._, the kind that leads children to take hold of and master their lessons more readily. Interest is thus chiefly a means of overcoming distasteful tasks. It is the merit of a direct or genuine interest that it aids in mastering difficulties and in addition to this gives a permanent pleasure in studies. One of the high aims of instruction is to implant a strong permanent interest in studies that will last through school days and after they are over. A live interest springs most easily out of _knowledge subjects_ like history and natural science. Formal studies like grammar and arithmetic awaken it less easily. Herbart has classified the chief kinds and sources of interest as follows: Interest in nature apart from man, and interest in man, society, etc. In _nature_ and natural objects as illustrated in the natural sciences there are three chief kinds of interest. _Empirical_, which is stirred by the variety and novelty of things seen. There is an attractiveness in the many faces and moods of nature. Between the years of childhood and old age there is scarcely a person who does not enjoy a walk or a ride in the open air, where the variety of plant, bird, animal, and landscape makes a pleasing panorama. _Speculative_ interest goes deeper and inquires into the relations and causal connections of phenomena. It traces out similarities and sequences, and detects law and unity in nature. It is not satisfied with the simple play of variety, but seeks for the cause and genesis of things. Even a child is anxious to know how a squirrel climbs a tree or cracks a nut; where it stores its winter food, its nest and manner of life in winter. Why is it that a mole can burrow and live under ground? How is it possible for a fish to breathe in water? _Esthetic_ interest is awakened by what is beautiful, grand, and harmonious in nature or art. The first glance at great overhanging masses of rock, oppresses us with a feeling of awe. The wings of an insect, with their delicate tracery and bright hues, are attractive, and stir us with pleasure. The graceful ferns beside the brooks and moss-stained rocks suggest fairy-land. But stronger even than these interests which attach us to the things of nature, are the interests of _humanity_. The concern felt for others in joy or sorrow is based upon our interest in them individually, and is _sympathetic_. In this lies the charm of biography and the novel. Take away the personal interest we have in Ivanhoe, Quenten Durward, etc., and Scott's glory would quickly depart. What empty and spiritless annals would the life of Frederic the Great and Patrick Henry furnish! _Social_ interest is the regard for the good or evil fortune of societies and nations. Upon this depends our concern for the progress of liberty and the struggle for free institutions in England and other countries. On a smaller scale clubs, fraternities, and local societies of all kinds are based on the social interest. _Religious_ interest finally reveals our consciousness of man's littleness and weakness, and of God's providence. As Pestalozzi says, "God is the nearest resource of humanity." As individuals or nations pass away their fate lies in His hand. The _sources_ of interest therefore are varied and productive. Any one of the six is unlimited in extent and variety. Together they constitute a boundless field for a proper cultivation of the emotional as well as intellectual nature of man. A study of these sources of genuine interest and a partial view of their breadth and depth, reveals to teachers what our present school courses tend strongly to make them forget, namely, that the right kind of knowledge contains in itself the stimulus and the germs to great mental exertion. The dull drill upon grammar, arithmetic, reading, spelling, and writing, which are regarded as so important as to exclude almost everything else, has convinced many a child that school is veritably a dull place. And many a teacher is just as strongly convinced that keeping school is a dull and sleepy business. And yet the sources of interest are abundant to overflowing for him who has eyes to see. That these sources and materials of knowledge, arousing deep and lasting interests, are above other things adapted to children and to the school room, is a truth worthy of all emphasis. Interest is a good test of the _adaptability_ of knowledge. When any subject is brought to the attention at the right age and in the proper manner, it awakens in children a natural and lively feeling. It is evident that certain kinds of knowledge are not adapted to a boy at the age of ten. He cares nothing about political science, or medicine, or statesmanship, or the history of literature. These things may be profoundly interesting to a person two or three times as old, but not to him. Other things, however, the story of Ulysses, travel, animals, geography, and history, even arithmetic, may be very attractive to a boy of ten. It becomes a matter of importance to select those studies and parts of studies for children at their changing periods of growth, which are adapted to awaken and stimulate their minds. We shall be saved then from doing what the best of educators have so frequently condemned, namely, when the child asks for bread give him a stone, or when he asks for fish give him a serpent. The neglect to take proper cognizance of this principle of _interest_ in laying out courses of study and in the manner of presenting subjects is certainly one of the gravest charges that ever can be brought against the schools. It is a sure sign that teachers do not know what it means "to put yourself in his place," to sympathize with children and feel their needs. The educational reformers who have had deepest insight into child-life, have given us clear and profound warnings. Rousseau says: "Study children, for be sure you do not understand them. Let childhood ripen in children. The wisest apply themselves to what it is important to _men_ to know, without considering what _children_ are in a condition to learn. They are always seeking the man in the child, without reflecting what he is before he can be a man." It is well for us to take these words home and act upon them. It is worth the trouble to inquire whether it is possible to select subjects for school study which will prove essentially attractive and interesting from the age of six on. _Are_ there materials for school study which are adapted fully to interest first grade children? We know that fairy stories appeal directly to them, and they love to reproduce them. Reading and spelling in connection with these tales are also stirring studies. Reading a familiar story is certainly a much more interesting employment than working at the almost meaningless sentences of a chart or first reader. Number work when based upon objects can be made to hold the attention of little ones, at least in the last half of the first grade. They love also to see and describe flowers, rocks, plants, and pictures. It probably requires more skillful teaching to awaken and hold the interest in the first grade than in the second or any higher grade, unless older children have been dulled by bad instruction. On what principle is it possible to select both interesting and valuable materials for the successive grades? We will venture to answer this difficult question. The main interest of children must be attracted by what we may call _real knowledge_ subjects; that is, those treating of people (history stories, etc.,) and those treating of plants, animals, and other natural objects (natural science topics). Grammar, arithmetic, and spelling are chiefly form studies and have less native attraction for children. Secondly, it may be laid down as a fact of experience that children will be more touched and stimulated by _particular_ persons and objects in nature than by any _general_ propositions, or laws, or classifications. They prefer seeing a particular palm tree to hearing a general description of palms. A narrative of some special deed of kindness moves them more than a discourse on kindness. They feel a natural drawing toward real, definite persons and things, and an indifference or repulsion toward generalities. They prefer the story to the moral. Children are little materialists. They dwell in the sense-world, or in the world of imagination with very clear and definite pictures. But while dealing with _things of sense_ and with particulars, it is necessary in teaching children to keep an eye directed toward general classes and toward those laws and principles that will be fully appreciated later. In geography, arithmetic, language lessons, and natural science, we must collect more materials in the lower grades; more simple, concrete illustrations. They are the basis upon which we can soon begin to generalize and classify. The more attractive the illustrative materials we select, the stronger the appeal to the child's own liking, the more effective will be the instruction. A way has been discovered to make the study of the concrete and individual lead up with certainty to the grasp of general notions and even of scientific laws as fast as the children are ready for them. If the concrete object or individual is carefully selected it will be a _type_, that is, it illustrates a whole class of similar objects. Such a typical concrete object really combines the particular and the general. It has all the advantage of object-teaching, the powerful attraction of real things, but its comparison with other objects will also show that it illustrates a general law or principle of wide-reaching scientific importance. In both these steps natural interest is provided for in the best way. A full and itemized examination of some attractive object produces as strong an interest as a child is capable of. Then to find out that this object is a sort of key to the right interpretation of other objects, more or less familiar to him, has all the charm of discovery. The _sunflower_, for example, is a large and attractive object for itemized study. It the examination leads a step further to a comparison with other composite flowers, there will be an interesting discovery of kinship with dandelions, asters, thistles, etc. This principle of the type, as illustrating both the particular and general, is true also of geographical topics that lead a child far from home and call for the construction of mental pictures. The study of _Pike's Peak_ and vicinity is very interesting and instructive for fourth grade children. The valleys, springs at Manitou, Garden of the Gods, Cheyenne Canon and Falls, the Cave of the Winds, the ascent of the peak by trail or by railroad, the views of distant mountains, the summit house on the barren and rugged top, the snow fields even in summer, the drifting mists that shut off the view, the stories of hardship and early history--these things take a firm hold on a child's interest and desire for knowledge. When this whole picture is reasonably complete a brief comparison of Pike's Peak with Mt. Washington, Mt. Marcy, Mt. Shasta, and Mt. Rainier, will bring forth points of contrast and similarity that will surprise and instruct a child. In every branch of study there are certain underlying principles and forms of thought whose thorough mastery in the lower grades is necessary to successful progress. They are the important and central ideas of the subject. It was a marked quality of Pestalozzi to sift out these simple fundamentals and to master them. It is for us to make these simple elements intelligible and interesting by the use of concrete _types_ and illustrations drawn from nature and from human life. If we speak of history and nature as the two chief subjects of study, the simple, fundamental relations of persons to each other in society, and the simple, typical objects, forces, and laws of nature constitute the basis of all knowledge. These elements we desire to master. But to make them attractive to children, they should not be presented in bald and sterile outlines, but in typical forms. All actions and human relations must appear in attractive _personification_. Persons speak and act and virtues shine forth in them. We do not study nature's laws at first, but the beautiful, _typical life forms_ in nature, the lily, the oak, Cinderella, and William Tell. For children, then, the underlying ideas and principles of every study, in order to start the interest, must be revealed in the most beautiful illustrative forms which can be furnished by nature, poetry, and art. The story of William Tell, although it comes all the way from the Alps and from the distant traditional history of the Swiss, is one of the best things with which to illustrate and impress manliness and patriotism. The fairy stories for still younger children, are the best means for teaching kindness or unselfishness, because they are so chaste, and beautiful, and graceful, even to the child's thought. The most attractive type-forms and life-personifications of fundamental ideas in history and nature are the really interesting objects of study for children. To put it in a simple, practical form--objects and human actions, if well selected, are the best means in the world to excite curiosity and the strong spirit of inquiry. While dwelling upon this thought of the attractiveness of type-forms as personified in things or persons, we catch a glimpse of a far-reaching truth in education. The idea of _culture epochs_, as typical of the steps of progress in the race, and also of the periods of growth in the child, offers a deep perspective into educational problems. In the progress of mankind from a primitive state of barbarism to the present state of culture in Europe and in the United States, there has been a succession of not very clearly defined stages. In point of government, for example, there has been the savage, nomad, patriarch, kingdom, constitutional monarchy, democracy, republic, federal republic. There have been great epochs of political convulsion in the conflicts with external powers and in civil struggles and revolutions. In the growth of handicrafts, arts, manufactures, and inventions, there has been a series of advances from the time when men first began to cultivate the ground, to reduce the metals, and to bring the forces of nature into service. In the development of human society, therefore, and in the progress of arts and human knowledge, there are certain typical stages whose proper use may help us to solve some of the difficult problems in educating the young. All nations have passed through some of these important epochs. The United States, for example, since the first settlements upon the east coast, have gone rapidly through many of the characteristic epochs of the world's history, in politics, commerce, and industry; in social life, education, and religion. The importance of the culture epochs for schools lies in the theory, accepted by many great writers, that children in their growth from infancy to maturity, pass through a series of steps which correspond broadly to the historical epochs of mankind. A child's life up to the age of twenty, is a sort of epitome of the world's history. Our present state of culture is a result of growth, and if a child is to appreciate society as it now is, he must grow into it out of the past, by having traveled through the same stages it has traced. But this is only a very superficial way of viewing the relation between child and world history. The periods of child life are so similar to the epochs of history, that a child finds its _proper mental food_ in the study of the materials furnished by these epochs. Let us test this. A child eight years old cares nothing about reciprocity or free silver, or university extension. Robinson Crusoe, however, who typifies mankind's early struggle with the forces of nature, claims his undivided attention. A boy of ten will take more delight in the story of King Alfred or William Tell than in twenty Gladstones or Bismarcks. Not that Gladstone's work is less important or interesting to the right person, but the boy does not live and have his being in the Gladstonian age. Not all parts of history, indeed, are adapted to please and instruct some period of youth. Whole ages have been destitute of such materials, barren as deserts for educational purposes. But those epochs which have been typical of great experiences, landmarks of progress, have also found poets and historians to describe them. The great works of poets and historians contain also the great _object lessons_ upon which to cultivate the minds of children. Some of the leading characters of fiction and history are the best personifications of the steps of progress in the history of the race; Crusoe, Abraham, Ulysses, Alfred, Tell, David, Charlemagne, Moses, Columbus, Washington. These men, cast in a large and heroic mold, represent great human strivings and are adapted to teach the chief lessons of history, if properly selected and arranged. These typical individual characters illustrate the fundamental ideas that will give insight and appreciation for later social forms. They contain, hidden as it were, the essential part of great historical and social truths of far-reaching importance. The culture epochs will be seen later to be important in solving the problem of the _concentration of instruction_ along certain lines, but in the present discussion their value is chiefly seen in their adaptability to arouse the interest of children, by supplying peculiarly congenial materials of instruction in the changing phases of child progress. The interest most worth awakening in pupils is not only direct but _permanent_. Hawthorne's Golden Touch embodies a simple classic truth in such transparent form that its reperusal is always a pleasure. In the same way, to observe the autumn woods and flowers, the birds and insects, with sympathy and delight, leaves a lasting pleasure in the memory. The best kind of knowledge is that which lays a permanent hold upon the affections. The best method of learning is that which opens up any field of study with a growing interest. To awaken a child's permanent interest in any branch of knowledge is to accomplish much for his character and usefulness. An enduring interest in American history, for example, is valuable in the best sense, no matter what the method of instruction. Any companion or book that teaches us to observe the birds with growing interest and pleasure has done what a teacher could scarcely do better. This kind of knowledge becomes a living, generative culture influence. Knowledge which contains no springs of interest is like faith divorced from works. Information and discipline may be gained in education without any lasting interest, but the one who uses such knowledge and discipline is only a machine. A Cambridge student who had taken the best prizes and scholarships said at the end of his university career: "I am at a loss to know what to do. I have already gained the best distinctions, and I can see but little to work for in the future." The child of four years, who opens his eyes with unfeigned interest and surprised inquiry into the big world around him, has a better spirit than such a dead product of university training. But happily this is not the spirit of our universities now. The remarkable and characteristic idea in university life today is the spirit of investigation and scientific inquiry which it constantly awakens. We happen to live in a time when university teachers are trying to enlarge the bounds of human knowledge in every direction, to solve problems that have not been solved before. No matter what the subject, the real student soon becomes an explorer, an investigator in fields of absorbing interest. The common school can scarcely do better than to receive this generous impulse into its work. Can our common studies be approached in this inquisitive spirit? Can growth in knowledge be made a progressive investigation? A true interest takes pleasure in acquired knowledge, and standing upon this vantage looks with inquiring purpose into new worlds. Children in our schools are sometimes made so dyspeptic that no knowledge has any relish. But the soul should grow strong, and healthy, and elastic, upon the food it takes. If the teaching is such that the appetite becomes stronger, the mental digestion better, and if the spirit of interest and inquiry grows into a steady force, the best results may be expected. The cultivation of a _many-sided interest_ is desirable in order to _avoid_ narrowness, and to open up the various sources of mental activity, _i.e._, to stimulate mental vigor along many lines. We believe that most children are capable of taking interest in many kinds of study. The preference which some children show for certain branches and the dislike for others may be due to peculiar early surroundings, and is often the result of good or poor teaching as much as to natural gifts. As every child has sympathies for companions and people, so every child may take a real interest in story, biography, and history, if these subjects are rightly approached. So also the indifference to plant and animal life shown by many persons is due to lack of culture and suitable suggestion at the impressionable age. Unquestionably the lives of most people run in too narrow a channel. They fail to appreciate and enjoy many of the common things about them, to which their eyes have not been properly opened. The particular trade or business so engrosses most people's time that their sympathies are narrowed and their appreciation of the duties and responsibilities of life is stunted. The common school, more than all other institutions, should lay broad foundations and awaken many-sided sympathies. The trade school and the university can afford to specialize, to prepare for a vocation. The common school, on the contrary, is preparing all children for general citizenship. The narrowing idea of a trade or calling should be kept away from the public school, and as far as possible varied interests in knowledge should be awakened in every child. But this variety of interests may lead to scattering and _superficial knowledge_. And in its results many-sided interest would seem to point naturally to many-sided activity; that is, to multiplicity of employments, to that character which in Yankee phrase is designated as "Jack of all trades and master of none." If instead of being allowed to spread out so much, the educational stream is confined between narrow banks, it will show a deep and full current. If allowed to spread over the marshes and plains, it becomes sluggish and brackish. Our course of study for the common schools in recent years, has been largely added to and has been extended over the whole field of knowledge. History, geography, natural science lessons and drawing have been added to the old reading, writing, arithmetic, and grammar. There may appear to be more variety, but less strength. When in addition to this greater variety of studies, enthusiastic teachers desire to increase the _quantity_ of knowledge in each branch and to present as many interesting facts as possible, at every point, we have the _over-loading_ of the school course. This effect will be noticed in a later chapter in its bearing upon concentration. Children have too much to learn. They become pack-horses, instead of free spirits walking in the fields of knowledge. _Mental vigor_, after all, is worth more than a mind grown corpulent and lazy with an excess of pabulum, overfed. The cultivation therefore of a many-sided interest ceases to be a blessing as soon as encyclopedic knowledge becomes its aim. In fact the desire on the part of teachers to make the knowledge of any subject complete and encyclopedic destroys all true interest. The solution of this great problem does not consist in identifying many-sided interest with encyclopedic knowledge, but in such a detailed study of _typical_ forms in each case as will give insight into that branch without any pretension to exhaustive knowledge. Certainly a true interest in plants does not require that we become acquainted with all the species of all the genera. But a proper study of a few typical forms in a few of the families and genera might produce a much deeper interest in nature and in her laws. The culture of a many-sided interest is essential to a full development and _perfection_ of the mental activities. It is easy to see that interest in any subject gives all thought upon it a greater vigor and intensify. Mental action in all directions is strengthened and vivified by a direct interest. On the other hand mental life diminishes with the loss of interest, and even in fields of knowledge in which a man has displayed unusual mastery, a loss of interest is followed by a loss of energy. Excluding interest is like cutting off the circulation from a limb. Perfect vigor of thought which we aim at in education, is marked by strength along three lines, the vigor of the individual ideas, the extent and variety of ideas under control, and the connection and harmony of ideas. It is the highest general aim of intellectual education to strengthen mental vigor in these three directions. Many-sided interest is conducive to all three. Every thought that finds lodgment in the mind is toned up and strengthened by interest. It is also easier to retain and reproduce some idea that has once been grasped with full feeling of interest. An interest that has been developed along all leading lines of study has a proper breadth and comprehensiveness and cannot be hampered and clogged by narrow restraints and prejudice. We admire a person not simply because he has a few clear ideas, but also for the extent and variety of this sort of information. Our admiration ceases when he shows ignorance or prejudice or lack of sympathy with important branches of study. Finally, the unity and harmony of the varied kinds of knowledge are a great source of interest. The tracing of connections between different studies and the insight that comes from proper associations, are among the highest delights of learning. The connection and harmony of ideas will be discussed under concentration. The six interests above mentioned are to be developed along parallel lines. They are to be kept in proper _equipoise_. It is not designed that anyone shall be developed to the overshadowing of the others. They are like six pillars upon which the structure of a liberal education is rested. A cultivation of any one, exclusively, may be in place when the work of general education is complete and a profession or life labor has been chosen. It is also true that a proper interest is a _protection_ against the desires, disorderly impulses, and passions. One of the chief ends of education is to bring the inclinations and importunate desires under mastery, to establish a counterpoise to them by the steady and persistent forces of education. A many-sided interest cultivated along the chief paths of knowledge, implies such mental vigor and such preoccupation with worthy subjects as naturally to discourage unworthy desires. Locke says, self-restraint, the mastery over one's inclinations, is the foundation of virtue. "He that has found a way how to keep a child's spirit easy, active, and free, and yet at the same time to restrain him from many things he has a mind to, and to draw him to things that are uneasy to him; he, I say, that knows how to reconcile these seeming contradictions, has, in my opinion, got the true secret of education." But it is a secret still; the central question remains unanswered. How is the teacher to approach and influence the will of the child? Is it by supposing that the child has a will already developed and strong enough to be relied upon on all occasions? On the contrary, must not the teacher put incentives in the path of the pupil, ideas and feelings that prompt him to self-denial? Interest as a source of _will-stimulus_ has peculiar advantages. It is not desired that the inclinations and feelings shall get the mastery of the mind, certainly not the disorderly and momentary desires. Higher desires, indeed, should properly influence the will, as the desire of the approval of conscience, the desire to attain excellence, to gain strength and mastery, to serve others, etc. But the importance of awakening interest as a basis of will cultivation is found in the favorable mental state induced by interest as a preliminary to will action along the best lines. Interest is not an impetuous force like the desires, prompting to instant action, but a quiet, permanent undertone, which brings everything into readiness for action, clears the deck, and begins the attack. It would be a vast help to many boys and girls if the irksomeness of study in arithmetic or grammar, which is so fatal to will energy, could give way to the spur of interest, and when the wheels are once set in motion, progress would not only begin but be sustained by interest. It is pretty generally agreed to by thoughtful educators, that in giving a child the broad foundations of education, we should aim not so much at knowledge as at capacity and _appreciation_ for it. A universal receptivity, such as Rousseau requires of Emile, is a desideratum. Scarcely a better dowry can be bestowed upon a child by education, than a desire for knowledge and an intelligent interest in all important branches of study. Herbart's many-sided interest is to strengthen and branch out from year to year during school life, and become a permanent tendency or force in later years. No school can give even an approach to full and encyclopedic knowledge, but no school is so humble that it may not throw open the doors and present many a pleasing prospect into the fields of learning. With Herbart, therefore, a many-sided, harmonious interest promotes _will-energy_ through all the efforts of learning from childhood up, and when the work of general education has been completed, the youth is ready to launch out into the world with a strong, healthy appetite for information in many directions. The best fruitage of such a course will follow in the years that succeed school life. Interest is a very practical thing. It is that which gives force and momentum to ideas. It is not knowledge itself, but, like the invisible principle of life, it converts dead matter into living energy. In our schools thus far we have had too much faith in the mechanics of education. Too much virtue has been imputed to facts, to knowledge, to sharp tools. We have now to learn that _incentive_ is a more important thing in education; that is, a direct, permanent, many-sided interest. CHAPTER IV. CONCENTRATION. By concentration is meant such a connection between the parts of each study and such a spinning of relations and connecting links between different sciences that unity may spring out of the variety of knowledge. History, for example, is a series and collocation of facts explainable on the basis of cause and effect, a development. On the other hand, history is intimately related to geography, language, natural science, literature, and mathematics. It would be impossible to draw real history out by the roots without drawing all other studies out bodily with it. Is there then any reason why school history should ignore its blood relationships to other branches of knowledge? Concentration is so bound up with the idea of _character-forming_ that it includes more than school studies. It lays hold of _home influences_ and all the experiences of life outside of school and brings them into the daily service of school studies. It is just as important to bind up home experience with arithmetic, language, and other studies as it is to see the connection between geography and history. In the end, all the knowledge and experience gained by a person at home, at school, and elsewhere should be classified and related, each part brought into its right associations with other parts. Nor is it simply a question of throwing the varied sorts of _knowledge_ into a net-work of crossing and interwoven series so that the person may have ready access along various lines to all his knowledge stores. Concentration draws the _feelings_ and the _will_ equally into its circle of operations. To imagine a character without feeling and will would be like thinking a watch without a mainspring. All knowledge properly taught generates feeling. The will is steadily laying out, during the formative period of education, the highways of its future ambitions and activities. Habits of willing are formed along the lines of associated thought and feeling. The more feeling and will are enlisted through all the avenues of study and experience, the more permanent will be their influence upon character. In attempting to solve the problem of concentration the question has been raised whether a _single study_, the most important, of course, should constitute a concentrating nucleus, like the hub in a wheel, or whether _all studies_ and _experience_ are to be brought into an organic whole of related parts. It is evident that history and natural science at least hold a leading place among studies and determine to some extent the selection of materials in reading and language lessons. The _center_ for concentrating efforts in education is not so much the knowledge given in any school course as the _child's mind_ itself. We do not desire to find in the school studies a new center for a child's life so much as the means for fortifying that original stronghold of character which rests upon native mental characteristics and early home influences. We have in mind not the objective unity of different studies considered as complete and related sciences, nor any general model to which each mind is to be conformed, but the practical union of all the experiences and knowledge that find entrance into a particular mind. The _unity of the personality_ as gradually developed in a child by wise education is essential to strength of character. Ackerman says on this point, ("Ueber Concentration," p. 20.) "In behalf of character development, which is the ultimate aim of all educative effort, pedagogy requires of instruction that it aid in forming the _unity of the personality_, the most primitive basis of character. In requiring that the unity of the personality be formed it is presupposed that this unity is not some original quality, but something to be first developed. It remains for psychology to prove this and to indicate in what manner the unity of the personality originates. Now, psychology teaches that the personality, the ego, is not something original, but something that must be first developed and is also changeable and variable. The ego is nothing else than a psychological phenomenon, namely, the consciousness of an interchange between the parts of an extensive complex of ideas, or the reference of all our ideas and of the other psychical states springing out of them to each other. Experience teaches this. In infancy the ego, the personality, is consciously realized in one person sooner, in another later. In the different ages of life, also, the personality possesses a different content. The deeper cause for the mutual reference of all our manifold ideas to each other and for their union in a single point, as it were, may be found in the _simplicity of the soul_, which constrains into unity all things that are not dissociated by hindrance or contradiction. The soul, therefore, in the face of the varied influences produced by contact with nature and society, is active in concentrating its ideas, so that with mental soundness as a basis, the ego, once formed, in spite of all the transitions through which it may pass, still remains the same." There is then a natural _tendency_ of the mind _to unify_ all its ideas, feelings, incentives. On the other hand the knowledge and experiences of life are so varied and seemingly contradictory that a young person, if left to himself or if subjected to a wrong schooling, will seldom work his way to harmony and unity. In spite of the fact that the soul is a simple unit and tends naturally to unify all its contents, the common experience of life discovers in it unconnected and even antagonistic thought and knowledge-centers. People are sometimes painfully surprised to see how the same mind may be lifted by exalted sentiments and depressed by the opposite. The frequent examples that come to notice of men of superiority and virtue along certain lines, who give way to weakness and wrong in other directions, are sufficient evidence that good and evil may be systematically cultivated in the same character, and that instead of unity and harmony education may collect in the soul heterogeneous and warring elements which make it a battle ground for life. All such disharmony and contradiction lend inconsistency and weakness to character. Not only can incompatible lines of thought and of moral action become established in the same person, but even those studies which could be properly harmonized and unified by education may lie in the mind so disjointed and unrelated as to render the person awkward and helpless in spite of much knowledge. In unifying the various parts of school education, and in bringing them into close connection with children's other experiences, the school life fulfills one of its chief duties. Among other things tending toward consistency of character there must be _harmony between the school and home_ life of a child. At home or among companions, perhaps unknown to the teacher, a boy or girl may be forming an habitual tendency and desire, more powerful than any other force in his life, and yet at variance with the best influence of the school. If possible the teacher should draw the home and school into a closer bond so as to get a better grasp of the situation and of its remedy. The school will fail to leave an effective impress upon such a child unless it can get a closer hold upon the sympathies and thus neutralize an evil tendency. It must league itself with better home influences so as to implant its own impulses in home life. How to unify home and school influences is one of those true and abiding problems of education that appeals strongly and sympathetically to parents and teachers. Concentration evidently involves a solution of the question as to the relative value of studies. All the light that the discussion of _relative values_ can furnish will be needed in selecting the different lines of appropriate study and in properly adjusting them to one another. The theory of _interest_ will also aid us in this field of investigation. Accepting therefore the results of the two preceding chapters, that history (in the broad sense) is the study which best cultivates moral dispositions; secondly, that natural science furnishes the indispensable insight into the external world, man's physical environment; and, thirdly, that language, mathematics, and drawing are but the formal side and expression of the two realms of real knowledge, we have the _broad outlines_ of any true course of education. In more definitely laying out the parts of this course the natural interests and capacities of children in their successive periods of growth must be taken into the reckoning. When a course of study has been laid out on this basis, bringing the three great threads or cables of human knowledge into proper juxtaposition at the various points, we shall be ready to speak of the manner of really executing the plan of concentration. Even after the general plan is complete and the studies arranged, the real work of concentration consists in _fixing the relations_ as the facts are learned. Concentration takes for granted that the facts of knowledge will be acquired. It is but half the problem to learn the facts. The other half consists in understanding the facts by fixing the relations. Most teachers will admit that each lesson should be a collection of connected facts and that every science should consist of a series of derivative and mutually dependent lessons. And yet the study and mastery of arithmetic as a connection of closely related principles is not generally appreciated. With proper reflection it is not difficult to see that the facts of a single study like grammar or botany should stand in close serial or causal relation. If they are seen and fixed with a clear insight into these connections, by touching the chain of associations at any point one may easily bring the whole matter to remembrance. Concentration, however, is chiefly concerned with the _relation of different studies_ to each other. In this larger sense of an intimate binding together of all studies and experience into a close network of interwoven parts, concentration is now generally ignored by the schools. In fact it would almost seem as if the purpose of teachers were to make a clear separation of the different studies from one another and to seal up each one in a separate bottle, as it were. The _problem_ appears in two phases: 1. Taking the school studies as they now are, is it desirable to pay more attention to the natural connections between such studies as reading, geography, history, and language, to open up frequent communicating avenues between the various branches of educational work? 2. Or if concentration is regarded as still more important, shall the subject matter of school studies be rearranged and the lessons in different branches so adjusted to each other that the number of close relations between them may be greatly increased? Then with the intentional increase of such connecting links would follow a more particular care in fixing them. We have assumed the latter position, and claim that the whole construction of the school course and the whole method of teaching should contribute powerfully to the _unification_ of all the knowledge and experience in each child's mind. Without laying any undue stress upon simple knowledge, we believe that a small amount of well articulated knowledge is more valuable than a large amount of loose and fragmentary information. A small, disciplined police force is able to cope with a large, unorganized mob. "The very important principle here involved is that the value of knowledge depends not only upon the _distinctness_ and _accuracy_ of the ideas, but also upon the _closeness and extent of the relations_ into which they enter. This is a fundamental principle of education. It was Herbart who said, 'Only those thoughts come easily and frequently to the mind which have at some time made a strong impression and which possess numerous connections with other thoughts.' And psychology teaches that those ideas which take an isolated station in the mind are usually weak in the impression they make, and are easily forgotten. A fact, however important in itself, if learned without reference to other facts, is quite likely to fade quickly from the memory. It is for this reason that the witticisms, sayings, and scattered pieces of information, which we pick up here and there, are so soon forgotten. There is no way of bringing about their frequent reproduction when they are so disconnected, for the reproduction of ideas is largely governed by the law of association. One idea reminds us of another closely related to it; this of another, etc., till a long series is produced. They are bound together like the links of a chain, and one draws another along with it just as one link of a chain drags another after it. A mental image that is not one of such a series cannot hope to come often to consciousness; it must as a rule sink into oblivion, because the usual means of calling it forth are wanting." (F. McMurry, "Relation of natural science to other studies.") We are not conscious of the constant dependence of our thinking and conversation upon the _law of association_. It may be frequently observed in the familiar conversation of several persons in a company. The simple mention of a topic will often suggest half a dozen things that different ones are prompted to say about it, and may even give direction to the conversation for a whole evening. Now if it is true that ideas are more easily remembered and used if associated, let us _increase the associations_. Why not bind all the studies and ideas of a child as closely together as possible by natural lines of association? Why not select for reading lessons those materials which will throw added light upon contemporaneous lessons in history, botany, and geography? Then if the reading lesson presents in detail the battle of _King's Mountain_, take the pains to refer to this part of the history and put this lesson into connection with historical facts elsewhere learned. If a reading lesson gives a full description of the _palm tree_, its growth and use, what better setting could this knowledge find than in the geography of Northern Africa and the West Indies? The numerous associations into which ideas enter, without producing confusion make them more _serviceable_ for every kind of use. "It is only by associating thoughts closely that a person comes to possess them securely and have command over them. One's reproduction of ideas is then rapid enough to enable him to comprehend a situation quickly, and form a judgment with some safety, his knowledge is all present and ready for use; while on the other hand, one whose related thoughts have never been firmly welded together reproduces slowly, and in consequence is wavering and undecided. His knowledge is not at his command and he is therefore weak." (F. McMurry.) The greater then the number of clear mental relations of a fact to other facts in the same and in other studies the more likely it is to render instant _obedience_ to the will when it is needed. Such ready mastery of one's past experiences and accumulations promotes confidence and power in action. Concentration is manifestly designed to give strength and decision to character. But a careless education by neglecting this principle, by scattering the mind's forces over broad fields and by neglecting the connecting roads and paths that should bind together the separate fields, can actually undermine force and decision of character. In later years when we consider the _results of school methods_ upon our own character we can see the weakness of a system of education which lacks concentration, a weakness which shows itself in a lack of _retentiveness_ and of ability to use acquired knowledge. We are only too frequently reminded of the loose and scrappy state of our acquired knowledge by the ease with which it eludes the memory when it is needed. To escape from this disagreeable consciousness in after years, we begin to spy out a few of the mountain peaks of memory which still give evidence of submerged continents. Around these islands we begin to collect the wreckage of the past and the accretions of later study and experience. A thoughtful person naturally falls into the habit of collecting ideas around a few centers, and of holding them in place by links of association. In American history, for instance, it is inevitable that our knowledge becomes congested in certain important epochs, or around the character and life of a few typical persons. The same seems to be true also of other studies, as geography and even geometry. The failure to acquire proper _habits of thinking_ is also exposed by the experience of practical life. In life we are compelled to see and respect the causal relations between events. We must calculate the influences of the stubborn forces and facts around us. But in school we often have so many things to learn that we have no time to think. At least half the meaning of things lies not in themselves, but in their relations and effects. Therefore, to get ideas without getting their significant relations, is to encumber the mind with ill-digested material. A sensible man of the world has little respect for this kind of learning. One reason why knowledge is so poorly understood and remembered is because its _real application_ to other branches of knowledge, whether near or remote, is so little observed and fixed. Looking back upon our school studies we often wonder what botany, geometry, and drawing have to do with each other and with our present needs. Each subject was so compactly stowed away on a shelf by itself that it is always thought of in that isolation,--like Hammerfest or the Falkland Islands in geography,--out of the way places. Are the various sciences so distinct and so widely separated in nature and in real life as they are in school? An observant boy in the woods will notice important relations between animals and plants, between plants, soil, and seasons that are not referred to in the text-books. In a carpenter shop he will observe relations of different kinds of wood, metals, and tools to each other that will surprise and instruct him. In the real life of the country or town the objects and materials of knowledge, representing the sciences of nature and the arts of life, are closely jumbled together and intimately dependent upon each other. The very closeness of causal and local connections and the lack of orderly arrangement shown by things in life make it necessary in schools to classify and arrange into sciences. But it is a vital mistake to suppose that the knowledge is complete when classified and learned in this scientific form. Classification and books are but a faulty means of getting a clear insight into nature and human life or society. Knowledge should not only be mastered in its scientific classifications but also constantly referred back to things as seen in practical life and closely traced out and fixed in those connections. The vital connections of different studies with each other are best known and realized by the study of nature and society. In later life we are convinced at every turn of the need of being able to recognize and use knowledge _outside of its scientific connections_. A lawyer finds many subjects closely mingled and causally related in his daily business which were never mentioned together in textbooks. The ordinary run of cases will lead him through a kaleidoscope of natural science, human life, commerce, history, mathematics, literature, and law, not to speak of less agreeable things. But the same is true of a physician, merchant, or farmer, in different ways. Shall we answer to all this that schools were never designed to teach such things? They belong to professions or to the school of life, etc. But it is not simply in professions and trades that we find this close mingling and dependence of the most divergent sorts of knowledge, this unscientific mixing of the sciences. Everywhere knowledge, however well classified, is one-sided and misleading, which does not conform to the conditions of real life. A wise _mother_ in her household has a variety of problems to meet. From cellar to garret, from kitchen to library, from nursery to drawing-room, her good sense must adapt all sorts of knowledge to real conditions. In bringing up her children she must understand physical and mental orders and disorders. She must judge of foods and cooking, of clothing, as to taste, comfort, and durability; of the exercises and employments of children, etc. Whether she is conscious of it or not, she must mingle a knowledge of chemistry, psychology, physiology, medicine, sanitation, the physics of light and air, with the traditional household virtues in a sort of universal solvent from which she can bring forth all good things in their proper time and place. As Spencer says, education should be a preparation for complete living; or, according to the old Latin maxim, we learn _non scholae sed vitae_. The final test of a true mastery and concentration of knowledge in the mind is the ability to use it readily in the varied and tangled relations of actual experience. We are accustomed to take refuge behind the so-called "mental discipline" that results from studies, whether or not anything is remembered that bears upon the relations of life. There are doubtless certain formal habits of mind that result from study even though, like Latin, it is cast aside as an old garment at the end of school days. Transferring our argument then to this ground, is there any "habit of thinking" more valuable than that _bent of mind_ which is not satisfied with the mere memorizing of a fact but seeks to interpret its value by judging of its influence upon other facts and their influence upon it? No subject is understood by itself nor even by its relation to other facts in the same science, but by its relation to the whole field of knowledge and experience. Unless it can be proven that the study of relations is above the schoolboy capacity, it is doubtful if there is any mental habit so valuable at the close of school studies as the disposition to _think_ and _ponder_, to trace relations. The relations which are of interest and vital importance are those which in daily life bind all the realms of science into a network of causally connected parts. The multiplication of studies in the common school in recent years will soon compel us to pay more attention to concentration or the mutual relation of knowledges. There is a resistless tendency to convert the course of studies into an _encyclopedia_ of knowledge. To perceive this it is only necessary to note the new studies incorporated into the public school within a generation. Drawing, natural science, gymnastics, and manual training are entirely new, while language lessons, history, and music have been expanded to include much that is new for lower grades. Still other studies are even now seeking admission, as modern languages, geometry, and sewing. In spite of all that has been said by educational reformers against making the acquisition of knowledge the basis of education, the range and variety of studies has been greatly extended and chiefly through the influence of the reformers. This expansive movement appears in schools of all grades. The secondary and fitting schools and the universities have spread their branches likewise over a much wider area of studies. We are in the full sweep of this movement along the whole line and it has not yet reached its flood. The _simplicity_ of the old course both in the common school and in higher institutions is in marked contrast to the present multiplicity. It was a narrow current in which education used to run, but it was deep and strong. In higher institutions the mastery of Latin and of Latin authors was the _sine qua non_. In the common school arithmetic was held in almost equal honor. Strong characters have often been developed by a narrow and rigid training along a single line of duty as is shown in the case of the Jesuits, the Humanists, and the more recent devotees of natural science. As contrasted with this, the most striking feature of our public schools now is their _shallow and superficial_ work. It is probable that the teaching in lower grades is better than ever before, but as the tasks accumulate in the higher grades there is a great amount of smattering. The prospect is, however, that this disease will grow worse before a remedy can be applied. The first attempt to cultivate broader and more varied fields of knowledge in the common school must necessarily exhibit a shallow result. Teachers are not familiar with the new subjects, methods are not developed, and the proper adjustments of the studies to each other are neglected. No one who is at all familiar with our present status will claim that drawing, natural science, geography, and language are yet properly adjusted to each other. The task is a difficult one, but it is being grappled with by many earnest teachers. It is obvious that the first serious effort to _remedy_ this shallowness will be made by deepening and intensifying the culture of the new fields. The knowledge of each subject must be made as complete and detailed as possible. Well-qualified teachers and specialists will of course accomplish the most. They will zealously try to teach all the important things in each branch of study. But where is the limit? The capacity of children! And it will not be long before philanthropists, physicians, reformers, and all the friends of mankind will call a decisive halt. Children were not born simply to be stuffed with knowledge, like turkeys for a Christmas dinner. It appears, therefore, that we must steer between Scylla and Charybdis, or that we are in a first-class educational _dilemma_. This conviction is strengthened by the reflection that there is no escape from fairly facing the situation. Having once put our hand to the plow we can not look back. The common school course has greatly expanded in recent years and there is no probability that it will ever contract. It has expanded in response to proper universal educational demands. For we may fairly believe that most of the studies recently incorporated into the school course are essential elements in the education of every child that is to grow up and take a due share in our society. It is too late to sound the retreat. The educational reformers have battled stoutly for three hundred years for just the course of study that we are now beginning to accept. The edict can not be revoked, that every child is entitled to an harmonious and equable development of all its human powers, or as Herbart calls it, a harmonious culture of many-sided interests. The nature of every child imperatively demands such broad and liberal culture, and the varied duties and responsibilities of the citizen make it a practical necessity. No narrow, one-sided culture will ever equip a child to act a just part in the complex social, political, and industrial society of our time. But the demand for _depth_ of knowledge is just as imperative as that for _comprehensiveness_. It is clear that two serious _dangers_ threaten the quality of our education: First, loose and shallow knowledge; second, overloading with encyclopedic knowledge. What can concentration do to remedy the one and check the other? The _cure_ for these two evils will be found in so adjusting the studies to each other, in so building them into each other, as to secure a mutual support. The study of a topic not only as it is affected by others in the same subject, but also by facts and principles in other studies, as an antidote against superficial learning. In tracing these causal relations, in observing the resemblances and analogies, the interdependence of studies, as geography, history, and natural science, a thoughtfulness and clearness of insight are engendered quite contrary to loose and shallow study. Secondly, concentration at once discards the idea of encyclopedic knowledge as an aim of school education. It puts a higher estimate upon related ideas and a lower one upon that of complete or encyclopedic information. All the cardinal branches of education indeed shall be taught in the school, but only the _essential_, the _typical_, will be selected and an exhaustive knowledge of any subject is out of the question. Concentration will put a constant check upon over-accumulation of facts, and will rather seek to strengthen an idea by association with familiar things than to add a new fact to it. No matter how thorough and enthusiastic a specialist one may be, he is called upon to curtail the quantity of his subject and bring it into proper dependence upon other studies. _Historically_ considered the principle of concentration has been advocated and emphasized by many writers and teachers. The most striking and decided attempt to apply it was made by Jacotot in the first quarter of this century and had great success in France. Mr. Joseph Payne, in interpreting Jacotot (Lectures on the Science and Art of Ed. p. 339), lays down as his main precept, "_Learn something thoroughly and refer everything else to it._" He emphasized above everything else _clearness_ of insight and _connection_ between the parts of knowledge. It was principally applied to the study of languages and called for perfect memorizing by incessant repetition and rigid questioning by the teacher to insure perfect understanding, in the first instance, of new facts acquired; and secondly, firm association with all previous knowledge. Jacotot and his disciples reached notable results by an heroic and consistent application of this principle and some of our present methods in language are based upon it. But on the whole the principle was only partially and mechanically applied. Its aim was primarily intellectual, even linguistic, not moral. There was no philosophical effort made to determine the relative value of studies and thus find out what study or series of studies best deserved to take the leading place in the school course. The importance of _interest_, as a means of rousing mental vigor and as a criterion for selecting concentrating materials suited to children at different ages, was overlooked. A kind of concentration has long been practiced in Germany and to a considerable extent in our own schools which is known as the _concentric circles_. In our schools it is illustrated by the treatment of geography, grammar, and history. In beginning the study of geography in the third or fourth grade it has been customary to outline the whole science in the first primary book. The earth as a whole and its daily and yearly motion, the chief continents and oceans, the general geographical notions, mountain, lake, river, etc., are briefly treated by definition and illustration. Having completed this general framework of geographical knowledge during the first year, the second year, or at least the second book, takes up the _same round of topics_ again and enters into a somewhat fuller treatment of continents, countries, states, and political divisions. The last two years of the common school may be spent upon a large, complete geography; which, with larger, fuller maps and more names, gives also a more detailed account of cities, products, climate, political divisions, and commerce. Finally, physical geography is permitted to spread over much the same ground from a natural-science standpoint, giving many additional and interesting facts and laws concerning zones, volcanoes, ocean-beds and currents, atmospheric phenomena, geologic history, etc. The same earth, the same lands and oceans, furnish the outline in each case, and we travel over the same ground three or four times successively, each time adding new facts to the original nucleus. There is an old proverb that "repetition is the mother of studies," and here we have a systematic plan for repetition, extending through the school course, with the advantage of new and interesting facts to add to the grist each time it is sent through the mill. It is an attractive plan at first sight, but if we appeal to experience, are we not reminded rather that it was dull repetition of names, boundaries, map questions, location of places, etc., and after all not much detailed knowledge was gained even in the higher grades? Again, is it not contrary to reason to begin with definitions and general notions in the lower grades and end up with the interesting and concrete in the higher? In language lessons and grammar it has been customary to learn the kinds of sentence and the parts of speech in a simple form in the third and fourth grades and in each succeeding year to review these topics, gradually enlarging and expanding the definitions, inflections, and constructions into a fuller etymology and syntax. In United States history we are beginning to adopt a similar plan of repetitions, and the frequent reviews in arithmetic are designed to make good the lack of thoroughness and mastery which should characterize each successive grade of work. The course of religious instruction given in European schools is based upon the same reiteration year by year of essential religious ideas. The whole plan, as illustrated by different studies, is based upon a successive enlargement of a subject in concentric circles with the implied constant repetition and strengthening of leading ideas. A framework of important notions in each branch is kept before the mind year after year, repeated, explained, enlarged, with faith in a constantly increasing depth of meaning. There is no doubt that under good teaching the principle of the concentric circles produces some excellent fruits, a mastery of the subject, and a concentration of ideas within the limits of a single study. The disciples of Herbart, while admitting the merits of the concentric circles, have subjected the plan to a severe _criticism_. They say it begins with general and abstract notions and puts off the interesting details to the later years, while any correct method with children will take the interesting particulars first, will collect abundant concrete materials, and by a gradual process of comparison and induction reach the general principles and concepts at the close. It inevitably leads to a dull and mechanical repetition instead of cultivating an interesting comparison of new and old and a thoughtful retrospect. It is a clumsy and distorted application of the principle of apperception, of going from the known to the unknown. Instead of marching forward into new fields of knowledge with a proper basis of supplies in conquered fields, it gleans again and again in fields already harvested. For this reason it destroys a proper interest by hashing up the same old ideas year after year. Finally the concentric circles are not even designed to bring the different school studies into relation to each other. At best they contribute to a more thorough mastery of each study. They leave the separate branches of the course isolated and unconnected, an aggregation of unrelated thought complexes. True concentration should leave them an organic whole of intimate knowledge-relations, conducing to strength and unity of character. There is a growing conviction among teachers that we need a closer _articulation_ of studies with one another. The expansion of the school course over new fields of knowledge and the multiplication of studies already discussed compels us to seek for a simplification of the course. A hundred years ago, yes, even fifty years ago, it was thought that the extension of our territory and government to the present limits would be impossible. It was plainly stated that one government could never hold together people so widely separated. Mr. Fiske says: (The Critical Period of Am. Hist., p. 60) "Even with all other conditions favorable, it is doubtful if the American Union could have been preserved to the present time without the railroad. Railroads and telegraphs have made our vast country, both for political and for social purposes, more snug and compact than little Switzerland was in the middle ages or New England a century ago." The analogy between the realm of government and of knowledge is not at all complete but it suggests at least the change which is imperatively called for in education. In education as well as in commerce there must be trunk lines of thought which bring the will as monarch of the mind into close communication with all the resources of knowledge and experience. Indeed in the mind of a child or of an adult there is much stronger necessity for centralization than in the government and commerce of a country. The will should be an undisputed monarch of the whole mental life. It is the one center where all lines of communication meet. London is not so perfect a center for the commerce and finance of England as is the conscious _ego_ (smaller than a needle's point) for all its forms of experience. Besides the central trunk lines of knowledge in history and natural science there are branches of study which are _tributary_ to them, which serve also as connecting chains between more important subjects. Reading, for instance, is largely a relative study. Not only is the art of reading merely a preparation for a better appreciation of history, geography, arithmetic, etc., but even the subject-matter of reading lessons is now made largely tributary to other studies. The supplementary readers consist exclusively of interesting matter bearing upon geography, history, and natural science. It is a fact that reading is becoming more and more a relative study, and selections are regularly made to bear on other school work. Geography especially serves to establish a network of connections between other kinds of knowledge. It is a very important supplement to history. In fact history cannot dispense with its help. Geography lessons are full of natural science, as with plants, animals, rocks, climate, inventions, machines, and races. Indeed there are few if any school studies which should not be brought into close and important relations to geography. Again the more important historical and scientific branches not only receive valuable aid from the tributary studies but they abundantly supply such aid in return. Language lessons should receive all their subject-matter from history and natural science. While the language lessons are working up such rich and interesting materials for purposes of oral and written language, the more important branches are also illustrated and enriched by the new historical and scientific subjects thus incidentally treated. An examination of these mutual relations and courtesies between studies may discover to us the fact that we are now unconsciously or thoughtlessly _duplicating_ the work of education to a surprising extent. For example, by isolating language lessons and cutting them off from communication with history, geography, and natural science, we make a double or triple series of lessons necessary where a single series would answer the purpose. Moreover, by excluding an interesting subject-matter derived from other studies, the interest and mental life awakened by language lessons are reduced to a minimum. Interest is not only awakened by well selected matter taken from other branches but the relationships themselves between studies, whether of cause and effect as between history and geography, or of resemblance as between the classifications in botany and grammar--the relations themselves are matters of unusual interest to children. Many teachers have begun to realize in some degree the value of these relations, their effect in enlivening studies, and the better articulation of all kinds of knowledge in the mind. But as yet all attempts among us to properly relate studies are but weak and ineffective approaches toward the solution of the great problem of concentration. The links that now bind studies together in our work are largely accidental and no great stress has been laid upon their value, but if concentration is grappled with in earnest it involves _relations at every step_. Not only are the principal and tributary branches of knowledge brought into proper conjunction, but there is constant forethought and afterthought to bring each new topic into the company of its kindred, near and remote. The mastery of any topic or subject is not clear and satisfactory till the grappling hooks that bind it to the other kinds of knowledge are securely fastened. Concentration on a large scale and with consistent thoroughness has been attempted in recent years by the scholars and teachers of the _Herbart school_. It is based upon moral character as the highest aim, and upon a correlation of studies which attributes a high moral value to historical knowledge and consequently places a series of historical materials in the center of the school course. The ability of the school to affect moral character is not limited to the personal influence of the teacher and to the discipline and daily conduct of the children; but instruction itself, by illustrating and implanting moral ideas, and by closely relating all other kinds of knowledge to the historical series, can powerfully affect moral tendency and strength. If historical matter of the most interesting and valuable kind be selected for the central series, and the natural sciences and formal studies be closely associated with it, there will be harmony and union between the culture elements of the school course. THE CULTURE EPOCHS. The problem that confronts us at the outset, when preparing a plan of concentration, is _how to select_ the best historical (moral educative) materials, which are to serve as the central series of the course. The _culture epochs_ (cultur-historische Stufen) are, according to the Herbartians, the key to the situation. (This subject was briefly discussed under _Interest_.) According to the theory of the _culture epochs_, the child, in its growth from infancy to maturity, is an epitome of the world's history and growth in a profoundly significant sense for the purpose of education. From the earliest history of society and of arts, from the first simple family and tribal relations, and from the time of the primitive industries, there has been a series of upward steps toward our present state of culture (social, political, and economic life). Some of the periods of progress have been typical for different nations or for the whole race; for example, the stone age, the age of barbarism, the age of primitive industries, the age of nomads, the heroic age, the age of chivalry, the age of despotism, the age of conquest, wars of freedom, the age of revolution, the commercial age, the age of democracy, the age of discovery, etc. What relation the leading epochs of progress in the race bear to the steps of change and growth in children, has become a matter of great interest in education. The assumption of the _culture epochs_ is that the growth of moral and secular ideas in the race, represented at its best, is similar to their growth in children, and that children may find in the representative historical periods select materials for moral and intellectual nurture and a natural access to an understanding of our present condition of society. The culture epochs are those representative periods in history which are supposed to embody the elements of culture suited to train the young upon in their successive periods of growth. Goethe says, "Childhood must always begin again at the first and pass through the epochs of the world's culture." Herbart says, "The whole of the past survives in each of us," and again, "The receptivity (of the child) changes continually with progress in years. It is the function of the teacher to see to it that these modifications advance steadily in agreement with these changes (in the world's history)." Ziller has attempted more fully to "justify this culture-historical course of instruction on the ground of a certain _predisposition_ of the child's mental growth for this course." Again, "We are to let children pass through the culture development of mankind with accelerated speed." Herbart says, "The treasure of advice and warning, of precept and principle, of transmitted laws and institutions, which earlier generations have prepared and handed down to the latter, belongs to the strongest of psychological forces." That is, choice historical illustrations produce a weighty effect upon the minds of children, if selected from those epochs which correspond to a child's own periods of growth. The culture epochs imply _an intimate union between history and natural science_, the two main branches of knowledge, at every step. The isolation between these studies, which has often appeared and is still strong, is unnatural and does violence to the unity of education historically considered. Men at all times have had physical nature in and around them. Every child is an intimate blending of historical and physical (natural science) elements. The culture epochs illustrate a _constant change and expansion of history and natural science_ together and in harmony (despite the conflict between them). As men have progressed historically and socially from age to age their interpretation of nature has been modified with growing discovery, insight, invention, and utilization of her resources. Children also pass through a series of metamorphoses which are both physical and psychological, changing temper and mental tendency as the body increases in vigor and strength. The culture epochs, by beginning well back in history, with those early epochs which correspond to a child's early years and tracing up the steps of progress in their origin and growth, pave the way for a clear insight into our present state of culture, which is a complex of historical and natural science elements. It is comparatively easy for us to see that to understand the present political, economic, and social conditions of the United States we are compelled to go back to the early settlements with their simple surroundings and slowly trace up the growth and increasing complexity of government, religion, commerce, manufactures, and social life. The theory of the culture epochs implies that the child began where primitive man began, feels as he felt, and advances as he advanced, only with more rapid strides; that as his physique is the hereditary outcome of thousands of years of history, and his physical growth the epitome of that development, so his mental progress is related to the mind progress of his ancestry. They go still further and assume that the subject-matter of the leading epochs is so well adapted to the changing phases and impulses of child life that there is a strong predisposition in children in favor of this course, and that the series of historical object lessons stirs the strongest intellectual and moral interests into life. As a _theory_ the culture epochs may seem too loose and unsubstantial to serve as the basis for such a serious undertaking as the education of children to moral character. There is probably no exact agreement as to what the leading epochs of the world's history are, nor of the true order of succession even of those epochs which can be clearly seen. The value of this theory is rather in its suggestiveness to teachers in their efforts to select suitable historical materials for children not in any exact order but approximately. So far as we are informed no one has yet tried to prove, in logical form, the necessary correspondence between the epochs of history and the periods of growth in children. It is rather an instinct which has been felt and expressed by many great writers. The real test of the value of this theory is not so much in a positive argument as in a general survey of the educational materials furnished by the historical epochs, and an experimental use of them in schools to see whether they are suited to the periods of child growth. There are, however, certain _limits_ to the theory of race progress that need to be drawn at once. It is easy to perceive that not all races have left such epochs behind them, because some are still in barbarism; others have advanced to a considerable height and then retrograded. Of those which have advanced with more or less steadiness for two thousand years, like England, France, and Germany, not every period of their history contains valuable culture elements. The great epochs are not clearly distinguishable in their origin and ending. Again, only those periods whose deeds, spirit, and tendency have been well preserved by history or, still better, have found expression in the work of some great poet or literary artist, can supply for children the best educative material. The culture epochs of history can be of no service to us in schools except as they have been suitably _described_ by able writers. In history and literature, as handed down to us by the great literary artists, many of the culture epochs have been portrayed by a master hand. In the Iliad, Homer gives us vivid and delightfully attractive scenes from life in the heroic age. The historical parts of the Old Testament furnish clear and classic expression to great typical historical scenes as illustrated in the lives of Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Joshua, David, and Solomon. The chief poets have expended a full measure of their art in presenting to posterity attractive events from striking epochs of the world's history. Homer, Virgil, Dante, Tennyson, and Longfellow have left for us such historical paintings as the Iliad, Odyssey, the Aeneid, the Divine Comedy, Idyls of a King, Miles Standish, etc. Some of the best historians also have described such epochs of history in scarcely less attractive form. Xenophon's Anabasis, Livy's Punic Wars, Plutarch's Lives, Caesar's Gallic Wars, the best biographies of Charlemagne, Columbus, Luther, Cromwell, Washington, are designed to give us a clear view of some of the great typical characters and events of history. Some of the leading novelists and imaginative writers in prose have performed a like service. Hypatia, Ivanhoe, Last Days of Pompeii, Romola, Uarda, and Robinson Crusoe are examples. The story of Siegfried, of King Arthur, of Bayard, of Tell, of Bruce, of Alfred, and the heroic myths of Greece, all bring out representative figures of the mythical age. The typical epochs of the world's struggle and progress are reflected, therefore, in the _literary masterpieces_ of great writers, whether poets, historians, biographers, or novelists. The simplest and choicest of these literary and historical materials, selected, arranged, and adapted for children, have been regarded by some thinkers as the strongest and best meat that can be supplied to children during their periods of growth. The history of each nation that has had a progressive civilization contains some such elements and masterpieces. It would be fortunate for each nation if it could find first in its own history all such leading epochs and corresponding materials. Then it could draw upon the historical and literary resources of other countries to complete and round out the horizon of thought. Since the best materials selected from history are calculated to build a strong foundation of moral ideas and sentiments, this carefully selected _historical series_ of studies has been chosen as the basis for a concentration of all the studies of the school course. Ziller, as a disciple of Herbart, was the first to lay out a course of study for the common school with history materials as a central series, based upon the idea of the culture epochs. Since religious instruction drawn from the Old and New Testament has always been an important study in German schools, he established a double historical series. The first was scriptural, representing the chief epochs of Jewish and Christian history from the time of Abraham to the Reformation; the second was national German history from the early traditional stories of Thuringia and the Saxon kings down to the Napoleonic wars and the entry of Emperor William into Paris in 1871. It should be remarked that in the first and second grade religious instruction does not appear in regular form, but in devotional exercises, Christmas stories, etc. Fairy stories and Robinson Crusoe are the chief materials used in the first and second grades, so that the regular historical series begin in the third. The two lines of religious and secular history are designed to illustrate for each grade corresponding epochs of national history, both Jewish and German. The parallel series stand as follows: Religious. Secular. 1st Grade. Fairytales. 2nd Grade. Robinson Crusoe. 3d Grade. The patriarchs, Stories of Thuringia. Abraham, Joseph, Moses. 4th Grade. Judges and Kings. The Nibelungen Song, Samuel, Saul, David, Siegfried. Solomon. 5th Grade. Life of Christ. Henry I., Charlemagne, Boniface, Armenius. 6th Grade. Life of Christ. Teutonic migrations, Crusades, Attila, Barbarossa, Rudolph. 7th Grade. Life of Paul. Discovery of America, Reformation, Thirty Years' War. 8th Grade. Life of Luther. Frederick the Great, Wars against Napoleon, William I. The above outline is Ziller's plan, modified by Professor Rein. In each grade is selected a body of classical or choice historical materials, representing a great period of German as well as of Jewish or Christian life, and especially suited to interest and instruct children, while illustrating moral ideas and deepening moral convictions. The body of historical narrative selected for any one grade is calculated to form a _center_ or nucleus for concentrating all the studies of that year. Reading, language, geography, drawing, music, and arithmetic largely spring out of and depend upon this historical center, while they are also bound to each other by many links of connection. A full course for the eight grades of the common school, with this double historical series as a nucleus, has been carefully worked out and applied by Professor Rein and his associates. It has been applied also with considerable success in a number of German schools. This great undertaking has had to run the gauntlet of a severe _criticism_. Its fundamental principles, as well as its details of execution, have been sharply questioned. But a long-continued effort, extending through many years, by able and thoroughly-equipped teachers, to solve one of the greatest problems of education, deserves careful attention. The general theory of concentration, the selection and value of the materials, the previous history of method, and the best present method of treating each subject, with detailed illustrations, are all worked out with great care and ability. The Jewish and German historical materials, which are made the moral-educative basis of the common school course by the Herbartians, can be of no service to us except by way of example. Neither sacred nor German history can form any important part of an American course of study. Religious instruction has been relegated to the church, and German history touches us indirectly if at all. The epochs of history from which American schools must draw are chiefly those of the United States and Great Britain. France, Germany, Italy, and Greece may furnish some collateral matter, as the story of Tell, of Siegfried, of Alaric, and of Ulysses; but some of the leading epochs must be those of our own national history. Has the _English-speaking race_ in North America passed through a series of historical epochs which, on account of their moral-educative worth, deserve to stand in the center of a common school course? Is this history adapted to cultivate the highest moral and intellectual qualities of children as they advance from year to year? There are few, if any, single nations whose history could furnish a favorable answer to this question. The English in America began their career so late in the world's history and with such advantages of previous European culture that several of the earlier historical epochs are not represented in our country. But perhaps Great Britain and Europe will furnish the earlier links of a chain whose later links were firmly welded in America. The _history of our country_ since the first settlements less than three hundred years ago is by far the best epitome of the world's progress in its later phases that the life of any nation presents. On reaching the new world the settlers began a hand-to-hand, tooth-and-nail conflict with hard conditions of climate, soil, and savage. The simple basis of physical existence had to be fought for on the hardest terms. The fact that everything had to be built up anew from small beginnings on a virgin soil gave an opportunity to trace the rise of institutions from their infancy in a Puritan dwelling or in a town meeting till they spread and consolidated over a continent. In this short time the people have grown from little scattered settlements to a nation, have experienced an undreamed-of material expansion; have passed through a rapid succession of great political struggles, and have had an unrivaled evolution of agriculture, commerce, manufactures, inventions, education, and social life. All the elements of society, material, religious, political, and social have started with the day of small things and have grown up together. There is little in our history to appeal to children below the fourth grade, that is, below ten years; but from the beginning of the fourth grade on, American history is rich in moral-educative materials of the best quality and suited to children. We are able to distinguish _four principal epochs_: 1. The age of pioneers, the ocean navigators, like Columbus, Drake, and Magellan, and the explorers of the continent like Smith, Champlain, LaSalle, and Fremont. 2. The period of settlements, of colonial history, and of French and Indian wars. 3. The Revolution and life under the Articles of Confederation till the adoption of the Constitution. 4. Self-government under the Union and the growth and strengthening of the federal idea. While drawing largely upon general history for a full and detailed treatment of a few important topics in each of these epochs, we should make a still more abundant use of the _biographical_ and _literary_ materials furnished by each. The concentration of school studies, with a historical series suggested by the culture epochs as a basis, would utilize our American history, biography, and literature in a manner scarcely dreamed of heretofore. We shall attempt to illustrate briefly this concentration of studies about materials selected from one of the culture epochs. Take, for example, _the age of pioneers_ from which to select historical subject-matter for children of the fourth and fifth grades. It comprehends the biographies of eminent navigators and explorers, pioneers on land and sea. It describes the important undertakings of Columbus, Magellan, Cabot, Raleigh, Drake, and others, who were daring leaders at the great period of maritime discovery. The pioneer explorers of New England and the other colonies bring out strongly marked characters in the preparatory stage of our earliest history. Smith, Champlain, Winthrop, Penn, Oglethorpe, Stuyvesant, and Washington are examples. In the Mississippi valley De Soto, La Salle, Boone, Lincoln, and Robertson, are types. Still farther west Lewis and Clarke, and the pioneers of California complete this historical epoch in a series of great enterprises. Most of them are pioneers into new regions beset with dangers of wild beasts, savages, and sickness. A few are settlers, the first to build cabins and take possession of land that was still claimed by red men and still covered with forests. The men named were leaders of small bands sent out to explore rivers and forests or to drive out hostile claimants at the point of the sword. Any one who has tried the effect of these stories upon children of the fourth grade will grant that they touch a deep native _interest_. But this must be a genuine and permanent interest to be of educative value. The _moral quality_ in this interest is its virtue. Standish, Boone, La Salle, and the rest were stalwart men, whose courage was keenly and powerfully tempered. They were leaders of men by virtue of moral strength and superiority. Their deeds have the stamp of heroism and in approving them the moral judgments of children are exercised upon noble material. These men and stories constitute an epoch in civilization because they represent that stage which just precedes the first form of settled society. In fact some of the stories fall in the transition stage, where men followed the plow and wielded the woodman's axe, or turned to the war-path as occasion required. In every part of the United States there has been such a period, and something corresponding to it in other countries. We are prepared to assume, therefore, that these historical materials arouse a strong interest, implant moral ideas, and illustrate a typical epoch. They are also very _real_. These men, especially the land pioneers, were our own predecessors, traversing the same rivers, forests, and prairies where we now live and enjoy the fruits of their hardihood and labor. Let us suppose that such a historical series of stories has its due share of time on the school program and that the stories are properly presented by the teacher and orally reproduced by the pupils. Into what _relations_ shall the other studies of the school enter to these historical materials? How shall language, reading, geography, natural science, and arithmetic be brought into the close relation to history required by the idea of concentration. The oral reproduction of the stories by the children is the best possible _oral language_ drill, while their partial written review is the basis of much of the regular _composition_ work. Language lessons on isolated and unconnected topics can thus be entirely omitted. The element of interest will be added to oral and written language lessons by the use of such lively stories. _Reading_ is chiefly tributary to the historical series. Such selections should be made for reading lessons as will throw additional light upon pioneer history and its related geography. Descriptions of natural scenery and choice selections from our best historians, as Irving and Bancroft, describing events or men of this period, should be used for reading lessons. Especially the best literary selections are to be utilized, as the Landing of the Pilgrims, Webster's and Everett's orations at Plymouth, Evangeline and Hiawatha, Indian legends and life, Miles Standish, The Knickerbocker History, and some of the original papers and letters of the early settlers. Whatever poems or prose selections from our best literature are found to bear directly or indirectly upon pioneer events, will add much interest and beauty to the whole subject. A second series of reading materials for these grades would be those masterpieces and traditions of European literature, which are drawn from a corresponding pioneer epoch in those countries; for example, Siegfried in Germany, Alaric in Italy, and Ulysses in Greece. A selection of reading material along these lines would exhibit much variety of prose and poetry, history, and geography. Unity would be given to it by the spirit and labors of a typical age and an intimate relation to history at all points established. _Geography_ has an equally close relation to history stories. For these grades geography and history cover the same geographical regions. Instead of being totally isolated from each other they should be purposely laid out on parallel lines with interlacing topics. North America and the Atlantic ocean are the field of action in both cases. These maritime explorers opened up the geography of this hemisphere at its most interesting stage. No part of the Atlantic ocean or of its North American coasts was overlooked by the navigators. The climate, vegetation and people upon its islands and coasts were curious objects to European adventurers. The first pioneers surveyed the eastern coast and the adjacent interior of a new continent, with its bays, rivers, forests, and mountains. The stories themselves are not intelligible without full geographical explanations, and the personal interest in the narratives throws a peculiar charm upon the geography. The _Mississippi valley_ is a great field for both history and geography. It is one of the striking physical features of North America and the best of stories find their setting in this environment. Not a great river of this region but is the scene of one of the stories. The lakes and streams were the natural highways of the explorers and settlers. The mountains obstructed their way, presenting obstacles but not limits to their enterprise. The great forests housed their game, concealed their enemies, and had to be cut down to make space for their homes and cornfields. The prairies farther west were a camping ground for them as well as for the deer and buffalo. There are no important physical features of the great valley that are not touched more or less in detail by the stories. It is the work of the geography of this year to enlarge and complete the pictures suggested by the stories, to multiply details, to compare and arrange and to associate with these the facts of our present political and commercial geography. The relation between history and geography is so intimate that it requires some pedagogical skill to determine which of the two should take the lead. But we have already adjudged the history to be by far the more important of the two. Its subject-matter is of greater intrinsic interest to children, and as it already stands in the commanding center of the school course, we are disposed to bring the geography lessons into close dependence upon it. In these grades _natural science_ or nature study form a necessary complement to the circle of historical and geographical topics treated. Many interesting natural-science subjects, suggested by history and geography, can not be dealt with satisfactorily in those studies; for example, the tobacco plant, the cactus, the deer, the hot springs, the squirrel, the mariner's compass. Natural science studies begin naturally with the home neighborhood, with its plants, trees, animals, rocks, inventions, and products. But having surveyed and learned many of these things at home in his earlier years, the child is prepared, when geography and history begin, to extend his natural-science information to the larger geographical regions. The history stories and geography suggest a large number of _natural-science topics_, so that there is abundant choice of materials while remaining in close connection with those studies. The vegetable and animal life and products of the sea, suggested by the voyages, are fishes, dolphins, whales, sea-birds, shells. Other topics are the construction of ships, the mariner's compass, and astronomy. The stories of the land pioneers open up a still richer field of natural science study for the common schools. Among animals are the beaver, otter, squirrel, coon, bear, fox, wildcat, deer, buffalo, domestic animals, wild turkeys, ducks, pigeons, eagle, hawk, wild bees, cat-fish, sword-fish, turtle, alligator, and many more. Among native products and fruits are mentioned corn, pumpkins, beans, huckleberries, grapes, strawberries, cranberries, tobacco, pawpaw, mulberry, haw, plum, apple, and persimmon. Of trees are oak, hickory, walnut, cypress, pine, birch, beech, and others. Tools, instruments, and inventions are mentioned, with their uses, as guns, Indian weapons, compass, thermometer, barometer, boats, carpenter's tools; also, the uses of iron, lead, leather, and many of the simple arts and economies of life, such as weaving, tempering of metals, tanning, and cooking. The natural wonders of the country, such as falls, caves, hot-springs, canons, salt licks, plains, interior deserts, and salt lakes, kinds of rocks, soils, forests and other vegetation, the phenomena of the weather and differences in climate, are referred to. All these and other topics from the broad realm of nature are suggested, any of which may serve as the starting point for a series of science lessons. How far the natural science lessons can _heed the suggestions_ of history and geography and still follow out and develop important science principles, is one of the great problems for solution. It would seem that the large number of natural-science topics touched upon by the history, when increased by the variety of home objects in nature and by still others called up by the geography work of these years, would give sufficient variety to the natural science work of the same period. By omitting some of these topics and enlarging upon others, developing the notions of classes and principles so far as is desirable, the natural-science lessons may be made sufficiently scientific without losing the close relation to the central subject-matter for the year. There is no doubt but the science-lessons will add greatly to many topics suggested by the stories and will bring the whole realm of nature into close relation to history and geography. The subjects thus far discussed, that may be brought into close relation to the central stories, are oral and written language, reading and literature, geography, and the natural sciences. The connection between these branches are numerous and strong at every step. _Drawing_ has a very intimate and important relation to the objects described in history, natural science, arithmetic, and geography; while the _songs_ learned should express in those poetic and rhythmic forms which appeal so strongly to the feelings, many of the noblest ideas suggested by travel, scenery, history, and the experiences of home life. _Arithmetic_, finally, seems to stand like an odd sheep among the studies. It is certainly the least social of the common school branches. While avoiding all forced connection between arithmetic and other studies, we shall find some points where the relations are simple and clear. Children in the first grade should see numbers in the leaves, flowers, trees, and animals they study. At the beginning of the first grade this would be a good informal way of beginning numbers. The value of _objects_ in first and second grade number is so great that it is only a question as to how far the objects suggested by other lessons may be used. But we are speaking of concentration in the fourth and fifth grades. In the stories and in geography we deal with journeys up great rivers, with the height of mountains, with the extent of valleys and lakes, with regular forts, mounds, and enclosures, with companies and bodies of men, with railroads, cities, and agricultural products, and with many other topics which suggest excellent practical problems in arithmetic for these grades. All such careful arithmetical computations add clearness and definiteness to historical and geographical ideas. The natural sciences have been so little systematically taught in our common schools, that we are scarcely able to realize what connection may be made between them and arithmetic. We know that in the advanced study and applications of some of the natural sciences, mathematics is an essential part. A brief retrospect will make it appear that the history stories, natural sciences, and geography, with the more formal studies, such as reading, language, and arithmetic, may be brought into a _close organic harmony_. Each of them depends upon and throws light upon the other; and while the connections are natural, not forced, there is a concentration upon the central historical and literary matter that makes moral character the highest aim of teaching. Since real concentration is practically a new educational undertaking, it involves a number of _unsolved subordinate problems_; for instance, how far shall science lessons, grammar, and geography follow their own principles of selection, based on the nature and scientific arrangement of their materials, while keeping up the dependence upon and connections with the central subject. But if concentration is a true principle of education, it is evident that none of these problems can be solved until concentration has been agreed upon and made fundamental. In this case those teachers who are trying to lay out courses of study in geography, natural science, or history, without regard to the relation of studies to each other, will have most of their work to do over again. A little reflection will convince us, perhaps, that a year's work thus concentrated will produce a much more powerful and lasting impression upon children than the loose aggregation of facts which is usually collected during a year's work. Not only will the moral effect be intensified, but the close dependence of each study upon the others will be perceptibly felt as valuable and stimulating to the children. If now we can conceive of the eight grades of the common school as eight stages passing naturally from one to another, each a unit composed of a net-work of well related facts, but the epochs closely related to each other in a rising series, from childhood almost to maturity, or from the beginning of history up to the present state of culture, we shall be able also to think of education as a succession of powerful culture influences, that will bring the child to our present standpoint fully conscious of his duties and surroundings. NOTE.--A careful criticism of the theory of the culture epochs is found in Lange's Apperception translated by the Herbart club, published by D. C. Heath, p. 110, etc. CHAPTER V. INDUCTION. We are now prepared to inquire into the mind's method of approach to any and all subjects. We have considered the aim of education, the value of different subjects as helping toward that aim, the natural interests which give zest to studies, and finally the general plan of combining and relating topics so as to bring about unity of purpose and unity of matter in the mind. As a child enters upon the work of acquisition are there any regulatives to guide the process of learning? _Induction_, or the _concept-bearing process_, shows the tendency of our minds to advance from the inspection of particular objects and actions to the understanding of general notions or concepts. The study and analysis of this process casts us forthwith into the midst of psychology, and calls for a knowledge of that succession and net-work of mental activities discussed in all the psychologies; sensation, discrimination, perception, analysis and synthesis, comparison, judgment, generalization or concept, reasoning. An inquiry into these mental activities, which are among the most important in psychology, is necessary as a basis of induction and of general method. But even the more profound study of psychology does not necessarily give insight into correct methods of teaching. Many great psychologists have had little or no interest in teaching. Even eminent specialists in electricity and chemistry have not often been those to draw the immediate practical benefit from their studies. The application of psychology to the work of instruction constitutes a distinct field of inquiry and experiment. The output of the best experimental thinking in this direction may be called pedagogy. The process of induction or concept-building leads the mind, as above indicated, through a series of different acts. We may first observe how far the mind is unnaturally inclined to follow this process, and whether it is a mark of healthy mental action in children and in adults. Later we may examine more closely the successive stages in the process itself. To get at the _natural process_ it is well to observe first the action of a _child's_ mind. By analyzing a simple case of a farmer's child we may trace the mental steps in forming a general notion. So long as it has seen no barn except that on its father's farm, the word _barn_ means to it only that particular object. But when it discovers that one of the neighbors has a similar building called a barn, it learns to put these different objects under one head, and the general notion _barn_ as a building for horses, cattle, and feed, gradually rises in the mind. Long before the child is six years old (school age) it may have seen enough of such barns for the general notion to be distinctly formed. By observing different objects, by comparing and grouping similar things together, it has formed a general notion in a regular process of induction, and that without any help from teachers. At two and three years of age, or as soon as a child begins to recognize and name new objects (because of their resemblance to things previously seen) this tendency to concept-building is manifest. Another illustration: The child has seen the family horse several times till the word horse becomes associated with that animal. While out walking it sees another horse, and pointing its finger says "horse." The memory of the first horse and the similarity calls forth the natural conclusion that this is a horse, though it may not be able to formulate the sentence. More horses are seen and compared till the word becomes the name of a whole class of animals. By a gradual process of observation, comparison, and judgment the word horse comes to stand for a large group of objects in nature. A child's mind is naturally very _active_ in detecting resemblances and in grouping similar objects together. It notices that there are certain people called women, others called men; that certain animals are called sheep, others cattle. One class of objects receives the name book, another stove, etc. The work of observing, comparing, and classifying is a perpetual operation in the child's active moods. In this way, what may appear at first as an interminable confusion or blur of objects in nature begins to fall into groups and classes with appropriate names. It is the child's own way of bringing order out of the apparent chaos of his surroundings. All this process of classification is natural and nearly unconscious, and results in a better understanding and interpretation of the things around him. Observe next the work of an educated _adult_, and how he increases and arranges his knowledge. If he is an incipient dry-goods merchant he learns by sight and touch to detect the quality of goods. He compares and classifies his experiences and becomes in time an expert in judging textile fabrics. On the other hand he becomes acquainted by personal contact with various customers and learns how to classify and judge them both as buyers and as debtors. If a _botanist_ finds a new plant he examines its stem, leaves, root, flower, seed, and environment. While entering into these details he is also comparing it with familiar classes of plants. Finally, he is not satisfied till he can definitely locate it in his previous system. With every new plant that he discovers he travels over the whole road from the individual particulars to the general classes of his whole system. The merchant and the scientist follow out with painstaking care and industry the same course which was involuntarily taken by the child; namely, observation of particulars, comparing and grouping into classes. The same habit of mind may be observed in all people who are growing knowledgewards and who possess any thoughtful instincts. In building up concepts, especially with the adult, induction is constantly mingled with deduction. As fast as general notions are formed they are used to interpret new objects. As the amount of this organized and classified knowledge increases, we reason more and more deductively. In acquiring knowledge along the line of induction, we are on the road to the solution of the _puzzle_, that nature puts to every child. To every infant, indeed, the world is an enormous riddle or puzzle, whose parts lie in fragments about him, waiting the operation of his curious and inventive mind toward the reconstruction of the whole. Endless variety and complexity confront us all in the beginning. There is indeed an order and classification of things in nature, but it does not appear on the surface, and for centuries men remained ignorant of the underlying harmony. Nature is full of valuable secrets, but they lie concealed from the careless eye. They are to be detected by prying deeper into individual facts, by putting a thing here and a thing there together, by pondering on the relationship of things to each other in their nature, appearance, and cause. It is a remarkable fact that we not only increase knowledge best by analyzing, comparing, and classifying objects, experience, and phenomena--even into old age--but that the deeper we penetrate into the individual qualities and inner nature of objects, the more we extend and classify our information, the simpler all the operations of nature become to our understanding. The surprising simplicity and unity of nature in her varied phenomena is one of the mature products of scientific study. The most scientific thinker, then, is only trying to reduce to a simple explanation the same puzzle which confronted the infant in its cradle. The problem is the same and the method similar. It is plain that the process of classifying objects and phenomena in nature and in society is the _beginning of scientific knowledge_. A child begins to learn as soon as it notices the resemblances in things and arranges them into groups. It will appear later that the mind does not follow a strictly logical method in gaining its groups, that it falls into natural errors and misconceptions; but in spite of these eccentric movements, the general trend is toward classifications and toward the language symbols that express them. In this power to associate, classify, and symbolize the products of experience in words is seen the marked difference between man and the animals. The latter have little power to compare and generalize, that is, to think. On a still higher plane, the difference between a careless, loose observer and a well-trained scientific thinker is largely a difference in accuracy, in inductive and deductive processes. The important thing for the teacher to determine is whether this inductive or concept-building tendency furnishes any _solid ground upon which to base the work of instruction_. Admitting that it is a natural process, common to both old and young in acquiring knowledge, perhaps it can be neglected because it will take care of itself. If it is self-active, needing no artificial stimulus, let it alone. On the contrary, if in a healthy pursuit of knowledge it brings the varied mental powers into a natural sequence where they will strengthen and support one another, it should be studied and used by teachers. It would be very commonplace to say that each of the faculties or activities involved in the inductive process should be disciplined and strengthened by school studies. There is but little difference of opinion on this subject, though some would lay more stress upon sense training, some on memory, some on reasoning. The ground for this general conviction is the notorious fact that with children every one of these acts, is performed in a _faulty and superficial manner_. The observations of children are very careless and unreliable. Even adults are extremely negligent and inaccurate in their observations of natural objects, persons, and phenomena. But the mental powers brought to bear in observation are simple and elementary. The exercise of higher mental powers, such as analysis, comparison, judgment, and reasoning, is prone to be still more accidental and erroneous. Acknowledging then the necessity for training all these powers, how can it best be done? Not by delegating to each study the cultivation of one kind or set of mental activities, but by observing that _the same general process_ underlies the acquisition of knowledge in each subject, and that all the kinds of mental life are brought into action in nearly every study. In short, the inductive process is a natural highway of human thought in every line of study, bringing all the mental forces into an orderly, successive, healthful activity. We may yet discover that the inductive process not only gives the key to an interesting method of mastering different branches of knowledge, but in developing mental activity it brings the various mental powers into a strong natural sequence. One of the great ends of intellectual culture is gradually _to transform this careless, unconscious, inductive tendency in children into the painstaking and exact scrutiny of the student, and later of the specialist_. Although the inductive process is a common highway of thought in all stages of intellectual growth from childhood to maturity, certain parts of the road are much more frequently traveled in childhood, and still others in youth and maturity. It is the work of pedagogy to adapt its materials to these _changing phases_ of soul life in children. In the analysis of the inductive and deductive processes we desire to come at the solution of this problem. Considered as a whole, there is a simple phase of the inductive process which is best explained by the terms absorption and reflection. It appears in the study of simple as well as of complex objects, and indicates clearly the fundamental rhythm of the mind in acquiring and elaborating its knowledge. This action of the mind is a shuttle-like movement, a constant running back and forth between two extremes, _absorption_ and _reflection_. We will test this statement upon examples. When we are in the mood for learning let some new object, a _sawmill_, attract the attention. A quick general glance at the place and its surroundings tells us what it is. Now trace the operation of the mill as it draws up the logs singly from the rafts lying on the margin of the river and converts them into lumber. You observe first how the logs are carried up an inclined slide by means of an endless chain with hooks, into the mill. You examine this first piece of machinery and notice its mode of action. As the logs enter the upper story of the mill, they are thrown by heavy levers to either side and roll down toward the saws. Here is another piece of machinery in its proper place. Having been stripped of the loose pieces of bark, the logs are grasped by another set of iron hands, lifted firmly to the carriage and passed to the circular or band-saw, which takes off the side slabs and squares them for the gang-saw. The squared logs are then carried along over rollers and collected before the gang-saws. From two to four of them are clasped firmly together and then forced up against the teeth of the parallel group of saws, issuing from them as a batch of lumber. The boards are then passed on to a set of men at small circular saws, by whom they are sorted and the edges trimmed, while still others with trucks carry them to the yard for stacking. Take note of the operation of the mind as it passes from one part of the machinery to another. Each part is first examined by itself to get its construction and method. Then its relation to what precedes and what follows is noted. Finally, in review you survey the whole process in its successive stages and understand each part and its relation to the whole and to the purpose of the mill. We might call this an analysis and synthesis of the process of making lumber, or in other words absorption and reflection. In the observation of such a complex piece of machinery as a large mill the mind swings back and forth many times between absorption in the study of parts and reflection upon their relation to each other. Having examined the mill in detail and grasped its parts as a connected whole, the next step is to observe its relation to the river, to the rafts and rafting-boats, and further back to the pineries and logging-camps up the river. (Northern Minnesota and Wisconsin.) The occupations and sights along the Upper Mississippi and its head-waters, the pineries, and even the spring floods, are intimately connected, causally, with the saw-mills and lumber yards lower down. Or going in the opposite direction from the saw-mill, we follow the lumber till it is used in the various forms of construction. Some of it enters the planing-mills and is converted into moldings, finishing lumber, sashes, blinds, etc. In all forms it is loaded upon the cars, and shipped westward to be used in the construction of houses and bridges. Before we get through with the line of thought engendered by observing the saw-mill, we have canvassed the whole lumber industry from the pineries to the plans of architects and builders in the actual work of construction. Not only has there been this progress of the mind from one object or machine to another of a _series_ connected by cause and effect, but there has been also a constant tendency to pass from the individual machines of which the series is composed to the classes of which these objects are typical. A circular-saw or a gang-saw is each typical of a class of saws. The same is true of each part of the machinery, as well as of the saw-mill or planing-mill considered as a whole. Each of these objects, whether simple or complex, suggests others similar which we have observed or seen represented in pictures. Each part of the machinery in turn becomes the center of a set of comparisons leading from the concrete object in question to the general notion of the class to which it belongs. For example, the steam engine in a mill is typical of all stationary engines used for driving machinery. But the parts of the engine are also typical of similar parts in other engines and machines, as the drive-wheel, cylinder, boiler, etc. In all these cases we become absorbed in one thing for a while, only to recover ourselves and to reflect upon the thing in its wider relations, either tracing out connections of cause and effect, as in a series of machines, or passing from the single example to the class of which it is typical. Absorption and reflection! The mind swings back and forth like a pendulum between these two operations. Herbart, who closely defined this process, called it the _mental act of breathing_, because of the constancy of its movement. As regularly as the air is drawn into the lungs and again expelled, so regularly does the mind lose itself in its absorption with objects only to recover itself and reflect upon them. In the inspection of a large _printing press_ in one of our newspaper publishing-houses we meet with a similar experience. The attention becomes centered upon the press for a close analysis and synthesis of its parts. The cogs, wheels, rollers, inking-plate, the chases for the type, the application of the power, the springs and levers, each part receives a close inspection, and the secret of its connection with other parts is sought for. There is a vigorous effort not only to understand each part but also the connection of the whole. The shuttle-like movement of the mind back and forth between the parts, absorbed for a moment, reflecting for a moment, continues until the complex mechanism is understood. When this process has been satisfactorily completed, we are ready to turn our minds again to the other objects and rooms of the printing establishment. The work of the compositors, setting up different kinds of type, the proof-reading, the editorial work, the reporters, all come in for a share of attention. The reporters lead us to the great world outside whose happenings are brought here for publication. On the other hand, following the distribution of papers as they issue from the press, we think of news-boys, news-stands, mail-service, railroads, and postoffices. But the inspection of a printing press also leads the thoughts in other directions and suggests other presses, great and small, in other times and places, other printing establishments, until the whole business of printing and publishing books and papers springs into the thought. If we desire to understand clearly the business of publishing a newspaper, we must enter into an observation of the parts of the process from the collection of its news to its distribution by the mails and carriers. Besides noting these parts we must observe their causal connection with each other and the rôle that each plays in the economy of the whole. The causal series thus clearly outlined produces insight into an occupation, while every typical machine or appliance is one of a cross series intercepting the original series. The acquisition and assimilation of knowledge in different subjects will be found to exhibit the mental states of absorption and reflection as just illustrated. Observe the manner in which we study a poem. It is first read and interpreted sentence by sentence, glancing from verse to verse to get the connections. When the whole piece has been read and understood in its parts and connections, the suggested lines of thought are taken up and followed out in their wider applications. Take for example the "Burial of Moses," and in the proper analysis and study of the poem, such a process of absorption and reflection is observable. In tracing the biography of John Quincy Adams or of Alexander Hamilton, the facts of personal experience and action first absorb the attention from step to step in the study of his life. But reflection on the bearings of these personal events, upon contemporaries, and upon public affairs is noticed all along. The same mental process is observed in studying a battle in history, a sentence in grammar, a squirrel in natural history, or a picture in art. The effect of such mental absorption and reflection is to build up _concepts_. Series of causally related parts are also formed, but each series in the end becomes a more complete complex concept; that is, a representative of many similar series. The inspection of one printing establishment suggests others which are brought into comparison till the general notion, publishing-house, is more clearly conceived. The same is true in the lumber trade. The concept lumber-business is not confined to Minneapolis or Chicago, but is common to the great lake region, Maine, Washington, Norway, and other countries. Concepts become more varied and complex with the advance of studies, and there is scarcely anything we learn by observation or reflection that does not ultimately illustrate and build up our concepts. The observation of even the miscellaneous objects in a large city leads to a variety of concepts, and in the end, by comparison, to the general notion, _city_. How strong the concept-creating tendency of all experience and thought is, can be seen in the _words_ of language. The processes of thought become petrified in language. All progress in knowledge and acquisition of new ideas is reflected in language by an increase of words. But an examination of words in common use will show that they are nearly all the names of concepts. Proper names are the principal exception. Every common noun, verb, adjective, adverb, and preposition is the name of a concept; for example, horse, beauty, to steal, running, over, early, yellow, grape, ocean, etc. To understand these concepts there must be somewhere a progress from the individual to the abstract, an induction from particulars to a general concept. Abstract or general notions cannot be acquired at first hand without specific illustrations. Even where the deductive process is supposedly employed, a closer examination will uncover the concrete or individual illustrations in the background, and until these are reached the concept has no clear meaning. The _concrete examples_, whether introduced sooner or later by way of explanation, are the real basis of the understanding of the concept. It is customary to invert the inductive process and to drive it stern forwards through grammar, geography, and other studies. Take, for example, the word boomerang as it comes up in a geography or reading lesson. Webster's dictionary, which is recommended to children as a first resort in such difficulties, calls it "A remarkable missile weapon used by the natives of Australia." This gives a faint notion by using the familiar word _weapon_. The picture accompanying the word in the dictionary gives a more accurate idea because nearer the concrete. The best possible explanation would be a real boomerang thrown by a native South-Sea Islander. In the absence of these, a picture and a vivid description are the best means at our disposal. The common mistake is in learning and reciting the definition while neglecting the concrete basis. By way of further illustration, try to explain to children, who have never heard of them before, the egg-plant, palm-tree, cactus, etc. It would be of interest to inquire into the process of concept-building in each of the _school studies_, where it appears under quite varying forms. The natural sciences are perhaps the best examples of concept-building from concrete materials, advancing regularly through a series of concepts from the individuals and species to the most general classes of plants, animals, etc. In chemistry and physics the laws and general principles are based on substances, experiments, and processes observable by the senses. Grammar and language, when studied as a science, advance from concept to concept through etymology and syntax. In geography and history the concepts are less definite and more difficult to formulate, and yet there are many typical ideas which are to be developed and illustrated in each of these studies; in history, for example, colony, legislature, governor, general, revolution, institutions and customs, political party, laws of development, causal relations, inventions, etc.; in geography, continents, oceans, forms of relief, kinds of climate and causes, occupations, products, commerce, etc. The fundamental truths and relations and rules of arithmetic must be developed from objects and illustrations. Reading, spelling, and writing are arts, not sciences, and are more concerned with skill in execution than with the acquisition of a body of scientific truths. And yet certain general truths are emphasized and applied in these studies. Much needless confusion has been caused by raising the question _where to begin_ in learning. Do we proceed from the whole, to the parts, or from the parts to the whole? In making the acquaintance of sense objects it seems clear that we first perceive wholes (somewhat vaguely and indefinitely). The second impulse is to analyze this whole into its parts, then recombine them (synthesis) into a whole which is more definitely and fully grasped. A house, for example, is generally first perceived as a whole; and later it is examined more particularly as to its materials, rooms, stairways, conveniences, furnishings, etc. The same is true with a mountain, a butterfly, a man. Thus far we have proceeded from the whole to the parts and then back again; analysis and synthesis. The next movement is from this whole or object toward a group of similar objects, a class notion. By comparing one thing with others similar, a class notion is formed which includes them all. Each individual is a whole, but is also a type of the entire group. The general mental movement is successively in two directions from any particular object; first, from the whole to the parts, then grasping this whole in a richer, fuller sense, the mind seeks for relations which bind this object with others similar into a group, a more complex product, a concept. There may appear to be an exception to this rule in the case of a city, a continent, a railroad, or any concrete object so large and complex that it cannot be grasped by a single effort of sense perception. But even here it is usual with us first to represent the whole object to our thought by means of a sketch, map, or figure of speech, so as first to get a quick survey of the whole thing. In history, also, we first grasp at wholes, then enter into a detailed account of an event, a campaign, a voyage, a revolution, etc. There are many complex wholes in geography and history with which it is not wise to begin, because it requires a long and painful effort to get at the notion of the whole. The wholes we have in mind are those which can be almost instantly grasped. Not, for example, an outline of American history or of the world's history. The choice of suitable wholes with which to begin is based upon the child's interest and apperceptive powers. Having thus examined into the general nature of the inductive process and the extent of its application to school studies and to other forms of acquiring knowledge, we are led to a closer practical discussion of each of the two chief stages of induction: First, _observation or intuition_; that is, the direct perception through the senses or through consciousness, of the realities of the external world and of the mind. Second, association of ideas with a view to generalizing and _forming concepts_. _Intuition_[1] implies object lessons in a wide sense. By object lessons is usually meant things in nature perceived through the senses. But it is necessary to extend the idea of object lessons beyond the objects and phenomena of the physical world, to which it has been usually limited. It includes perception of our own mental states. These direct experiences of our own inner states are the primary basis of our understanding of other people's feelings, mental states, and actions. In short, an understanding of the phenomena of individual life, (the acts of persons) of society, and of history, is based upon a knowledge of our own feelings and mental acts, and upon the accuracy with which we have observed and interpreted similar things in other persons. We have already seen that a right appreciation of companions, biographies, social life, and history, is the strongest of psychological forces in its formative influence upon character. For this reason, also, history includes the first and most important body of school studies. But object lessons drawn from physical nature do not measurably qualify us for a better appreciation of individual and social life and action. The fundamental illustrative materials for history are drawn from another source, from the depth of the heart and inner experience of each person. Many words in our own school books can be illustrated and explained by objects and activities in physical nature, but a large part of the words in common use in our readers and school books can be explained by no external objects. They depend for their interpretation upon the child's own feelings, desires, joys, griefs, etc., and upon similar phenomena observed in others. Object lessons in this liberal sense point to the direct exercise of the senses and intuitions in the acquisition of experience of all sorts. They include the objects, persons, and events that we see around us and our own experiences in ordinary life--the grass, plants, trees, and soils; the animals, wild and tame, with their structure, habits, and uses; the rocks, woods, hills, streams, seasons, clouds, heat, and cold. There is also the observation of devices and inventions; tools, machinery and their workings, the different raw and manufactured products, with their ways of growth and transformation. Besides these are the various kinds and dispositions of men, different classes and races of people, with great variety of character, occupation, and education. Their actions, modes of dress, and customs are included. But we have many other primary and indispensable lessons to learn from the playground, the street, from home and church, from city and country, from travel and sight seeing, from holidays and work days, from sickness, and healthful excursions. Even a child's own tempers, faults, and successes are of the greatest value to himself and to the teacher in a proper self-understanding and mastery. By object lessons, therefore, we mean all that a child becomes conscious of through the direct action of his senses and of his mind upon external nature or inner experience. It is desired that a child's knowledge in all direct experience be simple, clear, and according to the facts. All words that he uses become only signs of the realities of his experience. Every word stands for a potent thought in his own life history. Of course object lessons in this rich and real sense can not be confined to such few objects--birds, leaves, models, and straws--as can be brought into a school room. All the world, especially the outside world, becomes "A complex Chinese toy Fashioned for a barefoot boy." Many of the most interesting objects and phenomena in nature and of man's construction can not be observed in the school room at all, for instance, the river, the bridge, the forest, the flight of birds, the sunrise, the storm, the stars, etc. Still they must know these very things and know how to use them better in constructing the mind's treasures than they are wont to do. In reading, grammar, geography, arithmetic, and nature study, we desire to ground school discussions daily upon the clear facts of experience, of personal observation. We need to clear up all confused and faulty perceptions and to stimulate children to make their future observations more reliable. We have already seen the importance of object lessons in this full and real sense to _interest_. Interest in every study is awakened and constantly reenforced by an appeal, not to books, but to life. Much of the dull work in arithmetic, geography, and other studies is due to the neglect of these real, illustrative materials. Of the six great sources of interest, (Herbart's) three, the _empirical_, the _esthetic_, and the _sympathetic_, deal entirely with concrete objects or with individuals, while even the _speculative_ and _social_ interests are often based directly upon particular persons or phenomena. In addition to this it may be said that the interests of children are overwhelmingly with the concrete and imaginative phases of every subject, and only secondarily with general truths and laws. The latter are of greater concern to older children and adults. Object lessons therefore contain a life-giving element that should enter into every subject of study. Nor should these interesting, illustrative object lessons be limited to the lower grades. They contain the combustible material upon which an abiding interest in any subject is to be kindled. There are indeed other and perhaps higher sources of interest, but they are largely dependent upon these original springs that flow from the concrete beginnings. In the second place, object lessons supply a stock of _primary ideas_ which form the foundation of all later progress in knowledge. This is not a question of interest merely, but of _understanding_, of capacity to get at the meaning of an idea. Concepts are not the raw materials with which the mind works, but they are elaborated out of the raw products furnished by the senses and other forms of intuition. As cloth is manufactured out of the raw cotton and wool produced on the farm or in southern fields, so concepts are a manufactured article, into whose texture materials previously gathered enter. Concepts do not grow up directly from the soil of the mind any more than ready-made clothing grows on bushes or on the backs of the wearers. Concepts must be made out of stuff that is already in the mind, as woolen blankets are spun and woven out of fleeces. Our present contention is that the mind shall be filled up with the best quality of raw stuff, otherwise there will be defect and deficiency in its later products. The stuff out of which concepts are built is drawn from the varied experiences of life. On account of this intimate relation between the realities of life and school studies they cannot be separated. Every branch, especially in elementary studies, must be treated concretely and be built up out of sense materials. Every study has its concrete side, its illustrative materials, its colors of individual things taken from life. Every study has likewise its more general scientific truths and classifications. The prime mistake in nearly all teaching and in the text-book method is in supposing that the great truths are accessible in some other way than through the concrete materials that lie properly at the entrance. The text-books are full of the abstractions and general formulae of the sciences; but they can, in the very nature of the case, deal only in a meager way with the individual objects and facts upon which knowledge in different subjects is based. This necessary defect in a text-book method must be made good by excursions, by personal observation, by a constant reference of lessons to daily experience outside of school, by more direct study of our surroundings, by the teacher perfecting himself in this kind of knowledge and in its skillful use. There was a current belief at one time that object lessons should form a _special study_ for a particular period of school life, namely, the first years. It was thought that sufficient sense-materials could be collected in two or three years to supply the whole school curriculum. But this thought is now abandoned. Children in the earlier grades may properly spend more time in object study than in later grades, but there is no time in school life when we can afford to cut loose from the real world. There is scarcely a lesson in any subject that can not be clarified and strengthened by calling in the fresh experiences of daily life. The discussion of the concept and of the inductive process has shown that _concepts cannot be found at first hand_. There must be observation of different objects, comparison, and grouping into a class. A person who has never seen an elephant nor a picture of one, can form no adequate notion of elephants in general. We can by no shift dispense with the illustrations. The more the memory is filled with vivid pictures of real things, the more easy and rapid will be the progress to general truths. Not only are general notions of classes of objects in nature, or of personal actions built up out of particulars, but the general laws and principles of nature and of human society must be observed in real life to be understood. We should have no faith in _electricity_ if it were simply a scientific theory, if it had not demonstrated its power through material objects. The idea of _cohesion_ would never have been dreamed of, if it had not become necessary to explain certain physical facts. The spherical form of the earth was not accepted by many even learned men until sailors with ships had gone around it. Political ideas of popular government which a few centuries ago were regarded as purely utopian are now accepted as facts because they have become matters of common observation. The _circulation of the blood_ remained a secret for many centuries because of the difficulties of bringing it home to the knowledge of the senses. These examples will show how difficult it is to go beyond the reach of sense experience. Even those philosophers who have tried to construct theories without the safe foundation of facts have labored for naught. The more our thought is checked and guided by nature's realities the less danger of inflation with pretended knowledge. Bacon found that in this tendency to theorize loosely upon a slender basis of facts was the fundamental weakness of ancient philosophy. Nature if observed will reiterate her truths till they become convincing verities, while the study of words and books alone produces a _quasi-knowledge_ which often mistakes the symbol for the thing. Having this thought in mind, _Comenius_, more than two and a half centuries ago, said, "It is certain that there is nothing in the understanding which has not been previously in the senses, and consequently to exercise the senses carefully in discriminating the differences of natural objects is to lay the foundation of all wisdom, all eloquence, and of all good and prudent action. The right instruction of youth does not consist in cramming them with a mass of words, phrases, sentences, and opinions collected from authors. In this way the youth are taught, like Aesop's crow in the fable, to adorn themselves with strange feathers. Why should we not, instead of dead books, open the living book of nature? Not the shadows of things, but the things themselves, which make an impression upon the senses and imagination, are to be brought before the youth." There has always been a strong tendency in the schools to teach _words, definitions, and rules_ without a sufficient knowledge of the objects and experiences of life that put meaning into these abstractions. The result is that all the prominent educational reformers have pointedly condemned the practice of learning words, names, etc., without a knowledge of the things signified. The difference is like that between learning the names of a list of persons at a reception, and being present to enter into acquaintance and conversation with the guests. The oft-quoted dictum of Kant is a laconic summary of this argument. "General notions (concepts) without sense-percepts are empty." The general definition of composite flowers means little or nothing to a child; but after a familiar acquaintance with the sunflower, dandelion, thistle, etc., such a general statement has a clear meaning. Concepts without the content derived from objects are like a frame without a picture, or a cistern without water. The table is spread and the dishes placed, but no refreshments are supplied. Having completed the discussion of _intuition_, including object lessons, that is, the preparatory step to the inductive process, we reach the second, _reflection_ and _survey_. We are seeking for a general term that covers the several steps in the latter part of the inductive process. It includes comparison, classification, and abstraction. It may be discussed from the standpoint of "association of ideas," and contributes directly to concentration. We have in mind, chiefly, that thoughtful habit which is not satisfied with simply acquiring a new fact or set of ideas, but is impelled to trace them out along their various connections. We have to do now not with the acquisition but with the _elaboration_ and _assimilation_ of knowledge. The _acquisition_ of knowledge in the ordinary sense is one thing; its _elaboration_ in a full sense sets up a standard of progress which will put life into all school work and reach far beyond it, and in fact is limited only by the individual capacity for thought. In school, in reading and study, we have been largely engaged in acquiring knowledge on the principle that "knowledge is power." But no practical man needs to be told that much so-called school knowledge is not power. Facts which have been simply stored in the memory are often of little ready use. It is like wheat in the bin, which must first pass through the mill and change its entire form before it will perform its function. Facts, in order to become the personal property of the owner, must be worked over, sifted, sorted, classified, and connected. The process of elaborating and assimilating knowledge is so important that it requires more time and pains than the first labor of acquisition. Philosophers will admit this at once, but it is hard for us to break loose from the traditions of the schoolmasters. The mind is not in all respects like a _lumber-yard_. It is, to be sure, a place for storing up knowledge, just as the yard is a deposit for lumber. But there the analogy ceases and the mind begins to resemble more the contractor and builder. There is planing, sawing, and hammering; the materials collected are prepared, fitted, and mortised together, and a building fit for use begins to rise. Knowledge also is for use, and not primarily for storage. That simple acquisition and quantity of knowledge are not enough is illustrated by the analogy of an army. Numbers do not make an army, but a rabble. A general first enlists raw recruits, drills and trains them through a long period, and finally combines them into an effective army. Many of our ideas when first received are like disorderly raw recruits. They need to be disciplined into proper action and to ready obedience. In connection with assimilation the analogy between the _stomach_ and the mind is of still greater interest. The food received into the stomach is taken up by the organs of digestion, assimilated and converted into blood. The process, however, takes its course without our conscious effort or co-operation. Knowledge likewise enters the mind, but how far will assimilation go on without conscious effort? If kept in a healthy state the organs of digestion are self active. Not so the mind. Ideas entering the mind are not so easily assimilated as the food materials that enter the stomach. A cow chews her cud once, but the ideas that enter our minds may be drawn from their receptacle in the memory and worked over again and again. Ideas have to be put side by side, separated, grouped, and arranged into connected series. There is, no doubt, some tendency in the mind toward involuntary assimilation, but it greatly needs culture and training. Many people never reach the _thinking_ stage, never learn to survey and reflect. The tendency of the mind to work over and digest knowledge should receive ample culture in the schools. There is a mental inertia produced by pure memory exercise that is unfavorable to reflection. It requires an extra exertion to arrange and organize facts even after they are acquired. But when the habit of reflection has been inaugurated it adds much interest and value to all mental acquisitions. There are also well-established principles which guide the mind in elaborating its facts. The _laws of the association_ of ideas indicate clearly the natural trend of mental elaboration. The association of things because of contiguity in time and place is the simplest mode. The classification of objects or activities on the basis of resemblance, is the second form and that upon which the inductive process is principally founded. In the third case objects and series are easily retained in memory when the relation of cause and effect is perceived between them. These natural highways of association, especially the second and third, should be frequently traveled in linking the facts of school study with each other. Indeed the outcome of a rational survey of an object or fact in its different relations is an association of ideas which is one of the best results of study. Such connections of resemblance and difference or of cause and effect are abundant and interesting in the natural sciences and physical geography, also in history and languages. The Herbartians draw an important distinction between _psychical_ and _logical_ concepts or general notions. The _psychical_ concept is worked out naturally by a child or an adult as a result of the chance experiences of life. It is usually a work of accident; is incomplete, faulty, and often misleading. The _logical_ concept, on the other hand, is scientifically correct and complete. It includes all the common characteristics of the group and excludes all that are not essential. It is a product of accurate and mature thinking. We all possess an abundance of psychical concepts drawn from the miscellaneous experiences of life. It is a large share of the school work, as we have seen, to develop logical concepts out of these immature and faulty psychical concepts. A child is disposed to call tadpoles fishes; and later porpoises and whales are faultily classed with the fishes in the same way. Nearly all our psychical concepts are subject to such loose and faulty judgments. Even where one is accurate in his observations, the conclusions naturally drawn are often wrong. For example, a child that has seen none but red squirrels would naturally think all squirrels red, and include the quality red in his general notion. Most of our empirically derived general notions are spotted with such defects. What relation have these facts to induction? We claim that general notions should be experimentally formed; that is, by a gradual collection of concrete or illustrative materials, and that the logical concepts are the final outcome of comparison and reasoning toward conclusions. In other words, we must begin with psychical concepts with all their faults; we must make mistakes and correct them as our experience enlarges, and gradually work out of psychical into logical methods and results. Our text-books usually give us the logical concept first, the rule, definition, principle, in its most complete and accurate statement. This does violence to the child's natural mental movement. The final stage of induction is the _formulation_ of the general truths, the concepts, principles, and laws which constitute the science of any branch of knowledge. These truths should be well formulated in clear and expressive language and mastered in this form. Moreover, the results reached, when reduced to the strict scientific form, are the same in the inductive methods as in the deductive or common text-book method. Not that the effect on the mind of the learner is the same but the body of truth is unaltered. The general truths of every subject can be easily found well arranged in text-books. But we are more anxious to know how the youth may best approach and appreciate these truths than simply to see them stored in the mind in a well-classified form. A rich man in leaving a fortune to his son would more than double the value of the inheritance if he could teach him properly to _appreciate_ wealth and form in him the disposition and ability to use it wisely. In the same way the best part of knowledge is not simply its possession, but an appreciation of its value. The method of reaching scientific knowledge through the inductive process, that is by the collection and comparison of data with a view to positive insight, will give greater meaning to the results. Interest is awakened and self-activity exercised at every step in the progress toward general truths. By the reflective habit these truths will be seen in their origin and causal connection, and the line of similarity, contrast, causal relation, analogy and coincidence will be thoughtfully traced. Possibly the progress toward formulated knowledge will be less rapid by induction, but it will be real progress with no backward steps. It may well be doubted whether, with average minds, real scientific knowledge is attainable except by a strong admixture of inductive processes. Perfection in the form and structure of our concepts is not to be attained by children nor by adults, but the ideal of scientific accuracy in general notions is to be kept constantly in view and approximated to the extent of our ability. After all, _deduction_ performs a much more important part in the work of building up concepts than the previous discussion would indicate. As fast as psychical concepts are formed we clamber upon them and try to get a better view of the field around us. Like captured guns, we turn them at once upon the enemy and make them perform service in new fields of conquest. If a new case or object appears we judge of it in the light of our acquired concepts, no matter whether they are complete and accurate or not. This is deduction. We are glad to gain any vantage ground in judging the objects and phenomena constantly presenting themselves. In fact, it is inevitable that inductive and deductive processes will be constantly dovetailed into each other. The faulty concepts arrived at are brought persistently into contact with new individual cases. They are thus corrected, enlarged, and more accurately grasped. This is the series of mental stepping-stones that leads up gradually to logical concepts. The inductive process is the fundamental one and deduction comes in at every step to brace it up. This is only another illustration that mental processes are intimately interwoven, and, except in thought, not to be separated. In the discussion of apperception in the following chapter we shall see that, in the process of gaining knowledge, our acquired ideas and concepts play a most important role. They are really the chief assimilating agencies. But in spite of all this we shall scarcely be led again to the standpoint that logical or scientific concepts should be the starting point in the study of any subject. [1] Intuition is popularly used in a sense different from the above. We are in need of a word which has the same meaning as the German word, _Anschauung_, for which there is no popular equivalent in English. Intuition, as defined by Webster, is nearly the same: "direct apprehension, or cognition; immediate knowledge, as in perception or consciousness." For a discussion of this term, see Quick's Educational Reformers, p. 361, Appleton's edition. CHAPTER VI. APPERCEPTION. We have now to deal with a principle of pedagogy upon which all the leading ideas thus far discussed largely depend for their realization. Interest, concentration, and induction set up requirements relative to the matter, spirit and method of school studies. Apperception is a practical principle, obedience to which will contribute daily and hourly to making real in school exercises the ideas of interest, concentration and induction. We observe in passing that the important principles already discussed stand in close mutual relation and dependence. Interest aids concentration by bringing all kinds of knowledge into close touch with the feelings. Interest puts incentives into every kind of information so as to arouse the will, which, in turn, unifies and controls the mental actions. But concentration has a reflex influence upon interest, because unity and conscious mastery give added pleasure to knowledge. The culture epochs are expected to contribute powerfully to both concentration and interest; to the former by supplying a series of rallying-points for educative effort, to the latter by furnishing matter suited to interest children. Induction is a natural method of acquiring and unifying knowledge in an interesting way. Apperception, in turn, is a principle of mental action which puts life and interest into inductive and concentrating processes. Every hour of school labor illustrates the value of apperception and teachers should find in it a constant antidote to faulty methods. Apperception may be roughly defined at first as the process of _acquiring new ideas by the aid of old ideas_ already in the mind. It makes the acquisition of new knowledge easier and quicker. Not that there is any easy road to learning, but there is a natural process which greatly accelerates the progress of acquisition, just as it is better to follow a highway over a rough country than to betake one's self to the stumps and brush. For example, if one is familiar with peaches, apricots will be quickly understood as a kindred kind of fruit, even though a little strange. A person who is familiar with electrical machinery will easily interpret the meaning and purpose of every part of a new electrical plant. One may _perceive_ a new object without understanding it, but to _apperceive_ it is to interpret its meaning by the aid of similar familiar notions. If one examines a _typewriter_ for the first time, it will take some pains and effort to understand its construction and use; but after examining a Remington, another kind will be more easily understood, because the principle of the first interprets that of the second. Suppose the _Steppes of Russia_ are mentioned for the first time to a class. The word has little or no meaning or perhaps suggests erroneously a succession of stairs. But we remark that the steppes are like the prairies and plains to the west of the Mississippi river, covered with grass and fed on by herds. By awakening a familiar notion already in the mind and bringing it distinctly to the front, the new thing is easily understood. Again, a boy goes to town and sees a _banana_ for the first time, and asks, "What is that? I never saw anything like that." He thinks he has no class of things to which it belongs, no place to put it. His father answers that it is to eat like an orange or a pear, and its significance is at once plain by the reference to something familiar. Again, two men, the one a _machinist_ and the other an observer unskilled in machines, visit the machinery hall of an exposition. The machinist observes a new invention and finds in it a new application of an old principle. As he passes along from one machine to another he is much interested in noting new devices and novel appliances and at the end of an hour he leaves the hall with a mind enriched. The other observer sees the same machines and their parts, but does not detect the principle of their construction. His previous knowledge of machines is not sufficient to give him the clue to their explanation. After an hour of uninterested observation he leaves the hall with a confused notion of shafts, wheels, cogs, bands, etc., but with no greater insight into the principles of machinery. Why has one man learned so much and the other nothing? Because the machinist's previous experience served as an interpreter and explained these new contrivances, while the other had no sufficient previous knowledge and so acquired nothing new. "To him that hath shall be given." In the act of apperception the old ideas dwelling in the mind are not to be regarded as dead treasures stored away and only occasionally drawn out and used by a purposed effort of the memory, but they are _living forces_ which have the active power of seizing and appropriating new ideas. Lazarus says they stand "like well-armed men in the inner stronghold of the mind ready to sally forth and overcome or make serviceable whatever shows itself at the portals of sense." It is then through the active aid of familiar ideas that new things find an introduction to soul life. If old friends go out to meet the strangers and welcome them, there will be an easy entrance and a quick adoption into the new home. But frequently these old friends who stand in the background of our thoughts must be _awakened_ and called to the front. They must stand as it were on tiptoe ready to welcome the stranger. For if they lie asleep in the penetralia of the home the new comers may approach and pass by for lack of a welcome. It is often necessary, therefore, for the teacher to revive old impressions, to call up previously acquired knowledge and to put it in readiness to receive and welcome the new. The success with which this is done is often the difference between good and poor teaching. We might suppose that when two persons look at the same object they would get the _same impression_, but this is not true at all. Where one person faints with fright or emotion another sees nothing to be disturbed at. Two travelers come in sight of an old homestead. To one it is an object of absorbing interest as the home of his childhood; to the other it is much like any other old farm house. What is the cause of this difference? Not the house. It is the same in both cases. It is remarkable how much color is given to every idea that enters into the mind by the ideas already there. Some visitors at the World's Fair can tell almost at a glance to what states many of the buildings belong; other visitors must study this out on the maps and notices. One who is familiar with the history, architecture, and products of the different states is able to classify many of the buildings with ease. His previous knowledge of these states interprets their buildings. Mt. Vernon naturally belongs to Virginia, Independence Hall to Pennsylvania, John Hancock's house to Massachusetts. In a still more striking manner, a knowledge of foreign countries enables the observer to classify such buildings as the French, the German, the Swedish, the Japanese, etc. Again, in viewing any exhibit our enjoyment and appreciation depend almost entirely upon our previous knowledge, not upon our eye-sight or our physical endurance. Many objects of the greatest value we pass by with an indifferent glance because our previous knowledge is not sufficient to give us their meaning. If a dry goods merchant, a horse jockey, and an architect pass down a city street together, what will each observe? The merchant notices all the dry goods stores, their displays, and their favorable or unfavorable location. The jockey sees every horse and equipage; he forms a quiet but quick judgment upon every passing animal. The architect sees the buildings and style of construction. If in the evening each is called upon to give his observations for the day, the jockey talks of horses and describes some of the best specimens in detail; the merchant speaks of store-fronts and merchandise; the architect is full of elevations of striking or curious buildings. The architect and merchant remember nothing, perhaps, about the horses; the jockey nothing of stores or buildings. Three people may occupy the same pew in a church; the one can tell you all about the music, the second the good points in the sermon, and the third the style and becomingness of the bonnets and dresses. Each one sees what he has in his own mind. A teacher describes Yosemite Valley to a geography class. Some of the children construct a mental picture of a gorge with steep mountain sides, but no two pictures are alike; some have mental pictures that resemble nothing in heaven above or earth below; some have constructed----nothing at all! only the echo of a few spoken words. If the teacher, at the close of her description, could have the mental state of each child photographed on the blackboard of her schoolroom she would be in mental distress. In presenting such topics to children, much depends upon the previous content of their minds, upon the colors out of which they paint the pictures. We are now prepared for a more accurate _definition_ of apperception. "The transformation of a newer (weaker) concept by means of an older one surpassing the former in power and inner organization bears the name of apperception, in contrast to the unaltered reception of the same perception." (Lindner's Psychol. p. 124, trans. by De Garmo.) Lindner remarks further, "Apperception is the reaction of the old against the new--in it is revealed the preponderance which the older, firmer, and more self-contained concept groups have in contrast to the concepts which have just entered consciousness." Again, "It is _a kind of process of condensation of thought_ and brings into the mental life a certain stability and firmness, in that it subordinates new to older impressions, puts everything in its right place and in its right relation to the whole, and in this way works at that organic formation of our consciousness which we call _culture_." (Lindner p. 126.) "Apperception may be defined as that interaction between two similar ideas or thought-complexes in the course of which the weaker, unorganized, isolated idea or thought-complex is incorporated into the richer, better digested, and more firmly compacted one." (Lange, Apperception, p. 13.) Oftentimes, therefore, older ideas or thought masses, being clear, strong, and well-digested receive a new impression to modify and appropriate it. This is especially true where opinions have been carefully formed after thought and deliberation. A well-trained political economist, for example, when approaching a new theory or presentation of it by a George or Bellamy, meets it with all the resources of a well-stored, thoughtful mind; and admits it, if at all, in a modified form to his system of thought. Sometimes, however, a new theory, which strikes the mind with great clearness and vigor, is able to make a powerful assault upon previous opinions, and perhaps modify or overturn them. This is the more apt to be the case if one's previous ideas have been weak and undecided. In the interaction between the old and new the latter then become the apperceiving forces. Upon the untrained or poorly-equipped mind a strong argument has a more decisive effect than it may justly deserve. As we noticed above, new ideas, especially those coming directly through the senses, are often more vivid and attractive than similar old ones. For this reason they usually occupy greater attention and prominence at first than later, when the old ideas have begun to revive and reassert themselves. Old ideas usually have the advantage over the new in being better organized, more closely connected in series and groups; and having been often repeated, they acquire a certain permanent ascendency in the thoughts. In this interaction between similar notions, old and new, the differences at first arrest attention, then gradually sink into the background, while the stronger points of resemblance begin to monopolize the thought and bind the notions into a unity. The use of familiar notions in acquiring an insight into new things is a _natural tendency_ or drift of the mind. As soon as we see something new and desire to understand it, at once we involuntarily begin to ransack our old stock of ideas to discover anything in our previous experience which corresponds to this or is like it. For whatever is like it or has an analogy to it, or serves the same uses, will explain this new thing, though the two objects be in other points essentially different. We are, in short, constantly falling back upon our old experiences and classifications for the explanation of new objects that appear to us. So far is this true that the _most ordinary things_ can only be explained in the light of experience. When John Smith wrote a note to his companions at Jamestown, and thus communicated his desires to them, it was unintelligible to the Indians. They had no knowledge of writing and looked on the marks as magical. When _Columbus' ships_ first appeared on the cost of the new world, the natives looked upon them as great birds. They had never seen large sailing vessels. To vary the illustration, the _art of reading_, so easy to a student, is the accumulated result of a long collection of knowledge and experience. There is an unconscious employment of apperception in the practical affairs of life that is of interest. We often see a person at a distance and by some slight characteristic of motion, form, or dress, recognize him at once. From this slight trace we picture to ourselves the person in full and say we saw him in the street. Sitting in my room at evening I hear the regular passenger train come in. The noise alone suggests the engine, cars, conductor, passengers, and all the train complete. As a matter of fact I saw nothing at all but have before my mind the whole picture. On Sunday morning I see some one enter a familiar church door, and going on my way the whole picture of church, congregation, pastor, music and sermon come distinctly to my mind. Only a passing glance at one person entering suggests the whole scene. In looking at a varied landscape we see many things which the sensuous eye alone would not detect, distances, perspective and relative size, position and nature of objects. This apperceptive power is of vast importance in practical life as it leads to quick judgment and action, when personal examinations into details would be impossible. In apperception we never pass from the known to things which are _entirely new_. Absolutely new knowledge is gained by perception or intuition. When an older person meets with something totally new, he either does not notice it or it staggers him. Apperception does not take place. In many cases we are disturbed or frightened, as children, by some new or sudden noise or object. But most so-called new things bear sufficient resemblance to things seen before to admit of explanation. Strange as the sights of a Chinese city might appear, we should still know that we were in a city. In most "new" objects of observation or study, the familiar parts greatly preponderate over the unfamiliar. In a new reading lesson, for example, most of the words and ideas are well known, only an occasional word requires explanation and that by using familiar illustrations. The flood of our familiar and oft-repeated ideas sweeps on like a great river, receiving here and there from either side a tributary stream, that is swallowed up in its waters without perceptible increase. So strong is the apperceiving force of familiar notions that they drag far-distant scenes in geography and history into the home neighborhood and locate them there. The _imagination_ works in conjunction with the apperceiving faculty and constructs real pictures. Children are otherwise inclined to substitute one thing for another by imagination. With boys and girls, geographical objects about home are often converted by fancy into representatives of distant places. It is related of _Byron_ that while reading in childhood the story of the Trojan war, he localized all the places in the region of his home. An old hill and castle looking toward the plain and the sea were his Troy. The stream flowing through the plain was the Simois. The places of famous conflicts between the Trojans and Greeks were located. So vivid were the pictures which these home scenes gave to the child, that years later in visiting Asia Minor and the sight of the real Troy, he was not so deeply impressed as in his boyhood. A _German professor_ relates that he and his companions, while reading the Indian stories of Cooper, located the important scenes in the hills and valleys about Eisenach in the Thuringian mountains. Many other illustrations of the same imaginative tendency to substitute home objects for foreign ones are given. But whether or not this experience is true of us all, it is certain that we can form no idea of foreign places and events except as we _construct_ the pictures out of the _fragments_ of things that we have known. What we have seen of rivers, lands, and cities must form the materials for picturing to ourselves distant places. Since the old ideas have so much to do with the proper reception of the new, let us examine more closely the _interaction_ of the two. If a _new idea_ drops into the mind, like a stone upon the surface of the water, it produces a commotion. It acts as a stimulus or wakener to the old ideas sleeping beneath the surface. It draws them up above the surface-level; that is, into consciousness. But what ideas are thus disturbed? There are thousands of these latent ideas, embryonic thoughts, beneath the surface. Those which possess sufficient kinship to this new-comer to hear his call, respond. For in the mind "birds of a feather flock together." Ideas and thoughts which resemble the new one answer, the others sleep on undisturbed, except a few who are so intimately associated with these kinsmen as to be disturbed when they are disturbed. Or, to state it differently, certain thought-groups or complexes, which contain elements kindred to the new notion, are agitated and raised into conscious thought. They seem to respond to their names. The new idea may continue for some time to stimulate and agitate. There appears to be a sort of telegraphic inquiry through the regions of the mind to find out where the kindred dwell. The distant relatives and strangers (the unrelated or unserviceable ideas) soon discover that they have responded to the wrong call and drop back to sleep again. But the real kindred wake up more and more. They come forward to inspect the new-comer and to examine his credentials. Soon he finds that he is surrounded by inquisitive friends and relatives. They threaten even to take possession of him. Up to this point the new idea has taken the lead, he has been the aggressor. But now is the time for the awakened kindred ideas to assume control and lead the stranger captive, to bring him in among themselves and give him his appropriate place and importance. The _old body of ideas_, when once set in motion, is more powerful than any single-handed stranger who happens to fall into their company. The outcome is that the stranger, who at first seemed to be producing such a sensation, now discovers that strong arms are about him and he is carried captive by vigorous friends. New ideas when first entering the mind are very strong, and, if they come through the senses, are especially rich in the color and vigor of real life. They therefore absorb the attention at first and seem to monopolize the mental energies; but the older thought masses, when fully aroused, are better organized, more firmly rooted in habit, and possess much wider connections. They are almost certain, therefore, to apperceive the new idea; that is, to conquer and subdue it, to make it tributary to their power. Let us examine more closely the _effect_ of the process of apperception upon the new and old ideas that are brought in contact. First, observe the effect upon the _new_: Many an idea which is not strong enough in itself to make a lasting impression, upon the mind would quickly fade out and be forgotten were it not that in this process the old ideas throw it into a clear light, give it more meaning, associate it closely with themselves, and thus save it. Two persons look at the sword of Washington; one examines it with deep interest, the other scarcely gives it a second glance. The one remembers it for life, the other forgets it in an hour. The sense perception was the same in both persons at first, but the reception given to the idea by one converts it into a lasting treasure. A little lamp-black, rolled up between finger and thumb, suggested to Edison his carbon points for the electric light. A piece of lamp-black would produce no such effect in most peoples minds. The difference is in the reception accorded to an idea. The meaning and importance of an idea or event depend upon the interpretation put upon it by our previous experience. "Many a weak, obscure, and fleeting perception would pass almost unnoticed into obscurity, did not the additional activity of apperception hold it fast in consciousness. This sharpens the senses, _i.e._, it gives to the organs of sense a greater degree of energy, so that the watching eye now sees, and the listening ear now hears, that which ordinarily would pass unnoticed. The events of apperception give to the senses a peculiar keenness, which underlies the skill of the money-changer in detecting a counterfeit among a thousand bank-notes, notwithstanding its deceptive similarity; of the jeweler who marks the slightest, apparently imperceptible, flaw in an ornament; of the physicist who perceives distinctly the overtones of a vibrating string. According to this we see and hear not only with the eye and ear, but quite as much with the help of our present knowledge, with the apperceiving content of the mind." (Apperception, Lange, De Garmo, p. 21.) Some even intelligent and sensible people can walk through Westminster Abbey and see nothing but a curious old church with a few graves and monuments. To a person well-versed in English history and literature it is a shrine of poets, a temple of heroes, the common resting-place of statesmen and kings. Secondly, what is the _effect on the old ideas_? Every idea that newly enters the mind produces changes in the older groups and series of thought. Any one new idea may cause but slight changes, but the constant influx of new experiences works steadily at a modification and rearrangement of our previous stores of thought. Faulty and incomplete groups and concepts are corrected or enlarged; that is, changed from psychical into logical notions. Children are surprised to find little flowers on the oaks, maples, walnuts, and other large forest trees. On account of the small size of the blossoms, heretofore unnoticed, they had not thought of the great trees as belonging to the flowering plants. Their notion of flowering plants is, therefore, greatly enlarged by a few new observations. The bats flying about in the twilight have been regarded as birds; but a closer inspection shows that they belong to another class, and the notion bird must be limited. As already observed in the discussion of induction, most of our psychical notions are thus faulty and incomplete; _e.g._, the ideas fruit, fish, star, insect, mineral, ship, church, clock, dog, kitchen, library, lawyer, city, etc. Our notions of these and of hundreds of other such classes are at first both incomplete and faulty. The inflow of new ideas constantly modifies them, extending, limiting, explaining, and correcting our previous concepts. Sometimes, however, a single new thought may have wide-reaching effects; it may even revolutionize one's previous modes of thinking and reorganize one's activities about a new center. With Luther, for instance, the idea of justification by faith was such a new and potent force, breaking up and rearranging his old forms of thought. St. Paul's vision on the way to Damascus is a still more striking illustration of the power of a new idea or conviction. And yet, even in such cases, the old ideas reassert themselves with great persistence and power. Luther and St. Paul remained, even after these great changes, in many respects the same kind of men as before. Their old habits of thinking were modified, not destroyed; the direction of their lives was changed, but many of their habits and characteristics remained almost unaltered. Apperception, however, is not limited to the effects of _external objects_ upon us, to the influence of ideas coming from without upon our old stores of knowledge. Old ideas, long since stored in the mind, may be freshly called up and brought into such contact with each other that new results follow, new apperceptions take place. In moments of reflection we are often surprised by conclusions that had not presented themselves to us before. A new light dawns upon us and we are surprised at not having seen it before. In fact, it makes little difference whether the idea suggested to the mind comes from within or from without if, when it once enters fairly into consciousness, it has power to stimulate other thoughts, to wake up whole thought complexes and bring about a process of action and reaction between itself and others. The result is new associations, new conclusions, new mental products--apperceptions. This _inner apperception_, as it has been sometimes called, takes place constantly when we are occupied with our own thoughts, rather than with external impressions. With persons of deep, steady, reflective habits, it is the chief means of organizing their mental stores. The feelings and the will have much also to do with this process. The laws of association draw the _feelings_ as much as the intellectual states into apperceptive acts. I hear of a friend who has had disasters in business and has lost his whole fortune. If I have never experienced such difficulties myself, the chances are that the news will not make a deep impression upon me. But if I have once gone through the despondency of such a crushing defeat, sympathy for my friend will be awakened, and I may feel his trouble almost as my own. The meaning of such an item of news depends upon the response which it finds in my own feelings. It is well known that those friends can best sympathize with us in our trouble who have passed through the same troubles. Even enemies are not lacking in sympathy with each other when an appeal is made to deep feelings and experiences common to both. The feeling of _interest_, which we have emphasized so much, is chiefly, if not wholly, dependent upon apperceptive conditions. Select a lesson adapted to the age and understanding of a child, present it in such a way as to recall and make use of his previous experience, and interest is certain to follow. The outcome of a successful act of apperception is always a feeling of pleasure, or at least of interest. When the principle of apperception is fully applied in teaching, the progress from one point to another is so gradual and clear that it gives pleasure. The clearness and understanding with which we receive knowledge adds greatly to our interest in it. On the contrary, when apperception is violated, and new knowledge is only half understood and assimilated there can be but little feeling of satisfaction. "The overcoming of certain difficulties, the accession of numerous ideas, the success of the act of knowledge or recognition, the greater clearness that the ideas have gained, awaken a feeling of pleasure. We become conscious of the growth of our knowledge and power of understanding. The significance of this new impression for our ego is now more strongly felt than at the beginning or during the course of the progress. To this pleasurable feeling is easily added the effort, at favorable opportunity, to reproduce the product of the apperception, to supplement and deepen it, to unite it to other ideas, and so further to extend certain chains of thought. The summit or sum of these states of mind we happily express with the word interest. For in reality the feeling of self appears between the various stages of the process of apperception (_inter esse_); with one's whole soul does one contemplate the object of attention. If we regard the acquired knowledge as the objective result of apperception, interest must be regarded as the subjective side." (Lange, Apperception, page 19.) Finally, the _will_ has much to do with conscious efforts at apperception. It holds the thought to certain groups; it excludes or pushes back irrelevant ideas that crowd in; it holds to a steady comparison of ideas, even where perplexity and obscurity trouble the thinker. When the process of reaching a conclusion takes much time, when conflict or contradiction have to be removed or adjusted, when reflection and reasoning are necessary, the will is of great importance in giving coherency and steadiness to the apperceptive effort. A conscious effort at apperception, therefore, may include many elements, sense perceptions, ideas recalled, feeling, _will_. "Let us now sum up the essentials in the process of apperception. First of all, an external or internal perception, an idea, or idea-complex appears in consciousness, finding more or less response in the mind; that is, giving rise to greater or less stimulation to thought and feeling. "In consequence of this, and in accordance with the psychical mechanism or an impulse of the will, one or more groups of thoughts arise, which enter into relation to the perception. While the two masses are compared with one another, they work upon one another with more or less of a transforming power. New thought-combinations are formed, until, finally, the perception is adjusted to the stronger and older thought combination. In this way all the factors concerned gain in value as to knowledge and feeling; especially, however, does the new idea gain a clearness and activity that it never would have gained for itself. _Apperception is, therefore, that psychical activity by which individual perceptions, ideas, or idea-complexes are brought into relation to our previous intellectual and emotional life, assimilated with it, and thus raised to greater clearness, activity, and significance._" (Lange, Apperception, page 41.) Important _conclusions_ drawn from a study of apperception: 1. _Value of previous knowledge_. If knowledge once acquired is so _valuable_ we are first of all urged to make the acquisition permanent. Thorough mastery and frequent reviews are necessary to make knowledge stick. Careless and superficial study is injurious. It is sometimes carelessly remarked by those who are supposed to be wise in educational matters that it makes no difference how much we forget if we only have proper drill and training to study. That is, how we study is more important than what we learn. But viewed in the light of apperception, acquired knowledge should be retained and used, for it unlocks the door to more knowledge. _Thorough mastery and retention_ of the elements of knowledge in the different branches is the only solid road to progress. In this connection we can see the importance of learning only what is _worth remembering_, what will prove a valuable treasure in future study. In the selection of material for school studies, therefore, we must keep in mind knowledge which, as Comenius says, is of _solid utility_. Having once selected and acquired such materials, we are next impelled to make _constant use_ of them. If the acquisition of new information depends so much upon the right use of previous knowledge, we are called upon to build constantly upon this foundation. This is true whether the child's knowledge has been acquired at school or at home. In order to make things clear and interesting to boys and girls we must refer every day to what they have before learned in school and out of school. Again, if we accept the doctrine that old ideas are the materials out of which we constantly build _bridges_ across into new fields of knowledge, we must _know the children_ better and what store of knowledge they have already acquired. Just as an army marching into a new country must know well the country through which it has passed and must keep open the line of communication and the base of supplies, so the student must always have a safe retreat into his past, and a base of supplies to sustain him in his onward movements. The tendency is very strong for a grade teacher to think that she needs to know nothing except the facts to be acquired in her own grade. But she should remember that her grade is only a station on the highway to learning and life. In teaching we cannot by any shift dispense with the ideas children have gained at home, at play, in the school and outside of it. This, in connection with what the child has learned in the previous grades, constitutes a stock of ideas, a capital, upon which the teacher should freely draw in illustrating daily lessons. 2. The use of our acquired stock of ideas involves a constant _working over_ of old ideas, and this working-over process not only reviews and strengthens past knowledge, keeping it from forgetfulness, but it throws new light upon it and exposes it to a many-sided criticism. In the first place familiar ideas should not be allowed to rest in the mind _unused_. Like tools for service they must be kept bright and sharp. One reason why so many of the valuable ideas we have acquired have gradually disappeared from the mind is because they remained so long unused that they faded out of sight. The old saying that "repetition is the mother of studies" needs to be recalled and emphasized. By being put in contact, with new ideas, old notions are seen and appreciated in new relations. Facts that have long lain unexplained in the mind, suddenly receive a _new interpretation_, a vivid and rational meaning. Or the old meaning is intensified and vivified by putting a new fact in conjunction with it. Where the climate and products of the British Isles have been studied in political geography, and later on, in physical geography, the gulf stream is explained in its bearings on the climate of western Europe, the whole subject of the climate of England is viewed from a new and interesting standpoint. In arithmetic, where the sum of the squares of the two sides of a right-angled triangle is illustrated by an example and later on in geometry the same proposition is taken up in a different way and proved as a universal theorem, new and interesting light is thrown upon an old problem of arithmetic. In _United States history_, after the Revolution has been studied, the biography of a man like Samuel Adams throws much additional and vivid light upon the events and actors in Boston and Massachusetts. The life of John Adams would give a still different view of the same great events; just as a city, as seen from different standpoints, presents different aspects. 3. We have thus far shown that new ideas are more easily understood and assimilated when they are brought into close contact with what we already know; and secondly, that our old knowledge is often explained and illuminated by new facts brought to bear upon it. We may now observe the result of this double action--_the welding_ of old and new into one piece, the close mingling and association of all our knowledge, _i.e._, its unity. Apperception, therefore, has the same final tendency that was observed in the _inductive process_, the unification of knowledge, the concentration of all experience by uniting its parts into groups and series. The smith, in welding together two pieces of iron, heats both and then hammers them together into one piece. The teacher has something similar to do. He must revive old ideas in the child's mind, then present the new facts and bring the two things together while they are still fresh, so as to cause them to coalesce. To prove this observe how long division may be best taught. Call up and review the method of short division, then proceed to work a problem in long division calling attention to the similar steps and processes in the two, and finally to the difference between them. The defect of much teaching in children's classes is that the _teacher_ does not properly provide for the welding together of the new and old. The important practical question after all is whether instructors see to it that children recall their previous knowledge. It is necessary to take special pains in this. Nothing is more common than to find children forgetting the very thing which, if remembered, would explain the difficult point in the lesson. Teachers are often surprised that children have forgotten things once learned. But, in an important sense, we encourage children to forget by not calling into use their acquisitions. Lessons are learned too much, each by itself, without reference to what precedes or what follows, or what effect this lesson of to-day may have upon things learned a year ago. Putting it briefly, children and teachers do not _think_ enough, pondering things over in their minds, relating facts with each other, and bringing all knowledge into unity, and into a clear comprehension. The habit of _thoughtfulness_, engendered by a proper combining of old and new, is one of the valuable results of a good education. It gives the mind a disposition to glance backward or forward, to judge of all old ideas from a broader, more intelligent standpoint. Thinking everything over in the light of the best experience we can bring to bear upon it, prevents us from jumping at conclusions. The general _plan of all studies_ is based upon this notion of acquiring knowledge by the assistance of accumulated funds. In _Arithmetic_ it would be folly to begin with long division before the multiplication table is learned. In _Geometry_, later propositions depend upon earlier principles and demonstrations. In _Latin_, vocabularies and inflections and syntactical relations must be mastered before readiness in the use of language is reached. And so it is to a large degree in the general plan of all studies. In spite of this no principle is more commonly violated in daily recitations than that of apperception. Its value is self-evident as a principle for the arrangement of topics in any branch of study, but it is overlooked in daily lessons. Instead of this new knowledge is acquired by a thoughtless memory drill. In this welding process we desire to determine how far an actual concentration may take place _between school studies_ and _the home and outside life of children_. The stock of ideas and feelings which a child from its infancy has gathered from its peculiar history and home surroundings is the primitive basis of its personality. Its thought, feeling, and individuality are deeply interwoven with home experience. No other set of ideas, later acquired, lies so close to its heart or is so abiding in its memory. The memory of work and play at home; of the house, yard, trees, and garden; of parents, brothers, and sisters, and in addition to this the experiences connected with neighbors and friends, the town and surrounding country, the church and its influence, the holidays, games, and celebrations, all these things lie deeper in the minds of children than the facts learned about grammar, geography, or history in school. Any plan of education that ignores these home-bred ideas, these events, memories, and sympathies of home and neighborhood life, will make a vital mistake. A concentration that keeps in mind only the school studies and disregards the rich funds of ideas that every child brings from his home, must be a failure, because it only includes the weaker half of his experience. Home knowledge itself does not need to be made a concentrating center, but all its best materials must be drawn into the concentrating center of the school. But children bring many faulty, mistaken, and even vicious ideas from their homes. It is well to know the actual situation. It is the work of the school, at every step, while receiving, to correct, enlarge, or arrange the faulty or disordered knowledge brought into the school by children. We unconsciously use these materials, and depend upon them for explaining new lessons, more constantly than we are aware of. In fact, if we were wise teachers, we would consciously make a more frequent use of them and, in order to render them more valuable, take special pains to review, correct, and arrange them. We would teach children to observe more closely and to remember better the things they daily see. We shall appreciate better the value of _home knowledge_ if we take note of the direct and constant dependence of the most important studies upon it. We usually think of history as something far away in New England, or France, or Egypt. History is mainly the study of the actions, customs, homes, and institutions of men in different countries. But what an abundance of similar facts and observations a child has gathered about home before he begins the study of history. From his infancy he has seen people of all sorts and conditions, rich and poor, ignorant and learned, honorable and mean. He has seen all sorts of human actions, learned to know their meaning and to pass judgment upon them. He has seen houses, churches, public buildings, trade and commerce, and a hundred human institutions. The child has been studying human actions and institutions in the concrete for a dozen years before he begins to read and recite history from books. Without the knowledge thus acquired out of school, society, government, and institutions would be worse than Greek. Geography as taught in the books would be totally foreign and strange but for the abundance of ideas the child has already picked up about hills, streams, roads, travel, storms, trees, animals, and people. Natural science lessons must be based on a more careful study of things already seen about home--rocks and streams, flowers and plants, animals wild and tame. These with the forests, fields, brooks, seasons, tools, and inventions, are the necessary object lessons in natural science which can serve daily to illustrate other lessons. How near then do the natural science topics, geography and history, stand to the daily home life of a child! How intimate should be the relations which the school should establish between the parts of a child's experience! This is concentration in the broadest sense. A proper appreciation of this principle will save us from a number of common errors. Besides constantly associating home and school knowledge, we shall try to know the home and parents better, and the disposition and surroundings of each child. We shall be ready at any time to render home knowledge more clear and accurate, to correct faulty observation and opinion. While the children will be encouraged to illustrate lessons from their own experience, we shall fall into the excellent habit of explaining new and difficult points by a direct appeal to what the pupils have seen and understood. In short, there will be a disposition to draw into the concentrating work of the school all the deeper but outside life-experiences which form so important an element in the character of every person, which, however, teachers so often overlook. No other institution has such an opportunity or power to concentrate knowledge and experience as the school. 4. Another valuable educative result of apperception, cultivated in this manner, is a _consciousness of power_ which springs from the ability to make a good use of our knowledge. The oftener children become aware that they have made a good use of acquired knowledge, the more they are encouraged. They see the treasure growing in their hands and feel conscious of their ability to use it. There is a mental exhilaration like that coming from abundant physical strength and health. "Let us look back again at the results of our investigation. We observed first what essential services apperception performs for the human mind in the acquisition of new ideas, and for what an extraordinary easement and unburdening the acquiring soul is indebted to it. Should apperception once fail, or were it not implied in the very nature of our minds, we should, in the reception of sense-impressions, daily expend as much power as the child in its earliest years, since the perpetually changing objects of the external world would nearly always appear strange and new. We should gain the mastery of external things more slowly and painfully, and arrive much later at a certain conclusion of our external experience than we do now, and thereby remain perceptibly behind in our mental development. Like children with their A B C, we should be forced to take careful note of each word, and not, as now, allow ourselves actually to perceive only a few words in each sentence. In a word, without apperception our minds, with strikingly greater and more exhaustive labor, would attain relatively smaller results. Indeed, we are seldom conscious of the extent to which our perception is supported by apperception; of how it releases the senses from a large part of their labor, so that in reality we listen usually with half an ear or with a divided attention; nor, on the other hand, do we ordinarily reflect that apperception lends the sense organs a greater degree of energy, so that they perceive with greater sharpness and penetration than were otherwise possible. We do not consider that apperception spares us the trouble of examining ever anew and in small detail all the objects and phenomena that present themselves to us, so as to get their meaning, or that it thus prevents our mental power from scattering and from being worn out with wearisome, fruitless detail labors. The secret of its extraordinary success lies in the fact that it refers the new to the old, the strange to the familiar, the unknown to the known, that which is not comprehended to what is already understood and thus constitutes a part of our mental furniture; that it transforms the difficult and unaccustomed into the accustomed and causes us to grasp everything new by means of old-time, well-known, ideas. Since, then, it accomplishes great and unusual results by small means, in so far as it reserves for the soul the greatest amount of power for other purposes, it agrees with the general principle of the least expenditure of force, or with that of the best adaptability of means to ends. "As in the reception of new impressions, so also in working over and developing the previously acquired content of the mind, the helpful work of apperception shows itself. By connecting isolated things with mental groups already formed, and by assigning to the new its proper place among them, apperception not only increases the clearness and definiteness of ideas, but knits them more firmly to our consciousness. _Apperceiving ideas are the best aids to memory_. Again, so often as it subordinates new impressions to older ones, it labors at the association and articulation of the manifold materials of perception and thought. By condensing the content of observation and thinking into concepts and rules, or general experiences and principles, or ideals and general notions, apperception produces connection and order in our knowledge and volition. With its assistance there spring up those universal thought complexes, which, distributed to the various fields to which they belong, appear as logical, linguistic, aesthetic, moral, and religious norms or principles. If these acquire a higher degree of value for our feelings, if we find ourselves heartily attached to them, so that we prefer them to all those things which are contradictory, if we bind them to our own self, they will thus become powerful mental groups, which spring up independent of the psychical mechanism as often as kindred ideas appear in the mind. In the presence of these they now make manifest their apperceiving power. We measure and estimate them now according to universal laws. They are, so to speak, the eyes and hand of the will, with which, regulating and supplementing, rejecting and correcting, it lays a grasp upon the content as well as upon the succession of ideas. They hinder the purely mechanical flow of thought and desire, and our involuntary absorption in external impressions and in the varied play of fancy. We learn how to control religious impulses by laws, to rule thoughts by thoughts. In the place of the mechanical, appears the regulated course of thinking; in the place of the psychical rule of caprice, the monarchical control of higher laws and principles, and the spontaneity of the ego as the kernel of the personality. By the aid of apperception, therefore, we are lifted gradually from psychical bondage to mental and moral freedom. And now when ideal norms are apperceivingly active in the field of knowledge and thought, of feeling and will, when they give laws to the psychical mechanism, true culture is attained." (Lange's Apperception, edited by DeGarmo, p. 99, etc.) NOTE.--The freedom with which we quote extensively from Lange is an acknowledgement of the importance of his treatise. We are indebted to it throughout for many of the ideas treated. CHAPTER VII. THE WILL. We have now completed the discussion of the concept-bearing or inductive process in learning and apperception, and find that they both tend to the unifying of knowledge and to the awakening of interest. It remains to be seen how the will may be brought into activity and placed in command of the resources of the mind. The _will_ is that power of the mind which chooses, decides, and controls action. According to psychology there are three distinct activities of the mind, _knowing_, _feeling_, and _willing_. These three powers are related to one another on a basis of equality, and yet the will should become the _monarch of the mind_. It is expected that all the other activities of the mind will be brought into subjection to the will. For strong _character_ resides in the will. Strength of character depends entirely upon the mastery which the will has acquired over the life; and _the formation of character_, as shown in a strong moral will, is the highest aim of education. The _great problem_ for us to solve is: 1. How far can teaching stimulate and develop such a will? There is an apparent contradiction in saying that the _will_ is the monarch of the mind, the power which must control and subject all the other powers; and yet that it can be trained, educated, moulded, and chiefly too by a proper cultivation of the other powers, _feeling_ and _knowing_. Knowledge and feeling, while they are subject to the will, still constitute its strength, just as the soldiers and officers of an army are subject to a commander and yet make him powerful. We shall first notice the dependence of the will upon the _knowing_ faculty. It is an old saying "that knowledge is power." But it is power only as a strong will is able to convert knowledge into action. Before the will can _decide_ to do any given act it must see its way clearly. It must at least believe in the possibility. _In trying to get across a stream_, for example, if one can not swim and there is no bridge nor boat nor means of making one, the will can not act. It is helpless. The will must be shown the way to its aims or they are impossible. The more clear and distinct our knowledge, the better we can lay our plans and _will_ to carry them out. It would be impossible for one of us _to will_ to run a steam engine from Chicago to St. Paul to-day. We don't know how, and we should not be permitted to try. In every field of action we must have knowledge, and clear knowledge, before the will can act to good advantage. It is only knowledge, or at least faith in the possibility of accomplishing an undertaking, that opens the way to will. Much successful _experience_ in any line of work brings increasing confidence and the will is greatly strengthened, because one knows that certain actions are possible. The simple acquisition of facts therefore, the increase of knowledge so long as it is well digested, makes it possible for the will to act with greater energy in various directions. The more clear this knowledge is, the more thoroughly it is cemented, together in its parts and subject to control, the greater and more effective can be the will action. All the knowledge we may acquire can be used by the will in planning and carrying out its purposes. Knowledge, therefore, derived from all sources, is a _means_ used by the will, and increases the possibilities of its action. But, secondly, there are found still more immediate means of stimulating and strengthening the will, namely, in the _feelings_. The feelings are more closely related to will than knowledge, at least in the sense of cause and effect. There is a gradual transition from the feelings up to will, as follows: interest in an object, inclination, desire and purpose, or will to secure it. We might say that will is only the final link in the chain, and the feelings and desires lead up to and produce the act of willing. Even will itself has been called a feeling by some psychologists and classed with the feelings. But the thing in which we are now most concerned is how to reach and strengthen the will through the feelings. Some of the feelings which powerfully influence the will are desire of approbation, ambition, love of knowledge, appreciation of the beautiful and the good; or, on the other side, rivalry, envy, hate, and ill-will. Now, it is clear that a cultivation of the feelings and emotions is possible which may strongly influence the purposes and decisions of the will, either in the right or wrong direction. It is just at this point that education is capable of a vigorous influence in moulding the character of a child. The cultivation of the _six interests_ already mentioned is little else than a cultivation of the great classes of feeling, for interest always contains a strong element of feeling. It is certain in any case that a child's, and eventually a man's will, is to be guided largely by his feelings. Whether any _care is taken_ in education or not, feeling, good or bad, is destined to guide the will. Most people, as we know, are too much influenced by their feelings. This is apparent in the adage, "Think twice before you speak." Feelings of malice and ill-will, of revenge and envy, of dislike and jealously, get the control in many lives, because they have been permitted to grow and nothing better has been put in their place. The teacher by _selecting the proper materials_ of study is able to cultivate and strengthen such feelings as sympathy and kindliness toward others; appreciation of brave, unselfish acts in others; the feeling of generosity, charity, and a forgiving spirit; a love for honesty and uprightness; a desire and ambition for knowledge in many directions. On the other hand, the teacher may gently instill a _dislike_ for cowardice, meanness, selfishness, laziness, and envy, and bring the child to master and control these evil dispositions. Not only is it possible to cultivate those feelings which we may summarize as the love of the virtues and develop a dislike and turning away from vices, but this work of cultivating the feelings may be carried on so systematically that great _habits_ of feeling are formed, and these habits become the very strongholds of character. They are the forces acting upon the will and guiding its choice. It is _freedom of the will_ to chose the best that we are after. We desire to limit the choice of the will if possible to good things. We desire to make the character so strong and so noble and consistent in its desires that it will not be strongly tempted by evil. The will in the end, while it controls all the life and action, is itself under the guidance of those _habits_ of thought and feeling that have been gradually formed. Sully says, "Thus it is feeling that ultimately supplies the stimulus or force to volition and intellect which guides or illumines it." A study of the will in its relation to knowledge and feeling reveals that the training and development of the will depend upon _exercise_ and upon _instruction_. There are two ways of exercising will power. First, by requiring it to obey authority promptly and to control the body and the mind at the direction of another. The discipline of a school may exert a strong influence upon pupils in teaching them concentration and will power under the direction of another. Especially is this true in lower grades. Children in the first grade have but little power or habit of concentrating the attention. The will of the teacher, combined with her tact, must aid in developing the energies of the will in these little ones. The primary value of quick obedience in school, of exact discipline in marching, rising, etc., is twofold. It secures the necessary orderliness and it trains the will. Even in higher and normal schools such a perfect discipline has a great value in training to alertness and quickness of apprehension associated with action. Secondly, by the training of the mind to freedom of action, to _self-activity_, to independence. As soon as children begin to develop the power of thought and action their self-activity should be encouraged. Even in the lowest grades the beginnings may be made. An _aim_ may be set before them which they are to reach by their own efforts. For example, let a class in the first reader be asked to make a list of all the words in the last two lessons containing _th_, or _oi_, or some other combination. _Activity_ rather than repose is the nature of children, and even in the kindergarten this activity is directed to the attainment of definite ends. With number work in the first grade the objects should be handled by the children, the letters made, rude drawings sketched, so as to give play to their active powers as well as to lead them on to confidence in doing, to an increase of self-activity. As children grow older, the problems set before them, the aims held out, should be more difficult. Of course they should be of _interest_ to the child, so that it will have an impulse and desire of its own to reach them. There are few things so valuable as setting up _definite aims_ before children and then supplying them with incentives to reach them through their own efforts. It has been often supposed that the only way to do this is to use _reference books_, to study up the lesson or some topics of it outside of the regular order. But self-activity is by no means limited to such outside work. A child's self-activity may be often aroused by the manner of studying a simple lesson from a text-book. When a reading or geography lesson is so studied that the pupil thoroughly sifts the piece, hunts down the thought till he is certain of its meaning; when all the previous knowledge the pupil can command is brought to bear upon this, to throw light upon it; when the dictionary and any other books familiar to the child are studied for the sake of reference and explanation, self-activity is developed. Whenever the disposition can be stimulated to look at a fact or statement from _more than one standpoint_, to _criticise_ it even, to see how true it is, or if there are exceptions, self-activity is cultivated. The pursuit of definite aims always calls out the will and their satisfactory attainment strengthens one's confidence in his ability to succeed. Every step should be toward a clearly seen aim. At least this is our ideal in working with children. They should not be led on blindly from one point to another, but try to reach definite results. There is a gradual _transition_ in the course of a child's schooling from training of the will under guidance to its independent exercise. Throughout the school course there must be much obedience and will effort under the guidance of one in authority. But there should be a gradual increase of self-activity and self-determination. When the pupil leaves school he should be prepared to launch out and pursue his own aims with success. Will effort, however, to be valuable, must have its roots in those _moral convictions_ which it is the chief aim of the school to foster and strengthen. We have attempted to show in the preceding chapters how the central subject matter of the school could be chosen, and the other studies concentrated about it with a view to accomplishing this result. In concluding our discussion of general principles of education, and in summing up the results, basing our reasoning upon psychology, we are always forced to the conclusion that education aims at the _will_, and more particularly at the will as influenced and guided by moral ideas. This is the same as saying that we have completed the circle and come around to our starting point, that _moral character is the chief aim of education_. Teachers who are interested in this phase of pedagogy will do well to study the _science of ethics_. Not that it will much aid them directly in school work, but it will at least give them a more comprehensive and definite notion of the field of morals and perhaps indicate more clearly where the _materials_ of moral education are to be sought, and the leading ideas to be emphasized. Herbart projected a system of ethics, based on psychology, with the intention of classifying the chief moral notions and of showing their relation to each other. He also developed a theory of the _origin_ of moral ideas and their best means of cultivation, and then based his system of pedagogy upon it. The chief classes of ethical ideas of Herbart are briefly explained as follows: 1. _Good will_. It is manifested in the sympathy we feel for the sorrow or joy of another person. It is illustrated by the example of Sidney and Howard already cited. 2. _Legal right_. It serves to avoid strife by some agreement or established rule; _e.g._, the government of the United States fixes the law for pre-empting land and for homestead claims so that no two persons can lay claim to the same piece of land. 3. _Justice_, as expressed by reward or punishment. When a person purposely does an injury to another, all men unite in the judgment, "He must be punished." Likewise, if a kind act is done to anyone, we insist upon a return of gratitude at least. 4. _Perfection of will_. This implies that the will is strong enough to resist all opposition. David's will to go out and meet Goliath was perfect. A boy desires to get his lesson, but indolence and the love of play are too strong for his will. There is nothing which goes so far to make up the character of the hero as strength of will which yields to no difficulties. 5. _Inner freedom_. This is the obedience of the will to its _highest_ moral incentive. It is ability to set the will free from all selfish or wrong desires and to yield implicit obedience to moral ideas. This of course depends upon the cultivation of the other ideas and their proper subordination, one to another. The five moral ideas just given indicate the lines along which strength of moral character is shown. They are of some interest to the teacher as a systematic arrangement of morals, but they are of no direct value in teaching. They are the most abstract and general classes of moral ideas and are of no interest whatever to children. In morals the only thing that interests children is _moral action_. Whether it be in actual life or in a story or history, the child is aroused by a deed of kindness or courage. But all talk of kindness or goodness in general, disconnected from particular persons and actions, is dry and uninteresting. This gives us _the key to the child's_ mind in morals. Not moralizing, not preaching, not lecturing, not reproof, can ever be the _original source_ of moral ideas with the young, but the _actions_ of people they see, and of those about whom they read or hear. Moral judgments and feelings spring up originally only in connection with human action in the concrete. If we propose then to _adapt moral teaching_ to youthful minds, we must make use of concrete materials, observations of people taken from what the children have seen, stories and biographies of historical characters. A story of a man's life is interesting because it brings out his particular motives and actions. This is the field in which instruction has its conquests to make over youthful minds. We will gather up the fruits of our discussion in the preceding chapters. Having fixed the chief aim in the effort to influence and strengthen moral character, we find _concentration_ to be the central principle in which all others unite. It is the focusing of life and school experiences in the unity of the personality. The worth and choice of studies is determined by this. Interest unites knowledge, feeling, and will. The culture epochs supply the nucleus of materials for moral-educative purposes. Apperception assimilates new ideas by bringing each into the bond of its kindred and friends, spinning threads of connection in every direction. The inductive process collects, classifies, and organizes knowledge, everywhere tending toward unity. CHAPTER VIII. HERBART AND HIS DISCIPLES. "Then, only, can a person be said to draw education under his control, when he has the wisdom to bring forth in the youthful soul a great circle or body of ideas, well knit together in its inmost parts--a body of ideas which is able to outweigh what is unfavorable in environment and to absorb and combine with itself the favorable elements of the same." (Herbart.) Herbart was an empirical psychologist, and believed that the mind grows with what it feeds upon; that is, that it develops its powers slowly by experience. We are dependent not only upon our habits, upon the established trends of mental action produced by exercise and discipline, but also upon our acquired ideas, upon the thought materials stored up and organized in the mind. These thought-materials seem to possess a kind of vitality, an energy, an attractive or repulsive power. When ideas once gain real significance in the mind, they become active agents. They are not the blocks with which the mind builds. They are a part of the mind itself. They are the conscious reaction of the mind upon external things. The conscious ego itself is a product of experience. In thus referring all mental action and growth to experience, in the narrow limits he draws for the original powers of the mind, Herbart stands opposed to the older and to many more recent psychologists. He has been called the father of empirical psychology. Kant, with many other psychologists, gives greater prominence to the original powers of the mind, to the _innate ideas_, by means of which it receives and works over the crude materials furnished by the senses. The difference between Kant and Herbart in interpreting the process of apperception is an index of a radical difference in their pedagogical standpoints. With Kant, apperception is the assimilation of the raw materials of knowledge through the fundamental categories of thought (quality, quantity, relation, modality, etc.) Kant's categories of thought are original properties of the mind; they receive the crude materials of sense-perception and give them form and meaning. With Herbart, the ideas gained through experience are the apperceiving power in interpreting new things. Practically, the difference between Kant and Herbart is important. For Kant gives controlling influence to innate ideas in the process of acquisition. Our capacity for learning depends not so much upon the results of experience and thought stored in the mind, as upon original powers, unaided and unsupported by experience. With Herbart, on the contrary, great stress is laid upon the _acquired fund_ of empirical knowledge as a means of increasing one's stores, of more rapidly receiving and assimilating new ideas. Upon this is also based psychologically the whole educational plan of Herbart and of his disciples. As fast as ideas are gained they are used as means of further acquisition. The chief care is to supply the mind of a child at any stage of his growth with materials of knowledge suited to his previous stores, and to see that the new is properly assimilated by the old and organized with it. This accumulated fund of ideas, as it goes on collecting and arranging itself in the mind, is not only a favorable condition but an active agency in our future acquisition and progress. Moreover, it is the business of the teacher to guide and, to some extent, to control the inflow of new ideas and experiences into the mind of a child; to superintend the process of acquiring and of building up those bodies of thought and feeling which eventually are to influence and guide a child's voluntary action. The critics therefore accuse Herbart of a sort of _architectural_ design or even of a _mechanical_ process in education. If our ability and character depend to such an extent upon our acquirements, and if the teacher is able to control the supply of ideas to a child and to guide the process of arrangement, he can build up controlling centers of thought which may strongly influence the action of the will. In other words, he can construct a character by building the right materials into it. This seems to leave small room for spontaneous development toward self-activity and freedom. Herbart, on the other hand, criticises Kant's idea of the transcendental freedom of the will, on the ground that, if true, it makes deliberate, systematic education impossible. If the will remains absolutely free in spite of acquired knowledge, in spite of strongly developed tendencies of thought and feeling; if the child or youth, at any moment, even in later years, is able to retire into his trancendental _ego_ and arrive at decisions without regard to the effect of previously acquired ideas and habits, any well-planned, intentional effort at education is empty and without effect. John Friedrich Herbart, the founder of this movement in education, was born at Oldenburg in 1776, and died at Göttingen in 1811 [Transcriber's note: this should be 1841]. He labored seven years at Göttingen at the beginning of his career as professor, and a similar period at its close. But the longest period of his university teaching was at Königsberg, where, for twenty-five years, he occupied the chair of philosophy made famous before him by Kant. His writings and lectures were devoted chiefly to philosophy, psychology, and pedagogy. Previous to beginning his career as professor at the university, he had spent three years as private tutor to three boys in a Swiss family of patrician rank. In the letters and reports made to the father of these boys, we have strong proof of the practical wisdom and earnestness with which he met his duties as a teacher. The deep pedagogical interest thus developed in him remained throughout his life a quickening influence. One of his earliest courses of lectures at the university resulted in the publication, in 1806, of his Allgemeine Pädagogik, his leading work on education, and to-day one of the classics of German educational literature. His vigorous philosophical thinking in psychology and ethics gave him the firm basis for his pedagogical system. At Königsberg, so strong was his interest in educational problems that he established a training-school for boys, where teachers, chosen by him and under his direction, could make practical application of his decided views on education. Though small, this school continued to furnish proof of the correctness of his educational ideas till he left Königsberg in 1833. This, we believe, was the first practice-school of its kind established in connection with pedagogical lectures in any German university. It should be remembered that, while Herbart was a philosopher of the first rank, even among the eminent thinkers of Germany and of the world, he attested his profound interest in education, not only by systematic lectures and extensive writings on education, but by maintaining for nearly a quarter of a century a practice-school at the university, for the purpose of testing and illustrating his educational convictions. Lectures on pedagogy are more or less common-place, and often nearly worthless. The lecturer on pedagogy who shuns the life of the school room is not half a man in his profession. The example thus set by Herbart of bringing the maturest fruit of philosophical study into the school room, and testing it day by day and month by month upon children has been followed by several eminent disciples of Herbart at important universities. Karl Volkmar Stoy (1815-1885) in 1843 began his career of more than forty years as professor of pedagogy and leader of a teachers' seminary and practice-school at Jena. (A part of this time was spent at Heidelberg.) During these years more than six hundred university students received a spirited introduction to the theory and practice of education under Stoy's guidance and inspiration. His seminary for discussion and his practice-school became famous throughout Germany and sent out many men who gained eminence in educational labors. Tuiskon Ziller, in 1862, set up at Leipzig, in connection with his lectures on teaching, a pedagogical seminary and practice-school, which, for twenty years, continued to develop and extend the application of Herbart's ideas. Ziller and several of his disciples have attained much prominence as educational writers and leaders. A year after the death of Stoy, 1886, Dr. Wilhelm Rein was called to the chair of pedagogy at Jena. He had studied both with Stoy and Ziller, and had added to this an extensive experience as a teacher and as principal of a normal school. His lectures on pedagogy, both theoretical and practical, in connection with his seminary for discussion and his practice school for application of theory, furnish an admirable introduction to the most progressive educational ideas of Germany. The Herbart school stands for certain progressive ideas which, while not exactly new, have, however, received such a new infusion of life-giving blood that the vague formulae of theorists have been changed into the definite, mandatory requirements and suggestions of real teachers. The fact that a pedagogical truth has been vaguely or even clearly stated a dozen times by prominent writers, is no reason for supposing that it has ever had any vital influence upon educators. The history of education shows conclusively that important educational ideas can be written about and talked about for centuries without finding their way to any great extent into school rooms. What we now need in education is definite and well-grounded theories and plans, backed up by honest and practical execution. The Herbartians have patiently submitted themselves to thorough-going tests in both theory and practice. After years of experiment and discussion, they come forward with certain propositions of reform which are designed to infuse new life and meaning into educational labors. The first proposition is to make the foundation of education immovable by resting it upon _growth in moral character_, as the purpose which serious teachers must put first. The selection of studies and the organization of the school course follow this guiding principle. The second is _permanent, many-sided interest_. The life-giving power which springs from the awakening of the best interests in the two great realms of real knowledge should be felt by every teacher. Though not entirely new, this idea is better than new, because its deeper meaning is clearly brought out, and it is rationally provided for by the selection of interesting materials and by marking out an appropriate method of treatment. All knowledge must be infused with feelings of interest, if it is to reach the heart and work its influence upon character by giving impulse to the will. Thirdly, the idea of _organized unity_, or concentration, in the mental stores gathered by children, in all their knowledge and experience, is a thought of such vital meaning in the effort to establish unity of character, that, when a teacher once realizes its import, his effort is toned up to great undertakings. Fourthly, the _culture epochs_ give a suggestive bird's-eye view of the historical meaning of education, and of the rich materials of history and literature for supplying suitable mental food to children. They help to realize the ideas of interest, concentration, and apperception. _Apperception_ is the practical key to the most important problems of education, because it compels us to keep a sympathetic eye upon the child in his moods, mental states, and changing phases of growth; to build hourly upon the only foundation he has, his previous acquirements and habits. Finally, the Herbartians have grappled seriously with that great and comprehensive problem _the common school course_. The obligation rests upon them to select the materials and to lay out a course of study which embodies all their leading principles in a form suited to children and to our school conditions. Some of the principal books published in English bearing on Herbart are as follows: De Garmo, Charles. Essentials of Method. D. C. Heath, Boston. Felkin. The Science of Education; a translation of some of Herbart's most important writings on education, with a short biography of Herbart. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston. Lange. Ueber Apperception, translated by the Herbart Club and edited by Dr. De Garmo. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston. Lindner's Psychology, translated by Dr. De Garmo. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston. Smith, Miss M. K. Herbart's Psychology, translated. International Ed. series. Appleton. Van Liew. Outlines of Pedagogics, by Rein and Van Liew. C. W. Bardeen, Syracuse, N. Y. The latter book contains a full bibliography of the German works of the Herbart school as well as of those thus far published in English. 
31067	----	IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM. CHAPTERS IN THE PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION. JOHN S. HART, LL. D., PRINCIPAL OF THE NEW JERSEY STATE NORMAL SCHOOL 1868. PHILADELPHIA: ELDREDGE & BROTHER, 17 and 19 South Sixth Street. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by ELDREDGE & BROTHER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. J. FAGAN & SON STEREOTYPE FOUNDERS, PHILADELPHIA. PRINTED BY SHERMAN & CO. TO THE Teachers of the United States, AND ESPECIALLY TO THE ALUMNI OF THE PHILADELPHIA HIGH SCHOOL, AND OF THE New Jersey State Normal School THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. The views contained in this volume are the result of a prolonged and somewhat varied professional experience. This experience includes the training of more than five thousand young men and of nearly one thousand young women, a large portion of them for the office of teachers; and it has been gained in College, in Boarding School, in a city High School, and in a State Normal School. In all this prolonged and varied experience, I have constantly put myself in the attitude of a learner, and my aim in the present volume is to place before the younger members of the profession, in the briefest and clearest terms possible, the lessons I have myself learned. Beginning with the question, What is Teaching? and ending with the wider question, What is Education? the book will be found to take a pretty free range over the whole field of practical inquiry among professional teachers. The thoughts presented are such as have been suggested to the writer in the school-room itself, while actively engaged either in teaching, or in superintending and directing the instruction given by others. These thoughts are for the most part purposely given in short, detached chapters, each complete in itself. Such a method of presentation, though less imposing, seemed to have practical advantages for the reader too great to be neglected for the mere vanity of authorship. Often one can find leisure to read a chapter of five or six pages on some point complete in itself, when he might not feel like reaching it through an intervening network of connected and dependent propositions. At the same time, it should be observed, the topics though detached are not isolated. There is everywhere an underlying thread of connection, the whole being based upon, if not constituting, a philosophy of education. CONTENTS. I. What is Teaching? II. The Art of Questioning III. The Difference between Teaching and Training IV. Modes of Hearing Recitations V. On Observing a Proper Order in the Development of the Mental Faculties VI. Teaching Children what they do not Understand VII. Cultivating the Memory in Youth VIII. Knowledge before Memory IX. Power of Words X. The Study of Language XI. Cultivating the Voice XII. Eyes XIII. Errors of the Cave XIV. Men of One Idea XV. A Talent for Teaching XVI. Teaching Power XVII. Growing XVIII. Loving the Children XIX. Gaining the Affections of the Scholars XX. The Obedience of Children XXI. Rarey as an Educator XXII. A Boarding-School Experience XXIII. Phrenology XXIV. Normal Schools XXV. Practice-Teaching XXVI. Attention as a Mental Faculty, and as a Means of Mental Culture XXVII. Gaining the Attention XXVIII. Counsels: 1. To a Young Teacher; 2. To a New Pupil; 3. To a Young Lady on leaving School; 4. To a Pupil on Entering a Normal School XXIX. An Argument for Common Schools XXX. What is Education? IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM. I. WHAT IS TEACHING? In the first place, teaching is not simply telling. A class may be told a thing twenty times over, and yet not know it. Talking to a class is not necessarily teaching. I have known many teachers who were brimful of information, and were good talkers, and who discoursed to their classes with ready utterance a large part of the time allotted to instruction; yet an examination of their classes showed little advancement in knowledge. There are several time-honored metaphors on this subject, which need to be received with some grains of allowance, if we would get at an exact idea of what teaching is. Chiselling the rude marble into the finished statue; giving the impression of the seal upon the soft wax; pouring water into an empty vessel;--all these comparisons lack one essential element of likeness. The mind is, indeed, in one sense, empty, and needs to be filled. It is yielding, and needs to be impressed. It is rude, and needs polishing. But it is not, like the marble, the wax, or the vessel, a passive recipient of external influences. It is itself a living power. It is acted upon only by stirring up its own activities. The operative upon mind, unlike the operative upon matter, must have the active, voluntary co-operation of that upon which he works. The teacher is doing his work, only so far as he gets work from the scholar. The very essence and root of the work are in the scholar, not in the teacher. No one, in fact, in an important sense, is taught at all, except so far as he is self-taught. The teacher may be useful, as an auxiliary, in causing this action on the part of the scholar. But the one, indispensable, vital thing in all learning, is in the scholar himself. The old Romans, in their word education (_educere_, to draw out), seem to have come nearer to the true idea than any other people have done. The teacher is to draw out the resources of the pupil. Yet even this word comes short of the exact truth. The teacher must put in, as well as draw out. No process of mere pumping will draw out from a child's mind knowledge which is not there. All the power of the Socratic method, could it be applied by Socrates himself, would be unavailing to draw from a child's mind, by mere questioning, a knowledge, for instance, of chemical affinity, of the solar system, of the temperature of the Gulf Stream, of the doctrine of the resurrection. What, then, is teaching? Teaching is causing any one to know. Now no one can be made to know a thing but by the act of his own powers. His own senses, his own memory, his own powers of reason, perception, and judgment, must be exercised. The function of the teacher is to bring about this exercise of the pupil's faculties. The means to do this are infinite in variety. They should be varied according to the wants and the character of the individual to be taught. One needs to be told a thing; he learns most readily by the ear. Another needs to use his eyes; he must see a thing, either in the book, or in nature. But neither eye nor ear, nor any other sense or faculty, will avail to the acquisition of knowledge, unless the power of attention is cultivated. Attention, then, is the first act or power of the mind that must be roused. It is the very foundation of all progress in knowledge, and the means of awakening it constitute the first step in the educational art. When by any means, positive knowledge, facts, are once in possession of the mind, something must next be done to prevent their slipping away. You may tell a class the history of a certain event; or you may give them a description of a certain place or person; or you may let them read it; and you may secure such a degree of attention, that, at the time of the reading or the description, they shall have a fair, intelligible comprehension of what has been described or read. The facts are for the time actually in the possession of the mind. Now, if the mind was, according to the old notion, merely a vessel to be filled, the process would be complete. But mind is not an empty vessel. It is a living essence, with powers and processes of its own. And experience shows us, that in the case of a class of undisciplined pupils, facts, even when fairly placed in the possession of the mind, often remain there about as long as the shadow of a passing cloud remains upon the landscape, and make about as much impression. The teacher must seek, then, not only to get knowledge into the mind, but to fix it there. In other words, the power of the memory must be strengthened. Teaching, then, most truly, and in every stage of it, is a strictly co-operative process. You cannot cause any one to know, by merely pouring out stores of knowledge in his hearing, any more than you can make his body grow by spreading the contents of your market-basket at his feet. You must rouse his power of attention, that he may lay hold of, and receive, and make his own, the knowledge you offer him. You must awaken and strengthen the power of memory within him, that he may retain what he receives, and thus grow in knowledge, as the body by a like process grows in strength and muscle. In other words, learning, so far as the mind of the learner is concerned, is a growth; and teaching, so far as the teacher is concerned, is doing whatever is necessary to cause that growth. Let us proceed a step farther in this matter. One of the ancients observes that a lamp loses none of its own light by allowing another lamp to be lit from it. He uses the illustration to enforce the duty of liberality in imparting our knowledge to others. Knowledge, he says, unlike other treasures, is not diminished by giving. The illustration fails to express the whole truth. This imparting of knowledge to others, not only does not impoverish the donor, but it actually increases his riches. _Docendo discimus._ By teaching we learn. A man grows in knowledge by the very act of communicating it. The reason for this is obvious. In order to communicate to the mind of another a thought which is in our own mind, we must give to the thought definite shape and form. We must handle it, and pack it up for safe conveyance. Thus the mere act of giving a thought expression in words, fixes it more deeply in our own minds. Not only so; we can, in fact, very rarely be said to be in full possession of a thought ourselves, until by the tongue or the pen we have communicated it to somebody else. The expression of it, in some form, seems necessary to give it, even in our own minds, a definite shape and a lasting impression. A man who devotes himself to solitary reading and study, but never tries in any way to communicate his acquisitions to the world, or to enforce his opinions upon others, rarely becomes a learned man. A great many confused, dreamy ideas, no doubt, float through the brain of such a man; but he has little exact and reliable knowledge. The truth is, there is a sort of indolent, listless absorption of intellectual food, that tends to idiocy. I knew a person once, a gentleman of wealth and leisure, who having no taste for social intercourse, and no material wants to be supplied, which might have required the active exercise of his powers, gave himself up entirely to solitary reading, as a sort of luxurious self-indulgence. He shut himself up in his room, all day long, day after day, devouring one book after another, until he became almost idiotic by the process, and he finally died of softening of the brain. Had he been compelled to use his mental acquisitions in earning his bread, or had the love of Christ constrained him to use them in the instruction of the poor and the ignorant, he might have become not only a useful, but a learned man. We see a beautiful illustration of this doctrine in the case of Sabbath-school teachers, and one reason why persons so engaged usually love their work, is the benefit which they find in it for themselves. I speak here, not of the spiritual, but of the intellectual benefit. By the process of teaching others, they are all the while learning. This advantage in their case is all the greater, because it advances them in a kind of knowledge in which, more than in any other kind of knowledge, men are wont to become passive and stationary. In ordinary worldly knowledge, our necessities make us active. The intercourse of business, and of pleasure even, makes men keen. On these subjects we are all the while bandying thoughts to and fro; we are accustomed to give as well as take; and so we keep our intellectual armor bright, and our thoughts well defined. But in regard to growth in religious knowledge, we have a tendency to be mere passive recipients, like the young man just referred to. Sabbath after Sabbath we hear good, instructive, orthodox discourses, but there is no active putting forth of our own powers in giving out what we thus take in, and so we never make it effectually our own. The absorbing process goes on, and yet we make no growth. The quiescent audience is a sort of exhausted receiver, into which the stream from the pulpit is perennially playing, but never making it full. Let a man go back and ask himself, What actual scriptural knowledge have I gained by the sermons of the last six months? What in fact do I retain in my mind, at this moment, of the sermons I heard only a month ago? So far as the hearing of sermons is concerned, the Sabbath-school teacher may perhaps be no better off than other hearers. But in regard to general growth in religious knowledge, he advances more rapidly than his fellow-worshippers, because the exigencies of his class compel him to a state of mind the very opposite of this passive recipiency. He is obliged to be all the while, not only learning, but putting his acquisitions into definite shape for use, and the very act of using these acquisitions in teaching a class, fixes them in his own mind, and makes them more surely his own. I have used this instance of the Sabbath-school teacher because it enforces an important hint already given, as to the mode of teaching. Some teachers, especially in Sabbath-schools, seem to be ambitious to do a great deal of talking. The measure of their success, in their own eyes, is their ability to keep up a continued stream of talk for the greater part of the hour. This is of course better than the embarrassing silence sometimes seen, where neither teacher nor scholar has anything to say. But at the best, it is only the pouring into the exhausted receiver enacted over again. We can never be reminded too often, that there is no teaching except so far as there is active coöperation on the part of the learner. The mind receiving must reproduce and give back what it gets. This is the indispensable condition of making any knowledge really our own. The very best teaching I have ever seen, has been where the teacher said comparatively little. The teacher was of course brimful of the subject. He could give the needed information at exactly the right point, and in the right quantity. But for every word given by the teacher, there were many words of answering reproduction on the part of the scholars. Youthful minds under such tutelage grow apace. It is indeed a high and difficult achievement in the educational art, to get young persons thus to bring forth their thoughts freely for examination and correction. A pleasant countenance and a gentle manner, inviting and inspiring confidence, have something to do with the matter. But, whatever the means for accomplishing this end, the end itself is indispensable. The scholar's tongue must be unloosed, as well as the teacher's. The scholar's thoughts must be broached, as well as the teacher's. Indeed, the statement needs very little qualification or abatement, that a scholar has learned nothing from us except what he has expressed to us again in words. The teacher who is accustomed to harangue his scholars with a continuous stream of words, no matter how full of weighty meaning his words may be, is yet deceiving himself, if he thinks that his scholars are materially benefited by his intellectual activity, unless it is so guided as to awaken and exercise theirs. If, after a suitable period, he will honestly examine his scholars on the subjects, on which he has himself been so productive, he will find that he has been only pouring water into a sieve. Teaching can never be this one-sided process. Of all the things we attempt, it is the one most essentially and necessarily a coöperative process. There must be the joint action of the teacher's mind and the scholar's mind. A teacher teaches at all, only so far as he causes this coactive energy of the pupil's mind. II. THE ART OF QUESTIONING. The measure of a teacher's success is not what he himself does, but what he gets his scholars to do. In nothing is this more noticeable, than in the different modes of putting a question to a scholar. One teacher will put a question in such a manner as to find out exactly how much or how little of the subject the child knows, and thereby encourage careful preparation; to give the pupil an open door, if he really knows the subject, to express his knowledge in a way that will be a satisfaction and pleasure to him; to improve his power of expression, to cultivate his memory, to increase his knowledge, and to make it more thorough and definite. Another teacher will put his questions so as to secure none of these ends, but on the contrary so as to induce a most lamentable degree of carelessness and inaccuracy. Let me illustrate this point, taking an example for greater convenience from a scriptural subject. Suppose it to be a lesson upon Christ's temptation, as recorded in the 4th chapter of Matthew. The dialogue between teacher and scholar may be supposed to proceed somewhat in this wise: _Teacher._ Who was led up of the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil? _Pupil._ Jesus. _T._ Yes. Now, when Jesus had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward a---- what? How did he feel after that? _P._ Hungry. _T._ Yes, that is right. He was afterward "a hungered." Now, then, the next scholar. Who then came to Jesus and said, If thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be made bread? (Scholar hesitates.) _T._ The t----? _P._ The tempter. _T._ Yes, you are right. It was the tempter. Who do you think is meant by the tempter?--the devil? _P._ Yes. _T._ When a man has fasted, that is, has eaten nothing, for forty days and forty nights, and feels very hungry, would the suggestion of an easy mode of getting food be likely to be a strong temptation to him, or would it not? _P._ It would. _T._ Yes, you are right again. It would be a strong temptation to him. I need not pursue this dialogue further. The reader will see at once how there may thus be the appearance of quite a brisk and fluent recitation, to which however the pupil contributes absolutely nothing. It requires nothing of him in the way of preparation, and only the most indolent and profitless use of his faculties while reciting. He could hardly answer amiss, unless he were an idiot, and yet he has the appearance, and he is often flattered into the belief, of having given some evidence of knowledge and proficiency. The opposite extreme from the method just exhibited, is that known as the topical method. It is the method pursued in the higher classes of schools, and among more advanced students. In the topical method, the teacher propounds a topic or subject, sometimes in the form of a question, but more commonly only by a title, a mere word or two, and then calls upon the pupil to give, in his own words, a full and connected narration or explanation of the subject, such as the teacher himself would give, if called upon to narrate or explain it. The subject already suggested, if profound topically, would be somewhat in this wise: The first temptation of Jesus. Or, more fully: Narrate the circumstances of the first temptation of Jesus, and show wherein his virtue was particularly tried in that transaction. The teacher, having propounded the subject clearly to the class, then waits patiently, maintaining silence himself, and requiring the members of the class to be silent and attentive, until the pupil interrogated is quite through, not hurrying him, not interrupting him, even with miscalled helps and hints, but leaving him to the free and independent action of his own faculties, in giving as full, connected, and complete an account of the matter as he can. When the pupil is quite through, the teacher then, but not before, makes any corrections or additional statements that may seem to be needed. In such an exercise as this, the pupil finds the absolute necessity of full and ample preparation; he has a powerful and healthy stimulus thus to prepare, in the intellectual satisfaction which one always feels in the successful discharge of any difficult task; and he acquires a habit of giving complete and accurate expression to his knowledge, by means of entire sentences, and without the help of "catch-words," or leading-strings of any kind. Some classes, of course, are not sufficiently advanced to carry out fully the method here explained. But there are many intermediate methods, founded on the same principle, and suited to children in every stage of advancement. Only let it be understood, whatever the stage, that the object of the recitation is, not to show what the teacher can say or do, but to secure the right thing being said and done by the pupil. To recur once more to the same subject, the temptation of Christ. For a very juvenile class, the questioning might proceed on this wise: _T._ Where was Jesus led after his baptism? _P._ He was led into the wilderness. _T._ By whom was he led there? _P._ He was led by the Spirit. _T._ For what purpose was he led into the wilderness? _P._ He was led into the wilderness to be tempted. _T._ By whom was he to be tempted? _P._ He was to be tempted by the devil. _T._ What bodily want was made the means of his first temptation? If the class is quite young, and this question seems too difficult, the teacher, instead of asking it, or after asking it and not getting a satisfactory answer, might say to his class, that Jesus was first tempted through the sense of hunger. He was very hungry, and the devil suggested to him an improper means of relieving himself from the inconvenience. He might then go on with some such questions as these: _T._ What circumstance is mentioned as showing how very hungry he must have been? _P._ He had fasted forty days and forty nights. _T._ Mention any way in which _you_ might be tempted to sin, if you were suffering from hunger? The foregoing questions, it will be perceived, are very simple, being suited to scholars just advanced beyond the infant class. Yet no one of the questions, in its form, or terms, necessarily suggests the answer. No one of them can be answered by a mere "yes" or "no." No scholar, unacquainted with the subject, and with his book closed, can guess at the answer from the way in which the question is put. Not a question has been given, simple as they all are, which does not require some preparation, and which does not, to some extent, give exercise to the pupil's memory, his judgment, and his capacity for expression. If the class is more advanced, the questions may be varied, so as to task and exercise these faculties more seriously. For instance, the teacher of a class somewhat older might be imagined to begin the exercise thus: _T._ After the baptism of Jesus, which closes the 3d chapter of Matthew, we have an account of several temptations to which he was exposed. Now, open your books at the 4th chapter, and see if you can find out how many verses are occupied with the narrative of these temptations, and at what verse each temptation begins. The teacher then requires all the class to search in silence, and each one to get ready to answer, but lets no answer be given until all are prepared. When all have signified their readiness, some one is designated to give the answer. The books being closed, the questioning begins: _T._ Name the different places into which Jesus was taken to be tempted, and the verse in which each place is named. _P._ It is said in the 1st verse that Jesus was led up into the wilderness; in the 5th verse, that he was taken up into the holy city, and set on a pinnacle of the temple; and in the 8th verse, that he was taken up into an exceedingly high mountain. _T._ What was the condition of Jesus, when the devil proposed his first temptation? _P._ He had been fasting forty days and forty nights, and he was very hungry. I need not multiply these illustrations. I have not made them entirely in vain, if I have succeeded in producing in the mind of the reader the conviction of these two things: first, that it is a most important and difficult part of the teacher's art, to know how to ask a question; and secondly, that the true measure of the teacher's ability is, not so much what he himself is able to say to the scholars, as the fulness, the accuracy, and the completeness of the answers which he gets from them. III. THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN TEACHING AND TRAINING. These two processes practically run into each other a good deal, but they ought not to be confounded. Training implies more or less of practical application of what one has been taught. One may be taught, for instance, the exact forms of the letters used in writing, so as to know at once by the eye whether the letters are formed correctly or not. But only training and practice will make him a penman. Training refers more to the formation of habits. A child may by reasoning be taught the importance of punctuality in coming to school; but he is trained to the habit of punctuality only by actually coming to school in good time, day after day. The human machine on which the teacher acts, is in its essential nature different from the material agencies operated on by other engineers. It is, as I have once and again said, a living power, with laws and processes of its own. Constant care, therefore, must be exercised, in the business of education, not to be misled by analogies drawn from the material world. The steam-engine may go over its appointed task, day after day, the whole year round, and yet, at the end of the year, it will have no more tendency to go than before its first trip. Not so the boy. Going begets going. By doing a thing often, he acquires a facility, an inclination, a tendency, a habit of doing it. If a teacher or a parent succeeds in getting a child to do a thing once, it will be easier to get him to do it a second time, and still easier a third time. A teacher who is wise, when he seeks to bring about any given change in a child, whether it be intellectual or moral, will not ordinarily attempt to produce the change all at once, and by main force. He will not rely upon extravagant promises on the one side, nor upon scolding, threats, and violence on the other. Solomon hits the idea exactly, when he speaks of "leading in the way of righteousness." We must take the young by the hand and lead them. When we have led them over the ground once, let us do it a second time, and then a third time, and so keep on, until we shall have established with them a routine, which they will continue to follow of their own accord, when the guiding hand which first led them is withdrawn. _This is training._ The theory of it is true, not only in regard to things to be done, which is generally admitted, but also in regard to things to be known, which is often ignored if not denied. A boy, we will say, has a repugnance to the study of arithmetic. Perhaps he is particularly dull of comprehension on that subject. We shall not remove that repugnance by railing at him. We shall never make him admire it by expatiating on its beauties. It will not become clear to his comprehension by our pouring upon it all at once a sudden and overpowering blaze of light in the way of explanation. Such a process rather confounds him. Here again let us fall back upon the method of the great Teacher, "Line upon line, precept upon precept." We will first patiently conduct our boy through one of the simplest operations of arithmetic, say, a sum in addition. The next day we will conduct him again through the same process, or through another of the same sort. The steps will gradually become familiar to his mind, then easy, then clear. He learns first the practice of arithmetic, then the rules, then the relations of numbers, then the theory on which the rules and the practice are based, and finally, he hardly knows how, he becomes an arithmetician. He has been trained into a knowledge of the subject. You wish to teach a young child how to find a word in a dictionary. You give at first, perhaps, a verbal description of the mystery of a dictionary. You will tell him that, in such a book, all the words are arranged according to the letters with which they begin; that all the words beginning with the letter A are in the first part of the book; then those beginning with the letter B, then those beginning with C, and so on; you tell him that all the words beginning with one letter, covering some one or two hundred pages, are again re-arranged among themselves according to the second letter of each word, and then again still further re-arranged according to the third letter in each, and so on to the end. Arouse his utmost attention, and explain the process with the greatest clearness that words can give, and then set him to find a word. See how awkward will be his first attempt, how confused his ideas, how little he has really understood what you have told him. You must repeat your directions patiently, over and over, "line upon line;" you must take him by the hand day after day, and train him into a knowledge of even so apparently simple a thing as finding a word in a dictionary. While teaching and training are thus distinguishable in theory, in practice they are well nigh inseparable. At least, they never should be separated. Teaching has never done its perfect work, until, by training, the mind has learned to run in accustomed channels, until it sees what is true, and feels what is right, with the clearness, force, and promptitude, which come only from long-continued habit. IV. MODES OF HEARING RECITATIONS. The first that I shall name is called the Concert Method. This is practised chiefly in schools for very young children, especially for those who cannot read. There are many advantages in this method, some of which are not confined to infant classes. The timid, who are frightened by the sound of their own voices when attempting to recite alone, are thereby encouraged to speak out; and those who have had any experience with such children, know that this is no small, or easy, or unimportant achievement. Another benefit of the method is the pleasure it gives the children. The measured noise and motion connected with such concert exercises, are particularly attractive to young children. Moreover, one good teacher, by the use of this method, may greatly multiply his efficiency. He may teach simultaneously fifty or sixty, instead of teaching only five or six. But in estimating this advantage, one error is to be guarded against. Visitors often hear a large class of fifty or more go through an exercise of this kind, in which the scholars have been drilled to recite in concert; and if such persons have never been accustomed to investigate the fact, they often suppose that the answers given are the intelligent responses of all the members of the class. The truth is, however, in very many such cases, that only some half dozen or so really recite the answers from their own independent knowledge. These serve as leaders; the others, sheep-like, follow. Still, by frequent repetition, even in this blind way, something gradually sticks to the memory, although the impression is always apt to be vague and undefined. The method of reciting in concert is chiefly useful in reciting rules and definitions, or other matters, where the very words are to be committed to memory. The impression of so large a body of sound upon the ear is very strong, and is a great help in the matter of mere verbal recollection. Children too are very sympathetic, and a really skilful teacher, by the concert method, can do a great deal in cultivating the emotional nature of a large class. Young children, too, it should be remembered, like all other young animals, are by nature restless and fidgety, and like to make a noise. It is possible, indeed, by a system of rigorous and harsh repression, to restrain this restlessness, and to keep these little ones for hours in such a state of decorous primness as not to molest weak nerves. But such a system of forced constraint is not natural to children, and is not a wise method of teaching. Let the youngsters make a noise; I had almost said, the more noise the better, so it be duly regulated. Let them exercise, not only their lungs, but their limbs, moving in concert, rising up, sitting down, turning round, marching, raising their hands, pointing to objects to which their attention is called, looking at objects which are shown to them. Movement and noise are the life of a child. They should be regulated indeed, but not repressed. To make a young child sit still and keep silence for any great length of time, is next door to murder. I verily believe it sometimes is murder. The health, and even the lives of these little ones, are sacrificed to a false theory of teaching. There is no occasion for torturing a child in order to teach him. God did not so mean it. Only let your teaching be in accordance with the wants of his young nature, and the school-room will be to him the most attractive spot of all the earth. Time and again have I seen the teacher of a primary school obliged at recess to compel her children to go out of doors, so much more pleasant did they find the school-room than the play-ground. Quite the opposite extreme from the concert method, is that which, for convenience, may be called the individual method. In this method, the teacher examines one scholar alone upon the whole lesson, and then another, and so on, until the class is completed. The only advantage claimed for this method is, that the individual laggard cannot screen his deficiencies, as he can when reciting in concert. He cannot make believe to know the lesson by lazily joining in with the general current of voice when the answers are given. His own individual knowledge, or ignorance, stands out. This is clear, and so far it is an advantage. But ascertaining what a pupil knows of a lesson, is only one end, and that by no means the most important end of a recitation. This interview between the pupil and teacher, called a recitation, has many ends besides that of merely detecting how much of a subject the pupil knows. A far higher end is to make him know more,--to make perfect that knowledge which the most faithful preparation on the part of the pupil always leaves incomplete. The disadvantages of the individual method are obvious. It is a great waste of time. If a teacher has a class of twenty, and an hour to hear them in, it gives him but three minutes for each pupil, supposing there are no interruptions. But there always are interruptions. In public schools the class oftener numbers forty than twenty, and the time for recitation is oftener half an hour than an hour. The teacher who pursues the individual method to its extreme, will rarely find himself in possession of more than one minute to each scholar. In so brief a time, very little can be ascertained as to what the scholar knows of the lesson, and still less can anything be done to increase that knowledge. Moreover, while the teacher is bestowing his small modicum of time upon one scholar, all the other members of the class are idle, or worse. Teaching, of all kinds of labor, is that in which labor-saving and time-saving methods are of the greatest moment. The teacher who is wise, will aim so to conduct a recitation that, first, his whole time shall be given to every scholar; and secondly, each scholar's mind shall be exercised with every part of the lesson, and just as much when others are reciting, as when it is his own time to recite. A teacher who can do this is teaching every scholar, all the time, just as much as if he had no scholar but that one. Even this does not state the whole case. A scholar in such a class learns more in a given time, than he would if he were alone and the teacher's entire time were given exclusively to him. The human mind is wonderfully quickened by sympathy. In a crowd each catches, in some mysterious manner, an impulse from his fellows. The influence of associated numbers, all engaged upon the same thought, is universally to rouse the mind to a higher exercise of its powers. A mind that is dull, lethargic, and heavy in its movements when moving solitarily, often effects, when under a social and sympathetic impulse, achievements that are a wonder to itself. The teacher, then, who knows how thus to make a unit of twenty or thirty pupils, really multiplies himself twenty or thirty-fold, besides giving to the whole class an increased momentum such as always belongs to an aggregated mass. I have seen a teacher instruct a class of forty in such a way, as, in the first place, to secure the subordinate end of ascertaining and registering with a sufficient degree of exactness how much each scholar knows of the lesson by his own preparation, and secondly, to secure, during the whole hour, the active exercise and coöperation of each individual mind, under the powerful stimulus of the social instinct, and of a keenly awakened attention. Such a teacher accomplishes more in one hour than the slave of the individual method can accomplish in forty hours. A scholar in such a class learns more in one hour than he would learn in forty hours, in a class of equal numbers taught on the other plan. Such teaching is labor-saving and time-saving, in their highest perfection, employed upon the noblest of ends. V. ON OBSERVING A PROPER ORDER IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE MENTAL FACULTIES. Education may be defined to be the process of developing in due order and proportion all the good and desirable parts of human nature. On this point all educators are substantially agreed. Another truth, to which there is a general theoretical assent, is, that, in the order in which we develop the faculties, we should follow the leadings of nature, cultivating in childhood those faculties which seem most naturally to flourish in childish years, and reserving for maturer years the cultivation of those faculties which in the order of nature do not show much vigor until near the age of manhood, and which require for their full development a general ripening of all the other powers. The development of a human being is in some respects like that of a plant. There is one stage of growth suitable for the appearance and maturity of the leaf, another for the flower, a third for the fruit, and still a fourth for the perfected and ripened seed. The analogy has of course many limitations. In the human plant, for instance, one class of faculties, after maturing, does not disappear in order to make place for another class, as the flower disappears before there can be fruit. Nor, again, is any class of faculties wanting altogether until the season for their development and maturity. The faculties all exist together--leaf, flower, fruit, and seed--at the same time, but each has its own best time for ripening. While these principles have received the general assent of educators, there has been a wide divergence among them as to some of the practical applications. Which faculties do most naturally ripen early in life, and which late in life? According to my own observation, the latest of the human powers in maturing, as it is the most consummate, is the Judgment. Next in the order of maturity, and next also in majesty and excellence, is the Reasoning power. Reason is minister to the judgment, furnishing to the latter materials for its action, as all the other powers, memory, fancy, imagination, and so forth, are ministers to reason, and supply it with its materials. The reasoning power lacks true vigor and muscle, the judgment is little to be relied on, until we approach manhood. Nature withholds from these faculties an earlier development, for the very reason, apparently, that they can ordinarily have but scanty materials for action until after the efflorescence of the other faculties. The mind must first be well filled with knowledge, which the other faculties have gathered and stored, before reason and judgment can have full scope for action. Going to the other end of the scale, I have as little doubt that the earliest of all the faculties to bud and blossom, is the Memory. Children not only commit to memory with ease, but they take actual pleasure in it. Tasks, under which the grown-up man recoils and reels, the child will assume with light heart, and execute without fatigue. Committing to memory, which is repulsive drudgery to the man, is the easiest of all tasks to the child. More than this. The things fixed in the memory of childhood are seldom forgotten. Things learned later in life, not only are learned with greater difficulty, but more rapidly disappear. I recall instantly and without effort, texts of Scripture, hymns, catechisms, rules of grammar and arithmetic, and scraps of poetry and of classic authors, with which I became familiar when a boy. But it is a labor of Hercules for me to repeat by memory anything acquired since attaining the age of manhood. The Creator seems to have arranged an order in the natural development of the faculties for this very purpose, that in childhood and youth we may be chiefly occupied with the accumulation of materials in our intellectual storehouse. Now to reverse this process, to occupy the immature mind of childhood chiefly with the cultivation of faculties which are of later growth, and actually to put shackles and restraints upon the memory, nicknaming and ridiculing all memoriter exercises as parrot performances, is to ignore one of the primary facts of human nature. It is to be wiser than God. Another faculty that shoots up into full growth in the very morning and spring-time of life, is Faith. I speak here, of course, not of religious belief, but of that faculty of the human mind which leads a child to believe instinctively whatever is told him. That we all do thus believe until by slow and painful experience we learn to do otherwise, needs no demonstration. Everybody's experience attests the fact. It is equally plain that the existence and maturity of this faculty in early childhood is a most wise and beneficent provision of nature. How slow and tedious would be the first steps in knowledge, were the child born, as some teachers seem trying to make him, a sceptic, that is, with a mind which refuses to receive anything as true, except what it has first proved by experience and reason! On the contrary, how much is the acquisition of knowledge expedited, during these years of helplessness and dependency, by this spontaneous, instinctive faith of childhood. The same infinite wisdom and love, which in the order of nature provide for the helpless infant a father and mother to care for it, provide also in the constitution of the infant's mind that instinctive principle or power of faith, which alone makes the father's and mother's love efficacious towards its intellectual growth and development. Of what use were parents or teachers, in instructing a child which required proof for every statement that father, mother, or teacher gives? How cruel to force the confiding young heart into premature scepticism, by compelling him to hunt up reasons for everything, when he has reasons, to him all-sufficient, in the fact that father, mother, or teacher told him so? It may seem trifling to dwell so long upon these elementary points. Yet there are wide-spread plans of education which violate every principle here laid down. Educators and systems of education, enjoying the highest popularity, seem to have adopted the theory, at least they tacitly act upon the theory, that the first faculty of the mind to be developed is the Reasoning power. Indeed, they are not far from asserting that the whole business of education consists in the cultivation of this power, and they bend accordingly their main energies upon training young children to go through certain processes of reasoning, so called. They require a child to prove everything before receiving it as true; to reason out a rule for himself for every process in arithmetic or grammar; to demonstrate the multiplication-table before daring to use it, or to commit it to memory, if indeed they do not forbid entirely its being committed to memory as too parrot-like and mechanical. To commit blindly to memory precious forms of truth, which the wise and good have hived for the use of the race, is poohed at as old-fogyish. To receive as true anything which the child cannot fathom, and which he has not discovered or demonstrated for himself, is denounced as slavish. All authority in teaching, growing out of the age and the reputed wisdom of the teacher, all faith and reverence in the learner, growing out of a sense of his ignorance and dependence, are discarded, and the frightened stripling is continually rapped on the knuckles, if he does not at every step show the truth of his allegations by what is called a course of reasoning. Children reason, of course. They should be encouraged and taught to reason. No teacher, who is wise, will neglect this part of a child's intellectual powers. But he will not consider this the season for its main, normal development. He will hold this subject for the present subordinate to many others. Moreover, the methods of reasoning, which he does adopt, will be of a peculiar kind, suited to the nature of childhood, the results being mainly intuitional, rather than the fruits of formal logic. To oblige a young child to go through a formal syllogistic statement in every step in elementary arithmetic, for instance, is simply absurd. It makes nothing plain to a child's mind which was not plain before. On the contrary, it often makes a muddle of what had been perfectly clear. What was in the clear sunlight of intuition, is now in a haze, through the intervening medium of logical terms and forms, through which he is obliged to look at it. A primary teacher asks her class this question: "If I can buy 6 marbles with 1 penny, how many marbles can I buy with 5 pennies?" A bright boy who should promptly answer "30" would be sharply rebuked. Little eight-year old Solon on the next bench has been better trained than that. With stately and solemn enunciation he delivers himself of a performance somewhat of this sort. "If I can buy 6 marbles with 1 penny, how many marbles can I buy with 5 pennies? Answer--I can buy 5 times as many marbles with 5 pennies as I can buy with 1 penny. If, therefore, I can buy 6 marbles with 1 penny, I can buy 5 times as many marbles with 5 pennies; and 5 times 6 marbles are 30 marbles. Therefore, if I can buy 6 marbles with one penny, I can buy 30 marbles with 5 pennies." And this is termed reasoning! And to train children, by forced and artificial processes, to go through such a rigmarole of words, is recommended as a means of cultivating their reasoning power and of improving their power of expression! It is not pretended that children by such a process become more expert in reckoning. On the contrary, their movements as ready reckoners are retarded by it. Instead of learning to jump at once to the conclusion, lightning-like, by a sort of intuitional process, which is of the very essence of an expert accountant, they learn laboriously to stay their march by a cumbersome and confusing circumlocution of words. And the expenditure of time and toil needed to acquire these formulas of expression, which nine times out of ten are to those young minds the mere _dicta magistri_, is justified on the ground that the children, if not learning arithmetic, are learning to reason. Let me not be misunderstood. I do not advocate the disuse of explanations. Let teachers explain, let children give explanations. Let the rationale of the various processes through which the child goes, receive a certain amount of attention. But the extreme into which some are now going, in primary education, is that of giving too much time to explanation and to theory, and too little to practice. We reverse, too, the order of nature in this matter. What it now takes weeks and months to make clear to the immature understanding, is apprehended at a later day with ease and delight at the very first statement. There is a clear and consistent philosophy underlying this whole matter. It is simply this. In the healthy and natural order of development in educating a young mind, theory should follow practice, not precede it. Children learn the practice of arithmetic very young. They take to it naturally, and learn it easily, and become very rapidly expert practical accountants. But the science of arithmetic is quite another matter, and should not be forced upon them until a much later stage in their advancement. To have a really correct apprehension of the principle of decimal notation, for instance, to understand that it is purely arbitrary, and that we might in the same way take any other number than ten as the base of a numerical scale,--that we might increase for instance by fives, or eights, or nines, or twelves, just as well as by tens--all this requires considerable maturity of intellect, and some subtlety of reasoning. Indeed I doubt whether many of the pretentious sciolists, who insist so much on young children giving the rationale of everything, have themselves ever yet made an ultimate analysis of the first step in arithmetical notation. Many of them would open their eyes were you to tell them, for instance, that the number of fingers on your two hands may be just as correctly expressed by the figures 11, 12, 13, 14, or 15, as by the figures 10,--a truism perfectly familiar to every one acquainted with the generalizations of higher arithmetic. Yet it is up-hill work to make the matter quite clear to a beginner. We may wisely therefore give our children at first an arbitrary rule for notation. We give them an equally arbitrary rule for addition. They accept these rules and work upon them, and learn thereby the practical operations of arithmetic. The theory will follow in due time. When perfectly familiar with the practice and the forms of arithmetic, and sufficiently mature in intellect, they awaken gradually and surely, and almost without an effort, to the beautiful logic which underlies the science. How do we learn language in childhood? Is it not solely on authority and by example? A child who lives in a family where no language is used but that which is logically and grammatically correct, will learn to speak with logical and grammatical correctness long before it is able to give any account of the processes of its own mind in the matter, or indeed to understand those processes when explained by others. In other words, practice in language precedes theory. It should do so in other things. The parent who should take measures to prevent a child from speaking its mother tongue, except just so far and so fast as it could understand and explain the subtle logic which underlies all language, would be quite as wise as the teacher who refuses to let a child become expert in practical reckoning, until it can understand and explain at every step the rationale of the process,--who will not suffer a child to learn the multiplication table until it has mastered the metaphysics of the science of numbers, and can explain with the formalities of syllogism exactly how and why seven times nine make sixty-three. These illustrations have carried me a little, perhaps, from my subject. But they seemed necessary to show that I am not beating the air. I have feared lest, in our very best schools, in the rebound from the exploded errors of the old system, we have unconsciously run into an error in the opposite extreme. My positions on the particular point now under consideration may be summed up briefly, as follows: 1. In developing the faculties, we should follow the order of nature. 2. The faculties of memory and faith should be largely exercised and cultivated in childhood. 3. While the judgment and the reasoning faculty should be exercised during every stage of the intellectual development, the appropriate season for their main development and culture is near the close, rather than near the beginning, of an educational course. 4. The methods of reasoning used with children should be of a simple kind, dealing largely in direct intuitions, rather than formal and syllogistic. 5. It is a mistake to spend a large amount of time and effort in requiring young children formally to explain the rationale of their intellectual processes, and especially in requiring them to give such explanations before they have become by practice thoroughly familiar with the processes themselves. VI. TEACHING CHILDREN WHAT THEY DO NOT UNDERSTAND. It is not uncommon to hear persons declaim against teaching children what they do not understand. If by this is meant that children should not learn a set of words as parrots do, merely by the ear, and without attaching any idea to what they utter, no one will dissent from the propriety of the rule. But if the meaning is that they should learn nothing except what they fully comprehend, the rule certainly needs to be hedged in by some grave precautions. There are indeed few things which any one, the oldest or the wisest, fully comprehends. Who knows what matter is? Certainly not the most eminent of philosophers. They do not pretend to know. We pick up a pebble. Who can tell what it is, absolutely? We say that it is something which has certain qualities. But even these we know mainly by negations. The pebble is hard, that is, it does _not_ yield to pressure. It is opaque, that is, it does _not_ transmit light. It is heavy, that is, it does _not_ remain still, but goes towards the centre of the earth unless intercepted by some interposing body. Who knows the meaning, absolutely, of a single article of the Creed? Certainly not the most eminent of divines. We know certain things about the great mysteries of the Godhead, and even these things we know, not directly, but by certain faint, distant analogies, and we express our knowledge in terms chosen mainly from Scripture and arranged with care by wise and learned men. These venerable formularies, containing the most exact verbal expression which the Church has been able to frame, of what the Scriptures teach about God and his ways, we commit to memory, and we repeat them with comfort and edification. But we do not pretend to penetrate the very essence of their meaning. Who by searching can find out God? One must be God himself to understand him. We read that Christ was tempted of the devil in the wilderness. There are many things in this transaction which we may be said, in a certain sense, to know. But a man will not proceed far in analyzing this knowledge before he will discover that there are mysteries underlying the whole, which he cannot penetrate. He knows some of the surface relations. But the things themselves, in their essence, are unknown. Was Christ tempted, as the devil tempts us, by suggesting thoughts in the mind? Was the devil present in a bodily shape? Did he utter an audible voice, by undulating the air, as we do? Has he direct relations to matter, as we have? How could his offer of worldly power and riches be any real temptation to the Saviour, when Jesus knew that Satan had no power to make his offer good? There are indeed few things, in revelation or out of revelation, in mind or in matter, which we really and fully comprehend. If, therefore, we are to teach children nothing but what they understand, we must either teach them nothing at all, or our rule must be materially qualified. No one knows absolutely but God. Among created beings, there are almost infinite gradations of intelligence, although the highest created intelligence begins its range infinitely below that of the Divine mind. A given formula of words, therefore, may express very different degrees of truth according to the degree of intelligence of the party using it. A catechism or a creed may convey twenty different degrees of meaning to twenty successive persons, varying in age, character, and culture. Yet the very youngest and feeblest shall understand something of its meaning, while the wisest and oldest shall not have exhausted it. The young and feeble intellect, receiving a formula of truth with suitable explanations of its terms, takes in at once a portion of its meaning and gradually grows into a fuller comprehension of what it has received. A statement of doctrine received by a child at the age of five, conveys to him a few feeble rays of light. The same statement at the age of ten, means to him far more than it did before, while at twenty it is all luminous with knowledge. The mind itself grows and expands, and with every addition to its own vigor and stature, does it find new truths in those expressive and pregnant formulas of doctrine with which it has from childhood been familiar. It is like looking at a material object, first with the naked eye, and then with glasses of continually increased magnifying power. The more we increase the power, the more we see in the same bit of matter. Yet no glass will ever reveal to us the very interior essence of even the smallest particle of dust. God only knows fully either any single thing or the sum of things. Because, however, we cannot see into the essence of a pebble or a grain of sand, shall we shut our eyes to it altogether? Shall we not look at it, first as an infant does, then as a child, then as a youth, then as a man, then as a philosopher? We can never see it as God does. But we shall see it with ever-growing powers of vision, until that which was to us at first only a rude mass becomes an exhaustless organized microcosm of wonders. I do not advocate the overloading of children with verbal statements of abstruse doctrines, whether of religion or of science. Much less would I turn them into parrots, to repeat phrases to which they attach no meaning at all. But when it is demanded, on the other hand, that they shall learn nothing but what they understand, I demur. I ask for explanation of the rule. I insist that, every statement of truth which they learn, even the most elementary, contains depths which neither they nor their teachers can fathom. I insist that, both in science and religion, there are certain great, admitted elementary truths, reduced to forms of sound words with which the whole world is familiar; and that while these formularies contain many things which a child cannot understand, they yet contain many things of which even the youngest child has a fair comprehension. I insist that a carefully prepared religious creed or catechism, even though it contains many things beyond a child's present comprehension, is a fit subject for study. Memory in childhood is quick and tenacious. The treasures first laid away in that great storehouse are the last to be removed. They may be overlaid by subsequent accumulations, but they are still ready for use. Forms of sound words are certainly among the things which parents and teachers should store away in the young minds of which they have charge. If the child does not understand all that he thus places in his memory, he understands portions of it just as he sees certain qualities of the pebble which he holds in his hand, and he will see and understand more, as his mind expands and his powers of spiritual vision increase. VII. CULTIVATING THE MEMORY IN YOUTH. Many educators now-a-days are accustomed to speak slightly of the old-fashioned plan of committing to memory verses of Scripture, hymns, catechisms, creeds, and other formulas of doctrine and sentiment in religion and science. Many speak disparagingly even of memory itself, and profess to think it a faculty of minor importance, regarding its cultivation as savoring of old-fogyism, and sneering at all memoriter exercises among children as the chattering of parrots. It is never without amazement that I hear such utterances. Memory is God's gift, by which alone we are able to retain our intellectual acquisitions. Without it, study is useless, and education simply an impossibility. Without it, there could be no such thing as growth in knowledge. We could know no more to-day than we knew yesterday, or last week, or last year. The man would be no wiser than the boy. Without this faculty, the mind would be, not as now like the prepared plate which the photographer puts in his camera, and which retains indelibly on its surface the impressions of whatever objects pass before it; but would rather be like the window pane, before which passes from day to day the gorgeous panorama of nature, transmitting with equal and crystalline clearness the golden glory of the sun, the pale rays of the moon and stars, the soft green of meadow and woodland, images of beauty and loveliness, of light and shade, from every object on the earth and in the heavens; but retaining on its own surface not a line or a tint of the millions of rays that have passed through its substance, and remaining to the end the same bit of transparent glass, unchanged, unprofited by the countless changes it has received and transmitted. Memory alone gives value to the products of every other faculty, stamping them with the seal of possessorship, and making them truly ours. In vain reason forges its bolts, in vain imagination paints its scenes, in vain the senses give us a knowledge of the shapes and forms of external nature, in vain ideas of any sort or from any source come into our minds, unless we have the power to retain and fix them there, and make them a part of our accumulated intellectual wealth. To do this is the office of memory, and whatever increases the activity and power of the memory, gives at once value and growth to every other power. Memory has been well called the store-house of our ideas. The illustration is true not only in its main feature, but in many of the minor details. The value of what a man puts away in a store-house depends much upon the order and system with which the objects are stored. The wise and thrifty merchant has bins and boxes and compartments and pigeon-holes, all arranged with due order and symmetry, and every item of goods, as it is added to his stock, is put away at once in its appropriate place, where he can lay his hands upon it whenever it is wanted. There should be a like method and system in our mental accumulations. The remembrance of facts and truths is of little value to us unless we can remember them in their connections, and can so remember them as to be able to lay our hands upon any particular thought or fact just when and where it is wanted. Many persons read and study voraciously, filling their minds most industriously with knowledge, but such a confusion of ideas prevails throughout their intellectual store-house, that their very wealth is only an embarrassment to them. The very first rule to be observed, therefore, in cultivating the memory, is to reduce our knowledge to some system. Those who are charged with the training of the young should seek not only to store their minds with ideas, but to present these ideas to them in well ordered shapes and forms, and in due logical order and coherence. Hence the peculiar value of requiring children at the proper age to commit to memory the grand formulas of Christian doctrine, on which, in every church, its wisest and ablest men have expended their strength in placing great truths in connected and logical order and dependence. The creeds and catechisms of the Christian church are among the best products of the human intellect as mere specimens of verbal statement, and are valuable, if for nothing else, as a means for exercising the memory. A child who has thoroughly mastered a good catechism has his intellectual store-house already reduced to some order and system. His mind is not the chaos that we so often find in those children who are gathered into our mission schools. The objects that are put away for safe-keeping differ in one respect from those things which are stored away in the memory. The material object is the same, whether we visit and inspect it from day to day or not. The banker's dollars are not increased in fineness or value by his handling them over carefully every day. Not so with intellectual coin. The more frequently we re-examine our knowledge and pass it under review, the more does it become fixed in its character, the more full and exact in its proportions. Handling it does not wear it out. Even giving it away does not diminish it. In short, so far as the cultivation of the memory is concerned, the next best thing we can do, after reducing our knowledge to due order, is to give it a frequent and thorough re-examination. Constant, almost endless repetition is the inexorable price of sound mental accumulation. A distinction is to be made between memory as a power of the mind and the remembrance of particular facts. One or two examples will illustrate this difference. The late Dr. Addison Alexander, of the Theological Seminary at Princeton, had memory as an intellectual power to a degree almost marvellous. The following instance may be cited. On one occasion, a large class of forty or fifty were to be matriculated in the Seminary in the presence of the Faculty. The ceremony of matriculation was very simple. The professors and the new students being all assembled, in a large hall, each student in turn presented himself before the professors, had his credentials examined by them, and if the same proved satisfactory, entered his name in full and his residence, in the register. When the matriculation was complete and the students had retired, there was some bantering among the professors as to which of them should take the register home and prepare from it an alphabetical roll,--a work always considered rather tedious and irksome. After a little hesitation, Dr. Alexander said, "There is no need of taking the register home; I will make the roll for you;" and, taking a sheet of paper, at once, from memory, without referring to the register, and merely from having heard the names as they were recorded, he proceeded to make out the roll, giving the names in full and giving them in their alphabetical order. This was a prodigious feat of pure memory; for in order to make the alphabetical arrangement in his mind, before committing it to paper, he must have had the entire mass of names present in his mind by a single act of the will. Some of the wonderful games of chess performed by Paul Morphy are dependent in part upon a similar power of memory, by which the player is enabled to keep present in his mind, without seeing the board, a long series of complicated evolutions, past as well as prospective and possible. The same is true of every great military strategist. In all these cases, there is an act of pure memory, a direct and positive power of summoning into the mind its past experiences, such as can only take place where, either by natural gift or by special training, the memory as a faculty of the mind is in a high state of vigor. But there are other cases, in which a man is enabled to recall a great number of particular facts by a species of artifice or trick, which does not imply any special mental power, and the study of which does not tend, in any marked degree, to develop such power. More than thirty years ago, the late Professor Dod, of Princeton College, in lecturing to a class on the subject of light, was explaining the solar spectrum, and after exhibiting the solar ray, divided into its seven primary colors, violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red, said, "If you will form a mnemonic word of the first letters of each of these words, you will be able, without further effort, to remember the order of the prismatic colors the rest of your lives," and he accordingly wrote upon the board and pronounced the uncouth and almost unpronounceable word, _Vibgyor_, which probably not one of us has ever forgotten. An ingenious Frenchman some years ago traversed the country and collected large audiences by his exhibitions of skill in this species of artifice, and by undertaking to initiate his hearers in the method of remembering prodigious numbers of historical facts by means of such artificial contrivances. Mnemotechny, the name which he gave to his invention, is merely a trick of the memory. It is a means of remembering a particular set of facts or things by the aid of contrivances purely artificial and arbitrary. Its possession does not imply, and its cultivation does not produce, real mnemonic power. It undoubtedly has its uses. But it is rather wealth gained by a lottery ticket than a wealth-producing power acquired by wise habits of business. In teaching the young, it is well not to neglect either of these principles. We should give our children from time to time ingenious and interesting contrivances for remembering important facts. These contrivances, if judicious in plan and execution, will be great helps to them. We may in this way bridge over the difficulty of remembering many of the important facts and dates in history. I would not discourage these artificial methods. Though they are mere tricks, they are valuable. But they have by no means the same value as those methods of teaching which cultivate and produce true mnemonic power. This power, like every other mental power, is given in unequal measure to different individuals. Like every other mental power, also, it grows mainly by exercise. No power of the mind is more capable of development. I have mentioned some things which tend to the growth of this power, such as presenting knowledge to children in logical and orderly arrangement, and frequent re-examination of knowledge already obtained. Perhaps there is no quickener and invigorator of the memory equal to that of reciting to a judicious teacher before a large class of fellow-students. By a proper and skilful use of the art of questioning, under the excitement of answering before a large class, the mnemonic power is subjected to a healthy and invigorating test, and all such exercises promote powerfully the mental growth. A child may absorb knowledge by mere solitary reading and study, just as a sponge absorbs water, but the knowledge so acquired readily evaporates, or is squeezed out. Something is needed to fix in the mind the knowledge that has been lodged there, and no process is more effectual to this end than that of class recitation. It is by telling other people what we have learned, that we learn it more effectually, and make it more completely our own. A good teacher, by good methods of recitation, can do more than all other persons and all other things to secure a sound and healthy growth of memory in the young. Another thing highly necessary in cultivating a really good memory, is attaining the utmost possible clearness in our ideas. If the knowledge, when it first comes into the mind, is clearly and sharply defined, so that we really know a thing, instead of having vague and confused notions about it, we shall be the more likely to remember it permanently. Nothing is more conducive towards giving these sharp and definite impressions than the use of visible illustrations. Actual exhibition before a class of the objects talked about, actual experiments of the operations described, and the constant use of the chalk and the blackboard, presenting even abstract truths in concrete and visible symbols, as is done in algebra, chemistry, and logic, are among the means by which, chiefly, knowledge becomes well defined to the mind. Such is the constitution of the mind, that we have a clearer apprehension of what we see than of what comes to us through any other sense, and the knowledge which comes to us by means of the sight, is, of all kinds of knowledge, the most lasting and the most easily recalled. Hence, in teaching, it is hardly possible to exaggerate the importance of visible illustration. Another condition extremely favorable to the growth of memory, is the existence of a considerable degree of mental excitement at the time that knowledge enters the mind. Metals weld easily only at a white heat. If we would obtain a vigorous grasp of knowledge, and incorporate it thoroughly into our other mental products, so that it shall become really ours, there should be the glow of mental heat at the time of our acquiring such knowledge. Ideas that come into the mind when we are in an apathetic state, make no permanent lodgment. Hence the importance of exciting a lively interest in that which is the subject of study. If the teacher has failed to excite this interest, and finds in his class no animation, no sympathy, no eagerness of attention, he may be sure that he is not accomplishing much. The child must, if possible, acquire a fondness for that which is to be remembered. Love, in fact, is the parent of memory. VIII. KNOWLEDGE BEFORE MEMORY. I have had frequent occasion to urge upon teachers the importance of cultivating the memory of their pupils. The old-fashioned plan of requiring the young to commit to memory precious truths, in those very words in which wise and far-thinking men have handed them down to us, has too much gone out of use. I have felt called upon, therefore, from time to time, to recall to the minds of teachers the unspeakable importance of early exercising the memory of children, and of storing their memories with wise sayings and rules. I would not take back anything I have said on this subject, but rather repeat and reiterate it. At the same time, I am aware that there is an extreme in this direction, and I therefore put in a word of caution. The danger to which I refer is that of requiring children to commit mere words, to which they attach no meaning, or without their having any real knowledge of the things expressed by the words. Of course there is much in the formulas and rules of science that the immature minds of children cannot entirely comprehend, and I am far from saying that a child should commit nothing except what it can comprehend. But whatever in a rule or a doctrine they can understand, should be diligently explained to them, and the ingenuity of teachers should be exercised in awakening the minds of their scholars to the apprehension of real knowledge as a preliminary to the act of committing it to memory. An example or two will illustrate my meaning. Children at school are required to commit to memory the tables of weights and measures. The exercise is one of acknowledged and indispensable importance. But it is possible for a child to repeat one of these tables with entire glibness and accuracy, pretty much as he would whistle Yankee Doodle, without any apprehension of the actual things which the terms of the table represent. He may learn to say "sixty seconds make a minute, sixty minutes make a degree, three hundred and sixty degrees make a circle," with no more idea of the things expressed by this formula of words, than the parrot who has been taught to say, "You are a big fool." If the teacher will show the child an actual circle, with the degrees, minutes, and seconds marked, and will let him count them for himself, so that he has a real knowledge of the things, he will then not only commit this formula of words to memory more easily, but the knowledge itself will promote his mental growth. He will be feeding on real knowledge, not on its husks. So in learning about inches, feet, yards, rods, and miles, let the teacher, with foot-rule and yard-stick, show what these measures really are, let him by some familiar instance give the child an idea of what a mile is, and then let the memory be invoked to store up the knowledge gained. So with ounces, pounds, and hundred-weights. So with gills, quarts, and gallons. The common weights and measures are as necessary in the school-room as are spelling-books and arithmetics. The actual weights and measures, so far as possible, should be exhibited, should be seen and handled, and the child's mind made to grasp the very things which the terms express, that is, he should first get real knowledge, and then he should store his memory with it in exact words and forms of expression. This is the true mental order. Knowledge first, then memory. Get knowledge, then keep it. Any other plan is like attempting to become rich by inflating your bags with wind, instead of filling them with gold, or attempting to grow fat by bolting food in a form which you cannot digest. Some teachers, in their fear of cramming children with words, spend their whole time and energy in awakening thought, and none in fixing upon the memory the thoughts which have been awakened. They are so much afraid of making children parrots, that they discard rules entirely in teaching, or require pupils to frame rules for themselves. This is to go into the opposite extreme. The rules and formulas of science require the greatest care and consideration, and a large and varied knowledge. Few even of men of learning and of those specially skilled in the meaning of words and the use of language, are qualified to frame scientific rules and propositions. To suppose that young children, just beginning to feel their way into any department of science, are competent to such a task, is simply absurd. Yet this is by no means uncommon. A teacher will conduct a boy intelligently and skilfully through the process of doing a sum in arithmetic, or analyzing a sentence in grammar, and then say to him, "Now, form a rule for yourself, stating how such things should be done." The first step here is right. Take your pupil by the hand, and conduct him through the process or thing to be done. This is necessary to enable him to understand the rule. But when he thus gets the idea, then give him the rule or principle, as it is laid down in the book, in exact and well considered words, and let him commit those words thoroughly to memory, without the change or the omission of a word or a letter. What is thus true as to the method of teaching the common branches of knowledge, is equally true in the study of religious knowledge. I would not set a child to framing a creed or a catechism, nor, on the other hand, would I require him to commit such formulas to memory, without making some attempt to awaken in his mind previously an apprehension of the ideas which the creed or formula contains. I do not say that a child's mind is competent to grasp all the truths embraced in these symbols. But there is no portion of any religious creed or catechism that I have ever seen, some of the terms of which are not capable of being apprehended by children. A wise teacher, in undertaking to indoctrinate a child in such a formula, will begin by showing him as far as possible what the words mean, by exciting in him ideas on the subject, by filling his mind with actual knowledge of the truths contained in the formula. Then, when the words of the formula have become to the child's mind instinct with meaning and life, the teacher will pause to stamp them in upon the memory. That is the way to study a catechism. First, give the child, so far as possible, the meaning, then grind the words into him. Do not set him to making a catechism; do not let him stop at understanding the meaning, without committing the words. Two phrases will cover the whole ground. Knowledge before memory. Memory as well as knowledge. IX. THE POWER OF WORDS. Words govern the world. Let any one who doubts it, canvass the motives by which his own action is decided. Considerations are presented to his mind, showing him that a certain course of conduct is right, or good, or expedient, or pleasant, and he adopts it. The considerations presented to his mind decide his action. But those considerations are in the form of arguments, and those arguments exist in words. The true original power, indeed, is in the thought. It is the thinker who generates the steam. But thought unexpressed accomplishes nothing. The writer and the speaker engineer it into action. Thought, indeed, even in the mind of its originator, exists in words. For we really think only in words. Much more, then, must the thought have some verbal expression, written or spoken, before it can influence the opinions or the actions of others. A man may have all the wisdom of Solomon, yet will he exercise no influence upon human affairs unless he gives his wisdom utterance. Profound thinkers sometimes, indeed, utter very little. But they must utter something. They originate and give forth a few thoughts or discoveries, which minds of a different order, writers and talkers, pick up, reproduce, multiply, and disseminate all over the surface of society. When a man unites these two functions, being both an original thinker and a skilful and industrious writer, the influence which he may exert upon his race is prodigious. If any one, for instance, would take the pains to trace the influences which have sprung from such a man as Plato, he would have an illustration of what is meant. Plato, while living, had no wealth, rank, or position of any kind, to add force to what he said or did. Whatever he has done in the world, he has done simply by his power as a thinker and a writer. There were many Grecians quite as subtle and acute in reasoning as he. But their thoughts died with them. Plato, on the other hand, was an indefatigable writer, as well as an acute and profound thinker. He gave utterance to his ideas in words which, even in a dead language, have to this day a living power. When Plato was dead, there remained his written words. They remain still. They have entered successively into the philosophies, the creeds, and the practical codes, of the Grecian world, the Roman, the Saracen, and the Christian. At this very hour hundreds of millions of human beings unconsciously hold opinions which the words of that wise old Greek have helped to mould. The mere brute force of a military conqueror may make arbitrary changes in the current of human affairs. But no permanent change is ever made except by the force of opinion. The words of Plato have done more to influence the destinies of men than have a hundred such men as Genghis Khan or Tamerlane. Four hundred millions of Chinese, in half the actions which go to make up their lives, are now governed by maxims and opinions which have come down to them from remote antiquity, from a man whose very existence is almost a myth. Those military heroes whose influence on society has been permanent have been propagandists as well as warriors. Opinions and codes have gone with, and survived, their conquering armies. The armies of the elder Napoleon were routed at Waterloo. But the Napoleonic ideas survived the shock, and they are at this day a part of the governing power of the world. It was the Koran--the words, and the creed of Mahomet--that gave to the Mahometan conquest its permanent hold upon the nations. Spoken words have in themselves greater power than merely written ones. There is a wonderful influence in the living voice to give force and emphasis to what is uttered. But the written word remains. What is lost in immediate effect, is more than gained in the permanent result. The successful writer has an audience for all time. He being dead still speaks. Men are speaking now, who have gone to their final account twenty centuries ago. Paul possibly may not have had the same influence with a popular assembly as the more eloquent Apollos. But Paul is speaking still through his ever-living Epistles. He is speaking daily to more than a hundred millions of human beings. He is exerting through his writings a power incomparably greater than that even which he exercised as a living speaker. All men have not the commanding gifts of the apostle Paul. Yet after all, the main difference between ordinary men and men of the Pauline stamp, is not so much in their natural powers, as in the spirit and temper of the men, in that entire consecration to the service of Christ which Paul had, and which they have not. It is wonderful to see how much may be accomplished even by men of ordinary talents, when they have that zeal and single-mindedness which may be attained by one as well as by another. We are accountable for the talents which we have, not for what we have not. But let each man see to it that he uses to the utmost every talent which his Lord has committed to his trust. How much, for instance, may be accomplished by a man who has a gift for addressing a popular assembly! Such a man by a few wise words, spoken at the right time and place, may do as much in five minutes, in pushing forward a general cause, as another man can do by the laborious drudgery of years. The words of the speaker touch the secret springs of action in a thousand breasts. He sends away a thousand men and women animated with a new impulse to duty, and that impulse is propagated and reproduced through hundreds of channels for long years to come. Words are never entirely idle. They have at times a power like that of the electric bolt. They may sting like a serpent, and bite like an adder. In the ordinary intercourse of society, a man of good conversational powers may, even in discharging the customary civilities of life, put forth a large influence. The words dropped from minute to minute, throughout the day, in the millions of little transactions all the while going on between man and man, have an incalculable power in the general aggregate of the forces which keep society in motion. As with spoken, so with written words. The man who knows how to weave them into combinations which shall gain the popular ear, and sink into the popular heart, has a mighty gift for good or evil. The self-denying and almost saintly Heber, by all his years of personal toil on the plains of India, did not accomplish a tithe of what has been accomplished for the cause of missions by his one Missionary Hymn. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that those few written words are worth more to the cause than the lives of scores of ordinary missionaries. How many anxious souls, just wavering between a right and a wrong decision, have been led to make the final choice, and to decide for Christ, by that beautiful hymn beginning "Just as I am, without one plea"? Who can doubt that the patient invalid of Torquay, in the hour that she penned those touching words, did more for the conversion of sinners than many a minister of the gospel has done in the course of a long and laborious life? What a fund of consolation for pious hearts through all time is laid up in the hymns of that other sweet singer, Mrs. Steele? But as with spoken, so with written words, the great aggregate of their force is not contained in these few brilliant and striking exceptions, but in the millions of mere ordinary paragraphs which meet the eye from day to day, in the columns of the daily and weekly press, and which have apparently but an ephemeral existence. The dashing torrent and the mighty river are the more noticeable objects to the casual observer. But it is the minute myriad drops of the rain and the dew that cause the real wonders of vegetation. So these words which we read, and think we forget, hour by hour, all day long, are continually sinking into the soil of the heart, and influencing imperceptibly the growth of the germs of thought. The aggregate of all these minute, unnoticed influences is prodigious, incalculable. Whoever can put words together wisely, either by the tongue or the pen, has a precious talent, which he may not innocently lay up in a napkin. The gift, like that of wealth, is not his by right of ownership, but only as a steward. It is his as a means to do good for the honor of his Lord, and the welfare of his fellow-men. As I said in the beginning of these remarks, the world is governed by words. Let Christian men, by the industrious use of the gifts they have received, see to it that a greater proportion of this governing force in the world is contributed by the friends of Christ. Let them unceasingly fill up with the words of truth and righteousness every accessible channel of thought and opinion, and thus occupy till Christ come. X. THE STUDY OF LANGUAGE. The study of language has ever been considered a study of high importance, regarded merely as a means of intellectual cultivation. There are obvious reasons for this. The analysis of language is the analysis of thought. Resolving complex forms of speech into simple ones, and again combining simple expressions into those which are complex, and investigating, alternately by logic and aesthetics, the varying properties of words and phrases, are operations which come nearer, perhaps, than any other in which we are engaged, towards subjecting spirit itself to the crucible of experiment. The study of grammar, the comparison of languages, the translation of thought from one language to another, are so many studies in logic and the laws of mind. The subtleties of language arise from the very nature of that subtle and mysterious essence, the human mind, of which speech is the prime agent and medium of communication. The class of studies under consideration bears nearly the same relation to the spiritual that anatomy does to the bodily part of us. It is by the dissecting-knife of a keen and well-tempered logic, applied to the examination of the various forms which human thought assumes, that we most truly learn the very essence and properties of thought itself. It is this intimate, immediate, indissoluble connection and correlation between mind and language, between human thought and human speech, between the soul itself and the mould into which it is cast, that gives such importance to the general class of studies known as philological. The study of language, more than any other study, tends to make the mind acute, discriminating, and exact. It tends also, in a most especial manner, to fit a person to train the minds of others to acuteness, discrimination, and exactness. The person who has learned to express a thought with entire exactness and idiomatic propriety in two languages; or where, from the want of analogy between the two languages, he finds this impracticable, to perceive the exact shade of difference between the two expressions; who can trace historically and logically the present meaning of a word from its original starting-point in reason and fact, and mark intelligently its gradual departures and their causes; who can perceive the exact difference between words and phrases nearly synonymous, and who can express that difference in terms clear and intelligible to others,--that person has already attained both a high degree of intellectual acumen himself, and an important means of producing such acumen in others. The study of language is, in the profession of teaching, like the sharpening of tools in the business of the mechanic. Words are the teacher's tools. Human knowledge, even before it is expressed, and as it is laid up in the chambers of the mind, exists in words. We think in words. We teach in words. We are qualified to teach only so far as we have learned the use and power of words. XI. CULTIVATING THE VOICE. If we except the lower kinds of handicraft, nine-tenths of all that is done in the world is done by means of the voice,--by talking. It is by talking we buy and sell; by talking, the lawyer, the doctor, the minister, the teacher perform the chief of their functions; by talking, the intercourse and machinery of life are chiefly kept in motion. As it was by a word that creation was accomplished, as the worlds came into being and were moulded into shape, not by the hand, but by the omnific voice of God, _saying_, "Let there be light and there was light," so in this lower sphere of human action, the tongue is mightier than the hand. The moulding, propelling forces of society come from the use of words. By words, more than by all other means, we persuade, convince, alarm, arouse, or soothe, or whatever else leads men to action and achievement; and while written words are full of power, yet even these are feeble as compared with spoken words, the living utterances of the human voice. Not only so, but the manner of speaking, the tone and quality of the voice influence us quite as much as the words spoken. Yet how strangely we neglect this wonderful instrument. The mechanic sees to it that his tools are as keen and strong as it is in the power of art and labor to make them. The sportsman spares no expense or care to have the articles that minister to his pleasure in the highest possible state of finish and perfection. How lavish we are in the purchase of instruments of music, and in keeping them properly tuned and cared for. Yet this most wonderful organ, the voice, which God has given to every one of us, and which is worth more to us than all the instruments of music, all the inventions of pleasure, all the tools of trade, that human skill has devised, is left for the most part in utter neglect, without intelligent guidance, its wonderful powers almost totally uncultivated and undeveloped. We all feel the sway that a well cultivated and modulated voice has upon us, its power to give us pleasure and win our assent, and yet the great majority of us neglect to cultivate in ourselves that which may give us such a power over others. We are not oblivious of other advantages. We strive to make ourselves acceptable and to increase our influence, by attention to dress, by the adornment of our persons, and by the cultivation of our minds, by stores of knowledge and by accomplishments of various kinds, while the voice, which more than anything else is the direct instrument of the soul, is treated with neglect. We mumble and mutter what should come out clearly and distinctly; we speak with a nasal drawl, or in a sharp key that sets all the finer chords of sympathy ajar; we use just so much of the vocal power that is given us as is needed to express in the faintest way our most imperative wants, and indolently leave all the rest of its untold and exquisite resources to go to waste. Mrs. Siddons once made a shopkeeper turn pale with affright and unconsciously drop his goods upon the counter, simply by the tone in which, by way of experiment, she asked him the price of a pair of gloves. Undoubtedly Mrs. Siddons had natural gifts of voice which do not belong to every one. But a great part of the wonderful fascination which she and the other members of that remarkable family exerted, was due to cultivation. If ministers of the gospel, and others who undertake to influence the minds of a congregation on the side of religion, would give this matter more attention, they would find it very greatly to their own advantage and that of others. The manner in which the words of eternal life are read and uttered from the pulpit is often such as to kill all vitality out of them. It is not enough that a preacher should be a good theologian, and that his sermon contain sound and valuable thoughts. The influence which they are to exert upon the people, is largely dependent upon the voice which gives them utterance. A competent teacher of elocution is quite as important a part of the machinery of a theological seminary, as a teacher of Hebrew. Yet, in organizing our seminaries, this matter is usually entirely ignored. XII. EYES. I have spoken much of blackboards, maps, pictorial cards, natural objects, and apparatus of various kinds, as among the urgent wants of the teacher. But there is one thing which he wants more than all these, and that is EYES. A good pair of eyes are to the teacher, in the government of his school, worth more than the rod, more than any system of merit or demerit marks, more than keeping in after school, more than scolding, reporting to parents, suspension, or expulsion, more than coaxing, premiums, and bribes in any shape or to any amount. The very first element in school government, as in every other government, is that the teacher should know what is going on in his little kingdom, and for this knowledge he needs a pair of eyes. Most teachers, it is true, seem to be furnished with this article. But it is in appearance only. They have something in the upper part of the face which looks like eyes, but every one knows that appearances are deceiving. They look over a school or an assembly of any kind, and are vaguely conscious that things are going on wrong all around them, just as people sometimes grope about in a dark room filled with bats, and are aware that something is flitting about, but they have no power of seeing distinctly any one object. It is amazing how little some people see, who seem to have eyes. The fact is, there is an entirely mistaken notion on this whole subject. Having the eyes open, and seeing, are two distinct things. Infants have their eyes open, but they do not see anything, in the sense in which that word is generally used. Light comes into those open windows, the moving panorama of external nature passes before them, but distinct vision, which recognizes and individualizes objects, is something more than a mere passive, bodily sensation. It is a mental act. It is the mind rousing itself into consciousness, and putting forth its powers into voluntary and self-determined activity. Nothing in the history of childhood is more interesting than to watch this awakening of the mind in infancy, to notice how the whole face brightens up when the little stranger first begins actually to see things. The misfortune with many people is, that in this matter of vision they seem never to get beyond the condition of infancy. They go along the street, or they move about in a room, in a sort of dreamy state, their eyes open, but seeing nothing. A teacher of this kind, no matter what amount of disorder is going on before him, never sees any one particular act. He sees things in the mass, instead of seeing individual things. The difference between teachers in this faculty of seeing things is more marked probably than in any other quality that a man can have. Two teachers may stand before the same class. One will merely be aware that there is a general disorder and noise throughout, being unable to identify any scholar in particular as transgressing. The other will notice that John is talking, that James is pulling his neighbor's hair, that William is drumming on the desk with his fingers, that Andrew is munching an apple, that Peter is making caricatures on his slate, and so on. To have this power of seeing things, it is not necessary that one should be sly, or should use stealth of any kind. Knowledge gained by such mean practices never amounts to much, and always lowers a teacher in the estimation of his scholars; it weakens instead of strengthening him. Whatever a teacher does in the way of observation of his scholars, should be done openly and aboveboard. And after all, more can be seen in this way, by one who knows how, than by any of the stealthy practices usually resorted to. Darting the eyes about rapidly in one direction and another, is not a good way to make discoveries. Seeing is accomplished, not so much by the activity of the bodily organ, as by mental activity. The man's mind must be awake. This in fact is the secret of the whole matter. The more the face and eyes are quiet, and the mind is on the alert, the more a man will see. Seeing is rather a mental than a bodily act, though of course the bodily organ is necessary to its accomplishment. To be a good observer, one must maintain a quiet and composed demeanor, but be thoroughly wide awake within. XIII. ERRORS OF THE CAVE. Improvement comes by comparison. One of the most profound observations of Bacon is that in which he remarks upon the dwarfing and distorting influence of solitariness upon the human faculties. The man who shuts himself up in his own little circle of thought and action as in a cave, having no consort with his fellows, evolving all his plans from his own solitary cogitation, must be more than human if he does not become one-sided, narrow, selfish, bigoted. A like result, but not so aggravated, is produced, when a man limits his range of thought and action to those of his own special calling or profession; when the merchant mingles only with merchants and knows only merchandise; when the teacher knows nothing but teaching and books; when the medical man spends every waking hour and every active exercise of thought upon his healing art; when any man forgets that, in the very fact of his being a man at all, he is something greater and nobler than he can possibly be in being merely a merchant, or teacher, or doctor, or lawyer, or the possessor of any other one special art or faculty. It is true, indeed, that in order to attain to eminence in any one department, a man must bend his main energies to that one thing; and he must give to it much solitary thought and study. But no department of action is isolated. No interest is unconnected with other interests. No truth stands alone, but forms a part in the great system of truth. Study or action, therefore, which is entirely isolated, must needs be dwarfed and distorted. A man must go occasionally out of his own sphere in order fully to understand those very things with which he is most familiar. A man must study other languages, if he would hope fully to understand his own. A man must study more than languages merely if he would become a perfect linguist. The only way to understand arithmetic thoroughly is to study algebra. A parent who has only one child, and who gives his entire and exclusive attention to the study of that child, in order that he may, by a thorough understanding of its nature and disposition, be better able to teach and train it, will not be so likely to attain his object as he would if he were to spend a portion of his time in mingling with other children and in becoming acquainted with childhood generally. A teacher who should shut himself up in his own school-room, giving to it every moment of his waking hours, would not be likely to benefit so largely his own pupils, as if he were to spend a portion of his time in communing with other teachers and observing other methods besides his own. A teacher even who should mingle freely with those of his own profession, and get all the benefit to be derived from observation of the views and methods of other teachers, but should stop there, would not yet obtain that broad, comprehensive view, even of his own calling, and of the duties of his own particular school-room that he might have if he would travel occasionally beyond the walk of books and pedagogy, and become acquainted with the views and methods of men in other spheres of life, with merchants, lawyers, and doctors, with farmers, mechanics, and artisans. It is only by mingling with those outside of our own little specialty that we are disenthralled from the bonds of prejudice. It is wonderful to see the change produced in the minds of men of different religious denominations, when by any means they are thrown much into the actual fellowship of working together in some cause of common benevolence. How, without any argument, merely by the fact of their being brought out to a different point of view, the relative magnitude and importance of certain truths change in their estimation! The points in which Christians differ become so much smaller; the points in which they agree become so much larger. The little stone at the mouth of the cave no longer hides the mountain in the distance. Let the teacher, the merchant, the mechanic, the banker, the lawyer, the minister of religion even, still remember that he is a man, and that he can never reach a full and just estimate of his own position without sometimes going outside of it and placing himself in the position of other men. XIV. MEN OF ONE IDEA. There is between the teacher and other operatives one obvious difference, arising from the difference in the materials upon which their labor is bestowed. That class of laborers whose toil and skill are exerted in modifying the forms of matter, succeed generally in proportion to the narrowness of the range to which each individual's attention is confined. It is possible (the writer has known it to be a fact) for the same person to sow the flax, to pull and rot it, to break it, hatchel it, spin it, warp it, weave it, dye or bleach it, and finally make it into clothes. I say this is _possible_, for I have seen it done, and I dare say many of my readers have seen the same. But how coarse and expensive is such a product, compared with that in which every step in the progress of production is made the subject of one individual's entire and undivided attention. If we were to go into the factories of Lowell, or into any of the thousand workshops which are converting Philadelphia into a great manufacturing centre, we would find the manufacture of an article approaching perfection just in proportion to the _im_perfection (in one sense) of the individual workmen employed in its production. The man who can make a pin-head better and cheaper than any one else, must give his attention to making pin-heads only. He need not know how to point a pin, or polish it, or cut the wire. On the contrary his skill in that one operation increases ordinarily in proportion to his want of skill in others. His perfection as a workman is in the direct ratio to his imperfection as a man. He operates upon matter, and the more nearly he can bring his muscles and his volitions to the uniformity and the precision of a mere machine--the more confined, monotonous, and undeviating are his operations--the higher is the price set upon his work, the better is he fitted for his task. Not so the instructor of youth. The material operated on here is of a nature too subtle to be shaped and fashioned by the undeviating routine of any such mechanical operations. The process necessary to sharpen one intellect may terrify and confound another. The means which in one instance serve to convince, serve in other cases to confuse. The illustration which to one is a ray of light, is to another only "darkness visible." Mind is not, like matter, fixed and uniform in its operations. The workman who is to operate upon a substance so subtle and so varying must not be a man of _one idea_--who knows one thing, and nothing more. It is not true in mind, as in matter, that perfection in the knowledge of one particular point is gained by withdrawing the attention from every other point. All truth and all knowledge are affiliated. The knowledge of arithmetic is increased by that of algebra, the knowledge of geography by that of astronomy, the knowledge of one language by knowing another. As no one thing in nature exists unconnected with other things, so no one item in the vast sum of human knowledge is isolated, and no person is likely to be perfectly acquainted with any one subject who confines his attention with microscopic minuteness to that subject. To understand thoroughly one subject, you must study it not only in itself, but in its relations. To know one thing well you must know very many other things. Let us return then to the point from which we set out, namely: that one important difference between the teacher and other operatives arises from the difference in the objects on which they operate. The one operates upon matter, the other upon mind. The one attains perfection in his art by a process which in the other would produce an ignoramus, a bungler, a narrow-minded, conceited charlatan. Hence the necessity on the part of those who would excel in the profession of teachers, of endeavoring continually to enlarge the bounds of their knowledge. Hence the error of those who think that to teach anything well it is necessary to know only that one thing. That young woman who undertakes to teach a primary school, or even an infant class, has mistaken her calling if she supposes that because she has to teach only the alphabet or the "table card," she has therefore no need to know many other things. There are some things which every teacher needs. Every teacher needs a cultivated taste, a disciplined intellect, and that enlargement of views which results only from enlarged knowledge. We all know how much we are ourselves benefited by associating habitually with persons of superior abilities. So it is in a still higher degree with children. There is something contagious in the fire of intellect. The human mind, as well as the human heart, has a wonderful power of assimilation. Every judicious parent will say: Let not my child be consigned to the care of an ill-informed, dull, spiritless teacher. Let it be his happy lot, if possible, to be under one who has some higher ambition than merely to go through a certain prescribed routine of duties and lessons; one whose face beams with intelligence and whose lips drop knowledge; one who can cultivate in him the disposition to inquire, by his own readiness and ability to answer childish inquiries; who can lead the inquiries of a child into proper channels, and train him to a correct mode of thinking by being himself familiar with the true logical process, by having himself a cultivated understanding. Such a teacher finds a pleasure in his task. He finds that he is not only teaching his pupils to read and to spell, to write and to cipher, but he is acquiring an ascendancy over them. He is exerting upon them a moral and intellectual power. He is leaving, upon a material far more precious than any coined in the Mint, the deep and inerasible impress of his own character. Let me repeat then, at the risk of becoming tiresome, what I hold to be an important and elementary truth, that the teacher should know very many things besides what he is required to teach. A good knowledge of history will enable him to invest the study of geography with new interest. Acquaintance with algebra will give a clearness to his perceptions, and consequently to his mode of inculcating the principles, of arithmetic. The ability to delineate off-hand with chalk or pencil the forms of objects, gives him an unlimited power of illustrating every subject, and of clothing even the dullest with interest. Familiarity with the principles of rhetoric and with the rules of criticism, gives at once elegance and ease to his language, and the means of more clearly detecting what is faulty in the language of others. A knowledge of Latin or of French, or of any language besides his own, throws upon his own language a light of which he before had no conception. It produces in his ideas of grammar and of language generally, a change somewhat like that which the anatomist experiences from the study of comparative anatomy. The student of the human frame finds many things that he cannot comprehend until he extends his inquiries to other tribes of animals; to the monkey, the ox, the reptile, the fish, and even to the insect world. So it is with language. We return from the study of a foreign language invariably with an increased knowledge of our own. We have made one step at least from the technicalities of particular rules towards the principles and truths of general grammar. But it is not necessary to multiply illustrations. I have already said enough to explain my meaning. Let me say, then, to every teacher, as you desire to rise in your profession, as you wish to make your task agreeable to yourself or profitable to your pupils, do not cease your studies as soon as you gain your election, but continue to be a learner as long as you continue to be a teacher, and especially strive by all proper means, and at all times, to enlarge the bounds of your knowledge. XV. A TALENT FOR TEACHING. There can be no doubt that some persons have a natural aptitude for teaching. As there are born poets, so there are born teachers. Yet the man born with the true poetic temperament and faculty will never achieve success as a poet, unless he add study and labor to his natural gift. So the man born with a talent for teaching needs to cultivate the talent by patient study and practice, before he can become a thoroughly accomplished teacher. No man probably ever showed greater native aptitude for anything, than did Benjamin West for painting. Yet what long years of toil and study it took for him to become a really great painter? In teaching, as in every other profession, while men doubtless differ as to their original qualifications and aptitudes, yet the differences are not so great as they are often supposed to be, and they are by no means so great as those produced by study and practice. The man who has no special gift for this employment, but who faithfully and intelligently tries to perfect himself in it, is sure to be a better teacher than the one who has the natural gift, but adds to it no special study and preparation. Indeed, if we exclude from consideration those very nice and delicate touches in education, which are so rare as to be quite exceptional, there is nothing in the business of teaching which may not be acquired by any person of average ability. When, therefore, we see a teacher not succeeding in gaining the attention of his scholars, or in securing obedience and respect, or in bringing them forward in their lessons, we are not disposed to free such a person from blame on the plea of his having no natural aptitude for teaching. We would respectfully say to such a teacher: if you know not how to impart knowledge, learn how; if you have no tact, get it. Teaching is a business, as much as knitting stockings, or planting corn. Either do not undertake to teach at all, or learn how it is to be done. If one-fourth of the labor bestowed upon the work of teaching were devoted to studying the business, the value of the remaining three-fourths would be quadrupled. It is painful to see the amount of hard work done in school with so little proportionate effect. If a man who knew nothing of farming, but who had a desire to be useful, were to dig a pit and bury therein a bushel of corn, and imagine that he was planting, his labor would not be wider of the mark than much that is bestowed in school. A man must learn how to do even so simple a thing as planting corn. Let the teacher also learn how to plant the seeds of knowledge, how to prepare the soil, how to open it for the reception of truth, where and when to deposit the precious grains. I have no desire to discourage those faithful men and women who are so nobly striving to do good as teachers. But I cannot help expressing the regret that so much of this labor is without adequate result. Why should persons act so differently in this matter from what they do in any other? If a woman wants to make a pair of stockings, she goes to some other woman who understands knitting, and sees how it is done, and learns the stitches, tries and experiments, and studies the matter, until it is all familiar to her. So of any other ordinary business. Yet when it comes to teaching, anything like definite study or observation of the mode of doing it, is almost unknown! It is really no exaggeration to say that many teachers bungle in their work as egregiously as would a woman who should put yarn into a churn, and expect, after a proper amount of churning, to draw out stockings. In our schools are many professional teachers of approved skill. Why should not a school-teacher, who is conscious of not succeeding as he would desire, spend an hour occasionally in observation? Find out the name of some teacher who is particularly successful, and look on while the work is being done, and if possible see how it is done. Then again, there are books on the subject, in which the business of teaching is explained in all its branches. Get some of these books and read. The mere reading will not make you teachers. But it will set you to thinking. It will quicken your power of observation. It will help you to learn from your own experience. Make a note of the difficulties you encounter, and the points in which you cannot accomplish what you desire. Very likely you will find these very difficulties discussed in the books on teaching which you are reading. If not, lay your difficulties before some friend who is a successful teacher, and get advice. _Anything_, rather than going on, week after week, without improvement. There _is_ a way of interesting your class in their lessons, of securing good order and punctual attendance, of making the scholars learn. Only make up your mind that you will find out what that way is. If you think it cannot be done, of course it will not be done. If you have fairly made up your mind that it _may_ be done, and that _you_ can do it, it is half done already. You have no idea how much more pleasant the work will be, when you have once learned how to do it. One reason why so many teachers desert the ranks, is the irksomeness produced by want of success. Few things are more intolerable than being obliged to do a thing while conscious of doing it in an awkward and bungling manner. On the other hand, almost any work is a pleasure, which one is conscious of doing well. XVI. TEACHING POWER. Teachers differ greatly in their ability to bring a class forward in intellectual acquisition and growth. With one teacher pupils are all life and energy, they take hold of difficulties with courage, their ideas become clear, their very power of comprehension seems to gather strength. With another teacher, those same pupils, studying the same subject, are dull, heavy, easily discouraged, and make almost no progress. The ability thus to stimulate the intellectual activity of others, to give it at once momentum and progress, is the true measure of one's teaching power. It may be well to consider for a moment some of the conditions necessary to the existence and the exercise of this power. In the first place, we can exert no great, commanding influence over others, whether pupils or not, unless we have in a high degree their confidence. Pupils must have faith in their teacher. I never knew an instance yet, where there was great intellectual ferment going on in a class, that the pupils did not believe the teacher infallible, or very nearly so. This principle of confidence in leadership is one of the great moving powers of the world. In teaching, it is specially important. This feeling may indeed be in excess. It may exist to such an extent as to extinguish all independence of thought, to induce a blind, unquestioning receptivity. Such an extreme is of course opposed to true mental progress. But short of this extreme point, there is almost no amount of faith that children can have in their teacher, that, if well founded, is not of the highest advantage. Seeing the firm, assured tread of father or mother, or of an older brother or sister, is a great aid to the tottering little one in putting forth its own steps while learning to walk. So the child is emboldened to send out its young, unpractised thoughts, by the confidence it has in the guidance and protection of its teacher. To acquire and retain the proper ascendancy over the mind of a child, two things are essential, ample knowledge and entire honesty. Shallowness and pretension may mislead for a while. But to hold a child firmly and permanently, the teacher must abound in knowledge, and must have thoroughly honest convictions. The next condition to great teaching power is confidence in one's self. A timid, irresolute, hesitating utterance of one's own convictions fails to produce conviction in the minds of others. I do not recommend self-conceit. It is not necessary to be dogmatic. Yet a certain style of self-assertion, bordering very closely upon these qualities, is needed in the teacher. In the higher regions of science and opinion, there are of course many points about which no one, at least no one well informed, would undertake to speak with authority. Such subjects it becomes us all to approach with reverent humility, as at the best only inquirers after truth. But the case is very different with teachers of the common branches concerned in our present remarks. On these points the teacher ought to have a certainty and a readiness of knowledge, so as to be thoroughly self-reliant before the class. Teaching is like fighting. Self-reliance is half the battle. Equally important with the former is it to have the affection of one's pupils. Writers on metaphysics now-a-days dwell much, and very properly, on the influence of the body upon the mind, and the necessity of a healthy condition of the former in order to the full clearness and strength of our intellectual apprehensions. There is a still more intimate connection between our moral emotions and our mental action. The wish is father to the thought, in more senses than that intended by Shakspeare. If the intellect is the seeing power of the soul, the affections are the atmosphere through which we look. The same object may appear to us very differently, as it is seen through the colorless medium of pure intellectual perception, or as it is enlarged and glorified by the mellowing haze of fond affection, or as it is distorted and obscured by the mists of prejudice and hate. When a child has a thorough dislike for a subject or for his teacher, the difficulty of learning is very greatly increased. Not only is the willingness to study weak or wanting, but the very power of mental perception seems to be obstructed. The power of attention, the power of apprehension, the power of memory, the power of reasoning, are all paralyzed by dislike, and are equally vitalized by love and desire. Mental action, in short, is influenced by the state of the heart as much as by the state of the body. If you do not expect great mental efforts from a child that is sickly, burning with fever, or racked with pain, neither may you expect the best and highest results from one whose heart is diseased and alienated, who approaches a subject with feelings of aversion and dislike, whose conceptions are clouded with prejudice. A teacher of great intellectual force, and with an overbearing will, may push forward even a reluctant and a rebellious class with a certain degree of speed. On the other hand, a teacher who enjoys the unbounded love of his scholars, may accomplish comparatively little, on account of lacking the other qualities needed for success. The highest measure of success in teaching is attained only where these several conditions meet,--where the teacher has and deserves the full confidence of the scholars, where he has full confidence in himself, is self-reliant and self-asserting, and where at the same time he has the warm affection of his pupils. Love, after all, is the governing power of the human soul, as it is the crowning grace in the Christian scheme. Love is, in teaching, what sunshine and showers are in vegetation. By a system of forcing and artificial culture, the gardener may indeed produce a few hot-house plants, but for all great or general results, he must look to the genial operations of nature. XVII. GROWING. Children often use the term "grown-up people." By it they mean persons who have come to the age of twenty, or twenty-one, and whose bodily growth is complete. But there are other kinds of growth, besides that of the body. What is a "grown-up" _teacher_? It is not difficult, certainly, to find some, in every locality, to whom this term could _not_ be applied, with any propriety. They have been engaged for years in the work, and yet they are the merest babes. They have no more skill than when they first took a class in hand. When a boy begins to use a penknife, he is very awkward. He cuts himself about as often as he cuts the stick. After a while, however, he learns to manage the matter better. He finds out how to handle the curious instrument with skill and even with elegance. But you will see teachers, so called, who seem never to make any of this progress in their work. They have no more idea now, than they had when they gave their first lesson, of what they must do to secure attention and silence, how they must manage to keep all the children busy, how to secure good attendance, or study of the lesson, how to gain affection and confidence, how to enforce order and obedience, how to do anything, except to sit, book in hand, and ask the questions one after the other round the class, and see that John, George, and James severally say the answers correctly. This is the idea of teaching with which they begin, and they make no progress towards anything better. They acquire no skill. They make no growth. They are "grown-up" bodily. But in all that pertains to teaching, they are still babes. They whittle as awkwardly and unskilfully as when the delicate instrument was first put into their clumsy fingers. They go on from year to year and learn nothing. Some persons are born teachers, just as some are born poets or mechanics. That is, they are gifted with a natural aptitude for that particular work. But those most gifted by nature, are capable of improvement, and those having least natural gifts for teaching, may acquire a certain and a very considerable amount of skill, by proper observation and study. The point which I wish to make, and which I deem important, is, that teachers should not rest content with their present qualifications, whatever they may be, whether large or small. Let it be the aim of every one to be a growing teacher. We come short, if we are not better teachers this year than we were last. We should aim and resolve to be better teachers next year than we are now. Our education as teachers should never be considered as finished. Forgetting the things which are behind, let us ever press forward. Let us constantly aim upward. Skill in teaching admits of infinite degrees, and no one will ever be perfect in it. Efforts at improvement, if persistently followed up, are always rewarded with success, and success in such a work brings a most sweet recompense. What satisfaction is equal to that of feeling that one is steadily increasing in the power of guiding and moulding the minds of others? Growing skill in anything, even in works requiring mechanical ingenuity, brings joy to the mind. How much more intense and pure the joy, when there is a consciousness of growth in this higher department of mental power? Will the teacher, who reads these paragraphs, consider the matter? Are you, as a teacher, growing? or are you working on in dull content in the same old routine? On your answer to these questions depend very largely, not only the welfare of your scholars and the amount of good you will achieve, but your own happiness and satisfaction in your work. The artist, who produces some great work of genius, has his reward not merely in the dollars which it may bring to his coffer, but in the inward satisfaction which successful achievement produces. The true artist is always struggling towards some unattainable ideal, and his joy is proportioned to the nearness of his approach to the imagined perfection. So in proportion as we approach in skill the great Teacher, will be our joy in the work itself, apart from our joy in the results. To be a growing teacher requires a distinct aim to this end, and a resolute and persistent effort. It does not come by chance. It is not a weed that springs up spontaneously, and matures without culture. It is not the fruit of mere wishing. There must be _will_, A DETERMINED AND RESOLUTE WILL. Rules and theories will not accomplish it. There are books and essays in abundance on the art and practice of teaching. But back of means we must have, first of all, the propelling power. Have you made up your mind to be stationary, or have you resolved to go forward? Will you remain in the wilderness, or will you advance into the promised land and take possession? Are you a deliberate, predetermined, contented dwarf, or will you resolutely grow? You may never become a giant, but do not remain an infant. If there is any one duty of the teacher more imperative than another, it is that of continued, persistent self-improvement. No element of progress is so efficient as a wholesome discontent. "I count not myself to _have_ attained," says the great apostle of progress. To sit down self-satisfied with present attainments is in itself a sign that you have not yet risen much. It is to belong to the owls and the bats of the lower valleys. One must already have ascended to lofty heights before he can even see the higher Alps towering beyond. The teacher who would improve must, in a good sense, be restless. He must bestir himself. He must study and read and experiment, attend teachers' meetings and conventions, and take teachers' papers, and find out what other teachers are doing and have done, ever remembering that improvement comes mainly by comparison. XVIII. LOVING THE CHILDREN. Some teachers make the mistake of supposing that a love for the work and a love for the children are one and the same thing. The two things are certainly separable in thought, and they are often actually separated in action. It is of some importance to teachers to remember the difference. We see persons every day struggling with all their might to accomplish certain results. They have certain ideas which they wish to realize, certain theories which they wish to verify. To bring about these results, is a matter of pride with them. So that the end is gained, the means to be used are a matter of comparative indifference. Their heart is set on the result, they care nothing for the machinery by which it is brought about. Now, so long as the work is of a nature which requires only the use of mechanical powers, or of mere brute force, it is all very well. The sculptor need not fall in love with the block of marble on which he is working, in order to realize from it the conception of his mind. The engine which carries us thirty miles an hour towards the goal of our desires, will not speed us more or less for not being an object of our affections. But every man has a natural and proper dislike to becoming a mere machine for carrying out the schemes of others. Children especially revolt at being treated in this way. If a teacher takes the charge of a class or of a school, for the purpose of showing to himself or to others how certain things may be done, the children are quick to find it out, and to resent it. No child, however humble or obscure, but feels indignant at being considered as a mere pawn upon a chess-board, or a mere wheel or pulley in some complicated piece of machinery. Every individual child is to itself the centre of all human interests, and if you are to have any real and abiding influence upon him, he must first feel that you have a regard for himself, in his own proper person, independently of any schemes or plans of your own. You may love to see your children all present punctually, to see them making a good appearance, and by their orderly behavior and manners helping forward the school generally; you may love the work of teaching as giving you honorable and useful occupation. But something more than this is wanting. _You must love the children._ You must love each particular child. You must become interested in each child, not for what it is to you, or to the class, or to the school, but for what it is in itself, as a precious jewel, to be loved and admired, for those immortal qualities and capacities which belong to it as a human being. No matter how degraded or depraved or forbidding in appearance that child may be, it has qualities which, if brought out, may make it more glorious than an angel. If Jesus loved him, you may love him. Jesus did not stand off at a distance from the loathsome and filthy leper, while performing the miracle of healing. He first "_touched_" the leper, and said, "Be thou clean." We are sometimes too fastidious in our benevolence, and shrink too much from coming into contact with those whom we would befriend. Little real influence is ever produced upon any human being, without creating between you and him a bond of sympathy. If we would work strongly and efficiently upon the minds of children, we must really love them, not in the abstract, not in a general way, but concretely and individually. We must love John and William and Mary and Susie, simply and purely because he or she is, in himself or herself alone, an object of true interest and affection. In looking over a school, it is not difficult to discover at a glance which teachers thus love their children. It speaks in every word from the lips. It beams in every look from the eyes. It thrills in every tone of the voice. It has a language in the very touch of the hand and the movements of the person. Some persons are naturally more fond of children than others are. But those not naturally thus inclined may cultivate the disposition. They _must_ do so if they mean to be teachers. No one is fitted to be a teacher, who has not learned to sympathize with the real wants and feelings of children. Pretence here is all wasted. Shams may do with grown persons sometimes, never with children. They have an instinctive perception of what is genuine and what is pretended, in professed love for them. In fact, the way to win the affection of a child is to love him, not to make professions of love. It is not always the easiest thing in the world to exercise this love. A teacher may have the charge of a class of children whose appearance, manners, and dispositions are exceedingly forbidding, perhaps even loathsome. Yet observation and study will ordinarily discover some good quality even in the worst and most degraded. A talent for discovering what is good in a child is much more important in the work of elevating him, than the smartness at detecting and exposing his tricks, in which some teachers take pride. It is a bad sign, though not an uncommon one, to see evidences of cunning in a teacher. Better by far to be outwitted and duped occasionally, than to forfeit that character of perfect sincerity and straightforwardness which secures the confidence of a child. The teacher who would love his children, particularly if he happens to have been entrusted with an unpromising class, must learn to wear the spectacles of charity. He must cultivate the habit of seeing things in their best light. While not blind to faults, he must be prompt and eagle-eyed to spy out every indication of good. Above all, he must remember that no human soul, however degraded, is without some elements and possibilities of good, for whom there is the possibility that Christ died. XIX. GAINING THE AFFECTIONS OF THE SCHOLARS. The importance of this point is not to be measured by the mere gratification it affords. It adds undoubtedly to the happiness of the teacher in his work, to know that his scholars love him. Nor is this a small consideration. The teacher has many vexatious rubs. He encounters much toil and self-denial; and whatever tends to mitigate these asperities, and to make his labor sweet, is for that very reason important. The teacher has, for a part at least of his reward, the enjoyment of a love as pure and unselfish as any known upon earth. He will doubtless go forward in duty, even where he fails of obtaining this precious foretaste of the heavenly bliss, and he has doubtless higher aims than any arising from mere gratification, of whatever sort. Yet a boon so great is not to be despised or ignored. The ardent love which scholars sometimes give to their teachers is a high gratification, and something to be greatly prized for the mere pleasure it gives. And yet, after all, this is not its main value. The fact that children love their teacher, gives to the teacher almost unbounded influence over them. There is hardly a point, necessary to the success of a school or of a class, that scholars will not readily yield to a teacher whom they love. By this silken cord they can be drawn whithersoever the teacher wills. To please teacher, they will attend regularly, will come punctually, will be quiet and orderly, will learn their lessons, will be attentive to instruction. More than all this, many a child, by the love of an earthly friend, has been led to the love of his heavenly Friend. The young heart is opened to receive the Saviour, by the warmth of its love for one who so manifestly bears his image. Perhaps there is no one, not even excepting a mother, who can so easily bring the young to the Saviour, as the teacher who has thoroughly succeeded in winning his scholars' affections. There is another consideration in this matter, not so weighty as the one named, yet of great importance, and the more worthy to be named, because it is generally not rightly understood. I refer to the fact that children will learn so much more readily under a teacher whom they love. Not only will they study better, and be more attentive, for the sake of pleasing their teacher, but by some mysterious process of the mind, love helps us to understand, as dislike disturbs and beclouds the understanding. When a child has a dislike or prejudice or ill-feeling of any kind against a teacher, or a subject of study, the effect upon the mind of the child is like that produced upon a spring of pure and sparkling water by stirring up the mud and sediment from the bottom. In the human organization the heart is at the bottom, and disturbing influences there cause us to see things through an impure medium. The calmness and serenity, produced by perfect love and trust, are the proper conditions for the right and best working of the understanding. We must get the heart right if we would see truth clearly, and that teacher who has won the love of his scholars has done much towards making the path of knowledge easy for them. Let the teacher, then, aim to win the love of his scholars, first, because this love is in itself a boon to which the teacher has a rightful claim; secondly, because it gives him a powerful influence in moulding the character and habits of the children, and especially in bringing them to the Saviour; and, thirdly, because it helps the scholars intellectually, enabling them to understand better and to learn faster. But how is this love to be gained? Assuredly, _not_ by demanding it as a right, or by fretting, complaining, or scolding because your scholars do not love you. Love only is the price for love. If you wish your scholars to love you, you must first love them, not pretend to do it,--children are quick to see through such pretences,--but really and truly love them. Many teachers, however, sincerely love their scholars, and yet do not succeed in winning their affections. Something in their manner and appearance is repulsive. There is in the face of some good people a hard and forbidding look, at which the heart takes alarm and retires within itself. The young heart, like the young buds in spring-time, requires an atmosphere of warmth and sunshine. If we would draw forth their warm affections towards us, we must not only feel love towards them in our hearts, but we must wear sunshine in our faces. A pleasant smile, a loving word, a soft, endearing tone of the voice, goes a great way with a child, especially where it is not put on, but springs from a loving heart. Some teachers in avoiding this hard, repulsive manner, run to the opposite extreme, and lose the respect of their scholars by undue familiarity. Children do not expect you to become their playmate and fellow, before giving you their love and confidence. Their native tendency is to look up. They yearn for repose upon one superior to themselves. Only, when the tender heart of youth thus looks up, let it not be into a region filled with clouds and cold, but into a sky everywhere pervaded with a clear, steady, warm sunlight. Let there be no frown upon your brow, no harsh or angry word upon your lips, no exacting sternness in your eye. Let the love which you feel in your heart beam forth naturally and spontaneously in loving looks and words, and you need not fear but that you will meet with a response. XX. THE OBEDIENCE OF CHILDREN. There is much misapprehension as to the true nature of obedience. Wherein does obedience really consist? What is its essence? Merely doing a specified act, which has been required, is not necessarily an act of obedience. A father may have a rule of his household that the children shall rise in the morning at five o'clock. A son who habitually disregards this rule, may rise at the appointed time on a particular morning, in order to join a companion on a fishing excursion, or for some object connected solely with his own pleasure and convenience. Here the external act is the one required. He rises at the hour enjoined by his father's command. But his doing so has no reference to his father's wishes. It is not in any sense an act of obedience. Something more than mere external compliance with a rule or a command is needed to constitute obedience. In other words, not only the act itself must be the one required, but the motive must be right. If I am led to do what my father or my mother requires, by mere dint of coaxing, or by the expectation of cakes or pennies or promised indulgence of any kind, if it is a bargain, in which I give so much compliance for so much per contra of self-gratification, the compliance rendered is not an act of obedience. As well might a man profess to obey his neighbor, because he gives him a bag of oats for a bag of corn. A great deal of what passes for obedience in families and schools, is mere barter. Strip the matter of all glosses and disguises, and the naked truth remains, that children are hired to do what the parent or the teacher wants to have done. They do not obey, in any legitimate and wholesome use of the word. They are quiet when they should be quiet, they learn the lessons which they should learn, they abstain from whatever things they should abstain from, because they have learned that this is the only way to gain the indulgences which they desire. The parent and the teacher use a motive adequate to secure the outward act, but they do not secure obedience. It is not obedience for a child to do a thing because his reason and conscience tell him that the act in itself, without reference to his parents' wishes, is right and proper. At least it is not filial obedience. I may be obeying my conscience, but I am not obeying my father. Many parents, who are above the weakness of bribing their children, satisfy themselves by reasoning with them. Far be it from us to say a word against any legitimate appeal to the reason and conscience of a child. Children, at the proper age, should be taught to reason and to judge for themselves, in regard to the right and wrong of actions, just as they should learn to walk alone, and not be forever dependent upon leading strings. Only, let it be understood that just so far as the child acts on its own independent judgment, the act is not one of filial obedience. Obedience is doing a thing because another, having competent authority, has enjoined it. The motive necessary to constitute any act an act of obedience, is a reference to the will and authority of another. It is submission of our will to the will of another. The child receives as true what his parents say, and because they say it; so, he does as right what they command, and because they command it. That fact is, and in the first instance it should be, to the child's mind, the ultimate and sufficient reason for either believing or doing--for faith or obedience. This faith and obedience rendered to my earthly father, which is only partial and temporary, besides serving its own immediate ends, in securing a well-ordered household and my own best interests as a child, has the further end of training me for that unqualified faith and obedience, which I am to render to my heavenly Father, and which is of universal and permanent obligation. One object of the parental relation seems to be to fit the soul for this higher obedience. I must, however, learn to obey my father simply because he is my father, and because as such he has the right to command me, if thereby I am to learn, for a like reason, to obey my heavenly Father. No lower motive will secure the end. Submission to parental authority is not always the instinctive impulse of childhood. Where this submission is not yielded, it must be enforced. Authority, in other words, requires sanctions. The father has no right to command, unless he has the right to punish in case of disobedience. Furthermore, if he does not, especially in the early childhood of his offspring, train them to a habit of real obedience and submission to authority, he does his children a great wrong. He deprives them of the benefit of that habit of obedience, which will be of the utmost value to them in their future religious life. A man forbids his child to eat green apples. The child abstains. That abstinence is not necessarily an act of obedience. He may abstain because his mother offers, in case of his doing so, to give him sugar-plums, and he prefers the sugar-plums to the apples. This is not obedience. Or, his reason and experience may have taught him that the eating of green fruit will cause him sickness and pain, and so he abstains for the same reasons that his father, mother, or anybody else does. This is not obedience. But children often have not the forethought to look at remote consequences, or they have not the strength of purpose to deny a present gratification for the sake of a distant good, and especially for a good of which they have only a vague idea through the representations of their parents or teachers. Suppose such a case. Suppose a child with a strong inclination and desire for the thing forbidden, and with no clear apprehension that there is anything wrong or hurtful in the indulgence, except in the fact that the father has forbidden it, and with no temptation of a higher indulgence as a reward for abstaining. If, in such a case, the child abstains, he performs a true act of obedience. He really subjects his will to the will of his father. This kind of implicit obedience is greatly needed. It is to be secured just as our heavenly Father secures obedience to some of his laws. If a child thrusts his finger into the candle, he violates a law, and he instantly suffers for it. We are surrounded by many such laws, without the observance of which we could not live a day. To teach us obedience to these laws, the penalty of transgression is immediate and sharp. There are other laws of our physical well-being, the penalties of which are remote, and in regard to those we have room for the exercise and cultivation of our reasoning powers. Now in childhood, there are many things which a child should be taught to forbear doing as promptly as he forbears to thrust his hand into the fire. Yet for these things there is no natural penalty. Here the command of the parent should be interposed, and transgression should be promptly followed by penalty. The authority of the parent and the penalties by which he sustains it, guide the child during those years when reason and the power of self-denial are weak. But to make this discipline easy and effective, there should be no hesitation or uncertainty about the exercise of it. Parents often have to strain their authority, and use very largely their right of punishment, because they are so unequal and irregular in their methods of government. A child soon ceases to thrust his finger into the fire. Fire is not a thing which burns one day, and may be safely tampered with the next. So, if disobedience, invariably and promptly, without passion or caprice, and with the uniformity of a law of nature, brings such a penalty as to make the disobedience painful, there will be little transgression and little need of punishment. A child does not fret because he cannot play with fire. He will not fret because he cannot transgress a father's direct command, if he once knows that such commands _must_ be obeyed. XXI. RAREY AS AN EDUCATOR. Parents, teachers, and all who are charged with the duty of training the young, may learn important lessons from the example of the late Mr. Rarey. The principles on which the horse is rendered obedient and docile do not differ essentially from those to be employed in the government of children or of men. Some of the accounts of Mr. Rarey's system, however, which have been published, are liable to mislead, and to foster a mischievous error. His procedure was eminently kind and gentle. The horse became fully assured that no harm was intended towards him. This conviction is essential to success in securing a perfect and willing obedience, whether from brute or human. But the distinctness with which this feature of the treatment was brought out in Mr. Rarey's exhibitions, led some apparently to think that this was the main, if not the only feature. Kindness alone, however, will not tame, and will not govern, brutes or men. There must be power. There must be, in the mind of the party to be governed, a full conviction that the power of the other party is superior to his own--that there is, in the party claiming obedience, an ample reserve of power fully adequate to enforce the claim. The more complete this conviction is, the less occasion there will be for the exercise of the power. The most headstrong horse, once convinced that he is helpless in this contest of strength, and convinced at the same time that his master is his friend, may be led by a straw. Mr. Rarey went through various preliminary steps, the object of which was to make the horse acquainted with him, and to prevent fright or panic. But obedience was not claimed, and was not given, until there had been a demonstration of power--until the horse was convinced that the man was entirely too much for him. By a very simple adjustment of straps to the forefeet of the animal, he became perfectly helpless in the hands of his tamer. The struggle, indeed, was sometimes continued for a good while. The horse put forth his prodigious strength to the utmost. He became almost wild at the perfect ease and quietude with which all his efforts were baffled, until at length, fully satisfied that further struggles were useless, he made a complete surrender, and lay down as peaceful and submissive as an infant. This point is of some importance. I do not underrate the value of kindness and love in any system of government, whether in the household, the school, the stable, the menagerie, or in civil society. But love is not the basis of government. Obedience is yielded to authority, and authority is based on right and power. The child who complies with his father's wishes, only because a different course would make his father grieve, or give his mother a headache, or because his parents have reasoned with him and shown him that compliance is for his good, or who has been wheedled into compliance by petty bribes and promises, has not learned that doctrine of obedience which lies at the foundation of all government, human and divine. God has given to the parent the right to the obedience of his children, and the power to enforce it. That parent has failed in his duty who has not trained his child, not only to love him, but to obey him, in the strict sense of the word, that is to yield his will to the will of a superior, from a sense of appointed subordination and rightful authority. This sense of subordination and of obedience to appointed and rightful authority, is of the very essence of civil government, and the place where it is to be first and chiefly learned is in the household. To teach this is a main end of the parental relation. The parent who fails to teach it, fails to give his child the first element of good citizenship, and leaves him often to be in after-years the victim of his own uncontrolled passions and tempers. The want of a proper exercise of parental authority is, in this age of the world, the most prolific source of those frightful disorders that pervade society, and that threaten to upturn the very foundations of all civil government. The feeling of reverence, the sense of a respect for authority, the consciousness of being in a state of subordination, the feeling of obligation to do a thing simply because it is commanded by some one having a right to obedience--all these old-fashioned notions seem to be dying out of the minds of men. The popular cry is, Don't make your children fear you. Govern them by love. Conquer them by kindness. Treat them as Mr. Rarey did his horses. I protest against the notion. It is a mistake of Mr. Rarey's system, and it is not the true basis for government, whether of brutes or men. The doctrine may seem harsh in these dainty times. But, in my opinion, a certain degree of wholesome fear in the mind of a child towards its parent, is essential, and is perfectly compatible with the very highest love. I have never known more confiding, affectionate, and loving children, than those who not only regarded their parents as kind benefactors and sympathizing friends, but who looked up to them with a certain degree of reverence. The fear spoken of in the Bible, as being cast out by perfect love, is quite a different emotion. It is rather a slavish fear, a feeling of dread and terror. It sees in its object not only power but hostility. It awakens not only dread but hate. The child's fear, on the contrary, sees power united with kindness. It obeys the one, it loves the other. It is the exact attitude of mind to which Mr. Rarey brought the horse that was subjected to his management. XXII. A BOARDING-SCHOOL EXPERIENCE. I have often wished I had the descriptive power of the man who wrote "The Diary of a Physician." My experiences in another profession have not been wanting in incident, often of a curious and romantic kind, and sometimes almost startling. But the "Diary of a Schoolmaster," to be read with interest, requires something more than a good basis of facts. He who writes it must have, also, graphic and narrative powers--a special gift, of which nature has been sparing to me. I had one experience, however, many years ago, so remarkable in some of its features, that perhaps the bare facts, stated in the simplest form, without artifice or embellishment, will be found worthy of perusal. The youth who was the principal actor in the scene which I am about to describe, has been dead these many years, and I believe the family have nearly all died out. The only survivor that I knew anything of ten years ago was then blind, and ill of an incurable disease. There would, therefore, perhaps be no harm in giving the youth's real name; but as the name is one widely known, and as it is always best to avoid unnecessary intrusion upon private affairs, I have concluded to use a fictitious name, both for the person referred to and for the place from which he came. In other particulars the following incident is a simple narration of facts. At the time of which I am writing, I had a large boarding-school for boys, at Princeton, New Jersey. Particular circumstances gave me, for several years, quite a run of patronage from a town in one of the Western States, which for convenience I shall call Tompkinsville. Among those who applied for admission from this town were two brothers, Bob and Charlie Graham. Bob was only ten years old. Charlie was fourteen, and as mature as most boys at nineteen. Mature, I mean, not so much in his intellectual development, for in that respect he was rather behindhand, but in his passions, and in his habits of independent thought and action. I had many misgivings about the propriety of receiving these boys into the school. Most of those that I had already from Tompkinsville were of the fire-eating class, whom it had taken all my skill as a disciplinarian to bring into subjection, and I did not know what might be the effect of adding to their number two such combustible youths as these Grahams were reputed to be. Tompkinsville, indeed, had long been notorious for the fiery and lawless character of its inhabitants. While containing many most estimable families, where a generous and warm-hearted hospitality reigned supreme, yet no town, probably, in all the Western States witnessed annually a greater number of street-fights and other deeds of violence of the most desperate character. No family in Tompkinsville were more noted than the Grahams, on the one hand for the passionate warmth of their attachments, and on the other for the fierceness and violence of their resentments. Nothing was too much for them to do for you when their affections were touched. On the other hand, no law, human or divine, seemed to restrain them when their blood was up. When roused by what they regarded as an insult, they were human tigers, no less in the quickness than in the desperate ferocity of their anger. The father once, in open court, in a sudden rage, actually strode over the tables and heads of the lawyers, and seizing the presiding judge by the collar, dragged him from the bench and horsewhipped him in the presence of all his officials. Charlie himself, of whom I am writing, gave, about two years after leaving school, a similar demonstration of violence. Hearing that a young man, who was a fellow-student of his in a law office, had done something insulting, Charlie drew up a formal written apology and presented it to the young man to sign, intending afterwards to post it. On the young man's refusing to sign the paper, Charlie drew a weapon of some kind and sprang upon him. The young man being several years older, and very large and powerful, had no difficulty in disarming his assailant, throwing him upon the floor and holding him there. While thus down upon his back, bound hand and foot, and completely at the mercy of his antagonist, Charlie still demanded, as fiercely as ever, the signing of the "apology," giving the young man, as the only alternative, either to kill him or to be killed. "If you let me up alive, I will shoot you at sight, as sure as my name is Charles Graham." Knowing the desperate character of the family, and feeling too well assured of his own social position to care for any effect the signing of such a paper might have, the young man courageously let the ruffian up and signed the apology. Two days after, Charlie came back to the office, thoroughly mortified and penitent for his outrage, voluntarily gave up the paper, and apologized in the amplest manner for his folly. I might enumerate other instances by the score, were it necessary, to show the character of the boy with whom I had to deal. But these are probably sufficient. His passions were as quick as gunpowder, and as indiscriminate. Had I known all that I afterwards knew in regard to his disposition and his antecedents, I certainly would not have undertaken the charge of his education. The Grahams had been with me nearly a year without the occurrence of anything to attract attention or call for discipline. The school had considerable reputation among the people of Tompkinsville for the strictness of its discipline. Though the relations between the pupils and myself were for the most part thoroughly kind and friendly, yet it was well understood by every boy who entered school that the will of the Principal was supreme. Mr. Graham had probably brought his boys to the school for that very reason. The routine of obedience had been so thoroughly established, that his boys, he thought, would submit through mere force of example. Bob was too young to give any uneasiness. He fell, of course, into many of the peccadilloes of boys of his age, and received, without demur, the treatment of a little boy. Charlie, for a long time, was almost a model of propriety. He was diligent in his studies, and observed the rules of the school with scrupulous care. He was fair, almost girlish, in appearance, and gentle in his speech. No one, merely observing the quiet, modest boy, going about his usual routine of duty, without noise or turbulence, would have dreamed of the sleeping volcano that lay beneath this placid exterior. About the middle of the second term I began to notice in Charlie symptoms that I did not like. The harness evidently chafed him somewhere, and there was no telling when he might kick out of the traces. The crisis at length came. One morning, when the boys were in the washroom, under the charge of the senior teacher, Charlie, with what precise provocation I could never ascertain, drew back his basin of water and threw it full into the teacher's face. Here was a case. We were about to have an explosion. Evidently the young fire-eater's blood was up. He was bent on having "a scene;" and, while his hand was in, he would quite likely make up for all the long months of peaceful inaction. All the tiger within him stood revealed. The matter was reported to me of course. After some little thought, my plan was chosen. Not a word was said on the subject for several hours. Meals, play-time, study-hours, lessons, everything went on as usual. At length, about eleven o'clock, Charlie was summoned, not to the principal's desk, in the public school-room, but to my private office, in a remote part of the premises. As he entered the quiet apartment, it was evident that the intervening hours of reflection had not been lost upon him. He was pretty sure, of course, that I had sent for him in consequence of the occurrence of the morning. Still he was not certain. Not a word had been uttered in school on the subject--no allusion to it even. Altogether there was something about the affair that mystified him. The following brief dialogue ensued. "Where are your skates, Charlie?" "In my box in the play-room, sir." "Where is your sled?" "That is hanging up in the outer shed." "Where is your fishing-line and your ball?" "They are in the play-room." "I wish you would get these and all your other playthings together before dinner. Peter (this was the head waiter) has collected your boots and shoes, and Sarah (the seamstress) has got your clothes together and packed your trunks. I have made out your accounts, and will be ready to send you home to your father by the afternoon train. You may help Bob also to collect his playthings; he has not done anything wrong, but he is so young I think your father would not like to have him here alone so far from home." All this was said in a tone as utterly emotionless as I would have used if asking him whether he would be helped to beef or lamb at table. Charlie was taken aback. If I had attempted to chastise him, if I had even used towards him the language of invective or reproach, he could have met the case. But here was an issue which he had never contemplated. After a moment of blank amazement, he said: "Mr. H., I don't want to go home thus. It will grieve my father, and it will be a lasting stigma to me in Tompkinsville, where it is counted an honor to belong to this school. I know I have done wrong, but can't you inflict some other punishment? I will submit to anything rather than be sent home in this way. Put me in 'exile' and at the 'side-table,' for three days, or any time you please!" This was an extreme penalty, sometimes used in school for very grave offences. The boy who was subject to it was obliged to stand at a table by himself in the dining-room and eat bread and water, while the other boys and their teachers were at their meals. Besides this, during the continuance of the penalty the culprit was not allowed to go upon the play-ground, or to speak to any one, nor was any one allowed to speak to him, under the penalty of being himself similarly punished. The punishment was, of course, a severe one in itself, and was very mortifying to a boy of high spirit. It was only resorted to in extreme cases, and was limited to one day. Charlie begged that I would "exile" and "side-table" him for a week, if I pleased; only not send him home thus. "No, Charlie; I am not sure that your father would approve of your being thus publicly disgraced before the school and the family, nor am I myself sure that it would be right in the case of a boy so far advanced towards manhood as you are. In assuming the charge of you, I never contemplated anything in our intercourse but such as occurs between gentlemen. Since I have been mistaken in my estimate of you, let our intercourse cease. It would not alter your character to subject you to a humiliating punishment before the assembled school. If it were your brother Bob, the case would be different. But you are almost a man. You have been treated here, as at home, with the consideration due to a young gentleman. I would myself revolt at seeing one of your years and standing treated as you request me to treat you. I cannot do it. You must go home." "Oh, no! no! Do not send me home! Do anything else. I will submit to any punishment you please. Flog me; _please_, flog me!" "Flog you! Never! I have no scruples, as you know, on the subject of corporal punishment, for I often chastise the smaller boys; but boys as old and mature as you are have sense enough to be governed by other considerations than fear, and especially fear of the rod. If they have not, I want nothing to do with them." "Oh! Mr. H., won't you _please_ to flog me?" And the boy actually went down on his knees and begged me to thrash him. He, Charlie Graham, whose veins ran fire, who, six hours before, would have leaped at my throat had I so much as raised my finger at him, was now begging me, as a special boon, to give him a whipping! I could hardly believe my senses. Yet there was no doubt of the boy's sincerity, or of his earnestness. So, to give me time to reflect as to what should be done, I finally said, "Charlie, I will think of what you have asked, and let you know at three o'clock." Three o'clock came, and Charlie again made his appearance. "Do you still wish me to whip you?" "I do. I will make any apology you think proper to the teacher whom I insulted, and I will be most thankful to you to chastise me for the offence." "Please to take off your coat." * * * * * When the painful affair was over, I gave him my hand cordially and frankly, and said, "Charlie, you have honorably and courageously atoned for a grievous fault, and I assure you, I restore you not only to your position in school, but to my respect and confidence." I never had any further difficulty with Charlie Graham. Years afterwards, when I met his father at the Springs, he could hardly contain his amazement when I told him that I had once flogged his oldest son Charlie, at his own particular request. It was, I suppose, the first and last time the hand of correction was ever laid on him. XXIII. PHRENOLOGY. In the previous chapter I gave a leaf from my experience of life in a boarding-school. I propose now to give another leaf from the same book. The incident about to be narrated, however, is not given as an illustration of boarding-school life, but merely because it happened at school. It might have happened elsewhere, though the circumstances on that occasion were particularly favorable for giving to it a curious point. While I was at the head of the Edgehill school, at Princeton, N. J., a stranger called one day and announced himself as Prof. ----. The name is one almost as well known in the history of Phrenological science as that of Prof. Combe. He said he was about to give a lecture in Princeton on the subject of Phrenology, and as he was an entire stranger to myself and to all the pupils and teachers in the school, he thought it would be a good opportunity for making an interesting and critical experiment. He proposed, therefore, with my consent, to spend an hour, in presence of the school, in examining the heads of any of the boys that I might call up for that purpose. From the very intimate relations existing in a boarding-school, the characters of the boys would be well known to me and to their companions and teachers, and we would have therefore the means of knowing how far he succeeded in his experiment. Thinking that an hour spent in this way would not be misspent, that it would at least give some variety to the monotonous routine of study and lessons, and, let me add, being not entirely without curiosity as to the result, I consented to his proposition, and called the school together in the large assembly-room. All the boys being in their seats, together with the teachers and the ladies of the household, I stated briefly the object of their assembling and the method in which it was proposed to proceed with the experiment. They were to observe entire silence, and to give no indication, by word or look, so far as they could help it, to show whether the Professor was hitting the mark or not, as he read off to them the characters of their companions. The boys took to the idea at once, and the excitement very soon was at fever-heat. Placing a chair upon the platform, in full view of the school, and the Professor alongside of it, I called up _Boy No. 1._--This happened to be a lad about fourteen, from the interior of Alabama. He was the most athletic boy in school. "Full big he was of brawn and eke of bones," as Chaucer says, in his picture of the Miller. He could beat any boy in school in wrestling, and no doubt could flog any of them in a fist-fight, though on this point I speak only from conjecture, as this part of boys' amusements is not always as well known to their teachers as it is to the boys themselves. The Professor, after some little manipulation of the cranium, read off the boy's character with tolerable accuracy. Any one, however, with a grain of observation, who had seen the boy stalking up to the platform, with bold, almost defiant air, or had noticed his bull-neck, hard fist, and swaggering gait, could not have had much difficulty in guessing what kind of a boy he was, without resort to his bumps for information. It was written in unmistakable characters all over his physical conformation, from his head to his heels. I noticed, however, that while the Professor's fingers were busy with the boy's cranium, his eyes were not less busy with the faces of his youthful auditors. Whenever his interpretation of any bump was a palpable hit, his success could be all too plainly read in the upturned faces before him. If the success was very marked and decisive, the youngsters were entirely unable to restrain their expressions of surprise and admiration. It was very evident, from his method of procedure, that he was guided by these expressions, quite as much as by his fingering of the bumps. He would first mention lightly some trait of character. If it attracted no particular attention, he would quietly fall on to something else. But if the announcement seemed to create a little breeze, showing that he had made a hit, he would then dwell upon the point, and intensify his expressions, until, in some instances, the school was in quite an uproar of satisfaction. Possibly there was a spice of malice in what followed. At all events, it seemed to me that that was a kind of game at which two could play, and if, under the circumstances, he chose to palm off for knowledge gained by the fingers, what he was really getting by means of his eyes and ears, there would be no great crime in punishing him a little for his impertinence. So, in calling the following boys, I selected some who were notorious in school for certain marked traits, but whose general appearance and manner gave no indication of their mental peculiarities; and I questioned the Professor, in regard to each boy, after a method suited to the case. _Boy No. 2_ was a youth of moderate abilities, and was, in all things, save one, just like other boys. But, in one matter, he had a peculiarity about which there could be no mistake. That was in the matter of music. So, after questioning the Professor about various indifferent points, moral and intellectual, such as reverence, combativeness, secretiveness, language, ideality, etc., I asked incidentally something also about tune and music. The answer was such as might be safely given in regard to ninety-nine out of every hundred persons--some vague, indefinite epithet that would apply to almost any one. But, seeing a little sparkle in the eyes before him, the gentleman manipulated the cranium again, and then expressed himself somewhat more strongly. As his expressions increased in strength, the excitement of the audience increased, until he was quite lost in hyperbole, as they were in uproar. He even went into particulars. "Now," said he, "though I never saw this boy before, yet I venture to say that his ear for music is so quick that he can pick up almost any tune by once hearing it played or whistled in the street. [A general rustle through the school, boys winking and giving knowing looks one to another.] I dare say he could now sing or whistle a hundred tunes from memory. [More knowing looks.] Possibly he may never make a very accurate performer, on account of the very ease with which he picks up a tune. He learns a tune so easily by the ear, that he will not submit to the drudgery of studying it scientifically." "You think, then, Professor, that the boy has decided indications of musical talent?" "Undoubtedly. He has musical talents of a very high order [suppressed shouts] amounting almost to genius!" The fact was, poor Charlie was the butt of the whole school, on account of his utter inability to learn the first elements of either the art or the science of music. He could neither sing, whistle, nor play. He could hardly tell "Old Hundred" from "Yankee Doodle." Although he had been taking music-lessons for two years, he could not rise and fall through the eight notes, to save his neck. His attempts to do so were a sort of indiscriminate goo, goo, goo, like that of an infant; and the excitement among the boys, which the Professor had mistaken for applause and admiration, grew out of their astonishment. They were simply laughing at him. _Boy No. 3_ was a youth over fourteen years old, regularly and symmetrically formed in face, features, and person. There was nothing in his make or bearing to indicate any marked peculiarity. Yet he had a peculiarity as marked as that of the preceding. He was singularly deficient in the capacity for mathematical studies. He was studying English grammar, geography, and Latin, and got along in these branches about as well as the majority of his class. But when it came to the science of numbers, he seemed to stick fast. Neither I nor any of my teachers had been able to get him beyond Long Division. It was as clear a case as I have ever known of natural deficiency in that department of the mental constitution. Yet this boy was declared by the manipulator to have a decided talent for mathematics. _Boy No. 4_ was my crack mathematician. He was really in mathematics what our manipulator had made out No. 2 to be in music. His quickness in the perception of mathematical truth was wonderful. Besides this natural readiness in everything pertaining to the science of quantity and the relations of numbers, he had received a good mathematical training, and he was in this department far in advance of his years. Whenever we had a public exhibition, George was our show-card. The rapidity with which he would fill the blackboard, in solving difficult problems in quadratics, was almost bewildering. It was not every teacher even that could follow him in his quick but exact evolutions of complex algebraical formulæ. In Greek and Latin he hardly attained to mediocrity, being always behind his class, while in mathematics he was superior, not only to every boy in school, but to any boy of the same age that I have ever had in any school. But this boy received from the Professor only a second or third-rate rank for mathematical indications, while highly praised for linguistics, in which he was decidedly inferior. The fact was, I saw that the gentleman was trying to read _me_, as well as the more youthful part of his audience; and so, in questioning him about this boy, I was malicious enough to be very minute and specific in my inquiries about any indications of a talent for language, while the questions about mathematics were propounded just like those about half a dozen other points; that is, with no special stress or emphasis, but just enough to draw from the Professor a clear and distinct expression of opinion. _Boy No. 5_ was perhaps the most critical case of all, yet the one most difficult to describe. He was good, and about equally good, in all his studies. He stood head in almost every class. He was so uniformly good that his character became monotonous, and would have been insipid, but for the manly vigor that marked all his performances. His moral were like his mental traits. He was indeed our model boy. In two years he had not had one demerit mark. He was on all sides rounded and complete--_totus teres atque rotundus_. The uniformity of his goodness was sometimes a source of anxiety to me. There was danger of his growing up with a self-satisfied, pharisaical spirit. Thus far, however, I have not named the feature which I regarded as the critical one, and which had led me to select him as one of the subjects for examination. Model boys are to be found in all schools. But this boy had a power of reticence which was to me a continual study, and it was this feature in his character that I wanted to bring out in the examination. He was not a sneak. There was nothing sly about him. His conduct was open and aboveboard. What he did was patent to all. But what he thought, or how he felt, no one knew. Not Grant himself could more perfectly keep his own counsel. If a new rule was promulgated, Joseph obeyed it to the letter. But whether it was agreeable or disagreeable to him, no teacher could ever find out. Nor was his obedience of that tame, passive sort which comes from indifference and lack of spirit. We all knew him to be resolute, and to be possessed of strong passions. But his power of self-restraint was equal to his power of reticence. He had, indeed, in a very marked degree, qualities which you look for only in those who have had a long schooling in the stern realities of life, and which you find rarely even then. He was as self-poised as a man of fifty, with not a particle of that easy impulsiveness so nearly universal at his age. None of the gentleman's performances surprised me so much as the character which he assigned to this boy, and all the more because something of the boy's self-continence and reserve was written upon his face and manner. He was represented by the Professor, in general terms, as having a free and easy, rollicking sort of disposition--not being really worse than his companions, though probably having the reputation of being so. 'If he got into more scrapes than the others [Joseph was never in a scrape in his life], it was more owing to his natural impulsiveness than to anything inherently bad in him. And then, when he did get into a scrape, he had no faculty for concealing it. His organ of secretiveness was unusually small. The boys would hardly admit him to a partnership in their plans of mischief, so sure was he inadvertently to let the cat out of the bag,' etc., etc. _Boy No. 6_ was the weakest boy, mentally, that we had in school. He was barely able to take care of himself. Some of his mistakes and blunders were so ridiculous, that they were handed down among the traditionary jokes of the school, and I am afraid even at this day to repeat them, lest they may be recognized. If the manipulator had had the cranium of Daniel Webster under his fingers, he could not have drawn a mental character more marked by every trait that belongs to intellectual greatness of the highest order. Finding that he was making a decided impression upon his young hearers, the Professor continued to pile up qualities and powers, until the scene became almost too much for the most practised gravity. The examinations occupied an hour, and I made copious notes of the whole, writing down, as nearly as I could, the exact expressions used by the operator. The report which I have now given of it is as nearly literal as it is safe to make it. When the Professor was through, and was about to leave, he asked me privately to tell him how far he had succeeded in his experiments. Not wishing to say anything disagreeable, I evaded the question to the best of my ability, answering with some vague generalities, but indicating sufficiently that it was not agreeable to be more explicit. He pressed me, however, to tell him candidly and explicitly whether he had succeeded, and how far. I then told him frankly that he had failed point-blank in every case. "Ah," said he, "you are skeptical." "No, sir," said I, "skepticism implies doubt, and I have no longer any doubts on the subject. _My skepticism is entirely removed!_" XXIV. NORMAL SCHOOLS. The term Normal School is an unfortunate misnomer, and its general adoption has led to much confusion of ideas. The word "Normal," from the Latin _norma_, a rule or pattern to work by, does not differ essentially from "Model." A Normal School, according to the meaning of the word, would be a pattern school, an institution which could be held up for imitation, to be copied by other schools of the same grade. But this meaning of the word is not what we mean by the thing. When we mean a school to be copied or imitated, we call it a Model School. Here the name and the thing agree. The name explains the thing. It is very different when we speak of a Normal School. To the uninitiated, the term either conveys no meaning at all; or, if your hearer is a man of letters, it conveys to him an idea which you have at once to explain away. You have to tell him, in effect, that a Normal School is not a Normal School, and then that it is something else, which the word does not in the least describe. What then do we mean by a Normal School? What is the thing which we have called by this unfortunate name? A Normal School is a seminary for the professional education of teachers. It is an institution in which those who wish to become teachers learn how to do their work; in which they learn, not reading, but how to teach reading; not penmanship, but how to teach penmanship; not grammar, but how to teach grammar; not geography, but how to teach geography; not arithmetic, but how to teach arithmetic. The idea which lies at the basis of such an institute, is that knowing a thing, and knowing how to teach that thing to others, are distinguishable and very different facts. The knowledge of the subjects to be taught, may be gained at any school. In order to give to the Teachers' Seminary its full power and efficiency, it were greatly to be desired that the subjects themselves, as mere matters of knowledge, should be first learned elsewhere, before entering the Teachers' School. This latter would then have to do only with its own special function, that of showing its matriculants how to use these materials in the process of teaching. Unfortunately, we have not yet made such progress in popular education as to be able to separate these two functions to the extent that is desirable. Many of those who attend a Teachers' Seminary, come to it lamentably ignorant of the common branches of knowledge. They have consequently first to study these branches in the Normal School, as they would study them in any other school. That is, they have first to learn the facts as matters of knowledge, and then to study the art and science of teaching these facts to others. Instead of coming with their brick and mortar ready prepared, that they may be instructed in the use of the trowel and the plumb-line, they have to make their brick and mix their mortar after they enter the institution. This is undoubtedly a drawback and a misfortune. But it cannot be helped at present. All we can do is to define clearly the true idea of the Teachers' School, and then to work towards it as fast and as far as we can. A Normal School is essentially unlike any other school. It has been compared indeed to those professional schools which are for the study of law, divinity, medicine, mining, engineering, and so forth. The Normal School, it is true, is like these schools in one respect. It is established with reference to the wants of a particular profession. It is a professional school. But those schools have for their main object the communication of some particular branch of science. They teach law, divinity, medicine, mining, or engineering. They aim to make lawyers, divines, physicians, miners, engineers, not teachers of these branches. The Professor in the Law School aims, not to make Professors of law, but lawyers. The medical Professor aims, not to make medical lecturers, but practitioners. To render these institutions analogous to the Teachers' Seminary, their pupils should first study law, medicine, engineering, and so forth, and then sit at the feet of their Gamaliels to be initiated into the secrets of the Professorial chair, that they may in turn become Professors of those branches to classes of their own. Nor would such a plan, if it were possible, be altogether without its value. It surely needs no demonstration to prove, that in the highest departments, no less than in the lowest, something more than knowledge is needed in order to teach. An understanding of how to communicate one's knowledge, and practical skill in doing it, are as necessary in teaching theology, metaphysics, languages, infinitesimal analysis, or chemistry, as they are in teaching the alphabet. If there are bunglers, who know not how to go to work to teach a child its letters, or to open its young mind and heart to the reception of truth, whose school-rooms are places where the young mind and heart are in a state, either of perpetual torpor, or of perpetual nightmare, have these bunglers no analogues in the men of ponderous erudition that sometimes fill the Professor's chair? Have we no examples, in our highest seminaries of learning, of men very eminent in scientific attainments, who have not in themselves the first elements of a teacher? who impart to their students no quickening impulse? whose vast and towering knowledge may make them perhaps a grand feature in their College, attracting to it all eyes, but whose intellectual treasures, for all the practical wants of the students, are of no more use, than are the swathed and buried mummies in the pyramid of Cheops! A Teachers' Seminary, if it were complete, would include in its curriculum of study the entire cycle of human knowledge, so far as it is taught by schools. Our teachers of mathematics and of logic, of law and of medicine, need indeed a knowledge of the branches which they are to teach, and for this knowledge they do not need a Teachers' Seminary. But they need something more than this knowledge. Besides being men of erudition, they need to be teachers, no less than the humbler members of the profession, who have only to teach the alphabet and the multiplication table; and there is in all teaching, high or low, something that is common to them all--an art and a skill which is different from the mere knowledge of the subjects; which is not necessarily learned in learning the subjects; which requires special, superadded gifts, and distinct study and training. There is, according to my observation, as great a lack of this special skill in the higher seminaries of learning, as in the lower seminaries. Were it possible to have a Normal School, not which should undertake to teach the entire encyclopædia of the sciences, but which, limiting itself to its one main function of developing the art and mystery of communicating knowledge, should turn out College Professors, and even Divinity, Law, and Medical Professors,--men who were really skilful teachers,--it would work a change in those venerable institutions as marked and decisive as that which it is now effecting in the common schools. Of course, no such scheme is possible; certainly, none such is contemplated. But I am very sure I shall not be considered calumnious, when I express the conviction, that there are learned and eminent occupants of Professors' chairs, who might find great benefit in an occasional visit to a good Normal School, or even to the class-room of a teacher trained in a Normal School. I certainly have seen, in the very lowest department of the common school, a style of teaching, which, for a wise and intelligent comprehension of its object, and for its quickening power upon the intellect and conscience, would compare favorably with the very best teaching I have ever seen in a College or University. I come back, then, to the point from which I set out, namely, that a Normal School, or Teachers' Seminary, differs essentially from every other kind of school. It aims to give the knowledge and skill that are needed alike in all schools. To make the point a little plainer, let me restate, with what clearness I can, some of the elementary truths and facts which lie at the foundation of the whole subject. Though to many of my readers it may be going over a beaten track, it may not be so to all; and we all do well, even in regard to known and admitted truths, to bring them occasionally afresh to the mind. As it has been already said, a man may know a thing perfectly, and yet not be able to teach it. Of course, a man cannot teach what he does not know. He must first have the knowledge. But the mere possession of knowledge does not make one a teacher, any more than the possession of powder and shot makes him a marksman, or the possession of a rod and line makes him an angler. The most learned men are often unfortunately the very men who have least capacity for communicating what they know. Nor is this incapacity confined to those versed in book knowledge. It is common to every class of men, and to every kind of knowledge. Let me give an example. The fact about to be stated, was communicated to me by a gentleman of eminent commercial standing in Philadelphia, at that time the President of one of its leading banks. The fact occurred in his own personal experience. He was, at the time of its occurrence, largely engaged in the cloth trade. His faculties of mind and body, and particularly his sense of touch, had been so trained in this business, that in going rapidly over an invoice of cloth, as his eye and hand passed in quick succession from piece to piece, in the most miscellaneous assortment, he could tell instantly the value of each, with a degree of precision, and a certainty of knowledge, hardly credible. A single glance of the eye, a single touch, transient as thought, gave the result. His own knowledge of the subject, in short, was perfect, and it was rapidly winning him a fortune. Yet when undertaking to explain to a younger and less experienced member of the craft, whom he wished to befriend, by what process he arrived at his judgment, in other words, to teach what he knew, he found himself utterly at a loss. His thoughts had never run in that direction. "Oh!" said he, "you have only--to look at the cloth, and--and--to run your fingers over it,--thus. You will perceive at once the difference between one piece and another." It seems never to have occurred to him that another man's sensations and perceptions might in the same circumstances be quite different from his, and that in order to communicate his knowledge to one uninitiated, he must pause to analyze it; he must separate, classify, and name those several qualities of the cloth of which his senses took cognizance; he must then ascertain how far his interrogator perceived by his senses the same qualities which he himself did, and thus gradually get on common ground with him. Let the receiving-teller of a bank be called upon to explain how it is that he knows at a glance a counterfeit bill from a genuine one, and in nine cases out of ten he will succeed no better than the cloth merchant did. Knowing and communicating what we know, doing and explaining what we do, are distinct, separable, and usually very different processes. Similar illustrations might be drawn from artists, and from men of original genius in almost every profession, who can seldom give any intelligible account of how they achieve their results. The mental habits best suited for achievement are rarely those best suited for teaching. Marlborough, so celebrated for his military combinations, could never give any intelligible account of his plans. He had arrived at his conclusions with unerring certainty, but he was so little accustomed to observing his own mental processes, that he utterly failed in attempting to make them plain to others. He saw the points himself with perfect clearness, but he had no power to make others see them. To all objections to his plans, he could only say, "Silly, silly, that's silly." It was much the same with Cromwell. It is so with most men who are distinguished for action and achievement. Patrick Henry would doubtless have made but a third-rate teacher of elocution, and old Homer but an indifferent lecturer on the art of poetry. To acquire knowledge ourselves, then, and to put others in possession of what we have acquired, are not only distinct intellectual processes, but they are quite unlike. In the former case, the faculties merely go out towards the objects to be known, as in the case of the cloth merchant passing his eye and finger over the bales of cloth. But in the case of one attempting to teach, several additional processes are needed, besides that of collecting knowledge. He must turn his thoughts inward, so as to arrange and classify properly the contents of his intellectual storehouse. He must then examine his own mind, his intellectual machinery, so as to understand exactly how the knowledge came in upon himself. He must lastly study the minds of his pupils, so as to know through what channels the knowledge may best reach them. The teacher may not always be aware that he does all these things, that is, he may not always have a theory of his own art. But the art itself he must have. He must first get the knowledge of the things to be taught; he must secondly study his knowledge; he must thirdly study himself; he must lastly study his pupil. He is a teacher at all only so far as he does at least these four things. In a Normal School, as before said, the knowledge of the subject is presupposed. The object of the Normal School is, not so much to make arithmeticians and grammarians, for instance, as to make teachers of arithmetic and grammar. This teaching faculty is a thing by itself, and quite apart from the subject matter to be taught. It underlies every branch of knowledge, and every trade and profession. The theologian, the mathematician, the linguist, the learned professor, no less than the teacher of the primary school, or of the Sabbath-school, all need this supplementary knowledge and skill, in which consists the very essence of teaching. This knowledge of how to teach is not acquired by merely studying the subject to be taught. It is a study by itself. A man may read familiarly the _Mechanique Celeste_, and yet not know how to teach the multiplication table. He may read Arabic or Sanskrit, and not know how to teach a child the alphabet of his mother tongue. The Sabbath-school teacher may dip deep into biblical lore, he may ransack the commentaries, and may become, as many Sabbath-school teachers are, truly learned in Bible knowledge, and yet be utterly incompetent to teach a class of children. He can no more hit the wandering attention, or make a lodgment of his knowledge in the minds of his youthful auditory, than the mere unskilled possessor of a fowling-piece can hit a bird upon the wing. The art of teaching is the one indispensable qualification of the teacher. Without this, whatever else he may be, he is no teacher. How may this art be acquired? In the first place, many persons pick it up, just as they pick up a great many other arts and trades,--in a hap-hazard sort of way. They have some natural aptitude for it, and they grope their way along, by guess and by instinct, and through many failures, until they become good teachers, they hardly know how. To rescue the art from this condition of uncertainty and chance, is the object of the Normal School. In such a school, the main object of the pupil is to learn how to make others know what he himself knows. The whole current of his thoughts and studies is turned into this channel. Studying how to teach, with an experimental class to practise on, forms the constant topic of his meditations. It is surprising how rapidly, under such conditions, the faculty of teaching is developed; how fertile the mind becomes in devising practical expedients, when once the attention is roused and fixed upon the precise object to be attained, and the idea of what teaching really is, fairly has possession of the mind. For this purpose every well-ordered Normal School has, in connection with it, as a part of its organization, a Model School, to serve the double purpose of a school of observation and practice. Thus, after these pupil-teachers are once familiar with the branches to be taught, and after they have become acquainted with the theory of teaching, as a science, it is surprising how soon, with even a little of this practice-teaching, they acquire the art. If the faculty of teaching is in them at all, a very few experimental lessons, under the eye of an experienced teacher, will develop it. The fact of possessing within one's self this gift, or power of teaching, sometimes breaks upon the possessor himself with all the force of a surprising and most delightful discovery. The good teacher does not indeed stop here. He goes on to improve in his art, as long as he lives. But his greatest single achievement is when he takes the first step,--when he first learns to teach at all. The pupil of a Normal School gains there a start and an impulse, which carry him forward the rest of his life. A very little judicious experimental training redeems hundreds of candidates from utter and hopeless incompetency, and converts for them an awkward and painful drudgery into keen, hopeful and productive labor. XXV. PRACTICE-TEACHING. One feature of a Normal School which distinguishes it especially from other schools, is the opportunity given to its matriculants for practising their art under the guidance and criticism of an experienced teacher. This practice-teaching is done in a Model School, maintained for this purpose in connection with the main school. Such is the theory. But serious difficulties are encountered in carrying the plan into practical effect, and these difficulties are so great as in some instances to have led to the entire abandonment of the plan, while very rarely have the conductors of Normal schools been able to realize results in this matter commensurate with their wishes or with their views of what was desirable and right. Some of the difficulties are the following: Parents who send their children to the Model School object to have their children taught to any considerable extent by mere pupil-teachers. The teachers of the Model School, having little or no acquaintance with the Normal pupils sent to teach under their supervision, do not feel that entire freedom in criticising the performance which is essential to its success. The irregularities produced by these practice-teachings have a tendency to impair the discipline of the classes in the Model School. For these and other reasons which I need not dwell upon, I at least have always been obliged to be somewhat chary in regard to the amount of practice-teaching that was done in the institution under my care, and have never felt quite satisfied as to the result. At the beginning of the year 1867, I determined to try the plan of having a considerable portion of the practice-teaching done in the Normal School itself, the Model School still holding its place in the system as furnishing an unrivalled opportunity for observation, and to some extent of practice also. The effect of thus extending the opportunity for practice by including the Normal School in its operations has been most happy. The pupils have attained a degree of freedom in the exercise which is working the most marked and decisive results. They enter into it with more zest than into any other exercise of the class, and derive from it in some instances as much benefit as from all their other exercises put together. Some detailed account of the method may perhaps be of interest to other laborers in the same field. The method is substantially the same as that followed in the Girls High and Normal School of Philadelphia, from which indeed I borrowed the idea. Once a week I make up a programme containing the names of those who are to teach during the following week, and the classes and lessons which they are severally to teach. The practice-pupils are thus enabled to prepare themselves fully for the exercise. It is an indispensable condition in all these exercises that the lesson be given without the use of the book. When a pupil enters a room to teach one of these assigned lessons, he is to bring with him only his crayon and pointer, and is expected to assume entire charge of the class, maintaining order, hearing the pupils recite, correcting their mistakes, illustrating the subject, if necessary, by diagrams or experiments, giving supplementary information drawn from other sources than the text-book, and acting in all respects as if he were the regular teacher. The regular teacher meanwhile sits by, observing in silence, and at the close of the day writes out a full and detailed criticism upon the performance in a book kept for this purpose, and gives the pupil an average for it, the maximum being 100. These criticisms, together with the teaching averages, are read next day by the Principal to the pupil in the presence of the class to which he belongs, with additional comments in regard to any principles of teaching that may be involved in the criticisms. An essential element of success in this scheme, is that the teachers should be thoroughly faithful in the work of criticism, and point out the errors and shortcomings of the young practitioners, not with harshness, but with unsparing truthfulness and wise discrimination. Practice-teaching under such conditions cannot fail to have a powerful effect. The pupils are stimulated by it to put forth the very best efforts of which they are capable, and the talent which they often develop is a surprise equally to themselves and their teachers. I cannot better give an idea of this practice-teaching, and especially of the criticism which is its vitalizing principle, than by quoting a few of the actual criticisms made during the last year. I feel sure they will interest teachers and perhaps the public. In making these extracts, I suppress, of course, the names of the parties. NOTES ON PRACTICE-TEACHING. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Elocution. She was animated and energetic in giving the vocal exercises, but she pitched her voice too high. The same shrill tone characterized the concert reading. Many of the criticisms given by pupils were not loud enough to be heard by the whole class. One of the ladies, in giving a sketch of Shakspeare, said "his principal works _was_ 'Much Ado About Nothing,' 'Merchant of Venice,' etc.;" but the error passed unnoticed by pupils and teacher. Miss ---- herself, said "Hamlet thought it wasn't _him_." She marked the pupils too high, the worst readers in the class receiving 8 and 9. Teaching average 85. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in History. She was herself well prepared with the lesson, but she allowed the pupils too long a time to think and _guess_. A chronology lesson is apt to be dry and uninteresting; and unless the teacher calls upon the pupils in _rapid_ succession, thus keeping them wide awake, the interest will flag, and even good pupils will be inattentive. One of the pupils, after gaping two or three times, indulged in short naps during the recitation; the teacher evidently did not see her. Miss ---- marked the pupils judiciously. Teaching average 90. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Arithmetic. She assisted the pupils too much. She did not require them to be accurate enough in answering questions; otherwise she taught well, the subject being rather a difficult one. Miss ---- marked the pupils judiciously. Teaching average 85. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Grammar. She began the recitation well, spoke in a loud and decided tone, and was well prepared with the lesson. She failed to keep her class in order; she allowed pupils to speak without being called upon, and all to criticise and ask questions at the same instant--thus she became confused and sought refuge behind her book. Teaching average 80. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in the Constitution of the United States. She was too quiet in conducting the recitation. The entire period was spent in repeating the mere words of the book; but once or twice the lady asked for the explanation of clauses, and then the answers given were neither full nor satisfactory, yet the lady ventured no comment of her own. Many practical questions might have been given by the teacher respecting the executive departments, ambassadors, consuls, treaties, and so forth. The lesson contained many subjects of interest sufficient to occupy more than the allotted time. Teachers should call more frequently for definitions, and always take it for granted that their pupils are ignorant of the meaning of even the simplest words. I venture to assert that more than one third of the class left the room without knowing the difference between a _reprieve_ and a _pardon_. Teaching average 80. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Arithmetic. She was well prepared with the lesson, seemed to understand the subject fully, and readily answered questions proposed by pupils; but she allowed too many pupils to speak at once, and did not pay enough attention to _signs_. One of the pupils began a sentence with a small letter, and Miss ---- took no notice of it. Miss ---- marked judiciously. Teaching average 88. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in the Constitution. She failed entirely in teaching. She became embarrassed, and soon lost the respect and confidence of the class. Pupils assumed all sorts of positions; and one picked up a ruler and began fanning himself, but was not rebuked by the teacher. The lady, not familiar with the names of the scholars, made several mistakes, (perfectly excusable); but, there being no sympathy between the teacher and the class, the pupils laughed immoderately, and seemed to enjoy the lady's embarrassment. The words of the book were repeated over and over again, without a word of explanation or comment, until the teacher, tired of the monotony, announced that the lesson was finished, and called upon me to fill up the remainder of the time. The lesson was one that needed thorough preparation on the part of the teacher, but Miss ---- had merely studied the _words_ and not the _subject_; when asked a very simple question by one of the pupils, she was completely nonplussed. Teaching average 50. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Map Drawing. She became somewhat confused in her work, and so did not distinctly enough give the points of criticism. I think she was not familiar enough with the map drawn to notice, with sufficient readiness, the great points of error in the work. Several of the pupils were allowed, in one or two cases, to speak at the same time. She marked well, using a good scale of markings. Teaching average 85. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Arithmetic. She was either very careless or had not prepared the proper lesson, as she gave pupils problems to solve that were not in the lesson; in consequence of which some good pupils failed, as they had not prepared an advance lesson. She was too quiet, and spoke in so low a tone that many of the pupils did not hear her. The pupils were more animated than the teacher. Miss ---- marked some pupils too high, others too low, and in one instance did not mark at all. Teaching average 65. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in History. She was thoroughly prepared with the lesson, and did not confine herself to the mere words of the text-book. She asked many good general questions connected with the subject, thus compelling pupils to think; and whenever the class failed to give the desired information, the lady very promptly gave it herself; she thus won the confidence of her pupils. Miss ---- lacked animation and did not speak loud enough; otherwise she did well. Teaching average 92. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Grammar. She has improved since teaching for me before, but she still lacks energy and decision. She gave the pupil who was reciting all her attention, thus allowing an opportunity to some (who took advantage of it) to assume lounging positions, in which to await lazily for their turn to recite. Some remained wide awake, and embarrassed Miss ----, by speaking at any time, even interrupting her in the middle of a sentence, to ask questions. Teaching average 87. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Grammar. She taught well. She spoke in that decided tone which conveys a conviction of truth to pupils, and by so doing gained their confidence. She used the blackboards to advantage, and thoroughly inspected and criticised all writings that she had required to be put upon the boards. The facts she taught were correct, except one, which was, that "is ashamed" was a verb in the passive voice; in this she was corrected by a number of the class. Teaching average 93. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Elocution. She failed in teaching. The pupils read badly, and many errors were made, but there were no criticisms. The lady spoke in a very low tone, and seemed to be afraid of the class. She did not read a single line for the pupils. Reading cannot be taught properly by arbitrary rules, the voice of the living teacher is indispensable. Teaching average 65. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Elocution. She cannot become a successful teacher until she studies the pronunciation of words. Not only did she permit mistakes made by the pupils to pass unnoticed, but she mis-pronounced many words herself, hos-_pit_-a-ble, for _hos_-pi-ta-ble, _in_-tense for in-_tense_, etc.; the errors consisted chiefly in changing the accented syllable. In the word _machination_, however, though the accent was correctly marked, she taught the class to call it "mash-in-a-tion." There can be no possible excuse for such carelessness, or rather ignorance, since the lady had three days for the preparation of the lesson. The dictionary should be kept in constant use by pupils and teacher. Teaching average 65. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in the Constitution. She did well. The lesson was a long one, and somewhat difficult, but the lady evinced thorough preparation. She ought to have disturbed the repose of the drones in the class, by calling upon them more frequently. Explanations given by the teacher should be repeated by the pupils: first, to ascertain whether or not they have been properly understood, and secondly, to make a deeper impression upon the minds of the scholars. Indeed, the whole business of teaching might be summed up in two words, namely, _simplify_ and _repeat_. Teaching average 95. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Map Drawing. She was quite well prepared for the lesson, but did not always speak quite distinctly enough; she required all those pupils, who had criticisms to make, to stand, and then designated one to give them--a very good plan. Miss ---- must be more careful in regard to the grammatical construction of her own sentences. Teaching average 90. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Mental Arithmetic. She became somewhat confused, and so made several mistakes in her work. She attempted to solve several examples, but each time made some error, either of statement or solution. She was not careful enough in her markings, omitting to mark one of the pupils for absence, and two for recitation. Teaching average 88. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Map-Drawing. She should have kept one of the divisions at the board drawing while the other were reciting. It was the first day of map description, she should therefore have given them an example of the work desired; instead of this she scolded them for not knowing her method. Teachers should be careful never to ask for anything but what the pupil would reasonably be expected to know. If you insist that they shall give anything not found in the lesson, or not before given by the teacher, they will become angry and careless, as shown in the class to-day. She did not criticise the map drawn. Teaching average, 82. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Constitution. She did well. She used the blackboards to advantage, and very carefully examined and criticised the work placed there by the pupils. She should speak in a louder and more decided tone. Teaching average 93. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Elocution. She gave a very short vocal exercise and omitted the concert reading. During the recitation she read _remarkably_ well; her voice was clear and full, her emphasis and inflections were correct, and her whole manner free from embarrassment. The entrance of three or four visitors did not in the least disconcert her; for her calmness and dignity, she deserves much commendation. Teaching average 95. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Geography. She taught well. She did not call upon enough members of the class for recitation. A subject that can be divided into portions small enough to enable the teacher to call upon each member of the class at each recitation, should be so divided. She made it still worse by calling upon several members to recite twice. With a little more energy on her part she could have had more work performed in the forty minutes. Teaching average 90. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Arithmetic. She taught very well. The subject, Repetends, was a difficult one, which required careful preparation on the part of the teacher and close attention during the recitation. Miss ----, conscious of this, made herself perfectly familiar with the lesson before appearing in class, and when pupils failed to explain examples from a want of knowledge, she was ready and able to give the necessary information. She marked judiciously. Teaching average 90. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Ancient History. She was sprightly and animated. She spoke in a clear, decided tone; but she pursued no regular plan in conducting the recitation. Events in Egyptian and Assyrian history were indiscriminately mixed, the pupils became confused, and the lady herself was somewhat bewildered. Teaching average 88. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Grammar. She did not speak loud enough for the class to understand her. There was much disorder in the class, but no notice was taken of it by the teacher. Some carried on a conversation among themselves, others asked questions without permission, often at the most inappropriate times. Many errors passed unnoticed, and the lady gave corrections herself which she should have required of the pupils. Several times, in attempting to correct, she made the errors worse; for instance she parsed verbs that were transitive and in the passive voice as being intransitive and active. She must endeavor to gain more confidence in herself. Teaching average 75. Miss ---- gave the A class a lesson in Geometry. She taught the class decidedly well. She deserves all the more credit, as it was a difficult lesson of her own class. She allowed but one error of work--that I noticed--to pass uncorrected. Her method of calling upon the class for criticisms was very good. She should strive to speak a little more distinctly. Teaching average, 96. Miss ---- gave the B class a lesson in Physiology. She evinced perfect familiarity with the subject of the lesson. She did not confine herself to the text-book, but asked many good, general questions. One of the pupils did not understand a portion of the lesson which was to be explained by a diagram. Miss ---- endeavored to make the matter clear by an explanation, which was very good, still the pupil did not see it clearly. I think the teacher would have succeeded in clearing the difficulty if she had used the _pointer_ instead of designating certain points by letters. She spoke a little too low. Teaching average, 96. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Geography. She deserves great credit for the distinctness with which she speaks, for her care in the preparation of the lesson for the day, and for the promptness with which she stops all irregularities in the class. Her marks for the day were a little too high; she did not make distinction enough between the good and the poor scholars. Teaching average, 96. Miss ---- gave the A class a lesson in Elocution. She succeeded admirably. The vocal exercises and concert reading were well given. The lady threw herself entirely into the work, and this was the real secret of her success. Her grade of marking was too high; otherwise, she did very well. Teaching average, 97. Miss ---- gave the A class a lesson in English Literature. She did not spend enough time upon the lesson for the day, and consumed too much of the period in reviewing old lessons. She was not careful in examining the blackboards. _Lbs._ was permitted to stand as the abbreviation for pounds sterling, and _whimsicalities_ was spelled with two l's. The lady made no deduction for errors; all the pupils with but one exception received 10. She deserves commendation for speaking in a loud, clear tone. Teaching average, 88. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Constitution. She did nothing more than hear the recitations. She did not venture to give any explanations or to ask them of the class, but spent the whole period in repeating again and again the words of the text-book. It is probable that no pupil knew anything more of the subject on going from the room than when she entered. Teachers should possess and impart to their pupils some information independent of the book. Teaching average, 55. Miss ---- taught the A class Geometry. She did not question enough or criticise enough, but almost always called upon the class for criticisms. She added no remarks or criticisms herself; thus many important omissions and errors were unnoticed. She succeeded well in calling upon almost every member of the class. Teaching average, 75. Miss ---- gave the B class a lesson in Physiology. She was not sufficiently animated and self-possessed. The substance of the lesson was recited before the expiration of the period, which left the lady at a loss to know what she should do with the remainder of the time. It might have been profitably employed asking questions of importance connected with the lesson; but instead of doing so, Miss ---- turned to me for assistance. She was asked her opinion of a disputed point, which, although of slight importance, merited some attention; but she passed it by, notwithstanding her attention was called to it several times. Teaching average, 76. Miss ---- gave the A class a lesson in Elocution. She displayed the tact and skill of an experienced teacher. She assumed full authority over the pupils (though they were her classmates), and her whole manner was such that a visitor entering the room would have supposed she was the permanent teacher. One secret of her success was that she had given the reading lesson much home practice and preparation. Teaching average, 100. Miss ---- taught the A class in Literature. She taught well. Though rather quiet, she succeeded in awakening the interest of her pupils, and the entire recitation was very animated. The class is a good one, and the pupils deserve as much commendation as the teacher. Teaching average, 96. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in Geography. She came before the class well prepared for her duties. She did not use the book, though it was written in the catechetical style--the one most difficult to teach without some such reference. She by her questions brought out a number of points not given in the text-book. Teaching average, 97. Miss ---- gave the B class a lesson in Rhetoric. She showed a thorough preparation of the lesson and taught well. She should have worked a little faster. Pupils were allowed too much time to think. Teaching average, 98. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in History. She taught with much dignity and self-possession. She did not teach simply by having the lesson recited as the author had given it, but asked for the definition of words, and gave information not found in the text-book. But one error was allowed to pass, which was that of calling Queen Victoria the grand-daughter of William of Orange. Teaching average, 98. Miss ---- gave the B class a lesson in Physiology. She conducted the recitation in a very dignified and lady-like manner. The lesson was a difficult one, but the teacher seemed to understand the subject thoroughly. There was a reference to the _retina_ of the eye in the lesson; the pupils not having studied that subject, did not know what the retina was, and called upon the teacher for explanation; she attempted to describe it, but failed to make them understand because she did not thoroughly understand it herself. With this exception, she taught very well. Teaching average, 96. Miss ---- gave the B class a lesson in Elocution. She is a good teacher, and reads well. She maintained her dignity and composure during the entire recitation, though several visitors were present. Nothing tends to embarrass a teacher so much as the entrance of strangers; the lady's calmness and self-possession then are worthy of much commendation. Teaching average 100. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Mental Arithmetic. She read the questions distinctly, and had them correctly solved; but for the plan of recitation, she helped the pupils too much. The method was that called "Chance Assignment;" in this method, as the pupils have time to think of the problems, the work should be purely that of the memory, in regard to the example itself. Teaching average 95. Miss ---- gave the A class a lesson in Literature. She evinced thorough preparation, and displayed considerable tact in conducting the recitation. Every pupil was called on and compelled to recite or confess ignorance. Teaching average 98. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Elocution. She selected a very difficult reading-lesson, and not only read it well herself, but insisted upon the pupils reading it well too. The lady has a good clear voice, but it lacks power; nothing will develop this quality but constant daily practice. Teaching average 97. Miss ---- taught the C class in Ancient History. She did not succeed. Her embarrassment was caused in a great measure by not knowing the names of the pupils. Teachers should obtain lists of the names, if they are not familiar with them. The lesson being one in mythology, could have been made very interesting with a slight effort on the part of the teacher. Many errors in pronunciation made by both teacher and pupils, were allowed to pass. Teaching average 72. Miss ---- gave the A class a lesson in Elocution. She taught well, but would have succeeded better if she had given the lesson a little more home practice. When delivering a passage requiring considerable force, she heightened the pitch of her voice, and thus gave an unpleasant shrillness, where the pure orotund tone was needed. Teaching average 95. Miss ---- gave the B class a lesson in Elocution. She is a very sprightly, animated teacher, and reads well. She paid special attention to the correct orthoëpy of words, and insisted upon pupils' making use of their dictionaries whenever a word occurred with which they were not familiar. Teaching average 100. Miss ---- gave the D class a lesson in History. She is one of the best teachers in her class. She is sprightly, animated, and critical. The lesson was well taught; a map having been neatly drawn on the board, the teacher required the most important places referred to in the lesson, to be pointed out upon it. Teaching average 100. Miss ---- gave the A class a lesson in Chemistry. She has improved very much in teaching. She understood the subject which she taught, and had given the lesson careful preparation. She requested one of the pupils to look for the orthoëpy of a word which occurred in the lesson. The lady turned over the leaves of the dictionary in a very careless manner, then took her seat, saying she could not find the word, although she must have been conscious all the while that she was not searching for it in the proper place. Miss ----, instead of sending the lady to look for the word again, as she should have done, pronounced it herself. The teacher should require prompt obedience on the part of pupils. Teaching average 95. Miss ---- gave the C class a lesson in Elocution. She is a very energetic teacher, and manifests a deep interest in her pupils--hence, her success. A visitor would have inferred from her manner, that she was the permanent teacher, not a mere substitute for a passing hour. Teaching average, 100. XXVI. ATTENTION AS A MENTAL FACULTY, AND AS A MEANS OF MENTAL CULTURE. The illustrations which first led to a satisfactory elucidation of the subject, were drawn from the eye. There are many facts in the history of vision, which show that we may experience sensations and perceptions and other intellectual operations, and may at the time be conscious of the same, without giving them any attention, or, at least, without giving them such a degree of attention as to have the slightest recollection of them afterwards. When, for instance, we read a printed book, the eye glances so rapidly from sentence to sentence, that we can hardly persuade ourselves that we actually see successively every letter. We certainly have no recollection of having gone through such an innumerable train of conscious acts as the theory necessarily implies. That such, however, is the case, is proved by the fact, that if by accident any letter is omitted, or transposed, or put upside down, the eye at once detects the mistake. The fact is familiar to all. It can be accounted for only on the supposition that, even in the rapid and cursory perusal of a book, the eye actually passes from letter to letter, and gives to each a distinct notice. It not only notices each letter, but the position of each in reference to the other letters in the line, and even those nice diacritical points by which one letter is distinguished from another, as _c_ from _e_, _u_ from _n_, _b_ from _d_, _p_ from _q_. This notice, however, is so slight, the transition is so rapid, that we have no recollection of it afterwards, and we can hardly persuade ourselves that such has been the sober and yet most wonderful fact. Take another instance. If, on the occasion of an evening assemblage, by a sudden movement of the gas-pipe, any one should instantly extinguish all the lights in the room and leave the building for a time in total darkness, and if, by an equally sudden movement, he should then restore the light to its previous condition, every one present would notice the change and have a distinct recollection of it afterwards. Yet, every time we close our eyes in winking, that is, several times in every minute of our waking hours, we experience precisely this change from full and perfect vision to total darkness. But no one ever notices or remembers the fact of his winking, unless he stops to make it the subject of special attention. Sight however is not the only means of illustrating this point. We are drawn to a similar conclusion by observing the workings of the mind itself, in the act of volition. Whenever we make any single volition an object of special attention, we are conscious of that volition, and we have a distinct recollection of it afterwards. Yet probably not one out of ten thousand, possibly not one out of a million, of our simple volitions, is ever known to us after the moment of its occurrence. In voluntary muscular action, every distinct movement requires a distinct volition. And how innumerable are the movements necessary to the accomplishment of any one of the ordinary purposes of life! We sit down for example to write a letter to a friend. The nimble pen dances from point to point over the darkening page, and when we reach the bottom, we have not the least recollection of having willed any one of those countless muscular movements which have been necessary to what, but for its every-day occurrence, would be accounted the greatest feat of legerdemain ever performed by man! Take for example the act of reading aloud. Every letter requires for its utterance at least one distinct muscular contraction. Some letters require several. Now it has been found on trial that we are able to pronounce more than a thousand letters in a minute. That is, during every minute that we are reading aloud, we perform between one and two thousand distinct muscular movements, and by necessity a like number of antecedent acts of the will, to say nothing of those other acts, not less numerous in the case of a speaker, connected with the general movement of the body in earnest gesticulation. Yet after the hour's performance, what does the speaker or the reader remember of all these countless volitions? Nothing but the one general purpose to please, instruct, or persuade an audience. The conclusion, toward which these illustrations point, is objected to by some writers, on the ground of the incredible rapidity which it attributes to our intellectual operations. Is it possible, it is asked, that we can crowd into such a space of time so many acts of the will, and that we are, at the moment when each happens, conscious of its presence? Is it not more probable that these rapid muscular actions are resolvable, in some way, into the law of habit? May they not become in some sense mechanical and automatic, so as to require no intervention of the will? Take for example, the case of a person learning to play upon a musical instrument. The first step is to move the fingers from key to key with a slow motion, looking at the notes, and exerting an express act of volition at every note. By degrees, however, the motions somehow cling to each other, and to the impressions of the notes, in the way of associations, the acts of volition all the while growing less and less express, until at last they become quite evanescent and imperceptible. An expert will play from notes or from memory, and with a rapidity of motion that is perfectly bewildering, while at the same time he himself is carrying on quite a different train of thoughts in his mind, or even perhaps holding a conversation with another. Hence, it is concluded, by the writers referred to, that in these cases there is really no intervention of that idea or state of the mind called will. The authorities for this hypothesis are among the highest that can be named in the history of intellectual science. Let us see how far the hypothesis explains the facts of the case. The most rapid performer, it is obvious, can at any time retard his execution, until his movements become so slow that each one may be made, as originally it was made, the subject of special attention, and may be distinctly remembered afterwards. Now, according to the hypothesis proposed, we will our actions, and are conscious both of the act, and the antecedent volition, so long as their rapidity is confined to a certain rate; but, as soon as the rapidity exceeds that rate, the operation is taken out of our hands, and is carried on by some unknown power, of which we know no more than we do of the circulation of the blood, or of the systole and diastole of the heart! Such a supposition is about as reasonable as it would be to say that a projectile passes through the intermediate space, when it is thrown with such a moderate degree of velocity that we can see it, in its progress; but, when it is thrown with such velocity as to become invisible, it ceases to pass through the intermediate space, and reaches the goal only because projectiles have the habit of doing so! The hypothesis then breaks down, and we are forced back to our original supposition, namely, that those actions which are voluntary originally, never cease to be so; that when, as in the cases supposed, we retain no recollection of particular volitions, it is because of some law of our nature by which we are capable of recollecting only those acts upon which the attention has been fixed with a certain degree of intensity and for some perceptible space of time; that the volition, in other words, is too feeble and too rapid to leave any impression on the memory. To argue that there has been no volition, because we do not recollect it, is as absurd as it would be to say that there has been no muscular act, because in many cases we have as little recollection of the muscular act, as we have of the antecedent volition. Besides, there are many other mental acts, as rapid as those which have been adduced,--so rapid that not the least recollection of them remains,--where, yet, this mechanical or automatic hypothesis affords not the least explanation. Thus the expert accountant in a Bank adds up a long column of figures with the same rapidity and ease with which ordinary persons would read a passage from a familiar author, and he brings out in the end the exact sum, which he can do in no other way than by taking note in passing of the precise character and value of each figure. Yet, at the end of such a process, the accountant has no more recollection of those rapidly succeeding acts of the mind, than has the musical performer of those countless volitions put forth in the course of a piece of brilliant musical instrumentation. As to the objection, that the theory attributes an almost inconceivable rapidity to some of our mental operations, it may be answered, in the first place, that there is no reason, surely, why mind should not be capable of as rapid action as its handmaid, matter; and, in the second place, that our ideas of time are relative, quite as much as our ideas of space; and if the microscope has revealed a world of wonders too minute in point of space to be observed by the naked eye, in whose existence we yet believe with undoubting confidence, we may without greater difficulty believe in the existence of mental acts crowded into so narrow a point of time, so rapid and transitory in their occurrence, as to leave no impression upon the memory. The facts which have been adduced, then, teach clearly two things: first, that by far the greatest part of what we do and experience and are necessarily conscious of at the time of their occurrence, immediately fade from the recollection, as shadows pass over a landscape; and secondly, that in order to the recollection of any act or object, it is necessary that the mind be fixed upon it for some perceptible space of time and with some sensible degree of attention. It is this indissoluble connection of the attention with memory, this absolute dependence of the latter upon the former, which gives the subject such far-reaching import in considering the means of intellectual culture. How it is that we are able to exclude all subjects but one from the thoughts, is not very easy of explanation. It is obvious that we cannot do it by direct volition. The very fact of our willing not to attend to a particular object, fixes our attention upon it. That we have, however, some power and agency in fixing our attention on one object and in withdrawing it from another, is a fact within the knowledge and experience of every one, whether we can explain the mode by which it is done or not. We have the power of what the chemists call "elective affinity;" we make our choice of some one of the various objects claiming the attention, and fix it upon that; and it seems to be a law of our nature, that when we thus direct the attention to one object, all others, of themselves, and by some natural necessity, retire from the thoughts. This is as near an approach, probably, as we shall ever make, towards an exact verbal expression of a fact, for an intimate knowledge of which, after all, every man must refer to his own consciousness. This power of singling out and fastening upon some one object to the exclusion of all others,--in other words, this power of attention--exists in almost infinite degrees in different individuals. The degree in which it exists is the measure of a man's intellectual stature. No man can be truly great who does not possess it to a high degree. To command our attention is to command ourselves, to be truly master of our own powers and resources. The subject, then, becomes one of first importance in every kind of either mental or moral improvement. Its vital connection with the faculty of memory has been already suggested. Perhaps, however, this branch of the subject should be set forth with a little more distinctness. There are many vague, dreamy notions afloat on the subject of memory, standing comparisons and metaphors, intended to illustrate its uses and magnify its importance, but not declaring with any degree of precision what it is. It is called, for instance, the "storehouse of our ideas." The metaphor conveys undoubtedly a certain amount of truth in regard to the subject. At the same time, there are some important particulars, in which the comparison, for it is nothing more, conveys a wrong impression. Experience teaches us, for instance, that recollections, unlike other articles of store, are from the time of their deposit undergoing a continual process of decay, and if they do not fade entirely from the mind, it is because we occasionally bring them anew under the review of the mind, and thus restore them to their original freshness and vigor. Dismissing, therefore, the metaphor, I shall, I presume, express with sufficient accuracy the established doctrine on this subject by the following statements: that of the great multitude of mental operations which we experience, by far the larger part perish at the moment of their birth; that others, to which for any reason we give, at the time of their occurrence, some sufficient degree of attention, afterwards recur to us, or are in some way present to our thoughts; that this recurrence of former ideas to our thoughts is sometimes spontaneous, without any voluntary action on our part, and sometimes the consequence of a direct effort of the will; and lastly, that the capacity which we have of being thus revisited by former thoughts is called memory, while the thoughts themselves, which thus return, are called memories, or more commonly recollections. How it is that by an act of volition we can summon again into the mind an idea which has formerly been present, and which is now absent, we have the same difficulty in explaining which we had in explaining how, by an act of volition, we can banish a thought which is now present, or by the power of attention can detain some one thought to the exclusion of all others. To think what particular thing it is that we wish to remember, is in fact to have remembered it already. It is an obstruse and difficult inquiry, into which it is not necessary now to enter. A more important inquiry, and one connected directly with our present theme, relates to the different kinds of memory, and their connection severally with the faculty of attention. Quickness of memory is that quality which is most easily developed, especially in young persons. It is also its most showy quality, and the temptation to give it an inordinate development is strong. The habit of getting things by rote, is easily acquired by practice. It is astonishing what masses of Scripture texts young children will get by heart, when under some special stimulus of reward or display. I have often refused to publish marvellous feats of this kind, not because I thought the accounts incredible, (unfortunately, they were too true,) but because I thought they were a species of mental excess, and they should no more be encouraged than bodily excesses. A little girl in my own Sunday-School once actually committed to memory the whole of the Westminster Assembly's Shorter Catechism in three days! Six months afterwards she hardly knew a word of it. It had been a regular mental debauch. A few more such atrocities would have made her an idiot. College records tell us of what are called "crammed men," that is, men who literally stuff themselves with knowledge in order to pass a particular examination, or to gain a particular honor, and who afterwards forget their knowledge, as fast as they have acquired it. There is a well authenticated instance of a student who actually learned the six books of Euclid by heart, though he could not tell the difference between an angle and a triangle. The memory of such men is quickened like that of the parrot. They learn purely by rote. Real mental attention, the true digester of knowledge, is never roused. The knowledge which they gorge, is never truly assimilated and made their own. A quality of memory vastly more important than quickness, is tenacity. To hold on to what we get, is the secret of mental, no less than of pecuniary accumulations. The mind, too, like other misers, clings most tenaciously to that which has cost it most labor. Come lightly, go lightly, the world over. Knowledge which comes into the mind without toil and effort, without protracted and laborious attention, is apt to go as easily as it came. But, by far the most important quality of memory, for the practical purposes of life, is readiness. Like quickness and tenacity, it is to be greatly improved, if not acquired by practice. It is in the cultivation of this quality, that the power of a good teacher shines forth most conspicuously. Quickness and tenacity may be cultivated by solitary study. But readiness requires for its development a live teacher, and the stir of the school-room and the class. Here it is that the art of questioning shows its wonderful resources. Repeated and continued interrogatories, judiciously worded, have a sort of talismanic power. They oblige the scholar to bring out his knowledge from its hidden recesses, to turn it over and over, and inside out, and upside down, to look at it and to handle it, so that not only it becomes forever and indestructibly his own, but he can ever afterwards use it at will with the same readiness that he uses his hands or his eyes. This is what a skilful teacher may do for his scholars, by a knowledge and practice of the art of questioning. Unfortunately, teachers in general find it much easier passively to hear a lesson, than to muster as much intellectual energy as is necessary to ask a question. It was a remark of Bacon's, that, if we wish to commit anything to memory, we will accomplish more in ten readings, if at each perusal we make the attempt to repeat it from memory, referring to the book only when the memory fails, than we would by a hundred readings made in the ordinary way, and without any intervening trials. The explanation of this fact is, that each effort to recollect the passage secures to the subsequent perusal a more intense degree of attention; and it seems to be a law of our nature, not only that there is no memory without attention, which I have labored at some length to establish, but that the degree of memory is in a great measure proportioned to the degree of the attention. You will see at once the bearing of this fact upon that species of intellectual dissipation, called "general reading," in which the mental voluptuary reads merely for momentary excitement, in the gratification of an idle curiosity, and which is as enervating and debilitating to the intellectual faculties, as other kinds of dissipation are to the bodily functions. One book, well read and thoroughly digested, nay, one single train of thought, carefully elaborated and attentively considered, is worth more than any conceivable amount of that indolent, dreamy sort of reading in which many persons indulge. There is in fact no more unsafe criterion of knowledge than the number of books a man has read. A young man once told me he had read the entire list of publications of the American Sunday-School Union. He was about as wise as the man at the hotel, who began at the top of the bill of fare with the intention of eating straight through to the bottom! Depend upon it, this mental gorging is debilitating and debauching alike to the moral and the intellectual constitution. There is too much reading even of good books. No one should ever read a book, without subsequent meditation or conversation about it, and an attempt to make the thoughts his own, by a vigorous process of mental assimilation. Any continuous intellectual occupation, which does not leave us wiser and stronger, most assuredly will leave us weaker, just as filling the body with food which it does not digest, only makes it feeble and sickly. We are the worse for reading any book, if we are not the better for it. There is an obvious distinction on this subject, of some practical importance, first suggested, so far as I am aware, by the Scotch metaphysician, Dr. Reid, between attention as directed to external objects, and the same faculty directed to what passes within us. When we attend to what is without us, to what we hear, or see, or smell, or taste, or touch, the process is called observation. When, on the other hand, dismissing for the time all notice of the external world, we turn our thoughts inward, and consider only what is passing in the inner chambers of the mind,--when, for instance, we analyze our motives, or notice the workings of passion, or scan the mysterious and subtle agency of the will, the process is called reflection. This latter species of attention is one much more difficult of development than the former. It is developed ordinarily much later in life,--seldom, I believe, developed to any considerable extent before the age of manhood,--developed by some professions and pursuits much more than by others,--and in a very large class of mankind, probably the majority, never developed at all. This species of attention, which is thus directed inwards, subjective attention some would call it,--in other words, the reflective powers,--are, I doubt not, capable of being cultivated much earlier in life than the age which I have indicated as the normal period of their development. I am constrained, however, in opposition to many high authorities in education, to doubt the wisdom of a precocious cultivation of this part of our intellectual system. In all our plans of education, we should closely follow nature, who seems to have reserved the judgment and the reflective powers for the latest, as they certainly are the most perfect, of her endowments. We, who are teachers, have chiefly to do with those whose powers are as yet immature, and whose attention is to be cultivated primarily in its direction to external objects. Our business, in other words, is to train our pupils first of all to habits of observation. In doing this, it is of some practical importance to bear in mind the well-known difference, in respect to memory, between the objects of different senses. Whether it be attributed to the different degrees of perfection with which the qualities of bodies are perceived, or to some difference in the qualities themselves, or whatever may be the cause, the fact is established beyond a question, that the knowledge which comes to us through the medium of the eye is of all kinds of knowledge the most easily and the most perfectly remembered. We remember, indeed, the temperature of one day as distinguished from that of another; we remember the sound of a voice; we can conceive, in its absence, the odor or the taste of a particular object; but none of these ideas come to us with that definiteness and perfection which mark our recollections of what we have seen. It requires, for instance, but ordinary powers of attention and perception, for a person who has one good look at a house, to recall distinctly to his mind the ideas of its height, shape, color, material, the number of stories, the pitch of the roof, the kind of shutters to the windows, the position of the door, the fashion of panels, the bell-handle, the plate, even the little canary-bird with its cage in the windows above, and the roses, geraniums, and what else may be fairer still, in the window below. These are all objects of sight. In their absence, he can bring to mind and describe them, with almost the same accuracy that he could if they were actually present. Now, it is impossible to obtain a like precision and fulness in our conceptions of a quality which we have learned through any other sense. We form in the one case a mental image or picture of the object, which in the other case is impossible. We can by no possibility form a mental or any other image of the song of canary, of the perfume of a rose, or of any other quality, except those which address us through the eye. Our conceptions of taste, smell, touch, and even of hearing, in the absence of the objects of sense, have a certain dimness, vagueness, mistiness, uncertainty about them. The conceptions of visible objects, on the contrary, are definite, precise, and most easily recalled. Hence the knowledge derived through the sight, is, of all kinds of knowledge, the most accurate, the most easily acquired, and the most lasting. The practical application of these views to the science of teaching, is too obvious to require more than a passing notice. Every thing which the young are to make the subject of their attention, for the purpose of remembering it, should be represented as far as possible to the eye. If the object itself, on account of its bulk, or its expensiveness, or for any other reason, cannot be exhibited for inspection, let there be some visible delineation of it by brush or pencil. If the thing to be remembered be something abstract or unreal, having neither form nor substance, perhaps it may have, or the teacher may make for it, some concrete, visible symbol, as has been done with the formulas of logic and the abstractions of arithmetic and algebra. These visible symbols on the slate and the blackboard give to those sciences all the advantages in this respect which were supposed to be peculiar to some of the branches of physical science. A boy who has forgotten every mere verbal rule both of arithmetic and algebra, will remember the formula, x^2 + 2xy + y^2, just as perfectly and on the same principle, as he will remember the face of the man who taught it to him. It is something which he has seen. Why has geometry in all ages been found to be of such peculiar value as a means of intellectual training? Because of the visible delineation of its doctrines by diagrams addressed to the eye. How much more readily and certainly chemical science can now be acquired, since the adoption of the present mode of symbolizing its doctrines by combinations of letters and figures. Arguments, conjectures, theories, respecting qualities addressed alike to every sense, respecting functions indeed not cognizable by any sense, are now presented on the board in visible symbolic formulas, which have the same advantage over the former mode of presenting the subject, that the sight of a chess-board during the progress of a game has over a mere verbal description of the movements. The truth of this doctrine is strikingly illustrated in the present mode of teaching geography, as compared with that once in use, when a child, instead of looking at the map of a country, with its boundaries and other physical characters painted to the eye, had to grope through a trackless wilderness of description. The study will be still more improved, when children shall be universally required to make as well as to look at maps,--when, to the definiteness of knowledge coming through the sight, there shall be added that inerasible impression upon the memory, which comes from fixedness and continuity of attention. It is impossible for a child to draw a map, without looking intently, and with continued attention, upon every part of that which is to be delineated. The two conditions to perfect recollection are combined, and the knowledge, which is the result, is the very last to fade from the memory. Every teacher of small children knows how much more certainly they learn to spell by seeing than by hearing. You may repeat to a child five times over the sounds which make up a word, and he will not recollect it with half the certainty that he would on seeing it once. The same principle which leads to this result, and which indicates the propriety, not only of looking at maps but of making them, in order to the more perfect knowledge of geography, will suggest to the thoughtful teacher the expediency of children's not only looking at words, but of writing them, in order to become perfect spellers. Mental arithmetic has its fascinations. It has, too, I am ready to admit, solid advantages. Its advantages, however, I apprehend are not precisely those which are sometimes attributed to it. There can be no doubt, I think, that it helps to cultivate the reflective powers; that it requires, and by requiring gives, the ability to confine the attention to continued mental processes. But for making expert practical accountants, which is generally quoted as its distinguishing benefit, I confess I am partial to the slate and pencil, and to that venerable parallelogram, the old-fashioned Multiplication Table, in the shape it came down to us from Pythagoras. The reader will not, of course, understand me as wishing to discard Mental arithmetic. All that I mean to suggest is the inquiry, whether its advantages are not looked for in the wrong direction, whether they are not sometimes over-estimated, and whether this mode of teaching arithmetic, especially when pursued as a hobby, is not sometimes pushed too far, and made the means of curious display, rather than of solid and lasting benefit. In teaching mental arithmetic, too, for I would certainly teach it to some extent, I would suggest the expediency of teaching children, in performing these mental operations, to think in figures, in other words, to form conceptions of the arithmetical figures and signs, which are visible objects, rather than of quantities and relations, which are mere abstractions. Multiplication is a mere metaphysical entity. The sign of multiplication is a simple, visible symbol, addressed to the eye, and capable of being conceived by the mind with unmistakable clearness and precision. A child counting its fingers in the first steps of learning to add and to take away, is a pretty sight, doubtless. But it is painful to see a person grown to man's estate, and in other respects well educated, as I have very often seen, still dependent upon the same infantile contrivance,--still counting fingers when required to add long columns of figures. Count the fingers, if necessary, in order to get the child under way. But the sooner the leading-string can be dropped, and the child can be made to picture in his mind the pure figures and signs, their combinations and results, without reference to fingers, or apples, or cakes, or tops, the better for his arithmetic, and the better for his mental cultivation. The subject has a painful interest for the Sabbath-School Teacher. The teacher of the infant school, indeed, has some opportunity for employing this principle of pictorial representation, in teaching the little ones of his charge. The infant school-room usually has conveniences for maps and picture cards and diagrams, and even blackboards; and most infant school teachers wisely avail themselves of the opportunity afforded. But go into the main school-room--what can the teacher do? Twenty, thirty, forty classes huddled together into one room, compact as sheep in a pen, how can the individual teacher, if disposed, use adequate visible illustrations for the instruction of his class? Where shall he place his blackboard? where shall he hang up his maps? where shall he suspend his models? where shall he exhibit his specimens? The utmost that can be done in most of our schools, as at present provided for, is to have a few maps on the distant walls of the room which the superintendent may refer to, whenever he chooses, and which all the children may see who can! The time must come, however, when the teaching of religious truth will be considered of as much importance as the teaching of arithmetic or of chemistry, and the Sabbath-School will have the same facilities for imparting instruction as the week-day school. But that time has not yet come. In the meanwhile, let the teacher carefully avail himself of whatever subsidiary aids are within his reach. No teacher should ever present himself before his class without a Bible Atlas and a Bible Dictionary in his hand. Many of those things with which his class ought to be made acquainted, are here not only described, but delineated, with equal accuracy and beauty. Thanks to the booksellers and the religious publication societies, the scenes of sacred history, and indeed religious topics generally, have been illustrated in cheap pictorial cards, both large and small, and with admirable fidelity and skill. These form a part of the indispensable furniture of the Sunday-School teacher. They are to him as necessary as are experiments, or a cabinet of specimens, to the lecturer on the physical sciences. The Sabbath-School teacher should be continually on the look-out for publications of this kind, not only for instructing and furnishing his own mind with definite ideas, but for exhibition to his class. A wise teacher will not only have something to say to his class, but also something to show. The ideas which the child gets from looking at really instructive pictures and maps, never leave him. How much also our intelligent apprehension of the scriptures is increased, by a knowledge of topography, and by associating each event in the sacred narration with the place in which it occurred? It may be proper to say, too, in this connection, that it is with a view to the principle now under consideration, that in preparing books and papers for the young, authors and publishers feel justified in giving so much labor and space to pictorial illustration. When, indeed, such illustrations are merely for display, they deserve the contempt which they often receive. But when these pictorial illustrations have a definite meaning and design, when they teach something, when they connect in the child's mind sound religious truth with distinct and easily remembered visible forms, they are a really valuable aid in the inculcation of doctrine. The power of attention, like all the mental powers, is by nature greater in some than in others. Still, there is no power more susceptible of improvement. The importance of its cultivation cannot well be over-stated. It affects not one study only, but all studies; not one mode of study only, but every mode of study, by text-book or by lecture; lessons to be recited by memory, or those by question and answer; not even study only, but conduct and manners, the regulation of the heart and the formation of the character. The precise measure of a child's success, in every thing that pertains to his character and standing as a scholar, will in nine cases out of ten be his power and habit of attention. There are indeed lamentable cases of wilful and intentional disorder. Yet every teacher knows that by far the greater portion of the things which interrupt and disturb a school arise from thoughtlessness and inattention. There are also equally undoubted cases of ignorance that is no crime. Yet the great majority of those who fail in their studies, fail simply because they do not attend. To attend, however, means something more than merely to be bodily present, more even than to have the ears open and the eyes fixed in the direction of the speaker, when a thing is said, or done. An old lady used to sit in the same aisle with me in church, and unfortunately lived opposite me in the street, who was neither deaf nor blind, and who was never absent from church, and yet she sent over invariably on Sunday evenings to know what it was the minister said about that meeting on Wednesday night, or that meeting on Friday night,--she did not rightly understand! But it is not necessary to go to church, to find those who "having eyes see not, and having ears hear not, neither do they understand," who look without seeing, and hear without comprehending. Publish a notice in your school, making some change of hours or lessons, or giving any specific direction. No matter how simple, or how plainly expressed, the notice may be, or how particularly attention may be called beforehand to the announcement about to be made, where is the happy teacher who has been able on such an occasion to make himself understood by all? Teachers and preachers and speakers of every name have generally very little idea how much they are misunderstood. Let me give some instances. In my own Sunday-School, I had neglected one morning to bring with me the teacher's class-books. After opening the school, I rang the bell as a signal for attention. There was a general hush throughout the room. All eyes were turned to the desk. I said: "Your class-books unfortunately have been left behind this morning. They have been sent for, however, and they will soon be here. As soon as they come, I will bring them round to the several classes. In the meantime, you may go on with your regular lessons." The bell was then tapped again, and the routine of the school resumed. In about a minute, a girl came up to the desk, with, "Sir, teacher says, will you please to send her class-book; it was not brought round, as usual, this morning, before school opened!" Here was a class of ten girls, averaging twelve years of age, and not one of them, nor their teacher, had heard or understood the notice which I thought I had made so plain! Here is another instance. At the examination for admission to the Philadelphia High School, as a means of testing among other things how far this very faculty of hearing and of attention has been cultivated, the candidates are required to copy a passage from dictation. These exercises are always preserved for reference, and in order to show the fairness of the examination. On one occasion, when I was Principal of the School, I took the pains to copy out a few of the exercises, in order to show the singular freaks into which an uncultivated ear may be led. One or two specimens will serve to illustrate the point. The first clause with its variations, was as follows:-- Every breach of veracity indicates some latent vice. " bridge " rascality " " latest vice. " breech " feracity " " latinet vice. " preach " eracity " " late device. " branch " vivacity " " great advice. " " " veracity " " late advice. " " " " " " ladovice. " " " " " " ladened vice. Every branch of veracity in the next some latent vice. Every reach of their ascidity indicates some advice. In another part of the passage occurred the following: Petty operations. Petty alterations. Petty observations. Patriarchal occupations. Petty oblations. Now of what use is it to a boy who mistakes "petty" for "patriarchal," "latent vice" for "great advice," "breach of veracity" for "reach of their ascidity," who is so untrained that he really cannot hear what is said, or see what is done,--of what use is it to such a boy, merely because he has gone through a prescribed routine of books and classes, or perchance because he has attained a certain amount of years and of pounds avoirdupois, to be pushed forward into a higher department to attend lectures on chemistry, or anatomy, or morals, or history, or literature? It is preposterous. It is an insult to the Professor, and an injury to the boy. This, then, is the burden of my song. We cannot take too much pains in early life in rousing this power of attention. Depend upon it, no matter how much learning, so called, is crammed into a youth, his intellectual development has not begun until this power is roused. He may have a vague, dreamy sort of knowledge; he may do sums by rule, and he may parse by rote, and do many other wondrous things; but his powers are not invigorated, he does not grow, until he begins really to see and hear, and feel _terra firma_ under his feet. The principle which I am illustrating applies with special force to that part of a child's education which consists in learning the meaning of words. I have serious doubts whether children ordinarily learn much of the real meaning of words by committing definitions to memory. What is a definition? It is only expressing the meaning of one word by the use of another word as nearly as possible synonymous. Now, in the case of a child, it is at least an even chance that that other word is just as unknown as the one it is intended to explain. It is like, in algebra, solving an equation with two unknown quantities, by giving the value of one unknown quantity in terms of the other. A child, for instance, is told that "potent" means "efficacious," that "power" means "ability," that "potion" means a "physical draught," that "potential" means "existing in possibility, not in act." These are definitions taken at random from a book in common use in our public schools. The definitions possibly are good enough for the purpose for which they were designed. I am not quarrelling with the definitions. But, surely, it is not by these that a child is to learn the meaning of the words. Whether he is told that "power" means "ability," or "ability" means "power," that "potent" means "efficacious," or "efficacious" means "potent," in neither case, nine times out of ten, is any addition made to his stock of knowledge. It is not until much later in life,--until in fact our knowledge of words is already very much extended, that we profit much by learning formal definitions. But in childhood, we must learn the meaning and power of words, just as the mechanic becomes acquainted with his tools, by observing their use. A boy, for instance, reads this sentence. "The drug was very _efficacious_." If the word is quite new to him, and there is nothing in the clause preceding or following to indicate its meaning, it is not at all unlikely that he may suppose it to mean "poisonous." If, however, from the context, he finds that a person who had been sick, was made suddenly well, and this statement followed by the remark, that "the drug was very _efficacious_," he will probably get the idea that the word means "healing," or "curative." He reads again, in another place, that a certain mode of teaching penmanship was found to be very "efficacious." Here is a new use of the word, quite different from the other, and he is obliged to exclude from his idea of its meaning every thing like "healing." So he goes on, every fresh example cutting off some extraneous idea which the previous examples had led him to attach to the word, and every step onward coming nearer to the general idea, though he may never express it in words, of something which accomplished its object, whatever that object may be. It is, I believe, chiefly by observing in this way the manner in which words are used, that children do and must learn their meaning. It is, in other words, by quickening and cultivating the habit of attention to the meaning,--by training a child, when he is reading, to imagine, not that he is reading the words, but that he is reading the sense, by accustoming him to look through the word, to the sense, just as he would look at objects out of doors through the window, and to consider the words, as he would consider the glass, merely as a medium, through which, and unmindful of it, he looks at something beyond,--_which something is the meaning_. Let me not be misunderstood in regard to this matter of definitions. I believe it to be of the utmost importance that children should be constantly required to give definitions or explanations of the words whose meaning they have acquired. All I mean to call in question is, whether that meaning to any considerable extent is acquired by committing to memory formal definitions prepared by others. When they have once learned the meaning of a word, which is to be done mainly, if not only, by observing its use, then by all means let them be required to express that meaning by other words which they know. Such an exercise cannot be too much insisted on. It is one of the best means of securing that attention to the signification of words, which is so much wanted. It requires the child, moreover, to bring his knowledge continually to the test. It cultivates at once accuracy of thought, and accuracy of language, which is the vehicle of thought. Train a child, therefore, to the habit of attention, first to the meaning of words as gathered from observation of their use, and secondly to the expression of that meaning in language appropriate and intelligible to others. I have dwelt a little on this subject, because, as in the matter of hearing, I doubt whether people generally are aware how little children understand what they read. Nor is this ignorance confined to children. In our acts of devotion, we are all in the habit of using certain stereotyped phrases, without attaching to them any definite meaning, without perhaps so much as having even thought whether they had a meaning. This same pernicious habit is seen also in our reading of the Scriptures. We have read the phrases over from childhood, until we have become so familiar with them, that we are obliged often to stop, and by a sort of compulsory process to challenge each word as it passes, and see whether it really conveys any meaning to our mind. If I were to say to a class, "The Bible tells us of a man who was older than his father," or some such apparent contradiction in terms, the sharp antithesis would doubtless arrest their attention, and I would at least be asked to explain myself. Yet, ten to one, they have read, hundreds of times, of him who is "the _root_ and the _offspring_ of David, the bright and morning star," without noticing anything at all remarkable in the expression. It is to them merely something good and pious, couched in a very pleasant and sonorous flow of words, and meaning doubtless something very comforting and edifying. I was once teaching temporarily a young ladies' Bible Class. The average age of the members was at least seventeen. They were the pick from a large city school, and had been selected for their superior educational advantages and attainments. Most of them were attending expensive private schools during the week. Wishing to satisfy myself as to the general knowledge and the intellectual habits of the members, I took the plan of simply reading verse about, stopping from time to time to talk familiarly about anything which might happen to suggest itself. This verse among others was read: it is from the account of the miracle on the day of Pentecost: "And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them." I found, upon inquiring, that _not one_ in that large class had the remotest idea of what was meant by the word "cloven." One young lady thought it meant "fiery," another "flaming," another "winged," and so on. Most of them, however, said that they really had never thought of the matter before. Probably every one of them had read the passage hundreds of times; and when we began talking about it, no one of them seemed to have an idea that there was anything in the verse which she did not understand. It was not until I took it up, word by word, and challenged a peremptory and sharp scrutiny into the meaning attached to each word, that the remarkable fact came out which I have stated. One or two more leaves from my professional experience will be given. During the greater part of my professional life, it has been a part of my duty to examine candidates for the office of teacher in the public schools. Out of ninety-eight candidates for the office of assistant teacher, whom I examined on one occasion, only one knew the meaning of the word "sumptuary," although in the public discussion then going on about the license law, the word was in daily use in the public papers; in fact, I took it out of the newspaper of that morning. On another occasion, out of fourteen candidates for the office of Principal teacher of a boys' Grammar school, four defined "friable" as that which can be fried; several did not know at all the meaning of "hibernating," and one, the successful candidate, said it meant "relating to Ireland." By "successful" candidate, I mean the one who got the vote of the Directors! This sober scrutiny into any one's knowledge of the meaning of words in common use, is one of the most reliable tests of his general intellectual progress and cultivation. It is one of the means by which in many city schools it is customary to test a candidate's fitness for promotion. To show how little people generally, and even teachers, are aware of the extent to which children misconceive the meaning of words in common use, I have transcribed a few examples from an examination of the kind which I once held. The definitions which I am about to quote were not the work of oral confusion and haste, but were given in writing, in circumstances of entire quietude and ample deliberation. The average age of the candidates, on the occasion referred to, was fourteen years and ten months, and no one of them was by law under thirteen years. _Stature_--A picture; "I saw a stature of Washington." _Fabulous_--Full of threads; "Silk is fabulous." _Accession_--The act of eating a great deal; "John got very sick after dinner by accession." _Atonement_--A small insect; "Queen Mab was pulled by little atonements." Sound, [orthodox]; "They went to the church of the Atonement." _Auxiliary_--To form; "The gardener did auxiliary his garden." _Ingredient_--A native-born; "Tobacco is an ingredient of this country." _Fragment_--Sweetmeats; "It was a fragment." _Develop_--To swallow up; "God sent a whale to develop Jonah." _Exotic_--Relating to a government; "Some countries have a very exotic government." Patriotic; "He was exotic in the cause of Independence." Absolute; "The government of Turkey is exotic." Standing out; "The company were exotic." _Circumference_--Distance through the middle. Distance around the middle of the outside. _Callous_--Something which cannot be effected; "That America should gain her independence was supposed to be callous." _Mobility_--Belonging to the people; "The mobility of St. Louis has greatly increased." _Anomalous_--Powerful; "His speech was considered anomalous." _Adequate_--A land animal; "An elephant is an adequate." _Transition_--The act of transcribing; "The transition of that book was gaining ground in the public mind." _Gregarious_--Pertaining to idols; "The Sandwich Islands worship gregarious." Pertaining to an oak; "The Druids were noted for their gregarious exercises." Consisting of grain. Grass-eating. Full of talk. Full of color. _Propensity_--Dislike; "He had a propensity to study." _Artificially_--Belonging to flowers. _Fluctuation_--coming in great numbers; "There was a great fluctuation of emigrants." Setting on fire. Beating. _Odium_--That you have a great tact at anything; "Your odium is very great." A poisonous herb. Pertaining to song; "He was an odium writer." A sweet smell; "The odium of new-mown hay." _Transverse_--To turn over; "Transverse that bucket and see what is in it." To change from verse; "Some writers change books from transverse to verse." To verse again; "He transversed his copy." To spread abroad; "They transverse the Bible." _Utility_--Relating to the soil; "The ground it remarkable for its utility." _Quadruple_--Relating to birds; "There was a number of quadruple." _Alternate_--Not ternate. _Menace_--A tare in the flesh; "The dog caused a menace in John's arm." _Vital_--Relating to death; "Vital spark of heavenly flame." _Intrinsic_--not trinsic. Weak, feeble; "He was a very intrinsic old man." _Subservient_--One opposed to the upholding of servants. Stubborn; "On account of the boy being subservient he was turned out of school." _Perfidy_--Trust; not to cheat; "Such a man is perfidy; that is, everything can be trusted to him." Accessible; "Some persons have a great deal of perfidy." _Access_--Intermission; "Joseph had access of his teacher to go into the room." _Vicinity_--In the same direction; "Pekin is in the vicinity of Philadelphia." _Subsequent_--Preceding; "The subsequent chapter." _Infectious_--To make fectious. _Exquisite_--To be in a quisitive manner. To help. To find out. Talkative. Not required. _Mingle_--To tear in pieces. _Deride_--To ride down. _Manifold_--Made by the hand. Pertaining to man; "Forgive our manifold sins." I have failed entirely in the general drift of this chapter, if I have not made it obvious that the principle which I have been attempting to illustrate is one of singularly pervading influence, and of most various and manifold applications. The subject is indeed eminently suggestive. One single additional line of illustration, however, must suffice. I refer to the application of this principle to what may be called the incidentals of teaching and training. A child, for instance, should not only "spell out of book," as it is called, but his attention should by some means be directed to the way in which words are spelled. He should be accustomed to form, as it were, a mental image of each word, to think of it as having a particular form and appearance, so that his eye will detect instantly a wanting or an excrescent letter, just as he sees a wen, a defective limb, or a distorted feature on the person of an acquaintance. Only fire his young ambition with the aim to spell well, and quicken his attention to the way in which words are spelled, and every time he reads a book he receives incidentally a lesson in spelling. A child should have stated exercises and systematic instructions in the art of reading. But quite as much improvement in this important and too much neglected accomplishment may be gained by not allowing children at any time to read in an improper manner. Every demonstration at the blackboard, every text or hymn repeated from memory, every recitation in arithmetic, grammar, or geography, every exercise of every kind in which the voice is used and words are uttered, may be made an incidental lesson in reading. By being never allowed to pronounce words incorrectly, to utter them in a low or drawling manner, or to crowd and overlap them, as it were, one upon the other, the ear becomes accustomed to the correct sounds of the language, and immediately detects any variation from its accustomed standard. By thus insisting, in every vocal exercise, upon the full and correct pronunciation of the elementary sounds of the language, more may be done to make good readers and speakers than by all the pronouncing dictionaries and elocution books in print. Let a child by all means take lessons in writing. Let him learn plain text, German text, round hand, running hand, back hand, and the flourishes. But if he is to become rapidly master of that truly beautiful and most useful accomplishment, let the teacher insist upon his always attending to his manner of writing, and always writing as well as he can. Whether he writes a composition, a sketch, a letter, whenever for any purpose he puts pen to paper, let him be required to form each letter distinctly, to write it gracefully, and to give to his exercise a neat and elegant appearance. Teach him to think of a crooked line or a blotted page as of an untied shoe, or a dirty face. By thus making every written exercise an exercise in writing, his progress will be increased beyond your expectations, and you will soon see him looking with pleasure at the clean and symmetrical forms which flow so gracefully from his pen, as he goes from line to line over the virgin page, no half-formed or misshapen letters to embarrass, but all in every part as elegantly written as it is easily read. Grammar should no doubt be taught by text-book and in stated lessons. The parts of speech, the conjugations and declensions, syntax and parsing, must all be systematically conned, the rules and definitions committed to memory, and the judgment exercised upon their application. At the same time every recitation of a child, as well as all his conversation, ought to be made an incidental and unconscious lesson in grammar. Only never allow him to use unchallenged an incorrect or ungrammatical expression, train his ear to detect and revolt at it, as at a discordant note in music, let him if possible hear nothing but sterling, honest English, and he will then learn grammar to some purpose. If, on the contrary, he is allowed to recite and to talk in whatever language comes uppermost, and to hear continually those around him reciting and talking in a similar manner, he may parse till he is blind without learning "to speak and write the English language correctly." Banish from the nursery, the school-room, and the play-ground, incorrect and ungrammatical expressions, and you do more than can be done in all other ways to preserve "the well of English undefiled." Young persons need systematic instructions in the principles which should govern their conduct. They need not indeed be troubled with the more abstruse questions in the theory of morals. But the great obvious rules of duty should be taught them, in a systematic manner, by a competent instructor. But that man would be thought little acquainted with the influences which go to mould and form the character, who should suppose the matter ended here. The doctrines inculcated in the lesson, must be carried out and applied in all the petty incidents of the day. Not an hour passes in a large family or a school, without an occurrence involving some principle in morals. A boy of moderate talents, notwithstanding all his exertions, is eclipsed by one more gifted, and he is tempted to envy. Imagining himself aggrieved or insulted by his fellows, he burns for revenge. Overtaken in a fault and threatened with punishment, he is tempted to lie. Misled by the opinion of others, or esteeming some rule of his teachers harsh and unnecessary, he is inclined to disobey. These and a hundred other instances which might be named, will suggest to the thoughtful parent or teacher so many opportunities for giving incidentally the most important practical instruction in morals. In these and the manifold other illustrations which might be given, the essential point is to quicken and keep alive the attention. Whatever be the subject of study, and whether the instructions be direct or incidental, let children be preserved from attending to it in a sluggish, listless, indifferent manner. The subject of study, in the case of young persons, is often of less importance than the manner of study. I have been led sometimes to doubt the value of many of the inventions for facilitating the acquisition of knowledge by children. That knowledge the acquisition of which costs no labor, will not be likely to make a deep impression, or to remain long upon the memory. It is by labor that the mind strengthens and grows: and while care should be taken not to overtask it by exertions beyond its strength, yet let it never be forgotten that mere occupation of the mind, even with useful and proper objects, is not the precise aim of education. The educator aims, not to make learned boys, but able men. To do this, he must tax their powers. He must rouse them to manly exertion. He must teach them to think, to discriminate, to digest what they have received, to work. Every day there must be the glow of hard work,--not the exhaustion and languor which arise from too protracted confinement to study,--which have the same debilitating effect upon the mind that a similar process has upon the body,--but vigorous and hardy labor, such as wakens the mind from its lethargy, summons up the resolution and the will, and puts the whole internal man into a state of determined and positive activity. The boy in such a case feels that he is at work. He feels, too, that he is gaining something more than knowledge. He is gaining power. He is growing in strength. He grapples successfully to-day with a difficulty that would have staggered him yesterday. There is no mistaking this process; and no matter what the subject of study, the intellectual development what it gives, is worth infinitely more than all that vague, floating kind of knowledge sometimes sought after, which seems to be imbibed somehow from the atmosphere of the school-room, as it certainly evaporates the moment a boy enters the atmosphere of men and of active life. XXVII. GAINING THE ATTENTION. The teacher who fails to get the attention of his scholars, fails totally. The pupils may perhaps learn something, because they may give the lesson some study at home, under the direction of their parents. But they learn nothing from the teacher. He is really no teacher, though he may occupy the teacher's seat. There is, and there can be, no teaching, where the attention of the scholar is not secured. Gaining the attention is an indispensable condition to the thing called teaching. Not, however, the only indispensable thing. We have seen a class wrought by special tricks and devices to the highest pitch of excited attention,--fairly panting with eagerness, all eyes and ears, on the very tiptoe of aroused mental activity,--yet learning nothing. The teacher had the knack of stirring them up and lashing them into a half frenzy of excited expectation, without having any substantial knowledge wherewith to reward their eagerness. With all his one-sided skill, he was but a mountebank. To real, successful teaching, there must be these two things, namely, the ability to hold the minds of the children, and the ability to pour into the minds thus presented sound and seasonable instruction. Lacking the latter ability, your pupil goes away with his vessel unfilled. Lacking the former, you only pour water upon the ground. How shall the teacher secure attention? In the first place, let him make up his mind that he will have it. This is half the battle. Let him settle it with himself, that until he does this, he is doing nothing; that without the attention of his scholars, he is no more a teacher, than is the chair he occupies. If he is not plus, he is zero, if not actually minus. With this truth fully realized, he will come before his class resolved to have a hearing; and this very resolution, written as it will be all over him, will have its effect upon his scholars. Children are quick to discern the mental attitude of a teacher. They know, as if by instinct, whether he is in earnest or not, and in all ordinary cases they yield without dispute to a claim thus resolutely put. This, then, is the first duty of the teacher in this matter. He must go to his class with the resolute determination of making every scholar feel his presence all the time. The moment any scholar shows that the consciousness of his teacher's presence is not on his mind, as a restraining power, something is wrong. The first step towards producing that consciousness, as an abiding influence on the minds of the scholars, is for the teacher to determine in his own mind and bring it about. Without being arrogant, without being dictatorial, without being or doing anything that is disagreeable or unbecoming, he must yet make up his mind to put forth in the class a distinct power of self-assertion. He must determine to make them feel that he is there, that he is there all the time, that he is there to every one of them. In the next place, the teacher must not disappoint the attention which his manner has challenged. He must have something valuable to communicate to the expectant minds before him. He must be thoroughly prepared in the lesson, so that the pupils shall feel that they are learning from him. His lips must keep knowledge. The human heart thirsts for knowledge. This is one of its natural instincts. It is indeed often much perverted, and many are to be found who even show aversion to being instructed. Yet the normal condition of things is otherwise, and nothing is more common than to see children hanging with fondness around any one who has something to tell them. Let the teacher then be sure to have something to say, as well as determined to say it. In the third place, the teacher must have his knowledge perfectly at command. It must be on the tip of his tongue. If he hesitates, and stops to think, or to look in his book for the purpose of hunting up what he has to tell them, he will be very apt to lose his chance. Teaching children, particularly young children, is like shooting birds on the wing. The moment your bird is in sight, you must fire. The moment you have the child's eye, be ready to speak. This readiness of utterance is a matter to be cultivated. The ripest scholars are often sadly deficient in it. The very habit of profound study is apt to induce the opposite quality to readiness. A teacher who is conscious of this defect, must resolutely set himself to resist it and overcome it. He can do so, if he will. But it requires resolution and practice. In the fourth place, the teacher must place himself so that every pupil in the class is within the range of his vision. It is not uncommon to see a teacher pressing close up to the scholars in the centre of the class, so that those at the right and left ends are out of his sight; or if he turns his face to those on one side, he at the same time turns his back to those on the other. Always sit or stand where you can all the while see the face of every pupil. I have, hundreds of times, seen the whole character of the instruction and discipline of a class changed by the observance of this simple rule. Another rule is to use your eyes quite as much as your tongue. If you want your class to look at you, you must look at them. The eye has a magic power. It wins, it fascinates, it guides, it rewards, it punishes, it controls. You must learn how to see every child all the time. Some teachers seem to be able to see only one scholar at a time. This will never do. While you are giving this absorbed, undivided attention to one, all the rest are running wild. Neither will it do for the teacher to be looking about much, to see what is going on among the other classes in the room. Your scholars' eyes will be very apt to follow yours. You are the engineer, they are the passengers. If you run off the track, they must do likewise. Nor must your eye be occupied with the book, hunting up question and answer, nor dropped to the floor in excessive modesty. All the power of seeing that you have is needed for looking earnestly, lovingly, without interruption, into the faces and eyes of your pupils. But for the observance of this rule, another is indispensable. You must learn to teach without book. Perhaps you cannot do this absolutely. But the nearer you can approach to it, the better. Thorough preparation, of course, is the secret of this power. Some teachers think they have prepared a lesson when they have gone over it once, and studied out all the answers. There could not be a greater mistake. This is only the first step in the preparation. You might as well think that you have learned the Multiplication Table, and are prepared to teach it, when you have gone over it once and seen by actual count that the figures are all right, and you know where to put your finger on them when required. You are prepared to teach a lesson when you have all the facts and ideas in it at your tongue's end, so that you can go through them all, in proper order, without once referring to the book. Any preparation short of this will not do, if you want to command attention. Once prepare a lesson in this way, and it will give you such freedom in the art of teaching, and you will experience such a pleasure in it, that you will never want to relapse into the old indolent habit. XXVIII. COUNSELS. * * * * * 1. _To a Young Teacher._ You are about to assume the charge of a class in the school under my care. Allow me, in a spirit of frankness, to make to you a brief statement of some of the aims of the institution, and of the principles by which we are guided in their prosecution. 1. "Unless the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it." I have no professional conviction more fixed and abiding than this, that no persons more need the direct, special, continual guidance of the Holy Spirit than those who undertake to mould and discipline the youthful mind. No preparation for this office is complete which does not include devout prayer for that wisdom which cometh from above. If any one possession, more than another, is the direct gift of the Almighty, it would seem to be that of knowledge. The teacher, therefore, of all men, is called upon to look upwards to a source that is higher than himself. He needs light in his own mind; he should not count it misspent labor to ask for light to be given to the minds of his scholars. There is a Teacher infinitely wiser and more skilful than any human teacher. The instructor must be strangely blind to the resources of his profession, who fails to resort habitually to that great, plenary, unbounded source of light and knowledge. While, therefore, we aim in this school to profit by all subsidiary and subordinate methods and improvements in the art of teaching, we first of all seek the aid of our Heavenly Father; we ask wisdom of Him who "giveth liberally and upbraideth not." This, then, is the first principle that governs us in the work here assigned us. The fear of God is the beginning of knowledge. We who are teachers endeavor to show that we ourselves fear God, and we inculcate the fear of Him as the first and highest duty of our scholars; and in every plan and effort to guide the young minds committed to us, we ourselves look for guidance to the only unerring source of light. 2. In proportion to the implicitness with which we rely upon divine aid, should be the diligence with which we use all the human means within our reach. It should therefore, in the second place, be the aim of the teachers of this school to acquaint themselves diligently with the most approved methods of teaching. No teachers will be retained who do not keep themselves well posted in the literature of their profession, and who are not found continually aiming at self-improvement. In whatever school of whatever country, any branch is taught by better methods than those practised here, it should be the duty of a teacher in this school to search it out, and to profit by the discovery. Improvement comes by comparison. The man, or the institution, that fails to profit by the experience of others, is not wise. I hold it to be the duty of every teacher of this school to be habitually conversant with the educational journals of the day, and with the standard works on the theory of teaching, and to lose no opportunity for personal observation of the methods of others. I have often noticed, with equal pain and commiseration, that young teachers, after having once finished their preliminary studies and obtained a situation, are thereupon apparently quite content, making no further effort at improvement, but settling down for life in an inglorious mediocrity. The best teachers in this school are expected to be better teachers next year than they are now,--with ampler stores of knowledge, and a happier faculty for communicating it. This, then, is our second aim in this school. We aim to have teachers thoroughly posted in regard to the theory and the methods of teaching, prepared to ride upon the advance wave of every real improvement in the art. 3. I should, however, fail entirely to convey my meaning, were I to lead you to suppose that we expect to accomplish our ends mainly by fine-spun theories. I have no faith in any theory of education, which does not include, as one of its leading elements, _hard work_. The teachers of this school expect to work hard, and we expect the scholars to work hard. We have no royal road to learning. Any knowledge, the acquisition of which costs nothing, is usually worth nothing. The mind, equally with the body, grows by labor. If some stuffing process could be invented, by which knowledge could be forced into a mind perfectly passive, the knowledge so acquired would be worthless to its possessor, and would soon pass away, leaving the mind as blank as it was before. Knowledge, to be of any value, must be assimilated, as bodily food is. Teaching is essentially a co-operative act. The mind of the teacher and the mind of the scholar must both act, and must act together, in intellectual co-operation and sympathy, if there is to be any true mental growth. Teaching is not merely hearing lessons. It is not mere talking. It is something more than mere telling. It is causing a child to know. It is awakening attention, and then satisfying it. It is an out-and-out live process. The moment the mind of the teacher or the mind of the scholar flags, real teaching ceases. This, then, is our third aim. We aim in this school to accomplish results, not by fanciful theories, but by _bona fide_ hard work,--by keeping teachers and scholars, while at their studies, wide awake and full of life; not by exhausting drudgery, nor by fitful, irregular, spasmodic exertions, but by steady, persevering, animated, straight-forward work. 4. A fourth aim which we have steadily before us, is to make _thorough_ work of whatever acquisition we attempt. A little knowledge, well learned and truly digested, and made a part of the pupil's own intellectual stores, is worth more to him than any amount of facts loosely and indiscriminately brought together. In intellectual, as in other tillage, the true secret of thrift is to plough deep, not to skim over a large surface. The prevailing tendency at this time, in systems of education, is unduly to multiply studies. So many new sciences are being brought within the pale of popular knowledge, that it is no longer possible, in a school like this, to embrace within its course of study all the subjects which it is practicable and desirable for people generally to know. Through the whole encyclopædia of arts and sciences, there is hardly one which has not its advocates, and which has not strong claims to recognition. The teacher is simply infatuated who attempts to embrace them all in his curriculum. He thereby puts himself under an absolute necessity of being superficial, and he generates in his scholars pretension and conceit. Old James Ross, the grammarian, famous as a teacher in Philadelphia more than half a century ago, had on his sign simply these words, "Greek and Latin taught here." Assuredly I would not advocate quite so rigid an exclusion as that, nor, if limited to only two studies, would it be those. But I have often thought Mr. Ross's advertisement suggestive. Better even that extreme than the encyclopædic system which figures so largely on some circulars. Mr. Ross indeed taught nothing but Latin and Greek. But he taught these languages better probably than they have ever been taught on this continent; and any two branches thoroughly mastered are of more service to the pupil than twenty branches known imperfectly and superficially. A limited field, then, and thorough work. This is our fourth aim. 5. As a fifth aim, we endeavor, in the selection of subjects of study, not to allow the common English branches, as they are called, to be shoved aside. To read well, to write a good hand, to be expert in arithmetic, to have such a knowledge of geography and history as to read intelligently what is going on and the world, to have such a knowledge of one's own language as to use it correctly and purely in speaking and composition,--these are attainments to be postponed to no others. These are points of primary importance, to be aimed at by every one, whatever else he may omit. 6. We aim, in the sixth place, to mark the successive parts of the course of study by well defined limits. There are in the course of study successive stages of progress, and these stages are made as clear and precise as it is possible to make them; and no pupil is allowed to go forward until the ground behind is thoroughly mastered. At the same time, these stages in study should be kept all the while before the minds of the pupils as goals to be aimed at. There are, for this purpose, at briefly recurring intervals, examinations for promotion. While no pupil is permitted to go forward, except as the result of a rigorous examination, the idea of an advance should, if possible, never be allowed to be absent from his thoughts. That scholar should be counted worthy of highest honor, not who stands highest in a particular room, but who by successful examinations can pass most rapidly from room to room. That teacher is considered most successful, not who retains most pupils, but who in a given time pushes most pupils forward into a higher room. We want no scholar to stand still for a single week. Motion, progress, definite achievement, must be the order of the day. 7. We aim, in the seventh place, to cultivate in every pupil a habit of attention and observation. Youth is the time when the senses should be most assiduously trained. The young should be taught to see for themselves, to ascertain the qualities of objects by the use of their own eyes and hands, to notice whether a thing is distant and how far distant it is, whether it is heavy and how heavy, whether it has color and what color, whether it has form and what form. They should learn to study real things by actually noticing them with their own senses, and then learning to apply the right words to the knowledge so acquired. We aim to apply this habit of observation in all the branches of study, so that in every stage of progress the scholar shall know, not merely the names of things, but the things themselves. In other words, we would cultivate real, as well as verbal knowledge, and aim to awaken in every pupil an active, inquiring, observant state of mind. * * * * * 2. _To a New Pupil._ You have just been admitted to the privileges of this institution, and are about to enter here upon a course of study. The occasion is one eminently suited for serious reflection. At the close of a school career it is difficult not to reflect. Thoughts upon one's course will, at such a time, force themselves upon us. But then it is too late. The good we might have achieved, is beyond our grasp, and its contemplation is profitable only as a legitimate topic of contrition. How much wiser and more profitable to anticipate the serious judgment which sooner or later we must pass upon our actions, and so to shape our conduct in advance, that the retrospect, when it comes, may be a source of joy and congratulation, rather than of shame and repentance. How much wiser to direct our bark to some definite and well selected channel, than to float at random along the current of events, the sport of every idle wave. Men are divided into two classes,--those who control their own destiny, doing what they mean to do, living according to a plan which they prefer and prepare, and those who are controlled by circumstances, who have a vague purpose of doing something or being somebody in the world, but leave the means to chance. The season of youth generally determines to which of these classes you will ultimately belong. It is here, at school, that you decide whether, when you come to man's estate, you will be a governing man, or whether you will be a mere aimless driveller. Those who at the beginning of a course in school make to themselves a distinct aim, towards which day after day they work their course, undiscouraged by defeat, unseduced by ease or the temptation of a temporary pleasure, not only win the immediate objects of pursuit, but gain for themselves those habits of aiming, of perseverance, of self-control, which will make them hereafter controlling and governing men. Those, on the contrary, who enter upon an academic career with an indefinite purpose of studying after a fashion, whenever it is not too hot, or too cold, or the lessons are not too hard, or there is nothing special going on to distract the attention, or who are content to swim along lazily with the multitude, trusting to the good-nature of the teacher, to an occasional deception, or to the general chapter of accidents, for escape from censure, and for such an amount of proficiency as on the whole will pass muster with friends or the public,--depend upon it, such youths are doomed, inevitably doomed, all their days, to be nobodies, or worse. Let me, then, my young friend, as preliminary to your entering upon the duties before you, call to your mind some of those things, which, as an intelligent and responsible being, you should deliberately aim to follow or to avoid while in this school. In the counsels which I am going to give you, I shall make no attempt to say what is new or striking. My aim will be rather to recall to your memory some few of those familiar maxims, in which you have been, I dare say, often instructed elsewhere. 1. First of all, remember that men always, by a necessary law, fall below the point at which they aim. You well understand that if a projectile be hurled in the direct line of any elevated object, the force of gravity will cause the projectile to deflect from the line of direction, and this deflection and curvature will be great in proportion to the distance of the object to be reached. Hence, in gunnery, the skilful marksman invariably takes aim above the point which he expects to hit. At certain distances, he will aim 45° above the horizon at what is really but 30° above it. So, in moral subjects, there is unfortunately a native and universal tendency downwards, which deflects us out of the line in which good resolutions would propel us. You aim to be distinguished, and you turn out only meritorious. You aim to be meritorious, and you fall into the multitude. You are content with being of the multitude, and you fall out of your class entirely. So also, as in physical projectiles, the extent of your departure from the right line is measured by the distance of the objects at which you aim. You resolve to avoid absolutely and entirely certain practices for a day or a week, and you can perhaps keep very close to the mark. But who can hold himself up to an exact fulfilment of his intentions for a whole term? I do not wish to discourage you. The drift of my argument is, not that you should make no aim, but that you should fix your aim _high_, and that you should then keep yourself up to your good resolutions, as long and as closely as you possibly can. 2. In the next place, remember that no excellence is ever attained without self-denial. Wisdom's ways are indeed ways of pleasantness. The satisfaction of having done well and nobly is of a certain ravishing kind, far surpassing other enjoyments. But to obtain this high and satisfying pleasure, many minor and incompatible pleasures must be foregone. You cannot have the pleasure of being a first-rate scholar, and at the same time have your full swing of fun. I am not opposed to fun. I like it myself. No one enjoys it more. Nor do I think the exercise and enjoyment of it incompatible with the highest scholastic excellence. But there is a place for all things, and school is not the place for fun. If you enjoy in moderation out of school the relaxation and refreshment which jokes, wit, and pleasantry give, you will be all the more likely to grapple successfully with the serious employments which await you here. Still do not forget that your employments here are serious. Study is a sober business. If you would acquire really useful knowledge, you must be willing to work. You must make up your mind to say "no" to the thousand opportunities and temptations to frivolous behavior that will beset you in school. You must not be content with being studious and orderly merely when the eye of authority is upon you. This is to be simply an eye-servant and a hypocrite. To have a little pleasantry in the school-room, to perpetrate or to join in some witty practical joke, may seem to you comparatively harmless. So it would be but for its expense. You buy it at the cost of benefits which no money can measure, and no future time can replace. There are seasons of the year when the farmer may indulge in relaxation,--may go abroad on excursions of pleasure, or may saunter away the time in comparative idleness at home. But in the few precious weeks of seedtime, every day, every hour is of moment. This is your seedtime. Every hour of school-time that you waste in trifling is an injury and a loss to your future. Remember, then, that you cannot reach high excellence in school, or that pure and noble enjoyment, which is its exceeding great reward, without self-denial. Resolve, therefore, here and now, steadfastly, immovably, to say "no" to everything in school, no matter how innocent in itself, which shall interfere with the progress of study for a single moment. If you make such a fixed resolution, and live up to it, you will soon be surprised to find how easy and pleasant the discipline of school has become. 3. Among the mischievous fallacies of young persons at school, I know none that work more to their own disadvantage than the opinion that a particular teacher is prejudiced against them. Against this feeling it seems impossible to reason. When once scholars have it fairly in their heads that a certain teacher is partial, in whatever relates to their standing, I have been almost forced to the conclusion that it is best not to attempt reasoning with them. Under such feelings, indeed, by a singular freak of human nature, scholars are often driven to do, in sheer bravado or defiance, the very things which they imagine to be unjustly imputed to them. Allow me, my young friend, to ask you candidly and in all seriousness to turn this matter over in your own mind. What adequate motive can you imagine for a teacher's marking you otherwise than impartially? Every teacher has an interest in having as many high marks and as few demerits under his signature as possible. It is not to his credit that he should be unable to maintain order without blackening his roll with bad marks. A class roll filled with 0's is not the kind of evidence a teacher covets as to his skill in teaching. Notice the intercourse between the teachers and those scholars who are admitted on all hands to be strictly and conscientiously correct in their behavior. See what a pleasure it affords the instructor to have to deal with such pupils. See what a satisfaction the teacher experiences when, at the close of the day, there is not a demerit mark on his book. Judge, then, whether it is not likely to be a self-denial and a cross to him, when a sense of duty compels him to do otherwise. Be slow, therefore, to impute bad marks to injustice, or ill nature. No man of course is infallible, and teachers make mistakes as well as other people. But the temptations to do intentional wrong are, in this case, all the other way. 4. Closely connected with the habit just mentioned is the disposition to neglect particular branches of study. From disliking a teacher, the transition is easy to a dislike for his department. Others again, without any personal feeling in the case, think that they have a natural fitness for one class of studies, and an equally natural _un_-fitness for another class. So they content themselves with proficiency in that in which they already excel, and neglect that in which they are deficient, and which therefore they find difficult. Is this wise? The branches which you find difficult, are precisely those in which you need an instructor. Besides, the object of education is to develop equally and harmoniously all your faculties. If the memory, the reasoning faculty, the imagination, or any one power of the mind, is active far beyond the other powers, that surely is no reason for giving additional stimulus and growth in that direction. On the contrary, bend your main energies towards bringing forward your other faculties to an equal development. If you have a natural or acquired preference for mathematics, and a dislike for languages, the former study will take care of itself: bend all your energies to the latter. So, if languages are your choice, and mathematical study your aversion, take hold of the odious task with steady and sturdy endeavor, and you will soon convert it into a pleasure. The same is true of grammar, of geography, of history, of composition, of rhetoric, of mental and moral science, of elocution,--of every branch. If you are wise, you will give your chief attention in school to those branches for which you feel the least inclination, and in which you find it most difficult to excel. You should do so, because, in the first place, this failure and disinclination, in nine cases out of ten, grow out of defective training heretofore, and not from any defect in your mental constitution; and, secondly, if your natural constitution should be, as in some cases it is, one-sided and exceptional, your aim should be to correct and cure, not to aggravate, the defects of nature. This advice, you will observe, relates to your course in school, not to your choice of a profession in life. When your career in school is finished, and you are about to select a profession, follow by all means the bent of your genius. Do that for which you have the greatest natural or acquired aptitude. But here, the case is different. Your aim in school is to develop your powers,--to grow into an accomplished and capable man,--to acquire complete command of all the mental resources God has given you. 5. There is a practice, common to school-life everywhere, known by the not very dignified name of cheating. There is, I fear, among young people generally, while at school, an erroneous and mischievous state of opinion on this subject. Deception in regard to your lessons is not viewed, as it should be, in the light of a serious moral delinquency. An ingenuous youth, who would scorn to steal, and scorn to lie anywhere else than at school, makes no scruple to deceive a teacher. Is honesty a thing of place and time? I do not say, I would not trust at my money-drawer the boy who has been cheating at his lessons, because a boy may have been led into the latter delinquency by a false notion of right, which as yet has not affected his integrity in matters of business. But this I do say. Cheating at school blunts the moral sense; it impairs the sense of personal honor; it breaks down the outworks of integrity; it leads by direct and easy steps to that grosser cheating which ends in the penitentiary. On this subject, I once had a most painful experience. A boy left school with as fair a character for honesty as many others against whom nothing can be said except that they do sometimes practise deceit in regard to their lessons. I really believed him to be an honest boy, and recommended him as such. By means of the recommendation, he obtained in a large store a responsible post connected with the receipt and payment of money. His employer was pleased with his abilities, and disposed to give him rapid promotion. After a few months, I inquired after him, and found that he had been detected in forcing his balances! I do verily believe, the dishonest purpose, which led to this pecuniary fraud, grew directly out of a facility at deception acquired at school. He had cheated his teacher; he had cheated his father; he had obtained a fictitious average; he had gained a standing and credit in school not justly his due; why should he not exercise the same ingenuity in improving his pecuniary resources? Independently of the moral effect of these deceptive practices upon your own character, is there not in the acts themselves an inherent meanness and baseness, from which a pure-minded youth would instinctively recoil? Is there not something false and rotten in the prevailing sentiment on this subject among young persons at school? When by some convenient fiction you reach a higher standard than your merits entitle you to, is it not so far forth at the expense of some more conscientious competitor? And, after all, when you deceive a teacher into the belief that you are studying when you are not, that you know a thing when you do not know it, that you wrote a composition, or executed a drawing, which was done by some one else,--whom do you cheat but yourself? You may deceive the teacher, but the loss is yours. 6. If there could be such a thing as an innocent crime, I would say it was that of talking in school. There can hardly be named a more signal instance of an act so perfectly innocent in itself, becoming so seriously blame-worthy purely and solely by circumstances. I believe I express the common opinion of all who have had any experience in the matter, when I say that three fourths of all the intentional disorder, and at least nine tenths of all the actual interruptions to study, grow out of the practice of unlicensed talking. And yet this is the very last thing which young persons will admit into their serious, practical convictions as being an evil and a wrong. They may admit that they get bad marks by it; that it brings them into trouble; but that it is really an evil, meriting the strictures with which the teacher visits it, is more than they believe. What deceives them is this. They call to mind the events of a particular hour. There was during that hour, according to their recollection, a general attention to study, and no special disorder; perhaps some three or four of the pupils noted for talking. This talking, too, may have been about the lesson, or at all events was not such as to distract very perceptibly the current of instruction. Hence the inference that a moderate amount of talking, such as that was, is perfectly consistent with decorum and progress. So it is. But what is to secure this moderate amount? What right have you to talk that is not enjoyed by your neighbor? If one may talk, so may all; if one does it, unchecked, so will all, as you very well know. How is the teacher to know whether you are talking about the lesson, or about the last cricket-match? This is a perfectly plain question, and I press you to an answer. There is no practical medium between unlimited license to talk--against which you would yourself be the first to protest--and an entire prohibition. I put it to your conscience, whether you do not believe, were this rule strictly and in good faith observed, that the interests of the school, and your own interest, comfort, and honor, would be greatly promoted? Is the inconvenience which this rule imposes so great, or your habit of self-indulgence so strong, that you cannot, or will not, forego a slight temporary gratification for so substantial and lasting a benefit? 7. You will avoid much of the difficulty of observing this rule, if you give heed to the next counsel which I have now to give, and that is, that you economize carefully your time in school. On this point some excellent and conscientious pupils occasionally err. They are very faithful in home preparation; very attentive at lectures; very industrious in discharging any set duty. But they have not yet learned the true secret of all economy, whether of time, money, or any other good,--namely, the knowing how to use well the odds and ends. Take care of the pence, was Franklin's motto. If you once have the secret of occupying usefully, in studious preparation, or in wise repetition, all those little intervals of interrupted instruction, which necessarily occur throughout the day, you will in the first place almost insure for yourself an entire freedom from demerit marks of every kind; you will secondly add materially to your intellectual progress; and, lastly, you will acquire a habit of the utmost value in every station and walk in life; and, depend upon it, the habits you acquire at school, are of all your acquisitions by far the most important. 8. But I would be false to my most settled convictions, were I to stop here. I have been a teacher of the young nearly all my life, and as the result of such a life-long professional experience, I have no conviction more abiding than this, that the _fear of God is the beginning of knowledge_. I believe that mental growth is just as directly the gift of God as bodily growth; that the healthy action of the mind is as much dependent on his good pleasure as the healthy action of the bodily functions. God has not only made one mind superior to another, but of two minds naturally equal, he can, at his sovereign pleasure, make one grow and expand more rapidly than another. As he can give symmetry and strength to your limbs, and clothe your features with beauty and grace, so he can make you quick of apprehension, clear of discernment, ready and tenacious to remember, delicate in your appreciation of what is beautiful. While, therefore, you are diligent in your studies, remember that the reward of your labor, after all, is the gift of God. You will neglect one essential means of intellectual progress, if you neglect prayer. I mean, not prayer in general, but specific prayer for God's blessing on your studies; prayer that God will bless your efforts to learn. Keep your mind, while engaged in study, in a habitual state of expectancy, especially when grappling with intellectual difficulties, as if inwardly looking up for help to that all-knowing Spirit, who alone, of all beings, acts directly on our spirits. I cannot doubt that one who studies in such a frame of mind, will advance in his intellectual progress more rapidly for it. I have a most assured conviction that prayer is a direct and important means of mental growth. Not only will the fear of God restrain you from many of the usual hindrances to study, of which I have already spoken, but a truly devout spirit is the very best state of mind for learning, even for learning purely intellectual truth. There are other and higher motives, why you should cultivate, habitually, the fear of God. Of these motives, it is not my office to speak now. They are often pressed upon your attention. The one point to which I direct you now, is the importance of such a state of mind to your making the best, and surest, and noblest kind of mental growth. If you would grow rapidly in knowledge, grow symmetrically and beautifully, with all your faculties in harmonious preparation and dependence, fear God. Keep your spirit in habitual intercourse and communion with that Almighty Spirit who is the source of all knowledge and wisdom. In the school-room, at your desk, in your recitations, and your exercises of every kind, let the thought that the eye of a loving Father is upon you, diffuse habitually a calm and sweet peace through your spirit, and depend upon it, you will not find your mental vision dimmed by moving in so pure and serene an atmosphere. There are no quickeners to knowledge equal to love, reverence, and earnest prayer. Let me, in conclusion, tender you my best wishes for your success in the career now before you. That success depends, in no small degree, upon the feeling and spirit with which you begin. Only summon up your mind to a serious and determined resolution at the outset; aim high; do not flinch at self-denial; rise above the unworthy suspicion that this or that teacher is unfair to you; resist the disposition to shirk those studies that you find disagreeable or difficult; keep clear of every kind and degree of trickery; come straight up to a full and strict compliance with every rule; lay your plans to occupy usefully each golden moment of leisure; cultivate a constant sense of dependence upon God for success in study: and your success will be as certain as is the wish for it, which I once more, most respectfully and affectionately, tender you. * * * * * 3. _To a Young Lady on Leaving a Boarding-School._ You are about to leave school. The occasion is one certainly that cannot fail to awaken reflection. I suppose that no young lady, who had been at a place of education as long as you have been here, ever left it without serious thought. The excitement of the examination, the busy whirl of preparation for leaving, even the exhilarating anticipations of home-going, cannot entirely shut out from your mind the sober truth that the end of school-days is only the beginning of another career,--a career, the issue of which you can neither foresee, nor can you be indifferent to it. Let us talk a little about this. The day on which a young man ends his College course is called, by an apparent misnomer, "Commencement" day; that is, the day of commencing, or beginning. I understand very well that the name has a definite historical origin,--that in the old English Colleges, from which our American Colleges were modelled, the young man, on this day, begins his career as a Bachelor of Arts. His academical rank "commences" and dates from this point. But there would be a beautiful appropriateness in the term, even if it had no such special historical origin. The exit from the curriculum of the College or School, is, in truth, only the entrance into a more extended course. When your studies are nominally ended, they have really only begun. The longer you live, the more will you understand that the period of school-going is not the only, or even the main time of learning. The more thoroughly you have been taught here, the more certainly will you be a learner hereafter. I want no better test of the character of a school than the extent to which the idea prevails among its pupils and alumni, that it is a place for "finishing" one's studies. The idea is on a par with that of the young Miss who reported that she had read through Latin! There is, it is true, in this School, a definite curriculum of studies, and that curriculum you have honorably completed. You have just been received by public acknowledgment into the community of educated women. But you will be false to the honorable sisterhood, false, I am sure, to all the teachings you have received here, if you entertain for a moment the thought that no further intellectual acquisitions are before you. The branches which you have learned thus far are chiefly valuable to you for the power they have given you to make still further improvement. The studies pursued at school, and during the period of youth, are mainly intended for promoting intellectual growth, for giving us power, for perfecting our mental machinery. Our real acquisitions come afterward. I speak, of course, of those who occupy the higher stations in society. To one who has to earn his bread by mere bodily toil, the few studies for which he has leisure in youth, must, of course, be such as are directly serviceable in his calling. But to those who claim to belong to the educated portion of the community, school studies are of right directed more to the development of the mental and moral powers, than to positive acquisition. Your instructors return you to your friends and your home with a mind enlarged, with a taste refined, with a judgment corrected, ready to take your place and act well your part, as an educated woman. But remember, she is not an educated woman, who knows no more this year than she did last. True education is growth, and it never stands still. The tree which has ceased to grow, has begun to decay. This, then, is the one thought that I would have you take away with you from school. Give no place to the idea that henceforth books and study and elegant culture are to be laid aside. It would be a dishonor to your School, and a mistake of the first magnitude for yourself. Perhaps you will appreciate this point more adequately, if you will turn your thoughts inward for a moment, and reflect upon the change which has been quietly going on in your own self and during your residence here. One whose occupation calls him almost daily to communicate his ideas to young persons, either by formal address, or by more familiar ways, feels to a greater degree, perhaps, than any other person can, the change to which I refer. I mean that increased quickness of intellectual apprehension produced by a judicious and symmetrical course of study. Let me give you an instance. It fell to my lot, not long since, to address a School containing three hundred young ladies, all boarders, all over seventeen years of age. They were the best audience I ever had. Among them was not one, who did not appear to be intelligent and thoughtful, and with a mind more or less disciplined. But there were perceptible differences among them, and it is to this point that I would direct your attention. They were divided into four distinct classes, having attended the School severally one, two, three, and four years, and they were arranged before me in the order of their seniority as classes. The discourse was long and didactic, and portions of it were not easy to follow, containing a discussion of a rather abstruse point in mental philosophy. Now it seemed to me, on concluding the address, that I could have gone through that assembly, and marked with tolerable accuracy, class by class, just where each class ended and another class began, simply by what I had read in the faces of my young auditors. It was written as plainly upon those upturned faces, as was the discourse itself upon the manuscript before me. Those who had been four years in the School, undoubtedly learned manifold more from the exercise than the junior classes did. I could see it in the delivery of every paragraph. Such is the uniform result of a proper course of study. It enables the student to grasp new truths with increased ease and readiness. We, who are teachers, feel this the moment we undertake to communicate our thoughts to an audience. The consequence is, we involuntarily measure what has been done educationally for a class of young persons, by the development which has been given to their powers,--by the manifest facility which they have gained for making further gains. That young woman is best educated who is best prepared to learn. Let me, then, renew the appeal to your own consciousness. Think for a moment upon the change which has been wrought in your own self during your career here. Compare your present self with that other self that you may remember some three or four years back. How much more you can accomplish now than you could then! How much more clearly you can follow out a train of reasoning! How much more easily you can compass an argument! How much more you can enjoy what is beautiful! How much more quickly and accurately you can remember! How much more you can command your attention! Whence this change, and what does it purport? It means that you are educated. You have now a degree of mental power that you had not then. Your own consciousness tells you that you are now just in the condition to enter upon your harvest. The field is before you. You are girded for the work. And will you now indolently lay aside the sickle, and let the golden grain fall to the ground ungathered? Could there be a more egregious mistake? Last week, I saw from my window two parent birds tempting their young fledglings from the nest. Day by day, week by week, I had seen the child-birds growing and gaining strength. Their muscles were now well developed, their bodies were clothed with feathers, they had learned to use their wings,--they could fly. Would it not have been passing strange, had they continued as they were, contented to cower and to crawl, when they had acquired the power to soar? And will _you_ be content to remain forever only a fledgling, satisfied with having acquired the power of rising, but never actually using the wings which these years of honorable industry have given you? Some of your sex are willing to admit the force of this argument when applied to men. A man, after graduating, is expected of course to continue his studies. His whole profession is one continued study. But somehow, it is thought, this truth does not hold good for women. Let me hope that _you_ at least will not harbor such a notion. Whatever may be said of "women's rights," one right certainly, and one duty, is to keep yourself abreast of the other sex in continued mental growth and culture, and in general intelligence. If you would awaken true respect in my sex, and I hold it a not unworthy ambition, you must in this matter do as we do, at least as those of us do who are worth your consideration at all. You must perseveringly, every year, add to your intellectual acquisitions. You must continue steadily to grow in knowledge and mental power. Do not cease your studies, because you have ceased going to school. Manage to have some elegant accomplishment or acquisition always in hand. A woman who is wise in this matter, never passes her prime. I speak not, of course, of the decrepitude of old age and of the decay of the faculties. But so long as the faculties remain unimpaired, a woman may become, and should aim to become, increasingly attractive, as she advances in years. Poets sing of sweet sixteen. Let me assure you, a woman may be charming at sixty. Mrs. Madison even at seventy was the most attractive woman in Washington. In society, how soon one feels the difference between a person who reads, and one who does not read. Two ladies may be of the same age. They may dress alike. They may have the same advantages of person. They may move in the same social circle. Yet you will not have been ten minutes in their society, though the conversation has been on only the most common topics of the day, before you will feel that the one woman, though at thirty or forty, is still only a superannuated school-girl, with even less resources than when she left the seminary, while the other is a delightful companion for persons of any age, with ready knowledge for whatever turn the conversation may take, and so abounding in resources as not even to be open to the temptation of making a display of them. The one can talk only so long as the conversation turns on dress, gossip, or the discussion of private character. In listening to the talk of such a woman, you hardly hear a sentence which is not based upon personalities. Her mind has not been fed and nurtured from day to day with beautiful and noble thoughts, with history and science and general knowledge. She may be amiable. She may have personal beauty. But you find her empty and vapid, and you weary of her, in spite of the very best intentions of being interested. How different the woman who, in spite of social exactions, and even of accumulating domestic duties, and of the time-consuming tax of dress, still keeps her mind fresh and growing, by means of reading and culture,--who is ever adding to her stores of knowledge some new science, to her varied skill some new attainment,--who has ever in hand some new book. It is true, indeed, that some ladies are blessed with more leisure for this purpose than others. But I fear it is not a question of more and less. It is too much a question of some and _none_. I hold that every woman is entitled to have, and by proper determination she may have, _some_ time for personal improvement. Remember, we have duties to ourselves, as well as to others, and we have no duty to ourselves more sacred than this,--to rescue from our time some portion for the purpose of making ourselves more worthy of regard. To undertake to suggest what particular studies you should pursue, in this larger school to which you are now admitted, would lead me into a train of remark entirely too extended. One single practical suggestion may perhaps be pardoned. Do not willingly relinquish the acquisitions already made. They are to you the true foundations for future improvement. You have fairly entered upon several important fields in the domain of science. You are familiar with the elements of Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, Botany, Physiology, Mental Philosophy, Rhetoric, and with the foundations of Mathematical Science. My advice is that in coming years you give to each of these branches, and of whatever else you have studied here, a stated systematic review. You have some skill in drawing and painting. Let not so graceful an accomplishment die out from your fingers. You excel in music. I need not say, if you would retain this excellence, you must give time to practice and study. So, whatever talent or attainment you now have, let it be your fixed purpose not to let it pass from your possession. Keep what you have, whatever else you may fail to do. To this end, as I said before, give to each of your school studies an occasional well-considered review. You will then always have in your mind certain fixed points, to which the miscellaneous knowledge picked up in your general reading will adhere, and around which it will accumulate in organized form. New studies, too, will naturally affiliate with the old, and will be easy and pleasant just in proportion as you keep the knowledge that you now have, fresh and bright. Besides this general advice, there is one accomplishment in particular, which I would earnestly recommend to you, as I am in the habit of doing to all of your sex. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is so very elegant, charming, and lady-like an accomplishment. Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased with good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skilful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of reading. The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages. Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have, when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry among the hardened criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in those dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvellous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story. What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's devising can reach the heart, as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. Fold it not away in a napkin. If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions; if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment, and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate with incessant care this Divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture. * * * * * 4. _To a Pupil on Entering a Normal School._ You have entered upon a new and untried path. As one having been often over this way, and well acquainted with the features of the country before you, its lights and shadows, its roses and its thorns, its safe walks and its hidden pitfalls, I desire to talk with you a while before you enter upon the untried scene. 1. First of all let me say to you, we give you a most hearty welcome. We are glad to see you here, and we tender to you in advance a warm and ready sympathy in the many little worries, annoyances, and discouragements that surely await you. For myself I may truly say, that, outside of my own home, I have no greater happiness than to be among my pupils, and few things could pain me more than to believe that any one who had been for any considerable time my pupil would not almost unconsciously claim me as a friend; and it is an unceasing well-spring of joy for me to know that among your companions are many who, in time of trouble or difficulty or anxiety of any kind, would come to the Principal of the School, as sure of sympathy as if going to their own mother. This freedom of intercourse between teachers and their pupils, this mutual exchange of confidence on one side and of sympathy on the other, is a source of good and a source of pleasure, which neither you nor we, my young friend, can afford to forego; and if in the expression of this thought I have indulged in a rather unseemly use of the first person singular, it is not because I would claim for myself anything peculiar in this matter, but because, from my years and my position, I can perhaps, better than my associates, afford to speak out thus the inward promptings of the heart. We _all_ give you the right hand of fellowship, and trust it will not be many weeks, or days even, before you shall feel that you have here a home as well as a school, friends as well as teachers. 2. A very common feeling at the beginning of a course of study, is a feeling of discouragement. Nearly all the studies are new, and you enter upon each with fresh eagerness. Now, it is in the nature of every study while it is new, to seem boundless. Under the guiding hand of a skilful teacher, its limits and capabilities are stretched out in one direction and another, interminable vistas spread out in the distance, and portentous difficulties rise up before the imagination, until the mind is bewildered. There is not one, of the formidable lists of studies before you, that might not of itself, so great are its capabilities, occupy your whole time. When you find yourself called to grapple at once with four or five such studies, to measure yourself with competitors, many of whom have had opportunities of preparation greatly superior to your own, and in the presence of teachers to whom the whole subject is as familiar and as plain as the alphabet, and when, in addition, the methods of recitation are for the most part new and strange, you are very apt to become discouraged, to feel that you shall never learn to recite in the manner required, that you can never master the difficulties before you. This feeling arises most frequently in the best class of minds, those most conscientious in regard to duty and most capable of comprehending the full length and breadth and depth of a subject. The shallow and the trifling are never troubled with the kind of difficulties now under consideration. I address myself to you, my young friend, because I know you have come here with an earnest purpose, with a mind acute enough to see something of the vast work before you, and I say to you, as one who has had large experience in conducting other pilgrims over the same track, never lose heart. Difficulties which now seem insurmountable, will gradually disappear; subjects which now seem impenetrable, will soon lighten up. Did you never enter a room in the dark? At first the apartment is a universal blank. After a while, as your eyes become adjusted to the place, one article after another of the furniture becomes outlined to the vision, until at length, especially if approaching day lends some additional rays of light, the whole scene stands out perfectly defined. So it is in entering upon a new study. Many a passage in it will seem to you at first a worse than Serbonian bog--a cave of impenetrable and undistinguishable darkness. But draw not back. Look steadily on. Light will come in time. Your power of seeing will, with every new trial, receive adjustment and growth, and you will in the end see with full and open vision where now you have only dim glimpses and guesses. Do not be discouraged, therefore, if at first you fail, or seem to yourself to fail, in almost every recitation you undertake. What seems impossible to-day, will be only next to impossible to-morrow, and only very difficult the day after. Your failures are often only the proofs that you have a glimpse at least of something below the surface of things. A discouraged pupil is never a source of anxiety to me. It is only the self-confident and over-wearing that are hopeless. 3. I have spoken of recitations. Let me urge you to form some definite idea of what a recitation is, and what kind of a recitation you, as a pupil of a Normal School, should aim to make. And first of all, on this point, let me say, the mere answering of questions, and especially, the mere response of yes and no to questions, is not reciting,--assuredly not such reciting as is to fit you for the office of a teacher. And, in the next place, let me say, that repeating verbatim the words of the book, is not the method of recitation at which you should aim. I do not agree with those who would dissuade you entirely from cultivating the faculty and enriching the stores of memory. Not only memory, in its general exercise, but a purely verbal memory, is important. In your lessons, are many things, rules, definitions, and so forth, that should be learned with the most literal exactness, and should be so fixed in the memory that they will come at your bidding, in any place, at any moment. There are, too, in some of your books, passages from noble authors, which furnish food and nourishment to the soul, and which the mind craves in the very form and lineaments of their birth--passages which are like nuggets of virgin gold, or coins from the mint of some great sovereign in the realms of thought. They form a part of your wealth, and you want them, neither clipped, nor defaced, nor alloyed, but with every word and point exactly as it came from the hand of the master. These precious gems of thought, the garnered wealth of the ages, will not be neglected by any one who is wise. Treasure up in your intellectual storehouse as many of them as you can possibly compass, only with this proviso, be careful to select for this purpose the very best out of the great abundance that is before you, and make thorough work in what you do attempt to commit to memory. The act of memorizing will at once strengthen the faculty of memory itself, and will enrich you otherwise. By all means, therefore, learn by heart the leading definitions and rules of your text-books, and choice passages from all famous authors. But do not attempt in this way to commit to memory, or to recite verbatim, the pages of your history, geography, rhetoric, and so forth. Such a practice would be a most unwise waste of your time, and would cause a weakening, rather than a strengthening, of your faculties. Let me tell you exactly what I mean by reciting. Your teacher goes to the board and, chalk in hand, explains to the class some point which they seem not to have apprehended. That is my idea of reciting. First get thorough possession of the thoughts or facts of the lesson, and then, imagining the class and the teacher to be ignorant of the subject, explain it to them, just as you will expect to do when the time comes that you will have a class of your own to instruct. It will aid you in preparing thus to recite a lesson, if in your rooms you will go over it aloud to each other, you and your room-mate, taking alternate portions. Such a method of preparation will doubtless require some time. But one lesson so prepared will be worth more to you than a whole week of study conducted in the ordinary manner. Remember, that in a Normal School your object is, not merely to get knowledge, but to learn how to communicate what you have learned. First then go over a topic till you are sure you understand it. Then go over it again and again until you can recite readily and perfectly every part of it, in its order. Then practise yourself in telling it in your own words, aloud, if possible, to somebody else, until you can make the narration or explanation continuously, from beginning to end, and without the possibility of being thrown out or confused by any amount of interruptions. Then at length are you prepared to recite. Is this standard of recitation too high? Is it not what every one of your teachers does daily, and what you yourself will have to do the very first time you take your position as a teacher of others? 4. This leads me by a natural transition to the subject of _study_. You need to learn how to study, as much as you need to learn how to recite. Endeavor then to get some definite idea in your mind of what it is really to study. Mere reading is not study. Muttering the words over in a low, gurgling tone, or letting them glide in a soft, half-audible ripple upon your lips, is not study. Going over the lesson in a listless, dreamy way, one eye on the book and one eye ready for whatever is going on in other parts of the room, is not study. Study is work. Study is agony. The whole soul must be roused, its every energy put forth, with a fixed, rapt attention, like that of a man struggling with a giant. Study, worthy of the name, forgets for the time every thing else, excludes every thing else, is incapable of being diverted by any thing else, the whole internal and external man being bent upon making just one thing its own. Such study of course soon exhausts the energies. It cannot be long protracted, nor need it be protracted. Take rest in the season of rest; but, when you study, study with all your might. Throw your whole soul into it. One hour of such study accomplishes more than whole days of listless poring over books. And, remember, you cannot study in this manner by merely willing to do it. It is an art, requiring training and practice, and thorough mental discipline. You might as well, on seeing the Writing-Master executing those marvels of penmanship, or the Drawing-Teacher with deft fingers limning with ease forms of grace and beauty, resolve to go forthwith to the board and do the same thing, as expect, by a mere _sic volo_, to become a student. You are here to learn how to study, and the art will come to you only by slow progress, and after many trials. Give up the illusion that absolute seclusion and silence are necessary to study. I do not say that they are not at times desirable. But they do not of themselves generate earnest thought. The vacant mind, that has not yet learned to think, is when thus left to solitude and stillness, quite as likely to go a wool-gathering, or to fall asleep, as to wrestle with some hard uninviting train of thought. The appliances and the invitations to mental application, if we have really learned to study, must be mainly in ourselves, not in our surroundings. Besides, the greater part of the actual thinking and study, that has to be done by those in professional life, that will have to be done by you, when you enter upon the practice of your profession as a teacher, must be done in circumstances not of your own choosing, just as time and opportunity may offer, by snatches, and at odd intervals, and often in the midst of distracting sights and sounds. I venture to say that three fourths of the graduates of this school, who are now teaching, have no opportunity for daily study and preparation for the duties of the school-room, except that afforded by a seat in the evening in the common sitting-room of the family, surrounded by children that are not always models of behavior, and within sight and hearing of all the petty details of household life. It is not therefore in itself undesirable that a part at least of your study at school should be performed in a common room, where there are some temptations to be resisted, some distractions to be ignored. Acquiring the ability to study without distraction in the presence of others and in the midst even of confusion and noise, is as important to you as is the learning how to think aloud, in the presence of a class, which I have defined to be the true nature of a recitation. The ability to study and the ability to recite are intimately correlated, and the symptoms of both are unmistakable to the practised eye and ear. I know just as well, by a glance of the eye on entering a study-room, what pupils are making intellectual growth, as I do on entering the class-room and listening to the recitations. One might as well feign to be in a fever, as to feign study. Nothing but the thing itself can assume its appearance. 5. I approach my next subject of remark with some hesitation. Yet on no point, in the whole theory of mental action, have I a more fixed and assured conviction. Perhaps I may explain my meaning better, if I introduce it with one or two comparisons. Action of every kind, mental or material, is to be aided or accelerated, if at all, by forces of the same kind with the primary force. If a certain amount of weight avoirdupois will not make the scale kick the beam, we may produce the effect by laying on the requisite number of additional pounds,--by adding force of the same kind with the original. If the flame of one candle does not produce the illumination required for a particular effort, the addition of a second or a third will. If we wish to increase the speed of a locomotive, we do not whistle to it, or whip it, or say "get up;" we add steam. If on the other hand we wish our horse to travel faster, we use a motive addressed to his nature. We appeal to his generosity, his pride, or his fear. So mental action is influenced and induced by forces of the same nature with itself. One mind influences powerfully another mind, working upon us often, too, by mysterious influences that elude analysis. The influence of mind upon mind, other things being equal, is in proportion to the degree of perfection in which these three conditions exist, to wit, the fulness of accord and sympathy between the minds that are brought into contact, the closeness of the contact, and the greatness and power of the influencing and controlling mind. These three points hardly need explanation or argument. Nothing is more obvious than that a mind fully in sympathy with another, does by that very circumstance exercise an increased mental power on that other. In like manner we all feel daily how our minds are lifted up, enlarged, enlightened, strengthened, by intercourse with one of powerful intellect. And how often have we felt, when ourselves wishing to influence any one, particularly when wishing to influence one much younger and weaker than ourselves, that we might accomplish our ends the better, if we could only know certainly and exactly what he was thinking, if we could as it were actually get into the chamber of his soul. This indeed we can never do. We think sometimes that we come very near to each other. But after all we never touch. Between my mind and yours, between yours and that of the most intimate friend you have in the world, there is a barrier, high as heaven, deep as hell, impenetrable as adamant. Thus far can we come and no farther. We can never enter into the soul of any human being. No human being can ever enter into ours. Yet, my dear pupil, did it never occur to you, that there is One Mind, and that a mind of infinitely great and transcendent power, to which there is no such barrier, and that this transcendent, all-knowing, all-powerful mind, is continually in direct contact with the very essence of your mind? Can I influence your thinking faculties, and cannot the infinite God, who made those faculties? Can He who gave our bodies all their power of growth and strength, not give growth and strength to our minds? I do not profess to understand how the divine mind acts upon the human mind. I cannot always understand even how one human mind acts upon another. But of the fact I make no more question, than I do of the powers of flame, of steam, or of gravitation. And, as one set here to guide you in your mental progress, in all sober earnestness, I exhort you devoutly to invoke the aid of the Holy Ghost in the promotion of your studies--not merely to help you to use your acquisitions rightly, for his honor and the good of your kind, but to help you in making those acquisitions. If you would rise superior to discouragement, if you would acquire that mental discipline which is to enable you to study, and to recite and to teach in the very best and highest manner, pray. Call mightily upon God the Holy Ghost, who is after all the great educator and teacher of the human race. Carry your feeble lamp to the great fountain of light and radiance. Put your heart into full accord and sympathy with that of your dear elder Brother. Wrestle mightily with God in secret, as one that feels the burden of a great want. Thus, my dear pupil, will you best fit yourself for the duties of a student and of a teacher. For, believe me, there is sound philosophy as well as religion, in the utterance of the wise man, "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge." Surely that man is a fool, who in cultivating mind, whether his own or that of another, neglects to invoke the aid of the Infinite Mind. XXIX. AN ARGUMENT FOR COMMON SCHOOLS. The argument for popular education is familiar and trite, and yet it needs to be occasionally re-stated and enforced. There is no community in which there is not a considerable number of persons grossly and dangerously ignorant, and there are many communities in which the majority of the people are in this condition. There is no community in which the importance of general education is over-estimated; there are unfortunately many communities in which education is held to be the least important of public interests. A brief discussion of the subject, therefore, can never be entirely out of place. Before proceeding to the direct argument, let me notice some of the most common objections. It is a not uncommon opinion, that the business of education should be left, like other kinds of business, to the laws of trade. It is said if a carpenter is wanted in any community, or a blacksmith, or a tailor, or a lawyer, or a doctor, carpenters, blacksmiths, tailors, lawyers, and doctors will make their appearance. If a store is wanted, a store will spring up. Why not a school-house? Those who use this argument forget the essential difference between the two classes of wants to be supplied. All men equally feel the distress, if naked, or hungry, or sick, or suffering from any material want. The poor man, no less than the rich, feels the pinchings of hunger, and will exert himself to remedy the evil. The sick man, even more than the well, appreciates the value of medicine and the necessity of a physician. Not so in the matter of knowledge. A man must himself be educated, to understand the value of education. There are exceptions, of course. Yet it is substantially true, that the want of education is not one of those felt and pinching necessities that compel men's attention, and that consequently may be left to shift for themselves. A man who has himself enjoyed the blessing of a good education, expects to provide schools for his children, as much as he expects to provide for them food and clothing. The wants of their minds are to him pressing realities, as much as are the wants of their bodies. Not so with the ignorant and debased neighbors, who live within stone's throw of his dwelling. They, from their own experience, know nothing better, and are quite content, both for themselves and their children, to live on in the debased condition in which we see them. If these wretched creatures are ever moved to seek a higher style of living and being, the movement must originate outside of themselves. It is a case in which the man of higher advantages must think and act for those below him. It is a case in which people have a pressing need without knowing it, and in which consequently the laws of supply and demand do not meet the emergency. Another common opinion on this subject is that private enterprise is adequate to meet the want. Private enterprise in education is not indeed to be discarded. Where the community as a whole, in its organized capacity, will do nothing, let individuals do what they can. In such cases, let those who appreciate the advantages of education, concert measures for the establishment of schools and the employment of teachers, and for inducing parents who are indifferent to send their children. By these private efforts, the community may be gradually awakened to the importance of the subject, and so be induced to take it up on their own account. But private benevolence is not sufficient for so great a work. Private benevolence besides is apt to be fitful. It is at best subject to interruption by death and by reverses of fortune, while the cause is one which especially demands steadiness and continuity. The means for educating a community or a city should no more be subject to interruption, than the means of lighting it, or of supplying it with water. The argument for depending upon private enterprise for devising and providing the means for popular education, would apply equally well to matters of police, and to the protection of property. The strong-armed and the sagacious can take care of themselves. The stout-hearted and the good, by due concert and combination, could keep criminals in some check, even in a country where there were no courts of justice, or prisons, or detective police. But this is not the ordinary or the best mode of accomplishing the end, nor could it in any case be thoroughly efficient. The restraint and punishment of crime belong to society as a whole, in its sovereign capacity. To the same society belongs the duty of seeing that its members do not fall into degrading ignorance and vice. God, in ordaining human society, had something higher in view than merely providing for the punishment of crime. Our Heavenly Father would have his children raised to the full enjoyment of their privileges as social and rational beings, and he seems to have established society for this very end, among others, that there may be an agency and a machinery adequate and fitted to drag even the unwilling out of the mire into which they have fallen. Without such an interposition on the part of society as a whole, the work will not be done. The mass of the people will remain in ignorance in every community, in which the community as such does not provide the means of education and general enlightenment. It is often urged against common schools, that they tend to impair parental obligation. Let us look this objection fairly in the face. The argument is stated as follows. If the community, in its organic capacity as a civil government, provides systematically for the instruction of the young, the system, just so far as it is successful and complete, does away with the necessity for any other provision. The parent, finding this work done to his hands, feels no necessity of looking after it himself, and so gradually loses all sense of obligation on the subject. Such a result, it is contended, is in contravention of the plainest dictates of nature and the most positive teachings of religion, both nature and religion requiring it as a primary duty of every parent to give his child a suitable education. In meeting this objection, the friends of common schools agree with the objector to the fullest extent in asserting the imperative, universal, irrepealable duty of the parent to educate his own child. The duty is not the less binding on the parent, because a like duty, covering the same point, rests also on the community. The interests involved are so momentous, that God in his wise ordination has given them a double security. It is a case in which two distinct parties are both separately required to see one and the same thing done. It is like taking two indorsers to a note. The obligation of one indorser is not impaired, because another man equally with himself is bound for payment If a child grows up in ignorance and vice, while God will undoubtedly hold the parent responsible, he will also not hold the community guiltless. Both parties will be guilty before him, both parties will be punished. A man is bound to maintain a certain amount of cleanliness about his habitation. If he fails to do so, and if in consequence of this failure the atmosphere around him becomes tainted and malarious, he and his will suffer. Disease and death will visit his abode. But the consequences will not end here. The infection will extend. The whole community will be affected by it. The whole community, equally with the individual, are bound to see that the cause of the infection is removed. The infection will not spare the community because the individual has generated it, nor will it spare the individual because the community has failed to remove it. Each party has a duty and a peril of its own in regard to the same matter. The fact is, individuals and the community are so bound together, that on many points their obligations lie in coincident lines. The matter of education is one of these points. God has ordained the parental relation, and has implanted the parental affections, for this very reason, among others, that the faculties of the helpless young immortal may have due training and development,--that this development may not be left to chance, like that of a worthless weed, but may have the protection and guardianship which are the necessary birthright of every rational creature brought into being by the voluntary act of another. But God has ordained society also for this same end, among others, namely, that his rational creatures may have a competent agency, bound by the laws and necessities of its own welfare to make adequate provision for the instruction and education of every human being. The one duty does not conflict with the other. The one obligation does not impair the other. Both lie in coincident lines. But, as a question of fact, is it true that common schools impair the sense of obligation in the minds of parents in regard to the duty of educating their children? I affirm the fact to be exactly the contrary. Those communities in which there are no common schools, and in which the people generally are in a state of deplorable ignorance, are precisely those in which the sense of parental obligation on this point is at the lowest ebb. Go to a region of country in which not one man in ten can read and write, and you will find that not one man in ten will care whether his children are taught to read and write. Those communities on the contrary which have the best and most complete system of common schools, and in which this system has prevailed longest and has taken most complete hold of the public mind, are the very ones in which individuals will be found most keenly alive to the importance of the subject, and in which a parent will be regarded as a monster, if his children are allowed to grow up uneducated. The objection, therefore, has no foundation either in fact or in reason. There is moreover another consideration not to be overlooked. In this matter of education, it is after all but a small part which the school does for a child. The main part of the child's education always takes place at home. The teacher is at best only an aid to the parent, supplementing the influences of the home and the street. The child is taking lessons continually from the father and mother, whether they mean it or not. Every teacher knows how much more rapidly a child improves at school, whose parents are well educated, and how difficult it is to teach a child who at home lives in an atmosphere of profound ignorance. The mind of the one whose home is a region of darkness and intellectual torpor, will be dwarfed and distorted, no matter what the efforts of its teachers. The mind of the one, on the contrary, whose home is the abode of intellectual light, warmth, and sunshine, will have a corresponding growth and expansion at school. There is a continual unconscious tuition, good or bad, received from the very atmosphere of the family. Besides this, there is a great deal of direct, active duty to be performed by the parent in the education of the child. No matter how good the school, or how faithful the teacher, there always remains much to be done by the parent, even in regard to the school duties. The parent must see that lessons are prepared, that the child is properly provided with books, that the meal times and the other arrangements of the household are such as to help forward the child's studies. There are a hundred things which the father and mother can do to help or to hinder the work of the school. A child, whose parents give proper home supervision over his studies, will, other things being equal, make twice the progress of one whose parents give the matter no attention. The community, therefore, in establishing common schools, does by no means take the whole matter of education out of the hands of the parent. On the contrary, it still leaves with him the most important and necessary of the duties connected with the education of his children, while it gives him aids for the performance of the remaining duties, which no private means can ordinarily supply. I come, however, to a much graver objection. It is urged against common schools, as organized in this country, that religious instruction is excluded from them, and that without this element they only tend to make educated villains. Education, it is said, without the restraining and sanctifying influences of religion, only puts into the hands of the multitude greater power for evil. If this objection is valid, the most enlightened and Christian communities of the world have made, and are making, an enormous mistake. Yet the objection is urged with seriousness by men whose purity of motive is above question, and whose personal character gives great weight to their opinions. The objection originated in England, where all attempts to make legislative provision for the education of the common people have been steadily resisted by a potential party in the established church. The arguments put forth in the English religious journals have been reproduced in the journals here, and have in many instances awakened the apprehensions of serious-minded persons. It is worth while, therefore, to give the subject some distinct consideration. In the first place, the facts are not exactly as stated by those making the objection. Though little direct religious instruction may be given in the common school, there is usually a large amount of religious influence. A great majority of the teachers of our common schools are professing Christians. Very many of them are among our most active Sabbath-school teachers. Now a truly godly man or woman, at the head of a school, though never speaking a word directly on the subject of religion, yet by the power of a silent, consistent example, exerts a continual Christian influence. In the second place, as a matter of fact, direct religious teaching is not entirely excluded from our public schools. I think, it by no means holds that prominent position in the course of study which it should hold. But it is not entirely excluded. The Bible, with very rare exceptions, is read daily in all our common schools. It is appealed to as ultimate authority in questions of history and morals. It is quoted for illustration in questions of taste. It is in many schools a text-book for direct study. In the third place, nine out of ten of the children of the week-day school attend the Sabbath-school. The Sabbath-school supplements the instructions of the week-day school. The case, therefore, is not that of an education purely intellectual. Moral and religious instruction accompanies the instruction in worldly knowledge. The Sabbath-school, the church, and the family, by their combined and ceaseless activities, infuse into our course of elementary education a much larger religious ingredient than a stranger might suppose, who should confine his examination to a mere inspection of our common schools, or to the reading of the annual reports of our educational boards. But apart from all these considerations, taking the question in its naked form, is it true that mere intellectual education has the tendency alleged? I do not believe it. The constitution of the human mind gives no warrant for such an inference. Recorded, indisputable facts, overwhelmingly disprove it. So far is it from being true that the mere diffusion of knowledge has a tendency to make men knaves and infidels, I believe the very opposite to be true. Knowledge is the natural ally of religion. To hold otherwise, is to disparage and dishonor religion--to imply, if not to say, that ignorance is the mother of devotion. There is an inborn antagonism between the intellectual and the sensual nature of man. If you give to the intellect no development, you leave the senses as the ruling power. We see this strikingly illustrated in the idiotic, who are for the most part disgustingly sensual. Among a population grossly ignorant and uneducated, sensualism prevails in its most appalling forms. The man is a sensualist, simply because he knows no higher pleasures. He is degraded, because he has no motives to be otherwise. He is barely above a brute. The amount of crime, of the coarsest and most debasing character, among the uneducated peasantry of England, is almost incredible. Here is a description of an English peasant of the present day, given by a competent unimpeached witness, himself an Englishman. I quote from a work on "The Social Condition and Education of the People of England," by Joseph Kay, Esq., of Trinity College, Cambridge, who was commissioned by the Senate of the University to travel for the purpose of examining into the social condition of the poorer classes. Says Mr. Kay: "You cannot address an English peasant, without being struck with the intellectual darkness which surrounds him. There is neither speculation in his eye nor intelligence in his countenance. His whole expression is more that of an animal than of a man. He is wanting too in the erect and independent bearing of a man. As a class, our peasants have no amusements beyond the indulgence of sense. In nine cases out of ten, recreation is associated in their minds with nothing higher than sensuality. About one half of our poor can neither read nor write, have never been in any school, and know little, or positively nothing, of the doctrines of the Christian religion, of moral duties, or of any higher pleasures than beer-drinking and spirit-drinking, and the grossest sensual indulgence. They live precisely like brutes, to gratify, so far as their means allow, the appetites of their uncultivated bodies, and then die, to go they have never thought, cared, or wondered whither. Brought up in the darkness of barbarism, they have no idea that it is possible for them to attain any higher condition; they are not even sentient enough to desire, with any strength of feeling, to change their situation; they are not intelligent enough to be perseveringly discontented; they are not sensible to what we call the voice of conscience; they do not understand the necessity of avoiding crime, beyond the mere fear of the police and the jail; they have unclear, indefinite, and undefinable ideas of all around them; they eat, drink, breed, work, and die; and while they pass through their brute-like existence here, the richer and more intelligent classes are obliged to guard them with police and standing armies, and to cover the land with prisons, cages, and all kinds of receptacles for the perpetrators of crime." Surely it must be some hallucination of mind, which leads men to suppose that the diffusion of knowledge among such a population, even though it be only scientific and intellectual knowledge, can have any natural or general tendency adverse to religion and morals. Apart, however, from speculation, and as a pure question of fact, the recorded statistics of crime point unmistakably the other way. Criminal records the world over prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that the overwhelming majority of crimes are committed by persons deplorably ignorant. Intellectual education, therefore, I contend, even when deprived of its natural ally and adjunct, religious training, has no natural tendency to produce knaves and villains. On the contrary, it is a most efficient corrective and restraint of the evil and debasing tendencies of human nature. If the intellect is not so high a region in man's constitution as the moral powers, which I readily grant, it is at least above the mere sensual part, in which vice and crime have their chief spring and aliment. The question fortunately is one susceptible of a direct appeal to facts. Who are the men and women that people our jails and prisons? Are they persons of education, or are they in the main persons deplorably ignorant? What is the record of criminal statistics on this point? I will quote a few of these statistics, from a great mass of similar evidence lying before me. Out of 252,544 persons committed for crime in England and Wales, during a series of years, 229,300, or more than 90 per cent., are reported as uneducated, either entirely unable to read and write, or able to do so only very imperfectly; 22,159 could read and write, but not fluently; and only 1085 (_less than one half per cent. of the whole_) were what we call educated persons. In nine consecutive years, beginning with the year 1837, only 28 educated females were brought to the bar of criminal justice in England and Wales, out of 7,673,633 females then living in that part of the United Kingdom; and in the year 1841, out of the same population, not one educated female was committed for trial. In a special commission, held in 1842, to try those who had been guilty of rioting and disturbance in the manufacturing districts, out of 567 thus tried, 154 could neither read nor write, 155 could read only, 184 could read and write imperfectly, 73 could read and write well, and only one had received superior instruction. In 1840, in 20 counties of England and Wales, with a population of 8,724,338, there were convicted of crime only 59 educated persons, or one for every 147,870 inhabitants. In 32 other counties, with a population of 7,182,491, the records furnished _not one convict_ who had received more than the merest elements of instruction. In 1841, in 15 English counties, with a population of 9,569,064, there were convicted only 74 instructed persons, or one to every 129,311 inhabitants, while the 25 remaining counties and the whole of Wales, with a population of 6,342,661, did not furnish one single conviction of a person who had received more than the mere elements of education. In 1845, out of a total of 59,123 persons taken into custody, 15,263 could neither read nor write, and 39,659 could barely read, and could write very imperfectly. In the four best taught counties of England, the number of schools being one for every seven hundred inhabitants, the number of criminal convictions was one a year for every 1108 inhabitants. In the four worst taught counties, the number of schools being one for every 1501 inhabitants, the number of convictions was one a year for every 550 inhabitants. That is, in one set of counties, the people were about twice as well educated as in the other, and one half as much addicted to crime. In other words, in proportion as the people were educated, were they free from crime. Thrift and good morals usually keep pace with the spread of intelligence among the people. This has been the result in all those countries of Europe where good common schools are maintained, as in Iceland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, and most of the German States. Pauperism, with its attendant evils and crimes, is almost unknown in those countries, while in England, where the common people are worse educated than those of any Protestant nation in the world, pauperism has become an evil which her wisest statesmen have given up as unmanageable. In 1848, in addition to hundreds of persons assisted by charitable individuals, no less than 1,876,541 paupers (_one out of every eight of the population!_) were relieved by the boards of guardians of the poor, at an expense from the public purse of nearly thirty millions of dollars. In our own country, the same pains have not been taken to collect statistics on this subject, because comparatively little controversy about it has existed here to call forth inquiry. We as a people have generally taken it for granted that popular education lessens crime and pauperism. Still, facts enough have been recorded to show the same results here as elsewhere. When an educated villain is convicted, like Monroe Edwards or Professor Webster, the fact becomes so notorious by means of the press, that it is unconsciously multiplied in our imagination, and we think the instances more numerous than they really are. We never think of the scores of obscure villains that are convicted every week all the year round. A quotation or two from the facts which have been recorded, will be sufficient to satisfy us on this point. In the Ohio penitentiary, out of 276 inmates, nearly all were reported as ignorant, and 175 as grossly so. In the Auburn prison, New York, out of 244 inmates, only 39 could read and write. In the Sing Sing prison, no official record has been made on this point. But the Rev. Mr. Luckey, for more than twenty years chaplain of the prison, is obliged by the prison regulations to superintend and read all the letters between the prisoners and their friends. In this manner he becomes personally acquainted with the condition of the convicts in regard to education. He reported a few months since to the writer of these pages, that while there are always some among the convicts who have been educated, yet the great mass of them are stolidly ignorant. There are usually between one and two hundred learning to read, and this does not include the half of those who are unable to read, as the attendance upon the class is voluntary, the accommodations are meagre, and most of the prisoners are indifferent to their own improvement. Not five in a hundred can write otherwise than in the most clumsy and awkward manner, and with the grossest blunders in orthography, and not more than two in a hundred can write a sentence grammatically. Out of the 700 then in prison, only three were liberally educated, and two of these were foreigners. Throughout the State of New York, in 1841, the ratio of uneducated criminals to the whole number of uneducated persons was twenty-eight times as great as the ratio of educated inhabitants. In view of the facts which have been given, and which might be multiplied to almost any extent, it is not easy to avoid the conclusion that mere intellectual education has some power to restrain men from the commission of crime. Assuredly, ignorance and sin are natural adjuncts and allies. Schools undoubtedly cost something. The community that undertakes to educate the masses, or the individual that undertakes to educate his children, must expect to have a serious bill to pay. It is a pernicious folly to inculcate the contrary. The advocate of popular education, who tries to persuade people into the experiment, under the assurance that the expense will be trifling, misleads his readers, and puts back the cause which he would fain put forward. But there is a most significant _per contra_ in the account, and on this there is no danger of dwelling too much. Nothing is so costly as crime, and no preventive of crime is more efficient than education. Schoolhouses are cheaper than jails, teachers and books are a better security than handcuffs and policemen. There are educated villains, it is true. But they are rare, and they attract the greater attention by the very fact of their rarity. But go into a prison, or a criminal court, or a police court, and see who they are that mainly occupy the proceedings of our expensive machinery of criminal justice. Nine-tenths of those miserable creatures are in a state of most deplorable ignorance. Degraded, sensual, with no knowledge of anything better than the indulgence of the lowest passions, without mental resources, or any avenue to intellectual enjoyment, they often resort to crime from sheer want of something better to do. When Dr. Johnson was asked, "Who is the most miserable man?" his reply was, "The man who cannot read on a rainy day." There is profound meaning in the answer. The man who has been educated, who not only can read, but has acquired a taste for reading, and for reading of a proper kind, is rarely driven into low and debasing crime. He has resources within himself, which are a counterpoise to the incitements of his animal nature. His awakened intellect and conscience also make him understand more clearly the danger and guilt of a life of crime. Many of the deeds which swell the records of our criminal courts spring from poverty, as every criminal lawyer well knows, and there is no remedy against extreme poverty so sure as education. The old adage says that knowledge is power. It is also wealth. A man with even an ordinary, common school education, can turn himself in a hundred ways, where a mere ignorant boor would be utterly helpless. The faculties are developed, ingenuity is quickened, the man's resources are enlarged. An educated man may be tempted to crime, but he is not driven into it, as hundreds are daily, by mere poverty, or by an intolerable hunger of the mind for enjoyment of some kind. Schools, then, especially schools in which moral and religious truth is inculcated, are the most powerful means of lessening crime, and of lessening the costly and frightful apparatus of criminal administration. As schoolhouses and churches increase in the land, jails and prisons diminish. As knowledge is diffused, property becomes secure, and rises in value. A community, therefore, is bound to see that its members are properly educated, if for no other reason, in mere self-defence. The many must be educated, in order that the many may be protected. A great city is just as sacredly bound to provide for its teeming population the light of knowledge, as it is to provide material light for its streets. The one kind of illumination, equally with the other, is an essential part of its police. No matter what the cost, the dark holes and alleys must be flooded with the light of truth, before which the owls and bats and vampyres of society will be scattered to the winds. A great city without schools would be a hell,--a seething caldron of vice, impurity, and crime. No man of sound mind would choose such a place for the residence of himself and family, who had the means of living in any other place. If we could suppose two cities entirely equal in other respects, but in one of them a superior and costly system of free schools, while the other spent not a dollar upon schools, but depended solely upon the rigors of the law and the strong arm of avenging justice for restraining the ignorant and corrupt masses, can there be any doubt which city would be the safest and most desirable place of residence? Whatever view of this subject may be taken in other countries, we in this country are shut up to the necessity of popular education. We at least have no choice. Universal suffrage necessitates universal education. If we do not educate our people, educate universally, educate wisely and liberally, we can hardly expect to maintain permanently our popular institutions. The man's vote, who cannot read the names on the ballot which he throws into the box, counts just as much in deciding public affairs as yours, who are versed in statesmanship and political economy. He is a partner in the political firm. You can neither withdraw from the firm yourself, nor can you throw him out. In the absence of general education, this tremendous power of suffrage is something frightful to contemplate. "The greatest despotism on earth," says De Tocqueville, "is an excited, untaught public sentiment; and we should hate not only despots, but despotism. When I feel the hand of power lie heavy on my brow, I care not to know who oppresses me; the yoke is not the easier, because it is held out to me by a million of men." The danger from this source is intensified by the immense immigration from abroad which is going on, and which bids fair very greatly to increase. The great majority of those who seek our shores, come here ignorant. With little knowledge of any kind, and with no knowledge whatever of the nature of republican institutions, these men, almost at once, are made sharers of the popular sovereignty, with all its tremendous powers of peace and war, order and anarchy, life and death. Not to have a system of public education, by which these ignorant and dangerous masses shall be enlightened, and shall be assimilated to the rest, and to the better part, of the population, is simply suicidal. Our national life hangs upon our common schools. Besides this grave political consideration, affecting the interests of the entire body politic, and the question of the success and stability of our national institutions, there is another consideration coming home closely and individually to each man's personal interests. Where the law of trial by jury prevails, every citizen, whether educated or ignorant, takes part in the administration of justice. Twelve men, taken indiscriminately from the mass of the people, or if with any discrimination, taken more frequently from the lower walks of life than from the higher, are placed in a jury box to decide upon almost every possible question of human interests. The jury decides your fortune, your reputation. The jury says whether you live or die. Go into a court of justice. Are they light matters which those twelve men are to determine? Look at the anxious faces of those whose estates, whose good name, whose worldly all hangs upon the intelligence of those twelve men, or of any one of them. What assurance have you, save that which comes from popular education, that these men will understand and do their duty? Who would like to trust his legal rights or his personal safety to the verdict of a jury of Neapolitan lazzaroni? In a few short years, the idle boys who are now prowling about the streets and alleys of our towns, the wharf-rats of our cities, will be a part of our jurymen. Is it of no consequence to me, whether their minds shall be early trained and disciplined, so that they will be capable of following a train of argument, or of comprehending a statement of facts? How is it possible to administer justice with any degree of fairness and efficiency, where the majority of those who are to constitute the jurymen and the witnesses are stolidly ignorant? By common law, every man has a right to be tried by his peers. Let law then provide that those shall, in some substantial sense, be my peers, on whose voice my all in life may depend. But let us recur once more to the economical part of the argument. When a community is taxed for the support of common schools, the question naturally rises among the taxpayers, Is the system worth the cost? Does the community, by the diffusion of knowledge and education, gain enough to counterbalance the large expense which such education involves? Even if this question could not be answered in the affirmative, it would not follow that common schools should be dispensed with. Common schools are needed as the best and cheapest protection against the crimes incident to an ignorant and degraded population. Common schools are right and proper, because without them the majority of those created in the image of God will never attain to that noble manhood which is their rightful inheritance. But the argument will receive additional force, if it can be shown that general education increases the wealth of the community. That education does have this effect is evident, I think, from two independent lines of argument. First, an intelligent, educated man is capable individually of achieving greater material results than one who is ignorant. Secondly, the general diffusion of intelligence through a community leads to labor-saving inventions, and thus increases its producing power. In regard to the first line of argument, some curious and instructive facts were collected a few years since by the late Horace Mann. His inquiries were directed to the efficiency of operatives in factories, a class of men who would seem to require as little general intelligence as any kind of laborers. It was found that, as a general rule, those operatives who could sign their names to their weekly receipts for money, were able to do one-third more work, and to do it better, than those who made their mark. Nor is this at all to be wondered at. There is no kind of work, done by the aid of human muscle, that is purely mechanical. Mind is partner in all that the body does. Mind directs and controls muscle, and even in emergency gives it additional energy and power. No matter how simple the process in which an operative may be engaged, some cultivation of his mental powers is needed. Without it he misdirects his own movements, and mistakes continually the orders of his superintending workman. A boy who has been to a good common school, and has had his mental activities quickened, and whose mind has been stimulated and roused by worthy motives, not only will be more industrious for it when he becomes a man, but his industry will be more effective. He will accomplish more, even as a day laborer, than the mere ignorant boor. When we come to any kind of skilled labor, the difference between the educated and the ignorant is still more apparent. An intelligent mechanic is worth twice as much as one ignorant and stupid. Many years ago a very instructive fact on this point came under my own personal observation. A gentleman of my acquaintance had frequent need of the aid of a carpenter. The work to be done was not regular carpentry, but various odd jobs, alterations and adaptations to suit special wants, and no little time and materials were wasted in the perpetual misconceptions and mistakes of the successive workmen employed. At length a workman was sent who was a German, from the kingdom of Prussia. After listening attentively to the orders given, and doing what he could to understand what his employer wanted, Michael would whip out his pencil, and in two or three minutes, with a few rapid lines, would present a sketch of the article, so clear that any one could recognize it at a glance. It could be seen at once, also, whether the intention of his employer had been rightly conceived, and whether it was practicable. The consequence was, that so long as Michael was employed, there was no more waste of materials and time, to say nothing of the vexation of continued failures. Michael was not really more skilful as a carpenter than the many others who had preceded him. But his knowledge of drawing, gained in a common school in his native country, made his services worth from fifty cents to a dollar a day more than those of any other workman in the shop, and he actually received two dollars a day, when others in the same shop were receiving only a dollar and a quarter. He was always in demand, and he always received extra wages, and his work even at that rate was considered cheap. What was true of Michael in carpentry, would be true of any other department of mechanical industry. In cabinet-making, in shoe-making, in tailoring, in masonry, in upholstery, in the various contrivances of tin and sheet iron with which our houses are made comfortable, in gas-fitting and plumbing, in the thousand-and-one necessities of the farm, the garden, and the kitchen, a workman who is ready and expert with his pencil, who has learned to put his own ideas, or those of another, rapidly on paper, is worth fifty per cent. more than his fellows who have not this skill. The example of this man was brought vividly to my mind at a later day, in Philadelphia, when an important educational question was under discussion. Rembrandt Peale had two dreams, each worthy of his genius. One was to paint a Washington which should go down to posterity; the other was so to simplify the elements of the art of drawing that young boys and girls might learn it as universally as they learn to read and write. He spent long years in maturing a little work for this purpose, no bigger than a primer or a spelling-book, and a determined effort was made on the part of some of the friends of popular education to introduce the study into the primary public schools of Philadelphia. It was introduced into the High Schools. But its benefits were limited to a comparatively small number. The hope and the aim of the friends of Mr. Peale's project were to make the study an elementary one--to make a certain amount of proficiency in drawing a test of promotion from the lower schools to the schools above it. This would have placed "Graphics" alongside of the copy-book and the spelling-book. After struggling for several years with popular prejudice, the friends of the scheme were obliged to abandon it as hopeless. The idea was too much in advance of the times. Could the plan have succeeded, and could the entire youthful population of that great city, which is preëminently a mechanical and manufacturing centre, have grown up with a familiar practised skill in the use of the pencil, in ordinary, off-hand drawing, such as our friend Michael had, there can be no question that it would have added untold millions to the general wealth. If every boy and girl in that great metropolitan city were now obliged to spend as much time in learning to draw as is spent in learning to spell, and at the same age that they learn to spell, I do soberly believe that the addition to the wealth of the city, by the increased mechanical skill that would be developed, would be worth more than the entire cost of her public schools, although they do cost well-nigh a million of dollars annually. What is true of drawing, is true of every branch and accomplishment necessary to a complete education. A man is educated when all his capacities bodily and mental are developed, and a community is educated when all its members are. Now if we could imagine two communities, of exactly equal numbers, and in physical circumstances exactly equal as to climate, soil, access to markets, and so forth, and if one of these communities should tax itself to the extent of even one-fourth of its income in promoting popular education, while the other spent not a dollar in this way, there can be little doubt as to which community would make the most rapid advances in wealth and in every other desirable social good. We happen to have on this subject one most striking and significant record. In 1670, the English Commissioners for Foreign Plantations addressed to the Governors of the several colonies a series of questions concerning the condition of the settlements under their charge. One of these questions related to the means of popular education. The answers of two of the Governors are preserved. One of them, the Governor of Connecticut, ruled a territory to which nature had not been specially propitious. Its climate was bleak, its coast rockbound, its soil blest with only ordinary fertility. The other territory, Virginia, had an extraordinary amount of natural advantages. It had fine harbors, numerous navigable streams, a climate more temperate by several degrees than its rival, the soil in its lowlands and valleys unsurpassed in any of the Plantations for its capacity to produce wheat, corn, and tobacco, its mountains filled with untold treasures of lime, iron, and coal, (and, it now seems, with petroleum also,) and withal that wonderful variety of natural resources, which seems best suited to stimulate and reward the productive industry of its inhabitants. The Governor of the less favored colony replied to the Royal Commissioners, as follows: "_One-fourth_ of the annual revenue of the Colony is laid out in maintaining free schools for the education of our children." The policy thus early impressed upon the colony has been maintained with steadfast and almost proverbial consistency to this day, that region being known the world over as the land of schoolmasters. The Governor of the other colony replied, "I thank God, there are no free schools, nor printing, and I hope we shall not have, these hundred years." To this policy she also has until lately only too faithfully adhered. Now what is the result? By referring to the tables accompanying the Census of 1860, we find the following significant facts. 1. The average cash value of land was not quite $12 an acre in one commonwealth (Virginia), and a little over $30 an acre in the other. 2. One commonwealth sustained only five inhabitants to every hundred acres of her soil, the other sustained eighteen inhabitants to every hundred acres. 3. The value of all property, real and personal, averaged by the population, was in one commonwealth $496 to every inhabitant, in the other $965 to every inhabitant. 4. The value of all property, real and personal, averaged by the acre, was in one commonwealth less than $26 to the acre, in the other more than $177 to the acre. To which facts I may add, what is true, though not in the Census, it was the invention of Eli Whitney, a travelling schoolmaster from Connecticut, that has trebled the value of land in nearly every Southern State. I have been endeavoring to show that popular education, though it is expensive, tends to national wealth. The argument is that an educated population is capable of producing greater material results than a population uneducated can produce. The example of Eli Whitney, just referred to, suggests the other line of argument, which I shall now notice briefly in conclusion. This second argument is, that the general diffusion of intelligence in a community tends to quicken invention, and leads to the discovery of those scientific principles and of those ingenious labor-saving machines, by which the productive power of the community is so greatly multiplied. The cotton-gin, the steam-engine, the sewing-machine, and the reaping-machine would never have been invented in a nation of boors. It is not asserted that every boy who goes to school will become an inventor. But it is as certain as the laws of mind and matter can make it, that inventions abound in a nation in proportion to its progress in science and the general spread of intelligence among the masses. Multiply common schools and you multiply inventions. How much these latter increase man's producing power, and so add to the aggregate of human wealth, it is needless to say. The invention of Watt alone has quadrupled the productive power of the whole human race. The aggregate steam-power of one single country, Great Britain, equals the muscular capacity for labor of four hundred millions of men--more than twice the number of adult males capable of labor on our planet. Its aggregate power throughout the earth is equal to the male capacity for manual work of four or five worlds like ours. The commerce, the navigation, the maritime warfare, the agriculture, the mechanic arts of the human race, have been revolutionized by this single invention not yet a century old. The application of scientific truths to the common industries of life is becoming every day more and more a necessity. The village carpenter, no less than the builder of the Niagara Suspension Bridge, makes hourly reference to scientific laws. The carpenter who misapplies his formulæ for the strength of materials, builds a house which falls down. The properties of the various mechanical powers are involved in every machine. Every machine, indeed, it has been well said, is a solidified mechanical theorem. The surveyor in determining the limits of one's farm, the architect in planning a house, the builder in planning his estimates, and the several master workmen who do the carpentry, masonry, and finishing, are all dependent upon geometric truths. Bleaching, dyeing, calico-printing, gas-making, soap-making, sugar-refining, the reduction of metals from their ores, with innumerable other productive industries, are dependent upon chemistry. Agriculture, the basis of all the other arts, is in the same condition. Chemical knowledge, indeed, is doing for the productive powers of the soil what the application of steam has done for the increase of mechanical power. The farmer who wishes to double his crops, finds the means of doing so, not in multiplying his acres, but in applying a knowledge of the laws of chemistry to the cultivation of the soil already possessed. Even physiology is adding to the wealth of the farming interest. The truth that the production of animal heat implies waste of substance, and that therefore preventing the loss of heat prevents the need for extra food--which is a purely theoretical conclusion--now guides the fattening of cattle. By keeping cattle warm, fodder is saved. Experiments of physiologists have proved, not only that change of diet is beneficial, but that digestion is facilitated by a mixture of ingredients in each meal. Both these truths are now influencing cattle-feeding. In the keen race of competition, the farmer who has a competent knowledge of the laws of animal and vegetable physiology and of agricultural chemistry, will surely distance the one who gropes along by guess and by tradition. A general diffusion of scientific knowledge saves the community from innumerable wasteful and foolish mistakes. In England, not many years ago, the partners in a large mining company were ruined from not knowing that a certain fossil belonged to the old red sandstone, below which coal is never found. In another enterprise, £20,000 were lost in the prosecution of a scheme for collecting the alcohol that distils from bread in baking, all of which might have been saved, had the parties known that less than one hundredth part by weight of the flour is changed in fermentation. But it is not necessary to multiply illustrations. Suffice it to say, in conclusion, I hold it to be a most manifest truth, that the general education of a community increases largely its material wealth, both by the direct effect which knowledge has upon individuals in making them individually more productive, and by the increased control which the diffusion of knowledge gives to mankind over the powers of nature. A nation or a state is wisely economical which spends largely and even lavishly upon popular education. XXX. WHAT IS EDUCATION? My last chapter, like the first, begins with a question. Strange to say, no satisfactory definition of education has yet been given, nor has a definition of it often been even attempted. The literature of the subject is copious enough. But writers have busied themselves mainly with details, with methods of teaching, and so forth. A few, of a more philosophical turn of mind, have discussed the principles of the subject, and among these some have undertaken to develop their theories from the true starting-point of a definition. But among all these, from Plato, who was the earliest systematic writer on the subject, to Herbert Spencer, the latest and the most pretentious, not one has given a definition of it which is not open to objection. It may seem presumptuous, perhaps, to undertake again that in which so many have failed. But there can be no harm in making at least an endeavor. What then are some of the elements which enter into our idea of education? To educate is, in the first place, to develop. It is to draw out and strengthen the powers and give them right direction. It is, therefore, something more than merely imparting knowledge. Knowledge is to the child's mind what food is to the body. Each is a means to an end. It is to cause growth. As by the proper use of food and exercise the limbs and muscles expand, and acquire their full and appointed size, symmetry, and strength, so by acquiring and using knowledge of various kinds, the various faculties of the mind attain their full power and proportion. For this reason mainly the pure mathematics and the ancient languages, Latin and Greek, have held their place in almost every course of liberal study, not because the knowledge of these branches is likely to be called for in ordinary professional business, but because the study of these branches is supposed to be particularly adapted to develop and invigorate certain important qualities of the mind. This development of the powers, then, is the first element involved in a just idea of education. But, secondly, nature plainly indicates a certain order to be observed in the development of the faculties. "First the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear." So in the human plant. The time for the efflorescence of some of the faculties is in early youth. Other faculties make little growth till near the age of manhood. A wise educator will carefully observe these facts, and not waste his energies and mar his work, either by attempting a premature development of those faculties which God seems to have meant to ripen later, or by neglecting to draw out and train in childhood those faculties which then most naturally and aptly spring into vigorous growth. Youth, for instance, is the season, of all others, when the memory is to be cultivated; the season of all others, when the instinctive principle of faith is to have free play. So, too, the moral and emotional faculties may receive the first germs of their development at a very early stage in the history of the human being. The education of this part of our nature begins, indeed, with the first smile of recognition that passes between the infant and its mother. Other faculties and powers, as the reason and the judgment, for instance, come to maturity nearer the age of manhood, and the normal period for their cultivation is accordingly near the end, rather than near the beginning, of an educational course. It is not, however, my object here to mark out an order for the development of the faculties, but only to note that there is such an order, and that the observance of this order is a most important element in our idea of what education is. The next element in this idea is that a certain proportion and symmetry be observed in the development of the powers. Perhaps it might not be strictly accurate to say that any faculty may be cultivated too highly. Yet there certainly is an excess whenever one faculty or power is cultivated quite out of proportion to the other faculties and powers. A man in Boston a few years ago, by directing his attention exclusively for a long time to the single act of lifting, educated his body to the power of lifting enormous weights. But this power was gained at the expense of agility, grace, and many other bodily qualities quite as important as that of lifting weights. So the mental faculties may become one-sided by injudicious training. The memory may be inordinately developed at the expense of the reasoning power, the reason at the expense of the imagination, the feelings at the expense of the judgment, the mind at the expense of the body, the body at the expense of the mind. In all right education, therefore, the faculties are to be developed, not only in due order, but in due proportion. The next element that enters into our idea is that of a proper comprehensiveness. The educator must bear in mind that the being committed to his care is one of a complex nature, and that every part of this complex nature is to receive its due attention. Physical education is included in his duties as well as mental, mental as well as moral and religious. No part is to be neglected. He should aim to secure for his subject full bodily health, agility, strength, symmetry, and power of endurance. The bodily senses are capable of a degree of cultivation that few seem to be aware of. Perhaps, in our ordinary schemes of education, no part of our complex nature is so inadequately provided for, so almost ignored, as the physical. But, as in regard to the other points that have been raised, so here, it is not my object so much to particularize the several parts of human nature that require attention, as to recognize distinctly the fact that we are thus complex, and that the business of the educator is necessarily a many-sided one, requiring most varied knowledge and experience. But there is one important limitation to be observed here, otherwise our definition would be seriously amiss. In many works on education, it is stated, without qualification, that we ought to give to all our powers the fullest development of which they are capable. If we were unfallen angels, the rule might perhaps be a safe one. But for fallen human beings, it certainly needs some limitation. We have faculties and powers, not a few, which we need to repress rather than to cultivate. Are we to give the fullest development of which they are capable, to anger, envy, jealousy, cunning, avarice, and lust? To state the question is to answer it. It is not every faculty of the child, therefore, that is to be developed, but only those parts of his nature which are good and desirable, those by which he can best discharge his duties to God and attain his highest excellence as a man. Let us now gather up the several ideas which have been suggested, and see if we cannot compress them into some brief formula, as a definition of education, which, if not perfect and exhaustive of the subject, shall be both more comprehensive and more precise than those now afloat. Definition.--Education is developing, in due order and proportion, whatever is good and desirable in human nature. MODEL TEXT BOOKS FOR SCHOOLS, ACADEMIES AND COLLEGES. A NEW EDITION OF THE CLASSICS. * * * * * CHASE & STUART'S CLASSICAL SERIES. EDITED BY THOMAS CHASE, A.M., PROFESSOR OF CLASSICAL LITERATURE, _Haverford College_, Penna. GEORGE STUART, A.M., PROFESSOR OF THE LATIN LANGUAGE, _Central High School_, Philada. * * * * * REFERENCES TO HARKNESS'S LATIN GRAMMAR, AND ANDREWS & STODDARD'S LATIN GRAMMAR. * * * * * The publication of this edition of the Classics was suggested by the constantly increasing demand by teachers for an edition which, by judicious notes, would give to the student the assistance really necessary to render his study profitable, furnishing explanations of passages difficult of interpretation, of peculiarities of syntax, &c., and yet would require him to make faithful use of his grammar and dictionary. It is believed that this Classical Series needs only to be known to insure its very general use. The publishers claim for it peculiar merit, and beg leave to call attention to the following important particulars: The purity of the texts. The clearness and conciseness of the notes, and their adaptation to the wants of students. The beauty of the type and paper. The handsome style of binding. The convenience of the shape and size. The low price at which the volumes are sold. The preparation of the whole Series is the _original work_ of American scholars. The texts are not _mere reprints_, but are based upon a careful and painstaking comparison of _all the most improved editions_, with constant reference to the authority of the best manuscripts. No pains have been spared to make the notes accurate, clear, and _helpful to the learner_. Points of geography, history, mythology, and antiquities are explained in accordance with the views of the best German scholars. The references to the grammars most in use in this country, viz.: HARKNESS'S LATIN GRAMMAR AND ANDREWS & STODDARD'S LATIN GRAMMAR, is in itself an advantage to be gained only by the use of this edition. Desirous of affording Professors and Teachers of Latin throughout the entire country an opportunity of becoming acquainted with these books, the publishers will send copies for examination, gratis, to every Teacher of Latin in the United States, on application, accompanied by a catalogue of the institution with which he is connected, or of which he is the Principal. * * * * * The Series, when complete, will consist of CÆSAR'S COMMENTARIES, VIRGIL'S ÆNEID, CICERO'S ORATIONS, HORACE, SALLUST AND LIVY, Of which there are now ready the following, viz.: CÆSAR'S COMMENTARIES on the Gallic War. With Explanatory Notes, a Vocabulary, Geographical Index, Map of Gaul, Plan of the Bridge, &c., &c. By Prof. George Stuart. Price by mail, postpaid, $1.25. Per dozen, by express, $11.25. The text of Cæsar has been carefully compared with that of Kraner, Oehler, Nepperdey, and other distinguished editors. Much care has been bestowed upon this portion of the work, and it is hoped that whatever improvements have been introduced into the text by the learning and research of the German editors named, will be found in the present edition. The Notes have been prepared with a very simple view,--to give the student that amount and kind of assistance which are really necessary to render his study profitable; to remove difficulties greater than his strength; and to afford or direct him to the sources of such information as is requisite to a thorough understanding of the author. VIRGIL'S ÆNEID. With Explanatory Notes, Metrical Index, Remarks on Classical Versification, Index of Proper Names, &c. By Prof. Thomas Chase. Price by mail, postpaid, $1.50. Per dozen, by express, $13.50. The text of the Æneid here presented is based upon a careful collation of the editions of Heyne, Wagner, Conington, Ladewig, and Ribbeck, with frequent reference to other standard authorities, and with constant and especial regard to the testimony of the best manuscripts. In the preparation of the Notes, the endeavor has been made to meet the actual wants of students in our schools. Frequent references are made to the grammars most in use, and explanations are furnished of passages difficult of interpretation, of peculiarities of syntax, and of such points of history, geography, mythology, and antiquities, as require elucidation. A metrical index has been added, in which the chief difficulties of scanning are solved. One thing is presumed throughout,--that the student will make a faithful use of his grammar and dictionary, the only way in which true scholars are made. CICERO AND HORACE will be issued about Dec. 1868. SALLUST AND LIVY, during the following year. The unprecedented demand for the first two volumes of this Series during the past few months evidences their adaptation to the actual wants of the recitation room. Testimonials have been received from a large number of the most flourishing classical institutions of the country, in which they have already been adopted as text-books, and the Principals of hundreds of schools have expressed their intention to commence their next term with these standard works. From every source but a single opinion has been expressed, viz.: that the publishers have more than fulfilled their promise in presenting a series of books which will be eagerly sought after by every student of the classics. * * * * * A MANUAL OF ELOCUTION. Founded upon the Philosophy of the Human Voice, with Classified Illustrations, Suggested by and Arranged to meet the Practical Difficulties of Instruction. By M. S. Mitchell. Price by mail, postpaid, $1.50. Per dozen, by express, $13.50. The compiler cannot conceal the hope that this glimpse of our general literature may tempt to individual research among its treasures, so varied and inexhaustible;--that this text-book for the school-room may become not only teacher, but friend, to those in whose hands it is placed, and while aiding, through systematic development and training of the elocutionary powers of the pupil, to overcome many of the practical difficulties of instruction, may accomplish a higher work in the cultivation and refinement of character. To afford teachers an idea of the character of the work, we append a list of the SUBJECTS TREATED OF. Articulation, Pronunciation, Accent, Emphasis, Modulation, Melody of Speech, Pitch, Tone, Inflections, Sense, Cadence, Force, Stress, Grammatical and Rhetorical Pauses, Movement, Reading of Poetry, Faults in the Reading of Poetry, Action, Attitude, Analysis of the Principles of Gestures, and Oratory. Among the _gems of literature_ collected in this volume may be named the following, which will give a general idea of the character of the selections for practice, of which the volume is largely composed. A Psalm of Life. Address at Gettysburg. Barbara Frietchie. Bonny Kelmeny. Bugle Song. Charge of the Light Brigade. Death of Little Nell. Dies Iræ. Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Excelsior. Godiva. Invocation to Light. Laus Deo. The American Flag. Oh! why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? The Battle of Ivry. The Bells. The Bridge of Sighs. The Great Bell Roland. The Mantle of St. John de Matha. The Raven. The Soldier from Bingen. The Song of the Shirt. Union and Liberty. Woman's Education. Work. * * * * * THE MODEL DEFINER, with Sentences showing the Proper Use of Words. An Elementary Work, containing Definitions and Etymology for the Little Ones. By A. C. Webb. Price by mail, postpaid, 25 cents. Per dozen, by express, $2.16. * * * * * THE MODEL ETYMOLOGY. Giving not only the Definitions, Etymology, and Analysis, but that which can be obtained only from an intimate acquaintance with the best Authors, viz.: The Correct Use of Words. By A. C. Webb. Price by mail, postpaid, 60 cents. Per dozen, by express, $5.40. The importance of words cannot be over-estimated. Knowledge can be imparted and received only by the medium of words, correctly used and properly understood. The basis of a good education must be laid with words, well chosen, properly arranged, and firmly implanted in the mind. From the richness of the English Language, which gives many words to the same meaning, and many and diverse meanings to the same word, the proper _use_ of a word cannot be deduced from its _meaning_. How, then, is the knowledge of the use of words to be imparted to children? Either by the teacher, or by conversation and reading. By the latter method the knowledge acquired is limited in extent; and as it is entirely dependent on the power of observation, the impressions received are faint and ill-defined, and the conclusions arrived at, frequently incorrect. The practice of Arithmetic might possibly be left to such teaching, inasmuch as Arithmetic is an exact science based on fixed principles, from which correct _reasoning_ must deduce correct _results_. But no reasoning can show to the child who has learned "_Deduce, to draw_," that he must not say, "I tried _to deduce_ the horse from the stable;" or, "_Deciduous, falling_." "The boy, _deciduous_ from the window, was killed." The importance and difficulty of the work demands that it shall not be left to the uncertainties of home teaching. The labor involved forbids that this essential part of education shall be imposed on the parent. Like Arithmetic, or any other department of knowledge, it should be performed by the teacher, in the time specially set apart for mental training. The plan adopted in the MODEL WORD-BOOK SERIES is not new. All good Dictionaries illustrate the meaning by a Model. To quote from a _good author_, a sentence containing the word, as proof of its correct use, is the only authority allowed. A simple trial of the work either by requiring the child to form sentences similar to those given, or by memorizing the sentences as models for future use, will convince any one of the following advantages to be derived from the Model Word-Book Series: 1. Saving of Time. 2. Increased Knowledge of Words. 3. Ease to Teacher and Scholar. 4. A Knowledge of the Correct Use of Words. * * * * * THE YOUNG STUDENT'S COMPANION; or, Elementary Lessons and Exercises in Translating from English into French. By M. A. Longstreth, Principal of a Seminary for Young Ladies, Philadelphia. Price by mail, postpaid, $1.00. Per dozen, by express, $9.00. The object of this little work is to present to the young student a condensed view of the elements of the French language, in a clear and simple manner, and, at the same time, to lessen the fatigue incurred by the teacher in giving repeated verbal explanations of the most important rules of etymology. No attempt has been made to teach the syntax of the language, with the exception of a few fundamental rules; neither have many idioms been introduced; the aim of the compiler being to avoid whatever might perplex or confuse. This little work, it will be remembered, is not intended to take the place of a Grammar, but to prepare the pupil, by careful drilling, for larger and more comprehensive treatises; and it is believed that any child, who can distinguish the different parts of speech in English, will be able to understand and learn the lessons without difficulty; and that, if they are thoroughly learned, the succeeding course of French study will be much facilitated. In its preparation, the best authorities have been carefully consulted and followed, and assistance has been kindly furnished by several Professors of the French language, whose experience in teaching enables them to judge of the wants of the young student. * * * * * MARTINDALE'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. From the Discovery of America to the close of the late Rebellion. By Joseph C. Martindale, M. D., Principal of the Madison Grammar School, Philadelphia. Price by mail, postpaid, 60 cents. Per dozen, by express, $5.40. The want of a History suitable for the Schoolroom has long been felt by educators. In most instances, the Histories presented have been too much encumbered with details of but little service to the pupils. This has been one of the causes which has prevented History from being one of the usual branches of study in our Common Schools outside of cities and towns; none can so well appreciate the difficulties which have surrounded this subject as the teacher. Another cause which has precluded the study of History has been the high price of all the text-books on this subject. The very low price of the present treatise will obviate this difficulty. The author of this compend, a man of large experience in the schoolroom, deserves the thanks of teachers and scholars, for the concise and succinct form which he has treated this much neglected subject; ignoring all that does not properly appertain to the important events of our Nation's existence, he has given us all that should be memorized, and in so agreeable a form as to be thoroughly mastered with but little effort. With this book in his hand, the scholar can in a single school-term obtain as complete a knowledge of the History of the United States as has heretofore required double the time and effort. Teachers who are anxious to have their pupils proficient in this subject, or who are themselves desirous of reviewing the main points of History in order to pass a creditable examination, will find this _the book for their purposes_, and it will commend itself to the _live teacher as a book long needed_. The want of such a work suggested its preparation, and we are satisfied that in every schoolroom its advent will be welcomed by both teacher and pupil. The unprecedented success which has attended this work since its publication is the best recommendation of its merits, more than _Twenty Thousand Copies_ having been sold during the past year. It is indorsed by prominent educators, is used in over fifty Normal Schools, and in hundreds of cities, towns, and townships throughout the entire country. Teachers, Directors, and all others interested in Elementary Education are invited to examine the book. * * * * * PARKER'S GRAMMAR OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. Based upon an Analysis of the English Sentence. With copious Examples and Exercises in Parsing and the Correction of False Syntax, and an Appendix, containing Critical and Explanatory Notes, and Lists of Peculiar and Exceptional Forms. For the use of Schools and Academies, and those who write. By Wm. Henry Parker, Principal of Ringgold Grammar School, Philadelphia. Price by mail, postpaid, $1.25. Prepared by a GRAMMAR SCHOOL PRINCIPAL, and arranged in the manner that many years of research and actual experience in the schoolroom have demonstrated to be the best for teaching, this book commends itself to teachers as a simple, progressive, and consistent treatise on Grammar, the need of which has so long been recognized. We ask for it a careful and critical examination. The thorough acquaintance of the author with his subject, and his practical knowledge of the difficulties which beset the teacher in the use of the text-book, and the necessity for the teacher's supplying deficiencies and omissions and amending the text to suit constructions found daily in parsing, and in other practical exercises in Grammar, have enabled him to prepare a work which will, on trial, be found a labor-saving aid to both teacher and pupil. * * * * * TO TEACHERS. The Publishers desire to call the attention of Teachers to their List of SCHOOL ROLL-BOOKS, REGISTERS, GRADE BOOKS, &c. These have been prepared by an experienced, practical Teacher, with the view of meeting a very pressing want of the schoolroom. It is hoped that in their preparation most of the defects usually found in school records have been avoided. THE MODEL ROLL-BOOK, NO. 1. For the Use of Schools. Containing a Record of Attendance, Punctuality, Deportment, Orthography, Reading, Penmanship, Intellectual Arithmetic, Practical Arithmetic, Geography, Grammar. Parsing, and History, and several blanks for special studies not enumerated. Price, $3.50, by express. THE MODEL ROLL-BOOK, NO. 2. For the Use of High Schools, Academies, and Seminaries. Containing a Record of all the Studies mentioned in Roll-Book, No. 1, together with Elocution, Algebra, Geometry, Composition, French, Latin, Philosophy, Physiology, and several blanks for special studies not enumerated. Price, $3.50, by express. These Roll-Books are in use in the leading Schools of Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, Chicago, and St. Louis, and very extensively in Select and High Schools throughout the country. They will, on examination, be found to be the most complete and practical yet published. All teachers who use them speak of them with unqualified approval; once used, they will never be relinquished. THE MODEL POCKET REGISTER AND GRADE-BOOK. A Roll-Book, Register and Record combined. Adapted to any grade of School, from Primary to College. Handsomely and durably bound in fine Cloth. Price by mail, postpaid, 60 cents. Per dozen, by express, $6.00. Prof. E. A. Sheldon, of the New York State Normal School, and author of "Lessons on Objects," and "Elementary Instruction," says of this book: "Your Model Pocket Register is just the thing every teacher needs. I shall never again be without one." THE MODEL SCHOOL-DIARY. Designed as an aid in securing the co-operation of parents. It consists of a Record of the Attendance, Deportment, Recitations, &c., of a Scholar, for every day in the week. At the close of the week it is to be sent to the parent or guardian, for his examination and signature. Teachers will find in this Diary an article that has long been needed. Its low cost will insure its general use. Copies will be mailed to teachers for examination, postpaid, on receipt of ten cents. Price per dozen, by mail, postpaid, $1.00. Per dozen, by express, 84 cents. REWARDS OF MERIT. As there are many teachers who make use of these incentives to study, we have endeavored to meet the demand, with what success the teacher can judge after seeing our specimens. They are printed on the best quality of Bristol card, colored in gold, silver, crimson, ultra-marine, and emerald, and are executed in the highest style of the lithographic art. They are chaste, ornate, and beautiful, and need but be seen to be appreciated. The teacher will, of course, not connect these gems of art with the common colored cards in vogue. Price per set by mail, postpaid, 35 cents. * * * * * _Please address the Publishers_, ELDREDGE & BROTHER, 17 & 19 South Sixth Street, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 
22251	----	Transcribers Note: The spelling in this text has been preserved as in the original. Obvious printer's errors have been corrected. You can find a list of the corrections made at the end of this e-text. Chapter IX is the additional chapter on "The First Day in School" mentioned on the title page. There is no entry in the Table of Contents for this chapter. * * * * * THE TEACHER: Or Moral Influences Employed in the Instruction and Government of the Young. New Stereotype Edition; With an Additional Chapter on "The First Day in School." * * * * * By JACOB ABBOTT, Late Principal of the Mt. Vernon Female School, Boston, Mass. * * * * * BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY WHIPPLE AND DAMRELL, No. 9 CORNHILL. 1839. * * * * * Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1839, by JACOB ABBOTT, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. * * * * * POWER PRESS OF WILLIAM S. DAMRELL. TO THE TRUSTEES AND PATRONS OF THE MT. VERNON FEMALE SCHOOL, BOSTON. GENTLEMEN: It is to efforts which you have made in the cause of education, with special regard to its moral and religious aspects, that I have been indebted for the opportunity to test by experiment, under the most pleasant and favorable circumstances, the principles which form the basis of this work. To you, therefore, it is respectfully inscribed, as one of the indirect results of your own exertions to promote the best interests of the Young. I am very sincerely and respectfully yours, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. This book is intended to detail, in a familiar and practical manner, a system of arrangements for the organization and management of a school, based on the employment, so far as is practicable, of _Moral Influences_, as a means of effecting the objects in view. Its design is, not to bring forward new theories or new plans, but to develope and explain, and to carry out to their practical applications, such principles as, among all skilful and experienced teachers, are generally admitted and acted upon. Of course it is not designed for the skilful and the experienced themselves; but it is intended to embody what they already know, and to present it in a practical form, for the use of those who are beginning the work and who wish to avail themselves of the experience which others have acquired. Although moral influences, are the chief foundations on which the power of the teacher over the minds and hearts of his pupils is, according to this treatise, to rest, still it must not be imagined that the system here recommended is one of persuasion. It is a system of authority,--supreme and unlimited authority, a point essential in all plans for the supervision of the young. But it is authority secured and maintained as far as possible by moral measures. There will be no dispute about the propriety of making the most of this class of means. Whatever difference of opinion there may be, on the question whether physical force, is necessary at all, every one will agree that, if ever employed, it must be only as a last resort, and that no teacher ought to make war upon the body, unless it is proved that he cannot conquer through the medium of the mind. In regard to the anecdotes and narratives which are very freely introduced to illustrate principles in this work, the writer ought to state, that though they are all substantially true, that is, all except those which are expressly introduced as mere suppositions, he has not hesitated to alter very freely, for obvious reasons, the unimportant circumstances connected with them. He has endeavored thus to destroy the personality of the narratives, without injuring or altering their moral effect. From the very nature of our employment, and of the circumstances under which the preparation for it must be made, it is plain that, of the many thousands who are, in the United States, annually entering the work, a very large majority must depend for all their knowledge of the art except what they acquire from their own observation and experience, on what they can obtain from books. It is desirable that the class of works from which such knowledge can be obtained should be increased. Some excellent and highly useful specimens have already appeared, and very many more would be eagerly read by teachers, if properly prepared. It is essential however that they should be written by experienced teachers, who have for some years been actively engaged, and specially interested in the work;--that they should be written in a very practical and familiar style,--and that they should exhibit principles which are unquestionably true, and generally admitted by good teachers, and not the new theories peculiar to the writer himself. In a word, utility, and practical effect, should be the only aim. Boston, June 20, 1833. CONTENTS CHAPTER I.--INTEREST IN TEACHING. Source of enjoyment in teaching. The boy and the steam engine. His contrivance. His pleasure, and the source of it. Firing at the mark. Plan of clearing the galleries in the British House Of Commons. Pleasure of experimenting, and exercising intellectual and moral power. The indifferent, and inactive teacher. His subsequent experiments; means of awakening interest. Offences of pupils. Different ways of regarding them. Teaching really attended with peculiar trials and difficulties. 1. Moral responsibility for the conduct of pupils. 2. Multiplicity of the objects of attention. Page 11 CHAPTER II.--GENERAL ARRANGEMENTS. Objects to be aimed at, in the General Arrangements. Systematising the teacher's work. Necessity of having only one thing to attend to at a time. 1. Whispering and leaving seats. An experiment. Method of regulating this. Introduction of the new plan. Difficulties. Dialogue with pupils. Study card. Construction and use. 2. Mending pens. Unnecessary trouble from this source. Degree of importance to be attached to good pens. Plan for providing them. 3. Answering questions. Evils. Each pupil's fair proportion of time. Questions about lessons. When the teacher should refuse to answer them. Rendering assistance. When to be refused. 4. Hearing recitations. Regular arrangement of them. Punctuality. Plan and schedule. General Exercises. Subjects to be attended to at them. General arrangements of Government. Power to be delegated to pupils. Gardiner Lyceum. Its government. The trial. Real republican government impracticable in schools. Delegated power. Experiment with the writing books. Quarrel about the nail. Offices for pupils. Cautions. Danger of insubordination. New plans to be introduced gradually. 29 CHAPTER III.--INSTRUCTION. The three important branches. The objects which are really most important. Advanced scholars. Examination of school and scholars at the outset. Acting on numbers. Extent to which it may be carried. Recitation and Instruction. 1. Recitation. Its object. Importance of a thorough examination of the class. Various modes. Perfect regularity and order necessary. Example. Story of the pencils. Time wasted by too minute an attention to individuals. Example. Answers given simultaneously to save time. Excuses. Dangers in simultaneous recitation. Means of avoiding them. Advantages of this mode. Examples. Written answers. 2. Instruction. Means of exciting interest. Variety. Examples. Showing the connexion between the studies of school and the business of life. Example, from the controversy between General and State Governments. Mode of illustrating it. Proper way of meeting difficulties. Leading pupils to surmount them. True way to encourage the young to meet difficulties. The boy and the wheelbarrow. Difficult examples in Arithmetic. Proper way of rendering assistance. (1.) Simply analyzing intricate subjects. Dialogue on longitude. (2.) Making previous truths perfectly familiar. Experiment with the Multiplication table. Latin Grammar lesson. Geometry. 3. General cautions. Doing work for the scholar. Dulness. Interest in all the pupils. Making all alike. Faults of pupils. The teacher's own mental habits. False pretensions. 64 CHAPTER IV.--MORAL DISCIPLINE. First impressions. Story. Danger of devoting too much attention to individual instances. The profane boy. Case described. Confession of the boys. Success. The untidy desk. Measures in consequence. Interesting the scholars in the good order of the school. Securing a majority. Example. Reports about the desks. The new College building. Modes of interesting the boys. The irregular class. Two ways of remedying the evil. Boys' love of system and regularity. Object of securing a majority, and particular means of doing it. Making school pleasant. Discipline should generally be private. In all cases that are brought before the school, public opinion in the teacher's favor should be secured. Story of the rescue. Feelings of displeasure against what is wrong. The teacher under moral obligation, and governed, himself, by law. Description of the _Moral Exercise_. Prejudice. The scholars' written remarks, and the teacher's comments. The spider. List of subjects. Anonymous writing. Specimens. Marks of a bad scholar. Consequences of being behindhand. New scholars. A Satirical spirit. Variety. Treatment of individual offenders. Ascertaining who they are. Studying their characters. Securing their personal attachment. Asking assistance. The whistle. Open, frank dealing. Example. Dialogue with James. Communications in writing. 105 CHAPTER V.--RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE. The American mechanic at Paris. A congregational teacher among Quakers. Parents have the ultimate right to decide how their children shall be educated. Agreement in religious opinion, in this country. Principle which is to guide the teacher on this subject. Limits and restrictions to religious influence in school. Religious truths which are generally admitted in this country. The existence of God. Human responsibility. Immortality of the soul. A revelation. Nature of piety. Salvation by Christ. Teacher to do nothing on this subject but what he may do by the common consent of his employers. Reasons for explaining distinctly these limits. Particular measures proposed. Opening exercises. Prayer. Singing. Direct instruction. Mode of giving it. Example; arrangement of the Epistles in the New Testament. Dialogue. Another example; scene in the woods. Cautions. Affected simplicity of language. Evils of it. Minute details. Example; motives to study. Dialogue. Mingling religious influence with the direct discipline of the school. Fallacious indications of piety. Sincerity of the Teacher. 152 CHAPTER VI.--MT. VERNON SCHOOL. Reason for inserting the description. Advantage of visiting schools; and of reading descriptions of them. Addressed to a new scholar. 1. Her personal duty. Study card. Rule. But one rule. Cases when this rule may be waived. 1. At the direction of teachers. 2. On extraordinary emergencies. Reasons for the rule. Anecdote. Punishments. Incident described. Confession. 2. Order of Daily Exercises. Opening of the school. Schedules. Hours of study and recess. General Exercises. Business. Examples. Sections. 3. Instruction and supervision of pupils. Classes. Organization. Sections. Duties of superintendents. 4. Officers. Design in appointing them. Their names and duties. Example of the operation of the system. 5. The Court. Its plan and design. A trial described. 6. Religious Instruction. Principles inculcated. Measures. Religious exercises in school. Meeting on Saturday afternoon. Concluding remarks. 181 CHAPTER VII.--SCHEMING. Time lost upon fruitless schemes. Proper province of ingenuity and enterprise. Cautions. Case supposed. The spelling class; an experiment with it; its success and its consequences. System of literary institutions in this country. Directions to a young teacher on the subject of forming new plans. New institutions; new school books. Ingenuity and enterprise very useful, within proper limits. Ways of making known new plans. Periodicals. Family newspapers. Teacher's meetings. Rights of Committees, Trustees, or Patrons, in the control of the school. Principle which ought to govern. Case supposed. Extent to which the teacher is bound by the wishes of his employers. 221 CHAPTER VIII.--REPORTS OF CASES. Plan of the Chapter. Hats and Bonnets. Injury to clothes. Mistakes which are not censurable. Tardiness; plan for punishing it. Helen's lesson. Firmness in measures united with mildness of manner. Insincere confession: scene in a class. Court. Trial of a case. Teacher's personal character. The way to elevate the character of the employment. Six hours only to be devoted to school. The Chestnut Burr. Scene in the wood. Dialogue in school. An experiment. Series of Lessons in writing. The correspondence. Two kinds of management. Plan of weekly reports. The shopping exercise. Example. Artifices in Recitations. Keeping Resolutions; notes of Teacher's Lecture. Topics. Plan and illustration of the exercise. Introduction of music. Tabu. Mental Analysis. Scene in a class. 242 THE TEACHER. CHAPTER I. INTEREST IN TEACHING. There is a most singular contrariety of opinion prevailing in the community, in regard to the _pleasantness_ of the business of teaching. Some teachers go to their daily task, merely upon compulsion: they regard it as intolerable drudgery. Others love the work: they hover around the school-room as long as they can, and never cease to think, and seldom to talk, of their delightful labors. Unfortunately there are too many of the former class, and the first object, which, in this work, I shall attempt to accomplish, is to show my readers, especially those who have been accustomed to look upon the business of teaching as a weary and heartless toil, how it happens, that it is, in any case, so pleasant. The human mind is always, essentially, the same. That which is tedious and joyless to one, will be so to another, if pursued in the same way, and under the same circumstances. And teaching, if it is pleasant, animating, and exciting to one, may be so to all. I am met, however, at the outset, in my effort to show why it is that teaching is ever a pleasant work, by the want of a name for a certain faculty or capacity of the human mind, through which most of the enjoyment of teaching finds its avenue. Every mind is so constituted as to take a positive pleasure in the exercise of ingenuity in adapting means to an end, and in watching their operation;--in accomplishing by the intervention of instruments, what we could not accomplish without;--in devising, (when we see an object to be effected, which is too great for our _direct_ and _immediate_ power) and setting at work, some _instrumentality_, which may be sufficient to accomplish it. It is said, that, when the steam engine was first put into operation, such was the imperfection of the machinery, that a boy was necessarily stationed at it, to open and shut alternately the cock, by which the steam was now admitted, and now shut out, from the cylinder. One such boy, after patiently doing his work for many days, contrived to connect this stop-cock with some of the moving parts of the engine, by a wire, in such a manner, that the engine itself did the work which had been entrusted to him; and after seeing that the whole business would go regularly forward, he left the wire in charge, and went away to play. Such is the story. Now if it is true, how much pleasure the boy must have experienced, in devising and witnessing the successful operation of his scheme; I do not mean the pleasure of relieving himself from a dull and wearisome duty; I do not mean the pleasure of anticipated play; but I mean the strong interest he must have taken in _contriving_ and _executing_ his plan. When, wearied out with his dull, monotonous work, he first noticed those movements of the machinery which he thought adapted to his purpose, and the plan flashed into his mind, how must his eye have brightened, and how quick must the weary listlessness of his employment have vanished. While he was maturing his plan, and carrying it into execution;--while adjusting his wires, fitting them to the exact length, and to the exact position,--and especially, when, at last, he watches the first successful operation of his contrivance,--he must have enjoyed a pleasure, which very few, even of the joyous sports of childhood, could have supplied. It is not, however, exactly the pleasure of exercising _ingenuity in contrivance_, that I refer to here; for the teacher has not, after all, a great deal of absolute contriving to do,--or rather his _principal business_ is not contriving. The greatest and most permanent source of pleasure to the boy, in such a case as I have described, is his feeling that he is accomplishing a great effect by a slight effort of his own; the feeling of power; acting through the _intervention of instrumentality_, so as to multiply his power. So great would be this satisfaction, that he would almost wish to have some other similar work assigned him, that he might have another opportunity to contrive some plan for its easy accomplishment. Looking at an object to be accomplished, or an evil to be remedied, then studying its nature and extent, and devising and executing some means for effecting the purpose desired, is, in all cases, a source of pleasure; especially when, by the process, we bring to view or to operation, new powers, or powers heretofore hidden, whether they are our own powers, or those of objects upon which we act. Experimenting has a sort of magical fascination for all. Some do not like the trouble of making preparations, but all are eager to see the results. Contrive a new machine, and every body will be interested to witness, or to hear of its operation;--develope any heretofore unknown properties of matter, or secure some new useful effect, from laws which men have not hitherto employed for their purposes, and the interest of all around you will be excited to observe your results;--and especially, you will yourself take a deep and permanent pleasure, in guiding and controlling the power you have thus obtained. This is peculiarly the case with experiments upon mind, or experiments for producing effects through the medium of voluntary acts of the human mind, so that the contriver must take into consideration the laws of mind in forming his plans. To illustrate this by rather a childish case: I once knew a boy who was employed by his father to remove all the loose small stones, which, from the peculiar nature of the ground, had accumulated in the road before the house. He was to take them up, and throw them over into the pasture, across the way. He soon got tired of picking them up one by one, and sat down upon the bank, to try to devise some better means of accomplishing his work. He at length conceived and adopted the following plan. He set up, in the pasture, a narrow board, for a target, or as boys would call it, a mark,--and then, collecting all the boys of the neighborhood, he proposed to them an amusement, which boys are always ready for,--firing at a mark. I need not say that the stores of ammunition in the street were soon exhausted; the boys working for their leader, when they supposed they were only finding amusement for themselves. Here now, is experimenting upon the mind;--the production of useful effect with rapidity and ease, by the intervention of proper instrumentality;--the conversion, by means of a little knowledge of human nature, of that which would have otherwise been dull and fatiguing labor, into a most animating sport, giving pleasure to twenty, instead of tedious labor to one. Now the contrivance and execution of such plans is a source of positive pleasure; it is always pleasant to bring the properties and powers of matter into requisition to promote our designs,--but there is a far higher pleasure in controlling, and guiding, and moulding to our purpose the movements of mind. It is this which gives interest to the plans and operation of human governments. They can do little by actual force. Nearly all the power that is held, even by the most despotic executive, must be based on an adroit management of the principles of human nature, so as to lead men voluntarily to cooperate with the ruler, in his plans. Even an army could not be got into battle, in many cases, without a most ingenious arrangement, by means of which half a dozen men can drive, literally drive, as many thousands, into the very face of danger and death. The difficulty of leading men to battle must have been for a long time a very perplexing one to generals. It was at last removed by the very simple expedient of creating a greater danger behind than there is before. Without ingenuity of contrivance like this,--turning one principle of human nature against another, and making it for the momentary interest of men to act in a given way, no government could stand a year. I know of nothing which illustrates more perfectly the way by which a knowledge of human nature is to be turned to account in managing human minds, than a plan which was adopted for clearing the galleries of the British House of Commons, as it was described to me by a gentleman who had visited London. It is well known that the gallery is appropriated to spectators, and that it sometimes becomes necessary to order them to retire, when a vote is to be taken, or private business is to be transacted. When the officer in attendance was ordered to clear the gallery, it was sometimes found to be a very troublesome and slow operation; for those who first went out, remained obstinately as close to the doors as possible, so as to secure the opportunity to come in again first, when the doors should be re-opened. The consequence was, there was so great an accumulation around the doors outside, that it was almost impossible for the crowd to get out. The whole difficulty arose from the eager desire of every one to remain as near as possible to the door, _through which they were to come back again_. I have been told, that, notwithstanding the utmost efforts of the officers, fifteen minutes were sometimes consumed in effecting the object, when the order was given that the spectators should retire. The whole difficulty was removed by a very simple plan. One door only was opened when the crowd was to retire, and they were then admitted through the other. The consequence was, that as soon as the order was given to clear the galleries, every one fled as fast as possible through the open door around to the one which was closed, so as to be ready to enter first, when that, in its turn, should be opened; this was usually in a few minutes, as the purpose for which the spectators were ordered to retire was usually simply to allow time for taking a vote. Here it will be seen that by the operation of a very simple plan, the very eagerness of the crowd to get back as soon as possible, which had been the _sole cause of the difficulty_, was turned to account most effectually to remove it. Before, they were so eager to return, that they crowded around the door so as to prevent others going out. But by this simple plan of ejecting them by one door, and admitting them by another, that very circumstance made them clear the passage at once, and hurried every one away into the lobby, the moment the command was given. The planner of this scheme must have taken great pleasure in seeing its successful operation; though the officer who should go steadily on, endeavoring to remove the reluctant throng by dint of mere driving, might well have found his task unpleasant. But the exercise of ingenuity in studying the nature of the difficulty with which a man has to contend, and bringing in some antagonist principle of human nature to remove it, or if not an antagonist principle, a similar principle, operating, by a peculiar arrangement of circumstances, in an antagonist manner, is always pleasant. From this source a large share of the enjoyment which men find in the active pursuits of life, has its origin. The teacher has the whole field, which this subject opens, fully before him. He has human nature to deal with, most directly. His whole work is experimenting upon mind; and the mind which is before him to be the subject of his operation, is exactly in the state to be most easily and pleasantly operated upon. The reason now why some teachers find their work delightful, and some find it wearisomeness and tedium itself, is that some do, and some do not take this view of their work. One instructer is like the engine-boy, turning without cessation or change, his everlasting stop-cock, in the same ceaseless, mechanical, and monotonous routine. Another is like the little workman in his brighter moments, fixing his invention and watching with delight its successful and easy accomplishment of his wishes. One is like the officer, driving by vociferations and threats, and demonstrations of violence, the spectators from the galleries. The other, like the shrewd contriver, who converts the very cause which was the whole ground of the difficulty, to a most successful and efficient means of its removal. These principles show how teaching may, in some cases, be a delightful employment, while in others, its tasteless dulness is interrupted by nothing but its perplexities and cares. The school-room is in reality, a little empire of mind. If the one who presides in it, sees it in its true light; studies the nature and tendency of the minds which he has to control; adapts his plans and his measures to the laws of human nature, and endeavors to accomplish his purposes for them, not by mere labor and force, but by ingenuity and enterprise; he will take pleasure in administering his little government. He will watch, with care and interest, the operation of the moral and intellectual causes which he sets in operation; and find, as he accomplishes his various objects with increasing facility and power, that he will derive a greater and greater pleasure from his work. Now when a teacher thus looks upon his school as a field in which he is to exercise skill and ingenuity and enterprise; when he studies the laws of human nature, and the character of those minds upon which he has to act; when he explores deliberately the nature of the field which he has to cultivate, and of the objects which he wishes to accomplish; and applies means, judiciously and skilfully adapted to the object; he must necessarily take a strong interest in his work. But when, on the other hand, he goes to his employment, only to perform a certain regular round of daily work, undertaking nothing, and anticipating nothing but this dull and unchangeable routine; and when he looks upon his pupils merely as passive objects of his labors, whom he is to treat with simple indifference while they obey his commands, and to whom he is only to apply reproaches and punishment when they disobey; such a teacher never can take pleasure in the school. Weariness and dulness must reign in both master and scholars, when things, as he imagines, are going right; and mutual anger and crimination, when they go wrong. Scholars never can be instructed by the power of any dull mechanical routine; nor can they be governed by the blind, naked strength of the master; such means must fail of the accomplishment of the purposes designed, and consequently the teacher who tries such a course must have constantly upon his mind the discouraging, disheartening burden of unsuccessful and almost useless labor. He is continually uneasy, dissatisfied and filled with anxious cares; and sources of vexation and perplexity continually arise. He attempts to remove evils by waging against them a useless and most vexatious warfare of threatening and punishment; and he is trying continually _to drive_, when he might know that neither the intellect nor the heart are capable of being driven. I will simply state one case, to illustrate what I mean by the difference between blind force, and active ingenuity and enterprise, in the management of school. I once knew the teacher of a school, who made it his custom to have writing attended to in the afternoon. The boys were accustomed to take their places, at the appointed hour, and each one would stick up his pen in the front of his desk for the teacher to pass around and mend them. The teacher would accordingly pass around, mending the pens from desk to desk, thus enabling the boys, in succession, to begin their task. Of course each boy before he came to his desk was necessarily idle, and, almost necessarily, in mischief. Day after day the teacher went through this regular routine. He sauntered slowly and listlessly through the aisles, and among the benches of the room, wherever he saw the signal of a pen. He paid of course very little attention to the writing, now and then reproving, with an impatient tone, some extraordinary instance of carelessness, or leaving his work to suppress some rising disorder. Ordinarily, however, he seemed to be lost in vacancy of thought,--dreaming perhaps of other scenes, or inwardly repining at the eternal monotony and tedium of a teacher's life. His boys took no interest in their work, and of course made no progress. They were sometimes unnecessarily idle, and sometimes mischievous, but never usefully or pleasantly employed; for the whole hour was past before the pens could all be brought down. Wasted time, blotted books, and fretted tempers, were all the results which the system produced. The same teacher afterwards acted on a very different principle. He looked over the field and said to himself, what are the objects I wish to accomplish in this writing exercise, and how can I best accomplish them? I wish to obtain the greatest possible amount of industrious and careful practice in writing. The first thing evidently is, to save the wasted time. He accordingly made preparation for mending the pens at a previous hour, so that all should be ready, at the appointed time, to commence the work together. This could be done quite as conveniently when the boys were engaged in studying, by requesting them to put out their pens at an appointed and _previous_ time. He sat at his table, and the pens of a whole bench were brought to him, and, after being carefully mended, were returned, to be in readiness for the writing hour. Thus the first difficulty, the loss of time, was obviated. "I must make them _industrious_ while they write," was his next thought. After thinking of a variety of methods, he determined to try the following. He required all to begin together at the top of the page and write the same line, in a hand of the same size. They were all required to begin together, he himself beginning at the same time, and writing about as fast as he thought they ought to write, in order to secure the highest improvement. When he had finished his line, he ascertained how many had preceded him, and how many were behind. He requested the first to write slower, and the others faster, and by this means, after a few trials, he secured uniform, regular, systematic and industrious employment, throughout the school. Probably there were, at first, difficulties in the operation of the plan, which he had to devise ways and means to surmount: but what I mean to present particularly to the reader is, that he was _interested in his experiments_. While sitting in his desk, giving his command to _begin_ line after line, and noticing the unbroken silence, and attention, and interest, which prevailed, (for each boy was interested to see how nearly with the master he could finish his work,) while presiding over such a scene, he must have been interested. He must have been pleased with the exercise of his almost military command, and to witness how effectually order and industry, and excited and pleased attention, had taken the place of listless idleness and mutual dissatisfaction. After a few days, he appointed one of the older and more judicious scholars, to give the word for beginning and ending the lines, and he sat surveying the scene, or walking from desk to desk, noticing faults, and considering what plans he could form for securing, more and more fully, the end he had in view. He found that the great object of interest and attention among the boys was, to come out right, and that less pains were taken with the formation of the letters, than there ought to be, to secure the most rapid improvement. But how shall he secure greater pains? By stern commands and threats? By going from desk to desk, scolding one, rapping the knuckles of another, and holding up to ridicule a third, making examples of such individuals as may chance to attract his special attention? No; he has learned that he is operating upon a little empire of mind, and that he is not to endeavor to drive them as a man drives a herd, by mere peremptory command or half angry blows. He must study the nature of the effect he is to produce, and of the materials upon which he is to work, and adopt, after mature deliberation, a plan to accomplish his purpose, founded upon the principles which ought always to regulate the action of mind upon mind, and adapted to produce the _intellectual effect_, which he wishes to accomplish. In the case supposed, the teacher concluded to appeal to emulation. While I describe the measure he adopted, let it be remembered that I am now only approving of the resort to ingenuity and invention, and the employment of moral and intellectual means, for the accomplishment of his purposes, and not of the measures themselves. I do not think the plan I am going to describe a wise one; but I do think that the teacher, while trying it, must _have been interested in his intellectual experiment_. His business, while pursued in such a way, could not have been a mere dull and uninteresting routine. He purchased, for three cents apiece, two long lead-pencils, an article of great value, in the opinion of the boys of country schools; and he offered them, as prizes, to the boy who would write most carefully; not to the one who should write _best_, but to the one whose book should exhibit most appearance of _effort_ and _care_ for a week. After announcing his plan, he watched, with strong interest its operation. He walked round the room while the writing was in progress, to observe the effect of his measure. He did not reprove those who were writing carelessly; he simply noticed who and how many they were. He did not commend those who were evidently making effort; he noticed who and how many they were, that he might understand how far, and upon what sort of minds, his experiment was successful, and where it failed. He was taking a lesson in human nature,--human nature as it exhibits itself in boys, and was preparing to operate more and more powerfully by future plans. The lesson which he learned by the experiment was this, that one or two prizes will not influence the majority of a large school. A few seemed to think that the pencils were possibly within their reach, and _they_ made vigorous efforts to secure them; but the rest wrote on as before. Thinking it certain that they should be surpassed by the others, they gave up the contest, at once, in despair. The obvious remedy was to multiply his prizes, so as to bring one within the reach of all. He reflected too that the real prize, in such a case, is not the value of the pencil, but the _honor of the victory_; and as the honor of the victory might as well be coupled with an object of less, as well as with one of greater value, the next week he divided his two pencils into quarters, and offered to his pupils eight prizes instead of two. He offered one to every five scholars, as they sat on their benches, and every boy then saw, that a reward would certainly come within five of him. His chance, accordingly, instead of being one in twenty, became one in five. Now is it possible for a teacher, after having philosophized upon the nature of the minds upon which he is operating, and surveyed the field, and ingeniously formed a plan, which plan he hopes will, through his own intrinsic power, produce certain effects,--is it possible for him when he comes, for the first day, to witness its operations, to come without feeling a strong interest in the result? It is impossible. After having formed such a plan, and made such arrangements, he will look forward, almost with impatience, to the next writing hour. He wishes to see whether he has estimated the mental capacities and tendencies of his little community aright; and when the time comes, and he surveys the scene, and observes the operation of his measure, and sees many more are reached by it, than were influenced before, he feels a strong gratification; and it is a gratification which is founded upon the noblest principles of our nature. He is tracing on a most interesting field, the operation of cause and effect. From being the mere drudge, who drives, without intellect or thought, a score or two of boys to their daily tasks, he rises to the rank of an intellectual philosopher, exploring the laws and successfully controlling the tendencies of mind. It will be observed too, that all the time this teacher was performing these experiments, and watching, with intense interest, the results, his pupils were going on undisturbed in their pursuits. The exercises in writing were not interrupted or deranged. This is a point of fundamental importance; for, if what I should say on the subject of exercising ingenuity and contrivance in teaching, should be the means, in any case, of leading a teacher to break in upon the regular duties of his school, and destroy the steady uniformity with which the great objects of such an institution should be pursued, my remarks had better never have been written. There may be variety in methods and plan; but through all this variety, the school, and every individual pupil of it, must go steadily forward in the acquisition of that knowledge which is of greatest importance in the business of future life. In other words, the variations and changes, admitted by the teacher, ought to be mainly confined to the modes of accomplishing those permanent objects to which all the exercises and arrangements of the school ought steadily to aim. More on this subject however in another chapter. I will mention one other circumstance, which will help to explain the difference in interest and pleasure with which teachers engage in their work. I mean the different views they take _of the offences of their pupils_. One class of teachers seem never to make it a part of their calculation that their pupils will do wrong, and when any misconduct occurs, they are disconcerted and irritated, and look and act as if some unexpected occurrence had broken in upon their plans. Others understand and consider all this beforehand. They seem to think a little, before they go into their school, what sort of beings boys and girls are, and any ordinary case of youthful delinquency or dulness does not surprise them. I do not mean that they treat such cases with indifference or neglect, but that they _expect_ them, and _are prepared for them_. Such a teacher knows that boys and girls, are the _materials_ he has to work upon, and he takes care to make himself acquainted with these materials, _just as they are_. The other class however, do not seem to know at all, what sort of beings they have to deal with, or if they know, do not _consider_. They expect from them what is not to be obtained, and then are disappointed and vexed at the failure. It is as if a carpenter should attempt to support an entablature by pillars of wood too small and weak for the weight, and then go on, from week to week, suffering anxiety and irritation, as he sees them swelling and splitting under the burden, and finding fault _with the wood_, instead of taking it to himself. It is, of course, one essential part of a man's duty in engaging in any undertaking, whether it will lead him to act upon matter or upon mind, to become first well acquainted with the circumstances of the case,--the materials he is to act upon, and the means which he may reasonably expect to have at his command. If he underrates his difficulties, or overrates the power of his means of overcoming them, it is his mistake; a mistake for which _he_ is fully responsible. Whatever may be the nature of the effect which he aims at accomplishing, he ought fully to understand it, and to appreciate justly the difficulties which lie in the way. Teachers however very often overlook this. A man comes home from his school at night, perplexed and irritated by the petty misconduct which he has witnessed, and been trying to check. He does not however, look forward and try to prevent the occasions of it, adapting his measures to the nature of the material upon which he has to operate; but he stands like the carpenter at his columns, making himself miserable in looking at it, after it occurs, and wondering what to do. "Sir," we might say to him, "what is the matter?" "Why, I have such boys, I can do nothing with them. Were it not for _their misconduct_, I might have a very good school." "Were it not for the boys? Why, is there any peculiar depravity in them which you could not have foreseen?" "No; I suppose they are pretty much like all other boys," he replies despairingly; "they are all hair-brained and unmanageable. The plans I have formed for my school, would be excellent if my boys would only behave properly." "Excellent plans," might we not reply, "and yet not adapted to the materials upon which they are to operate! No. It is your business to know what sort of beings boys are, and to make your calculations accordingly." * * * * * Two teachers may therefore manage their schools in totally different ways: so that one of them, may necessarily find the business a dull, mechanical routine, except as it is occasionally varied by perplexity and irritation; and the other, a prosperous and happy employment. The one goes on mechanically the same, and depends for his power on violence, or on threats and demonstrations of violence. The other brings all his ingenuity and enterprise into the field, to accomplish a steady purpose, by means ever varying, and depends for his power, on his knowledge of human nature, and on the adroit adaptation of plans to her fixed and uniform tendencies. I am very sorry however to be obliged to say, that probably the latter class of teachers are decidedly in the minority. To practice the art in such a way as to make it an agreeable employment, is difficult, and it requires much knowledge of human nature, much attention and skill. And, after all, there are some circumstances necessarily attending the work which constitute a heavy drawback on the pleasures which it might otherwise afford. The almost universal impression that the business of teaching is attended with peculiar trials and difficulties, proves this. There must be some cause for an impression so general. It is not right to call it a prejudice, for, although a single individual may conceive a prejudice, whole communities very seldom do, unless in some case, which is presented at once to the whole, so that looking at it, through a common medium, all judge wrong together. But the general opinion in regard to teaching is composed of a vast number of _separate_ and _independent_ judgments, and there must be some good ground for the universal result. It is best therefore, if there are any real and peculiar sources of trial and difficulty in this pursuit, that they should be distinctly known and acknowledged at the outset. Count the cost before going to war. It is even better policy to overrate, than to underrate it. Let us see then what the real difficulties of teaching are. It is not however, as is generally supposed, _the confinement_. A teacher is confined, it is true, but not more than men of other professions and employments; not more than a merchant, and probably not as much. A physician is confined in a different way, but more closely than a teacher: he can never leave home: he knows generally no vacation, and nothing but accidental rest. The lawyer is confined as much. It is true, there are not throughout the year, exact hours which he must keep, but considering the imperious demands of his business, his personal liberty is probably restrained as much by it, as that of the teacher. So with all the other professions. Although the nature of the confinement may vary, it amounts to about the same in all. On the other hand the teacher enjoys, in reference to this subject of confinement, an advantage, which scarcely any other class of men does or can enjoy. I mean vacations. A man in any other business may _force_ himself away from it, for a time, but the cares and anxieties of his business will follow him wherever he goes, and it seems to be reserved for the teacher, to enjoy alone the periodical luxury of a _real and entire release from business and care_. On the whole, as to confinement, it seems to me that the teacher has but little ground of complaint. There are however some real and serious difficulties which always have, and it is to be feared, always will, cluster around this employment; and which must, for a long time, at least, lead most men to desire some other employment for the business of life. There may perhaps be some, who by their peculiar skill, can overcome, or avoid them, and perhaps the science may, at some future day, be so far improved, that all may avoid them. As I describe them however now, most of the teachers into whose hands this treatise may fall, will probably find that their own experience corresponds, in this respect, with mine. 1. The first great difficulty which the teacher feels, is a sort of _moral responsibility for the conduct of others_. If his pupils do wrong, he feels almost personal responsibility for it. As he walks out, some afternoon, weary with his labors, and endeavoring to forget, for a little time, all his cares, he comes upon a group of boys, in rude and noisy quarrels, or engaged in mischief of some sort, and his heart sinks within him. It is hard enough for any one to witness their bad conduct, with a spirit unruffled and undisturbed, but for their teacher, it is perhaps impossible. He feels _responsible_; in fact he is responsible. If his scholars are disorderly, or negligent, or idle, or quarrelsome, he feels _condemned himself_, almost as if he were, himself, the actual transgressor. This difficulty is in a great degree, peculiar to a teacher. A physician is called upon to prescribe for a patient; he examines the case, and writes his prescription. When this is done, his duty is ended, and whether the patient obeys the prescription and lives, or neglects it and dies, the physician feels exonerated from all responsibility. He may, and in some cases does feel _anxious concern_, and may regret the infatuation by which, in some unhappy case, a valuable life may be hazarded or destroyed. But he feels no _moral responsibility_ for another's guilt. It is so with all the other employments in life. They do indeed often bring men into collision with other men. But though sometimes vexed, and irritated by the conduct of a neighbor, a client, or a patient, they feel not half the bitterness of the solicitude and anxiety which come to the teacher through the criminality of his pupil. In ordinary cases he not only feels responsible for efforts, but for their results; and when, notwithstanding all his efforts, his pupils will do wrong, his spirit sinks, with an intensity of anxious despondency, which none but a teacher can understand. This feeling of almost _moral accountability for the guilt of other persons_, is a continual burden. The teacher in the presence of the pupil never is free from it. It links him to them by a bond, which, perhaps, he ought not to sunder, and which he cannot sunder if he would. And sometimes, when those committed to his charge are idle, or faithless, or unprincipled, it wears away his spirits and his health together. I think there is nothing analogous to this moral connexion between teacher and pupil, unless it be in the case of a parent and child. And here on account of the comparative smallness of the number under the parent's care, the evil is so much diminished that it is easily borne. 2. The second great difficulty of the teacher's employments, is _the immense multiplicity of the objects of his attention and care_, during the time he is employed in his business. His scholars are individuals, and notwithstanding all that the most systematic can do, in the way of classification, they must be attended to in a great measure, as individuals. A merchant keeps his commodities together, and looks upon a cargo composed of ten thousand articles, and worth 100,000 dollars as one: he speaks of it as one: and there is, in many cases, no more perplexity in planning its destination, than if it were a single box of raisins. A lawyer may have a great many important cases, but he has only one at a time; that is, he _attends_ to but one at a time. That one may be intricate,--involving many facts and requiring to be examined in many aspects and relations. But he looks at but few of these facts and regards but few of these relations at a time. The points which demand his attention come, one after another, in regular succession. His mind may thus be kept calm. He avoids confusion and perplexity. But no skill or classification will turn the poor teacher's hundred scholars into one, or enable him, except to a very limited extent, and for a very limited purpose, to regard them as one. He has a distinct, and, in many respects, a different work to do for every one of the crowd before him. Difficulties must be explained in detail; questions must be answered one by one; and each scholar's own conduct and character must be considered by itself. His work is thus made up of a thousand minute particulars, which are all crowding upon his attention at once, and which he cannot group together, or combine, or simplify. He must by some means or other attend to them in all their distracting individuality. And in a large and complicated school, the endless multiplicity and variety of objects of attention and care, impose a task under which few intellects can long stand. I have said that this endless multiplicity and variety cannot be reduced and simplified by classification. I mean, of course, that this can be done only to a very limited extent, compared with what may be effected in the other pursuits of mankind. Were it not for the art of classification and system, no school could have more than ten scholars, as I intend hereafter to show. The great reliance of the teacher is upon this art, to reduce to some tolerable order, what would otherwise be the inextricable confusion of his business. He _must be systematic_. He must classify and arrange; but after he has done all that he can, he must still expect that his daily business will continue to consist of a vast multitude of minute particulars, from one to another of which the mind must turn with a rapidity, which, few of the other employments of life ever demand. These are the essential sources of difficulty with which the teacher has to contend; but, as I shall endeavor to show in succeeding chapters, though they cannot be entirely removed, they can be so far mitigated by the appropriate means, as to render the employment a happy one. I have thought it best however, as this work will doubtless be read by many, who, when they read it, are yet to begin their labors, to describe frankly and fully to them the difficulties which beset the path they are about to enter. "The wisdom of the prudent is, to understand his way. It is often wisdom to understand it beforehand." CHAPTER II. GENERAL ARRANGEMENTS. The distraction and perplexity of the teacher's life are, as was explained in the last chapter, almost proverbial. There are other pressing and exhausting pursuits, which wear away the spirit by the ceaseless care which they impose, or perplex and bewilder the intellect by the multiplicity and intricacy of their details. But the business of teaching, by a pre-eminence not very enviable, stands, almost by common consent, at the head of the catalogue. I have already alluded to this subject in the preceding chapter; and probably the greater majority of actual teachers will admit the truth of the view there presented. Some will however, doubtless say, that they do not find the business of teaching so perplexing and exhausting an employment. They take things calmly. They do one thing at a time, and that without useless solicitude and anxiety. So that teaching, with them, though it has, indeed, its solicitudes and cares, as every other responsible employment must necessarily have, is, after all, a calm and quiet pursuit, which they follow from month to month, and from year to year, without any extraordinary agitations, or any unusual burdens of anxiety and care. There are indeed such cases, but they are exceptions; and unquestionably an immense majority, especially of those who are beginners in the work, find it such as I have described. I think it need not be so; or rather, I think the evil may be avoided to _a very great degree_. In this chapter I shall endeavor to show how order may be produced out of that almost inextricable mass of confusion, into which so many teachers, on commencing their labors, find themselves plunged. The objects then, to be aimed at in the general arrangements of schools, are two-fold. 1. That the teacher may be left uninterrupted, to attend to one thing at a time. 2. That the individual scholars may have constant employment, and such an amount and such kinds of study, as shall be suited to the circumstances and capacities of each. I shall examine each in their order. 1. The following are the principal things which, in a vast number of schools, are all the time pressing upon the teacher: or rather, they are the things which must, every where, press upon the teacher, except so far as, by the skill of his arrangements, he contrives to remove them. 1. Giving leave to whisper or to leave seats. 2. Mending pens. 3. Answering questions in regard to studies. 4. Hearing recitations. 5. Watching the behavior of the scholars. 6. Administering reproof and punishment for offences as they occur. A pretty large number of objects of attention and care, one would say, to be pressing upon the mind of the teacher at one and the same time,--and _all the time_, too! Hundreds and hundreds of teachers in every part of our country, there is no doubt, have all these, crowding upon them from morning to night, with no cessation, except perhaps some accidental and momentary respite. During the winter months, while the principal common schools in our country are in operation, it is sad to reflect how many teachers come home, every evening, with bewildered and aching heads, having been vainly trying all the day, to do six things at a time, while He, who made the human mind, has determined that it shall do but one. How many become discouraged and disheartened by what they consider the unavoidable trials of a teacher's life, and give up in despair, just because their faculties will not sustain a six-fold task. There are multitudes who, in early life, attempted teaching, and, after having been worried, almost to distraction, by the simultaneous pressure of these multifarious cares, gave up the employment in disgust, and forever afterwards wonder how any body can like teaching. I know multitudes of persons to whom the above description will exactly apply. I once heard a teacher who had been very successful, even in large schools, say that he could hear two classes recite, mend pens, and watch his school, all at the same time; and that, without any distraction of mind, or any unusual fatigue. Of course the recitations in such a case must be memoriter. There are very few minds however, which can thus perform triple or quadruple work, and probably none which can safely be tasked so severely. For my part, I can do but one thing at a time; and I have no question that the true policy for all, is, to learn, not _to do every thing at once_, but so to classify and arrange their work, that _they shall have but one thing to do_. Instead of vainly attempting to attend simultaneously to a dozen things, they should so plan their work, that only one will demand attention. Let us then examine the various particulars above mentioned in succession, and see how each can be disposed of, so as not to be a constant source of interruption and derangement. 1. _Whispering and leaving seats._ In regard to this subject, there are very different methods, now in practice in different schools. In some, especially in very small schools, the teacher allows the pupils to act according to their own discretion. They whisper and leave their seats whenever they think it necessary. This plan may possibly be admissible in a very small school; that is, in one of ten or twelve pupils. I am convinced, however, that it is very bad here. No vigilant watch, which it is possible for any teacher to exert, will prevent a vast amount of mere talk, entirely foreign to the business of the school. I tried this plan very thoroughly, with high ideas of the dependence which might be placed upon conscience and a sense of duty, if these principles are properly brought out to action in an effort to sustain the system. I was told by distinguished teachers, that it would not be found to answer. But predictions of failure in such cases only prompt to greater exertions, and I persevered. But I was forced at last to give up the point, and adopt another plan. My pupils would make resolutions enough; they understood their duty well enough. They were allowed to leave their seats and whisper to their companions, whenever, in _their honest judgment, it was necessary for the prosecution of their studies_. I knew that it sometimes would be necessary, and I was desirous to adopt this plan to save myself the constant interruption of hearing and replying to requests. But it would not do. Whenever, from time to time, I called them to account, I found that a large majority, according to their own confession, were in the habit of holding daily and deliberate communication with each other, on subjects entirely foreign to the business of the school. A more experienced teacher would have predicted this result; but I had very high ideas of the power of cultivated conscience; and in fact, still have. But then, like most other persons who become possessed of a good idea, I could not be satisfied without carrying it to an extreme. Still it is necessary to give pupils, sometimes, the opportunity to whisper and leave seats. Cases occur where this is unavoidable. It cannot therefore be forbidden altogether. How then, you will ask, can the teacher regulate this practice, so as to prevent the evils which will otherwise flow from it, without being continually interrupted by the request for permission? By a very simple method. _Appropriate particular times at which all this business is to be done, and forbid it altogether_ at every other time. It is well on other accounts to give the pupils of a school a little respite, at least every hour; and if this is done, an intermission of study for two minutes each time, will be sufficient. During this time, _general_ permission should be given to speak or to leave seats, provided they do nothing at such a time to disturb the studies of others. This has been my plan for two or three years, and no arrangement which I have ever made, has operated for so long a time, so uninterruptedly, and so entirely to my satisfaction as this. It of course will require some little time, and no little firmness, to establish the new order of things, where a school has been accustomed to another course; but where this is once done, I know no one plan so simple and so easily put into execution, which will do so much towards relieving the teacher of the distraction and perplexity of his pursuits. In making the change, however, it is of fundamental importance that the pupils should themselves be interested in it. Their cooperation, or rather the cooperation of the majority, which it is very easy to obtain, is absolutely essential to success. I say this is very easily obtained. Let us suppose that some teacher, who has been accustomed to require his pupils to ask and obtain permission, every time they wish to speak to a companion, is induced by these remarks to introduce this plan. He says accordingly to his school: "You know that you are now accustomed to ask me whenever you wish to obtain permission to whisper to a companion, or to leave your seats: now I have been thinking of a plan which will be better for both you and me. By our present plan, you are sometimes obliged to wait before I can attend to your request. Sometimes I think it is unnecessary, and deny you, when perhaps I was mistaken, and it was really necessary. At other times, I think it very probable, that when it is quite desirable for you to leave your seat, you do not ask, because you think you may not obtain permission, and you do not wish to ask and be refused. Do you, or not, experience these inconveniences from our present plans?" The boys would undoubtedly answer in the affirmative. "I experience great inconvenience, too. I am very frequently interrupted when busily engaged, and it also occupies a great portion of my time and attention. It requires as much mental effort to consider and decide sometimes whether I ought to allow a pupil to leave his seat, as it would to decide a much more important question; therefore I do not like our plan, and I have another to propose." The boys are all attention to know what the new plan is. It will always be of great advantage to the school, for the teacher to propose his new plans from time to time to his pupils in such a way as this. It interests them in the improvement of the school, exercises their judgment, establishes a common feeling between teacher and pupil, and in many other ways will assist very much in promoting the welfare of the school. "My plan," continues the teacher, "is this:--to allow you all, besides the recess, a short time, two or three minutes perhaps, every hour;" (or every half hour, according to the character of the school, the age of the pupils, or other circumstances, to be judged of by the teacher,) "during which you may all whisper or leave your seats, without asking permission." Instead of deciding the question of the _frequency_ of this general permission, the teacher may, if he pleases, leave it to the pupils to decide. It is often useful to leave the decision of such a question to them. On this subject, however, I shall speak in another place. It is only necessary, here, to say, that _this_ point may be safely left to them, since the time is so small which is to be thus appropriated. Even if they vote to have the general permission to whisper every half hour, it will make but eight minutes in the forenoon. There being six half hours in the forenoon, and one of them ending at the close of school, and another at the recess, only _four_ of these _rests_, as a military man would call them, would be necessary; and four, of two minutes each, would make eight minutes. If the teacher thinks that evil would result from the interruption of the studies so often, he may offer the pupils _three_ minutes rest every _hour_, instead of _two_ minutes every _half hour_, and let them take their choice; or he may decide the case altogether himself. Such a change, from _particular permission on individual requests to general permission at stated times_, would unquestionably be popular in every school, if the teacher managed the business properly. And by presenting it as an object of common interest,--an arrangement proposed for the common convenience of teacher and pupils, the latter may be much interested in carrying the plan into effect. We must not rely, however, entirely upon their _interest in it_. All that we can expect from such an effort to interest them, as I have described and recommended, is to get a _majority_ on our side, so that we may have only a small minority, to deal with by other measures. Still _we must calculate on having this minority, and form our plans accordingly_, or we shall be sadly disappointed. I shall, however, in another place, speak of this principle of interesting the pupils in our plans, for the purpose of securing a majority in our favor, and explain the methods by which the minority is then to be governed. I only mean here to say, that, by such means, the teacher may easily interest a large proportion of the scholars, in carrying his plans into effect, and that he must expect to be prepared with other measures, for those, who will not be governed by these. You cannot reasonably expect however, that immediately after having explained your plan, it will, at once, go into full and complete operation. Even those who are firmly determined to keep the rule, will, from inadvertence, for a day or two, make communication with each other. They must be _trained_, not by threatening and punishment, but by your good-humored assistance, to their new duties. When I first adopted this plan in my school, something like the following proceedings took place. "Do you suppose that you will perfectly keep this rule, from this time?" "No sir," was the answer. "I suppose you will not. Some, I am afraid, may not really be determined to keep it, and others will forget. Now I wish every one would keep an exact account to day, of all the instances of speaking and leaving seats, out of the regular times, and be prepared to report them at the close of the school. Of course, I shall have no punishment for it; but it will very much assist you to watch yourselves, if you expect to make a report at the end of the forenoon. Do you like this plan?" "Yes sir," was the answer, and all seemed to enter into it with spirit. In order to mark more definitely the times for communication I wrote, in large letters, on a piece of pasteboard, "STUDY HOURS," and making a hole over the centre of it, I hung it upon a nail, over my desk. At the close of each half hour, a little bell was to be struck, and this card was to be taken down. When it was up, they were, on no occasion whatever, (except some such extraordinary occurrence as sickness, or my sending one of them on a message to another, or something clearly out of the common course,) to speak to each other; but were to wait, whatever they wanted, until the _Study Card_, as they called it, was taken down. "Suppose now," said I, "that a young lady has come into school, and has accidentally left her book in the entry;--the book from which she is to study during the first half hour of the school: she sits near the door, and she might, in a moment, slip out and obtain it: if she does not, she must spend the half hour in idleness, and be unprepared in her lesson. What is it her duty to do?" "To go;" "Not to go;" answered the scholars simultaneously. "It would be her duty _not_ to go; but I suppose it will be very difficult for me to convince you of it." "The reason is this," I continued; "if the one case I have supposed, were the _only_ one, which would be likely to occur, it would undoubtedly be better for her to go; but if it is understood that, in such cases, the rule may be dispensed with, there will be many others, where it will be equally necessary to lay it aside. Scholars will differ in regard to the degree of inconvenience, which they must submit to, rather than break the rule. They will gradually do it on slighter and slighter occasions, until at last the rule will be disregarded entirely. We must, therefore, draw a _precise line_, and individuals must submit to a little inconvenience, sometimes, to promote the general good." At the close of the day, I requested all in the school to rise. While they were standing, I called them to account in the following manner. "Now it is very probable that some have, from inadvertence, or from design, omitted to keep an account of the number of transgressions of the rule, which they have committed during the day; others, perhaps, do not wish to make a report of themselves. Now as this is a common and voluntary effort, I wish to have none render assistance, who do not, of their own accord, desire to do so; all those, therefore, who are not able to make a report, from not having been correct in keeping it, and all those who are unwilling to report themselves, may sit." A very small number hesitatingly took their seats. "I am afraid that all do not sit, who really wish not to report themselves. Now I am honest in saying I wish you to do just as you please. If a great majority of the school really wish to assist me in accomplishing the object, why, of course, I am glad; still, I shall not call upon any for such assistance, unless it is freely and voluntarily rendered." One or two more took their seats while these things were saying. Among such, there would generally be some, who would refuse to have any thing to do with the measure, just from a desire to thwart and impede the plans of the teacher. If so, it is best to take no notice of them. If the teacher can contrive to obtain a great majority upon his side, so as to let them see that any opposition which they can raise, is of no consequence, and is not even noticed, they will soon be ashamed of it. The reports then of those who remained standing, were called for; first, those who had whispered only once were requested to sit; then those who had whispered more than once, and less than five times, &c. &c., until at last all were down. In such a case, the pupils might, if thought expedient, again be requested to rise, for the purpose of asking some other questions, with reference to ascertaining whether they had spoken most in the former or latter part of the forenoon. The number who had spoken inadvertently, and the number who had done it by design, might be ascertained. These inquiries accustom the pupils to render honest and faithful accounts of themselves. They become, by such means, familiarized to the practice, and by means of it, the teacher can, many times, receive most important assistance. All however, should be done in a pleasant tone, and with a pleasant and cheerful air. It should be considered by the pupils, not a reluctant confession of guilt, for which they are to be rebuked or punished, but the voluntary and free report of the result of an _experiment_, in which all are interested. Some will have been dishonest in their reports: to diminish the number of these, the teacher may say, after the report is concluded: "We will drop the subject here to-day. To-morrow we will make another effort, when we shall be more successful. I have taken your reports as you have offered them, without any inquiry, because I had no doubt, that a great majority of this school would be honest, at all hazards. They would not, I am confident, make a false report, even if, by a true one, they were to bring upon themselves punishment; so that I think I may have confidence that nearly all these reports have been faithful. Still, it is very probable, that, among so large a number, some may have made a report, which, they are now aware, was not perfectly fair and honest. I do not wish to know who they are; if there are any such cases, I only wish to say to the rest, how much pleasanter it is for you that you have been honest and open. The business is now all ended; you have done your duty; and though you reported a little larger number than you would, if you had been disposed to conceal, yet you go away from school with a quiet conscience. On the other hand, how miserable must any boy feel, if he has any nobleness of mind whatever, to go away from school, to-day, thinking that he has not been honest; that he has been trying to conceal his faults, and thus to obtain a credit which he did not justly deserve. Always be honest, let the consequence be what it may." The reader will understand that the object of such measures is, simply _to secure as large a majority as possible_, to make _voluntary_ efforts to observe the rule. I do not expect that by such measures, _universal_ obedience can be exacted. The teacher must follow up the plan, after a few days, by other measures, for those who will not yield to such inducements as these. Upon this subject, however, I shall speak more particularly at a future time. In my own school, it required two or three weeks to exclude whispering and communication by signs. The period necessary to effect the revolution will be longer or shorter, according to the circumstances of the school, and the dexterity of the teacher; and, after all, the teacher must not hope _entirely_ to exclude it. Approximation to excellence is all that we can expect; for unprincipled and deceiving characters will perhaps always be found, and no system whatever can prevent their existence. Proper treatment may indeed be the means of their reformation, but before this process has arrived at a successful result, others similar in character will have entered, so that the teacher can never expect perfection in the operation of any of his plans. I found so much relief from the change which this plan introduced, that I soon took measures for rendering it permanent; and though I am not much in favor of efforts to bring all teachers and all schools to the same plans, this principle of _whispering at limited and prescribed times alone_, seems to me well suited to universal adoption. The following simple apparatus has been used in several schools where this principle has been adopted. A drawing and description of it is inserted here, as by this means, some teachers, who may like to try the course here recommended, may be saved the time and trouble of contriving something of the kind themselves. The figure _a a a a_ is a board, about 18 inches by 12, to which the parts are to be attached, and which is to be nailed against the wall, at the height of about 8 feet, _b c d c_ is a plate of tin or brass, 8 inches by 12, of the form represented in the drawing. At _c c_, the lower extremities of the parts at the sides, the metal is bent round, so as to clasp a wire which runs from _c_ to _c_, the ends of which wire are bent at right angles and run into the board. The plate will consequently turn on this axis, as on a hinge. At the top of the plate _d_, a small projection of the tin turns inwards, and to this, one end of the cord _m m_ is attached. This cord passes back from _d_ to _a_ small pulley at the upper part of the board, and at the tower end of it a tassel, loaded so as to be an exact counterpoise to the card, is attached. By raising the tassel, the plate will of course fall over forward till it is stopped by the part _b_ striking the board, when it will be in a horizontal position. On the other hand, by pulling down the tassel, the plate will be raised and drawn upwards against the board, so as to present its convex surface, with the words STUDY HOURS upon it, distinctly to the school. In the drawing it is represented in an inclined position, being not quite drawn up, that the parts might more easily be seen. At _d_, there is a small projection of the tin upwards, which touches the clapper of the bell suspended above, every time the plate passes up or down, and thus give notice of its motions. [Illustration] Of course the construction may be varied very much, and it may be more or less expensive, according to the wishes of the teacher. In the first apparatus of this kind which I used, the plate was simply a card of pasteboard, from which the machine took its name. This was cut out with a penknife, and after being covered with marble paper, a strip of white paper was pasted along the middle, with the inscription upon it. The wire _c c_ and a similar one at the top of the plate, were passed through a perforation in the pasteboard, and then passed into the board. Instead of a pulley, the cord, which was a piece of twine, was passed through a little staple made of wire and driven into the board. The whole was made in one or two recesses in school, with such tools and materials as I could then command. The bell was a common table bell, with a wire passing through the handle. The whole was attached to such a piece of pine board as I could get on the occasion. This coarse contrivance was, for more than a year, the grand regulator of all the movements of the school. I afterwards had one made in a better manner. The plate is of tin, gilded, the border and the letters of the inscription being black. A parlor bell rope passes over a brass pulley, and then runs downward in a groove made in the mahogany board to which the card is attached. A little reflection will, however, show the teacher that the form and construction of the apparatus for marking the times of study and of rest, may be greatly varied. The chief point is simply to secure the _principle_, of whispering at definite and limited times, and at those alone. If such an arrangement is adopted, and carried faithfully into effect, it will be found to relieve the teacher of more than half of the confusion and perplexity, which would otherwise be his hourly lot. I have detailed thus particularly the method to be pursued in carrying this principle into effect, because I am convinced of its importance, and the incalculable assistance which such an arrangement will afford to the teacher in all his plans. Of course, I would not be understood to recommend its adoption, in those cases, where, teachers, from their own experience, have devised and adopted _other_ plans, which accomplish as effectually the same purpose. All that I mean, is to insist upon the absolute necessity of _some_ plan, to remove this very common source of interruption and confusion, and I recommend this mode where a better is not known. 2. The second of the sources of interruption, as I have enumerated them, is mending pens. This business ought, if possible, to have a specific time assigned to it. Scholars are in general far too particular in regard to their pens. The teacher ought to explain to them that, in the transaction of the ordinary business of life, they cannot, always, have exactly such a pen as they would like. They must learn to write with various kinds of pens, and when furnished with one that the teacher himself would consider suitable to write a letter to a friend with, he must be content. They should understand that the _form_ of the letters is what is important in learning to write, not the smoothness and clearness of the hair lines; and that though writing looks better, when executed with a perfect pen, a person may _learn_ to write, nearly as well with one, which is not absolutely perfect. So certain is this, though often overlooked, that a person would perhaps learn faster with chalk upon a black board, than with the best goose-quill ever sharpened. I do not make these remarks to show that it is of no consequence, whether scholars have good or bad pens, but only that this subject deserves very much less of the time and attention of the teacher, than it usually receives. When the scholars are allowed, as they very generally are, to come, when they please, to present their pens, some four, five or six times in a day--breaking in upon any business--interrupting any classes--perplexing and embarrassing the teacher, however he may be employed,--there is a very serious obstruction to the progress of the scholars, which is by no means repaid by the improvement in this branch. There are several ways by which this evil may be remedied, or at least be very effectually curtailed. Some teachers take their pens with them, and mend them in the evening at home. For various reasons, this cannot always be practised. There may, however, be a time set apart in the school specially for this purpose. But the best plan is, for the teacher not to mend the pens himself. Let him choose from among the older and more intelligent of his scholars, four or five, whom he will teach. They will be very glad to learn, and to mend every day twenty-five or fifty pens each. Very little ingenuity will be necessary to devise some plan, by which the scholars may be apportioned among these, so that each shall supply a given number, and the teacher be relieved entirely. 3. Answering questions about studies. A teacher who does not adopt some system in regard to this subject, will be always at the mercy of his scholars. One boy will want to know how to parse a word, another where the lesson is, another to have a sum explained, and a fourth will wish to show his work, to see if it is right. The teacher does not like to discourage such inquiries. Each one, as it comes up, seems necessary: each one too is answered in a moment; but the endless number, and the continual repetition of them consume his time and exhaust his patience. There is another view of the subject, which ought to be taken. Perhaps it would not be far from the truth, to estimate the average number of scholars in the schools in our country, at fifty. At any rate, this will be near enough for our present purpose. There are three hours in each session, making one hundred and eighty minutes, which, divided among fifty, give about three minutes and a half to each individual. If the reader has, in his own school, a greater or a less number, he can easily correct the above, so as to adapt it to his own case, and ascertain the portion, which may justly be appropriated to each pupil. It will probably vary from two to four minutes. Now a period of four minutes slips away very fast while a man is looking over perplexing problems, and if he exceeds that time at all, he is doing injustice to his other pupils. I do not mean that a man is to confine himself, rigidly, to the principle suggested by this calculation, of cautiously appropriating no more time to any one of his pupils, than such a calculation would assign to each; but simply that this is a point which should be kept in view, and have a very strong influence in deciding how far it is right to devote attention, exclusively, to individuals. It seems to me that it shows very clearly, that one ought to teach his pupils, as much as possible, _in masses_, and as little as possible, by private attention to individual cases. The following directions will help the teacher to carry these principles into effect. When you assign a lesson, glance over it yourself, and consider what difficulties are likely to arise. You know the progress which your pupils have made, and can easily anticipate their difficulties. Tell them all together, in the class, what their difficulties will be, and how they may surmount them. Give them directions how they are to act in the emergencies, which will be likely to occur. This simple step will remove a vast number of the questions, which would otherwise become occasions for interrupting you. With regard to other difficulties, which cannot be foreseen and guarded against, tell them to bring them to the class, the next recitation. Half a dozen might, and very probably would meet with the same difficulty. If they bring it to you one by one, you have to answer it over and over again, whereas, when it is brought to the class, one explanation answers for all. As to all questions about the lesson,--where it is, and what it is, and how long it is,--never answer them. Require each pupil to remember for himself, and if he was absent when the lesson was assigned, let him ask his class mate in a recess. You may refuse to give particular individuals the private assistance they ask for, in such a way as to discourage and irritate them, but it is not necessary. It can be done in such a manner, that the pupil will see the propriety of it, and acquiesce pleasantly in it. A child comes to you, for example, and says, "Will you tell me, sir, where the next lesson is?" "Were you not in the class at the time?" "Yes sir, but I have forgotten." "Well, I have forgotten too. I have a great many classes to hear, and of course a great many lessons to assign, and I never remember them; it is not necessary far me to remember." "May I speak to one of the class, to ask about it?" "You cannot speak, you know, till the Study Card is down; you may, then." "But I want to get my lesson now." "I don't know what you will do, then: I am sorry you don't remember." "Besides," continues the teacher, looking pleasantly, however, while he says it, "if I knew, I think I ought not to tell you." "Why, sir?" "Because, you know, I have said I wish the scholars to remember where the lessons are, and not come to me. You know it would be very unwise for me, after assigning a lesson in the class, to spend my time in telling the individuals over again here. Now if I should tell _you_, I should have to tell others, and thus adopt a practice, which I have condemned." Take another case. You assign to a class of little girls a subject of composition, requesting them to copy their writing upon a sheet of paper, leaving a margin an inch wide at the top, and one of half an inch at the sides and bottom. The class take their seats, and, after a short time, one of them comes to you, saying she does not know how long an inch is. "Don't you know any thing about it?" "No sir, not much." "Should you think _that_ is more or less than an inch?" (pointing to a space on a piece of paper much too large.) "More." "Then you know something about it. Now I did not tell you to make the margins _exactly_ an inch, and half an inch, but only as near as you could tell." "Would that be about right?" asks the girl, showing a distance. "I must not tell you, because you know I never in such cases help individuals; if that is as near as you can get it, you may make it so." It may be well, after assigning a lesson to a class, to say that all those who do not distinctly understand what they have to do, may remain after the class have taken their seats, and ask: the task may then be distinctly assigned again, and the difficulties, so far as they can be foreseen, explained. By such means, these sources of interruption and difficulty may, like the others, be almost entirely removed. Perhaps not altogether, for many cases may occur, where the teacher may choose to give a particular class permission to come to him for help. Such permission, however, ought never to be given, unless it is absolutely necessary, and should never be allowed to be taken, unless it is distinctly given. 4. Hearing recitations. I am aware that many attempt to do something else, at the same time that they are hearing a recitation, and there may perhaps be some individuals, who can succeed in this. If the exercise, to which the teacher is attending, consists merely in listening to the reciting, from memory, some passage committed, it can perhaps be done. I hope however to show, in a future chapter, that there are other and far higher objects, which every teacher ought to have in view, and he who understands these objects, and aims at accomplishing them,--who endeavors to _instruct_ his class, to enlarge and elevate their ideas, to awaken a deep and paramount interest in the subject which they are examining, will find that his time must be his own, and his attention uninterrupted, while he is presiding at a class. All the other exercises and arrangements of the school are, in fact, preparatory and subsidiary to this. Here, that is, in the classes, the real business of teaching is to be done. Here, the teacher comes in contact with his scholars, mind with mind, and here, consequently, he must be uninterrupted and undisturbed. I shall speak more particularly on this subject hereafter, under the head of instruction; all I wish to secure in this place, is that the teacher should make such arrangements, that he can devote his exclusive attention to his classes, while he is actually engaged with them. Each recitation, too, should have its specified time, which should be adhered to, with rigid accuracy. If any thing like the plan I have suggested for allowing rests of a minute or two, every half hour, should be adopted, it will mark off the forenoon into parts, which ought to be precisely and carefully observed. I was formerly accustomed to think, that I could not limit the time for my recitations without great inconvenience, and occasionally allowed one exercise to encroach upon the succeeding, and this upon the next, and thus sometimes the last was excluded altogether. But such a lax and irregular method of procedure is ruinous to the discipline of a school. On perceiving it, at last, I put the bell into the hands of a pupil, commissioning her to ring regularly, having, myself, fixed the times, saying that I would show my pupils that I could be confined myself to system, as well as they. At first, I experienced a little inconvenience, but this soon disappeared, and at last the hours and half hours of our artificial division, entirely superseded, in the school-room, the divisions of the clock face. But in order that I may be specific and definite, I will draw up a plan for the regular division of time, for a common school, not to be _adopted_, but to be _imitated_; i. e. I do not recommend exactly this plan, but that some plan, precise and specific, should be determined upon, and exhibited to the school, by a diagram like the following. FORENOON. IX X XI XII +-------------+--------------------+-----------------+ | Reading. | Writing. R. G. | Arithmetic. | +-------------+--------------------+-----------------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------------+--------------------+-----------------+ AFTERNOON. II III IV V +-------------+--------------------+-----------------+ | Grammar. | Writing. R. G. | Geography. | +-------------+--------------------+-----------------+ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------------+--------------------+-----------------+ A drawing on a large sheet, made by some of the older scholars, (for a teacher should never do any thing of this kind which his scholars can do for him,) should be made and pasted up to view, the names of the classes being inserted in the columns, under their respective heads. At the double lines at ten and three, there might be a rest of two minutes; an officer appointed for the purpose, ringing a bell at each of the parts marked on the plan, and making the signal for the _rest_, whatever signal might be determined upon. It is a good plan to have a bell rung five minutes before each half hour expires, and then exactly at its close. The first one would be to notify the teacher, or teachers, if there are more than one in the school, that the time for their respective recitations is drawing to a close. At the second bell the new classes should take their places without waiting to be called for. The scholars will thus see that the arrangements of the school are based upon system, to which the teacher himself conforms, and not subjected to his own varying will. They will thus not only go on more regularly, but they will yield more easily and pleasantly to the necessary arrangements. The fact is, children love system and regularity. Each one is sometimes a little uneasy under the restraint, which it imposes upon him individually, but they all love to see its operation upon others, and they are generally very willing to submit to its laws, if the rest of the community are required to submit too. They show this in their love of military parade; what allures them is chiefly the _order_ of it: and even a little child creeping upon the floor will be pleased when he gets his playthings in a row. A teacher may turn this principle to most useful account, in forming his plans for his school. It will be seen by reference to the foregoing plan, that I have marked the time for the recesses, by the letter R. at the top. Immediately after them, both in the forenoon and in the afternoon, twenty minutes are left, marked G., the initial standing for General exercise. They are intended to denote periods during which all the scholars are in their seats with their work laid aside, ready to attend to what the teacher has to bring before the whole. There are so many occasions, on which it is necessary to address the whole school, that it is very desirable to appropriate a particular time for it. In most of the best schools, I believe this plan is adopted. I will mention some of the subjects, which would come up at such a time. 1. There are some studies, which can be advantageously attended to by the whole school together; such as Punctuation, and, to some extent, Spelling. 2. Cases of discipline, which it is necessary to bring before the whole school, ought to come up at a regularly appointed time. By attending to them here, there will be a greater importance attached to them. Whatever the teacher does, will seem to be more deliberate, and, in fact, _will be_ more deliberate. 3. General remarks, bringing up classes of faults which prevail; also general directions, which may at any time be needed: and in fact any business relating to the general arrangements of the school. 4. Familiar lectures from the teacher, on various subjects,--very familiar in their form, and perhaps accompanied by questions addressed to the whole. The design of such lectures should be to extend the _general knowledge_ of the pupils in regard to those subjects on which they will need information in their progress through life. In regard to each of these particulars I shall speak more particularly hereafter, in the chapters to which they respectively belong. My only object, here, is to show, in the general arrangements of the school, how a place is to be found for them. My practice has been, to have two periods, of short duration, each day, appropriated to these objects. The first to the _business of the school_, and the second to such studies or lectures as could be most profitably attended to at such a time. * * * * * We come now to one of the most important subjects, which present themselves to the teacher's attention, in settling the principles upon which he shall govern his school. I mean the degree of influence which the boys themselves shall have in the management of its affairs. Shall the government of school be a _monarchy_ or a _republic_? To this question, after much inquiry and many experiments, I answer, a monarchy; an absolute, unlimited monarchy; the teacher possessing exclusive power, as far as the pupils are concerned, though strictly responsible to the committee, or to the trustees, under whom he holds his office. While, however, it is thus distinctly understood that the power of the teacher is supreme, that all the power rests in him, and that he alone is responsible for its exercise, there ought, to be a very free and continual _delegation_ of power to the pupils. As much business as is possible, should be committed to them. They should be interested as much as possible in the affairs of the school, and led to take an active part in carrying them forward; though they should, all the time, distinctly understand, that it is only _delegated_ power which they exercise, and that the teacher can, at any time, revoke what he has granted, and alter or annul at pleasure, any of their decisions. By this plan, we have the responsibility resting where it ought to rest, and yet the boys are trained to business, and led to take an active interest in the welfare of the school. Trust is reposed in them, which may be greater or less, as they are able to bear. All the good effects of reposing trust and confidence, and committing the management of important business to the pupils will be secured, without the dangers which would result from the entire surrender of the management of the institution into their hands. There have been, in several cases, experiments made with reference to ascertaining how far a government, strictly republican, would be admissible in a school. A very fair experiment of this kind was made at the Gardiner Lyceum, in Maine. At the time of its establishment, nothing was said of the mode of government which it was intended to adopt. For some time, the attention of the Instructers was occupied in arranging the course of study, and attending to the other concerns of the Institution, and in the infant state of the Lyceum, few cases of discipline occurred, and no regular system of government was necessary. Before long, however, complaints were made that the students at the Lyceum were guilty of breaking windows in an old building used as a town-house. The Principal called the students together, mentioned the reports, and said that he did not know, and did not wish to know who were the guilty individuals. It was necessary, however, that the thing should be examined, and that restitution should be made; and relying on their faithfulness and ability, he should leave them to manage the business alone. For this purpose, he nominated one of the students as judge, some others as jury-men, and appointed the other officers necessary, in the same manner. He told them, that, in order to give them time to make a thorough investigation, they were excused from farther exercises during the day. The Principal then left them, and they entered on the trial. The result was, that they discovered the guilty individuals, ascertained the amount of mischief done by each, and sent to the selectmen a message, by which they agreed to pay a sum equal to three times the value of the injury sustained. The students were soon after informed that this mode of bringing offenders to justice would, hereafter, be always pursued, and arrangements were made for organizing a _regular republican government_, among the young men. By this government, all laws which related to the internal police of the Institution, were to be made, all officers were appointed, and all criminal cases were to be tried. The students finding the part of a judge too difficult for them to sustain, one of the Professors was appointed to hold that office, and, for similar reasons, another of the Professors was made President of the Legislative assembly. The Principal was the Executive, with power to _pardon_, but not to _sentence_, or even _accuse_. Some time after this, a student was indicted for profane swearing; he was tried, convicted, and punished. After this he evinced a strong hostility to the government. He made great exertions to bring it into contempt, and when the next trial came on, he endeavored to persuade the witnesses that giving evidence was dishonorable, and he so far succeeded, that the defendant was acquitted for want of evidence, when it was generally understood that there was proof of his guilt, which would have been satisfactory, if it could have been brought forward. For some time after this, the prospect was rather unfavorable, though many of the students themselves opposed with great earnestness these efforts, and were much alarmed lest they should lose their free government, through the perverseness of one of their number. The attorney general, at this juncture, conceived the idea of indicting the individual alluded to, for an attempt to overturn the government. He obtained the approbation of the Principal, and the Grand Jury found a bill. The Court, as the case was so important, invited some of the Trustees of the Lyceum who were in town, to attend the trial. The parent of the defendant was also informed of the circumstances and requested to be present, and he accordingly attended. The prisoner was tried, found guilty, and sentenced, if I mistake not, to an expulsion. At his earnest request, however, to be permitted to remain in the Lyceum, and redeem his character, he was pardoned and restored, and became perfectly exemplary in his conduct and character. After this occurrence, the system went on in successful operation, for some time. The legislative power was vested in the hands of a general committee, consisting of eight or ten, chosen by the students from their own number. They met about once a week to transact such business as appointing officers, making and repealing regulations, and inquiring into the state of the Lyceum. The Instructers had a negative upon all their proceedings, but no direct and positive power. They could pardon, but they could assign no punishments, nor make laws inflicting any. Now such a plan as this may succeed for a short time, and under very favorable circumstances; and the circumstance, which it is chiefly important should be favorable, is, that the man who is called to preside over such an association, should possess such a share of _generalship_, that he can really manage the institution _himself_, while the power is _nominally_ and _apparently_ in the hands of the boys. Should this not be the case, or should the teacher, from any cause, lose his personal influence in the school, so that the institution should really be surrendered into the hands of the pupils, things must be on a very unstable footing. And accordingly where such a plan has been adopted, it has, I believe, in every instance, been ultimately abandoned. _Real self-government_ is an experiment sufficiently hazardous among men; though Providence, in making a daily supply of food necessary for every human being, has imposed a most-powerful check upon the tendency to anarchy and confusion. Let the populace of London materially interrupt the order, and break in upon the arrangements of the community, and, in eight and forty hours, nearly the whole of the mighty mass will be in the hands of the devourer, hunger; and they will be soon brought to submission. On the other hand, a month's anarchy and confusion in a college or an academy, would be delight to half the students, or else times have greatly changed, since I was within college walls. Although it is thus evident that the important concerns of a literary institution cannot be safely committed into the hands of the students, very great benefits will result from calling upon them to act upon, and to decide questions relative to the school, within such limits, and under such restrictions, as may appear best. Such a practice will assist the teacher very much, if he manages it with any degree of dexterity: for it will interest his pupils in the success of the school, and secure, to a very considerable extent, their cooperation. It will teach them self-control and self-government, and will accustom them to submit to the majority,--that lesson, which, of all others, it is important for a republican to learn. In endeavoring to interest the pupils of a school in the work of cooperating with the teacher in its administration, no little dexterity will be necessary, at the outset. In all probability, the formal announcement of this principle, and the endeavor to introduce it, by a sudden revolution, would totally fail. Boys, like men, must be gradually prepared for power, and they must exercise it only so far as they are prepared. This however can, very easily, be done. The teacher should say nothing of his general design, but when some suitable opportunity presents, he should endeavor to lead his pupils to cooperate with him, in some particular instance. For example, let us suppose that he has been accustomed to distribute the writing-books with his own hand, when the writing hour arrives, and that he concludes to delegate this simple business, first, to his scholars. He accordingly states to them, just before the writing exercise of the day on which he proposes the experiment, as follows. "I have thought that time will be saved, if you will help me distribute the books, and I will accordingly appoint four distributors, one for each division of the seats, who may come to me, and receive the books and distribute them, each to his own division. Are you willing to adopt this plan?" The boys answer, "Yes sir," and the teacher then looks carefully around the room, and selects four pleasant and popular boys,--boys who, he knows, would gladly assist him, and who would, at the same time, be agreeable to their school mates. This latter point is necessary, in order to secure the popularity and success of the plan. Unless the boys are very different from any I have ever met with, they will be pleased with the duty thus assigned them. They will learn system and regularity by being taught to perform this simple duty in a proper manner. After a week, the teacher may consider their term of service as having expired, and thanking them, in public for the assistance they have rendered him, he may ask the scholars, if they are willing to continue the plan, and if the vote is in favor of it, as it unquestionably would be, each boy probably hoping that he should be appointed to the office, the teacher may nominate four others, including perhaps upon the list, some boy popular among his companions, but whom he has suspected to be not very friendly to himself or the school. I think the most scrupulous politician would not object to securing influence, by conferring office in such a case. If any difficulties arise from the operation of such a measure, it can easily be dropped, or modified. If it is successful, it may be continued, and the principle extended, till it very considerably modifies all the arrangements, and the whole management of the school. Or let us imagine the following scene to have been the commencement of the introduction of the principle of limited self-government, into a school. The preceptor of an academy was sitting at his desk, at the close of school, while the pupils were putting up their books and leaving the room; a boy came in with angry looks, and, with his hat in his hands bruised and dusty, advanced to the master's desk, and complained that one of his companions had thrown down his hat upon the floor, and had almost spoilt it. The teacher looked calmly at the mischief, and then asked how it happened. "I don't know sir; I hung it up on my nail, and he pulled it down." "I wish you would ask him to come here," said the teacher. "Ask him pleasantly." The accused soon came in, and the two boys stood together before the master. "There seems to be some difficulty between you boys, about a nail to hang your hats upon. I suppose each of you think it is your own nail." "Yes sir," said both the boys. "It will be more convenient for me to talk with you about this to-morrow, than to-night, if you are willing to wait. Besides, we can examine it more calmly, then. But if we put it off till then, you must not talk about it in the meantime, blaming one another, and keeping up the irritation that you feel. Are you both willing to leave it just where it is, till to-morrow, and try to forget all about it till then? I expect I shall find you both a little to blame." The boys rather reluctantly consented. The next day the master heard the case and settled it, so far as it related to the two boys. It was easily settled in the morning, for they had had time to get calm, and were, after sleeping away their anger, rather ashamed of the whole affair, and very desirous to have it forgotten. That day, when the hour for the transaction of business came, the teacher stated to the school, that it was necessary to take some measures to provide each boy with a nail for his hat. In order to show that it was necessary, he related the circumstances of the quarrel which had occurred the day before. He did this, not with such an air and manner as to convey the impression that his object was to find fault with the boys, or to expose their misconduct, but to show the necessity of doing something to remedy the evil, which had been the cause of so unpleasant an occurrence. Still, though he said nothing in the way of reproach or reprehension, and did not name the boys, but merely gave a cool and impartial narrative of the facts,--the effect, very evidently, was to bring such quarrels into discredit. A calm review of misconduct, after the excitement has gone by, will do more to bring it into disgrace, than the most violent invectives and reproaches, directed against the individuals guilty of it. "Now boys," continued the master, "will you assist me in making arrangements to prevent the recurrence of all temptations of this kind hereafter? It is plain that every boy ought to have a nail appropriated expressly to his use. The first thing to be done is, to ascertain whether there are enough for all. I should like, therefore, to have two committees appointed; one, to count and report the number of nails in the entry, and also how much room there is for more; the other, to ascertain the number of scholars in school. They can count all who are here, and by observing the vacant desks, they can ascertain the number absent. When this investigation is made, I will tell you what to do next." The boys seemed pleased with the plan, and the committees were appointed, two members on each. The master took care to give the quarrellers some share in the work, apparently forgetting, from this time, the unpleasant occurrence which had brought up the subject. When the boys came to tell him their results, he asked them to make a little memorandum, in writing, as he might forget, before the time came for reading them. They brought him presently a rough scrap of paper, with the figures marked upon it. He told them he should forget which was the number of nails, and which the number of scholars, unless they wrote it down. "It is the custom among men," said he, "to make out their report, in such a case, fully, so that it would explain itself; and I should like to have you, if you are willing, to make out yours a little more distinctly." Accordingly, after a little additional explanation, the boys made another attempt, and presently returned, with something like the following: "The Committee for counting the nails report as follows: Number of nails 35 Room for 15." The other report was very similar, though somewhat rudely written and expressed, and both were perfectly satisfactory to the preceptor, as he plainly showed by the manner in which he received them. I need not finish the description of this case, by narrating, particularly, the reading of the reports, the appointment of a committee to assign the nails, and to paste up the names of the scholars, one to each. The work, in such a case, might be done in recesses, and out of school hours, and though, at first, the teacher will find, that it is as much trouble to accomplish business in this way, as it would be to attend to it directly himself,--yet after a very little experience, he will find that his pupils will acquire dexterity and readiness, and will be able to render him very material assistance in the accomplishment of his plans. This, however, _the assistance rendered to the teacher_, is not the object. The main design is to _interest the pupils_, in the management and the welfare of the school,--to identify them, as it were, with it. It will accomplish this object; and every teacher, who will try the experiment, and carry it into effect, with any tolerable degree of skill, will find that it will, in a short time, change the whole aspect of the school, in regard to the feelings subsisting between himself and his pupils. Each teacher, who tries such an experiment, will find himself insensibly repeating it, and after a time he may have quite a number of officers and committees, who are entrusted with various departments of business. He will have a secretary, chosen by ballot, by the scholars, to keep a record of all the important transactions in the school, for each day. At first, he will dictate to the secretary, telling him precisely what to say, or even writing it for him, and merely requiring him to copy it into the book provided for the purpose. Afterwards he will give him less and less assistance, till he can keep the record properly himself. The record of each day will be read on the succeeding, at the hour for business. He will have a committee of one or two to take care of the fire, and another to see that the room is constantly in good order. He will have distributors for each division of seats, to distribute books, and compositions, and pens, and to collect votes. And thus, in a short time, his school will become _regularly organized, as a society_, or _legislative assembly_. The boys will learn submission to the majority, in such unimportant things as may be committed to them: they will learn system and regularity; and every thing else that belongs to the science of political self government. There are dangers, however. What useful practice has not its dangers? One of these is, that the teacher will allow these arrangements to take up too much time. He must guard against this. I have found from experience that fifteen minutes each day, with a school of 135, is enough. This ought never to be exceeded. Another danger is, that the boys will be so engaged in the duties of their _offices_, as to neglect their _studies_. This would be, and ought to be, fatal to the whole plan. Avoid it in this manner. State publicly that you will not appoint any to office, who are not good scholars, always punctual, and always prepared; and when any boy, who holds an office, is going behind hand in his studies, say to him kindly, "You have not time to get your lessons, and I am afraid it is owing to the time you spend in helping me. Now if you wish to resign your office, so as to have a little more time for your lessons, you can. In fact, I think you ought to do it. You may try it for a day or two, and I will notice how you recite, and then we can decide." Such a communication will generally be found to have a powerful effect. If it does not remedy the evil, the resignation must be insisted on. A few decided cases of this kind, will effectually remove the evil I am considering. * * * * * Another difficulty, which is likely to attend the plan of allowing the pupils of the school to decide some of the cases which occur, is, that it may tend to make them insubordinate; so that they will, in many instances, submit, with less good humor, to such decisions as you may consider necessary. I do not mean that this will be the case with all, but that there will be a few, who will be ungenerous enough, if you allow them to decide, sometimes, to endeavor to make trouble, or at least to show symptoms of impatience and vexation, because you do not allow them to decide always. Sometimes this feeling may show itself by the discontented looks, or gestures, or even words, with which some unwelcome decision will be received. Such a spirit should be immediately and decidedly checked. It will not be difficult to check, and even entirely to remove it. On one occasion, when, after learning the wishes of the scholars on some subject which had been brought before them, I decided contrary to it, there arose a murmur of discontent, all over the room. This was the more distinct, because I have always accustomed my pupils to answer questions asked, and to express their wishes and feelings on any subject I may present to them, with great freedom. I asked all those, who had expressed their dissatisfaction, to rise. About one third of the scholars arose. "Perhaps you understood, that when I put the question to vote, I meant to abide by your decision, and that, consequently, I ought not to have reversed it, as I did, afterwards?" "Yes sir;" "yes sir;" they replied. "Do you suppose it would be safe to leave the decision of important questions to the scholars in this school?" "Yes sir;" "No sir." The majority were, however, in the affirmative. Thus far, only those who were standing, had answered. I told them, that as they were divided in opinion, they might sit, and I would put the question to the whole school. "You know," I continued, addressing the whole, "what sort of persons the girls, who compose this school are. You know about how many are governed, habitually, by steady principle, and how many by impulse and feeling. You know too, what proportion have judgment and foresight necessary to consider and decide independently, such questions as continually arise in the management of a school. Now suppose I should resign the school into your own hands, as to its management, and only come in to give instruction to the classes, leaving all general control of its arrangements with you; would it go on safely or not?" As might have been foreseen, there was, when the question was fairly proposed, scarcely a solitary vote in favor of government by scholars. They seemed to see clearly the absurdity of such a scheme. "Besides," I continued, "the Trustees of this school have committed it to my charge; they hold me responsible; the public hold me responsible, not you. Now if I should surrender it into your hands, and you, from any cause, should manage the trust unfaithfully, or unskilfully, I should necessarily be held accountable. I could never shift the responsibility upon you. Now it plainly is not just or right, that one party should hold the power, and another be held accountable for its exercise. It is clear, therefore, in every view of the subject, that I should retain the management of this school in my own hands. Are you not satisfied that it is?" The scholars universally answered, "Yes sir." They seemed satisfied; and doubtless were. It was then stated to them, that the object in asking them to vote, was, in some cases, to obtain an expression of their opinion or their wishes, in order to help _me_ decide; and only in those cases where it was expressly stated, did I mean to give the final decision to them. Still, however, if cases are often referred to them, the feeling will gradually creep in, that the school is managed on republican principles, as they call it; and they will, unless this point is specially guarded, gradually lose that spirit of entire and cordial subordination, so necessary for the success of any school. It should often be distinctly explained to them, that a republican government is one, where the power essentially resides in the community, and is exercised by a ruler, only so far as the community delegates it to him; whereas in the school, the government is based on the principle, that the power, primarily and essentially, resides in the teacher, the scholars exercising only such as he may delegate to them. With these limitations and restrictions, and with this express understanding, in regard to what is, in all cases, the ultimate authority, I think there will be no danger in throwing a very large share of the business which will, from time to time, come up in the school, upon the scholars, for decision. In my own experience, this plan has been adopted with the happiest results. A small red morocco wrapper lies constantly on a little shelf, accessible to all. By its side, is a little pile of papers, about one inch by six, on which any one may write her motion, or her _proposition_, as they call it, whatever it may be, and when written, it is enclosed in the wrapper, to be brought to me at the appointed time for attending to the general business of the school. Through this wrapper, all questions are asked, all complaints entered, all proposals made. Is there discontent in the school? It shows itself by "_propositions_" in the wrapper. Is any body aggrieved or injured? I learn it through the wrapper. In fact it is a little safety valve, which lets off, what, if confined, might threaten explosion,--an index,--a thermometer, which reveals to me, from day to day, more of the state of public opinion in the little community, than any thing beside. These propositions are generally read aloud; some cases are referred to the scholars for decision; some I decide myself; others are laid aside without notice of any kind; others still, merely suggest remarks on the subjects to which they allude. The principles, then, which this chapter has been intended to establish, are simply these: in making your general arrangements, look carefully over your ground, consider all the objects which you have to accomplish, and the proper degree of time and attention, which each deserves. Then act upon system. Let the mass of particulars which would otherwise crowd upon you in promiscuous confusion, be arranged and classified. Let each be assigned to its proper time and place; that your time may be your own,--under your own command,--and not, as is too often the case, at the mercy of the thousand accidental circumstances, which may occur. In government, be yourself supreme, and let your supremacy be that of _authority_. But delegate power, as freely as possible, to those under your care. Show them that you are desirous of reposing trust in them, just so far as they show themselves capable of exercising it. Thus interest them in your plans, and make them feel, that they participate in the honor or the disgrace of success or failure. I have gone much into detail in this chapter, proposing definite measures by which the principles I have recommended, may be carried into effect. I wish, however, that it may be distinctly understood, that all I contend for, is the _principles_ themselves; no matter what the particular measures are, by which they are secured. Every good school must be systematic; but they need not all be on precisely the same system. As this work is intended almost exclusively for beginners, much detail has been admitted, and many of the specific measures here proposed, may perhaps be safely adopted, where no others are established. There may also perhaps be cases, where teachers, whose schools are already in successful operation, may engraft, upon their own plans, some things which are here proposed. If they should attempt it, it must be done cautiously and gradually. There is no other way by which they can be safely introduced or even introduced at all. This is a point of so much importance, that I must devote a paragraph to it, before closing the chapter. Let a teacher propose to his pupils, formally, from his desk, the plan of writing propositions, for example, and procure his wrapper, and put it in its place;--and what would be the result? Why, not a single paper, probably, could he get, from one end of the week to the other. But let him, on the other hand, when a boy comes to him to ask some question, the answer to which many in the school would equally wish to hear, say to the inquirer: "Will you be so good as to write that question, and put it on my desk, and then, at the regular time, I will answer it to all the school." When he reads it, let him state, that it was written at his request, and give the other boys permission to leave their proposals or questions on his desk, in the same way. In a few days, he will have another, and thus the plan may be gently and gradually introduced. So with officers. They should be appointed among the scholars, only _as fast as they are actually needed_, and the plan should thus be cautiously carried only so far as it proves good on trial. Be always cautious about innovations and changes. Make no rash experiments on a large scale, but always test your principle in the small way, and then, if it proves good, gradually extend its operation, as circumstances seem to require. By thus cautiously and slowly introducing plans, founded on the systematic principles here brought to view, a very considerable degree of quiet, and order, and regularity may be introduced into the largest and most miscellaneous schools. And this order and quiet are absolutely necessary, to enable the teacher to find that interest and enjoyment in his work, which were exhibited in the last chapter; the pleasure of _directing and controlling mind_, and doing it, not by useless and anxious complaints, or stern threats and painful punishments; but by regarding the scene of labor in its true light, as a community of intellectual and moral beings, and governing it by moral and intellectual power. It is, in fact, the pleasure of exercising power. I do not mean arbitrary, personal authority, but the power to produce, by successful but quiet contrivance, extensive and happy results;--the pleasure of calmly considering every difficulty, and without irritation or anger, devising the proper moral means to remedy the moral evil: and then the interest and pleasure of witnessing its effects. CHAPTER III. INSTRUCTION. There are three kinds of human knowledge which stand strikingly distinct from all the rest. They lie at the foundation. They constitute the roots of the tree. In other words, they are the _means_, by which all other knowledge is acquired. I need not say, that I mean, Reading, Writing, and Calculation. Teachers do not perhaps always consider, how entirely and essentially distinct these three are from all the rest. They are arts; the acquisition of them is not to be considered as knowledge, so much as the means, by which knowledge may be obtained. A child, who is studying Geography, or History, or Natural Science, is learning _facts_,--gaining information; on the other hand, the one who is learning to write, or to read, or to calculate, may be adding little or nothing to his stock of knowledge. He is acquiring _skill_, which, at some future time, he may make the means of increasing his knowledge, to any extent. This distinction ought to be kept constantly in view, and the teacher should feel that these three fundamental branches stand by themselves, and stand first in importance. I do not mean to undervalue the others, but only to insist upon the superior value and importance of these. Teaching a pupil to read, before he enters upon the active business of life, is like giving a new settler an axe, as he goes to seek his new home in the forest. Teaching him a lesson in history, is, on the other hand, only cutting down a tree or two for him. A knowledge of natural history, is like a few bushels of grain, gratuitously placed in his barn; but the art of ready reckoning, is the plough, which will remain by him for years, and help him to draw out from the soil an annual treasure. The great object, then, of the common schools in our country, is to teach the whole population to read, to write, and to calculate. In fact, so essential is it, that the accomplishment of these objects should be secured, that it is even a question whether common schools should not be confined to them. I say it is a _question_, for it is sometimes made so, though public opinion has decided, that some portion of attention, at least, should be paid to the acquisition of additional knowledge. But after all, the amount of _knowledge_, which is actually acquired at schools, is very small. It must be very small. The true policy is, to aim at making all, good readers, writers, and calculators, and to consider the other studies of the school important, chiefly as practice, in turning these arts to useful account. In other words, the scholars should be taught these arts, thoroughly, first of all, and in the other studies, the main design should be to show them how to use, and interest them in using, the arts they have thus acquired. A great many teachers feel a much stronger interest in the one or two scholars they may have, in Surveying, or in Latin, than they do in the large classes, in the elementary branches, which fill the school. But a moment's reflection will show, that such a preference is founded on a very mistaken view. Leading forward one or two minds, from step to step, in an advanced study, is certainly far inferior, in real dignity and importance, to opening all the stores of written knowledge, to fifty or a hundred. The man who neglects the interests of his school, in these great branches, to devote his time to two or three, or half a dozen older scholars, is unjust both to his employers and to himself. It is the duty, therefore, of every teacher, who commences a common district school, for a single season, to make, when he commences, an estimate, of the state of his pupils, in reference to these three branches. How do they all write? How do they all read? How do they calculate? It would be well if he would make a careful examination of the school, in this respect. Let them all write a specimen. Let all read; and let him make a memorandum of the manner, noticing how many read fluently, how many with difficulty, how many know only their letters, and how many are to be taught these. Let him ascertain also, what progress they have made in Arithmetic,--how many can readily perform the elementary processes, and what number need instruction in these. After thus surveying the ground, let him form his plan, and lay out his whole strength in carrying forward, as rapidly as possible, the _whole school_, in these studies. By this means he is acting, most directly and powerfully, on the intelligence of the whole future community in that place. He is opening to fifty or a hundred minds, stores of knowledge, which they will go on exploring, for years to come. What a descent now from such a work as this, to the mere hearing of the recitation of half a dozen boys in Surveying! I repeat it, that a thorough and enlightened survey of the whole school should be taken, and plans formed for elevating the whole mass, in those great branches of knowledge, which are to be of immediate practical use to them in future life. If the school is of higher order, the teacher should, in the same manner, before he forms his plans, consider well what are the great objects which he has to accomplish. He should ascertain what is the existing state of his school, both as to knowledge and character;--how long, generally, his pupils are to remain under his care,--what are to be their future stations and conditions in life, and what objects he can reasonably hope to effect for them, while they remain under his influence. By means of this forethought, and consideration, he will be enabled to work understandingly. It is desirable, too, that what I have recommended, in reference to the whole school, should be done with each individual. Ascertain, (by other means however than formal examination,) to what stage his education has advanced, and deliberately consider what objects you can reasonably expect to effect for him, while he remains under your care. You cannot indeed always form your plans to suit, so exactly, your general views in regard to the school and to individuals, as you could wish. But these general views will, in a thousand cases, modify your plans, or affect in a greater or less degree, all your arrangements. They will keep you to a steady purpose, and your work will go on far more systematically and regularly, than it would, if, as in fact many teachers do, you were to come headlong into your school, take things just as you find them, and carry them forward at random, without end or aim. This survey of your field being made, you are prepared to commence definite operations, and the great difficulty, in carrying your plans into effect, is, how to act more efficiently on _the greatest numbers at a time_. The whole business of public instruction, if it goes on at all, must go on by the teacher's skill in multiplying his power, by acting on _numbers at once_. In most books on education, we are taught, almost exclusively, how to operate on the _individual_. It is the error into which theoretic writers almost always fall. We meet, in every periodical, and in every treatise, and in fact, in almost every conversation on the subject, with remarks, which sound very well by the fire-side, but they are totally inefficient and useless in school, from their being apparently based upon the supposition, that the teacher has but _one_ pupil to attend to at a time. The great question in the management of schools, is not, how you can take _one_ scholar, and lead him forward, most rapidly, in a prescribed course, but how you can classify and arrange _numbers_, comprising every possible variety, both as to knowledge and capacity, so as to carry them all forward effectually together. The extent to which a teacher may multiply his power, by acting on numbers at a time, is very great. In order to estimate it, we must consider carefully what it is, when carried to the greatest extent, to which it is capable of being carried, under the most favorable circumstances. Now it is possible for a teacher to speak so as to be easily heard by three hundred persons, and three hundred pupils can be easily so seated, as to see his illustrations or diagrams. Now suppose that three hundred pupils, all ignorant of the method of reducing fractions to a common denominator, and yet all old enough to learn, are collected in one room. Suppose they are all attentive and desirous of learning, it is very plain that the process may be explained to the whole at once, so that half an hour spent in that exercise, would enable a very large proportion of them to understand the subject. So, if a teacher is explaining to a class in Grammar, the difference between a noun and verb, the explanation would do as well for several hundred, as for the dozen who constitute the class, if arrangements could only be made to have the hundreds hear it. But there are, perhaps, only a hundred in the school, and of these a large part understand already the point to be explained, and another large part are too young to attend to it. I wish the object of these remarks not to be misunderstood. I do not recommend the attempt to teach on so extensive a scale; I admit that it is impracticable; I only mean to show in what the impracticability consists, namely, in the difficulty of making such arrangements as to derive the full benefit from the instructions rendered. They are, in the nature of things, available to the extent I have represented, but, in actual practice, the full benefit cannot be derived. Now, so far as we thus fall short of this full benefit, so far there is, of course, waste; and it is difficult or impossible to make such arrangements as will avoid the waste, in this manner, of a large portion of every effort, which the teacher makes. A very small class instructed by an able teacher, is like a factory of a hundred spindles, with a water-wheel of power sufficient for a thousand. In such a case, even if the owner, from want of capital, or any other cause, cannot add the other nine hundred, he ought to know how much of his power is in fact unemployed, and make arrangements to bring it into useful exercise, as soon as he can. The teacher in the same manner, should understand what is the full beneficial effect, which it is possible, _in theory_, to derive from his instructions. He should understand, too, that just so far as he falls short of this full effect, there is waste. It may be unavoidable; part of it unquestionably is, like the friction of machinery, unavoidable. Still, it is waste; and it ought to be so understood, that by the gradual perfection of the machinery, it may be more and more fully prevented. Always bear in mind then, when you are devoting your time to two or three individuals in a class, that you are losing a very large part of your labor. Your instructions are conducive to good effect, only to the one tenth or one twentieth of the extent, to which, under more favorable circumstances, they might be made available. And though you cannot always avoid this loss, you ought always to be aware of it, and so to shape your measures, as to diminish it as much as possible. * * * * * We come now to consider the particular measures to be adopted, in giving instruction. * * * * * The objects which are to be secured, in the management of classes, are twofold, 1. Recitation. 2. Instruction. These two objects are, it is plain, entirely distinct. Under the latter, is included all the explanation, and assistance, and additional information, which the teacher may give his pupils, and, under the former, such an _examination_ of individuals, as is necessary to secure their careful attention to their lessons. It is unsafe to neglect either of these points. If the class meetings are mere _recitations_, they soon become dull and mechanical: the pupils generally take little interest in their studies, and imbibe no literary spirit. Their intellectual progress will, accordingly, suddenly cease, the moment they leave school, and cease to be called upon to recite lessons. On the other hand, if _instruction_ is all that is aimed at, and _recitation_, (by which I mean, as above explained, such an examination of individuals as is necessary to ascertain that they have faithfully performed the tasks assigned,) is neglected, the exercise soon becomes not much more than a lecture, to which those, and those only, will attend, who please. The business, therefore, of a thorough examination of the class must not be omitted. I do not mean, that each individual scholar must, every day, be examined; but simply that the teacher must, in some way or other, satisfy himself, by reasonable evidence, that the whole class are really prepared. A great deal of ingenuity may be exercised, in contriving means for effecting this object, in the shortest possible time. I know of no part of the field of a teacher's labors, which may be more facilitated, by a little ingenuity, than this. One teacher, for instance, has a spelling lesson to hear. He begins at the head of the line, and putting one word to each boy, goes regularly down, each successive pupil calculating the chances whether a word, which he can accidentally spell, will or will not come to him. If he spells it, the teacher cannot tell whether he is prepared or not. That word is only one among fifty, constituting the lesson. If he misses it, the teacher cannot decide that he was unprepared. It might have been a single accidental error. Another teacher, hearing the same lesson, requests the boys to bring their slates, and as he dictates the words, one after another, requires all to write them. After they are all written, he calls upon the pupils to spell them aloud as they have written them, simultaneously, pausing a moment after each, to give those who are wrong, an opportunity to indicate it, by some mark opposite the word misspelled. They all count the number of errors and report them. He passes down the class, glancing his eye at the work of each one, to see that all is right, noticing particularly those slates, which, from the character of the boys, need a more careful inspection. A teacher, who had never tried this experiment, would be surprised at the rapidity with which such work will be done by a class, after a little practice. Now how different are these two methods, in their actual results! In the latter case, the whole class are thoroughly examined. In the former, not a single member of it, is. Let me not be understood to recommend exactly this method of teaching spelling, as the best one to be adopted, in all cases. I only bring it forward as an illustration of the idea, that a little machinery, a little ingenuity, in contriving ways of acting on the _whole_, rather than on individuals, will very much promote the teacher's designs. In order to facilitate such plans, it is highly desirable that the classes should be trained to military precision and exactness in these manipulations. What I mean by this, may perhaps be best illustrated, by describing a case: it will show, in another branch, how much will be gained by acting upon numbers at once, instead of upon each individual in succession. Imagine, then, that a teacher requested all the pupils of his school, who could write, to take out their slates, at the hour for a general exercise. As soon as the first bustle of opening and shutting the desks was over, he looked around the room, and saw some ruling lines across their slates, others wiping them all over on both sides, with sponges, others scribbling, or writing, or making figures. "All those," says he, with a pleasant tone and look, "who have taken out any thing besides slates, may rise." Several, in various parts of the room, stood up. "All those, who have written any thing since they took out their slates, may rise too, and those who have wiped their slates." When all were up, he said to them, though not with a frown or a scowl, as if they had committed some very great offence; "Suppose a company of soldiers should be ordered to _form a line_, and instead of simply obeying that order, they should all set at work, each in his own way, doing something else. One man, at one end of the line, begins to load and fire his gun; another takes out his knapsack, and begins to eat his luncheon; a third amuses himself by going as fast as possible through the exercise; and another still, begins to march about, hither and thither, facing to the right and left, and performing all the evolutions he can think of. What should you say to such a company as that?" The boys laughed. "It is better," said the teacher, "when numbers are acting under the direction of one, that they should all act _exactly together_. In this way, we advance much faster, than we otherwise should. Be careful therefore to do exactly what I command, and nothing more." "_Provide a place, on your slates, large enough to write a single line_," added the teacher, in a distinct voice. I print his orders in italics, and his remarks and explanations in Roman letter. "_Prepare to write._" "I mean by this," he continued, "that you place your slates before you, with your pencils at the place where you are to begin, so that all may commence precisely at the same instant." The teacher who tries such an experiment as this, will find, at such a juncture, an expression of fixed and pleased attention upon every countenance in school. All will be intent; all will be interested. Boys love order and system, and acting in concert; and they will obey, with great alacrity, such commands as these, if they are good-humoredly, though decidedly expressed. The teacher observed in one part of the room, a hand raised, indicating that the boy wished to speak to him. He gave him liberty by pronouncing his name. "I have no pencil;" said the boy. A dozen hands, all around him, were immediately seen fumbling in pockets and desks, and, in a few minutes, several pencils were reached out for his acceptance. The boy looked at the pencils, and then at the teacher; he did not exactly know, whether he was to take one or not. "All those boys," said the teacher, pleasantly, "who have taken out pencils, may rise." "Have these boys done right, or wrong?" "Right;" "Wrong;" "Right;" answered their companions, variously. "Their motive was to help their classmate out of his difficulties; that is a good feeling, certainly." "Yes sir; right;" "Right." "But I thought you promised me a moment ago," replied the teacher, "not to do any thing, unless I commanded it. Did I ask for pencils?" A pause. "I do not blame these boys at all, in this case, still it is better to adhere rigidly to the principle, of _exact obedience_, when numbers are acting together. I thank them, therefore, for being so ready to assist a companion, but they must put their pencils away, as they were taken out without orders." Now such a dialogue as this, if the teacher speaks in a good-humored, though decided manner, would be universally well received, in any school. Whenever strictness of discipline is unpopular, it is rendered so, simply by the ill-humored and ill-judged means, by which it is attempted to be introduced. But all children will love strict discipline, if it is pleasantly, though firmly maintained. It is a great, though very prevalent mistake, to imagine, that boys and girls like a lax and inefficient government, and dislike the pressure of steady control. What they dislike is, sour looks and irritating language, and they therefore very naturally dislike every thing introduced or sustained by their means. If, however, exactness and precision in all the operations of a class and of the school, are introduced and enforced, in the proper manner, i. e., by a firm, but mild and good-humored authority, scholars will universally be pleased with them. They like to see the uniform appearance,--the straight line,--the simultaneous movement. They like to feel the operation of system, and to realize, while they are at the school room, that they form a community, governed by fixed and steady laws, firmly but pleasantly administered. On the other hand, laxity of discipline, and the disorder which will result from it, will only lead the pupils to contemn their teacher, and to hate their school. By introducing and maintaining such a discipline as I have described, great facilities will be secured for examining the classes. For example, to take a case different from the one before described; let us suppose that a class have been performing a number of examples in Addition. They come together to the recitation, and under one mode of managing classes, the teacher is immediately beset, by a number of the pupils, with excuses. One had no slate; another was absent when the lesson was assigned; a third performed the work, but it got rubbed out; and a fourth did not know what was to be done. The teacher stops to hear all these, and to talk about them; fretted himself, and fretting the delinquents by his impatient remarks. The rest of the class are waiting, and having nothing good to do, the temptation is almost irresistible to do something bad. One boy is drawing pictures on his slate, to make his neighbors laugh; another is whispering, and two more are at play. The disorder continues, while the teacher goes round examining slate after slate, his whole attention being engrossed by each individual, as the pupils come to him successively, while the rest are left to themselves, interrupted only by an occasional harsh or even angry, but utterly useless rebuke from him. But under _another_ mode of managing classes and schools, a very different result would be produced. A boy approaches the teacher to render an excuse, the teacher replies, addressing himself, however, to the whole class, "I shall give all an opportunity to offer their excuses presently. No one must come till he is called." The class then regularly take their places in the recitation seats; the prepared and unprepared together. The following commands are given and obeyed, promptly. They are spoken pleasantly, but still in the tone of command. "The class may rise." "All those, that are not fully prepared with this lesson, may sit." A number sit, and others, doubtful whether they are prepared or not, or thinking that there is something peculiar in their cases, which they wish to state, raise their hands, or make any other signal which is customary to indicate a wish to speak. Such a signal ought always to be agreed upon, and understood in school. The teacher shakes his head; saying "I will hear you presently. If there is, on any account whatever, any doubt whether you are prepared, you must sit." "Those that are standing may read their answers, to No. 1. Unit figure?" _Boys._ "Five." _Teacher._ "Tens?" _B._ "Six." _T._ "Hundreds?" _B._ "Seven." While these numbers are thus reading, the teacher looks at the boys, and can easily see whether any are not reading their own answers, but only following the rest. If they have been trained to speak exactly together, his ear will also at once detect any erroneous answer, which any one may give. He takes down the figures given by the majority, on his own slate, and reads them aloud. "This is the answer obtained by the majority: it is, undoubtedly right. Those, who have different answers may sit." These directions, if understood and obeyed, would divide the class evidently into two portions. Those standing, have their work done, and done correctly, and those sitting, have some excuse or error to be examined. A new lesson may now be assigned, and the first portion may be dismissed; which, in a well regulated school, will be two-thirds of the class. Their slates may be slightly examined, as they pass by the teacher, on their way to their seats, to see that all is fair; but it will be safe to take it for granted, that a result, in which a majority agree, will be right. Truth is consistent with itself, but error, in such a case, never is. This, the teacher can, at any time, show, by comparing the answers that are wrong; they will always be found, not only to differ from the correct result, but to contradict each other. The teacher may now, if be pleases, after the majority of the class have gone, hear the reasons of those who were unprepared, and look for the errors of those whose work was incorrect; but it is better to spend as little time as possible, in such a way. If a scholar is not prepared, it is not of much consequence, whether it is because he forgot his book, or mistook the lesson; or if it is ascertained that his answer is incorrect, it is, ordinarily, a mere waste of time, to search for the particular error. "I have looked over my work, sir," says the boy, perhaps, "and I cannot find where it is wrong." He means by it, that he does not believe that it is wrong. "It is no matter if you cannot," would be the proper reply, "since it certainly is wrong; you have made a mistake in adding, somewhere, but it is not worth while for me to spend two or three minutes apiece with all of you, to ascertain where. Try to be careful next time." The cases of those who are unprepared at a recitation, ought, by no means, to be passed by, unnoticed, although it would be unwise to spend much time in examining each, in detail. "It is not of much consequence," the teacher might say, "whether you have good excuses, or bad, so long as you are not prepared. In future life, you will certainly be unsuccessful, if you fail, no matter for what reason, to discharge the duties which devolve upon you. A carpenter, for instance, would certainly lose his work, if he should not perform it faithfully, and in season. Excuses, no matter how reasonable, will do him little good. So in this school. I want good recitations, not good excuses. I hope every one will be prepared to-morrow." It is not probable, however, that every one would be prepared the next day, in such a case; but, by acting steadily on these principles, the number of delinquencies would be so much diminished, that the very few which should be left, could easily be examined in detail, and the remedies applied. Simultaneous recitation, by which I mean the practice of addressing a question to all the class, to be answered by all together, is a practice, which has been for some years rapidly extending in our schools, and, if adopted with proper limits and restrictions, is attended with great advantage. The teacher must guard against some dangers, however, which will be likely to attend it. 1. Some will answer very eagerly, instantly after the question is completed. They wish to show their superior readiness. Let the teacher mention this, expose, kindly, the motive which leads to it, and tell them it is as irregular to answer before the rest, as after them. 2. Some will defer their answers, until they can catch those of their comrades, for a guide. Let the teacher mention this fault, expose the motive which leads to it, and tell them that, if they do not answer independently, and at once, they had better not answer at all. 3. Some will not answer at all. The teacher can tell by looking around the class who do not, for they cannot counterfeit the proper motion of the lips, with promptness and decision, unless they know what the answer is to be. He ought occasionally to say to such an one, "I perceive you do not answer;" and ask him questions individually. 4. In some cases, there is danger of confusion in the answers, from the fact that the question may be of such a nature, that the answer is long, and may, by different individuals, be differently expressed. This evil must be guarded against, by so shaping the question, as to admit of a reply in a single word. In reading large numbers, for example, each figure may be called for by itself, or they may be given one after another, the pupils keeping exact time. When it is desirable to ask a question to which the answer is necessarily long, it may be addressed to an individual, or the whole class may write their replies, which may then be read in succession. In a great many cases where simultaneous answering is practised, after a short time, the evils above specified are allowed to grow, until at last some half dozen bright members of a class answer for all, the rest dragging after them, echoing their replies, or ceasing to take any interest in an exercise, which brings no personal and individual responsibility upon them. To prevent this the teacher should exercise double vigilance, at such a time. He should often address questions to individuals alone, especially to those most likely to be inattentive and careless, and guard against the ingress of every abuse, which might, without close vigilance, appear. With these cautions, the method here alluded to will be found to be of very great advantage in many studies; for example, all the arithmetical tables may be recited in this way; words may be spelled, answers to sums given; columns of figures added, or numbers multiplied; and many questions in History, Geography, and other miscellaneous studies, answered, especially the general questions asked for the purpose of a review. But besides being useful as a mode of examination, this plan of answering questions simultaneously, is a very important means of fixing in the mind, any facts, which the teacher may communicate to his pupils. If, for instance, he says some day to a class, that Vasco de Gama was the discoverer of the passage round the Cape of Good Hope, and leaves it here, in a few days, not one in twenty, will recollect the name. But let him call upon them all to spell it, simultaneously, and then to pronounce it distinctly, three or four times in concert, and the word will be very strongly impressed upon the mind. The reflecting teacher will find a thousand cases, in the instruction of his classes, and in his general exercises, in the school, in which this principle will be of great utility. It is universal in its application. What we _say_, we fix by the very act of saying it, in the mind. Hence reading aloud, though a slower, is a far more thorough method, than reading silently; and it is better, in almost all cases, whether in the family, or in sabbath, or common schools, when general instructions are given, to have the leading points fixed in the mind, by questions, answered simultaneously. But we are wandering a little from our subject; which is, in this part of our chapter, the methods of _examining_ a class, not of giving or fixing instructions. Another mode of examining classes, which it is important to describe, consists in requiring _written answers_ to the questions asked. The form and manner, in which this plan may be adopted, is various. The class may bring their slates to the recitation, and the teacher may propose questions successively, the answers to which all the class may write, numbering them carefully. After a dozen answers are written, the teacher may call, at random, for them; or he may repeat a question, and ask each pupil to read the answer he had written; or he may examine the slates. Perhaps this method may be very successfully employed in reviews, by dictating to the class, a list of questions, relating to the ground they have gone over, for a week, and to which they are to prepare answers, written out at length, and to be brought in at the next exercise. This method may be made more formal still, by requiring a class to write a full and regular abstract of all they have learned, during a specified time. The practice of thus reducing to writing what has been learned, will be attended with many advantages, so obvious that they need not be described. It will be perceived that three methods of examining classes have now been named, and these will afford the teacher the means of introducing a very great variety, in his mode of conducting his recitations, while he still carries his class forward steadily in their prescribed course. Each is attended with its peculiar advantages. The _single replies_, coming from individuals specially addressed, are more rigid, and more to be relied upon;--but they consume a great deal of time, and while one is questioned, it requires much skill, to keep up interest in the rest. The _simultaneous answers_ of a class awaken more general interest, but it is difficult, without special care, to secure, by this means, a thorough examination of all. The _written replies_, are more thorough, but they require more time, and attention, and while they habituate the pupil to express his thoughts in writing, they would, if exclusively adopted, fail to accustom him to an equally important practice, that of the oral communication of his thoughts. A constant variety, of which these three methods should be the elements, is unquestionably the best mode. We not only, by this means, secure in a great degree the advantages which each is fitted to produce, but we gain, also, the additional advantage and interest of variety. By these, and perhaps by other means, it is the duty of the teacher to satisfy himself that his pupils are really attentive to their duties. It is not perhaps necessary, that every individual should be, every day, minutely examined; this is, in many cases, impossible. But the system of examination should be so framed, and so administered, as to be daily felt by all, and to bring upon every one, a daily responsibility. * * * * * We come now to consider the second general head, which was to be discussed in this chapter. The study of books alone, is insufficient to give knowledge to the young. In the first stage, learning to read, a book is of no use whatever, without the voice of the living teacher. The child cannot take a step alone. As the pupil, however, advances in his course, his dependence upon his teacher for guidance and help, continually diminishes, until, at last, the scholar sits in his solitary study, with no companion but his books, and desiring, for a solution of every difficulty, nothing but a larger library. In schools, however, the pupils have made so little progress in this course, that they all need more or less of this oral assistance. Difficulties must be explained; questions must be answered; the path must be smoothed, and the way pointed out, by a guide, who has travelled it before, or it will be impossible for the pupil to go on. This is the part of our subject, which we now approach. The great principle which is to guide the teacher, in this part of his duty, is this; _Assist your pupils, in such a way, as to lead them, as soon as possible, to do without assistance_. This is fundamental. In a short time they will be away from your reach; they will have no teacher to consult; and unless you teach them how to understand books themselves, they must necessarily stop suddenly in their course, the moment you cease to help them forward. I shall proceed, therefore, to consider the subject, in the following plan:-- 1. Means of exciting interest in study. 2. The kind and degree of assistance to be rendered. 3. Miscellaneous suggestions. 1. Interesting the pupils in their studies. There are various principles of human nature, which may be of great avail, in accomplishing this object. Making intellectual effort, and acquiring knowledge, are always pleasant to the human mind, unless some peculiar circumstances render them otherwise. The teacher has, therefore, only to remove obstructions, and sources of pain, and the employment of his pupils will be, of itself, a pleasure. "I am going to give you a new exercise to-day," said a teacher to a class of boys, in Latin. "I am going to have you parse your whole lesson, in writing. It will be difficult, but I think you may be able to accomplish it." The class looked surprised. They did not know what _parsing in writing_ could be. "You may first, when you take your seats, and are ready to prepare the lesson, write upon your slates, a list of the ten first nouns, arranging them in a column. Do you understand so far?" "Yes sir." "Then rule lines for another column, just beyond this. In parsing nouns, what is the first particular to be named?" "What the noun is from." "Yes; that is, its nominative. Now you may write, at the head of the first column, the word _Nouns_, and at the head of the second, _Nom._, for nominative. Then rule a line for the third column. What shall this contain?" "The declension." "Yes; and the fourth?" "Gender." "The fifth?" "Number." In the same manner the other columns were designated; the sixth, was to contain case; the seventh, the word, with which the noun was connected, in construction; and the eighth, a reference to the rule. "Now I wish you," continued the teacher, "to fill up such a table as this, with _ten_ nouns. Do you understand how I mean?" "Yes sir;" "No sir;" they answered, variously. "All who do understand may take their seats; as I wish to give as little explanation, as possible. The more you can depend upon yourselves, the better." Those who saw clearly what was to be done, left the class, and the teacher continued his explanation to those who were left behind. He made the plan perfectly clear to them, by taking a particular noun, and running it through the table, showing what should be written opposite to the word, in all the columns; and then dismissed them. The class separated, as every class would, in such a case, with strong interest in the work before them. It was not so difficult as to perplex them, and yet it required attention and care. They were interested and pleased;--pleased with the effort which it required them to make, and they anticipated, with interest and pleasure, the time of coming again to the class, to report and compare their work. When the time for the class came, the teacher addressed them somewhat as follows: "Before looking at your slates, I am going to predict what the faults are. I have not seen any of your work, but shall judge altogether from my general knowledge of school-boys, and the difficulties I know they meet with Do you think I shall succeed?" The scholars made no reply, and an unskilful teacher would imagine, that time spent in such remarks, would be wholly wasted. By no means. The influence of it was to awaken universal interest in the approaching examination of the slates. Every scholar would be intent, watching, with eager interest, to see whether the imagined faults would be found upon his work. The class was, by that single pleasant remark, put into the best possible state, for receiving the criticisms of the teacher. "The first fault, which I suppose will be found, is, that some are unfinished." The scholars looked surprised. They did not expect to have that called a fault. "How many plead guilty to it?" A few raised their hands, and the teacher continued. "I suppose that some will be found partly effaced. The slates were not laid away carefully, or they were not clean, so that the writing is not distinct. How many find this the case with their work?" "I suppose that, in some cases, the lines will not be perpendicular, but will slant, probably towards the left, like writing." "I suppose also, that, in some cases, the writing will be careless, so that I cannot easily read it. How many plead guilty to this?" After mentioning such other faults as occurred to him, relating chiefly to the form of the table, and the mere mechanical execution of the work, he said: "I think I shall not look at your slates to-day. You can all see, I have no doubt, how you can considerably improve them, in mechanical execution, in your next lesson; and I suppose you would a little prefer that I should not see your first imperfect efforts. In fact, I should rather not see them. At the next recitation, they probably will be much better." One important means by which the teacher may make his scholars careful of their reputation, is to show them, thus, that he is careful of it himself. Now, in such a case as this, for it is, except in the principles which it is intended to illustrate, imaginary, a very strong interest would be awakened in the class, in the work assigned them. Intellectual effort, in new and constantly varied modes, is in itself a pleasure, and this pleasure the teacher may deepen and increase very easily, by a little dexterous management, designed to awaken curiosity, and concentrate attention. It ought, however, to be constantly borne in mind, that this variety should be confined, to the modes of pursuing an object, which is permanent, and constant, and steadily pursued. For instance, if a little class are to be taught simple addition, after the process is once explained, which may be done, perhaps, in two or three lessons, they will need many days of patient practice, to render it familiar, to impress it firmly in their recollection, and to enable them to work with rapidity. Now this object must be steadily pursued. It would be very unwise for the teacher to say to himself; my class are tired of addition, I must carry them on to subtraction, or give them some other study. It would be equally unwise, to keep them many days performing example after example, in monotonous succession, each lesson a mere repetition of the last. He must steadily pursue his object, of familiarizing them fully with this elementary process, but he may give variety and spirit to the work, by changing occasionally the modes. One week he may dictate examples to them, and let them come together to compare their results; one of the class being appointed to keep a list of all who are correct, each day. At another time, each one may write an example, which he may read aloud to all the others, to be performed and brought in at the next time. Again, he may let them work on paper, with pen and ink, that he may see how few mistakes they make, as mistakes in ink, cannot be easily removed. He may excite interest by devising ingenious examples, such as finding out how much all the numbers from one to fifty will make, when added together, or the amount of the ages of the whole class; or any such example, the result of which they might feel a little interest in learning. Thus the object is steadily pursued, though the means of pursuing it, are constantly changing. We have the advantage of regular progress in the acquisition of knowledge truly valuable, while this progress is made, with all the spirit and interest which variety can give. The necessity of making such efforts as this, however, to keep up the interest of the class in their work, and to make it pleasant to them, will depend altogether upon circumstances; or rather, it will vary much with circumstances. A class of pupils somewhat advanced in their studies, and understanding and feeling the value of knowledge, will need very little of such effort as this; while young and giddy children, who have been accustomed to dislike books and school, and every thing connected with them, will need more. It ought, however, in all cases, to be made a means, not an end;--the means to lead on a pupil to an _interest in progress in knowledge itself_, which is, after all, the great motive, which ought to be brought, as soon and as extensively as possible, to operate in the school-room. Another way to awaken interest in the studies of the school, is to bring out as frequently, and as distinctly, as possible, the connexion between these studies and the practical business of life. The events which are occurring around you, and which interest the community in which you are placed, may, by a little ingenuity, be connected, in a thousand ways, with the studies of the school. If the practice, which has been already repeatedly recommended, of appropriating a quarter of an hour, each day, to a general exercise, should be adopted, it will afford great facilities for doing this. Suppose, for example, while the question between the General Government and the State of South Carolina, was pending, and agitating the whole country, almost every one looking, with anxious interest, every day, for intelligence from the scene of the conflict, that the teacher of a school, had brought up the subject, at such a general exercise as has been mentioned. He describes, in a few words, the nature of the question, and, in such a manner, as to awaken, throughout the school, a strong interest in the result of the contest. He then says, "I wish now to make you all more fully acquainted with this case, and the best way of doing it, which occurs to me, is as follows: "There are several studies in school, which throw light upon this controversy; especially History, Geography, and Political Economy. Now, I shall take the classes in these studies, for a day or two, out of their regular course, and assign them lessons which relate to this subject, and then hear them recite in the General Exercise, that you may all hear. The first class in Geography may take therefore, for their next lesson, the State of South Carolina; to-morrow they will recite in the hearing of the whole school, when I shall make such additional explanations, as will occur to me. The next day, I shall assign to the class in History, a passage giving an account of the formation of this government; and afterwards lessons will be recited from the Political Class Book, explaining the mode of collecting money for the use of our government, by duties, and the relative powers of the General and State Governments. After hearing all these lessons recited, with my remarks in addition, you will be the better able to understand the subject, and then I shall bring in a newspaper now and then, and keep you acquainted with the progress of the affair." Now the propriety of taking up the particular subject, which I have here introduced, by way of illustration, in such a way, would depend altogether upon the character and standing of the school; the age and mental maturity of the scholars, and their capacity to understand the circumstances of such a case, and to appreciate those considerations which give interest to it. The principle however, is applicable to all; and one such experiment, dexterously carried through, will do more towards giving boys and girls, clear and practical ideas of the reason why they go to school, and of the importance of acquiring knowledge, than the best lecture on such a subject, which ever was delivered. There is no branch of study attended to in school, which may, by judicious efforts, be made more effectual in accomplishing this object,--leading the pupils to see the practical utility, and the value of knowledge, than composition. If such subjects as are suitable themes for _moral essays_, are assigned, the scholars will indeed dislike the work of writing, and derive little benefit from it. The mass of pupils in our schools, are not to be writers of moral essays or orations, and they do not need to form that style of empty, florid, verbose declamation, which the practice of writing composition in our schools, as it is too frequently managed, tends to form. Assign practical subjects,--subjects relating to the business of the school,--or the events taking place around you. Is there a question before the community, on the subject of the location of a new school-house? Assign it to your pupils, as a question for discussion, and direct them not to write empty declamation, but to obtain, from their parents, the real arguments in the case, and to present them, distinctly and clearly, and in simple language, to their companions. Was a building burnt by lightning in the neighborhood? Let those who saw the scene, describe it; their productions to be read by the teacher aloud; and let them see that clear descriptions please, and that good legible writing can be read fluently, and that correct spelling, and punctuation, and grammar, make the article go smoothly and pleasantly, and enable it to produce its full effect. Is a public building going forward in the neighborhood of your school? You can make it a very fruitful source of subjects and questions, to give interest and impulse to the studies of the school-room. Your classes in geometry may measure,--your arithmeticians may calculate, and make estimates,--your writers may describe its progress, from week to week, and anticipate the scenes, which it will in future years exhibit. By such means, the practical bearings and relations of the studies of the school-room, may he constantly kept in view; but I ought to guard the teacher, while on this subject, most distinctly, against the danger of making the school-room a scene of literary amusement, instead of study. These means of awakening interest, and relieving the tedium of the uninterrupted and monotonous study of text books, must not encroach on the regular duties of the school. They must be brought forward with judgment and moderation, and made subordinate and subservient to these regular duties. Their design is, to give spirit, and interest, and a feeling of practical utility, to what the pupils are doing, and if resorted to, with these restrictions, and within these limits, they will produce powerful, but safe results. Another way to excite interest, and that of the right kind in school, is not to _remove_ difficulties, but to teach the pupils how to _surmount_ them. A text book so contrived as to make study mere play, and to dispense with thought and effort, is the worst text book that can be made, and the surest to be, in the end, a dull one. The great source of literary enjoyment, which is the successful exercise of intellectual power, is, by such a mode of presenting a subject, cut off. Secure therefore severe study. Let the pupil see that you are aiming to secure it, and that the pleasure which you expect that they will receive, is that of firmly and patiently encountering and overcoming difficulty; of penetrating, by steady and persevering effort, into regions, from which the idle and the inefficient are debarred; and that it is your province to lead them forward, not to carry them. They will soon understand this, and like it. Never underrate the difficulties which your pupils will have to encounter, or try to persuade them that what you assign is _easy_. Doing easy things is generally dull work, and it is especially discouraging and disheartening for a pupil to spend his strength in doing what is really difficult for him, when his instructer, by calling his work easy, gives him no credit, for what may have been severe and protracted labor. If a thing is really hard for the pupil, his teacher ought to know it, and admit it. The child then feels that he has some sympathy. It is astonishing how great an influence may be exerted over a child, by his simply knowing that his efforts are observed and appreciated. You pass a boy in the street, wheeling a heavy load, in a barrow; now simply stop to look at him, with a countenance which says, "that is a heavy load; I should not think that boy could wheel it;" and how quick will your look give fresh strength and vigor to his efforts. On the other hand, when, in such a case, the boy is faltering under his load, try the effect of telling him, "Why, that is not heavy; you can wheel it easily enough; trundle it along." The poor boy will drop his load, disheartened and discouraged, and sit down upon it, in despair. No, even if the work you are assigning to a class is easy, do not tell them so, unless you wish to destroy all their spirit and interest in doing it; and if you wish to excite their spirit and interest, make your work difficult, and let them see that you know it is so. Not so difficult as to tax their powers too heavily, but enough so, to require a vigorous and persevering effort. Let them distinctly understand too, that you know it is difficult,--that you mean to make it so,--but that they have your sympathy and encouragement, in the efforts which it calls them to make. You may satisfy yourself that human nature is, in this respect, what I have described, by some such experiment as the following:--Select two classes, not very familiar with elementary arithmetic, and offer to each of them the following example in Addition:-- 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1 2 &c. &c. The numbers may be continued, according to the obvious law regulating the above, until each one of the nine digits has commenced the line. Or, if you choose Multiplication, let the example be this:-- Multiply 123456789 by 123456789 --------- Now, when you bring the example to one of the classes, address the pupils as follows: "I have contrived for you a very difficult sum. It is the most difficult one that can be made, with the number of figures contained in it, and I do not think that any of you can do it, but you may try. I shall not be surprised if every answer should contain mistakes." To the other class, say as follows:-- "I have prepared an example for you, which I wish you to be very careful to perform correctly. It is a little longer than those you have had heretofore, but it is to be performed upon the same principles, and you can all do it correctly, if you really try." Now under such circumstances the first class will go to their seats with ardor and alacrity; determined to show you that they can do work, even if it is difficult. And if they succeed, they come to the class the next day, with pride and pleasure. They have accomplished something, which you admit it was not easy to accomplish. On the other hand, the second class will go to their seats, with murmuring looks and words; and with a hearty dislike of the task you have assigned them. They know that they have something to do, which, however easy it may be to the teacher, is really difficult for them, and they have to be perplexed and wearied with the work, without having at last, even the little satisfaction of knowing that the teacher appreciates the difficulties with which they had to contend. 2. We now come to consider the subject of rendering assistance to the pupil, which is one of the most important and delicate parts of a teacher's work. The great difference, which exists among teachers, in regard to the skill they possess in this part of their duty, is so striking that it is very often noticed by others; and perhaps skill here is of more avail, in deciding the question of success or failure, than any thing besides. The first great principle, is, however, simple and effectual. (1.) _Divide and subdivide a difficult process, until your steps are so short, that the pupil can easily take them._ Most teachers forget the difference between the pupil's capacity and their own, and they pass rapidly forward, through a difficult train of thought, in their own ordinary gait, their unfortunate followers vainly trying to keep up with them. The case is precisely analagous to that of the father, who walks with the step of a man, while his little son is by his side, wearying and exhausting himself, with fruitless efforts to reach his feet as far, and to move them as rapidly, as a full gown man. But to show what I mean by subdividing a difficult process, so as to make each step simple, I will take a case which may serve as an example. I will suppose that the teacher of a common school, undertakes to show his boys, who, we will suppose, are acquainted with nothing but elementary arithmetic, how longitude is ascertained, by means of the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites; not a very simple question, (as it would, at first view, strike one,) but still one which, like all others, may be, merely by the power of the subdivision alluded to, easily explained. I will suppose that the subject has come up at a general exercise,--perhaps the question was asked in writing, by one of the older boys. I will present the explanation, chiefly in the form of question and answer, that it may be seen, that the steps are so short, that the boys may take them themselves. "Which way," asks the teacher, "are the Rocky Mountains from us?" "West," answer two or three of the boys. In such cases as this, it is very desirable that the answers should be general, so that throughout the school, there should be a spirited interest in the questions and replies. This will never be the case, if a small number of the boys only take part in the answers; and many teachers complain, that, when they try this experiment, they can seldom induce many of the pupils to take a part. The reason ordinarily is, that they say that _any_ of the boys may answer, instead of that _all_ of them may. The boys do not get the idea that it is wished that an universal reply should come from all parts of the room in which every one's voice should be heard. If the answers were feeble, in the instance we are supposing, the teacher would perhaps say; "I only heard one or two answers: do not more of you know where the Rocky Mountains are? Will you all think, and answer together? Which way are they from us?" "West," answer a large number of boys. "You do not answer fully enough yet; I do not think more than forty answered, and there are about sixty here. I should like to have _every one in the room_ answer, and all precisely together." He then repeats the question, and obtains a full response. A similar effort will always succeed. "Now, does the sun, in going round the earth, pass over the Rocky Mountains, or over us, first?" To this question, the teacher hears a confused answer. Some do not reply; some say, "Over the Rocky Mountains;" others, "Over us;" and others still, "The sun does not move at all." "It is true that the sun, strictly speaking, does not move; the earth turns round, presenting the various countries, in succession, to the sun, but the effect is precisely the same as it would be, if the sun moved, and accordingly I use that language. Now, how long does it take the sun to pass round the earth?" "Twenty four hours." "Does he go towards the west, or towards the east, from us?" "Towards the west." But it is not necessary to give the replies; the questions alone will be sufficient. The reader will observe that they inevitably lead the pupil, by short and simple steps, to a clear understanding of the point to be explained. "Will the sun go towards, or from, the Rocky Mountains, after leaving us?" "How long did you say it takes the sun to go round the globe, and come to us again?" "How long to go half round?" "Quarter round?" "How long will it take him to go to the Rocky Mountains?" No answer. "You cannot tell. It would depend upon the distance. Suppose then the Rocky Mountains were half round the globe, how long would it take the sun to go to them?" "Suppose they were quarter round?" "The whole distance is divided into portions called degrees; 360 in all. How many will the sun pass, in going half round? In going quarter round?" "Ninety degrees then make one quarter of the circumference of the globe. This you have already said will take six hours. In one hour then, how many degrees will the sun pass over?" Perhaps no answer. If so, the teacher will subdivide the question, on the principle we are explaining, so as to make the steps such that the pupils _can_ take them. "How many degrees will the sun pass over in three hours?" "Forty-five." "How large a part of that, then, will he pass, in one hour?" "One third of it." "And what is one third of forty-five?" The boys would readily answer fifteen, and the teacher would then dwell for a moment, on the general truth, thus deduced, that the sun, in passing round the earth, passes over fifteen degrees every hour. "Suppose then it takes the sun one hour to go from us to the river Mississippi, how many degrees west of us, would the river be?" Having thus familiarized the pupils to the fact, that the motion of the sun is a proper measure of the difference of longitude between two places, the teacher must dismiss the subject, for a day, and when the next opportunity of bringing it forward occurs, he would perhaps take up the subject of the sun's motion as a measure of _time_. "Is the sun ever exactly over our heads?" "Is he ever exactly south of us?" "When he is exactly south of us, or in other words, exactly opposite to us, in his course round the earth, he is said to be in our meridian. For the word meridian means a line drawn exactly north or south from any place." There is no limit to the simplicity which may be imparted, even to the most difficult subjects, by subdividing the steps. This point for instance, the meaning of meridian, may be the subject, if it were necessary, of many questions, which would render it simple to the youngest child. The teacher may point to the various articles in the room, or buildings, or other objects without, and ask if they are or are not in his meridian. But to proceed: "When the sun is exactly opposite to us, in the south, at the highest point to which he rises, what o'clock is it?" "When the sun is exactly opposite to us, can he be opposite to the Rocky Mountains?" "Does he get opposite to the Rocky Mountains, before, or after, he is opposite to us?" "When he is opposite to the Rocky Mountains, what o'clock is it there?" "Is it twelve o'clock here, then, before, or after it is twelve o'clock there?" "Suppose the river Mississippi is fifteen degrees from us, how long is it twelve o'clock here, before it is twelve o'clock there?" "When it is twelve o'clock here then, what time will it be there?" Some will probably answer "one," and some "eleven." If so, the step is too long, and may be subdivided thus: "When it is noon here, is the sun going towards the Mississippi, or has he passed it?" "Then has noon gone by, at that river, or has it not yet come?" "Then will it be one hour before, or one hour after noon?" "Then will it be eleven, or one?" Such minuteness and simplicity would, in ordinary cases, not be necessary. I go into it here, merely to show, how, by simply subdividing the steps, a subject ordinarily perplexing, may be made plain. The reader will observe that in the above, there are no explanations by the teacher, there are not even leading questions; that is, there are no questions whose form suggests the answers desired. The pupil goes on from step to step, simply because he has but one short step to take at a time. "Can it be noon, then," continues the teacher, "here and at a place fifteen degrees west of us, at the same time?" "Can it be noon here, and at a place ten miles west of us, at the same time?" It is unnecessary to continue the illustration, for it will be very evident to every reader, that by going forward in this way, the whole subject may be laid out before the pupils, so that they shall perfectly understand it. They can, by a series of questions like the above, be led to see by their own reasoning, that time, as denoted by the clock, must differ in every two places, not upon the same meridian, and that the difference must be exactly proportional to the difference of longitude. So that a watch, which is right in one place, cannot, strictly speaking, be right in any other place, east or west of the first: and that, if the time of day, at two places, can be compared, either by taking a chronometer from one to another, or by observing some celestial phenomenon, like the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites, and ascertaining precisely the time of their occurrence, according to the reckoning at both; the distances east or west, by degrees, may be determined. The reader will observe, too, that the method by which this explanation is made, is strictly in accordance with the principle I am illustrating,--which is by simply _dividing the process into short steps_. There is no ingenious reasoning on the part of the teacher, no happy illustrations; no apparatus, no diagrams. It is a pure process of mathematical reasoning, made clear and easy by _simple analysis_. In applying this method, however, the teacher should be very careful not to subdivide too much. It is best that the pupils should walk as fast as they can. The object of the teacher should be to smooth the path, not much more than barely enough to enable the pupil to go on. He should not endeavor to make it very easy. (2.) Truths must not only be taught to the pupils, but they must be _fixed_, and _made familiar_. This is a point which seems to be very generally overlooked. "Can you say the Multiplication Table?" said a teacher, to a boy, who was standing before him, in his class. "Yes sir." "Well, I should like to have you say the line beginning nine times one." The boy repeated it slowly, but correctly. "Now I should like to have you try again, and I will, at the same time, say another line, to see if I can put you out." The boy looked surprised. The idea of his teacher's trying to perplex and embarrass him, was entirely new. "You must not be afraid," said the teacher; "you will undoubtedly not succeed in getting through, but you will not be to blame for the failure. I only try it, as a sort of intellectual experiment." The boy accordingly began again, but was soon completely confused by the teacher's accompaniment; he stopped in the middle of his line saying, "I could say it, only you put me out." "Well, now try to say the Alphabet, and let me see if I can put you out there." As might have been expected the teacher failed. The boy went regularly onward to the end. "You see now," said the teacher to the class which had witnessed the experiment, "that this boy knows his Alphabet, in a different sense, from that in which he knows his Multiplication table. In the latter, his knowledge is only imperfectly his own; he can make use of it only under favorable circumstances. In the former it is entirely his own; circumstances have no control over him." A child has a lesson in Latin Grammar to recite. She hesitates and stammers, miscalls the cases, and then corrects herself, and if she gets through at last, she considers herself as having recited well; and very many teachers would consider it well too. If she hesitates a little longer than usual, in trying to summon to her recollection a particular word, she says, perhaps, "Don't tell me," and if she happens at last to guess right, she takes her book with a countenance beaming with satisfaction. "Suppose you had the care of an infant school," might the instructer say to such a scholar; "and were endeavoring to teach a little child to count, and she should recite her lesson to you in this way; 'One, two, four, no, three;--one, two, three,-- -- stop, don't tell me,--five--no four--four--, five,-- -- -- I shall think in a minute,--six--is that right? five, six, &c.' Should you call that reciting well?" Nothing is more common than for pupils to say, when they fail of reciting their lesson, that they could say it at their seats, but that they cannot now say it, before the class. When such a thing is said for the first time, it should not be severely reproved, because nine children in ten honestly think, that if the lesson was learned so that it could be recited any where, their duty is discharged. But it should be kindly, though distinctly explained to them, that, in the business of life, they must have their knowledge so much at command, that they can use it, at all times, and in all circumstances, or it will do them little good. One of the most common causes of difficulty in pursuing mathematical studies, or studies of any kind, where the succeeding lessons depend upon those which precede, is the fact that the pupil, though he may understand what precedes, is not _familiar_ with it. This is very strikingly the case with Geometry. The class study the definitions, and the teacher supposes they fully understand them; in fact, they do _understand_ them, but the name and the thing are so feebly connected in their minds, that a direct effort, and a short pause, are necessary to recall the idea, when they hear or see the word. When they come on therefore to the demonstrations, which, in themselves, would be difficult enough, they have double duty to perform. The words used do not readily suggest the idea, and the connexion of the ideas requires careful study. Under this double burden, many a young geometrician sinks discouraged. A class should go on slowly, and dwell on details, so long as to fix firmly, and make perfectly familiar, whatever they undertake to learn. In this manner, the knowledge they acquire will become their own. It will be incorporated, as it were, into their very minds, and they cannot afterwards be deprived of it. The exercises which have for their object this rendering familiar what has been learned, may be so varied as to interest the pupil very much, instead of being tiresome, as it might, at first be supposed. Suppose, for instance, a teacher has explained to a large class in grammar, the difference between an adjective and an adverb: if he leave it here, in a fortnight, one half would have forgotten the distinction, but by dwelling upon it, a few lessons, he may fix it for ever. The first lesson might be to write twenty short sentences containing only adjectives. The second to write twenty, containing only adverbs. The third, to write sentences in two forms, one containing the adjective, and the other expressing the same idea by means of the adverb, arranging them in two columns, thus, He writes well. | His writing is good. Again, they may make out a list of adjectives, with the adverbs derived from each, in another column. Then they may classify adverbs on the principle of their meaning, or according to their termination. The exercise may be infinitely varied, and yet the object of the whole may be, to make _perfectly familiar_, and to fix for ever in the mind, the distinction explained. These two points seem to me to be fundamental, so far as assisting pupils through the difficulties which lie in their way, is concerned. Diminish the difficulties as far as is necessary, by merely shortening and simplifying the steps, and make thorough work as you go on. These principles carried steadily into practice, will be effectual, in leading any mind through any difficulties which may occur. And though they cannot perhaps be fully applied to every mind, in a large school, yet they can be so far acted upon, in reference to the whole mass, as to accomplish the object for a very large majority. 3. _General cautions._ A few miscellaneous suggestions, which we shall include under this head, will conclude this chapter. (1.) Never do any thing _for_ a scholar, but teach him to do it for himself. How many cases occur, in the schools of our country, where the boy brings his slate to the teacher, saying he cannot do a certain sum. The teacher takes the slate and pencil,--performs the work in silence,--brings the result,--and returns the slate to the hands of his pupil, who walks off to his seat, and goes to work on the next example; perfectly satisfied with the manner in which he is passing on. A man who has not done this a hundred times himself, will hardly believe it possible that such a practice can prevail. It is so evidently a waste of time, both for master and scholar. (2.) Never get out of patience with dulness. Perhaps I ought to say, never get out of patience with any thing. That would perhaps be the wisest rule. But above all things, remember that dulness and stupidity, and you will certainly find them in every school, are the very last things to get out of patience with. If the Creator has so formed the mind of a boy, that he must go through life slowly and with difficulty, impeded by obstructions which others do not feel, and depressed by discouragements which others never know, his lot is surely hard enough, without having you to add to it the trials and suffering, which sarcasm and reproach from you, can heap upon him. Look over your school-room, therefore, and wherever you find one, whom you perceive the Creator to have endued with less intellectual power than others, fix your eye upon him with an expression of kindness and sympathy. Such a boy will have suffering enough from the selfish tyranny of his companions; he ought to find in you, a protector and friend. One of the greatest pleasures which a teacher's life affords, is, the interest of seeking out such an one, bowed down with burdens of depression and discouragement,--unaccustomed to sympathy and kindness, and expecting nothing for the future, but a weary continuation of the cheerless toils, which have imbittered the past;--and the pleasure of taking off the burden, of surprising the timid disheartened sufferer by kind words and cheering looks, and of seeing, in his countenance, the expression of ease and even of happiness, gradually returning. (3.)The teacher should be interested in _all_ his scholars, and aim equally to secure the progress of all. Let there be no neglected ones in the school room. We should always remember that, however unpleasant in countenance and manners that bashful boy, in the corner, may be, or however repulsive in appearance, or unhappy in disposition, that girl, seeming to be interested in nobody, and nobody appearing interested in her, they still have, each of them, a mother, who loves her own child, and takes a deep and constant interest in its history. Those mothers have a right too, that their children should receive their full share of attention, in a school which has been established for the common and equal benefit of all. (4.) Do not hope or attempt to make all your pupils alike. Providence has determined that human minds should differ from each other, for the very purpose of giving variety and interest to this busy scene of life. Now if it were possible for a teacher, so to plan his operations, as to send his pupils forth upon the community, formed on the same model, as if they were made by machinery, he would do so much, towards spoiling one of the wisest of the plans which the Almighty has formed, for making this world a happy scene. Let it be the teacher's aim to cooperate with, not vainly to attempt to thwart the designs of Providence. We should bring out those powers with which the Creator has endued the minds placed under our control. We must open our garden to such influences as shall bring forward all the plants, each, in a way corresponding to its own nature. It is impossible, if it were wise, and it would be foolish, if it were possible, to stimulate, by artificial means, the rose, in hope of its reaching the size and magnitude of the apple-tree, or to try to cultivate the fig and the orange, where wheat only will grow. No; it should be the teacher's main design, to shelter his pupils from every deleterious influence, and to bring every thing to bear upon the community of minds before him, which will encourage, in each one, the developement of its own native powers. For the rest, he must remember that his province is to cultivate, not to create. Error on this point, is very common. Many teachers, even among those who have taken high rank, through the success with which they have labored in this field, have wasted much time, in attempting to do what can never be done; to form the character of those brought under their influence, after a certain uniform model, which they have conceived as the standard of excellence. Their pupils must write just such a hand, they must compose in just such a style, they must be similar in sentiment and feeling, and their manners must be formed according to a fixed and uniform model; and when, in such a case, a pupil comes under their charge whom Providence has designed to be entirely different from the beau ideal adopted as the standard, more time and pains, and anxious solicitude is wasted in vain attempts to produce the desired conformity, than half the school require beside. (5.) Do not allow the faults or obliquities of character, or the intellectual or moral wants, of any individual, of your pupils, to engross a disproportionate share of your time. I have already said, that those who are peculiarly in need of sympathy or help, should receive the special attention they seem to require; what I mean to say now, is, do not carry this to an extreme. When a parent sends you a pupil, who, in consequence of neglect or mismanagement, at home, has become wild and ungovernable, and full of all sorts of wickedness, he has no right to expect, that you shall turn your attention away from the wide field, which, in your whole school-room, lies before you, to spend your time, and exhaust your spirits and strength, in endeavoring to repair the injuries which his own neglect has occasioned. When you open a school, you do not engage, either openly or tacitly, to make every pupil who may be sent to you, a learned or a virtuous man. You do engage to give them all faithful instruction, and to bestow upon each such a degree of attention, as is consistent with the claims of the rest. But it is both unwise and unjust, to neglect the many trees in your nursery, which by ordinary attention, may be made to grow straight and tall, and to bear good fruit, that you may waste your labor upon a crooked stick, from which all your toil can secure very little beauty or fruitfulness. Let no one now understand me to say, that such cases are to be neglected. I admit the propriety, and in fact, have urged the duty, of paying to them a little more than their due share of attention. What I now condemn is the practice, of which all teachers are in danger, of devoting such a disproportionate and unreasonable degree of attention to them, as to encroach upon their duties to others. The school, the whole school, is your field, the elevation _of the mass_, in knowledge and virtue, and no individual instance, either of dulness or precocity, should draw you away from its steady pursuit. (6.) The teacher should guard against unnecessarily imbibing those faulty mental habits, to which his station and employment expose him. Accustomed to command, and to hold intercourse with minds which are immature and feeble, compared with our own, we gradually acquire habits, that the rough collisions and the friction of active life, prevent from gathering around other men. Narrowminded prejudices and prepossessions are imbibed, through the facility, with which, in our own little community, we adopt and maintain opinions. A too strong confidence in our own views on every subject, almost inevitably comes, from never hearing our opinions contradicted or called in question; and we express those opinions in a tone of authority and even sometimes of arrogance, which we acquire in the school-room, for there, when we speak, nobody can reply. These peculiarities show themselves first, and in fact, most commonly, in the school-room; and the opinions thus formed, very often relate to the studies and management of the school. One has a peculiar mode of teaching spelling, which is successful almost entirely through the magic influence of his interest in it, and he thinks no other mode of teaching this branch, is even tolerable. Another must have all his pupils write on the angular system, or the anti-angular system, and he enters with all the zeal into a controversy on the subject, as if the destiny of the whole rising generation, depended upon its decision. Tell him that all that is of any consequence in any handwriting, is, that it should be legible, rapid, and uniform, and that, for the rest, it would be better that every human being should write a different hand, and he looks upon you with astonishment, wondering that you cannot see the vital importance of the question, whether the vertex of an o should be pointed or round. So in every thing. He has _his way_ in every minute particular,--a way from which he cannot deviate, and to which he wishes every one else to conform. This set, formal mannerism is entirely inconsistent with that commanding, intellectual influence, which the teacher should exert in the administration of his school. He should work, with what an artist calls boldness and freedom of touch. Activity and enterprise of mind should characterize all his measures, if he wishes to make bold, original, and efficient men. (7.) Assume no false appearances, in your school, either as to knowledge or character. Perhaps it may justly be said to be the common practice of teachers in this country, to affect dignity of deportment in the presence of their pupils, which, in other cases, is laid aside; and to pretend to superiority in knowledge, and an infallibility of judgment, which no sensible man would claim before other sensible men, but which an absurd fashion seems to require of the teacher. It can however scarcely be said to be a fashion, for the temptation is almost exclusively confined to the young and the ignorant, who think they must make up by appearance, what they want in reality. Very few of the older, and more experienced, and successful instructers in our country, fall into it at all. But some young beginner, whose knowledge is very limited, and who, in manner and habits, has only just ceased to be a boy, walks into his school-room with a countenance of forced gravity, and with a dignified and solemn step, which is ludicrous even to himself. I describe accurately, for I describe from recollection. This unnatural, and forced, and ludicrous dignity, cleaves to him like disease, through the whole period of his duty. In the presence of his scholars, he is always under restraint,--assuming a stiff, and formal dignity, which is as ridiculous as it is unnatural. He is also obliged to resort to arts which are certainly not very honorable, to conceal his ignorance. A scholar, for example, brings him a sum in arithmetic, which he does not know how to perform. This may be the case with a most excellent teacher,--and one well qualified for his business. In order to be successful as a teacher, it is not necessary to understand every thing. Instead, however, of saying frankly, I do not understand that example, I will look at it and examine it, he looks at it embarrassed and perplexed, not knowing how he shall escape the exposure of his ignorance. His first thought is, to give some general directions to the pupil, and send him to his seat to make a new experiment, hoping that in some way or other, he scarcely knows how, he will get through; and, at any rate, if he does not, the teacher at least gains time by manoeuvre, and is glad to postpone his trouble, though he knows it must soon return. All efforts to conceal ignorance, and all affectation of knowledge not possessed, are as unwise as they are dishonest. If a scholar asks a question which you cannot answer, or brings you a difficulty which you cannot solve, say frankly, "I do not know." It is the only way to avoid continual anxiety and irritation, and the surest means of securing real respect. Let the scholars understand that the superiority of the teacher does not consist in his infallibility, or in his universal acquisitions, but in a well balanced mind, where the boundary between knowledge and ignorance is distinctly marked; in a strong desire to go forward, in mental improvement; and in fixed principles of action, and systematic habits. You may even take up in school, a study entirely new to you, and have it understood at the outset, that you know no more of it than the class commencing, but that you can be their guide, on account of the superior maturity and discipline of your powers, and the comparative ease with which you can meet and overcome difficulties. This is the understanding which ought always to exist between master and scholars. The fact that the teacher does not know every thing, cannot long be concealed, if he tries to conceal it; and in this, as in every other case, HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY. CHAPTER IV. MORAL DISCIPLINE. Under the title which I have placed at the head of this chapter, I intend to discuss the methods by which the teacher is to secure a moral ascendency over his pupils, so that he may lead them to do what is right, and bring them back to duty, when they do what is wrong. I shall use, in what I have to say, a very plain and familiar style; and as very much depends, not only on the general principles by which the teacher is actuated, but also on the tone and manner in which, in cases of discipline, he addresses his pupils, I shall describe particular cases, real and imaginary, because by this method, I can better illustrate the course to be pursued. I shall also present and illustrate the various principles which I consider important, and in the order in which they occur to my mind. 1. The first duty then, of the teacher, when he enters his school, is, to beware of the danger of making an unfavorable impression, at first, upon his pupils. Many years ago, when I was a child, the teacher of the school where my early studies were performed, closed his connexion with the establishment, and, after a short vacation, another was expected. On the appointed day, the boys began to collect, some from curiosity, at an early hour, and many speculations were started, as to the character of the new instructer. We were standing near a table, with our hats on,--and our position, and the exact appearance of the group is indelibly fixed on my memory,--when a small and youthful looking man, entered the room, and walked up towards us. Supposing him to be some stranger, or rather, not making any supposition at all, we stood looking at him as he approached, and were thunder-struck at hearing him accost us with a stern voice and sterner brow, "Take off your hats. Take off your hats, and go to your seats." The conviction immediately rushed upon our minds, that this must be our new teacher. The first emotion was that of surprise, and the second was that of the ludicrous; though I believe we contrived to smother the laugh, until we got out into the open air. So long since was this little occurrence, that I have entirely forgotten the name of the teacher, and have not the slightest recollection of any other act in his administration of the school. But this recollection of his first greeting of his pupils, and the expression of his countenance at the moment, will go with me to the end of life. So strong are first impressions. Be careful, then, when you first see your pupils, that you meet them with a smile. I do not mean a pretended cordiality, which has no existence in the heart, but think of the relation, which you are to sustain to them, and think of the very interesting circumstances, under which, for some months at least, your destinies are to be united to theirs, until you cannot help feeling a strong interest in them. Shut your eyes, for a day or two, to their faults, if possible, and take an interest in all their pleasures and pursuits, that the first attitude, in which you exhibit yourself before them, may be one, which shall allure, not repel. 2. In endeavoring to correct the faults of your pupils, do not, as many teachers do, seize only upon _those particular cases_ of transgression, which may happen to come under your notice. These individual instances are very few, probably, compared with the whole number of faults, against which you ought to exert an influence. And though you perhaps ought not to neglect those, which may accidentally come under your notice, yet the observing and punishing such cases, is a very small part of your duty. You accidentally hear, I will suppose, as you are walking home from school, two of your boys in earnest conversation, and one of them uses profane language. Now, the course to be pursued in such a case, is most evidently, not to call the boy to you, the next day, and punish him, and there let the matter rest. This would perhaps be better than nothing. But the chief impression which it would make upon the individual, and upon the other scholars, would be, "I must take care how I _let the master hear me_ use such language again." A wise teacher, who takes enlarged and extended views of his duty, in regard to the moral progress of his pupils, would act very differently. He would look at the whole subject. "Does this fault," he would say to himself, "prevail among my pupils? If so, how extensively?" It is comparatively of little consequence to punish the particular transgression. The great point is, to devise some plan to reach the whole evil, and to correct it, if possible. In one case, where such a circumstance occurred, the teacher managed it most successfully, in the following way. He said nothing to the boy, and in fact, the boy did not know that he was overheard. He allowed a day or two to elapse, so that the conversation might be forgotten, and then took an opportunity, one day, after school, when all things had gone on pleasantly, and the school was about to be closed, to bring forward the whole subject. He told the boys that he had something to say to them, after they had laid by their books, and were ready to go. The desks were soon closed, and every face in the room was turned towards the master, with a look of fixed attention. It was almost evening. The sun had gone down. The boys' labors were over. The day was done, and their minds were at rest, and every thing was favorable for making a deep and permanent impression. "A few days ago," says the teacher, when all was still, "I accidentally overheard some conversation between two of the boys of this school, and one of them swore." There was a pause. "Perhaps you expect that I am now going to call the boy out, and punish him. Is that what I ought to do?" There was no answer. "I think a boy who uses bad language of any kind, does what he knows is wrong. He breaks God's commands. He does what he knows would be displeasing to his parents, and he sets a bad example. He does wrong, therefore, and justly deserves punishment." There were, of course, many boys, who felt that they were in danger. Every one, who had used profane language, was aware that he might be the one, who had been overheard, and, of course, all were deeply interested in what the teacher was saying. "He might, I say," continued the teacher, "justly be punished, but I am not going to punish him; for if I should, I am afraid that it would only make him a little more careful hereafter, not to commit this sin when I could possibly be within hearing, instead of persuading him, as I wish to, to avoid such a sin, in future, altogether. I am satisfied that that boy would be far happier, even in this world, if he would make it a principle always to do his duty, and never, in any case, to do wrong. And then when I think how soon he, and all of us will be in another world, where we shall all be judged for what we do here, I feel strongly desirous of persuading him to abandon entirely this practice. I am afraid that punishing him now, would not do that." "Besides," continues the teacher, "I think it very probable that there are many other boys in this school, who are sometimes guilty of this fault, and I have thought that it would be a great deal better and happier for us all, if, instead of punishing this particular boy, whom I have accidentally overheard, and who probably is not more to blame than many other boys in school, I should bring up the whole subject, and endeavor to persuade all to reform." I am aware that there are, unfortunately, in our country, a great many teachers, from whose lips, such an appeal as this, would be wholly in vain. The man who is accustomed to scold, and storm, and punish, with unsparing severity, every transgression, under the influence of irritation and anger, must not expect that he can win over his pupils to confidence in him, and to the principles of duty, by a word. But such an appeal will not be lost, when it comes from a man, whose daily and habitual management corresponds with it. But to return to the story: The teacher made some farther remarks, explaining the nature of the sin, not in the language of execration, and affected abhorrence, but calmly, temperately, and without any disposition to make the worst of the occurrence which had taken place. In concluding what he said, he addressed the boys as follows: "Now boys, the question is, do you wish to abandon this habit, or not; if you do, all is well. I shall immediately forget all the past, and will do all I can to help you resist and overcome temptation in future. But all I can do, is, only to help you; and the first thing to be done, if you wish to engage in this work of reform, is, to acknowledge your fault; and I should like to know how many are willing to do this." "I wish all those who are willing to tell me whether they use profane language, would rise." Every individual but one, rose. "I am very glad to see so large a number," said the teacher; "and I hope you will find that the work of confessing and forsaking your faults, is, on the whole, pleasant, not painful business. Now those who can truly and honestly say, that they never do use profane language, of any kind, may take their seats." Three only, of the whole number, which consisted of not far from 20, sat down. It was in a sea-port town, where the temptation to yield to this vice is even greater, than would be, in the interior of our country, supposed possible. "Those who are now standing," pursued the teacher, "admit that they do, sometimes at least, commit this sin. I suppose all, however, are determined to reform; for I do not know what else should induce you to rise and acknowledge it here, unless it is a desire, hereafter to break yourselves of the habit. But do you suppose that it will be enough for you merely to resolve here, that you will reform?" "No sir," said the boys. "Why? If you now sincerely determine never more to use a profane word, will you not easily avoid it?" The boys were silent. Some said faintly, "No sir." "It will not be easy for you to avoid the sin hereafter," continued the teacher, "even if you do now, sincerely and resolutely, determine to do so. You have formed the habit of sin, and the habit will not be easily overcome. But I have detained you long enough now. I will try to devise some method, by which you may carry your plan into effect, and to-morrow I wilt tell you what it is." So they were dismissed for the day. The pleasant countenance and cheerful tone of the teacher conveying to them the impression, that they were engaging in the common effort to accomplish a most desirable purpose, in which they were to receive the teacher's help; not that he was pursuing them, with threatening and punishment, into the forbidden practice into which they had wickedly strayed. Great caution is however, in such a case, necessary, to guard against the danger, that the teacher, in attempting to avoid the tones of irritation and anger, should so speak of the sin, as to blunt their sense of its guilt, and lull their consciences into a slumber. At the appointed time, on the following day, the subject was again brought before the school, and some plans proposed, by which the resolutions now formed, might be more certainly kept. These plans were readily and cheerfully adopted by the boys, and in a short time, the vice of profaneness was, in a great degree, banished from the school. This whole account is substantially fact. I hope the reader will keep in mind the object of the above illustration, which is to show, that it is the true policy of the teacher, not to waste his time and strength, in contending against _such accidental instances_ of transgression, as may chance to fall under his notice, but to take an enlarged and extended view of the whole ground, endeavoring to remove _whole classes of faults_,--to elevate and improve _multitudes, together_. By these means, his labors will not only be more effectual, but far more pleasant. You cannot come into collision with an individual scholar, to punish him for a mischievous spirit, or even to rebuke him for some single act, by which he has given you trouble, without an uncomfortable and uneasy feeling, which makes, in ordinary cases, the discipline of a school, the most unpleasant part of a teacher's duty. But you can plan a campaign against a whole class of faults, and put into operation a system of measures to correct them, and watch from day to day the operation of that system, with all the spirit and interest of a game. It is in fact a game, where your ingenuity and moral power are brought into the field, in opposition to the evil tendencies of the hearts which are under your influence. You will notice the success or the failure of the means you may put into operation, with all the interest with which the experimental philosopher observes the curious processes he guides; though your interest may be much purer and higher; for he works upon matter, but you are experimenting upon mind. Remember then, as, for the first time you take your new station, that it is not your duty, simply to watch with an eagle eye for those accidental instances of transgression, which may chance to fall under your notice; you are to look over the whole ground; you are to make yourself acquainted, as soon as possible, with the classes of character, and classes of faults, which may prevail in your dominions, and to form deliberate and well digested plans, for improving the one and correcting the other. And this is to be the course pursued, not only with great delinquencies, such as those to which I have already alluded, but to every little transgression against the rules of order and propriety. You can correct them far more easily and pleasantly in the mass, than in detail. To illustrate this principle by another case. A teacher, who takes the course I am condemning, approaches the seat of one of his pupils, and asks to see one of his books. As the boy opens his desk, the teacher observes that it is in complete disorder. Books, maps, papers, playthings, are there in promiscuous confusion; and from the impulse of the moment, the displeased teacher pours out upon the poor boy a torrent of reproach. "What a looking desk! Why, John! I am really ashamed of you. Look," continues he, holding up the lid, so that the boys in the neighborhood can look in; "see what a mass of disorder and confusion. If ever I see your desk in such a state again, I shall most certainly punish you." The boys around laugh; very equivocally, however, for with the feeling of amusement, there is mingled the fear that the angry master may take it into his head to inspect their dominions. The boy accidentally exposed, looks sullen, and begins to throw his books into some sort of arrangement, just enough to shield himself from the charge of absolutely disobeying, and there the matter ends. Another teacher takes no apparent notice of the confusion he thus accidentally witnesses. "I must take up," thinks he to himself, "the subject of order, before the whole school. I have not yet spoken of it." He thanks the boy for the book he borrowed, and goes away. He makes a memorandum of the subject, and the boy does not know that the condition of his desk was noticed; perhaps he does not even know that there was any thing amiss. A day or two after, at a time regularly appropriated to such subjects, he addresses the boys as follows: "In our efforts to improve the school as much as possible, there is one subject, which we must not forget. I mean the order of the desks." The boys all begin to open their desk lids. "You may stop a moment," says the teacher. "I shall give you all an opportunity to examine your desks presently." "I do not know what the condition of your desks is. I have not examined them, and have not, in fact, seen the inside of more than one or two. As I have not brought up this subject before, I presume that there are a great many, which can be arranged better than they are. Will you all now look into your desks, and see whether you consider them in good order. Stop a moment however. Let me tell you what good order is. All those things which are alike, should be arranged together. Books should be in one place, papers in another, and thus every thing should be classified. Again, every thing should be so placed that it can be taken out without disturbing other _things_. There is another principle also, which I will mention, the various articles should have _constant_ places,--that is, they should not be changed from day to day. By this means, you soon remember where every thing belongs, and you can put away your things much more easily every night, than if you had every night to arrange them in a new way. Now will you look into your desks, and tell me whether they are, on these three principles, well arranged." The boys of most schools, where this subject had not been regularly attended to, would nearly all answer in the negative. "I will allow you then, some time to-day, fifteen minutes to arrange them, and I hope you will try to keep them in good order hereafter. A few days hence, I shall examine them. If any of you wish for assistance or advice from me, in putting them in order, I shall be happy to render it." By such a plan, which will occupy but little more time than the irritating and useless scolding, which I supposed in the other case, how much more will be accomplished. Such an address would, of itself, probably, be the means of putting in order, and keeping in order, at least one half; and following up the plan in the same manner, and in the same spirit, with which it was begun, would secure the rest. I repeat it, therefore, make it a principle in all cases, to aim as much as possible at the correction of those faults which are likely to be general, by _general measures_. You avoid by this means, a vast amount of irritation and impatience, both on your own part, and on the part of your scholars, and you produce at least twenty times the useful effect. 3. The next principle which occurs to me, as deserving the teacher's attention in the outset of his course, is this: Interest your scholars in doing something themselves to elevate the moral character of the school, so as to secure a _decided majority, who will, of their own accord, co-operate with you_. Let your pupils understand, not by any formal speech you make to that effect, but by the manner in which, from time to time, you incidentally allude to the subject, that you consider the school, when you commence it, as _at par_, so to speak,--that is, on a level with other schools, and that your various plans for improving and amending it, are not to be considered in the light of finding fault, and punishing transgressions, and controlling evil propensities, so as just to keep things in a tolerable state; but as efforts to improve and carry forward, to a state of excellence not yet attained, all the affairs of the institution. Such is the tone and manner of some teachers, that they never appear to be more than merely satisfied. When the scholars do right, nothing is said about it. The teacher seems to consider that a matter of course. It does not appear to interest or please him at all. Nothing arouses him, but when they do wrong, and that only excites him to anger and frowns. Now, in such a case, there can of course be no stimulus to effort on the part of the pupils, but the cold and heartless stimulus of fear. Now, it is wrong for the teacher to expect that things will go right in his school, as a matter of course. All that he can expect, _as a matter of course_, is, that things should go on as well as they do ordinarily in schools,--the ordinary amount of idleness,--the ordinary amount of misconduct. This is the most that he can expect to come as a matter of course; he should feel this, and then, all he can gain which will be better than this, will be a source of positive pleasure; a pleasure which his pupils have procured for him, and which consequently they should share. They should understand that the teacher is engaged in various plans for improving the school, in which they should be invited to engage, not from the selfish desire of thereby saving him trouble, but because it will really be happy employment for them to engage in such an enterprise, and because, by such efforts, their own moral powers will be exerted and strengthened in the best possible way. In another chapter, I have explained to what extent, and in what manner, the assistance of the pupils may be usefully and successfully employed, in carrying forward the general arrangements of the school. The same _principles_ will apply here, though perhaps a little more careful and delicate management is necessary, in interesting them in subjects which relate to moral discipline. One important method of doing this, is, to present these plans before the minds of the scholars, as experiments,--moral experiments, whose commencement, progress, and results, they may take a great interest in witnessing. Let us take, for example, the case alluded to under the last head,--the plan of effecting a reform in regard to keeping desks in order. Suppose the teacher were to say, when the time had arrived, at which he had promised to give them an opportunity to put them in order, "I think it would be a good plan to keep some account of our efforts for improving the school in this respect. We might make a record of what we do to-day, noting the day of the month, and the number of desks which may be found to be disorderly. Then at the end of any time you may propose, we will have the desks examined again, and see how many are disorderly. We can then see how much improvement has been made, in that time. Should you like to adopt the plan?" If the boys should appear not much interested in the proposal, the teacher might, at his own discretion, waive it. In all probability, however, they would like it, and would indicate their interest by their countenances, or perhaps by a response. If so, the teacher might proceed. "You may all examine your desks then, and decide whether they are in order, or not. I do not know, however, but that we ought to appoint a committee to examine them; for perhaps all the boys would not be honest, and report their desks as they really are." "Yes sir;" "Yes sir;" say the boys. "Do you mean that you will be honest, or that you would like to have a committee appointed?" There was a confused murmur. Some answer one, and some the other. "I think," proceeds the teacher, "the boys will be honest, and report their desks just as they are. At any rate, the number of dishonest boys in this school, cannot be so large as materially to affect the result. I think we had better take your own statements. As soon as the desks are all examined, those who have found theirs in a condition which does not satisfy them, are requested to rise and be counted." The teacher then looks around the room, and selecting some intelligent boy who has influence among his companions, and whose influence he is particularly desirous of enlisting on the side of good order, says, "Shall I nominate some one to keep an account of this plan?" "Yes sir," say the boys. "Well, I nominate William Jones. How many are in favor of requesting William Jones to perform this duty?" "It is a vote. William, I will thank you to write upon a piece of paper, that on the 8th of December, the subject of order in the desks was brought up, and that the boys resolved on making an effort to improve the school in this respect. Then say, that the boys reported all their desks which they thought were disorderly, and that the number was 35; and that after a week or two, the desks are to be examined again, and the disorderly ones counted, that we may see how much we have improved. After you have written it, you may bring it to me, and I will: tell you whether it is right." "How many desks do you think will be found to be disorderly, when we come to make the examination?" The boys hesitate. The teacher names successively several numbers, and asks, whether they think the real number will be greater or less. He notices their votes upon them, and at last fixes upon one, which seems to be about the general sense of the school. Then the teacher, himself mentions the number, which he supposes will be found to be disorderly. His estimate will ordinarily be larger than that of the scholars; because he knows better how easily resolutions are broken. This number too, is recorded, and then the whole subject is dismissed. Now, of course, no reader of these remarks, will understand me to be recommending, by this imaginary dialogue, (for the whole of it is imaginary,) a particular course to be taken in regard to this subject, far less the particular language to be used. All I mean is, to show by a familiar illustration, how the teacher is to endeavor to enlist the interest, and to excite the curiosity of his pupils, in his plans for the improvement of his school, by presenting them as moral experiments, which they are to assist him in trying,--experiments, whose progress they are to watch, and whose results they are to predict. If the precise steps which I have described, should actually be taken, although it would occupy but a few minutes, and would cause no thought, and no perplexing care, yet it would undoubtedly be the means of awakening a very general interest in the subject of order, throughout the school. All would be interested in the work of arrangement. All would watch, too, with interest, the progress and the result of the experiment; and if, a few days after, the teacher should accidentally, in recess, see a disorderly desk, a pleasant remark, made with a smile, to the bystanders, "I suspect my prediction will turn out the correct one," would have far more effect, than the most severe reproaches, or the tingling of a rap over the knuckles with a rattan. I know, from experience, that scholars of every kind, can be led, by such measures as these, or rather by such a spirit as this, to take an active interest, and to exert a most powerful influence, in regard to the whole condition of the institution. I have seen the experiment successful in boys' schools, and in girls' schools; among very little children, and among the seniors and juniors at college. In one of the colleges of New England, a new and beautiful edifice was erected. The lecture rooms were fitted up in handsome style, and the officers, when the time for the occupation of the building approached, were anticipating with regret, what seemed to be the unavoidable defacing, and cutting, and marking of the seats and walls. It was however thought, that if the subject was properly presented to the students, they would take an interest in preserving the property from injury. They were accordingly addressed somewhat as follows: "It seems, young gentlemen, to be generally the custom in colleges, for the students to ornament the walls and benches of their recitation rooms, with various inscriptions and carricatures, so that after the premises have been for a short time in the possession of a class, every thing within reach, which will take an impression from a penknife, or a trace from a pencil, is covered with names, and dates, and heads, and inscriptions of every kind. The faculty do not know what you wish in this respect, in regard to the new accommodations which the Trustees have now provided for you, and which you are soon to enter. They have had them fitted up for you handsomely, and if you wish to have them kept in good order, we will assist you. If the students think proper to express by a vote, or in any other way, their wish to keep them in good order, we will engage to have such incidental injuries, as may from time to time occur, immediately repaired. Such injuries will, of course, be done; for whatever may be the wish and general opinion of the whole, it is not to be expected that every individual, in so large a community, will be careful. If, however, as a body, you wish to have the building preserved in its present state, and will, as a body, take the necessary precautions, we will do our part." The students responded to this appeal most heartily. They passed a vote, expressing a desire to preserve the premises in order, and for many years, and for ought I know, to the present hour, the whole is kept as a room occupied by gentlemen should be kept. At some other colleges, and those, too, sustaining the very highest rank among the institutions of the country, the doors of the public buildings are sometimes _studded with nails, as thick as they can possibly be driven, and then covered with a thick coat of sand, dried into the paint, as a protection from the knives of the students_!! The particular methods, by which the teacher is to interest his pupils in his various plans for their improvement, cannot be very fully described here. In fact, it does not depend so much on the methods he adopts, as upon the view which he himself takes of these plans, and the _tone and manner in which he speaks of them to his pupils_. A teacher, for example, perhaps on the first day of his labors in a new school, calls a class to read. They pretend to form a line, but it crooks in every direction. One boy is leaning back against a desk; another comes forward as far as possible, to get near the fire; the rest lounge in every position and in every attitude. John is holding up his book high before his face, to conceal an apple, from which he is endeavoring to secure an enormous bite. James is by the same sagacious device, concealing a whisper, which he is addressing to his next neighbor, and Moses is seeking amusement by crowding and elbowing the little boy who is unluckily standing next him. "What a spectacle!" says the master to himself, as he looks at this sad display. "What shall I do?" The first impulse is, to break forth upon them at once, with all the artillery of reproof, and threatening, and punishment. I have seen, in such a case, a scolding and frowning master walk up and down before such a class, with a stern and angry air, commanding this one to stand back, and that to come forward, ordering one boy to put down his book, and scolding at a second for having lost his place, and knocking the knees of another with his rule, because he was out of the line. The boys scowl at their teacher, and, with ill-natured reluctance, they obey, just enough to escape punishment. Another teacher looks calmly at the scene, and says to himself, "What shall I do to remove effectually these evils? If I can but interest the boys in reform, it will be far more easy to effect it, than if I attempt to accomplish it by the mere exercise of my authority." In the meantime, things go on, during the reading, in their own way. The teacher simply _observes_. He is in no haste to commence his operations. He looks for the faults; watches, without seeming to watch, the movements which he is attempting to control. He studies the materials with which he is to work, and lets their true character develope itself. He tries to find something to approve in the exercise, as it proceeds, and endeavors to interest the class, by narrating some fact, connected with the reading, or making some explanation which interests the boys. At the end of the exercise, he addresses them, perhaps, as follows: "I have observed, boys, in some military companies, that the officers are very strict, requiring implicit and precise obedience. The men are required to form a precise line." (Here there is a sort of involuntary movement all along the line, by which, it is very sensibly straightened.) "They make all the men stand erect," (At this word, heads go up, and straggling feet draw in, all along the class,) "in the true military posture. They allow nothing to be done in the ranks, but to attend to the exercise," (John hastily crowds his apple into his pocket,) "and thus they regulate every thing, in exact and steady discipline, so that all things go on in a most systematic and scientific manner. This discipline is so admirable in some countries, especially in Europe, where much greater attention is paid to military tactics than in our country, that I have heard it said by travellers, that some of the soldiers who mount guard at public places, look as much like statues, as they do like living men. "Other commanders act differently. They let the men do pretty much as they please. So you will see such a company lounging into a line, when the drum beats, as if they took little interest in what was going on. While the captain is giving his commands, one is eating his luncheon; another is talking with his next neighbor. Part are out of the line; part lounge on one foot; they hold their guns in every position; and on the whole, present a very disorderly and unsoldier-like appearance. "I have observed, too, that boys very generally prefer to _see_ the strict companies, but perhaps they would prefer to _belong_ to the lax ones." "No sir;" "No sir;" say the boys. "Suppose you all had your choice either to belong to a company like the first one I described, where the captain was strict in all his requirements, or to one like the latter, where you could do pretty much as you pleased, which should you prefer?" Unless I entirely mistaken in my idea of the inclinations of boys, it would be very difficult to get a single honest expression of preference for the latter. They would say with one voice, "The first." "I suppose it would be so. You would be put to some inconvenience by the strict commands of the captain, but then you would be more than paid by the beauty of regularity and order, which you would all witness. There is nothing so pleasant as regularity, and nobody likes regularity more than boys do. To show this, I should like to have you now form a line as exact as you can." After some unnecessary shoving and pushing, increased by the disorderly conduct of a few bad boys, a line is formed. Most of the class are pleased with the experiment, and the teacher takes no notice of the few exceptions. The time to attend to _them_, will come by and by. "Hands down." The boys obey. "Shoulders back." "There;--there is a very perfect line." "Do you stand easily in that position?" "Yes sir." "I believe your position is the military one, now, pretty nearly; and military men study the postures of the human body, for the sake of finding the one most easy; for they wish to preserve as much as possible of the soldiers' strength, for the time of battle. I should like to try the experiment of your standing thus, at the next lesson. It is a very great improvement upon your common mode. Are you willing to do it?" "Yes sir;" say the boys. "You will get tired, I have no doubt. In fact, I do not expect you will succeed, the first day, very well. You will probably become restless and uneasy, before the end of the lesson, especially the smaller boys. I must excuse it, I suppose, if you do, as it will be the first time." By such methods as these, the teacher will certainly secure a majority in favor of all his plans. But perhaps some experienced teacher, who knows from his own repeated difficulties with bad boys, what sort of spirits the teacher of district schools has sometimes to deal with, may ask, as he reads this, "Do you expect that such a method as this, will succeed in keeping your school in order? Why, there are boys in almost every school, whom you would no more coax into obedience and order in this way, than you would persuade the northeast wind to change its course by reasoning." I know there are. And my readers are requested to bear in mind, that my object is not now to show, how the whole government of the school may be secured, but how one important advantage may be gained, which will assist in accomplishing the object. All I should expect or hope for, by such measures as these, is _to interest and gain over to our side, the majority_. What is to be done with those who cannot be reached by such kinds of influence, I shall endeavor presently to show. The object now is, simply to gain the _majority_,--to awaken a general interest, which you can make effectual in promoting your plans, and thus to narrow the field of discipline, by getting those right, who can be got right by such measures. Thus securing a majority to be on your side in the general administration of the school, is absolutely indispensable to success. A teacher may, by the force of mere authority, so control his pupils, as to preserve order in the school-room, and secure a tolerable progress in study, but the heart will not be in it. The progress in knowledge must accordingly be, in ordinary cases, slow, and the cultivation of moral principle must be, in such a case, entirely neglected. The principles of duty cannot be inculcated by fear; and though pain and terror must, in many instances, be called in to coerce an individual offender, whom milder measures will not reach, yet these agents, and others like them, can never be successfully employed, as the ordinary motives to action. They cannot produce any thing but mere external and heartless obedience in the presence of the teacher, with an inclination to throw off all restraint, when the pressure of stern authority is removed. We should all remember that our pupils are, but a very short time, under our direct control. Even when they are in school, the most untiring vigilance will not enable us to watch, except for a very small portion of the time, any individual. Many hours of the day, too, they are entirely removed from our inspection, and a few months will take them away from us altogether. Subjecting them then to mere external restraint, is a very inadequate remedy for the moral evil, to which they are exposed. What we aim at, is to bring forward and strengthen an internal principle, which will act, when both parent and teacher are away, and control where external circumstances are all unfavorable. I have thus far under this head, been endeavoring to show the importance of securing, by gentle measures, a majority of the scholars, to co-operate with the teacher in his plans. The methods of doing this, demand a little attention. (1.) The teacher should study human nature as it exhibits itself in the school-room, by taking an interest in the sports and enjoyments of the pupils, and connecting, as much as possible, what is interesting and agreeable, with the pursuits of the school, so as to lead the scholars to like the place. An attachment to the institution and to the duties of it, will give the teacher a very strong hold upon the community of mind which exists there. (2.) Every thing which is unpleasant in the discipline of the school should be attended to, as far as possible, privately. Sometimes it is necessary to bring a case forward in public, for reproof or punishment, but this is seldom. In some schools, it is the custom to postpone cases of discipline, till the close of the day, and then, just before the boys are dismissed at night, all the difficulties are settled. Thus, day after day, the impression which is last made upon their minds, is received from a season of suffering, and terror, and tears. Now such a practice may be attended with many advantages, but it seems to be, on the whole, unwise. Awing the pupils, by showing them the consequences of doing wrong, should be very seldom resorted to. It is far better to allure them, by showing them the pleasures of doing right. Doing right is pleasant to every body, and no persons are so easily convinced of this, or rather so easily led to see it, as children. Now the true policy is, to let them experience the pleasure of doing their duty, and they will easily be allured to it. In many cases, where a fault has been publicly committed, it seems, at first view, to be necessary that it should be publicly punished; but the end will, in most cases, be answered, if it is noticed publicly, so that the pupils may know that it received attention, and then the ultimate disposal of the case, may be made a private affair, between the teacher and the individual concerned. If, however, every case of disobedience, or idleness, or disorder, is brought out publicly before the school, so that all witness the teacher's displeasure, and feel the effects of it, (for to witness it, is to feel its most unpleasant effects,) the school becomes, in a short time, hardened to such scenes. Unpleasant associations become connected with the management of the school, and the scholars are prepared to do wrong with less reluctance, since the consequence is only a repetition of what they are obliged to see every day. Besides, if a boy does something wrong, and you severely reprove him in the presence of his class, you punish the class, almost as much as you do him. In fact, in many cases, you punish them more; for I believe it is almost invariably more unpleasant for a good boy to stand by and listen to rebukes, than for a bad boy to take them. Keep these things, therefore, as much as possible, out of sight. Never bring forward cases of discipline, except on mature deliberation, and for a distinct and well-defined purpose. (3.) Never bring forward a case of discipline of this kind, unless you are sure that public opinion will go in your favor. If a case comes up, in which the sympathy of the scholars is excited for the criminal, in such a way as to be against yourself, it will always do more harm than good. Now this, unless there is great caution, will often be the case. In fact, it is probable that a very large proportion of the punishments which are ordinarily inflicted in schools, only prepare the way for more offences. It is, however, possible to bring forward individual cases in such a way, as to produce a very strong moral effect, of the right kind. This is to be done by seizing upon those peculiar emergencies, which will arise in the course of the administration of a school, and which each teacher must watch for, and discover himself. They cannot be pointed out. I may, however, give a clearer idea of what is meant, by such emergencies, by an example. It is a case which actually occurred, as here narrated. In a school where nearly all the pupils were faithful and docile, there were one or two boys, who were determined to find amusement in those mischievous tricks, so common in schools and colleges. There was one boy in particular, who was the life and soul of all these plans. Devoid of principle, idle as a scholar, morose and sullen in his manners, he was, in every respect, a true specimen of the whole class of mischief-makers, wherever they are to be found. His mischief consisted, as usual, in such exploits as stopping up the keyhole, upsetting the teacher's inkstand, or fixing something to his desk to make a noise, and interrupt the school. It so happened, that there was a standing feud between the boys of his neighborhood, and those of another, situated a mile or two from it. By his malicious activity, he had stimulated this quarrel to a high pitch, and was very obnoxious to the boys of the other party. One day, when taking a walk, the teacher observed a number of boys with excited looks, and armed with sticks and stones, standing around a shoe-maker's shop, to which his poor pupil had gone for refuge from them. They had got him completely within their power, and were going to wait until he should be wearied with his confinement, and come out, when they were going to inflict upon him the punishment they thought he deserved. The teacher interfered, and by the united influence of authority, management, and persuasion, succeeded in effecting a rescue. The boy would probably have preferred to owe his safety to any one else, than to the teacher, whom he had so often tried to tease; but he was glad to escape in any way. The teacher said nothing about the subject, and the boy soon supposed it was entirely forgotten. But it was not forgotten. The teacher knew perfectly well that the boy would, before long, be at his old tricks again, and was reserving this story as the means of turning the whole current of public opinion against such tricks should they again occur. One day he came to school, in the afternoon, and found the room filled with smoke; the doors and windows were all closed, though, as soon as he came in, some of the boys opened them. He knew by this circumstance, that it was roguery, not accident, which caused the smoke. He appeared not to notice it, however, said he was sorry it smoked, and asked the mischievous boy, for he was sure to be always near in such a case, to help him fix the fire. The boy supposed it was understood to be accidental, and perhaps secretly laughed at the dulness of his master. In the course of the afternoon, the teacher ascertained, by private inquiries, that his suspicions were correct, as to the author of the mischief. At the close of school, when the studies were ended, and the books laid away, he told the scholars that he wanted to tell them a story. He then, with a pleasant tone and manner, gave a very minute, and, to the boys, a very interesting narrative of his adventure, two or three weeks before, when he rescued this boy from his danger. He called him, however, simply _a boy_, without mentioning his name, or even hinting that he was a member of the school. No narrative could excite a stronger interest among an audience of school-boys, than such an one as this; and no act of kindness from a teacher, would make as vivid an impression, as interfering to rescue a trembling captive, from such a situation as the one this boy had been in. The scholars listened with profound interest and attention, and though the teacher said little about his share in the affair, and spoke of what he did, as if it were a matter of course, that he should thus befriend a boy in distress, an impression, very favorable to himself, must have been made. After he had finished his narrative, he said, "Now should you like to know who this boy was?" "Yes sir;" "Yes sir;" said they, eagerly. "It was a boy that you all know." The boys looked around upon one another. Who could it be? "He is a member of this school." There was an expression of fixed, and eager, and increasing interest, on every face in the room. "He is here now," said the teacher, winding up the interest and curiosity of the scholars, by these words, to the highest pitch. "But I cannot tell you his name; for what return do you think he made to me? To be sure it was no very great favor that I did him; I should have been unworthy the name of teacher, if I had not done it for him, or for any boy in my school. But at any rate, it showed my good wishes for him,--it showed that I was his friend, and what return do you think he made me for it? Why, to-day he spent his time between schools in filling the room with smoke, that he might torment his companions here, and give me trouble, and anxiety and suffering, when I should come. If I should tell you his name, the whole school would turn against him for his ingratitude." The business ended here, and it put a stop, a final stop to all malicious tricks in the school. Now it is not very often that so fine an opportunity occurs, to kill, by a single blow, the disposition to do wilful, wanton injury, as this circumstance afforded; but the principle illustrated by it,--bringing forward individual cases of transgression, in a public manner, only for the sake of the general effect, and so arranging what is said and done as to produce the desired effect upon the public mind, in the highest degree, may very frequently be acted upon. Cases are continually occurring, and if the teacher will keep it constantly in mind, that when a particular case comes before the whole school, the object is an influence upon the whole, and not the punishment or reform of the guilty individual, he will insensibly so shape his measures, as to produce the desired result. (4.) There should be a great difference made between the _measures you take_ to prevent wrong, and the _feelings of displeasure_ against wrong, when it is done. The former should be strict, authoritative, unbending; the latter should be mild and gentle. Your measures, if uniform and systematic will never give offence, however powerfully you may restrain and control. It is the morose look, the harsh expression, the tone of irritation and fretfulness which is so unpopular in school. The sins of childhood are by nine tenths of mankind enormously overrated, and perhaps none overrate them, more extravagantly, than teachers. We confound the trouble they give us, with their real moral turpitude, and measure the one by the other. Now if a fault prevails in school, one teacher will scold and fret himself about it, day after day, until his scholars are tired both of school and of him: and yet he will do nothing effectual to remove it. Another will take efficient and decided measures, and yet say very little on the subject, and the whole evil will be removed, without suspending for a moment, the good humor, and pleasant feeling, which should prevail in school. The expression of your displeasure on account of any thing that is wrong, will seldom or never do any good. The scholars consider it scolding; it is scolding, and though it may, in many cases, contain many sound arguments and eloquent expostulations, it operates simply as a punishment. It is unpleasant to hear it. General instruction must indeed be given, but not general reproof. (5.) Feel that, in the management of the school, _you_ are under obligation as well as the scholars, and let this feeling appear in all that you do. Your scholars wish you to dismiss school earlier than usual on some particular occasion, or to allow them an extra holiday. Show by the manner in which you consider and speak of the question, that your main inquiry is what is _your duty_. Speak often of your responsibility to your employers, not formally, but incidentally and naturally as you will speak, if you feel this responsibility. It will assist very much too, in securing cheerful, good-humored obedience to the regulations of the school, if you extend their authority over yourself. Not that the teacher is to have no liberty from which the scholars are debarred; this would be impossible. But the teacher should submit, himself, to every thing which he requires of his scholars, unless it is in cases where a different course is _necessary_. Suppose for instance, a study card, like the one described in a preceding chapter, is made, so as to mark the time of recess and of study. The teacher near the close of recess, is sitting with a group of his pupils around him, telling them some story. They are all interested, and they see he is interested. He looks at his watch, and shows by his manner, that he is desirous of finishing what he is saying, but that he knows that the striking of the bell will cut short his story. Perhaps he says not a word about it, but his pupils see that he is submitting to the control which is placed over them: and when the card goes up, and he stops instantly in the middle of his sentence, and rises with the rest, each one to go to his own place, to engage at once in their several duties, he teaches them a most important lesson, and in the most effectual way. Such a lesson of fidelity and obedience, and such an example of it, will have more influence, than a half hour's scolding about whispering without leave, or a dozen public punishments. At least so I find it, for I have tried both. Show then continually, that you see and enjoy the beauty of system and strict discipline, and that you submit to it yourself, as well as require it of others. (6.) Lead your pupils to see that they must share with you, the credit or the disgrace, which success or failure may bring. Lead them to feel this, not by telling them so, for there are very few things which can be impressed upon children by direct efforts to impress them; but by so speaking of the subject, from time to time, as to lead them to see that you understand it so. Repeat, with judicious caution, what is said of the school, both for and against it, and thus endeavor to interest the scholars in its public reputation. This feeling of interest in the institution may very easily be awakened. It sometimes springs up, spontaneously, and where it is not guided aright by the teacher, sometimes produces very bad effects upon the minds of the pupils, in rival institutions. When two schools are situated near each other, evil consequences will result from this feeling, unless the teacher manages it so as to deduce good consequences. I recollect, that, in my boyish days, there was a standing quarrel between the boys of a town school and an academy, which were in the same village. We were all ready, at any time, when out of school, to fight for the honor of our respective institutions, but very few were ready to be diligent and faithful, when in it, though it would seem that that might have been rather a more effectual means of establishing the point. If the scholars are led to understand that the school is to a great extent their institution, that they must assist to sustain its character, and that they share the honor if any honor is acquired, a feeling will prevail in the school, which may be turned to a most useful account. (7.) In giving instruction on moral duty, the subject should be taken up generally, in reference to imaginary cases, or cases which are unknown to most of the scholars. If this is done, the pupils feel that the object of bringing up the subject is to do good; whereas, if questions of moral duty are only brought up, from time to time, when some prevailing or accidental fault in school calls for it, the feeling will be that the teacher is only endeavoring to remove from his own path a source of inconvenience and trouble. The most successful mode of giving general moral instruction that I have known, and which has been adopted in many schools, with occasional variations of form, is the following. When the time has arrived a subject is assigned, and small papers are distributed to the whole school, that all may write something concerning it. These are then read and commented on by the teacher, and are made the occasion of any remarks, which he may wish to make. The interest is strongly excited to hear the papers read, and the instruction which the teacher may give, produces a deeper effect, when engrafted thus, upon something which originates in the minds of the pupils. To take a particular case; a teacher addressed his scholars thus. "The subject for the moral exercise to day, is _Prejudice_. Each one may take one of the papers which have been distributed, and you may write upon them any thing you please relating to the subject. As many as have thought of any thing to write, may raise their hands." One or two only of the older scholars gave the signal. "I will mention the kinds of communications you can make, and perhaps what I say will suggest something to you. As fast as you think of any thing, you may raise your hands, and as soon as I see a sufficient number up, I will give directions to begin. You can describe any case in which you have been prejudiced, yourselves, either against persons or things." Here a number of the hands went up. "You can mention any facts relating to antipathies of any kind, or any cases where you know other persons to be prejudiced. You can ask any questions in regard to the subject, questions about the nature of prejudice, or the causes of it, or the remedy for it." As he said this, many hands were successively raised, and at last, directions were given for them to begin to write. Five minutes were allowed, and at the end of that time the papers were collected and read. The following specimens, transcribed verbatim from the originals, with the remarks made, as nearly as they could be remembered immediately after the exercise, will give an idea of the ordinary operation of this plan. "I am very much prejudiced against spiders, and every insect in the known world, with scarcely an exception. There is a horrid sensation created by their ugly forms, that makes me wish them all to Jericho. The butterfly's wings are pretty, but he is dreadful ugly. There is no affectation in this, for my pride will not permit me to show this prejudice to any great degree, when I can help it. I do not fear the little wretches; but I do hate them. Anti-Spider-Sparer." "This is not expressed very well, the phrases, "_to Jericho_" and "_dreadful ugly_," are vulgar, and in very bad taste. Such a dislike too is more commonly called an antipathy, than a prejudice, though perhaps it comes under the general head of prejudices." "How may we overcome prejudice? I think that when we are prejudiced against a person, it is the hardest thing in the world to overcome it." "A prejudice is usually founded on some unpleasant association connected with the subject of it. The best way to overcome the prejudice, therefore, is to connect some pleasant association with it. "For example, (to take the case of the antipathy to the spider, alluded to in the last article,) the reason why that young lady dislikes spiders, is undoubtedly because she has some unpleasant idea associated with the thought of that animal, perhaps for example, the idea of their crawling upon her--which is certainly not a very pleasant one for any body. Now the way to correct such a prejudice, is to try to connect some pleasant thoughts with the sight of the animal. "I once found a spider in an empty apartment, hanging in its web on the wall, with a large ball of eggs which it had suspended by its side. My companion and myself cautiously brought up a tumbler under the web, and pressed it suddenly against the wall, so as to enclose both spider and eggs within it. We then contrived to run in a pair of shears, so as to cut off the web, and let both the animal and its treasure fall down into the tumbler. We put a book over the top, and walked off with our prize, to a table, to see what it would do. "At first it tried to climb up the side of the tumbler, but its feet slipped, from the smooth glass. We then inclined the glass, so as to favor its climbing and to enable it to reach the book at the top. As soon as it touched the book, it was safe. It could cling to the book easily, and we placed the tumbler again upright, to watch its motions. "It attached a thread to the book and let itself down by it to the bottom of the tumbler, and walked round and round the ball of eggs, apparently in great trouble. Presently it ascended by its thread, and then came down again. It attached a new thread to the ball, and then went up, drawing the ball with it. It hung the ball at a proper distance from the book, and bound it firmly in its place by threads running from it, in every direction, to the parts of the book which were near, and then the animal took its place, quietly by its side. "Now I do not say, that if any body had a strong antipathy to a spider, seeing one perform such a work as this would entirely remove it; but it would certainly soften it. It would _tend_ to remove it. It would connect an interesting and pleasant association, with the object. So if she should watch a spider in the fields making his web. You have all seen those beautiful, regular webs, in the morning dew, ("Yes, sir," "Yes sir.") composed of concentric circles, and radii diverging in every direction. ("Yes sir.") Well, watch a spider when making one of these, or observe his artful ingenuity and vigilance, when he is lying in wait for a fly. By thus connecting pleasant ideas, with the sight of the animal, you will destroy the unpleasant association which constitutes the prejudice. In the same manner, if I wished to create an antipathy to a spider, in a child, it would be very easily done. I would tie her hands behind her, and put three or four upon her, to crawl over her face. "Thus you must destroy prejudices in all cases, by connecting pleasant thoughts and associations with the objects of them." "I am very often prejudiced against new scholars, without knowing why?" "We sometimes hear a person talk in this way, 'I do not like such, or such a person, at all.'" "'Why?' "'Oh I don't know, I do not like her at all. I can't bear her.' "'But why not. What is your objection to her.' "'Oh I don't know, I have not any particular reason, but I never did like her.' "Now whenever you hear any person talk so, you may be sure that her opinion, on any subject, is worth nothing at all. She forms opinions in one case, without grounds, and it depends merely upon accident, whether she does not, in other cases." "Why is it that so many of our countrymen are, or seem to be prejudiced against the unfortunate children of Africa? Almost every _large white_ boy, who meets a _small black_ boy, insults him, in some way or other." "It is so hard to _overcome_ prejudices, that we ought to be careful how we _form_ them." "When I see a new scholar enter this school and she does not happen to suit me exactly in her ways and manners, I very often get prejudiced against her, though sometimes I find her a valuable friend, after I get acquainted with her." "There is an inquiry I should like very much to make, though I suppose it would not be quite right to make it. I should like to ask all those who have some particular friend in school, and who can recollect the impression which the individual made upon them when they first saw her, to rise, and then I should like to inquire in how many cases the first impression was favorable, and in how many unfavorable." "Yes sir." "Yes sir." "Do you mean you would like to have the inquiry made?" "Yes sir." "All, then, who have intimate friends, and can recollect the impression which they first made upon them, may rise." [About thirty rose; more than two thirds of whom voted that the first impression made by the persons who had since become their particular friends, was unfavorable.] "This shows how much dependence you can justly place on first impressions." "It was the next Monday morning, after I had attained the wise age of 4 years, that I was called up into my mother's room, and told that I was the next day going to school. "I called forth all my reasoning powers, and with all the ability of a child of four years, I reasoned with my mother, but to no purpose. I told her that I _hated_ the school mistress then; though I had never seen her. The very first day I tottered under the weight of the mighty foolscap. I only attended her school two quarters; with prejudice I went, and with prejudice I came away. "The old school-house is now torn down, and a large brick house takes the place of it. But I never pass by without remembering my teacher. I am prejudiced to [against] the very spot. * * * * * "Is it not right to allow prejudice, to have influence over our minds as far as this? If any thing comes to our knowledge, with which wrong seems to be connected, and one in whom we have always felt confidence is engaged in it, is it not right to allow our prejudice in favor of this individual to have so much influence over us, as to cause us to believe that all is really right, though every circumstance which has come to our knowledge is against such a conclusion? I felt this influence not many weeks since, in a very great degree." "No; it would not be prejudice in such a case. That is, a _prejudice_ would not be a sufficient ground to justify withholding blame. Well grounded confidence in such a person, if there was reason for it, ought to leave such an effect, but not prejudice." * * * * * The above may be considered as a fair specimen of the ordinary operation of such an exercise. It is taken as an illustration, not by selection from the large number of similar exercises which I have witnessed, but simply because it was an exercise occurring at the time when a description was to be written. Besides the articles quoted above, there were thirty or forty others, which were read and commented on. The above will, however, be sufficient to give the reader a clear idea of the exercise, and to show what is the nature of the moral effect it is calculated to produce. The subjects which may be advantageously brought forward in such a way, are of course very numerous. They are such as the following. In connexion with each, give the suggestions as to the kind of articles to be written, which the pupils may receive at the time the subject is assigned. 1. DUTIES TO PARENTS. Anecdotes of good or bad conduct at home. Questions. Cases where it is most difficult to obey. Dialogues between parents and children. Excuses which are often made for disobedience. 2. SELFISHNESS. Cases of selfishness any of the pupils have observed. Dialogues they have heard exhibiting it. Questions about its nature. Indications of selfishness. 3. FAULTS OF THE SCHOOL. Any bad practices the scholars may have observed in regard to general deportment, recitations, habits of study, or the scholars' treatment of one another. Each scholar may write what is his own greatest trouble in school, and whether he thinks any thing can be done to remove it. Any thing they think can be improved in the management of the school by the Teacher. Unfavorable things they have heard said about it, out of school, though without names. 4. EXCELLENCES OF THE SCHOOL. Good practices, which ought to be persevered in. Any little incidents the scholars may have noticed illustrating good character. Cases which have occurred in which scholars have done right, in temptation, or when others around were doing wrong. Favorable reports in regard to the school, in the community around. 5. THE SABBATH. Any thing the scholars may have known to be done on the Sabbath which they doubt whether right or wrong. Questions in regard to the subject. Various opinions they have heard expressed. Difficulties they have in regard to proper ways of spending the Sabbath. (8.) We have one other method to describe, by which a favorable moral influence may be exerted in school. The method can, however, go into full effect, only where there are several pupils who have made considerable advances in mental cultivation. It is to provide a way, by which teachers and pupils may write, anonymously, for the school. This may be done by having a place of deposit for such articles as may be written, where any person may leave what he wishes to have read, nominating, by a memorandum, upon the article itself, the reader. If a proper feeling on the subject of good discipline, and the formation of good character, prevails in school, many articles, which will have a great deal of effect upon the pupils, will find their way through such an avenue, once opened. The teacher can himself often bring forward, in this way, his suggestions, with more effect than he otherwise could do. Such a plan is, in fact like the plan of a newspaper for an ordinary community, where sentiments and opinions stand on their own basis, and influence the community just in proportion to their intrinsic merits, unassisted by the authority of the writer's name, and unimpeded by any prejudice which may exist against him. In my own school, this practice has had a very powerful effect. I have, myself, often thus anonymously addressed my pupils, and I have derived great assistance from communications which many of the pupils have written. Sometimes we have had full discussions of proposed measures, and at others, criticisms of the management of the school, or of prevailing faults. Sometimes good humored satires, and sometimes simple descriptions. 'Tis true the practice is not steadily kept up. Often, for months together, there is not an article offered. Still the place of deposit remains, and, after a time, some striking communication is made, which awakens general attention, and calls out other pens, until the fifteen minutes, corresponding to the afternoon General Exercise, in the plan provided in a preceding chapter, (which is all which is allowed to be devoted to such purposes,) is not sufficient to read what is daily offered. Of course, in such a plan as this, the teacher must have the usual editorial powers, to comment upon what is written, or to alter or suppress it at pleasure.[A] [Footnote A: The following articles, which were really offered for such a purpose, will serve as specimens. One or two were written by teachers. I do not know the authors of the others. I do not offer them as remarkable compositions: every teacher will see that they are not so. The design of inserting them is merely to show that the ordinary literary ability to be found in every school, may be turned to useful account, by simply opening a channel for it, and to furnish such teachers as may be inclined to try the experiment, the means of making the plan clearly understood by their pupils. MARKS OF A BAD SCHOLAR. "At the time when she should be ready to take her seat at school, she commences preparation for leaving home. To the extreme annoyance of those about her, all is now hurry and bustle and ill humor. Thorough search is to be made for every book or paper, for which she has occasion; some are found in one place, some in another, and others are forgotten altogether. Being finally equipped, she casts her eye at the clock, hopes to be in tolerable good season, (notwithstanding that the hour for opening the school has already arrived,) and sets out, in the most violent hurry. After so much haste, she is unfitted for attending properly to the duties of the school, until a considerable time after her arrival. If present at the devotional exercises, she finds it difficult to command her attention, even when desirous of so doing, and her deportment at this hour, is accordingly marked with an unbecoming listlessness and abstraction. When called to recitations, she recollects that some task was assigned, which till that moment, she had forgotten; of others she had mistaken the extent, most commonly thinking them to be shorter than her companions suppose. In her answers to questions with which she should be familiar, she always manifests more or less of hesitation, and what she ventures to express, is very commonly in the form of a question. In these, as in all exercises, there is an inattention to general instructions. Unless what is said be addressed particularly to herself, her eyes are directed towards another part of the room; it may be her thoughts are employed about something not at all connected with the school. If reproved by her teacher, for negligence in any respects, she is generally provided with an abundance of excuses, and however mild the reproof, she receives it as a piece of extreme severity. Throughout her whole deportment, there is an air of indolence, and a want of interest in those exercises which should engage her attention. In her seat, she most commonly sits in some lazy posture;--either with her elbows upon her desk, her head leaning upon her hands, or with her seat tipped forwards or backwards. When she has occasion to leave her seat, it is in a sauntering, lingering gait;--perhaps some trick is contrived on the way, for exciting the mirth of her companions. About every thing in which it is possible to be so, she is untidy. Her books are carelessly used, and placed in her desk without order. If she has a piece of waste paper to dispose of, she finds it much more convenient to tear it into small pieces, and scatter it about her desk, than to put it in a proper place. Her hands and clothes are usually covered with ink. Her written exercises are blotted, and full of mistakes." THE CONSEQUENCES OF BEING BEHINDHAND. "The following incident, which I witnessed on a late journey, illustrates an important principle, and I will relate it. When our steamboat started from the wharf, all our passengers had not come. After we had proceeded a few yards, there appeared among the crowd on the wharf, a man with his trunk under his arm,--out of breath,--and with a most disappointed and disconsolate air. The Captain determined to stop for him, but stopping an immense steamboat, moving swiftly through the water, is not to be done in a moment. So we took a grand sweep, wheeling majestically around an English ship, which was at anchor in the harbor. As we came towards the wharf again, we saw the man in a small boat, coming off from it. As the steamboat swept round, they barely succeeded in catching a rope from the stern, and then immediately the steam engine began its work again, and we pressed forward,--the little boat following us so swiftly, that the water around her was all in a foam. They pulled upon the rope attached to the little boat, until they drew it alongside. They then let down a rope with a hook in the end of it, from an iron crane, which projected over the side of the steamboat, and hooked it into a staple in the front of the small boat. "_Hoist away_;" said the Captain. The sailors hoisted, and the front part of the little boat began to rise, the stern still ploughing and foaming through the water, and the man still in it, with his trunk under his arm. They "hoisted away," until I began to think that the poor man would actually tumble out behind. He clung to the seat, and looked as though he was saying to himself, "I will take care how I am tardy the next time." However, after awhile, they hoisted up the stern of the boat, and he got safely on board. _Moral._ Though coming to school a few minutes earlier or later, may not in itself be a matter of much consequence, yet the habit of being five minutes too late, if once formed, will, in actual life, be a source of great inconvenience, and sometimes of lasting injury." NEW SCHOLARS. "There is, at----, a young ladies' school, taught by Mr.----. * * * * * * * * * But with all these excellences, there is one fault, which I considered a great one, and which does not comport with the general character of the school for kindness and good feeling. It is the little effort made by the scholars to become acquainted with the new ones who enter. Whoever goes there, must push herself forward, or she will never feel at home. The young ladies seem to forget, that the new comer must feel rather unpleasantly, in the midst of a hundred persons, to whom she is wholly a stranger, and with no one to speak to. Two or three will stand together, and instead of deciding upon some plan, by which the individual may be made to feel at ease, something like the following conversation takes place. _Miss X._ How do you like the looks of Miss A., who entered school to-day? _Miss Y._ I don't think she is very pretty, but she looks as if she might be a good scholar. _Miss X._ She does not strike me very pleasantly; did you ever see such a face? And her complexion is so dark, I should think she had always lived in the open air; and what a queer voice she has! _Miss Y._ I wonder if she has a taste for Arithmetic? _Miss X._ She does not look as if she had much taste for any thing; see, how strangely she fixes her hair. _Miss S._ Whether she has much taste or not, some one of us ought to go and get acquainted with her. See how unpleasantly she feels. _Miss X._ I don't want to get acquainted with her, until I know whether I shall like her or not. Thus nothing is done to relieve her. When she does become acquainted, all her first strange appearance is forgotten; but this is sometimes not the case for several weeks. It depends entirely on the character of the individual herself. If she is forward, and willing to make the necessary effort, she can find many friends; but if she is diffident, she has much to suffer. This arises principally from thoughtlessness. The young ladies do not seem to realize that there is any thing for them to do. They feel enough at home themselves, and the remembrance of the time when they entered school, does not seem to arise in their minds." A SATIRICAL SPIRIT. "I witnessed, a short time since, a meeting between two friends, who had had but little intercourse before, for a long while. I thought a part of their conversation might be useful, and I shall, therefore, relate it, as nearly as I can recollect, leaving each individual to draw her own inferences. For some time, I sat silent but not uninterested, while the days of 'Auld Lang Syne' came up to the remembrance of the two friends. After speaking of several individuals, who were among their former acquaintances, one asked, 'Do you remember Miss W.?' 'Yes,' replied the former, 'I remember her as the fear, terror, and abhorrence of all who knew her.' _I_ knew the lady by report, and asked why she was so regarded, the reply was, 'Because she was so severe, so satirical in her remarks upon others. She spared neither friend or foe.' The friends resumed conversation. 'Did you know,' said the one who had first spoken of Miss W., 'that she sometimes had seasons of bitter repentance for indulging in this unhappy propensity of hers? She would, at such times, resolve to be more on her guard, but after all her good resolutions, she would yield to the slightest temptations. When she was expressing, and apparently really _feeling_ sorrow for having wounded the feelings of others, those who knew her, would not venture to express any sympathy, for very likely, the next moment, _that_ would be turned into ridicule. No confidence could be placed in her.' A few more facts will be stated respecting the same individual, which I believe are strictly true. Miss W. possessed a fine and well cultivated mind, great penetration, and a tact at discriminating character, rarely equalled. She could, if she chose, impart a charm to her conversation, that would interest, and even fascinate those who listened to it; still she was not beloved. Weaknesses and foibles met with unmerciful severity; and well-meaning intentions and kind actions did not always escape without the keen sarcasm, which it is so difficult for the best regulated mind to bear unmoved. The mild and gentle seemed to shrink from her, and thus she, who might have been the bright and beloved ornament of the circle in which she moved, was regarded with distrust, fear, and even hatred. This dangerous habit of making satirical remarks was evinced in childhood; it was cherished; 'it grew with her growth and strengthened with her strength,' until she became what I have described." LAURA. Though such a satirical spirit is justly condemned, a little good-humored raillery may sometimes be allowed, as a mode of attacking faults in school which cannot be reached by graver methods. The teacher must not be surprised, if some things connected with his own administration, come in, sometimes, for a share. VARIETY. "I was walking out, a few days since, and not being particularly in haste, I concluded to visit a certain school for an hour or two. In a few minutes after I had seated myself on the sofa, the '_Study Card_,' was dropped, and the general noise and confusion, indicated that recess had arrived. A line of military characters, bearing the title of the 'Freedom's Band,' was soon called out, headed by one of their own number. The tune chosen to guide them was Kendall's march. "'Please to form a regular line,' said the lady commander. 'Remember that there is to be no speaking in the ranks. Do not begin to step, until I strike the bell. Miss B., I requested you not to step until I gave the signal.' "Presently the command was given, and the whole line _stepped_, for a few minutes, to all intents and purposes. Again the bell sounded;--'Some of you have lost the step,' said the general. 'Look at me, and begin again. Left! Right! Left! Right!' The line was once more in order, and I observed a new army on the opposite side of the room, performing the same manoeuvres, always to the tune of 'Kendall's March.' After a time, the recess closed, and order was again restored. In about half an hour, I approached a class, which was reciting behind the railing. 'Miss A.,' said a teacher, 'how many kinds of magnitude are there?' _Miss A._ ('Answer inaudible.') _Several voices._ 'We can't hear.' _Teacher._ 'Will you try to speak a little louder, Miss A.?' "Some of the class at length seemed to guess the meaning of the young lady; but _I_ was unable to do even that, until the answer was repeated by the teacher. Finding that I should derive little instruction from the recitation; I returned to the sofa. "In a short time the _propositions_ were read. 'Proposed that the committee be impeached, for not providing suitable pens.' 'Lost, a pencil, with a piece of India-rubber attached to it, by a blue riband,' &c. &c. "Recess was again announced, and the lines commenced their evolutions to the tune of Kendall's March.' Thought I, 'Oh! that there were a new tune under the sun!' "Before the close of school, some compositions were read. One was entitled 'The Magical Ring,' and commenced, 'As I was sitting alone last evening, I heard a gentle tap on the door, and immediately a beautiful fairy appeared before me. She placed a ring on my finger, and left me.' The next began, 'It is my week to write composition, but I do not know what to say. However, I must write something, so it shall be a dialogue.' Another was entitled the Magical Shoe,' and contained a marvellous narration of adventures made in a pair of shoes, more valuable than the farfamed 'seven league boots.' A fourth began, 'Are you acquainted with that new scholar?' 'No; but I don't believe I shall like her.' And soon the 'Magical Thimble,' the 'Magical Eye-glass,' &c., were read, in succession, until I could not but exclaim, 'How pleasing is variety!' School was at length closed, and the young ladies again attacked the piano. 'Oh!' repeated I, to myself, '_how pleasing is variety_!' as I left the room, to the tune Of Kendall's March."] By means like these, it will not be difficult for any teacher to obtain, so far an ascendancy over the minds of his pupils, as to secure an overwhelming majority in favor of good order, and co-operation with him in his plans for elevating the character of the school. But let it be distinctly understood, that this, and this only, has been the object of this chapter, thus far: The first point brought up, was the desirableness of making, at first, a favourable impression,--the second, the necessity of taking general views of the condition of the school, and aiming to improve it in the mass, and not merely to rebuke or punish accidental faults,--and the third, the importance and the means of gaining a general influence and ascendency over the minds of the pupils. But, though an overwhelming majority can be reached by such methods as these, all cannot. We must have the majority secured, however, in order to enable us to reach and to reduce the others. But to this work we must come at last. 4. I am therefore now to consider under a fourth general head, what course is to be taken with _individual_ offenders, whom the general influences of the school-room will not control. (1.) The first point to be attended to, is to ascertain who they are. Not by appearing suspiciously to watch any individuals, for this would be almost sufficient to make them bad, if they were not so before. Observe, however; notice, from day to day, the conduct of individuals, not for the purpose of reproving or punishing their faults, but to enable you to understand their characters. This work will often require great adroitness, and very close scrutiny; and you will find, as the results Of it, a considerable variety of character, which the general influences above described, will not be sufficient to control. The number of individuals will not he great, but the diversity of character comprised in it, will be such, as to call into exercise all your powers of vigilance and discrimination. On one seat, you will find a coarse, rough looking boy, who will openly disobey your commands and oppose your wishes; on another, a more sly rogue, whose demure and submissive look is assumed, to conceal a mischief-making disposition. Here is one, whose giddy spirit is always leading him into difficulty, but who is of so open and frank a disposition, that you will most easily lead him back to duty; but there is another, who, when reproved, will fly into a passion; and there, a third, who will stand sullen and silent before you, when he has done wrong, and is neither to be touched by kindness, nor awed by authority. Now all these characters must be studied. It is true that the caution given in a preceding part of this chapter, against devoting undue and disproportionate attention to such persons must not be forgotten. Still, these individuals will require, and it is right that they should receive, a far greater degree of attention, so far as the moral administration of the school is concerned, than their mere numbers would appear to justify. This is the field in which the teacher is to study human nature; for here it shows itself without disguise. It is through this class, too, that a very powerful moral influence is to be exerted upon the rest of the school. The manner in which such individuals are managed; the tone the teacher assumes towards them; the gentleness with which he speaks of their faults, and the unbending decision with which he restrains them from wrong, will have a most powerful effect upon the rest of the school. That he may occupy this field, therefore, to the best advantage, it is necessary that he should first thoroughly explore it. By understanding the dispositions and characters of such a class of pupils as I have described, I do not mean merely watching them, with vigilance, in school, so that none of their transgressions shall go unobserved and unpunished. I intend a far deeper and more thorough examination of character. Every boy has something or other which is good in his disposition and character, which he is aware of, and on which he prides himself; find out what it is, for it may often be made the foundation, on which you may build the superstructure of reform. Every one has his peculiar sources of enjoyment,--and objects of pursuit, which are before his mind from day to day; find out what they are, that by taking an interest in what interests him, and perhaps sometimes assisting him in his plans, you can bind him to you. Every boy is, from the circumstances in which he is placed at home, exposed to temptations, which have perhaps, had a far greater influence in the formation of his character, than any deliberate and intentional depravity of his own; ascertain what these temptations are, that you may know where to pity him, and where to blame. The knowledge which such an examination of character will give you, will not be confined to making you acquainted with the individual. It will be the most valuable knowledge which a man can possess, both to assist him in the general administration of the school, and in his intercourse among mankind in the business of life. Men are but boys, only with somewhat loftier objects of pursuit. Their principles, motives, and ruling passions are essentially the same. Extended commercial speculations are, so far as the human heart is concerned, substantially what trading in jack-knives and toys is, at school, and building a snow fort, to its own architects, the same as erecting a monument of marble. (2.) After exploring the ground, the first thing to be done, as a preparation for reforming individual character, in school, is, to secure the personal attachment of the individuals to be reformed. This must not be attempted by professions and affected smiles, and still less by that sort of obsequiousness, common in such cases, which produces no effect but to make the bad boy suppose that his teacher is afraid of him; which, by the way, is, in fact, in such cases, usually true. Approach the pupil in a bold and manly, but frank and pleasant manner. Approach him as his superior, but still, as his friend; desirous to make him happy, not merely to obtain his good-will. And the best way to secure these appearances, is, just to secure the reality. Actually be the boy's friend. Really desire to make him happy;--happy, too, in his own way, not in yours. Feel that you are his superior, and that you must and will enforce obedience; but with this feel, that probably obedience will be rendered, without any contest. If these are really the feelings which reign within you, the boy will see it, and they will exert a strong influence over him, but you cannot counterfeit appearances. A most effectual way to secure the good will of a scholar, is, to ask him to assist you. The Creator has so formed the human heart, that doing good must be a source of pleasure, and he who tastes this pleasure once, will almost always wish to taste it again. To do good to any individual, creates or increases the desire to do it. There is a boy in your school, who is famous for his skill in making whistles from the green branches of the poplar. He is a bad boy, and likes to turn his ingenuity to purposes of mischief. You observe him some day in school, when he thinks your attention is engaged in another way, blowing softly upon one, which he has concealed in his desk, for the purpose of amusing his neighbors, without attracting the attention of the teacher. Now there are two remedies. Will you try the physical one? Then call him out into the floor; inflict painful punishment, and send him smarting to his seat, with his heart full of anger and revenge, to plot some new and less dangerous scheme of annoyance. Will you try the moral one? Then wait till the recess, and while he is out at his play, send a message out by another boy, saying that you have heard he is very skilful in making whistles, and asking him to make one for you to carry home to a little child at your boarding-house. What would, in ordinary cases, be the effect? It would certainly be a very simple application; but its effect would be, to open an entirely new train of thought and feeling for the boy. "What!" he would say to himself, while at work on his task, "give the master _pleasure_ by making whistles! Who ever heard of such a thing? I never thought of any thing but giving him trouble and pain.--I wonder who told him I could make whistles?" He would find, too, that the new enjoyment was far higher and purer than the old, and would have little disposition to return to the latter. I do not mean by this illustration, that such a measure as this, would be the only notice that ought to be taken of such an act of wilful disturbance in school. Probably it would not. What measures in direct reference to the fault committed, would be necessary, would depend upon the circumstances of the case. It is not necessary to our purpose, that they should be described here. The teacher can awaken in the hearts of his pupils, a personal attachment for him, by asking in various ways, their assistance in school, and then appearing honestly gratified with the assistance rendered. Boys and girls are delighted to have what powers and attainments they possess, brought out into action, especially where they can lead to useful results. They love to be of some consequence in the world, and will be especially gratified to be able to assist their teacher. Even if the studies of a turbulent boy are occasionally interrupted for half an hour, that he might help you arrange papers, or rule books, or cut the tops of quills, or distribute exercises, it will be time well spent. Get him to co-operate with you in any thing, and he will feel how much pleasanter it is to co-operate, than to thwart and oppose; and by judicious measures of this kind, almost any boy may be brought over to your side. Another means of securing the personal attachment of boys, is to notice them,--to take an interest in their pursuits, and the qualities and powers which they value in one another. It is astonishing what an influence is exerted by such little circumstances, as stopping at a play ground a moment, to notice with interest, though perhaps without saying a word, speed of running,--or exactness of aim,--the force with which a ball is struck,--or the dexterity with which it is caught or thrown. The teacher must, indeed, in all his intercourse with his pupils, never forget his station, nor allow them to lay aside the respect, without which authority cannot be maintained. But he may be, notwithstanding this, on the most intimate and familiar footing with them all. He may take a strong and open interest in all their enjoyments, and thus awaken on their part, a personal attachment to himself, which will exert over them a constant and powerful control. (3.) The efforts described under the last head, for gaining a personal influence over those, who from their disposition and character are most in danger of doing wrong, will not be sufficient entirely to prevent transgression. Cases of deliberate, intentional wrong will occur, and the question will rise, what is the duty of the teacher in such an emergency? When such cases occur, the course to be taken is, first of all, to come to a distinct understanding on the subject with the guilty individual. Think of the case calmly, until you have obtained just and clear ideas of it. Endeavor to understand precisely in what the guilt of it consists. Notice every palliating circumstance, and take as favorable a view of the thing as you can, while, at the same time, you fix most firmly in your mind the determination to put a stop to it. Then go to the individual, and lay the subject before him, for the purpose of understanding distinctly from his own lips, what he intends to do. I can however, as usual, explain more fully what I mean, by describing a particular case, substantially true. The teacher of a school observed, himself, and learned from several quarters, that a certain boy was in the habit of causing disturbance during time of prayer, at the opening and close of school, by whispering, playing, making gestures to the other boys, and throwing things about from seat to seat. The teacher's first step was, to speak of the subject, generally, before the whole school, not alluding, however, to any particular instance which had come under his notice. These general remarks produced, as he expected, but little effect. He waited for some days, and the difficulty still continued. Had the irregularity been very great, it would have been necessary to have taken more immediate measures, but he thought the case admitted of a little delay. In the meantime, he took a little pains to cultivate the acquaintance of the boy, to discover and to show that he noticed what was good in his character and conduct, occasionally to get from him some little assistance, and thus to gain some personal ascendancy over him. One day, when every thing had gone smoothly and pleasantly, the teacher told the boy, at the close of school, that he wanted to talk with him a little, and asked him to walk home with him. It was not uncommon for the teacher to associate thus, with his pupils, out of school, and this request, accordingly, attracted no special attention. On the walk, the teacher thus accosted the criminal. "Do you like frank, open dealing, James?" James hesitated a moment, and then answered faintly, "Yes sir." "Most boys do, and I do; and I supposed that you would prefer being treated in that way. Do you?" "Yes sir." "Well, I am going to tell you of one of your faults. I have asked you to walk with me, because I supposed it would be pleasanter for you to have me see you privately, than to bring it up in school." James said it would be pleasanter. "Well, the fault is, being disorderly at prayer time. Now if you like frank and open dealing, and are willing to deal so with me, I should like to talk with you a little about it, but if you are not willing, I will dismiss the subject. I do not wish to talk with you now about it, unless you yourself desire it. But if we talk at all, we must both be open, and honest, and sincere. Now should you rather have me talk with you or not?" "Yes sir, I should rather have you talk with me now, than in school." The teacher then described his conduct, in a mild manner, using the style of simple narration,--admitting no harsh epithets,--no terms of reproach. The boy was surprised, for he supposed he had not been noticed. He thought, perhaps he should have been punished, if he had been observed. The teacher said in conclusion: "Now, James, I do not suppose you have done this from any designed irreverence towards God, or deliberate intention of giving me trouble and pain. You have several times lately, assisted me, in various ways, and I know from the cheerful manner with which you comply with my wishes, that your prevailing desire is, to give me pleasure, not pain. You have fallen into this practice through thoughtlessness; but that does not alter the character of the sin. To do so, is a great sin against God, and a great offence against good order in school. You see, yourself, that my duty to the school, will require me to adopt the most decided measures, to prevent the continuance and the spread of such a practice. I should be imperiously bound to do it, even if the individual was the very best friend I had in school, and if the measures necessary, should bring upon him great disgrace and suffering. Do you not think it would be so?" "Yes sir," said James, seriously, "I suppose it would." "I want to remove the evil, however, in the pleasantest way. Do you remember my speaking on this subject, in school the other day?" "Yes sir." "Well, my object in that, was, almost entirely, to persuade you to reform, without having to speak to you directly. I thought it would be pleasanter to you to be reminded of your duty in that way. But I do not think it did you much good. Did it?" "I don't think I have played so much since then." "Nor I. You have improved a little, but you have not decidedly and thoroughly reformed. So I was obliged to take the next step which would be least unpleasant to you; that is, talking with you alone. Now you told me, when we began, that you would deal honestly and sincerely with me, if I would with you. I have been honest and open. I have told you all about it, so far as I am concerned. Now I wish you to be honest, and tell me what you are going to do. If you think, from this conversation, that you have done wrong, and if you are fully determined to do so no more, and to break off at once, and for ever from this practice, I should like to have you tell me, and then the whole thing will be settled. On the other hand, if you feel about it pretty much as you have done, I should like to have you tell me that too, honestly and frankly, that we may have a distinct understanding, and that I may be considering what to do next. I shall not be offended with you for giving me either of these answers, but be sure that you are honest; you promised to be so." The boy looked up in his master's face, and said, with great earnestness, "Mr. T., I _will_ do better. I _will not_ trouble you any more." I have detailed this case, thus particularly, because it exhibits clearly what I mean, by going directly and frankly to the individual, and coming at once, to a full understanding. In nine cases out of ten, this course will be effectual. For four years, and with a very large school, I have found this sufficient, in every case of discipline which has occurred, except in three or four instances, where something more was required. To make it successful, however, it must be done properly. Several things are necessary. It must be deliberate; generally better after a little delay. It must be indulgent, so far as the view which the teacher takes of the guilt of the pupil, is concerned; every palliating consideration must be felt. It must be firm and decided, in regard to the necessity of a change, and the determination of the teacher to effect it. It must also be open and frank; no insinuations, no hints, no surmises, but plain, honest, open dealing. In many cases, the communication may be made most delicately, and most successfully, in writing. The more delicately you touch the feelings of your pupils, the more tender these feelings will become. Many a teacher hardens and stupefies the moral sense of his pupils, by the harsh and rough exposures, to which he drags out the private feelings of the heart. A man may easily produce such a state of feeling in his school-room, that to address even the gentlest reproof to any individual, in the hearing of the next, would be a most severe punishment; and on the other hand, he may so destroy that sensitiveness, that his vociferated reproaches will be as unheeded as the idle wind. If now, the teacher has taken the course recommended in this chapter; if he has, by his general influence in the school, done all in his power to bring the majority of his pupils to the side of order and discipline; if he has then studied, attentively and impartially, the characters of those who cannot thus be led; if he has endeavored to make them his friends, and to acquire, by every means, a personal influence over them; if, finally, when they do wrong, he goes, plainly, but in a gentle and delicate manner, to them, and lays before them the whole case; if he has done all this, he has gone as far as moral influence will carry him. My opinion is, that this course, faithfully and judiciously pursued, will in almost all instances succeed; but it will not in all; and where it fails, there must be other, and more vigorous and decided measures. What these measures of restraint or punishment shall be, must depend upon the circumstances of the case; but in resorting to them, the teacher must be decided and unbending. The course above recommended, is not trying lax and inefficient measures, for a long time, in hopes of their being ultimately successful, and then, when they are found not to be so, changing the policy. There should be, through the whole, the tone and manner of _authority_, not of _persuasion_. The teacher must be a _monarch_, and while he is gentle and forbearing, always looking on the favorable side of conduct so far as guilt is concerned, he must have an eagle eye, and an efficient hand, so far as relates to arresting the evil, and stopping the consequences. He may slowly and cautiously, and even tenderly approach a delinquent. He may be several days in gathering around him the circumstances, of which he is ultimately to avail himself, in bringing him to submission; but, while he proceeds thus slowly, and tenderly, he must come with the air of authority and power. The fact that the teacher bases all his plans, on the idea of his ultimate authority, in every case, may be perfectly evident to all the pupils, while he proceeds with moderation and gentleness, in all his specific measures. Let it be seen, then, that the constitution of your school is a monarchy, absolute and unlimited,--but let it also be seen, that the one who holds the power, is himself under the control of moral principle, in all that he does, and that he endeavors to make the same moral principle which guides him, go as far as it is possible to make it go, in the government of his subjects. CHAPTER V. RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE. In consequence of the unexampled religious liberty enjoyed in this country, for which it is happily distinguished above all other countries on the globe, there necessarily results a vast variety of religious sentiment and action. We cannot enjoy the blessings without the inconveniences of freedom. Where every man is allowed to believe as he pleases, some will undoubtedly believe wrong, and others will be divided, by embracing views of a subject which are different, though perhaps equally consistent with truth. Hence, we have among us, every shade and every variety of religious opinion, and in many cases, contention and strife, resulting from hopeless efforts to produce uniformity. A stranger who should come among us, would suppose from the tone of our religious journals, and from the general aspect of society on the subject of religion, that the whole community was divided into a thousand contending sects, who hold nothing in common, and whose sole objects are, the annoyance and destruction of each other. But if we leave out of view some hundreds, or if you please, some thousands of theological controversialists, who manage the public discussions, and say and do all that really comes before the public on this subject, it will be found, that there is vastly more religious truth admitted by common consent, among the people of New England, than is generally supposed. This common ground, I shall endeavor briefly to describe. For it is very plain, that the teacher must, in ordinary cases, confine himself to it. By common consent, however, I do not mean the consent of every body; I mean that of the great majority of serious, thinking men. But let us examine, first, for a moment, what right any member of the community has to express and to disseminate his opinions, with a view to the inquiry, whether the teacher is really bound to confine himself to what he can do, on this subject, with the common consent of his employers. The French nation has been, for some time, as is well known, strongly agitated with questions of politics. It is with difficulty that public tranquillity is preserved. Every man takes sides. Now in this state of things, a wealthy gentleman, opposed to the revolutionary projects so constantly growing up there, and from principle and feeling, strongly attached to a monarchial government, wishes to bring up his children, with the same feelings which he himself cherishes. He has a right to do so. No matter if his opinions are wrong. He ought, it will be generally supposed in this country, to be republican. I suppose him to adopt opinions, which will generally, by my readers, be considered wrong, that I may bring more distinctly to view the right he has to educate his children as _he thinks_ it proper that they should be educated. He may be wrong to _form_ such opinions. But the opinions once formed, he has a right, with which no human power can justly interfere, to educate his children in conformity with those opinions. It is alike the law of God and nature, that the father should control, as he alone is responsible, the education of his child. Now under these circumstances, he employs an American mechanic, who is residing in Paris, to come to his house and teach his children the use of the lathe. After some time, he comes into their little workshop, and is astonished to find the lathe standing still, and the boys gathered round the republican turner, who is telling them stories of the tyranny of kings, the happiness of republicans, and the glory of war. The parent remonstrates. The mechanic defends himself. "I am a republican," he says, "upon principle, and wherever I go, I must exert all the influence in my power, to promote free principles, and to expose the usurpations and the tyranny of kings." To this the Frenchman might very properly reply, "In your efforts to promote your principles, you are limited, or you ought to be limited to modes that are proper and honorable. I employ you for a distinct and specific purpose, which has nothing to do with questions of government; and you ought not to allow your love of republican principles, to lead you to take advantage of the position in which I place you, and interfere with my plans for the political education of my children." Now for the parallel case. A member of a Congregational Society, is employed to teach a school, in a district, occupied exclusively by Quakers,--a case not uncommon. He is employed there, not as a religious teacher, but for another specific and well-defined object. It is for the purpose of teaching the children of that district, _reading_, _writing_, and _calculation_, and for such other purposes, analogous to this, as the law, providing for the establishment of district schools, contemplated. Now when he is placed in such a situation, with such a trust confided to him, and such duties to discharge, it is not right for him, to make use of the influence, which this official station gives him, over the minds of the children committed to his care, for the accomplishment of _any other purposes whatever_, which the parents would disapprove. It would not be considered right, by men of the world, to attempt to accomplish any other purposes, in such a case; and are the pure and holy principles of piety, to be extended by methods more exceptionable, than those by which political and party contests are managed? There is a very great and obvious distinction between the general influence which the teacher exerts as a member of the community, and that which he can employ in his school room as teacher. He has unquestionably a right to exert _upon the community, by such means as he shares in common with every other citizen_, as much influence as he can command, for the dissemination of his own political, or religious, or scientific opinions. But the strong ascendency, which, in consequence of his official station, he has obtained over the minds of his pupils, is sacred. He has no right to use it for any purpose _foreign to the specific objects_ for which he is employed, unless by _the consent, expressed or implied_, of those by whom he is entrusted with his charge. The parents who send their children to him, to be taught to read, to write and to calculate, may have erroneous views of their duty, as parents, in other respects. He _may know_ that their views are erroneous. They may be taking a course, which the teacher _knows_ is wrong. But he has not, on this account, a right to step in between the parent and the child, to guide the latter according to his own opinions, and to violate the wishes and thwart the plans of the former. God has constituted the relation between the parent and the child, and according to any view, which a rational man can take of this relation, the parent is alone responsible for the guidance he gives to that mind, so entirely in his power. He is responsible to God; and where our opinions, in regard to the manner in which any of the duties, arising from the relation, are to be performed, differ from his, we have no right to interfere, without his consent, to rectify what we thus imagine to be wrong. I know of but one exception, which any man whatever would be inclined to make, to this principle; and that is, where the parent would, if left to himself, take such a course, as would ultimately make his children _unsafe members of society_. The _community_ have a right to interfere, in such a case, as they in fact do by requiring every man to provide for the instruction of his children, and in some other ways which need not now be specified. Beyond this, however, no interference contrary to the parent's consent, is justifiable. Where parents will do wrong, notwithstanding any persuasions which we can address to them, we must not violate the principles of an arrangement, which God has himself made, but submit patiently to the awful consequences, which will, in some cases, occur,--reflecting that the responsibility for these consequences, is on the head of those who neglect their duty, and that the being who makes them liable, will settle the account. Whatever, then, the teacher attempts to do, beyond the _specific_ and _defined_ duties, which are included among the objects for which he is employed, must be done _by permission_,--by the voluntary consent, whether tacit, or openly expressed, of those by whom he is employed. This of course confines him to what is, generally, common ground, among his particular employers. In a republican country, where all his patrons are republican, he may without impropriety, explain and commend to his pupils, as occasion may occur, the principles of free governments, and the blessings which may be expected to flow from them. But it would not be justifiable for him to do this, under a monarchy, or in a community divided in regard to this subject, because this question does not come within the objects, for the promotion of which, his patrons have associated, and employed him,--and consequently, he has no right, while continuing their teacher, to go into it, without their consent. In the same manner, an Episcopal teacher, in a private school, formed and supported by Episcopalians, may use and commend forms of prayer, and explain the various usages of that church, exhibiting their excellence, and their adaptation to the purposes for which they are intended. He may properly do this, because in the case supposed, the patrons of the school are _united_ on this subject, and their _tacit consent_ may be supposed to be given. But place the same teacher over a school of Quaker children, whose parents dislike forms and ceremonies of every kind, in religion, and his duty would be changed altogether. So, if a Roman Catholic is entrusted with the instruction of a common district school, in a community composed of many Protestant denominations, it would be plainly his duty to avoid all influence, direct or indirect, over the minds of his pupils, except in those religious sentiments and opinions which are common to himself and all his employers. I repeat the principle. _He is employed for a specific purpose, and he has no right to wander from that purpose, except as far as he can go, with the common consent of his employers._ Now, the common ground, on religious subjects, in this country, is very broad. There are indeed, many principles, which are, in my view, essential parts of Christianity, which are subjects of active discussion among us. But setting these aside, there are other principles equally essential, in regard to which the whole community are agreed; or at least, if there is a dissenting minority, it is so small, that it is hardly to be considered. Let us look at some of these principles. 1. Our community is agreed that _there is a God_. There is probably not a school in our country, where the parents of the scholars would not wish to have the teacher, in his conversation with his pupils, take this for granted, and allude reverently and judiciously to that great Being, with the design of leading them to realize his existence, and to feel his authority. 2. Our community are agreed, that _we are responsible to God for all our conduct_. Though some persons absurdly pretend to believe, that the Being who formed this world, if indeed they think there is any such Being, has left it and its inhabitants to themselves, not inspecting their conduct, and never intending to call them to account, they are too few among us to need consideration. A difference of opinion on this subject, might embarrass the teacher in France, and in other countries in Europe, but not here. However negligent men may be in _obeying_ God's commands, they do almost universally in our country, admit in theory, the authority from which they come; and believing this, the parent, even if he is aware that he himself does not obey these commands, chooses to have his children taught to respect them. The teacher will thus be acting with the consent of his employers, in almost any part of our country, in endeavoring to influence his pupils to perform moral duties, not merely from worldly motives, nor from mere abstract principles of right and wrong, but _from regard to the authority of God_. 3. The community are agreed, too, in the belief of _the immortality of the soul_. They believe, almost without exception, that there is a future state of being, to which this is introductory and preparatory, and almost every father and mother in our country, wish to have their children keep this in mind, and to be influenced by it, in all their conduct. 4. The community are agreed, that _we have a revelation from heaven_. I believe there are very few instances where the parents would not be glad to have the Bible read from time to time, its geographical and historical meanings illustrated, and its moral lessons brought to bear upon the hearts and lives of their children. Of course, if the teacher is so unwise as to make such a privilege, if it were allowed him, the occasion of exerting an influence, upon one side or the other of some question which divides the community around him, he must expect to excite jealousy and distrust, and to be excluded from a privilege, which he might otherwise have been permitted freely to enjoy. There may, alas! be some cases, where the use of the Scriptures is altogether forbidden in school. But probably in almost every such case, it would be found, that it is from fear of its perversion to sect or party purposes, and not from any unwillingness to have the Bible used in the way I have described. 5. The community are agreed in theory, that _personal attachment to the Supreme Being, is the duty of every human soul_; and every parent, with exceptions so few that they are not worth naming, wishes that his children should cherish that affection, and yield their hearts to its influence. He is willing therefore that the teacher, of course without interfering with the regular duties for the performance of which he holds his office, should, from time to time, so speak of this duty,--of God's goodness to men,--of his daily protection,--and his promised favors, as to awaken, if possible, this attachment, in the hearts of his children. Of course, it is very easy for the teacher, if he is so disposed, to abuse this privilege also. He can, under pretence of awakening and cherishing the spirit of piety in the hearts of his pupils, present the subject in such aspects and relations, as to arouse the sectarian or denominational feelings of some of his employers. But I believe if this was honestly and fully avoided, there are few, if any, parents, in our country, who would not be gratified to have the great principle of love to God, manifest itself in the instructions of the school-room, and showing itself, by its genuine indications in the hearts and conduct of their children. 6. The community are agreed, not only in believing that piety consists primarily, in love to God, but that _the life of piety is to be commenced by penitence for past sins, and forgiveness, in some way or other, through a Saviour_. I am aware that one class of theological writers, in the heat of controversy, charge the other with believing that Jesus Christ was nothing more nor less than a teacher of religion, and there are unquestionably, individuals, who take this view. But these individuals are few. There are very few in our community, who do not in some sense, look upon Jesus Christ as our _Saviour_,--our Redeemer; who do not feel themselves _in some way_, indebted to him, for the offer of pardon. There may be, here and there, a theological student, or a contributor to the columns of a polemical magazine, who ranks Jesus Christ with Moses and with Paul. But the great mass of the fathers and mothers, of every name and denomination through all the ranks of society, look up to the Saviour of sinners, with something at least of the feeling, that he is the object of extraordinary affection and reverence. I am aware however, that I am approaching the limit, which, in many parts of our country, ought to bound the religious influence of the teacher in a public school; and on this subject, as on every other, he ought to do nothing directly or indirectly, which would be displeasing to those who have entrusted children to his care. So much ground, it seems, the teacher may occupy, by common consent, in New-England, and it certainly is a great deal. It may be doubted whether, after all our disputes, there is a country in the world, whose inhabitants have so much in common, in regard to religious belief. There is, perhaps, no country in the world, where the teacher may be allowed to do so much, towards leading his pupils to fear God, and to obey his commands, with the cordial consent of parents, as he can here.[B] [Footnote B: In speaking of this common ground, and in commenting upon it, I wish not to be understood that I consider these truths as comprising all that is essential in Christianity. Very far from it. A full expression of the Christian faith, would go far in advance of all here presented. We must not confound however, what is essential to prepare the way for the forgiveness of sin, with what is essential that a child should understand, in order to secure his penitence and forgiveness. The former is a great deal; the latter, very little.] The ground which I have been laying out, is common, all over our country; in particular places, there will be, even much more, that is common. Of course, the teacher, in such cases, will be at much greater liberty. If a Roman Catholic community establish a school, and appoint a Roman Catholic teacher, he may properly, in his intercourse with his scholars, allude, with commendation, to the opinions and practices of that church. If a college is established by the Methodist denomination, the teacher of that institution may, of course, explain and enforce there, the views of that society. Each teacher is confined only to _those views which are common to the founders and supporters of the particular institution, to which he is attached_. I trust the principle which I have been attempting to enforce, is fully before the reader's mind, namely, that moral and religious instruction in a school, being in a great degree extra-official, in its nature, must be carried no farther than the teacher can go with the common consent, either expressed or implied, of those who have founded, and who support his school. Of course, if those founders forbid it altogether, they have a right to do so, and the teacher must submit. The only question that can justly arise, is, whether, he will remain in such a situation, or seek employment, where a door of usefulness, here closed against him, will be opened. While he remains, he must honestly and fully submit to the wishes of those, in whose hands Providence has placed the ultimate responsibility of training up the children of his school. It is only for a partial and specific purpose, that they are placed under his care. The religious reader may inquire, why I am so anxious to restrain, rather than to urge on, the exercise of religious influence in schools. "There is far too little," some one will say, "instead of too much, and teachers need to be encouraged and led on in this duty, not to be restrained from it." There is, indeed, far too little religious influence exerted in common schools. What I have said, has been intended to prepare the way for an increase of it. My view of it is this: If teachers do universally confine themselves to limits, which I have been attempting to define, they may accomplish within these limits, a vast amount of good. By attempting however, to exceed them, the confidence of parents is destroyed or weakened, and the door is closed. In this way, injury to a very great extent has been done in many parts of our country. Parents are led to associate with the very idea of religion, indirect and perhaps secret efforts to influence their children, in a way which they themselves would disapprove. They transfer to the cause of piety itself, the dislike which was first awakened by exceptionable means to promote it; and other teachers, seeing these evil effects, are deterred from attempting what they might easily and pleasantly accomplish. Before therefore, attempting to enforce the duty, and to explain the methods of exerting religious influence in school, I thought proper, distinctly to state, with what restrictions, and within what limits, the work is to be done. * * * * * There are many teachers who profess to cherish the spirit, and to entertain the hopes of piety, who yet make no effort whatever to extend its influence to the hearts of their pupils. Others appeal sometimes to religious truth, merely to assist them in the government of the school. They perhaps bring it before the minds of disobedient pupils, in a vain effort to make an impression upon the conscience of one who has done wrong, and who cannot by other means be brought to submission. But the pupil, in such cases, understands, or at least he believes, that the teacher applies to religious truth, only to eke out his own authority, and of course, it produces no effect. Another teacher thinks he must, to discharge his duty, give a certain amount weekly, of what he considers religious instruction. He accordingly appropriates a regular portion of time to a formal lecture or exhortation, which he delivers without regard to the mental habits of thought and feeling which prevail among his charge. He forgets that the heart must be led, not driven, to piety, and that unless his efforts are adapted to the nature of the minds he is acting upon, and suited to influence them, he must as certainly fail of success, as when there is a want of adaptedness between the means and the end in any other undertaking whatever. The arrangement which seems to me as well calculated as any for the religious exercises of a school, is this: 1. In the morning open the school with a very short prayer, resembling in its object and length, the opening prayer in the morning, at Congregational churches. The posture, which from four years' experience, I would recommend at this exercise, is sitting, with the heads reclined upon the desks. The prayer, besides being short, should be simple in its language, and specific in its petitions. A degree of particularity and familiarity, which might be improper elsewhere, is not only allowable here, but necessary to the production of the proper effect. That the reader may understand to what extent I mean to be understood to recommend this, I will subjoin a form, such as in spirit I suppose such a prayer ought to be. "Our Father in heaven, who has kindly preserved the pupils and the teacher of this school during the past night, come and grant us a continuance of thy protection and blessing during this day. We cannot spend the day prosperously and happily without thee. Come then, and be in this school-room during this day, and help us all to be faithful and successful in duty. "Guide the teacher in all that he may do. Give him wisdom and patience, and faithfulness. May he treat all his pupils with kindness; and if any of them should do any thing that is wrong, wilt thou help him, gently but firmly to endeavor to bring him back to duty. May he sympathize with the difficulties and trials of all, and promote the present happiness, as well as the intellectual progress, of all who are committed to his care. "Take care of the pupils too. May they spend the day pleasantly and happily together. Wilt thou who didst originally give us all our powers, direct and assist us all, this day, in the use and improvement of them. Remove difficulties from our path, and give us all, fidelity and patience in every duty. Let no one of us destroy our peace and happiness this day, by breaking any of thy commands,--or encouraging our companions, in sins--or neglecting, in any respect, our duty. We ask all in the name of our great Redeemer _Amen_." Of course the prayer of each day will be varied, unless, in special cases, the teacher prefers to read some form like the above. But let every one be _minute and particular_, relating especially to school,--to school temptations, and trials, and difficulties. Let every one be filled with expressions relating to school, so that it will bear upon every sentence, the impression, that it is the petition of a teacher and his pupils, at the throne of grace. 2. If the pupils can sing, there may be a single verse, or sometimes two verses of some well known hymn, sung after the prayer, at the opening of the school. Teachers will find it much easier to introduce this practice, than it would at first be supposed. In almost every school, there are enough who can sing to begin, especially if the first experiment is made in a recess, or before or after school; and the beginning once made, the difficulty is over. If but few tunes are sung, a very large proportion of the scholars will soon learn them. 3. Let there be no other regular exercise until the close of the afternoon school. When that hour has arrived, let the teacher devote a very short period, five minutes perhaps, to religious _instruction_, given in various ways. At one time, he may explain and illustrate some important truth. At another, read, and comment upon, a very short portion of Scripture. At another, relate an anecdote, or fact, which will tend to interest the scholars in the performance of duty. The teacher should be very careful not to imitate on these occasions, the formal style of exhortation from the pulpit. Let him use no cant and hackneyed phrases, and never approach the subject of personal piety,--i. e. such feelings as penitence for sin, trust in God, and love for the Saviour,--unless his own heart is really, at the time, warmed by the emotions which he wishes to awaken in others. Children very easily detect hypocrisy. They know very well, when a parent or teacher is talking to them on religious subjects, merely as a matter of course, for the sake of effect; and such constrained and formal efforts never do any good. Let then every thing which you do, in reference to this subject, be done with proper regard to the character and condition of the youthful mind, and in such a way as shall be calculated to _interest_, as well as to _instruct_. A cold and formal exhortation, or even an apparently earnest one, delivered in a tone of affected solemnity, will produce no good effect. Perhaps I ought not to say it will produce no good effect: for good does sometimes result, as a sort of accidental consequence, from almost any thing. I mean it will have no effectual _tendency_ to do good. You must vary your method too, in order to interest your pupils. Watch their countenances when you are addressing them, and see if they look interested. If they do not, be assured that there is something wrong, or at least something ill-judged, or inefficient, in your manner of explaining the truths which you wish to have produce an effect upon their minds. That you may be prepared to bring moral and religious truths before their minds in the way I have described, your own mind must take a strong interest in this class of truths. You must habituate yourself to look at the moral and religious aspects and relations of all that you see and hear. When you are reading, notice such facts, and remember such narratives, as you can turn to good account, in this way. In the same way, treasure up in mind such occurrences as may come under your own personal observation, when travelling, or when mixing with society. That the spirit and manner of these religious exercises, may be the more distinctly understood, I will give some examples. Let us suppose then that the hour for closing school has come. The books are laid aside; the room is still; the boys expect the few words which the teacher is accustomed to address to them, and looking up to him, they listen to hear what he has to say. "You may take your Bibles." The boys, by a simultaneous movement, open their desks, and take from them their copies of the sacred volume. "What is the first book of the New Testament?" "Matthew:" they all answer, at once. "The second?" "Mark." "The third?" "Luke." "The next?" "John." "The next?" "The Acts." "The next?" Many answer, "Romans." "The next?" A few voices say, faintly and with hesitation, "First of Corinthians." "I perceive your answers become fainter and fainter. Do you know what is the last book of the New Testament?" The boys answer promptly, "Revelations." "Do you know what books are between the Acts and the book of Revelation?" Some say, "No sir;" some begin to enumerate such books as occur to them, and some perhaps begin to name them promptly, and in their regular order. "I do not mean," interrupts the teacher, "the _names_ of the books, but the _kinds_ of books." The boys hesitate. "They are epistles or letters. Do you know who wrote the letters?" "Paul," "Peter," answer many voices at once. "Yes, there were several writers. Now the point which I wish to bring before you is this; do you know in what order, I mean on what principles, the books are arranged?" "No sir;" is the universal reply. "I will tell you. First come all Paul's epistles. If you turn over the leaves of the Testament, you will see that Paul's letters are all put together, after the book of the Acts; and what I wish you to notice is, that they are arranged in the _order_ of _their length_. The longest comes first, and then the next; and so on to the shortest, which is the epistle to Philemon. This of course, comes last--No;--I am wrong in saying it is the last of Paul's Epistles, there is one more,--to the Hebrews; and this comes after all the others, for there has been a good deal of dispute whether it was really written by Paul. You will see that his name is not at the beginning of it, as it is in his other epistles: so it was put last." "Then comes the epistle of James. Will you see whether it is longer than any that come after it?" The boys, after a minute's examination, answer, "Yes sir," "Yes sir." "What comes next?" "The epistles of Peter." "Yes; and you will see that the longest of Peter's epistles is next in length to that of James': And indeed all his are arranged in the order of their length." "Yes sir." "What comes next?" "John's." "Yes, and they arranged in the order of their length. Do you now understand the principles of the arrangement of the epistles?" "Yes sir." "I should like to have any of you who are interested in it, try to express this principle in a few sentences, on paper, and lay it on my desk to-morrow, and I will read what you write. You will find it very difficult to express it. Now you may lay aside your books. It will be pleasanter for you if you do it silently." Intelligent children will be interested even in so simple a point as this,--much more interested than a maturer mind, unacquainted with the peculiarities of children, would suppose. By bringing up, from time to time, some such literary inquiry as this, they will be led insensibly to regard the Bible as opening a field for interesting intellectual research, and will more easily be led to study it. At another time, the teacher spends his five minutes in aiming to accomplish a very different object. I will suppose it to be one of those afternoons, when all has gone smoothly and pleasantly, in school. There has been nothing to excite strong interest or emotion; and there has been, (as every teacher knows there sometimes will be,) without any assignable cause which he can perceive, a calm, and quiet, and happy spirit, diffused over the minds and countenances of the little assembly. His evening communication should accord with this feeling, and he should make it the occasion to promote those pure and hallowed emotions in which every immortal mind must find its happiness, if it is to enjoy any, worth possessing. When all is still, the teacher addresses his pupils as follows. "I have nothing but a simple story to tell you to-night. It is true, and the fact interested me very much when I witnessed it, but I do not know that it will interest you now, merely to hear it repeated. It is this: "Last vacation, I was travelling in a remote and thinly settled country, among the mountains, in another state; I was riding with a gentleman on an almost unfrequented road. Forests were all around us, and the houses were small and very few. "At length, as we were passing a humble and solitary dwelling, the gentleman said to me, 'There is a young woman sick in this house; should you like to go in and see her?' 'Yes sir' said I, 'very much. She can have very few visiters I think, in this lonely place, and if you think she would like to see us, I should like to go.' "We turned our horses towards the door, and as we were riding up, I asked what was the matter with the young woman. "'Consumption,' the gentleman replied, 'and I suppose she will not live long.' "At that moment we dismounted and entered the house. It was a very pleasant summer's afternoon, and the door was open. We entered and were received by an elderly lady, who seemed glad to see us. In one corner of the room was a bed, on which was lying the patient whom we had come to visit. She was pale and thin in her countenance, but there was a very calm and happy expression beaming in her eye. I went up to her bedside and asked her how she did. "I talked with her some time, and found that she was a Christian. She did not seem to know whether she would get well again or not, and in fact, she did not seem to care much about it. She was evidently happy then, and believed she should continue so. She had been penitent for her sins, and sought and obtained forgiveness, and enjoyed, in her loneliness, not only the protection of God, but also his presence in her heart, diffusing peace and happiness there. When I came into the house, I said to myself, I pity, I am sure, a person who is confined by sickness in this lonely place, with nothing to interest or amuse her;' but when I came out, I said to myself, 'I do not pity her at all.'" Never destroy the effect of such a communication as this, by attempting to follow it up with an exhortation, or with general remarks, vainly attempting to strengthen the impression. _Never_, do I say? Perhaps there may be some exceptions. But children are not reached by formal exhortations; their hearts are touched and affected in other ways. Sometimes you must reprove, sometimes you must condemn. But indiscriminate and perpetual harangues about the guilt of impenitence, and earnest entreaties to begin a life of piety, only harden the hearts they are intended to soften, and consequently confirm those who hear them in the habits of sin. In the same way a multitude of other subjects, infinite in number and variety, may be brought before your pupils at stated seasons for religious instruction. It is unnecessary to give any more particular examples, but still it may not be amiss to suggest a few general principles, which ought to guide those who are addressing the young, on every subject, and especially on the subject of religion. 1. _Make no effort to simplify language._ Children always observe this, and are always displeased with it, unless they are very young; and it is not necessary. They can understand ordinary language well enough, if the _subject_ is within their comprehension, and treated in a manner adapted to their powers. If you doubt whether children can understand language, tell such a story as this, with ardor of tone and proper gesticulation, to a child only two or three years old; "I saw an enormous dog in the street the other day. He was sauntering along slowly, until he saw a huge piece of meat lying down on the ground. He grasped it instantly between his teeth and ran away with all speed, until he disappeared around a corner so that I could see him no more." In such a description, there is a large number of words which such a child would not understand if they stood alone, but the whole description would be perfectly intelligible. The reason is, the _subject_ is simple; the facts are such as a very little child would be interested in; and the connexion of each new word, in almost every instance, explains its meaning. That is the way by which children learn all language. They learn the meaning of words, not by definitions, but by their connexion in the sentences in which they hear them; and by long practice, they acquire an astonishing facility of doing this. 'Tis true they sometimes mistake, but not often, and the teacher of children of almost any age, need not be afraid that he shall not be understood. There is no danger from his using the _language_ of men, if his subject, and the manner in which he treats it, and the form and structure of his sentences are what they ought to be. Of course there may be cases, in, fact there often will be cases, where particular words will require special explanation, but they will be comparatively few, and instead of making efforts to avoid them, it will be better to let them come. The pupils will be interested and profited by the explanation. Perhaps some may ask what harm it will do, to simplify language, when talking to children. "It certainly can do no injury," they may say, "and it diminishes all possibility of being misunderstood." It does injury in at least three ways. (1.) It disgusts the young persons to whom it is addressed, and prevents their being interested in what is said. I once met two children twelve years of age, who had just returned from hearing a very able discourse, delivered before a number of sabbath schools, assembled on some public occasion. "How did you like the discourse?" said I. "Very well indeed," they replied, "only," said one of them, smiling, "he talked to us as if we were all little children." Girls and boys however young, never consider themselves little children, for they can always look down upon some younger than themselves. They are mortified, when treated as though they could not understand what is really within the reach of their faculties. They do not like to have their powers underrated; and they are right in this feeling. It is common to all, old and young. (2) Children are kept back in learning language, if their teacher makes effort to _come down_, as it is called, to their comprehension in the use of words. Notice that I say, _in the use of words_, for as I shall show presently, it is absolutely necessary to come down to the comprehension of children, in some other respects. If however, in the use of words, those who address children, confine themselves to such words as children already understand, how are they to make progress in that most important of all studies, the knowledge of language. Many a mother keeps back her child, in this way, to a degree that is hardly conceivable; thus doing all in her power to perpetuate in the child an ignorance of its mother tongue. Teachers ought to make constant efforts to increase their scholars' stock of words, by using new ones from time to time, taking care to explain them when the connexion does not do it for them. So that instead of _coming down_ to the language of childhood, he ought rather to go as far away from it, as he possibly can, without leaving his pupils behind him. (3) But perhaps the greatest evil of this practice is, it satisfies the teacher. He thinks he addresses his pupils in the right manner, and overlooks, altogether, the real peculiarities, in which the power to interest the young depends. He talks to them in simple language, and wonders why they are not interested. He certainly is _plain_ enough. He is vexed with them for not attending to what he says, attributing it to their dulness or regardlessness of all that is useful or good, instead of perceiving that the great difficulty is his own want of skill. These three evils are sufficient to deter the teacher from the practice. 2. Present your subject not in its _general views_, but in its _minute details_. This is the great secret of interesting the young. Present it in its details, and in its practical exemplifications; do this with any subject whatever, and children will always be interested. To illustrate this, let us suppose two teachers, wishing to explain to their pupils the same subject, and taking the following opposite methods of doing it. One, at the close of school, addresses his charge as follows; "The moral character of any action, that is, whether it is right or wrong, depends upon the _motives_ with which it is performed. Men look only at the outward conduct, but God looks at the heart. In order now that any action should be pleasing to God, it is necessary it should be performed from the motive of a desire to please him. "Now there are a great many other motives of action which prevail among mankind, besides this right one. There is love of praise, love of money, affection for friends, &c." By the time the teacher has proceeded thus far, he finds, as he looks around the room, that the countenances of his pupils are assuming a listless and inattentive air. One is restless in his seat, evidently paying no attention. Another has reclined his head upon his desk, lost in a reverie, and others are looking round the room, at one another, or at the door, restless and impatient, hoping the dull lecture will soon be over. The other teacher says; "I have thought of an experiment I might try, which would illustrate to you a very important subject. Suppose I should call one of the boys, A., to me, and should say to him; 'I want you to go to your seat and transcribe for me a piece of poetry, as handsomely as you can. If it is written as well as you can possibly write it, I will give you 25 cents.' Suppose I say this to him privately, so that none of the rest of the boys can hear, and he goes to take his seat, and begins to work. You perceive that I have presented to him a motive to exertion." "Yes sir," say the boys, all looking with interest at the teacher, wondering how this experiment is going to end. "Well, what would that motive be?" "Money." "The quarter of a dollar." "Love of money," or perhaps other answers are heard, from the various parts of the room. "Yes, love of money, it is called. Now suppose I should call another boy, one with whom I was particularly acquainted, and, who, I should know would make an effort to please me, and should say to him, 'For a particular reason, I want you to copy this poetry'--giving him the same--'I wish you to copy it handsomely, for I wish to send it away, and have not time to copy it myself. Can you do it as well as not?' "Suppose the boy should say he could, and should take it to his seat, and begin; neither of the boys knowing what the other was doing. I should now have offered to this second boy a motive. Would it be the same with the other?" "No sir." "What was the other?" "Love of money." "What is this?" The boys hesitate. "It might be called," continues the teacher, "friendship. It is the motive of a vast number of the actions which are performed in this world. "Do you think of any other common motive of action, besides love of money and friendship?" "Love of honor," says one "fear," says another. "Yes," continues the teacher, "both these are common motives. I might, to exhibit them, call two more boys, one after the other, and say to the one, I will thank you to go and copy this piece of poetry as well as you can. I want to send it to the school committee as a specimen of improvement made in this school. "To the other, I might say; 'you have been a careless boy to-day; you have not got your lessons well. Now take your seat, and copy this poetry. Do it carefully. Unless you take pains, and do it as well as you possibly can, I shall punish you severely, before you go home.' "How many motives have I got now? Four, I believe." "Yes sir," say the boys. "Love of money, friendship, love of honor, and fear. We called the first boy A.; let us call the others, B. C and D.; no, we shall remember better to call them by the name of their motives. We will call the first, M. for money; the second, F. for friendship; the third, H. for honor; and the last F.;--we have got an F. already; what shall we do? On the whole, it is of no consequence, we will have two F.'s, we shall remember not to confound them. "But there are a great many other motives entirely distinct from these. For example, suppose I should say to a fifth boy, 'Will you copy this piece of poetry? it belongs to one of the little boys in school: he wants a copy of it, and I told him I would try to get some one to copy it for him.' This motive now would be benevolence; that is, if the boy, who was asked to copy it, was not particularly acquainted with the other, and did it chiefly to oblige him. We will call this boy B. for Benevolence. "Now suppose I call a sixth boy, and say to him, I have set four or five boys to work, copying this piece of poetry; now I want you to set down and see if you cannot do it better than any of them. No one of them knows that any other is writing, except you, but after the others are all done, I will compare them and see if yours is not the best.' This would be trying to excite emulation. We must call this boy then, E.--But the time I intended to devote to talking with you on this subject for to-day, is expired. Perhaps, to-morrow, I will take up the subject again." The reader now will observe that the grand peculiarity of the instructions given by this last teacher, as distinguished from those of the first, consists in this; that the parts of the subject are presented _in detail_, and in _particular exemplification_. In the first case, the whole subject was despatched in a single, general, and comprehensive description; in the latter, it is examined minutely, one point being brought forward at a time. The discussions are enlivened too, by meeting and removing such little difficulties, as will naturally come up, in such an investigation. Boys and girls will take an interest in such a lecture; they will regret to have it come to a conclusion, and will give their attention when the subject is again brought forward, on the following day. Let us suppose the time for continuing the exercise to have arrived. The teacher resumes the discussion thus. "I was talking to you yesterday about the motives of action; how many had I made?" Some say, "Four," some "Five," some "Six." "Can you name any of them?" The boys attempt to recollect them, and they give the names in the order in which they accidentally occur to the various individuals. Of course, the words Fear, Emulation, Honor, Friendship, and others, come in confused and irregular sounds, from every part of the school-room. "You do not recollect the order," says the teacher, "and it is of no consequence, for the order I named was only accidental. Now to go on with my account; suppose all these boys to sit down, and go to writing, each one acting under the impulse of the motive which had been presented to him individually. But in order to make the supposition answer my purpose, I must add two other cases. I will imagine that one of these boys is called away, a few minutes, and leaves his paper on his desk, and that another boy, of an ill-natured and morose disposition, happening to pass by and see his paper, thinks he will sit down and write upon it a few lines, just to plague and vex the one who was called away. We will also suppose that I call another boy to me, who, I have reason to believe, is a sincere Christian, and say to him, 'Here is a new duty for you to perform this afternoon. This piece of poetry is to be copied; now do it carefully and faithfully. You know that this morning you committed yourself to God's care during the day; now remember he has been watching you all the time, thus far, and he will be noticing you all the time you are doing this; he will be pleased if you do your duty faithfully.' "The boys thus all go to writing. Now suppose a stranger should come in, and seeing them all busy, should say to me, "'What are all these boys doing?' "'They are writing.' "'What are they writing?' "'They are writing a piece of poetry.' "'They seem to be very busy; they are very industrious, good boys.' "'Oh no! it is not by any means certain that they are _good_ boys.' "'I mean that they are good boys _now_; that they are doing right at _this time_.' "'_That_ is not certain; some of them are doing right and some are doing very wrong; though they are all writing the same piece of poetry.' "The stranger would perhaps look surprised while I said this, and would ask an explanation, and I might properly reply as follows. "'Whether the boys are, at this moment, doing right, or wrong, depends not so much upon what they are doing, as upon the feelings of the heart with which they are doing it. I acknowledge that they are all doing the same thing outwardly,--they are all writing the same extract, and they are all doing it attentively and carefully, but they are thinking of very different things.' "'What are they thinking of?' "Do you see that boy?' I might say, pointing to one of them. His name is M.' He is writing for money. He is saying to himself all the time, 'I hope I shall get the quarter of a dollar.' He is calculating what he shall buy with it, and every good or bad letter that he makes, he is considering the chance whether he shall succeed or fail in obtaining it.' "'What is the next boy to him thinking of?' "'His name is B. He is copying to oblige a little fellow, whom he scarcely knows, and is trying to make his copy handsome so as to give him pleasure. He is thinking how gratified his schoolmate will be when he receives it, and is forming plans to get acquainted with him.' "Do you see that boy in the back seat. He has maliciously taken another boy's place just to spoil his work. He knows too that he is breaking the rules of the school, in being out of his place, but he stays, notwithstanding, and is delighting himself with thinking how disappointed and sad his schoolmate will be, when he comes in and finds his work spoiled, because he was depending on doing it all himself.' "'I see,' the stranger might say by this time, 'that there is a great difference among these boys; have you told me about them all?' "'No,' I might reply, 'there are several others. I will only mention one more. He sits in the middle of the second desk. He is writing carefully, simply because he wishes to do his duty and please God. He thinks that God is present, and loves him, and takes care of him, and he is obedient and grateful in return. I do not mean that he is all the time thinking of God, but love to him is his motive of effort.' "Do you see now, boys, what I mean to teach you by this long supposition?" "Yes sir." "I presume you do. Perhaps it would be difficult for you to express it in words, I can express it in general terms, thus, "_Our characters depend not on what we do, but on the spirit and motive with which we do it._ What I have been saying throws light upon one important verse in the Bible, which I should like to have read. James have you a Bible in your desk?" "Yes sir." "Will you turn to 1 Samuel xvi: 7. and then rise and read it. Read it loud, so that all the school can hear." James reads as follows. "MAN LOOKETH ON THE OUTWARD APPEARANCE, BUT GOD LOOKETH ON THE HEART." This is the way to reach the intellect and the heart of the young. Go _into detail_. Explain truth and duty, not in an abstract form, but exhibit it, _in actual and living examples_. (3.) Be very cautious how you bring in the awful sanctions of religion, to assist you directly, in the discipline of your school. You will derive a most powerful indirect assistance, from the influence of religion in the little community which you govern. But this will be, through the prevalence of its spirit in the hearts of your pupils, and not from any assistance which you can usually derive from it in managing particular cases of transgression. Many teachers make great mistakes in this respect. A bad boy, who has done something openly and directly subversive of the good order of the school, or the rights of his companions, is called before the master, who thinks that the most powerful weapon to wield against him is the Bible. So while the trembling culprit stands before him, he administers to him a reproof, which consists of an almost ludicrous mixture of scolding, entreaty, religious instruction, and threatening of punishment. But such an occasion as this is no time to touch a bad boy's heart. He is steeled, at such a moment, against any thing but mortification, and the desire to get out of the hands of the master; and he has an impression, that the teacher appeals to religious principles, only to assist him to sustain his own authority. Of course, religious truth, at such a time, can make no good impression. There may be exceptions to this rule. There doubtless are. I have found some; and every successful teacher who reads this, will probably call some to mind, some which have occurred in the course of his own experience. I am only speaking of what ought to be the general rule, which is, to reserve religious truths for moments of a different character altogether. Bring the principles of the Bible forward when the mind is calm, when the emotions are quieted, and all within is at rest; and in exhibiting them, be actuated not by a desire to make your duties of government easier, but to promote the real and permanent happiness of your charge. (4.) Do not be eager to draw from your pupils, an expression of their personal interest in religious truth. Lay before them, and enforce, by all the means in your power, the principles of christian duty, but do not converse with them for the purpose of gratifying your curiosity in regard to their piety, or your spiritual pride by counting up the numbers of those who have been led to piety by your influence. Beginning to act from christian principles is the beginning of a new life, and it may be an interesting subject of inquiry to you, to ascertain how many of your pupils have experienced the change. But, in many cases, it would merely gratify curiosity to know. There is no question too, that in very many instances, the faint glimmering of religious interest, which would have kindled into a bright flame, is extinguished at once and perhaps for ever, by the rough inquiries of a religious friend. Besides if you make inquiries, and form a definite opinion of your pupils, they will know that this is your practice, and many a one will repose in the belief that you consider him or her a Christian, and you will thus increase the number, already unfortunately too large, of those, who maintain the form and pretences of piety, without its power; whose hearts are filled with self-sufficiency and spiritual pride, and perhaps zeal for the truths and external duties of religion, while the real spirit of piety has no place there. They trust to some imaginary change, long since passed by, and which has proved to be spurious by its failing of its fruits. The best way, in fact the only way, to guard against this danger, especially with the young, is to show, by your manner of speaking and acting on this subject, at all times, that you regard a truly religious life, as the only evidence of piety;--and that consequently, however much interest your pupils may apparently take in religious instruction, they cannot know, and you cannot know, whether Christian principle reigns within them, in any other way than by following them through life and observing how, and with what spirit, the various duties of it are performed. There are very many fallacious indications of piety; so fallacious and so plausible, that there are very few, even among intelligent Christians, who are not often greatly deceived. "By their fruits ye shall know them," said the Saviour, a direction sufficiently plain, one would think, and pointing to a test, sufficiently easy to be applied. But it is slow and tedious work to wait for fruits; and we accordingly seek a criterion, which will help us quicker to a result. You see your pupil serious and thoughtful. It is well: but it is not proof of piety. You see him deeply interested when you speak of his obligations to his Maker, and the duties he owes to him. This is well; but it is no proof of piety. You know he reads his Bible daily and offers his morning and evening prayers. When you speak to him of God's goodness, and of his past ingratitude, his bosom heaves with emotion, and the tear stands in his eye. It is all well. You may hope that he is going to devote his life to the service of God. But you cannot know; you cannot even believe, with any great confidence. These appearances are not piety. They are not conclusive evidences of it. They are only, in the young, faint grounds of hope, that the genuine fruits of piety will appear. I am aware that there are many persons, so habituated to judging with confidence of the piety of others, from some such indications as I have described, that they will think I carry my cautions to the extreme. Perhaps I do; but the Saviour said, "By their fruits ye shall know them," and it is safest to follow his direction. By the word fruits, however, our Saviour unquestionably does not mean, the mere moral virtues of this life. The fruits to be looked at, are the fruits of _piety_, that is, indications of permanent attachment to the Creator, and a desire to obey his commands. We must look for these. There is no objection to your giving particular individuals special instruction, adapted to their wants and circumstances. You may do this, by writing, or in other ways, but do not lead them to make up their minds fully that they are Christians, in such a sense as to induce them to feel that the work is done. Let them understand that becoming a Christian is _beginning_ a work, not _finishing_ it. Be cautious how you form an opinion even yourself on the question of the genuineness of their piety. Be content not to know. You will be more faithful and watchful if you consider it uncertain, and they will be more faithful and watchful too. (5.) Bring, very fully and frequently, before your pupils the practical duties of religion in all their details, especially their duties at home; to their parents and to their brothers and sisters. Do not, however, allow them to mistake morality for religion. Show them clearly what piety is, in its essence, and this you can do most successfully by exhibiting its effects. (6.) Finally let me insert as the keystone of all that I have been saying in this chapter, be sincere, and ardent, and consistent, in your own piety. The whole structure which I have been attempting to build, will tumble into ruins without this. Be constantly watchful and careful, not only to maintain intimate communion with God, and to renew it daily in your seasons of retirement, but guard your conduct. Let piety control and regulate it. Show your pupils that it makes you amiable, patient, forbearing, benevolent in little things, as well as in great things, and your example will co-operate with your instructions, and allure your pupils to walk in the paths which you tread. But no clearness and faithfulness in religious teaching will atone for the injury which a bad example will effect. Conduct speaks louder than words, and no persons are more shrewd than the young, to discover the hollowness of empty professions, and the heartlessness of mere pretended interest in their good. * * * * * I am aware that this book may fall into the hands of some, who may take little interest in the subject of this chapter. To such I may perhaps owe an apology, for having thus fully discussed a topic, in which only a part of my readers can be supposed to be interested. My apology is this. It is obvious and unquestionable that we all owe allegiance to the Supreme. It is so obvious and unquestionable, as to be entirely beyond the necessity of proof, for it is plain that nothing but such a bond of union, can keep the peace, among the millions of distinct intelligences with which the creation is filled. It is therefore the plain duty of every man, to establish that connexion between himself and his Maker, which the Bible requires, and to do what he can to bring others to the peace and happiness of piety. These truths are so plain that they admit of no discussion and no denial, and it seems to me highly unsafe, for any man to neglect or to postpone the performance of the duty which arises from them. A still greater hazard is incurred, when such a man having forty or fifty fellow beings almost entirely under his influence, leads them, by his example, away from their Maker, and so far, that he must in many cases hopelessly confirm the separation. With these views I could not, when writing on the duties of a teacher of the young, refrain from bringing distinctly to view, this, which has so imperious a claim. CHAPTER VI. THE MT. VERNON SCHOOL. There is perhaps no way, by which teachers can, in a given time, do more to acquire a knowledge of their art, and an interest in it, than by visiting each others schools. It is not always the case, that any thing is observed by the visiter, which he can directly and wholly introduce into his own school; but what he sees, suggests to him modifications or changes, and it gives him, at any rate, renewed strength and resolution in his work, to see how similar objects are accomplished, or similar difficulties removed, by others. I have often thought, that there ought on this account, to be far greater freedom and frequency in the interchange of visits, than there is. Next, however, to a visit to a school, comes the reading of a vivid description of it. I do not mean a cold, theoretical exposition of the general principles of its management and instruction, for these are essentially the same, in all good schools. I mean a minute account of the plans and arrangements by which these general principles are applied. Suppose twenty, of the most successful teachers in New England would write such a description, each of his own school, how valuable would be the volume which should contain them! With these views, I have concluded to devote one chapter to a description of the school which has been for four years under my care. The account was originally prepared and _printed_, but not published, for the purpose of distribution among the scholars, simply because this seemed to be the easiest and surest method of making them, on their admission to the school, acquainted with its arrangements and plans. It is addressed, therefore, throughout, to a pupil, and I preserve its original form, as, by its being addressed to pupils, and intended to influence them, it is an example of the mode of address, and the kind of influence recommended in this work. It was chiefly designed for new scholars; a copy of it was presented to each, on the day of her admission to the school, and it was made her first duty to read it attentively. The system which it describes is one, which gradually grew up in the institution under the writer's care. The school was commenced with a small number of pupils, and without any system or plan whatever, and the one here described, was formed insensibly and by slow degrees, through the influence of various and accidental circumstances. I have no idea that it is superior to the plans of government and instruction adopted in many other schools. It is true that there must necessarily be _some_ system in every large school; but various instructers will fall upon different principles of organization, which will naturally be such as are adapted to the habits of thought and manner of instruction of their respective authors, and consequently each will be best for its own place. While, therefore, some system,--some methodical arrangement, is necessary in all schools, it is not necessary that it should be the same in all. It is not even desirable that it should be. I consider this plan, as only one among a multitude of others, each of which will be successful, not by the power of its intrinsic qualities, but just in proportion to the ability and faithfulness with which it is carried into effect. There may be features of this plan, which teachers who may read it, may be inclined to adopt. In other cases suggestions may occur to the mind of the reader, which may modify in some degree his present plans. Others may merely be interested in seeing how others effect, what they, by easy methods, are equally successful in effecting. It is in these, and similar ways, that I have often myself been highly benefited in visiting schools, and in reading descriptions of them; and it is for such purposes, that I insert the account here. TO A NEW SCHOLAR, ON HER ADMISSION TO THE MT. VERNON SCHOOL. As a large school is necessarily somewhat complicated in its plan, and as new scholars usually find that it requires some time, and gives them no little trouble, to understand the arrangements they find in operation here, I have concluded to write a brief description of these arrangements, by help of which, you will, I hope, the sooner feel at home in your new place of duty. That I may be more distinct and specific, I shall class what I have to say, under separate heads. I. YOUR PERSONAL DUTY. Your first anxiety as you come into the school-room, and take your seat among the busy multitude, if you are conscientiously desirous of doing your duty, will be, lest, ignorant as you are of the whole plan and of all the regulations of the institution, you should inadvertently do what will be considered wrong. I wish first then to put you at rest on this score. There is but one rule of this school. That you can easily keep. You will observe on one side of my desk a clock upon the wall, and upon the other a piece of apparatus that is probably new to you. It is a metallic plate upon which are marked in gilded letters, the words "_Study Hours_." This is upright, but it is so attached by its lower edge to its support, by means of a hinge, that it can fall over from above, and thus be in a _horizontal_ position; or it will rest in an _inclined_ position,--_half down_, as it is called. It is drawn up and let down by a cord passing over a pulley. When it passes either way, its upper part touches a bell, which gives all in the room notice of its motion. Now when this "_Study Card_"[C] as the scholars call it, is _up_ so that the words "STUDY HOURS" are presented to the view of the school, it is the signal for silence and study. THERE IS THEN TO BE NO COMMUNICATION AND NO LEAVING OF SEATS EXCEPT AT THE DIRECTION OF TEACHERS. [Footnote C: This apparatus has been previously described. See p. 40.] When it is _half down_, each scholar may leave her seat and whisper, but she must do nothing which will disturb others. When it is _down_, all the duties of school are suspended and scholars are left entirely to their liberty. As this is the only rule of the school, it deserves a little more full explanation; for not only your progress in study, but your influence in promoting the welfare of the school, and consequently your peace and happiness while you are a member of it, will depend upon the strictness with which you observe it. Whenever, then, the study card goes up, and you hear the sound of its little bell, immediately and instantaneously stop, whatever you are saying. If you are away from your seat go directly to it, and there remain, and forget in your own silent and solitary studies, so far as you can, all that are around you. You will remember that all _communication_ is forbidden. Whispering, making signs, writing upon paper or a slate, bowing to any one,--and in fact, _every_ possible way, by which one person may have any sort of mental intercourse with another, is wrong. A large number of the scholars take a pride and pleasure in carrying this rule into as perfect an observance as possible. They say, that as this is the only rule with which I trouble them, they ought certainly to observe this faithfully. I myself however put it upon other ground. I am satisfied, that it is better and pleasanter for you to observe it most rigidly, if it is attempted to be enforced at all. You will ask, "Cannot we obtain permission of you or of the teachers to leave our seats or to whisper, if it is necessary?" The answer is, "No." You must never ask permission of me or of the teachers. You can leave seats or speak at the _direction_ of the teachers, i. e. when they of their own accord, ask you to do it, but you are never to ask their permission. If you should, and if any teachers should give you permission, it would be of no avail. I have never given them authority to grant any permissions of the kind. You will then say, are we never on any occasion whatever to leave our seats in study hours? Yes you are. There are two ways. 1. _At the direction of teachers._ Going to and from recitations, is considered as at the _direction_ of teachers. So if a person is requested by a teacher to transact any business, or is elected to a public office, or appointed upon a committee,--leaving seats or speaking, so far as is really necessary for the accomplishing such a purpose, is considered as at the direction of teachers, and is consequently right. In the same manner, if a teacher should ask you individually, or give general notice to the members of class to come to her seat for private instruction, or to go to any part of the school-room for her, it would be right to do it. The distinction, you observe, is this. The teacher may _of her own accord_, direct any leaving of seats which she may think necessary to accomplish the objects of the school. She must not however, _at the request of an individual_ for the sake of her mere private convenience, give her permission to speak or to leave her seat. If for example a teacher should say to you in your class, "As soon as you have performed a certain work you may bring it to me,"--you would in bringing it, be acting under her _direction_ and would consequently do right. If however you should want a pencil and should ask her to give you leave to borrow it, even if she should give you leave, you would do wrong to go, for you would not be acting at her _direction_, but simply by her _consent_, and she has no authority to grant consent. 2. The second case in which you may leave your seat is when some very uncommon occurrence takes place which is sufficient reason for suspending all rules. If your neighbor is faint, you may speak to her and if necessary lead her out. If your mother or some other friend should come into the school-room you can go and sit with her upon the sofa, and talk about the school. And so in many other similar cases. Be very careful not to abuse this privilege, and make slight causes the grounds of your exceptions. It ought to be a very clear case. If a young lady is unwell in a trifling degree, so as to need no assistance, you would evidently do wrong to talk to her. The rule, in fact, is very similar to that which all well bred people observe at church. They never speak or leave their seats unless some really important cause, such as sickness, requires them to break over all rules and go out. You have in the same manner, in really important cases, such as serious sickness in your own case or in that of your companions, or the coming in of a stranger, or any thing else equally extraordinary, power to lay aside any rule and to act as the emergency may require. In using this discretion however, be sure to be on the safe side; in such cases never ask permission. You must act on your own responsibility. _Reasons for this rule._ When the school was first established, there was no absolute prohibition of whispering. Each scholar was allowed to whisper in relation to her studies. They were often, very often, enjoined to be conscientious and faithful, but as might have been anticipated, the experiment failed. It was almost universally the practice to whisper more or less about subjects entirely foreign to the business of the school. This they all repeatedly acknowledged; and the scholars almost unanimously admitted, that the good of the school required the prohibition of all communication during certain hours. I gave them their choice, either always to ask permission when they wished to speak, or to have a certain time allowed for the purpose, during which free inter-communication might be allowed to all the school;--with the understanding, however, that out of this time, no permission should ever be asked or granted. They very wisely chose the latter plan, and the study card was constructed and put up to mark the times of free communication, and of silent study. The card was at first down every half hour for one or two minutes. The scholars afterwards thinking, that their intellectual habits would be improved and the welfare of the school promoted, by their having a longer time for uninterrupted study, of their own accord, without any influence from me, proposed that the card should be down only once an hour. This plan was adopted by them, by vote. I wish it to be understood that it was not _my_ plan, but _theirs_, and that I am at any time willing to have the study card down once in half an hour, whenever a majority of the scholars, voting by ballot, desire it. You will find that this system of having a distinct time for whispering, when all may whisper freely, all communication being entirely excluded at other times, will at first give you some trouble. It will be hard for you, if you are not accustomed to it, to learn conscientiously and faithfully to comply. Besides, at first you will often need some little information, or an article which you might obtain in a moment, but which you cannot innocently ask for till the card is down, and this might keep you waiting an hour. You will, however, after a few such instances, soon learn to make your preparations before hand, and if you are a girl of enlarged views and elevated feelings, you will good humoredly acquiesce in suffering a little inconvenience yourself, for the sake of helping to preserve those _distinct_ and well _defined_ lines, by which all boundaries must be marked, in a large establishment, if order and system are to be preserved at all. Though at first you may experience a little inconvenience, you will soon take pleasure in the scientific strictness of the plan. It will gratify you to observe the profound stillness of the room where a hundred are studying. You will take pleasure in observing the sudden transition from the silence of study hours to the joyful sounds, and the animating activity of recess, when the Study Card goes down; and then when it rises again at the close of the recess, you will be gratified to observe how suddenly the sounds which have filled the air and made the room so lively a scene are hushed into silence by the single and almost inaudible touch of that little bell. You will take pleasure in this, for young and old always take pleasure in the strict and rigid operation of _system_, rather than in laxity and disorder. I am convinced also that the scholars do like the operation of this plan for I do not have to make any efforts to sustain it. With the exception that occasionally, usually not oftener than once in several months, I allude to the subject, and that chiefly on account of a few careless and unfaithful individuals, I have little to say or to do to maintain the authority of the study card. Most of the scholars obey it of their own accord, implicitly and cordially. And I believe they consider this faithful monitor, not only one of the most useful, but one of the most agreeable friends they have. We should not only regret its services, but miss its company, if it should be taken away. This regulation then, viz., to abstain from all communication with one another, and from all leaving of seats, at certain times which are marked by the position of the Study Card, is the only one which can properly be called a _rule_ of the school. There are a great many arrangements and plans relating to the _instruction_ of the pupils, but no other specific _rules_ relating to _their conduct_. You are, of course, while in the school, under the same moral obligations which rest upon you elsewhere. You must be kind to one another, respectful to superiors, and quiet and orderly in your deportment. You must do nothing to encroach upon another's rights, or to interrupt and disturb your companions in their pursuits. You must not produce disorder, or be wasteful of the public property, or do any thing else which you might know is in itself wrong. But you are to avoid these things, not because there are any rules in this school against them, for there are none;--but because they are in _themselves wrong_;--in all places and under all circumstances, wrong. The universal and unchangeable principles of duty are the same here as elsewhere. I do not make rules pointing them out, but expect that you will, through your own conscience and moral principle, discover and obey them. Such a case as this, for example, once occurred. A number of little girls began to amuse themselves in recess with running about among the desks in pursuit of one another, and they told me, in excuse for it, that they did not know that it was "_against the rule_." "It is not against the rule;" said I, "I have never made any rule against running about among the desks." "Then," asked they, "did we do wrong?" "Do you think it would be a good plan," I inquired, "to have it a common amusement in the recess, for the girls to hunt each other among the desks?" "No sir," they replied simultaneously. "Why not? There are some reasons I do not know, however whether you will have the ingenuity to think of them." "We may start the desks from their places," said one. "Yes," said I, "they are fastened down very slightly, so that I may easily alter their position." "We might upset the inkstands," said another. "Sometimes," added a third, "we run against the scholars who are sitting in their seats." "It seems then you have ingenuity enough to discover the reasons. Why did not these reasons prevent your doing it." "We did not think of them before." "True; that is the exact state of the case. Now when persons are so eager to promote their own enjoyment, as to forget the rights and the comforts of others, it is _selfishness_. Now is there any rule in this school against selfishness." "No sir." "You are right. There is not. But selfishness is wrong,--very wrong, in whatever form it appears,--here, and every where else; and that, whether I make any rules against it or not." You will see from this anecdote that though there is but one rule of the school, I by no means intend to say that there is only _one way of doing wrong here_. That would be very absurd. You _must not do any thing which you may know, by proper reflection, to be in itself wrong_. This however is an universal principle of duty, not a _rule_ of the Mt. Vernon School. If I should attempt to make rules which would specify and prohibit every possible way by which you might do wrong, my laws would be innumerable. And even then I should fail of securing my object, unless you had the disposition to do your duty. No legislation can enact laws as fast as a perverted ingenuity can find means to evade them. You will perhaps ask what will be the consequence if we transgress, either the single rule of the school, or any of the great principles of duty. In other words what are the punishments which are resorted to in the Mt. Vernon School? The answer is there are no punishments. I do not say that I should not, in case all other means should fail, resort to the most decisive measures to secure obedience and subordination. Most certainly, I should do so, as it would plainly be my duty to do it. If you should at any time be so unhappy as to violate your obligations to yourself, to your companions, or to me,--should you misimprove your time, or exhibit an unkind or a selfish spirit, or be disrespectful or insubordinate to your teachers,--I should go frankly and openly, but kindly to you, and endeavor to convince you of your fault. I should very probably do this by addressing a note to you, as I suppose this should be less unpleasant to you than a conversation. In such a case, I shall hope that you will as frankly and openly reply; telling me whether you admit your fault and are determined to amend, or else informing me of the contrary. I shall wish you to be _sincere_, and then I shall know what course to take next. But as to the consequences which may result to you if you should persist in what is wrong, it is not necessary that you should know them before hand. They who wander from duty, always plunge themselves into troubles they do not anticipate; and if you do what, at the time you are doing it, you know to be wrong, it will not be unjust that you should suffer the consequences, even if they were not beforehand understood and expected. This will be the case with you all through life, and it will be the case here. I say it _will_ be the case here; I ought rather to say that it _will be_ the case, should you be so unhappy as to do wrong and to persist in it. Such cases however never occur. At least they occur so seldom, and at intervals so great, that every thing of the nature of punishment, that is, the depriving a pupil of any enjoyment, or subjecting her to any disgrace, or giving her pain in any way in consequence of her faults, except the simple pain of awakening conscience in her bosom is almost entirely unknown. I hope that you will always be ready to confess and forsake your faults, and endeavor while you remain in school, to improve in character, and attain as far as possible, every moral excellence. I ought to remark before dismissing this topic, that I place very great confidence in the scholars in regard to their moral conduct and deportment, and they fully deserve it. I have no care and no trouble in what is commonly called _the government of the school_. Neither myself nor any one else is employed in any way in watching the scholars, or keeping any sort of account of them. I should not at any time hesitate to call all the teachers in an adjoining room, leaving the school alone for half an hour, and I should be confident, that at such a time order, and stillness, and attention to study would prevail as much as ever. The scholars would not look to see whether I was in my desk, but whether the Study Card was up. The school was left in this way, half an hour every day, during a quarter, that we might have a teachers' meeting, and the school went on, generally quite as well, to say the least, as when the teachers were present. One or two instances of irregular conduct occurred. I do not now recollect precisely what they were. They were however, fully acknowledged and not repeated, and I believe the scholars were generally more scrupulous and faithful then than at other times. They would not betray the confidence reposed in them. This plan was continued until it was found more convenient to have the teachers' meeting in the afternoons. When any thing wrong is done in school, I generally state the case and request the individuals who have done it to let me know who they are. They do it sometimes by notes and sometimes in conversation,--but they always do it. The plan _always_ succeeds. The scholars all know that there is nothing to be feared from confessing faults to me;--but that on the other hand, it is a most direct and certain way to secure returning peace and happiness. I can illustrate this by describing a case which actually occurred. Though the description is not to be considered so much an accurate account of what occurred in a particular case, as an illustration of the _general spirit and manner_ in which such cases are disposed of. I accidentally understood, that some of the younger scholars were in the habit, during recesses and after school, of ringing the door bell and then running away to amuse themselves with the perplexity of their companions, who should go to the door and find no one there. I explained in a few words, one day, to the school, that this was wrong. "How many," I then asked, "have ever been put to the trouble to go to the door, when the bell has thus been rung? They may rise." A very large number of scholars stood up. Those who had done the mischief were evidently surprised at the extent of the trouble they had occasioned. "Now," I continued, "I think all will be convinced that the trouble which this practice has occasioned to the fifty or sixty young ladies, who cannot be expected to find amusement in such a way, is far greater than the pleasure it can have given to the few who are young enough to have enjoyed it. Therefore it was wrong. Do you think the girls who rang the bell might have known this, by proper reflection?" "Yes sir," the school generally answered. "I do not mean," said I, "if they had set themselves formally at work to think about the subject; but with such a degree of reflection as ought reasonably to be expected of little girls, in the hilarity of recess and of play. "Yes sir," was still the reply, but fainter than before. "There is one way by which I might ascertain whether you were old enough to know that this was wrong, and that is by asking those who have refrained from doing this, because they supposed it would be wrong, to rise. Then if some of the youngest scholars in school should stand up, as I have no doubt they would, it would prove that all might have known, if they had been equally conscientious. But if I ask those to rise who have _not_ rung the bell, I shall make known to the whole school who they are that have done it, and I wish that the exposure of faults should be private, unless it is _necessary_ that it should be public. I will therefore not do it. I have myself however, no doubt that all might have known that it was wrong." "There is," continued I, "another injury which must grow out of such a practice. This I should not have expected the little girls could think of. In fact, I doubt whether any in school will think of it. Can any one tell what it is?" No one replied. "I should suppose that it would lead you to disregard the bell when it rings, and that consequently a gentleman or lady might sometimes ring in vain; the scholars near the door, saying, 'Oh it is only the little girls.'" "Yes sir," was heard from all parts of the room. I found from farther inquiry that this had been the case, and I closed by saying, "I am satisfied, that those who have inadvertently fallen into this practice are sorry for it, and that if I should leave it here, no more cases of it would occur, and this is all I wish. At the same time, they who have done this, will feel more effectually relieved from the pain which having done wrong must necessarily give them, if they individually acknowledge it to me. I wish therefore that all who have done so, would write me notes stating the facts. If any one does not do it, she will punish herself severely, for she will feel for many days to come, that while her companions were willing to acknowledge their faults, she wished to conceal and cover hers. Conscience will reproach her bitterly for her insincerity, and whenever she hears the sound of the door bell, it will remind her not only of her fault, but of what is far worse _her willingness to appear innocent when she was really guilty_." Before the close of the school I had eight or ten notes acknowledging the fault, describing the circumstances of each case, and expressing promises to do so no more. It is by such methods as this, rather than by threatening and punishment, that I manage the cases of discipline which from time to time occur, but even such as this, slight as it is, occur very seldom. Weeks and weeks sometimes elapse without one. When they do occur they are always easily settled by confession and reform. Sometimes I am asked to _forgive_ the offence. But I never forgive. I have no power to forgive. God must forgive you when you do wrong, or the burden must remain. My duty is, to take measures to prevent future transgression, and to lead those who have been guilty of it, to God for pardon. If they do not go to him, though they may satisfy me, as principal of a school, by not repeating the offence,--they must remain _unforgiven_. I can _forget_, and I do forget. For example, in this last case, I have not the slightest recollection of any individual who was engaged in it. The evil was entirely removed, and had it not afforded me a convenient illustration here, perhaps I should never have thought of it again,--still it may not yet be _forgiven_. It may seem strange that I should speak so seriously of God's forgiveness for such a trifle as that. Does he notice a child's ringing a door bell in play? He notices when a child is willing to yield to temptation, to do what she knows to be wrong, and to act, even in the slightest trifle, from a selfish disregard for the convenience of others. This spirit he always notices, and though I may stop any particular form of its exhibition, it is for Him alone to forgive it and to purify the heart from its power. But I shall speak more particularly on this subject under the head of Religious Instruction. II. ORDER OF DAILY EXERCISES. There will be given you when you enter the school a blank schedule, in which the divisions of each forenoon for one week are marked, and in which your own employments for every half hour are to be written. A copy of this is inserted on page 196. * * * * * This schedule, when filled up, forms a sort of a map of the week, in which you can readily find what are your duties for any particular time. The following description will enable you better to understand it. _Opening of the School._ The first thing which will call your attention as the hour for the commencement of the school approaches in the morning, is the ringing of a bell, five minutes before the time arrives, by the regulator, who sits at the curtained desk before the Study Card. One minute before the time, the bell is rung again, which is the signal for all to take their seats and prepare for the opening of the school. When the precise moment arrives, the Study Card is drawn up, and at the sound of its little bell, all the scholars recline their heads upon their desks and unite with me in a very short prayer for God's protection and blessing during the day. I adopted the plan of allowing the scholars to sit, because I thought it would be pleasanter for them, and they have in return been generally, so far as I know, faithful in complying with my wish that they would all assume the posture proposed, so that the school may present the uniform and serious aspect which is proper, when we are engaged in so solemn a duty. If you move your chair back a little, you will find the posture not inconvenient, but the only reward you will have for faithfully complying with the general custom is the pleasure of doing your duty, for no one watches you, and you would not be called to account should you neglect to conform. After the prayer we sing one or two verses of a hymn. The music is led by the piano; and we wish all to join in it who can sing. The exercises which follow are exhibited to the eye by the following diagram. MOUNT VERNON SCHOOL. SCHEDULE OF STUDIES. 1833. _Miss_ +-------+----------+------------+-----+-------------+-----+-----------+ | | FIRST | SECOND | | THIRD | | FOURTH | | | HOUR. | HOUR. | | HOUR. | | HOUR. | +-------+----------+------------+--+--+-------------+--+--+-----------+ | | EVENING | LANGUAGES. |G.|R.|MATHEMATICS. |G.|R.| SECTIONS. | | | LESSONS. | | | | | | | | +-------+----+-----+------+-----+--+--+------+------+--+--+-----+-----+ |MONDAY.| | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+----+-----+------+-----+--+ +------+------+--+ +-----+-----+ | TUES. | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+----+-----+------+-----+--+ +------+------+--+ +-----+-----+ | WED. | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+----+-----+------+-----+--+ +------+------+--+ +-----+-----+ |THURS. | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+----+-----+------+-----+--+ +------+------+--+ +-----+-----+ |FRIDAY.| | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+----+-----+------+-----+--+ +------+------+--+ +-----+-----+ | SAT. | | | | | | | | | | | | | +-------+----+-----+------+-----+--+--+------+------+--+--+-----+-----+ _First Hour.--Evening Lessons._ (See plan; page 196.) We then, as you will see by the schedule, commence the first hour of the day. It is marked evening lessons, because most, though not all, of the studies are intended to be prepared out of school. These studies are miscellaneous in their character, comprising Geography, History, Natural and Intellectual Philosophy, and Natural History. This hour, like all the other hours for study, is divided into two equal parts, some classes reciting in the first part, and others in the second. A bell is always rung _five minutes before the time_ for closing the recitation, to give the teachers notice that their time is nearly expired, and then again _at the time_, to give notice to new classes to take their places. Thus you will observe that five minutes before the half hour expires, the bell will ring; soon after which the classes in recitation will take their seats. Precisely at the end of the half hour, it will ring again, when new classes will take their places. In the same manner notice is given five minutes before the second half of the hour expires, and so in all the other three hours. At the end of the first hour, the Study Card will be let half down, five minutes, and you will perceive that the sound of its bell will immediately produce a decided change in the whole aspect of the room. It is the signal, as has been before explained, for universal permission to whisper, and to leave seats, though not for loud talking or play, so that those who wish to continue their studies may do so without interruption. When the five minutes has expired, the Card goes up again, and its sound immediately restores silence and order. _Second Hour.--Languages._ (See plan.) We then commence the second hour of the school. This is devoted to the study of the Languages. The Latin, French, and English classes recite at this time. By English classes I mean those studying the English _as a language_, i. e. classes in Grammar, Rhetoric, and Composition. The hour is divided as the first hour is, and the bell is rung in the same way, i. e. at the close of each half hour, and also five minutes before the close, to give the classes notice that the time for recitation is about to expire. _First General Exercise._ (See Plan.) You will observe then, that there follows upon the schedule, a quarter of an hour marked G. That initial stands for General Exercise, and when it arrives each pupil is to lay aside her work, and attend to any exercise which may be proposed. This quarter of an hour is appropriated to a great variety of purposes. Sometimes I give a short and familiar lecture on some useful subject connected with science or art, or the principles of duty. Sometimes we have a general reading lesson. Sometimes we turn the school into a Bible class. Again the time is occupied in attending to some general _business_ of the school. The bell is rung one minute before the close of the time, and when the period appropriated to this purpose has actually expired, the Study Card, for the first time in the morning, is let entirely down, and the room is at once suddenly transformed into a scene of life and motion and gaiety. _First Recess._ (See plan.) The time for the recess is a quarter of an hour, and as you will see, it is marked R. on the schedule. We have various modes of amusing ourselves and finding exercise and recreation in recesses. Sometimes the girls bring their battledoors to school. Sometimes they have a large number of soft balls, with which they amuse themselves. A more common amusement is marching to the music of the piano. For this purpose, a set of signals by the whistle has been devised, by which commands are communicated to the school. In these and similar amusements the recess passes away, and one minute before it expires the bell is rung, to give notice of the approach of study hours. At this signal the scholars begin to prepare for a return to the ordinary duties of school, and when at the full expiration of the recess, the Study Card again goes up, silence, and attention, and order is immediately restored. _Third Hour--Mathematics._ (See plan.) There follows next, as you will see by reference to the schedule, an hour marked Mathematics. It is time for studying and reciting Arithmetic, Algebra, Geometry and similar studies. It is divided as the previous hours were, into two equal parts, and the bell is rung as has been described, five minutes before the close, and precisely at the close of each half hour. _Second General Exercise.--Business._ (See plan.) Then follows two quarter hours, appropriated like those heretofore described, the first to a General Exercise, the second to a Recess. At the first of these, the general business of the school is transacted. As this business will probably appear new to you, and will attract your attention, I will describe its nature and design. At first you will observe a young lady rise at the secretary's desk, to read a journal of what was done the day before. The notices which I gave, the arrangements I made,--the subjects discussed and decided,--and in fact every thing important and interesting in the business or occurrences of the preceding day--is recorded by the secretary of the school, and read at this time. This journal ought not to be a mere dry record of votes and business, but as far as possible, an interesting description in a narrative style, of the occurrences of the day. The Secretary must keep a memorandum, and ascertain that every thing important really finds a place in the record, but she may employ any good writer in school to prepare, from her minutes, the full account. After the record is read, you will observe me take from a little red morocco wrapper, which has been brought to my desk, a number of narrow slips of paper, which I am to read aloud. In most assemblies it is customary for any person wishing it, to rise in his place, and propose any plan, or as it is called, "make any motion" that he pleases. It would be unpleasant for a young lady to do this, in presence of a hundred companions, and we have consequently resorted to another plan. The red wrapper is placed in a part of the room, accessible to all, and any one who pleases, writes upon a narrow slip of paper anything she wishes to lay before the school, and deposits it there, and at the appointed time, the whole are brought to me. These propositions are of various kinds. I can perhaps best give you an idea of them, by such specimens as occur to me. "A. B. resigns her office of copyist, as she is about to leave school." "Proposed, that a class in Botany be formed. There are many who would like to join it." "When will vacation commence?" "Proposed, that a music committee be appointed, so that we can have some marching in recess." "Proposed that school begin at nine o'clock." "Mr. Abbott. Will you have the goodness to explain to us what is meant by the Veto Message." "Proposed that we have locks upon our desks." You see that the variety is very great, and there are usually from four or five to ten or fifteen of such papers daily. You will be at liberty to make in this way, any suggestion or inquiry, or to propose any change you please in any part of the instruction or administration of the school. If any thing dissatisfies you, you ought not to murmur at it in private, or complain of it to your companions; thus injuring, to no purpose, both your own peace and happiness and theirs,--but you ought immediately to bring up the subject in the way above described, that the evil may be removed. I receive some of the most valuable suggestions in this way, from the older and more reflecting pupils. These suggestions are read. Sometimes I decide myself. Sometimes I say the pupils may decide. Sometimes I ask their opinion and wishes, and then, after taking them into consideration, come to a conclusion. For example, I will insert a few of these propositions, as these papers are called, describing the way in which they would be disposed of. Most of them are real cases. "Mr. Abbott. The first class in Geography is so large that we have not room in the recitation seats. Cannot we have another place?" After reading this, I should perhaps say, "The class in Geography may rise and be counted." They rise. Those in each division are counted by the proper officer, as will hereafter be explained, and the numbers are reported aloud to me. It is all done in a moment. "How many of you think you need better accommodations?" If a majority of hands are raised, I say, "I wish the teacher of that class would ascertain whether any other place of recitation is vacant, or occupied by a smaller class at that time, and report the case to me." "Proposed, that we be allowed to walk upon the common in the recesses." "I should like to have some plan formed, by which you can walk on the common in recesses, but there are difficulties. If all should go out together, it is probable that some would be rude and noisy, and that others would come back tardy and out of breath. Besides, as the recess is short, so many would be in haste to prepare to go out, that there would be a great crowd and much confusion in the Ante-room and passage ways. I do not mention these as insuperable objections, but only as difficulties which there must be some plan to avoid. Perhaps, however, they cannot be avoided. Do any of you think of any plan?" I see perhaps two or three hands raised, and call upon the individuals by name, and they express their opinions. One says that a part can go out at a time. Another proposes that those who are tardy one day should not go out again, &c. "I think it possible that a plan can be formed on these or some such principles. If you will appoint a committee who will prepare a plan, and mature its details, and take charge of the execution of it, you may try the experiment. I will allow it to go on as long as you avoid the evils I have above alluded to." A committee is then raised to report in writing at the business hour of the following day. "Proposed, that the Study Card be down every half hour." "You may decide this question yourselves. That you may vote more freely, I wish you to vote by ballot. The boxes will be open during the next recess. The Vote-Receivers will write the question, and place it upon the boxes. All who feel interested in the subject, may carry in their votes, Ay or Nay. When the result is reported to me I will read it to the school." * * * * * In this and similar ways the various business brought up is disposed of. This custom is useful to the scholars, for it exercises and strengthens their judgment and their reflecting powers more than almost any thing besides; so that if interesting them in this way in the management of the school, were of no benefit to me, I should retain the practice, as most valuable to them. But it is most useful to me and to the school. I think nothing has contributed more to its prosperity than the active interest which the scholars have always taken in its concerns, and the assistance they have rendered me in carrying my plans into effect. You will observe that in transacting this business, very little is actually done by myself, except making the ultimate decision. All the details of business are assigned to teachers, or to officers and committees appointed for the purpose. By this means we despatch business very rapidly. The system of offices will be explained in another place; but I may say here that all appointments and elections are made in this quarter hour, and by means of the assistance of these officers the transaction of business is so facilitated that much more can sometimes be accomplished than you would suppose possible. I consider this period as one the most important in the whole morning. _Second Recess._ (See plan.) After the expiration of the quarter hour above described, the study card is dropped, and a recess succeeds. _Fourth Hour.--Sections._ (See plan.) In all the former part of the day the scholars are divided into _classes_, according to their proficiency in particular branches of study, and they resort to their _recitations_ for _instruction_. They now are divided into six _sections_ as we call them, and placed under the care of _superintendents_ not for instruction, but for what may be called supervision. _Teaching_ a pupil is not all that is necessary to be done for her in school. There are many other things, to be attended to--such as supplying her with the various articles necessary for her use,--seeing that her desk is convenient,--that her time is well arranged,--that she has not too much to do, nor too little,--and that no difficulty which can be removed, obstructs her progress in study, or her happiness in school. The last hour is appropriated to this purpose, with the understanding, however, that such a portion of it as is not wanted by the superintendent, is to be spent in study. You will see then, when the last hour arrives, that all the scholars go in various directions, to the meetings of their respective sections. Here they remain as long as the superintendent retains them. Sometimes they adjourn almost immediately; perhaps after having simply attended to the distribution of pens for the next day; at other times they remain during the hour, attending to such exercises as the superintendent may plan. The design, however, and nature of this whole arrangement, I shall explain more fully in another place. _Close of the School._ As the end of the hour approaches, five minutes notice is given by the bell, and when the time arrives, the study card is half dropped for a moment before the closing exercises. When it rises again the room is restored to silence and order. We then sing a verse or two of a hymn, and commend ourselves to God's protection in a short prayer. As the scholars raise their heads from the posture of reverence they have assumed, they pause a moment till the regulator lets down the study card, and the sound of its bell is the signal that our duties at school are ended for the day. III. INSTRUCTION AND SUPERVISION OF PUPILS. For the instruction of the pupils, the school is divided into _classes_, and for their general supervision, into _sections_, as has been intimated in the preceding chapter. The head of a _class_ is called a _Teacher_, and the head of a _section_ a _Superintendent_. The same individual may be both the Teacher of a class, and the Superintendent of a section. The two offices are, however, entirely distinct in their nature and design. As you will perceive by recalling to mind the daily order of exercises, the classes meet and recite during the first three hours of the school, and the sections assemble on the fourth and last. We shall give each a separate description. 1. CLASSES. The object of the division into classes is _instruction_. Whenever it is desirable that several individuals should pursue a particular study, a list of their names is made out, a book selected, a time for recitation assigned, a teacher appointed, and the exercises begin. In this way a large number of classes have been formed, and the wishes of parents or the opinion of the Principal, and in many cases that of the pupil, determines how many and what shall be assigned to each individual. A list of these classes, with the average age of the members, the name of the teacher, and the time of recitation, is posted in a conspicuous place, and public notice is given whenever a new class is formed. You will therefore have the opportunity to know all the arrangements of school in this respect, and I wish you to exercise your own judgment and discretion a great deal, in regard to your studies. I do not mean I expect you to _decide_, but to _reflect_ upon them. Look at the list, and consider what am most useful for you. Propose to me or to your parents, changes, whenever you think any are necessary; and when you finish one study, reflect carefully, yourself, on the question what you shall next commence. The scholars prepare their lessons when they please. They are expected to be present and prepared at the time of recitation, but they make the preparation when it is most convenient. The more methodical and systematic of the young ladies, mark the times of _study_ as well as of _recitation_ upon their schedules, so that the employment of their whole time at school is regulated by a systematic plan. You will observe too, that by this plan of having a great many classes reciting through the first three hours of the morning, every pupil can be employed as much or as little as her parents please. In a case of ill health, she may, as has often been done in such cases at the request of parents, join one or two classes only, and occupy the whole forenoon in preparing for them, and be entirely free from school duties at home. Or she may, as is much more frequently the case, choose to join a great many classes, so as to fill up, perhaps, her whole schedule with recitations, in which case she must prepare all her lessons at home. It is the duty of teachers to take care, however, when a pupil pleads want of time as a reason for being unprepared in any lesson, that the case is fully examined, that it may be ascertained whether the individual has joined too many classes, in which case some one should be dropped, and thus the time and the employments of each individual should be so adjusted as to give her constant occupation _in school_, and as much more as her parents may desire. By this plan of the classes, each scholar goes on just as rapidly in her studies, as her time, and talents, and health will allow. No one is kept back by the rest. Each class goes on regularly and systematically, all its members keeping exactly together in that study, but the various members of it will have joined a greater or less number of other classes, according to their age, or abilities, or progress in study, so that all will or may have full employment for their time. When you first enter the school, you will, for a day or two, be assigned to but few classes, for your mind will be distracted by the excitement of new scenes and pursuits, and the intellectual effort necessary for _joining_ a class is greater than that requisite for _going on_ with it, after being once under way. After a few days you will come to me and say, perhaps, (for this is ordinarily the process:) "Mr. Abbott, I think I have time for some more studies." "I will thank you to bring me your schedule," I say in reply, "so that I can see what you have now to do." By glancing my eye over the schedule in such a case, I see in a moment what duties have been already assigned you, and from my general schedule, containing all the studies of the school, I select what would be most suitable for you, after conferring with you about your past pursuits, and your own wishes or those of your parents in regard to your future course. Additions are thus made, until your time is fully occupied. * * * * * The manner of recitation in the classes, is almost boundlessly varied. The design is not to have you commit to memory what the book contains, but to understand and digest it,--to incorporate it fully into your own mind, that it may come up in future life, in such a form as you wish it for use. Do not then, in ordinary cases, endeavor to fix _words_, but _ideas_ in your minds. Conceive clearly,--paint distinctly to your imagination what is described,--contemplate facts in all their bearings and relations, and thus endeavor to exercise the judgment and the thinking and reasoning powers, rather than the mere memory, upon the subjects which will come before you. 2. SECTIONS. In describing the order of daily exercises, I alluded to the _sections_ which assemble in the last hour of the school. It is necessary that I should fully describe the system of sections, as it constitutes a very important part of the plan of the school. Besides giving the scholars the necessary intellectual instruction, there are, as I have already remarked, a great many other points which must receive attention, in order to promote their progress, and to secure the regular operation and general welfare of the school. These various points have something common in their nature, but it is difficult to give them a common name. They are such as supplying the pupils with pens and paper, and stationary of other kinds,--becoming acquainted with each individual, ascertaining that she has enough, and not too much to do,--arranging her work so that no one of her duties shall interfere with another,--assisting her to discover and to correct her faults,--and removing any sources of difficulty or causes of discontent, which may gradually come in her way. These, and a multitude of similar points constituting what may be called the general _administration_ of the school, become, when the number of pupils is large, a most important branch of the teacher's duty. To accomplish these objects more effectually, the school is divided into SIX SECTIONS, arranged not according to proficiency in particular studies, as the several classes are, but according to _age and general maturity of mind_. Each one of these sections is assigned to the care of a Superintendent. These Superintendents, it is true, during most of school hours are also Teachers. Their duties however as _Teachers_, and as _Superintendents_ are entirely distinct. I shall briefly enumerate the duties which devolve upon her in the latter capacity. 1. A Superintendent ought to prepare an exact list of the members of her section, and to become intimately acquainted with them, so as to be as far as possible their friend and confidant, and to feel a stronger interest in their progress in study and their happiness in school, and a greater personal attachment to them than to any other scholars. 2. She is to superintend the preparation of their schedules,--to see that each one has enough and not too much to do, by making known to me the necessity of a change where such necessity exists;--to see that the schedules are submitted to the parents, and that their opinion, or suggestions if they wish to make any, are reported to me. 3. She is to take care that all the daily wants of her section are supplied,--that all have pens and paper, and desks of suitable height. If any are new scholars, she ought to interest herself in assisting them to become acquainted in school,--if they are friendless and alone, to find companions for them, and to endeavor in every way, to make their time pass pleasantly and happily. 4. To watch the characters of the members of her section. To inquire of their several teachers as to the progress they make in study, and the faithfulness and punctuality with which they prepare their lessons. She ought to ascertain whether they are punctual at school, and regular in their habits,--whether their desks are neat and well arranged, and their exercises carefully executed. She ought to correct, through her own influence, any evils of this kind she may find, or else immediately to refer the cases where this cannot be done, to me. The better and the more pleasantly to accomplish the object of exerting a favorable influence upon the characters of the members of their sections, the Superintendents ought often to bring up subjects connected with moral and religious duty in section meetings. This may be done in the form of subjects assigned for composition, or proposed for free discussion in writing or conversation, or, the Superintendents may write themselves, and read to the section the instructions they wish to give. 5. Though the Superintendents as such, have necessarily speaking, no _teaching_ to do, still they ought particularly to secure the progress of every pupil in what may be called the _essential_ studies, such as reading, writing, and spelling. For this purpose they either see that their pupils are going on successfully in classes in school, in these branches, or they may attend to them in the Section, provided that they never allow such instruction to interfere with their more appropriate and important duties. In a word, the Superintendents are to consider the members of their Sections as pupils confided to their care, and they are not merely to discharge mechanically any mere routine of duty, such as can be here pointed out, but to exert all their powers,--their ingenuity, their knowledge of human character, their judgment and discretion in every way, to secure for each of those committed to their care, the highest benefits which the institution to which they belong can afford. They are to keep a careful and faithful record of their plans and of the history of their respective Sections, and to endeavor, as faithfully and as diligently, to advance the interests of the members of them, as if the Sections were separate and independent schools of their own. A great responsibility is thus evidently intrusted to them, but not a great deal of _power_. They ought not to make changes, except in very plain cases, without referring the subject to me. They ought not to make rash experiments, or even to try many new plans without first obtaining my approval of them. They ought to refer all cases which they cannot easily manage, to my care. They ought to understand the distinction between _seeing that a thing is done_, and _doing it_. For example, if a Superintendent thinks that one of her Section is in too high a class in Arithmetic, her duty is not to undertake, by her own authority, to remove her to a lower one, for, as Superintendent, she has no authority over Arithmetic classes; nor should she go the opposite extreme of saying, "I have no authority over Arithmetic classes, and therefore I have nothing to do with this case." She ought to go to the teacher of the class to which her pupil had been unwisely assigned, converse with her, obtain her opinion, then find some other class more suited to her attainments, and after fully ascertaining all the facts in the case, bring them to me, that I may make the change. This is _superintendence_;--_looking over_ the condition and progress of the scholar. The Superintendents have thus great responsibility, and yet comparatively little power. They accomplish a great deal of good, and in its ordinary course it is by their direct personal efforts; but in making changes and remedying defects and evils, they act generally in a different way. The last hour of school is devoted to the Sections. No classes recite then, but the Sections meet, if the Superintendents wish, and attend to such exercises as they provide. Each Section has its own organization, its own officers and plans. These arrangements of course, vary in their character according to the ingenuity and enterprise of the Superintendents, and more especially according to the talents and intellectual ardor of the members of the Section. The two upper Sections are called Senior, the next two Middle, and the two younger Junior. The senior Sections are distinguished by using paper for Section purposes, with a light blue tinge. To the middle Sections is assigned a light straw color; and to the junior, pink. These colors are used for the schedules of the members, and for the records, and other documents of the Section. This account, though it is brief, will be sufficient to explain to you the general principles of the plan. You will soon become acquainted with the exercises and arrangements of the particular Section to which you will be assigned, and by taking an active interest in them, and endeavoring to co-operate with the Superintendent in all her measures, and to comply with her wishes, you will very materially add to her happiness, and do your part towards elevating the character of the circle to which you will belong. IV. OFFICERS. In consequence of the disposition early manifested by the scholars, to render me every assistance in their power in carrying into effect the plans of the school, and promoting its prosperity, I gradually adopted the plan of assigning to various officers and committees, a number of specific duties, relating to the general business of the school. These offices have gradually multiplied as the school has increased, and as business has accumulated. The system has, from time to time, been revised, condensed, and simplified, and at the present time it is thus arranged. The particular duties of each officer, are minutely described to the individuals themselves at the time of their election; all I intend here is to give a general view of the plan, such as is necessary for the scholars at large. There are then, _five departments_ of business entrusted to officers of the school, the names of the officers, and a brief exposition of their duties are as follows. [I omit the particular explanation of the duties of the officers, as the arrangement must vary in different schools, and the details of any one plan can only be useful in the school-room to which it belongs. It will be sufficient to name the officers of each department with their duties in general terms.] 1. REGULATORS. To assist in the ordinary routine of business in school--ringing the bells--managing the study card--distributing and collecting papers--counting votes, &c. 2. SECRETARIES. Keeping the records and executing writing of various kinds. 3. ACCOUNTANTS. Keeping a register of the scholars, and various other duties connected with the accounts. 4. LIBRARIANS. To take charge of books and stationary. 5. CURATORS. To secure neatness and good order in the apartments. The Secretaries and Accountants are appointed by the Principal, and will generally be chosen from the teachers. The first in each of the other departments are chosen by ballot, by the scholars. Each one thus chosen nominates the second in her department, and they two, the assistants. These nominations must be approved at a teacher's meeting, for if a scholar is inattentive to her studies, disorderly in her desk, or careless and troublesome in her manners, she evidently ought not to be appointed to public office. No person can hold an office in two of these departments. She can, if she pleases, however, resign one to accept another. Each of these departments ought often to assemble and consult together, and form plans for carrying into effect with greater efficiency, the objects entrusted to them. They are to keep a record of all their proceedings, the head of the department acting as secretary for this purpose. The following may be given as an example of the manner in which business is transacted by means of these officers. On the day that the above description of their duties was written, I wished for a sort of directory, to assist the collector employed to receive payments for the bills; and, to obtain it, I took the following steps. At the business quarter hour, I issued the following order. "Before the close of school I wish the distributors to leave upon each of the desks, a piece of paper," (the size I described.) "It is for a purpose which I shall then explain." Accordingly at any leisure moment, before the close of school, each one went with her box to the stationary shelves, which you will see in the corners of the room, where a supply of paper, of all the various sizes, used in school, is kept, and taking out a sufficient number, they supplied all the desks in their respective divisions. When the time for closing school arrived, I requested each young lady to write the name of her parent or guardian upon the paper, and opposite to it, his place of business. This was done in a minute or two. "All those whose parent's or guardian's name begins with a letter above _m._ may rise." They rose. "The distributors may collect the papers." The officers then passed round in regular order, each through her own division, and collected the papers. "Deliver them at the Accountant's desk." They were accordingly carried there, and received by the Accountants. In the same manner the others were collected and received by the Accountants, but kept separate. "I wish now the second Accountant would copy these in a little book I have prepared for the purpose, arranging them alphabetically, referring all doubtful cases again to me." The second Accountant then arranged the papers, and prepared them to go into the book, and the writer who belongs to the department copied them fairly. I describe this case, because it was one which occurred at the time I was writing the above description, and not because there is any thing otherwise peculiar in it. Such cases are continually taking place, and by the division of labor above illustrated, I am very much assisted in a great many of the duties, which would otherwise consume a great portion of my time. Any of the scholars may, at any time, make suggestions in writing, to any of these officers, or to the whole school. And if an officer should be partial, or unfaithful, or negligent in her duty, any scholar may propose her impeachment. After hearing what she chooses to write in her defence, a vote is taken on sustaining the impeachment. If it is sustained, she is deprived of the office and another appointed to fill her place. V. THE COURT. I have already described how all serious cases of doing wrong or neglect of duty are managed in the school. I manage them myself, by coming as directly and as openly as I can, to the heart and conscience of the offender. There are, however, a number of little transgressions, too small to be individually worthy of serious attention, but which are yet troublesome to the community, when frequently repeated. These relate chiefly to _order in the school rooms_. These misdemeanors are tried, half in jest, and half in earnest, by a sort of _court_, whose forms of process might make a legal gentleman smile. They however fully answer our purpose. I can best give you an idea of the court, by describing an actual trial. I ought however first to say, that any young lady, who chooses to be free from the jurisdiction of the court, can signify that wish to me, and she is safe from it. This however is never done. They all see the useful influence of it, and wish to sustain it. Near the close of school, I find perhaps on my desk a paper of which the following may be considered a copy. It is called the indictment. We accuse Miss A. B. of having waste papers in the aisle opposite her desk, at 11 o'clock, on Friday, Oct. 12. C. D. } E. F. } Witnesses. I give notice after school that a case is to be tried. Those interested, twenty or thirty perhaps, gather around my desk, while the sheriff goes to summon the accused and the witnesses. A certain space is marked off as the precincts of the court, within which no one must enter in the slightest degree, on pain of imprisonment, i. e. confinement to her seat until the court adjourns. "Miss A. B.; you are accused of having an untidy floor about your desk. Have you any objection to the indictment?" While she is looking over the indictment, to discover a misspelled word, or an error in the date, or some other latent flaw, I appoint any two of the bystanders, jury. The jury come forward to listen to the cause. The accused returns the indictment, saying, she has no objection, and the witnesses are called upon to present their testimony. Perhaps the prisoner alleges in defence that the papers were out _in the aisle_, not _under her desk_, or that she did not put them there, or that they were too few, or too small, to deserve attention. My charge to the jury would be somewhat as follows. "You are to consider and decide whether she was guilty of disorder; taking into view the testimony of the witnesses, and also her defence. It is considered here that each young lady is responsible not only for the appearance of the carpet _under her desk_, but also for the _aisle opposite to it_, so that her first ground of defence must be abandoned. So also with the second, that she did not put them there. She ought not to _have_ them there. Each scholar must keep her own place in a proper condition;--so that if disorder is found there, no matter who made it, she is responsible, if she only had time to remove it. As to the third, you must judge whether enough has been proved by the witnesses to make out real disorder." The jury write _guilty_ or _not guilty_ upon the paper, and it is returned to me. If sentence is pronounced it is usually confinement to the seat, during a recess, or part of a recess, or something that requires slight effort or sacrifice, for the public good. The sentence is always something _real_, though always _slight_, and the court has a great deal of influence in a double way; making amusement, and preserving order. The cases tried are very various, but none of the serious business of the school is entrusted to it. Its sessions are always held out of school hours; and in fact it is hardly considered by the scholars as a constituent part of the arrangements of the school. So much so, that I hesitated much about inserting an account of it in this description. VI. RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION. In giving you this account, brief as it is, I ought not to omit to speak of one feature of our plan, which we have always intended should be one of the most prominent and distinctive characteristics of the school. The gentlemen who originally interested themselves in its establishment, had mainly in view the exertion, by the Principal, of a decided moral and religious influence over the hearts of the pupils. Knowing, as they did, how much more dutiful and affectionate at home you would be, how much more successful in your studies at school, how much happier in your intercourse with each other, and in your prospects for the future both here and hereafter, if your hearts could be brought under the influence of Christian principle, they were strongly desirous that the school should be so conducted, that its religious influence, though gentle and alluring in its character, should be frank, and open, and decided. I need not say that I myself entered very cordially into these views. It has been my constant effort, and one of the greatest sources of my enjoyment, to try to win my pupils to piety, and to create such an atmosphere in school, that conscience, and moral principle, and affection for the unseen Jehovah, should reign here. You can easily see hew much pleasanter it is for me to have the school controlled by such an influence, than if it were necessary for we to hire you to diligence in duty, by prizes or rewards, or to deter you from neglect or from transgression, by reproaches, and threatenings, and punishments. The influence which the school has thus exerted has always been cordially welcomed by my pupils, and approved, so far as I have known, by their parents, though four or five denominations, and fifteen or twenty different congregations have been, from time to time, represented in the school. There are few parents who would not like to have their children _Christians_;--sincerely and practically so;--for every thing which a parent can desire in a child is promoted, just in proportion as she opens her heart to the influence of the spirit of piety. But that you may understand what course is taken, I shall describe, first what I wish to effect in the hearts of my pupils, and then what means I take to accomplish the object. 1. A large number of young persons of your age, and in circumstances similar to those in which you are placed perform with some fidelity their various outward duties, _but maintain no habitual and daily communion with God_. It is very wrong for them to live thus without God, but they do not see,--or rather do not feel the guilt of it. They only think of their accountability to _human beings_ like themselves, for example their parents, teachers, brothers and sisters, and friends. Consequently they think most of their _external_ conduct, which is all that human beings can see. Their _hearts_ are neglected and become very impure,--full of evil thoughts, and desires, and passions, which are not repented of, and consequently not forgiven. Now what I wish to accomplish in regard to all my pupils is, that they should begin to _feel their accountability to God_, and to act according to it. That they should explore their _hearts_ and ask God's forgiveness for all their past sins, through Jesus Christ, who died for them that they might be forgiven; and that they should from this time, try to live _near to God_, feel his presence, and enjoy that solid peace and happiness which flows from a sense of his protection. When such a change takes place, it relieves the mind from that constant and irritating uneasiness, which the great mass of mankind feel as a constant burden; the ceaseless forebodings of a troubled conscience, reproaching them for their past accumulated guilt, and warning them of a judgment to come. The change which I endeavor to promote, relieves the heart-both of the present suffering and of the future danger. After endeavoring to induce you to begin to act from Christian principle, I wish to explain to you, your various duties to yourselves, your parents, and to God. * * * * * 2. The measures to which I resort to accomplish these objects are three. First. _Religious Exercises in School._ We open and close the school with a very short prayer, and one or two verses of a hymn. Sometimes I occupy ten or fifteen minutes at one of the general exercises, or at the close of the school, in giving instruction upon practical religious duty. The subjects are sometimes suggested by a passage of scripture read for the purpose, but more commonly in another way. You will observe often at the close of the school or at an appointed general exercise, that a scholar will bring to my desk a dark-colored morocco wrapper, containing several small strips of paper upon which questions relating to moral or religious duty, or subjects for remarks from me, or anecdotes, or short statements of facts, giving rise to inquiries of various kinds, are written. This wrapper is deposited in a place accessible to all the scholars, and any one who pleases, deposits in it any question or suggestion on religious subjects which may occur to her. You can, at any time, do this yourself, thus presenting any doubt, or difficulty, or inquiry, which may at any time occur to you. Second. _Religious Exercise on Saturday afternoon._ In order to bring up more distinctly and systematically the subject of religious duty, I established a long time ago, a religious meeting on Saturday afternoon. It is intended for those who feel interested in receiving such instruction, and who can conveniently attend at that time. If you have not other engagements, and if your parents approve of it, I should be happy to have you attend. There will be very little to interest you except the subject itself, for I make all the instructions which I give there as plain, direct, and practical as is in my power. A considerable number of the scholars usually attend, and frequently bring with them many of their female friends. You can at any time invite any one whom you please, to come to the meeting. It commences at half past three and continues about half an hour. Third. _Personal religious instruction._ In consequence of the large number of my pupils, and the constant occupation of my time in school, I have scarcely any opportunity of religious conversation with them, even with those who particularly desire it. The practice has therefore arisen, and gradually extended itself almost universally in school, of writing to me on the subject. These communications are usually brief notes, expressing the writer's interest in the duties of piety, or bringing forward her own peculiar practical difficulties, or making specific inquiries, or asking particular instruction in regard to some branch of religious duty. I answer in a similar way,--very briefly and concisely however,--for the number of notes of this kind which I receive, is very large, and the time which I can devote to such a correspondence necessarily limited. I should like to receive such communications from all my pupils; for advice or instruction communicated in reply, being directly personal, is far more likely to produce effect. Besides my remarks being in writing, can be read a second time, and be more attentively considered and re-considered, than when words are merely spoken. These communications must always be begun by the pupil. I never, (unless there may be occasional exceptions in some few very peculiar cases) commence. I am prevented from doing this both by my unwillingness to obtrude such a subject personally upon those who might not welcome it, and by want of time. I have scarcely time to write to all those who are willing first to write to me. Many cases have occurred where individuals have strongly desired some private communication with me, but have hesitated long, and shrunk reluctantly from the first step. I hope it will not be so with you. Should you ever wish to receive from me any direct religious instruction, I hope you will write immediately and freely. I shall very probably not even notice that it is the first time I have received such a communication from you. So numerous and so frequent are these communications that I seldom observe, when I receive one from any individual for the first time, that it comes from one who has not written me before. * * * * * Such are the means to which I resort in endeavoring to lead my pupils to God and to duty. And you will observe that the whole design of them is to win and to allure, not to compel. The regular devotional exercises of school, are all which you will _necessarily_ witness. These are very short, occupying much less time than many of the pupils think desirable. The rest is all private and voluntary. I never make any effort to urge any one to attend the Saturday meeting, nor do I, except in a few rare and peculiar cases, ever address any one personally, unless she desires to be so addressed. You will be left therefore in this school unmolested,--to choose your own way. If you should choose to neglect religious duty, and to wander away from God, I shall still do all in my power to make you happy in school, and to secure for you in future life, such a measure of enjoyment, as can fall to the share of one, over whose prospects in another world there hangs so gloomy a cloud. I shall never reproach you, and perhaps may not even know what your choice is. Should you on the other hand prefer the peace and happiness of piety, and be willing to begin to walk in its paths, you will find many both among the teachers and pupils of the Mt. Vernon School to sympathize with you, and to encourage and help you on your way. CHAPTER VII. SCHEMING. The best teachers in our country, or rather those who might be the best, lose a great deal of their time, and endanger, or perhaps entirely destroy their hopes of success, by a scheming spirit, which is always reaching forward to something new. One has in his mind some new school book, by which Arithmetic, Grammar, or Geography are to be taught with unexampled rapidity, and his own purse to be filled, in a much more easy way, than by waiting for the rewards of patient industry. Another has the plan of a school, bringing into operation new principles of management or instruction, which he is to establish on some favored spot, and which is to become in a few years a second Hofwyl. Another has some royal road to learning, and though he is trammeled and held down by what he calls the ignorance and stupidity of his Trustees or his School Committee, yet if he could fairly put his principles and methods to the test, he is certain of advancing the science of Education half a century at least, at a single leap. Ingenuity in devising new ways, and enterprise in following them, are among the happiest characteristics of a new country rapidly filling with a thriving population. Without these qualities there could be no advance; society must be stationary; and from a stationary to a retrograde condition, the progress is inevitable. The disposition to make improvements and changes may however be too great. If so, it must he checked. On the other hand a slavish attachment to old established practices may prevail. Then the spirit of enterprise and experiment must be awakened and encouraged. Which of these two is to be the duty of a writer at any time, will of course depend upon the situation of the community at the time he writes, and of the class of readers for which he takes his pen. Now at the present time, it is undoubtedly true, that, while among the great mass of teachers there may be too little originality and enterprise, there is still among many a spirit of innovation and change, to which a caution ought to be addressed. But before I proceed, let me protect myself from misconception by one or two remarks. 1. There are a few individuals in various parts of our country, who by ingenuity and enterprise, have made real and important improvements in many departments of our science, and are still making them. The science is to be carried forward by such men. Let them not therefore understand that any thing which I shall say, applies at all to those real improvements which are from time to time, brought before the public. As examples of this there might easily be mentioned, were it necessary, several new modes of study, and new text books, and literary institutions on new plans, which have been brought forward within a few years, and proved, on actual trial, to be of real and permanent value. These are, or rather they were, when first conceived by the original projectors, new schemes; and the result has proved that they were good ones. Every teacher too must hope that such improvements will continue to be made. Let nothing therefore which shall be said on the subject of scheming in this chapter, be interpreted as intended to condemn real improvements of this kind, or to check those which may now be in progress, by men of age or experience, or of sound judgment, who are capable of distinguishing between a real improvement and a whimsical innovation, which can never live any longer than it is sustained by the enthusiasm of the original inventor. 2. There are a great many teachers in our country, who make their business a mere dull and formal routine, through which they plod on, month after month, and year after year, without variety or change, and who are inclined to stigmatize with the appellation of idle scheming, all plans, of whatever kind, to give variety or interest to the exercises of the school. Now whatever may be said in this chapter against unnecessary innovation and change, does not apply to efforts to secure variety in the details of daily study, while the great leading objects are steadily pursued. This subject has already been discussed in the chapter on Instruction, where it has been shown that every wise teacher, while he pursues the same great object, and adopts in substance the same leading measures at all times, will exercise all the ingenuity he possesses, and bring all his inventive powers into requisition to give variety and interest to the minute details. * * * * * To explain now what is meant by such scheming as is to be condemned, let us suppose a case, which is not very uncommon. A young man, while preparing for college, takes a school. When he first enters upon the duties of his office, he is diffident and timid, and walks cautiously in the steps which precedent has marked out for him. Distrusting himself, he seeks guidance in the example which others have set for him, and very probably he imitates precisely, though it may be insensibly and involuntarily, the manners and the plans of his own last teacher. This servitude soon however, if he is a man of natural abilities, passes away: he learns to try one experiment after another, until he insensibly finds that a plan may succeed, even if it was not pursued by his former teacher. So far it is well. He throws greater interest into his school, and into all its exercises by the spirit with which he conducts them. He is successful. After the period of his services has expired, he returns to the pursuit of his studies, encouraged by his success, and anticipating further triumphs in his subsequent attempts. He goes on through college we will suppose, teaching from time to time in the vacations, as opportunity occurs, taking more and more interest in the employment, and meeting with greater and greater success. This success is owing in a very great degree to the _freedom_ of his practice, that is to his escape from the thraldom of imitation. So long as he leaves the great objects of the school untouched, and the great features of its organization unchanged, his many plans for accomplishing these objects in new and various ways, awaken interest and spirit both in himself and in his scholars, and all goes on well. Now in such a case as this, a young teacher philosophizing upon his success and the causes of it, will almost invariably make this mistake; viz., he will attribute to something essentially excellent in his plans, the success which, in fact results from the novelty of them. When he proposes something new to a class, they all take an interest in it, because it is _new_. He takes, too, a special interest in it because it is an experiment which he is trying, and he feels a sort of pride and pleasure in securing its success. The new method which he adopts, may not be, _in itself_, in the least degree better than old methods. Yet it may succeed vastly better in his hands, than any old method he had tried before. And why? Why because it is new. It awakens interest in his class, because it offers them variety, and it awakens interest in him, because it is a plan which he has devised, and for whose success therefore he feels that his credit is at stake. Either of these circumstances is abundantly sufficient to account for its success. Either of these would secure success, unless the plan was a very bad one indeed. This may easily be illustrated by supposing a particular case. The teacher has, we will imagine, been accustomed to teach spelling in the usual way, by assigning a lesson in the spelling book, which the scholars have studied in their seats, and then they have recited by having the words put to them individually in the class. After sometime, he finds that one class has lost its interest in this study. He can _make_ them get the lesson it is true, but he perceives perhaps that it is a weary task to them. Of course they proceed with less alacrity, and consequently with less rapidity and success. He thinks, very justly, that it is highly desirable to secure cheerful, not forced, reluctant efforts from his pupils, and he thinks of trying some new plan. Accordingly he says to them, "Boys, I am going to try a new plan for this class." The mere annunciation of a new plan awakens universal attention. The boys all look up, wondering what it is to be. "Instead of having you study your lessons in your seats, as heretofore, I am going to let you all go together into one corner of the room, and choose some one to read the lesson to you, spelling all the words aloud. You will all listen and endeavor to remember how the difficult ones are spelled. Do you think you can remember?" "Yes, sir," say the boys. Children always think they _can_ do every thing which is proposed to them as a new plan or experiment, though they are very often inclined to think they _cannot_ do what is required of them as a task. "You may have," continues the teacher, "the words read to you once, or twice, just as you please. Only if you have them read but once, you must take a shorter lesson." He pauses and looks round upon the class. Some say, "Once," some, "Twice." "I am willing that you should decide this question. How many are in favor of having shorter lessons, and having them read but once?----How many prefer longer lessons, and having them read twice?" After comparing the numbers, it is decided according to the majority, and the teacher assigns, or allows them to assign a lesson. "Now," he proceeds, "I am not only going to have you study in a different way, but recite in a different way too. You may take your slates with you, and after you have had time to hear the lesson read slowly and carefully twice, I shall come and dictate to you the words aloud, and you will all write them from my dictation. Then I shall examine your slates, and see how many mistakes are made." Any class of boys now would be exceedingly interested in such a proposal as this, especially if the master's ordinary principles of government and instruction had been such, as to interest the pupils in the welfare of the school, and in their own progress in study. They will come together in the place assigned, and listen to the one who is appointed to read the words to them, with every faculty aroused, and their whole souls engrossed in the new duties assigned them. The teacher, too, feels a special interest in his experiment. Whatever else be may be employed about, his eye turns instinctively to this group, with an intensity of interest, which an experienced teacher who has long been in the field, and who has tried experiments of this sort a hundred times, can scarcely conceive. For let it be remembered that I am describing the acts and feelings of a new beginner; of one who is commencing his work, with a feeble and trembling step, and perhaps this is his first step from the beaten path in which he has been accustomed to walk. This new plan is continued, we will suppose, a week, during which time the interest of the pupils continues. They get longer lessons, and make fewer mistakes than they did by the old method. Now in speculating on this subject, the teacher reasons very justly, that it is of no consequence whether the pupil receives his knowledge through the eye, or through the ear; whether they study in solitude or in company. The point is to secure their progress in learning to spell the words of the English language, and as this point is secured far more rapidly and effectually by his new method, the inference is to his mind very obvious, that he has made a great improvement,--one of real and permanent value. Perhaps he will consider it an extraordinary discovery. But the truth is, that in almost all such cases as this, the secret of the success is, not that the teacher has discovered a _better_ method than the ordinary ones, but that he has discovered a _new_ one. The experiment will succeed in producing more successful results, just as long as the novelty of it continues to excite unusual interest and attention in the class, or the thought that it is a plan of the teacher's own invention, leads him to take a peculiar interest in it. And this may be a month, or perhaps a quarter, and precisely the same effects would have been produced, if the whole had been reversed, that is, if the plan of dictation had been the old one, which in process of time had, in this supposed school, lost its interest, and the teacher by his ingenuity and enterprise had discovered and introduced what is now the common mode. "Very well," perhaps my reader will reply, "it is surely something gained to awaken and continue interest in a dull study, for a quarter, or even a month. The experiment is worth something as a pleasant and useful change, even if it is not permanently superior to the other." It is indeed worth something. It is worth a great deal; and the teacher who can devise and execute such plans, _understanding their real place and value, and adhering steadily through them all, to the great object which ought to engage his attention_, is in the almost certain road to success as an instructer. What I wish is, not to discourage such efforts; they ought to be encouraged to the utmost, but to have their real nature and design, and the real secret of their success fully understood, and to have the teacher, above all, take good care that all his new plans are made, not the substitutes for the great objects which he ought to keep steadily in view, but only the means by which he may carry them into more full and complete effect. In the case we are supposing however, we will imagine that the teacher does not do this. He fancies that he has made an important discovery, and begins to inquire whether the _principle_, as he calls it, cannot be applied to some other studies. He goes to philosophizing upon it, and can find many reasons why knowledge received through the ear makes a more ready and lasting impression, than when it comes through the eye. He tries to apply the method to Arithmetic and Geography, and in a short time is forming plans for the complete metamorphosis of his school. When engaged in hearing a recitation, his mind is distracted with his schemes and plans; and instead of devoting his attention fully to the work he may have in hand, his thoughts are wandering continually to new schemes and fancied improvements, which agitate and perplex him, and which elude his efforts to give them a distinct and definite form. He thinks he must however, carry out his _principle_. He thinks of its applicability to a thousand other cases. He revolves, over and over again in his mind, plans for changing the whole arrangement of his school. He is again and again lost in perplexity, his mind is engrossed and distracted, and his present duties are performed with no interest, and consequently with little spirit or success. Now his error is in allowing a new idea, which ought only to have suggested to him an agreeable change for a time, in one of his classes, to swell itself into undue and exaggerated importance, and to draw off his mind from what ought to be the objects of his steady pursuit. Perhaps some teacher of steady intellectual habits and a well balanced mind may think that this picture is fanciful, and that there is little danger that such consequences will ever actually result from such a cause. But far from having exaggerated the results, I am of opinion that I might have gone much farther. There is no doubt that a great many instances have occurred, in which some simple idea like the one I have alluded to, has led the unlucky conceiver of it, in his eager pursuit far deeper into the difficulty, than I have here supposed. He gets into a contention with the school committee, that formidable foe to the projects of all scheming teachers; and it would not be very difficult to find many actual cases, where the individual has, in consequence of some such idea, quietly planned and taken measures to establish some new institution, where he can carry on, unmolested, his plans, and let the world see the full results of his wonderful discoveries. We have in our country a very complete system of literary institutions, so far as external organization will go, and the prospect of success is far more favorable in efforts to carry these institutions into more complete and prosperous operation, than in plans for changing them, or substituting others in their stead. Were it not that such a course would be unjust to individuals, a long and melancholy catalogue might easily be made out, of abortive plans which have sprung up in the minds of young men, in the manner I have described, and which after perhaps temporary success, have resulted in partial or total failure. These failures are of every kind. Some are school-books on a new plan, which succeed in the inventor's hand, chiefly on account of the spirit which carried it into effect; but which in ordinary hands, and under ordinary circumstances, and especially after long continued use, have failed of exhibiting any superiority. Others are institutions, commenced with great zeal by the projectors, and which succeed just as long as that zeal continues. Zeal will make any thing succeed for a time. Others are new plans of instruction or government, generally founded on some good principle carried to an extreme, or made to grow into exaggerated and disproportionate importance. Examples almost innumerable, of these things might be particularized, if it were proper, and it would be found upon examination, that the amount of ingenuity and labor wasted upon such attempts, would have been sufficient, if properly expended, to have elevated very considerably the standard of education, and to have placed existing institutions in a far more prosperous and thriving state than they now exhibit. The reader will perhaps ask, shall we make no efforts at improvement? Must every thing in education go on in a uniform and monotonous manner; and while all else is advancing, shall our cause alone stand still? By no means. It must advance; but let it advance mainly by the industry and fidelity of those who are employed in it; by changes slowly and cautiously made; not by great efforts to reach forward to brilliant discoveries, which will draw off the attention from essential duties, and after leading the projector through perplexities and difficulties without number, end in mortification and failure. Were I to give a few concise and summary directions in regard to this subject to a young teacher, they would be the following: 1. Examine thoroughly the system of public and private schools as now constituted in New England, until you fully understand it, and appreciate its excellences and its completeness; see how fully it provides for the wants of the various classes of our population. By this I mean to refer only to the completeness of the _system_, as a system of organization. I do not refer at all to the internal management of these institutions: this last is, of course, a field for immediate and universal effort at progress and improvement. 2. If after fully understanding this system as it now exists, you are of opinion that something more is necessary; if you think some classes of the community are not fully provided for, or that some of our institutions may be advantageously exchanged for others, whose plan you have in mind; consider whether your age, and experience, and standing, as an instructer are such as to enable you to place confidence in your opinion. I do not mean by this, that a young man may not make a useful discovery; but only that he may be led away by the ardor of early life, to fancy that essential and important, which is really not so. It is important that each one should determine whether this is not the case with himself, if his mind is revolving some new plan. 3. Perhaps you are contemplating only a single new institution, which is to depend for its success, on yourself and some coadjutors whom you have in mind, and whom you well know. If this is the case, consider whether the establishment you are contemplating can be carried on, after you shall have left it, by such men as can ordinarily be obtained. If the plan is founded on some peculiar notions of your own, which would enable you to succeed in it, when others, also interested in such a scheme, would probably fail, consider whether there may not be danger that your plan may be imitated by others, who cannot carry it into successful operation, so that it may be the indirect means of doing injury. A man is, in some degree, responsible for his example, and for the consequences which may indirectly flow from his course, as well as for the immediate results which he produces. The Fellenberg school at Hofwyl has perhaps, by its direct results, been as successful for a given time, as perhaps any other institution in the world; but there is a great offset to the good which it has thus done, to be found in the history of the thousand wretched imitations of it, which have been started only to linger a little while and die, and in which a vast amount of time, and talent, and money have been wasted. Consider the influence you may have upon the other institutions of our country, by attaching yourself to some one under the existing organization. If you take an academy or a private school, constituted and organized like other similar institutions, success in your own, will give you influence over others. A successful teacher of an academy, raises the standard of academic instruction. A college professor, if he brings extraordinary talents to bear upon the regular duties of that office, throws light, universally, upon the whole science of college discipline and instruction. By going, however, to some new field, establishing some new and fanciful institution, you take yourself from such a sphere;--you exert no influence over others, except upon feeble imitators, who fail in their attempts, and bring discredit upon your plans by the awkwardness with which they attempt to adopt them. How much more service to the cause of education, have Professors Cleaveland and Silliman rendered by falling in with the regularly organized institutions of the country, and elevating them, than if in early life, they had given themselves to some magnificent project of an establishment, to which their talents would unquestionably have given temporary success, but which would have taken them away from the community of teachers, and confined the results of their labors to the more immediate effects which their daily duties might produce. 5. Perhaps, however, your plan is not the establishment of some new institution, but the introduction of some new study or pursuit into the one with which you are connected. Before, however, you interrupt the regular plans of your school to make such a change, consider carefully what is the real and appropriate object of your institution. Every thing is not to be done in school. The principles of division of labor apply with peculiar force to this employment; so that you must not only consider whether the branch, which you are now disposed to introduce, is important, but whether it is really such an one as it is, on the whole, best to include among the objects to be pursued in such an institution. Many teachers seem to imagine, that if any thing is in itself important, and especially if it is an important branch of education, the question is settled of its being a proper object of attention in school. But this is very far from being the case. The whole work of education can never be intrusted to the teacher. Much must of course remain in the hands of the parent; it ought so to remain. The object of a school is not to take children out of the parental hands, substituting the watch and guardianship of a stranger, for the natural care of father and mother. Far from it. It is only the association of the children for those purposes which can be more successfully accomplished by association. It is an union for few, specific, and limited objects, for the accomplishment of that part, (and it is comparatively a small part of the general objects of education) which can be most successfully affected by public institutions, and in assemblies of the young. 6. If the branch which you are desiring to introduce appears to you to be an important part of education, and if it seems to you that it can be most successfully attended to in schools, then consider whether the introduction of it, _and of all the other branches having equal claims_, will, or will not give to the common schools too great a complexity. Consider whether it will succeed in the hands of ordinary teachers. Consider whether it will require so much time and effort, as will draw off, in any considerable degree, the attention of the teacher from the more essential parts of his duty. All will admit that it is highly important that every school should be simple in its plan,--as simple as its size and general circumstances will permit, and especially, that the public schools in every town and village of our country should never lose sight of what is, and must be, after all, their great design--_teaching the whole population to read, write, and calculate_. 7. If it is a school-book, which you are wishing to introduce, consider well before you waste your time in preparing it, and your spirits in the vexatious work of getting it through the press, whether it is, _for general use_, so superior to those already published, as to induce teachers to make a change in favor of yours. I have italicised the words _for general use_, for no delusion is more common than for a teacher to suppose, that because a text-book which he has prepared and uses in manuscript, is better for _him_ than any other work which he can obtain, it will therefore be better for _general circulation_. Every man, if he has any originality of mind, has of course some peculiar method of his own, and he can of course prepare a text-book which will be better adapted to this method, than those ordinarily in use. The history of a vast multitude of textbooks, Arithmetics, Geographies, and Grammars, is this. A man of a somewhat ingenious mind, adopts some peculiar mode of instruction in one of these branches, and is quite successful, not because the method has any very peculiar excellence, but simply because he takes a greater interest in it, both on account of its novelty and also from the fact that it is his own invention. He conceives the plan of writing a text-book, to develope and illustrate this method. He hurries through the work. By some means or other, he gets it printed. In due time it is regularly advertised. The Annals of Education gives notice of it; the author sends a few copies to his friends, and that is the end of it. Perhaps a few schools may make a trial of it, and if, for any reason, the teachers who try it are interested in the work, perhaps in their hands, it succeeds. But it does not succeed so well as to attract general attention, and consequently does not get into general circulation. The author loses his time and his patience. The publisher, unless unfortunately it was published on the author's account, loses his paper. And in a few months, scarcely any body knows that such a book ever saw the light. It is in this way, that the great multitude of school-books which are now constantly issuing from the press, take their origin. Far be it from me to discourage the preparation of good school-books. This department of our literature offers a fine field for the efforts of learning and genius. What I contend against, is the endless multiplicity of useless works, hastily conceived and carelessly executed, and which serve no purpose, but to employ uselessly, talents, which if properly applied, might greatly benefit both the community and the possessor. 8. If, however, after mature deliberation you conclude that you have the plan of a school-book which you ought to try to mature and execute, be slow and cautious about it. Remember that so great is now the competition in this branch, nothing but superior excellences will secure the favorable reception of a work. Examine all that your predecessors have done before you. Obtain, whatever may be the trouble and expense, all other text books on the subject, and examine them thoroughly. If you see that you can make a very decided advance on all that has been done, and that the public will probably submit to the inconvenience and expense of a change, to secure the result of your labors, go forward slowly and thoroughly in your work. No matter how much investigation, how much time and labor it may require. The more difficulty you may find, in gaining the eminence, the less likely will you be to be followed by successful competitors. 9. Consider in forming your text-book, not merely the whole subject on which you are to write, but also look extensively and thoroughly at the institutions throughout the country, and consider carefully the character of the teachers by whom you expect it to be used. Sometimes a man publishes a text-book, and when it fails on trial, he says, "It is because they did not know how to use it. The book in itself was good. The whole fault was in the awkwardness and ignorance of the teacher." How absurd! As if to make a good text-book, it was not as necessary to adapt it to teachers as to scholars. _A good text-book which the teachers for whom it was intended did not know how to use!!_ i. e. A good contrivance but entirely unfit for the purpose for which it was intended. 10. Lastly, in every new plan, consider carefully whether its success in your hands, after you have tried it, and found it successful, be owing to its novelty and to your own special interest, or to its own innate and intrinsic superiority. If the former, use it so long as it will last, simply to give variety and interest to your plans. Recommend it in conversation or in other ways to teachers with whom you are acquainted; not as a wonderful discovery, which is going to change the whole science of education, but as one method among others, which may be introduced from time to time, to relieve the monotony of the teacher's labors. In a word do not go away from the established institutions of our country, or deviate from the great objects which are at present, and ought to be pursued by them, without great caution, circumspection, and deliberate inquiry. But within these limits, exercise ingenuity and invention as much as you will. Pursue steadily the great objects which demand the teacher's attention; they are simple and few. Never lose sight of them, nor turn to the right or to the left to follow any ignis fatuus which may endeavor to allure you away; but exercise as much ingenuity and enterprise as you please, in giving variety and interest to the modes by which these objects are pursued. * * * * * If planning and scheming are confined within these limits, and conducted on these principles, the teacher will save all the agitating perplexity and care which will otherwise be his continual portion. He can go forward peaceably and quietly, and while his own success is greatly increased, he may be of essential service to the cause in which he is engaged, by making known his various experiments and plans to others. For this purpose it seems to me highly desirable that every teacher should KEEP A JOURNAL of all his plans. In these should be carefully entered all his experiments: the new methods he adopts; the course he takes in regard to difficulties which may arise; and any interesting incidents which may occur, which it would be useful for him to refer to, at some future time. These or the most interesting of them should be made known to other teachers. This may be done in several ways. (1.) By publishing them in periodicals devoted to education. Such contributions, furnished by judicious men, would be among the most valuable articles in such a work. They would be far more valuable than any general speculations, however well conceived or expressed. (2.) In news-papers intended for general circulation. There are very few editors whose papers circulate in families, who would not gladly receive articles of this kind, to fill a teacher's department in their columns. If properly written they would be read with interest and profit by multitudes of parents, and would throw much light on family government and instruction. (3.) By reading them in teacher's meetings. If half a dozen teachers who are associated in the same vicinity, would meet once a fortnight, simply to hear each other's journals, they would be amply repaid for their time and labor. Teacher's meetings will be interesting and useful, when those who come forward in them, will give up the prevailing practice of delivering orations, and come down at once to the scenes and to the business of the school-room. There is one topic connected with the subject of this chapter, which deserves a few paragraphs. I refer to the rights of the Committee, or the Trustees, or Patrons, in the control of the school. The right to such control, when claimed at all, is usually claimed in reference to the teacher's new plans, which renders it proper to allude to the subject here; and it ought not to be omitted, for a great many cases occur, in which teachers have difficulties with the trustees or committee of their school. Sometimes these difficulties have amounted to an open rupture; at other times, only to a slight and temporary misunderstanding, arising from what the teacher calls an unwise and unwarrantable interference on the part of the committee, or the trustees, in the arrangements of the school. Difficulties of some sort very often arise. In fact, a right understanding of this subject, is, in most cases, absolutely essential to the harmony and co-operation of the teacher, and the representatives of his patrons. There are then, it must be recollected, three different parties connected with every establishment for education; the parents of the scholars, the teacher, and the pupils themselves. Sometimes, as for example, in a common private school, the parents are not organized, and whatever influence they exert, they must exert in their individual capacity. At other times, as in a common district or town school, they are by law organized, and the school committee chosen for this purpose, are their legal representatives. In other instances, a board of trustees are constituted by the appointment of the founders of the institution, or by the legislature of a state, to whom is committed the oversight of its concerns, and who are consequently the representatives of the founders and patrons of the school. There are differences between these various modes of organization which I shall not now stop to examine, as it will be sufficiently correct for my purpose to consider them all as only various ways of organizing the _employers_, in the contract, by which the teacher is employed. The teacher is the agent; the patrons, represented in these several ways, are the principals. When, therefore, in the following paragraphs, I use the word _employers_, I mean to be understood to speak of the committee, or the trustees, or the visiters, or the parents themselves, as the case, in each particular institution, may be; that is, the persons, for whose purpose, and at whose expense, the institution is maintained; or their representatives. Now there is a very reasonable, and almost universally established rule, which teachers are very frequently prone to forget, viz., _the employed ought always to be responsible to the employers, and to be under their direction_. So obviously reasonable is this rule, and in fact, so absolutely indispensable in the transaction of all the business of life, that it would be idle to attempt to establish and illustrate it here. It has, however, limitations, and it is applicable to a much greater extent, in some departments of human labor, than in others. It is _applicable_ to the business of teaching, and though, I confess, that it is somewhat less absolute and imperious here, still, it is obligatory, I believe, to far greater extent, than teachers have been generally willing to admit. A young lady, I will imagine, wishes to introduce the study of Botany into her school. The parents or the committee object; they say, that they wish the children to confine their attention exclusively to the elementary branches of education. "It will do them no good," says the chairman of the committee, "to learn by heart some dozen or two of learned names. We want them to read well, to write well, and to calculate well, and not to waste their time in studying about pistils and stamens and nonsense." Now what is the duty of the teacher in such a case? Why, very plainly her duty is the same as that of the Governor of a state, where the people, through their representatives, regularly chosen, negative a proposal, which he considers calculated to promote the public good. It is his duty to submit to the public will, and though he may properly do all in his power, to present the subject to his employers in such a light, as to lead them to regard it as he does, he must still, until they do so regard it, bow to their authority; and every magistrate, who takes an enlarged and comprehensive view of his duties as the executive of a republican community, will do this without any humiliating feelings of submission to unauthorized interference with his plans. He will, on the other hand, enjoy the satisfaction of feeling that he confines himself to his proper sphere, and leave to others, the full possession of rights which properly pertain to them. It is so with every case, where the relation of employer and employed subsists. You engage a carpenter to erect a house for you, and you present your plan; instead of going to work and executing your orders according to your wishes, he goes to criticising and condemning it: he finds fault with this, and ridicules that, and tells you, you ought to make such and such an alteration in it. It is perfectly right for him to give his opinion, in the tone and spirit of _recommendation or suggestion_, with a distinct understanding that with his employer rests the power and the right to decide. But how many teachers take possession of their school room as though it was an empire in which they are supreme, who resist every interference of their employers, as they would an attack upon their personal freedom, and who feel, that in regard to every thing connected with school, they have really no actual responsibility. In most cases, the employers, knowing how sensitive teachers very frequently are on this point, acquiesce in it, and leave them to themselves. Whenever in any case, they think that the state of the school requires their interference, they come cautiously and fearfully to the teacher, as if they were encroaching upon his rights, instead of advancing with the confidence and directness with which employers have always a right to approach the employed; and the teacher, with the view he has insensibly taken of the subject, being perhaps confirmed by the tone and manner which his employers use, makes the conversation, quite as often, an occasion of resentment and offence as of improvement. He is silent, perhaps, but in his heart he accuses his committee or his trustees of improper interference in _his_ concerns, as though it was no part of _their_ business to look after work which is going forward for their advantage, and for which they pay. Perhaps some individuals, who have had some collision with their trustees or committee, will ask me if I mean, that a teacher ought to be entirely and immediately under the supervision and control of the trustees, just as a mechanic is when employed by another man. By no means. There are various circumstances connected with the nature of this employment; the impossibility of the employers fully understanding it in all its details; and the character and the standing of the teacher himself, which always will, in matter of fact, prevent this. The employers always will, in a great many respects, place more confidence in the teacher and in his views, than they will in their own. But still, the ultimate power is theirs. Even if they err,--if they wish to have a course pursued which is manifestly inexpedient and wrong, _they still have a right to decide_. It is their work: it is going on at their instance, and at their expense, and the power of ultimate decision, on all disputed questions, must, from the very nature of the case, rest with them. The teacher may, it is true, have his option either to comply with their wishes or to seek employment in another sphere; but while he remains in the employ of any persons, whether in teaching or in any other service, he is bound to yield to the wishes of his employers, when they insist upon it, and to submit pleasantly to their direction, when they shall claim their undoubted right to direct. This is to be done, it must be remembered, when they are wrong, as well as when they are right. The obligation of the teacher is not founded upon _the superior wisdom_ of his employers, in reference to the business for which they have engaged him, for they are very probably his inferiors in this respect; _but upon their right as employers_, to determine _how their own work shall be done_. A gardener, we will suppose, is engaged by a gentleman to lay out his grounds. The gardener goes to work, and after a few hours the gentleman comes out to see how he goes on, and to give directions. He proposes something which the gardener, who, to make the case stronger, we will suppose knows better that the proprietor of the grounds, considers ridiculous and absurd; nay, we will suppose it is ridiculous and absurd. Now what can the gardener do? There are, obviously, two courses. He can say to the proprietor, after a vain attempt to convince him he is wrong, "Well, sir, I will do just as you say. The grounds are yours: I have no interest in it, or responsibility, except to accomplish your wishes." This would be right. Or he might say, "Sir, you have a right to direct upon your own grounds, and I do not wish to interfere with your plans; but I must ask you to obtain another gardener. I have a reputation at stake, and this work, if I do it even at your direction, will be considered as a specimen of my taste and of my planning, so that I must in justice to myself, decline remaining in your employment." This too, would be right, though probably, both in the business of gardening and of teaching, the case ought to be a strong one, to render it expedient. But it would not be right for him, after his employer should have gone away, to say to himself, with a feeling of resentment at the imaginary _interference_; "I shall not follow any such directions; I understand my own trade and shall receive no instructions in it from him;" and then disobeying all directions, go on and do the work contrary to the orders of his employer, who alone has a right to decide. And yet a great many teachers take a course as absurd and unjustifiable as this would be. Whenever the parents, or the committee, or the trustees express, however mildly and properly, their wishes in regard to the manner in which they desire to have their own work performed, their pride is at once aroused. They seem to feel it an indignity, to act in any other way, than just in accordance with their own will and pleasure; and they absolutely refuse to comply, resenting the interference as an insult. Or else, if they apparently yield, it is with mere cold civility, and entirely without any honest desires to carry the wishes thus expressed, into actual effect. Parents may, indeed, often misjudge. A good teacher will, however, soon secure their confidence, and they will acquiesce in his opinion. But they ought to be watchful; and the teacher ought to feel and acknowledge their authority, on all questions connected with the education of their children. They have originally entire power in regard to the course which is to be pursued with them. Providence has made the parents responsible and wholly responsible for the manner in which their children are prepared for the duties of this life, and it is interesting to observe, how very cautious the laws of society are, about interfering with the parent's wishes, in regard to the education of the child. There are many cases, in which enlightened governments might make arrangements which would be better than those made by the parents, if they are left to themselves. But they will not do it; they ought not to do it. God has placed the responsibility in the hands of the father and mother, and unless the manner in which it is exercised is calculated to endanger or to injure the community, there can rightfully be no interference except that of argument and persuasion. It ought also to be considered that upon the parents will come the consequences of the good or bad education of their children, and not upon the teacher, and consequently it is right that they should direct. The teacher remains, perhaps, a few months with his charge, and then goes to other places, and perhaps hears of them no more. He has thus very little at stake. The parent has every thing at stake, and it is manifestly unjust to give one man the power of deciding, while he escapes all the consequences of his mistakes, if he makes any, and to take away all the _power_ from those, upon whose heads, all the suffering, which will follow an abuse of the power, must descend. CHAPTER VIII. REPORTS OF CASES. There is perhaps no way, by which a writer can more effectually explain his views on the subject of education, than by presenting a great variety of actual cases, whether real or imaginary, and describing particularly the course of treatment he would recommend in each. This method of communicating knowledge is very extensively resorted to in the medical profession, where writers detail particular cases, and report the symptoms and the treatment for each succeeding day, so that the reader may almost fancy himself actually a visiter at the sick bed, and the nature and effects of the various prescriptions become fixed in the mind, with almost as much distinctness and permanency as actual experience would give. This principle has been kept in view, the reader may perhaps think, too closely, in all the chapters of this volume; almost every point brought up, having been illustrated by anecdotes and narratives. I propose, however, devoting one chapter now, to presenting a number of miscellaneous cases, without any attempt to arrange them. Sometimes the case will be merely stated, the reader being left to draw the inference; at others, such remarks will be added as the case suggests. All will however be intended to answer some useful purpose, either to exhibit good or bad management and its consequences, or to bring to view some trait of human nature, as it exhibits itself in children, which it may be desirable for the teacher to know. Let it be understood, however, that these cases are not selected with reference to their being strange, or extraordinary. They are rather chosen because they are common, i. e. they, or cases similar, will be constantly occurring to the teacher, and reading such a chapter will be the best substitute for experience which the teacher can have. Some are descriptions of literary exercises or plans which the reader can adopt in classes, or with a whole school; others are cases of discipline,--good or bad management, which the teacher can imitate or avoid. The stories are from various sources, and are the results of the experience of several individuals. 1. HATS AND BONNETS. The master of a district school was accidentally looking out of the window one day, and he saw one of the boys throwing stones at a hat, which was put up for that purpose upon the fence. He said nothing about it at the time, but made a memorandum of the occurrence, that he might bring it before the school, at the proper time. When the hour, set apart for attending to the general business of the school, had arrived, and all were still, he said, "I saw one of the boys throwing stones at a hat to-day, did he do right or wrong?" There were one or two faint murmurs which sounded like "_Wrong_," but the boys generally made no answer. "Perhaps it depends a little upon the question whose hat it was. Do you think it does depend upon that?" "Yes sir." "Well, suppose then it was not his own hat, and he was throwing stones at it without the owner's consent, would it be plain in that case, whether he was doing right or wrong?" "Yes sir; wrong," was the universal reply. "Suppose it was his own hat, would he have been right? Has a boy a right to do what he pleases with his own hat?" "Yes sir," "Yes sir," "No sir," "No sir," answered the boys confusedly. "I do not know whose hat it was. If the boy who did it is willing to rise and tell me, it will help us to decide this question." The boy knowing that a severe punishment was not in such a case to be anticipated, and in fact, apparently pleased with the idea of exonerating himself from the blame of wilfully injuring the property of another, rose and said, "I suppose it was I, sir, who did it, and it was my own hat?" "Well," said the master, "I am glad you are willing to tell frankly how it was; but let us look at this case. There are two senses in which a hat may be said to belong to any person. It may belong to him because he bought it and paid for it, or it may belong to him because it fits him, and he wears it. In other words a person may have a hat, as his property, or he may have it only as a part of his dress. Now you see, that according to the first of these senses, all the hats in this school, belong to your fathers. There is not in fact a single boy in this school who has a hat of his own." The boys laughed. "Is not this the fact?" "Yes sir." "It certainly is so, though I suppose James did not consider it. Your fathers bought your hats. They worked for them, and paid for them. You are only the wearers, and consequently every generous boy, and in fact every honest boy, will be careful of the property which is intrusted to him, but which strictly speaking is not his own." 2. MISTAKES. A wide difference must always be made between mistakes arising from carelessness, and those resulting from circumstances beyond control; such as want of sufficient data, &c. The former are always censurable; the latter never; for they may be the result of correct reasoning from insufficient data, and it is the reasoning only for which the child is responsible. "What do you suppose a prophet is?" said an instructer to a class of little boys. The word occurred in their reading lesson. The scholars all hesitated; at last one ventured to reply: "If a man should sell a yoke of oxen, and get more for them than they are worth, he would be a prophet." "Yes," said the instructer, "that is right, that is one kind of _profit_, but this is another and a little different," and he proceeded to explain the word, and the difference of the spelling. This child had, without doubt, heard of some transaction of the kind which he described, and had observed that the word _profit_ was applied to it. Now the care which he had exercised in attending to it at the time, and remembering it when the same word, (for the difference in the spelling he of course knew nothing about,) occurred again, was really commendable. The fact, which is a mere accident, that we affix very different significations to the same sound, was unknown. The fault, if anywhere, was in the language and not in him; for he reasoned correctly from the data he possessed, and he deserved credit for it. 3. TARDINESS. "My duty to this school," said a teacher to his pupils, "demands, as I suppose you all admit, that I should require you all to be here punctually at the time appointed for the commencement of the school. I have done nothing on this subject yet, for I wished to see whether you would not come early, on principle. I wish now however to inquire in regard to this subject, and to ascertain how many have been tardy, and to consider what must be done hereafter." He made the inquiries and ascertained pretty nearly how many had been tardy, and how often within a week. The number was found to be so great, that the scholars admitted that something ought to be done. "What shall I do?" asked he. "Can any one propose a plan which will remedy the difficulty?" There was no answer. [Transcriber's Note: The footnote marker for the following footnote is missing.] [Footnote D: The above, and one or two of the succeeding articles have been before published, in periodicals.] "The easiest and pleasantest way to secure punctuality, is for the scholars to come early of their own accord, upon principle. It is evident from the reports, that many of you do so; but some do not. Now there is no other plan which will not be attended with very serious difficulty, but I am willing to adopt the one which will be pleasantest to yourselves, if it will be likely to accomplish the object. Has any one any plan to propose." There was a pause. "It would evidently," continued the teacher, "be the easiest for me to leave this subject, and do nothing about it. It is of no personal consequence to me, whether you come early or not, but as long as I hold this office, I must be faithful, and I have no doubt the school committee, if they knew how many of you were tardy, would think I ought to do something to diminish the evil. "The best plan I can think of, is that all who are tardy should lose their recess." The boys looked rather anxiously at one another, but continued silent. "There is a great objection to this plan from the fact that a boy is sometimes necessarily absent, and by this rule he will lose his recess with the rest, so that the innocent will be punished with the guilty." "I should think, sir," said William, "that those who are _necessarily_ tardy, might be excused." "Yes, I should be very glad to excuse them, if I could find out who they are." The boys seemed to be surprised at this remark, as if they thought it would not be a difficult matter to decide. "How can I tell?" asked the master. "You can hear their excuses, and then decide." "Yes," said the teacher, "but here are fifteen or twenty boys tardy this morning; now how long would it take me to hear their excuses, and understand each case thoroughly, so that I could really tell whether they were tardy from good reasons or not?" No answer. "Should you not think it would take a minute apiece?" "Yes sir." "It would undoubtedly, and even then I could not in many cases tell. It would take fifteen minutes at least. I cannot do this in school-hours, for I have not time, and if I do it in recess, it will consume the whole of every recess. Now I need the rest of a recess, as well as you, and it does not seem to me to be just that I should lose the whole of mine, every day, and spend it in a most unpleasant business, when I take pains, myself, to come punctually every morning. Would it be just?" "No sir." "I think it would be less unjust to deprive all of their recess who are tardy, for then the loss of a recess by a boy who had not been to blame, would not be very common, and the evil would be divided among the whole, but in the plan of my hearing the excuses, it would all come upon one." After a short pause one of the boys said that they might be required to bring written excuses. "Yes that is another plan," said the teacher, "but there are objections to it. Can any of you think what they are? I suppose you have all been, either at this school, or at some other, required to bring written excuses, so that you have seen the plan tried; now have you never noticed any objection to it?" One boy said that it gave the parents a great deal of trouble at home. "Yes," said the teacher, "this is a great objection; it is often very inconvenient to write. But that is not the greatest difficulty; can any of you think of any other?" There was a pause. "Do you think that these written excuses are, after all, a fair test of the real reasons for tardiness? I understand that sometimes boys will tease their fathers or mothers for an excuse, when they do not deserve it, 'Yes sir,' and sometimes they will loiter about when sent of an errand before school, knowing that they can get a written excuse when they might easily have been punctual." "Yes sir, Yes sir," said the boys. "Well, now, if we adopt this plan, some unprincipled boy would always contrive to have an excuse, whether necessarily tardy or not; and besides, each parent would have a different principle and a different opinion as to what was a reasonable excuse, so that there would be no uniformity, and consequently no justice in the operation of the system." The boys admitted the truth of this, and as no other plan was presented, the rule was adopted of requiring all those who were tardy, to remain in their seats during the recess, whether they were necessarily tardy or not. The plan very soon diminished the number of loiterers. 4. HELEN'S LESSON. The possibility of being inflexibly firm in measures, and at the same time gentle and mild in manners and language, is happily illustrated in the following description, which is based on an incident narrated by Mrs. Sherwood. "Mrs. M. had observed even during the few days that Helen had been under her care, that she was totally unaccustomed to habits of diligence and application. After making all due allowance for long indulged habits of indolence and inattention, she one morning assigned an easy lesson to her pupil, informing her at the same time, that she should hear it immediately before dinner. Helen made no objections to the plan, but she silently resolved not to perform the required task. Being in some measure a stranger, she thought her aunt would not insist upon perfect obedience, and besides in her estimation, she was too old to be treated like a child. "During the whole morning, Helen exerted herself to be mild and obliging; her conduct towards her aunt was uncommonly affectionate. By these, and various other artifices, she endeavored to gain her first victory. Meanwhile, Mrs. M. quietly pursued her various avocations, without apparently noticing Helen's conduct. At length dinner hour arrived; the lesson was called for, and found unprepared. Mrs. M. told Helen she was sorry she had not got the lesson, and went on to explain one or two sentences more fully, and concluded, by saying that she hoped it would be learned before tea-time. "Helen, finding she was not to come to the table, began to be a little alarmed. She was acquainted in some measure with the character of her aunt, still she hoped to be allowed to partake of the dessert as she had been accustomed to on similar occasions at home, and soon regained her wonted composure. But the dinner cloth was removed, and there sat Helen, suffering not a little from hunger; still she would not complain; she meant to convince her aunt that she was not moved by trifles. "A walk had been proposed for the afternoon, and as the hour drew near, Helen made preparations to accompany the party. Mrs. M. reminded her of her lesson, but she just noticed the remark by a toss of the head, and was soon in the green fields, apparently the gayest of the gay. After her return from the excursion, she complained of a head-ache which in fact she had; she threw herself languidly on the sofa, sighed deeply, and took up her History. "Tea was now on the table, and most tempting looked the white loaf. Mrs. M. again heard the pupil recite, but was sorry to find the lesson still imperfectly prepared. She left her, saying she thought an half hour's study would conquer all the difficulties she found in the lesson. "During all this time, Mrs. M. appeared so perfectly calm, composed, and even kind, and so regardless of sighs and doleful exclamations, that Helen entirely lost her equanimity and let her tears flow freely and abundantly. Her mother was always moved by her tears, and would not her aunt relent? No. Mrs. M. quietly performed the duties of the table, and ordered the tea-equipage to be removed. This latter movement brought Helen to reflection. It is useless to resist, thought she, indeed why should I wish to. Nothing too much has been required of me. How ridiculous I have made myself appear, in the eyes of my aunt, and even of the domestics. "In less than an hour, she had the satisfaction of reciting her lesson perfectly; her aunt made no comments on the occasion, but assigned her the next lesson, and went on sewing. Helen did not expect this; she had anticipated a refreshing cup of tea, after the long siege. She had expected that even something nicer than usual would be necessary to compensate her for past sufferings. At length, worn out by long continued watching and fasting, she went to the closet, provided herself with a cracker, and retired to bed to muse deliberately on the strange character of her aunt. "Teachers not unfrequently threaten their pupils with some proper punishment, but when obliged to put the threat into execution, contrive in some indirect way, to abate its rigor and thus destroy all its effects. For example, a mother was in the habit, when her little boy ran beyond his proscribed play-ground, of putting him into solitary confinement. On such occasions, she was very careful to have some amusing book, or diverting plaything in a conspicuous part of the room, and not unfrequently a piece of gingerbread was given to solace the runaway. The mother thought it very strange her little boy should so often transgress, when he knew what to expect from such a course of conduct. The boy was wiser than the mother; he knew perfectly well how to manage. He could play with the boys beyond the garden gate, and if detected, to be sure he was obliged to spend a quiet hour in the pleasant parlor. But this was not intolerable as long as he could expect a paper of sugar-plums, a cake, or at least something amply to compensate him for the loss of a game at marbles." 5. COMPLAINTS OF LONG LESSONS. A college officer assigned lessons which the idle and ignorant members of the class thought too long. They murmured for a time, and at last openly complained. The other members of the class could say nothing in behalf of the professor, awed by the greatest of all fears to a collegian, the fear of being called a "_fisher_," or a "_blueskin_." The professor paid no attention to the petitions and complaints which were poured in upon him, and which, though originated by the idle, all were compelled to vote for. He coldly, and with uncompromising dignity, went on the excitement in the class increased, and what is called a college rebellion, with all its disastrous consequences to the infatuated rebels, ensued. Another professor had the dexterity to manage in a different way. After hearing that there was dissatisfaction, he brought up the subject as follows:-- "I understand, gentlemen, that you consider your lessons too long. Perhaps I have overrated the abilities of the class, but I have not intended to assign you more than you can accomplish. I feel no other interest in the subject, than the pride and pleasure it would give me, to have my class stand high, in respect to the amount of ground it has gone over, when you come to examination. I propose, therefore, that you appoint a committee in whose abilities and judgment you can confide, and let them examine this subject and report. They might ascertain how much other classes have done, and how much is expedient for this class to attempt; and then, by estimating the number of recitations assigned to this study, they can easily determine what should be the length of the lessons." The plan was adopted, and the report put an end to the difficulty. 6. ENGLISH COMPOSITION. The great prevailing fault of writers in this country, is an affectation of eloquence. It is almost universally the fashion to aim not at striking thoughts, simply and clearly expressed, but at splendid language, glowing imagery, and magnificent periods. It arises, perhaps, from the fact that public speaking is the almost universal object of ambition, and consequently, both at school and at college, nothing is thought of but oratory. Vain attempts at oratory, result in nine cases out of ten, in grandiloquence and empty verbiage;--common thoughts expressed in pompous periods. The teacher should guard against this, and assign to children such subjects as are within the field of childish observation. A little skill on his part will soon determine the question which kind of writing shall prevail in his school. The following specimens, both written with some skill, will illustrate the two kinds of writing alluded to. Both were written by pupils of the same age, twelve; one a boy, the other a girl. The subjects were assigned by the teacher. I need not say that the following was the writer's first attempt at composition, and that it is printed without alteration. THE PAINS OF A SAILOR'S LIFE. The joyful sailor embarks on board of his ship, the sails are spread to catch the playful gale, swift as an arrow he cuts the rolling wave. A few days thus sporting on the briny wave, when suddenly the sky is overspread with clouds, the rain descends in torrents, the sails are lowered, the gale begins, the vessel is carried with great velocity, and the shrouds unable to support the tottering mast, gives way to the furious tempest; the vessel is drove among the rocks, is sprung aleak, the sailor works at the pumps, till, faint and weary, is heard from below, six feet of water in the hold, the boats are got ready, but before they are into them, the vessel dashed against a reef of rocks, some in despair throw themselves into the sea, others get on the rocks without any clothes or provisions, and linger a few days, perhaps weeks or months, living on shell fish or perhaps taken up by some ship. Others get on pieces of the wreck, and perhaps be cast on some foreign country, where perhaps he may be taken by the natives, and sold into slavery where he never more returns. In regard to the following specimen, it should be stated that when the subject was assigned, the pupil was directed to see how precisely she could imitate the language and conversation which two little children really lost in the woods would use. While writing, therefore, her mind was in pursuit of the natural, and the simple, not of the eloquent. TWO CHILDREN LOST IN THE WOODS. _Emily._ Look here! see how many berries I've got. I don't believe you've got so many. _Charles._ Yes, I'm sure I have. My basket's most full; and if we hurry, we shall get ever so many before we go home. So pick away as fast as you can, Emily. _Emily._ There mine is full. Now we'll go and find some flowers for mother. You know somebody told us there were some red ones, close to that rock. _Charles._ Well, so we will. We'll leave our baskets here, and come back and get them. _Emily._ But if we can't find our way back, what shall we do? _Charles._ Poh! I can find the way back. I only want a quarter to seven years old, and I shan't lose myself, I know. _Emily._ Well! we've got flowers enough, and now I'm tired and want to go home. _Charles._ I don't, but if you are tired we'll go and find our baskets. _Emily._ Where do you think they are? We've been looking a great while for them. I know we are lost, for when we went after the flowers we only turned once, and coming back, we have turned three times. _Charles._ Have we? Well never mind, I guess we shall find them. _Emily._ I'm afraid we shan't. Do let's run _Charles._ Well so do. Oh, Emily! here's a brook, and I am sure we didn't pass any brook, going. _Emily._ Oh, dear! we must be lost. Hark! Charles! didn't you hear that dreadful noise just now? Wasn't it a bear? _Charles._ Poh! I should love to see a bear here. I guess if he should come near me, I would give him one good slap that would make him feel pretty bad. I could kill him at the first hit. _Emily._ I should like to see you taking hold of a bear. Why didn't you know bears were stronger than men? But only see how dark it grows; we shan't see Ma' to-night, I'm afraid. _Charles._ So am I: do let's run some more. _Emily._ O Charles, do you believe we shall ever find the way out of this dreadful long wood? _Charles._ Let's scream, and see if somebody wont come. _Emily._ Well, (screaming) Ma'! Ma'! _Charles._ (screaming also) Pa'! Pa'! _Emily._ Oh, dear! there's the sun setting. It will be dreadfully dark by and by, won't it? We have given enough for a specimen. The composition though faulty in many respects, illustrates the point we had in view. 7. INSINCERE CONFESSION. An assistant in a school informed the Principal that she had some difficulty in preserving order in a certain class, composed of small children. The Principal accordingly went into the class, and something like the following dialogue ensued. "Your teacher informs me," said the Principal, "that there is not perfect order in this class. Now if you are satisfied that there has not been order, and wish to help me discover and correct the fault, we can do it very easily. If, on the other hand, you do not wish to co-operate with me, it will be a little more difficult for me to correct it, and I must take a different course. Now I wish to know, at the outset, whether you do or do not wish to help me." A faint "Yes sir," was murmured through the class. "I do not wish you to assist me, unless you really and honestly desire it yourselves; and if you undertake to do it, you must do it honestly. The first thing which will be necessary, will be an open and thorough exposure of all which has been wrong, and this you know will be unpleasant. But I will put the question to vote, by asking how many are willing that I should know, entirely and fully, all that they have done in this class, that has been wrong." Very nearly all the hands were raised at once, promptly, and the others were gradually brought up, though with more or less of hesitation. "Are you willing, not only to tell me yourselves what you have done, but also, in case any one has forgotten something which she has done, that others should tell me of it?" The hands were all raised. After obtaining thus from the class a distinct and universal expression of willingness that all the facts should be made known, the Principal called upon all those who had any thing to state, to raise their hands, and those who raised them, had opportunity to say what they wished. A great number of very trifling incidents were mentioned, such as could not have produced any difficulty in the class, and consequently could not have been the real instances of disorder alluded to. Or at least, it was evident if they were, that in the statement, they must have been so palliated and softened, that a really honest confession had not been made. This result might in such a case, have been expected. Such is human nature, that in nine cases out of ten, unless such a result had been particularly guarded against, it would have inevitably followed. Not only will such a result follow in individual cases like this, but unless the teacher watches and guards against it, it will grow into a habit. I mean boys will get a sort of an idea that it is a fine thing to confess their faults, and by a show of humility and frankness will deceive their teacher, and perhaps themselves, by a sort of acknowledgement, which in fact exposes nothing of the guilt which the transgressor professes to expose. A great many cases occur, where teachers are pleased with the confession of faults, and scholars perceive it, and the latter get into the habit of coming to the teacher, when they have done something which they think may get them into difficulty, and make a sort of half confession, which, by bringing forward every palliating circumstance, and suppressing every thing of different character, keeps entirely out of view all the real guilt of the transgression. The criminal is praised by the teacher for the frankness and honesty of the confession, and his fault is freely forgiven. He goes away therefore well satisfied with himself, when in fact he has been only submitting to a little mortification, voluntarily, to avoid the danger of a greater; much in the same spirit with that which leads a man to receive the small-pox by inoculation, to avoid the danger of taking it in the natural way. The teacher who accustoms his pupils to confess their faults, voluntarily, ought to guard carefully against this danger. When such a case as the one just described occurs, it will afford a favorable opportunity of showing distinctly to pupils the difference between an honest and an hypocritical confession. In this instance; the teacher proceeded thus; "Now I wish to ask you one more question, which I wish you all to answer by your votes, honestly. It is this. Do you think that the real disorder which has been in this class, that is, the real cases which you referred to, when you stated to me, that you thought that the class was not in good order, have been now really exposed, so that I honestly and fully understand the case? How many suppose so?" Not a single hand was raised. "How many of you think, and are willing to avow your opinion, that I have _not_ been fully informed of the case?" A large proportion held up their hands. "Now it seems the class pretended to be willing that I should know all the affair. You pretended to be willing to tell me the whole, but when I call upon you for the information, instead of telling me honestly, you attempt to amuse me by little trifles, which in reality made no disturbance, and you omit the things which you know were the real objects of my inquiries. Am I right in my supposition?" They were silent. After a moment's pause, one perhaps raised her hand, and began now to confess something, which she had before concealed. The teacher however interrupted her, by saying, "I do not wish to have the confession made now. I gave you all time to do that, and now I should rather not hear any more about the disorder. I gave an opportunity to have it acknowledged, but it was not honestly improved, and now I should rather not hear. I shall probably never know. "I wished to see whether this class would be honest,--really honest, or whether they would have the insincerity to pretend to be confessing, when they were not doing so honestly, so as to get the credit of being frank and sincere, when in reality they are not so. Now am I not compelled to conclude that this latter is the case?" Such an example will make a deep and lasting impression. It will show that the teacher is upon his guard; and there are very few, so hardened in deception, that they would not wish that they had been really sincere, rather than rest under such an imputation. 8. COURT. A pupil, quite young, (says a teacher,) came to me one day with a complaint that one of her companions had got her seat. There had been some changes in the seats by my permission, and probably from some inconsistency in the promises which I had made, there were two claimants for the same desk. The complainant came to me, and appealed to my recollection of the circumstance. "I do not recollect anything about it," said I. "Why! Mr. B." replied she, with astonishment. "No," said I, "you forget that I have, every day, arrangements, almost without number, of such a kind to make, and as soon as I have made one, I immediately forget all about it." "Why, don't you remember that you got me a new baize?" "No; I ordered a dozen new baizes at that time, but I do not remember who they were for." There was a pause; the disappointed complainants seemed not to know what to do. "I will tell you what to do. Bring the case into court and I will try it, regularly." "Why, Mr. B.! I do not like to do any thing like that, about it; besides, I do not know how to write an indictment." "Oh!" I replied, "they will like to have a good trial. It will make a new sort of case. All our cases thus far have been for _offences_, that is what they call criminal cases, and this will be only an examination of the conflicting claims of two individuals to the same property, and it will excite a good deal of interest. I think you had better bring it into court." She went slowly and thoughtfully to her seat, and presently returned with an indictment. "Mr. B. is this right?" It was as follows:-- I accuse Miss A. B. of coming to take away my seat, the one Mr. B. gave me. Witnesses. { C. D. { E. T. "Why, ---- ---- yes,--that will do; and yet it is not exactly right. You see this is what they call a civil case." "I don't think it is very _civil_." "No, I don't mean it was civil to take your seat. But this is not a case where a person is prosecuted for having done anything wrong." The plaintiff looked a little perplexed, as if she could not understand how it could be otherwise than wrong, for a girl to usurp her seat. "I mean, you do not bring it into court, as a case of wrong. You do not want her to be punished; do you?" "No; I only want her to give me up my seat; I don't want her to be punished." "Well, then, you see, that although she may have done wrong to take your seat, it is not in that point of view, that you bring it into court. It is a question about the right of property, and the lawyers call such cases, _civil_ cases, to distinguish them from cases where persons are tried for the purpose of being punished for doing wrong. These are called criminal cases." The aggrieved party still looked perplexed. "Well, Mr. B." she continued, "what shall I do? How shall I write it? I cannot say anything about _civil_, in it, can I?" A form was given her, which would be proper for the purpose, and the case was brought forward, and the evidence on both sides examined. The irritation of the quarrel was soon dissipated, in the amusement of a semi-serious trial, and both parties good humoredly acquiesced in the decision. 9. TEACHERS' PERSONAL CHARACTER. Much has been said within a few years, by writers in the subject of education, in this country, on the desirableness of raising the business of teaching to the rank of a learned profession. There is but one way of doing this, and that is raising the personal characters and attainments of teachers themselves. Whether an employment is elevated or otherwise in public estimation, depends altogether on the associations connected with it in the public mind; and these depend altogether on the characters of the individuals who are engaged in it. Franklin, by the simple fact that he was a printer himself, has done more towards giving dignity and respectability to the employment of printing, than a hundred orations on the intrinsic excellence of the art. In fact all mechanical employments have, within a few years risen in rank, in this country, not through the influence of efforts to impress the community directly with a sense of their importance, but simply because mechanics themselves have risen in intellectual and moral character. In the same manner the employment of the teacher will be raised most effectually in the estimation of the public, not by the individual who writes the most eloquent oration on the intrinsic dignity of the art, but by the one who goes forward most successfully in the exercise of it, and who by his general attainments, and public character, stands out most fully to the view of the public, as a well informed, liberal minded, and useful man. If this is so, and it cannot well be denied, it furnishes every teacher a strong motive to exertion, for the improvement of his own personal character. But there is a stronger motive still, in the results which flow directly to himself, from such efforts. No man ought to engage in any business which, as mere business, will engross all his time and attention. The Creator has bestowed upon every one a mind, upon the cultivation of which, our rank among intelligent beings, our happiness, our moral and intellectual power, every thing valuable to us, depend. And after all the cultivation which we can bestow, in this life, upon this mysterious principle, it will still be in embryo. The progress which it is capable of making is entirely indefinite. If by ten years of cultivation, we can secure a certain degree of knowledge and power, by ten more, we can double, or more than double it, and every succeeding year of effort, is attended with equal success. There is no point of attainment where we must stop, or beyond which effort will bring in a less valuable return. Look at that teacher, and consider for a moment, his condition. He began to teach when he was twenty years of age, and now he is forty. Between the years of fifteen and twenty he made a vigorous effort to acquire such an education as would fit him for these duties. He succeeded, and by these efforts he raised himself from being a mere laborer, receiving for his daily toil a mere daily subsistence, to the respectability and the comforts of an intellectual pursuit. But this change once produced, he stops short in his progress. Once seated in his desk, he is satisfied, and for twenty years he has been going through the same routine, without any effort to advance or to improve. He does not reflect that the same efforts, which so essentially altered his condition and prospects at twenty, would have carried him forward to higher and higher sources of influence and enjoyment, as long as he should continue them. His efforts ceased when he obtained a situation as teacher, at forty dollars a month, and though twenty years have glided away, he is now exactly what he was then. There is probably no employment whatever which affords so favorable an opportunity for personal improvement,--for steady intellectual and moral progress, as that of teaching. There are two reasons for this. First, there is time for it. With an ordinary degree of health and strength, the mind can be vigorously employed at least ten hours a day. As much as this, is required of students, in many literary institutions. In fact ten hours to study, seven to sleep, and seven to food, exercise, and recreation, is perhaps as good an arrangement as can be made; at any rate, very few persons will suppose that such a plan allows too little under the latter head. Now six hours is as much as is expected of teachers under ordinary circumstances, and it is as much as ought ever to be bestowed. For though he may labor four hours out of school, in some new field, his health and spirits will soon sink under the burden, if after his weary labors during the day in school, he gives up his evenings to the same perplexities and cares. And it is not necessary. No one who knows any thing of the nature of the human mind, and who will reflect a moment on the subject, can doubt that a man can make a better school, by expending six hours labor upon it, which he can go through with, with some alacrity and ardor, than he can by driving himself on to ten. Every teacher therefore, who is commencing his work, should begin with the firm determination of devoting only six hours daily to the pursuit. Make as good a school, and accomplish as much for it, as you can in six hours, and let the rest go. When you come from your school room at night, leave all your perplexities and cares behind you. No matter what unfinished business or unsettled difficulties remain. Dismiss them all till another sun shall rise, and the hour of duty for another day shall come. Carry no school work home with you and do not talk of your work. You will then get refreshment and rest. Your mind during the evening will be in a different world from that in which you have moved during the day. At first this will be difficult. It will be hard for you, unless your mind is uncommonly well disciplined, to dismiss all your cares; and you will think, each evening, that some peculiar emergency demands your attention, _just at that time_, and that as soon as you have passed the crisis, you will confine yourself to what you admit are generally reasonable limits. But if you once allow school with its perplexities and cares to get possession of the rest of the day, it will keep possession. It will intrude itself into all your waking thoughts, and trouble you in your dreams. You will lose all command of your powers, and besides cutting off from yourself all hope of general intellectual progress, you will in fact destroy your success as a teacher. Exhaustion, weariness, and anxiety will be your continual portion, and in such a state, no business can be successfully prosecuted. There need be no fear that employers will be dissatisfied, if the teacher acts upon this principle. If he is faithful and enters with all his heart into the discharge of his duties during six hours, there will be something in the ardor, and alacrity, and spirit with which his duties will be performed, which parents and scholars will both be very glad to receive, in exchange for the languid, and dull, and heartless toil, in which the other method must sooner or later result. * * * * * If the teacher then, will confine himself to such a portion of time, as is, in fact, all he can advantageously employ, there will be much left which can be devoted to his own private employment,--more than is usual in the other employments of life. In most of these other employments, there is not the same necessity for limiting the hours which a man may devote to his business. A merchant, for example, may be employed nearly all the day, at his counting-room, and so may a mechanic. A physician may spend all his waking-hours in visiting patients, and feel little more than healthy fatigue. The reason is that in all these employments, and in fact in most of the employments of life, there is so much to diversify, so many little incidents constantly occurring to animate and relieve, and so much bodily exercise, which alternates with, and suspends the fatigues of the mind, that the labors may be much longer continued, and with less cessation, and yet the health not suffer. But the teacher, while engaged in his work, has his mind continually on the stretch. There is little to relieve, little respite, and he is almost entirely deprived of bodily exercise. He must, consequently, limit his hours of attending to his business, or his health will soon sink under labors which Providence never intended the human mind to bear. There is another circumstance which facilitates the progress of the teacher. It is a fact that all this general progress has a direct and immediate bearing upon his pursuits. A lawyer may read in an evening an interesting book of travels, and find nothing to help him with his case, the next day, in court,--but almost every fact which the teacher thus learns, will come _at once into use,_ in some of his recitations at school. We do not mean to imply by this that the members of the legal profession have not need of a great variety and extent of knowledge; they doubtless have. It is simply in the _directness_ and _certainty_, with which the teacher's knowledge may be applied to his purpose, that the business of teaching has the advantage over every other pursuit. This fact now has a very important influence in encouraging, and leading forward the teacher, to make constant intellectual progress, for every step brings at once a direct reward. 10. THE CHESTNUT BURR. _A story for school-boys._[E] One fine pleasant morning, in the fall of the year, the master was walking along towards school, and he saw three or four boys under a large chestnut tree, gathering chestnuts. [Footnote E: Originally written for a periodical.] One of the boys was sitting upon the ground, trying to open some chestnut burrs, which he had knocked off from the tree. The burrs were green, and he was trying to open them by pounding them with a stone. He was a very impatient boy and was scolding, in a loud angry tone, against the burrs. He did not see, he said, what in the world chestnuts were made to grow so for. They ought to grow right out in the open air, like apples, and not have such vile porcupine skins on them,--just to plague the boys. So saying he struck with all his might a fine large burr, crushed it to pieces, and then jumped up, using at the same time profane and wicked words. As soon as he turned round he saw the master standing very near him. He felt very much ashamed and afraid, and hung down his head. "Roger," said the master, (for this boy's name was Roger) "can you get me a chestnut burr?" Roger looked up for a moment, to see whether the master was in earnest, and then began to look around for a burr. A boy who was standing near the tree, with a red cap full of burrs in his hand, held out one of them. Roger took the burr and handed it to the master, who quietly put it into his pocket, and walked away without saying a word. As soon as he was gone, the boy with the red cap, said to Roger, "I expected the master would have given you a good scolding for talking so." "The master never scolds," said another boy, who was sitting on a log pretty near, with a green satchel in his hand, "but you see if he does not remember it." Roger looked as if he did not know what to think about it. "I wish," said he, "I knew what he is going to do with that burr." That afternoon, when the lessons had been all recited, and it was about time to dismiss the school, the boys put away their books, and the master read a few verses in the Bible, and then offered a prayer, in which he asked God to forgive all the sins which any of them had committed that day, and to take care of them during the night. After this he asked the boys all to sit down. He then took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and laid it on the desk, and afterwards he put his hand into his pocket again; and took out the chestnut burr, and all the boys looked at it. "Boys," said he, "do you know what this is?" One of the boys in the back seat, said, in a half whisper, "It is nothing but a chestnut burr." "Lucy," said the master, to a bright-eyed little girl, near him, "what is this?" "It is a chestnut burr, sir," said she. "Do you know what it is for?" "I suppose there are chestnuts in it." "But what is this rough prickly covering for?" Lucy did not know. "Does any body here know?" said the master. One of the boys said he supposed it was to hold the chestnuts together, and keep them up on the tree. "But I heard a boy say," replied the master, "that they ought not to be made to grow so. The nut itself, he thought, ought to hang alone on the branches, without any prickly covering,--just as apples do." "But the nuts themselves have no stems to be fastened by," answered the same boy. "That is true, but I suppose this boy thought that God could have made them grow with stems, and that this would have been better than to have them in burrs." After a little pause the master said he would explain to them what the chestnut burr was for, and wished them all to listen attentively. "How much of the chestnut is good to eat, William?" asked he, looking at a boy before him. "Only the meat." "How long does it take the meat to grow?" "All summer I suppose, it is growing." "Yes; it begins early in the summer and gradually swells and grows until it has become of full size and is ripe, in the fall. Now suppose there was a tree out here near the school-house, and the chestnut meats should grow upon it without any shell or covering, suppose too that they should taste like good ripe chestnuts at first, when they were very small. Do you think they would be safe?" William said, "No! the boys would pick and eat them before they had time to grow." "Well, what harm would there be in that; would it not be as well to have the chestnuts early in the summer, as to have them in the fall?" William hesitated. Another boy who sat next to him said, "There would not be so much meat in the chestnuts, if they were eaten before they had time to grow." "Right," said the master, "but would not the boys know this, and so all agree to let the little chestnuts stay, and not eat them while they were small?" William said he thought they would not. If the chestnuts were good, he was afraid they would pick them off and eat them, if they were small. All the rest of the boys in the school thought so too. "Here then," said the master, "is one reason for having prickles around the chestnuts when they are small. But then it is not necessary to have all chestnuts guarded from boys in this way; a great many of the trees are in the woods, which the boys do not see; what good do the burrs do in these trees?" The boys hesitated. Presently the boy who had the green satchel under the tree with Roger, who was sitting in one corner of the room, said, "I should think they would keep the squirrels from eating them." "And besides," continued he after thinking a moment, "I should suppose if the meat of the chestnut had no covering, the rain might wet it and make it rot, or the sun might dry and wither it." "Yes," said the master, "these are very good reasons why the nut should be carefully guarded. First the meats are packed away in a hard brown shell, which the water cannot get through; this keeps it dry, and away from dust, and other things which might injure it. Then several nuts thus protected grow closely together inside this green prickly covering; which spreads over them and guards them from the larger animals and the boys. Where the chestnut gets its full growth and is ripe, this covering you know splits open, and the nuts drop out, and then any body can get them and eat them." The boys were then all satisfied that it was better that chestnuts should grow in burrs. "But why," asked one of the boys, "do not apples grow so?" "Can any body answer that question," asked the master. The boy with the green satchel said that apples had a smooth, tight skin, which kept out the wet, but he did not see how they were guarded from animals. The master said is was by their taste. "They are hard and sour before they are full grown, and so the taste is not pleasant, and nobody wants to eat them,--except sometimes a few foolish boys, and these are punished by being made sick. When the apples are full grown they change from sour to sweet, and become mellow; then they can be eaten. Can you tell me of any other fruits which are preserved in this way?" One boy answered, "Strawberries and blackberries," and another said, "Peaches and pears." Another boy asked why the peach-stone was not outside the peach, so as to keep it from being eaten. But the master said he would explain this another time. Then he dismissed the scholars, after asking Roger to wait until the rest had gone, as he wished to see him alone. 11. THE SERIES OF WRITING LESSONS. c.[F] Very many pupils soon become weary of the dull and monotonous business of writing, unless some plans are devised, to give interest and variety to the exercise, and on this account, this branch of education, in which improvement may be most rapid, is often the last and most tedious to be acquired. [Footnote F: The articles to which this letter is prefixed were communicated for the work, by different teachers at the request of the author.] A teacher, by adopting the following plan, succeeded in awakening a great degree of interest in this subject, and consequently, of promoting rapid improvement. The plan was this; he prepared, on a large sheet of paper, a series of lessons in coarse hand, beginning with straight lines, and proceeding to the elementary parts of the various letters, and finally to the letters themselves. This paper was posted up in a part of the room accessible to all. The writing-books were made of three sheets of fool's-cap paper, folded into a convenient size, which was to be ruled by each pupil; for it was thought important that each one should learn this art. Every pupil in school then, being furnished with one of these writing books, was required to commence this series, and to practice each lesson until he could write it well; then, and not till then, he was permitted to pass to the next. A few brief directions were given under each lesson, on the large sheet. For example, under the line of straight marks, which constituted the first lesson, was written as follows: _Straight, equidistant, parallel, smooth, well terminated_ These directions were to call the attention of the pupil to the excellences which he must aim at, and when he supposed he had secured them, his book was to be presented to the teacher for examination. If approved the word _Passed_, or afterwards simply _P._ was written under the line, and he could then proceed to the next lesson. Other requisites were necessary besides the correct formation of the letters, to enable one to pass; for example, the page must not be soiled or blotted, no paper must be wasted, and, in no case, a leaf torn out. As soon as _one line_ was written in the manner required, the scholar was allowed to pass; in a majority of cases however, not less than a page would be practised, and in many instances a sheet would be covered, before one line could be produced which would be approved. One peculiar excellency of this method was, that although the whole school were working under a regular and systematic plan, individuals could go on independently; that is, the progress of no scholar was retarded by that of his companion; the one more advanced, might easily pass the earlier lessons in few days, while the others would require weeks of practice to acquire the same degree of skill. During the writing hour, the scholars would practice, each at the lesson where he left off before, and at a particular time, each day, the books were brought from the regular place of deposit, and laid before the teacher for examination. Without some arrangement for an examination of all the books together, the teacher would be liable to interruption at any time, from individual questions and requests, which would consume much time, and benefit only a few. When a page of writing could not pass, a brief remark, calling the attention of the pupil to the faults which prevented it, was sometimes made in pencil at the bottom of the page. In other cases, the fault was of such a character as to require full and minute oral directions to the pupil. At last, to facilitate the criticism of the writing, a set of arbitrary marks; indicative of the various faults, was devised, and applied, as occasion might require, to the writing books, by means of red ink. These marks, which were very simple in their character, were easily remembered, for there was generally some connexion between the sign and the thing signified. For example; the mark denoting that letters were too short, was simply lengthening them in red ink. A faulty curve was denoted, by making a new curve over the old one, &c. The following are the principal criticisms and directions for which marks were contrived. Strokes rough. Curve wrong. Bad termination. Too slanting, and the reverse. Too broad, and the reverse. Not parallel. Form of the letter bad. Large stroke made too fine, and the reverse. Too tall, or too short. Stems not straight. Careless work. Paper wasted. Almost well enough to pass. Bring your book to the teacher. Former fault not corrected. A catalogue of these marks, with an explanation, was made out and placed where it was accessible to all, and by means of them the books could be very easily and rapidly, but thoroughly criticised. After the plan had gone on for some time, and its operation was fully understood, the teacher gave up the business of examining the books into the hands of a Committee, appointed by him from among the older and more advanced pupils. That the Committee might be unbiased in their judgment, they were required to examine and decide upon the books, without knowing the names of the writers. Each scholar was indeed required to place her name on the right hand upper corner of every page of her writing-book, for the convenience of the distributors; but this corner was turned down, when the book was brought in, that it might not be seen by the Committee. This Committee were entrusted with plenary powers, and there was no appeal from their decision. In case they exercised their authority in an improper way, or failed on any account to give satisfaction, they were liable to impeachment, but while they continued in office, they were to be strictly obeyed. This plan went on successfully for three months, and with very little diminution of interest. The whole school went regularly through the lessons in coarse hand, and afterwards through a similar series in fine hand, and improvement in this branch was thought to be greater than at any former period in the same length of time. The same principle of arranging the several steps of an art or a study into a series of lessons, and requiring the pupil to pass regularly from one to the other, might easily be applied to other studies, and would afford a pleasant variety. 12. THE CORRESPONDENCE. A master of a district school was walking through the room, with a large rule in his hands, and as he came up behind two small boys, he observed that they were playing with some papers. He struck them once or twice, though not very severely on the head, with the rule which he had in his hand. Tears started from the eyes of one. They were called forth by a mingled feeling of grief, mortification, and pain. The other who was of "sterner stuff," looked steadily into the master's face, and when his back was turned, shook his fist at him and laughed in defiance. Another teacher seeing a similar case, did nothing. The boys when they saw him; hastily gathered up their playthings and put them away. An hour or two after, a little boy who sat near the master, brought them a note addressed to them both. They opened it and read as follows. To Edward and John, I observed, when I passed you to-day, from your concerned looks, and your hurried manner of putting something into your desk, that you were doing something that you knew was wrong. When you attempt to do any thing whatever, which conscience tells you is wrong, you only make yourself uneasy and anxious while you do it, and then you are forced to resort to concealment and deception, when you see me coming. You would be a great deal happier, if you would always be doing your duty, and then you would never be afraid. Your affectionate teacher, ---- ----. As the teacher was arranging his papers in his desk, at the close of school, he found a small piece of paper neatly folded up in the form of a note, and addressed to him. He read as follows, Dear teacher, We are very much obliged to you for writing us a note. We were making a paper box. We know it was wrong, and are determined not to do so any more. We hope you will forgive us. Your pupils, Edward, John. Which of these teachers understood human nature best? 13. WEEKLY REPORTS. The plan described by the following article, which was furnished by a teacher for insertion here, was originally adopted, so far as I know, in a school on the Kennebec. I have adopted it with great advantage. * * * * * c. A teacher had one day been speaking to her scholars of certain cases of slight disorder in the school, which, she remarked, had been gradually creeping in, and which, she thought, it devolved upon the scholars, by systematic efforts, to repress. She enumerated instances of disorder in the arrangement of the rooms, leaving the benches out of their places, throwing waste papers upon the floor, having the desk in disorder, inside, spilling water upon the entry floor, disorderly deportment, such as too loud talking or laughing in recess, or in the intermission at noon, or when coming to school, and making unnecessary noise in going to, or returning from recitations. "I have a plan to propose," said the teacher, "which I think may be the pleasantest way of promoting a reform, in things of this kind. It is this. Let several of your number be chosen a Committee to prepare, statedly--perhaps as often as once a week,--a written report of the state of the school. The report might be read before the school at the close of each week. The Committee might consist in the whole, of seven or eight, or even of eleven or twelve individuals who should take the whole business into their hands. This Committee might appoint individuals of their number, to write, in turn, each week. By this arrangement, it would not be known to the school generally, who are the writers of any particular report, if the individuals wish to be anonymous. Two individuals might be appointed at the beginning of the week, who should feel it their business to observe particularly the course of things from day to day, with reference to the report. Individuals not members of the Committee, can render assistance by any suggestions they may present to this Committee. These should however generally be made in writing." "Subjects for such a report will be found to suggest themselves very abundantly, though you may not perhaps think so at first. The Committee may be empowered, not only to state the particulars in which things are going wrong, but the methods by which they may be made right. Let them present us with any suggestions they please. If we do not like them, we are not obliged to adopt them. For instance, it is generally the case whenever a recitation is attended in the corner yonder, that an end of one of the benches is put against the door, so as to occasion a serious interruption to the exercises when a person wishes to come in or go out. It would come within the province of the Committee to attend to such a case as this, that is, to bring it up in the report. The remedy in such a case is a very simple one. Suppose however, that instead of the _simple_ remedy, our Committee should propose that the classes reciting in the said corner should be dissolved and the studies abolished. We should know the proposal was an absurd one; but then it would do no hurt;--we should have only to reject it." "Again, besides our faults, let our Committee notice the respects in which we are doing particularly well, that we may be encouraged to go on doing well, or even to do better. If they think for example, that we are deserving of credit for the neatness with which books are kept,--for their freedom from blots or scribblings, or dog's-ears, by which school-books are so commonly defaced, let them tell us so. And the same of any other excellence." With the plan as thus presented, the scholars were very much pleased. It was proposed by one individual that such a Committee should be appointed immediately, and a report prepared for the ensuing week. This was done. The Committee were chosen by ballot. The following may be taken as a specimen of their reports. WEEKLY REPORT. 'The Committee appointed to write the weekly report have noticed several things which they think wrong. In the first place there have been a greater number of tardy scholars, during the past week than usual. Much of this tardiness we suppose is owing to the interest felt in building the bower; but we think this business ought to be attended to only in play hours: If only one or two come in late when we are reading in the morning, or after we have composed ourselves to study at the close of the recess, every scholar must look up from her book,--we do not say they ought to do so, but only that they will do so. However, we anticipate an improvement in this respect, as we know "a word to the wise is sufficient." 'In the two back rows we are sorry to say that we have noticed whispering. We know that this fact will very much distress our Teacher, as she expects assistance, and not trouble from our older scholars. It is not our business to reprove any one's misconduct, but it is our duty to mention it, however disagreeable it may be. We think the younger scholars during the past week have much improved in this respect. Only three cases of whispering among them have occurred to our knowledge. 'We remember some remarks made a few weeks ago, by our Teacher, on the practice of prompting each other in the classes. We wish she would repeat them, for we fear that by some they are forgotten. In the class in Geography, particularly in the questions on the map, we have noticed sly whispers, which we suppose were the hints of some kind friend designed to refresh the memory of her less attentive companion. We propose that the following question be now put to vote. Shall the practice of prompting in the classes be any longer continued? 'We would propose that we have a composition exercise _this_ week similar to the one on Thursday last. It was very interesting, and we think all would be willing to try their thinking powers once more. We would propose also that the readers of the compositions should sit near the centre of the room, as last week many fine sentences escaped the ears of those seated in the remote corners. 'We were requested by a very public-spirited individual to mention once more the want of three nails, for bonnets in the entry. Also, to say that the air from the broken pane of glass on the east side of the room, is very unpleasant to these who sit near. 'Proposed that the girls who exhibited so much taste and ingenuity in the arrangement of the festoons of evergreen, and tumblers of flowers around the Teacher's desk, be now requested to remove the faded roses and drooping violets. We have gazed on these sad emblems long enough. 'Finally, proposed that greater care be taken by those who stay at noon, to place their dinner baskets in proper places. The contents of more than one, were partly strewed upon the entry floor this morning.' If such a measure as this is adopted, it should not be continued uninterrupted for a very long time. Every thing of this sort should be occasionally changed, or it sooner or later becomes only a form. 14. THE SHOPPING EXERCISE. c. I have often when going a shopping found difficulty and trouble in making change. I could never calculate very readily and in the hurry and perplexity of the moment, I was always making mistakes. I have heard others often make the same complaint, and I resolved to try the experiment of regularly teaching children to make change. I had a bright little class in Arithmetic, who were always ready to engage with interest in any thing new, and to them I proposed my plan. It was to be called the Shopping Exercise. I first requested each individual to write something upon her slate, which she would like to buy, if she was going a shopping, stating the quantity she wished and the price of it. To make the first lesson as simple as possible, I requested no one to go above ten, either in the quantity or price. When all were ready, I called upon some one to read what she had written. Her next neighbor was then requested to tell us how much the purchase would amount to; then the first one named a bill, which she supposed to be offered in payment, and the second showed what change was needed. A short specimen of the exercise will probably make it clearer than mere description. _Mary._ Eight ounces of candy at seven cents. _Susan._ Fifty-six cents. _Mary._ One dollar. _Susan._ Forty-four cents. _Susan._ Nine yards of lace at eight cents. _Anna._ Seventy-two cents. _Susan._ Two dollars. _Anna._ One dollar and twenty-eight cents. _Anna._ Three pieces of tape at five cents. _Jane._ Fifteen cents. _Anna._ Three dollars. _Jane_. Eighty-five cents. _Several voices._ Wrong. _Jane._ Two dollars and eighty-five cents. _Jane._ Six pictures at eight cents. _Sarah._ Forty-two cents. _Several voices._ Wrong. _Sarah._ Forty-eight cents. _Jane._ One dollar. _Sarah._ Sixty-two cents. _Several voices._ Wrong. _Sarah._ Fifty-two cents. It will be perceived that the same individual who names the article and the price, names also the bill which she would give in payment, and the one who sits next her, who calculated the amount, calculated also the change to be returned. She then proposed her example to the one next in the line, with whom the same course was pursued, and thus it passed down the class. The exercise went on for some time in this way, till the pupils had become so familiar with it, that I thought it best to allow them to take higher numbers. They were always interested in it, and made great improvement in a short time, and I, myself, derived great advantage from listening to them. There is one more circumstance, I will add, which may contribute to the interest of this account. While the class were confined in what they purchased, to the number ten, they were sometimes inclined to turn the exercise into a frolic. The variety of articles which they could find costing less than ten cents was so small, that for the sake of getting something new, they would propose examples really ludicrous, such as these. Three meeting-houses at two cents. Four pianos at nine cents. But I soon found that if I allowed this at all, then attention was diverted from the main object, and occupied in seeking the most diverting and curious examples. 15. ARTIFICES IN RECITATIONS. c. The teacher of a small, newly established school, had all of his scholars classed together in some of their studies. At recitations he usually sat in the middle of the room, while the scholars occupied the usual places at their desks, which were arranged around the sides. In the recitation in Rhetoric, the teacher, after a time, observed that one or two of the class seldom answered appropriately the questions which came to them; but yet, were always ready with some kind of answer--generally an exact quotation of the words of the book. Upon noticing these individuals more particularly, he was convinced that their books were open before them, in some concealed situation. Another practice not uncommon in the class, was that of _prompting_ each other, either by whispers or writing. The teacher took no notice publicly of these practices, for some time, until at the close of an uncommonly good recitation, he remarked, "Well, I think we have had a fine recitation to-day. It is one of the pleasantest things I ever do, to hear a lesson that is learned as well as this. Do you think it would be possible for us to have as good an exercise every day?" "Yes sir," answered several faintly. "Do you think it would be reasonable for me to expect of every member of the class, that she should always be able to recite all her lessons, without ever missing a single question?" "No sir," answered all. "I do not expect it," said the teacher. "All I wish is, that each of you should be faithful in your efforts to prepare your lessons. I wish you to study from a sense of duty, and for the sake of your own improvement. You know I do not punish you for failures. I have no going up or down, no system of marking. Your only reward when you have made faithful preparation for a recitation, is the feeling of satisfaction which you will always experience; and when you have been negligent, your only punishment is a sort of uneasy feeling of self-reproach. I do not expect you all to be invariably prepared with every question of your lessons. Sometimes you will be unavoidably prevented from studying them, and at other times, when you have studied them very carefully, you may have forgotten, or you may fail from some misapprehension of the meaning in some cases. Do not, in such a case, feel troubled because you may not have appeared as well as some individual who has not been half as faithful as yourself. If you have done your duty that is enough. On the other hand, you ought to feel no better satisfied with yourselves when your lesson has not been studied well, because you may have happened to know the parts which came to you. Have I _done_ well should always be the question, not have I managed to _appear_ well? "I will say a word here," continued the teacher, "upon a practice, which I have known to be very common in some schools, and which I have been sorry to notice occasionally in this. I mean that of prompting, or helping each other along in some way, at recitations. Now, where a severe punishment is the consequence of a failure, there might seem to be some reasonableness in helping your companions out of difficulty, though even then, such tricks are departures from honorable dealing. But especially when there is no purpose to be served but that of appearing to know more than you do, it certainly must be considered a very mean kind of artifice. I think I have sometimes observed an individual to be prompted, where evidently the assistance was not desired, and even where it was not needed. To whisper to an individual the answer to a question, is sometimes to pay her rather a poor compliment, at least; for it is the same as saying, 'I am a better scholar than you are; let me help you along a little.' "Let us then hereafter, have only fair, open, honest dealings with each other, no attempts to appear to advantage by little artful manoeuvering;--no prompting,--no peeping into books. Be faithful and conscientious, and then banish anxiety for your success. Do you not think you shall find this the pleasantest course?"--"Yes sir," answered every scholar. "Are you willing to pledge yourselves to adopt it?" "Yes sir." "Those who are, may raise their hands," said the teacher. Every hand was raised; and the pledge, there was evidence to believe, was honorably sustained. 16. KEEPING RESOLUTIONS. The following are notes of a familiar lecture on this subject, given by a teacher at some general exercise in the school. The practice of thus reducing to writing what the teacher may say on such subjects will be attended with excellent effects. This is a subject upon which young persons find much difficulty. The question is asked a thousand times, "How shall I ever learn to keep my resolutions?" Perhaps, the great cause of your failures is this. You are not sufficiently _definite_ in forming your purposes. You will resolve to do a thing, without knowing with certainty whether it is even possible to do it. Again, you make resolutions which are to run on indefinitely, so that of course, they can never be fully kept. For instance, one of you will resolve to _rise earlier in the morning_. You fix upon no definite hour, on any definite number of mornings, only you are going to "_rise earlier_." Morning comes and finds you sleepy and disinclined to rise. You remember your resolution of rising earlier. "But then it is _very early_," you say. You resolved to rise earlier, but you didn't resolve to rise just then. And this, it may be, is the last of your resolution. Or, perhaps you are, for a few mornings, a little earlier; but then at the end of a week or fortnight, you do not know exactly, whether your resolution has been broken or kept, for, you had not decided whether to rise earlier for ten days, or for ten years. In the same vague and general manner, a person will resolve to be _more studious_, or more diligent. In the case of an individual, of a mature and well-disciplined mind, of acquired firmness of character, such a resolution might have effect. The individual will really devote more time and attention to his pursuits. But, for one of you to make such a resolution, would do no sort of good. It would only be a source of trouble and disquiet. You perceive there is nothing definite,--nothing fixed about it. You have not decided what amount of additional time or attention to give to your studies, or, when you will begin, or when you will end. There is no one time when you will feel that you are breaking your resolution, because there were no particular times when you were to study more. You waste one opportunity and another, and then, with a feeling of discouragement, and self-reproach, conclude to abandon your resolution. "Oh! it does no good to make resolutions," you say; "I never shall keep them." Now, if you would have the business of making resolutions a pleasant and interesting, instead of a discouraging, disquieting one, you must proceed in a different manner. Be definite and distinct in your plan,--decide exactly what you will do, and how you will do it--when you will begin and when you will end. Instead of resolving to "rise earlier," resolve to rise at the ringing of the sunrise bells, or at some other definite time. Resolve to try this, as an experiment, for one morning, or for one week, or fortnight. Decide positively, if you decide at all, and then, rise when the time comes, sleepy or not sleepy. Do not stop to repent of your resolution, or to consider the wisdom or folly of it, when the time for acting under it, has once arrived. In all cases, little and great, make this a principle,--to consider well before you begin to act, but after you have begun to act, never stop to consider. Resolve as deliberately as you please; but be sure to keep your resolution, whether a wise one or an unwise one, after it is once made. Never allow yourself to re-consider the question of getting up, after the morning has come, except it be, for some unforeseen circumstance. Get up for that time, and be more careful how you make resolutions again. 17. TOPICS. c. The plan of the Topic Exercise, as we called it, is this. Six or seven topics are given out, information upon which is to be obtained from any source, and communicated verbally before the whole school, or sometimes before a class formed for this purpose, the next day. The subjects are proposed both by teacher and scholars, and if approved, adopted. The exercise is intended to be voluntary, but ought to be managed in a way sufficiently interesting to induce all to join. At the commencement of the exercise the teacher calls upon all who have any information in regard to the topic assigned, suppose, for example it is _Alabaster_, to rise. Perhaps twenty individuals out of forty rise. The teacher may, perhaps, say to those in their seats, "Do you not know any thing of this subject? Have you neither seen nor heard of Alabaster, and had no means of ascertaining any thing in regard to it? If you have, you ought to rise. It is not necessary that you should state a fact altogether new and unheard of, but if you tell me its color, or some of the uses to which it is applied, you will be complying with my request." After these remarks, perhaps a few more rise, and possibly the whole school. Individuals are then called upon at random, each to state only one particular in regard to the topic in question. This arrangement is made so as to give all an opportunity to speak: If any scholar, after having mentioned one fact, has something still farther to communicate, she remains standing till called upon again. As soon as an individual has exhausted her stock of information, or if the facts that she intended to mention are stated by another, she takes her seat. The topics at first most usually selected, are the common objects by which we are surrounded; for example, glass, iron, mahogany, &c. The list will gradually extend itself, until it will embrace a large number of subjects. The object of this exercise is to induce pupils to seek for general information in an easy and pleasant manner, as by the perusal of books, newspapers, periodicals, and conversation with friends. It induces care and attention in reading, and discrimination in selecting the most useful and important facts from the mass of information. As individuals are called upon, also, to express their ideas _verbally_, they soon acquire by practice, the power of expressing their ideas with clearness and force, and communicating with ease and confidence the knowledge they possess. 18. MUSIC. c. The girls of our school often amused themselves in recess by collecting into little groups for singing. As there seemed to be a sufficient power of voice and a respectable number who were willing to join in the performance, it was proposed one day, that singing should be introduced as a part of the devotional exercises of the school. The first attempt nearly resulted in a failure; only a few trembling voices succeeded in singing Old Hundred, to the words, "Be thou," &c. On the second day, Peterborough was sung with much greater confidence on the part of the increased number of singers. The experiment was tried with greater and greater success for several days, when the Teacher proposed that a systematic plan should be formed, by which there night be singing regularly at the close of school. It was then proposed, that a number of Singing books be obtained, and one of the scholars, who was well acquainted with common tunes, be appointed as chorister. Her duty should be, to decide what particular tune may be sung each day, inform the Teacher of the metre of the hymn, and take the lead in the exercise. This plan being approved of by the scholars, was adopted, and put into immediate execution. Several brought copies of the Sabbath School Hymn Book which they had in their possession, and the plan succeeded beyond all expectation. The greatest difficulty in the way was to get some one to lead. The chorister, however, was somewhat relieved from the embarrassment which she would naturally feel in making a beginning, by the appointment of one or two individuals with herself, who were to act as her assistants. These constituted the leading Committee, or as it was afterwards termed, _Singing Committee_. Singing now became a regular and interesting exercise of the school, and the Committee succeeded in managing the business themselves. 19. TABU. c. An article was one day read in a school relating to the "Tabu" of the Sandwich Islanders. Tabu is a term with them which signifies consecrated,--not to be touched--to be let alone--not to be violated. Thus according to their religious observances, a certain day will be proclaimed _Tabu_, that is, one upon which there is to be no work, or no going out. A few days after this article was read, the scholars observed one morning, a flower stuck up in a conspicuous place against the wall, with the word TABU in large characters above it. This excited considerable curiosity. The teacher informed them, in explanation, that the flower was a very rare and beautiful specimen brought by one of the scholars, which he wished all to examine. "You would naturally feel a disposition to examine it by the touch;" said he, "but you will all see, that by the time it was touched by sixty individuals, it would be likely to be injured, if not destroyed. So I concluded to label it, _Tabu_. And it has occurred to me that this will be a convenient mode of apprising you generally, that any article had better not be handled. You know we sometimes have some apparatus exposed, which would be liable to injury from disturbance, where there are so many persons to touch it. I shall in such a case, just mention that an article is Tabu, and you will understand that it is not only not to be _injured_, but not even _touched_." A little delicate management of this sort will often have more influence over young persons, than the most vehement scolding, or the most watchful and jealous precautions. The Tabu was always most scrupulously regarded, after this, whenever employed. 20. MENTAL ANALYSIS. Scene; a class in Arithmetic at recitation. The teacher gives them an example in addition, requesting them when they have performed it to rise. Some finish it very soon, others are very slow in accomplishing the work. "I should like to ascertain," says the teacher, "how great is the difference of rapidity, with which different members of the class work in addition. I will give you another example, and then notice by my watch, the shortest and longest time required to do it." The result of the experiment was, that some members of the class were two or three times as long in doing it, as others. "Perhaps you think," said the teacher, "that this difference is altogether owing to difference of skill, but it is not. It is mainly owing to the different methods adopted by various individuals. I am going to describe some of these, and as I describe them, I wish you would notice them carefully, and tell me which you practice. There are then three modes of adding up a column of figures, which I shall describe." 1. "I shall call the first _counting_. You take the first figure, and then add the next to it, by counting up regularly. There are three distinct ways of doing this. (a.) Counting by your fingers. ("Yes sir.") You take the first figure,--suppose it is seven, and the one above it, eight. Now you recollect that to add eight, you must count all the fingers of one hand, and all but two again. So you say seven--eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen." "Yes sir," "Yes sir," said the scholars. (b.) "The next mode of counting is to do it mentally, without using your fingers at all, but as it is necessary for you to have some plan to secure your adding the right number, you divide the units into sets of two each. Thus you remember that eight consists of four twos, and you accordingly say, when adding eight to seven, seven;--eight, nine;--ten, eleven;--twelve, thirteen;" &c. (c.) "The third mode is, to add by three, in the same way. You recollect that eight consists of two threes and a two; so you say, seven;--eight, nine, ten;--eleven, twelve, thirteen;--fourteen, fifteen." The teacher here stops to ascertain how many of the class are accustomed to add in either of these modes. It is a majority. 2. "The next general method is _calculating_. That is, you do not unite one number to another by the dull and tedious method of applying the units, one by one, as in the ways described under the preceding head, but you come to a result more rapidly by some mode of calculating. These modes are several. (a.) Doubling a number, and then adding or subtracting as the case may require. For instance in the example already specified; in order to add seven and eight, you say, "Twice seven are fourteen and one are fifteen;" ("Yes sir," "Yes sir,") or "Twice eight are sixteen, and taking one off, leaves fifteen. ("Yes sir.") (b.) Another way of calculating is to skip about the column, adding those numbers which you can do most easily, and then bringing in the rest as you best can. Thus, if you see three eights in one column, you say three times eight are twenty-four, and then you try to bring in the other numbers. Often in such cases, you forget what you have added and what you have not, and get confused, ("Yes sir,") or you omit something in your work, and consequently it is incorrect. (c.) If nines occur, you sometimes add ten, and then take off one, for it is very easy to add ten. (d.) Another method of calculating, which is, however, not very common, is this. To take our old case, adding eight to seven, you take as much from the eight to add to the seven as will be sufficient to make ten, and then it will be easy to add the rest. Thus, you think in a minute, that three from the eight will make the seven a ten, and then there will be five more to add, which will make fifteen. If the next number was seven, you would say five of it will make twenty, and then there will be two left, which will make twenty-two. This mode, though it may seem more intricate than any of the others, is in fact more rapid than any of them, when one is little accustomed to it. These are the four principal modes of calculating which occur to me. Pupils do not generally practice any one of them exclusively, but occasionally resort to each, according to the circumstances of the particular case." The teacher here stopped to inquire how many of the class were accustomed to add by calculating in either of these ways; or in any simpler ways. 3. "There is one more mode which I shall describe: it is by _Memory_. Before I explain this mode I wish to ask you some questions which I should like to have you answer as quick as you can. How much is four times five?--Four _and_ five? How much is seven times nine?--Seven _and_ nine? Eight times six?--Eight _and_ six? Nine times seven?--Nine _and_ seven?" After asking a few questions of this kind, it was perceived that the pupils could tell much more readily what was the result when the numbers were to be multiplied, then when they were to be added. "The reason is," said the teacher, "because you committed the multiplication table to memory, and have not committed the addition table. Now many persons have committed the addition table, so that it is perfectly familiar to them, and when they see any two numbers, the amount which is produced when they are added together comes to mind in an instant. Adding in this way is the last of the three modes I was to describe. Now of these three methods, the last is undoubtedly the best. If you once commit the addition table thoroughly, you have it fixed for life; whereas if you do not, you have to make the calculation over again every time, and thus lose a vast amount of labor. I have no doubt that there are some in this class who are in the habit of _counting_, who have ascertained that seven and eight for instance, make fifteen; by counting up from seven to fifteen, _hundreds of times_. Now how much better it would be, to spend a little time in fixing the fact in the mind once for all, and then when you come to the case, seven and eight are--say at once "Fifteen,"--instead of mumbling over and over again, hundreds of times, "Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen." The reason then, that some of the class add so slowly, is not probably because they want skill and rapidity of execution, but became they work to a great disadvantage, by working in the wrong way. I have often been surprised at the dexterity and speed with which some scholars can count with their fingers, when adding, and yet they could not get through the sum very, quick--at least they would have done it in half the time, if the same effort had been made in travelling on a shorter road. We will therefore study the addition table now, in the class, before we go on any farther." * * * * * The foregoing narratives, it is hoped, may induce some of the readers of this book to keep journals of their own experiments, and of the incidents which may, from time to time come under their notice, illustrating the principles of education, or simply the characteristics and tendencies of the youthful mind. The business of teaching will excite interest and afford pleasure, just in proportion to the degree in which it is conducted by operations of mind upon mind, and the means of making it most fully so, are, careful practice, based upon, and regulated by, the results of careful observation. Every teacher then should make observations and experiments upon mind a part of his daily duty, and nothing will more facilitate this, than keeping a record of results. There can be no opportunity for studying human nature, more favorable than the teacher enjoys. The materials are all before him; his very business, from day to day, brings him to act directly upon them; and the study of the powers and tendencies of the human mind is not only the most interesting and the noblest that can engage human attention, but every step of progress he makes in it, imparts an interest and charm, to what would otherwise be a weary toil. It at once relieves his labors, while it doubles their efficiency and success. CHAPTER IX. THE TEACHER'S FIRST DAY. The teacher enters upon the duties of his office by a much more sudden transition than is common in the other avocations and employments of life. In ordinary cases, business comes at first by slow degrees, and the beginner is introduced to the labors and responsibilities of his employment, in a very gradual manner. The young teacher, however, enters, by a single step, into the very midst of his labors. Having, perhaps, never even heard a class recite before, he takes a short walk some winter morning, and suddenly finds himself instated at the desk,--his fifty scholars all around, looking him in the face, all waiting to be employed. Everything comes upon him at once. He can do nothing until the day and the hour for opening the school arrives,--then he has everything to do. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that the young teacher should look forward with unusual solicitude to his first day in school; and he desires, ordinarily, special instructions in respect to this occasion. Some such special instructions we propose to give in this chapter. The experienced teacher may think some of them too minute and trivial. But he must remember that they are intended for the youngest beginner in the humblest school; and if he recalls to mind his own feverish solicitude on the morning when he went to take his first command in the district school, he will pardon the seeming minuteness of detail. 1. It will be well for the young teacher to take opportunity, between the time of his engaging his school and that of his commencing it,--to acquire as much information in respect to it, beforehand, as possible,--so as to be somewhat acquainted with the scene of his labors before entering upon it. Ascertain the names and the characters of the principal families in the district, their ideas and wishes in respect to the government of the school, the kind of management adopted by one or two of the last teachers, the difficulties they fell into, the nature of the complaints made against them, if any, and the families with whom difficulty has usually arisen. This information must of course be obtained in private conversation; a good deal of it must be, from its very nature, highly confidential; but it is very important that the teacher should be possessed of it. He will necessarily become possessed of it by degrees, in the course of his administration, when, however, it may be too late to be of any service to him. But by judicious and proper efforts to acquire it beforehand, he will enter upon the discharge of his duties with great advantage. It is like a navigator's becoming acquainted beforehand with the nature and the dangers of the sea over which he is about to sail. Such inquiries as these will, in ordinary cases, bring to the teacher's knowledge, in most districts in our country, some cases of peculiarly troublesome scholars, or unreasonable and complaining parents,--and stories of their unjustifiable conduct on former occasions, will come to him; exaggerated by the jealousy of rival neighbours. There is danger that his resentment may be roused a little, and that his mind will assume a hostile attitude at once towards such individuals; so that he will enter upon his work rather with a desire to seek a collision with them, or at least with secret feelings of defiance towards them,--feelings which will lead to that kind of unbending perpendicularity in his demeanour towards them which will almost inevitably lead to a collision. Now this is wrong. There is indeed a point where firm resistance to unreasonable demands becomes a duty. But as a general principle it is most unquestionably true, that it is the teacher's duty _to accommodate himself to the character and expectations of his employers_, not to face and brave them. Those italicized words _may be_ understood to mean something which would be entirely wrong; but in the sense in which I mean to use them, there can be no question that they indicate the proper path for one employed by others to do work _for them_, in all cases, to pursue. If therefore the teacher finds by his inquiries into the state of his district that there are some peculiar difficulties and dangers there, let him not cherish a disposition to face and resist them, but to avoid them. Let him go with an intention to soothe rather than to irritate feelings which have been wounded before,--to comply with the wishes of all so far as he can, even if they are not entirely reasonable,--and while he endeavours to elevate the standard and correct the opinions prevailing among his employers, by any means in his power, to aim at doing it gently; and in a tone and manner suitable to the relation he sustains;--in a word, let him skilfully _avoid_ the dangers of his navigation, not obstinately run his ship against a rock on purpose, on the ground that the rock has no business to be there. This is the spirit then with which these preliminary inquiries, in regard to the patrons of the school, ought to be made. We come now to a second point. 2. It will assist the young teacher very much in his first day's labors, if he takes measures for seeing and conversing with some of the older or more intelligent scholars, on the day or evening before he begins his school, with a view of obtaining from them some acquaintance with the internal arrangements and customs of the school. The object of this is to obtain the same kind of information with respect to the interior of the school, that was recommended in respect to the district, under the former head. He may call upon a few families, especially those which furnish a large number of scholars for the school, and make as many minute inquiries of them, as he can, respecting all the interior arrangements to which they have been accustomed; what reading books and other text books have been used,--what are the principal classes in all the several departments of instruction,--and what is the system of discipline, and of rewards and punishments to which the school has been accustomed. If in such conversations the teacher should find a few intelligent and communicative scholars, he might learn a great deal about the past habits and condition of the school, which would be of great service to him. Not, by any means, that he will adopt and continue these methods as a matter of course,--but only that a knowledge of them will render him very important aid in marking out his own course. The more minute and full the information of this sort is which he thus obtains, the better. If practicable, it would be well to make out a catalogue of all the principal classes, with the names of those individuals belonging to them, who will probably attend the new school, and the order in which they were usually called upon to read or recite. The conversation which would be necessary to accomplish this, would of itself be of great service. It would bring the teacher into an acquaintance with several important families and groups of children, under the most favorable circumstances. The parents would see and be pleased with the kind of interest they would see the teacher taking in his new duties. The children would be pleased to be able to render their new instructer some service, and would go to the school-room on the next morning with a feeling of acquaintance with him, and a predisposition to be pleased. And if by chance any family should be thus called upon, that had heretofore been captious or complaining, or disposed to be jealous of the higher importance or influence of other families,--that spirit would be entirely softened and subdued by such an interview with their new instructer at their own fireside, on the evening preceding the commencement of his labors. The great object, however, which the teacher would have in view, in such inquiries, should be the value of the information itself. As to the use which he will make of it, we shall speak hereafter. 3. It is desirable that the young teacher should meet his scholars first in an unofficial capacity. For this purpose repair to the school-room, on the first day, at an early hour, so as to see and become acquainted with the scholars as they come in, one by one. The intercourse between teacher and pupil should be like that between parents and children, where the utmost freedom is united with the most perfect respect. The father who is most firm and decisive in his family government, can mingle most freely in the conversation and sports of his children without any derogation of his authority, or diminution of the respect they owe. Young teachers, however, are prone to forget this, and to imagine that they must assume an appearance of stern authority, always, when in the presence of their scholars, if they wish to be respected or obeyed. This they call keeping up their dignity. Accordingly they wait, on the morning of their induction into office, until their new subjects are all assembled, and then walk in with an air of the highest dignity, and with the step of a king. And sometimes a formidable instrument of discipline is carried in the hand to heighten the impression. Now there is no question that it is of great importance that scholars should have a high idea of the teacher's firmness and inflexible decision in maintaining his authority and repressing all disorder of every kind. But this impression should be created by their seeing how he _acts_, in the various emergencies which will spontaneously occur, and not by assumed airs of importance or dignity, feigned for effect. In other words, their respect for him should be based on _real traits_ of character, as they see them brought out into natural action, and not on appearances assumed for the occasion. It seems to me, therefore, that it is best for the teacher first to meet his scholars with the air and tone of free and familiar intercourse, and he will find his opportunity more favorable for doing this, if he goes early, on the first morning of his labors, and converses freely with those whom he finds there, and with others as they come in. He may take an interest with them in all the little arrangements connected with the opening of the school. The building of the fire, the paths through the snow, the arrangements of seats, calling upon them for information or aid, asking their names, and, in a word, entering fully and freely into conversation with them, just as a parent, under similar circumstances, would do with his children. All the children thus addressed will be pleased with the gentleness and affability of the teacher. Even a rough and ill-natured boy, who has perhaps come to the school with the express determination of attempting to make mischief, will be completely disarmed, by being asked pleasantly to help the teacher fix the fire, or alter the position of his desk. Thus by means of the half hour during which the scholars are coming together, and of the visits made in the preceding evening, as described under the last head, the teacher will find, when he calls upon the children to take their seats, that he has made a very large number of them his personal friends. Many of these will have communicated their first impressions to the others, so that he will find himself possessed, at the outset, of that which is of vital consequence in the opening of any administration,--a strong party in his favor. 4. The time for calling the school to order, and commencing exercises of some sort, will at length arrive, though if the work of making personal acquaintances is going on pleasantly, it may perhaps be delayed a little beyond the usual hour. When, however, the time arrives, we would strongly recommend that the first service by which the regular duties of the school are commenced should be an act of religious worship. There are many reasons why the exercises of the school should every day be thus commenced, and there are special reasons for it on the first day. There are very few districts where parents would have any objection to this. They might indeed, in some cases, if the subject were to be brought up formally before them as a matter of doubt, anticipate some difficulties, or create imaginary ones, growing out of the supposed sensitiveness of contending sects. But if the teacher were, of his own accord, to commence the plain, faithful, and honest discharge of this duty as a matter of course, very few would think of making any objection to it; and almost all would be satisfied and pleased with its actual operation. If, however, the teacher should, in any case, have reason to believe that such a practice would be contrary to the wishes of his employers, it would, according to views we have presented in another chapter, be wrong for him to attempt to introduce it. He might, if he should see fit, make such an objection a reason for declining to take the school; but he ought not, if he takes it, to act counter to the known wishes of his employers, in so important a point. But if, on the other hand, no such objections are made known to him, he need not raise the question himself at all, but take it for granted that in a Christian land there will be no objection to imploring the divine protection and blessing at the opening of a daily school. If this practice is adopted, it will have a most powerful influence upon the moral condition of the school. It must be so. Though many will be inattentive, and many utterly unconcerned,--yet it is not possible to bring children, even in form, into the presence of God every day, and to utter in their hearing the petitions, which they ought to present, without bringing a powerful element of moral influence to bear upon their hearts. The good will be made better,--the conscientious more conscientious still,--and the rude and savage will be subdued and softened by the daily attempt to lead them to the throne of their Creator. To secure this effect, the devotional service must be an honest one. There must be nothing feigned or hypocritical; no hackneyed phrases used without meaning, or intonations of assumed solemnity. It must be honest, heartfelt, simple prayer; the plain and direct expression of such sentiments as children ought to feel, and of such petitions as they ought to offer. We shall speak presently of the mode of avoiding some abuses to which this exercise is liable; but if these sources of abuse are avoided, and the duty is performed in that plain, simple, direct, and honest manner, in which it certainly will be, if it springs from the heart, it must have a great influence on the moral progress of the children, and in fact in all respects on the prosperity of the school. But then independently of the _advantages_ which may be expected to result from the practice of daily prayer in school,--it would seem to be the imperious _duty_ of the teacher to adopt it. So many human minds committed thus to the guidance of one,--at a period when the character receives so easily and so permanently its shape and direction,--and in a world of probation like this, is an occasion which seems to demand the open recognition of the hand of God on the part of any individual to whom such a trust is committed. The duty springs so directly out of the attitude in which the teacher and pupil stand in respect to each other, and the relation they together bear to the Supreme, that it would seem impossible for any one to hesitate to admit the duty, without denying altogether the existence of a God. How vast the responsibility of _giving form and character to the human soul_! How mighty the influence of which the unformed minds of a group of children are susceptible! How much their daily teacher must inevitably exert upon them! If we admit the existence of God at all, and that he exerts any agency whatever in the moral world which he has produced, here seems to be one of the strongest cases in which his intervention should be sought. And then when we reflect upon the influence which would be exerted upon the future religious character of this nation, by having the millions of children training up in the schools, accustomed, through all the years of early life, to being brought daily into the presence of the Supreme, with thanksgiving, confession, and prayer, it can hardly seem possible that the teacher who wishes to be faithful in his duties, should hesitate in regard to this. Some teacher may, perhaps, say that he cannot perform it because he is not a religious man;--he makes no pretensions to piety. But this can surely be no reason. He _ought to be_ a religious man, and his first prayer offered in school may be the first act by which he becomes so. Entering the service of Jehovah is a work which requires no preliminary steps. It is to be done at once, by sincere confession, and an honest prayer for forgiveness for the past, and strength for time to come. A daily religious service in school may be, therefore, the outward act by which he, who has long lived without God, may return to his duty. If, from such considerations, the teacher purposes to have a daily religious service in his school, he should by all means begin on the first day,--and when he first calls his school to order. He should mention to his pupils the great and obvious duty of imploring God's guidance and blessing in all their ways, and then read a short portion of Scripture, with an occasional word or two of simple explanation, and offer, himself, a short and simple prayer. In some cases, teachers are disposed to postpone this duty a day or two, from timidity or other causes, hoping that after becoming acquainted a little with the school, and having completed their more important arrangements, they shall find it easier to begin. But this is a sad mistake. The longer it is postponed, the more difficult and trying it will be. And then the moral impressions will be altogether more strong and salutary, if an act of solemn religious worship is made the first opening act of the school. Where the teacher has not sufficient confidence that the general sense of propriety among his pupils will preserve good order and decorum during the exercise, it may be better for him to _read_ a prayer, selected from books of devotion, or prepared by himself expressly for the occasion. By this plan his school will be, during the exercise, under his own observation as at other times. It may, in some schools, where the number is small, or the prevailing habits of seriousness and order are good, be well to allow the older scholars to read the prayer in rotation, taking especial care that it does not degenerate into a mere reading exercise; but that it is understood, both by readers and hearers, to be a solemn act of religious worship. In a word, if the teacher is really honest and sincere in his wish to lead his pupils to the worship of God, he will find no serious difficulty in preventing the abuses and avoiding the dangers which some might fear, and in accomplishing vast good, both in promoting the prosperity of the school, and in the formation of the highest and best traits a individual character. We have dwelt, perhaps, longer on this subject than we ought to have done in this place; but its importance, when viewed in its bearings on the thousands of children daily assembling in our district schools, must be our apology. The embarrassments and difficulties arising from the extreme sensitiveness which exists among the various denominations of Christians in our land, threaten to interfere very seriously with giving a proper degree of religious instruction to the mass of the youthful population. But we must not, because we have no national _church_, cease to have a national _religion_. All our institutions ought to be so administered as openly to recognise the hand of God, and to seek his protection and blessing; and in regard to none is it more imperiously necessary than in respect to our common schools. 5. After the school is thus opened, the teacher will find himself brought to the great difficulty which embarrasses the beginning of his labors, i. e. how to find immediate employment at once, for the thirty or forty children who all look up to him waiting for their orders. I say thirty or forty, for the young teacher's first school will usually be a small one. His object, I think, should be, in all ordinary cases, for the first few days, twofold. First, to revive and restore, in the main, the general routine of classes and exercises pursued by his predecessor in the same school. And secondly, while doing this, to become as fully acquainted with his scholars as possible. It is best then, _ordinarily_, for the teacher to begin the school as his predecessor closed it, and make the transition to his own perhaps more improved method, a gradual one. In some cases a different course is wise undoubtedly,--as, for example, where a teacher is commencing a private school, on a previously well-digested plan of his own,--or where one who has had experience, and has confidence in his power to bring his new pupils promptly and at once into the system of classification and instruction which he prefers. It is difficult however to do this, and requires a good deal of address and decision; it is far easier and safer, and in almost all cases, better in every respect for a young teacher to revive and restore the former arrangements in the main, and take his departure from them. He may afterwards make changes, as he may find them necessary or desirable, and even bring the school soon into a very different state from that in which he finds it; but it will generally be more pleasant for himself, and better for the school, to avoid the shock of a sudden and entire revolution. The first thing then, when the scholars are ready to be employed, is to set them at work, in classes or upon lessons, as they would have been employed had the former teacher continued in charge of the school. To illustrate clearly how this may be done, we may give the following dialogue. _Teacher._ "Can any one of the boys inform me what was the first lesson that the former master used to hear in the morning?" The boys are silent, looking to one another. _Teacher._ "Did he hear _any_ recitation immediately after school began?" _Boys_;--faintly and with hesitation. "No sir." _Teacher._ "How long was it before he began to hear lessons?" Several boys simultaneously. "About half an hour." "A little while." "Quarter of an hour." "What did he do at this time?" "Mended pens." "Set copies." "Looked over sums," and various other answers are perhaps given. The teacher then makes a memorandum of this, and then inquires; "And what lesson came after this?" "Geography." "All the boys in this school who studied geography may rise." A considerable number rise. "Did you all recite together?" "No sir." "There are two classes then?" "Yes sir." "Yes sir." "More than two." "All who belong to the class that recites first in the morning may remain standing; the rest may sit." The boys obey, and eight or ten of them remain standing. The teacher calls upon one of them to produce his book, and assigns them a lesson, in regular course. He then requests some one of the number to write out, in the course of the day, a list of the class, and to bring it with him to the recitation the next morning. "Are there any other scholars in the school who think it would be well for them to join this class?" In answer to this question probably some new scholars might perhaps rise, or some hitherto belonging to other classes, who might be of suitable age and qualifications to be transferred. If these individuals should appear to be of the proper standing and character, they might at once be joined to the class in question, and directed to take the same lesson. In the same manner the other classes would pass in review before the teacher; and he would obtain a memorandum of the usual order of exercises, and in a short time set all his pupils at work preparing for the lessons of the next day. He would be much aided in this by the previous knowledge which he would have obtained by private conversation, as recommended under a former head. Some individual cases would require a little special attention, such as new scholars; small children, &c.; but he would be able, before a great while, to look around him and see his whole school busy with the work he had assigned them, and his own time for the rest of the morning, in a great degree, at his own command. I ought to say, however, that it is not probable that he would long continue these arrangements unaltered. In hearing the different classes, he would watch for opportunities for combining them, or discontinuing those where the number was small,--he would alter the times of recitation, and group individual scholars into classes, so as to bring the school, in a very short time, into a condition corresponding more nearly with his own views. All this can be done very easily and pleasantly when the wheels are once in motion; for a school is like a ship in one respect,--most easily steered in the right direction, when under sail. By this plan also the teacher obtains what is almost absolutely necessary at the commencement of his labors, time for _observation_. It is of the first importance that he should become acquainted, as early as possible, with the characters of the boys, especially to learn who those are which are most likely to be troublesome. There always will be a few, who will require special watch and care, and generally there will be only a few. A great deal depends on finding these individuals out, in good season, and bringing the pressure of a proper authority to bear upon them soon. By the plan I have recommended, of not attempting to remodel the school wholly at once, the teacher obtains time for noticing the pupils, and learning something about their individual characters. In fact, so important is this, that it is the plan of some teachers, whenever they commence a new school, to let the boys have their own way, almost entirely, for a few days, in order to find out fully who the idle and mischievous are. This is perhaps going a little too far; but it is certainly desirable to enjoy as many opportunities for observation as can be secured on the first few days of the school. 6. Make it then a special object of attention, during the first day or two, to discover who the idle and mischievous individuals are. They will have generally seated themselves together in little knots, for as they are aware that the new teacher does not know them, they will imagine that, though perhaps separated before, they can now slip together again, without any trouble. It is best to avoid, if possible, an open collision with any of them at once, in order that they may be the better observed. Whenever, therefore, you see idleness or play, endeavour to remedy the evil for the time, by giving the individual something special to do, or by some other measure, without however seeming to notice the misconduct. Continue thus adroitly to stop every thing disorderly, while at the same time you notice and remember where the tendencies to disorder exist. By this means the individuals who would cause most of the trouble and difficulty in the discipline of the school will soon betray themselves, and those too, whose fidelity and good behaviour can be relied upon, will also be known. The names of the former should be among the first which the teacher learns, and their characters should be among the first which he studies. The most prominent among them, those apparently most likely to make trouble, he should note particularly, and make inquiries out of school respecting them,--their characters,--their education at home, &c., so as to become acquainted with them as early and as fully as possible;--for he must have this full acquaintance with them before he is prepared to commence any decided course of discipline with them. The teacher often does irreparable injury by rash action at the outset. He sees, for instance, a boy secretly eating an apple which he has concealed in his hand, and which he bites, with his book before his mouth, or his head under the lid of his desk. It is perhaps the first day of the school, and the teacher thinks he had better make an example at the outset, and calls the boy out, knowing nothing about his general character, and inflicts some painful or degrading punishment before all the school. A little afterwards, as he becomes gradually acquainted with the boy, he finds that he is of mild, gentle disposition, generally obedient and harmless, and that his offence was only an act of momentary thoughtlessness, arising from some circumstances of peculiar temptation at the time, a boy in the next seat perhaps had just before handed him the apple. The teacher regrets, when too late, the hasty punishment. He perceives that instead of having the influence of salutary example upon the other boys, it must have shocked their sense of justice, and excited dislike towards a teacher so quick and severe, rather than of fear of doing wrong themselves. It would be safer to postpone such decided measures a little,--to avoid all open collisions if possible for a few days. In such a case as the above, the boy might be kindly spoken to in an under-tone, in such a way as to show both the teacher's sense of the impropriety of disorder, and also his desire to avoid giving pain to the boy. If it then turns out that the individual is ordinarily a well-disposed boy, all is right, and if he proves to be habitually disobedient and troublesome, the lenity and forbearance exercised at first, will facilitate the effect aimed at by subsequent measures. Avoid then, for the few first days, all open collision with any of your pupils, that you may have opportunity for minute and thorough observation. And here the young teacher ought to be cautioned against a fault which beginners are very prone to fall into, that of forming unfavorable opinions of some of their pupils from their air and manner, before they see any thing in their conduct which ought to be disapproved. A boy or girl comes to the desk to ask a question, or make a request, and the teacher sees in the cast of countenance, or in the bearing or tone of the individual, something indicating a proud, or a sullen, or an ill-humored disposition, and conceives a prejudice, often entirely without foundation, which weeks perhaps do not wear away. Every experienced teacher can recollect numerous cases of this sort, and he learns, after a time, to suspend his judgment. Be cautious therefore on this point, and in the survey of your pupils which you make during the first few days of your school, trust to nothing but the most sure and unequivocal evidences of character; for many of your most docile and faithful pupils will be found among those whose appearance at first prepossessed you strongly against them. One other caution ought also to be given. Do not judge too severely in respect to the ordinary cases of misconduct in school. The young teacher almost invariably does judge too severely. While engaged himself in hearing a recitation, or looking over a "sum," he hears a stifled laugh, and, looking up, sees the little offender struggling with the muscles of his countenance to restore their gravity. The teacher is vexed at the interruption, and severely rebukes or punishes the boy,--when, after all, the offence, in a moral point of view, was an exceedingly light one; at least it might very probably have been so. In fact, a large proportion of the offences against order committed in school are the mere momentary action of the natural buoyancy and life of childhood. This is no reason why they should be indulged, or why the order and regularity of the school should be sacrificed, but it should prevent their exciting feelings of anger or impatience, or very severe reprehension. While the teacher should take effectual measures for restraining all such irregularities, he should do it with the tone and manner which will show that he understands their true moral character, and deals with them, not as heinous sins which deserve severe punishment, but as serious inconveniences which he is compelled to repress. There are often cases of real moral turpitude in school,--such as where there is intentional, wilful mischief, or disturbance, or habitual disobedience, and there may even be, in some cases, open rebellion. Now the teacher should show that he distinguishes these cases from such momentary acts of thoughtlessness as we have described; and a broad distinction ought to be made in the treatment of them. In a word then,--what we have been recommending under this head is, that the teacher should make it his special study, for his first few days in school, to understand the characters of his pupils,--to learn who are the thoughtless ones, who the mischievous, and who the disobedient and rebellious;--and to do this with candid, moral discrimination, and with as little open collision with individuals as possible. 8. Another point to which the teacher ought to give his early attention, is to separate the bad boys as soon as he can, from one another. The idleness and irregularity of children in school often depends more on accidental circumstances than on character. Two boys may be individually harmless and well disposed, and yet they may be of so mercurial a temperament, that, together, the temptation to continual play will be irresistible. Another case that more often happens, is, where one is actively and even intentionally bad, and is seated next to an innocent but perhaps thoughtless boy, and contrives to keep him always in difficulty. Now remove the former away, where there are no very frail materials for him to act upon, and place the latter where he is exposed to no special temptation, and all would be well. This is all very obvious, and known familiarly to all teachers who have had any experience. But beginners are not generally so aware of it at the outset as to make any direct and systematic efforts to examine the school with reference to its condition in this respect. It is usual to go on, leaving the boys to remain seated as chance or their own inclinations grouped them, and to endeavour to keep the peace among the various neighbourhoods, by close supervision, rebukes, and punishment. Now these difficulties may be very much diminished, by looking a little into the arrangement of the boys at the outset, and so modifying it as to diminish the amount of temptation to which the individuals are exposed. This should be done, however, cautiously, deliberately, and with good nature;--keeping the object of it a good deal out of view. It must be done cautiously and deliberately, for the first appearances are exceedingly fallacious in respect to the characters of the different children. You see perhaps some indications of play between two boys upon the same seat, and hastily conclude that they are disorderly boys and must be separated. Something in the air and manner of one or both of them confirms this impression, and you take the necessary measures at once. You then find, when you become more fully acquainted with them, that the appearances which you observed were only momentary and accidental, and that they would have been as safe together as any two boys in the school. And perhaps you will even find, that, by their new position, you have brought one or the other into circumstances of peculiar temptation. Wait, therefore, before you make such changes, till you have ascertained _actual character_,--doing this, however, without any unnecessary delay. In such removals, too, it is well, in many cases, to keep the motive and design of them as much as possible out of view. For by expressing suspicion of a boy, you injure his character in his own opinion, and in that of others, and tend to make him reckless. Besides, if you remove a boy from a companion whom he likes, avowedly to prevent his playing, you offer him an inducement, if he is a bad boy, to continue to play in his new position for the purpose of thwarting you, or from the influence of resentment. It would be wrong indeed to use any subterfuge, or duplicity of any kind, to conceal your object,--but you are not bound to explain it, and in the many changes which you will be compelled to make, in the course of the first week, for various purposes, you may include many of these, without explaining particularly the design or intention of any of them. In some instances, however, you may frankly state the whole case, without danger, provided it is done in such a manner as not to make the boy feel that his character is seriously injured in your estimation. It must depend upon the tact and judgment of the teacher, to determine upon the particular course to be pursued in the several cases, though he ought to keep these general principles in view in all. In one instance, for example, he will see two boys together, James and Joseph we will call them, exhibiting a tendency to play, and after inquiring into their characters he will find that they are good-natured, pleasant boys, and that he had better be frank with them on the subject. He calls one of them to his desk, and perhaps the following dialogue ensues. "James, I am making some changes in the seats, and thought of removing you to another place. Have you any particular preference for that seat?" The question is unexpected, and James hesitates. He wants to sit next to Joseph, but doubts whether it is quite prudent to avow it,--so he says slowly and with hesitation, "No sir,--I do not know that I have." "If you have any reason, I wish you would tell me frankly, for I want you to have such a seat as will be pleasant to you." James does not know what to say. Encouraged, however, by the good-humored tone and look which the master assumes, he says, timidly, "Joseph and I thought we should like to sit together,--if you are willing." "Oh,--you and Joseph are particular friends then, I suppose." "Why,--yes sir." "I am not surprised then, that you want to sit together,--though, to tell the truth, that is rather a reason why I should separate you." "Why sir?" "Because I have observed that when two great friends are seated together, they are always more apt to whisper and play.--Have not you observed it?" "Why,--yes sir." "You may go and ask Joseph to come here." When the two boys make their appearance again, the teacher continues. "Joseph, James tells me that you and he want to sit together, and says you are particular friends. But I tell him," he adds, smiling, "that that is rather a reason for separating you. Now if I should put you both into different parts of the school, next to boys that you are not acquainted with, it would be a great deal easier for you to be still and studious than it is now. Do not you think so yourselves?" The boys look at one another and smile. "However, there is one way you can do. You can guard against the extra temptation by extra care; and on the whole, as I believe you are pretty good boys, I will let you have your choice. You may stay as you are, and make extra exertion to be perfectly regular and studious, or I will find seats for you where it will be a great deal easier for you to be so. Which do you think you should rather do?" The boys hesitate, look at one another, and presently say that they had rather sit together. "Well," said the teacher, "it is immaterial to me whether you sit together or apart, if you are only good boys. So you may take your seats and try it a little while. If you find it too hard work to be studious and orderly together, I can make a change hereafter. I shall soon see." Such a conversation will have many good effects. It will make the boys expect to be watched, without causing them to feel that their characters have suffered. It will stimulate them to great exertion to avoid all misconduct, and it will prepare the way for separating them afterwards without awakening feelings of resentment, if the experiment of their sitting together should fail. * * * * * Another case would be managed perhaps in a little different way, where the tendency to play was more decided. After speaking to the individuals mildly, two or three times, you see them again at play. You ask them to wait that day after school and come to your desk. They have, then, the rest of the day to think occasionally of the difficulty they have brought themselves into, and the anxiety and suspense which they will naturally feel, will give you every advantage for speaking to them with effect;--and if you should be engaged a few minutes with some other business, after school, so that they should have to stand a little while in silent expectation, waiting for their turn, it would contribute to the permanence of the effect. "Well, boys," at length you say, with a serious but frank tone of voice, "I saw you playing in a disorderly manner to-day. And in the first place I want you to tell me honestly all about it. I am not going to punish you,--but I want you to be open and honest about it. What were you doing?" The boys hesitate. "George, what did you have in your hand?" "A piece of paper." "And what were you doing with it?" _George._ "William was trying to take it away from me." "Was there any thing on it?" "Yes sir." "What?" George looks down a little confused. _William._ "George had been drawing some pictures on it. "I see each of you are ready to tell of the other's fault, but it would be much more honorable if each was open in acknowledging his own. Have I ever had to speak to you before for playing together in school?" "Yes sir, I believe you have," says one, looking down. "More than once?" "Yes sir." "More than twice?" "I do not recollect exactly,--I believe you have." "Well, now, what do you think I ought to do next?" The boys have nothing to say. "Do you prefer sitting together, or are you willing to have me separate you?" "We should rather sit together, sir, if you are willing," says George. "I have no objection to your sitting together, if you could only resist the temptation to play. I want all the boys in the school to have pleasant seats." There is a pause,--the teacher hesitating what to do. "Suppose now I were to make one more experiment, and let you try to be good boys in your present seat, would you really try?" "Yes sir."--"Yes sir, we will," are the replies. "And if I should find that you still continue to play, and should have to separate you, will you move into your new seats pleasantly, and with good humor, feeling that I have done right about it?" "Yes sir, we will." * * * * * Thus it will be seen that there may be cases where the teacher may make arrangements for separating his scholars, on an open and distinct understanding with them in respect to the cause of it. We have given these cases not that exactly such ones will be very likely to occur, or that when they do, the teacher is to manage them in exactly the way here described, but to exhibit more clearly to the reader than could be done by any general description, the spirit and tone which a teacher ought to assume towards his pupils. We wished to exhibit this in contrast with the harsh and impatient manner, which teachers too often assume in such a case;--as follows. "John Williams and Samuel Smith, come here to me," exclaims the master, in a harsh, impatient tone, in the midst of the exercises of the afternoon. The scholars all look up from their work;--the culprits slowly rise from their seats, and with a sullen air come down to the floor. "You are playing, boys, all the time, and I will not have it. John, do you take your books and go and sit out there by the window, and, Samuel, you come and sit here on this front seat,--and if I catch you playing again I shall certainly punish you severely." The boys make the move, with as much rattling and disturbance as is possible without furnishing proof of wilful intention to make a noise, and when they get their new seats, and the teacher is again engaged upon his work, they exchange winks and nods, and, in ten minutes, are slyly cannonading each other with paper balls. * * * * * In regard to all the directions that have been given under this head, I ought to say again before concluding it, that they are mainly applicable to the case of beginners, and of small schools. The general principles are, it is true, of universal application, but it is only where a school is of moderate size that the details of position, in respect to individual scholars, can be minutely studied. More summary processes are necessary, I am aware, when the school is very large, and the time of the teacher is incessantly engaged. 9. In some districts in New England, the young teacher will find one or more boys, generally among the larger ones, who will come to the school with the express determination to make a difficulty if they can. The best way is generally to face these individuals at once, in the most direct and open manner, and, at the same time, with perfect good humor, and kindness of feeling and deportment towards them personally. An example or two will best illustrate what I mean. A teacher heard a rapping noise repeatedly, one day, just after he had commenced his labors, under such circumstances as to lead him to suppose it was designed. He did not appear to notice it, but remained after school until the scholars had all gone, and then made a thorough examination. He found at length a broken place in the plastering, where a _lath_ was loose, and a string was tied to the end of it, and thence carried along the wall under the benches, to the seat of a mischievous boy, and fastened to a nail. By pulling the string he could spring the lath, and then let it snap back to its place. He left every thing as it was, and the next day while engaged in a lesson, he heard the noise again. He rose from his seat. The scholars all looked up from their books. "Did you hear that noise?" said he. "Yes sir." "Do you know what it is?" "No sir." "Very well, I only wanted to call your attention to it. I may perhaps speak of it again, by and by." He then resumed his exercise as if nothing had happened. The guilty boy was agitated and confused, and was utterly at a loss to know what to do. What could the teacher mean? Had he discovered the trick?--and if so what _was_ he going to do? He grew more and more uneasy, and resolved that, at all events, it was best for him to retreat. Accordingly, at the next recess, as the teacher had anticipated, he went slyly to the lath, cut the string, then returned to his seat, and drew the line in, rolled it up, and put it in his pocket. The teacher, who was secretly watching him, observed the whole manoeuvre. At the close of the school, when the books were laid aside, and all was silence, he treated the affair thus. "Do you remember the noise to which I called your attention early this afternoon? "Yes, sir." "I will explain it to you now. One of the boys tied a string to a loose lath in the side of the room, and then having the end of it at his seat, he was pulling it, to make a noise to disturb us." The scholars all looked astonished, and then began to turn round towards one another to see who the offender could be. The culprit began to tremble. "He did it several times yesterday, and would have gone on doing it, had I not spoken about it to-day. Do you think this was wrong or not?" "Yes sir;" "wrong;" "wrong;" are the replies. "What harm does it do?" "It interrupts the school." "Yes. Is there any other harm?" The boys hesitate. "It gives me trouble and pain. Should you not suppose it would?" "Yes sir." "Have I ever treated any boy or girl in this school unjustly or unkindly?" "No sir;" "No sir." "Then why should any boy or girl wish to give me trouble or pain?" There was a pause. The guilty individual expected that the next thing would be to call him out for punishment. "Now what do you think I ought to do with such a boy?" No answer. "Perhaps I ought to punish him, but I am very unwilling to do that. I concluded to try another plan, to treat him with kindness and forbearance. So I called your attention to it this afternoon, to let him know that I was observing it, and to give him an opportunity to remove the string. And he did. He went in the recess and cut off the string. I shall not tell you his name, for I do not wish to injure his character. All I want is to have him a good boy." A pause. "I think I shall try this plan; for he must have some feelings of honor and gratitude, and if he has, he certainly will not try to give me pain or trouble win after this. And now I shall say no more about it, nor think any more about it; only, to prove that it is all as I say, if you look there under that window, after school, you will see the lath with the end of the string round it, and by pulling it, you can make it snap." * * * * * Another case, a little more serious in its character, is the following. A teacher having had some trouble with a rude and savage-looking boy, made some inquiry respecting him out of school, and incidentally learned that he had once or twice before openly rebelled against the authority of the school, and that he was now, in the recesses, actually preparing a club with which he was threatening to defend himself, if the teacher should attempt to punish him. The next day, soon after the boys had gone out, he took his hat and followed them, and turning round a corner of the schoolhouse, found the boys standing around the young rebel, who was sitting upon a log, shaving the handle of the club smooth, with his pocket-knife. He was startled at the unexpected appearance of the teacher, and the first impulse was to hide his club behind him, but it was too late, and supposing that the teacher was ignorant of his designs, he went on sullenly with his work, feeling, however, greatly embarrassed. "Pleasant day, boys," said the teacher. "This is a fine sunny nook for you to talk in." "Seems to me, however, you ought to have a better seat than this old log," continued he, taking his seat at the same time by the side of the boy. "Not so bad a seat, however, after all. What are you making, Joseph?" Joseph mumbled out something inarticulate by way of reply. "I have got a sharper knife," said he, drawing his penknife out of his pocket. And then, "Let me try it," he continued, gently taking the club out of Joseph's hand. The boys looked surprised, some exchanged nods and winks, others turned away to conceal a laugh; but the teacher engaged in conversation with them, and soon put them all at their ease, except poor Joseph, who could not tell how this strange interview was likely to end. In the mean time the teacher went on shaving the handle smooth, and rounding the ends. "You want," said he, "a rasp or coarse file for the ends, and then you could finish it finely. But what are you making this formidable club for?" Joseph was completely at a loss what to say. He began to show evident marks of embarrassment and confusion. "I know what it is for; it is to defend yourself against me with, is it not, boys?" said he, appealing to the others. A faint "yes sir," or two, was the reply. "Well now, Joseph, it will be a great deal better for us both to be friends than to be enemies. You had better throw this club away, and save yourself from punishment by being a good boy. Come now," said he, handing him back his club, "throw it over into the field as far as you can, and we will all forget that you ever made it." Joseph sat the picture of shame and confusion. Better feelings were struggling for admission, and the case was decided by a broad-faced, good-natured-looking boy, who stood by his side saying almost involuntarily, "Better throw it, Joe." The club flew, end over end, into the field. Joseph returned to his allegiance, and never attempted to rise in rebellion again. The ways by which boys engage in open, intentional disobedience, are, of course, greatly varied, and the exact treatment will depend upon the features of the individual case. But the frankness, the openness, the plain dealing, and the kind and friendly tone, which it is the object of the foregoing illustrations to exhibit, should characterize all. 11. We have already alluded to the importance of a delicate regard for the _characters_ of the boys, in all the measures of discipline adopted at the commencement of a school. This is in fact of the highest importance at all times, and is peculiarly so at the outset. A wound to the feelings is sometimes inflicted by a single transaction, which produces a lasting injury to the character. Children are very sensitive to ridicule or disgrace, and some are most acutely so. A cutting reproof administered in public, or a punishment which exposes the individual to the gaze of others, will often burn far more deeply into the heart than the teacher imagines. And it is often the cause of great and lasting injury too. By destroying the character of a pupil, you make him feel that he has nothing more to lose or gain, and destroy that kind of interest in his own moral condition, which alone will allure him to virtuous conduct. To expose children to public ridicule or contempt, tends either to make them sullen and despondent, or else to arouse their resentment and to make them reckless and desperate. Most persons remember through life, some instances in their early childhood, in which they were disgraced or ridiculed at school; and the permanence of the recollection is a test of the violence of the effect. Be very careful then to avoid, especially at the commencement of the school, publicly exposing those who do wrong. Sometimes you may make the offence public, as in the case of the snapping of the lath described under a former head, while you kindly conceal the name of the offender. Even if the school generally understand who he is, the injury of public exposure is almost altogether avoided, for the sense of disgrace does not come nearly so vividly home to the mind of a child, from hearing occasional allusions to his offence by individuals among his play-mates, as when he feels himself at a particular time the object of universal attention and dishonor. And then besides, if the pupil perceives that the teacher is tender of his reputation, he will, by a feeling somewhere between imitation and sympathy, begin to feel a little tender of it too. Every exertion should be made therefore, to lead children to value their character, and to help them to preserve it; and especially to avoid, at the beginning, every unnecessary sacrifice of it. And yet there are cases where shame is the very best possible remedy for juvenile faults. If a boy, for example, is self-conceited, bold, and mischievous, with feelings somewhat callous, and an influence extensive and bad, an opportunity will sometimes occur to hold up his conduct to the just reprobation of the school, with great advantage. By this means, if it is done in such a way as to secure the influence of the school on the right side, many good effects are sometimes attained. His pride and self-conceit are humbled,--his bad influence receives a very decided check, and he is forced to draw back at once from the prominent stand he has occupied. Richard Jones; for example, is a rude, coarse, self-conceited boy,--often doing wrong both in school and out, and yet possessed of that peculiar influence which a bad boy often contrives to exert in school. The teacher, after watching some time for an opportunity to humble him, one day overhears a difficulty among the boys, and looking out of the window, observes that he is taking away a sled from one of the little boys, to slide down hill upon, having none of his own. The little boy resists as well as he can, and complains bitterly; but it is of no avail. At the close of the school that day, the teacher commences conversation on the subject as follows. "Boys, do you know what the difference is between stealing and robbery?" "Yes sir." "What?" The boys hesitate, and look at one another. "Suppose a thief were to go into a man's store in the day time, and take away something secretly, would it be stealing or robbery?" "Stealing." "Suppose he should meet him in the road and take it away by force?" "Then it would be robbery." "Yes; when that which belongs to another is taken secretly, it is called stealing; when it is taken openly or with violence, it is called robbery. Which now do you think is the worst?" "Robbery." "Yes, for it is more barefaced and determined--then it gives a great deal more pain to the one who is injured. To-day I saw one of the boys in this school taking away another boy's sled, openly and with violence." The boys all look round towards Richard. "Was that of the nature of stealing or robbery?" "Robbery," say the boys. "Was it real robbery?" They hesitate. "If any of you think of any reason why it was not real robbery, you may name it." "He gave the sled back to him," says one of the boys. "Yes. And therefore to describe the action correctly, we should not say Richard robbed a boy of his sled, but that he robbed him of his sled _for a time_, or he robbed him of the use of his sled. Still, in respect to the nature and the guilt of it, it was robbery." "There is another thing which ought to be observed about it. Whose sled was it that Richard took away?" "James Thompson's." "James, you may stand up." "Notice his size, boys,--I should like to have Richard Jones stand up too, so that you might compare them; but I presume he feels very much ashamed of what he has done, and it would be very unpleasant for him to stand up. You all remember, however, how large he is. Now when I was a boy, it used to be considered dishonorable and cowardly for a large, strong boy to abuse a little one who cannot defend himself. Is it considered so now?" "Yes sir." "It ought to be, certainly; though, were it not for such a case as this, we should not have thought of considering Richard Jones a coward. It seems he did not dare to try to take away a sled from a boy who was as big as himself, but attacked little James, for he knew he was not strong enough to defend himself." * * * * * Now, in some such cases as this, great good may be done both in respect to the individual, and to the state of public sentiment in school, by openly exposing a boy's misconduct. The teacher must always take care, however, that the state of mind and character in the guilty individual, is such that public exposure is adapted to work well as a remedy, and also that in managing it he carries the sympathies of the other boys with him. To secure this, he must avoid all harsh and exaggerated expressions, or direct reproaches, and while he is mild and gentle and forbearing himself, lead the boys to understand and feel the nature of the sin which he exposes. The opportunities for doing this to advantage will, however, be rare. Generally it will be best to manage cases of discipline more privately, so as to protect the characters of those that offend. * * * * * The teacher should thus, in accordance with the directions we have given, commence his labors with careful circumspection, patience, frankness, and honest good will towards every individual of his charge. He will find less difficulty at the outset than he would have expected, and soon have the satisfaction of perceiving that a mild but most efficient government is quietly and firmly established in the little kingdom over which he is called to reign. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Summarized here are the corrections applied to the text. We can then see how much improvement has been "improvement" was printed as "impovement" at his own discretion, waive it. "waive" was printed as "wave" evil consequences will result "consequences" was printed as "conquences" between the boys of a town school and an academy "academy" was printed as "acadamy" sits at the curtained desk "sits" was printed as "sists" Proposed, that a music committee be appointed "that" was printed as "That" misspelled word "misspelled" was printed as "mispelled" in periodicals devoted to education "devoted" was printed as "dovoted" are cases of discipline "discipline" was printed as "dicipline" 
6109	----	Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HOW TO STUDY AND TEACHING HOW TO STUDY BY F. M. McMURRY Professor of Elementary Education in Teachers College, Columbia University TO MY FRIEND ORVILLE T. BRIGHT THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED, AS A TOKEN OF WARM AFFECTION AND PROFESSIONAL INDEBTEDNESS PREFACE Some seven or eight years ago the question, of how to teach children to study happened to be included in a list of topics that I hastily prepared for discussion with one of my classes. On my later examination of this problem I was much surprised, both at its difficulty and scope, and also at the extent to which it had been neglected by teachers. Ever since that time the two questions, How adults should study, and How children should be taught to study, have together been my chief hobby. The following ideas are partly the result of reading; but since there is a meagre quantity of literature bearing on this general theme, they are largely the result of observation, experiment, and discussion with my students. Many of the latter will recognize their own contributions in these pages, for I have endeavored to preserve and use every good suggestion that came from them; and I am glad to acknowledge here my indebtedness to them. In addition I must express my thanks for valuable criticisms to my colleague, Dr. George D. Strayer, and also to Dr. Lida B. Earhart, whose suggestive monograph on the same general subject has just preceded this publication. THE AUTHOR. _Teachers College_, May 6,1909. CONTENTS PART I PRESENT METHODS OF STUDY; NATURE OF STUDY AND ITS PRINCIPAL FACTORS I. INDICATIONS THAT YOUNG PEOPLE DO NOT LEARN TO STUDY PROPERLY; THE SERIOUSNESS OF THE EVIL II. THE NATURE OF STUDY, AND ITS PRINCIPAL FACTORS PART II NATURE OF THE PRINCIPAL FACTORS IN STUDY, AND THEIR RELATION TO CHILDREN III. PROVISION FOR SPECIFIC PURPOSES, AS ONE FACTOR IN STUDY IV. THE SUPPLEMENTING OF THOUGHT, AS A SECOND FACTOR IN STUDY V. THE ORGANIZATION OF IDEAS, AS A THIRD FACTOR IN STUDY VI. JUDGING OF THE SOUNDNESS AND GENERAL WORTH OF STATEMENTS, AS A FOURTH FACTOR IN STUDY VII. MEMORIZING, AS A FIFTH FACTOR IN STUDY VIII. THE USING OF IDEAS, AS A SIXTH FACTOR IN STUDY IV. PROVISION FOE A TENTATIVE RATHER THAN A FIXED ATTITUDE TOWARD KNOWLEDGE, AS A SEVENTH FACTOR IN STUDY X. PROVISION FOR INDIVIDUALITY, AS AN EIGHTH FACTOR IN STUDY PART III CONCLUSIONS XI. FULL MEANING OF STUDY; RELATION OF STUDY TO CHILDREN AND TO THE SCHOOL INDEX PART I PRESENT METHODS OF STUDY; NATURE OF STUDY, AND ITS PRINCIPAL FACTORS CHAPTER I INDICATIONS THAT YOUNG PEOPLE DO NOT LEARN TO STUDY PROPERLY; THE SERIOUSNESS OF THE EVIL No doubt every one can recall peculiar methods of study that he or some one else has at some time followed. During my attendance at high school I often studied aloud at home, along with several other temporary or permanent members of the family. I remember becoming exasperated at times by one of my girl companions. She not only read her history aloud, but as she read she stopped to repeat each sentence five times with great vigor. Although the din interfered with my own work, I could not help but admire her endurance; for the physical labor of mastering a lesson was certainly equal to that of a good farm hand, for the same period of time. This way of studying history seemed extremely ridiculous. But the method pursued by myself and several others in beginning algebra at about the same time was not greatly superior. Our text-book contained several long sets of problems which were the terror of the class, and scarcely one of which we were able to solve alone. We had several friends, however, who could solve them, and, by calling upon them for help, we obtained the "statement" for each one. All these statements I memorized, and in that way I was able to "pass off" the subject. A few years later, when a school principal, I had a fifteen-year-old boy in my school who was intolerably lazy. His ambition was temporarily aroused, however, when he bought a new book and began the study of history. He happened to be the first one called upon, in the first recitation, and he started off finely. But soon he stopped, in the middle of a sentence, and sat down. When I asked him what was the matter, he simply replied that that was as far as he had got. Then, on glancing at the book, I saw that he had been reproducing the text _verbatim_, and the last word that he had uttered was the last word on the first page. These few examples suggest the extremes to which young people may go in their methods of study. The first instance might illustrate the muscular method of learning history; the second, the memoriter method of reasoning in mathematics. I have never been able to imagine how the boy, in the third case, went about his task; hence, I can suggest no name for his method. While these methods of study are ridiculous, I am not at all sure that they are in a high degree exceptional. _Collective examples of study_ The most extensive investigation of this subject has been made by Dr. Lida B. Earhart,[Footnote: _Systematic Study in the Elementary Schools._ A popular form of this thesis, entitled _Teaching Children to Study_, is published in the Riverside Educational Monographs.] and the facts that she has collected reveal a woeful ignorance of the whole subject of study. Among other tests, she assigned to eleven- and twelve-year-old children a short selection from a text-book in geography, with the following directions: "Here is a lesson from a book such as you use in class. Do whatever you think you ought to do in studying this lesson thoroughly, and then tell (write down) the different things you have done in studying it. Do not write anything else." [Footnote: _Ibid._, Chapter 4.] Out of 842 children who took this test, only fourteen really found, or stated that they had found, the subject of the lesson. Two others said that they _would_ find it. Eighty-eight really found, or stated that they had found, the most important parts of the lesson; twenty-one others, that they _would_ find them. Four verified the statements in the text, and three others said that they _would_ do that. Nine children did nothing; 158 "did not understand the requirements"; 100 gave irrelevant answers; 119 merely "thought," or "tried to understand the lesson," or "studied the lesson"; and 324 simply wrote the facts of the lesson. In other words, 710 out of the 842 sixth- and seventh- grade pupils who took the test gave indefinite and unsatisfactory answers. This number showed that they had no clear knowledge of the principal things to be done in mastering an ordinary text-book lesson in geography. Yet the schools to which they belonged were, beyond doubt, much above the average in the quality of their instruction. In a later and different test, in which the children were asked to find the subject of a certain lesson that was given to them, 301 out of 828 stated the subject fairly well. The remaining 527 gave only partial, or indefinite, or irrelevant answers. Only 317 out of the 828 were able to discover the most important fact in the lesson. Yet determining the subject and the leading facts are among the main things that any one must do in mastering a topic. How they could have been intelligent in their study in the past, therefore, is difficult to comprehend. _Teachers' and parents complaints about methods of study._ It is, perhaps, unnecessary to collect proofs that young people do not learn how to study, because teachers admit the fact very generally. Indeed, it is one of the common subjects of complaint among teachers in the elementary school, in the high school, and in the college. All along the line teachers condole with one another over this evil, college professors placing the blame on the instructors in the high school, and the latter passing it down to teachers in the elementary school. Parents who supervise their children's studies, or who otherwise know about their habits of work, observe the same fact with sorrow. It is at least refreshing to find one matter, in the much- disputed field of education, on which teachers and parents are well agreed. How about the methods of study among teachers themselves? Unless they have learned to study properly, young people cannot, of course, be expected to acquire proper habits from them. _Method of study among teachers._ The most enlightening single experience I have ever had on this question came several years ago in connection with a series of lectures on Primary Education. A course of such lectures had been arranged for me without my full knowledge, and I was unexpectedly called upon to begin it before a class of some seventy-five teachers. It was necessary to commence speaking without having definitely determined my first point. I had, however, a few notes which I was attempting to decipher and arrange, while talking as best I could, when I became conscious of a slight clatter from all parts of the room. On looking up I found that the noise came from the pencils of my audience, and they were writing down my first pointless remarks. Evidently discrimination in values was not in their program. They call to mind a certain theological student who had been very unsuccessful in taking notes from lectures. In order to prepare himself, he spent one entire summer studying stenography. Even after that, however, he was unsuccessful, because he could not write quite fast enough to take down _all_ that was said. Even more mature students often reveal very meager knowledge of methods of study. I once had a class of some thirty persons, most of whom were men twenty-five to thirty-five years of age, who were college graduates and experienced teachers. One day I asked them, "When has a book been read properly?" The first reply came from a state university graduate and school superintendent, in the words, "One has read a book properly when one understands what is in it." Most of the others assented to this answer. But when they were asked, "Is a person under any obligations to judge the worth of the thought?" they divided, some saying yes, others no. Then other questions arose, and the class as a whole soon appeared to be quite at sea as to the proper method of reading books. Perhaps the most interesting thing was the fact that they seemed never to have thought seriously about the matter. Fortunately Dr. Earhart has not overlooked teachers' methods of study in her investigations. In a _questionnaire_ that was filled out by 165 teachers, the latter were requested to state the principal things that ought to be done in "thinking about a lesson." This was practically the same test as was given to the 842 children before mentioned. While at least twenty different things were named by these teachers, the most frequent one was, "Finding the most important points." [Footnote: _Ibid._, Chapter 5.] Yet only fifty-five out of the 165 included even this. Only twenty-five, as Dr. Earhart says, "felt, keenly enough to mention it, the necessity of finding the main thought or problem." Forty admitted that they memorized more often than they did anything else in their studying. Strange to say, a larger percentage of children than of teachers mentioned finding the main thought, and finding the more important facts, as two factors in mastering a lesson. Water sometimes appears to rise higher than its source. About two-thirds of these 165 teachers [Footnote: _Ibid._, Chapter 5.] declared that they had never received any systematic instruction about how to study, and more than half of the remainder stated that they were taught to memorize in studying. The number who had given any careful instruction on proper methods of study to their own pupils was insignificant. Yet these 165 teachers had had unusual training on the whole, and most of them had taught several years in elementary schools. If teachers are so poorly informed, and if they are doing so little to instruct their pupils on this subject, how can the latter be expected to know how to study? _The prevailing definition of study._ The prevailing definition of study gives further proof of a very meager notion in regard to it. Frequently during the last few years I have obtained from students in college, as well as from teachers, brief statements of their idea of study. Fully nine out of every ten have given memorizing as its nearest synonym. It is true that teachers now and then insist that studying should consist of _thinking_. They even send children to their seats with the direction to "think, think hard." But that does not usually signify much. A certain college student, when urged to spend not less than an hour and a half on each lesson, replied, "What would I do after the first twenty minutes?" His idea evidently was that he could read each lesson through and memorize its substance in that time. What more remained to be done? Very few teachers, I find, are fluent in answering his question. In practice, memorizing constitutes much the greater part of study. The very name recitation suggests this fact. If the school periods are to be spent in reciting, or reproducing, what has been learned, the work of preparation very naturally consists in storing the memory with the facts that are to be required. _Thinking periods_, as a substitute name for recitation periods, suggests a radical change, both in our employment of school time and in our method of preparing lessons. We are not yet prepared for any such change of name. _The literature dealing with method of study._ Consider finally the literature treating of study. Certainly there has never been a period when there was a more general interest in education than during the last twenty years, and the progress that has been made in that time is remarkable. Our study of the social view- point, of child nature, of apperception, interest, induction, deduction, correlation, etc., has been rapidly revolutionizing the school, securing a much more sympathetic government of young people, a new curriculum, and far more effective methods of instruction. In consequence, the injuries inflicted by the school are fewer and less often fatal than formerly, while the benefits are more numerous and more vital. But, in the vast quantity of valuable educational literature that has been published, careful searching reveals only two books in English, and none in German, on the "Art of Study." Even these two are ordinary books on teaching, with an extraordinary title. The subject of memorizing has been well treated in some of our psychologies, and has received attention in a few of the more recent works on method. Various other problems pertaining to study have also, of course, been considered more or less, in the past, in books on method, in rhetorics, and in discussions of selection of reading matter. In addition, there are a few short but notable essays on study. There have been practically, however, only two books that treat mainly of this subject,--the two small volumes by Dr. Earhart, already mentioned, which have been very recently published. In the main, the thoughts on this general subject that have got into print have found expression merely as incidents in the treatment of other themes--coming, strange to say, largely from men outside the teaching profession--and are contained in scattered and forgotten sources. Thus it is evident not only that children and teachers are little acquainted with proper methods of study, but that even sources of information on the subject are strangely lacking. The seriousness of such neglect is not to be overestimated. Wrong methods of study, involving much unnecessary friction, prevent enjoyment of school. This want of enjoyment results in much dawdling of time, a meager quantity of knowledge, and a desire to quit school at the first opportunity. The girl who adopted the muscular method of learning history was reasonably bright. But she had to study very "hard"; the results achieved in the way of marks often brought tears; and, although she attended the high school several years, she never finished the course. It should not be forgotten that most of those who stop school in the elementary grades leave simply because they want to, not because they must. Want of enjoyment of school is likely to result, further, in distaste for intellectual employment in general. Yet we know that any person who amounts to much must do considerable thinking, and must even take pleasure in it. Bad methods of study, therefore, easily become a serious factor in adult life, acting as a great barrier to one's growth and general usefulness. CHAPTER II THE NATURE OF STUDY, AND ITS PRINCIPAL FACTORS Our physical movements ordinarily take place in response to a need of some sort. For instance, a person wishing to reach a certain point, to play a certain game, or to lay the foundations for a house, makes such movements as are necessary to accomplish the purpose desired. Even mere physical exercise grows out of a more or less specific feeling of need. The mental activity called study is likewise called forth in response to specific needs. The Eskimo, for example, compelled to find shelter and having only blocks of ice with which to build, ingeniously contrives an ice hut. For the sake of obtaining raw materials he studies the habits of the few wild animals about him, and out of these materials he manages by much invention to secure food, clothing, and implements. We ourselves, having a vastly greater variety of materials at hand, and also vastly more ideas and ideals, are much more dependent upon thinking and study. But, as in the case of the Eskimo, this thinking and study arises out of actual conditions, and from specific wants. It may be that we must contrive ways of earning more money; or that the arguments for protective tariff seem too inconsistent for comfort; or that the reports about some of our friends alarm us. The occasions that call forth thought are infinite in number and kind. But the essential fact is that study does not normally take place except under the stimulus or spur of particular conditions, and of conditions, too, that are unsatisfactory. It does not take place even then unless we become conscious of the strained situation, of the want of harmony between what is and what might be. For ages malarial fever was accepted as a visitation by Divine Providence, or as a natural inconvenience, like bad weather. People were not disturbed by lack of harmony between what actually was and what might be, because they did not conceive the possibility of preventing the disease. Accordingly they took it as a matter of course, and made no study of its cause. Very recently, on the other hand, people have become conscious of the possibility of exterminating malaria. The imagined state has made the real one more and more intolerable; and, as this feeling of dissatisfaction has grown more acute, study of the cause of the disease has grown more intense, until it has finally been discovered. Thus a lively consciousness of the unsatisfactoriness of a situation is the necessary prerequisite to its investigation; it furnishes the motive for it. It has ever been so in the history of evolution. Study has not taken place without stimulus or motive. It has always had the practical task of lifting us out of our difficulties, either material or spiritual, and placing us on our feet. In this way it has been merely an instrument--though a most important one--in securing our proper adjustment or adaptation to our environment.[Footnote: For discussion of this subject, see _Studies in Logical Theory_, by John Dewey. See, also, _Systematic Study in Elementary Schools_, by Dr. Lida B. Earhart, Chapters 1 and 2.] _The variety of response to the demand for study_ After we have become acutely conscious of a misfit somewhere in our experience, the actual study done to right it varies indefinitely with the individual. The savage follows a hit-and-miss method of investigation, and really makes his advances by happy guesses rather than by close application. Charles Lamb's _Dissertation on Roast Pig_ furnishes a typical example of such accidents. The average civilized man of the present does only a little better. How seldom, for instance, is the diet prescribed for a dyspeptic--whether by himself or by a physician--the result of any intelligent study! The true scientist, however, goes at his task in a careful and systematic way. Recall, for instance, how the cause of yellow fever has been discovered. For years people had attributed the disease to invisible particles which they called "fomites." These were supposed to be given off by the sick, and spread by means of their clothing and other articles used by them. Investigation caused this theory to be abandoned. Then, since Dr. J. C. Nott of Mobile had suggested, in 1848, that the fever might be carried by the mosquito, and Dr. C. J. Finlay of Havana had declared, in 1881, that a mosquito of a certain kind would carry the fever from one patient to another, this variety of mosquito was assumed by Dr. Walter Reed, in 1900, to be the source of the disease, and was subjected to very close investigation by him. Several men voluntarily received its bite and contracted the fever. Soon, enough cases were collected to establish the probable correctness of the assumption. The remedy suggested--the utter destruction of this particular kind of mosquito, including its eggs and larvae--was so efficacious in combating the disease in Havana in 1901, and in New Orleans in 1905, that the theory is now considered established. Thus systematic study has relieved us of one of the most dreaded diseases to which mankind has been subject. _The principal factors in study_ An extensive study, like this investigation, into the cause of yellow fever employs induction very plainly. It also employs deduction extensively, inasmuch as hypotheses that have been reached more or less inductively have to be widely applied and tested, and further conclusions have to be drawn from them. Such a study, therefore, involving both induction and deduction and their numerous short cuts, contains the essential factors common to the investigation of other topics, or to study in general; for different subjects cannot vary greatly when it comes to the general method of their attack. An analysis, therefore, which reveals the principal factors in this study is likely to bring to light the main factors of study in general. _1. The finding of specific purposes, as one factor in study_ If the search for the cause of yellow fever were traced more fully, one striking feature discovered would be the fact that the investigation was never aimless. The need of unraveling the mystery was often very pressing, for we have had three great epidemics of yellow fever in our own country since 1790, and scientists have been eager to apply themselves to the problem. Yet a specific purpose, in the form of a definite hypothesis of some sort, was felt to be necessary before the study could proceed intelligently. Thus, during the epidemic of 1793, the contagiousness of the disease was debated. Then the theory of "fomites" arose, and underwent investigation. Finally, the spread of the disease through the mosquito was proposed for the solution. And while books of reference were examined and new observations were collected in great number, such work was not undertaken by the investigators primarily for the sake of increasing their general knowledge, but with reference to the particular issue at hand. The important question now is, Is this, in general, the way in which the ordinary student should work? Of course, he is much less mature than the scientist, and the results that he achieves may have no social value, in comparison. Yet, should his method be the same? At least, should his study likewise be under the guidance of specific purposes, so that these would direct and limit his reading, observation, and independent thinking? Or would that be too narrow, indeed, exactly the wrong way? And, instead of limiting himself to a collection of such facts as help to answer the few problems that he might be able to set up, should he be unmindful of particular problems? Should he rather be a collector of facts at large, endeavoring to develop an interest in whatever is true, simply because it is true? Here are two quite different methods of study suggested. Probably the latter is by far the more common one among immature students. Yet the former is the one that, in the main, will be advocated in this book as a factor of serious study. _2. The supplementing of thought as a second factor in study._ Dr. Reed in this case went far beyond the discoveries of previous investigators. Not only did he conceive new tests for old hypotheses, but he posited new hypotheses, as well as collected the data that would prove or disprove them. Thus, while he no doubt made much use of previous facts, he went far beyond that and succeeded in enlarging the confines of knowledge. That is a task that can be accomplished only by the most mature and gifted of men. The ordinary scholar must also be a collector of facts. But he must be content to be a receiver rather than a contributor of knowledge; that is, he must occupy himself mainly with the ideas of other persons, as presented in books or lectures or conversation. Even when he takes up the study of nature, or any other field, at first hand, he is generally under the guidance of a teacher or some text. Now, how much, if anything, must he add to what is directly presented to him by others? To what extent must he be a producer in that sense? Are authors, at the best, capable only of suggesting their thought, leaving much that is incomplete and even hidden from view? And must the student do much supplementing, even much _digging_, or severe thinking of his own, in order to get at their meaning? Or, do authors--at least the greatest of them--say most, or all, that they wish, and make their meaning plain? And is it, accordingly, the duty of the student merely to _follow_ their presentation without enlarging upon it greatly? The view will hereafter be maintained that any good author leaves much of such work for the student to do. Any poor author certainly leaves much more. _3. The organization of facts collected, as a third factor in study._ The scientist would easily lose his way among the many facts that he gathers for examination, did he not carefully select and bring them into order. He arranges them in groups according to their relations, recognizing a few as having supreme importance, subordinating many others to these, and casting aside many more because of their insignificance. This all constitutes a large part of his study. What duty has the less mature student in regard to organization? Should the statements that he receives be put into order by him? Are some to be selected as vital, others to be grouped under these, and still others to be slighted or even entirely omitted from consideration, because of their insignificance? And is he to determine all this for himself, remembering that thorough study requires the neglect of some things as well as the emphasis of others? Or do all facts have much the same value, so that they should receive about equal attention, as is the case with the multiplication tables? And, instead of being grouped according to relations and relative values, should they be studied, one at a time, in the order in which they are presented, with the idea that a topic is mastered when each single statement upon it is understood? Or, if not this, has the reliable author at least already attended to this whole matter, making the various relations of facts to one another and their relative values so clear that the student has little work to do but to follow the printed statement? Is it even highly unsafe for the latter to assume the responsibility of judging relative values? And would the neglect or skipping of many supposedly little things be more likely to result in careless, slipshod work than in thoroughness? _4. The judging of the worth of statements, as a fourth factor in study_ The scientist in charge of the above-mentioned investigation was, no doubt, a modest man. Yet he saw fit to question the old assumption that yellow fever was spread by invisible particles called "fomites." Indeed, he had the boldness to disprove it. Then he disproved, also, the assumption that the fever was contagious by contact. After that he set out to test a hypothesis of his own. His attitude toward the results of former investigations was thus skeptically critical. Every proposition was to be questioned, and the evidence of facts, rather than personal authority or the authority of time, was the sole final test of validity. What should be the attitude of the young student toward the authorities that he studies? Certainly authors are, as a rule, more mature and far better informed upon the subjects that they discuss than he, otherwise he would not be pursuing them. Are they still so prone to error that he should be critical toward them? At any rate, should he set himself up as their judge; at times condemning some of their statements outright, or accepting them only in part,--and thus maintain independent views? Or would that be the height of presumption on his part? While it is true that all authors are liable to error, are they much less liable to it in their chosen fields than he, and can he more safely trust them than himself? And should he, therefore, being a learner, adopt a docile, passive attitude, and accept whatever statements are presented? Or, finally, is neither of these attitudes correct? Instead of either condemning or accepting authors, is it his duty merely to understand and remember what they say? _5. Memorizing, as a fifth factor in study_ The scientist is greatly dependent upon his memory. So is every one else, including the young student. What suggestions, if any, can be made about the retaining of facts? In particular, how prominent in study should be the effort to memorize? Should memorizing constitute the main part of study--as it so often does--or only a minor part? It is often contrasted with thinking. Is such a contrast justified? If so, should the effort to memorize usually precede the thinking--as is often the order in learning poetry and Bible verses--or should it follow the thinking? And why? Can one greatly strengthen the memory by special exercises for that purpose? Finally, since there are some astonishingly poor ways of memorizing--as was shown in chapter one--there must be some better ways. What, then, are the best, and why? _6. The using of ideas, as a sixth factor in study_ Does all knowledge, like this of the scientist, require contact with the world as its endpoint or goal? And is it the duty of the student to pursue any topic, whether it be a principle of physics, or a moral idea, or a simple story, until it proves of benefit to some one? In that case, enough repetition might be necessary to approximate habits--habits of mind and habits of action--for the skill necessary for the successful use of some knowledge cannot otherwise be attained. How, then, can habits become best established? Or is knowledge something apart from the active world, ending rather in self? Would it be narrowly utilitarian and even foolish to expect that one's learning shall necessarily function in practical life? And should the student rather rest content to acquire knowledge for its own sake, not bothering--for the present, at any rate--about actually bringing it to account in any way? The use to which his ideas had to be put gave Dr. Reed an excellent test of their reliability. No doubt he passed through many stages of doubt as he investigated one theory after another. And he could not feel reasonably sure that he was right and had mastered his problem until his final hypothesis had been shown to hold good under varying actual conditions. What test has the ordinary student for knowing when he knows a thing well enough to leave it? He may set up specific purposes to be accomplished, as has been suggested. Yet even these may be only ideas; what means has he for knowing when they have been attained? It is a long distance from the first approach to an important thought, to its final assimilation, and nothing is easier than to stop too soon. If there are any waymarks along the road, indicating the different stages reached; particularly, if there is a recognizable endpoint assuring mastery, one might avoid many dangerous headers by knowing the fact. Or is that particularly what recitations and marks are for? And instead of expecting an independent way of determining when he has mastered a subject, should the student simply rely upon his teacher to acquaint him with that fact? _7. The tentative attitude as a seventh factor in study_ Investigators of the source of yellow fever previous to Dr. Reed reached conclusions as well as he. But, in the light of later discovery, they appear hasty and foolish, to the extent that they were insisted upon as correct. A large percentage of the so-called discoveries that are made, even by laboratory experiment, are later disproved. Even in regard to this very valuable work of Dr. Reed and his associates, one may feel too sure. It is quite possible that future study will materially supplement and modify our present knowledge of the subject. The scientist, therefore, may well assume an attitude of doubt toward all the results that he achieves. Does the same hold for the young student? Is all our knowledge more or less doubtful, so that we should hold ourselves ready to modify our ideas at any time? And, remembering the common tendency to become dogmatic and unprogressive on that account, should the young student, in particular, regard some degree of uncertainty about his facts as the ideal state of mind for him to reach? Or would such uncertainty too easily undermine his self-confidence and render him vacillating in action? And should firmly fixed ideas, rather than those that are somewhat uncertain, be regarded as his goal, so that the extent to which he feels sure of his knowledge may be taken as one measure of his progress? Or can it be that there are two kinds of knowledge? That some facts are true for all time, and can be learned as absolutely true; and that others are only probabilities and must be treated as such? In that case, which is of the former kind, and which is of the latter? _8. Provision for individuality as an eighth factor in study_ The scientific investigator must determine upon his own hypotheses; he must collect and organize his data, must judge their soundness and trace their consequences; and he must finally decide for himself when he has finished a task. All this requires a high degree of intellectual independence, which is possible only through a healthy development of individuality, or of the native self. A normal self giving a certain degree of independence and even a touch of originality to all of his thoughts and actions is essential to the student's proper advance, as to the work of the scientist. Should the student, therefore, be taught to believe in and trust himself, holding his own powers and tendencies in high esteem? Should he learn even to ascribe whatever merit he may possess to the qualities that are peculiar to him? And should he, accordingly, look upon the ideas and influences of other persons merely as a means--though most valuable--for the development of this self that he holds so sacred? Or should he learn to depreciate himself, to deplore those qualities that distinguish him from others? And should he, in consequence, regard the ideas and influences of others as a valuable means of suppressing, or escaping from, his native self and of making him like other persons? Here are two very different directions in which one may develop. In which direction does human nature most tend? In which direction do educational institutions, in particular, exert their influence? Does the average student, for example, subordinate his teachers and the ideas he acquires to himself? Or does he become subordinated to these, even submerged by them? This is the most important of all the problems concerning study; indeed, it is the one in which all the others culminate. _The ability of children to study_ The above constitute the principal factors in study. But two other problems are of vital importance for the elementary school. Studying is evidently a complex and taxing kind of work. Even though the above discussions reveal the main factors in the study of adults, what light does it throw upon the work of children? Is their study to contain these factors also? The first of these two questions, therefore, is, Can children from six to fourteen years of age really be expected to study? It is not the custom in German elementary schools to include independent study periods in the daily program. More than that, the German language does not even permit children to be spoken of as studying. Children are recognized as being able to learn (_lernen_); but the foreigner, who, in learning German, happens to use the word _studiren_ (study) in reference to them, is corrected with a smile and informed that "children can learn but they cannot study." _Studiren_ is a term applicable only to a more mature kind of mental work. This may be only a peculiarity of language. But such suggestions should at least lead us to consider this question seriously. If children really cannot study, what an excuse their teachers have for innumerable failures in this direction! And what sins they have committed in demanding study! But, then, when is the proper age for study reached? Certainly college students sometimes seem to have failed to attain it. If, however, children can study, to what extent can they do it, and at how early an age should they begin to try? _The method of teaching children how to study_ The second of these two questions relates to the method of teaching children how to study. Granted that there are numerous very important factors in study, what should be done about them? Particularly, assuming that children have some power to study, what definite instruction can teachers give to them in regard to any one or all of these factors? Can it be that, on account of their youth, no direct instruction about method of study would be advisable, that teachers should set a good example of study by their treatment of lessons in class, and rely only upon the imitative tendency of children for some effect on their habits of work? Or should extensive instruction be imparted to them, as well as to adults, on this subject? The leading problems in study that have been mentioned will be successively discussed in the chapters following. These two questions, however, Can children study? and If so, how can they be taught to do it? will not be treated in chapters separate from the others. Each will be dealt with in connection with the above factors, their consideration immediately following the discussion of each of those factors. While the proper method of study for adults will lead, much emphasis will fall, throughout, upon suggestions for teaching children how to study. _Some limitations of the term study_ The nature of study cannot be known in full until the character of its component parts has been clearly shown. Yet a working definition of the term and some further limitations of it may be in place here. Study, in general, is the work that is necessary in the assimilation of ideas. Much of this work consists in thinking. But study is not synonymous with thinking, for it also includes other activities, as mechanical drill, for example. Such drill is often necessary in the mastery of thought. Not just any thinking and any drill, however, may be counted as study. At least only such thinking and such drill are here included within the term as are integral parts of the mental work that is necessary in the accomplishment of valuable purposes. Thinking that is done at random, and drills that have no object beyond acquaintance with dead facts, as those upon dates, lists of words, and location of places, for instance, are unworthy of being considered a part of study. Day-dreaming, giving way to reverie and to casual fancy, too, is not to be regarded as study. Not because it is not well to indulge in such activity at times, but because it is not serious enough to be called work. Study is systematic work, and not play. Reading for recreation, further, is not study. It is certainly very desirable and even necessary, just as play is. It even partakes of many of the characteristics of true study, and reaps many of its benefits. No doubt, too, the extensive reading that children and youth now do might well partake more fully of the nature of study. It would result in more good and less harm; for, beyond a doubt, much careless reading is injurious to habits of serious study. Yet it would be intolerable to attempt to convert pleasure-reading fully into real study. That would mean that we had become too serious. On the whole, then, the term study as here used has largely the meaning that is given to it in ordinary speech. Yet it is not entirely the same; the term signifies a purposive and systematic, and therefore a more limited, kind of work than much that goes under that name. PART II THE NATURE OF THE PRINCIPAL FACTORS IN STUDY, AND THEIR RELATION TO CHILDREN CHAPTER III PROVISION FOR SPECIFIC PURPOSES, AS ONE FACTOR OF STUDY _The habit among eminent men of setting up specific purposes of study._ The scientific investigator habitually sets up hypotheses of some sort as guides in his investigations. Many distinguished men who are not scientists follow and recommend a somewhat similar method of study. For example, John Morley, M.P., in his _Aspects of Modern Study_, [Footnote: Page 71.] says, "Some great men,--Gibbon was one and Daniel Webster was another and the great Lord Strafford was a third,--always, before reading a book, made a short, rough analysis of the questions which they expected to be answered in it, the additions to be made to their knowledge, and whither it would take them. I have sometimes tried that way of studying, and guiding attention; I have never done so without advantage, and I commend it to you." Says Gibbon [Footnote: Dr. Smith's Gibbon, p. 64.], "After glancing my eye over the design and order of a new book, I suspended the perusal until I had finished the task of self-examination; till I had resolved, in a solitary walk, all that I knew or believed or had thought on the subject of the whole work or of some particular chapter; I was then qualified to discern how much the author added to my original stock; and, if I was sometimes satisfied with the agreement, I was sometimes armed by the opposition of our ideas." President James Angell emphasizes a similar thought in the following words:-- I would like to recommend to my young friends who desire to profit by the use of this library, the habit of reading with some system, and of making brief notes upon the contents of the books they read. If, for instance, you are studying the history of some period, ascertain what works you need to study, and find such parts of them as concern your theme. Do not feel obliged to read the whole of a large treatise, but select such chapters as touch on the subject in hand and omit the rest for the time. Young students often get swamped and lose their way in the Serbonian bogs of learning, when they need to explore only a simple and plain pathway to a specific destination. Have a purpose and a plan, and adhere to it in spite of alluring temptations to turn aside into attractive fields that are remote from your subject.[Footnote: Address at Dedication of Ryerson Public Library Building, Grand Rapids, Mich., Oct. 5, 1904.] Noah Porter expresses himself even more pointedly in these words:-- In reading we do well to propose to ourselves definite ends and purposes. The distinct consciousness of some object at present before us, imparts a manifold greater interest to the contents of any volume. It imparts to the reader an appropriative power, a force of affinity, by which he insensibly and unconsciously attracts to himself all that has a near or even a remote relation to the end for which he reads. Anyone is conscious of this who reads a story with the purpose of repeating it to an absent friend; or an essay or a report, with the design of using the facts or arguments in a debate; or a poem, with the design of reviving its imagery and reciting its finest passages. Indeed, one never learns to read effectively until he learns to read in such a spirit--not always, indeed, for a definite end, yet always with a mind attent to appropriate and retain and turn to the uses of culture, if not to a more direct application. The private history of every self-made man, from Franklin onwards, attests that they all were uniformly, not only earnest but select, in their reading, and that they selected their books with distinct reference to the purposes for which they used them. Indeed, the reason why self-trained men so often surpass men who are trained by others in the effectiveness and success of their reading, is that they know for what they read and study, and have definite aims and wishes in all their dealings with books. [Footnote: Noah Porter, Books and Reading, pp. 41-42.] _Examples of specific purposes_ It is evident from the above that the practice of setting up specific aims for study is not uncommon. Some actual examples of such purposes, however, may help to make their character plainer. Following are a number of examples of a very simple kind: (1) To examine the catalogues of several colleges to determine what college one will attend; (2) to read a newspaper with the purpose of telling the news of the day to some friend; (3) to study Norse myths in order to relate them to children; (4) to investigate the English sparrow to find out whether it is a nuisance, or a valuable friend, to man; (5) to acquaint one's self with the art and geography of Italy, so as to select the most desirable parts for a visit; (6) to learn about Paris in order to find whether it is fitly called the most beautiful of cities; (7) to study psychology with the object of discovering how to improve one's memory, or how to overcome certain bad habits; (8) to read Pestalozzi's biography for the sake of finding what were the main factors that led to his greatness; (9) to examine Lincoln's Gettysburg speech with the purpose of convincing others of its excellence. _The character of these aims_ Well-selected ends of this sort have two characteristics that are worthy of special note. The first pertains to their _source_. Their possible variety is without limit. Some may be or an intellectual nature, as numbers 6, 8, and 9 among those listed above; some may aim at utility for the individual, as numbers 1 and 7; and some may involve service to others, as numbers 2 and 3. But however much they vary, they find their source _within_ the person concerned. They spring out of his own experience and appeal to him for that reason. One very important measure of their worth is the extent to which they represent an individual desire. The second characteristic pertains to their _narrowness_ and consequent _definiteness_. They call in each case for an investigation of a relatively small and definite topic. This can be further seen from the following topics in Biology: What household plants are most desirable? How can these plants be raised? What are their principal enemies, and how can these best be overcome? Whether we be working on one or more of such problems at a time, they are so specific that we need never be confused as to what we are attempting. The nature of these aims in study can be made still clearer by contrasting them with others that are very common. The "harmonious development of all the faculties," or mental discipline, for instance, has long been lauded by educators as one chief purpose in study. Agassiz was one such educator, and in his desire to cultivate the power of observation, he is said to have set students at work upon the study of fishes without directions, to struggle as they might. Many teachers of science before and since his time have followed a similar method. Truth for truth's sake, or the idea that one should study merely for the sake of knowing, has often been associated with mental discipline as a worthy end. Culture is a third common purpose. Each of these aims, instead of originating in the particular interests of the individual, is reached by consideration of life as a whole, and of the final purposes of education. They are too general in nature to recognize individual preferences, and they are also too general to cause much discrimination in the selection of topics and of particular facts within topics. Strange to say, however, they have discriminated against the one kind of knowledge that the aforementioned specific aims emphasize as especially desirable. Under their exclusive influence, for example, students of biology have generally made an extensive study of wild plants and have paid little attention to house plants. Such subjects as physics, fine art, and biology cannot help but impart much information that relates to man; but that relationship has generally been the last part reached in the treatment of each topic, and the part most neglected. Under the influence of these general aims any useful purpose, whether involving service to the individual or to society at large, has somehow been eschewed or thought too sordid to be worthy of the scholar. _The relation of specific purposes to those that are more general_ Nevertheless, these two kinds of aims are not necessarily opposed to each other. If a person can increase his mental power, or his love of knowledge, or his culture, at the same time that he is accomplishing specific purposes, why should he not do so? The gain is so much the greater. Not only are the two kinds not mutually opposed, but they are really necessary to each other. General purposes when rightly conceived are of the greatest importance as the _final_ goals to be reached by study. But they are too remote of attainment to act as immediate guides. Others more detailed must perform that office and mark off the minor steps to be taken in the accomplishment of the larger purposes. Thus the narrower purposes are related to the larger ones as means to ends. _Ways in which specific purposes are valuable 1. As a source of motive power_ Specific purposes are necessary in the first place, because they help to supply motive power both for study and for life in general. Proper study requires abundant energy, for it is hard work; and young people cannot be expected to engage in it heartily without good reason. In particular, it requires very close and sustained attention, which it is most difficult to give. Threats and punishments can, at the best, secure it only in part; for young people who thus suffer habitually reserve a portion of their energy to imagine the full meanness of their persecutors and, not seldom, to devise ways of getting even. Neither can direct exercise of will insure undivided attention. How often have all of us, conscious that we _ought_ fully to concentrate attention upon some task, determined to do so in vain. The best single guarantee of close and continuous attention is a deep, direct interest in the work in hand, an interest similar in kind to that which children have in play. Such interest serves the same purpose with man as steam does in manufacturing,--it is motive power, and it is as necessary to provide for it in the one case as in the other. Broad, general aims cannot generate this interest, for abstractions do not arouse enthusiasm. It is the concrete, the detailed, that arouses interest, particularly that detail that is closely related to life. We all remember how, in the midst of listless reading, we have sometimes awakened with a start, when we realized that what we were reading bore directly upon some vital interest. Specific purposes of the kind described insure the interest, and therefore the energy, necessary for full and sustained attention. "For remember," says Lowell, "that there is nothing less profitable than scholarship for the mere sake of scholarship, nor anything more wearisome in the attainment. But the moment you have a definite aim, attention is quickened, the mother of memory, and all that you acquire groups and arranges itself in an order that is lucid, because everywhere and always it is in intelligent relation to a central object of constant and growing interest." [Footnote: Lowell, Books and Libraries.] If eminent scholars thus value and actually make use of concrete purposes, certainly immature students, whose attention is much less "trained," can follow their example with profit. Life in general, as well as study, requires motive power. Energy to do many kinds of things is so important that one's worth depends as much upon it as upon knowledge. Indeed, if there must be some lack in one of these two, it were probably better that it be in knowledge. A deep many-sided interest is a key also to this broader kind of energy. Yet how often is such interest lacking! This lack of interest is seen among high-school students in the selection of subjects for commencement essays; good subjects are difficult to find because interests are so rare. It is seen among college students in their choice of elective courses; for they often seem to have no strong interest beyond that of avoiding hard work. It is seen in many college graduates who are roundly developed only in the sense that they are about equally indifferent toward all things. And, finally, it is seen in the great number of men and women who, without ambition, drift aimlessly through life. Well-chosen specific purposes will help materially to remedy these evils, for there is no dividing line between good study-purposes and good life-purposes. The first must continually merge into the second; and the interest aroused by the former, with its consequent energy, gives assurance of interested and energetic pursuance of the latter. The importance of being rich in unsolved problems is not likely to be overestimated. Most well-informed adults who have little "push" are not lazy by nature; they have merely failed to fall in love with worthy aims. That is often partly because education has been allowed to mean to them little more than the collecting of facts. If it had included the collection of interesting and valuable purposes as well, their devotion to proper aims in life might have grown as have their facts; then their energy might have kept pace with their knowledge. If students, therefore, regularly occupy a portion of their study time in thinking out live questions that they hope to have answered by their further study, and interesting uses that they intend to make of their knowledge, they are equipping themselves with motive power both for study and for the broader work of life. _2. As a basis for the selection and organization of facts_ One of the constant dangers in study is that facts will be collected without reference either to their values, as previously stated, or to their arrangement. Nature study frequently illustrates this danger. For instance, I once witnessed a recitation in which each member of a class of eleven-year-old children was supplied with a dead oak leaf and asked to write a description of it in detail. The entire period was occupied with the task, and following is a copy of one of the papers, without its figures. THE OAK LEAF. Greatest length......... Length of the stem.... Greatest breadth........ Color of the stem..... Number of lobes......... Color of the leaf..... Number of indentations.. General shape......... The other papers closely resembled this one. Consider the worth of such knowledge! This is one way in which time is wasted in school and college. Probably the main reason for the choice of this topic was the fact that the leaves could be easily obtained. But if the teacher had been in the habit of setting up specific aims, and therefore of asking how such matter would prove valuable in life, she would have never given this lesson--unless higher authorities had required it. One of my classes of about seventy primary teachers in the study of education once undertook to plan subject-matter in nature study for six-year-old children in Brooklyn. They agreed that the common house cat would be a fitting topic. And on being asked to state what facts they might teach, they gave the following sub-topics in almost exactly this order and wording: the ears; food and how obtained; the tongue; paws, including cushions; whiskers; teeth; action of tail; sounds; sharp hearing; sense of smell; cleanliness; eyes; looseness of the skin; quick waking; size of mouth; manner of catching prey; claws; care of young; locomotion; kinds of prey; enemies; protection by society for the prevention of cruelty to animals,--twenty-two topics in all. When I inquired if they would teach the length of the tail, or the shape of the head and ears, or the length and shape of the legs, or the number of claws or of teeth, most of them said "no" with some hesitation, and some made no reply. When asked what more needed to be done with this list before presenting the subject to the children, some suggested that those facts pertaining to the head should be grouped together, likewise those pertaining to the body and those in regard to the extremities. Some rejected this suggestion, but offered no substitute. No general agreement to omit some of the topics in the list was reached, and most of the class saw no better plan than to present the subject, cat, under the twenty-two headings given. Although there were college graduates present, and many capable women, it was evident that they carried no standard for judging the value of facts or for organizing them. The setting up of specific purposes seemed to offer them the aid that they needed. Since this was in Brooklyn, where the main relation of cats to children is that of pets, we took up the study of the animal with the purpose of finding to what extent cats as pets can provide for themselves, and to what extent, therefore, they need to be taken care of, and how. Under these headings the sub-topics given, with a few omissions and additions, might be arranged as follows: Under first aim:-- I. _Food_ (chief thing necessary). /Birds 1. Kinds of prey...{ Mice \Moles, etc. /Eyes, that see in dark; 2. How found..... { structure. { Sense of smell; keenness. \Ears; keenness. / Approach; use of whiskers. | Quietness of movements; | how so quiet (padded feet, | loose joints, manner of | walking). | Action of tail. 3. How caught.....{ Catching and holding; | ability to spring; strength of | hind legs. | Fore paws; used like hands. | Claws; shape, sharpness, \ and sheaths. II. _Shelter._ Use of covering. Finding of warm place in coldest weather. Under second aim:-- I. _Food_ (when prey is wanting). Kinds and where obtained: milk; scraps from table; biscuit; catnip. Observe method of drinking. II. _Shelter_. How provide shelter. III. _Cleanliness_. Why washing unnecessary (cat's face washing; aversion to getting wet). Danger from dampness. Need of combing and brushing; method. IV. _Enemies_. Kinds of insects; remedies. Dogs; boys and men. Proper treatment. Value of Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; how to secure its aid. Thus a definite purpose, that is simple, concrete, and close to the learner's experience, can be valuable as a basis for selecting and arranging subject-matter. Facts that bear no important relation to this aim, such as the length of the cat's tail and the shape of its ears, fall out; and those that are left, drop into a series in place of a mere list. _As a promise of some practical outcome of study in conduct_ A manufacturer must do more than supply himself with motive power and manufacture a proper quality of goods; he must also provide for a market. Again, if he makes money, he is under obligations not to let it lie idle; if he hoards it, he is condemned as a miser. He is responsible for turning whatever goods or money he collects to some account. The student, likewise, should not be merely a collector of knowledge. The object of study is not merely insight. As Frederick Harrison has said, "Man's business here is to know for the sake of living, not to live for the sake of knowing." "Religion that does not express itself in conduct socially useful is not true religion"; and, we may add, education that does not do the same is not true education. It is part of one's work as a student, therefore, to plan to turn one's knowledge to some account; to plan not alone to sell it for money, but to _use_ it in various ways in daily life. If, instead of this, one aims to do nothing but collect facts, no matter how ardently, he has the spirit of a bookworm at best and stands on the same plane as the miser. Or if, notwithstanding good intentions, he leaves the effect of his knowledge on life mainly to accident, he is grossly careless in regard to the chief object of study. Yet the average student regards himself as mainly a collector of facts, a storehouse of knowledge; and his teachers also regard him in that light. Planning to turn knowledge to some account is not thought to be essential to scholarship. There are, no doubt, various reasons for this, but it is not because an effect on life is not finally desired. The explanation seems to be largely found in a very peculiar theory, namely, that the fewer bearings on life a student now concerns himself with, the more he will somehow ultimately realize; and if he aims at none in particular, he will very likely hit most of them. Thus aimlessness, so far as relations of study to life are concerned, is put at a premium, and students are directly encouraged to be omnivorous absorbers without further responsibility. Meanwhile, sensible people are convinced of the unsoundness of this theory. How often, after having read a book from no particular point of view, one feels it necessary to reexamine it in order to know how it treats some particular topic! The former reading was too defective to meet a special need, because the very general aim caused the attitude to be general or non-selective. How often do young people who have been taught to have no particular aim in their reading, have no aim at all, beyond intellectual dissipation, the momentary tickle of the thought. Thus _all_ particular needs are in danger of being left unsatisfied when no particular need is fixed upon as the object. It is the growing consciousness of the great waste in such study that has changed botany in many places into horticulture and agriculture, chemistry into the chemistry of the kitchen, and that has caused portions of many other studies to be approached from the human view- point. This indicates the positive acceptance of specific purposes as guides in study. They are not by any means full guarantees of an outcome of knowledge in conduct, for they are only the plans by which the student hopes that his knowledge will function. Since plans often fail of accomplishment, these purposes may never be realized. But they give promise of some outcome and form one important step in a series of steps necessary for the fruition of knowledge. _By whom and when such purposes should be conceived_ The aims set up by advanced scholars are necessarily an outgrowth of their individual experience and interests. Such aims must, therefore, vary greatly. For this reason such men must conceive their purposes for themselves; there is no one who can do it for them. Younger students are in much the same situation, for their aims should also be individual to a large extent. Text-books might be of much help if their authors attempted this task with skill. But authors seldom attempt it at all; and, even if they do, they are under the disadvantage of writing for great numbers of persons living in widely different environments. Any aims that they propose must necessarily be of a very general character. Teachers might again be of much help; but many of them do not know how, and many more will not try. The task, therefore, falls mainly to the student himself. As to the time of forming in mind these aims, the experimental scientist necessarily posits some sort of hypothesis in advance of his experiments; the eminent men before mentioned conceive the questions that they hope to have answered, in advance of their reading. It is natural that one should fix an aim before doing the work that is necessary for its accomplishment. If these aims are to furnish the motive for close attention and the basis for the selection and organization of facts, they certainly ought to be determined upon early. The earlier they come, too, the greater the likelihood of some practical outcome in conduct; for the want of such an outcome is very often due to their postponement. On the other hand, the setting up of desirable ends requires mental vigor, as well as a wide and well-controlled experience. Gibbon's "solitary walk" (p. 31) Would hardly be a pleasure walk for most young people, even if they had his rich fund of knowledge to draw upon. While it is desirable, therefore, to determine early upon one's purposes, young students will often find it impossible to do this. In such cases they will have to begin studying without such aids. They can at least keep a sharp lookout for suitable purposes, and can gradually fix upon them as they proceed. In general it should be remembered that the sooner good aims are selected, the sooner their benefits will be enjoyed. THE FITNESS OF CHILDREN IN THE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL TO SELECT SPECIFIC PURPOSES OF STUDY According to custom, young people are expected to acquire knowledge now and find its uses later. The preceding argument would reverse that order by having them discover their wants first and then study to satisfy them. This is the way in which man has progressed from the beginning--outside of educational institutions--and it seems the normal order. To what extent shall this apply to children? If the fixing of aims is difficult for adult students, it can be expected to be even more difficult for children of the elementary school age. For their experience, from which the suggestions for specific purposes must be obtained, is narrow and their command of it slight. On the other hand, they are expected to have done a large amount of studying before entering the high school, much of it alone, too. And, after leaving the elementary school, people will take it for granted that they have already learned how to study. If, therefore, the finding of specific purposes is an important factor in proper study, responsibility for acquiring that ability will fall upon the elementary school. _Do children need the help of specific aims?_ The first question to consider is, Do children seriously need the help of such aims? They certainly do in one respect, for they resemble their elders in being afflicted with inattention and unwillingness to exert themselves in study. These are the offenses for which they are most often scolded at school, and these are their chief faults when they attempt to study alone. There is no doubt also but that the main reason why children improve very little in oral reading during the last three years in the elementary school is their lack of incentive to improve. They feel no great need of enunciating distinctly and of reading with pleasant tones loud enough to be heard by all, when all present have the same text before them. Why should they? Good aims make children alert, just as they do older persons. I remember hearing a New York teacher in a private school say to her thirteen-year-old children in composition, one spring day: "I expect to spend my vacation at some summer resort; but I have not yet decided what one it shall be. If you have a good place in mind, I should be glad to have you tell me why you like it. It may influence my choice." She was a very popular teacher, and each pupil longed to have her for a companion during the summer. I never saw a class undertake a composition with more eagerness. In a certain fifth-year class in geography a contest between the boys and girls for the best collection of articles manufactured out of flax resulted in the greatest enthusiasm. The reading or committing to memory of stories with the object of dramatizing them--such as _The Children's Hour_, in the second or third grade--seldom fails to arouse lively interest. For several years the members of the highest two classes in a certain school have collected many of the best cartoons and witticisms. They have also been in the habit of reading the magazines with the object of selecting such articles as might be of special interest to their own families at home, or to other classes in the school, or to their classmates, often defending their selections before the class. Their most valuable articles have been classified and catalogued for use in the school; and their joke-books, formed out of humorous collections, have circulated through the school. The effect of the plan in interesting pupils in current literature has been excellent. A certain settlement worker in New York City in charge of a club of fourteen- to eighteen-year-old boys tried to arouse an interest in literature, using one plan after another without success. Finally the class undertook to read _Julius Caesar_ with the object of selecting the best parts and acting them out in public. This plan succeeded; and while the acting was grotesque, this purpose led to what was probably the most earnest studying that those boys had ever done. The value of definite aims for the conduct of the recitation is now often discussed and much appreciated by teachers. If such aims are so important in class, with the teacher present, they are surely not less needed when the child is studying alone. The worth of specific aims for children as a source of energy in general is likewise great. It is a question whether children under three years of age are ever lazy. But certainly within a few years after that age--owing to the bad effect of civilization, Rousseau might say--many of them make great progress toward laziness of both body and mind. The possibilities in this direction were once strikingly illustrated in an orphan asylum in New York City. The two hundred children in this asylum had been in the habit of marching to their meals in silence, eating in silence, and marching out in silence. They had been trained to the "lock step" discipline, until they were _quiet_ and _good_ to a high degree. The old superintendent having resigned on account of age, an experienced teacher, who was an enthusiast in education, succeeded him in that office. Feeling depressed by the lack of life among the children, the latter concluded, after a few weeks, to break the routine by taking thirty of the older boys and girls to a circus. But shortly before the appointed day one of these girls proved so refractory that she was told that she could not be allowed to go. To the new superintendent's astonishment, however, she did not seem disappointed or angered; she merely remarked that she had never seen a circus and did not care much to go anyway. Shortly afterward he fined several of the children for misconduct. Many of them had a few dollars of their own, received from relatives and other friends. But the fines did not worry them. They were not in the habit of spending money, having no occasion for it; all that they needed was food, clothing, and shelter, and these the institution was bound to give. Then he deprived certain unruly children of a share in the games. That again failed to cause acute sorrow. In the great city they had little room for play, and many had not become fond of games. It finally proved difficult to discover anything that they cared for greatly. Their discipline had accomplished its object, until they were usually "good" simply because they were too dull, too wanting in ideas and interests to be mischievous. Their energy in general was low. Here was a demand for specific purposes without limit. One of the first aims that the new superintendent set up, after making this discovery, was to inculcate live interests in these children, a capacity to enjoy the circus, a love even of money, a love of games, of flowers, of reading, and of companionship. His means was the fixing of definite and interesting objects to be accomplished from day to day, and these gradually restored the children to their normal condition. Thus all children need the help of specific aims, and some need it sadly. _Is it normal to expect children to learn to set up specific aims for themselves?_ There remains the very important question, Are children themselves capable of learning to set up such purposes? Or at least would such attempts seem to be normal for them? This question cannot receive a final answer at present, because children have not been sufficiently tested in this respect. It has so long been the habit in school to collect facts and leave their bearings on life to future accident, that the force of habit makes it difficult to measure the probabilities in regard to a very different procedure. Yet there are some facts that are very encouraging. A large number of the tasks that children undertake outside of school are self imposed, many of these including much intellectual work. Largely as a result of such tasks, too, they probably learn at least as much outside of school as they learn in school, and they learn it better. Further, when called upon in school to do this kind of thinking, they readily respond. A teacher one day remarked to her class, "I have a little girl friend living on the Hudson River, near Albany, who has been ill for many weeks. It occurred to me that you might like to write her some letters that would help her to pass the time more pleasantly. Could you do it?" "Yes, by all means," was the response. "Then what will you choose to write about?" said the teacher. One girl soon inquired, "Do you think that she would like to know how I am training my bird to sing?" Several other interesting topics were suggested. The finding of desirable purposes is not beyond children's abilities. Individual examples, however, can hardly furnish the best answer to the question at present; the general nature of children must determine it. If children are leading lives that are rich enough intellectually and morally to furnish numerous occasions to turn their acquisitions to account, then it would certainly be reasonable to expect them to discover some of these occasions. If, on the other hand, their lives are comparatively barren, it might be unnatural to make such a demand upon them. The feeling is rather common that human experience becomes rich only as the adult period is reached; that childhood is comparatively barren of needs, and valuable mainly as a period of storage of knowledge to meet wants that will arise later. Yet is this true? By the time the adult state is reached, one has passed through the principal kinds of experience; the period of struggle is largely over, and the results have registered themselves in habits. The adult is to a great extent a bundle of habits. The child, and the youth in the adolescent age, on the other hand, are just going the round of experience for the first few times. They are just forming their judgments as to the values of things about them. Their intellectual life is abundant, as is shown by their innumerable questions. Their temptations--such as to become angry, to fight, to lie, to cheat, and to steal--are more numerous and probably more severe than they will usually be later; their opportunities to please and help others, or to offend and hinder, are without limit; and their joys and sorrows, though of briefer duration than later, are more numerous and often fully as acute. In other words, they are in the midst of growth, of habit formation, both intellectually and morally. Theirs is the time of life when, to a peculiar degree, they are experimentally related to their environment. Why, then, should they be taught to look past this period, to their distant future as the harvest time for their knowledge and powers? The occasions are abundant _now_ for turning facts and abilities to account, and it is normal to expect them to see many of these opportunities. Proper development requires that they be trained to look for them, instead of looking past them. Here is seen the need of one more reform in education. Children used to be regarded as lacking value in themselves; their worth lay in their promise of being men and women; and if, owing to ill health, this promise was very doubtful, they were put aside. For education they were given that mental pabulum that was considered valuable to the adult; and their tastes, habits, and manners were judged from the same viewpoint. Very recently one radical improvement has been effected in this program. As illustrated in the doctrine of apperception, we have grown to respect the natures of children, even to accept their instincts, their native tendencies, and their experiences as the proper _basis_ for their education. That is a wonderful advance. But we do not yet regard their present experience as furnishing the _motive_ for their education. We need to take one more step and recognize their present lives as the field wherein the knowledge that they acquire shall function. We do this to some extent; but we lack faith in the abundance of their present experience, and are always impatiently looking forward to a time when their lives will be rich. In feeding children we have our eyes primarily on the present; food is given them in order to be assimilated and used _now_ to satisfy _present_ needs; that is the best way of guaranteeing health for the future. Likewise in giving them mental and spiritual food, our attention should be directed primarily to its present value. It should be given with the purpose of present nourishment, of satisfying present needs; other more distant needs will thereby be best served. A few years ago, when I was discussing this topic with a class at Teachers College, I happened to observe a recitation in the Horace Mann school in which a class of children was reading _Silas Marner_. They were frequently reproved for their unnaturally harsh voices, for their monotones, indistinct enunciation, and poor grouping of words. In the Speyer school, nine blocks north of this school, I had often observed the same defects. At about that time one of my students, interested in the early history of New York, happened to call upon an old woman living in a shanty midway between these two schools. She was an old inhabitant, and one of the early roadways that the student was hunting had passed near her house. In conversation with the woman he learned that she had had five children, all of whom had been taken from her some years before, within a fortnight, by scarlet fever; and that since then she had been living alone. When he remarked that she must feel lonesome at times, tears came to her eyes, and she replied, "Sometimes." As he was leaving she thanked him for his call and remarked that she seldom had any visitors; she added that, if some one would drop in now and then, either to talk or to read to her, she would greatly appreciate it; her eyes had so failed that she could no longer read for herself. Here was an excellent chance to improve the children's reading by enabling them to see that the better their reading the more pleasure could they give to those about them. This seems typical of the present relation between the school and its environing world. While the two need each other sadly, the school is isolated somewhat like the old- time monastery. The fixing of specific aims for study can aid materially in establishing the normal relation, and children can certainly contribute to this end by discovering some of these purposes themselves. That is one of the things that they should _learn_ to do. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHING CHILDREN TO FIND SPECIFIC AIMS FOR THEIR STUDY _1. Elimination of subject-matter that has little bearing on life_ The elimination from the curriculum of such subject-matter as has no probable bearing on ordinary mortals is one important step to take in giving children definite aims in their study. There is much of this matter having little excuse for existence beyond the fact that it "exercises the mind"; for example: in arithmetic, the finding of the Greatest Common Divisor as a separate topic, the tables for Apothecaries' weight and Troy measure, Complex and Compound Fractions;[Footnote: For a more complete list of such topics, see Teachers College Record, _Mathematics in the Elementary School_, March, 1903, by David Eugene Smith and F. M. McMurry.] in geography, the location of many unimportant capes, bays, capitals and other towns, rivers and boundaries; in nature study, many classifications, the detailed study of leaves, and the study of many uncommon wild plants. The teaching of facts that cannot function in the lives of pupils directly encourages the mere collecting habit, and thus tends to defeat the purpose here proposed. Not that we do not wish children to collect facts; but while acquiring them we want children to carry the responsibility of discovering ways of turning them to account, and mere collecting tends to dull this sense of responsibility. _2. The example to be set by the teacher_ By her own method of instruction the teacher can set an example of what she desires from her pupils in the way of concrete aims. For instance: (a) during recitation she can occasionally suggest opportunities for the application of knowledge and ability. "This is a story that you might tell to other children," she might say; or, "Here is something that you might dramatize." "You might talk with your father or mother about this." "Could you read this aloud to your family?" Again, (b) in the assignment of lessons she might set a definite problem that would bring the school work into direct touch with the outside world. In fine art, instead of having children make designs for borders, without any particular use for the design, she might suggest, "Find some object or wall surface that needs a border, and see if you can design one that will be suitable." As a task in arithmetic for a fifth-year class in a small town, she might assign the problem, "To find out as accurately as possible whether or not it pays to keep a cow." Finally, (c) as part of an examination, she can ask the class to recall purposes that they have kept in mind in the study of certain topics. By such means the teacher can make clear to a class what is meant by interesting or useful aims of study, and also impress them with the fact that she feels the need of studying under the guidance of such aims. _3. The responsibility the children should bear._ The teacher need not do a great amount of such work for her class. The children should _learn to do it themselves_, and they will not acquire the ability mainly by having some one else do it for them. Therefore, after the children have come to understand the requirement fairly well, the teacher might occasionally assign a lesson by specifying only the quantity, as such and such pages, or such and such topics, in the geography or history, with the understanding that the class shall state in the next recitation one or more aims for the lesson; for example, if it is the geography of Russia, How it happens that we hear so often of famines in Russia, while we do not hear of them in other parts of Europe; or, if it is the history of Columbus, For what characteristic is Columbus to be most admired? Again, In what ways has his discovery of America proved of benefit to the world? The finding of such problems will then be a part of the study necessary in mastering the lesson. Likewise, during the recitation and without any hint from the teacher, the children should show that they are carrying the responsibility of establishing relations of the subject-matter with life, by mentioning further bearings, or possible uses, that they discover. Review lessons furnish excellent occasions for study of this kind. It is narrow to review lessons only from the point of view of the author. His view-point should be reviewed often enough to become well fixed, but there should be other view-points taken also. John Fiske has admirably presented the history of the period immediately following the Revolution. The title of his book, _The Critical Period of American History_, makes us curious from the beginning to know how the period was so critical. This is a fine example of a specific aim governing a whole book. But other aims in review might be, Do we owe as much to Washington during this period as during the war just preceding? Or were other men equally or more prominent? How was the establishment of a firm Union made especially difficult by the want of certain modern inventions? The pupils themselves should develop the power to suggest such questions. _4. The sources to which children should look for suggestions_ The teacher can teach the children _where to look for suggestions_ in their search for specific purposes. During meals, three times a day, interesting topics of conversation are welcome; indeed, the dearth of conversation at such times, owing to lack of "something to say," is often depressing. There is often need of something to unite the family of evenings, such as a magazine article read aloud, or a good narrative, or a discussion of some timely topic. There are social gatherings where the people "don't know what to do"; there are recesses at school where there is the same difficulty; there are neighbors, brothers and sisters, and other friends who are more than ready to be entertained, or instructed, or helped. Yet children often dramatize stories at school, without ever thinking of doing the same for the entertainment of their family at home. They read good stories without expecting to tell them to any one. They collect good ideas about judging pictures, without planning to beautify their homes through them. Thus the children can be made conscious that there are _wants_ on all sides of them, and by some study of their environment they can find many aims that will give purpose to their school work. Again, by a review of their past studies, their reading, and their experience of various kinds, they can be reminded of objects that they are desirous of accomplishing. It is, perhaps, needless to say that the teacher herself must likewise make a careful study of the home, street, and school life of her pupils, of their study and reading, if she is to guide them most effectually in their own search for desirable aims. _5. Stocking up with specific aims in advance_ Finally, the teacher can lead her pupils to stock up with specific aims _even in advance of their immediate needs_. A teacher who visits another school with the desire of getting helpful suggestions would better write down beforehand the various things that she wishes to see. She can afford to spend considerable time and energy upon such a list of points. Otherwise, she is likely to overlook half of the things she was anxious to inquire about. Likewise, children can be taught to jot down in a notebook various problems that they hope to solve, various wants observed in their environment that they may help to satisfy. Children who are much interested in reading, sometimes without outside suggestion make lists of good books that they have heard of and hope to read. And as they read some, they add others to their list. Keeping this list in mind, they are on the lookout for any of these books, and improve the opportunity to read one of them whenever it offers. A similar habit in regard to things one would like to know and do can be cultivated, so that one will have a rich stock of aims on hand in advance, and these will help greatly to give purpose to the work later required in the school. _6. The importance of moderation in demands made upon children._ In conclusion, it may be of importance to add that this kind of instruction can be easily overdone, and it is better to proceed too slowly than too rapidly. It is a healthy and permanent development that is wanted, and the teacher should rest satisfied if it is slow. It is by no means feasible to attempt to subordinate all study to specific aims; we cannot see our way to accomplish that now. But we can do something in that direction. Only occasional attempts with the younger children will be in place; more conscious efforts will be fitting among older pupils. By the time the elementary school is finished, a fair degree of success in discovering specific aims can be expected. Yet, even if little more than a willingness to _take time to try_ is established, the gain will be appreciable. When children become interested in a topic, they are impatient to "go on" and "to keep going on." This continual hurrying forward crowds out reflection. If they learn no more than to pause now and then in order to find some bearings on life, and thus do some independent _thinking_, they are paving the way for the invaluable habit of reflection. CHAPTER IV THE SUPPLEMENTING OF THOUGHT, AS A SECOND FACTOR OF STUDY _The question here at issue_ In the preceding chapter the importance of studying under the influence of specific purposes was urged. These are such purposes as the student really desires to accomplish by the study of text or of other matter placed before him. Since they are not usually included in such matter, but must be conceived by the student himself, they constitute a very important kind of supplement to whatever statements may be offered for study. The questions now arise, Are other kinds of supplementing also generally necessary? If so, what is their nature? Should they be prominent, or only a minor part of study? And is there any explanation of the fact that authors are not able to express themselves more fully and plainly? _Answers to these questions--1. As suggested by Bible study._ For answers to these questions, turn first to Bible study. Take for instance a minister's treatment of a Bible text. Selecting a verse or two as his Answers to theme for a sermon, he recalls the conditions that called forth the words; builds the concrete picture by the addition of reasonable detail; makes comparisons with corresponding views or customs of the present time; states and answers queries that may arise; calls attention to the peculiar beauty or force of certain expressions; draws inferences or corollaries suggested in the text; and, finally, interprets the thought or draws the practical lessons. The words in his text may number less than a dozen, while those that he utters reach thousands; and the thoughts that he expresses may be a hundred times the number directly visible in the text. Leaving the minister, take the layman's study of the parable of the Prodigal Son. This is the story as related in Luke 15:11-32: 11. And he said, A certain man had two sons: 12. And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. 13. And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. 14. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. 15. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. 16. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him 17. And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! 18. I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, 19. And am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants. 20. And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. 21. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. 22. But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. 23. And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be merry. 24. For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry. 25. Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. 26. And he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. 27. And he said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound. 28. And he was angry, and would not go in; therefore came his father out, and intreated him. 29. And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends; 30. But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. 81. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. 32. It was meet that we should make merry and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found. How simple the story! Even a child can tell it after very few readings, and one could soon learn the words by heart. Is one then through with it? Or has the study then hardly begun? Note some of the questions that need to be considered:-- 1. What various thoughts probably induced the young man to leave home? 2. What pictures of his former life does he call to mind when starving? Why did he hesitate about returning? 3. What were his thoughts and actions as he approached his father; those also of his father? 4. What indication of the father's character is given in the fact that he saw his son while yet "a great way off"? 5. Which is perhaps the most interesting scene? Which is least pleasing? 6. How would the older son have had the father act? 7. Did the father argue at length with the older son? Was it in place to argue much about such a matter? 8. Describe the character of the elder son. Which of the two is the better? 9. Is the father shown to be at fault in any respect in the training of his sons? If so, how? 10. How do people about us often resemble the elder son? 11. Is this story told as a warning or as a comfort? How? These are only a few of the many questions that might well be considered. Indeed, whole books could be, and probably have been, written upon this one parable. Yet neither such questions nor their answers are included in the text. It seems strange that almost none of the great thoughts that should be gathered from the story are themselves included with the narrative. But the same is true in regard to other parts of the Bible. The conversation between Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4) is, perhaps, the greatest conversation that was ever held. Yet one must discover this fact "between the lines"; there is no such statement included in the account. Evidently both to the minister and to the layman the Bible contains only the raw materials for thought. It must be supplemented without limit, if one is to comprehend it and to be nourished by it properly. _2. As suggested by the study of other literature_ Does this same hold with regard to other literature? For answer, recall to what extent Shakespeare's dramas are "talked over" in class, both in high schools and colleges. But as a type--somewhat extreme, perhaps--take Browning's MY LAST DUCHESS That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Stranger like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! How much the word last in the title of this poem suggests! Note how many, and how different, are the topics in the last dozen lines. Yet there is no paragraphing throughout. The page should show things as they exist in the Duke's mind, and he runs from one thought to another as if they were all on the same plane, and closely related. Was there ever a more vain, heartless, haughty, selfish, bartering gentleman-wretch? Note how single short sentences even surprise one by the extent to which they reveal character. Whole volumes are included between sentences. One can scarcely read the poem through rapidly; for it seems necessary to pause here and there to reflect upon and interject statements. There is no doubt about the need of extensive supplementing in the case of adult literature. Is that true, however, of literature for children? Is not this, on account of the immaturity of children, necessarily so written as to make such supplementing unnecessary? For a test let us examine Longfellow's The Children's Hour, which is so popular with seven- and eight-year-old boys and girls. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes, They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon, In the round tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And molder in dust away! 1. How would we plan to dramatize this poem? In answering this question, we must consider how many persons are needed, what arrangement of rooms and doors, etc., will be fitting; are the last three stanzas to be spoken? etc. 2. It seems that here is a family in which an hour is set aside for play. What kind of home must that be? 3. Was this the custom each day? Or did it happen only once? 4. Does the father seem to enjoy it? Or was it rather an unpleasant time for him? 5. Is there any proof that these were especially attractive children? ("Voices soft and sweet.") 6. Which is the best part of the last three stanzas, in which he tells how much he loves them? (Meaning of "for ever and a day.") 7. Do you know any other families that have a time set apart each day for playing together? Why are there not more? 8. Does such an arrangement depend on the parents wholly? Or could the children help much to bring it about? How? 9. Have you heard the story about the Bishop of Bingen in his Mouse- Tower on the Rhine River? 10. Meaning of strange words may be explained in various ways, perhaps some of them scarcely explained at all. These are some of the questions that could well be considered in this poem. It is true that this selection, like most adult literature, is capable of being enjoyed without much addition. But it is not mere enjoyment that is wanted. We are discussing what study is necessary in order to get the full profit. In the case of Hawthorne's _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_, numerous questions and suggestions need likewise to be interjected. One of the best books for five- to eight- year-old children on the life of Christ bears the title _Jesus the Carpenter of Nazareth_. It is an illustrated volume of five hundred pages, which makes it clear that the original Bible text has been greatly supplemented. Yet it is a pity to read even this book without frequent pausing for additional detail. Thus literature, including even that for young children, fails to show on the surface all that the reader is expected to see. Much of it states only a very small part of this. A piece of literature resembles a painting in this respect. Corot's well-known painting, "Dance of the Wood Nymphs," presents only a few objects, including a landscape with some trees and some dancing women. Yet people love to sit and look at it, perhaps to examine its detail and enjoy its author's skill, but also to recall countless memories of the past, of beautiful woods and pastures, of happy parties, of joys, hopes, and resolves, and possibly, too, to renew resolves for the future. The very simple scene is thus a source of inspiration, a stimulus to think or study. A poem accomplishes the same thing. _3. As stated by Ruskin_ A warning of the amount of hard work that the student of literature must expect is given by Ruskin in the following forcible words: "And be sure, also, if the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all at once,--nay, that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in strong words, too; but he cannot say it all, and what is more strange, will not, but in a hidden way, and in parables, in order that he may be sure you want it. I cannot quite see the reason of this, nor analyze the cruel reticence in the breasts of wise men which makes them always hide their deeper thought. "They do not give it you by way of help, but of reward, and will make themselves sure that you deserve it, before they allow you to reach it. "But it is the same with the physical type of wisdom, gold. There seems, to you and me, no reason why the electric forces of the earth should not carry whatever there is of gold within it at once to the mountain tops, so that kings and people might know that all the gold they could get was there, and without any trouble of digging, or anxiety, or chance, or waste of time, cut it away, and coin as much as they needed. But Nature does not manage it so. She puts it in little fissures in the earth, nobody knows where. You may dig long and find none; you must dig painfully to find any. "And it is just the same with men's best wisdom. When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, 'Am I inclined to work as an Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my temper?' And keeping the figure a little longer... the metal you are in search of being the author's mind or meaning, his words are as the rock which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it. And your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning; your smelting furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any good author's meaning without those tools, and that fire; often you will need sharpest, finest chiseling and patientest fussing before you can gather one grain of the metal."[Footnote: _Sesame and Lilies_] _4. As suggested by an examination of text-books_ When we turn from literature to the text-books used in schools and colleges, we find the need of supplementing greatly increased. Writers of literature are at liberty to choose any topic they please, and to treat it as fully as they will. But writers of text-books are free in neither of these respects. Their subjects are determined for them; it is the history, for example, of a given period, the grammar of the English language, the geography of the earth. And these must be presented briefly enough to be covered by classes within a prescribed time. For these reasons text-books contain far less detail than literature, and in that sense are much more condensed. They are only the outlines of subjects, as their titles often directly acknowledge. Green's _History of England_, for instance, which has been extensively used as a college text, barely touches many topics that are treated at great length elsewhere. It is natural, therefore, that in our more advanced schools the word text in connection with such books is used in much the same sense as in connection with the Bible; a text is that which merely introduces topics by giving the bare outline of facts, or very condensed statements; it must be supplemented extensively, if the facts or thoughts are to be appreciated. How about the texts used in the elementary school? Those used in the highest two grades need, perhaps, somewhat more supplementing than those in the high school. But in the middle grades this need is still greater. In the more prominent studies calling for text-books, such as history, geography, and English language or grammar, nearly the same topics are treated as in the higher grades, and in substantially the same manner. But since the younger children are not expected to take as long lessons,--and perhaps, too, because they cannot carry as large books,--their texts are made briefer. This is mainly accomplished by leaving out much of the detail that is necessary to make the facts clear and interesting. Consequently, supplementing is an especially important factor of study in these grades. In general, the briefer the text, the more "filling in" is needed. As an illustration, take the following extract from the first page of McMaster's _Child's History of the United States_, often used with ten-year-old pupils. Four hundred and fifty years ago the people of western Europe were getting silks, perfumes, shawls, ivory, spices, and jewels from southeastern Asia, then called the Indies. But the Turks were conquering the countries across which these goods were carried, and it seemed so likely that the trade would be stopped, that the merchants began to ask if somebody could not find a new way to the Indies. The king of Portugal thought he could, and began sending his sailors in search of a way around Africa, which extended southward, nobody knew how far. Year after year his ships sailed down the west coast, the last captain going further south than the one before him, till one of them at last reached the southern end of the continent and entered the Indian Ocean. Observe a few of the thoughts "between the lines" that need to be considered:-- 1. Six things are here mentioned as brought from the East Indies. It seems odd that some of these should receive mention as among the most important imports. Which are they? Could any of them have been more important then than now? Why? 2. What were the routes of travel, by land, to the Indies? (Map.) 3. Where did the Turks live; and what reasons had they for preventing this trade? 4. Why could not the first Portuguese captain sail directly to the southern end of Africa? Again, take the topic _desert_ in geography. The texts usually define a desert as a sandy waste, often a plain, that receives too little rain to support much vegetable or animal life. Pictures are given showing the character of the plants, and perhaps the appearance of such a region. Beyond that little is usually attempted. In the larger books the danger from sand storms and some other things are included. Such treatment needs to be supplemented by numerous questions, such as the following:-- 1. What animals that are common here are seldom found there, or not at all? (Horses, cows, etc., also birds, flies, bugs, etc.) 2. What plants that are common here are not found there? (Trees, flowers, weeds, etc.) 3. Is the weather particularly enjoyable there, or not? Is it desirable to have sunshine all the time? 4. What about noises of various kinds? (Silence so oppressive to some people that it becomes intolerable.) 5. What would be some of the pleasures of a walk in the desert? (Coloring, change of seasons, trees along streams, appearance of any grass.) 6. What about the effect of strong winds on the sand? 7. Imagining that some one has just crossed a desert, what dangers do you think he has encountered, and how may he have escaped from them? _The extent to which the supplementing should be carried_ From the preceding discussion it is clear not only that no important topic is ever completely presented, but also that there is scarcely any limit to the extent to which it may be supplemented. Men get new thoughts from the same Bible texts year after year, and even century after century. How far, then, should the supplementing be carried? The maximum limit cannot be fixed, and there is no need of attempting it. But there is great need of knowing and keeping in mind the minimum limit; for in the pressure to hurry forward there is grave danger that even this limit will not be reached. What is this minimum limit? Briefly stated, it is this: There should be enough supplementing to render the thought really nourishing, _quickening_, to the learner. In the case of literature that will involve some supplementing; and in the case of ordinary text-books it will require a good deal more. Is this standard met when the child understands and can reproduce in substance the definition of desert? Far from it! That definition is as dry and barren as the desert itself; it tends to deaden rather than quicken. The pupil must go far beyond the mere cold understanding and reproduction of a topic. He must see the thing talked about, as though in its presence; he must not only see this vividly, but he must enter into its spirit, or _feel_ it; he must experience or live it. Otherwise the desired effect is wanting. This standard furnishes the reason for such detailed questions as are suggested above. The frequency with which stirring events, grand scenery, and great thoughts are talked about in class with fair understanding, but without the least excitement, is a measure of the failure of the so- called better instruction to come up to this standard. No really good instruction, any more than good story books, will leave one cold toward the theme in hand. _Reasons why authors fail to express their thought more completely_ It must be confessed that this standard calls for a large amount of supplementing. There are meanings of words and phrases to be studied, references to be looked up, details to be filled in for the sake of vivid pictures, illustrations to be furnished out of one's own experience, inferences or corollaries to be drawn, questions to be raised and answered, and finally the bearings on life to be traced. It might seem that authors could do their work better, and thereby relieve their readers of work. Yet these omissions are not to be ascribed to the evil natures of authors, nor to the superabundance of their thought, alone. Readers would be dissatisfied if all this work were done for them. Any one has observed that small children are disappointed if they are not allowed to perform necessary little tasks that lie within their power. Also, they enjoy those toys most that are not too complete, and that, therefore, leave some work for their own imaginations. This quality of childhood is characteristic of youth and of adults. An author would not be forgiven if he stopped in the midst of his discourse to explain a reference. Eminent writers, like Longfellow, for example, are even blamed for attaching the morals to their productions; and terseness is one of the qualities of literature that is most praised. In other words, older people, like children, love activity. Although they at times hate to work, they do not want authors to presuppose that they are lazy or helpless; and they resent too much assistance. Since, therefore, the many omissions in the presentation of thought are in accordance with our own desires, we would do well to undertake the necessary supplementing without complaint. THE ABILITY OF CHILDREN TO SUPPLEMENT THOUGHT There are several facts indicating that children have the ability to undertake this kind of studying. _Reasons for assuming that children have this kind of ability 1. Their vivid imaginations_ One of the chief powers necessary is a vivid imagination by which concrete situations can be clearly pictured, and children possess such power to an unusual degree. They see so vividly that they become frightened by the products of their own imaginations. Their dolls are so truly personified that mishaps to them easily cause tears, and their mistreatment by strangers is resented as though personal. Adults hardly equal them in this imaginative quality. _2. Their ability to imitate and think, as shown in conversation_ When children are left alone together they do not lack things to do and say. Their minds are active enough to entertain one another as well as adults do, and not seldom better. In fact, if they remain natural, they are often more interesting to adults than other adults are. They reach even profound thoughts with peculiar directness. When I was attempting, one day, to throw a toy boomerang for some children, one of the little girls, observing my want of success, remarked, "I saw a picture of a man throwing one of these things. He stood at the door of his house, and the boomerang went clear around the house. But I suppose that people sometimes make pictures of things that they can't do; don't they?" _3. The success of development instruction_ The method of teaching called _development instruction_ is based on the desire and ability of children to contribute ideas. That instruction could not succeed as it has succeeded, if children did not readily conceive thoughts of their own. Not only do they answer questions that teachers put in such teaching, but they also propose many of the questions that should be considered. That method flourishes even in the kindergarten. In the kindergarten circle children often interrupt the leader with germane remarks; and sometimes it is difficult even to suppress such self-expression. One reason the kindergartner tells her stories, rather than reads them, is that she may have her eyes on the children and thus take advantage of their desire to make contributions of thought. The same tendency is shown in the home, when children want to "talk over" what their parents or other persons read to them. They fail to respond in this way only when they are afraid, or when they have attended school long enough to have this tendency partly suppressed. _4. The character of children's literature_ Finally, the fact that children's literature, like that for adults, presupposes much supplementing, is strong reason for presupposing that ability on their part. Any moral lessons that belong to fairy tales must be reached by the children's own thought; the same usually applies to fables also. Hawthorne understood the child mind as few persons have. Yet it is astonishing how much ability to supplement seems to have been expected by him. It would be surprising if such experts were mistaken in their estimate of children. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHING CHILDREN TO SUPPLEMENT THOUGHT _1. Importance of using text-books_ Teachers can make use of text-books at least enough to give much practice in supplementing text. Text-books are so uncommon in some schools that one might conclude that they had gone out of fashion among good teachers. Yet there is certainly nothing in modern educational theory that advises the neglect of books. Some teachers may have imagined that development instruction, to which reference has just been made, leans that way. But development instruction is of importance rather in the first presentation of some topics. After a topic has been thus developed, it can well be reviewed and further studied in connection with books. Many teachers are neglecting to use texts both to their own detriment and to the serious disadvantage of their pupils. _2. Kind of text to be preferred_ Teachers who have liberty in choosing their text-books should select those that contain abundant detail. That means a thick book, to be sure; and many teachers are afraid of such books on the ground that they mean long lessons. A thick book may be a poor text; but a thin one is almost bound to be. The reason is that books are usually made thin at the expense of detail; and detail is necessary in order to establish the relations between facts, by which the story form can be secured and a subject be made interesting. Without plenty of detail the facts have to be run together, or listed, merely as so many things that are true; they then form only a skeleton, with all the repulsiveness of a skeleton. Such a barren text is barren of suggestions to children for supplementing, because the ideas are too far apart to indicate what ought to fit in between. The understanding ought to be more common that long lessons are by no means synonymous with hard lessons. The hardest lessons to master are those brief, colorless presentations that fail to stimulate one to see vividly and to think. Many a child who carries a geography text about with him learns most of his geography from his geographical readers, simply because the writer does not squeeze all the juice out of what he has to say in order to save space. A child can often master five pages in such a book more easily than he can one from the ordinary geography, and he will remember it longer. _3. Character of the questions to be put_ Whatever the text chosen, the recitation should be so conducted that the emphasis will fall on reflection rather than on mere reproduction. To this end one should avoid putting mainly memory questions, such as, Who was it--? When was it--? Why was it--? What is said about--? Even the usual request, "Close the books," at the beginning of the recitation can often be omitted to advantage. Why should not the text- book in history and geography lie open in class, just as that in literature, if _thinking_ is the principal object? Questions that require supplementing can be proposed by both teacher and pupils. Now and then some topic can be assigned for review, with the understanding that the class, instead of reproducing the facts, shall occupy the time in "talking them over." The teacher can then listen, or act as critic. It is a harsh commentary on the quality of instruction if a lesson on Italy, or on a presidential administration, or on a story, suggests no interesting conversation to a class. Occasionally, as one feature of a lesson, a class might propose new points of view for the review of some subject. For example, if the Western states have been studied in geography, some of the various ways in which they are of interest to man might be indicated by questions, thus: What about the Indians in that region? What pleasure might a sportsman expect there? What sections would be of most interest to the sight-seer? How is the United States Government reclaiming the arid lands, and in what sections? What classes of invalids resort to the West, and to what parts? How do the fruits raised there compare with those further east in quality and appearance? How is farming differently conducted there? In what respects, if any, is the West more promising than the East to a young man starting in life? These are such questions about the West as large classes of individuals must put to themselves in practical life; they are, then, fair questions for the pupil in school to put to himself and to answer. By thus considering the various phases of human interest in a subject, children can get many suggestions for supplementing the text. _4. Different types of reproduction_ The habit of reproducing thought in different ways will also throw different lights on the subject-matter, and thus offer many supplementary ideas. For example, dramatizing is valuable in this way. The description, in the first person, of one's experiences in crossing the desert is an illustration. I once visited a Sunday-school class that was studying the life of John Paton, the noted missionary to the New Hebrides Islands. The text stated that one of the cannibal chiefs had been converted, and had asked permission to preach on Sunday to the other savages. This permission was granted; but the text did not reproduce the sermon. Thereupon several members of the class undertook, as a part of the next Sunday's lesson, to deliver such a sermon as they thought the savage might have given. Two of the boys brought hatchets on that Sunday to represent tomahawks, which they used as aids in making gestures, and their five-minute speeches showed a careful study of the whole situation. Likewise the experiences of Columbus might be dramatized, as, when asking for help from the king, or when reasoning with the wise men of Spain, or when conversing with his sailors on his first voyage to America.[Footnote: See the story of Columbus in Stevenson's _Children's Classics in Dramatic Form_, A Reader for the Fourth Grade.] Additional suggestions will often be obtained by inquiring, "What part of this lesson, if any, would you like to represent by drawings? Or by paintings? Or by constructive work? Also, How would you do it?" _5. The danger of the three R's and spelling to habits of reflection_ Much of what has been said about supplementing ideas finds only slight application to beginning reading, writing, spelling, and number work. The reason is that these subjects, aiming so largely at mastery of symbols, call for memory and skill rather than reflection. For this very reason these subjects are in many ways dangerous to proper habits of study, and the teacher needs to be on her guard against their bad influence. They are so prominent during the first few years of school that children may form their idea of study from them alone, which they may retain and carry over to other branches. To avoid this danger, other subjects, such as literature and nature study, deserve prominent places in the curriculum from the beginning, and special care should be exercised to treat them in such a way that this easy kind of reflection is strongly encouraged. CHAPTER V THE ORGANIZATION OF IDEAS, AS A THIRD FACTOR IN STUDY _A. The different values of facts, and their grouping into "points"_ _Extent to which teachers treat facts as equal in value_ In several branches of knowledge in the primary school it is customary for teachers to attach practically the same importance to different facts. This is the case, for instance, in spelling, where a mistake counts the same, no matter what word be misspelled. It is largely the case in writing. In beginning reading one word is treated as equal in value to any other, since in any review list every one is required. In beginning arithmetic this equality of values is emphasized by insistence upon the complete mastery of every one of the combinations in the four fundamental operations. Throughout arithmetic, moreover, failure to solve any problem is the same as the failure to solve any other, judged in the light of the marking systems in use. The same tendency is less marked, but still evident, in many other subjects, some of them more advanced. In geography, teachers seldom recognize any inequality of value in the map questions, even though a question on the general directions of the principal mountain systems in North America be followed by a request to locate Iceland. The facts, too, are very often strung along in the text in such a manner that it is next to impossible to distinguish values. Here is an example from a well-known text: "Worcester is a great railroad center, and is noted for the manufacture of engines and machinery. At Cambridge is located Harvard University, the oldest and one of the largest in the country. Pall River, Lowell, and New Bedford are the great centers of cotton manufacture; Lawrence, of both cotton and wool; Lynn, Brockton, and Haverhill make millions of boots and shoes; and at Springfield is a United States arsenal, where firearms are made. Holyoke has large paper mills. Gloucester is a great fishing port. Salem has large tanneries." How does this differ from a spelling list, so far as equality of values is concerned? In nature study all have witnessed the typical lesson where some object, such as a flowering twig, for example, is placed in the hands of every pupil and each one is requested to tell something that he sees. Anything that is offered is gratefully accepted. While this particular kind of study is fortunately disappearing, the common tendency to regard all facts alike is still clearly shown in the case of the topic, cat, discussed on page 40. In literature, failures are very often condemned alike, whether they pertain to the meanings of words, of sentences, of references, or of whole chapters. Until very recently at least, even in universities, it has been common to assign lessons in history textbooks by pages, and to require that they be recited in the order of the text. The teacher, or professor even, in such cases has shown admirable ability to place the burden of the work upon the students by assigning to himself the single onerous task of announcing who shall "begin" and who shall "go on." What recognition is there of varying values of facts in such teaching? _The effect of such teaching on method of study_ Not all of such instruction is avoidable or even undesirable; but it is so common that it has a very important effect on method of study. So long as facts are treated as approximately equal in worth, the learner is bound to picture the field of knowledge as a comparatively level plain composed of a vast aggregation of independent bits. In spelling, writing, and beginning reading it is so many hundreds or thousands of words; in beginning arithmetic it is the various combinations in the four fundamental operations; in geography it is a long list of statements; in history it is an endless lot of facts as they happen to come on the page; in literature it is sentence after sentence. One can get possession of this field, not by taking the strategic positions,--for under the assumption of equality there are none,--but rather by advancing over it slowly, mastering one bit at a time. Thus the words in beginning reading, writing, and spelling are learned and reproduced in all orders, proving them to be independent little entities. In geography and history, when the facts are not wormed out of the pupil by questions, he sees the page before him by his mind's eye,--a fact frequently revealed by the movement of his eyes while reciting,--and attempts to recall each paragraph or statement in its order. In literature he masters his difficulties sentence by sentence, a method most clearly shown in the case of our greatest classic, the Bible, which is almost universally studied and quoted by verses. Thus the _unit of progress_ in study is made the single fact; the whole of any subject becomes the sum of its details; and a subject has been supposedly mastered when all these bits have been learned. This might well be called the method of study by driblets. It is probably safe to say that a majority of the young people in the United States, including college students, study largely in this way. While this method of study is bad in numerous ways, there are three of its faults in particular which need to be considered here. _Respects in which this method of study is wrong 1. Facts, as a rule, vary greatly in value_ In the first place, facts vary indefinitely in value. In parts of a few subjects they do have practically the same worth, which is, no doubt, a source of much misconception about proper methods of study. In spelling, for instance, _which_ is probably as important a word as _when_, and _sea_ as important as _flood_. In a list of three hundred carefully selected words for spelling for third-year pupils, any one word might properly be regarded as equal to any other in worth. This may be said also in regard to a list for writing. Much the same is true in regard to a possible list of four hundred words for reading in the first year of school. In arithmetic one would scarcely assert that 4X7 was more or less important than 9X8, or 8/2, or 6-3, or 4+2. In other words, the various combinations in the four fundamental operations are, again, all of them essential to every person's knowledge, and therefore stand on the same plane of worth. To some extent, therefore, the three R's and spelling are exceptions to an important general rule. Yet even in spelling and beginning reading not all words by any means have the same value. Children in the third year of school who are reading Whittier's _Barefoot Boy_ ought to be able to recognize and spell the word _robin;_ perhaps, also, _woodchuck_ and _tortoise;_ but _eschewing_ is not a part of their vocabulary and will not soon be, and probably the less said about that word by the teacher the better. The moment we turn to other subjects, facts are found to vary almost infinitely in value, just as metals do. Judged by the space they occupy, they may appear to be equally important; but they are not to be judged in this way, any more than men are. According to their nature, thoughts or statements are large and small, or broad and narrow, or far-reaching and insignificant. A general of an army may be of more consequence to the welfare of a nation than a thousand common soldiers; so one idea like that of evolution may be worth a full ten thousand like the fact that "our neighbor's cat kittened yesterday." _2. They are dependent upon one another for their worth_ In the second place, facts can by no means be regarded as independent. As before, to be sure, the three R's and spelling afford some exception to this rule. In spelling, writing, and beginning reading it is important that any one of a large number of words be recognized or reproduced at any time, without reference to any others. All of these, together with the combinations in the fundamental operations in arithmetic, are often called for singly, and they must, therefore, be isolated from any possible series into which they might fall, and mastered separately. Aside from these subjects, facts are generally dependent upon their relations to one another for their value. Taken alone, they are ineffective fragments of knowledge, just as a common soldier or an officer in an army is ineffective in battle without definite relations to a multitude of other men. If the first sentences on twenty successive pages in a book were brought together, they would tell no story. They would be mere scattered fractions of thoughts, lacking that relation to one another that would give them significance and make them a unit. Twenty closely related sentences might, however, express a very valuable thought. James Anthony Froude, impressed with this truth and at the same time recalling the prevalent tendency to ignore it, declares: "Detached facts on miscellaneous subjects, as they are taught at a modern school, are like separate letters of endless alphabets. You may load the mechanical memory with them, till it becomes a marvel of retentiveness. Your young prodigy may amaze examiners and delight inspectors. His achievements may be emblazoned in blue books, and furnish matter for flattering reports on the excellence of our educational system. And all this while you have been feeding him with chips of granite. But arrange your letters into words, and each word becomes a thought, a symbol waking in the mind an image of a real thing. Group your words into sentences, and thought is married to thought, and the chips of granite become soft bread, wholesome, nutritious, and invigorating." [Footnote: James Anthony Froude, _Handwork before Headwork._] A very simple illustration is found in the study of the dates for the entrance of our states into the Union. Taken one at a time, the list is dead. But interest is awakened the moment one discovers that for a long period each Northern state was matched by one in the South, so that they entered in pairs. _3. The sum of the details does not equal the whole._ Finally, the whole of a subject is not merely the sum of its little facts. You may study each day's history lesson faithfully, and may retain everything in memory till the book is "finished," and still not know the main things in the book. You may understand and memorize each verse of a chapter in the Bible until you can almost reproduce the chapter in your sleep, and still fail to know what the chapter is about. Probably some readers of this text who have repeated the Lord's Prayer from infancy, would still need to do some studying before they could tell the two or three leading thoughts in that prayer. An especially good illustration of this fact in my own experience as a teacher has been furnished in connection with the following paragraph, taken from Dr. John Dewey's _Ethical Principles underlying Education._ "Information is genuine or educative only in so far as it effects definite images and conceptions of material placed in social life. Discipline is genuine and educative only as it represents a reaction of the information into the individual's own powers, so that he can bring them under control for social ends. Culture, if it is to be genuine and educative, and not an external polish or factitious varnish, represents the vital union of information and discipline. It designates the socialization of the individual in his whole outlook upon life and mode of dealing with it." I have had a large number of graduate students who found it very difficult to state the point of this paragraph, although every sentence is reasonably clear and they are in close sequence. Thus the larger thoughts, instead of being the sum of the details, are an outgrowth from them, an interpretation of them; they are separate and new ideas conceived through insight into the relations that the individual statements bear to one another. _The proper unit of progress in study_ From the foregoing we see that some facts are very large, while others are of little importance, and that any one statement, taken separately, lacks significance. The field of thought, therefore, instead of being pictured as a plain, is to be conceived as a very irregular surface, with elevations of various heights scattered over it. And just as hills and mountains rest upon and are approached by the lower land about them, so the larger thoughts are supported and approached by the details that relate to them. A general of an army, desiring to get possession of a disputed region, does not plan to take and hold the lower land without the higher points, nor the higher points without the lower land. On the contrary, each vantage point with its approaches constitutes, in his mind, one division of the field, one strategic section, which is to be seized and held. And these divisions or units all taken together constitute the region. So any portion of knowledge that is to be acquired should be divided into suitable units of attack; one large thought together with its supporting details should constitute one section, another large thought together with its associated details a second, etc.; all of these together composing the whole field. In other words, the student, instead of making progress in knowledge fact by fact, should advance by _groups of facts_. His smallest unit of progress should be a considerable number of ideas so related to one another that they make a whole; those that are alike in their support of some valuable thought making up a bundle, and the farther-reaching, controlling idea itself constituting the band that ties these bits together and preserves their unity. Such a unit or, "point," as it is most often called, is the basal element in thinking, just as the family is the basal element in society. _The size of such units of advance._ Such units of advance may vary indefinitely in size; but the danger is that they will be too small. A minister who reaches his thirteenthly is not likely to be a means of converting many sinners. A debater who makes fifteen points will hardly find his judges enthusiastic in his favor, no matter how weak his opponents may be. A chapter that contains twenty or thirty paragraphs should not be remembered as having an equal number of points. What is wanted is that the student shall _feel the force_ of the ideas presented, and a great lot of little points strung together cannot produce a forceful impression. Any thought that is worth much must be supported by numerous facts and will require considerable time or space for presentation. A minister can hardly establish a half dozen valuable ideas in one sermon; he does well if he presents two or three with force; and he is most likely to make a lasting impression if he confines himself to one. Drummond's _The Greatest Thing in the World_ is an example of the possibilities in this direction. Accordingly the student, in reading a chapter or listening to a lecture, should find the relationships among the smaller portions of the thought that will unify the subject-matter under a very few heads. If several pages or a whole lecture can be reduced to a single point, it should be done. He should always remember that to the extent that the supporting details are numerous they will have a cumulative effect, thereby rendering the central thought strong enough to have a permanent influence. _The meaning of organization of knowledge, and its value._ Such grouping of ideas as has thus far been considered, although of the greatest importance, is only the beginning of the organization of knowledge. For thus far only the minimum unit of advance has been under discussion. Asone proceeds in the study of a subject these smaller units collect in large numbers, and they must themselves be subordinated to still broader central thoughts, according to their nature. This grouping of details, according to their relationships, into points, and of such points under still higher heads, and so on until a whole subject and even the whole field of knowledge is carefully ordered according to the relationships of its parts, is what is meant by organization of knowledge. Sometimes an entire book is thus organized under a single idea, Fiske's _Critical Period of American History_ being an excellent example. In this volume the conditions at the close of the Revolutionary War are vividly described. It is shown that great debts remained unpaid, that different systems of money caused confusion, and that civil war was seriously threatened in various quarters. These and other dangers convinced sober men that a firm central government was indispensable. But then, it was no easy matter to bring such a government into existence; and it is shown how numerous heroic attempts in this direction barely escaped failure before the constitution was finally adopted. On the whole, it is safe to say that each paragraph or small number of paragraphs, while constituting a unit, is at the same time a necessary part of the chapter to which it belongs; likewise, each chapter, while constituting a unit, is an integral part of the book as a whole; and all these parts are so interrelated and complete that the whole book constitutes a unit. Observe the advantage of such organization. The period of our history immediately following the Revolution used to be one of the least interesting of topics. Under the title "The Period following the Treaty of Paris," or "The Period from the Close of the Revolutionary War to the Adoption of the Constitution," the textbooks attempted nothing more than an enumeration or history of the chief difficulties and struggles of our youthful nation. In some cases, if I remember correctly, this was designated "The Period of Confusion," and its description left the reader in a thoroughly confused state of mind. Fiske's book was a revelation. What had seemed very complex and confused became here extremely simple; what had been especially dull became here perhaps the most exciting topic in all our history. And the secret of the advance is found to a large extent in the organization. Thus organization is a means of effectiveness in the presentation of knowledge, as in the use of a library or the conduct of a business. _The basis for the organization of knowledge in general._ All the facts in Mr. Fiske's book are organized about the stirring question expressed in his title, _i. e._, how our ship of state barely escaped being wrecked. Because this idea is of intense interest to us, and the entire book bears upon it continually, the story is read with bated breath. Drummond's _Greatest Thing in the World_ is another excellent example on a smaller scale of ideas centered about a vital human question. Thus specific problems of various degrees of breadth, _that are intimately related to man_, can well be taken as the basis for the organization of knowledge in general. Classical literature is organized on this basis, which is called the pedagogical or _psychological_ basis, and it seems desirable that other fields should also be. Yet there are other kinds of organization in which the relation to man is not so plainly, or not at all, taken as the controlling idea. For example, biology is often organized on the basis of the growing complexity of the organism, the student beginning with the simple, microscopic cell, and advancing to the more and more complex forms. Formerly, after the Linnaean system, plants were classified according to their similarity of structure. Now both plants and animals are often classified on the basis of their manner of adaptation to their environment. Thus within the field of science there is what is called the _scientific_ basis of organization. There is also the _logical_ basis of organization of thought, according to which some most fundamental idea is taken as the beginning of a system, or the premise, and other ideas are evolved from this first principle. Rousseau attempted to develop his educational doctrine in this way, starting with the assertion that everything was good as it came from the Creator, but that everything degenerated in the hands of man. John Calvin did the same in his system of theology; and he reasoned so succinctly from his few premises that any one granting these was almost compelled to accept his entire doctrine. Attention is called to these facts here in order to suggest that, while the scientific and the logical bases of organization are in common use, neither of them is adequate as the main basis of organization for a young student who is studying a subject for the first time. The reason is that each of them secures a careful ordering of facts only with reference to the relations that those facts bear to one another, and not with reference to the relation that they bear to man; and in thus ignoring man they show grave faults. They are indifferent to interest on the part of the learner; they offer no standard for judging the relative worths of facts to man; and instead of exerting an influence in the direction of applying knowledge, they exert some influence in the opposite direction by their indifference to man's view-point. It must be admitted that they are of great assistance in securing thoroughness of comprehension by their revelation of the relations existing among facts, and also that they classify facts in a convenient way for finding them later; but they are of greatest use to the advanced student, who is already supplied with motive and with standards for judging worth, and who has proper habits of study already formed; they can well follow but they should not supplant the psychological basis. _The student's double task in the organization of ideas._ An author's organization of subject-matter is frequently poor. But whether it be poor or good, some hard work on the part of the student is necessary before the proper grouping of ideas can take place in his own mind. The danger is that there will be practically no arrangement of his thoughts, as is well illustrated in the following letter from an eight-year-old boy. DEAR UNCLE CHARLIE: Will you please buy some of my 24 package of my Bluine, if you will please buy one package it will help me a lot. One Saturday we played ball against the east side and beat twelve to 1. I will get a baseball suit if I can sell 24 packages of Bluine. We had quite a blizzard here to-day. For one package it costs ten cents. When we played ball against the east side we only had 6 boys and they had twelve. We have a base ball team, and I am Captain, so you see I need a suit. Gretchen and Mother are playing backgammon with one dice. I catch sometimes when our real catcher is not there. When he is there I play first Base. Your loving nephew, JAMES. There is one prominent idea in this letter, touching the sale of Bluine, with reasons; and parts of two others, concerning the weather and the occupation of mother and sister. The first is the most fully treated; but, as might be expected from an eight-year-old child, no one idea is supported by sufficient detail to round it out and make it strong. In avoiding such defects two things are necessary: First, the student must decide what points he desires to make. They should be so definitely conceived that they can be easily distinguished from one another and can even be _counted_. Then, in the second place, all the details that bear upon a central idea should be collected and presented together in sequence under the point concerned. By this massing of all supporting statements under their proper heads, overlapping or duplicating is avoided, and clearness is gained. Also, force is secured by the cumulative effect of intimately related facts, just as it is secured by the concerted attack by the divisions of an army. Even the better students often stop with finding the main thoughts alone. And the temptation to do no more is strong, since teachers seldom require a forceful presentation of ideas in recitation; they are thankful to get a halting statement of the principal facts. But the student should remember that he is studying for his own good, not merely to keep teachers contented; and he should not deceive himself by his own fluency of speech. He should form the habit of often asking himself, "What is my point?" also, "What facts have I offered for its support, and have I massed them all as I should?" He must thus form the habit of arranging his ideas into points if he wishes to be pointed. _Precautions against inaccuracy in the grouping of facts into points._ The dangers of inaccuracy in this kind of study are numerous. First the individual statements must be carefully interpreted. A certain very intelligent ten-year-old girl studying arithmetic read the problem, "What is the interest on $500 at six per cent for one year?" Then, probably under the influence of some preceding problem, she found four per cent of the principal, and added the amount to the principal for her answer, thus showing two mistakes in reading. Perhaps half of the mistakes that children make in the solution of problems is due to such careless reading. A certain fifth-year class in history read a very short paragraph about the three ships that were secured for Columbus's first voyage, the paragraph ending with the statement, "On board the three [ships] were exactly ninety men." When they were asked later how many men accompanied Columbus the common answer was, "Two hundred and seventy, since there were ninety men on each ship." These mistakes are typical of those that are common, even among adults, as in the reading of examination questions, for instance. I have more than once asked graduate students in a university to state the _one principal_ thought obtained from the extended study of an article on education, and have received a paper with a threefold answer, (_a_), (_b_), (_c_). Such responses are due to extreme carelessness in reading the questions asked, as well as to a desire to be obliging and allow an instructor some freedom of choice. Thus the meaning of the individual statements that constitute the material out of which larger truths are derived, must be carefully watched if the final interpretation of an author's thought is to be accurate. The tendency toward error is greater still when it comes to finding the central thought for a portion of text. This was once amusingly illustrated by a class composed only of the principals and high-school teachers in a county institute, some seventy-five persons in all. The text under discussion was the first chapter of Professor James's well- known book, _Talks to Teachers_. The title of the chapter is "Psychology and the Teaching Art"; and Professor James, fearing that teachers might be expecting too much from his field, sets to work to discourage the idea that psychology can be a panacea for all of a teacher's ills. The larger portion of the twelve pages is devoted to this object, although the explicit statement is made, on the third page, that "psychology ought certainly to give the teacher radical help." But so little space is given to this declaration that, in spite of its definiteness and positive character, the class as a whole reached the conclusion that he was advising teachers not to study psychology at all. In other words, they had failed to balance up one part of the chapter against the other; and their failure left them in the ridiculous position of assuming that an author of a book for teachers was dissuading teachers from reading his book. A third and perhaps the most common source of error is found in the particular wording given to the central thought. In order to be perfectly definite and accurate any thought should be expressed in the form of a full statement. It ordinarily takes at least a whole sentence to express a whole thought. But it is very common for students even, who have formed the habit of thinking by points, to allow brief headings, consisting of single words or short phrases, to represent entire thoughts. Although such headings, on account of their brevity, may be useful, they are merely names for the thought, not statements of the thought itself; and it means the loosest kind of thinking to stop with them. A mere title, as a lecture "About Russia," for instance, designates only the outside limits to which a person confines himself--provided he sticks to his theme. It often tells no more about the substance of the thought within those limits than a man's name tells about his character. It is usually easy to tell "what a page is about"; but it usually requires keen thinking to word its principal idea sharply in a full sentence. Many students are inaccurate in the interpretation of authors and in their own thinking, not so much because they lack mental ability as because they lack the energy to continue their thinking to this point of wording the central idea accurately in a full sentence. THE ABILITY OF CHILDREN TO GROUP FACTS INTO POINTS. The grouping of facts into points requires ability to perceive that some statements are more valuable than others, without reference to the space that they happen to occupy on the printed page; it presupposes, also, the power to rearrange a stranger's ideas. It is, therefore, an aggressive kind of work, in which even adults often fail to distinguish themselves. Can children be expected to assume such responsibility? _Proofs of such ability. 1. As shown by children ten years old and younger._ Proof that any ten-year-old child has already assumed it in a simple way for some years is contained in the following facts:-- 1. Long before the school age is reached a child has had much practice in picking out the logical subjects of sentences, inasmuch as he has learned to comprehend statements made to him. Distinguishing the subject of a sentence is the same kind of work as distinguishing the subject of a paragraph or chapter, only it is simpler. 2. Any six-year-old child has, likewise, had much practice in detecting the subject of short conversations, especially of those of interest to him. If he happens to overhear a conversation between his parent and teacher touching a possible punishment for himself, he can be trusted to sum it up and get the gist of it all, even though some of the words do not reach him. That is exactly the kind of thinking required in getting the point of a lecture. 3. In relating fairy tales and other stories, during the first years at school, children easily fall into the habit of relating a part, or a point, at a time. And, if the memory or the courage fails, the teacher gives help by asking, "What will you tell about first? And then? And then?" thus setting them right, and keeping them so, by having them divide the story into its principal sections. 4. In composition, in the lower and middle grades, the paragraphing of thought, first as presented on the printed page, then as called for in oral recitation and in conversation, and finally in the child's written form, is a prominent subject of instruction. No one maintains that such work is unnatural, or too difficult, for such young children. 5. Development instruction, which has already been mentioned as peculiarly successful with young children, would be impossible if children were unable to appreciate the character of a principal thought, as the topic or point for discussion, and of other thoughts as subordinate to it. _2. As shown in the use of different texts and of reference books._ The use of several texts in one subject, as history, by one child, and the use of reference books,--both of which are common above the fifth year of school,--presuppose the ability to study by topics, and to bring together from various sources the facts that support a principal truth. _3. As shown by the rapid improvement they can make in such study._ Finally, the progress that children can make, when direct instruction in this matter is given to them, is good proof of their ability in this direction. For example, in a geography class composed of ten- year-old children, I once assigned for a lesson the following section from the text-book:-- POLITICAL DIVISIONS.--You will remember that Spain was the nation that helped Columbus make his discovery of America. The Spaniards afterward settled in the southern part of the continent, and introduced the Spanish language there. That is still the chief language spoken in Mexico, in the southern part of North America. Mexico became independent of Spain many years ago. Other nations also sent explorers and made settlements. Among these were the English, who settled chiefly along the Atlantic coast, and finally came to own the greater part of the continent north of Mexico. In time the English, who lived in the central portion of eastern North America, waged war against England, and chose George Washington as their leader. On the 4th of July, 1776, they declared their independence of England, and finally won it completely. This part became known as the United States; but the region to the north, which England was able to keep, and which she still possesses, is called Canada. Find each of these countries on the map (Fig. 123). Point toward Canada and Mexico. Besides these three large nations, several smaller ones occupy Central America, which lies south of Mexico. After the children had had time to study it somewhat carefully, I requested them to tell briefly what the section was about. The first three replies were as follows, in the following order, and these were not improved on later, without suggestion: "It tells about discovery." "It tells about the language in Mexico." "It tells about what are nations." This was their first attempt at such work, and it met with meager success. The heading in the text seemed to give them no aid whatever, which was sufficient proof of its unfitness for children. Yet within one month, with some attention given to this matter every day, I found half of the class of twenty to be reasonably safe in picking out the central thought in a page of their text. From all these facts it seems that children are reasonably capable of receiving instruction in regard to the grouping of facts into points. It is evident, also, that they need such instruction badly, if they are to study properly the lessons that are assigned to them. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHING CHILDREN TO GROUP RELATED FACTS INTO POINTS _1. The teacher's example._ In the first place, the example of the teacher can be of great influence. Any good teacher should do more than ask questions and explain difficult topics. She should now and then talk to her children. Particularly general exercises she should give expression to other ideas than those immediately involved in instruction. If at such times her ideas are carefully grouped about one or more central thoughts, her pupils are likely to feel the roundness and the consequent clearness and force of her points, and to be ambitious to imitate her style. Many an adult, no doubt, can recall both the pleasure he experienced in early youth when listening to some speaker who possessed this merit, and early attempts that he made to imitate such a style. _2. Use of written outlines in development instruction._ In development instruction, in the lower and middle grades in particular, brief headings representing the main facts reached might be placed on the blackboard, or written down by each pupil as the facts are established. Such writing is of great assistance in keeping the outline in mind. Frequently, even in the lower grades, review outlines might be required without such visual help. _3. In connection with the use of text. (a) Finding of the principal thought in paragraphs._ A terse statement of the principal thought in each paragraph of some story or other well-organized text is a valuable exercise in determining the relation that the different sentences in a paragraph bear to one another, and the gist of the whole. _(b) Finding where a point begins and ends._ Pupils might point to the place on the page where the treatment of a certain point begins; also where it ends. Thus they would receive exercise in distinguishing not only the principal thought, but also the _turns_ in the thought, and therefore the most suitable stopping places for reflection. _(c) The making of marks, to indicate relative values._ The most valuable statements might well be _marked_ in the text, some system of marks--as, for instance, one, two, or three short vertical lines in the margin--being agreed upon to indicate different degrees of worth. It is very common for adults, particularly very careful students, thus to mark books that they read. Unless one does so, it is difficult to find again, or review quickly, the main ideas. Yet one of the especially important things to teach young people in the handling of a book is some way of reviewing quickly the most valuable parts. Many persons who would gladly review the few most interesting portions of a book have no way of doing so except by reading the volume through again. That takes so much time that they omit the review altogether. In case the books belong to the school or library, all such marks may be objectionable. Certainly the aimless marking of any book is to be condemned. But thoughtful marking, with the view of showing relative values, is likely to increase the amount of reflection on the part of the one who makes the marks. It is likely, also, to increase the amount of reflection on the part of the later reader, for he, seeing the marks, is inclined to weigh the thought long enough to decide whether he agrees or disagrees with the previous reader. If, however, the objections to such markings are insuperable, children can at least be encouraged to own some of the books that they use. They ought to be developing a pride in a library of their own, anyway. "If a book is worth reading, it is worth buying," says Ruskin. "No book is worth anything which is not worth much; nor is it serviceable until it has been read and reread, and loved and loved again, and _marked_, so that you can refer to the passages you want in it, as a soldier can seize the weapon he needs in an armory, or a housewife bring the spice she needs from her store." [Footnote: Ruskin's _Sesame and Lilies._] It might be added, also, that all the writing thus suggested could be kept on note paper or in note books, if forbidden to appear in printed books. It should be borne in mind, however, that one important object in using books in school is to teach their proper use outside of school. To this end, books should be used in school in substantially the same way in which they are expected to be used outside. There is often a lack of correspondence between these two methods in various ways. Wherever the markings indicating relative values happen to be placed, they can well be compared in class and the disagreements discussed. This would throw a class into the heart of the subject-matter of a text on their own initiative. If it resulted in spending a whole recitation in a discussion of relative values, as it frequently would, it should be remembered that that is the most valuable kind of study. _(d) The selection of marginal headings._ If the books used contain no marginal headings, the pupils might propose some. And if marginal headings are found in some, proposals for their improvement would be in place, since such headings are rarely good. For example, the heading "Political Divisions," quoted above, would be much more definite and significant if changed to "The Countries in North America," and children could soon learn to make such improvements. Headings of chapters, likewise, often need rewording in a simpler, more definite and restrictive way. _(e) The collecting of supports for leading thoughts._ Choosing some one of the principal thoughts, the children should have practice in finding the data that support it, and in presenting such data in good sequence and in an otherwise forceful manner. _(f) Stating the leading thoughts in close sequence._ As one way of summarizing review lessons the children might enumerate the leading thoughts in close sequence, giving a careful wording for each in a full statement. _4. As a preparation for the taking of notes._ Pupils in the higher grades having to consult reference books frequently, and to take notes also from discussions and lectures, should receive careful instruction in note-taking. As preparation for such work, the teacher might read to the class, while the latter listen with the object of telling how many and what are the main points. Sometimes they might call "halt" as they realize that a turn is being made and another point is beginning. They should be reminded that the relationships of ideas, which are indicated by punctuation and paragraphing on the printed page, are revealed by a reader's or speaker's manner, as when he makes short pauses between sentences, or emphasizes an idea by voice or gesture, or allows his voice to fall at the end of some minor thought, or turns around, stops to get a drink, walks across the floor, or waits for applause at the close of one of his principal flights. Teacher and pupils might all take notes together, sometimes on principal points, sometimes only on the supporting data for one such point. Then the results might be compared, and the small amount of writing necessary might be discussed. _B. The neglect of relatively unimportant facts or statements_ We have seen that the organization of ideas requires the recognition of some thoughts as central, and the grouping of various details about them. While it places peculiar emphasis on these controlling facts, it also recognizes details as an essential part of knowledge. _Neglect as well as emphasis involved in relative values._ A question now arises about the relative values among these details. While they are an essential part of knowledge, do they themselves vary indefinitely in worth? And while many deserve much attention, are there many others that may be slighted and even ignored? The first part of this chapter has really dealt with the emphasis that is necessary for some ideas. But emphasis at one point suggests neglect at another point, for the two terms are correlative. Some persons would even assert that neglect is as important an element in proper study as emphasis, and that the two terms should be in equally good repute. This part of the chapter deals with the neglect that is due in proper study. It is, perhaps, a more difficult topic to treat than the preceding. Certainly many teachers are afraid to advise young people to neglect parts of their lessons, lest such suggestion might seem a direct recommendation to be careless. _Why neglect is scarcely allowable in some subjects._ We have seen that, to a certain extent, the facts in the three R's and spelling have practically the same worth. All of the combinations of simple numbers must be mastered; likewise all the words in a well- selected list in spelling, etc. Since differences in value are wanting here, there is no occasion for slighting any part. Any neglect in such cases signifies an oversight or a mistake. _Why neglect is necessary in most subjects._ But, as before, these subjects to some extent form an exception to the general rule. In most studies neglect of some parts is positively necessary. It has been already shown that no exact number of facts needs to be brought together in order to make up any particular topic or study. Besides those directly expressed in print, there are others immediately suggested; and the number of possible ideas bearing on a given matter is legion. Neglect, therefore, becomes not only necessary, but even prominent, as a factor in study. One might ask, "Are not all the statements in a valuable book that one happens to be reading worthy of careful consideration?" Not necessarily, by any means. The production of thought parallels the production of grain. An acre of ground, that yields thirty bushels or eighteen hundred pounds of wheat, may easily grow two whole tons of straw and chaff. These latter are absolutely necessary to the formation of the wheat kernel; yet the consumer usually has little use for them; he gets past them to the grain with the least possible delay, often throwing these other materials away. Likewise, many things that are necessary in the production of thought are of little use to the consumer. For example, there are often introductory remarks that have lost their original significance; there are asides and pleasantries; there are careful transitions from one thought to another, to avoid abruptness; there are usually more or less irrelevant remarks due to the fact that even authors' minds wander now and then; and there are often some things that seemed important to the author which in no possible way can be of value to the reader. For these reasons, some things are to be omitted, if possible, without being read, because they are worthless. Many details are unworthy of a second thought. Many other statements should be cast aside after having been carefully enough examined to make sure that they will not be further needed. Not only should some statements and paragraphs be slighted, but whole chapters as well. Similar practice is familiar to all in connection with conversations and discussions; and books are of the same nature as these, having the same faults, though perhaps to a less degree. What the student wants to carry away is valuable thought, with the details that vitally concern it; and the space occupied by such thought and its supporting details, as in the case of the wheat, is small as compared with the space occupied by the chaff that accompanies them. "Some books are to be tasted," says Bacon, "others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in part; others to be read, but not curiously [attentively]; and some few to be read wholly and with diligence and attention." [Footnote: Bacon's Essays, _Of Studies._] If he had added that very many books should not be read at all, he would have covered the field. As a rule, therefore, it is a serious error for a student to distribute his time and energy somewhat equally over a lesson or a chapter or a book. There are times when he should advance rapidly and even skip, as well as other times when he should ponder carefully and review much. _How safety and skill in neglect may be developed. 1. By proceeding from principal thoughts to details._ How can one become safe and skillful in this phase of study? The student must, of course, read or listen to statements largely in the order of the author's presentation; but two opposite courses of procedure are possible, and much depends upon the choice that is made between them. On the one hand, one can proceed sentence by sentence, examining each statement carefully, looking up new words and references, supplementing, tracing the bearings on one's own life, and doing whatever else is necessary to assimilate each thought. The single sentences can be put together so as to reveal the thoughts of paragraphs; and the central ideas of paragraphs and chapters can likewise be brought together, so as to reveal the main thoughts of the work as a whole. Thus the general movement may be from the details to the larger features, and the controlling ideas may be the last to be reached. The Bible is very commonly studied in this manner, the verses of a chapter and the chapters of a book being taken one by one in the order given and thoroughly mastered, and the outline of the whole being the last thing considered. Geography and history are also frequently studied in the same way. On the other hand, while the reader is still obliged to follow the author's order, he may at the start be mainly on the outlook for the general trend of the thought, for the principal issues that are raised, with the principal answers that are offered; and, if the work is at all difficult, he may for the time pass over many obscure little matters, such as new words, strange references, and meaningless statements, in the sole quest for these larger elements. Then, having determined these tentatively, he can set to work to examine the details on which they depend, making the investigation as thorough as he wishes. Thus the general movement may be from the principal to the minor thoughts, and the details may be carefully considered last of all. In accordance with this plan we hear it recommended that the book of Job be read "at a sitting," or, in case one's spirit of devotion lacks that degree of endurance, at two or three sittings. Likewise, Gray's _Elegy_ might be read through without pause, even several times, before any part is studied in detail; so, also, the drama of _William Tell_; one act, and perhaps the whole of the drama, of _Julius Caesar;_ any one of Browning's shorter poems; and ordinary lessons or chapters in history and geography. While these two courses may finally bring about the same result, the latter is much the more economical plan, for the following reason: The individual statements vary greatly in value, as we have seen, some requiring only slight attention, while others must be closely scrutinized. What determines their value is their relation to the leading ideas. The latter are the sole standards of worth, the sole guides, in discriminating among them. If, then, the student has not found out what the leading ideas are, what basis of selection has he? How, then, is he to know what are the important details and what are the unimportant? What can he do, then, more than merely to distribute his energies somewhat equally and blindly over the various statements offered, until the principal thoughts come to light? Only after that will he be in a position to measure relative values and thus to deal with the details intelligently. The first plan, therefore, involves a great waste of time. For the same reason that it is economical to go sight-seeing with a guide, or at least to examine a guidebook before setting out, it is economical to determine the gist of the thought, the spirit and substance of the whole, before giving careful attention to the minor parts. _2. By keeping the standard of values ever in mind._ The student must not only find the central idea as early as possible, but he must hold it with a firm grip. Both of these things require much tenacity of purpose. In following the order of an author's presentation, considerable detail may have to be traversed before the main thought begins to dawn in the student's mind, and temptations to forget about the main issue and to become absorbed in these details are ever present. It is on this account that teachers attending teachers' gatherings frequently fail to reach those topics for discussion that have been advertised; they even fail when printed reports are the avowed subject for conference. After having arrived at their destination with much sacrifice, they seem often to forget exactly what they came for, or to be diverted from it with surprising ease. However, they are not inferior to other adults in this respect. Again, after having settled upon the main idea tentatively, one must _hold_ it with determination and _use_ it. Children often fail to hold a question in mind long enough to give a relevant answer. I once asked a fifth-year class in history, "Who discovered America?" when almost immediately came the response, "Vespucci sailed along the coast of South America and named the whole country!" Or they hold it in mind a moment, and then confuse it with other things, or let it go entirely. I asked the class, "What is the color of the Indians?" and received an answer telling about their color and their clothing. At another time I inquired, "How long has it been since America was discovered?" One boy replied, "Two hundred and fifty years," remembering, I suppose, that that number had recently been used in class. But the example in subtraction was solved on the blackboard before the class, and the correct answer, 413, was obtained. Once more I said, "Four hundred and thirteen years since what?" All were silent for a moment, having quite forgotten the original question. Then came the reply, "Since--since--Columbus sailed the deep." Such carelessness among children sometimes arouses the ire of teachers; but adults are little better. When a body of them meets for the discussion of a certain question, the probability is that, if the first speaker speaks directly to the point, the second will digress somewhat, the third will touch the subject only slightly, and the fourth will talk about a different matter. Many a discussion that has started off well leads to much excitement without any one's knowing definitely what the subject of dispute is. It is rarely the case that every page of a paper that is read before teachers bears plainly upon the subject announced. Only in parliamentary discussions, where there is always a definite "question before the house," is it customary for participants to remember the topic and stick to it. This happens then only because it is understood that any one may be "called to order" at any time, and for the sake of self-protection each person makes a special effort not to forget. This exceptional caution must become habitual with the student if he is to study effectively. He must look for the principal thought until he finds it; and, having found it, he must _nurse_ it by recalling it every few minutes, while using it as a basis for determination of values. _Rapid reading and its method among scholars._ That various rates of reading are desirable, even to the point of skipping over much matter, is indicated by the way in which some eminent men have studied. For instance, Joseph Cook in his _Hints for Home Reading_ remarks, "It is said that Carlyle reads on an average a dozen books a day. Of course he examines them chiefly with his fingers, and after long practice is able to find at once the jugular vein and carotid artery of any author." Likewise, "John Quincy Adams was said to have 'a carnivorous instinct for the jugular vein' of an argument." [Footnote: Page 80.] "Rapid reading," says Koopman, [Footnote: Koopman, _The Mastery of Books_, p. 47.] "is the... difficult art of skipping needless words and sentences. To recognize them as needless without reading them, is a feat that would be thought impossible, if scholars everywhere did not daily perform it. With the turning of a few leaves to pluck out the heart of a book's mystery--this is the high art of reading, the crowning proof that the reader has attained the mastery of books." The fact that the first and last parts of both paragraphs and chapters very often reveal their leading thought, is of course a great aid in such rapid reading. _Is the spirit of induction here opposed?_ It is pertinent to ask whether this method of study does not oppose the spirit of induction. Men like Carlyle seem to ignore that spirit when they turn quickly to the central ideas or a book and, after reading these, cast the work aside. It should be remembered, however, that the minds of such men are so well stocked with information that most, and sometimes all, of the author's details may be unnecessary to them; they are already prepared for the generalization. The ordinary student, proceeding more slowly, can also be on the watch at the start for the main issues, without offending against induction. In so doing he is not necessarily attempting to master the abstractions first; he may be merely trying to find out what the main questions are, in order to supply himself with a guide. Many an author states his principal problem near the beginning of his treatment, and then it is easy for the reader or listener to view all the details in its light. But when this is not the case, the student must go in quest of it in order to _get the setting_ for all the statements, rather than in order to assimilate it. He must see the whole in some perspective before he can study the parts intelligently. The worth of specific purposes as discussed in pp. 31-60 is clearly seen in this connection. _Relation of such neglect to thoroughness. 1. A common conception of thoroughness and its influence on practice._ It is of vital importance further to inquire what relation such neglect bears to thoroughness in study. The answer depends upon the meaning attached to the word _thorough_. We often hear it said that "Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle"; also that "thoroughness has to do with details." Again, as a warning against carelessness in little matters, we are told that-- For the want of a nail the shoe was lost. For the want of a shoe the horse was lost. For the want of the horse the rider was lost. For the want of the rider the battle was lost. For the loss of the battle the kingdom was lost. There is certainly a valuable truth in these maxims, and some people, therefore, accept them at their face value. Calling to mind that many of the greatest discoveries have hinged on seemingly insignificant facts, and that the world-renowned German scientists are distinguished by infinite pains in regard to details, they conceive that the student is primarily concerned with trifles. Knowing that the dollars will take care of themselves if the dimes are carefully saved, they reason that knowledge is properly mastered if the little things receive close attention. It becomes their ambition, therefore, to let nothing that is little escape them. In this spirit the conscientious student, largely identifying conscientiousness with thoroughness, keeps a special watch for little things, feeling that the smaller an item is the more fully it tests his thoroughness, and the more meritorious he is if he attends to it. The influence of this notion of thoroughness upon practice has been marked in some schools. And since spelling furnishes excellent material for testing care for details, that subject has often been given high rank partly for that special reason. I have known one large training school for teachers in which for twenty years and more probably more time and energy on the part of both faculty and students were expended on spelling than on any other single subject. It was unpardonable not to cross the _t_ or dot the _i_, not to insert the hyphen or the period. Having written a word in spelling, it was a heinous offense to change it after second thought, and a dozen misspelled words per term seriously endangered one's diploma at the end of the three-year course. No one can deny great merit to such strenuousness. So definite an aim, applied to all subjects and relentlessly pursued by a whole faculty,--as was the case in this school,--compelled students to work till they overworked, and the school was therefore regarded as excellent. Yet this conception makes thoroughness a purely _quantitative_ matter; it accepts _thoroughness_ as meaning _throughness_ or completeness, signifying the inclusion of everything from "beginning to end," or from "cover to cover." _2. The correct notion of thoroughness._ This notion of thoroughness, however, is certainly wrong in opposing all neglect; and the above-quoted maxims show themselves, in their disregard for relative values, to be only half truths, In the school just mentioned there was small emphasis of relative worths and of the use of judgment in the choice of objects to receive one's attention. As thoroughness consisted in attention to details, little things became _per se_ worthy of study, and comparative worth was on that account overlooked. But, as we have seen, there is no hope of mastering _all_ the ideas connected with any topic, so that the student must be reconciled to the exercise of judgment in making selection. This choice must be exercised, too, among the details themselves; it is not confined to a selection of the large thoughts in distinction from the details. Details vary infinitely among themselves in value; some, like the horseshoe nail, easily bear a vital relation to large results; others, like the use of a hyphen in a word, in all probability bear no important relation to anything. Those that have this vital relation are essential and need careful attention; the others are non-essential and deserve for that reason to be neglected. In other words, thoroughness is a _qualitative_ rather than a quantitative matter; it is qualitative because it involves careful selection in accordance with the nature and relation of the details. The student, to whom thoroughness is a question of _allness_ needs mental endurance as a chief virtue; the real student, on the other hand, requires constant exercise of judgment. In brief, the proper kind of thoroughness calls for a good degree of good sense. The thoroughness that is here advocated implies no underestimate of little things; it only condemns want of discrimination among them. Even the painstaking German scientist is no devotee to all things that are little. Carrying on his investigation with reference to some definite problem, he is concerned only with such details as are closely related to it. If he is uncertain just what so-called little things do relate to it,--as has been the case, for instance, in the investigation of the cause of yellow fever,--he carefully investigates one thing after another. But in so doing he discriminates very sharply among details, throwing many aside without hesitation, briefly examining some, and finally settling on certain ones for exhaustive study. It is only those little things that are thus related to something of real value that deserve attention. The mathematician is a stickler for little things. He insists that figures should be plainly made, and that 1 + 1 should never be allowed to equal 3. He is wholly in the right, because the slightest error in reading a number, in placing a decimal point, or in finding a sum must vitiate the whole result. Little things of that sort are called little, but they are in reality big. It is unfortunate that such matters are often called trifles, for a trifle is usually supposed to be something that is of very little account; the name thus misleads. Such details are essential; other details are non-essential. It would be well if people would more generally divide details into these two classes, and apply the term trifles only to the latter sort. By neglecting non-essentials one could find more time for the details that are essential. Neglect of some things, therefore, instead of being opposed to thoroughness, is a direct and necessary means to it. One cannot deny that this notion of thoroughness has its dangers, for it places the responsibility upon the student of using his own judgment. That is always dangerous. If the student lacks earnestness, or insight, or balance, he is bound to make mistakes. He is likely to make them anyway; and he may merely pick and choose according to comfort or whim, and do the most desultory, careless studying. It would be easier for him to "look out for all the little things" than to discriminate among them, for intelligent selection requires more real thinking. _The dangers in these conceptions, and the conclusion. 1. The danger in this conception of thoroughness._ On the other hand, it should be remembered that neglect of details in general has not been advocated; it is only a judicious selection among them. And such selection calls for no more energy or ability than selection among larger facts. If we can trust students at all to distinguish values among the larger thoughts--as every one knows that we must--there is the same reason for trusting them to distinguish the relative worths of details. _2. The danger in the alternative plan._ The dangers of the alternative plan should also be borne in mind. Suppose that a capable student is taught to let no trifles escape him. The danger then is that, to the extent that he is earnest, he will fall in love with little things, until his vision for larger things becomes clouded. He may always be intending to pass beyond these to the larger issues; but he is in danger of failing so regularly that he will come in time to value details in themselves, not for what they lead to; the details become the large things, and the really large matters are forgotten. A former professor in a large normal school illustrated this tendency exactly. At sixty years of age he was an unusually well-informed, cultured man, but he had developed a mania for little things. He had charge of the practice department, and each fall term it was customary to receive applications from about two hundred students for the practice teaching for that term. Each applicant filled out a blank, giving his name, age, preferred study to teach, preferred age of children, and experience in teaching. These papers had to be briefly examined; then at four o'clock in the afternoon of the same first day all these applicants were to be called together in one group for instructions about their teaching. By this arrangement the practice teaching could be started off very promptly. On one occasion in the writer's knowledge, however, this gentleman could not resist the temptation to blue-pencil every mistake in spelling, punctuation, grammar, etc., that he could find in this entire set of papers, which must have occupied nearly two hours. Meanwhile, this task was so hugely absorbing, he entirely forgot to notify the two hundred applicants that they were wanted at four o'clock, and thus one day out of a year of less than two hundred was largely lost for the practice teaching. The main fault of half of the good teachers in the elementary schools to-day is over-conscientiousness about little things. Believing that every mistake in written work should be corrected, that the blackboard should be kept thoroughly clean, that each day's lessons should be carefully planned, that, in short, every little duty should be well performed, they putter away at such tasks until there is no time left for much larger duties, such as physical exercise, sociability, and general reading. As a result they become habitually tired, unsympathetic, and narrow, and therefore _schoolish_. It is a strange commentary on education when conscientiousness means particular care for little things, as it very often does among teachers. It is desirable that a teacher prepare each day's lessons in full, and that she do a hundred other things each day, as well. But when she cannot do all these--and she never can--it is highly important that she apportion her time according to relative values; for instance, it is far better that she omit some of her preparation of lessons for the sake of recreation, if recreation would otherwise be omitted. People are unfitted for the work of life until they view it in fair perspective. One of the important objects of abundant and broad educational theory for teachers is to help them preserve the proper balance between large and small things; and, owing to the common tendency to neglect the larger things for the smaller, one of the prominent duties of school principals and supervisors is to remind both teachers and students of the larger values in life in general and in study in particular. _3. The conclusion._ It is evident that grave dangers are at hand, whether one slights some details or attempts to master them all. But no matter what the dangers are, there is one right thing for the student to do, that is, to develop the habit of weighing worths, of sensing the relative values of the facts that he meets. Good judgment consists largely in the proper appreciation of relative values; and since that is one of the very prominent factors in successful living, as well as in study, it is one of the most important abilities for the student to cultivate. Not only the equal valuation of all details, but the treatment of various rules and virtues as absolute, is likewise directly hostile to this habit of mind. Young people who are taught to be always economical, or always punctual, or always regular, are thereby tempted to substitute thoughtless obedience for exercise of judgment. It is not always wise to be saving. A certain college boy owned three pairs of gloves; one pair was so old and soiled that it was suitable only for use in the care of the furnace; the other two pairs were quite new. However, having been taught to be always saving, he wore the old pair to college during much of his senior year, and saved the other two. He was true to his early teaching at the expense of good sense. There are few circumstances in life that can be properly treated by rule of thumb. Good judgment is called for at every turn; and the habit of considering relative values in regard to all affairs is one that the student should constantly cultivate, no matter what dangers have to be encountered. ABILITY OF CHILDREN TO NEGLECT UNIMPORTANT DETAILS This ability is so intimately related to the ability that is necessary in grouping related facts that the one can hardly exist without the other. Yet it is well to observe what a demand there is for neglect in ordinary school work, and how this demand is met by children. Mistakes in beginning reading are very common, such as saying _a_ for _an_, _the_ for _thu_, not pausing for a comma, leaving out a word, putting in a word, etc. When fairy tales are related, slight omissions, mistakes in grammar, too frequent use of _and_, etc. are to be expected. In the pupil's board work, penmanship, and written composition minor errors are innumerable. What is to be done with all these? Certainly many of them must be entirely passed over, or more important things will never be reached. In their literature and in their reference books many little difficulties are met with that must likewise be overlooked. Take for instance the following typical paragraph from Hawthorne's _Gorgon's Head:_ "Well, then," continued the king, still with a _cunning_ smile on his lips, "I have a little _adventure_ to propose to you; and, as you are a brave and _enterprising_ youth, you will doubtless look upon it as a great piece of good luck to have so rare an opportunity of _distinguishing_ yourself. You must know, my good Perseus, I think of getting married to the beautiful Princess Hippodamia; and it is _customary_, on these occasions, to make the bride a present of some _far-fetched_ and _elegant curiosity_. I have been a little _perplexed_, I must honestly confess, where to obtain anything likely to please a princess of her _exquisite_ taste. But, this morning, I _flatter_ myself, I have thought of _precisely_ the article." Here is an adult's vocabulary, as well as an adult's ideas, with perhaps a dozen new words, and anything like mathematical thoroughness in the study of this paragraph would destroy its attractiveness. It is well for teachers to consider what would be a thorough treatment of such a section. Encyclopedias and other reference works also present many strange words and difficult paragraphs that children cannot stop to examine with care. In their ordinary school work, therefore, children find many details that must be overlooked; the more important things cannot be accomplished unless these less important ones are ignored. It would be strange if children were quite incapable of doing what is so plainly required of them. It is true that they can be taught to reach the extreme of foolishness in the insignificance of the details that they mention. But it is also true that a fair amount of wise guidance will lead them to exercise good judgment in their selection. In other words, thoroughness as a relative and qualitative matter, rather than only quantitative, can be appreciated by them. Any teacher who has tested them carefully in this respect is likely to agree to this assertion. It is as natural for a lot of children to condemn the mention of useless detail, because of its waste of time, as it is for them to condemn selfish or immoral conduct. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHING CHILDREN TO NEGLECT RELATIVELY UNIMPORTANT DETAILS _1. Placing responsibility upon children._ The responsibility of deciding what shall be neglected should very often be left with the children, no matter how many mistakes and how much loss of time it may temporarily cause. Criticisms and suggestions from the teacher would be in place later. Many parents as well as teachers refuse to place this responsibility upon children for fear of the mistakes that they will make. On account of this fear they make it as nearly as possible unnecessary for children to judge freely, by giving them arbitrary rules to follow, or by directing them exactly what they shall do each moment. This cultivates poor judgment by depriving children of the very practice that will make their judgments reliable; it prevents the school requirements from corresponding to those in life outside. Confidence in the general and growing good sense of children is a presupposition in the sensible parent and teacher. Having such confidence, their mission is to let these young people alone much of the time; to direct, not to control the selections that they make, assuming the role of advisers and critics but not dictators. This training toward independent judgment should begin even in the first year of school. If Johnny raises his hand in beginning reading to state that Mary said _a_ for _the_, the teacher need not either accept or reject the criticism. She may merely turn to the whole class and ask whether that is a helpful correction to make. A similar course may be pursued with many corrections and suggestions in later years. In this way a class sense of what is fitting or valuable in the way of neglect can be developed. It should be remembered, however, that children cannot judge the worth of details without a basis of some sort. Unless, therefore, they helplessly rely upon the direction of the teacher in each case, they must be taught what the reading or other subject is for. They must gradually get a fair idea, for instance, of what good reading is, and realize that it includes pleasant tones, a careful grouping of words, much inflection of voice, and clear enunciation of final consonants. As they become acquainted with this standard in reading, they will readily learn to overlook such details as have little to do with its attainment. It is true that it saves much time for the teacher herself to determine what shall or shall not receive attention, or at least for her to accept or reject a child's suggestion dogmatically, rather than to allow him or the whole class to pass upon its worth. Also, the constant demand for "more facts" tempts teachers to save time in this way. But again, it behooves the teacher as well as the pupil to use judgment, and not sacrifice one of the main objects of an education in order to save some time. _2. Class study of printed articles._ Children who use reference works might now and then study an encyclopedic article together merely to see what parts should be slighted. When looking for a certain fact they will discover, from the way the paragraphs begin, that one paragraph after another can be discarded without being read in full. In the same spirit newspapers might be studied by the older children, to determine from the headings what articles need not be read at all, what ones in a cursory manner, and what ones carefully, if any. Similar study of some magazines might be in place. It is a duty of the school thus to accustom pupils to proper methods of reading common kinds of printed matter. _3. Reduction of reproductions._ Pupils might occasionally be asked to reproduce a story or any other line of thought as fully as they wish. Suppose that it occupies six pages. Then they might be requested to reduce it to three pages, and perhaps, finally, to one page, eliminating each time what is of least importance. Such an exercise compels a very careful study of relative values. _4. Holding and carrying a point._ Having decided upon a definite problem for consideration, all grades of learners might be held responsible for detecting beginning wanderings of thought. They might accustom themselves to the responsibility of rising to a point of order at such times, stating the main question and asking the suspected person to show the relevancy of his remarks. There is no reason why the teacher should carry this responsibility alone; indeed, it is an imposition on the children, checking their growth in judgment and power of initiative. Again, at times students in all grades might be allowed full freedom, in order to show how quickly they will engage in discussion, and even become excited, with no definite question before them. They may not realize their error, however, until asked to state what they are considering. It should be remembered that the question at issue may be as much neglected in the reading of books as in participation in discussion; on this account the method of reading might be tested in a similar manner. _5. Encouragement of different rates of reading._ Finally, varying rates of reading should be encouraged, according to the nature of the subject matter. While some books should be perused very slowly and thoughtfully, others should be covered as rapidly as possible. In the case of many novels, for instance, the ideas are so simple that they can be comprehended as rapidly as the words can be scanned. Many persons, however, can read only as fast as they can pronounce the words. They follow an established series of associations: first, the word is observed; this image calls up its sound; the sound then recalls the meaning. Thus the order is _sight, sound, meaning._ That is a roundabout way of arriving at the meaning of a page and is usually learned in childhood. It explains why many an educated adult can read very little faster silently than aloud. Some adults read fast simply by skimming over the less important parts, which is often justified. Some, however, save time by associating the form of a word directly with its meaning, leaving the sound out of consideration. Then by running the eye along rapidly they double and treble the ordinary rate of advance. It is said that Lord Macaulay read silently about as rapidly as a person ordinarily thumbs the pages; and he must have seen the individual words, because his remarkable memory often enabled him to reproduce the text verbatim. The slow-reading adult can, by practice, learn to take in a whole line or more almost at a glance, in place of three or four words, and can thus increase his rate of advance. But habit is so powerful that the rapid eye-movement necessary in rapid reading, together with the direct association of the form of a word with its meaning, should be learned in childhood. To this end, children should often be timed in their reading, being allowed only a few seconds or minutes to cover a certain amount. Some exercises might be given them, too, so as to accustom them to taking in a considerable number of words at a glance. Meanwhile, however, pains should be taken to avoid the impression that rapid reading is always in place. Matter that requires much reflection, like the Bible for example, may well be read slowly. It is not merely rapid reading, but varying rates according to need, that the teacher should encourage. There is no expectation that children will learn to handle books as Carlyle did. But they should be guided by the same general principles, and should form practical acquaintance with these principles while in school. Ordinarily there is a striking contrast between the use of books in school and outside, and the different rates of reading in the two places afford a striking illustration. Text in school is taken up in a gingerly fashion, scarcely enough of it being assigned for one lesson to get the child interested. Then this is reviewed over and over until any interest that may originally have been excited is long since destroyed. Thoroughness is aimed at, at the expense of life. In independent reading outside of school the opposite course is pursued. In the reaction from the school influence children revel in their freedom to do the things that their teachers forbid, and they accordingly go racing through their volumes. Both methods are at fault. The school handling of books is intolerably slow; that outside is likely to be too rapid. In general, the method of using books in school should more closely resemble that desired elsewhere. The school method is the first to be reformed. It is seldom wise to be so thorough in the treatment of a text as to kill it for the learner. As a rule longer textbook lessons should be assigned in the elementary school, and less attention should be given to the minor facts. Then, if necessary, the same general field should be covered from another point of view, through another text. This change of method is already largely realized in our beginning reading, and partly realized in several other subjects. CHAPTER VI JUDGING OF THE SOUNDNESS AND GENERAL WORTH OF STATEMENTS, AS A FOURTH FACTOR IN STUDY We have already seen that proper study places much responsibility upon the student. Instead of allowing him to be an aimless collector of facts, it requires him to discover specific purposes that the facts may serve. With such purposes in mind he must supplement authors' statements in numerous ways, and also pass judgment on their relative values. This all requires much aggressiveness. _The problem here._ A problem now confronts us that suggests even greater aggressiveness. The statements that one hears or finds in print are often somewhat exaggerated, or distorted, or grossly incorrect, or they may be entirely true. Who is to pass judgment upon their quality? Has the young student any proper basis for carrying that responsibility? _Pressing nature of this problem. 1. In reading newspapers and magazines._ This problem is forced upon one when reading newspapers, particularly during political campaigns. One paper lauds a candidate as a great administrator, while another condemns him as a doctrinaire. One advocates protective tariff and the gold standard, while another urges revenue tariff only and free silver. Among the news columns one article predicts war, while another discerns signs of peace. Russia is at one time pictured as moving fast toward complete anarchy, while at another time she is shown to be making important political advances. The Japanese are praised for their high standards of life, and are again condemned for their immorality. Magazine articles show disagreements just as striking. Public men, political policies, corporations, and religious beliefs are approved or condemned according to the individual writer. What, then, is the proper attitude for the reader? Is he to regard one authority as about as good as another, or is he himself to distinguish among them and judge each according to the evidence that is offered? _2. In the use of books._ D'Aubigne's _History of the Reformation_ is an extremely interesting work; but it treats the Reformation from the Protestant view-point, and is on that account unacceptable to Catholics. The history of our Civil War presents one series of facts when written by a northerner; a very different series when written by a southerner; and a still different one when written by an Englishman. Shall the student of either of these periods adopt the views of the author that he happens to be reading? Or shall he assume a view-point of his own? Or shall he do neither? Carlyle and Ruskin indulge in much exaggeration, relying on striking statements for increased effect. Shakespeare possibly intended to present an exaggerated type of the Jew in the character of Shylock. Shall the student recognize exaggeration as such? Or shall he take all statements literally? Or shall he avoid doing either, preserving an inactive mind? In his work on _Education_, Herbert Spencer states that "acquirement of every kind has two values--value as knowledge and value as discipline. Besides its use for guidance in conduct, the acquisition of each order of facts has also its use as mental exercise." Many students of education would assert that one very important value of knowledge is here overlooked, _i. e._, its power to inspire and energize, a value that literature possesses to a high degree. Assuming that they are correct, dare the young student pass such a criticism? Or would such a critical attitude on his part toward a high authority be impertinent? The first paragraph in Rousseau's _Emile_ runs as follows: "Coming from the hand of the Author of all things, everything is good; in the hands of man everything degenerates. Man obliges one soil to nourish the productions of another, one tree to bear the fruits of another; he mingles and confounds climates, elements, seasons; he mutilates his dog, his horse, his slave. He overturns everything, disfigures everything; he loves deformity, monsters; he desires that nothing should be as Nature made it, not even man himself. To please him man must be broken in like a horse; man must be adapted to man's own fashion, like a tree in his garden." At the bottom of the first page of the translation of _Emile_ by Miss Worthington is a note by Jules Steeg, Depute, Paris, bearing on the above first paragraph and running as follows: "It is useless to enlarge upon the absurdity of this theory, and upon the flagrant contradiction into which Rousseau allows himself to fall. If he is right, man ought to be left without education, and the earth without cultivation. This would not be even the savage state. But want of space forbids us to pause at each like statement of our author, who at once busies himself in nullifying it." Opposing statements like these are certainly enough to place the student in a dilemma. _Proper attitude of the student toward authorities._ Here are contradictions in political and religious beliefs and news items; very different interpretations of historical events; exaggerations bordering on misrepresentations; and evident omissions and absurdities on the part of educational philosophers. The weather bureau represents Old Reliability herself, in comparison with authors. What attitude shall the adult student assume toward such contradictory and faulty statements? Shall he regard himself as only a follower, taking each presentation of thought at its face value, sitting humbly at the feet of supposed specialists, and carefully preserving in memory as many of their principal opinions and conclusions as possible? Shall he assume the position of a mere receiver and collector? That is manifestly impossible, for that would mean an ego divided a thousand times. It would prevent the final using of knowledge by the learner, instead of directing its use wisely; for the many opposing ideas and cross purposes would nullify one another. Besides that, wise application requires far more than a good memory as a guide, since memory takes no account of the adaptations always required by new conditions. Whether he likes it or not, the student cannot escape the responsibility of determining for himself the fairness and general reliability of the newspapers and magazines that he reads; he must expect bias in historians, and must measure the extent of it as well as he can by studying their biographies and by observing their care in regard to data and logic; he must scrutinize very critically the ideas of the world's greatest essayists and dramatists. If a philosopher, like Rousseau, offers brilliant truths on one page, and equally brilliant perversions of truth on the next page, the student must ponder often and long in order to keep his bearings; and if footnotes attempt to point out some of these absurdities, he must decide for himself whether Rousseau or the commentator shows the superior wisdom. "Above all," says Koopman, "he [the student] must make sure how far he can trust the author." [Footnote: Koopman, _The Mastery of Books_, p. 47.] "Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to _weigh_ and _consider_," says Bacon. [Footnote: Bacon's _Essays Of Studies_.] Every book we read may be made a round in the ever-lengthening ladder by which we climb to knowledge and to that temperance and serenity of mind which, as it is the ripest fruit of wisdom, is also the sweetest. But this can only be if we read such books as make us think, and read them in such a way as helps them to do so, that is, _by endeavoring to judge them_, and thus to make them an exercise rather than a relaxation of the mind. Desultory reading except as conscious pastime, hebetates the brain and slackens the bow string of Will. [Footnote: Lowell, _Books and Libraries._] The student, therefore, must set himself up as judge of whatever ideas appear before him. They are up for trial on their soundness and worth; he must uncover their merits and defects, and pass judgment on their general value. If he is hasty and careless, he suffers the penalty of bad judgment; and if he refrains from judging at all, he becomes one who "does not know his own mind," a weakling. Who reads Incessantly, and to his reading brings not A spirit and judgment equal or superior Uncertain and unsettled still remains, Deep versed in books and shallow in himself. [Footnote: Milton, _Paradise Regained_, Book 4, line 322.] _The necessity of this attitude in the acceptance as well as in the rejection of ideas._ The need of such an attitude may be granted when the rejection of ideas is necessary. But there are many works that have been tried for ages and found undoubtedly excellent. There are many men, also, who are acknowledged authorities in their specialties. In the case of such books and men, where little if any negative criticism is to be expected, cannot the student set out merely to enjoy the merits and not bother about the defects? Can he not, therefore, abandon the critical attitude and accept outright what is offered? That depends on how much is involved in real acceptance. A wise young woman who rejects a suitor does so for reasons of some sort; her reasons should certainly not be less clear if she accepts him; on the contrary, they are more likely to have been investigated with care. The rejection of a lover is, then, no more positive thing, involves no more intelligence and emotion, than his acceptance. Again, a competent supervisor of instruction who accepts as good some recitation that he has observed, does so on the basis of specific points of merit that he has seen. Otherwise his acceptance is only flattery and is unacceptable to an earnest teacher. So, in general, the acceptance of any line of thought or action presupposes a consciousness of certain merits. Intelligent acceptance is thoughtful or critical. There is a common idea that acceptance is far more easy and far less aggressive than negative criticism. The contrary, however, is probably true. The former idea is due to the fact that much acceptance, as of political and religious doctrine, for example, is only nominal or verbal; it is not intelligent or critical enough to be genuine. Any one can find fault, it is often declared; but the recognition of merit requires special insight. Rejection, therefore, is no more aggressive or positive than acceptance; and if one of these calls for a more critical attitude and more mental energy than the other, it is probably the latter. _Relation of the critical attitude to sympathy and respect._ What is the relation of this critical attitude to sympathy for an author? One of the essential conditions in the proper study of a book is that it be approached with an open, sympathetic mind. One must look at the world through the author's eyes in order to understand and appreciate what he says, and that is possible only when one feels high respect for him and is in close sympathy with him. To this end, it may be well at times for the student to annihilate his own personality, as Ruskin advises, so as to lose himself in another's thought. If the critical attitude were incompatible with such respect and sympathy, its value might well be questioned. But that is not the case. A sensible parent who is in closest sympathy with a child finds no great difficulty in seeing its defects and even in administering punishment for them. There are parents and teachers who cannot thus combine real sympathy with the critical attitude; but they are too weak and foolish to rear children. Helpful friendships among adults, also, are not based upon blind admiration; they presuppose ability to discern faults and even courage now and then to mention them. One cannot be a true scholar without making a similar combination. The unquestioning frame of mind that allows a sympathetic approach to an author marks one stage in study; but this must be followed by the critical attitude before the study is complete. That the two attitudes are not incompatible is well stated by Porter in the following words: "We should read with an independent judgment and a critical spirit. It does not follow, because we should treat an author with confidence and respect, that we are to accept all his opinions and may not revise his conclusions and arguments by our own. Indeed, we shall best evince our respect for his thoughts by subjecting them to our own revision." [Footnote: Noah Porter, _Books and Reading_, p. 52.] _How daily life requires similar independence of judgment._ While the demand thus made upon the scholar seems great, there is nothing surprising about it; for the scholar's relation to an author is substantially the same as that of any adult to other persons with whom he has dealings. If you go to a store to purchase a pair of rubbers, you cannot surrender yourself complacently to any clerk who happens to wait upon you. He is very likely to be satisfied to sell you rubbers that are too long or too short, too wide or too narrow, or at least not of the shape of your shoes. Or he may want to sell you storm rubbers when you prefer low ones. Unless, therefore, you carry a standard in mind and reject whatever fails to meet it, you are very likely to buy rubbers that won't be satisfactory. The same is true if you go to a tailor for clothing; unless you know him to be unusually reliable, it is not enough for him to tell you that a coat fits; you must test the statement by your own observation. Some years ago a house that I occupied in New York City became infested with rats, and, wanting to reach the kitchen from the cellar, they gnawed an inch hole through a lead drain pipe from the laundry tubs, that lay in their way. The hole was behind a cupboard in the kitchen, very close to the wall, and not easy to reach. If clean clothing was to be had, the pipe had to be fixed; but when a plumber was called in, he stated that a carpenter would be needed to remove the cupboard, and again to replace it after the work was completed. The pipe having the hole, he added, would need to be taken out, and, as it was one arm of a larger pipe that had two other branches, the pipe with the three arms would have to be removed and another put in its place. The entire work was estimated to cost about fifteen dollars. As that seemed a large amount to invest in a rat hole, another plumber was consulted; but he made substantially the same report. Still not being satisfied, I went to a hardware store and asked, "Have you a man who can solder a thin metal plate over a small hole in a lead pipe? The hole is about an inch in diameter and somewhat difficult to reach; but the work can be done by any one who knows his business." The merchant said that he had such a man. The man was sent over; he did the work in a few minutes, and the bill was seventy-five cents. Plumbers are probably as honest and capable in their lines as most classes of workmen; but many persons have learned to their sorrow not to place themselves as clay in their hands. A man who builds a house should keep more than half an eye on his architect, otherwise the house is likely to cause numerous lifelong regrets. Even one's physician is not to be implicitly obeyed on all occasions. If a patient knows that quinine acts as a poison upon him, as it does upon some persons, he must refuse to take it. Also, if a physician gives too much medicine, as physicians have been known to do, one must discover the fact for himself, or his alimentary canal may suffer. Such men are merely types of the many persons who surround us and help us to live; we must be judges of the conduct of each of them toward us, if we wish to be healthy and happy. Must we, then, pass upon everything; and is no person to be fully trusted? How can any one find time for the exercise of so much wisdom? And what are specialists for? Certainly many, many things must be taken for granted. When you board a train, you cannot make sure that the trainmen are all qualified for their positions and that all parts of the train and of the track are in proper condition. If, however, you choose a poorly managed road, in place of a well-managed one, you are more likely to be killed on the journey. In other words, while many things must be assumed, the responsibility of determining what they shall be rests with you, and you suffer the penalty of any bad selection. Your own judgment is still your guide. Many persons must likewise be trusted. But who shall they be, and to what extent? The objects of choice have now been merely shifted from things to human beings, and independent judgment must still be exercised the same as before. The difficulty is fully as great, too. Says Holmes, "We have all to assume a standard of judgment in our own minds, either of things or persons. A man who is willing to take another's opinion has to exercise his judgment in the choice of whom to follow, which is often as nice a matter as to judge of things for one's self." [Footnote: Holmes, _Autocrat of the Breakfast Table._] Reasons for the use of independent judgment may be found in lack of knowledge on the part of others, or of skill, or of judgment, or of energy, or of honesty. But there is a more fundamental reason than either incompetence or dishonesty, and it is found in the peculiar circumstances of each person. The point of view of an architect is not the same as that of the owner of a house. Every one hundred dollars added to the cost of a building rejoices the architect's heart because it increases his income. On the other hand, every hundred dollars thus added tends to produce depression in the owner's mind. Similarly, the point of view of any specialist or friend is different from yours; it can never be fully your own. Just because no one can look at your affairs from your own point of view, no one is fully qualified to judge them for you, and you must rely upon yourself. The people with whom we trade, therefore, the specialists and friends to whom we go, like the authors that the student consults, are all related to us merely as advisers. No one of them is fitted to tell us exactly what to do, and the proper attitude toward them all is that of friendly suspicion. _Greatness of each person's responsibility for judging._ This conception of each person's relation to ideas and to the world at large places his judgment on a high plane. Whether he will or not, every man is intellectually a sovereign whose own judgment in the decision of all his affairs is his court of last resort. This is a grave responsibility, indeed; and it is no wonder that many shrink from it. Yet what better state can be conceived? This responsibility proves the dignity of manhood; it is the price of being a man. Fairly good judgment, exercised independently of everybody, is one essential condition of self-direction and of leadership of others. The importance of good judgment is often emphasized; and the reason for it is here evident, since it must guide us at every turn. The reason for education of judgment is also evident. Every person is bound to make many mistakes; but he will make far fewer when his ability to judge has been properly trained. The utter inadequacy of instruction that aims mainly at acquisition of facts is likewise evident; for the exercise of judgment involves the use or adaptation of knowledge to particular conditions, and the mere possession of facts bears little relation to this ability. _The basis that every student has for judging worth._ It may seem presumptuous for a young student of education to pass judgment upon the greatest writers on education that the world has produced, such as Spencer and Rousseau. Certainly the opinions of such great men are far more valuable and reliable, on the whole, than those of an immature student. The architect's knowledge of building, likewise, is superior to that or a novice in that line. Granted, therefore, that no one person is in a position to judge for another, what right, what basis has this other, particularly the inexperienced person, to judge any and every sort of affairs for himself? He has basis enough. Speaking of the value of expert knowledge, Aristotle says: "Moreover, there are some artists whose works are judged of solely, or in the best manner, not by themselves but by those who do not possess the art; for example, the knowledge of the house is not limited to the builder; the user, or, in other words, the master of the house will even be a better judge than the builder, just as the pilot will judge better of a rudder than the carpenter, and the guest will judge better of a feast than the cook." [Footnote: Aristotle, _Politics_ (Jowett), p. 88.] The reason that the non-expert can thus sometimes even surpass the expert himself in judging of the latter's work is found in the fact that the non-expert as well as the specialist has had much valuable experience bearing on the specialist's line. A very important truth is here suggested concerning the student. Nothing that one is fitted to study is wholly new or strange to him. Any person must have had experiences that parallel an author's thought in order to understand that author. For, according to the principle of apperception, intimately related past experience is the sole basis for the comprehension of new facts. Values are no newer or stranger to the student than other phases of experience. The student's related past, therefore, furnishes as good a basis for judging soundness or worth as it does for getting at meanings. When, for instance, he reads Spencer's statement that "acquisition of every kind has two values,--value as knowledge and value as discipline"--he can verify each use out of his own life. He can determine for himself that the assertion holds. On the other hand, he can quite likely recall how he has sometimes been aroused and stirred to new effort by things that he has read; and he may, in consequence, question whether Spencer has not here overlooked one great value of knowledge. Again, when the student is told by Rousseau that "in the hands of man everything degenerates," he can, no doubt, justify the assertion to some extent by recalling observed instances of such degeneration. But, in addition, when he recalls what he has observed and read about the wonderful advance made by man toward a higher civilization, and realizes that Rousseau is denying that there has been an advance, he is in a position to consider whether Rousseau is mainly in the right or mainly in the wrong. It is true that the student may be wrong in his conclusions; also that, even though he be often right, he may become a confirmed fault- finder. But that is not discouraging, for he is surrounded with dangers. The essential fact remains that, just as his past related experience furnishes a fair basis for understanding the meaning of what he hears and reads, so, also, it furnishes a fair basis for estimating its value. ABILITY OF CHILDREN TO JUDGE VALUES _A conception of child nature that denies such ability._ Many persons who agree to the necessity of independent judgment on the part of adults may demur at the idea of placing similar responsibility upon children. Are not children normally uncritical and imitative or passive? they say. And if we teach them to judge and criticise freely, are they not very likely to develop priggishness that will result in immodesty and disrespect for others? "Memory," says John Henry Newman, "is one of the first developed of the mental faculties; a boy's business, when he goes to school, is to _learn_, that is, to store up things in his memory. For some years his intellect is little more than an instrument for taking in facts, or a receptacle for storing them; he welcomes them as fast as they come to him; he lives on what is without; he has his eyes ever about him; he has a lively susceptibility of impressions; he imbibes information of every kind; and little does he make his own in the true sense of the word, living rather upon his neighbors all around him. He has opinions, religious, political, literary, and, for a boy, is very positive in them and sure about them; but he gets them from his schoolfellows, or his masters, or his parents, as the case may be. Such as he is in his other relations, such also is he in his school exercises; his mind is observant, sharp, ready, retentive; he is almost _passive_ in the acquisition of knowledge. I say this is no disparagement of the idea of a clever boy. Geography, chronology, history, language, natural history, he heaps up the matter of these studies as treasures for a future day. It is the seven years of plenty with him; he gathers in by handfuls, like the Egyptians, without counting; and though, as time goes on, there is exercise for his argumentative powers in the elements of mathematics, and for his taste in the poets and orators, still while at school, or at least till quite the last years of his time, he _acquires and little more;_ and when he is leaving for the university he is mainly the creature of foreign influences and circumstances, and made up of accidents, homogeneous or not as the case may be." [Footnote: John Henry Newman, _Scope and Nature of University Education,_ Discourse V.] This view of childhood is somewhat common; and according to it children are almost exclusively _receptive,_ any active exercise of judgment scarcely beginning before college entrance. _Extent of such ability. 1. as evidenced by individual examples of children's judgments._ Let us see to what extent this view holds when examined in the light of children's actual conduct. A first-grade pupil who had attended the kindergarten the previous year remarked to his former kindergarten teacher, "I wish I was back in the kindergarten." "Why?" said the kindergartner. "Because," said he, "we did _hard_ things in the kindergarten last year." Then he added confidentially, "You know our teacher was in the fourth grade last year. She used to come in to see us when we were playing, and she thinks we can't do anything else. Why, the things she gives us to do are _dead easy._" His teacher herself afterward admitted that his criticism was just. A small boy, being asked if he went to Sunday school, replied "Yes." "Have you a good teacher?" was the next question; to which came the response, "Yes, pretty good; good for a Sunday school. She would not be much good for day school." Wasn't he probably right? A five-year-old boy was taken to Sunday school for the first time by his nurse. There the chief topic of instruction happened to be eternal punishment. On the way home he was not altogether good, and the nurse, in the spirit of the day's lesson, assured him that he would go to the bad place when he died, and would burn there always. When he entered the house he hurried, sobbing, to his mother and declared vehemently: "Nurse says I'll go to the bad place when I die, and that I'll burn there always. I _won't_ burn always; I know I won't! I may burn a little bit. But I'm bad only part of the time; I am good part of the time; and I _know_ I won't burn always." His reasoning on theology was as sound as that of many a preacher. I was standing near a second-year class in reading one day when I overheard a boy say "Nonsense!" to himself, after reading a section. I agreed with him too fully to offer any reproof. An eight-year-old girl said to her mother, "May I iron my apron? I ironed a pillowcase." "Did Sarah [the maid] say that you ironed it well?" asked the mother. "No, she didn't say anything," was the response. "But I know that I ironed it well." Is that an entirely passive attitude? Rebecca had spent six years in the public schools of two large cities when she entered the seventh grade of the State Normal School. She had been called a "quiet child," "nervous" and "timid," by different teachers. After a very few days in the new school, however, she volunteered this expression of her thoughts: "I didn't think the Normal School would be anything like that. It's very different from the public schools. There only the teacher has opinions and she does all the talking; but in the Normal School the children can have opinions, and they can express them, and I like it." Any one who has had close contact with children knows that they have a remarkably keen sense of the justice or injustice of punishments inflicted upon them. As a rule, I would rather trust their judgment of their teachers than their parents' judgment, although it is true that parents form such judgment largely from hearing remarks from their children. Children are reasonably reliable, also, in judging one another's conduct, which they are prone to do. Such facts as these indicate that it is quite natural for children--even very young ones--to pass judgment of some kind on things about them, and that their judgments are fairly sound. They are hardly to be called merely passive receivers of ideas, mildly agreeing with the people about them. _2. As evidenced by the requirements of the school._ The school plainly assumes the presence of this ability by the requirements that it makes of children. One of the common questions in the combination of forms and colors, even in the kindergarten, is, "How do you like that?" In instruction in fine art throughout the grades their judgment as to what is most beautiful is continually appealed to. The judging of one another's compositions and other school products is a common task for pupils. In connection with fairy tales six-year-olds are frequently asked what they think of the story. Many say, "It is beautiful"; but now and then a bold spirit declares, "I don't like it." Children are expected to judge the quality of literature, distinguishing with ease between what is literal and what is imaginative, or figurative, or humorous. When they read that the rope with which the powerful Fenris-Wolf was bound was "made out of such things as the sound of a cat's footsteps, the roots of the mountains, the breath of a fish and the sinews of a bear, and nothing could break it," [Footnote: Hamilton Mabie's _Norse Myths,_ p. 166.] they are not deceived; they only smile. Now and then they make mistakes; but in general such stories as _Through the Looking-Glass_ and the "Uncle Remus" stories do not overtax their power to interpret conditions. What literature or history is there for children that omits the passing of moral judgments? Cinderella is approved of for her goodness, William Tell for his independence, Columbus for his boldness; Cinderella's sisters are condemned for their selfishness, and Gessler for his meanness. Without such exercise of judgment these two studies would miss one of their main benefits. The data that must be collected in nature study and history for the proof of statements give much practice in the weighing of evidence; and the self- government that is now so common, in various degrees, in good schools is supposed to be based upon a reasonable ability to weigh out justice. Thus the method both of instruction and of government in our better schools presupposes the ability on the part of pupils to judge worth; and the better teachers have considered it so important that they have constantly striven to develop it through instruction, just as sensible parents have placed upon their children some of the responsibility of buying their own clothing, doing the marketing, and planning work at home, in order to cultivate the power to make wise choice. If the ability to judge were really wanting in children, our supposedly best methods of teaching and governing them would need to be abandoned. _3. As evidenced by requirements of child life._ The best proof that children possess this ability is that they can scarcely get on without it. Several years ago, when I reached Indianapolis on a journey, I gave my bag to a boy ten or eleven years of age to carry to my hotel. While we were walking along together another boy stopped him and drew him to one side. I observed that they were having a serious conversation, and when we soon proceeded further I inquired what the trouble was. "That boy," said he, "wants me to divvy up with him." "What do you mean by that?" said I. "He wants me to give him half of the money that I am to get from you for carrying this bag," was the reply. "But," I responded indignantly, "he has not helped you at all. Why, then, should he receive anything?" "He shouldn't," came the answer; "but he belongs to a crowd of fellows, and he told me that if I didn't divvy up with them they would pound the life out of me." I pondered for some time, but I gave no advice. What advice should have been given? This is a striking ease; but it only illustrates very forcibly that children are not merely sleeping, and eating what is given to them, like cattle and sheep. Like adults they are surrounded with human beings and are leading moral lives. At home, in school, on the street, a hundred times a day they must "size up" people and situations and decide what is best to do. If they are weak in such decisions, they are regarded as weak in general; and if very weak, other persons must assume responsibility for them and "tote" them through life. On the other hand, if they are strong, they are classed as sensible persons, and they "get on" well. Children distinguish themselves as balanced and sensible, just as adults do, simply because they are wise in measuring values. Those persons who regard childhood as almost solely a period for receiving knowledge, seem to think that active life really begins only when one becomes of age. The fact is, it begins from eighteen to twenty-one years sooner than that; and throughout all those earlier years one has nearly as great a variety of trials, and trials usually of greater intensity for the moment, than adults have. In the midst of so much need, it would be strange, indeed, if one were endowed with no power, called judgment, to cope with difficult situations, if one had only the power to collect facts. That would leave us too helpless; it certainly would not be adaptation to environment, or normal evolution. In conclusion, therefore, those who deny a fair degree of sound judgment to children deny what seems a marked natural tendency of childhood; they pass a sweeping criticism upon what is now supposed to be the best method of instructing and governing children; and, finally, they deny to the child the one power that can make his knowledge usable and insure his adaptation to his environment. Self- reliance, which parents and teachers strive for so much, becomes then impossible among children, for self-reliance is nothing more than independent direction of self, made possible by power to judge conditions. Certainly most persons are unwilling to take this position in regard to the nature of childhood. They will agree that a twelve- year-old boy, sitting for an hour in the presence of the President of the United States and hearing him converse freely, without forming judgments about him, and many fairly accurate ones too, would be an abnormality. _Danger of priggishness._ What about the threatened priggishness and related evils that may result when the responsibility for passing judgment frequently is laid upon children? Certainly a modest sense of one's own merit and proper respect for others are highly desirable qualities. These qualities, however, are not greatly endangered by the exercise of intellectual independence, for it is little related to immodesty and impertinence. A few years ago when many distinguished scientists celebrated in Berlin the discovery of the Roentgen rays, Mr. Roentgen himself was not present. Although he had possessed boldness enough to enlarge the confines of knowledge, he lacked the courage to face the men who had met to do him honor, and he telegraphed his regrets. St. Paul, Erasmus, and Melanchthon were, intellectually, among the most independent of men; but St. Paul possessed the humility of the true Christian, and both Erasmus and Melanchthon were extremely modest. Pestalozzi was once sent by his government as a member of a commission to interview Napoleon. On his return from Paris he was asked whether he saw Napoleon. "No," said he, "I did not see Napoleon, and Napoleon did not see me." Recognizing the greatness of a real educator, he took away the breath of his friends by ranking himself alongside Napoleon as a truly great man. Yet he was one of the most modest, childlike men that the world has ever known. These examples show that the keenest, boldest of analysts and critics may yet be the humblest of men. Self-reliance is the more common name for similar independence among children; and it is no more nearly related to priggishness in their case than in the case of adults. The five-year-old child will often reject statements from his parents, even though he have the greatest respect and love for them. It is only natural for him to do so when assertions that he hears do not tally with his own experience; and he will retain such boldness throughout life unless made subservient by bad education. There is some danger, however, that the cultivation of this independence may make one a chronic fault-finder. It should not be forgotten, therefore, that judging means approving as well as condemning, and in case of children probably much more of the former than of the latter. In addition, care should be taken that children shall pass judgment only on matters lying fairly within their experience, and shall recognize the need, too, of giving good reasons for their conclusions. If these precautions be taken, the danger of priggishness is reduced to the minimum. What danger remains can afford to be risked; for independent judgment is the very basis of scholarship among adults, and mental submissiveness in childhood is not the best preparation for it. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR THE DEVELOPMENT OF INDEPENDENT JUDGMENT AMONG CHILDREN _1. Placing responsibility upon children at school._ Responsibilities that require exercise of judgment should be placed upon children throughout the school, from the kindergarten on. Scarcely a recitation need pass without opportunities of this kind. For example, children can determine the correctness of answers to questions put in class, can weigh the relative merits and the efficiency of tasks performed, can propose suitable ways of illustrating topics, such as lumbering, irrigation, mining, etc. The wisdom of plans for preserving order in the school, for decorating the building, and for improving the school in other respects can also be submitted to their judgment. It is by the exercise of judgment in many ways that young people will become judicious in numerous directions. It is not difficult for any teacher to do some work of this kind, but it is difficult to be consistent in it. Many teachers who are zealous in cultivating independent judgment a part of the time, undermine this influence at other times by arbitrary decisions or by a personality so overpowering that it allows no free scope to the child's personality. _2. Study of responsibilities borne at home._ Some study of the responsibilities that different children bear at home may prove very profitable. While some carry much responsibility there, others are given no option as to when they shall start to school each day, or how they shall dress, or who shall buy their clothes, or how they shall spend money. Thus they are allowed no opportunity to decide things for themselves or to develop independent judgment. Interviews with individual parents, and parents' meetings, may prove very fruitful along this line. _3. Consideration of the use to be made of advice._ In order to teach the nature of self-reliance and the scope of its exercise, the use to be made of the advice of friends should be a topic for occasional discussion. Many a young man and woman hesitates to ask the advice of others for fear that they may be offended if the advice given is not followed. They are justified, too, for many persons are offended in this way. The propriety of rejecting advice should be far more generally understood than it is. Then children, as well as young men and women, would seek it much oftener, to their lasting benefit. _4. Examples of combinations of modesty with independence._ Since modesty should be cultivated along with independent judgment, examples of distinguished men and women who have combined these two qualities should now and then be considered. _5. Observation of habits of pupils in use of judgment._ It is well to mark out for special attention such pupils as seem to be untrue to their own experience in judging, or such as seem to lack the energy to use it as a basis of judgment. For example, many eleven- and twelve-year-old children in their study of _Excelsior_ feel that the young man very rashly exposed himself and merited his death. Yet some of these will suppress this judgment, and even praise him as a noble youth, in order to please their teacher, or because they think that that is what they _ought_ to say. They lack the boldness to be honest with themselves. Again, very many young people fail to think far enough to "weigh and consider." They stop short with the concrete narrative, failing to judge whether the story is reasonable, whether the characters are representative, whether the moral is sound, etc. Thus they omit a portion of the thinking that should be expected of them. Whether they are wanting in mental energy or do not realize that this is one of the important parts of study, they should be taken in hand. Right habits of mind are even more important than knowledge. _6. Reports of merits of printed matter, with discussion._ As one means of overcoming the defect just mentioned, different children, or different committees of a class, might examine the same newspapers, magazines, articles in reference books, etc., and then report on their merits independently of one another, giving their reasons. The discussions that would be likely to follow as the result of disagreements would be of the highest value. CHAPTER VII MEMORIZING, AS A FIFTH FACTOR IN STUDY "All the intellectual value for us of a state of mind depends on our after-memory of it," says Professor James. [Footnote: William James's _Psychology,_ Vol. I, p. 644.] _Importance of memory._ In other words, there would be little object importance in reading, or reflection, or travel, or in experience in general, if such experience could not later be recalled so as to be further enjoyed and used. Want of reference thus far to memory does not, therefore, signify any lack of appreciation of its worth. No time is likely to come when a low estimate will be placed upon memory. _Usual prominence of memorizing as a factor in study, and the result._ How prominent memorizing should be, however, is a question of great importance. The four factors of study that have now been considered are the finding of specific aims, the supplementing of the thought of authors, the organizing of ideas, and the judging of their general worth. These four activities together constitute a large part of what is called _thinking._ Memorizing--meaning thereby, in contrast to thinking, the conscious effort to impress ideas upon the mind so that they can be reproduced--has usually been a more prominent part of study than all these four combined. The Jesuits, for example, who were leaders in education for two hundred years, made repetition "the mother of studies," and it is still so prominent, even among adults, that the average student regards memorizing as the nearest synonym for the term studying. Repetition, or drill, however, is far from an inspiring kind of employment. It involves nothing new or refreshing; it is mere hammering, that makes no claim upon involuntary attention. When it is so prominent, therefore, it stultifies the mind, starving and discouraging the student and defeating the main purpose of study. _Reasons for such prominence._ If the work of memorizing is so uninteresting and even injurious, why is it made so prominent? There are probably numerous reasons; but only three will here be considered. In the first place, memorizing is more superficial than real thinking, and people generally prefer to be somewhat superficial and mechanical. It takes energy to dig into things, and, being rather lazy, we are very often content to remain on the outside of them. Children show in many little ways how natural it is to be mechanical. For instance, rather than think the ideas _adverb_ and _present active participle,_ they will recognize words ending in _ly_ as adverbs, and those ending in _ing_ as present active participles. They will class words as prepositions or conjunctions by memorizing the entire list of each, rather than by thinking the relations that these parts of speech express. Young men and women, likewise, will memorize demonstrations in geometry rather than reason them out, and will memorize other people's opinions rather than attempt to think for themselves. Even though it is often really easier to rely upon one's own power to think than upon memory, it takes some depth of nature to recognize the fact and act accordingly. Teachers show this tendency as plainly as students. In preparing lesson plans, for example, very few will get beyond what is mechanical and formal. The reason that recitations are so largely memory tests, too, is that teachers put mere memory questions more easily than they put questions that provoke thought. It is, therefore, a well- established natural trait that is back of so much mechanical memorizing. A second reason for the prominence of memorizing is found in the desire to strengthen the memory through its exercise. We know that the arm may be developed by the lifting of weights, so that it will be stronger for lifting anything that comes in its way. So it has long been a common belief that memory, as a faculty of the mind, could be developed by any kind of exercise so as to be stronger for all kinds of recall. Many words in spelling, many dates in history, many places in geography, many facts in grammar and even in the more advanced studies, have been learned rather because they were supposed to develop memory than for any other reason. Thus the desire of strengthening memory has considerably increased the amount of memorizing. The belief that memorizing normally precedes thinking rather than follows it, is a third very important reason for the prominence of memorizing. "The most important part of every Mussulman's training," says Batzel, "is to learn the Koran, by which must be understood learning it by heart, for it would be wrong to wish to _understand_ the Koran till one knew it by heart." [Footnote: Batzel, _The History of Mankind,_ Vol. III, p. 218.] We hold no conscientious scruples against understanding statements before attempting to memorize them; but one might think that we did, for our practice in memorizing Scripture generally corresponds to that of the Mussulman in learning the Koran. I venture to affirm, also, that the average student habitually begins the study of his lessons by memorizing, with the expectation of doing whatever thinking is necessary later. The average teacher conducts recitations in the same manner. There is the defense for this practice, too, in the fact that it seems logical to get the raw materials for reflection into our possession before trying to reflect upon them. The result, however, is that a surprisingly small amount of thinking is done; for the memorizing requires so much time and energy that, in spite of good intentions, the thinking is postponed for a more convenient season until it constitutes an insignificant part of study, while memorizing, the drudgery of study becomes its main factor. _How this prominence may be reduced._ If it is possible to reduce the prominence of mechanical memorizing, it is highly desirable to do so, for it is unreasonable to defeat the ends of education in the attempt to educate. Let us see how this may be accomplished. _1. By providing more motivation._ There is no complete cure for our tendency toward the superficial and mechanical, due to mental laziness; the defect is too deep. Yet to the extent that we increase our motive for effort a cure is found. Live purposes give force; they make one earnest enough to fix the whole attention upon a task, and to determine to get at the heart of it; they deepen one's nature. Full concentration of attention, due to interest and exercise of will power, is one of the chief conditions of rapid memorizing. Some of the ways in which such purposes may be supplied have already been discussed in Chapter III. _2. By abandoning attempts to strengthen the general power of memory._ In the second place, we can afford to abandon all attempts to develop the _general power_ of memory. The power of various crude materials to retain impressions that are made upon them varies greatly according to their nature. Jelly, for instance, has little such power; sand has little more; clay possesses it in a higher degree, and stone in a far higher still. But whatever persistence of impressions a given lot of any one of these materials may possess, it can never be changed, it is a fixed quantity. The same holds in regard to the brain matter. Some men have brains that retain almost everything. Professor James tells, [Footnote: _Psychology,_ Vol. I, p. 660.] for instance, of a Pennsylvania farmer who could remember the day of the week on which any date had fallen for forty-two years past, and also the kind of weather at the time. He tells further of an acquaintance who remembered the old addresses of numerous New York City friends, addresses that the friends had long since moved from and forgotten; nothing that this man had ever heard or read seemed to escape him. Other persons, on the other hand, possess little power to retain names, dates, quotations, and scattered facts; their desultory memory, as it is called, is very poor. But whatever native retentive power any particular brain happens to have, can never be altered. The general persistence of impressions of each person is a physiological or physical power depending on the nature of his brain matter, and it is invariable. "No amount of culture would seem capable of modifying a man's general retentiveness," [Footnote: _Psychology,_ Vol. I, p. 663.] says James. Again, "There can be no improvement of the general or elementary faculty of memory." [Footnote: _Talks to Teachers,_ p. 123.] Our desultory memories, in other words, are given to us once for all. It is commonly supposed, on the contrary, that persons who memorize a great deal, such as actors, greatly strengthen their general memory in that way. "I have carefully questioned several mature actors on the point," says James, "and all have denied that the practice of learning parts has made any such difference as is alleged." [Footnote: _Psychology,_ Vol. I, p. 664.] Actors certainly do increase their ability to memorize certain kinds of subject-matter. Any one who has much practice in learning lists of names, even, is likely to increase his ability for that and similar tasks, just as one who learns to play tennis well is aided thereby in playing baseball. The reason for such improvement, however, is found largely, if not wholly, in improvement in one's method of work, as will be made clear later, rather than in any increase in general retentive power. While the question of improving the memory is somewhat in dispute, [Footnote: See _Educational Review_ for June, 1908.] and some psychologists assert that _any_ kind of memorizing will have _some_ effect on all other kinds, it is safe to say that mere exercise of memory is, for all practical purposes, useless as a means of strengthening general memory. Only those things, therefore, should be memorized that are intrinsically worthy of being reproduced. _3. By improving the method of memorizing._ Even though a person's native retentive power cannot be improved, the skill with which he uses whatever power he has can be increased. Men who lift pianos find the work very difficult at first; but soon it becomes reasonably easy. The greater ease is not due to any marked increase in strength, but rather to increased skill in using strength. It is due to improvement in method; they learn how. So it may be with memorizing. A large portion of such work is usually awkward, consisting of repetitions that consume much time and energy. But it is possible so to improve the method that memory tasks will occupy comparatively little time. _How facts are recalled._ Before discussing ways in which the method of memorizing can be improved, it is necessary to consider how facts are recalled. Impressions are not stored away in the brain, and afterward recalled, in an isolated state, or independently of one another. On the contrary, they are more or less intimately related as they are learned, and recall always takes place through association of some sort. "Whatever appears in the mind must be _introduced;_ and, when introduced, it is as the associate of something already there." [Footnote: James's _Talks to Teachers,_ p. 118.] The breakfast I ate this morning recalls the persons who sat around the table; memory of one of those persons reminds me of a task that I was to attend to to-day; that task suggests the fact that I must also go to the bank to get some money, etc. Thus every fact that is recalled is marshaled forth by the aid of some other that is connected with it, and which acts as the cue to it. This is so fully true that there is even the possibility of tracing our sequence of ideas backward step by step as far as we wish. "The laws of association govern, in fact, all the trains of our thinking which are not interrupted by sensations breaking on us from without," says James. [Footnote: _Ibid._] _How method of memorizing may be improved._ Since any idea is recalled through its connection with other ideas, the greater the number and the closeness of such relations, the better chance it stands to be reproduced. Improvement in one's method of memorizing, in other words, must consist mainly in increasing the number and closeness of associations among facts. A list of unrelated words is extremely difficult to remember; every additional relation furnishes a new approach to any fact; and, the closer this relation, the more likely it is to cause the reproduction. _1. By more of less mechanical association._ Even the simplest associations, that are largely mechanical, may be important aids to memory. For example, it is much easier to learn the telephone number _1236_ by remembering that the sum of the first three numbers forms the fourth than by memorizing each figure separately. _Teacher_ is a word whose spelling often causes trouble; but when _teach_ is associated with _each_, which is seldom misspelled, the difficulty is removed. _There_ and _their_ are two words whose spelling is a source of much confusion; but it is overcome when _there_ is associated with _where_ and _here,_ and _their_ with _her, your, our,_ etc. _Sight, site,_ and _cite_ are still worse stumbling-blocks in spelling; but the difficulty is largely overcome when _sight_ is firmly associated with _light_ and _night, site_ with _situation,_ and _cite_ with _recite._ The association of the sound of a word with its meaning is an important help in remembering the meanings of some words, as _rasping,_ for example. Professor James, I believe, tells of some one who forgot his umbrella so often that he practiced associating _umbrella_ with _doorway_ until the two ideas were almost inseparable. Then, whenever he passed through a doorway on his way out of doors, he was reminded to take his umbrella along. While there might be some disadvantages in this particular association, it forcibly suggests the value of association in general. The various mnemonic systems that have been so widely advertised have usually been nothing more than plans for the mechanical association of facts. Sometimes, to be sure, it has been more difficult to remember the system than to memorize the facts themselves; yet they, too, give witness to the value of association. I once asked a thirteen-year-old girl, in a history class, when Eli Whitney lived. She gave the exact month and day, but failed to recall either the year or the part of the century, or even the century. Her answer showed plainly that her method of study was doubly wrong; for she not only offended against relative values in learning the month and day while forgetting the century, but she revealed no tendency to associate Whitney's invention with any particular period of history. Even cross-questioning brought no such tendency to light. She was depending on mere retentiveness to hold dates in mind. The habit of memorizing facts in this disconnected way is common among adults as well as children, and as a remedy against it the student should form the habit of frequently asking himself the question, "With what am I associating this fact or idea?" In contrast with associations that are more or less mechanical, there are vital associations that are possible in all studies containing rich subject-matter. _2. By close thought association. (1) Through attention to the outline._ Early association of the principal ideas, or early recognition of the outline of thought, is perhaps the most important of these. One can proceed sentence by sentence, or "bit by bit," in memorizing as in thinking, adding one such fragment after another until the whole is learned. But the early recognition of the main ideas in their proper sequence is far superior. These essentials give peculiar control over the details by grouping them in an orderly manner and furnishing their cue so that the whole is more easily memorized. This is true even in the case of verbal memorizing, as is evidenced by a certain minister quoted by Professor James. "As for memory, mine has improved year by year, except when in ill-health, like a gymnast's muscle. Before twenty it took three or four days to commit an hour-long sermon; after twenty, two days, one day, one-half day, and now one slow analytic, very attentive or adhesive reading does it. But memory seems to me the most physical of intellectual powers. Bodily ease and freshness have much to do with it. Then there is great difference <of facility in method. I used to commit _sentence_ by _sentence._ Now I take the idea of the whole, then its leading divisions, then its subdivisions, then its sentences." [Footnote: James, _Psychology,_ Vol. I, p. 668.] Thus early attention to organization is a large factor in memorizing, as in study that aims principally at comprehension of the thought. Where good organization is wanting,--as in tracing lessons in geography, and other mere tests of facts,--this aid to memorizing is lacking, and one must depend more upon brute memory power. On the other hand, where the portions of one's knowledge have become so closely interrelated and so well organized that they form a well-knit system of thought, one's ability to remember may be surprising. Spencer and Darwin were examples of men whose ideas were thus organized. Neither of them possessed phenomenal memories to start with; but their observations so generally found a group of close relations to sustain them, and these groups were associated with one another in such a close and orderly way, that the outline of the whole could be easily surveyed, and any fact could be quickly reproduced, just as any book can be speedily found in a well-organized library. Thus, as we grow older, if the organization of our knowledge is improving, the power of reproducing it will likewise be increasing. _(2) Through comparisons._ Comparisons are another means of establishing valuable thought connections. Study by topics, also, furnishes special opportunity for comparisons. "It is generally better," says James Baldwin, "to learn what different writers have thought and said concerning that matter of which you are making a special study. Not many books are to be read hastily through." [Footnote: James Baldwin, _The Book Lover,_ p. 43.] Koopman likewise declares, "A single trial will prove to any student the superiority, in interest, of the topical and comparative over the chronological and consecutive method of studying history." [Footnote: Koopman, _Mastery of Books,_ p. 43.] Again, "The student who has not known the pleasure of reading _all_ the works of an author, as a study in personality, has a great source of enjoyment still before him." [Footnote: _Ibid.,_ p. 44.] Many persons have the feeling that it is a moral duty, after having begun a book, to read it through. Here is the recommendation that our reading for a time "converge to one point"; that we find, for example, what several psychologies have to say on one topic, such as memory, rather than read one psychology from cover to cover. The value of comparison for thoroughness has already been emphasized. Its value from the view-point of memory is great, not only because it insures more lasting impressions due to increased interest, as just suggested, but also because each new comparison, while reviewing, also establishes new and closer associations among old ideas. _Memorizing of Kipling's "Seal Lullaby."_ According to the above, we can best memorize by establishing whatever associations seem interesting and reasonable. Take, for instance, Kipling's Seal Lullaby:-- Oh! Hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, And black are the waters that sparkled so green. The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us At rest in the hollows that rustle between. Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow; Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas. The music of the rhythm leads one to read it aloud from time to time. The first two lines are an announcement of bedtime; the next three tell where the resting place is, and the last three give assurance of safety--that is the outline. Any one has often observed how black the waters become as night approaches, and the picture is vividly recalled as the first couplet is read. "Combers" is almost a strange word, but its use makes its meaning reasonably clear. Is there a cradle of some sort? And a good pillow, too? Is there any tenderness indicated on the part of the mother? Any pet names applied? What dangers might cause uneasiness? Which is the most beautiful part? What lullabies of our childhood does this recall? How does this one compare in beauty with "Rock-a-bye-baby"? Let us sing each, in order to judge. What marked contrast is there between the two, in the latter part? I first ran across this lullaby in company with two friends, to each of whom it was entirely new. It appealed to us so strongly that we read it aloud several times and talked it over. We considered some questions such as the above, and compared it with "Rock-a-bye-baby," disagreeing somewhat in our opinions. When we left it, each of us nearly or quite knew it by heart, although we had scarcely thought of trying to memorize it. In this way the association of ideas with one another, particularly with things that have been long cherished, is a very valuable aid to memory. _Where the fault in cramming lies._ To some persons this method of memorizing through association of ideas will seem very slow. It must be acknowledged that there is a more rapid way, called _cramming._ Every mature student has found that, under great pressure, he can commit to memory the substance of thought, and even the words, for an astonishing amount of matter. The difficulty is, however, that it will hold only up to a certain hour, the hour after examination, for example; then it goes so rapidly that one can fairly feel it slipping away. Such rapid memorizing is a witness to the value of very close attention in study; but the rapid escape is testimony to the necessity of a closer association of facts. Owing to undue haste the ideas are crowded into the memory without becoming intimately related, or tied together, in numerous ways. Then, when some part is forgotten, as is sure to happen, the other parts, being unrelated to it, offer no cue for its reproduction. Thus one part after another is lost; and, even though the ideas are closely related by nature, the lack of appreciation of such relationship on the part of the student allows the whole to escape as rapidly as mere lists of facts. To be firmly remembered, either a great amount of drill is necessary, or else the ideas must be _assimilated_, and assimilation cannot be hurried in this manner. _The principal means of making mechanical memorization less prominent._ The ordinary plan of study, by which memorizing precedes thinking, results, as we have seen, in crowding out thinking by leaving little time and energy for it. Memorizing thus becomes a substitute for thinking, and makes study an extremely dull task. This is an inversion, however, of the true order. If thinking is made to precede conscious attempts to memorize, the nourishing character of study is assured, and direct attempts at memorizing become largely unnecessary, because most of the memorizing has already been accomplished unconsciously. In other words, _memorizing then becomes a by-product of thinking, instead of a substitute for it._ We often regret the prominence of memorizing in study, and here is probably the principal means of reducing it. There will be less of it, to the extent that we do more thinking; and there will be far more thinking if we put thinking first in time, thereby making it first in importance. I once saw Kipling's _Seal Lullaby_ presented to seven-year-old children. The teacher read it aloud from the blackboard, then the class read it. Then the class set to work to memorize it, a line or two at a time. This was a good example of bad method, for adults as well as for children. If they had planned first to _enjoy_ the poem by trying to read it several times aloud with expression, by talking it over, illustrating it and singing it, the memorizing would have taken care of itself. As it was, their teacher's haste to have it _learned,_ amounted to a direct advocacy of the principle of cramming; for they were attempting to memorize through force rather than through association of ideas. One reason older students practice cramming to such an extent is that they have never been fully taught a better method; the schools have never fully stood for a better method of memorizing. So long as memorizing is put first in time, and therefore in importance, those persons who have quick memories will be held up as the ideal students, whether they have higher abilities or not. Quick memories, however, are poor educators indeed unless they are coupled with unusual earnestness and energy. With all classes of students, therefore, the thinking should habitually precede attempts to memorize. _Examples of improvement in memory through closer attention and better method._ From all that has been said, it is plain that _how_ to memorize is closely bound up with the question _when_ to memorize. We are now ready to appreciate the statement that good memorizing is really good thinking, and that improvement in memory is mainly improvement in attention and in method of thinking. This is in general true, even in spite of some opinions to the contrary. Thurlow Weed, the journalist and politician, for example, greatly increased his ability to remember, and attributed the improvement to an increase in his general power of memory, due to its exercise. He relates his experience in the following words:-- My memory was a sieve. I could remember nothing. Dates, names, appointments, faces--everything escaped me. I said to my wife, "Catherine, I shall never make a successful politician, for I cannot remember, and that is a prime necessity of politicians." My wife told me I must train my memory. So, when I came home that night, I sat down and spent fifteen minutes trying silently to recall with accuracy the principal events of the day. I could remember but little at first; now I remember that I could not then recall what I had for breakfast. After a few days' practice I found I could recall more. Events came back to me more minutely, more accurately, and more vividly than at first. After a fortnight or so of this, Catherine said, "Why don't you relate to me the events of the day, instead of recalling them to yourself? It would be interesting, and my interest in it would be a stimulus to you." Having great respect for my wife's opinion, I began a habit of oral confession, as it were, which was continued for almost fifty years. Every night, the last thing before retiring, I told her everything I could remember that had happened to me, or about me, during the day, I generally recalled the dishes I had had for breakfast, dinner, and tea; the people I had seen, and what they had said; the editorials I had written for my paper, giving her a brief abstract of them. I mentioned all the letters I had sent and received, and the very language used, as nearly as possible; when I had walked or ridden--I told her everything that had come within my observation. I found I could say my lessons better and better every year, and instead of the practice growing irksome, it became a pleasure to go over again the events of the day. I am indebted to this discipline for a memory of somewhat unusual tenacity, and I recommend the practice to all who wish to store up facts, or expect to have much to do with influencing men. [Footnote: Quoted by James, _Psychology,_ Vol. I, p. 665.] Professor James comments on this experience as follows:-- I do not doubt that Mr. Weed's practical command of his past experiences was much greater after fifty years of this heroic drill than it would have been without it. Expecting to give his account in the evening, he _attended_ better to each incident of the day, named and conceived it differently, set his mind upon it, and in the evening went over it again. He did more _thinking_ about it, and it stayed with him in consequence. But I venture to affirm pretty confidently... that the same matter, casually attended to and not thought about, would have stuck in his memory no better at the end than at the beginning of his years of heroic self-discipline. He had acquired a better method of noting and recording his experiences, but his physiological retentiveness was probably not a bit improved. [Footnote: James, _Psychology,_ Vol. I, p. 666.] Again, as to the memorizing of facts by actors, Professor James says:-- What it has done for them is to improve their power of _studying_ a part systematically. Their mind is now full of precedents in the way of intonation, emphasis, gesticulation; the new words awaken distinct suggestions and decisions; are caught up, in fact, into a preexisting network, like the merchant's prices or the athlete's store of records, and are recollected easier, although the mere native tenacity is not a whit improved, and is usually, in fact, impaired by age. It is a case of better remembering by better thinking. Similarly when schoolboys improve by practice in ease of learning by heart, the improvement will, I am sure, be always found to reside in the _mode of study of the particular piece_ (due to the greater interest, the greater suggestiveness, the generic similarity with other pieces, the more sustained attention, etc., etc.) and not at all to any enhancement of the brute retentive power. [Footnote: _Ibid._, p. 664.] _The prominence of drill._ It still remains to consider the extent to which mere repetition or drill should be prominent. Some help toward an answer may be found in certain recent investigations into the value of drill, and in certain recent improvements in method. Spelling, arithmetic, and language being the subjects that have required the largest amount of drill, these will be the principal studies here considered. Dr. O. P. Cornman in his _Spelling in the Elementary School_ recounts some very interesting investigations into the value of drill in that subject. In two schools, each containing the usual eight grades, the use of the spelling book and home lessons in the subject were abandoned for a period of three years. At the same time the period which had been devoted to studying and reciting in spelling in school was omitted from the school program, making the mastery of spelling entirely an incidental matter. The results thus obtained were then compared with the results previously obtained in spelling in those two schools, and also in a number of other schools that devoted from ten to fifty minutes daily to spelling. The conclusion reached was that "the spelling drill as at present administered throughout the country adds little or nothing to the effectiveness of the mere incidental teaching of spelling"; [Footnote: Cornman, _Spelling in the Elementary School,_ p. 66.] or, again, that it "is of so little importance as to be practically negligible." [Footnote: _Ibid.,_ p. 65.] This result may have been due to a considerable extent to poor texts in spelling and to the ineffective methods of drilling used. A large portion of the time spent on arithmetic in the first six grades is usually occupied with drill. Some schools devote a full fifth of their time to this study, thus making the drill in arithmetic very prominent. It is commonly supposed that so much repetition greatly improves the results. Yet, according to investigations undertaken by Dr. C. W. Stone, "a large amount of time spent on arithmetic is no guarantee of a high degree of efficiency. If one were to choose at random among the schools with more than the median time given to arithmetic, the chances are that he would get a school with an inferior product; and, conversely, if one were to choose among the schools with less than the median time cost, the chances are about equal that he would get a school with a superior product in arithmetic." [Footnote: Stone, _Arithmetical Abilities: Some Factors Determining Them,_ p. 62.] Such conclusions as these give ground for suspicion of any very large amount of drill, even in these drill subjects; it involves too much waste. One important reason for the waste is the fact that drills usually are uninteresting or lack motive, and on that account attention lags, until one learns slowly or not at all. It is true that one can and ought to _will_ to do certain necessary things. But even adults are so made that an act of will insures close attention for only a moment at a time, then attention lags again; sustained attention is assured only when the work undertaken is subordinated to some real interest, so that attention is involuntary. Recent advances in method of studying language offer further suggestions in regard to the advisable prominence of drill. In the study of modern languages, for example, it used to be the custom to depend largely upon drill for the mastery of a vocabulary, and of the forms of the verbs, nouns, and other parts of speech. Likewise in teaching children to read English it was customary for much drill on new words to precede the actual use of such words in reading. Now much more rapid progress is effected both in modern languages and in our vernacular by greatly increasing the amount of matter read and decreasing, correspondingly, the quantity of drill. The suggestion, therefore, is here made that not only the extensive drills of former times involve much waste, but also that they are probably unnecessary. Further than that, since a closer and more abundant association of facts has already eliminated a large amount of drill, it may be expected that the good work of elimination will go on much farther. Very extensive drills in the future, therefore, do not promise to be a recommendation for the teacher who is responsible for employing them; they will be the resort of those persons who lack the energy or ability to do a higher kind of work, that is, to _think_. We need not congratulate ourselves, however, that drills will ever disappear entirely; some drill, like some punishments for children, will probably always be in place, and a considerable amount is still necessary. We must expect a fair amount because we shall probably never be bright enough to make the associations of ideas fully take the place of review by drill. In particular it must be remembered that those portions of our knowledge that we expect to use daily must become second nature to us, or be reduced to habit; that means that many facts must become familiar enough to be reproduced instantly without effort. That is the case, for example, with the multiplication table. Thoughtful association is only a good beginning in the formation of habits; repetition also has a very important place, which must be continued until the knowledge stands at our command "without thinking." THE ABILITY OF CHILDREN TO MEMORIZE BY THINKING _The crucial question._ No one doubts the ability of children to memorize; that is the one thing that they have always been known to be able to do. One argument for teaching them foreign languages as well as many things unintelligible to them now, but possibly useful later, is that they can learn them so easily. That is the ground also, on which much verbatim memorizing of literature and Scripture, that they could not hope soon to appreciate, has been required of them. The crucial question in this connection, therefore, is not, "Can children memorize?" but rather, "Are they capable of more than mechanical memorizing, or learning by rote? Can they think well enough to memorize largely through association of ideas, like older persons?" _Children's ability to memorize by thinking._ The answer to this question has already been practically given. It has been shown that children can conceive specific purposes; can supplement the thought of authors; can measure the relative importance of facts well enough to establish fair organization among them; and can judge the soundness and general worth of statements. They not only _can_ do these things, but they normally do do them; their present daily lives constantly call for these several kinds of mental activity. These several factors, however, largely compose the activity of associating ideas with one another, or of thinking. Children can, therefore, memorize through thinking, just as naturally as adults can. _The desirable prominence of such memorizing in childhood._ While very extensive drills are perhaps generally recognized as questionable in the case of adult students, there is a tendency to regard them as entirely proper in childhood. And the helplessness of children--in spite of frequent little rebellions on their part--prevents the establishment of a contrary conviction. We admit that a considerable amount of drill is guaranteed to children through the three R's and spelling, whether any one approves of it or not. But what about much beyond this minimum? Shall the teacher willingly increase the amount by neglecting possible associations within those four subjects, and also by requiring much memorizing of literature and facts in other subjects that cannot be appreciated at the time? Or shall she regard the close association of ideas as the normal activity of children and a great quantity of drill and rote learning as at least verging on the abnormal and the unhealthy? These are questions of great importance in the instruction of children. It seems safe to affirm that, in general, there are the same reasons for regarding drill and thoughtless memorizing as an evil--though to some extent a necessary one--in childhood as in adult life. Indeed, if there be any difference, the evil is probably greater in childhood, for drill furnishes no nourishment to childhood, while that is peculiarly the period of growth, when abundance of nourishment is most important. Granted that the ability of children to memorize things that do not brighten the eye is striking, it must be remembered that their mental and moral growth in numerous directions is also striking. It is far more important that their spiritual welfare as a whole be provided for--as live ideas lying within their sphere of experience can be made to provide for it--than that they starve themselves now for the sake of storing up material for the future. The latter plan shows a very low estimate of child-nature, and a misapprehension of the relation of the present to the future. Aside from this, it is in the elementary school that children must mainly acquire their permanent habits of study; the methods of work there acquired will not be made over on entering the high school or college. If they there become accustomed to beginning their lessons by memorizing, and to memorizing words without appreciating their import, the chances are good that they will have the same habits later. Why not, if there is anything in habit? At least, they will have much to overcome if they reform. On the other hand, if they there begin the mastery of lessons by studying the thought, and memorize largely through the association of ideas, they are likely to continue that plan later. By thus becoming thoughtful in regard to childish matters, they give best promise of being thoughtful on larger subjects later. In all these remarks there is no intention of making philosophers out of children; but there is a feeling of the necessity of preserving and developing their live-mindedness. Opposition to this feeling indicates that children are not expected to do much thinking even in their own sphere of experience. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHING CHILDREN TO MEMORIZE PROPERLY Other things being equal, the depth and hence the permanence of impressions varies as the degree of attention varies. For example, if a child's whole attention is given to a name, or a date, or the spelling of a word, he may retain it in memory after having heard it only once; otherwise it may have to be repeated several times. _1. Need of concentration of attention, and method of securing it._ Children, however, easily fall into the securing it. habit of dividing their attention between work and play, so that half of their time is wasted; yet they labor under the impression that there is much virtue merely in _spending time_ on lessons. Divided attention is not confined to children, either. It is frequently observed that announcements made before large schools are never understood rightly by _all,_ simply because there are always some who are thinking partly of something else. A certain professor of English in one of our large universities has for years been in the habit of dictating the following directions, with illustrations, to his students beginning composition: "Fold the paper lengthwise from right to left, leaving the single edge to your right hand. Endorse on the first three lines. Do not use abbreviations in writing the date. Omit all punctuation, or, if you punctuate, use commas at ends of lines and after date of month." In classes ranging from forty to seventy-five persons, as many as 90 per cent have failed to follow these directions. What better proof is needed of common laxness of attention? To remedy this evil among children teachers would do well to refer much less to the _time_ spent in study and much more to the _kind_ of attention given. More than that can be done. Children are often directed to "pay close attention," or to "concentrate their attention fully," sometimes without comprehending the meaning of the command, and more often without knowing what steps to take in order to obey. Both difficulties can be partially overcome by fixing time limits to tasks, even in the lower grades. For example, two minutes can be announced as the limit for reading a half page in the second reader. Under that stimulus the children will do their best; and when they have undergone several such tests successfully, reference to these tests will explain what is meant by close attention; reference to their successes also will instill confidence that they know how to give close attention, for they can do again what they have already frequently done. The dawdling that is so common among children is partly due to lack of an ideal, and such time limits should be resorted to somewhat frequently in order to keep the ideal fresh in mind, as well as to cultivate confidence that the ideal can be realized. Military governments often obtain undivided attention to a remarkable degree, showing that attention is a thing that can be cultivated in some directions. Similar determination to secure it should be exercised in the school, only the pressure applied should be of a different kind. _2. Danger of cramming and its avoidance._ College students are not the only ones who gulp down facts, hold them undigested for a few hours, and then disgorge them. Many children study largely in this way in preparation for their daily recitations, as is shown by the fact that they retain facts a very short time, even though they seem to know each day's lessons. It is true in spelling, for example, and in geography and history. It is true likewise in verbatim memorizing of poetry and Bible verses on Sunday mornings. The general remedy for this evil is found in the requirement that ideas be associated, and as far as possible enjoyed, before any special attempt is made to memorize. This is most difficult in spelling; but some associations are possible there, as suggested (p. 168). It is comparatively easy in geography and history, after children have received some instruction as to method. It is impossible in verbatim memorizing of literature, if selections are made that are far beyond children's appreciation. But there is no need of such selections; there are plenty of poems and Bible verses that can be at least partly understood and really enjoyed by very young people, and it is that kind that should be chosen. Naturally the thinking that is thus required cannot be expected in large amount from the younger children, for they will feel and enjoy much more than they can analyze. Also, it should, perhaps, be expected very little in memorizing that is entirely voluntary, as when a poem is learned by some child simply because he likes it. But memorizing that is a part of school work, and therefore a part of serious study, should be undertaken in this way, because it is the right way. The number of associations, too, is not so important as the method of study that the child gradually adopts. _3. Ways of leading children to memorize through thinking in study periods._ How children study in preparation for the recitation will depend upon how the recitation itself is conducted, upon what is _first_ called for there and what is most emphasized. The reason that memorizing constitutes the main part of study, not only in the elementary school, but in the high school and the college, is that reproduction has been the principal thing required in the recitations all along the line. It is the character of the recitation, therefore, that must first be changed. The questions that are considered in the recitation are the factor of greatest influence. If the children find that the teacher's questions usually begin with what, or where, or when, thereby merely calling for direct reproduction of the substance of text, she may talk ever so much about right methods of study, but they will memorize before thinking and without thinking. Very many of the questions should test not so much knowledge of the text as the pupil's way of treating the text. The spirit of the teacher's usual general question should be, How have you associated or related these facts? And some of her detailed questions might well be: What object do you see in studying this topic? What statements here need filling out, and how have you done it? What are the most important ideas here? Or the most beautiful? How do these statements remind you of others that you already know? Have you found any of these statements questionable? And, if so, how? Thus the conduct of the recitation will show the kinds of questions that must be expected. Gradually the teacher should refrain from putting the questions herself and leave that to the pupils. That becomes very important as they mature; for how otherwise will they learn to study alone? The questions should include higher forms of comparison far more than is customary. Much of the study of geography, for example, should consist of the comparison of countries with one another. Poems should be compared and grouped. _The Children's Hour, Snow-Bound, Evangeline,_ and the parable of the Prodigal Son taken together reveal a conception of home life that is not obtained by the study of literary selections in an isolated way. So Burke's three addresses, _On Taxation,_ in 1774, _On Conciliation,_ in 1775, and _Letters to the Sheriffs of Bristol,_ in 1777, throw light on one another and form a unit. Such comparisons continually review original facts, and in that way eliminate much customary drill. Preparation for such comparison in the study period properly puts mere memorizing far in the background. The cross lights that different studies throw upon one another through careful correlation--as when literature and history deal with the same topic--are valuable in a similar manner and should be included in the questions that are considered. Finally, when the text is so intolerably dull that it discourages reflection, instead of stimulating it,--as is not seldom the case,--it very often lies within the teacher's power to accomplish her objects mainly by the use of other books that are supplementary and for reference. This she should do without hesitation. Much routine drill on geography text, for instance, can be avoided by using geographical readers. Pointed questions, of course, would be in control here as in other cases. These various thought questions, coming from teacher and pupils, should not be reserved until toward the close of the recitation, to be put then _if any time is left._ That defeats their object. They should occupy the time from the beginning of the period; it is the memory questions that should follow, if there is time and if they are needed. The order in time for the thinking and the special attempt to memorize is one of the most vital matters, and it is highly important that the recitation itself stand for the order that is expected in private study. _4. Conditions for the best kind of drill._ While it is the sign of a weak mind to give great prominence to drill, some drill is unavoidable. There are two conditions that must be fulfilled in order to secure the best kind. One is that sufficient motive be provided to secure very close attention. The use of motor activity may be an important aid in this direction, as when children are allowed to walk about and point in locating places in geography, to dramatize in reproducing literature, and to use sand and clay in representation of various kinds. Emulation is a powerful motive, but has so many dangers that it should be used sparingly. The cooperative spirit is the kind that the school should cultivate, and heated competition does not readily lead to cooperation. There is, however, much profit and no danger in making comparisons among one's own products. The teacher herself may be one of the most potent factors securing close attention. If she has force and has cultivated the friendship of her pupils until they are anxious to please her, her appeals to their own wills will not be in vain. If, in addition, her skill in handling a class inspires confidence, she can do much toward conducting her class through drills without waste of time. Very many drills are failures mainly because the teacher is a poor manager, not knowing how to distribute materials quietly and quickly and to assign and supervise work so that all are kept busy. The strong personality, however, has its dangers, also, for it may _carry_ children through drills instead of letting them carry themselves. In the main, unless children furnish their own steam when they work with a teacher, they will have little steam to do work when left to themselves. The healthiest provision for motive in drills is found in the recognition of a given drill as a necessary step toward the accomplishment of some already greatly desired end. A child will willingly practice mixing colors in order to obtain a certain shade, if he is much interested in painting a certain kind of calendar. And he will gladly drill upon the rendering of a poem, if he is anxious to surprise his mother with it on her birthday. Such subordination of uninteresting tasks to larger purposes is highly educative, and no one has found the limit to which it can be carried. The second condition of successful drills is that they be short. Even under the most favorable circumstances children cannot long remain alert on subject-matter that lacks intrinsic interest. In brief, therefore, drills to be effective must be made sharp by the presence of motive, and must be short. CHAPTER VIII THE USING OF IDEAS, AS A SIXTH FACTOR IN STUDY _The indefiniteness of the endpoint of study._ The student has accomplished much when he has discovered some of the closer relations that a topic bears to life; when he has supplemented the thought of the author; when he has determined the relative importance of different parts and given them a corresponding organization; when he has passed judgment on their soundness and general worth; and when, finally, he has gone through whatever drill is necessary to fix the ideas firmly in his memory. Is he then through with a topic, or is more work to be done? Digestion of food is likewise a long process, the food having to be acted upon in various ways in the mouth, the stomach, and the intestines. But with food there is always a certain end to be reached, called assimilation, which is the actual changing of its nutriment into the solids and liquids of our bodies. Is there a similarly definite end to be reached in the study process? It must be admitted that while we can define this end somewhat sharply in words, it is very difficult to know when it has been actually reached. Many a business man has felt convinced that he understood a certain business project perfectly, until the outcome has proved the contrary. Business failures are largely due to such deception. Even highly educated men are often surprised at their want of mastery of questions that they had supposed to be fully within their grasp. Socrates spent much of his time bringing such surprises to the promising but overconfident young men of Athens. Robert Y. Hayne, the distinguished champion of nullification, no doubt experienced such a surprise when Webster delivered his great speech on that subject. The actual mastery of subjects is perhaps never complete; it is only relative. Even a child may have as good a grasp of one subject as a philosopher has of another, and each may be deceived in regard to the extent of his understanding. The common ignorance as to how much study is necessary for the mastery of knowledge is suggested by the common ignorance as to how much work is necessary for the assimilation of food. It takes from three to five hours for food that has been eaten to get beyond the stomach, and people ordinarily assume that the assimilative process is pretty well completed by that time. The fact is, however, that it is then only well begun; for it requires from ten to twelve hours to dispose fully of a meal, and most of the work of digestion takes place _after_ the food leaves the stomach. While the assimilation of knowledge is what the student is supposed to aim at, how much that involves is even less understood. _Importance of as great definiteness in the endpoint as possible._ In the digestion of food our organisms provide for themselves, so that we do not need to worry greatly over some ignorance of the process. But our responsibility in the assimilation of knowledge is much greater, for that does not go on uninterruptedly even while we sleep; it will be carried only so far as we have the energy and insight to take it. That being the case, it is very easy for one to stop too soon in the study of a topic. For instance, when a lesson in history has been only memorized, the digestive process has been carried little further than physical digestion has been taken when food reaches the stomach. That is, it is barely begun. Yet very many young people stop near this point, and they sometimes even take credit to themselves for getting so far. We might add comprehension of the thought to the work of memorizing and still be far from the end. We can have comprehended and memorized the Beatitudes, for example, and be as free from any effect from them as the proverbial duck's back is from the effect of water. We can pass good examinations in psychology and logic with the same absence of influence. That certainly does not signify assimilation. Assimilation means the spiritual nourishment that is received by making new thought homogeneous with one's own thought, by making it an integral part of one's self. Remembering how young people generally study, it seems probable that many of them spend a large part of their time providing for nourishment that they never get. They do a lot of hard work collecting the raw materials of knowledge without working them over so as to reap either the pleasure or the profit intended. Here is where some of the waste in education lies. It is highly important, therefore, that the student reach as definite as possible a conception of the endpoint to be attained in study. Although the meaning of assimilation may not be perfectly clear, a few of its characteristics at least may be distinguished, so that we can feel some certainty as to how far we have got in the process, and have some notion as to how much more must be done in order to reach the approximate goal. _The endpoint accepted in mastery of the useful arts._ Study of the useful arts, such as the various trades, consists of two distinct parts. On the one hand, facts must be mastered that pertain to the nature of materials, to methods of using implements or tools, and to plans tor construction. In cabinet-making, for example, the qualities of woods and paints, the rules for using the saw, plane, and chisel, and the various ideas governing designs for household furniture must all receive attention. In other words, a considerable body of theory must be acquired. On the other hand, this theory must find application under particular conditions; a table must be made out of certain materials, with certain tools, according to a certain design. This also involves much thinking; but, in addition to all that, there is execution of theory, called doing or practice. There is, further, a definite relation between these two parts, for the theory is merely a means to an end. What is wanted is a good product, and the theory is valuable to the extent that it affects the product. The useful arts, as studies, stand, therefore, both for theory and for the application or use of theory, and the latter is the goal. No one thinks of pursuing any one of the trades without including the use of his knowledge in practice as the culminating part of his work. To what extent should other branches of knowledge resemble the useful arts in their combination of knowledge with the use of knowledge? Should the use of ideas be their goal? The answer must depend upon one's conception of the purpose of life in general and, therefore, of education. _The endpoint in the study of other subjects._ Abilities of various kinds in the animal world find their purpose not in themselves but in adaptation to environment. Fear on the part of the rabbit, for instance, increases its speed in running, and in that way protects its life. The bear's strength aids in repelling its enemies, and the intelligence of both animals finds its purpose both in protection against enemies and in finding food. Living, in the case of animals, thus means _getting on,_ and any ability, whether physical or intellectual, is of importance to the extent that it makes such getting on successful. The endpoint among animals, then, is the _use_ of their powers in effecting adaptation to their environment. Man's environment is far broader than that of animals, being moral and spiritual as well as physical. But his relation to it is substantially the same; for his success is likewise measured by the degree of adaptation accomplished. Human abilities are not mainly valuable in themselves, but rather as means in securing fuller adaptation, "complete living"; that is, they are valuable for their use. The end to be attained in education is in full harmony with this idea. The object of education most emphasized in recent years is _efficiency,_ which means power to accomplish. It presupposes a good degree of intelligence, the more the better, but it goes beyond that; for an efficient person is one who _does_ things. Knowledge without the ability to apply or _use_ it leaves one theoretical, which, is a term of reproach. The various subjects of instruction recognize the necessity of use very plainly. Painting and music, for example, contain, each, a large body of theory. They also include an abundance of practice, a practice, too, that centers in the betterment of man's condition. Literature deals largely with ideals, presenting the theory of living. But this theory is valuable chiefly as a guide to conduct. The student of literature who professes admiration for its ideas without applying them to himself has derived only a small part of the benefit from it that he should. Literature is like religion in this respect. The latter emphasizes the worth of insight into divine truth and of faith in God; but both this insight and faith are to find their fruitage in conduct. "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this," says the apostle, "to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." [Footnote: James 1, 27.] Similarly, a study of philosophy that does not end in affecting our own philosophy of life, and thereby our conduct, has been unsuccessful, even though examinations have been successfully passed. Pure science is knowledge that has been proved and properly organized; and it is highly desirable that specialists devote their lives to its further development. The main reason, however, is that its applications may finally be more abundant; and science used for the purpose of education must recognize the relation of such knowledge to man as one of its integral and prominent parts. So long as efficiency is the recognized purpose of education, there is little excuse for a young person's studying science apart from its applications, or pure science. There is some profit in it, but there is more profit in something better. That kind of study should be left to the specialist. Much has been said in times past about art for art's sake, science for the sake of science, and knowledge for the sake of knowledge; but these are vague expressions that will excite little interest so long as the worth of a man is determined by what comes out of him, by the service he renders, rather than by what enters in. Other branches of knowledge used for educative purposes, therefore, resemble the useful arts in the recognition of their bearings on man, their actual use as the goal in their study. _Why the using of knowledge as an endpoint in study needs emphasis._ It might be unnecessary to emphasize this matter were it not that this conception of study has been reached only after long development and is still actively opposed. The old Greeks stood for a very different idea. To Plato, the use of the intellect for practical purposes was subordinate and almost disgraceful. The summation of existence was to be found in reflection, and the ambition of the educated man was to escape from the concrete world, in order to live in the world of abstract truth. Many of the monks of the Middle Ages resembled the ancient Greeks in this regard, desiring to separate themselves as completely as possible from society for the sake of the contemplation of spiritual matters. Reflection, contemplation, was thus not a means to an end but an end in itself, and the thinker or dreamer, rather than the efficient man, was the ideally educated person. That goal is now condemned for its extreme selfishness; we want men and women as citizens who are glad to identify themselves with their fellow beings and ambitious for efficient service among them, not those who conscientiously ignore the world. Yet there are still plain tendencies in this direction, as is seen in the fact that an education that is liberal and cultural is often contrasted with one that is useful as being of a higher order. "That alone is liberal education," says Cardinal Newman, "which stands on its own pretensions, which is independent of sequel, expects no complement, refuses to be _informed_ (as it is called) by any end or absorbed into any art, in order duly to present itself to our contemplation." [Footnote: _Scope and Nature of University Education,_ p. 135.] Liberal education is something which "is desirable, though nothing come of it"; "worth possessing for what it is, and not merely for what it does." Art for art's sake, rather than art for man's sake, would thus represent the true spirit of a liberal college course, in the estimation of this author; the admission of service to mankind as a prominent purpose, particularly as its goal, would deprive it of its liberal character, and in the same degree expose it to condemnation. That is strange doctrine indeed. Liberal is originally a term opposed to narrow and restricted, and a liberal education might properly be contrasted with the very narrow bread-and-butter kind that aims at the mastery of art without theory. But how the restriction caused by the presence of worthy specific purposes of a thousand kinds is inimical to the broadening effects of study and to its general value is difficult to comprehend. The hypothesis guiding a scientific investigation narrows the work only enough to give it point, and a well-chosen particular aim will have the same effect on any study. Further than that, the consciousness in advance that any conclusions reached must be tested by actual conditions has only a good influence by nerving us to do our best; and the actual test is of value in informing us as to the degree of soundness of our ideas. All persons must be shocked by the misfit between what they supposed to be true and what they find by trial to be fact, before they will waken up and do their best thinking. The superabundance of advice that bachelor uncles and maiden aunts offer in regard to the rearing of children is due to the fact that their theory has not been refined by practice. It is the direct contact with the world in the _use_ of knowledge that reveals the latter's real significance and that converts it into experience; and it is only the knowledge that becomes experience that really counts in education. Again, in arguing the question of allowing normal schools to grant degrees, a certain well-known educator declares: "Where ability to exercise a practical art is concerned, degrees are or should be valueless. They should be restricted merely to the position of evidences of culture. For this reason normal schools should not grant degrees." [Footnote: _Year Book of National Society for Scientific Study of Education,_ 1905, p. 93.] Our better normal schools--which are the only kind that might be expected to grant degrees--give instruction in literature, history, geography, fine art, etc., the same as the degree-conferring colleges. To these subjects the normal school adds the history of education and the principles of education, which are presumably harmless so long as they are not applied, and they usually are not. There remain then the subjects that involve practice, such as special method courses, applied psychology and practice teaching; these must be the baneful studies. The good four- year normal school course presumably requires as much thinking and other strenuous work as that of the college. But the presence of the last group of subjects signifies that this study is to culminate in the _use_ of knowledge; and there's the rub. It is this latter fact that vitiates the course and precludes the cultural effect that a college course insures. If this is a proper interpretation, it is, indeed, strange doctrine. One can understand how carpentry might not have as great a cultural effect as literature; but one would think that, if the untested and therefore half-digested thoughts of literature have a certain cultural effect, the same thoughts might have a fuller refining influence if their meaning and force were more fully realized in the way their use in life might secure their realization; and one would think that the same might hold in regard to any subject. The difficulty is that there are two opposing notions of culture. On the one hand there are persons who conceive culture to be a refinement that is directly endangered by contact with the realities of life, for instance by participation in local politics and other social contests, and by such practice of charity as must be accompanied by physical exertion and bad smells. Culture is, to them, the name for that serenity and loftiness of mind that can be attained and preserved only by keeping a safe distance from the madding crowd; and the cultured man is pictured by them as sitting in a comfortable chair, preferably with a book in his hand, and rapt in meditation on lofty themes. On the other hand there are those who conceive that culture--if more than a veneer--is a refinement that can be attained only by direct participation in social life. Such contact with the world may bring embarrassment, temptation, and failure, as well as their opposites; but all of these, instead of debasing, are the very experiences that purify and make gentle; they are the fire without which the refining process could not take place. Culture means to these people the ennobling effect of such actual struggles upon a person's whole outlook on life and upon his way in general of conducting himself; and the cultured man is pictured by them as in action, even with his sleeves rolled up, engaged in the accomplishment of high purposes. Culture is so valuable a quality that each person must determine for himself which of these two conceptions of it is sound, before he can decide whether the using of knowledge is worthy of being made the goal in study or not. _Breadth of meaning of the term "use."_ In declaring that the _using_ of knowledge is the proper endpoint in study, it is important that the breadth of meaning of the term _use_ be held in mind. The application of knowledge in earning a livelihood covers only a small part of what is included. A man is using his knowledge when he is getting inspiration from poetry that he has memorized, or drawing new conclusions from previously acquired facts. He is using it, further, when he entertains his family with it, or by its means makes himself otherwise agreeable to them. He is using it when it is made to count in the rearing of children, or in the performance of the manifold duties of membership in a community, or in worshiping God. In short, it is being used when its content is turned to account in the accomplishment of purposes, whatever they be, or is made to function in one's daily adaptation to physical, moral, and religious environment. _States in the assimilation of knowledge._ The student should continually carry in mind the fact that facility in the use of knowledge is the end of his study, and the only reliable proof of mental assimilation. It is a long road, however, to this goal, and any clearly marked stages that must be passed through in reaching it should be well known, since they will help the student greatly to keep his bearings and preserve his courage. Here are given a few such stages. _1. Collection of crude materials._ First, under the influence of as full a sympathy with the author as possible, one obtains a fair comprehension of the thought. Much supplementing may be necessary to this end, as well as careful consideration of relative values. This may require one or several perusals of the thought, according to the difficulty of the subject and to individual ability. Proof of comprehension may be given by the expression of the thought in one's own words, either from memory or with the book open. Such study is a comparatively passive kind of work, calling for subordination of the student to the author, and amounts to little more than a collection of the crude materials of knowledge. The corresponding stage in the assimilation of food would be, perhaps, its preparation and mastication. _2. Selection and reorganization of the profitable portion of these materials._ "What am I getting from this author?" or "What profit is this material bringing me?" is the principal consideration in the second stage. With the thought of profit uppermost in mind, the student recalls or further defines any specific purposes of the study that may have occurred to him; under their guidance he casts aside as non-essential much of what is presented, and centers his attention on those ideas that seem to have real value for him. These he further re-words, in order to determine their very essence, and also carefully weighs. In addition he reorganizes them, unless their original organization appears to him peculiarly fitting. The self must enter so fully, in true assimilation, that neither the author's wording nor his organization is likely to prove satisfying. One will seldom quote another's words or follow his order of treatment when presenting a topic that has been really digested. Not seldom the last point made by an author will become the first in the student's mind, showing how radical the reorganization may be. This step, requiring much discrimination and exercise of judgment from the learner's own view-point---thereby entirely subordinating the author to the student--requires a high degree of independence. It might be called the profit-drawing stage, or the stage in which the part that promises profit is extracted. The corresponding step in the assimilation of food is what is technically called digestion, which is the separation of the nutritious from the waste elements, or the conversion of food into chyme, preparatory to assimilation. _3. Translation of this portion into experience._ Even after a person has determined what portion of the crude materials can be of value to him and has reorganized it in a satisfactory manner, it may still seem somewhat strange to him,-another person's thought rather than his own. This is an indication that more work must be done, for assimilation of knowledge, like assimilation of food, requires the full identity of the nourishing matter with the self. "A thought is not a thought," says Dr. Dewey, "unless it is one's own." [Footnote: _School and Society,_ p. 66.] The student may thus far have reached nothing more than a consciousness of facts by themselves, while consciousness of them as a part of the self is a much more advanced stage. In order to reach this last point the student may find it necessary to review the thought a number of times in various ways, stating the pertinent questions and their answers. He may also practice making the main points with force, using them either under imagined or under actual conditions. In such a manner they are tossed about, overhauled, and restated, until a much closer and more abundant association of the ideas with one another and with the past experience of the learner is secured; he warms up to them until he welds them to himself. As a result a sense of ownership of the knowledge is finally established, a condition in which one largely loses consciousness of the original wording and, perhaps, even of the original source of the thought. The ideas now seem simple and their control easy, and one enjoys the feeling of increased strength due to real nourishment received. The feeling of ownership is fully justified, too, for, no matter where the thought may have originated, it has been worked over until it has been given a new color and has received one's own stamp, the stamp of self. This is the step in which the profitable matter extracted from the crude materials is translated into the learner's own experience; it corresponds to that part of food assimilation in which the nutritious portion of our food, secured through digestion, is made over into the bone, tissue, and muscle of the body. _4. Formation of habit._ While these steps overlap more or less, each represents a distinct advance. Study of many topics may be allowed to stop at this point, although it should be understood that assimilation is perhaps never complete, and that the appreciation of a great thought, together with the ability to use it, may continue to grow from year to year. On that account one should expect to review from time to time, by use and otherwise, the valuable experiences that have already been "mastered" through study. Certain portions of knowledge, however, cannot be left as properly under our control when they have been translated into experience as described. Study has thus far brought the student only to the ability to use his knowledge with fair ease _consciously,_ and extensive portions of knowledge have to be used quite _unconsciously;_ they must not only become truly ours but they must become second nature to us. In all the trades, for example, the many facts about the use of materials and tools, etc., must be applied "without thinking" before skill is attained. The same holds in the fine arts. In grammar, knowledge of the rules must be carried over into habit before one's speech is safely grammatical. Knowledge of the political and moral truths contained in history and literature must likewise be converted into habit before proper conduct is assured. In learning how to study one must fall into the habit of associating ideas, weighing values, and carrying points, _unconsciously,_ before the subject is properly mastered. "Ninety-nine hundredths, or, possibly, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousandths of our activity is purely automatic and habitual," says Professor James, "from our rising in the morning to our lying down each night. Our dressing and undressing, our eating and drinking, our greetings and partings, our hat-raisings and giving way for ladies to precede, nay, even most of the forms of our common speech, are things of a type so fixed by repetition as almost to be classed as reflex actions." [Footnote: James, _Talks to Teachers,_ p. 65.] Professor James is here referring mainly to motor activity; but habit is evidently a large factor in all phases of life; and, while many of the valuable thoughts assimilated by study probably do not need to be applied unconsciously, it is safe to say that prominent portions of most branches of knowledge must be converted into habit, or become second nature, before we can be said to have reached the desirable endpoint in their pursuit. The extent of this last advance, in which experience becomes habit, is indicated by the wide difference that exists between using a correct form of speech consciously and using it unconsciously, for even years of trial may intervene between the two. Repetition by use, under as nearly natural conditions as possible, must be the principal means of getting through this fourth step. But such practice should be influenced by certain very important precautions stated by Professor James. He has in mind primarily the formation of moral habits in his suggestions, but they apply in large measure also to the formation of other habits. 1. "In the acquisition of a new habit, or the leaving off of an old one, we must take care to _launch ourselves with as strong and decided an initiative as possible._ Accumulate all the possible circumstances which shall reinforce the right motives; put yourself assiduously in conditions that encourage the new way; make engagements incompatible with the old; take a public pledge, if the case allows; in short, envelop your resolution with every aid you know." 2. "_Never suffer an exception to occur till the new habit is securely rooted in your life._ Each lapse is like the letting fall of a ball of string which one is carefully winding up; a single slip undoes more than a great many turns will wind again." 3. "_Seize the very first possible opportunity to act on every resolution you make, and on every emotional prompting you may experience in the direction of the habits you aspire to gain._ It is not in the moment of their forming but in the moment of their producing motor effects, that resolves and aspirations communicate the new 'set' to the brain." [Footnote: James, _Talks to Teachers,_ pp. 67-70. See also James, _Psychology,_ Vol. I, Chapter IV, "Habit."] _The time and labor necessary in real assimilation of knowledge._ It is evident that real assimilation of knowledge is a very complex process, requiring a great amount of time and labor. "And be assured, also," says Ruskin, "if the author is worth anything, you will not get at his meaning all at once--nay, that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time arrive, in any wise." [Footnote: Ruskin, _Sesame and Lilies._] Ruskin is here doubtless referring mainly to insight into the thought; but, as has been shown, a point is not assimilated when one merely sees it clearly; insight into an idea usually precedes experience or ownership of it by a long interval; and the latter generally precedes habit by another long period. We are familiar with these facts as applied to mechanical subject- matter, such as the multiplication tables and forms of discourse. We recognize that we must come back to these over and over again if we are to obtain automatic control over them. Yet we act as though there was ground for assuming that the more fertile ideas, which are to be reduced to habits of thought and conduct, require less energy and patience. There is no justification for any such assumption; it would seem more reasonable to expect to devote more time to the latter, rather than less. Probably not much knowledge acquired either in school or college is carried through the three or four stages named above; but it is also true that comparatively little of that knowledge becomes a source of power, and it is safe to assume that the one fact is at least part explanation of the other. It is highly important, therefore, that the student become early reconciled to the fact that the real mastery of knowledge is a long and laborious process. CHILDREN'S CAPACITY TO INCLUDE THE USE OF KNOWLEDGE AS A FACTOR IN THEIR STUDY _The natural tendency to carry ideas into execution._ One of the most attractive baits that can be offered to a discontented, restless child is to propose that he _do_ something; and having received such a proposal, his impatience over delay in its execution shows how closely his nature links doing with thinking and planning. The games of children call for comparatively little study; yet children's desire to be acting is so dominant that they can scarcely wait to learn the rules before beginning to play. An eight- year-old girl who had been studying at home with her mother complained to a friend, "Mother doesn't have me _do_ anything! She has had me read and spell and learn arithmetic, and that's all." It is partly because we have come to appreciate, in recent years, this pressing need of doing, that we have been reforming the elementary school by introducing manual training, cooking, and sewing. One of the early surprises and disappointments of children produced by adults is the failure of the latter to carry into practice plans that they have been heard to make, and ideals that they have professed to admire. Having set up specific aims, such as were suggested in Chapter III, children expect to realize them in practice, because instinct tells them that the value of theory is found in its application. That is the reason that they so often inquire, "What is the use of it?" in connection with their study at school, and that they disapprove so heartily of any project that won't work. _Value of this tendency in education._ Living means substantially the same thing with children as with adults. They have the same general environment as adults; they study the same large fields of knowledge; and they likewise find the object of education in efficiency. There are the same reasons, therefore, as in the case of more mature students, for making the using of knowledge the aim of their study. The prospect of applying knowledge is a source of motive for all grades of learners. I have never seen a class more attentive to every detail of its procedure than were a certain group of girls who felt under obligations to eat the strawberry jam that they were making at school. Furthermore, the actual doing of the things imagined is a great clarifier of thought for children, as is shown in the very extensive use that the school makes of motor activity in numerous studies, and particularly of dramatizing in literature and history. It is also the most natural test of the practicability of the plans of children, and on that account a means of developing their soundness of judgment. This is well illustrated by a certain six-year-old girl who was making a doll's dress. After working in a very absorbed way for a time she impatiently exclaimed, "I won't have any lace in my sleeves!" "Why not?" asked one of her playmates. "'Cause I can't see any way to put it on," was the reply. One of the chief reasons why the experience of children outside of school is so educative is the fact that their ideas and plans are thus continually corrected by trial. Briefly, therefore, it is normal for children to carry ideas into execution, and there is the same need of it as in the case of adults. It might be added that the peculiar ease with which children form habits furnishes a special reason why the conversion of ideas into habits should constitute a very important part of their study. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOR TEACHING CHILDREN TO MAKE THE USING OF KNOWLEDGE A PART OF THEIR STUDY _1. Special recognition of those facts that should be translated into habit._ While all of one's knowledge should become familiar enough to form experience, some of it should be worked over until it is translated into habit. Facts of this latter kind should be clearly distinguished from others, in order that they may receive the special attention due them. The moral truths of literature and history belong plainly to this group. But there are many others, such, for instance, as the picturing of places upon the earth's surface rather than upon maps; the association of places with their latitudes; in the case of such a live problem as protective tariff, the association of the main facts in its history; the association of our leading transportation routes with the progress of our country; looking to the evidence in considering the value of statements; and the accurate and pointed wording of questions and answers. The habits that should be insisted upon in arithmetic are pretty well agreed upon, such as neatness of written work, accuracy of oral and written statements, the statement of a problem in one's own words, in case the meaning is at all doubtful, and the use of the approximate answer as a guide in finding the exact answer. But only when the great importance of such procedures is definitely recognized are they likely to receive the attention necessary to convert them into habits. If accuracy of statement were recognized as one of the very valuable habits to be acquired in literature and geography, as well as in arithmetic, much more effort would probably be put forth to establish that habit in those studies. Rules for thinking and for the expression of thought that should result in habits, like the rules of grammar, pervade all the studies, but until this fact is better established, and until the principal habits to be expected from each study are more clearly defined, somewhat as in arithmetic, there will be much wasted effort in study because important parts of the work will not be carried to completion. _2. Studying for one's own benefit._ The average "good" student scarcely gets beyond the first of the four stages of study outlined, _i. e.,_ the collection of the crude materials of knowledge. One very important reason tor this is that he fixes his eyes too intently upon his teacher in the preparation of his lessons; he studies to satisfy her rather than himself, as though somehow the school was established for her benefit. This subordination to the teacher is shown in the attitude toward marks; many a college student, even, waits helplessly until he can learn his mark before he knows whether or not he has done well; he seems to lack any conviction of his own about the matter. The student who feels responsibility primarily to himself, and therefore bothers little about marks, is rare. Yet the selection of that portion of the subject-matter that promises profit, and its conversion into experience, presuppose the ability to subordinate both author and teacher to the self, indeed to forget about both. No teacher can direct a student just what to select, or inform him when it has become experience with him; the real student must have a self big enough to carry that responsibility alone. Weakness in this respect manifests itself very early. Many a child is so absorbed in his teacher as not to know when he knows a thing until the teacher's approval is given. In some schools probably half of the pupils ten to twelve years of age fall into such a halting, apologetic frame of mind, that they would scarcely risk a meal on the accuracy of any statement that they make. In comparison, the boy who won't study, who plays hookey on warm spring days in spite of his teacher's warnings, and who otherwise defies his teacher, is to be admired; he is preserving his individuality, his most important possession. It is largely the teacher's fault if children show no power to discriminate the values of facts to themselves, and to determine when they know a thing. They will not always show wisdom in their selections, and will not always be right when they feel _sure._ A good degree of reliability in these respects is something that has to be acquired by long training. But the spirit of self-reliance is a child's birthright, and if it is lacking in his study it is because his nature has been undermined. Teachers, therefore, should take great pains to avoid a dogmatic manner toward children; they should impress upon them the fact that they are primarily responsible to themselves in their study, and that teachers are only advisers or assistants in intellectual matters, and not masters. No doubt many a college student finds it next to impossible to accomplish the second and third stages in study here outlined, simply because he finds no individual self within him to satisfy; it has been so long and so fully subordinated to others that it has become dwarfed, or has lost its native power to react; on that account independent selection is difficult and the sense of ownership is weak. _3. Means of influencing pupils to use their knowledge. (1). "The recitation."_ The principal means on which the teacher must rely for influencing children to include the using of knowledge as a part of their study, is the recitation. Since at least most of the recitation period is necessarily spent in talking, it might at first seem that it could accomplish little in the way of applying what one learns. But when it is remembered that perhaps the main use of knowledge is found in conversation and discussion, the situation need not seem so hopeless. The great thing, then, is to see that the talk of the class room takes place under as natural conditions as serious conversation and discussion elsewhere, thus duplicating real life. We know that children may spell words correctly in lists that they will miss in writing letters, and that they can solve problems in arithmetic correctly in school that seem quite beyond them when accidentally met as actual problems outside. Such facts emphasize the truth that only actual life secures a full and normal test of knowledge, and, therefore, that the recitation secures it only to the extent that it duplicates life. Here is seen a fundamental weakness of the customary recitation. It tests only the presence of facts in the minds of pupils, while the outside world tests their ability to use these facts, which is another and far more difficult matter, requiring true assimilation. Not merely that; but the customary recitation makes a sympathetic teacher the center of activity, she putting most of the questions, interpreting the answers, foreknowing what the children are trying to say, and deciding all issues. The children are not expected to offer ideas that are new to any one present, and they even acknowledge responsibility only to the teacher, looking toward her, addressing their statements to her, and usually endeavoring only to make her hear. All this holds largely in college recitations as well as elsewhere,--in case the students have the privilege of doing anything beyond listening to teachers there. This is an extremely unnatural situation and an inadequate test, as is indicated by the fact that the replies to the teacher's questions seldom convey clear meaning to strangers present. Such recitations secure far less individuality of thought and far less directness and force in its expression than is acceptable anywhere outside of the academic atmosphere. The special importance of having the school periods duplicate life conditions is seen in the fact that the character of the recitation determines the character of the preparation for it. Both the child and the more mature student will ordinarily go only so far in preparation as is necessary in order to meet the demands made upon them in class. If, therefore, the recitation does nothing more than give a weak test of the presence of facts, the preparation will include little selection and reorganization of facts and little effort to translate them into experience. How, then, should the customary recitation be modified? Let the young people come together much of the time for the same purpose that they have in serious conversation outside; _i.e.,_ not to rehearse or recite, but to talk over earnestly points that are worth talking over. With an assigned topic for a lesson, and with a teacher present as adviser and critic, let them compare their conceptions of what seem to them the principal facts, supplementing, rejecting, and selecting what seems to them fit. The relationship that they would bear toward one another might be the same as in any social gathering; but since it would be real work and not entertainment that they were attempting, attention would be centered on a definite subject and remarks would be more pointed. While the teacher would preserve order in the usual fashion, and might often come to their aid by correcting and advising, responsibility for taking the initiative and for making fair progress would rest primarily upon the children, so that they would be adopting an attitude and a method that could be directly transferred to the home and elsewhere. This is the ideal that Dr. Dewey urges in his _School and Society_ when he says: "The recitation becomes a social meeting place; it is to the school what the spontaneous conversation is at home, except that it is more organized, following definite lines. The recitation becomes the social clearing house, where experiences and ideas are exchanged and subjected to criticism, where misconceptions are corrected, and new lines of thought and inquiry are set up." [Footnote: Dr. John Dewey, _School and Society,_ p. 65.] The recitation then becomes a period where children talk before the teacher rather than to her; and in questioning and answering one another in a natural way they not only learn pointedness in thinking, but they increase and test their knowledge by using it. Thus they give witness to the truth of Bacon's words: "Whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and understanding do clarify and break up in the communicating and discoursing with another; he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he marshalleth them more orderly; he seeth how they look when they are turned into words; finally, he waxeth wiser than himself; and that more by an hour's discourse than by a day's meditation....A man were better relate himself to a statue or picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass in smother." [Footnote: Bacon's Essays, _Of Friendship._] When many of the school periods are occupied in this way, the lessons are not likely to be prepared with the teacher first in mind; what the others will say, what they will accept and reject and enjoy, as well as what one can one's self present and maintain, will chiefly occupy the attention. The child will then be selective in his study, having a view-point of his own; and he may even practice the forcible presentation of his ideas in the privacy of his study--before "a statue or picture" if need be. Moreover, with the use of his knowledge in prospect, he will cease to rely weakly upon his teacher to tell him whether or not he knows, because he will carry his own standard. There is no reason for assuming that all recitations should be spent in this manner, nor, perhaps, half of them; and they would not prove highly successful without training on the part of both teachers and pupils. But such a method of procedure should be common, and it should be fundamental to other study. In fact, it has succeeded admirably where tried by intelligent teachers. _(2). The school and home life of the pupil._ While the recitation can furnish occasion, in the way described, for the first use of knowledge, its use must be carried much further before a fair degree of assimilation can be assured. For this purpose the community life of the school, including the conduct of the children toward one another in the schoolroom and on the playground, may be of great value. A teacher of six-year-old children can, by close observation, find many ways in which the morals contained in fairy tales that she tells will apply to their daily lives, and with skill she can draw their attention to the fact in a helpful manner. So, any teacher who is earnest and observant of the thought, speech, and general conduct of her pupils can find numerous needs for the ideas that have been presented in class. The community life of a school is not very much narrower than that of any ordinary social community, such as a village; and certainly in a village the uses of knowledge are without limit, if one will only find them. If, in addition to a close watch of the school life, the teacher finds energy to study the home life of her pupils, even to visit them in their homes, so as to become acquainted with their parents and their home conditions, she can gather many more suggestions for the application of school knowledge. If she then makes mention of such uses at fitting times, and also as a part of examinations calls upon pupils to report on uses actually made of facts learned, she can both secure much real use of knowledge acquired at school and at the same time cultivate responsibility for its further use. CHAPTER IX. PROVISION FOR A TENTATIVE RATHEE THAN A FIXED ATTITUDE TOWARD KNOWLEDGE, AS A SEVENTH FACTOR IN STUDY. A fixed attitude toward facts and conclusions is harmful in several ways. The following incidents suggest how greatly it interferes with the usefulness of knowledge. _Reasons why a fixed attitude toward ideas is undesirable. 1. It interferes with the usefulness of knowledge._ A certain man living in one of the suburbs of Greater New York was commissioned by his wife to buy some flannel for her at one of the large department stores in the city. She knew exactly what she wanted, for she had already purchased some of the goods at this store. So she gave her husband a sample, with the explicit directions, emphasized, that the new piece should be of exactly the same quality, with white edges, and one yard wide. On arriving at the right counter, the man delivered his sample and gave his order. But, after some searching, the clerk said, "The exact thing that you want has all been sold; but I have here just the right piece," throwing down a bolt, "except that it is slightly coarser. Could you take that?" Recalling his wife's instructions, the man replied, "No," somewhat doubtfully. After more searching the clerk said, "Well, I have here a piece of just the desired quality, and one yard wide, only it has red edges. Could you not use that?" and he threw another bolt down on the counter. Again, remembering the emphasis on the directions received, the man responded weakly, "No, I think not." Finally, after further search, the clerk produced a third bolt, with the remark, "This will probably suit you. It is the exact quality that you want, and has white edges. The only objection is that it is not quite a yard wide. Can you not take it?" When for a third time the hesitating response came, "I think not," the clerk turned away with an expression of disgust for his customer, mingled with sorrow and pity. Although the man had done his best, he did not feel sure of his wife's approval on his return home. When she asked for his purchase he stated that he had failed to make it, and explained the circumstances. "Well," she replied, "but why didn't you use your own judgment and take one of the other pieces?" To which he responded, "I understood that I was not expected to use any judgment. You strongly emphasized the fact that you wanted material exactly like the sample, with white edges and just one yard wide. You told me nothing about what was to be made out of the goods. How, then, was I in a position to do anything more than to follow your exact directions?" That ended the discussion; but the need of less fixedness in instructions given was strongly impressed upon the husband, and a similar need in the following of instructions was equally impressed upon the wife. They were thus agreed as to the desirableness of some adaptability in one's ideas. A certain class of girls was learning to make French cream candy, and the recipe for the same, namely, 1 cup of sugar, 1/3 cup of water, 1 salt-spoon of cream of tartar. was placed on the board for them to follow. After reading the recipe and listening to some directions from the teacher, including special emphasis on accuracy of measurements, the class set to work and produced some candy that even the visitors were glad to eat. The recipe seemed so simple that one of the visitors a few days later proposed to his little daughter that they make some French cream candy at home. They measured out a cup of sugar and one-third of a cup of water; but there was a halt when it was discovered that there was no salt-spoon in the house. The man's wife came to their rescue, however, by giving them some idea of the size of such a spoon. Then it was found that they had no cream of tartar. On further consultation with the wife it was learned for the first time that the object of cream of tartar was to prevent too quick granulation, and that probably some other acid-like substance, such as vinegar or lemon juice, might do just as well. So a small amount of vinegar was used instead, and reasonably good candy was produced. In a later attempt the exact amount of water necessary to a cup of sugar had been forgotten, and too much water was used; but by boiling the mixture longer, excellent candy was made. As a result of these experiments it was found that only enough water was needed to dissolve the sugar, and that any one of several other things would do as well as cream of tartar to prevent granulation. Without this knowledge there would be many a family which, either on account of bad memory of proportions or of want of certain materials, could make no use of the recipe. Such knowledge secured some adaptability or flexibility in the directions, thereby greatly extending their use. One of the common objections to preparing lesson plans for teaching is that they can seldom be followed. More than that, it is declared, children have such a disappointing way of doing and saying the unexpected, that a carefully memorized lesson plan is likely to hinder the teacher in adapting herself to her pupils, and on that account may do more harm than good. These objections contain much truth; and if preparing a lesson plan means mapping out only one fixed procedure, they may be entirely valid. That is not, however, what such preparation should signify. One of the principal objects of making one plan is to think out others, that may be followed or not as occasion demands. That kind of preparation, instead of tying a teacher's hands, keeps her superior to any fixed course and gives freedom to deal skillfully with almost any kind of response. These examples may be sufficient to show that a fixed attitude toward directions and plans, or toward knowledge in general, is a serious barrier to its application. The conditions are always changing, and one's ideas must be capable of corresponding modification if their full use is to be enjoyed. _2. It is opposed to progress._ Our attitude toward knowledge is intimately related also to the progress that we make; a fixed state of mind precludes reflection about one's course by precluding a feeling of its need. Men frequently show blindness to new truth. Boss politicians count upon from eighty to eighty-five per cent of all voters "standing pat" and voting according to party, no matter what facts may be discovered against one candidate and in favor of another. This fact is what gives the bosses their security. It was thought to be a wonderful sign of progress a few years ago when sixty thousand out of six hundred thousand voters in a certain election in Massachusetts ignored party lines and voted according to the merits of the candidate. One reason that we have so many mediaeval educational institutions is that persons in control have so many fixed ideas. There are few colleges and universities to- day, for instance, in which courses that prepare young women for home- keeping, such as domestic science and domestic art, receive credit toward a degree. Progressive changes in any line are conditioned upon sensitiveness toward changing circumstances and new ideas, and a fixed attitude is directly opposed to such responsiveness. _3. It is opposed to peace and happiness._ History is full of instances of the extent to which intolerance resulting from fixed convictions may carry people. Innumerable murders and many wars, entailing untold suffering, have found their principal cause in religious bigotry. Educational and political bigotry are likewise sources of much bad feeling and unhappiness. Family disputes, as between father and son, are in large measure due to too great fixedness of views and opinions; and much of the discontent of old age is found in the inability of old people to abandon their old-fashioned notions, so as to adjust themselves to new conditions and enjoy them. A fixed attitude toward ideas is, therefore, far from an unmixed virtue; it seriously limits the usefulness of knowledge; it greatly checks progress; and it strongly opposes peace and happiness. _4. It finds little justification in the nature of knowledge._ Finally, a fixed attitude toward ideas finds little justification in the nature of knowledge. If supposed facts were always true, and if they were always truly understood, a fixed state of mind toward them might still find justification; but that is far from the case. Probably some things are true for all time, such, for example, as the facts of the multiplication table, propositions in geometry, and some of the laws of physics. But perfect reliability is attached to very little of our knowledge. Some of the fundamental propositions in the exact sciences of physics and chemistry are only hypotheses, that have undergone extensive modification in recent years. Political opinions are subject to constant change. Sixty years ago the secret ballot was feared as one of the worst of evils, lest voters might then wreak awful vengeance upon those in authority; now its desirability is unquestioned. So many new ideas have become established in recent years about the nature of childhood, the aims of the school, and even the use of school buildings, that education is a radically different field from what it was only twenty years ago. In the same way, facts in all lines are ever undergoing modification, and evolution prophesies such modification through all time to come. Even our statements of scientific law, instead of being final, only express man's interpretation of unvarying phenomena of nature, and are subject to error, like all other work of man. Huxley declares that "the day-fly has better grounds for calling a thunder storm supernatural than has man, with his experience of an infinitesimal fraction of duration, to say that the most astonishing event that can be imagined is beyond the scope of natural causes." [Footnote: T. H. Huxley, _Life of Hume,_ p. 132.] Even within the field of science, therefore, we can never feel sure that the last word has been said, and the best established conclusions may have to submit to correction. Turning from the better established fields of knowledge to such other facts as influence daily life, we find them to be remarkably uncertain. The facts about the weather, that guide the farmer, for instance, are only beginning to be fully known, and consequent miscalculations in the planning and the care of crops are without limit. In ordering goods only six months in advance, the merchant must be controlled by probabilities, many of which are only narrowly distinguishable from guesses. The facts that establish friendships are frequently still less tangible, blind feelings of affinity and faith alone being not seldom the basis of the attraction. Thus our so-called knowledge ranges all the way from ideas that possess a very high degree of probability to those that are a product of faith and hope, the greater portion of them approaching the latter. More than that, even in cases where the statements of principles, as in physics and ethics, seem thoroughly reliable, the variety of their application is so great and any individual's horizon is so narrow, that errors in their application to concrete cases must be very common. Correct theory about any matter by no means carries with it the correct application of that theory, as every one finds out sooner or later. It follows, then, that the highest wisdom represents only a rough approximation to the truth, and that ordinary facts are more nearly hypotheses than certainties. Since, therefore, so few ideas are fully reliable and unalterably fixed, a settled attitude toward them is undesirable, not only because it is opposed to utility, growth, and happiness, but because it finds no warrant in the real nature of knowledge. _The proper attitude toward knowledge._ What, then, is the proper attitude toward knowledge? While one should not be ultra-conservative, as though everything were finally settled, neither should one be ultra-radical, as though nothing were established; bigotry and skepticism are alike to be condemned. The ideal state of mind is illustrated by leaders in industrial pursuits, like manufacturing. They confidently make the fullest possible use of existing knowledge pertaining to their business, including the latest inventions, while they keep a very careful lookout for further improvements. That is, they preserve an unprejudiced, open mind toward both the old and the new. It is just such a tentative attitude toward knowledge that all people should cultivate. So much of the old is defective, and so much new truth may come to light at any moment, that the fair, judicial mind is always in demand, a mind that is ever ready for new adjustments and that weighs and decides solely according to evidence. Colonel F. W. Parker used to declare that the grandest discovery of the nineteenth century was the _suspended judgment._ Yet this attitude is one that has long been insisted upon as essential to the scientist; indeed, it is most generally called the scientific attitude. It is strange, however, that those fields in which facts are best established should be the ones in which the importance of a tentative attitude is most emphasized. One would think that its worth for the non-scientific man would be far greater, for the facts that he hears about people and things, which guide him daily, are far less reliable, and his consequent necessity of changing his views is much more frequent. _The relation of this attitude to energetic action._ While a tentative attitude toward knowledge may be of great importance for the scientist or theoretical student, may it not be even harmful to the ordinary person? Force or energy is one of the chief requirements in the world of action; and if a person becomes much impressed with the unreliability of his ideas, as seems necessary in the cultivation of a tentative attitude, may he not come finally to lack decision and energy? Certainly we now and then see examples of indecision and half-hearted action, due at least in part to appreciation of opposing points of view and to consequent uncertainty of conclusions. There may be such a danger; but it is, on the whole, to be courted rather than avoided; for, while examples of indecision are sometimes seen, examples of too decided convictions and of excessive energy in pushing them are far more common. It is not mere action that is wanted, but _safe_ action. Force must be under the guidance of reason if it is to be free from danger, and reason is hardly possible without an interested but impartial attitude toward evidence. Possibly the energy of educators would be at least temporarily increased if they formulated and subscribed to definite educational creeds; but the partiality that would thus be encouraged would soon lead to strife and wasted effort. A tentative attitude undoubtedly does limit activity somewhat, but only as good judgment limits it, for it is one of the leading factors in such judgment. It tends to eliminate misguided effort, and to check other action until its object is found to be worthy. Each of these effects is highly desirable. On the other hand, there is no reason why it should be expected to diminish energy after favorable judgment on a project has been passed. It does not imply indifference or any lack of devotion; it merely favors the subordination of enthusiasm to insight, and delays expression of the former till the latter has given lief. The result is likely to be greater and better sustained effort than otherwise, because the tested excellence of the cause must be a source of inspiration and will help to carry one through discouraging intervals. Washington and Lincoln were both distinguished for freedom from blind prejudices and corresponding openness to the influence of new ideas; but they were also distinguished for uncommon energy and firmness in the pursuit of their main purposes. A tentative attitude toward ideas is, therefore, a real aid to energetic action in all but unworthy and doubtful causes; in these cases it is a very desirable hindrance. [Footnote: For a valuable discussion of this general topic, see J. W, Jenks' _Citizenship and the Schools,_ particularly Chapter I.] HOW THIS MATTER CONCERNS CHILDREN A receptive state of mind is supposed to be one of the peculiar merits of children. Indeed, they are so sympathetic with any view that the last presentation that they happen to hear in regard to a disputed matter is likely to be the one that they accept. It might seem, therefore, that there is no need of emphasizing the importance of open-mindedness as a factor in their education. That is far from the case, however. Children are peculiarly open-minded toward many things; but it is mainly those that they have had no previous opportunity to learn about. It is hard to take sides on a matter that you have never heard of. But the test of an impartial mind is found in those matters that are already somewhat familiar, so that one has already had some temptation to choose a side. Note how children act in such cases. How readily they declare allegiance to the political party of their fathers and shout with all the vehemence of stand-patters! How stubbornly they insist upon their teacher's method of solving problems in arithmetic when their parents undertake to assist them by showing a better way! They are nearly as intolerant as their parents on such occasions. How hastily they take sides in disputes among friends! And how very frequently their impatience with the statements and opinions of their companions gets them into quarrels and fights! When we recall the great variety of decisions that they reach in daily life, and the impulsiveness with which many of them are made and supported, it becomes evident that precautions against prejudice and intolerance are not at all out of place in their education. The need is emphasized, too, when we realize that many persons adopt inflexible views on so great a number of disputed questions, that they show signs of becoming old fogies quite early in life. "Old fogyism begins at an earlier age than we think," says Professor James. "I am almost afraid to say so, but I believe that in the majority of human beings it begins at about twenty-five." [Footnote: _Talks to Teachers,_ p. 160.] If instances of intolerance become numerous enough to begin to class a majority of us as old fogies at this age, certainly many tendencies toward a fixed state of mind must appear and need treatment at a much earlier age. The matter is of special importance with young children, owing to the nature of the school curriculum during the early years of school. Beginning reading, writing, and spelling are systems of conventional signs, where authority and not reason decides what is right. Arithmetic, also, consists of absolutely definite, indisputable facts. Thus the facts in the three R's and spelling, which make up most of the curriculum in the majority of schools for the earlier years, show no flexibility whatever. They must be learned as fixed things, and they tend to give the impression that the definiteness and finality belonging to them are to be expected in all subjects. This impression is strengthened, too, rather than destroyed, by the behavior of average parents. The conditions are, therefore, very favorable for the development of snap judgments and fixed attitudes among children, unless such influences are counteracted by very careful training. SPECIFIC SUGGESTIONS FOB CULTIVATING A TENTATIVE ATTITUDE AMONG BOTH CHILDREN AND MORE MATURE STUDENTS _1. Acquaintance with a variety of views._ University students preparing for supervision of instruction often observe recitations together, with the object of discussing their merits and defects. No matter how carefully they may have analyzed a recitation, it is interesting, when they come to compare conclusions, to observe how their view-points vary, how many things each person has overlooked, and how widely their judgments at first differ. Many a student who has pursued such a course of study has reached the conviction that no one person is capable of discovering all the important factors in thirty minutes of instruction, and that his own conclusions are probably faulty in numerous serious respects. This impression in regard to the fallibility of individual judgment has a wholesome effect on any tendency to be too positive and fixed, while it directly engenders respect for other people's opinions. Frequent discussion of questions in class, even among younger children, can have a similar influence, as can also the use of reference works and different texts on a subject. The young student should come to regard acquaintance with varying views as necessary to the formation of a reliable opinion on any topic and of sound judgment in general. That conviction will compel him to keep on the lookout for new light. Says John Stuart Mill: "The whole strength and value, then, of human judgment, depending on the one property that it can be set right when it is wrong, reliance can be placed on it only when the means of setting it right are kept constantly at hand. In the case of any person whose judgment is really deserving of confidence, how has it become so? Because he has kept his mind open to criticism of his opinion and conduct. Because it has been his practice to listen to all that could be said against him; to profit by as much of it as was just, and expound to himself, and on occasion to others, the fallacy of what was fallacious. Because he has felt that the only way in which a human being can make some approach to knowing the whole of a subject, is by hearing what can be said about it by persons of every variety of opinion, and studying all modes in which it can be looked at by every variety of mind. No wise man ever acquired his wisdom in any mode but this; nor is it the nature of human intellect to become wise in any other manner." [Footnote: John Stuart Mill. _On Liberty,_ Chapter II.] _2. Slowness in passing judgment._ A second means by which a student may be kept from too positive and fixed an attitude is by being trained to feel satisfied that many a clearly stated problem that has arisen with him cannot be definitely and finally answered at the present time, and perhaps not at all. Slowness in passing judgment may usually be urged with propriety. Even the mere attempts to reply to a query should occasionally be checked in class when it is evident that they are hasty. Some answers should be delayed even several days, the time meanwhile being occupied with the collection of data. Too many difficult questions are answered "at a sitting," with meager reflection and investigation, as though final answers in general could be obtained easily and quickly. There are some problems also that should not be answered at all; not because they are not valuable, but because their solutions cannot yet be understood by the student, or are as yet impossible. The consciousness that knowledge is too difficult, or is positively wanting here and there, destroys overconfidence in the completeness of one's attainments and awakens the need of further study. One of the principal values of many a recitation, in any grade of work, should consist in the unsolved problems that have been worded. _3. Cultivation of sympathy._ A good measure of kindly feeling in one's make-up is, perhaps, the greatest single remedy against a too static condition of ideas. Feeling seems to have a double function in making one open and plastic. A kindly attitude toward new ideas is necessary before they can be viewed long enough to have their value tested. We must be positively friendly, or willing to see worth, before we can see it. Sympathy thus secures a hearing for new ideas. It was because the Jews lacked this feeling and consequent willingness, that Jesus condemned them for seeing not, though they had eyes, and for hearing not, though they had ears. Feeling is also a condition of the appreciation of new thought after it has once secured a hearing. By a sort of intuition the significance of a fact is often felt long before the intellect has furnished proof of its value, the power of feeling supplying motive in this way for the intellect to do its work. And, again, until the conclusions formed by the intellect have reached the feelings, they exert little influence upon one's ways of thinking and acting. Cold sermons have little effect on most persons, even though, their logic forces assent to them. Appreciation of worth thus greatly depends upon one's capacity of feeling. Considerable warmth of heart or mellowness of nature due to sympathy is, therefore, an important factor in rendering one willing to listen to new ideas and to be influenced by them. Without much feeling, a man is likely to be narrow and unyielding. Gradgrind, in Dickens's _Hard Times,_ is a shining example of this type. In his excessive devotion to "hard facts" his emotional nature atrophied, until the many valuable cues or suggestions about the conduct of his business and the training of his children that a kindlier nature would have caught from the events occurring about him, failed to affect him, and on that account he went to smash. He admirably illustrates in a negative way Carlyle's striking statement that "never wise head yet was without warm heart," and he throws light on the profoundness of Saint Paul's meaning when he said, "Love is...never conceited...but has full sympathy with truth." Without an abundance of affection a man is self-centered, a selfish aristocrat. Sympathy or love allows the ideas of others to be lifted to a plane on a level with his own and thus helps greatly toward his tolerance and receptiveness. It is true that the scientist urges the elimination of all personal feeling in his investigations. He wants to be as purely intellectual as possible, in order to see things as they are, while personal bias tends to color facts and to that extent to vitiate them. It is chiefly, however, prejudice of all sorts in testing and judging truth that he is anxious to avoid, rather than any feeling of unalloyed interest in it. A certain warmth of feeling is necessary for its comprehension as well as its evaluation. The biologist, for instance, must be in close sympathy with birds in order to understand them, just as a mother must be in close sympathy with her child in order to understand him. It would scarcely be worth while to include these thoughts were we not able to preserve and increase our capacity of feeling, in kind and degree, just as we can preserve and increase our knowledge. It is partly with this object that we have so broad a curriculum, even in the primary school, including music, painting, and literature, as well as other subjects. Literature certainly possesses great value for developing broad sympathy; it is at least a question if literary men do not exhibit less prejudice toward new ideas than scientists, although so much emphasis is placed upon induction, and judgment according to evidence, in the training of the latter that they might be expected to be especially open-minded. In addition to broad study, we can take pains not to study too much, that is, not so much as to crowd out the emotional life. Insight is only one of several large factors in a good education, and the ambitious student is always in danger of becoming too exclusively intellectual for the highest scholarship. The true relation of insight to feeling is well illustrated in Lincoln's life, when in the midst of the most serious and pressing problems he took time for jesting and humorous tales. In spite of condemnation by his subordinates for levity, he had excellent grounds for such conduct; for not only was relaxation secured in this manner--which was important enough--but his own natural warmth of sympathy was also restored, which was of greatest value in weighing the worth of suggestions and events. Humor is an important aid to any serious person in preserving balance; a good laugh restores perspective. While it is the duty of the more mature student to cultivate for himself a many-sided emotional life, even at the expense of some knowledge, it is the duty of teachers of children in particular to give them material help in this direction. There are few schools that do not emphasize learning to the neglect of feeling. The teacher can help first of all by avoiding setting a coldly intellectual example. In addition she can study the conduct of children with the object of correcting their narrowness. Many a child who isolates himself from conversation and play at recess is growing one-sided, whether he spends the time in doing nothing or in studying. He should be influenced to enjoy play and social life, just as he should be influenced to study, and it is the teacher's task to single out such cases and restore them to their normal condition. _4. Subordination of authority to reason._ Young people can learn to distinguish between authority on the one hand and evidence or reason on the other, and to subordinate the former to the latter, thus allowing conclusions to be based chiefly on facts rather than on persons. The assertion of authority over children, requiring blind obedience on their part in matters of discipline, is very common. Similar assertion of authority over both children and adults in intellectual matters is also common. The authority of custom, for instance, as represented in the teacher, is dominant in beginning reading, writing, spelling, and in language in general. In many advanced subjects, also, students are accustomed to accept many statements as true simply because the instructors declare them to be. _(1) The two bases of conclusions._ Some subjects, however, to a peculiar degree eliminate authority, basing conclusions mainly on reason. Mathematics affords an example. Personal authority sinks so completely out of sight here that even a child can dare sometimes to correct the teacher. While the majority of studies lie between the extremes represented by literature and mathematics, it is safe to say that conclusions generally can be based upon reasons that are fairly within the understanding and the reach of young people, if it seems desirable. _(2) Inferiority of authority to reason._ Blind obedience is of doubtful value in the discipline of children, because it is so unintelligent; it is well called _blind._ Blind submission to authority in intellectual matters, on the part of either children or adults, is no less objectionable. It is not any person's mere assertion that makes a thing true, but evidence of some sort; and evidence is likewise usually necessary to make it interesting and comprehensible. The artificiality of the authority of a teacher as the main support for conclusions is plainly seen in the fact that there is no substitute for it outside of and after school and college. Its evil influence is also evident from the fact that persons accustomed to rely much upon it easily come to overlook evidence to the extent of blindly jumping to conclusions. And, having formed their opinions independently of reason, they cannot be easily influenced; for an attitude that has not been reached rationally is not likely to be modified rationally. Submission to authority easily ends in the most extreme dogmatism. _(3) The tendency of authority to usurp the place of reason._ There is a strong tendency, however, for authority to usurp the place of reason. In penmanship, for example, the teacher often dictates the proper position of the body, instead of acquainting the child with the reasons for it. The rules for composition are usually dogmatically presented, in spite of the fact that there are plain reasons back of most of them. If, for instance, a sentence did not begin with some large mark, such as a capital, and end with some other plainly seen mark, it would be difficult to distinguish one sentence from another, so as to read. Statements in geography were long based on authority, like those in grammar; in fact, only very recently has the causal idea become prominent in geography. High-school students of physics very generally want to know what the teacher wishes them to see in an experiment before feeling sure what they do see; and college students of politics, rather than depend upon the evidence itself, are inclined to learn the political views of their professors as the means of finding out what they themselves think. There are good reasons for this tendency to base conclusions upon authority. It takes much more knowledge of a subject and much greater skill in its presentation to make the reasons for facts clear. Furthermore, it requires a good degree of energy and moral courage on the part of teachers to decline the compliment that young people confer upon them in preferring to trust them rather than evidence; and it also requires a good degree of energy on the part of students to rely upon their own study of facts. It is not surprising, therefore, if the average teacher makes himself the main authority for the statements that he makes in class, and if the average student readily accepts his authority. That is the easier way to get through a day. _(4) How this tendency may be combated._ As the first step in combating this tendency, both teachers and students must decide how highly they value a scientific method of arriving at conclusions. Heretofore our interest in conclusions as valuable information has been so great that the method of reaching them has been neglected; it mattered little how much prejudice or blind acceptance of authority was connected with them, so long as they were understood and remembered. If such neglect has been wrong, and if a habit of basing opinions on carefully selected facts is approximately as important as knowledge itself,--as is probably true,--then we have found sufficient motive for serious effort toward reform. The next step is to make the words _premises, evidence, proof,_ as prominent in study as the word _conclusions._ "In reasoning," says ex- President Eliot, "the selection of the premises is the all-important part of the process....The main reason for the painfully slow progress of the human race is to be found in the inability of the great mass of people to establish correctly the premises of an argument....Every school ought to give direct instruction in fact- determining and truth-seeking; and the difficulties of these processes ought to be plainly and incessantly pointed out." [Footnote: _Atlantic Monthly,_ "The School," November, 1903, p. 584.] Some college studies, as physics, for instance, might be taught primarily for the sake of method rather than subject-matter, and all college subjects, so far as possible, should emphasize the value of the right method of study. But scientifically trained college students, with their snap judgments in fields outside of their specialties, give convincing proof that emphasis on method in one or a few studies taken up so late in life cannot inculcate the general habit of mind desired. Such training must begin much earlier, must in fact extend throughout the whole period of study, as Dr. Eliot suggests. Teachers in the elementary school in particular must assume responsibility for developing a scientific habit of thinking, just as they assume responsibility for correct speech, and must insist upon the one in every subject as they do upon the other. _5. The referring of disagreements of view to large facts or principles._ The tendency to dogmatize can be further overcome if disagreements of view are habitually referred for decision to large facts or principles. Suppose that a dispute has arisen as to when phonics should be introduced in beginning reading, and how prominent it should be made. A, wishing to teach children to read as soon and as rapidly as possible, would drill upon lists of phonetic words and upon sentences composed only of such words, no matter how artificial they might be. B, considering other things more important in beginning school life than learning to read, strongly opposes any extensive and systematic use of phonics. Reiteration of views, and even the customary proofs of success by trial, may avail nothing. But reiteration may lead to derogatory remarks, when each becomes impressed with the stubbornness and meanness of the other. Suppose, however, that B, remembering that details of method are determined by large principles, runs back to his largest controlling idea in beginning reading, the need of live minds or of lively thought on the part of the children. Suppose that he shows that extensive use of phonics during the first year of school means the use of words without meaning, a tendency that is marked in prayers and greetings and that has to be actively combated throughout school and college life. Suppose that he shows, further, that the main progress of the best primers and readers in the last twenty years has been in opposition to this tendency and in the direction of interesting thought, and that good expression of thought rather than the mere pronouncing of words is the chief element in good reading. A large principle thus brought to bear is likely to accomplish one of three things: (_a_) it may lead to full agreement; (_b_) or it may itself be agreed upon, while the details are still objects of dispute. But in that case the large thought, having put the details in proper perspective, prevents unpleasant conflict by revealing their comparative littleness. Also, agreement on the large point convinces each disputant of the other's partial sanity, at least, and thus preserves harmony; (_c_) or, finally, the principle itself may become an object of dispute. Even then the largeness of the idea places the discussion on a high plane, and the disputants, impressed with the dignified, impersonal character of the thought, are disinclined to personalities. This value of a principle is often illustrated in the work of criticising young teachers. Let the critic condemn with authority one feature of a recitation after another, making free use of the pronoun _I_, and the young teacher criticised is likely to glare at him in rising wrath. But let the critic omit the show of authority entirely, even the use of _I_, merely offering the reasons for certain objections, particularly some broad principle of method whose relation to the matter in hand is perfectly plain, and harmony is almost bound to prevail, no matter how complete the condemnation may be. Thus people will bear with one another, either agreeing or agreeing to disagree, so long as discussions center about principles; but without this condition intolerance and ill feeling easily manifest themselves. _6. The delaying of judgment till the evidence has been considered._ Having granted the need of relying on reasons, and large ones, rather than on authority, the habit can be inculcated of delaying judgment until the evidence has been considered. It might seem superfluous to add this suggestion, did it not frequently happen that people get the cart before the horse in this manner. For example, it is common for debaters to choose sides as soon as a question is agreed upon, and to do their studying afterward. Then, having committed themselves to one side, they study and argue in order to _win_ rather than to get light. It being regarded as ridiculous for partisans to be on both sides of a question at once,--even though one's convictions often place one there,--they ignore strong opposing arguments, bolster up their own weak assertions by fluency of speech and a bold manner, and try to substitute witticisms for thought, when thought is lacking. While such efforts increase knowledge, they pit personality against personality in such a way that the ego rather than truth becomes the main object of interest, and on that account their influence as a whole is extremely injurious. That kind of discussion is not honest, and its spirit is far removed from that of the true scientist. Young people should avoid taking sides, at least at the beginning of their study of a problem, and probably discussion should take the place of debating. At any rate, the single point, rather than the whole question, might form the unit of debate. They should be taught to argue on both sides of a question, according to belief, just as frank persons do in conversation, to recognize the strength of opposing arguments, and to confess their own weak points. Then they would be making truth their aim, rather than victory. Such discussions are much more typical of life than ordinary debates; and if the latter seem necessary as a preparation for some professions--which is deplorable, if true--one should wait to acquire such ability until professional training begins. _7. Avoidance of too positive forms of speech._ Aside from debates, people are often tempted to commit themselves too positively in regard to facts by too positive forms of speech. We so often hear "I _know_" in place of "I suspect" or "I surmise"; and the speaker, having committed himself almost before he knows it, repeats the assertion to make himself more sure, meanwhile wondering how sure he is. Benjamin Franklin speaks in his autobiography of having acquired the habit of expressing himself in terms of modest diffidence, "never using," he says, "when I advance anything that may possibly be disputed, the words certainly, undoubtedly, or any others that give the air of positiveness to an opinion; but rather say, 'I conceive or apprehend a thing to be so-or-so'; 'It appears to me,' or 'I should not think it so-or-so, for such-and-such reasons'; or 'I imagine it to be so'; or 'It is so, if I am not mistaken.' This habit, I believe, has been of great advantage to me, when I have had occasion to inculcate my opinions, and persuade men into measures that I have been from time to time engaged in promoting. And, as the chief ends of conversation are to inform or be informed, to please or persuade, I wish well-meaning and sensible men would not lessen their power of doing good by a positive, assuming manner, that seldom fails to disgust, tends to create opposition, and to defeat most of those purposes for which speech was given to us." [Footnote:_Autobiography,_ p. 21, of edition of Cassell & Co.] Franklin is here considering intemperate forms of speech from the point of view of others. But they have a corresponding bad effect on the speaker, making him more dogmatic the more he indulges in them, until he loses the power to be tolerant of other persons. Discussion and conversation should be conscientiously utilized by the student for the practice of intellectual honesty, of sincerity with himself, for such sincerity lies at the very foundation of true scholarship. CHAPTER X PROVISION FOR INDIVIDUALITY, AS AN EIGHTH FACTOR IN STUDY _The change in appreciation of the self._ There was a time when people seemed to take pride in self- depreciation. Believing in total depravity, they were suspicious of all natural tendencies, and the crushing out of strong desires seemed no evil. Obedience to Another's will was the one supreme virtue, and the killing of human nature, the annihilation of self, was the condition of its attainment. [Footnote: See John Stuart Mill, _On Liberty,_ Chapter III.] But the watchwords of modern education--self-activity, self- expression, self-development, self-reliance, self-control--indicate a very different attitude now. The emphasis here placed on _self_ recognizes it as the center of virtue; and the suffixes, _activity, expression,_ etc., declare the unfolding of instincts and other native powers, up to the point of independence, to be a great desideratum in education. These watchwords signify that the constitution of an infant, like that of a young plant, fixes a certain goal within broad limits for it to reach, the narrower limits being left to be determined by social ideals. They signify further that this goal can be reached only by the unfolding of inner powers, and that the purpose of the educator, like that of the gardener, is not to create but merely to furnish the food and environment most favorable to growth. In brief, the object of education must be attained by quickening to the utmost, rather than by annihilating, the self. This conception holds good, too, for every human being, in spite of the infinite variety of individuals. For, according to the doctrine of interest, which is a term ultimately related to these other terms and equally emphasized with them, only that spiritual food can be expected to be truly assimilated by any person which appeals to his peculiar nature; all else fails of real nourishment, no matter how much drill may be given to it. Thus the sovereignty of every individual is recognized. Psychologically speaking, there are no saints among us to set the standard for others. Each person is worthy of exercising his own choice, of having his own way; indeed, he _must_ exercise this privilege if he is to act rightly. _Causes of this change._ What respect we have come to have for ourselves! Have we, then, put off corruption and become perfect? And is the millennium at hand? Far from it. We have merely discovered the method by which we can become good; and, stated briefly, it is that every one must be true to himself, or must be himself. It is not strange that, in this age of scientific investigation, we have come to know more about our own natures than we did two hundred years ago. And the knowledge gained touches two great questions: first, the original character of the infant mind; and second, its method of advance. As to the former, we are now convinced that the child is originally endowed with certain impulses and instincts, or with certain instinctive tendencies, such as fear, love, curiosity, imitation, pride, constructiveness, appreciation of beauty, and conversational power, [Footnote: See James, _Talks to Teachers,_ Chapter VII; also Dewey, _School and Society,_ Chapter II.] and that these constitute the foundation or starting point for all educational endeavor. As to the latter, progress takes place by the unfolding of these instinctive tendencies, by their development rather than by their repression. Further than that, since everybody is unlike everybody else in his native impulses, and since his environment likewise varies, every person must expect to differ from all others, more or less, in knowledge, desires, and actions. Corruption may be as common as formerly, perhaps more so, requiring more vigorous restrictions than ever; but the proper way for any one to advance is to use the peculiar talents for good with which nature has endowed him, in the peculiar way fitting to himself. He may not do everything he likes; but whatever he does do must be an outgrowth of his own past, in harmony with himself and therefore an expression of himself, if it is to prove effective. _The value of individuality in English composition._ This truth is often illustrated in the government of children. A young teacher who attempts to govern a class "in just the same way as the principal does it," thus relying upon imitation, is doomed to failure. Pupils quickly detect the lack of native force, of genuineness, in such a teacher, and lose respect on that account. But the vital character of this thought is best illustrated in English composition. It has long been recognized that merit in that field is present to the extent that one gives expression to one's own ideas, and is lacking to the extent that the ideas are borrowed. Whatever is to be fresh and valuable must bear the peculiar stamp of the author presenting it. The reason for this is that only through self-expression is a natural product obtained. So long as I am consciously imitating another, or am unconsciously so warped by him as to ignore my own nature and experience, I am sounding a false note. What another thinks, no matter how good it may be, cannot properly represent me, and coming from me as mine, the want of harmony injures. I am in that case merely pretending, and the outcome is faulty because it is a sham. I might much better give expression to my own ideas, remembering Wendell Phillips's assertion that "any man who is thoroughly interested in himself is interesting to other people." Real interest in self (which is a very different thing from egotism) implies honesty with self and consequent freedom from subjection to another. Then naturalness, which borders closely on originality and is the first guarantee of excellence, is assured. Naturalness is assured, too, in my expression of other people's ideas, provided these have become my own property by right of true assimilation. In that case they have received my own stamp, so that I am still offering something at first hand. The virility of even this kind of thought is well illustrated in the following composition by a twelve-year-old boy:-- The Chinese and Japanese may look alike in appearance; but they are not one bit alike. Once upon a time they both were the most civilized people in the world. Then Confucius came in and told them that they should learn no more and do exactly what their ancestors did. Both countries believed in this for a long time. Then the United States butted in and told them of their danger; they said that they were going backward instead of forward, and would be conquered by another nation if they did not pick up. The Chinese would not listen to this and said the United States had no right to interfere. But Japan thought there was some truth in this, and so the United States sent over machines, built factories, laid railroad tracks, etc. The result is that Japan is winning the war she is fighting with Russia. _How composition typifies life in general._ English composition is perhaps the best single test of the general healthfulness of school instruction, and it typifies life in general. The pretended appreciation of an author, an affected manner, insincerity in the profession of friendship and religion, anything that admits a deceitful, artificial element is pernicious in composition as well as in life. Whatever is good must be true. In consequence, no matter how extensively persons differ from one another, the first essential to the highest efficiency of each is fidelity to his own nature. We hear a great deal about self-made men, men who have wrested success from a stubborn world without the help of the schools. They are examples of those who are guided from within rather than from without. But every man, so far as he is a man, is self-made. He has had to use his own observation to see; his own reason and judgment to foresee; his own discrimination to decide; and his own firmness to stand by his decisions. [Footnote: See John Stuart Mill, _On Liberty,_ Chapter III.] His adaptation to his environment has been self-accomplished, and the first condition of its success has been a noble self-respect. Trust in self is a prerequisite to ability to do,--we must believe that we can, before we can,--and obedience to inner promptings is a necessary antecedent to such trust. It was true wisdom that led Polonius to close his blessing on Laertes with the advice, "This above all: To thine own self be true; and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." Character itself is deeply involved. As Mill says: "A person whose desires and impulses are his own--are the expression of his own nature, as it has been developed and modified by his own culture--is said to have character. One whose desires and impulses are not his own, has no character, no more than a steam engine has a character." [Footnote: _Ibid._] _Necessity of accepting the self as it is._ Accordingly, it behooves every one to accept himself as he is. No doubt every one at times becomes dissatisfied with himself even to the point of despair. Feeling his own weakness, and seeing the many superior qualities of persons about him, he thinks how much more successful he might be if only he were some other person, and envy takes possession of him. But "there is a time in every man's education," says Emerson, "when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that, though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground (himself) which is given to him to till." [Footnote: Emerson, essay on _Self-reliance._] And this conviction must not be accompanied with self-reproach. Any one who habitually feels ashamed of himself is shorn of power to do his proper work in the world. The nature and rightfulness of the desired contentment with self and of proper self-confidence are suggested by Emerson in the words: "What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text in the face and behavior of children, babes, and even brutes....Their mind being whole, their eye is as yet unconquered, and when we look in their faces, we are disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody; all conform to it; so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and puberty and manhood no less with its own piquancy and charm, and made it enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if it will stand by itself....The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner and would disdain, as much as a lord, to do or say aught to conciliate one, is the healthy attitude of human nature." [Footnote: Ibid.] _Is such individuality conducive to social cooperation?_ But are such unconquered, unconciliatory minds desirable where social cooperation is a necessity, as in present society? Are not those persons preferable as citizens who readily put by their claims and conform? Not by any means! It might be that wisdom would declare the supposed claim unfounded, and that energy to combat it, rather than willingness to conform to it, is wanted. Though yielding is often a virtue, unintelligent conformity is weakness. Intelligent and vigorous reaction of the individual against all claims for conformity, sufficient to judge them, is a prerequisite even to actual conformity, and it is only a well-developed individuality that is capable of such reaction. Even military discipline, which represents the extreme in its demand for slavish mass action, greatly values individual independence. Soldiers often become isolated from their superiors in the midst of combat, and are left to act on their own initiative, sometimes deciding the fate of battles by their resourcefulness. It is partly appreciation of the worth of individuality in all walks of life that has spurred the European nations to educate the masses in recent years. Ordinary social life makes a constant demand for individual judgment and self-reliance. A high average of ability and character is required for the maintenance of our democratic society; but that average can be attained only when the persons who compose society individually attain that average, that is, when their individuality is highly developed. _Why it is necessary to emphasize the importance of individuality here._ Summarizing the preceding discussion, we see that the ideal man is not one who is afraid, ashamed, and servile, but one who believes in himself and dares realize himself rather than imitate others, one, in short, who lives naturally and honestly. He possesses a personality commanding enough to produce self-respect, and an individuality bold enough to mark his thoughts and actions as his own. Why is it necessary to emphasize this matter so much, particularly with reference to young people? In our country, where the children are so often charged with overboldness, and where commercial individualism seriously threatens society, is there real danger that the intellectual self may be neglected and that individuality may consequently be lacking? _1. Vigor of the reaction required in proper study._ Remembering that method of study is our theme, let us first recall the degree of vigor necessary in providing for the elements of study that have been named. Then let us consider some of the ways in which students show unnaturalness and a tendency toward self-suppression. A person must stand somewhat firmly upon his own feet in order to set up for himself such specific aims, as guides for study, as have been urged in Chapter III. The supplementing of an author's statements is not so difficult, although one must be able to see around and beyond him, in order to realize what additions are advisable. The appreciation of relative worths, particularly the recognition of the organizing ideas in the treatment of a subject, is a task that requires a high degree of self-reliance. Judging of the soundness and general worth of thoughts is certainly not any easier. Any one can memorize; but to memorize in the proper way requires all the ability just referred to. The using of knowledge, involving the selection of the more promising part and its application until it becomes a part of the self and even habitual, is impossible without a high degree of mental vigor. Finally, the precautions to be taken in order to preserve a tolerant attitude presuppose a personality moved by purposes far higher than those of the average person. Altogether, therefore, proper study is impossible without a self that is energetic and firm. It should be noted, too, how little the mere quantity of knowledge that one has happened to collect counts. It is not so much learning as individuality that is required to meet these demands; on that account the child can study just as truly, within his sphere of experience, as can the adult. _2. Failure to assert the simplest rights in class._ Now let us consider the evidences of unnaturalness and of want of the boldness necessary for real study. In both school and college, when members of the class ignore their mates by addressing only the instructor, often speaking too low to be heard by others present, there is usually little complaint. Although each person is a direct loser, he seems reconciled to such neglect. Very many young people lack the courage to ask questions in order to understand a point; and even when asked if they understand and if they do not wish to put some questions, they still are too timid to respond; not seldom they declare that they understand when they know that they do not. Teachers attending teachers' institutes are as bad as children in this respect. Such conduct is not due to any desire to deceive, but to self-depreciation; it is more agreeable to prevaricate than to assert one's self. _3. Subservience to authority._ The mere desire to please a teacher influences pupils of all ages to watch the teacher's expressions and gestures and to answer what is wanted, rather than what is sincerely thought. In Sunday school, in particular, children can scarcely be got to give sincere answers; they are so eager to please that they say what they think they ought to think, rather than what they really think. Undue respect for professors often has an overpowering influence on university students. The writer has known of several instances where students of good ability have almost lost the power to proceed with an argument, on the unexpected discovery that their view was opposed to that of some instructor. The subservience to books is as striking as that to teachers. The history lesson of a certain class of eleven-year-old children contained the following paragraph on the appearance of the Indians: "When the first white men came to our shores, they found the country inhabited by the people Columbus had named Indians. They had copper- colored skin, coarse, jet-black hair, high cheek bones, thick lips, small eyes, and no whiskers." The children had considerable difficulty in reproducing the substance of this paragraph, attempting it several times. The writer, who was observing the class, remembered, however, having seen an Indian exhibition only a few weeks before, which included Indian men, squaws, boys and girls, and even papooses, and which this same class had visited in a body. After three rather unsuccessful attempts to relate the contents of the paragraph, the class were reminded of their visit to the Indians, and were then asked to tell how they looked. Forgetting about the text, they had no difficulty in doing this, for they were speaking out of their own experience. Subjects like geography and grammar likewise frequently contain facts that pupils have long known; yet in school there is such an undue respect for print that many children dare not subordinate such matter to their own experience, and for that reason they have the same difficulty with it as though it were new. It is rare for even the college student to assert his independence of both teacher and book. One of the greatest surprises that the writer received in a two years' college course was produced in a rhetoric class. The students were ordinarily assigned about twenty pages of advance text per day, which was reproduced in the recitation. On one occasion a student who was called upon did very well until he was interrupted by the professor in charge on account of an omitted topic. The professor gave the cue, but obtained no response; then, since the student usually knew his lesson, the professor exercised a special degree of patience and tried twice more to start him off. Failing, however, he impatiently asked, "Why didn't you tell about so and so"? "Why," replied the student, "I did remember something about that; but I didn't think that it was worth talking about." In the estimation of the entire class that man deserved a medal, and the writer still thinks so. There is subject-matter in most text-books that students are called upon to memorize which they feel is not worth reproduction, and they are often right; but most college students are as still as mice when it comes to declaring the fact. Their timidity in purely intellectual matters is equaled only by their boldness in playing pranks that require mere physical courage. Subservience to mere custom is as common as that to teacher and to print. If certain pictures or musical selections have come to be generally admired, few persons to whom they fail to appeal have the courage to acknowledge the fact. There is much pretended enjoyment in art galleries. The rate of progress acquiesced in by students is often greater than fidelity to self will allow. The amount of text and the number of references assigned frequently leave no possible time for reflection, although reflection is the sole means by which the self can react on ideas so as truly to assimilate them. Not seldom both teachers and students are conscious of this fact and even lament it, yet they continue in the same course. The result is that the average student learns to disregard his own questions, doubts, and suggestions, and is smothered by his studies. Only the exceptional nature rebels, as in case of the rhetoric, and follows his own gait, even in opposition to the teacher. _4. The abnormal lack of initiative in class._ In order to test the power of initiative of young people in study, the writer once selected a class of twenty children, ranging from ten to twelve years of age, who were doing the work of the fifth school year. They were only average pupils in home advantages and native ability. But the school to which they belonged, being the practice department of a training college for teachers, undoubtedly allowed a greater degree of freedom to the individual and possessed more merits than the ordinary public school. Nine of the children had attended this particular school from the beginning, and several of the others had gone there one or more years; and every one of the five different teachers that the class had had, had been a graduate of a state normal school, or of a teachers' college, or of both. Here, if anywhere, one might expect a good degree of independence on the part of the pupils. Also, the writer had been personally acquainted with the class from the beginning, so that they felt reasonably at home with him when he took charge of them in geography and history. After spending two thirty-minute periods with them on successive days, considering various review questions in geography, the writer, acting as teacher, assigned them the following lesson of map questions in the text- book:-- Here is a relief map of the continent on which we live. What great highland do you find in the West? In the East? In what direction does each extend? Which is the broader and higher? Where is the lowest land between these two highlands? Trace the Mississippi River. Name some of its largest tributaries, etc. This lesson was to be studied in class _aloud;_ that is, the writer was not to do any teaching or give any help; he was to assume as nearly as possible the attitude of a listener, doing nothing more than call upon some one now and then to "go on" or to "do what ought to be done next." The children were to do all that was necessary to dispose of the questions properly, even to the extent of correcting one another freely. With this understanding a girl was called on to begin. She arose and read, "Here is a relief map of the continent on which we live. What great highland do you find in the West? In the East?" Then she stopped, and stood staring at the book. She may have needed to inquire the meaning of "relief"; or she may have been in doubt whether or not she should turn to the relief map opposite, which was small, or to the better map two pages further over; or to the wall map hanging, rolled up, in front of the class. But, although she was not noticeably embarrassed, she did none of these things. She waited to be told _just what to do,_ and she waited patiently--until aid from the teacher arrived. In response to the next question, "In what direction does each [highland] extend?" the two great highlands, the Rockies and the Appalachians, were described as parallel; and the pupil was passing to the next question without objections from any source, when the teacher again had to interfere. The boy who was called upon for the third question, "Which is the broader and higher?" stepped to the wall map and pointed out the Rockies. But, as no one asked why they were supposed to be broader and higher, the teacher suggested that question himself. Some one gave the correct reason for considering them the broader; but by that time the entire class had forgotten that there was a second part to the question, and were passing on when they were reminded by the teacher of the omitted part. In response to the fourth question, calling for the location of the lowest land between these two highlands, four or five stepped to the map in succession, showing wide disagreement. Yet no one asked any one else "Why?" or proposed any way of settling the dispute, or even evinced any responsibility for finding one. They would have proceeded to the next question had they not again been halted by the teacher. In tracing the Mississippi River, only about one-half of it was pointed out; _i.e._, from Cairo southward. But no one entered complaint, and the next question was actually read before the teacher requested more accurate work. The girl called on to "name some of its largest tributaries" stood silent. Possibly the word tributaries puzzled her; but she lacked the force necessary to make a request for help. She seemed to be waiting for the teacher to ask her if she didn't need to ask some one else for the definition. So the teacher complied and the definition was given. But then all failed for a time to answer the original question, apparently because they could not break it into its two parts, first tracing the principal tributaries on the map, then finding the names attached to them. These responses are representative of the writer's earlier experiences with these children. Although they were not frightened, and plainly understood that they were to go anywhere in the room, and were to do or say anything that was necessary, they almost invariably waited to be told when to step to the board; when an answer was wrong; when something had been overlooked or forgotten; when the pointer should be taken up or laid aside; and when they were through with a question. Between three and four recitation periods of thirty-five minutes each were consumed, before they were able to do all that was necessary in answering the extremely simple questions above, with a half-dozen more, without help. Their frequent smiles of chagrin, too, proved beyond question that they were fully in earnest in their efforts. This helplessness was not exhibited on the first few days either. It was their custom to wait for assistance and directions--even to sit down--and it was a custom so well established that five weeks of daily work with them in history and geography, with the avowed object of breaking it up, only barely began a reform. Other children, as a rule, would scarcely do better. But these are cases of children. Would not a class in a normal school or a college show greater capacity for leadership? Not often. Of course they possess greater mental power; but the subject-matter with which they are struggling is more difficult. Any teacher of such a class who unexpectedly eliminates himself from a recitation by silence, and who asks the students to provide a substitute from within themselves for his part of the work, is likely to feel disappointed over the result. Who will assert that such lack of initiative is natural? _5. The evil effects of such suppression._ How docile young people are, after all, in intellectual matters! They lack the courage to resent neglect in class, to acknowledge that they do not understand, and to ask questions; they lose their initiative and even independent power to think, when in the presence of teachers; and they ignore their own experience in favor of print. They are so bent on satisfying others that they suppress their own inner promptings. In doing this they seem to confuse moral with intellectual qualities, acting as though the sacrifice of self in study was equally virtuous with its sacrifice in a moral way. Yet listen to Emerson's warning:-- "Books" (and he might have said _teachers_) "are the best of things well used; abused, among the worst. What is the right use? They are for nothing but to inspire. I had better never see a book than to be warped by its attraction clean out of my own orbit, and made a satellite instead of a system. The one thing in the world, of value, is the active soul. This every man is entitled to; this every man contains within him, although in almost all men obstructed, and as yet unborn....Undoubtedly there is a right way of reading, so it be sternly subordinated. Man Thinking must not be subdued by his instruments." [Footnote: _The American Scholar._] The evil in a young student's being "subdued by his instruments" is that he is made artificial and dependent, and thereby ceases to be a whole unit. The artificiality is often shown in the voice. Many schools, owing to the restraint that their pupils are allowed to feel, are guilty of establishing a special recitation voice, distinguished from that ordinarily used in conversation by its different pitch, and often amusingly distinguished, too, when some interruption during recitation causes a question about outside or home matters to be answered in the natural way. Many educated adults have suffered so much in this respect that they cannot read in natural tones. The dependence, further, is shown in any attempt to produce thought. When a student has formed the habit of collecting and valuing the ideas of others, rather than his own, the self becomes dwarfed from neglect and buried under the mass of borrowed thought. He may then pass good examinations, but he cannot think. Distrust of self has become so deep-rooted that he instinctively looks away from himself to books and friends for ideas; and anything that he produces cannot be good, because it is not a true expression of self. This is the class of people that Mill describes in the words, "They like in crowds; they exercise choice only among things commonly done; peculiarity of taste, eccentricity of conduct, are shunned equally with crimes; until, by dint of not following their own nature, they have no nature to follow; their human capacities are withered and starved; they become incapable of any strong wishes or native pleasures, and are generally without either opinions or feelings of home growth, or properly their own." [Footnote: _On Liberty,_ Chapter III] Such people cannot perform the hard tasks required in study, because they have lost their native power to react on the ideas presented. The evil is most serious with young children because of their youth. Many of them, while making good progress in the three R's, outgrow their tendency to ask questions and to raise objections, in other words lose their mental boldness or originality, by the time they have attended school four years. But all along, from the kindergarten to the college, there is almost a likelihood that the self will be undermined while acquiring knowledge, and that, in consequence, one will become permanently weakened while supposedly being educated. In this respect it is dangerous to attend a school of any grade. _Why individuality is so difficult to preserve and develop._ "Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each," says Emerson, "the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, and Milton is that they set at naught books and tradition, and spoke not what men, but what they, thought." [Footnote: Essay of _Self-reliance._] It is evidently exceptional for one's thoughts and actions to be quite fully one's own. In matters of dress hosts of persons would rather be fashionable than comfortable; and in matters of the intellect subordination to others is even more common. One great reason for this is that people do not know how to be true to themselves; they do not comprehend themselves well enough for that. "Know thyself" was a dictum of Socrates that should precede the command "Be true to thyself," because it is a prerequisite to it. But if it takes a literary genius to reveal our thoughts to us, as it often does, certainly the average person will not discover his own characteristics alone. Even with firm intentions he will merely grope about, and from blindness and want of skill will stifle a good portion of his own nature. On the other hand, if he goes to school, whatever peculiarities he may possess are liable to suppression through the teacher and the curriculum, the two chief agencies of the school. For the average elementary teacher is not greatly concerned about preserving and developing individuality, and the average high-school teacher or college professor still less. Indeed, many teachers are convinced that there is too much of it already, as shown in the discipline, and insist upon as much uniformity as possible, because it is less troublesome. When it comes to the curriculum, the commonly recognized purpose of instruction is acquisition of knowledge rather than development of self. But if a student sets out to amass as much information as possible, he is almost sure to be covered up by his collection; and, even if he proceeds slowly enough to admire and try to imitate the good that he finds in his spiritual inheritance and present environment, he is in no less danger of being mastered by his instruments. Thus it happens that while self-expression should be one of the great purposes of the school, annihilation of self is a common outcome. _The positive character of provision for individuality as a factor in study._ It follows from the preceding that provision for individuality is a very positive factor in study, one requiring much time and energy and on which all the others that have been mentioned are dependent. A person must have the courage to assert his rights in intellectual matters, must believe in the worth of his own past, and must not allow his regard for others to weaken his trust in self. All this requires a high degree of self-respect, which can be attained only by careful cultivation. As he comes more and more in contact with the ideas, desires, deeds, and examples of other persons, and the demand for conformity grows more pressing, he must reserve special time and energy for studying his own powers and tastes and for discovering his own thoughts about the many subjects of study in which he engages. In the study of many a poem, for example, more time will be required to determine his own attitude toward it, to find himself in regard to it, than to understand its meaning. Remembering that one purpose of education is development of the self, he must ever be on his guard against being warped out of shape by others, and must therefore offer a certain normal resistance to everything that is presented to him. To preserve and develop one's self thus normally, it is safe to say that any student should have as much esteem for himself, intellectually, as for others, and should spend at least as much time and energy upon himself in finding out what he himself thinks and feels, as upon others. PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS FOB PRESERVING AND DEVELOPING INDIVIDUALITY The value of tolerance on the part of teachers, as discussed in the preceding chapter, is plainly seen in this connection. Unless a teacher's manner toward a pupil indicates a high degree of respect, the pupil's respect for himself is in danger of being weakened. A sarcastic attitude is even worse than a dogmatic one; beyond doubt, the proper self-esteem of many a young person has been permanently undermined by his teacher's sharp tongue; sarcasm is the extreme of intolerance. _1. The relation between teachers and students._ There should be a clearer understanding, too, about the function of teachers in general. Many instructors give the impression that educational institutions exist for their benefit, rather than for the good of their students; and from the start the latter are forced into the position of suppliants. If questions are asked, impatience is shown; and if objections to statements are raised, impertinence is charged. Such treatment tends to cow the average student and thus to limit his power to react upon ideas. While teachers may be real authorities in subject-matter, they can never be anything more than assistants in the self-development of their students. They should more openly assume this subordinate position, placing the primary responsibility upon the learner; they would then be less likely to subordinate the inner growth of the student, which it is their highest function to aid, to the mere acquisition of knowledge. If, however, teachers practically compel subservience by an arrogant manner, or by the assignment of lessons much too long for one's normal rate of advance, or by the assignment of subject-matter that seems to have no possible value, what should the student do? Should he smother his own desires and opinions in the attempt to satisfy his teacher? Rarely, if ever; he will not grow inwardly by suppressing the self. On the contrary, when he feels himself in serious restraint, he should frankly state his grievances, and the teacher, even though a college professor, should receive and ponder such statements seriously, remembering that one reason he is paid a salary is that he shall exercise skill in adapting himself to the psychological condition of his students. If these frank statements evoke no friendly response, then protest may be in place, and sometimes revolt, just as when political liberty is assailed. Of course, a good degree of patience and tolerance should always be exercised toward one's teacher; but there is need of more moral courage among young people to meet the disapproval of teachers and their punishments in the form of scoldings and low marks. Many a college student unresistingly submits to a sarcastic, dictatorial teacher when he ought to show resentment and stand on his rights. Resistance to teaching authority may be just as vital a part of study as the rejection of the conclusions of an author. Until such ideas are more generally practiced, a normal, vigorous self, which is the first factor in scholarship, is in danger. Intellectual liberty is not less important than political liberty, and often worth a fight. It is odd that much blood has been shed for the attainment of political and religious freedom, while the tyranny of mind over mind, which is exceedingly common in the class room, has scarcely been recognized as a serious evil. It can be accounted for only by the fact that both teachers and parents have been more interested in the quantity of knowledge acquired than in the inner growth of learners. _2. Recognition of individual characteristics._ Every person has many peculiarities that are important factors in his study and that should be noted by all concerned with great care. For example, aside from the desirable rate of advance for each person, which has already been mentioned, a student maybe eye-minded, or ear- minded, or motor-minded. That is, he may be peculiarly dependent upon his eyes, needing to see a statement in print rather than to hear it read, and inclined to visualize or image even the most abstract thought. Or he may learn best through the ear, wanting to hear statements read, rather than see them. Or he may be peculiarly dependent on motor activity, preferring to write his spelling lesson, rather than to see the words only or to spell them orally; such a person will need to gesticulate freely, to imitate movements and act out scenes, rather than see or hear only verbal descriptions. Some persons are naturally regular and systematic in their work, following a definite program each day and arranging facts as well as furniture in an orderly way. Others are pained by regularity and system, and find it impossible to reform themselves. They can work well only when they feel like it, and therefore by spurts. Some do their best thinking under the stimulus of discussion and opposition, others are disturbed by such conditions and can think best in private. Some are especially devoted to facts, being scientifically minded and interested in the objects about them. Others are idea-lovers, caring little for the concrete world of nature, but attracted to literature, history, and music. Others, still, are particularly strong in execution, rarely considering theory apart from practice.[Footnote: See President Hadley's article in _Harper's Magazine,_ June, 1905.] Some of the peculiarities that we discover in ourselves are weaknesses that should be discouraged and combated to the utmost; others require more or less modification. But there is no choice concerning most of them; their sum constitutes our nature, and we must accept them. They are our original capital, our source of strength on which all increase of strength must be grafted. And we should become well acquainted with them, just as the engineer should know the properties of steam. Full acquaintance is impossible, and even approximate knowledge of the extent of one's powers cannot be reached, until one has become deeply interested in some project and loaded with responsibility in regard to it. But by humbly and diligently observing one's better tendencies, and by giving full expression to them, one may attain a fair degree of self-knowledge. One of the special duties of teachers and parents is to come to the assistance of young people in such study, helping them to recognize their strong and weak points and to understand themselves without getting discouraged or excited. If we fail to enjoy a book or musical concert that arouses the enthusiasm of others, we may well admit the fact to ourselves, and perhaps to others, with neither pride nor shame, but as a fact. Such facts reveal us to ourselves, and should be noted with the consciousness that, if strength is not found in one direction, it is likely to be discovered in some other. _3. Responsibility for initiative._ It is obvious from preceding statements that both children and older students must become far more accustomed to taking the initiative during instruction, if they are to take it in private study. The way to prepare for leadership, whether of self or of others, is to undertake such leadership under wise guidance. There are two degrees of responsibility in recitation that are somewhat common. Suppose, for example, that a class in manual training is to make a tile out of clay, to be placed under a coffee pot. After proposing this task the teacher (1) might further state that the tile must be six inches square and one-half inch thick; that it must have a level surface; that a ball of clay of a certain size will be needed in order to make a tile of the desired size; that it must be pressed into shape mainly by the use of the thumbs; that careful measuring will be necessary to secure the proper dimensions; that square corners can be obtained by placing some square-cornered object directly over the corners of the tile, for comparison; and that a level surface can best be obtained by sighting carefully across the surface, so as to detect any irregularities. After these and perhaps other instructions have been given by the teacher, the children may be directed to begin work. Or, after the task has been proposed, the teacher (2) might simply ask the main questions that need to be considered, letting the pupils find the solutions for the same as far as possible. For example: How large should the tile be made? What should be its shape? What kind of surface must it have? How must the clay be worked into the desired shape? How make sure of the dimensions? Of square corners? Of a level surface? The first plan shows practically the lecture method in operation. The teacher presents all of the ideas, and the children have the position of listeners or followers. That method places the minimum degree of responsibility upon pupils, the responsibility for attention, and is quite common in the poorer schools and in colleges. The second plan allows the children to join actively with the teacher in producing the ideas involved in the solution of the problem. It shows the development method in operation, which places much more responsibility upon the class. But the teacher even here takes practically all of the initial steps. She is the one who breaks the large problem up into its parts; who determines the wording of the questions and the order in which they shall be considered. The children follow her cue; they are subject to her constant direction, and merely make response to her specific biddings. The reaching of new thought by them under such immediate stimulus and suggestion involves responsibility for thinking, to be sure, but very little responsibility for the initial thinking or for initiative. Neither of these methods, therefore, plainly develops the power of self- direction. Training in the exercise of initiative is provided, not when young people are following some other person's plan and answering some other person's questions, but when they are obliged to conceive their own plans and their own questions. Here is the crux of the whole matter. Some other method, therefore, is desirable, and it is not difficult to find. After the making of the tile has been proposed, the teacher might simply ask, "How will you plan this piece of work?" leaving the conception of the main questions, together with the answers, as far as possible to the children. They would know that a certain size would need to be determined upon, fixed by the size of a coffee pot; that the shape would have to be considered, the round or square form being chosen according to personal preference and ease of making; that the thickness would be a factor, it being important that the tile be thin enough to be reasonably light, but thick enough not to break easily or to let heat through; that a level surface is desirable, both for the sake of beauty and utility; and that some way must be found for pressing the clay into shape. All of these ideas lie within their personal experience and therefore call only for common knowledge and common sense. All or most of this part of the plan, including the correction of any misstatements, could be made by the children with little or no help from the teacher. Where their knowledge is more limited, however, she should come to their aid, either telling or developing, as the case required. For instance, she might possibly tell outright how much clay each would probably need, also how the clay should be pressed into shape; and develop the method of making sure of proper dimensions, of square corners (or of roundness) and of a level surface. This task in manual training is typical of lessons in general. In their mastery there is always a procedure of some sort to be followed, and now and then, at least, this procedure lies in whole or in part so fully within the class experience that they should have the responsibility of mapping it out. Sometimes in the lower grades such work might occupy a whole recitation period; again, only a few minutes. As the experience increases, this responsibility should increase, so that the higher grades should often show children stating the main questions to be considered in their lessons, without help, just as they have long been in the habit of stating the main steps to be taken in individual problems in arithmetic without aid. In very many recitations children should have responsibility for rejecting some of the answers and for accepting others. The writer is acquainted with one eighth-year class in which not only all this is done, but the children frequently determine their own lesson assignments, reporting in class what home work was attempted the previous evening and how it was done. These reports are then subjected to general criticism and suggestion. If such practices become successfully established in the elementary school, they will have to be adopted higher up, for very shame if for no other reason. _4. Past experience as the principal source of new ideas. (1) Illustrations._ Socrates was one of the most fertile thinkers that ever lived; yet he scarcely traveled beyond the walls of Athens, and was accused of always talking about the most commonplace objects, such as "brass founders and leather cutters and skin dressers." He clearly illustrates the fact that fertility of thought bears little relation to one's quantity of learning, but depends rather upon the use made of such very simple raw material as any ordinary person possesses. _The Children's Hour_ as discussed on pages 69-70 show how one's past may be used in the production of thought. The poem tells of an hour set aside by the family for play. The fact that we know this to be a very rare thing prompts the questions, "Was it customary in this family, or did it happen only once?" The fact that many fathers would be bored by such an hour suggests the query, "Did this father really enjoy it?" The fact that the custom is so uncommon raises the further inquiry, "Was there any special merit among these children that led to it?" Also, "Why is the custom not more common?" And, since some one must take the lead in establishing such an hour, the query follows, "Can children themselves accomplish anything in this direction?" Thus facts that are well known lead to new ideas. No matter what we hear or read, or what topic is given to us to ponder, thoughts additional to those directly presented are likely to be reached by reference to past related experience. That one should look to past experience as an almost unlimited source of new thought is one of the most important truths for any person to bear in mind who is endeavoring to learn to think. _(2) The common neglect of experience._ It is very common, however, for persons who are rich in experience touching some subject that they are studying to fail almost entirely to use it. This was once well illustrated by about twenty young women who were specializing in domestic science. At their own suggestion, they prepared written plans for teaching how to bake sweet potatoes; the writer was to correct these and discuss them with the class. But after carefully examining all the papers and finding remarkably few facts included, he asked the class what was really necessary, after all, in the baking of sweet potatoes, beyond putting them, clean, into a hot oven and taking them out when done. He requested them to enumerate the facts that really needed to be taught. After perhaps two minutes of meditation they sheepishly admitted that there was really very little to present on the topic, and that they had carefully written out plans only because "plans" were expected, and they wanted some practice. Since it was subject-matter, rather than method, that was needed, the discussion was then directed to the facts involved in baking the potatoes. A dispute soon arose when one remarked, "You should never cut a sweet potato," others inquiring what should then be done with those that were partly unsound, and how potatoes of very different sizes could be baked together. Numerous other questions were considered, as follows:-- What is the best way to clean them? Is it best to allow them to lie long in water? Should the oven be very hot, or is a slow heat preferable? Should anything be done with them while baking? How can they be protected against burning? How much time is necessary for the baking? Or will it vary? If so, why? How tell when they are done? Is it necessary to take them out and strike them with the palm of the hand, breaking them slightly? How get them out without burning one's self? Since one cookbook says that we want "dry and mealy" potatoes and another states that they should be "moist and sweet," which is right? Also, what different steps should be taken to secure each kind? Some persons parboil the potatoes before baking them. Is that desirable? What about the advisability of baking them with butter, sugar, and salt? Are there other ways of baking them? What changes does the heat effect in the potato? Should they be served immediately? Or, if guests are not prompt, is there any way of keeping them in good condition? Most of these questions arose for the first time in the discussion, not having been referred to in any of the plans. Yet, no doubt, all the members of the class had baked sweet potatoes many times, had read cookbooks as often as novels, and--since they were not altogether young--had scores of times been called upon to eat potatoes that were not clean, or were unsound, or not done, or were tasteless, or burnt, or soggy, or cold. Therefore, probably not one of the questions was entirely new to any one of the students, so that the raw material for thought was present in abundance and even very close at hand. _(3) Reasons for such neglect._ Why, then, did they so neglect their past? Above all, why should two minutes of reflection on the subject mark their limit? For, having given to themselves the signal tor all stray ideas on the baking of sweet potatoes to assemble, their manner indicated no hope of further returns after the expiration of that brief period. A partial answer is that they did not know where to look for ideas. But an additional answer is that they did not know _how_ to look to their past, and they accordingly lacked confidence. Indeed, they knew that they could not think, so what was the use of wasting more than two minutes for the sake of appearances? It does require some knowledge and confidence to think out a subject in view of one's experience. When we are somewhat familiar with a subject, some ideas in regard to it may come very readily, so that the first few minutes of reflection may be easily spent and fairly rewarded. But the ability really to think is tested after this period. Then we must know how to overhaul our past and must have faith that we will get something from it. We must search our experience through and through, viewing it from one point and then another in the keen lookout for suggestions. And we must know that many of the best thoughts, probably most of them, do not come, like a flash, fully into being, but find their beginnings in dim feelings, in faint intuitions, that need to be encouraged and coaxed before they can be surely felt and defined. The writer's experience in the observation of recitations with graduate students has often illustrated this fact. Not seldom a recitation has been observed that has apparently pleased most of the observers, but that has produced only an uncomfortable feeling on his part. At the close of the recitation he had no more definite ideas about its merits than his students; but he was conscious of this feeling of discomfort produced, and knew that if he followed it up he would probably arrive at some important thoughts. Occasionally his main points in an extended discussion of a recitation have been reached in this way. Usually he has found afterward that his students have had the same feeling as he; but they were scarcely conscious of the fact, and, even if conscious, they failed to realize its worth as a source of suggestion. Thus vague premonitions furnish the clew to much of the best thought. Very often one of the chief differences between a thinker and one who cannot think lies in the attention given to premonitory feelings of pleasure, discomfort, doubt, suspicion, etc.; the latter ignores such, while the former, when he lacks clear ideas, or all ideas, even shakes himself to discover how he feels, and patiently labors to define his feelings and trace them to their source. _(4) How confidence in the value of one's past may be developed._ But how dependent such study is upon self-confidence! Unless we have faith in the richness of our own experience, and belief that a careful inspection of it will be rewarded, we lack the courage and patience necessary for success. How can such confidence be cultivated? Mainly by cultivating the habit of turning first to self when reflective thought is required. It is presupposed that we must consult the library and the world about us for raw facts of various kinds, for historical events, scientific data, views of men, descriptions, etc.; but when our own thought is wanted on a topic with which we are somewhat familiar, and on which we are supposed to have some ideas, let us form the habit of turning to ourselves _first;_ to others as helps later. If other authorities are consulted first, there is danger that the first impressions, the first thoughts, of the student will never come to light; the ideas of others will hide these and become their substitutes, thereby engendering distrust in self. But by giving attention first to self, by giving it the first chance, its contributions can be recognized; that encourages it to grow and attain vigor, so that, when outside helps are later consulted, it can react upon them and maintain itself. Every young person should do enough thinking on a subject, before attempting to find what others think about it, to have something to oppose to these others, as a basis of judgment. That will keep the self upper-most and cultivate the confidence desired. If, on the contrary, we wait until we have found what others think, before attempting to find what we think, others will do our thinking for us, and we will ever be suffering from the timidity that Emerson laments in the words:-- A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the luster of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with good- humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the tune, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another. [Footnote: Emerson, essay on _Self-reliance_.] PART III CONCLUSIONS CHAPTER XI FULL MEANING OF STUDY: RELATION OF STUDY TO CHILDREN AND TO THE SCHOOL _The meaning of study._ True or logical study is not aimless mental activity or a passive reception of ideas only for the sake of having them. It is the vigorous application of the mind to a subject for the satisfaction of a felt need. Instead of being aimless, every portion of effort put forth is an organic step toward the accomplishment of a specific purpose; instead of being passive, it requires the reaction of the self upon the ideas presented, until they are supplemented, organized, and tentatively judged, so that they are held well in memory. The study of a subject has not reached its end until the guiding purpose has been accomplished and the knowledge has been so assimilated that it has been used in a normal way and has become experience. And, finally, since the danger of submergence of self among so much foreign thought is so great, it is not complete--at least for young students--until precautions for the preservation of individuality have been included. The common notion that study should consist of thinking is, therefore, quite right. In _Hints for Home Reading_ (p. 51) Henry Ward Beecher says of himself: "Reading with me incites to reflection instantly. I cannot separate the origination of ideas from the reception of ideas; the consequence is, as I read I always begin to think in various directions, and that makes my reading slow; and that being the origin of it psychologically, it has grown into such a habit that, if I read a novel even, I read slowly." Later he advises (p. 95), "Never give more time to reading a book than to reflecting upon its contents." In criticism of the customary haste in reading, on the other hand, Mr. Gorschen declares: "Honestly, I must say, I believe that a vast number of readers do not allow what I may call the frenzied current of their eyes, as they read, to be stopped by even a moment of calm reflection or thought." [Footnote: _Aspects of Modern Study,_ by Right Honorable G.J. Gorschen, D.C.L., M.P., p. 39.] Real assimilation of ideas has to be slow; and while some reading, owing to the simplicity of subject- matter, should be as rapid as the eye can travel, the rate at which ground is usually covered is too great to make assimilation possible. The eight factors of study that have been treated are not to be regarded as separate stages of advance that must follow one another tandem fashion. The principal stages through which the learner passes are only four in number as outlined in Chapter VIII. Yet some of the eight factors necessarily follow others. For example, the conception of the specific aim should, if possible, come first, while memorizing should usually come late, partly if not wholly as the by-product of thinking; and the actual using of knowledge should come last. On the other hand, provision for a tentative attitude and for individuality should be made frequently throughout one's study. Several of these factors, therefore, may be in evidence in any one of the four chief stages of advance described. _The ability of children to learn to study._ We have seen that children possess the ability to undertake the kind of work required by each of the several factors of study. In fact, outside of school, they are continually applying their minds in the meeting of specific needs, as adults are, thereby employing most, if not all, these factors. There is, accordingly, no fundamental difference between their study and that of adults, although the relative prominence of the various phases may vary somewhat; in other words, these factors of study are general principles like the principles of teaching, and likewise applicable to all ages. No assertion is here made that children know intuitively how to do this systematic kind of studying; they merely have the qualities of mind and the experience prerequisite to rational study, and are therefore in a position to receive instruction on the subject with profit. _Why young people have not been learning to study properly alone._ Every one recognizes the fact that young people, as a rule, have not been learning to study properly alone. There are two reasons for this, which deserve very careful consideration. One is that the difference between studying with a teacher and studying alone has been overlooked. It has been assumed that the two were practically identical, so that the one was full preparation for the other, while in fact there is a very striking difference between them. Consider what happens in class instruction, and then how independent study differs from it. When a young person sets to work to master a lesson with the aid of a teacher there is a question of how much two persons can accomplish together. One of the two is mature, more or less informed in general, more or less versed in the principles of study, and more or less skilled in their application. The other is immature, and only under favorable circumstances fully willing to apply himself. _1. The difference between studying alone and with a teach has been overlooked._ As they ordinarily work, their relation to each other is well defined. In case text has been assigned, the teacher asks various questions, pushes the pupil against difficulties, points out crucial thoughts, calls a halt here and there for review and drill, supplies motive for attention by reprimanding or praising or pummeling, as the case may be, and not seldom becomes flushed in the face from exertion. In the case of development instruction in which, without the help of a text, the thought is slowly unfolded by means of question and answer, the teacher is the recognized master of the discussion. She usually selects the general topic, breaks it into its parts, and then concentrates her abilities on her questions, endeavoring to make them short enough not to require too sustained attention, simple enough to be reasonably easy, and attractive enough to be sure bait. In short, she exerts herself to the utmost to conceive questions of just the right size and quality; and, if she is very skillful, her morsels of knowledge will prove so enticing that they will be swallowed and digested without pain, and perhaps without conscious effort. In case lecturing is the method followed, the teacher is still more plainly the sole producer of thought, it being the mission of the student to listen, comprehend, and retain. In each of these cases the teacher is the acknowledged leader. Her personality, as represented by voice, gesture, and manner, is drawn upon for stimulus; she gives directions, puts the questions, and makes the corrections, or sees that they are made. If she is accounted a good teacher, she is probably more active than her pupils and grows tired first. Now, suppose that the teacher drops out and leaves the young person to attack a similar lesson alone. How is the situation changed? The purpose in the former case was the assimilation of the facts in the lesson by the pupil. That is still the purpose. There is, therefore, no change in that respect. The method employed in the former case may be assumed to be as fully in accord with the laws of the pupil's mind as the teacher could make it. In short, the topic under consideration had to be carefully broken into its parts, and various keen questions touching the meaning and value of each had to be conceived in order that they might be considered and answered. The same mind is still present to be ministered to, so that, so far as possible, substantially the same method must be followed. There is, therefore, no important change in this respect. The purpose and the method in general being the same, it is clear that the two situations duplicate each other to a large extent. The same quantity of work must be done, and in practically the same way. But there is a very striking difference. When the two studied together, the teacher not only did a part of the work, but she was the leader; the pupil was a follower, doing only the subordinate part. Now, being alone, he must do the principal part, in addition to the other. He must divide his topic into parts, and conceive all the questions that are worthy of attention; in brief, he must determine the course of procedure himself, or take the initiative. Herein is found the great difference between studying with a teacher and studying alone, and it is a fundamental one. Capacity for self- direction or initiation is not necessary in the usual class instruction; but it becomes indispensable the moment one undertakes independent study. _(1) The nature and importance of initiative by the pupil._ This capacity is not simply a matter of knowledge. One person may know much more than another about the factors involved in a proposed project, and still be inferior to the other in ability to plan its execution. It is not simply a matter of boldness, either, nor of energy, although both of these, as well as knowledge, are necessary elements. It signifies, in the main, rather a certain power of invention, or a resourcefulness in planning work, a resourcefulness that is sure to be exercised, however, only in case the other factors just mentioned are also present. Power of initiative is the key to proper study. If different lessons were mastered in exactly the same manner, it might not be important. But that is not the case, for every new lesson brings a new situation. Experienced teachers know that one year of instruction in a certain study does not free them from the necessity of extensive preparation, if required to teach the same subject a second year. The discovery of this fact is one of the serious disappointments of young teachers. The same holds in study. Every new lesson, every new book, must be mastered in a way peculiar to itself; each affords a new test of resourcefulness. Thus the exercise of initiative is a constant and very important factor in all independent study. _(2) Why power of initiative cannot be acquired through imitation._ Power of initiative might still prove no source of difficulty, if it were something that could be acquired mainly by imitation. But there is the rub the case of the geography class mentioned on page 258 shows conclusively that the natural tendency of young people to imitate the example of initiative set by their teachers gives very little guarantee of the exercise of similar initiative on their part when studying alone. And there are plain reasons for this. In the first place, there is the widest difference between seeing and doing, between theory and practice in general, so that one may observe an action and still fail utterly to duplicate it. That is very common. But, in addition, the power of initiative, being really the "ability to originate or start," calls for a good degree of originality and, therefore, lies largely outside the field of imitation. In the second place, the long- continued following of a leader, instead of fitting one to lead, may directly unfit one for that responsibility. In the case of the geography class it had been the leader who had determined how each lesson should be attacked; who had exercised resourcefulness in meeting unexpected obstacles; who had assumed responsibility for deciding what the crucial questions were, and when the answers were correct and complete; and who had supplied the energy that made things "go." Under these circumstances, could it be expected that these children, in their teacher's absence, would exhibit these same qualities? Hardly. One does not learn to make an independent plan, to show resourcefulness, to carry responsibility, and to supply motive for effort--in brief, to take the initiative--by having some one else perform these tasks for one. In other words, dependence is not the preparation for independence. Indeed, great skill on the part of a teacher in these respects almost precludes such skill on the part of pupils. If allowed prominence year after year, it so undermines self- reliance that one's helplessness when alone is greatly increased. The children of the geography class had had nearly five years of training in leaning on some one else, so that it was extremely difficult to make them stand alone. They were like common soldiers especially trained to obey their officers, yet expected to maintain their former efficiency when suddenly left without officers. They were even more helpless in the school-room, in the presence of a leader, than outside. By overlooking the difference between studying with a leader and alone, therefore, the teacher overlooks initiative, and in consequence she not only fails to develop that power, but she may easily undermine it by accustoming pupils to dependence upon her. Here is one of the reasons why young people have not been learning to study properly by themselves. _2. Some of the factors of study have also been overlooked by teachers. (1) Examples._ A second reason is that some of the factors of study themselves have long been neglected or overlooked by teachers, as was stated in a general way in Chapter I. It is not customary, for example, for teachers to set up specific objects in their instruction, which shall furnish motive and be guides in study. Indeed, it is rare except among some primary teachers. While the supplementing of text is somewhat common in some subjects, such as literature, any clear notion as to what should be understood by thoroughness is rare indeed; and consequently the whole matter of relative values and of organization is poorly comprehended. Children, and even older students, are not infrequently reprimanded for presuming to judge the merits of subject- matter, a fact that plainly indicates how little the importance of passing on the general worth of ideas is appreciated. Manual training and a few kindred branches recognize the actual using of ideas as their endpoint; but no one will assert that they are regarded as types of other subjects in that respect. Any one will admit that special provision for the development of a tentative attitude toward facts is very exceptional; and students are so commonly submerged by their studies, that there is hardly need to affirm that conscious provision for the preservation and development of individuality is rare. Memorizing is the only universally recognized factor in study; and the supplementing of the author ranks next to it. Whether, aside from these two, any or all of the other factors receive attention, depends upon the individual teacher; as a rule they are sadly neglected, or omitted outright from consideration. This being true, it is uncommon for students to carry their study through the three or four stages necessary in the proper assimilation of knowledge (see p. 203), because these stages are accomplished only by doing the work involved in these several factors. Very little knowledge, for instance, is carried over into habit, the fourth stage. The four fundamental operations in arithmetic and a few facts in composition and grammar are shining exceptions. Very few teachers have ever even asked themselves what portions of their different subjects of instruction should result in habits; whatever habits become actually established, therefore, are a matter of accident rather than of intelligent planning by teachers. Every student reaches the third stage of assimilation with some of his knowledge; that is, he overhauls it until it is translated into his own experience. But what a small proportion of all that he learns becomes welded to him, by the warmth of his feeling for it, so that he forgets where it was obtained and feels it to be his own! Almost any college student can name whole courses that he pursued, to which he never warmed up appreciably. How small this amount is, is suggested by the small quantity that is carried even through the second stage, where the pupil or student boldly subordinates both author and teacher to himself and asks what profit he is getting; where he casts aside as non-essential much of what is presented, and centers his attention on what seems of real value to him, to weigh and perhaps reorganize it. Many a student never consciously reaches this stage, and might be afraid to let his teacher know the fact if he did. Certainly many a teacher would regard any exercise of choice by the student, in the subject-matter assigned, as an act of impertinence. Evidently most study does not carry assimilation beyond the first stage, in which the crude materials of knowledge are merely collected. And this not because young people are lazy and disobedient, but because they are practically taught to stop there by their teachers. They tell the truth when, recalling practice, they almost universally declare that studying is mainly memorizing; and Helen Keller's complaint that she had to study so much that she did not have time to think, expresses a very common experience. Even if there were no difficulty in regard to initiative, therefore, proper methods of study could not be acquired through imitation, because instruction does not set up a model of study that is worthy of imitation. Beyond doubt, the method of instruction would duplicate the method of study if each were right, and thus an example might be put before the student for him to follow. But there is no such example at present, and while students are upbraided for not studying properly, they are furnished no means of learning the right way. _(2) Why the factors in study have been so neglected by teachers._ The reason for this strange neglect of the factors in study is probably due principally to the exaggerated importance of the teacher. Believing in the maxim "As is the teacher, so is the school," we have placed the center of gravity of the school in the teacher. "The tendency of the (normal) training school," says President Millis, "is to make the teacher self-conscious, concerned about her own performance, about whether she did this or that in the approved way, whether her voice was properly modulated, whether she utilized illustrative and supplementary material in due proportion, whether she followed copy faithfully, whether she got standardized results. The tendency of supervision is to produce the same attitude of the teacher. The success of the teacher is graded on her scholarship, her culture, her standardized attainments, her questioning, her care of the property, her attitude toward the community and the system, her sympathy with the supervisor's notions--in short, her pedagogical ability, which is now made a large factor in determining her ration of bread and butter, is measured by her performance and her personal charms." [Footnote: President W.A. Millis, _Training Pupils in the Art of Study,_ The Educator-Journal, Oct., 1908.] Books dealing with education show the same trend. There are hundreds of volumes on method; but they almost invariably tell about what the teacher should do, that is, they center in the teacher, not in the pupil. No wonder that teachers come to regard themselves as "the whole thing," and sometimes act as though educational institutions existed principally for their benefit. This exaggeration of the teacher's function has led the teacher habitually to picture the learner in the presence of a helper; and with that thought, it has hardly seemed necessary to ask whether or not the learner should set up specific aims as guiding motives in study; the teacher would furnish those herself in class, and perhaps project her influence outside overnight by threats if required. It has hardly seemed necessary to inquire how the learner would know when his work was finished, or to what extent he should pass judgment on thoughts presented, for her questions and other tests would insure proper thoroughness, and her presence would check unfitting boldness in judging. It has hardly seemed necessary to consider how far he should proceed in the mastery of a topic, or how he should avoid being dogmatic, for she would let him know when the endpoint was reached--if he did not stop too soon of his own accord--and she would reprove too positive an attitude. Finally, it has hardly seemed necessary to enumerate the various ways in which he might protect his individuality, because such protection has always been regarded as one of the teacher's prominent duties, and she would offer it as occasion demanded. Thus, with aid for the pupil always near at hand, the need of careful investigation into the problems of private study and how they should be met has not been felt by teachers to be pressing. But the teacher herself has been at least something of a student while teaching; and she may have made an extensive study of the learning process as treated under apperception, attention, induction, and deduction, interest, etc. How, then, has she escaped a close acquaintance with the principal factors in study? The answer is that as a teacher she has always thought of herself as giving aid, and has never felt the need of examining into her own method of study. Why should she, if she has never been conscious of any particular weakness in that respect? In short, she has been too much absorbed in herself to analyze the problems of independent study to be undertaken by her pupils, and yet not enough absorbed in herself to investigate her own study. Her psychology and pedagogy have not been valueless by any means; but, lacking the imagination to picture her pupils at work alone, and the sympathy to feel their confusion at such times, she has not been prompted to make an examination of the requirements they should meet when separated from her. Like many persons in other fields, she has been too much interested in the results to consider the process itself. "She" in this case represents high-school and college teachers even more than those in the grades. This, at least in part, explains why the method of individual study has been so neglected. _Changes necessary before young people will learn how to study. 1. Placing the center of gravity of the school in the learner._ The first change to be made, in order that young people may learn how to study, is to place the center of gravity of the school where it belongs--in the learner. The great question of method, then, becomes, How shall one learn? Not, first of all, with the aid of the teacher, but alone. What are the main tasks that should be performed in private study, and how should they be accomplished? These questions give the right point of view by centering attention in the pupil, and for that reason they are the first questions that teachers and books on method should consider. Every one will commend the insight of the mother who said to an instructor, "If you will teach my boy how to prepare his lessons, I will attend to his reciting." If lessons are properly prepared, the testing of knowledge will be simple. The problem of independent study having reached some solution, how to come to the aid of the independent student, or how to impart knowledge, follows as a narrower and subordinate question. If the former has been adequately treated, the latter will introduce few new psychological points, because a full treatment of method of study will require a careful consideration of apperception, induction and deduction, interest, association of ideas, attention, etc. Above all, it will give a new conception of the meaning and scope of self- activity. Teaching will then call mainly for a review of such topics, although from a different and very important view-point. _2. Modifying the subject-matter of the recitation._ Method of study will then become a large subject for regular instruction. Even in the kindergarten and the first years of school it will receive some attention, for that is the time when children begin to acquire good mental habits or to fall into pernicious ones. Without making so young pupils fully conscious that they are learning to study, the teacher will lead them to move their eyes rapidly over the printed page, so as to read simple stories quickly in silence, and with good expression orally. This is already done by good teachers. She will accustom them to responsibility for discovering the bearings of observations in nature-study, of stories, work in color, etc., on their home lives, and thus pave the way for collecting knowledge under guidance of definite aims. She will cultivate in them the power to fill out the author's picture, until situations are more vividly seen and felt than now. She will require them to think and talk more sharply by points, and to use judgment in neglecting really unimportant details, training their consciences to allow such neglect, if such training is needed. She will encourage them to pass judgment on the merits of facts that they learn, while influencing them not to feel too sure. She will see that they do whatever thinking is to be done on poems and other matter that is to be memorized before the memorizing itself is undertaken, so that the important habit of memorizing through thought, rather than without it, shall begin to be firmly fixed. She will lead them to understand that they are not through with the study of topics until the ideas have been used in some way, perhaps many times. And, particularly, she will put forth effort to keep them natural in whatever they do and say, reasonably contented with their abilities, and self-reliant. While most of such instruction will be incidental, a portion of many a recitation will be directly occupied in this way. By the time the fifth year of school has been reached the principal facts concerning each of the prominent factors of study can be talked about freely, as so much definitely understood knowledge, and the children can be expected to apply them in their various studies. Many a whole recitation can be spent in supplementing authors' statements, in determining principal thoughts, and in doing many other things suggested in the preceding pages, the teacher directly emphasizing such things as essential parts of proper study, and requiring them in the preparation of lessons. Many a whole recitation, also, may be occupied in discussing how lessons have been prepared, the teacher not seldom presenting her own way in detail and allowing her pupils to compare theirs with it. Abstract theory about method of study will thus be avoided. Perhaps, most of all, the teacher will fix upon the second stage of study (p. 204) as the crucial point in method, in which the children select what seems of real value to them and let the rest go. Of course they will often err, and then it will devolve upon the teacher to show the value of what they have rejected. If she cannot do that, either her mind or the curriculum will need to be improved. While this seems a grave responsibility to place upon pupils of the elementary school, It must be remembered that they should know how to study by the time they complete that course; and they cannot possibly learn how, without dealing boldly with values,--the values of facts in comparison with one another, or relative values, and their values to the self, or general values. We have long wanted young people to know how to study, without allowing them choice among ideas, that is, without placing them in the conditions that would permit it. The fact that during the later years of the elementary school children must choose almost daily outside of school between good and bad literature as presented in books, periodicals, and newspapers, and that they actually select and reject freely in their own reading, shows how normal it is to do such work in school, and how important it is to make it prominent. Method of study will then have precedence over other aims of the school, even ranking above the acquisition of other knowledge. Possibly as much as one-fourth of all the school time might be devoted primarily to this problem, although within that period much subject- matter in the studies would also be mastered. While children completing the curriculum of the elementary school might then be well enough acquainted with the general principles of study, in their practical applications, to stop the customary complaints of teachers and parents in that regard, method of study would still be far from mastered. For, besides the general principles, there are special principles peculiar to each branch of knowledge, just as there are both general and special methods of teaching. Proper study of arithmetic, for example, does not fully include the method of studying algebra, to say nothing of grammar; neither does the method in algebra duplicate that in geometry; nor the method in English, that in Latin; nor the method in Latin that in French. As each new branch is begun, therefore, two or three weeks might need to be spent primarily in considering how it should be studied, and now and then, later, an hour should be occupied in the same way. Topics in learning to study that are too broad for the limits of any particular branch would need to be taught from time to time. For instance, the use of the table of contents, or of the index of a book, of the library catalogue, of encyclopedias and other reference works, should become familiar in the elementary school, as well as some facts about taking and preserving notes. In high school and college further systematic instruction would be needed on the finding of articles and books treating of certain topics, on the keeping of notes, possibly to the extent of establishing a card catalogue for them, and on the general use of a library. Some attention to methods of study would be in place, therefore, even in college. On the whole, the content of the regular school period would be considerably modified. Study periods, both supervised and independent, devoted either to method of study or to subject-matter, would be far more common; and, while the reproduction of facts would still be necessary, it need not be the dominant feature of the school; for improved methods of study, or better thinking, would render much of the mere testing of the presence of facts, such as we now have, superfluous. Study periods, or, preferably, thinking periods, as the name in the regular school program, would then be recognized as more fitting than recitation; the latter is a belittling name. _3. Modifying the method of the recitation._ Finally, in order that initiative, good judgment, and even skill, may be acquired in applying the principles of study, young people must do a much larger part of the work in class than has been customary. President Millis's statements are again eminently sound, when he declares: "It is what the pupil can do, not what the teacher can do, that counts. He may be fascinated by the brilliant performances of his teacher, he may be pulled and pushed about under a skillful cross- examination, he may manipulate apparatus, he may see the wheels go round and round, and come out of it all with little actual gain of power to do things for himself or for others. There is more than a little danger that we have carried the refinements of teaching to the extreme of defeating its proper ends....A college professor of my acquaintance was criticised by a student for carrying the ball too much in class! No coach ever built up a winning team by carrying the ball himself. The pupil must be active. He must carry the ball. He must ask and answer questions. He must make as well as solve problems. He must be in the game himself, if he is to learn to play the game. He must be independently productive. He must learn to do things for himself, in a way which he has adopted for himself." [Footnote: Ibid] Children and older students, therefore, must become accustomed to taking the initiative and doing the other work of study in class, if they are to do these things outside. One day when reading Hawthorne's story of The Gorgon's Head with a fourth-year class, the writer stopped at an interesting point and asked, "Do you ever stop to talk over what you read? Or do you always 'go on' and 'keep going on'?" "We always go right on," replied several. "We sometimes stop," said a few, among whom was Eddie. "Very well," said I, "let us stop here a moment to talk. What have you to say, Eddie?" "O, _we_ don't talk; the _teacher_ does the talking," said he, with a most nonchalant air. What likelihood was there that that class, after their four years of school training, would show a fair degree of independence in their study of literature, if their teacher were suddenly struck dumb? It is a matter of rather frequent remark that children accustomed to lively participation in class discussion under a skillful teacher too often experience a disappointing relapse the moment the teacher absents herself. The peculiar stimulus being gone, they not only fail to rise to the occasion by conceiving such questions as she might ask; but even after the questions are put, they are overcome by a strange mental lassitude and make little response. The stimulus to work must come from within rather than from without, if one's state is to be healthy. Furthermore, just as the children must do a larger part of the work in class, the teacher must do less. One follows as a consequence of the other. The old-fashioned country school neglected its pupils so much that knowledge was poorly digested. The modern school very naturally proposes to correct that evil. Accordingly, the "good teacher" of to- day lives very close to her children. In many a school she does not leave them to themselves five minutes in a whole day. With her keen eye she detects their very state of mind, and by the sharpest of questions reveals their slightest error. As a result, their knowledge is much more thorough than it used to be, more of it is acquired, and it is acquired with less effort. But, meanwhile, new evils have crept in. The teacher, in spite of her better preparation, is working harder than ever, much too hard. She does more thinking in class than any one of her pupils, and more talking than all of them put together. At the same time, she is undermining their independence. The old-fashioned school, by leaving the pupil alone a good share of the time, threw him upon his own resources enough to develop a fair degree of self-reliance. It possessed the merit at least of not preventing the exercise of independence. The modern school, by providing a helper close at hand every moment, tends in the opposite direction. The gain on the whole is questionable. The good of the old must be preserved while the added good of the new is realized. The wise teacher of the future, therefore, will do more for her children than lead them to learn rapidly and thoroughly; she will endeavor to develop their self-reliance and judgment in study and in other matters just as far as possible. For this end she will, more often than at present, plan to act merely as chairman of discussion, rather than as leader of it and an active participant in it. She will induce her pupils to study aloud before her, particularly to take such initial steps as lie plainly within their power. She will offer suggestions from time to time, but not to the extent of depriving them of responsibility for determining the main questions and answering them. The longer she instructs a class, the less talking she will do, because they, having grown more resourceful and independent, will be able to do it themselves, it being one of her objects to show them how they can get along without her. She will prove most useful when she is least needed. But her presence will still be necessary, for, while she will no longer have to prod them every moment by questions, her testing will always be important, and her greater maturity of knowledge will render her suggestions and criticisms always valuable. The art of teaching will then consist not only in ability to present ideas but also in ability to keep still. That is by no means a small task. Under many circumstances it is not difficult to hold one's tongue. But when a teacher is confronted by a class in which every one has the duty of saying something, it is either painful or ridiculous if no one says anything. It is then that the poor teacher is obliged to talk much in order to "keep things going." The really good teacher is the one who understands the secret of delegating responsibility to her pupils, and not the least of her rewards is the fact that she is allowed to rest her voice. _Home study_ The first condition to be met in regard to home study is to assign only such work as the pupils are known by the teacher to be able to do rightly, and without too great physical strain. With the attention to method of study that has been urged, this condition can be easily met. That means, however, that many a topic cannot be assigned for the home as it is approached, for it will first require some consideration at school. Thus the home study of a lesson will very often follow rather than precede its study at school. The assignment of lessons merely by pages is now often decried, and justly, because it leaves the child so utterly without a guide as to method. But, when method of study has been properly taught, such an assignment would often be fitting. The responsibility would then fall upon the pupil of determining what it was good for, of selecting and reorganizing the principal parts, etc.; but he could meet that responsibility because he would understand what things he was to do and would know how to do them. Parents should not be expected to take a hand in teaching their children how to study, for that is altogether too large a task, and involves too much special preparation. If they observe that a child does not know how, they would better leave him alone, directing him to apply to his teacher for instruction. Parents are more bent upon obtaining results and getting rid of their children--so far as school work is concerned--than are teachers, so that the duties assigned to them should be few and of a simple character. There are some important things for parents to do, however. They should take pains to provide proper physical surroundings for home study, including quiet, proper light and temperature. They should exert an influence in the direction of regular hours, of a short period of relaxation immediately before and after meals and before bedtime, and of some variety of occupation during the longer periods of study, so that fatigue may be avoided. In addition, they should stimulate their children by bringing pressure to bear on the lazy ones, by "hearing lessons" now and then, and, above all, by asking questions that call for a review of facts as well as for their use in conversation. They may give some help; but, if they do, they should by all means avoid falling into disputes about method. The child is right in preferring to do a thing in the teacher's way, for it is to the teacher that he is finally responsible; and parents ought to be broad enough to try to follow the teacher's plan. They can help their children most by showing concern for them, really inspecting their written work instead of merely pretending to, and otherwise manifesting genuine interest in their tasks. _Are children capable of the initiative necessary for independent study?_ Two questions remain to be considered, the first of which pertains to initiative. If independent study requires that one practically duplicate the work of the teacher by teaching one's self, can children in the elementary school be expected to study alone, or can they even be trained to it? Much power of initiative is rare even among adults. Much of the instruction of teachers themselves is poor owing to a lack of independent thinking. What success, then, can come to children when they are sent off to study their lessons in private? In reply, it is safe to say that they can be so trained, provided they have some native capacity for self-reliance that can be used as a basis for such training. And that they have such capacity can scarcely be questioned. In their choice and leadership of games and other play; in their plans for constructive work; in their serious tasks set by themselves at home; in their selection of topics for conversation and even in the turns that their remarks take, children plainly show power of initiative. Intelligent parents recognize this fact, and they not infrequently take successful measures to cultivate this power. Kindergartners also recognize it. Indeed, they expect children who are little more than infants to propose suitable tasks, together with the method of their execution, in the kindergarten, and to carry the responsibility of leadership in the conversation of the "circle" and in the games. The resourcefulness of a ten-year-old boy was recently suggested in a certain class in composition. The subject that they were writing on was Mining in the Far West, and spelling was a serious obstacle for one youth, as it was for most of his mates. Finally, with apparent innocence, he asked his teacher if he might not describe his experiences as a miner in the miner's own dialect. On receiving her consent he gloried in his freedom by misspelling nearly every word that he used. Evidently, latent power of self-direction is one of the "native tendencies" of childhood. The statement may be ventured, also, that while the field of experience of children is very different from that of adults, the exercise of initiative within that field is as common among children as it is among adults within their own field. There is, therefore, a good basis in children for assuming the initiative. But it is only a basis. Unless this native tendency toward self-direction is carefully developed in connection with the studies in school, from year to year, it will of course prove inadequate to the demands of proper study. And that very often happens. In spite of the fact that schools exist for the sake of education, there is many a school whose pupils show a peculiar "school helplessness"; that is, they are capable of less initiative in connection with their school tasks than they commonly exhibit in the accomplishment of other tasks. In its quest for knowledge the school may thus easily prove inferior to the street and the average home in the development of this extremely valuable power. On the other hand, if children's native capacity for taking initiative has been carefully developed, well-selected subjects of study need make no excessive demands upon them. The topics to be considered will be found so nearly within their experience that their ability to study alone will be taxed only to a normal degree. Children, therefore, can be expected to exercise the initiative that is necessary for independent study from year to year, provided their teachers from year to year do their duty in developing that power. _Is there time for teaching how to study?_ Finally, even though children be capable of learning to study alone, is there time for such instruction, particularly if it is to be the primary object throughout possibly a quarter of the elementary-school time, and during a considerable time later? Is not the curriculum already full enough, indeed full to completion? While it is true that it has begun to be reduced by the selection of only such matter as bears a plain relation to our lives, as can be understood by the learner, and as constitutes some part of a large topic, when such reduction has been completed there may still remain twice as much as ought to be taught. Shall we, then, even while making these eliminations, make additions that may more than equal them? The addition here proposed is not so alarming. For a long time some of our university departments of physics have aimed rather to teach the scientific method in laboratory investigations than to impart a knowledge of the facts in physics; and some of our departments of practical politics have been more concerned about the method of investigating political problems than about the conclusions reached concerning them. In such cases the acceptance of proper method as the primary purpose has not precluded the acquisition of much subject- matter, for the method has been taught through the subject-matter. The same would hold in teaching proper method of study. But, aside from that, attention to proper method of study will result in greatly reducing, rather than in increasing, the work of both teacher and pupil, and in two ways. First, it will reduce the quantity of subject-matter. It is strange that, in spite of the hue and cry of teachers and superintendents against overcrowding in the elementary school, they are really the ones who make out the course of study, and there are no persons back of them requiring them to include a large amount. Beyond a minimum portion of the three R's, spelling, and geography, which are required by society, almost anything and everything could be omitted if they greatly desired it. But they have forced young people to study in much the same way as they themselves visit European countries, straining to get a bird's-eye view of everything, and settling on nothing long enough to know it intimately and to enjoy it deeply. They justify Herbert Spencer's remark to the effect that he would have known no more than a great many other persons, if he had read as many books as they had. The difficulty has been that teachers, with the center of gravity of the school within themselves, have lacked a standard for determining their pupils' normal rate of advance. The curriculum that they have outlined has been merely the sum of those things that they have deemed good, that they would like to have the children know; and the children have been set to work to consume all these good things, just like gourmands. With the center of gravity in the child, however, and with the proper method of study in the lead, the learner's real power of assimilation becomes the standard for his rate of advance. And, since assimilation is a very slow process, including much discrimination among ideas as well as their use, comparatively few topics can be undertaken. Appreciation of proper study then makes extensive eliminations so evidently necessary that they become compulsory. So long as we did not look closely at the minds of children, and they seemed to thrive physically, we have lacked proof that they were surfeiting; attention to study reveals the fact too plainly for it to be ignored. It is not merely the teacher, either, that will be emboldened to cast aside subject-matter. The pupil himself, under the influence of specific purposes, a clear notion of thoroughness, and his own conception of values, will quickly pass over many of the facts that are assigned in his lessons. If he pays little attention to a full half of any school text that possesses literary merit, he will probably not be far in the wrong. For perspective is essential in all presentation of thought, and there are usually as many things in the background, necessary and yet to be ignored, as there are in the foreground. Besides reducing the amount of matter to be studied, proper method of studying will further relieve both teacher and pupil from overwork by eliminating much friction in the process of study. The want of axle grease on a wagon does not increase the actual weight of a ton of coal, but it makes the pulling a lot harder; likewise, awkward methods of study do not increase the curriculum in fact, but they do in effect, by making progress slower and more taxing. There are hosts of young people who are willing and are trying to be studious, who do not know how. They, as well as the lazy ones, have to be dragged along by their teachers, and it is this dragging more than the thinking that exhausts them all. It is the discouragement resulting from this condition that drives many pupils out of school and many teachers into matrimony. While numerous things compete with it as a source of waste in education, unnecessary friction in method of study is probably the greatest source of waste; and it is as foolish to ignore the fact longer as it would be for a manufacturer to refuse to oil and repair his machinery. There is no question, therefore, about the advisability of taking time to teach proper method of study. In spite of helpful reductions in the curriculum from other sources, we must look to proper method of study as the principal means by which work for both the teacher and the pupil will be made lighter, more effective, and more enjoyable. 
29604	----	COLLEGE TEACHING STUDIES IN METHODS OF TEACHING IN THE COLLEGE Edited by PAUL KLAPPER, Ph.D. Associate Professor of Education The College of the City of New York with an Introduction by NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, LL.D. President of Columbia University Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York WORLD BOOK COMPANY 1920 WORLD BOOK COMPANY THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE Established, 1905, by Caspar W. Hodgson YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126, PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO A treasure of wisdom is stored in the colleges of the land. The teachers are the custodians of knowledge that makes life free and progressive. This book aims to make the college teacher effective in handing down this heritage of knowledge, rich and vital, that will develop in youth the power of right thinking and the courage of right living. Thus _College Teaching_ carries out the ideal of service as expressed in the motto of the World Book Company, "Books that Apply the World's Knowledge to the World's Needs". Copyright, 1920, by World Book Company Copyright in Great Britain _All rights reserved_ PREFACE The student of general problems of education or of elementary education finds an extensive literature of varying worth. In the last decade our secondary schools have undergone radical reorganization and have assumed new functions. A rich literature on every phase of the high school is rapidly developing to keep pace with the needs and the progress of secondary education. The literature on college education in general and college pedagogy in particular is surprisingly undeveloped. This dearth is not caused by the absence of problem, for indeed there is room for much improvement in the organization, the administration, and the pedagogy of the college. Investigators of these problems have been considerably discouraged by the facts they have gathered. This volume is conceived in the hope of stimulating an interest in the quality of college teaching and initiating a scientific study of college pedagogy. The field is almost virgin, and the need for constructive programs is acute. We therefore ask for our effort the indulgence that is usually accorded a pioneer. In this age of specialization of study it is evident that no college teacher, however wide his experience and extensive his education, can speak with authority on the teaching of all the subjects in the college curriculum, or even of all the major ones. For this reason this volume is the product of a coöperating authorship. The editor devotes himself to the study of general methods of teaching that apply to almost all subjects and to most teaching situations. In addition, he coördinates the work of the other contributors. He realizes that there exists among college professors an active hostility to the study of pedagogy. The professors feel that one who knows his subject can teach it. The contributors have been purposely selected in order to dispel this hostility. They are, one and all, men of undisputed scholarship who have realized the need of a mode of presentation that will make their knowledge alive. Books of multiple authorship often possess too wide a diversity of viewpoints. The reader comes away with no underlying thought and no controlling principles. To overcome this defect, so common in books of this type, a tentative outline was formulated, setting forth a desirable mode of treating, in the confines of one chapter, the teaching of any subject in the college curriculum. This outline was submitted to all contributors for critical analysis and constructive criticism. The original plan was later modified in accordance with the suggestions of the contributors. This final outline, which follows, was then sent to the contributors with the full understanding that each writer was free to make such modifications as his specialty demanded and his judgment dictated. This outline is followed in most of the chapters and gives the book that unifying element necessary in any book and vital in a work of so large a coöperating authorship. The editor begs to acknowledge his indebtedness to the many contributors who have given generously of their time and their labor with no hope of compensation beyond the ultimate appreciation of those college teachers who are eager to learn from the experience of others so that they may the better serve their students. TENTATIVE OUTLINE FOR THE TEACHING OF ---- IN THE COLLEGE I. Aim of Subject _X_ in the College Curriculum: Is it taught for disciplinary values? What are they? Is it taught for cultural reasons? Is it taught to give necessary information? Is it taught to prepare for professional studies? Is the aim single or eclectic? Do the aims vary for different groups of students? Does this apply to all the courses in your specialty? How does the aim govern the methods of teaching? II. Place of the Subject in the College Curriculum: In what year or years should it be taught? What part of the college course--in terms of time or credits--should be allotted to it? What is the practice in other colleges? What course or courses in this subject should be part of the general curriculum or be prescribed for students in art, in science, in modern languages, or in the preprofessional or professional groups? III. Organization of the Subject in the College Course: Desired sequence of courses in this subject. What is the basis of this sequence? Gradation of successive difficulties or logical sequence of facts? Should these courses be elective or prescribed? All prescribed? For all groups of students? In what years should the elective work be offered? IV. Discussion of Methods of Teaching this Subject: Place and relative worth of lecture method, laboratory work, recitations, research, case method, field work, assignment from a single text or reference reading, etc. Discussion of such problems as the following: Shall the first course in chemistry be a general and extensive course summing up the scope of chemistry, its function in organic and inorganic nature, with no laboratory work other than the experimentation by the instructor? Should students in the social sciences study the subject deductively from a book or should the book be postponed and the instructor present a series of problems from the social life of the student so that the analysis of these may lead the student to formulate many of the generalizations that are given early in a textbook course? Should college mathematics be presented as a series of subjects, e.g., algebra (advanced), solid geometry, trigonometry, analytical geometry, calculus, etc.? Would it be better to present the subject as a single and unified whole in two or three semesters? Should a student study his mathematics as it is developed in his book,--viz., as an intellectual product of a matured mind familiar with the subject,--or should the subject grow gradually in a more or less unorganized form from a series of mechanical, engineering, building, nautical, surveying, and structural problems that can be found in the life and environment of the student? V. Moot Questions in the Teaching of this Subject. VI. How judge whether the subject has been of worth to the student? How test whether the aims of this subject have been realized? How test how much the student has carried away? What means, methods, and indices exist aside from the traditional examination? VII. Bibliography on the Pedagogy of this Subject as Far as It Applies to College Teaching. The aim of the bibliography should be to give worth-while contributions that present elaborations of what is here presented or points of view and modes of procedure that differ from those here set forth. PAUL KLAPPER _The College of the City of New York_ CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION xiii By NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, Ph.D., LL.D. President of Columbia University. Author of _The Meaning of Education_, _True and False Democracy_, etc. Editor of _Educational Review_ PART ONE--THE INTRODUCTORY STUDIES CHAPTER I HISTORY AND PRESENT TENDENCIES OF THE AMERICAN COLLEGE 3 By STEPHEN PIERCE DUGGAN, Ph.D. Professor of Education, The College of the City of New York. Author of _A Student's History of Education_ II PROFESSIONAL TRAINING FOR COLLEGE TEACHING 31 By SIDNEY E. MEZES, Ph.D., LL.D. President of The College of the City of New York. Formerly President of University of Texas. Author of _Ethics, Descriptive and Explanatory_ III GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF COLLEGE TEACHING 43 By PAUL KLAPPER, Ph.D. Associate Professor of Education, The College of the City of New York. Author of _Principles of Educational Practice_, _The Teaching of English_, etc. PART TWO--THE SCIENCES IV THE TEACHING OF BIOLOGY 85 By T. W. GALLOWAY, Ph.D., Litt.D. Professor of Zoölogy, Beloit College. Author of _Textbook of Zoölogy_, _Biology of Sex for Parents and Teachers_, _Use of Motives in Moral Education_, etc. V THE TEACHING OF CHEMISTRY 110 By LOUIS KAHLENBERG, PH.D. Director of the Course in Chemistry and Professor of Chemistry, University of Wisconsin. Author of _Outlines of Chemistry_, _Laboratory Exercises in Chemistry_, _Chemistry Analysis_, _Chemistry and Its Relation to Daily Life_, etc. VI THE TEACHING OF PHYSICS 126 By HARVEY B. LEMON, Ph.D. Assistant Professor of Physics, University of Chicago VII THE TEACHING OF GEOLOGY 142 By T. C. CHAMBERLIN, Ph.D., LL.D., Sc.D. Professor and Head of Department of Geology and Director of Walker Museum, University of Chicago. Author of _Geology of Wisconsin_, _The Origin of the Earth_. Editor of _The Journal of Geology_ VIII THE TEACHING OF MATHEMATICS 161 By G. A. MILLER, Ph.D. Professor of Mathematics, University of Illinois. Author of _Determinants_, _Mathematical Monographs_ (co-author), _Theory and Applications of Groups of Finite Order_ (co-author), _Historical Introduction to the Mathematical Literature_, etc. Co-editor of _American Year Book_ and _Encyclopédie des Sciences Mathématiques_ IX PHYSICAL EDUCATION IN THE COLLEGE 183 By THOMAS A. STOREY, M.D., Ph.D. Professor of Hygiene, The College of the City of New York. State Inspector of Physical Training, New York. Secretary-General, Fourth International Congress of School Hygiene, Buffalo, 1913. Executive-Secretary, United States Interdepartmental Social Hygiene Board. Author of various contributions to standard works on physiology, hygiene, and physical training PART THREE--THE SOCIAL SCIENCES X THE TEACHING OF ECONOMICS 217 By FRANK A. FETTER, Ph.D., LL.D. Professor of Political Economy, Princeton University. Author of _Economic Principles and Modern Economic Problems_ XI THE TEACHING OF SOCIOLOGY 241 By ARTHUR J. TODD, Ph.D. Professor of Sociology and Director of the Training Course for Social and Civic Work, University of Minnesota. Author of _The Primitive Family as an Educational Factor_, _Theories of Social Progress_ XII THE TEACHING OF HISTORY A. American History 256 By HENRY W. ELSON, A.M., Litt.D. President of Thiel College. Formerly Professor of History, Ohio University. Author of _History of the United States_, _The Story of the Old World_ (with Cornelia E. MacMullan), etc. B. Modern European History 263 By EDWARD KREHBIEL, Ph.D. Professor of Modern European History, Leland Stanford University. Author of _The Interdict_, _Nationalism_, _War and Society_ XIII THE TEACHING OF POLITICAL SCIENCE 279 By CHARLES GROVE HAINES, Ph.D. Professor of Government, University of Texas. Author of _Conflict over Judicial Powers in the United States prior to 1870_, _The American Doctrine of Judicial Supremacy_, _The Teaching of Government_ (Report of Committee on Instruction, Political Science Association) XIV THE TEACHING OF PHILOSOPHY 302 By FRANK THILLY, Ph.D., LL.D. Professor of Philosophy, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, Cornell University. Author of _Introduction to Ethics_, _History of Philosophy_ XV THE TEACHING OF ETHICS 320 By HENRY NEUMANN, Ph.D. Leader of the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture. Formerly of the Department of Education, The College of the City of New York, Author of _Moral Values in Secondary Education_ XVI THE TEACHING OF PSYCHOLOGY 334 By ROBERT S. WOODWORTH, Ph.D. Professor of Psychology, Columbia University. Author of _Dynamic Psychology_, _Le Mouvement_, _Care of the Body_, _Elements of Physiological Psychology_ (with George Trumbull Ladd) XVII THE TEACHING OF EDUCATION A. Teaching the History of Education 347 By HERMAN H. HORNE, Ph.D. (Harvard). Professor of the History of Education and the History of Philosophy, New York University. Author of _The Philosophy of Education_, _The Psychological Principles of Education_, _Free Will and Human Responsibility_, etc. B. Teaching Educational Theory 359 By FREDERICK E. BOLTON, Ph.D. Dean of the College of Education, University of Washington. Author of _Principles of Education_, _The Secondary School System of Germany_ PART FOUR--THE LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES XVIII THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 379 By CALEB T. WINCHESTER, L.H.D. Professor of English Literature, Wesleyan University. Author of _Some Principles of Literary Criticism_, _A Group of English Essayists_, _William Wordsworth: How to Know Him_, etc. XIX THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH COMPOSITION 389 By HENRY SEIDEL CANBY, Ph.D. Adviser in Literary Composition, Yale University. Author of _The Short Story in English_, _College Sons and College Fathers_, etc. XX THE TEACHING OF THE CLASSICS 404 By WILLIAM K. PRENTICE, Ph.D. Professor of Greek, Princeton University, Author of _Greek and Latin inscriptions in Syria_ XXI THE TEACHING OF THE ROMANCE LANGUAGES 424 By WILLIAM A. NITZE, Ph.D. Professor and Head of Department of Romance Languages, University of Chicago. Author of _The Grail Romance_, _Glastonbury and the Holy Grail_, _Handbook of French Phonetics_, etc. Contributor to _New International Encyclopedia_ XXII THE TEACHING OF GERMAN 440 By E. PROKOSCH, Ph.D. Late Professor of Germanic Languages, University of Texas. Author of _Teaching of German in Secondary Schools_, _Phonetic Lessons in German_, _Sounds and History of the German Language_, etc. PART FIVE--THE ARTS XXIII THE TEACHING OF MUSIC 457 By EDWARD DICKINISON, Litt.D. Professor of History and Criticism of Music, Oberlin College. Author of _Music in the History of the Western Church_, _The Study of the History of Music_, _The Education of a Music Lover_, _Music and the Higher Education_ XXIV THE TEACHING OF ART 475 By HOLMES SMITH, A.M. Professor of Drawing and the History of Art, Washington University. Author of various articles in magazines on art topics PART SIX--VOCATIONAL SUBJECTS XXV THE TEACHING OF ENGINEERING SUBJECTS 501 By IRA O. BAKER, C.E., D. Eng'g. Professor of Civil Engineering, University of Illinois. Author of _Treatise on Masonry Construction_, _Treatise on Roads and Pavements_ XXVI THE TEACHING OF MECHANICAL DRAWING 525 By JAMES D. PHILLIPS, B.S. Assistant Dean and Professor of Drawing, College of Engineering, University of Wisconsin, Author of _Elements of Descriptive Geometry_ (with A. V. Millar), _Mechanical Drawing for Secondary Schools_ (with F. O. Crawshaw), _Mechanical Drawing for Colleges and Universities_ (with H. D. Orth) and HERBERT D. ORTH, B.S. Assistant Professor of Mechanical Drawing and Descriptive Geometry, University of Wisconsin. Author of _Mechanical Drawing for Colleges and Universities_ (with J. D. Phillips) XXVII THE TEACHING OF JOURNALISM 533 By TALCOTT WILLIAMS, A.M. LL.D., Litt.D. Director, School of Journalism, Columbia University XXVIII BUSINESS EDUCATION 555 By FREDERICK B. ROBINSON, Ph.D. Professor of Economics and Dean of the School of Business and Civic Administration, College of the City of New York INDEX 577 INTRODUCTION It is characteristic of the American people to have profound faith in the power of education. Since Colonial days the American college has played a large part in American life and has trained an overwhelming proportion of the leaders of American opinion. There was a time when the American college was a relatively simple institution of a uniform type, but that time has passed. The term "college" is now used in a variety of significations, a number of which are very new and very modern indeed. Some of these uses of the term are quite indefensible, as when one speaks of a college of engineering, or of law, or of medicine, or of journalism, or of architecture. Such use of the word merely confuses and makes impossible clear thinking as to educational institutions and educational aims. The term "college" can be properly used only of an institution which offers training in the liberal arts and sciences to youth who have completed a standard secondary school course of study. The purpose of college teaching is to lay the foundation for intelligent and effective specialization later on, to open the mind to new interpretations and new understandings both of man and of nature, and to give instruction in those standards of judgment and appreciation, the possession and application of which are the marks of the truly educated and cultivated man. The size of a college is a matter of small importance, except that under modern conditions a large college and one in immediate contact with the life of a university is almost certain to command larger intellectual resources than is an institution of a different type. The important thing about a college is its spirit, its clearness of aim, its steadiness of purpose, and the opportunity which it affords for direct personal contact between teacher and student. Given these, the question of size is unimportant. There was a time when it was felt, probably correctly, that a satisfactory college training could be had by requiring all students to follow a single prescribed course of study. At that time, college students were drawn almost exclusively from families and homes of a single type or kind. Their purposes in after-life were similar, and their range of intellectual sympathy, while intense, was rather narrow. The last fifty years have changed all this. College students are now drawn from families and homes of every conceivable type and kind. Their purposes in after-life are very different, while new subjects of study have been multiplied many fold. The old and useful tradition of Latin, Greek, and mathematics, together with a little history and literature, as the chief elements in a college course of study, had to give way when first the natural sciences, and then the social sciences, claimed attention and when even these older subjects of study were themselves subdivided into many parts. These changes forced a change in the old-fashioned program of college study, and led to the various substitutes for it that now exist. Whether a college prefers the elective system of study, or the group system, or some other method of combining instruction that is regarded as fundamental with other instruction that is regarded as less so, the fact is that all these are simply different kinds of attempt to meet a new condition which is the natural result of intellectual and economic changes. Just now the college is in a state of transition. It is not at all clear precisely what its status will be a generation hence, or how far present tendencies may continue to increase, or how far they may be counteracted by a swing of the pendulum in the opposite direction. Therefore this is a time to describe rather than to dogmatize, and it is description which is the characteristic mark of the important series of papers which constitute the several chapters in the present volume. A careful reading of these papers is commended not only to the great army of college teachers and college students, but to that still greater army of those who, whether as alumni or as parents or as citizens, are deeply concerned with the preservation of the influence and character of the American college for its effect upon our national standards of thought and action. American colleges are of two distinct types, and it may be that the future has in store a different position for each type. The true distinction between colleges is according as they are separate or are incorporated in a university system, and not at all as to whether they are large or small. A separate college, such as Amherst or Beloit or Grinnell or Pomona, has its own peculiar problems of support and administration. The university college, on the other hand, such as Columbia or Harvard or Chicago or the college of any state university, has quite different problems of support and of administration. It is not unlikely that the distinction between these two types of college will become more sharply marked as years go by, and that eventually they will appear to be two distinct institutions rather than two types of one and the same institution. Meanwhile, we have to deal with the college as it is, in all its varied forms, but characteristically American whatever its form. The American college has little or no resemblance to the English Public School or to the French Lycée or to the German Gymnasium. It is something more than any one of these, and at the same time something less. It differs from them all very much as the conditions of American life differ from those of English or of French or of German life. The college may or may not involve residence, but when it does involve residence, it is at its best. It is then that the largest amount of carefully ordered and stimulating influence can be brought to bear upon the daily life of growing and expanding youth, and it is then and only then, that youth can get the inestimable benefits which follow from daily and hourly contact with others of like age, like tastes, like habits, and like purposes. Indeed, it has often been said that the college gives more through its opportunities which attach to residence, than through its opportunities which attach to instruction. Almost every conceivable problem that can arise in college life and college work, is discussed in the following pages. It is now coming to be understood that the health of the college student is as much a matter of concern as his instruction, and that a college is not doing its full duty by those who seek its doors, when it merely provides libraries, laboratories, and skillful teachers. It must also provide for such conditions of residence, of food, of exercise, and of frequent medical examination and inspection, as shall protect and preserve the health of those who come to take advantage of its instruction. There is one other point which should not be overlooked, and that is the literally immense influence exerted in America by that solidarity of college sentiment and college opinion which is kept alive by organizations of former college students scattered throughout the land. This, again, is a peculiarly American development, and it serves to unite the college and public sentiment much more closely than any formal tie could possibly do. Indeed, it illustrates how completely the American people claim the college as their own. The man or woman who has once been a college student never ceases to be a member of that particular college or to labor to extend its influence and to increase its usefulness. Every reader of this volume should approach it in a spirit of sympathetic understanding of American higher education, and of the college as the oldest instrument of that higher education and still one of the chief elements in it. NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER _Columbia University_ PART ONE THE INTRODUCTORY STUDIES CHAPTER I HISTORY AND PRESENT TENDENCIES OF THE AMERICAN COLLEGE _Stephen P. Duggan_ II PROFESSIONAL TRAINING FOR COLLEGE TEACHING _Sidney E. Mezes_ III GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF COLLEGE TEACHING _Paul Klapper_ I HISTORY AND PRESENT TENDENCIES OF THE AMERICAN COLLEGE 1. THE COLONIAL PERIOD =The predominance of the religious motive= The American colonies were founded chiefly by Englishmen who came to America for a variety of reasons. Some of these were economic and political, but the most important of their reasons was the desire to practice their religious convictions with greater freedom than was permitted at home. Apart from the state religion, however, all the colonists were animated by a love for English institutions which they transplanted to the New World, and among these institutions were the grammar school and the college. Wherever the Reformation had been chiefly a religious rather than a political and ecclesiastical movement, the interest in education and the effect upon it were direct and immediate. This was true where Calvinism prevailed, as in the Netherlands, Scotland, and among the Puritans in England. Hence it is natural to find that the first effective movements in America toward the establishment of educational institutions, both elementary and higher, should have taken place in New England. A large proportion of university graduates were included among the settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. They were chiefly graduates of Cambridge, which had always been religiously more tolerant than Oxford, and especially of Emmanuel College, which was the stronghold of Puritanism at Cambridge. It was natural that these men, leaders in the affairs of the colony, should want to establish a New Cambridge University, but it is astonishing that they were able to do so as early as 1636, only six years after the founding of this colony. Two years later the college was named after John Harvard, a clergyman and a graduate of Emmanuel, who upon his death bequeathed half his estate and all his fine library of three hundred volumes to the college. The religious motive predominated in the founding of Harvard, for though the colonists longed "to advance learning and perpetuate it to posterity," they were actuated chiefly by dread "to leave an illiterate ministry to the churches, when our present Ministers shall lie in the Dust." Harvard remained the sole instrument in the colonies for that purpose for more than half a century. In 1693 the College of William and Mary was founded in Virginia, with the most generous endowment of any pre-Revolutionary college, generous because of the help received from the mother country. It was the child of the Church of England, and its president and its professors had to subscribe to the Thirty-nine Articles. Subscription to a religious creed was also demanded of the president and tutors of the third American college, founded in 1701. This Collegiate Institute, as it was called, moved from place to place for more than a decade, but finally it settled permanently in New Haven in 1717. It afterward received the name of Yale College in honor of Elihu Yale, who had given it generous assistance. As a result of the founding of these three institutions, the New England and the Southern colonies had their need for ministers fairly well supplied, but this was not yet true of the Middle colonies. However, the Presbyterians had become particularly strong in the Middle colonies, and their religious zeal resulted in the establishment of the College of New Jersey, now Princeton University, in 1746. A few years later Benjamin Franklin advanced for the college a new _raison d'être_. In 1749 he published a pamphlet entitled "Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania," in which he advocated the establishment of an academy whose purpose was not the training of ministers but the secular one of developing the practical virtue necessary in the opening up of a new country. The Academy was opened in 1751, and the charter, granted in 1755, designated the institution as "The College, Academy, and Charitable School of Philadelphia." Though the extremely modern organization and curriculum suggested by Franklin were not realized, the institution, which was afterward called "The University of Pennsylvania," offered the most liberal curriculum of any college in the colonies up to the Revolution. The human motive was uppermost also in the establishment of King's College in 1754. The colonial assembly desired its establishment to enhance the welfare and reputation of the colony, and the only connection between the college and the Church of England lay in the requirement that the president should be a communicant of that church and that the morning and evening service of the college should be performed out of the liturgy of that church. But the religious motive again comes to the fore in the establishment of Brown University at Providence, Rhode Island, in 1764, primarily to train ministers for the Baptist churches; of Queens, afterwards named Rutgers, in 1766, to provide ministers for the Dutch Reformed churches; and of Dartmouth, in 1769, from which it was hoped at first that the evangelization of the Indians would proceed. =Character of the colonial college= These colonial colleges in their histories bear a great resemblance to one another. They were almost all born in poverty and led a desperate financial existence for many years. In some cases survival was possible only as the result of the untiring self-sacrifice of some great personality like Eleazar Wheelock, the first president of Dartmouth; in all cases, of the devotion of teachers and officers. Their beginnings were all small; in some cases the president was the only member of the instructing staff and taught all the subjects of the curriculum. The students were few in number, the equipment was simple, the buildings usually consisting of a house for the president, in which he often heard recitations, a dormitory for the students, and a college hall. Libraries, laboratories, and recreational facilities were usually conspicuous by their absence. In fact, as the curriculum consisted almost exclusively of philosophy, Greek, Latin, rhetoric, and a little mathematics, there was no great need of much equipment. The classics were taught by the intensive grammatical method; in philosophy there was a great deal of dialectical disputation; rhetoric was studied as an aid to oratory; mathematics included only arithmetic and geometry. The aim of instruction was, not to give a wide acquaintance with many fields of knowledge for cultural and appreciative purposes, but rather to develop power through intensive exercise upon a restricted curriculum. But the value of the materials utilized to produce power which would function in oratory, debate, and diplomacy is splendidly illustrated in the decades before the Revolution. The contest between the colonies and the mother country was essentially a rational contest in which questions of constitutional law and, indeed, of the fundamental principles of civil and political existence were debated. Splendidly did the leaders of public opinion in the colonies, almost every one of whom was a graduate of a colonial college, defend the cause of the colonists in pamphlet and debate. And when debate was followed by war, twenty-five per cent of the twenty-five hundred graduates of the colonial colleges were found in the military service of their country. At the close of the struggle for independence, it was again upon the shoulders of the men who had gained vision and character in the colonial colleges that the burden fell of organizing the mutually suspicious and antagonistic colonies into one nation. Space will not permit even of the enumeration of the great leaders who graduated from all the colonial colleges, but an idea of the service rendered by those institutions to the new nation may be obtained by mentioning the names of a few statesmen who received their instruction in one of the least of them, William and Mary. In its classrooms were taught Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Edmund Randolph, James Monroe, and John Marshall. 2. THE NATIONAL ERA =French influence= French influence upon American political and intellectual life had become quite pronounced as the result of the contact between the leaders of the two peoples during and after the Revolution. That influence was reflected in the colleges. Instruction in the French language was offered in several of the colleges before the close of the eighteenth century, and a chair of French was established at Columbia as early as 1779 and at William and Mary in 1793. The secularizing influence of the French united also with the democratizing influence of the Revolution in diminishing the influence of the church upon the colleges and emphasizing the influence of the State and especially the relations between college and people. Of the fourteen colleges founded between 1776 and 1800, the majority were established upon a non-sectarian basis. These included institutions of a private nature like Washington and Lee, Bowdoin, and Union, as well as institutions closely related to the state governments like the Universities of North Carolina and of Vermont. There can hardly be any doubt that the French system of centralized administration in civil affairs influenced the establishment of the University of the State of New York. The University of the State of New York is not a local institution, but a body of nine regents elected by the legislature to control the administration of education throughout the State of New York. Though organized by Alexander Hamilton, it was in all probability much influenced by John Jay, who returned from France in 1784. But the most potent factor in the spread of French influence in the early history of our country was Thomas Jefferson. While Jefferson was American minister to France, he studied the French system of education and embodied ideas taken from it in the organization of the University of Virginia. This occupied much of his attention during the last two decades of his life. The University was to be entirely non-sectarian and had for its purpose (1) to form statesmen, legislators, and judges for the commonwealth; (2) to expand the principles and structure of government, the laws which regulate the intercourse of states, and a sound spirit of legislation; (3) to harmonize and promote the interests of all forms of industry, chiefly by well-informed views of political economy; (4) to develop the reasoning faculties of youth and to broaden their minds and develop their character; (5) to enlighten them with knowledge, especially of the physical sciences which will advance the material welfare of the people. These progressive views of what the college should aim to do were associated with equally advanced views of college administration, such as the elective system and the importation of professors from abroad. The remarkable vision, constructive imagination, courage, and faith of Jefferson in his break with what was traditional and authoritative in education has been justified by the fine career of the university which he founded. =The state universities system= All the colleges that were established before the Revolution, and most of those between the Revolution and the year 1800, had received direct assistance from the colonial or state government either in grants of land, money, the proceeds of lotteries, or special taxes. Most of them, however, were dependent upon private foundations and controlled by denominational bodies. The secularizing influence from France, the growing interest in civic and political affairs, and the democratic spirit resulting from the Revolution combined to develop a distrust of the colleges as they were organized and a desire to bring them under the control of the state. This was apparent in 1779, when the legislature of Pennsylvania withdrew the charter of the college of Philadelphia and created a new corporation to be known as "The Trustees of the University of the State of Pennsylvania"; it was shown in 1787 when Columbia College was granted a new charter by the state legislature, under which the board of trustees were all drawn from the Board of Regents of the State; it was made most evident in 1816 when the legislature of New Hampshire transformed Dartmouth College into a university without the consent of the board of trustees and empowered the governor and council to appoint a Board of Overseers. In the celebrated Dartmouth College case, 1819, the old board of trustees, when defeated before the Supreme Court of New Hampshire in their suit for the recovery of property which had been seized, carried the case to the Supreme Court of the United States and engaged Daniel Webster as their counsel. The Court declared the act of the New Hampshire legislature in violation of the provision of the Constitution of the United States which reads that "No state shall pass any ... law impairing the obligation of contracts." The decision drew a sharp distinction between public and private corporations, and a necessary inference was that most of the existing institutions for higher education were in the latter class. The result was to strengthen the rising demand for publicly controlled institutions. The Southern and Western states across the Alleghanies that were on the point of framing state constitutions made provision for state universities under state control. The intention to provide higher education freely for the people had already received its greatest impetus in an Act of Congress passed shortly after the passage of the Ordinance of 1787, providing for the organization of the Northwest Territory. By that act two entire townships of public land were reserved to the states to be erected out of the territory, the proceeds of the sale of which were to be devoted to the establishment of a state university. These universities followed swiftly upon the establishment of new states, and the democratic ideal that prevailed is shown in the determination that the state university was to be the crown of the public educational system of the state. This is well illustrated in the provision of the constitution of Indiana, adopted in the very year of the Dartmouth College decision, 1819, which reads, "It shall be the duty of the General Assembly, as soon as circumstances will permit, to provide by law for a general system of education, ascending in regular gradation from township schools to a state university, wherein tuition shall be gratis and equally open to all." Circumstances did permit in the following year, and the provisions of the bill materialized. The national policy of granting public lands for educational purposes to new states was continued, and one or two townships were devoted in each case to the establishment of a state university. National assistance to higher education was given on an immense scale in 1862, when the Morrill Act was passed providing for the grant of 30,000 acres of land for each representative and senator, to be devoted to the support in each state of a higher institution of learning, in which technical and agricultural branches should be taught. Within twenty years every state in the Union had taken advantage of this splendid endowment, either to found a new state university which would comply with the requirements as regards courses of instruction or to establish an agricultural college as an independent institution, or in connection with some already existing institution. Not only do some of the finest state universities like those of California, Illinois, and Minnesota owe their origins to the Morrill Act, but others owe to it their real beginnings as institutions of collegiate grade. Up to the passage of the Morrill Act a dozen state universities struggled to maintain themselves with meager revenues and few students. They were trying to do broad academic work, but by no means reached the standards of the strong colleges in the eastern part of the country. The establishment of state-supported and state-controlled universities in the commonwealths organized after the close of the eighteenth century by no means put an end to the establishment of colleges upon religious foundations. Denominational zeal was very strong in the decades preceding the Civil War, and the church was the center of community life in the newly settled regions. The need to provide an intelligent ministry and also a higher civilization led to the establishment of many small sectarian colleges in the new states. Despite the fact that practically all of them would today be considered only of secondary grade, they accomplished a splendid work and provided ideals and standards of intellectual life in a new country whose population was engaged chiefly in supplying the physical needs of life. The response made in the Civil War by the institutions of higher education throughout the United States, whether privately or publicly supported, was a magnificent return for the sacrifices endured in their establishment and maintenance. Everywhere throughout the North the colleges were depleted of instructors and students who had entered the ranks, and in the South nearly all the colleges were compelled to close their doors. Upon the shoulders of their graduates fell the burden of directing civil and military affairs in state and nation. 3. THE MODERN ERA Were a visitor to Harvard or Columbia in 1860 to revisit it today, the changes he would observe would be startling. The elective system, graduate studies, professional and technical schools, an allied woman's college, and a summer session are a few of the most noticeable activities incorporated since 1860. It would be impossible to set any date for the beginning of this transformation, so gradual and subtle has it been, but the accession of Dr. Charles W. Eliot to the presidency of Harvard College in 1869 and the establishment of Johns Hopkins University in 1876 are definite landmarks. This chapter is a history of the American college, and space will not permit of a detailed description of these activities but simply of a narration of the way they developed and of the forces which brought them into being. =The curriculum and the elective system= It has already been mentioned that the curriculum of the average American college at the beginning of the nineteenth century differed but little from the curriculum followed in the middle of the seventeenth. The reason is simple. The curriculum is based upon the biological principle of adaptation to environment, and the environment of the average American of 1800 differed but slightly from his ancestor of a century and a half previous. The growth of the curriculum follows, slowly it is often true, upon the growth of knowledge. The growth of knowledge during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was slow and insignificant compared to its marvelous growth in the nineteenth century, particularly in the last half of it. The great discoveries in science, first in chemistry, then in physics and biology, resulted in their gradually displacing much of the logic and philosophy which had maintained the prime place in the old curriculum. The interest aroused in the French language and literature by our Revolution; in the Spanish by the South American wars of independence; and in the German by the distinguished scholars who studied in the German universities during the middle decades of the nineteenth century, caused a demand that those languages as well as English have a place in the curriculum. This could be secured only by making them partly alternatives to the classical languages. The Industrial Revolution, based as it was upon the application of science to industry, not only gave an impetus to the establishment of technical schools, but by revolutionizing the production and distribution of wealth pushed into the curriculum the science that deals with wealth, political economy. The growth of cities that followed in the wake of the Industrial Revolution, the conflicts between the interests of classes,--viz., landowners, capitalists, and laborers,--the rapid decay of feudalism and the spread of political democracy following the French Revolution, the expansion of commerce to all corners of the globe and the resulting development of colonialism, all these human interests gave a new meaning to the study of history and politics which caused them to secure a place of great prominence in the curriculum during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. It is perfectly obvious that as the time at the student's disposal remained the same, if he were to pursue even a part of the new subject matter that was gradually admitted into the curriculum, the course of study could no longer remain wholly prescribed and he would have to be granted some freedom of choice. The growth in number of students also produced changes in administration favorable to the introduction of the elective system. In the early history of the American college one instructor taught a single class in all subjects, and it was not until 1776 that the transfer was made at Harvard from the teaching of classes by one instructor to the teaching of each subject by one instructor. With increase in numbers the students were unable to receive in each year instruction by every member of the teaching staff. In spite of the quite obvious advantages of the elective system, it was obstinately resisted by the defenders of the classics and also of orthodox religion and at first made but slow progress. Thomas Jefferson gave it the first great impetus when he made it an essential element in the organization of the University of Virginia in 1825. Francis Wayland, president of Brown University and one of the few college presidents of his day who were educators in the modern sense, made a splendid exposition and defense of it in 1850 in his "Report to the Corporation of Brown University on Changes in the System of Collegiate Education." But the elective system waited upon the elevation of Charles W. Eliot to the presidency of Harvard in 1869 for its general realization; in 1872 the senior year at Harvard became wholly elective; in 1879, the junior year; in 1884, the sophomore year; and in 1894 the single absolute requirement that remained in the entire college course was English A. The action of Harvard was rapidly imitated to a more or less thorough extent throughout the country. Probably no two colleges administer the elective system in the same way. There has been a considerable revulsion of opinion against unrestricted election of individual subjects. In many colleges the subjects of the curriculum were arranged into groups which must be elected _in toto_. This resulted in the multiplication of bachelor's degrees, each indicating the special course--arts, science, philosophy, or literature--which had been followed. At the present time the tendency is to prescribe the subjects considered essential to a liberal education chiefly in the first two years and to permit election among groups of related courses in the last two. This has maintained the unity that formerly prevailed and introduced greater breadth into the curriculum. It has also brought the new bachelor's degrees into disfavor, and today the majority of the best colleges give only the A.B. degree for the regular academic course. Valuable modifications in the elective system are constantly being adopted. One such is the preceptorial system at Princeton and elsewhere, under which the preceptors personally supervise the reading and study of a small group of students and can therefore advise them from personal knowledge of their capacity. Another is the system of honor courses adopted at Columbia and elsewhere, whereby a distinction is made between mere "passmen" and students desirous of attaining high rank in courses that are carefully organized in sequence. =German Influence and graduate study= The introduction of new subjects into the curriculum of the college and the adoption by it of the elective system owe much to German influence upon American education. Though this influence was partly exerted by the study of the German language and literature, it resulted chiefly from the residence of American students at German universities. The first American to be granted the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from a German university was Edward Everett, who received it at Göttingen in 1817. He was followed by George Ticknor, George Bancroft, Henry W. Longfellow, John Lothrop Motley, Frederick Henry Hedge, William Dwight Whitney, Theodore Dwight Woolsey, and a host of scholars who shed luster upon American education and scholarship in the mid-nineteenth century. Most of these men became associated with American colleges in some capacity and had a profound influence upon their ideals, organization, and methods of teaching. They came back devoted advocates of wide and deep scholarship, of independent research, and of the need of such scholastic tools as libraries and laboratories. But especially did they give an impetus to the movement in favor of freedom of choice (_Lernfreiheit_) in studies. Only by the adoption of such a principle could the pronounced tastes or needs of individual students be satisfied. Some slight effort had been made in the first four decades of the nineteenth century by a few of the colleges to conform to the desire of students for further study in some chosen field, but the results were negligible. In 1847 Yale established a "department of philosophy and the arts for scientific and graduate study leading to the degree of bachelor of philosophy." The first degree of doctor of philosophy was bestowed in 1861, but a distinct graduate school was not organized until 1872. Harvard announced in the same year the establishment of a graduate department to which only holders of the bachelor's degree would be admitted and in which the degrees of doctor of philosophy and doctor of science would be conferred. The graduate department was not made a separate school, however, until 1890. The greatest impetus to the establishment of graduate schools in the American universities was made by the establishment of Johns Hopkins University in 1876. Upon its foundation the chief aim was announced to be the development of instruction in the methods of scientific research. The influence of this institution upon the development of higher education in the United States has been incalculably great. Johns Hopkins was not a transplanted German university. The unique place of the college in American education was shown by the fact that graduate schools have followed the lead of Johns Hopkins in building upon the college. Even Clark University at Worcester, founded in 1889 upon a purely graduate basis, established an undergraduate college in 1902. One of the most gratifying features of higher education in the United States during the past quarter century has been the extension of graduate schools to the strong state universities. Research work in them usually began in the school of agriculture, where the intensive study of the sciences, particularly chemistry and biology, had such splendid results in improved farming and dairying that legislatures were gradually persuaded to extend the support for research to purely liberal studies. With the growth and development of graduate schools in this country, the practice of going to Europe for advanced specialized study has abated considerably. It will probably so continue in the future, particularly with regard to Germany. On the other hand, should the new ideal of international good will become a living reality, education through a wide system of exchange professors and students may be expected to make its contribution. =Technical and professional study= While the graduate school was built upon the college, the technical school grew up by the side of it or upon an independent foundation. The first technical school was established at Troy, New York, in 1824, and was called Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, after its founder, Stephen Van Rensselaer. For a score of years no other development of consequence was made, but in 1847 the foundations were made of what have since become the Lawrence Scientific School at Harvard and the Sheffield Scientific School at Yale. The passage of the Morrill Act in 1862 had a quickening effect on education in engineering and agriculture. In the decade from 1860 to 1870 some twenty-two technical institutions were founded, most of them by the aid of the land grants. The most important of them is the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where instruction was first given in 1865 and which has exerted by far the greatest influence upon the development of scientific and technical education. The best technical schools require a high school diploma for admission and have a four-year course of study, but the only technical school on a graduate basis is the School of Mines at Columbia University. Professional education in theology, law, and medicine in the United States was conducted chiefly upon the apprenticeship system down into the nineteenth century. Though chairs of divinity existed in the colonial colleges in the eighteenth century, systematic preparation for the ministry was not generally attempted and the prospective minister usually came under the special care of a prominent clergyman who prepared him for the profession. In 1819 Harvard established a separate faculty of divinity, and three years later Yale founded a theological department. Since then about fifty colleges and universities have established theological faculties and about 125 independent theological schools have been founded as the result of denominational zeal. A majority of all these institutions require at least a high school diploma for admission; half of them require a college degree. Nearly all offer a three-year course of study and confer the degree of bachelor of divinity. Previous to the Civil War the great majority of legal practitioners obtained their preparation in a law office. Though the University of Pennsylvania attempted to establish a law school in 1791, and Columbia in 1797, both attempts were abortive, and it remained for Harvard to establish the first permanent law school in 1817. Even this was but a feeble affair until Justice Joseph Story became associated with it in 1830. Up to 1870 but three terms of study were required for a degree; until 1877 students were admitted without examination, and special students were admitted without examination as late as 1893. Since then the advance in standards has been very rapid, and in 1899 Harvard placed its law school upon a graduate basis. Though but few others have emulated Harvard in this respect, the improvement in legal education during the past two decades has been marked. Of the 120 law schools today, the great majority are connected with colleges and universities, demand a high school diploma for admission, maintain a three-year course of study, and confer the degree of LL.B. Twenty-four per cent of the twenty thousand students are college graduates. In some of the best schools the inductive method of study--i.e., the "case method"--has superseded the lecture, and in practically all the moot court is a prominent feature. Entrance into the medical profession in colonial times was obtained by apprenticeship in the office of a practicing physician. The first permanent medical school was the medical college of Philadelphia, which was established in 1765 and which became an integral part of the University of Pennsylvania in 1791. Columbia, Harvard, and Dartmouth also founded schools before the close of the eighteenth century, and these were slowly followed by other colleges in the early decades of the nineteenth century. During almost the entire nineteenth century medical education in the United States was kept on a low plane by the existence of large numbers of proprietary medical "colleges" organized for profit, requiring only the most meager entrance qualifications, giving poor instruction, and having very inadequate equipment in the way of laboratories and clinics. In fact, medical education did not obtain a high standard until the establishment of the Johns Hopkins Medical School in 1893. Since then the efforts of the medical schools connected with the strong universities and of the Rockefeller Foundation to raise the minimum standard of medical education have resulted in the elimination of the weakest medical schools. The total number fell from 150 in 1900 to 100 in 1914. Not all of these demand a high school diploma for admission, though the tendency is to stiffen entrance requirements, but all have a four-year course of study. In most institutions experience in laboratory, clinic, and hospital has superseded the old lecture system as the method of instruction. Closely associated with the progress in medicine and to a great extent similar in history has been the progress in dentistry and pharmacy. There are now fifty schools of dentistry, with nearly 9000 students, and seventy-two schools of pharmacy, with nearly 6000 students. One of the most gratifying advances in professional education has been that of the teacher. Practically all the state universities and many of the universities and colleges upon private foundations have established either departments or schools of education which require at least the same entrance qualifications as does the college proper and in many cases confine the work to the junior and senior years. Teachers College of Columbia University is on a graduate basis. Though many of the 250 training and normal schools throughout the country do not require a high school diploma for admission, the tendency is wholly in that direction. In no field of professional education has the application of scientific principles to actual practice made such progress as in that of the teacher. =College education for women--The independent college= Few movements in the history of American education had more important results than the academy movement which prevailed during the period between the Revolution and the Civil War. Possibly the principle upon which the new nation was established, i.e., the privilege of every individual to make the most of himself, influenced the founders of the academies to make provision for the education of girls beyond the mere rudiments. Certainly this aspect of the movement had a far-reaching influence. Some of the earliest of the academies admitted girls as well as boys from the beginning, and some soon became exclusively female. When it became evident from the work of the academies that sex differences were not of as great importance as had been supposed, it was not a long step to higher education. Some of the academies added a year or two to the curriculum and took on the more dignified name of "seminary." In this transition period the influence of a few great personalities was profound, and even a brief sketch of the history of women's education cannot omit to mention the splendid work of Emma Willard and Mary Lyon. Mrs. Willard was an exponent of the belief that freedom of development for the individual was the greatest desideratum for humanity. She not only diffused this idea in her addresses and writings but tried to utilize it in the establishment in 1814 of the Troy Female Seminary, which was the forerunner of many others throughout the country. Mary Lyon was rather the representative of the religious influence in education, the embodiment of the belief that to do one's duty is the great purpose in life. In 1837 she founded Mount Holyoke Seminary, which had an influence of inestimable value in sending well-equipped women throughout the country a teachers. The importance of this service was particularly evident during the period of the Civil War. Although a number of excellent institutions for women bearing the name of college were founded before the Civil War, the first one of really highest rank was Vassar College, which opened its doors to students in 1865. Smith and Wellesley were founded in 1875, and Bryn Mawr in 1885. These four colleges are in every respect the equal of the best colleges for men. They are the most important of a dozen independent colleges for women, almost all of which are situated in the East. To establish the independent college was the chief method adopted in the older parts of the country to solve the problem of women's higher education, rather than to reorganize colleges for men where conditions were already established. =The development of coeducation= The independent college is not the method that has prevailed in the West. When the inspiration to higher education for women arrived west of the Alleghanies, conditions, especially lack of resources, practically necessitated coeducation. Oberlin, founded in 1834, was the first fully coeducational institution of college grade in the world. In 1841 three women received from it the bachelor's degree, the first to get it. Oberlin's success had a pronounced influence on the state universities, which, it was argued, should be open and free to all citizens, since they were supported by public taxation. Almost all the state universities and the great majority of the colleges and universities on private foundations are today coeducational. The results predicted by pessimists, viz., that the physical health of women would suffer, that their intellectual capacity would depreciate scholarship, and that the interests of the family would be menaced, have not eventuated. =The affiliated college for women= The spread of coeducation in the state universities of the West and the South and its presence in the newer private universities like Cornell and Chicago had an influence upon the older universities of the East. This influence has resulted in a third method of solving the problem of women's education; viz., the establishment of the affiliated college. Several universities have established women's colleges, sometimes under the same and sometimes under a different board of trustees, to provide the collegiate education for women which is given to men by the undergraduate departments. Barnard College, affiliated with Columbia University, Radcliffe College, affiliated with Harvard University, Woman's College, affiliated with Brown University, the College for Women, affiliated with the Western Reserve University, and the H. Sophie Newcomb Memorial College for Women, affiliated with Tulane University, have all been founded within the past forty years. =Graduate and professional studies for women= All the universities for men except Princeton and Johns Hopkins and all the fully coeducational institutions admit women upon the same terms as men to graduate work. Graduate work is also undertaken with excellent results in some of the independent women's colleges, as at Bryn Mawr. Professional education for women has been coeducational from the beginning, with the exception of medicine. The prejudice against coeducation in that profession was so strong that five women's medical schools were organized, but they provide instruction for little more than a quarter of the women medical students. The increase in the number of women in professional schools has not by any means kept pace with the increase in the colleges. It appears that, with the exception of teaching, woman is not to be a very important sector in the learned professions in the near future. =Undergraduate life--Fraternities= Nothing differentiates more clearly the American college from European institutions of higher education than the kind of non-scholastic activities undertaken by the students. From the very beginning the college became a place of residence as well as of study for students from a distance, and the dormitory was an essential element in its life. With increase in numbers, especially after the Revolution, when all distinctions of birth or family were abolished, students naturally divided into groups. The first fraternity, Phi Beta Kappa, was founded in 1776 at William and Mary, with a patriotic and literary purpose, and membership in it has practically ever since been confined to graduates who have attained high scholastic standing. When one speaks of college fraternities, however, he does not refer to Phi B K, but to one of the intercollegiate social organizations which have chapters in several colleges organized somewhat upon the plan of a club and whose members live in a chapter house. The first such fraternity was founded at Yale in 1821, but it was limited to the senior class. The three fraternities established at Union in 1825-1827 form the foundation of the present system. The fraternities spread rapidly and are today very numerous. There are about thirty of national importance, having about a thousand chapters and a quarter of a million members. The fraternity system is bitterly attacked as being undemocratic, expensive, emphasizing social rather than scholastic attainments, and, generally speaking, a divisive rather than a unifying factor in college life. Hence some colleges have abolished it. Fraternities have been defended, however, as promoting close fellowship and even helping to develop character. So strongly are they entrenched, not only in undergraduate but also in alumni affection, that they probably form a permanent element in college life. =Religious life= The early American college was primarily a place to prepare for the ministry, and personal piety was a matter of official enforcement. For a number of reasons religious zeal declined in the eighteenth century. After the Revolution, under the influence of the new political theories and of French skepticism the percentage of students professing to be active Christians fell very low. In the early nineteenth century the interest of students in religion increased, and religious organizations in a number of colleges were founded. Practically all of these later gave way to the Young Men's Christian Association, which has now over 50,000 members organized in almost all the colleges of the country save the Roman Catholic. The religious interests of Roman Catholic students are in many colleges served by the Newman Clubs and similar organizations, and of Jewish students by the Menorah Society. The religion of college students has become less a matter of form and speech and more a matter of service--social service of many kinds at home and missionary service abroad. =Physical education= The educational reformers of Europe in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries placed great emphasis upon a more complete physical training. This interest was felt in the United States, and simple gymnastic apparatus was set up at Harvard and Yale in 1826. The movement spread very slowly, however, due probably to ignorance of its real physiological import. Since the Civil War the development of the gymnastic system has been rapid, and now practically every first-class college has its gymnasium, attendance upon which is compulsory, and some have their stadium and natatorium. Of independent origin but hastened by the spread of the gymnasium is the vast athletic interest of undergraduates. Its earliest form, conducted on a considerable scale, was rowing. The first rowing club was formed at Yale in 1843, and the first intercollegiate race was rowed on Lake Winnepesaukee in 1852, Harvard defeating Yale. Rowing is now a form of athletics at every college where facilities permit. The first baseball nine was formed at Princeton in 1859, and the game spread rapidly to all the other colleges. Football in a desultory and unorganized way made its appearance early in the nineteenth century. As early as 1840 an annual game was played at Yale between the freshmen and the sophomores, but the establishment of a regular football association dates from 1872, also at Yale. In the following year an intercollegiate organization was formed, and since then football has increased in popularity at the colleges to such an extent that just as baseball has become the great national game, so has football become the great American collegiate game. Track athletics is the most recent form of athletic sports to be introduced into the college, and most colleges now have their field days. In addition to these four major forms of college sports, tennis, lacrosse, basketball, and swimming also have a prominent place. The four major sports are usually under the control of special athletic associations, which spend large sums of money and have a great influence with the students. In fact, so great has become the interest of college students in athletics that much fear has been expressed about its influence upon scholastic work, and voices are not lacking demanding its curtailment.[1] Military training is a phase of physical education which, though it had earlier found a place in the land-grant institutions, came to the fore as a part of the colleges' contribution to winning the world war. Students' Army Training Corps were established at many of the higher institutions of the country, and the academic studies were made to correlate with the military work as a nucleus. At the present time, however, the colleges are putting their work back on a pre-war basis, and it seems most unlikely that military training will survive as a corporate part of their work. =Student literary activities--College journalism= Journalism, though its actual performance is limited to a small number of students, has had an honored place as an undergraduate activity for almost a hundred years. It served first as a means of developing literary ability among the students, afterwards as a vehicle for college news, and now there has been added to these purposes the uniting of alumni and undergraduates. Hence we find among college journals dailies, monthlies, and quarterlies, some of them humorous and some with a serious literary purpose. Journalism is not the only method of expressing undergraduate thought. There has been a great revival of intracollegiate and of intercollegiate debating in recent years. Literary societies for debating the great issues preceding the Revolution was the first development of undergraduate life, and every college before and after the Revolution had strong societies. As undergraduate interests increased in number, and especially as the fraternity system began to spread, debating societies assumed a relatively less important place, but in the past two decades great interest has been revived in them. The glee club, or choral society, along with the college orchestra, minister to the specialized interests of some students, and the dramatic association to those of others. One significant result of such activities has been to establish a nexus between the college and community life. =Student self-government= One other feature of undergraduate life cannot be overlooked; viz., student self-government. The college student today is two or three years older than was his predecessor of fifty or sixty years ago. Moreover, with the great increase in the number of students has come a parallel increase in complexity of administration and in the duties of the college professor. Finally, a sounder psychology has taught the wisdom of placing in the hands of the students the control of many activities which they can supervise better than the faculty. As a result of these and of other influences, in many colleges today all extra-scholastic activities are either supervised by the student council, the members of which are elected by the students, or by a joint body of student and faculty members. The effect in almost every instance has been the diminution of friction between the faculty and students and the development of better relations between them. In some colleges the honor system is found, under which even proctoring at examinations does not exist, as all disciplinary matters, including the decision in serious offenses like cheating, rest with the student council. Student self-government is only one evidence of the democratization that has taken place in the administration of the college during the past two decades. Even more noticeable than student self-government is the tendency recently manifested to transfer more of the control of the government of the college from the board of trustees to the faculty. =New opportunities in higher education= With the extension of commerce and the attempt to bring it under efficient organization in the nineteenth century, the demand has been made upon the colleges to train experts in this field. Germany was the first to engage in it, and just before the war probably led the world. France and England have remained relatively indifferent. In America, the so-called "business college" proved entirely too narrow in scope, and beginning with the Wharton School of Finance and Commerce of the University of Pennsylvania (1881), the higher institutions have begun to train for this important field. Some of the colleges of commerce, like those of Dartmouth and Harvard, demand extensive liberal preparation; others, like Wharton and the schools connected with the state universities, coördinate their liberal and vocational work; a few, like that of New York University, give almost exclusive attention to the practical element. Two other movements might be mentioned as illustrating the attempt to extend the opportunity for higher education to an ever increasing number of people. One is the development of extension courses and the other the offering of evening work to those who cannot attend the regular sessions. These are both steps in the direction of equality of opportunity which is the ultimate aim of education in a democratic country. =The future of the college in American education--Relation to secondary schools= The college preceded the high school in time, and when the high school began its career in the middle of the nineteenth century it was made tributary to the college in all essentials. By deciding requirements for admission, the college practically prescribed the curriculum of the high school; by conducting examinations itself it practically determined methods of teaching in the high school. But a remarkable change in these respects has taken place in the past two decades. The high school, which is almost omnipresent in our country, has attained independence and today organizes its curricula without much reference to the college. If there be any domination in college entrance requirements today, it is rather the high school that dominates. Over a large part of the country, especially in states maintaining state universities, there are now no examinations for entrance to college. The college accepts all graduates of _accredited_ high schools--i.e., high schools that the state university decides maintain proper secondary standards. This growth in strength and independence has been accompanied by a lengthening of the high school course from two years in the middle of the last century to four years at the present time. =The junior college= With the introduction of the principle of promotion by subject instead of by class, the strong high schools have been enabled to undertake to teach subjects in their last years which were formerly taught in the first years of the college. They have done this so well that the practice has grown up in some parts of the country, especially on the Pacific Coast, of extending the course of the high school to six years and of completing in them the work of the first two years of college. This enables more young men and women throughout the state to receive collegiate education, and as the best-equipped teachers in the high schools are usually in the last years and the worst-equipped teachers in the college are usually in the first years, the system makes for better education. Moreover, it relieves the state universities of the crowds of students in the first two years and permits overworked professors to concentrate upon the advanced work of the last two years and upon research work in the graduate schools. A system which offers so many advantages and is so popular both in the high school and the university bids fair to spread. =The abbreviated and condensed college course= While the movement making for the elimination of the college from below has been taking place in the West, another movement having the same effect has been taking place in the East, only the pressure has been from above. The tendency is spreading for the professional schools of the strong universities to demand a college degree for admission. If the full four years of the college are demanded in addition to the four years of the secondary school and the eight years of the elementary school, the great majority of students will begin their professional education at twenty-two and their professional careers at twenty-six, and they will hardly be self-supporting before thirty. This seems an unreasonably long period of preparation compared to that required in other progressive countries. The German student, for example, begins his professional studies immediately upon graduation from the gymnasium at eighteen. Hence the demand has arisen for a shortening of the college course. This demand has been met in several ways. In some colleges the courses have been arranged in such a way that the bright and industrious student may complete the work required for graduation in three years. In others, as at Harvard, the student may elect in his senior year the studies of the first year of the professional school. Another tendency in the same direction is to permit students in the junior and even in the sophomore years to elect subjects of a vocational nature. This has been bitterly contested by those who hold that the minimum essentials of liberal culture should be acquired before vocational specialization begins. Columbia _permits_ a student to complete his college and professional studies in six years, and at the end of that time he receives both the bachelor's and the professional degrees. It is to be noted, however, that these solutions of the problem and, in fact, most other solutions that have been suggested, apply only to a college connected with a university; they could not be administered in the independent college. But a movement has developed in the Middle West which may result in another solution; i.e., the Junior College. It can be best understood by reference to the policy of the University of Chicago. That institution divides its undergraduate course into two parts: a Junior College of two years, the completion of whose course brings with it the title of Associate in Arts, and a Senior College of two years, the completion of whose course is rewarded with the regular bachelor's degree. There have become affiliated with the University of Chicago a considerable number of colleges throughout the Mississippi Valley which have frankly become Junior Colleges and confine their work to the freshman and sophomore years. And this has become true of other universities. It would seem inevitable that the bachelor's degree will finally be granted at the end of the Junior College and some other degree, perhaps the master's, which has an anomalous place in American education in any case, at the end of the Senior College. This has, in fact, been suggested by President Butler. The University of Chicago has also struck out in another new direction. Provided a certain amount of work is done in residence at the University, the remainder may be completed _in absentia_, i.e., through correspondence courses. The Junior College movement has had the excellent result of inducing many weak colleges to confine their work to what they really can afford to do. Many parts of our country have a surplus of colleges, chiefly denominational. Ohio alone has more than fifty. The cost of maintaining dormitories, laboratories, libraries, apparatus, and other equipment and paying respectable salaries cannot be met by the tuition fees in any college. The college must either have a large income-producing endowment, which few have, or must receive gifts sufficient to meet expenses. Gifts to colleges and universities form one of the finest evidences of interest in higher education in the United States, and reach really colossal proportions. In the past fifty years, during which this form of generosity has prevailed, over 600 million dollars have been given, and in 1914 gifts from private sources amounted to more than 30 million dollars. Most of this money is given to the non-sectarian institutions and not to the small denominational colleges scattered over the country. As they are in addition unable to compete with the state universities, they are for every reason justified in becoming Junior Colleges. But this does not apply to the old independent colleges, such as Amherst, Williams, Dartmouth, etc., which have loyal and wealthy alumni associations. They have the support necessary to retain the four-year course and seem determined to do so. Just what the outcome of the whole question of shortening the college course may be is not now evident. That concessions in time must be made to the demand for an earlier beginning of professional education seems certain. That the saving should be made in the college course is not so certain. A sounder pedagogy seems to indicate that one year, if not two, can be saved in the period from the sixth to the eighteenth year. It is probable that the arbitrary division of American education into elementary, secondary, collegiate, and university, each with a stated number of years, will give way to a real unification of the educational process. Most Americans would regret to see the college, the unique product of American education, which has had such an honorable part in the development of our civilization, disappear in the unifying process. STEPHEN PIERCE DUGGAN _College of the City of New York_ BIBLIOGRAPHY The bibliography on the American college is almost inexhaustible. The list here given is confined to the best books that have appeared since 1900. ANGELL, J. B. _Selected Addresses._ New York, 1912. Association of American Universities. Proceedings of the Annual Conference. BUTLER, N. M. _Education in the United States._ New York, 1900. CATTELL, J. M. _University Control._ New York, 1913. CRAWFORD, W. H. (editor). _The American College._ New York, 1915. (Papers by Faunce, Shorey, Haskins, Rhees, Thwing, Finley, Few, Slocum, Meiklejohn, Claxton.) Cyclopedia of Education, article on "American College." New York, 1911. DEXTER, E. G. _History of Education in the United States._ New York, 1904. DRAPER, A. S. _American Education._ Boston, 1909. FLEXNER, A. _The American College: A Criticism._ General Education Board, New York, 1908. FOSTER, W. T. _Administration of the College Curriculum._ Boston, 1911. HARPER, W. R. _The Trend in Higher Education._ Chicago, 1905. KINGSLEY, C. D. _College Entrance Requirements._ United States Bureau of Education, 1913. MACLEAN, G. E. _Present Standards of Higher Education in the United States._ United States Bureau of Education, 1913. National Association of State Universities in the United States of America. Annual Transactions and Proceedings. RISK, R. K. _America at College._ London, 1908. SNOW, L. F. _College Curriculum in the United States._ New York, 1907. THWING, C. F. _History of Higher Education in the United States._ New York, 1906. ---- _The American College; What It Is and What It May Become._ New York, 1914. ---- _College Administration._ New York, 1900. WEST, A. F. _Short Papers on American Liberal Education._ New York, 1907. Footnotes: [1] W. T. Foster in N.E.A. Reports, 1915. II PROFESSIONAL TRAINING FOR COLLEGE TEACHING =Introduction= Were this chapter to be a discussion of schemes of training, now in operation, that had been devised to prepare teachers for colleges, it could not be written, for there are no such schemes. Many elementary and secondary teachers have undergone training for their life work, as investigators have, by a different regimen, of course, for theirs. But if college and university teachers do their work well, it is because they are born with competence for their calling, or were self-taught, or happened to grow into competence accidentally, as a by-product of training for other and partly alien ends, or learned to teach by teaching. There are able college men, presidents and others, who view this situation with equanimity, if not with satisfaction. Teachers are born, not made, it is said. Can pedagogy furnish better teachers than specialized scholarly training? it is asked. If we train definitely for teaching, we shall diminish scholarship, cramp and warp native teaching faculty, and mechanize our class procedure, it is objected. Had the subject of training for college teaching been discussed, no doubt other objections would have been advanced. But it has not been discussed, as will be seen from the very scant bibliography at the end of the chapter. No plan of training for college teaching is in operation, and no discussion of such a plan can be found. Each of a half-dozen men has argued his individual views, and elicited no reply. This state of facts notwithstanding, the subject is well worth discussing, and one may even venture to prophesy that in a decade, or at latest two, the subject will have a respectable literature, and enough training plans will be in operation to permit fruitful comparisons. When specific training is first urged for specialized work, there always is opposition. The outgoing generation remembers the opposition to specialized training for law, medicine, and engineering, to say nothing of farming, school teaching and business. But in spite of obstructive and retarding objections, specialized types of training for specialized types of work have grown in number and favor, and today we are being shown convincingly that nations which have declined to set up the fundamental types of special training find themselves able to make effective only a fraction of their resources. The majority of the personnel in every higher calling has about average native aptitude for it, and it is just the average man who can be improved in competence for any work by training directed to that end rather than to another. This is, of course, true of college teaching. =How the college teacher has been and is trained= In early days in this country the great majority of college teachers were clergymen, trained in most cases abroad. Later bookish graduates came to be the chief source of supply, their appointment in their own colleges, and infrequently in others, following close upon their graduation. Well into the third quarter of last century college faculties were selected almost exclusively from these two types, representatives of the former decreasing and of the latter increasing in relative number. Neither type was specifically trained for teaching in colleges or elsewhere. With the founding and developing of Johns Hopkins University a new era in higher education opened in this country. The paucity of exact scholarship came to be known, and the country's need of scholarship to be appreciated. In colleges grown from English seedlings we sought to implant grafts from German universities. Independent colleges and colleges within universities, while still called upon by American traditions and needs to prepare their students for enlightened living by means of a broadening and liberating training, came to be manned preponderatingly by narrowly specialized investigators, withdrawn from everyday life, with concentrated interests focused upon subjects or parts of subjects, rather than upon students. Little thought was, or is yet, given to the preparation of college teachers for their duties as teachers, and that little rested, and still in large measure rests, satisfied with the assumption that by some unexplained and it may be inexplicable transfer of competence a man closeted and intensively trained to search for truth in books and laboratories emerges after three or more years well equipped for divining and developing the mental processes and interests of freshmen. Once fairly examined, this assumption lacks plausibility. "We consider the Ph.D. a scholar's degree and not a teacher's degree," says the dean of one of our leading graduate schools, and yet preparation for this scholar's degree has been and is practically the only formal preparation open to college teachers in this country. =Equipment needed by college teachers= It goes without saying that scholarship is one of the basal needs of college teachers, a scholarship that keeps alive, and is human and contagious. But it should be remembered that there are several kinds of scholarship, and it is pertinent to ask what kind college teachers need. Should they, for instance, model themselves on the broad shrewdness and alluring scholarly mellowness of James Russell Lowell or on the untiring encyclopedic exactitude and minuteness of Von Helmholz? Or is there an even better ideal or ideals _for them_? I would suggest that the teacher's knowledge of his subject should, essentially, be of a kind that would keep him in intellectual sympathy with the undeveloped minds of his students, and this means chiefly two things. The more points of contact of his knowledge with the past experience and future plans of his students the teacher has at his command, the better teacher he will be; for he can use them, not as resting places, but as points of departure for the development of phases of his subject outside the students' experience. And secondly, the teacher should see his subject entire, with its parts, as rich in number and detail as possible, each in its proper place within the whole. For the students' knowledge of the subject is vague and general; he is trying to place it, and many other new things, in some kind of a coherent setting; in fact, he is in college largely for the very purpose of working out some sort of rudimentary scheme of things. The duty of the college teacher is to help him in this quite as much as to teach him a particular subject. And, besides, each particular subject can be best taught if advantage is taken of every opportunity to attach it to the only knowledge of it the student has, vague and general though it be. Highly specialized and dehumanized knowledge is not as useful for the college teacher as broad and vital knowledge, which is, of course, much harder to acquire. Even in the case of "disciplinary" subjects, there is no gain in concealing the human bearings. The teacher should be trained to seize opportunities in the classroom and out to help the student, through his subject and his maturer life experience, to see the bearing of what he is learning on the life about him and on the life he is to lead. This is the college teacher's richest opportunity and the opportunity that tries him most shrewdly. If he is to rise to it, his entire equipment, native and acquired, must come into play. What else does the teacher need? So that he may select the best and continue to improve them, he needs a knowledge of the different methods and aims in the teaching of his subject, and, so far as possible, of the results attained by each. Too much of college teaching is a blind groping, chartless and without compass. Instead of expecting each inexperienced teacher to start afresh, he should set out armed with the epitomized and digested teaching experience of those that have gone before him. Finally, the teacher needs a sympathetic and expert understanding of the thinking and feeling of college students. This should be his controlling interest. The teacher, his interest in his subject, and in all else except the student, should be instrumental, not final. Every available strand of continuity between studenthood and teacherhood should thereafter be preserved. This need suggests a capital weakness of the training for the doctorate in philosophy as a preparation for teaching. As it proceeds it shifts the interest from undergraduate student to scholarly specialty, and steadily snaps the ties that bound the budding investigator to his college days. It also explains the greatness of some college teachers and personalities before the eighties. Their degrees in arts were their licenses to teach. They suffered no drastic loss of touch with undergraduate thought and life. In the early years of their teaching this sympathetic and kindly understanding was fresh and strong, and they used it in their classroom and wove it into the tissue of their tutorial activities. A discerning observer of college faculties can even today discover in them men and women who entered them by the same door as these great ones of old, irregularly as we would say now,--without the hallmark, and whose good teaching is a surprise to their doctored colleagues. In one institution I know of, the best five teachers some years ago were all of this type. The training of college teachers might well, it therefore seems, include an apprenticeship, beginning with, or in exceptional cases before, graduation from college. =The college legislator and administrator= But the duties and opportunities of the college teacher do not stop at the door leading from his classroom. In addition to dealing directly with students, individually and in groups, and even, if possible, with their families, as he grows in service he becomes, as faculty member and committeeman, a college legislator and administrator. In exercising these important functions he needs the equipment that would aid him to take the central point of view, a background of scholarly knowledge of what education in general and college education in particular are in their methods and in their social functions and purposes. There is too much departmental logrolling, as well as too much beating of the air in faculty meetings, and too many excursions into the blue in faculty legislation and administration arrangements. The educational views of faculty members greatly need to be steadied, ordered, and appreciably broadened and deepened by a developed and trained habit of thinking educationally under the safeguards of scientific method and on the basis of an adequate supply of facts. That pedagogy has made but the smallest beginning of gathering and ordering such facts and developing a scientific method in this field is not a valid objection. These tasks are no more difficult than others that have been compared, as _they_ will be, the sooner for being imposed. It is significant that coincident with sharp and widespread criticism of the American college (justified in part by what college teachers have been made into by their training), appear demands on the part of faculties for more power. In this connection it may be remembered that autocracy is the simplest and easiest form of government, and that history shows that it can at least be made to work with less brains and training than are required for the working of democracy. As American colleges and universities have grown in complexity and responsibility, their faculties have lost power because they did not acquire the larger competence that was the indispensable condition of even reasonably successful democratic control. It is highly desirable that the power of faculties should increase to the point of preponderance. But the added power they will probably acquire will not be retained unless faculty members learn their business much better than they now know it in most institutions. Thomas Jefferson, when asked which would come to dominate, the states or the federal government, replied that in the long run each of the opposed pair would prevail in the functions in which it proved the more competent. =A tentative scheme of training for college teachers= To outline a scheme of such importance without any experience to examine as a basis is a very bold undertaking, and one that can hope for but partial success. What I shall propose, however, is similar to the proposals of Pitkin (5), Horne (11), and Wolfe (14), my only predecessors in this rash enterprise. The general spirit and purpose of our proposals are the same. But we disagree more or less in details--which is fortunate, as it may encourage discussion of the subject, which is the thing most needed. Indeed, a lively sense of this need has led me to venture some unpopular assertions. It may also be admitted that the desiderata for teachers mentioned above are not likely to be all insured by any system of training. The proposal submitted for discussion is that a three-year graduate course be established, its spirit and purpose being to train young men to become _college_ teachers. This course should lead to a doctorate; e.g., to the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, or of Doctor of Philosophy in Teaching, or of Docendi Doctor. What degree is selected is, in the long run, relatively unimportant, provided the course is soundly conducive to its end. The course might well be divided into three parts, having the approximate relative value in time and effort of two fifths, two fifths, and one fifth. These parts should proceed simultaneously throughout the three years, the first being an apprenticeship--under supervision, of course--in the functions of the college teacher, the second a broad course of study and investigation of the subject to be taught, and the third a course of pedagogical study and investigation. Let me suggest a minimum of detail within these outlines. The apprentice teacher would, naturally, do the least classroom teaching during his first year, and the most during his last. He would also each year "advise" a group of freshman in studies and in life, or coöperate with students in the conduct of athletics, dramatics, publication work, or other "activities." On all this apprentice work he would report, and in all he would be guided and supervised appropriately by the department whose subject he was teaching, by the department of education, and by other departments concerned. This and other parts of the training would attract others in addition to narrowly bookish graduates, something much to be desired (other parts would eliminate those not bookish enough), and would tend to keep alive in all apprentices an interest in students, especially in student character, and to prevent them from thinking of students as disembodied minds. The course of study and investigation in the subject to be taught should be based on adequate undergraduate work in the same and allied fields, and should be something like the honor course in Oxford or Cambridge (or our _old_ M.A. course) in its conduct and purpose; it should hark back to our collegiate origin in England. The work should be in charge of a don, a widely and wisely read and a very human guide, philosopher, and friend. Stated class meetings and precise count of hours of attendance should receive little emphasis. But wide reading of the subject, in a spirit that breeds contagion, running off into a study, in books, laboratories, and meetings, of the human and practical bearings of the subject, should be required, and enough conference with the don should be had to enable him to judge and criticize the student's plan and amount of work, to test his mettle in handling the subject, and to aid him to grasp it as a whole and in its chief subdivisions, and to get glimpses of its bearings on and place in human life. This part of the training should lead up to and culminate in a thesis dealing with some major phase of the subject comprehendingly in its setting and connections. Naturally this program could be carried out most successfully with the social subjects, which lend themselves easily to culture, like history or philosophy, and less completely with the exact subjects, which are better fitted for precise discipline, like mathematics. But if treated, as far as possible, after the manner indicated, even the latter could be made better instruments for the training of college teachers than they are now in narrow specialization for the Ph.D. degree. Among returning Rhodes scholars some excellent material for dons could be found. The fifth of the course directed to pedagogy should include a very brief study of the methods of teaching the chosen subject, with glimpses into teaching methods in general; and courses in the history and philosophy of education, with emphasis on, but by no means exclusive dealing with, the educational and social functions of the college. It might include an intensive investigation of some relatively simple college problem in preparation for future faculty membership. All this should, of course, be intimately articulated with the student's apprenticeship work. Such a course of pedagogical study should furnish a basis for better teaching methods and for helpful self-criticism therein; should encourage the formation of a habit of thinking and working out educational problems scientifically with eyes open to the purpose of the college as a whole; and should discourage departmental selfishness in legislation and administration. =Incidental advantage= The college would, under this plan, have some of its teaching done at minimum cost by student teachers, who should receive only the graduate scholarship or fellowship now customary for Ph. D. candidates. Care would be necessary to prevent the assignment to them of mere routine hackwork without training value. It is safe to say that, though slightly less mature, their services, being supervised, would be more valuable than those rendered during their first few years of teaching by most better-paid winners of the doctorate of philosophy, who, if they do so at all, grope their way to usefulness as teachers, with little aid from others more experienced. With good teaching prepared for, required, and adequately rewarded (a point to be developed later), somewhat longer schedules could properly be assigned and further economy effected. Schedules would, of course, have to be kept short enough to allow ample time for reading, for some writing, and for faculty and committee work in later years. But time would not be required by _college_ teachers for specialized research, and the freedom from such tasks resulting for them would be a blessed relief to many who are now compelled to assume a virtue they have not, and to conceal the love of teaching they have. And when we bear in mind the heavy mass of uninspired and unimportant hackwork that is now dumped on the scholarly world, we shall welcome the prospect of a lightened burden for ourselves. The need of students, especially of freshmen, for advisers is widely recognized. They come into a new freedom exercised in a new environment. This makes for bewilderment that involves loss of precious time and opportunities, and presents perils which involve possible injuries to many and certain injuries to some. Efforts, many and various, to constitute a body of advisers chosen from among faculty members have met with but little success. With few exceptions the task is not congenial to those who now man our faculties, and for that and other reasons they are ill fitted for it. But a greater measure of success has been attained, even under present conditions, when the coöperation of volunteers from among seniors and graduate students has been had. This suggests that the problem might come nearer solution when some dependence came to be placed upon the services of apprentices. Such service would be a part of their regular work having a bearing on their future career, and would therefore be supervised and rest on sustained interest and the consciousness that it was counting. Finally, young student teachers would, under proper encouragement and arrangement, help materially to bridge the gulf, that is broader than is wholesome, between a faculty of mature men and young students. The mixing of these different generations, so far as possible, is much to be desired, difficult as it is to accomplish. =Consequent change of plan in appointments and promotions= This is not the place to discuss the details of appointment and promotion plans, interesting and important as they are. But it is evident that the scheme of training outlined, if adopted, would call for changes in present practices. The appointing authorities of colleges looking for young teachers could ascertain their strong and weak points as they developed during their apprenticeship in classrooms and in other educational activities, as well as the quality and trend of their scholarship. They would not rest satisfied with ascertaining the minute corner of the field of philosophy, history, or physics in which a man recommended had done research. Records could be kept throwing much-needed light on the teaching ability, scholarship, and personality of candidates for appointment. In selecting _college_ teachers, appointing authorities would value this evidence and would come to prefer teaching power to investigating ability. Moreover, the record keeping, and, no doubt, some of the supervision begun during the apprentice years would continue during the early instructorial years. This would render it possible to evaluate and to value effectiveness in teaching in making promotions. Ambitious teachers would no longer be practically forced, as their only resort, to neglect their students and give their best energies to publication in order to make a name and get a call, in the interest of promotion. The expert teacher would have a chance and a dignity equal to that of the skilled investigator. The individual could follow, and not be penalized for so doing, his own bent and the line of his highest capacity. =Training of investigators= The training now given in graduate schools here and elsewhere for the doctorate in philosophy will, of course, continue, and increase rather than diminish. Investigators will be preferred in research, in universities, and in some colleges and college departments. They will be increasingly prized in the government service and in important branches of industry. The recent terrible experiences burn into our minds the imperative need strong nations have of exact knowledge and of skill that has a scientific edge. And the specific training for these great tasks will be stronger when it is based on a college course in which highly effective and whole-hearted teaching is valued and rewarded. SIDNEY E. MEZES _College of the City of New York_ BIBLIOGRAPHY ANONYMOUS. Confessions of One Behind the Times. _Atlantic_, Vol. 3, pages 353-356, March, 1913. CANBY, H. S. The Professor. _Harpers_, April, 1913. Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching. Bulletin No. 2, May, 1908, pages 55-57. FLEXNER, ABRAHAM. Adjusting the College to American Life. _Science_, Vol. 29, pages 361-372. HANDSCHIN, C. H. Inbreeding in the Instructional Corps of American Colleges and Universities. _Science_, Vol. 32, pages 707-709. November, 1910. HOLLIDAY, CARL. Our "Doctored" Colleges. _School and Society_, Vol. 2, pages 782-784. November 27, 1915. HORNE, HERMAN H. The Study of Education by Prospective College Instructors. _School Review_, Vol. 16, March, 1908, pages 162-170. PITKIN, W. B. Training College Teachers. _Popular Science_, Vol. 74, pages 588-595. June, 1909. Report of the Committee on Standards of American Universities. _Science_, Vol. 29, page 172. November 17, 1908. ROBINSON, MABEL L. Need of Supervision in College Teaching. _School and Society_, Vol. 2, pages 514-519, October 9, 1915. SANDERSON, E. D. Definiteness of Appointment and Tenure. _Science_, Vol. 39, pages 890-896, June, 1914. STEWART, Charles A. Appointment and Promotion of College Instructors. _Educational Review_, Vol. 44, 1912, pages 249-256. WILCZYNSKI, E. J. Appointments in College and Universities. _Science_, February 28, 1909; Vol. 29, pages 336ff. WOLFE, A. B. The Graduate School, Faculty Responsibility, and the Training of University Teachers. _School and Society_, September 16, 1916. III GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF COLLEGE TEACHING =Status of teaching in the colleges= The investigator of educational practices and methods of teaching is impressed with an unmistakable educational anti-climax, for the conviction grows on him that elementary school teaching is on a relatively high plane, that secondary school teaching is not as effective, and that collegiate teaching, with rare exceptions, is ineffective and in urgent need of reform. A superficial survey of educational literature of the last ten years shows that while the problem of the high school is now receiving earnest attention, elementary education continues to absorb the earnest efforts of an army of vitally interested investigators. The field of college pedagogics is still virgin soil, and no significant or extensive program for improved methods of teaching has yet been advanced. Three earnest and intelligent students representing three colleges of undisputed standing were asked informally about their instructors for the current semester. Nothing was said to make these students aware that their judgment would hold any significance beyond the friendly conversation. The summary of opinions is offered, not because the investigation is complete and affords a basis for scientific conclusion, but because it reflects typical college teaching in three recognized institutions of more than average standing. STUDENT NO. I | STUDENT NO. II | STUDENT NO. III | | _Teacher A_: A popular | _Teacher A_: A good | _Teacher A_: A very and interesting | teacher of mathematics.| popular teacher of teacher. Talks | He assigns a new lesson| English. If the final enthusiastically, but | for home study. The | examination is given talks all the time. | next day he asks | by another teacher, I Lessons assigned are | questions on the | may not have enough not heard. Students | lesson. The answers are| specific facts to seldom recite. Written | written out on the | pass. We began Chaucer quizzes on themes of | blackboards. After | last week. He spent a assigned reading are | fifteen minutes all | good part of each rated by an assistant. | students take their | session reading to us. The work comes back | seats and the work on | All of us were with an A, a C, or a D,| the blackboard is taken| surprised to find how but we do not know why | up for explanation. He | much more the text the rating was given. | explains every | meant than after our Frequently two students| difficulty very | own reading. In the who worked together are| clearly. We rarely | last session we went marked B and D | cover the lesson. Some | to our book on respectively for the | topics go unexplained | literature and tried same work. Sometimes a | because during the next| to justify the a student who "cribbed"| hour the blackboard | characterization which his outline from | problems are based on | the author gives of another who actually | the lesson. If I | Chaucer. The class "worked it up" receives| understood the second | agreed with all in the a higher mark than was | half of each lesson as | book except in one given for the original.| clearly as the first, | characterization. In | I would feel hopeful | the composition work we | of a good grade in the | took up the structure | final examination. | of short narratives. | | The assignment was to | | find narratives in | | current periodicals, | | in the writings of | | standard authors, in | | newspapers, and then | | attempt to find whether | | the structure we | | studied was followed. | | In each case we had to | | justify any departure | | from the standard. | | There was little time | | for the footnotes in | | Chaucer. I hope we are | | not asked for these on | | the final examination. | | | | _Teacher B_: Rather an | _Teacher B_: A dry | _Teacher B_: A very interesting teacher; | course in Art History | conscientious teacher assigns lessons from a | and Appreciation. We | of chemistry. He gives book. At the beginning | take up the history of | us a ten-minute written of the hour he asks | architecture, painting,| quiz each hour on the questions on the text | and sculpture. The | work in the book or on but is soon carried | names of the best | the matter discussed in away and rambles along | artists are mentioned, | the last lecture. The for the period, | and their many works | rest of the hour is touching on every | confuse us. We memorize| spent in explanation of subject. We never | Praxiteles, Phidias, | difficult points and in complete a chapter or | Myron, the ancient | the application of what topic. The succeeding | cairns, the parts of an| we learned of industry hour we take the next | Egyptian temple. | and physiology. It is chapter, which meets | Pictures are shown on | surprising to see the the same fate. Written | the screen. I elected | interest the class tests determine the | this course in the hope| shows in the chemical students' rank. The | that it would teach me | explanations of things grade for the written | something about | we never noticed test is announced, but | pictures, how to judge | before. the papers are not | them and give me | returned and one never | standards of beauty, | knows why the papers | etc., but it has been | were rated C or D. | history and not | | appreciation so far. | | We do not see any | | beauty in the pictures | | of old madonnas. Even | | the religious ones | | among us say this. | | | | | _Teacher C_: | _Teacher C_: A good, | _Teacher C_: A scholarly A conscientious teacher| clear, effective | instructor in history. in physics. He assigns | lecturer in chemistry. | He assigns thirty to a definite lesson for | Every lesson we learn a| forty pages in English each recitation of the | definite principle and | History, and then he term. At the beginning | its application. The | lectures to us about of the hour students go| laboratory work of each| the topics discussed by to the board to write | is related to the | the author. He points out answers to | lecture and throws | out errors in dates and questions on the | interesting side lights| places. Occasionally he lesson. The hour is | on it. We have quiz | calls on a student. At spent listening to the | sections once a week. | the end of each month recitation of each | Here the work is oral | he gives a written test. student and the | and written. | We remember little of explanation of | | what we learned and difficult points. We | | must "bone away" at never cover more than | | about 200 to 300 pages. one half of the lesson:| | His English is sometimes only one | | delightful and we enjoy third. The next hour | | listening at times, the questions are on | | but I seem to retain the new lesson, not on | | so little. "Yes, half the incompleted portion| | the term is up. We are of the former lesson. | | beginning the reign of My knowledge of physics| | Henry VII." is punctuated by areas | | of ignorance. These | | alternate with topics | | that I think I | | understand clearly. | | | | | | _Teacher D_: A quiet, | _Teacher D_: A very | _Teacher D_: A very modest man. Sits back | strict teacher of | enthusiastic lecturer comfortably in his seat| English literature. He | in economics. He and asks questions on | assigns text for study,| explains the important assigned texts. The | and we must be prepared| principles in questions review the | for detailed questions | economics. We follow text, and he explains | on each of the great | in a printed syllabus, in further detail the | writers. He is very | so that it is facts in the book. The | strict and detailed. We| unnecessary to take conscientious and | had to know all the | notes. He talks well capable student finds | fifteen qualities of | and makes things clear. him superfluous; the | Macaulay's style. "No, | We are given assignments indifferent student | we did not read | in S----'s "Elements of remains unmoved by his | Macaulay this term: we | Economics," on which we phlegmatic | study from a history of| are questioned by presentation; the poor | English literature that| another teacher. "Is student finds him a | tells us all about the | the work in the quiz help; the shirk who | master writers." | section related directly listens and takes notes| | to the lectures? is saved studying at | | Sometimes. No, we do home. | | not take current | | economic problems. These | | are given in a later | | elective course." | | | | _Teacher E_: A good | _Teacher E_: A quiet, | _Teacher E_: An teacher of Latin. He | dignified gentleman who| instructor in explains the work, | teaches us psychology. | psychology. His hours hears the lessons, | A chapter is assigned | are weary and dreary. gives drills, calls on | in the book, and the | A chapter is assigned almost everybody every | hour is spent hearing | in X's "Elements of hour. The written work | students recite on the | Psychology." He asks a is returned properly | text. He sticks closely| question or two and corrected and rated. | to the book. He | then repeats what the | explains clearly when | author tells us, even | the book is not clear | using the illustrations | or not specific enough.| and diagrams found in | The hours drag, for the| the text. Sometimes a | book is good and those | student reads a paper | who studied the lessons| which he prepared. "No, | weary at what seems to | we do not get very much | us needless repetition.| out of these papers | | read by students. But | | then we get just as | | little from the | | instructor. No, we | | never apply the | | psychology to our own | | thinking nor to | | teaching nor to the | | behavior of children | | or adults." | | | | _Teacher F_: One | _Teacher F_: A learned | _Teacher F_: A cannot pass judgment on| Latin scholar who is | forbidding but very this teacher of | very enthusiastic about| strict Latin teacher. mechanical drawing. He | his specialty. The | His questions are fast gives out a problem, | students exhibit | and numerous and the works a type on the | cheerful tolerance. He | hesitating student is board, and then | assigns a given number | lost. He assigns at distributes the plates.| of lines per day. These| least twenty-five per We draw. He helps us | we prepare at home. In | cent more per lesson when we ask for aid, | class we give a | than any other otherwise he walks | translation in English | instructor. The hour is about the room. I | that has distorted | spent in translating, suppose one cannot show| phrases and clauses | parsing, and quizzing teaching ability in | lest we be accused of | on historical and such a subject. | dishonesty in | mythological allusions. | preparation. The rest | Every "pony" user is | of the time is spent on| soon caught, because | questions of syntax, | he is asked so many | references, footnotes, | questions on each | and the identification | sentence. There is a | of the of the real and | distinct relief when | mythological characters| the hour is over because | in the text. The | he is constantly at you. | teacher is animated and| "Will I take the next | effective. | course in Latin? Not | | unless I must. This is | | prescribed work. It | | can't end too soon for | | me, nor for the others | | in the class." The student of scientific and statistical measurements in education may object to attaching any importance to these informal characterizations of college teachers by undergraduates. College teachers interested in the pedagogical aspects of their subject, and college administrators who spend time observing class instruction will concede that these young men were not at all unfortunate in their teachers. The significance of these characterizations is not that college teachers vary in teaching efficiency, but rather that inefficient college teaching is general, and that the causes of this inefficiency are such as respond readily to simple remedial measures very well known to elementary and high school teachers. =Causes of ineffective college teaching= It may be well to note the chief causes of ineffective college teaching before directing attention to a remedial program: (a) Many college teachers hold to be true the time-honored fallacy that the only equipment for successful teaching is a thorough knowledge of the subject. They do not stop to square their belief with actual facts. They overlook the examples of their colleagues possessed of undisputed scholarship who are failures in the classroom. They fail to realize that there are psychological and pedagogical aspects of the teaching art which demand careful organization, skilful gradation and a happy selection of illustrations intimately related to the lives of the students. (_b_) Closely related to this first cause of ineffective teaching is a lack of sympathetic understanding of the student's viewpoint. The scholarly teacher, deep in the intricacies and speculations of his specialty, is often impatient with the groping of the beginner. He may not realize that the student before him, apparently indifferent to the most vital aspects of his subject, has potentialities for development in it. His interest in his researches and his vision of the far-reaching human relations of his subject may blind him to the difficulties that beset the path of the beginner. (_c_) The inferiority of college teaching in many institutions can often be traced to the absence of constructive supervision. The supervising officer in elementary and secondary schools makes systematic visits to the classrooms of young or ineffective teachers, observes their work, offers remedial suggestions, and tries to infuse a professional interest in the technique of teaching. In the college such supervision would usually stir deep resentment. The college teacher is, in matters of teaching, a law unto himself. He sees little of the actual teaching of his colleagues; they see as little of his. His contact with the head of his department, and his departmental and faculty meetings, are usually limited to discussions of college policy and of the sequence and content of courses. Methods of teaching are rarely, if ever, brought up for discussion. The results are inevitable. Weaknesses in teaching are perpetuated, while the devices and practices of an effective teacher remain unknown to his colleagues. (_d_) A fourth factor which accounts for much of the inefficiency in college pedagogics is made the thesis of Dr. Mezes' chapter on "The Training of the College Teacher." The college teacher, unlike teachers in other grades of an educational system, is expected to teach without a knowledge of educational aims and ideals, and without a knowledge of the psychological principles which should guide him in his work. The prospective college teacher, having given evidence of scholarship alone, has intrusted to him, the noisy, expressive, and rapidly developing, youth. We set up no standards aside from character and scholarship. We do not demand evidence of teaching ability, a knowledge of applied psychology and of accepted teaching practices, skill in presentation, power of organizing material in graded sequence, or ability to frame a series of questions designed to stimulate and sustain the self-activity of the pupils. The born college teacher remains the successful teacher. The poor college teacher finds no agent which tends to raise his teaching to a higher level. The temperamentally unfit are not weeded out. But teaching is an art, and like all arts it requires conscientious professional preparation, the mastery of underlying scientific principles, and practice under supervision scrupulous in its attention to technique. We have here outlined a few of the causes which keep college teaching on a low plane. The remedial measures are in each case too obvious to mention. It remains for college authorities to formulate a well-conceived and adjustable program of means and methods of ridding college teaching of those forces which keep it in a discouraging state. It is our purpose in the remainder of this chapter not to evolve a system of pedagogics, but rather to touch on the most vital principles in teaching which must be borne in mind if college teaching is to be rendered pedagogically comparable to elementary and secondary teaching. We shall confine ourselves to teaching practices which are applicable to all subjects in the college curriculum. PRINCIPLES IN COLLEGE TEACHING =A clearly conceived aim must control all teaching= One of the very first elements in good teaching is the clear recognition of a well-defined aim that gives purpose and direction to all that is attempted in a lesson or in a period. The chief cause of poor teaching is aimless teaching, in which the sole object seems to be to fill the allotted time with talking about the facts of a given subject. We sit patiently through a recitation in English literature. Act I, Scene 1 of _Hamlet_ had been assigned for home study and is now the text for the hour. Questions are asked on the dramatic structure of this scene, on versification, on the meaning of words and expressions now obsolete, on peculiarities of syntax, and finally a question or two on a character portrayal. The bell brings these questions to an abrupt end. Ask teacher and students the aim of all these questions. To the former, they are means of testing the students' knowledge of a variety of facts of language and literature; to the latter they mean little, and serve only to repress a living interest and appreciation of living literary text. How much more effective the hour in English literature would have been if the entire act had been assigned with a view to giving the students an insight into the dramatic structure of each scene in this act and of the act as a whole. All the questions would then bear on dramatic movement, on the dramatist's technique, on his way of arousing interest in his story, on devices for giving the cause and the development of the action. In the opening scene we read: _Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle._ _Francisco at his post. Enter to him Bernardo._ BER. Who's there? FRAN. Nay, answer me; stand, and unfold yourself. BER. Long live the King! FRAN. Bernardo? BER. He. FRAN. You come most carefully upon your hour. BER. 'Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco. FRAN. For this relief much thanks: 'tis bitter cold. And I am sick at heart. BER. Have you had a quiet guard? Here we see the guard on duty challenged by his relief, a most unusual procedure. Why does this experienced guard so far forget the customary forms as to challenge the guard on duty? What possible reason can there be for this? How would you read the second line? What words must be emphasized to show the surprise of the challenged guard? If the entire hour were given to the whole of Act I and all the questions sought to reveal to the students Shakespeare's power of dramatic structure, a definite and lasting impression would be carried away. Act I should be assigned again, but with a different aim. The teacher now seeks to make clear to the student the dramatist's method of character portrayal. A third hour may be spent on certain portions of this act in which attention is given to significant facts of language, choice of words, or poetic form. When a guiding aim controls, all questions, suggestions, explanations, and illustrations tend to create in the mind of the pupil a rich and unified impression. Where no distinct aim gives direction to the work, the student is confused by a variety of facts--isolated facts--that are displaced by another group of disjointed bits of information. Aimless teaching leads to mental wandering on the part of the student; teaching governed by a definite aim leads to mental development and to the acquisition of new viewpoints and new power. =The educational aim vs. the instructional aim= We must distinguish clearly between the general or educational aim and the specific or instructional aim. The former sums up the hope of an entire course or an entire subject. In the teaching of literature we hope to develop a vital interest in reading, a discriminating taste, an enlivened imagination and a quickened perception which enable the student to visualize the situations and to acquire the thought on the printed page. The instructional aim, however, is much more specific; it posits a task that can be accomplished in a very limited time; it seeks to give an insight into Shakespeare's mastery of words, or into his power of character portrayal, or into his methods of enhancing dramatic interest. Each of these two types of aims has its unmistakable influence on methods of teaching. =The variety of aims that may govern teaching= What aim should we select to guide us in formulating principles of collegiate teaching? The question is almost basic, for the selection of a proper aim gives color and direction to all our teaching. In brief, the aim may be one of the following: (_a_) _The informational aim._ A given course in chemistry or physics may be designed to sum up for the student the vital facts necessary for an intelligent comprehension of common phenomena. With such an aim, it is obvious that only so much laboratory work will be assigned as will give the student a general knowledge of the tools and methods of laboratory work; that the major portion of the work will be divided into occasional lectures, regular book assignments, and extensive applications of knowledge gained to surrounding chemical and physical phenomena. A language course may seek to give pupils a stock of words designed to develop power to read the language in a very short time. Obviously, grammatical work and translations into the mother tongue will now be minimized, and those devices which give the eye the power to find thought in new symbols will be emphasized. There is no standard for determining the relative importance of this informational or utilitarian aim when compared to other aims. The significant thing is, not so much to discover its relative importance, but, having adopted it, to devise methods which clearly tend to bring the students to an effective realization of it. (_b_) _The disciplinary aim._ On the other hand, the controlling aim in any subject may be to develop the power to reason about natural phenomena, the power to observe, and the power to discriminate between vital and inconsequential details. If this be the aim, the assignment of subject matter must be reduced, the phenomena studied must be submitted in the forms of problems, first-hand observations must be made, and students must be led to see the errors in their observations and their reasoning. The course which is extensive in subject matter and which relies on the lecture method sacrifices mental discipline for information. From the teaching point of view, the result of the time-honored quarrel between the disciplinists and the utilitarians is not so important as the adoption of a definite aim, and the formulation of consistent methods of teaching in order to attain that aim. Ineffective teaching is not caused by the selection of the one aim or of the other, but by systems of instruction devoid of any aim at all. (_c_) _The appreciative or æsthetic aim._ It is obvious that a subject may be taught for the power it develops for æsthetic appreciation of the arts of life. We have here a legitimate aim of coördinate importance with the two preceding ones; and if we adopt it, the vital thing in teaching is to allow this appreciative aim to mold all instructional effort. It is obvious that a college course in æsthetics must be inspirational, must seek to develop a real appreciation of the beauty of line, of color and of sound. Such a course must, therefore, encourage contact with the products of art, rather than promote the study of texts on the history of any of the arts. So, too, courses in music or in literature which do not send the student away with an intense desire to hear, to see, to feel the masterpieces of music or literature must be judged dismal failures. The formalization of an art course given to the general student, kills the live material and leaves the student himself cold. (_d_) _The aim to teach technique._ An effective college course may select for its aim the development of the technique of a given subject. It is obvious that a science course governed by this aim will emphasize the laboratory method at the expense of information; that a course in the social sciences will seek to cover less ground but will develop in the student the power to find facts and use them to formulate an intelligent conclusion; that a course in biology will minimize names, classifications and structures, but will emphasize field and laboratory work and the modes of utilizing the data thus discovered. We must repeat the statement made before, that no one can set himself up as the final arbiter of the claims of these contending aims. They are all vitally necessary for a thorough understanding of life's problems. The significant conclusion for teaching is that one or more of these aims must be consciously chosen and that content and method must be determined by them absolutely. Teaching for the sake of teaching consumes time and makes drafts on energy, but it leaves the student no richer in power and with no truer understanding. =Should the aim be modified for varying groups of students?= It is obvious that no general law can be formulated for the adjustment of aims to the needs of students. Teachers have usually found it necessary to change the aim, the content, and the method of a course according to the needs of different classes of students. In one of our colleges science students are required to take two years of Latin. The course offered these young men gives the ordinary drill in grammar, translation, and analysis of Cæsar, Cicero, and Vergil, as well as practice in prose composition in which nondescript and disjointed English sentences, grammatically correct, are turned into incorrect Latin. This description, without any changes whatever, applies also to the course given in the introductory years in Latin to students specializing in the arts. Even a superficial analysis reveals a different set of needs in the two classes of students which can be served only by a corresponding difference in content and mode of teaching. A student who takes French or German because he wants enough mastery of these languages to enable him to read in foreign journals about the progress of his specialty must be given a course which appeals to the eye and minimizes the grammatical and conversational phases of these languages. There are courses that are foundational and that must therefore be governed by an eclectic aim. In the first course in college physics it is obvious that we must teach the necessary facts of the subject as well as its method. These aspects of the work must be emphasized with equal force for all students; no differentiation need be made for future medical or engineering students or for prospective teachers of the subject in secondary schools. Generally speaking, initial courses in a department are governed by an eclectic aim, but in the advanced courses there must be constant adjustment to the needs of various groups. An eclectic aim can be as effective an instrument in enhancing the quality of teaching as a single, clear-cut aim, provided there is a clear recognition of the relative importance of the ends set up, and provided a definite plan is evolved to attain them. The aim or aims of a subject or a lesson, once formulated, must always be kept before the students as well as before the teacher. Every pupil must know the ends to be attained in the course he is taking, and as work progresses he must experience a growing realization that the class is moving toward these ends. The subject matter of the course, the method of instruction, the assigned task, now glow with interest which springs from work clearly motivated. The average student plods through his semester from a sense of duty or obedience rather than from a conviction of the worth of both subject matter and method. =Value of clearly defined aims= Not only must the general aim be indicated to the student, but he must also be made acquainted with the specific aim. Where students have been acquainted with the specific task that must be accomplished in a given period, concentration and coöperation with the instructor are easier; the students can, at stages in the lesson, anticipate succeeding steps; their answers have greater relevancy, their thought is more sequential and flows more readily along the path planned by the instructor. A specific aim for each lesson makes for economy, for it is a standard of relevancy for both student and teacher. The student whose answer or observation is irrelevant is asked to recall the aim of the lesson and to judge the pertinence of his contribution. The instructor given to wandering far afield finds that a clearly fixed aim is an aid in keeping him in the prescribed path. Too many college hours, especially in the social sciences, find the instructor beginning with his subject but ending anywhere in the field of human knowledge. These wanderings are entertaining enough, but they dissipate the energies of the students and produce a mental flabbiness already too well developed in the average college student. =Motivation in college teaching= A second factor which contributes much toward the effectiveness of college teaching is the principle of motivation. So long as most of the college course is prescribed, course by course, students will be found pursuing certain studies without an intelligent understanding of their social or mental worth. Ask the student "doing" prescribed logic to explain the value of the course. In friendly or intimate discussion with him, elicit his conception of the utilitarian or disciplinary worth of the prescribed Latin or mathematics in the arts course. He sees no relation between the problems of life and the daily lessons in many of these subjects. He submits to the teacher's attempts to graft this knowledge upon his intellectual stock merely because he has learned that the easiest course is to bend to authority. Instruction in too many college subjects is based, not on intelligent and voluntary attention, but on the discipline maintained by the institution or by the instructor. It is obvious that such instruction is stultifying to the teacher and can never develop in the student a liberal and cultured outlook upon life. The principle of motivation in teaching seeks to justify to the student the experience that is presented as part of his college course. It is obvious that this motivation need not always be explained in terms of utilitarian values. A student of college age can be made to realize the mental, the cultural, or the inspirational values that justify the prescription of certain courses. The college instructor who tries to motivate courses in the appreciation of music or painting finds no great difficulty in leading his students to an enthusiastic conviction of their inspirational value. It is well worth taking the student into our confidence in these matters of aim and value. We must become more tolerant of the thoughtful student who makes honest inquiry as to the value of any of the presented courses. We must learn to regard such questions as signs of growing seriousness and increasing maturity and not as signs of impertinence. We constantly ask ourselves questions about the round of our daily task; we seek to know thoroughly their uses, their values, their meaning in our lives. Clear conception of use or value in teaching is as vital as it is in life--for what is teaching if not the process of repeating life's experiences? In the principle of motivation lies the most successful solution of the problem of interest in teaching. We have too long persisted in the "sugarcoating" conception of interest. We have regarded it as a process of "making agreeable." Interest has therefore been looked upon as a fictitious element introduced into teaching merely to inveigle the mind of the student into a consideration of what we are offering it. Our modern psychology teaches a truer conception of interest: a feeling accompanying self-expression. Interest has been defined as a feeling of worth in experience. Where this feeling of worth is aroused, the individual expresses his activity to attain the end that he perceives. Every act, every effort, to attain this end is accompanied by a distinctive feeling known as interest. When a class is quiet and gives itself to the teacher, it is obedient and polite, but not necessarily interested. The class that looks tolerantly at the stereopticon views that the instructor presents, or listens to the reading of the professor of English, is amused but not necessarily interested. But when the students ask questions about the pictures or ask the professor of English for further references, then have we evidence of real interest. Interest is, therefore, an active attitude toward life's experience. Rational motivation is almost a guarantee of this active attitude of interest. Intelligent motivation in teaching has far-reaching values for both student and teacher. It stirs interest and guarantees attention and thus tends to keep aroused the activity of the students. It establishes an end toward which all effort of teacher and student must bend. It enables the student to follow a line of thought more intelligently, and occasionally to anticipate conclusions. For the teacher it serves as a standard, in terms of which he reorganizes his subject matter, judges the value of each topic, and omits socially useless matter which has too long been retained in the course in the fond hope that it will in some way develop the mind. =Beginning at the point of contact= The instructor who strives to motivate the subject matter he teaches usually begins with that phase of the subject which is most intimately related to the student's life and environment. Every subject worth teaching crosses the student's life at some point. The contacts between pupil and subject afford the most natural and the most effective starting points in the teaching of any subject. The subject matter in a college course is too frequently so organized that it presents points of discrepancy between itself and the student. To the college student life is not classified and systematized to a nicety. Experiences occur in more or less accidental but natural sequence. Scientific classification is the product of a mature mind possessing mastery of a given portion of the field of knowledge. To thrust the student, who is just finding his way in a new course, into a thoroughly scientific classification of a subject, is to present in the introduction what should come in the conclusion. Many a student taking his introductory course in psychology begins with a definition of the subject, its relation to all social and physical sciences, and its classification. All these are aspects of the subject which the mind conversant with it sees clearly and understands thoroughly, but which the inexperienced student accepts merely because the facts are printed in his textbook. The youthful mind is concerned with the present and with the immediate environment. Too many of our college courses, in the initial stages, transport the student into the realm of theory or into the distant past. The student cannot orientate himself in this new environment and is soon lost on the highways and byways of classification; to him the subject becomes a study of words rather than of vital ideas. Why must the introductory course in philosophy begin with the ancient philosophers, and give the major part of the term to the study of dead philosophers and their theories long since refuted and discarded, while vital modern philosophic thought is crowded into the last few sessions of the semester? =Illustrations of maxim. Begin at the point of contact= The pedagogical significance of beginning at the point of contact can best be understood and appreciated by illustrations of actual teaching conditions. Most initial courses in economics begin by positing that economics is the science of the consumption, distribution, and production of wealth. The student is told that in earlier systems of economics production was studied as the initial economic process, but that the more modern view makes consumption the starting process. All this the student takes on faith. He does not really see its bearings and its implications; he is as unconcerned with the new formulation as he is with the old; he feels at once far removed from economics. The succeeding lessons study economic laws with little reference to the economic life that the student lives. In a later chapter he learns a definition of wages, the forces that determine wage, and the mode of computing the share of the total produce that must go to wages. Here we have a course that does not begin at the point of contact, that presents the very discrepancies between itself and the student that were noted before. How can we overcome them? By proceeding psychologically. The instructor refers to two or three important wage disputes in current industrial life; these conflicts are analyzed; the contending demands are studied, and the forces controlling the adoption of a new wage scale are noted. After this study of actual economic conditions the students are led to formulate their own definition of wages, and to discover the forces that determine wage. Their conclusions are of course tentative. The textbook or textbooks are consulted in order to verify the formulations and the conclusions of the class. Thus the course is developed entirely through a series of contacts with economic life. The final topic in the course is the formulation of a definition of economics. Now the class sums up all that it has seen and learned of economics during the year. The cold and empty definition now glows with meaning. Such a course awakens an intelligent interest in economic life; it develops a mode of thought in social sciences and a sense of self-reliance; it teaches the student that all conclusions are tentative and constantly subject to verification; it fosters a critical attitude toward printed text. The college graduate who studied college mathematics, advanced algebra, trigonometry, analytical geometry, and calculus, looks back with satisfaction at work completed. Each of these subjects seemed to have little or no relation to the other; each was kept in a water-tight compartment. He remembers few, if any, of the formulæ, equations, and symbols. He recalls vividly his admiration of the author's ingenious method of deriving equations. Every succeeding theorem, formula, or equation was another puzzle in a subject which seemed to be composed of a series of difficult, unrelated, and unapplied mathematical proofs. The course ended, the mass of data was soon obliterated from the mind's active possessions. What is the meaning of it all? What is its relation to life? There is no doubt that much of this mathematics has its application to life's needs, and that these successive subjects of mathematics are thoroughly interdependent. But nothing in the mode of instruction leads the student to see either the application or the interrelation of all this higher mathematics. Would it not be better to give a single course called mathematics rather than these successive subjects? Would it not be more enlightening if each new mathematical principle were taught through a situation in building, engineering, or mechanics so that the student would at all times see the intimate relation between mathematical law and physical forces? Would not the disciplinary values of mathematics be intensified for the student by teaching it in a way that presents a quantitative interpretation of the daily phenomena in his experience? Teachers of philosophy and psychology too often fall into a formalism that robs their subject of all its vitalizing influences. Many a student enters his course in logic with high hopes. At last he is to learn the laws of thought which will render him keen in detection of fallacies and potent in the presentation of argument. How bitter is his disappointment when he finds his course dissipated in definitions and classifications. His logic gives itself to the discussion of such patent fallacies as, "A good teacher knows his subject; Williams knows his subject, therefore he is a good teacher." Day after day he proves the error in every form of stupidity or the truth of what is axiomatic. He tires of "Gold is a metal" and "Socrates is mortal." Few courses in logic have the courage to break away from the traditional formalism and to begin each new principle or fundamental concept of logic by analyzing editorials, arguments, contentions in newspapers, magazines, campaign literature, or the actual textbooks. Few students complete their course in logic with a keener insight into thought and with a maturer or more aggressive mental attitude. =Beginning at the point of contact relates the subject to the life of the student= It was pointed out in a previous illustration that the college student "taking philosophy" is seldom made to feel that the subject he studies is related to the problems that arise in his own life. Too frequently introductory courses in philosophy are historical and extensive in scope, striving to develop mastery of facts rather than to give new viewpoints. The student learns names of philosophers, and attempts to memorize the philosophic system developed by each thinker. Such a course imposes a heavy burden on retentive power, for no little effort is required to remember the distinctive philosophical systems advocated by the respective writers. To the students these philosophers represent a group of peculiar people differing one from the other in their degrees of "queerness." One system is as far removed as another from the life that the student experiences; no system helps him to find himself. An introductory course in philosophy should begin with the problems of philosophy; it should have its origin in the reflective and speculative problems of the student himself. As the course progresses, the student should feel a growing sense of power, an increasing ability to formulate more clearly, to himself at least, the questions of religion and ethics that arise in the life of a normal thinking person. So, too, courses in ethics and psychology lose the vital touch unless they begin in the life of the student and apply their lessons to his social and intellectual environment. It must be pointed out, however, that the social sciences lend themselves more readily to this intimate treatment than do languages, or the physical sciences, but at all points possible in the study of a subject, the experience of the student must be introduced as a means of giving the subject real meaning. In teaching composition and rhetoric illustrations of the canons of good form need not be restricted to the past. Current magazines and newspapers are not devoid of effective illustrations. When the older literary forms are used exclusively as models of language, the student ends his course with the erroneous notion that contemporary writing is cheap and sensational and devoid of artistic craftsmanship. Courses in physics and chemistry frequently devote themselves to a development of principles rather than to the applications of the studies to every sphere of life. Introductory college courses in zoölogy spend the year in the minutiæ of the lowest animal forms and rarely reach any animal higher in the scale than the crayfish. We still find students in botany learning the various margins of leaves, the system of venation, the scientific classifications, but at the end of the course, unable to recognize ordinary leaves and just as blind to nature as they were before. Zoölogy and botany do not always--as they should--give a new view of life, a new attitude towards living phenomena, a new contact with nature. Careful inquiry among college students will reveal an amazing ignorance of common chemical and physical phenomena after full-year courses in chemistry and physics. We find a student giving two semesters to work in each of these subjects. He spends most of his time learning the chemical elements, their characteristics and the modes of testing for them. The major portion of the time is spent in the laboratory, where he must discover for himself the elementary practices of the subject and test the validity of well-established truths. At the end of his second semester he has not developed sufficient laboratory technique for significant work in chemistry; he is ignorant of the chemical explanation of the most common phenomena in life. =Pedagogical vs. logical organization= There is much to be said for the position taken by the "older teachers," who may not possess the scholarship of the "younger investigators" but who argue for a general course in which laboratory work shall be reduced, technique minimized, and attention focused on giving an extensive view of chemical forces. The simple chemical facts in digestion, metabolism, industry, war, medicine, etc., would be presented in such a way as to make life a more intelligent process and to give an insight into the method of science. In the courses that follow the introductory one, there would be a marked change in aim; the student would be taught the laboratory technique and would be given a more intensive study of the important aspects of chemistry. Similar changes in the introductory courses in physics are urged by these same teachers. Beginning at the point of contact may frequently interfere with the logical arrangement of the course of study; it may wrench many a topic out of its accustomed place in the textbook; it will demand that the applications, which come last in most logically arranged courses, be given first and that definitions and principles which come first be given last. This logical arrangement, it was pointed out, is usually the expression of the matured mind that is thoroughly conversant with every aspect of a subject; it may mean little, however, to the beginner--so little that he does not even slightly appreciate its significance. The loss in logical sequence entailed by beginning at the point of contact is often more than compensated for by the advantages which are derived from a psychological presentation. =Proper organization as a factor in effective teaching= A well-organized lesson possesses teaching merits which may counteract almost all the usual weaknesses found in poor teaching. Good organization determines clearness of comprehension, ease of retention, and ability of recall; it makes for economy of time and mental energy; it simplifies the processes of mental assimilation; it teaches the student, indirectly but effectively, to think sequentially. We have all suffered too keenly, as auditors and readers, the inconveniences of poor organization, not to realize the worth of proper organization of knowledge in teaching. Organization of knowledge has become a pedagogical slogan, but its increase in popularity has not been accompanied by increased clearness of comprehension of its meaning. What, then, is meant by proper organization? It must ever be borne in mind that proper organization is a relative condition, the limits of which are determined by the capacities of the students and the nature of the subject matter. What is effective organization of facts in elementary history may be very ineffective organization for students of high school or college grade. Making due allowance for relative conditions, good organization may be said to consist of five essential characteristics. _Logical sequence_ is the first of these. It is apparent that the more rational the sequence of facts, the more effective is the organization of knowledge. Data organized on a basis of cause and effect, similarity, contrast or any other logical relationship will help to secure the teaching advantages we have mentioned. A search for this simple principle in most textbooks on American or English history or literature reveals its complete absence. A detailed mass of historical information grouped into administrations or reigns is merely a mechanical organization in which time, the accidental element, and not the development of social movements, the logic of human history, is the determining factor. In too many courses in literature the student learns names of writers, biographical data, and literary characteristics of the masters, but fails to see the development of the movement of which the writer was a part. Events of history placed in their social movements, writers in literature placed in the school in which they belong, give the student the logical ties which bind the knowledge to him. So, too, one often analyzes the sequence of chapters in an advanced algebra or a trigonometry and fails to discover the governing rationale. It must be remembered, however, that the nature of the subject will often reduce the logical element in its organization. Instances in language teaching may be cited as illustrations of teaching situations where a mechanical organization is often the only one possible because of the arbitrary character of the subject matter. =Meaning of organization of subject matter= _Relativity_ of importance is the second factor of good organization. A cursory study of a well-organized chapter or merely passing attention to a well-organized lecture reveals at once a distinct difference in the emphasis on the various parts or elements of the subject. The proportional allotment of time or space, the number of illustrations, the number of questions asked on a given point, the force of language--these are all means of bringing out the relative importance of constituent topics or principles. In retrospect, a well-organized lesson presents an appearance similar to a contour map; each part stands out in distinctive color according to its significance. It is frequently argued by teachers that students of college age should be required to distinguish the relativity of importance of the parts of a lesson or the topics in a subject; that the instructor who points out the changing importance of each succeeding part of a lesson is enervating the student by doing for him what he ought to do for himself. This is true in part, but it must be realized that the instructor who through questions and directed discussions leads students to formulate for themselves the relative importance of data is not only carrying out the suggestion made in the preceding paragraph but is also developing in his students a power they too frequently lack. Those who have studied the notes that students take in their classes have seen how frequently facts are torn from their moorings; how wrong principles are derived from illustrations; how a catch-phrase becomes a basic principle; how simple truths and axioms are distorted in the frenzy of note taking. Through questions if possible, through emphasis on illustrations and explanations, where no other means is available, students must be made to see that all facts of a subject are not of the same hue, that some are faint of tint, others in shadow, and still others in high colors. Without this relativity of importance, facts are grouped; with it, they are intelligently organized. _An underlying tendency_ can be discerned in well-organized knowledge. Not only are facts arranged in logical sequence and emphasized according to importance, but there is in addition a central principle or an underlying purpose giving unifying force to them all. We can illustrate the need of this third characteristic of good organization by referring to a college course in American history which gives much time to the period from 1815 to 1860. The events of these forty-five years are not taught in administrations but are summed up in six national tendencies; viz., the questions of state sovereignty, slavery, territorial acquisition, tariff, industrial and transportational progress, and foreign policy. Each of these movements is treated as intensively as time permits. At the end of the study of the entire period, the student is left with these six topics but without a unifying principle; to him, these are six unrelated currents of events. In each of these problems the North and the South displayed distinctive attitudes, acted from distinctive motives, expressed distinctive needs and preferences, but these were never brought out either through well-formulated questions or through explanation. As a result, the class never realize fully that those years, 1815-1860, marked the period of growing sectional differences, misunderstandings, and animosities. Had this underlying tendency been brought out clearly at various points in the course, the students would have carried away a permanent impression of what is most vital in this period of American development. _Gradation_ of subject matter is another characteristic of good organization. Careful gradation is not so vital in subjects of social content as it is in mathematics, foreign languages, and exact sciences. The most important single factor in removing difficulties that beset a student is gradation. Teaching problems often arise because the instructor or the textbook presents more than one difficulty at a time. Teachers who lack intellectual sympathy or who are so lost in the advanced stages of their specialty that they can no longer image the successive steps of difficulty, one by one, that present themselves to a mind inexperienced in their respective fields, are frequently guilty of this pedagogical error. Malgradation of subject matter is the direct cause of serious loss of time and energy and of needless discouragement not only to students but to instructors as well. _Ability of the student to summarize_ easily is a test of good organization. At the end of a loosely organized chapter or lesson the student experiences no little difficulty in setting forth the underlying principles and their supporting data. It does not help much to have the textbook or the instructor state the summary either at the end of the lesson in question or at the beginning of the succeeding one. The summary of a lesson, given by the class, is a test of the effectiveness of instruction. Summaries given by teachers or textbooks have little or no pedagogical justification. Only in cases where the summary introduces a new point of view or unifying principles, or when it sets forth basic principles in particularly forceful language--only then is the statement by teacher or textbook justifiable. =Thoroughness= Teachers are advised to be thorough in their instruction. They in turn urge their students to strive for thoroughness in study. We praise or impugn the scholarship of our colleagues because it possesses or lacks thoroughness. Here we have a quality of knowledge universally extolled. But what is meant by thoroughness? How can teachers or students know that they are attaining that degree of comprehension known as thoroughness? We are told that thoroughness is a relative condition, always changing with accompanying circumstances. Even an unattainable ideal can be defined,--why not thoroughness? We must, therefore, attempt to determine the meaning of thoroughness as used in teaching and study. =Negative interpretation of thoroughness= It may be helpful to formulate the common or lay interpretation of thoroughness. The term "thoroughness" is erroneously used in a quantitative sense to describe scholastic attainment. We are told of a colleague's thoroughness in history; he knows all names, dates, places, facts in the development of mankind; his knowledge of his specialty is encyclopedic; "there is no need of looking things up when he is around." A professor of English literature boasted of the thoroughness with which he teaches _Hamlet_: "Every word of value and every change in the form of versification are marked; every allusion is taken up, every peculiar grammatical construction is brought to the attention of the class." Here we have illustrations of an erroneous conception of thoroughness which gives it an extensive meaning and regards it as the accumulation of a mass of data. =Positive interpretation of thoroughness= Yet the master of chronological detail in history may have no historical imagination, no historical perspective, no historical judgment. He may possess the facts, but a period in history still remains for him a stretch of time limited by two dates, rather than a succession of years in which all mankind seems to be moving in the same direction, possessed of the same viewpoints, the same hopes and aspirations. The professor of English literature does not see that in teaching _Hamlet_ he forsook his specialty, literature, for philology and mythology; that he turned his back on art and took up language structure. Thoroughness is not completeness, because the possession of the details of a subject does not necessarily bring with it a true comprehension of it. Add all the details, and the sum total is nothing more than the group of details. Thoroughness is a degree of comprehension resulting from the acquisition of new points of view. The teacher of history who sees underlying forces in the facts of the past, who understands that true inwardness of any movement which shows him its relation to all phases of life, but who nevertheless may not have ready command of all the specific details, is more thorough in his scholarship. He has the things that count; the facts that are forgotten can easily be found. The class that studies the dramatic structure of _Hamlet_, that sees Shakespeare's power of character portrayal, that takes up only such grammatical and language points as give clearer comprehension or lead to greater appreciation of diction, is thorough although it does not possess all the facts. It is thorough because what is significant and dynamic in _Hamlet_ is made focal. The postgraduate student assiduously searching for data for his doctorate thesis is often guided by the erroneous conception of thoroughness; he wants facts that have never seen the light. The more he gets of these, the nearer he approaches his goal. He avoids conclusions; he is counseled by his professors against giving too much of his book to the expression of his views. Analyze the chapters of a doctorate thesis and note the number of pages given to facts and those to conclusions and interpretations. The proportion is astonishing. The student's power to find facts is clearly shown; his power to use facts is not revealed by his thesis. The richer the thesis is in detail, in references, in allusions to dusty tomes and original sources, the more thorough is it frequently considered by the faculty. We have failed to realize that this excessive zeal in gathering and collating a large number of not commonly known facts may make the thesis more cumbersome, more complete, but not necessarily more thorough. However, the plea for a new standard in judging doctorate theses is meeting with gratifying encouragement. What, then, are the teaching practices that make for greater thoroughness, that increase the qualitative and intensive character of knowledge? We shall discuss some of these in the succeeding paragraphs. =How can thoroughness be produced?= The _acquisition of new points of view_ makes for increased thoroughness of comprehension. The class that understands the causes of the American Revolution from the American point of view knows of the navigation laws, the quartering of soldiers in American homes, the Stamp Act, the Boston Massacre,--the usual provocations that strained patience to the breaking point. The college teacher of American history who spends time on the riots in New York in which a greater number of colonists was killed than in Boston, who teaches in detail the various acts forbidding the manufacture of hats and of iron ware, or the protests against English practices in the colonies made by British merchants, etc., is adding more facts, but he may only be intensifying the erroneous conclusion that the students have formed in earlier and less complete courses. The topic, "Causes of the American Revolution," grows in thoroughness, not through the addition of these facts but through the presentation of new interpretations of the practices of the English. When we explain that the English believed in virtual and not actual representation, the students see a new meaning in "taxation without representation." When the students learn that the English government decided on a new economic and industrial policy which planned to have the mother country specialize in manufacture and transportation and the colonies in production of raw materials, the students see reason, though not necessarily justice, in the acts prohibiting Americans from various forms of manufacture and transportational activities. These new facts modify in the minds of students the point of view so often given in elementary courses, that the War for Independence was caused by sheer British meanness and injustice, by her policy of reckless repression. It is not always possible to give new points of view to all knowledge in all subjects. There are cases in which there is only one point of view or where students may not be ready for a new interpretation because of their limited mastery of a new field of knowledge. Under these conditions an added point of view is a source of confusion rather than an aid to clearer comprehension. Some subjects, like the social sciences, naturally allow for richer interpretations. Others, like the languages and the physical sciences, present only very limited opportunities; in the biological sciences the possibilities, though not as rich as in the social sciences, are numerous and productive of good results. _Comparison_ is a second means of producing thoroughness of comprehension. Good teaching abounds in comparisons which are introduced at the end of every important topic rather than reserved for examination questions. Comparisons used liberally at every logical pause in the development of a subject always give an added viewpoint, review early subject matter incidentally, stir thought, and make for better organization. How much more clearly are the causes of the War of 1812 understood after they are compared with those that brought on the Revolutionary War! How much more definite are the causes of the American Revolution when compared with those that brought on the French Revolution! A writer, a school, or a movement in English literature may be understood when studied by itself; but how is comprehension deepened when each is compared with another writer or school or movement! Comparison of perception and conception or appreciation and association in psychology, makes each activity stand out clearer in the mind of the student. Compare the laws of rent, wage, profit, and interest in economics, and not only each is better understood but the basic laws of distribution are readily derived by the student. Similarly, comparisons in mathematics, physics, chemistry, and the entire range of collegiate subjects give increased comprehension, useful though incidental reviews, and greater unification of knowledge, as well as added points of view. _Correlation_ as a means of producing thoroughness is closely allied to comparison. Correlation relates kindred topics of different subjects, while comparison points out relations in the same subject. The instructor who correlates the history of education with the political and economic history that the student learned in another course is unifying related experience, reducing the field of knowledge, introducing logical organization, and adding new interpretations to facts already acquired. Similarly, teaching must be enriched by correlating physics and mathematics, chemistry and physics, literature and music, history of literature and general history, until instruction has taken advantage of every vital relation among subjects. With the growth of specialized subjects there is an unfortunate tendency toward isolation until the untrained mind looks upon the curriculum as a series of unrelated experiences, each rivaling the other in its claim to importance. The advantage of correlation will remain lost in college teaching as long as each instructor regards himself as a specialized investigator concerned with teaching his subject rather than his students. How many college teachers know what subjects their students have already taken, or knowing the names of these subjects, have a general knowledge of their content? The college professor of the preceding generation was a cultured gentleman whose general scholarship transcended the limits of his specialty. He understood and knew the curriculum as a whole. Because of changes in every phase of our civilization, his successor has a deeper but a narrower knowledge. He knows little of the work of his students outside of his own subject. He does not relate and correlate the ever growing field of knowledge; he merely adds--by the introduction of his own mass of facts--to the isolation which characterizes the parts of college curricula. This tendency must be counteracted, not by interfering with the scholastic interests of any instructor, but by occasional conferences of instructors of allied subjects in order to agree on common meeting grounds, on points of correlation, on useful repetitions, and on the elimination of needless duplications. Such pedagogical conferences are rare because college teachers are not alive to the need of reform in methods of college teaching. Thoroughness results from _increase in the number of applications_ of knowledge. The introduction of the functional view into teaching brings with it a realization of the vital needs of increased ways of applying the experience we present to students. As the laws of physics, mathematics, biology, composition, economics, etc., are applied to a number of specific instances, the generalization grows in meaning and in force. Specific cases vary, and, varying, give new color and new meaning to the laws that are applied to explain them. How much a law in chemistry means after it is applied to specific instances in industry, human and animal physiology, plant life, or engineering! The equation learned in descriptive geometry may be understood, but it never means so much as when it is applied to specific problems in engineering. Applications give added insight into knowledge and therefore make for greater thoroughness of comprehension. =Teaching as a process of arousing self-activity= Locke's Blank Paper Theory, enunciated centuries ago, has been repeatedly and triumphantly refuted even by tyros in psychology, but in educational practices it continues to hold sway. College teaching too frequently proceeds on the assumption that the mind is an aching void anxiously awaiting the generous contributions of knowledge to be made by the teacher. College examinations usually test for multiplicity of facts acquired, rather than for power developed. College teaching usually does not perceive that the mind is a reacting machine containing a vast amount of pent-up potential energy which is ready to react upon any presentation; that development takes place only as this self-activity expresses itself; that education is evolutionary rather than involutionary. Teaching is, therefore, a process of arousing, sustaining, and directing the self-activity of pupils. The more persistently and successfully this activity is aroused, the more systematically it is directed to intelligent ends, the more skillful is the teaching. Teachers do not impart knowledge, for that is impossible; they _occasion_ knowledge. Only as the teacher succeeds through questions, directions, diagrams, and all known devices, in arousing the self-activity of the student, is he producing the conditions under which knowledge is acquired by the pupil. =Evaluation of common methods of teaching= The methods commonly used in college teaching are as follows: 1. Lecture method, with or without quiz sections. 2. Development method, with or without textbook. 3. Combination of lecture and development method. 4. Reference readings and the presentation of papers by students. 5. Laboratory work by students, together with lectures and quiz sections. Teachers have long debated the relative merits of these methods or combinations of them. They fail to realize that each method is correct, depending upon the aim to be accomplished and the governing circumstances. No method has a monopoly of pedagogical wisdom; no method, used exclusively, is free from inherent weakness. A teaching method must be judged by its ability to arouse and sustain self-activity and to attain the aim set for a specific lesson. With this standard for judging a method of teaching, we must stop to sum up the relative worth of common methods of college teaching. =Lecture method evaluated= The _lecture method_ has been the target for much criticism for many centuries. Socrates inveighed against its use by the sophists, and educators since have repeated the attack. The reasons are legion: (_a_) The lecture method tends to discourage the pupil's activity. The student feels no responsibility during the lecture; he listens leisurely, and makes notes of the instructor's contribution. The student's judgment is not called into play; he learns to take knowledge on the authority of the instructor. The sense of comfort and security experienced in a lecture hour is fatal even to aggressive and assertive minds. Sooner or later the students succumb to the inertia developed by the lecture system. (_b_) A second limitation of an exclusive lecture method is its inability to make permanent impressions. Many a student, entering the lecture hall, has completely forgotten even the theme of the last lecture. Knowledge is retained only when it is obtained by the expression of self-activity. To offset this weakness notes must be taken, but these prove to be the bane of the lecture method. Some students, in their efforts to record a point just concluded, lose not only the thought of what they are trying to write but also the new thought which the instructor is now explaining; they drop both ideas from their notes and wait for the next step in the development of the lecture. This accounts for the many gaps in the notes kept by students. Some instructors, dismayed by the amount of knowledge lost by students, resort to dictation devices. Others, realizing the pedagogical weakness of such teaching, distribute mimeographed outlines of carefully prepared summaries of the lectures. Now the student is relieved of the tedium of note taking, but the temptation to let his mind wander afield is intensified. An outline, scanty of detail, but so devised as to keep the organization and sequence of subject matter clear in the minds of students, is, of course, helpful. But detailed outlines distributed among the students discourage even attentive listening. (_c_) In teaching by lectures only there is no contact between student and teacher. The student does not recite; he does not reveal his type of mind, his mode of study, his grasp of subject matter. He is merely a passive recipient. To this third weakness of the lecture method we may add a fourth: (_d_) it tends to emphasize quantity rather than method. The student is confronted with a great mass of facts, but he does not acquire a mode of thought nor does he see the method by which a given subject is developed. (_e_) The lecture method, therefore, inculcates in students an attitude of mental subservience which is fatal for the development of courageous and vigorous thought. And finally (_f_) it must be urged that in lecture teaching the instructor is not testing the accuracy of the students' conceptions nor is he able to judge the efficacy of his own methods. But, on the other hand, it must be admitted that with an effective lecturer, possessed of commanding personality, the lecture gives a point of view of a subject and an enthusiasm for it which other devices fail to achieve. The lecture method makes for economy of time and enables one to present his subject to his class with a succinctness absent from many textbooks. Where much must be taught in a limited time, where a comprehensive view of an extensive field must be given, when certain types of responses or mental attitudes are desired, the lecture serves well. =Final worth of lecture method= Experience teaches that an exclusive lecture system is not conducive to efficient work; that lectures to regular classes ought to be punctuated by questions whenever interest lags; that the occasional and even the unannounced lecture is more effective; that supplementary devices for checking up assignments and regular collateral study are of vital importance. Where regular lectures are followed by detailed analyses in quiz sections the best results are obtained when the lecturer himself is the questioner. Where quiz sections are turned over to assistants, wise procedure requires that quiz leaders attend the lectures and decide, in conference with the lecturer, the specific aims which must be achieved in the quiz work and the assigned readings which must be given to students in preparation for each quiz hour. Unless this is done, the student is frequently confused by the divergent points of view presented by lecturer, quiz master, and textbook. _The development method_ has much to commend it. It stimulates activity by its repeated questions. Few or no notes are taken. There is constant contact with the student. At every point the mental content of the pupils is revealed. The teacher sees the result of his teaching by the intelligence of successive responses. The pupil is being trained in systematic thought and in concentration. But it must be remembered that the development method is often costly in time because answers may be wrong or irrelevant. It may encourage wandering; a student's reply reveals ignorance of a basic principle, and the aim of the lesson is often forgotten in the eagerness to patch up this misconception. Then, too, in subject matter that is arbitrary, as in descriptive and narrative history, no development is possible. In such cases the questions are designed to test the student's knowledge of the text, and the lesson becomes a quiz rather than a development. It is plain, therefore, that a judicious combination of the lecture and development methods will give better results than the exclusive use of either one. The analysis of the pedagogical advantages of each leads to the conclusion that the development method should predominate and that the lecture method should be used sparingly and always with some of the checking devices described. =Place of reference reading in college teaching= =Evaluation of development--Socratic or heuristic method= A common method employed in advanced courses in college subjects emphasizes _reference study and research_. The entire course is reduced to a series of problems, each of which deals with a vital aspect of the subject. Each student is made responsible for a topic. The initial hours are devoted to an examination of the common sources of information in this specific subject, the modes of using these, the standards to be attained in writing a paper on one of the topics, and similar matters. The remainder of the term is given over to seminar work: each student reads his paper and holds himself in readiness to answer all questions his classmates may ask on his topic. The aims of such a course are obviously to develop a knowledge of sources and an ability to use intelligently the unorganized data found by the student. The results of these pseudo-seminar courses are far from what was anticipated. A thorough investigation of such a course will soon convince the teacher that the seminar method, whatever its merits in university training, must be refined and diluted before it is applied to college teaching. Let us see why. Successful reference reading requires a knowledge of the field studied, maturity of mind, discriminating judgment in the selection of material, and ability in organization. The university student is not only maturer and more serious but has a basis of broader knowledge than most undergraduates. Without this equipment of mental powers and knowledge, the student cannot judge the merits of contending views nor harmonize seeming discrepancies. A student who has no ample foundation of economics cannot study the subject by reference reading on the problems of economics. To learn the meaning of value he would read the psychological explanations of the Austrian schools and the materialistic conceptions of the classical writers. He would then find himself in a state of confusion, owing to what seemed to him to be a superfluity of explanations of value. When one understands one point of view, an added viewpoint is a source of greater clarity and a means of deeper understanding. But when one is entirely ignorant of fundamental concepts, two points of view presented simultaneously become two sources of confusion. In the university only the student of tried worth is permitted to take a seminar course. In the upper classes in college, mediocre students are often welcomed into a seminar course in order to help float an unpromising elective. =Limitations of seminar method in undergraduate teaching= The college seminar is usually unsuccessful because few students have ability to hold the attention of their classmates for a period of thirty minutes or more. Language limitations, lack of a knowledge of subject matter, inability to illustrate effectively, and the skeptical attitude of fellow students all militate against successful teaching by a member of the class. Students presenting papers often select unimportant details or give too many details. The rest of the class listen languidly, take occasional notes, and ask a few perfunctory questions to help bring the session to a close. A successful hour is rare. The student who prepared the topic of the day undoubtedly is benefited, but those who listen acquire little knowledge and less power. The course ends without a comprehensive view of the entire subject, without that knowledge which comes from the teacher's leadership and instruction. This type of reference reading and research has value when used as an occasional ten or fifteen minute exercise to supplement certain aspects of class work. But as a steady diet in a college course, the seminar usually leaves much to be desired. The _laboratory method_ is growing in favor today in college teaching. It is employed in the social sciences, in sociology, in economics, in psychology, in education, as well as in the physical and the biological sciences. Where it is followed the aim is clearly twofold; viz., to teach the method by which the specific subject is growing and to develop in the students mental power and a scientific attitude towards knowledge. =Value of laboratory method= Let us illustrate these two aims of the laboratory method. A laboratory course in chemistry or biology or sociology may be designed to teach the student the use of apparatus and equipment necessary for work in a respective field; the method of attacking a problem; a standard for distinguishing significant from immaterial data; methods of gathering facts; the modes of keeping scientific records,--in a word, the essence of the experience of successive generations of investigators and contributors. But no successful laboratory results can be obtained without a proper mental attitude. The student must learn how to prevent his mental prepossessions or his desires from coloring his observations; to allow for controls and variables; to give most exacting care to every detail that may influence his result; to regard every conclusion as a tentative hypothesis subject to verification or modification in the light of further test. Unless the student acquires a knowledge of the method of science and has achieved these necessary modes of thought, his laboratory course has failed to make its most significant contribution. In courses where the aim is to teach socially necessary information or to give a comprehensive view of the scope of a specific subject, it is obvious that the laboratory method will lead far afield. It is for this reason that introductory courses given in recitations, with demonstrations by instructors, and occasional lecture and laboratory hours, are more liberalizing in their influence upon the beginners than courses that are primarily laboratory in character. =Cautions in the use of the laboratory method= Most laboratory courses would enhance their usefulness by observing a few primary pedagogical maxims. The first of these counsels that we establish most clearly the distinctive aim of the course. The instructor must be sure that he has no quantitative aim to attain but is occupied rather with the problems of teaching the method of his specialty. Second, an earnest effort must be made to acquaint the students with the general aim of the entire course as well as with the specific aim of each laboratory exercise. The students must be made to realize that they are not discovering new principles but that by rediscovering old knowledge or testing the validity of well-established truths they are developing not only the technique of investigational work, but also a set of useful mental habits. Much in laboratory work seems needless to the student who does not perceive the goal which every task strives to attain. A third requisite for successful laboratory work requires so careful a gradation that every type of problem peculiar to a subject is made to arise in the succession of exercises. It is wise at times to set a trap for students so that they may learn through the consequences of error. For this reason students may be permitted to leap to a conclusion, to generalize from insufficient data, to neglect controls, to overlook disturbing factors, etc. An improperly planned and poorly graded laboratory course repeats exercises that involve the same problems and omits situations that give training in attacking and solving new problems. Effective laboratory courses afford opportunity to students to repeat those exercises in which they failed badly. If each exercise in the course is designed to make a specific contribution to the development of the student, it is obvious that merely marking the student zero for a badly executed experiment is not meeting the situation. He must in addition be given the opportunity to repeat the experiment in order to derive the necessary variety of experiences from his laboratory training. And, finally, the character of the test that concludes a laboratory course must be considered. The test must be governed by the same underlying aims that determine the entire course. It must seek to reveal, not the mastery of facts, but growth in power. It must measure what the student can do rather than what he knows. A properly organized test serves to reinforce in the minds of students the aims of the entire course. =The college teacher not the university professor= An analysis of effective teaching is necessarily incomplete that does not give due consideration to the only human factor in the teaching process--the teacher. We have too long repeated the old adages: "he who knows can teach"; "a teacher is born, not made"; "experience is the teacher of teachers." These dicta are all tried and true, but they have the failings common to platitudes. It often happens that those who know but lack in imagination and sympathy are by that very knowing rendered unfit to teach. "Knowing" so well, they cannot see the difficulties that beset the learner's path, and they have little patience with the student's slow and measured steps in the very beginnings of their specialty. It is true that some are born teachers, but our educational institutions could not be maintained if classes were turned over only to those to whom nature had given lavishly of pedagogical power. Experience teaches even teachers, but the price paid must be computed in terms of the welfare of the student. Teaching is one of the arts in which the artist works only with living material; yet college authorities still make no demand of professional training and apprenticeship as prerequisites for admission to the fraternity of teaching artists. Ineffective college teaching will not improve until professional teaching standards are set up by respected institutions. The college teacher must be possessed of ample scholarship of a general nature. He must have expertness in his specialty, to give him a knowledge of his field, its problems and its methods. He must be a constant student, so that his scholarship in his specialty will win recognition and respect. But part of his preparation must be given over to professional training for teaching. Without this, the prospective teacher may not know until it is too late that his deficiencies of personality unfit him for teaching. With it, he shortens his term of novitiate and acquires his experience under expert guidance. The plan of college-teacher training, given by Dr. Mezes in Chapter II, so complete in scope, so thoroughly sound and progressive in character, is here suggested as a type of professional preparation now sorely needed. =Testing the results of instruction= The usual test of teacher and student is still the traditional examination, with its many questions and sub-questions. We still measure the results of instruction by fathoming the fund of information our students carry away. But these traditional examinations test for what is temporary and accidental. Facts known today are forgotten tomorrow. The professor himself often comes to class armed with notes, but he persists in setting up, as a test of the growth of his students, their retentivity of the facts he gave from these very notes. In the final analysis, these examinations are not tests. The writer does not urge the abolition of examinations, but argues rather for a reorganized examination that embodies new standards. A real examination must test for what is permanent and vital; it must measure the degree to which students approximate the aims that were set up to govern the entire course; it must gauge the mental habits, the growth in power, rather than facts. Part of an examination in mathematics should test students' ability to attack new problems, to plan a line of work, to think mathematically, to avoid typical fallacies of thought. For this part of the test, books may be opened and references consulted. In literature we may question on text not discussed in class to ascertain the students' power of appreciation or of literary criticism. So, too, in examinations in social sciences, physical sciences, foreign languages, and biological sciences, the examination must consist, in great measure, of questions which test the acquisition of the habits of thought, of work, of laboratory procedure--in a word, the permanent contribution of any study. This part of an examination should be differentiated from the more mechanical and memory questions which seek to reveal the student's mastery of those facts of a subject which may be regarded as socially necessary. Reduce the socially necessary data of any subject to an absolute minimum and frame questions on it demanding no such slovenly standard--sixty per cent--as now prevails in college examinations. If the facts called for on an examination are really the most vital in the subject, the passing grade should be very high. If the questions seek to elicit insignificant or minor information, any passing mark is too high. It is obvious, therefore, that a student should receive two marks in most subjects,--one that rates power and another that rates mere acquisition of facts. The passing grade in the one would necessarily be lower than in the other. An examination is justified only when it is so devised that it reveals not only the students' stock of socially useful knowledge but also their growth in mental power. PAUL KLAPPER _College of the City of New York_ PART TWO THE SCIENCES CHAPTER IV THE TEACHING OF BIOLOGY _T. W. Galloway_ V THE TEACHING OF CHEMISTRY _Louis Kahlenberg_ VI THE TEACHING OF PHYSICS _Harvey B. Lemon_ VII THE TEACHING OF GEOLOGY _T. C. Chamberlin_ VIII THE TEACHING OF MATHEMATICS _G. A. Miller_ IX PHYSICAL EDUCATION IN THE COLLEGE _Thomas A. Storey_ IV THE TEACHING OF BIOLOGY BIOLOGY AND EDUCATION =Biology the science basal to all knowing= The life sciences, broadly conceived, are basal to all departments of knowledge; and the study of biology illumines every field of human interest. To the believer in evolution the human body, brain, senses, intellect, sensations, impulses, habits, ideas, knowledges, ideals, standards, attractions, sympathies, combinations, organizations, institutions, and all other powers and possessions of every kind and degree are merely crowning phenomena of life itself. The languages, history, science, economic systems, philosophies, and literatures of mankind are only special manifestations and expressions of life and a part, therefore, of the studies by which we as living beings are trying to appraise and appreciate the meaning of life and of the universe of which life is the most significant product. Life is not merely the most notable product of our universe; it is the most persuasive key for solving the riddle of the universe, and is the only universe product which aspires to interpret the processes by which it has reached its own present level. All knowledge, then, is _biological_ in the very vital sense that the living organism is the only _knowing_ thing. The knowing process is a life process. Even when knowledge pertains to non-living objects, therefore, it is one-half biological; our most worth-while knowledge--that of ourselves and other organisms--is wholly so. Because all our knowledge is colored by the life process, of which the knowing process is derivative, the study of life underlies every science and its applications, every art and its practice, every philosophy and its interpretations. Biology must be taught in sympathy with the whole joint enterprise of living and of learning. =Adaptation without losing adaptability the goal of life and of education= The most outstanding phenomenon of life is the _adaptation_ of living things to the real and significant conditions of their existence. Furthermore, as these conditions are not static, particularly in the case of humans, organisms must not merely be adapted, but must continue thereafter to be _adaptable_. Now learning is only a special case under living, and education a special case under life. Its purposes are the purposes of life. It is an artificial and rapid recapitulation for the individual, in method and results, of past life itself. The purpose of education is "adaptation,--with the retention of adaptability." It is to bring the individual into attunement, through his own responses and growth, with all the real factors, external and internal, in his life,--material, intellectual, emotional, social, and spiritual,--and at the same time leave him plastic. Adaptation comes through the habit-forming experiences of stimulus and response. The very process of adaptation, therefore, tends toward fixity and to destroy adaptability. It is thus the task of education, as it is of life, to replace the native, inexperienced and physiological plasticity of youth with some product of experience which shall be able to revise habits in the interest of new situations. The adaptability of the experienced person must be psychical and acquired. It must be in the realm of appreciation, attitude, choice, self-direction--a realm superior to habit. In this human task of securing adaptation and retaining adaptiveness the life sciences have high rank. In addition to furnishing the very conception itself that we have been trying to phrase, they give illustrations of all the historic occasions, kinds, and modes of adaptation; in lacking the exactness of the mathematical and physical sciences they furnish precisely the degree of uncertainty and openness of opportunity and of mental state which the act of living itself demands. In other words the science of life is, if properly presented, the most normal possible introduction to the very practical art of living. Because of the parallel meaning of education and life in securing progressive adaptation to the essential influential forces of the universe, an appreciative study of biology introduces directly to the purposes and methods of human education. CHIEF AIMS OF BIOLOGY AS A COLLEGE SUBJECT =Why study biology in college?= While students differ in the details of their purposes in life, all must learn to make the broad adjustments to the physical conditions of life; to the problems of food and nutrition; to other organisms, helpful and hurtful; to the internal impulses, tendencies, and appetites; to the various necessary human contacts and relations; to the great body of knowledge important to life, which human beings have got together; to the prevailing philosophical interpretations of the universe and of life; and to the pragmatic organizations, conventions, and controls which human society has instituted. In addition to these, some students of biology are going into various careers, each demanding special adjustments which biology may aid notably. Such are medicine and its related specialties, professional agricultural courses, and biological research of all kinds. An extended examination of college catalogs shows some consciousness of these facts on the part of teachers of biology. The following needs are formally recognized in the prospectuses: (1) The disciplinary and cultural needs of the general student; (2) the needs of those preparing for medicine or other professional courses; and (3) the needs of the people proposing to specialize in botany and zoölogy. These aims are usually mentioned in the order given here; but an examination of the character of the courses often reveals the fact that the actual organization of the department is determined by an exact reversal of this order,--that most of the attention is given, even in the beginning courses, to the task of preparing students to take advanced work in the subject. The theory of the departments is usually better than their practice. In what follows these are the underlying assumptions,--which seem without need of argument: (1) The general human needs should have the first place in organizing the courses in biology; (2) the introductory courses should not be constructed primarily as the first round in the ladder of biological or professional specialization, but for the general purposes of human life; (3) the preparation needed by teachers of biology for secondary schools is more nearly like that needful for the general student than that suited to the specialist in the subject; and (4) the later courses may more and more be concerned with the special ends of professional and vocational preparation. GENERAL AIMS OF BIOLOGY IN EDUCATION What are the general adaptive contributions of biology to human nature? What are the results in the individual which biology should aim to bring to every student? There are four classes of personal possessions, important in human adaptation, to which biology ministers in a conspicuous way: information and knowledge; ability and skills; habits; and attitudes, appreciations, and ideals. These four universal aims of education are doubtless closely related and actually inseparable, but it is worth while to consider them apart for the sake of clearness. A. TYPES OF BIOLOGICAL KNOWLEDGE USEFUL IN THE ADAPTATION OF HUMAN BEINGS TO THE MOST IMPORTANT CONDITIONS OF THEIR LIFE =(1) Study of biology furnishes knowledge of adaptive value= (1) Some knowledge of the processes by which individual plants and animals grow and differentiate, through nutrition and activity; of the process of development common to all organisms; and the bearing of these facts on human life, health, and conduct. (2) An outline knowledge of reproduction in plants and animals; the origin, nature, meaning, and results of sex; the contribution of sex to human life, to social organization and ideals, and its importance in determining behavior and controls. (3) A good knowledge of the external forces most important in influencing life; of the nature of the influence; of the various ways in which organisms respond and become adjusted individually and racially to these conditions. A sense of the necessity of adaptation; of the working of the laws of cause and effect among living things, as everywhere else; of the fact that nature's laws cannot be safely ignored by man any more than by the lower organisms; of the relation between animal behavior and human behavior. (4) Equally a true conception of the known facts about the internal tendencies in organisms including man, which we call hereditary. The principles underlying plant, animal, and human breeding. Any progress in behavior, in legislation, or in public opinion in the field of eugenics, negative or positive, must come from the spread of such knowledge. (5) A knowledge of the numerous ways in which plants and animals contribute to or interfere with human welfare. This includes use for food, clothing, and labor saving; their destruction of other plants or animals useful or hurtful to us; their work in producing, spreading, or aiding in the cure of disease; their æsthetic service and inspiration; the aid they give us in learning of our own nature through the experiments we conduct upon them; and many miscellaneous services. (6) A conception of the evolutionary series of plants and animals, and of man's place in the series; a reassurance that man's high place as an intellectual and emotional being is in no way put in peril by his being a part of the series. Some clear knowledge of the general manner of the development of the plant and animal kingdoms to their present complexity should be gained. The student should have some acquaintance with the great generalizations that have meant so much to the science and to all human thinking, should understand how they were reached and the main classes of facts on which they are based. (7) The general student should be required to have such knowledge of structure and classification as is needed to give foundation and body to the evolutionary conceptions of plants and animals, and to the various processes and powers mentioned above--and only so much. (8) Some knowledge of the development of the science itself; of its relation to the other sciences; of the men who have most contributed to it, and their contributions; of the manner of making these discoveries, and of the bearing of the more important of these discoveries upon human learning, progress, and well-being. (9) Something of the parallelism between animal psychology, behavior, habits, instincts, and learning, and those of man,--in both the individual and the social realm. (10) An elementary understanding of plant and animal and human distribution over the earth, and of the factors that have brought it about. B. FORMS OF SKILL WHICH WORK IN BIOLOGY SHOULD BRING TO EVERY STUDENT =(2) Biological study gives desirable skills= Skill or ability may be developed in respect to the following activities: seeking and securing information, recording it, interpreting its significance, reaching general conclusions about it, modifying one's conduct under the guidance of these conclusions, and, finally, of appraising the soundness of this conduct in the light of the results of it. All of these are of basic importance in the human task of making conscious adjustments in actual life; and the ability to get facts and to use them is more valuable than to possess the knowledge of facts. Other sciences develop some of these forms of skill better than biology does; nevertheless, we shall find that biology furnishes a remarkably balanced opportunity to develop skills of the various kinds. It presents a great range and variety of opportunity to develop accuracy and skill in raising questions; in observation and the use of precise descriptive terms in recording results of observation; in experimentation; in comparison and classification. It is peculiarly rich in opportunities to gain skill in discriminating between important and unimportant data,--one of the most vital of all the steps in the process of sound reasoning. In practice, a datum may at first sight seem trivial, when in reality it is very significant. _Skill_ in estimating values comes only with _experience_ in estimating values, and in applying these estimates in practice, and in observing and correcting the results of practice. Finally, skill in adjusting behavior to knowledge is one of the most necessary abilities and most difficult to attain. The study of animal behavior experimentally is at the foundation of much that we know of human psychology and the grounds of human behavior. Even in an elementary class it is quite possible so to study animal responses and the results of response as to give guidance and facility to the individual in interpreting the efficiency of his own responses, and in adding to his own controls. As has been said, practice of some kind is necessary to determine whether our estimate of values is good. Even vicarious experience has educative value. C. HABITS WHICH MAY BE STRENGTHENED BY THE WORK IN BIOLOGY =(3) Biology may supply adaptive habits= Habits are of course the normal outcome of repeated action. Indeed, skills are in a sense habits from another point of view. Skill, however, looks rather toward the output; habit, toward the mode of functioning by the person by whom the result is attained. We may then develop habits in respect to all the processes and activities mentioned above under the term "skills." The teacher of biology should have definitely in purpose the securing for the student of habits of inquiry, of diligence, of concentration, of accuracy of observation, of seeking and weighing evidence, of detecting the essentials in a mass of facts, of refusing to rest satisfied until a conclusion, the most tenable in the light of all known data, is reached, and of reëxamining conclusions whenever new evidence is offered. Of course it is impossible to use biology to get habits of right reasoning in students unless we _really allow them to reason_. If we insist that their work is merely to observe, record, and hold in memory,--as so many of us do in laboratory work,--they may form habits of doing these things, but not necessarily any more than this. Indeed, they may definitely form the habit of doing _only_ these things, _failing to use the results in forming for themselves any of the larger conclusions about organisms_. _Seeing_ and _knowing_--without the ability and habit of _thinking_--is not an uncommon or surprising result of our conventional laboratory work. There is only one way to get the habit of right "following through" in reasoning; this is, _always to do the thing_. When data are observed or are furnished it is a pedagogical sin on the part of the teacher to allow the student to stop at that point; and equally so to deduce the conclusion for the student, or to allow the writer of the textbook to do so, or at any time to induce the student to accept from another a conclusion which he himself might reach from the data. We have depended too much on our science as a mere observational science,--when as a matter of fact its chief glory is really its opportunity and its incentives to coherent thinking and careful testing of conclusions. It is inexact enough, if we are entirely honest, to force us to hold our conclusions with an open mind ready to admit new evidence. It is entirely the fault of the teacher if the pupil gets a dogmatic, too-sure habit of mind as the result of his biological studies. And yet, as has been said, it is exact enough to enable us to reach just the same sort of approximations to truth which are possible in our own lives. The study of biology presents a superb opportunity to prepare for living by forming the habits of mind and of life that facilitate right choices in the presence of highly debatable situations. In this it much surpasses the more "exact" sciences. We may conclude, then, by positing the belief that the most important mental habit which human beings can form is that of using and applying consciously the scientific method as outlined above, not merely to biology alone, but to all the issues of personal life as well. D. APPRECIATIONS, ATTITUDES, AND IDEALS AS AIDED BY BIOLOGY =(4) Attitudes of life perfected by study of the life sciences= This group of objectives is a bit less tangible, as some think, than those that have been mentioned; but in my own opinion they are as important and as educable for the good of the youth by means of biology as are knowledge, skill, and habit. In a sense these states of mind arise as by-products of the getting of information, skills, and habits; in turn they heighten their value. We have spoken above of the need of skill and habit in making use of the various steps in the scientific method in reaching conclusions in life. These are essential, but skill and habit alone are not enough to meet the necessities in actual life. In the first place the habit of using the scientific method in the scientific laboratory does not in itself give assurance that the person will apply this method in getting at the truth in problems in his own personal life; and yet this is the essential object of all this scientific training. In order to get the individual to carry over this method,--especially where feelings and prejudices are involved,--we must inculcate in him the scientific ideal and the scientific attitude until they become general in their influence. To do this he ought to be induced as a regular part of his early courses in biology to practice the scientific method upon certain practical daily decisions exactly with the same rigor that is used in the biological laboratory. The custom of using this method in animal study should be transformed into an _attitude of dependence upon it_ as the only sound method of solving one's life choices. Only by carrying the method consciously into our life's problems, _as a part of the exercise in the course in biology_, can we break up the disposition to regard the method as good merely in the biological laboratory. We must generate, by practice and precept, the _ideal_ of making universal our dependence upon our best instrument of determining truth. A personal habit in the laboratory must become a general ideal for life, if we hope to substitute the scientific method for prejudice in human living. There is no department of learning so well capable of doing this thing as biology. In the second place, the scientific method standing alone, because of its very excellence as a method, is liable to produce a kind of over-sure dogmatism about conclusions, unless it be accompanied by the scientific attitude or spirit of open-mindedness. The scientific spirit does not necessarily flow from the scientific method at all, unless the teacher is careful in his use of it in teaching. We make a mistake if, in our just enthusiasm to impress the scientific method upon the student, we fail to teach that it can give, at best, only an approximation to truth. The scientific attitude which holds even our best-supported conclusions subject to revision by new evidence is the normal corrective of the possible dogmatism that comes from over-confidence in the scientific method as our best means of discovering truth. The student at the end of the first year of biology ought to have more appreciation and enjoyment of plants and animals and their life than at the beginning,--and increased appreciation of his own relation to other animals; some attitude of dependence upon the scientific method of procedure not merely in biology but in his own life; a desire, however modest, for investigating things for himself; and an ideal of open-minded, enthusiastic willingness to subject his own conclusions to renewed testing at all times. All these gains should be reinforced by later courses. SPECIAL AIMS OF BIOLOGY IN EDUCATION =(5) Biology a valuable tool for certain technical pursuits= So far as I can see, the preparation of students for medicine, for biological research, or for any advanced application of biology calls only for the following,--in addition to the further intensification of the emphasis suggested above: (_a_) An increased recognition of the subject matter in organizing the course. In the early courses the subject ought to be subordinated to the personal elements. If one is to relate himself to the science in a professional way, the logic of the science comes to be the dominant objective. (_b_) Growing out of the above there comes to be a change of emphasis on the scientific method. The method itself is identical, but the attitude toward it is different. In the early courses it was guided by the _teaching_ purpose. We insist upon the method in order that the student may appreciate how the subject has grown, may realize how all truth must be reached, and may come habitually to apply the method to his life problems. In the later courses it becomes the method of research into the unknown. The student comes more and more to use it as a tool, in whose use he himself is subordinated to his devotion to a field of investigation. (_c_) A greater emphasis upon such special forms of biological knowledge as will be necessary as tools in the succeeding steps, and the selection of subject matter with this specifically in view. This is chiefly a matter of information, making the next steps intellectually possible. (_d_) More specific forms of skill, adapted to the work contemplated. Technic becomes an object in such courses. Morphology, histology, technic, exact experimentation, repetition, drill, extended comparative studies, classifition, and the like become more essential than in the elementary courses. Thoroughness and mastery are desiderata for the sake both of subject matter and character; and in very much greater degree than in the general course. ORGANIZATION OF THE COURSE IN BIOLOGY =Biology courses not to be standardized rigidly= The writer does not feel that standardized programs in biology in colleges are either possible or desirable. What is set down here under this heading is merely intended as carrying out the principles outlined above, and not as the only way to provide a suitable program. The writer assumes that the undergraduates are handled by men of catholic interests; and that the undergraduate courses are not distributed and manipulated primarily as feeders for specialized departments of research in a graduate school. This latter attitude is, in my opinion, fatal to creditable undergraduate instruction for the general student or for the future high school teachers of the subject. =But they should follow a general principle:= There are three groups or cycles of courses which may properly be developed by the college or by the undergraduate department of the university. _First Group_ =(1) The _first_ group of courses should introduce to life rather than to later biological courses= This group contains introductory courses for all students, but organized particularly with the idea of bringing the rich material of biology to the service of young people with the aim of making them effective in life, and not as a first course for making them botanists or zoölogists. Course--_Biology 1._ General Biology This course should introduce the student to the college method of work in the life sciences; should give him the general knowledge and points of view outlined above as the chief aims of Biology; should synthesize what the student already knows about plants and animals under the general conception of life. Ideally the botanical and zoölogical portions should be fused and be given by one teacher, rather than presented as one semester of botany and one of zoölogy. This, however, is frequently impracticable. In any event the total result should really be biology, and not a patchwork of botany and zoölogy. Hence there should be a free crossing of the barriers in use of materials at all times. A year of biology is recommended because each pupil ought to have some work in both fields, and we cannot expect him to take a year in each. Course--_Biology 2._ History of Biology This course, dealing with the relation of the development of biology to human interests and problems, may be given separately, or as a part of Course 1,--which should otherwise be prerequisite to it. This may be one of the most humanizing of all the possible courses in biology. _Second Group_ =(2) A _second_ group should be technical and introductory to professional uses= This group furnishes a series of courses providing a thorough introduction to the principles and methods of botany and zoölogy. They provide discipline, drill, comparison, mastery of technic as well as increased appreciation of biology and of the scientific method. They should prepare for advanced work in biology, and for technical applications of it to medicine, agriculture, stock breeding, forestry, etc. Course--Botany 1: General and Comparative Botany, and the Evolution of Plants. Course--Botany 2: Physiology and Ecology of Plants. Course--Botany 3: Plant Cytology, Histology, and Embryology. Course--Zoölogy 1: General and Comparative Zoölogy. Course--Zoölogy 2: Animal, including Human, Physiology. Course--Zoölogy 3: Microtechnic, Histology, Histogenesis, Embryogeny. Course--Zoölogy 4: Animal Ecology. This outline for botany and zoölogy follows in the main the most common arrangement found in the schools of the country. In the personal judgment of the writer all undergraduate courses should combine aspects of morphology, physiology, ecology, etc., rather than be confined strictly to one particular phase; even histology and embryology can be better taught when their physiological aspects are emphasized. There is no fundamental reason, however, why there may not be great latitude of treatment in this group. An alluring feature of biological teaching is that a teacher who has a vital objective can begin anywhere in our wonderful subject and get logically to any point he wishes. These courses may be further subdivided, where facilities allow. _Third Group_ =(3) A _third_ group of special, but cultural, courses= This group contains certain of the more elementary applications of biology to human welfare. While having practical value in somewhat specialized vocations, the courses in this group are not proposed as professional or technical. They are definitely cultural. Every college might well give one or more of them, in accordance with local conditions. They ought to be eligible without the courses of the second group. The order is not significant. Biology 3: Economic Entomology; Biology 4: Bird Course; Biology 5: Tree Course; Biology 6: Bacteriology and Fermentation; Biology 7: Biology of Sex; Heredity and Eugenics; Biology 8: Biology and Education; Biology 9: Evolution and Theoretical Problems. PLACE OF BIOLOGY IN THE COLLEGE CURRICULUM =The first course ought to be given in such a way that it might fittingly be required of all freshmen= The introductory course (Biology 1) can be given in such a way that it ought to be required of all students during the freshman or sophomore year, preferably the freshman. In addition to the life value suggested above, and its introductory value in later biology courses, such a course would aid the student in psychology, sociology, geology, ethics, philosophy, education, domestic economy, and physical culture. Effort should be made to correlate the biological work with these departments of instruction. The course as now given in most of our colleges and universities does not possess enough merit to become a required study. Perhaps all we have a right at present to ask is that biology shall be one of a group of sciences from which all students must elect at least one. It is preposterous, in an age of science, that any college should not require at least a year of science. Biology 1 should be prerequisite for botany 1 and zoölogy 1, and for the special biology courses in group three. Botany 1 and zoölogy 1 should be made prerequisite for the higher courses in their respective fields; but aside from this almost any sequence would be allowable. A major in biology should provide at least for biology 1 and 2, botany 1, zoölogy 1, botany 2 and 3, or zoölogy, 2 and 3. Chemistry is desirable as a preparation for the second group of courses. METHODS OF TEACHING AS CONDITIONED BY THE AIMS OUTLINED ABOVE =Acceptance of biology retarded by poor pedagogy= Since the laboratory method came into use among biologists, there has been a disposition, growing out of its very excellences, to make a fetich of it, to refuse to recognize the necessity of other methods, to be intolerant of any science courses not employing the laboratory, and to affect a lofty disdain of any pedagogical discussion of the question whatsoever. The tone in which all this is done suggests a boast; but to the discriminating it amounts to a confession! The result of it has been to retard the development of biology to its rightful place as one of the most foundational and catholic of all educational fields. The great variety of aim and of matter not merely allow, but make imperative, the use of all possible methods; and there is no method found fruitful in education which does not lend itself to use in biology. The lecture method, the textbook, the recitation, the quiz and the inverted quiz, the method of assigned readings and reports, the method of conference and seminar, the laboratory method, and the field method are all applicable and needed in every course, even the most elementary. =Prostitution of the laboratory= Our method has thus crystallized about the laboratory as the one essential thing; but worse, we have used the very shortcomings of the laboratory as an excuse for extending its sway. The laboratory method is the method of research in biology. It is our only way to discover unknown facts. Is it, therefore, the best way to rediscover facts? This does not necessarily follow, though we have assumed it. Self-discovered facts are no better nor more true than communicated facts, and it takes more time to get them. The laboratory is the slowest possible way of getting facts. We have tried to correct this quantitative difficulty by extending the laboratory time, by speeding up, by confining ourselves to static types of facts like those of structure, and by using detailed laboratory guides for matter and method, all of which tends to make the laboratory exercise one of routine and the mere observation and recording of facts or a verification of the statements in manuals. The correction of these well-known limitations of the laboratory must come, in my opinion, by a frank recognition of, and breaking away from, certain of our misapprehensions about the function of the laboratory. Some of these are: =Real purpose and possibility of laboratory work= 1. That the chief facts of a science should be rediscovered by the student in the laboratory. This is not true. Life is too short. The great mass of the student's facts must come from the instructor and from books. The laboratory has as its function in respect to facts, some very vital things: as, making clear certain classes of facts which the student cannot visualize without concrete demonstration; giving vividness to facts in general; gaining of enough facts at first hand to enable him to hold in solution the great mass of facts which he must take second hand; to give him skill and accuracy in observation and in recording discoveries; to give appreciation of the way in which all the second-hand facts have been reached; to give taste and enthusiasm for asking questions and confidence and persistence in finding answers for them. Anything more than this is waste of time. These results are not gained by mere quantity of work, but only through constant and intelligent guidance of the student's attitude in the process of dealing with facts. 2. A feeling that the laboratory or scientific method consists primarily of observation of facts and their record. In reality these are three great steps instead of one in this method, which the student of biology should master: (1) the getting of facts, one device for doing which is observation; (2) the appraisal and discrimination of these facts to find which are important; and (3) the drawing of the conclusions which these facts seem to warrant. There are two practical corollaries of this truth. One is that the laboratory should be so administered that the pupil shall appreciate the full scope of the scientific method, its tremendous historic value to the race, and the necessity of using _all_ the steps of it faithfully in all future progress as well as in the sound solution of our individual problems and the guidance of conduct. The second is that we may make errors in our scientific conclusions and in life conclusions, through failure to discriminate among our facts, quite as fatally as through lack of facts. Indeed, my personal conviction is that more failures are due to lack of discrimination than to lack of observation. The power to weigh evidence is at least as important as the power to collect it. 3. A disposition to deny the student the right to reach conclusions in the laboratory,--or, as we flamboyantly say, to "generalize." Now in reality the only earthly value of _facts_ is to get _truth_,--that is, conclusions or generalizations. To deny this privilege is taxation without representation in respect to personality. The purpose of the laboratory is to enable students to think, to think accurately and with purpose, to reach their own conclusions. The getting of facts by observation is only a minor detail. In reality, the data the student can get from books are much more reliable than his own observations are likely to be. Our laboratory training should add gradually to the accuracy of his observations, but particularly it should enable him to use his own and other persons' facts conjointly, and with proper discrimination, in reaching conclusions. To do other than this tends to abort the reasoning attitude and power, and teaches the pupil to stand passive in the presence of facts and to divorce facts and conclusions. The fear is, of course, that the students will get wrong conclusions and acquire the habit of jumping prematurely to generalizations. But this situation, while critical, is the very glory of the method. What we want to do is to ask them continually,--wherever possible,--_where_ _their facts seem to lead them_. Their conclusions are liable to be quite wrong, to be sure. But our province as teachers is to see that the facts ignorance of which made this conclusion wrong are brought to their attention,--and it is not absolutely material whether they discover these facts themselves or some one else does. What we want to compass is practice in reaching conclusions, and the recognition of the necessity of getting and discriminating facts in doing so, together with a realization that there are probably many other facts which we have not discovered that would modify our conclusions. This keeps the mind open. In other words, the student may thus be brought to realize the meaning of the "working hypothesis" and the method of approximation to truth. It makes no difference if one "jumps to a conclusion," if he jumps in the light of all his known facts and holds his conclusion _tentatively_. It is much better to reach wrong conclusions through inadequate facts than to have the mind come to a standstill in the presence of facts. Instead of being a threat, reaching a wrong conclusion gives us the opportunity to train students in holding their conclusions open-mindedly and subject to revision through new facts. Reaching wrong or partial conclusions and correcting them may be made even more educative than reaching right ones at the outset. This would not be true if the conclusion were being sought for the sake of the science. But it is being sought solely for the sake of the student. The distinction is important. The inability to make it is one of the reasons why research men so often fail as teachers. All through life the student will be forced to draw conclusions from two types of facts,--both of which will be incomplete: those he himself has observed and those which came to him from other observers. While he must always feel free to try out any and all facts for himself, it is quite as important in practice that he be able to weigh other persons' facts discriminatingly. We teach in the laboratory that the pupil should not take his facts second hand, though we rather insist that he do so with his conclusions. In reality it is often much better to take our facts second hand; the stultifying thing is to take our conclusions so. =A normal complete mental reaction for every laboratory exercise= 4. The dependence upon outlines and manuals. This is one of the most deadening devices that we have instituted to economize gray matter and increase the quantity of laboratory records at the expense of real initiative and thinking. It is easy for the reader to analyze for himself the mental reaction, or lack of it, of the student in following the usual detailed laboratory outline. _Every laboratory exercise should be an educative situation calling for a complete mental reaction from the pupil._ In the first place, no exercise should be used which is not really vital and educative. This assured, the full mental reaction of the student should be about as follows: (1) The cursory survey of the situation. (2) The raising by the student of such questions as seem to him interesting or worthy of solution. (Here, of course, the teacher can by skillful questioning lead the class to raise all necessary problems, and increase the student's willingness to attack them.) (3) The determination through class conference of the order and method of attacking the problems, and the reasons therefor. (4) The accumulation and record of discovered facts (sharply eliminating all inferences). (5) The arrangement (classification) and appraisal (discrimination) of the discovered facts. (6) Conclusions or inferences from the facts. (These should be very sharply and critically examined by teacher and class, to see to what extent they are really valid and supported by the facts.) (7) Retesting of conclusions by new facts submitted by class, by teacher, or from books, with an effort to diminish prejudice as a factor in conclusions, and to increase the willingness to approach our own conclusions with an open mind. When laboratory outlines are used at all they should consist merely of directions, and suggestions, and stimulating questions which will start the pupils on the main quest,--the raising and solving of their own problems. SOME MOOT PROBLEMS[2] =Ascending or descending order?= 1. Shall we begin with the simple, little-known, lower forms and follow the ascending order, which is analogous at least to the evolutionary order? Or shall we begin with the more complex but better-known forms and go downward? It seems to the writer that the former method has the advantage in actual interest; in its suggestiveness of evolution, which is the most important single impression the student will get from his course; and in the mental satisfactions that come to pupil and teacher alike from the sense of progress. However, our material is so rich, so interesting, and so plastic that it makes little difference where we begin if only we have a clear idea of what we want to accomplish. =Morphology versus other interests= 2. What proportion of time should be given to morphology in relation to other interests? For several reasons morphology has been overemphasized. It lends itself to the older conception of the laboratory as a place to observe and record facts. It offers little temptation to reach conclusions. It calls for little use of gray matter. This makes it an easy laboratory enterprise. It is what the grade teachers call "busy" work, and can be multiplied indefinitely. It can be made to smack of exactness and thoroughness. Furthermore, morphology _is_ in reality a basal consideration. It is a legitimate part of an introductory course,--but never for its own sake nor to prepare for higher courses. But morphology is, however, only the starting point for the higher mental processes by which different forms of organisms are compared, for the correlating of structure with activity, for appreciation of adaptations of structure both to function and to environmental influence. It thus serves as a foundation upon which to build conclusions about really vital matters. Experience teaches that sensitiveness, behavior, and other activities and powers and processes interest young people more than structure. The student's views are essentially sound at this point. The introductory course should, therefore, be a cycle in which the student passes quite freely back and forth between form, powers, activities, conditions of life, and the conclusions as to the meanings of these. It is important only that he shall know with which consideration he is from time to time engaged. =Few types or many?= 3. Shall a few forms be studied thoroughly, or many forms be studied more superficially? There is something of value in each of these practices. It is possible to over-emphasize the idea of thoroughness in the introductory courses. Thoroughness is purely a relative condition anyway, since we cannot really master any type. It seems poor pedagogy, in an elementary class particularly, to emphasize small and difficult forms or organs because they demand more painstaking and skill on the part of the student. My own practice in the elementary course is to have a very few specially favorable forms studied with a good deal of care, and a much larger number studied partially, emphasizing those points which they illustrate very effectively. =Distribution of time= 4. What proportion of time should be given to the various methods of work? Manifestly the answer to this question depends upon the local equipment and upon the character of the course itself. The suggestion here relates primarily to the general or introductory courses. It seems to me that a sound division of time would be: two or three hours per week of class exercises (lectures, recitations, reports, quiz, etc.) demanding not less than four hours of preparation in text and library work; and four to six hours a week of "practical" work with organisms, about two hours of which should take the form of studies in the field wherever this is possible. =Weakness of the research man as a teacher for the beginning course= 5. Is the "research" man the best teacher for the introductory courses? In spite of a good deal of prejudgment on the part of college and university administrators and of the research biologists themselves. I am convinced he is not. While there are notable exceptions, my own observation is that the investigator, whether the head professor or the "teaching fellow," usually does not have the mental attitude that makes a successful teacher, at least of elementary classes,--and for these reasons: he begrudges the time spent in teaching elementary classes, presents the subject as primarily preparatory to upper courses, subordinates the human elements to the scientific elements, and actually exploits the class in the interest of research. The real teacher's question about an entering class is this: "How can I best use the materials of our science to make real men and women out of these people?" The question of the professional investigator is likely to be: "How many of these people are fit to become investigators, and how can I most surely find them and interest them in the science?" This is a perfectly fine and legitimate question; but it is not an appropriate one until the first one has been answered. It has been assumed that the answers to the two questions are identical. This is one of the most vicious assumptions in higher education today, in my opinion. Furthermore, the investigator with his interests centering at the margins of the unknown cannot use the scientific method as a teacher, whose interest must center in the pupil. The points of view are not merely not identical; they are incompatible. =Necessity of differentiation and recognition of the two functions= Experience indicates the wisdom of having all beginning courses in biology in colleges and universities given by teachers and not by investigators, mature or immature. All people who propose to teach biology in the high schools should have their early courses given from this human point of view, that they may be the better able to come back to it after their graduate work, in their efforts to organize courses for pupils the greater part of whom will never have any but a life interest in the subject. The problem of presenting the advanced and special courses is relatively an easy one. The investigator is the best possible teacher for advanced students in his own special field if he is endowed with any common sense at all. TESTS OF EFFECTIVENESS OF TEACHING As yet we are notably lacking in regard to the measurement of progress as the result of our teaching. Our usual tests--examination, recitation, quiz, reports, laboratory notebooks--evaluate in a measure work done, knowledge or general grasp acquired, and accuracy developed. We need, however, measurements of skill, of habits, and of the still more intangible attitudes and appreciations. These may be gained in part by furnishing really educative situations and observing the time and character of the student's reaction. Every true teacher is in reality an experimental psychologist, and must apply directly the methods of the psychologist. =More vital _tests_ of results of teaching must be found= The laboratory and field furnish opportunity for this sort of testing. The student may be confronted with an unfamiliar organism or situation and be given a limited time in which to obtain and record his results. He may be asked to state and enumerate the problems that are suggested by the situation; outline a method of solving them; discover as large a body of facts as possible; arrange them in an order that seems to him logical, with his reasons; and to make whatever inferences seem to him sound in the light of facts,--supporting his conclusions at every point. The ability to make such a total mental reaction promptly and comprehendingly is the best test of any teaching whatsoever. The important thing is that we shall not ourselves lose sight of the essential parts of it in our enthusiasm for one portion of it. In judging attitude and appreciation I think it is possible for discriminating teachers to obtain the testimony of the pupil himself in appraisal of his own progress and attitude. This needs to be done indirectly, to be sure. The student's self-judgment may not be accurate; but it is not at all impossible to secure a disposition in students to measure and estimate their own progress in these various things with some accuracy and fairness of mind. Besides its incidental value as a test, I know of no realm of biological observation, discrimination, and conclusion more likely to prove profitable to the student than this effort to estimate, without prejudice, his own growth. THE LITERATURE OF THE SUBJECT =Scarcity of authoritative pedagogical literature in biology= For various reasons very little attention has been given to the pedagogy of college biology by those in the best position to throw light upon this vital problem. More information as to the attitude of teachers of the subject is to be derived from college and university catalogs than elsewhere,--howbeit of a somewhat stereotyped and standardized kind. Much more has been written relative to the teaching of biology in the secondary schools. In my opinion the most effective teaching of biology in America today is being done in the best high schools by teachers who have been forced to acquire a pedagogical background that would enable them to reconstruct completely their presentation of the subject. Most of these people obtained very little help in this task from their college courses in biology. For these reasons every college teacher will greatly profit by studying what has been written for the secondary teachers. _School Science and Mathematics_ (Chicago) is the best source for current views in this field. Its files will show no little of the best thought and investigation that have been devoted to the principles underlying instruction in biology. Lloyd and Bigelow, in _The Teaching of Biology_ (Longmans, Green & Co.), have treated the problems of secondary biology at length. Ganong's _Teaching Botanist_ (The Macmillan Company) has high value. The authors of textbooks of biology, botany, and zoölogy issued during the last ten years have ventured to develop, in their prefaces, appendices, and elsewhere, their pedagogical points of view. The writer has personal knowledge that teaching suggestions are still resented by some college teachers of zoölogy. Illustrations of the tendency to incorporate pedagogical material in textbooks on biological subjects can be found in DODGE, C. W. _Practical Biology._ Harper and Brothers, 1894. GAGER, C. S. _Fundamentals of Botany._ P. Blakiston's Son & Co., 1916. GALLOWAY, T. W. _Textbook of Zoölogy._ P. Blakiston's Son & Co., 1915. KINGSLEY, J. S. _Textbook of Vertebrate Zoölogy._ H. Holt & Co. PETRUNKEVITCH, A. _Morphology of Invertebrate Types._ The Macmillan Company, 1916. T. W. GALLOWAY _Beloit College_ BIBLIOGRAPHY CRAMER, F. Logical Method in Biology. _Popular Science Monthly_, Vol. 44, page 372. 1894. FARLOW, W. G. Biological Teaching in Colleges. _Popular Science Monthly_, Vol. 28, page 581. 1886. HARVEY, N. A. Pedagogical Content of Zoölogy. _Proceedings National Education Association_, 1899; page 1106. HODGE, C. F. Dynamic Biology. _Pedagogical Seminar_, Vols. 11-12. HUXLEY, J. H. Educational Value of Natural History Science. Essay II, _Science and Education_. 1854. RUSK, R. R. _Introduction to Experimental Education._ Longmans, Green & Co., 1912. SAUNDERS, S. J. Value of Research in Education. _School Science and Mathematics_, Vol. II, March, 1902. SMALLWOOD, W. M. Biology as a Culture Study. _Journal of Pedagogy_, Vol. 17, page 231. WELTON, J. _Psychology of Education_ (chapter on "Character"). The Macmillan Company, 1911. Footnotes: [2] These problems relate particularly to the introductory courses. V THE TEACHING OF CHEMISTRY =Preparation of entering students a determining factor= Some of the students entering classes in chemistry in college have already had an elementary course in the subject in the high school or academy, while others have not. Again, some study chemistry in college merely for the sake of general information and culture, while many others pursue the subject because the vocation they are planning to make their life's work requires a more or less extensive knowledge of chemistry. Thus, all students in the natural sciences and their applications--as we have them in medicine, engineering, agriculture, and home economics--as well as those who are training to become professional chemists, either in the arts and industries or in teaching, must devote a considerable amount of time and energy to the study of chemistry. The teacher of college chemistry consequently must take into consideration the preparation with which the student enters his classes and also the end which is to be attained by the pursuit of the subject in the case of the various groups of students mentioned. In the larger high schools courses in chemistry are now quite generally offered, but this is not yet true of the smaller schools. In some colleges those who have had high school chemistry are at once placed into advanced work without taking the usual basal course in general chemistry which is so arranged that students can enter it who have had no previous knowledge of the subject. In other words, in some cases the college builds directly upon the high school course in chemistry. As a rule, however, this does not prove very successful, for the high school course in chemistry is not primarily designed as a course upon which advanced college chemistry can be founded. This is as it should be, for after all, while the high school prepares students for college, its chief purpose is to act as a finishing school for those larger numbers of students who never go to college. The high school course in chemistry is consequently properly designed to give certain important chemical facts and point out their more immediate applications in the ordinary walks of life, as far as this can properly be done in the allotted time with a student of high school age and maturity. The result is consequently that while such work can very well be accepted toward satisfying college entrance requirements, it is only rarely sufficient as a basis for advanced college courses in the subject. As a rule it is best to ask all students to take the basal course in general chemistry offered in college, arranging somewhat more advanced experiments in the laboratory wherever necessary for those who have had chemistry in preparatory schools. This has become the writer's practice after careful trial of other expedients. The scheme has on the whole worked out fairly well, for it is sufficiently elastic to meet the needs of the individual students, who naturally come with preparation that is quite varied. Almost invariably students who, on account of their course in high school chemistry, are excused from the general basal course in college chemistry have been handicapped forever afterward in their advanced work in the subject. =Organization of first-year course--General chemistry= The first year's work in college chemistry consists of general chemistry. It is basal for all work that is to follow, and yet at the same time it is a finished course, giving a well-rounded survey of the subject to all who do not care to pursue it further. This basal course is commonly given in the freshman year, though sometimes it is deferred to the sophomore year. Its content is now fairly uniform in different colleges, the first semester being commonly devoted to general fundamental considerations and the chemistry of the non-metals, while the metals receive attention in the second semester, the elements of qualitative analysis being in some cases taught in connection with the chemistry of the metals. The work is almost universally conducted by means of lectures, laboratory work, and recitations. The lectures have the purpose to unfold the subject, give general orientation as to the most important fundamental topics and points of view, and furnish impetus, guidance, and inspiration for laboratory study and reading. To this end the lectures should be illustrated by means of carefully chosen and well-prepared experiments. These serve not only to illustrate typical chemical processes, and fundamental laws, but they also stimulate interest and teach the student many valuable points of manipulation, for it is well-nigh impossible to watch an expert manipulator without absorbing valuable hints on the building up, arranging, and handling of apparatus. In the lectures the material should be presented slowly, carefully, and clearly, so that it may readily be followed by the student. Facts should always be placed in the foreground, and they should be made the basis of the generalization we call laws, and then the latter naturally lead to theoretical conceptions. It is a great mistake to begin with the atomic theory practically the first day and try to bolster up that theory with facts later on as concrete cases of chemical action are studied. On the other hand, it is also quite unwise to defer the introduction of theoretical conceptions too long, for the atomic theory is a great aid in making rapid progress in the study of chemistry. At least two or three weeks are well spent in studying fundamental chemical reactions as facts quite independent of any theories whatsoever, in order that the student may thoroughly appreciate the nature of chemical change and become familiar with enough characteristic and typical cases of chemical action so that the general laws of chemical combination by weight and by volume may be logically deduced and the atomic and molecular theories presented as based upon those laws. Up to this stage the reactions should be written out in words and all formulation should be avoided, so that the student will not get the idea that "chemistry is the science of signs and symbols," or that "chemistry is a hypothetical science," but that he will feel that chemistry deals with certain very definite, characteristic, and fundamental changes of matter in which new substances are formed, and that these processes always go on in accordance with fixed and invariable laws, though they are influenced by conditions of temperature, pressure, light, electricity, and the presence of other substances in larger or smaller amounts. The theory and formulation when properly introduced should be an aid to the student, leading him to see that the expression of chemical facts is simplified thereby. Thus he will never make the error of regarding the symbol as the fundamental thing, but he will from the very outset look upon it simply as a useful form of shorthand expression, as it were, which is also a great aid in chemical thinking. Facts and theories should ever be kept distinct and separate in the student's mind, if he is to make real progress in the science. A thoroughgoing, logical presentation of the subject, leading the student slowly and with a sense of perfect comprehension into the deeper and more difficult phases, should constitute one of the prime features of the work of the first year. Interest should constantly be stimulated by references to the historical development of the subject, to the practical applications in the arts and industries, to sanitation and the treatment of disease, to the providing of proper food, clothing, fuel, and shelter, to the problems of transportation and communication, to the chemical changes that are constantly going on in the atmosphere, the waters, and the crust of the earth as well as in all living beings. Nevertheless, all the time the _science_ should be taught as the backbone of the entire course. The allusions to history and the manifold applications to daily life are indeed very important, but they must never obscure the science itself, for only thus can a thorough comprehension of chemistry be imparted and the benefits of the mental drill and culture be vouchsafed to the student. =Methods of teaching--The Lecture method= For the freshman and sophomore, two lectures per week are sufficient for this type of instruction. In these exercises the student should give his undivided attention to what is presented by the lecturer. The taking of notes is to be discouraged rather than encouraged, for it results in dividing the attention between what is presented and the mechanical work of writing. To take the place of the usual lecture notes, students of this grade had better be provided with a suitable text, definite chapters in which are assigned for reading in connection with each lecture. The text thus serves for purposes of review, and also as a means for inculcating additional details which cannot to advantage be presented in a lecture, but are best studied at home by perusing a book, the contents of which have been illuminated by the experimental demonstrations, the explanations on the blackboard, the charts, lantern slides, and above all the living development and presentation of the subject by the lecturer. The lectures should in no case be conducted primarily as an exercise in dictation and note taking. If the lectures do not give general orientation, illumination, and inspiration for further study in laboratory and library, they are an absolute failure and had better be omitted entirely. On the other hand, when properly conducted the lectures are the very life of the course. =The laboratory work= The laboratory work should be well correlated with the lectures, especially during the first year. The experiments to be performed by the student should be carefully chosen and should not be a mere repetition of the lecture demonstrations. The laboratory experiments should be both qualitative and quantitative in character. They should on the one hand illustrate the peculiar properties of the substances studied and the typical concomitant changes of chemical action, but on the other hand a sufficient number of quantitative exercises in the laboratory should be introduced to bring home to the student the laws of combining weights and volumes, thus giving him the idea that chemistry is exact and that quantitative relations always obtain when chemical action takes place. At the same time the quantitative exercises lay the basis for the proper comprehension of the laws of combining weights and volumes and the atomic and molecular theories. At least three periods of two consecutive hours each should be spent in the laboratory per week, and the laboratory exercises should be made so interesting and instructive that the student will feel inclined to work in the laboratory at odd times in addition if his program of other studies permits. The laboratory should at all times be, as its name implies, a place where work is done. Order and neatness should always prevail. Apparatus should be kept neat and clean, and in no case should slovenly habits of setting up apparatus be tolerated. The early introduction of a certain amount of quantitative experimentation in the course makes for habits of order and neatness in experimentation and guards against bringing up "sloppy" chemists. =The student's laboratory record= The laboratory notebook should be a neat and accurate record of the work in the laboratory. To this end the entries in the notebook should be made in the laboratory at the time when the experiment is actually being performed. The writing of data on loose scratch paper and then finally writing up the notebook later at home from such sheets is not to be recommended, for while thus the final appearance of the notebook may be improved, it is no longer a first-hand record such as every scientist makes, but rather a transcribed one. The student, in making up such a transcription, is only too apt to draw upon his inner consciousness to make the book appear better; indeed, when he has neglected to transcribe his notes for several days, he is bound to produce anything but a true and accurate record, to say nothing about being put to the temptation to "fake" results which he has either not at all obtained in the laboratory, or has recorded so imperfectly on the scratch paper that he can no longer interpret his record properly. The only true way is to have the notes made directly in the permanently bound notebook at the time when the experiment is actually in progress. The student ought not to take the laboratory notebook home at all without the instructor's knowledge and permission. Each experiment should be entered in the notebook in a brief, businesslike manner. Long-winded, superfluous discussions should be avoided. As a rule, drawings of apparatus in the notes are unnecessary, it being sufficient to indicate that the apparatus was set up according to Figure so-and-so in the laboratory manual or according to the directions given on page so-and-so. The student should be made to feel that the laboratory is the place where careful, purposeful experimentation is to be done, that this is the main object of the laboratory work, and that the notebook is merely a reliable record of what has been accomplished. To this end the data in the notebook should be complete, yet brief and to the point, so that what has been done can be looked up again and that the instructor may know that the experiment has been performed properly, that its purpose was understood by the student, and that he has made correct observations and drawn logical conclusions therefrom. While in each case the notes should indicate the purpose of the experiment, what has actually been done and observed, and the final conclusions, it is on the whole best not to have a general cut-and-dried formula according to which each and every experiment is to be recorded. It is better to encourage a certain degree of individuality in this matter on the part of each student. Notebooks should be corrected by the teacher every week, and the student should be asked to correct all errors which the teacher has indicated. A businesslike atmosphere should prevail in the laboratory at all times, and this should be reflected in the notebooks. Anything that savors of the pedantic is to be strictly avoided. Small blackboards should be conveniently placed in the laboratory so that the instructor may use them in explaining any points that may arise. Usually the same question arises with several members of the class, and a few moments of explanation before the blackboard enable the instructor to clear up the points raised. This not only saves the instructor's time, but it also stimulates interest in the laboratory when explanations are thus given to small groups just when the question is hot. It is, of course, assumed that the necessary amount of apparatus, chemicals, and other supplies is available, and that the laboratory desks, proper ventilation of the rooms, and safeguards in the case of all experiments fraught with danger have received the necessary painstaking attention on the part of the instructor, who must never for a moment relax in looking after these matters, which it is not the purpose to discuss here. At all times the student should work intelligently and be fully aware of any dangers that are inherent in what he is doing. It need hardly be said that a beginner should not be set at experiments that are specially dangerous. Having been given proper directions, the student should be taught to go ahead with confidence, for working in constant trepidation that an accident may occur often creates a nervous state that brings about the accident. Too much emphasis cannot be laid upon proper, definite laboratory instructions, especially as to kinds and amounts of materials to be used. Such directions as "take a _little_ phosphorus," for example, should be strictly avoided, for the direction as to amount is absolutely indefinite and may in the case where phosphorus or any other dangerous substance is used lead to dire accidents. The student should be given proper and very definite directions, and then he should be taught to follow these absolutely and not use more of the materials than is specified, as the beginner is so apt to do, thus often wasting his time and the reagents as well. Economy and the correct use of all laboratory supplies should be inculcated indirectly all the time. A fixed set of printed rules for the laboratory is generally neither necessary nor desirable when students are properly directed to work intelligently as they go, and good directions are given in the laboratory manual. Thus a spirit of doing intelligently what is right and proper, guarding against accidents, economizing in time and materials of all kinds will soon become dominant in the laboratory and will greatly add to the efficiency of the workers. Minor accidents are almost bound to occur at times in spite of all precautions, and the instructor should be ready to cope with these promptly by means of a properly supplied first-aid kit. =Recitations and quizzes= For students of the first year quizzes or recitations should be held at least twice a week. In these exercises the ground covered in the lectures and laboratory work should be carefully and systematically reviewed. The quiz classes should not be too large. Twenty-five students is the upper limit for a quiz section. The laboratory sections too should not be larger than this, and it is highly desirable that the same instructor conduct both the recitation and the immediate laboratory supervision of the student. Lecture classes can, of course, be very much larger in number. In most colleges the attendance upon classes in chemistry is so large that it is not possible for the professor to deliver the lectures and also personally conduct all of the laboratory work and recitations. It is consequently necessary to divide the class up into small sections for laboratory and quiz purposes. It is highly desirable that the student become well acquainted with his individual instructor in laboratory and quiz work, and therefore it would be unfortunate to have one instructor in the laboratory and still another instructor in the quiz. It might be argued that it is a good thing to have the student become acquainted with a number of instructors, but in the writer's experience such practice results to the disadvantage of the student, and is consequently not to be recommended. In the recitations the student is to be encouraged to do the talking. He is to be given an opportunity to ask questions as well as to answer the queries put by the teacher. Short written exercises of about ten minutes' duration can be given to advantage in each of these recitations. In this way the entire class writes upon a well-chosen question or solves a numerical chemical problem and thus a great deal of time is saved. The quiz room should be well provided with blackboards which may be used to great advantage in the writing of equations and the solution of chemical problems just as in a class in mathematics. The textbook, from which readings are assigned to the student in connection with the lectures, should contain questions which recapitulate the contents of each chapter. When such questions are not contained in the book, they ought to be provided by the teacher on printed or mimeographed sheets. When properly conducted, the recitation aids greatly in clarifying, arranging and fixing the important points of the course in the mind of the student. Young instructors are apt to make the mistake of doing too much talking in the quiz, instead of encouraging the student to express his views. In these days, when foreign languages and mathematics are more or less on the wane in colleges, the proper study of chemistry, particularly in the well-conducted quiz, will go far toward supplying the mental drill which the older subjects have always afforded. =Summary of first-year course= If the work of the first year has been properly conducted, it will have given the student a general view of the whole field of chemistry, together with a sufficient amount of detail so securely anchored in careful laboratory work and practical experience as to form a basis for either more advanced work in chemical lines or in the pursuance of the vocations already mentioned in which a knowledge of chemistry is basal. It is hardly necessary to add that if well taught, the student will at the end of such a course have a desire for more chemistry. =Organization of second-year course= The work of the second year of chemistry in college generally consists of quantitative analysis, though the more intensive study of the compounds of carbon, known as organic chemistry, is also frequently taken up at this time, and there is much to be said in favor of such practice. =Content of the course in quantitative analysis= In the quantitative analysis, habits of neatness and accuracy must be insisted upon. It is well to give the general orientation and directions by means of lectures. One or two such exercises per week will suffice. There should also be recitations. When two lectures per week are given, it will suffice to review the work with the student in connection with such lectures, provided the class is not too large for quiz purposes. Intelligent work should characterize a course in quantitative analysis. To this end the student should be taught how to take proper representative samples of the material to be analyzed. He should then be taught how to weigh or measure out that sample with proper care. The manipulations of the analytical process should be carried out so that each step is properly understood and its relations to the general laws of chemistry are constantly before the mind. In carrying out the process, the various sources of error must be thoroughly appreciated and guarded against. The final weighing or measuring of the form in which the ingredient sought is estimated should again be carried out with care, and in the calculation of the percentage content due regard should be had for the limits of error of experimentation throughout the entire analytical process. The student feels that a large number of the exercises in quantitative analysis are virtually cases of making chemical preparations of the highest possible purity, thus connecting his previous chemical experience with his quantitative work. The course in quantitative analysis should cover the determination of the more important basic and acid radicals, and should consist of both gravimetric and volumetric exercises. The choice of the exercises is of great importance. It may vary, and should vary considerably in different cases. Thus a student in agriculture is naturally interested in the methods of estimating lime, phosphorus, nitrogen, potash, silica, sulphur, etc., whereas a student in engineering would be more interested in work with the heavy metals and the ingredients which the commercial samples of such metals are apt to contain. Thus, analytical work on solder, bearing metal, iron and steel, cement, etc., should be introduced as soon as the student in engineering is ready for it. It is quite possible to inculcate the principles of quantitative analysis by selecting exercises in which the individual student is interested, though, to be sure, certain fundamental things would naturally have to be taken by all students, whatever be the line for which they are training. A few exercises in gas analysis and also water analysis should be given in every good course in quantitative analysis that occupies an entire year. Careful attention should be given to the notebook in the quantitative work, and the student should also be made to feel that in modern quantitative analysis not only balances and burettes are to serve as the measuring instruments, but that the polariscope and the refractometer also are very important, and that at times still other physical instruments like the spectroscope, the electrometer, and the viscometer may prove very useful indeed. The quantitative analysis offers a splendid opportunity for bringing home to the student what he has learned in the work of the first year, showing him one phase of the application of that knowledge and making him feel, as it were, the quantitative side of science. This latter view can be imparted only to a limited degree in the first year's work, but the quantitative course offers an unusual opportunity for giving the student an application of the fundamental quantitative laws which govern all chemical processes. It is not possible to analyze very many substances during any college course in quantitative analysis. The wise teacher will choose the substances to be analyzed so as to keep up the interest of the student and yet at the same time give him examples of all the fundamental cases that are commonly met in the practice of analytical work. A careful, painstaking, intelligent worker should be the result of the course in quantitative analysis. Toward the end of the course, too, a certain amount of speed should be insisted upon. The student should be taught to carry on several processes at the same time, but care should be taken not to overdo this. =The course in organic chemistry= In the course in organic chemistry, lectures, laboratory work, and recitations, arranged very much as to time as in the first year, will be found advantageous. If the intensive work in organic chemistry is postponed to the third year in college, there are certain advantages. For example, the student is more mature and has had drill and experience in the somewhat simpler processes commonly taught in general and analytical chemistry. On the other hand, the postponing of organic chemistry to the third year has the disadvantage that the student goes through his basal training in quantitative analysis without the help of that larger horizon which can come to him only through the study of the methods of organic chemistry. The general work of the first year, to be sure, if well done compensates in part for what is lost by postponing organic chemistry till the third year, but it can never entirely remove the loss to the student. Teachers will differ as to whether the time-honored division of organic chemistry into the aliphatic and aromatic series should be maintained pedagogically, but they will doubtless all agree that the methods of working out the structure of the chemical compound are peculiarly characteristic of the study of the compounds of carbon, and these methods must consequently constitute an important point to be inculcated in organic chemistry. The derivation of the various types of organic compounds from the fundamental hydrocarbons as well as from one another, and the characteristic reactions of each of these fundamental forms which lead to their identification and also often serve as a means of their purification, should naturally be taught in a thoroughgoing manner. The numerous practical applications which the teacher of organic chemistry has at his command will always serve to make this subject one of the deepest interest, if not the most fascinating portion of the entire subject of chemistry. No student should leave the course in organic chemistry without feeling the beautiful unity and logical relationship which obtains in the case of the compounds of carbon, the experimental study of which has cast so much light upon the chemical processes in living plants and animals, processes upon which life itself depends. The analysis of organic compounds is probably best taught in connection with the course in organic chemistry. It is here that the student is introduced to the use of the combustion furnace and the method of working out the empirical formulæ of the compounds which he has carefully prepared and purified. The laboratory practice in organic chemistry generally requires the use of larger pieces of apparatus. Some of the experiments also are connected with peculiar dangers of their own. These facts require that the student should not approach the course without sufficient preliminary training. Furthermore, the teacher needs to exercise special care in supervising the laboratory work so as to guard the student against serious accidents. The historical development of organic chemistry is especially interesting, and allusions to the history of the important discoveries and developments of ideas in organic chemistry should be used to stimulate interest and so enhance the value of the work of the student. The practical side of organic chemistry should never be lost sight of for a moment, and under no condition should the course be allowed to deteriorate into one of mere picturing of structural formulæ on the blackboard. All chemical formulas are merely compact forms of expression of what we know about chemical compounds. There are, no doubt, many facts about chemical compounds which their accepted formulas do not express at all, and the wise teacher should lead the student to see this. There is peculiar danger in the course in organic chemistry that the pupil become a mere formula worshiper, and this must carefully be guarded against. The applications of organic chemistry to the arts and industries, but especially to biochemistry, will no doubt interest many members of the class of a course in organic chemistry if the subject is properly taught. This will be particularly the case if the teacher always holds before the mind of the pupil the actual realities in the laboratory and in nature, using formulation merely as the expression of our knowledge and not as an end in itself. =Place of physical chemistry in the college curriculum= Physical chemistry, commonly regarded as the youngest and by its adherents the most important and all-pervading branch of chemistry, is presented very early in the college course by some teachers, and postponed to the junior and even the senior year by others. Just as a certain amount of organic chemistry should be taught in the first year, so a few of the most fundamental principles of physical chemistry must also find a place in the basal work of the beginner. However, in the first year's work in chemistry so many phases of the subject must needs be presented in order to give a good general view, that many details in either organic, analytical, or physical chemistry must necessarily be omitted. What is to be taught in that important basal year must, therefore, be selected with extreme care. Moreover, so far as physical chemistry is concerned, it is in a way chemical philosophy or general chemistry in the broadest sense of the word, and consequently requires for its successful pursuit not only a basal course, but also proper knowledge of analytical and organic chemistry, as well as a grounding in physics, crystallography, and mathematics. At the same time a certain amount of biological study is highly desirable. A good course in physical chemistry postulates lectures, laboratory work, and recitations. In general, these should be arranged much like those in the basal course and the course in organic chemistry. If anything, more time should be put upon the lectures and recitations; certainly more time should be devoted to exercises of this kind than in the course in quantitative analysis, which is best taught in the laboratory. At the same time it would be a mistake to teach physical chemistry without laboratory practice. Indeed, laboratory practice is the very life of physical chemistry, and the more of such work we can have, the better. However, since physical chemistry, as already stated, delves into the philosophical field, discussions in the lecture hall and classroom become of peculiar importance. =Courses in applied chemistry= Many colleges now give additional courses in chemical technology. These would naturally come after the student has had a sufficient foundation in general chemistry, chemical analysis, and organic and physical chemistry. As a rule such applied courses ought not to be given until the junior or senior year. It is a great mistake to introduce such courses earlier, for the student cannot do the work in an intelligent manner. =Enthusiastic teaching a vital factor= In all the courses in chemistry, interest and enthusiasm are of vital importance. These can be instilled only by the teacher himself, and no amount of laying out courses on paper and giving directions, however valuable they may be, can possibly take the place of an able, devoted, enthusiastic teacher. Chemistry deals with things, and hence is always best taught in the laboratory. The classroom and the library should create interest and enthusiasm for further laboratory work, and in turn the laboratory work should yield results that will finally manifest themselves in the form of good written reports. =The teacher must continue his researches= Original work should always be carried on by the college teacher. If he fails in this, his teaching will soon be dead. There will always be some bright students who can help him in his research work. These should be led on and developed along lines of original thought. From this source there will always spring live workers in the arts and industries as well as in academic lines. Lack of facilities and time is often pleaded by the college teacher as an excuse for not doing original work. There is no doubt that such facilities are often very meager. Nevertheless, the enthusiastic teacher is bound to find the time and also the means for doing some original work. A great deal cannot be expected of him as a rule because of his pedagogical duties, but a certain amount of productive work is absolutely essential to any live college teacher. =Future of chemistry in the college curriculum= The importance of chemistry in daily life and in the industries has been increasing and is bound to continue to increase. For this reason the subject is destined to take a more important place in the college curriculum. If well taught, college chemistry will not only widen the horizon of the student, but it will also afford him both manual training and mental drill and culture of the highest order. LOUIS KAHLENBERG _University of Wisconsin_ VI THE TEACHING OF PHYSICS The need of giving to physics a prominent place in the college curriculum of the twentieth century is quite universally admitted. If, as an eminent medical authority maintains, no man can be said to be educated who has not the knowledge of trigonometry, how much more true is this statement with reference to physics? The five human senses are not more varied in scope than are the five great domains of this science. In the study of heat, sound, and light we may strive merely to understand the nature of the external stimuli that come to us through touch, hearing and sight; but in mechanics, where we examine critically the simplest ideas of motion and inertia, we acquire the method of analysis which when applied to the mysteries of molecular physics and electricity carries us along avenues that lead to the most profound secrets of nature. Utilitarian aspects dwindle in our perspective as we face the problem of the structure, origin, and evolution of matter--as we question the independence of space and time. Modern physics possesses philosophic stature of heroic size. =Utilitarian value of the study Of physics= But with regard to everyday occurrences a study of physics is necessary. It is trite to mention the development in recent years of those mechanical and electrical arts that have made modern civilization. The submarine, vitalized by storage battery and Diesel engine, the torpedo with its gyroscopic pilot and pneumatic motors, the wireless transmission of speech over seas and continents--these things no longer excite wonder nor claim attention as we scan the morning paper; yet how many understand their mechanism or appreciate the spirit which has given them to the world? =Disciplinary value of the study= If culture means the subjective transformation of information into a philosophy of life, can culture be complete unless it has included in its reflections the marvelously simple yet intricate interrelations of natural phenomena? The value of this intricate simplicity as a mental discipline is equaled perhaps only in the finely drawn distinctions of philosophy and in the painstaking statements of limitations and the rapid generalizations of pure mathematics; and let us not forget the value of discipline, outgrown and unheeded though it be in the acquisitive life of the present age. =Relation of physics to philosophy and the exact sciences= The professional student, continually increasing in numbers in our colleges, either of science or in certain branches of law, finds a broad familiarity with the latest points of view of the physicist not only helpful but often indispensable. Chemistry can find with difficulty any artificial basis for a boundary of its domain from that of physics. Certainly no real one exists. The biologist is heard asking about the latest idea in atomic evolution and the electrical theories of matter, hoping to find in these illuminating points of view, he tells us, some analogy to his almost hopelessly complex problems of life and heredity. Even those medical men whose interest is entirely commercial appreciate the convenience of the X-ray and the importance of correctly interpreting the pathological effects of the rays of radio-activity and ultra-violet light. One finds a great geologist in collaboration with his distinguished colleague in physics, and from the latter comes a contribution on the rigidity of the earth. Astronomy answers nowadays to the name of astrophysics, and progressive observatories recognize in the laboratory a tool as essential as the telescope. In a word, the professional student of science not only finds that the subject matter of physics has many fundamental points of contact with his own chosen field, but also recognizes that the less complex nature of its material allows the method of study to stand out in bolder relief. Training in the method and a passion for the method are vital to a successful and an ardent career. =Should the teaching of college physics change its aim for different classes of students?= In the teaching of physics, then, the aim might at first sight appear to be quite varied, differing with different classes of students. A careful analysis of the situation, however, will show, we think, that this conclusion can with difficulty be justified: that it is necessary to conduct college instruction in a fashion dictated almost not at all by the subsequent aims of the students concerned. In the more elementary work, certainly, adherence to this idea is of great importance. The character, design, and purpose of an edifice do not appear in the foundations except that they are massive if the structure is to be great. Not infrequently this seems an unnecessary hardship to a professional student anxious to get into the work of his chosen field. If such is the case, let him question perhaps whether any study of physics should be attempted, as this query may have different answers for different individuals. But if he is to study it at all, there is but one place where the analysis of physical phenomena can begin, and that is with fundamentals--space, time, motion, and inertia. How can one who is ignorant of the existence and characteristics of rotational inertia understand a galvanometer? How can waves be discussed unless in terms of period, amplitude, frequency, and the like, that find definition in simple harmonic motion? How does one visualize the mechanism of a gas, unless by means of such ideas as momentum interchange, energy conservation, and forces of attraction? Let us emphasize here, lest we be misunderstood, that we are considering collegiate courses. We do not doubt that descriptive physics may be given after one fashion to farmers, quite differently to engineers, and from still a third point of view to medical students. Unfortunately some collegiate courses never get beyond the high school method. Our aim is not to discuss descriptive courses, but those that approach the subject with the spirit of critical analysis, for these alone do we deem worthy of a place in the college curriculum. =The course in college physics differentiated from the high school course= The problem of the descriptive course is the problem of the high school. Because of failure there, too often we see at many a university courses in subfreshman physics. These are made necessary where entrance requirements do not demand this subject and where subsequent interest along related lines develops among the students a tardy necessity of getting it. From the point of view of the collegiate course it often appears as if the subfreshman course could be raised to academic rank. This is because familiarity with the material must precede an analysis of it. Credit for high school physics on the records of the entrance examiner, unless this credit is based on entrance examination, is often found to stand for very little. Consequently the almost continual demand for the high school work under the direct supervision of a collegiate faculty. The number of students who should go into this course instead of the college course is increasing at the present time in the immediate locality of the writer. As contributory testimony here, witness the number of colleges that do not take cognizance at all of high school preparation and admit to the same college classes those who have never had preparatory physics with those who have had it. We are told the difference between the two groups is insignificant. Perhaps it is. If so, this fact reflects as much on the college as on the high school. If we are looking for a solution of our problem in this direction, let us be undeceived; we are looking backwards, not forward. =Need of adequate high school preparation in physics= No one will affirm that to a class of whose numbers some have never had high school physics a course that is really analytical can be given. Wherever a rigorous analytic course is given those who have been well trained in descriptive physics do well in it in general. Let us not beg the question by giving such physics in a college that does not require high school preparation. The college curriculum is full enough as it is without duplication of high school work, and any college physics course that is a first course is essentially a high school course. Let us rather put the responsibility squarely where it lies. The high school will respond if the urgency is made clear. Witness some of them in our cities already attempting the junior college idea, an idea that has not been unsuccessful in some of our private schools. If it is made clear that a thoroughgoing course in descriptive physics is a paramount necessity in college work and that no effort will be spared on the part of the university to insure this quality, the men will be found and the proper courses given. =Preparatory work in mathematics essential for success in college physics= We favor a comprehensive examination plan in all cases where the quality of the high school work is either unknown or open to question. Familiarity, likewise, with the most elementary uses of mathematics should be insured. It would be highly desirable that a course of collegiate grade in trigonometry should immediately precede the physics. This is not because the details of trigonometry are all needed in physics. In fact, a few who have never had trigonometry make a conspicuous success in physics. These, however, are ones who have a natural facility in analysis. To keep them out because of failure to have had a prerequisite course in trigonometry often works an unnecessary hardship. We would argue, therefore, for a formal prerequisite on this subject, reserving for certain students exemption, which should be determined in all cases, if not by the instructor himself, at least by his coöperation with some advisory administrative officer. =Need of testing each student's preparation= Nor is it sufficient with regard to the mathematical preparation or the knowledge of high school physics in either case to go exclusively by the official credit record of the student. It is our firm conviction from several years' experience where widely different aims in the student body are represented that above and beyond all formal records attention to the individual case is of prime importance. The opening week of the course should be so conducted that those who are obviously unequipped can be located and directed elsewhere into the proper work. How this may best be accomplished can be determined only by the circumstances in the individual school, we imagine. Daily tests covering the simplest descriptive information that should be retained from high school physics and requiring the intelligent use of arithmetic, elementary algebra, and geometry will reveal amazing incapacity in these things. Tuttle, in his little book entitled _An Introduction to Laboratory Physics_ (Jefferson Laboratory of Physics, Philadelphia, 1915), gives on pages 15-16 an excellent list of questions of this sort. Any one with teaching experience in the subject whatever can make up an equally good one suited for his special needs and temperament. It should not be assumed that all who fail in such tests should be dropped. Some undoubtedly should be sent back to high school work or its equivalent; others may need double the required work in mathematics to overcome their unreadiness in its use. Personal contacts will show that some are drifting into a scientific course who have no aptitude for it and who will be doomed to disappointment should they continue. In a word, then, we are convinced that the more carefully one plans the work of the first week or so the more smoothly does the work of the rest of the year follow. The number of failures may be reduced to a few per cent without in any way relaxing the standard of the course. =Methods of teaching college physics= With regard to the organization of the college courses in physics there seems to us to be at least one method that leads to a considerable degree of success. This is not the lecture method of instruction; neither is it a wholly unmitigated laboratory method. =Lecture method vs. laboratory method= To kindle inspiration and enthusiasm nothing can equal the contact in lectures with others, preferably leaders in their profession, but at least men who possess one of these qualities. Such contacts need not be frequent; indeed, they should not be. The speaker is apt to make more effort, the student to be more responsive, if such occasions are relatively rare. Even thus, although real information is imparted at such a time, it is seldom acquired. However, perspective is furnished, interest stimulated, and the occasion enjoyed. =Limitations of exclusive use of each method= For the real acquisition of scientific information, the great method is the working out of a laboratory exercise and pertinent problems, with informal guidance in the atmosphere of active study and discussion engendered among a small group,--the laboratory method. Taken alone, it is apt to become mechanical and uninteresting and the outlook to be obscured by details. Lectures, especially demonstration lectures, are needed to vitalize and inspire. Moreover, many of the most vivid illustrations of physical principles that occur on every hand to focus the popular attention are never met with in the college course because they are unsuited for inexperienced hands or not readily amenable to quantitative experimentation. The more informally such demonstrations can be conducted, the more enthusiastically they are received. =Aims of the laboratory method= With regard to laboratory work, accuracy in moderate degree is important, but too great insistence upon it is apt to overshadow the higher aim; namely, that of the analysis of the phenomena themselves. A determination of the pressure coefficient of a gas to half a per cent, accompanied by a clear visualization of the mechanism by which a gas exerts a pressure and a usable identification of temperature with kinetic agitation, would seem preferable to an experimental error of a tenth per cent which may be exacted which is unaccompanied by these inspiring and rather modern points of view. Especially in electricity is a familiarity with the essentials of the modern theories important. Here supplementary lectures are of great necessity, for no textbook keeps pace with progress in this tremendously important field. Problem solving with class discussion is absolutely essential, and should occupy at least one third of the entire time. In no other way can one be convinced that the student is doing anything more than committing to memory, or blindly following directions with no reaction of his own. =Value of the supplementary lecture= The incorporation recently of this idea into the courses at the University of Chicago has been very successful. Five sections which are under different instructors are combined one day a week at an hour when there are no other university engagements, for a lecture demonstration. This is given by a senior member of the staff whenever possible. The other meetings during the week are conducted by the individual instructors and consist of two two-hour laboratory periods and two class periods that usually run into somewhat over one hour each. These sections are limited to twenty-five, and a smaller number than this would be desirable. The responsibility for the course rests naturally upon the individual instructors of these small sections. These men also share in the demonstration work, since each is usually an enthusiast in some particular field and will make a great effort in his own specialty to give a successful popular presentation of the important ideas involved. The enthusiasm which this plan has engendered is very great. Attendance is crowded and there is always a row of visitors, teachers of the vicinity, advanced students in other fields of work, or undergraduates brought in by members of the class. These latter especially are encouraged, as this does much to offset current ideas that physics is a subject of unmitigated severity. The particular topics put into these demonstrations will be discussed in paragraphs below, which take up in more detail the organization of the special subdivisions of the material in a general physics course. =Mechanics a stumbling block--How to meet the difficulty= Mechanics is a stumbling block at the outset. As we have indicated above, it must form the beginning of any course that is analytic in aim. There is no question of sidestepping the difficulty: it must be surmounted. A judicious weeding during the first week is the initial part of the plan. Interest may be aroused at once in the demonstration lectures by mechanical tricks that show apparent violations of Newton's Laws. These group around the type of experiment which shows a modification of the natural uniform rectilinear motion of any object by some hidden force, most often a concealed magnetic field. The instinctive adherence of every one to Newton's dynamic definition, that acceleration defies the ratio of force to inertia, is made obvious by the amusement with which a trick in apparent defiance of this principle is greeted. Informality of discussion in such experiments, questions on the part of the instructor that are more than rhetorical, and volunteer answers and comment from the class increase the vividness of the impressions. A mechanical adaptation of the "monkey on the string" problem, using little electric hoists or clockworks, introduces interesting discussion of the third law in conjunction with the second. A toy cannon and target mounted on easily rolling carriages bring in the similar ideas where impulses rather than forces alone can be measured. There follow, then, the laboratory experiments of the Atwood machine and the force table, where quantitative results are demanded. It is desirable to have these experiments at least worked by the class in unison. Whatever may be the exigencies of numbers and apparatus equipment that prevent it later, these introductions should be given to and discussed by all together. In the nature of things, fortunately, this is possible. A single Atwood machine will give traces for all in a short time under the guidance of the instructor. The force table experiment is nine-tenths calculation, and verifications may be made for a large number in a short time. Searching problems and discussion are instigated at once, and the notion of rotational equilibrium and force moments brought in. Because of the very great difficulty seeming to attach to force resolutions, demonstration experiments and problems using a bridge structure, such as the Harvard experimental truss, will amply repay the time invested. Another experiment here, which makes analysis of the practice of weighing, is possible, although there will be divergence almost at once due to the personality of the instructor and the equipment by which he finds himself limited. The early introduction of moments is important, however, because it seems as if a great amount of unnecessary confusion on this topic is continually cropping out later. At this point, if limitations of apparatus present a difficulty, a group of more or less independent experiments may be started. Ideas of energy may be illustrated in the determination of the efficiency and the horse power of simple machines, such as water motors, pulleys, and even small gas or steam engines. In discussion of power one should not forget that in practical problems one meets power as force times velocity rather more frequently than as rate of doing work, and this aspect should be emphasized in the experiments. Conservation of energy is brought out in these same experiments with reference to the efficiencies involved. In sharp contrast here the principle of conservation of momentum may be brought in by ballistic pendulum experiments involving elastic and inelastic impacts. Most students are unfamiliar with the application of these ideas to the determination of projectile velocities, and this forms an interesting lecture demonstration. Elasticity likewise is a topic that may be introduced with more or less emphasis according to the predilection of the instructor. The moduli of Young and of simple rigidity lend themselves readily to quantitative laboratory experiments. Any amount of interesting material may be culled here from recent investigations of Michelson, Bridgman, and others with regard to elastic limits, departures from the simple relations, variations with pressure, etc., for a lantern or demonstration talk in these connections. By this time the student should have found himself sufficiently prepared to take up problems of rotational motion. The application of Newton's Laws to pure rotations and combinations of rotation and translation, such as rolling motions, are very many. We would emphasize here the dynamic definition of moment of inertia, I = Fh/_a_ rather than the one so frequently given importance for computational purposes, S_mr_^{2}. Quantitative experiments are furnished by the rotational counterpart of the Atwood machine. Lecture demonstrations for several talks abound: stability of spin about the axis of greatest inertia, Kelvin's famous experiments with eggs and tops containing liquids, which suggest the gyroscopic ideas, and finally a discussion of gyroscopes and their multitudinous applications. The book of Crabtree, _Spinning Tops and the Gyroscope_, and the several papers by Gray in the _Proceedings of the Physical Society of London_, summarize a wealth of material. If one wishes to interject a parenthetical discussion of the Bernouilli principle, and the simplest laws of pressure distributions on plane surfaces moving through a resisting medium, a group of striking demonstrations is possible involving this notion, and by simple combination of it with the precession of a rotating body the boomerang may be brought in and its action for the major part given explanation. Rotational motion leads naturally to a discussion of centripetal force, and this in turn is simple harmonic motion. This latter finds most important applications in the pendulum experiments, and no end of material is here to be found in any of the textbooks. The greatest refinement of experimentation for elementary purposes will be the determination of "g" by the method of coincidences between a simple pendulum and the standard clock. Elementary analysis without use of calculus reaches its culmination in a discussion of forced vibrations similar to that used by Magie in his general text. Many will not care to go as far as this. Others will go farther and discuss Kater's pendulum and the small corrections needed for precision, for here does precision find bold expression. It is not our purpose to give a synopsis of the entire general physics course. We have made an especially detailed study of mechanics, because this topic is the one of greatest difficulty by far in the pedagogy. It is too formally given in the average text, and seems to have suffered most of all from lack of imagination on the part of instructors. =Suggested content for the study of phenomena of heat and molecular physics= In the field of heat and molecular physics in general there is much better textbook material. Experiments here may legitimately be called precise, for the gas laws, temperature coefficients, and densities of gases and saturated vapor pressures will readily yield in comparatively inexperienced hands an accuracy of about one in a thousand. In the demonstrations emphasis should be given to the visualization of the kinetic theory points of view. Such models as the Northrup visible molecule apparatus are very helpful. However, in absence of funds for such elaboration, slides from imaginative drawings showing to scale conditions in solids, liquids, and vapors with average free paths indicated and the history of single molecules depicted will be found ideal in getting the visualization home to the student. Where we have a theory so completely established as the mechanical theory of heat it seems quite fair to have recourse to the eye of the senses to aid the eye of the mind. Brownian movements have already yielded up their dances to the motion picture camera. Need the "movies" be the only ones to profit by the animated cartoon? Nor should the classical material be forgotten. Boys' experiments in soap bubbles have been the inspiration of generations of students of capillarity. And if the physicist will consult with the physiological chemist he will find a mass of material of which he never dreamed where these phenomena of surface tension enter in a most direct fashion to leading questions in the life sciences. =The teacher of scholarship and understanding is the teacher who uses sound methods= Enough has been said to indicate what we consider the methods of successful teaching of college physics. It is quite obvious, we think, that physics constitutes no exception to the rule that the teacher must first of all know and understand his subject. Right here lies probably nine tenths of the fault with our pedagogy. No amount of study of method will yield such returns as the study of the subject itself. The honest student, and every teacher should belong to this class or he has no claim to the name, is well aware that most of his deficiency in explaining a topic is in direct ratio to his own lack of comprehension of it. In physics, as in every other walk of life, we suffer from lack of thoroughness, from a kind of superficiality that is characteristically human but especially American. We have yet to know of any one who really ranks as a scholar in his subject from whom students do not derive inspiration and enthusiasm. Such a one usually pays little attention to the methods of others, for the divine fire of knowledge itself does not need much of tinder to kindle the torches of others. Our greatest plea is for our teachers to be men of understanding, for then they will be found to be men of method. =The method of analysis dominant in physics= The sequence in which heat, electricity, sound, and light follow mechanics seems quite immaterial. Several equally logical plans may be organized. Preference is usually accorded one or the other on the basis of local conditions of equipment, and needs little reference to pedagogy. If one gives to mechanics its proper importance, the difficulty in giving instruction in the other topics seems very much less. The momentum acquired seems to serve for the balance of the year. Always must analysis be insisted upon, if our college course is going to differ from that of the high school. If we are to let students be content to read current from an ammeter with a calibrated scale and not have the interest to inquire and the ambition to insist upon the knowledge of how that calibration was originally made, we have no right to claim any collegiate rank for our courses. But if we define electrical current in terms of mechanical force which exhibits a balanced couple on a system in rotational equilibrium, there can be no dodging of the issue, for in no other way than by the study of the mechanics of the situation can the content and the limitations of our definition be understood. Any college work, so called, that does less than analyze thus is nothing more than a review and amplification of the material that should be within the range of the high school student and in that place presented to him. The first college course reveals a different method, the method of analysis. Science at the present time is so far developed that in no branch is progress made by mere description and classification. The method of analysis is dominant in the biological and the earth sciences as well as in the physics and chemistry of today. =Teaching of advanced courses in physics= On the more advanced college courses which follow the general physics course little comment is needed. Problems and questions here also exist, but they have a strongly local color and are out of place in a general discussion. The student body is no longer composed of the rank and file, half of whom are driven, by some requirement or other, into work in which they have but a passing interest at best. It is no longer a problem of seeing how much can be made to adhere in spite of indifference, of how firm a foundation can be prepared for needs as yet unrecognized in the subject of the effort. A very limited number, comparatively, enter further work of senior college courses, and these have either enthusiasm or ability and often both. Of course, a cold neglect or bored indifference in the attitude of the teacher will be resented. It will kill enthusiasm and send ability seeking inspiration elsewhere. But any one who is fond of his subject, and of moderate ability and industry, should have no difficulty in developing senior college work. If our instructor in the general course must be a scholar to be successful, the man in more advanced work must be one _a fortiori_. If he is not, few who come in contact with him have so little discernment as to fail to recognize the fact. =Organization of advanced courses= Organization of senior college work may be in many ways. One method where an institution follows the quarter system is the plan of having eight or ten different and rather unrelated twelve-week major courses which may be taken in almost any order. Half of these are lecture courses, the other half exclusively laboratory courses. There should be a correspondence of material to some extent between the two. Lectures on the kinetic theory of gases should have a parallel course in which the classical experiments of the senior heat laboratory are performed,--such experiments, for example, as vapor density, resistance and thermocouple pyrometry, bomb calorimetry viscosity, molecular conductivity, freezing and boiling points, recalescence, etc. A course of advanced electrical measurements should have a parallel lecture course in which the theoretical aspects of electromagnetism, the classical theories, and the equations that represent transitory and equilibrium conditions in complex circuits are discussed. In optics, likewise, there is ample material of great importance: physical, geometrical optics, spectroscopy, photography, X-ray crystallography, etc. The advanced student in these fields finds more elasticity and opportunity for cultivating a special interest in having a large number of limited interest courses from which to choose than in having such material presented in a completely organized course covering one or two years of complete work. Instructors who are specialists have opportunity of working up courses in their own fields which they do more efficiently under this plan. Research begins at innumerable places along the way, and the senior college courses so organized are the feeders of all graduate work. =Dangers of formalizing methods of instruction= In all of the above discussion it should be clearly remembered that no single plan or no one particular method has the final word or ever will have. As long as a science is growing and unfinished, points of view will continually be shifting. We are largely orthodox in our teaching. If brought up on the laboratory method of instruction it may seem the best one for us, but others may prefer another way which they have inherited. Let us appeal, then, for a constructive orthodoxy. Let us be as teachers of a subject to which we are devoted, truly and sincerely open-minded, quick to recognize and sincere in our efforts to adopt what is better wherever we meet it: waiting not to meet it, either, but going out to seek it. From the humblest college to the greatest university we shall find it here and there. Not alone in schools but in the legion of human activities about us on every hand are people who are doing things more efficiently, more thoroughly, and more skillfully than we do things. If we would be of the number that lead, we must be among the first to recognize these facts and profit by them. First, let our work be organized with respect to that of others--the high schools; not discounting their labor but having them truly build for us. Second, let us be open-minded enough to see that all methods of instruction have their advantages and make such combinations of the best elements in each as best suit our purpose. Above all things, let us know our subject. Here is a task before which we quail in this generation of vast vistas. But there is no alternative for us. No amount of method will remove the curse of the superficially informed. Let us devote ourselves to smaller fields if we must, but let us not tolerate ignorance among those who bear the burden of passing on, with its flame ever more consuming, the torch of knowledge. HARVEY B. LEMON _University of Chicago_ VII THE TEACHING OF GEOLOGY =Values of the study of geology diverse= So wide is the scope of the science of the earth, so varied is its subject matter, and so diverse are the mental activities called forth in its pursuit, that its function in collegiate training cannot be summed up in an introductory phrase or two. Geology is so composite that it is better fitted to serve a related group of educational purposes than a single one alone. Besides this, these possible services have not yet become so familiar that they can be brought vividly to mind by an apt word or phrase; they need elaboration and exposition to be valued at what they are really worth. Geology is yet a young science and still growing, and as in the case of a growing boy, to know what it was a few years ago is not to know what it is today. Its disciplines take on a realistic phase in the main, but yet in some aspects appeal powerfully to the imagination. Its subject matter forms a constitutional history of our planet and its inhabitants, but yet largely wears a descriptive or a dynamic garb. =Geology a study of the process of evolution= Though basally historical, a large part of the literature of geology is concerned with the description of rocks, structural features, geologic terrains, surface configurations and their modes of formation and means of identification. A notable part of the text prepared for college students relates primarily to phenomena and processes, leaving the history of the earth to follow later in a seemingly secondary way. This has its defense in a desire first to make clear the modes of the geologic processes, to the end that the parts played by these processes in the complexities of actions that make up the historical stages may be better realized. This has the effect, however, of giving the impression that geology is primarily a study of rocks and rock-forming processes, and this impression is confirmed by the great mass of descriptive literature that has sprung almost necessarily from the task of delineating such a multitude of formations before trying to interpret their modes of origin or to assign them their places in the history of the earth. The descriptive details are the indispensable data of a sound history, and they have in addition specific values independent of their service as historical data. But into the multiplicity and complexity of the details of structure and of process, the average college student can wisely enter to a limited extent only, except as they form types, or appear in the local fields which he studies, where they serve as concrete examples of world-forming processes. =Disciplinary worth of study of geology= The study of these structures, formations, configurations, and processes yields each its own special phase of discipline and its own measure of information. The work takes on various chemical, mechanical, and biological aspects. As a means of discipline it calls for keenness and diligence in observation, circumspection in inference, a judicial balancing of factors in interpretation. An active use of the scientific imagination is called forth in following formations to inaccessible depths or beneath areas where they are concealed from view. While thus the study of structures, formations and configurations constitutes the most obtrusive phase of geologic study and has given trend to pedagogical opinion respecting its place in a college course, such study is not, in the opinion of the writer, the foremost function of the subject in a college curriculum that is designed to be really broad, basal, and free, in contradistinction to one that is tied to a specific vocational purpose. =This study concerned primarily with the typical college course, not with vocational courses= While we recognize, with full sympathy, that the subject matter of geology enters vitally into certain vocational and prevocational courses, and, in such relations, calls for special selections of material and an appropriate handling, if it is to fulfill these purposes effectively, this seems to us aside from the purpose of this discussion, which centers on typical college training--training which is liberal in the cosmic sense, not merely from the homocentric point of view. =Knowledge of geology contributes to a truly liberal education= To subserve these broader purposes, geology is to be studied comprehensively as the evolution of the earth and its inhabitants. The earth in itself is to be regarded as an organism and as the foster-parent of a great series of organisms that sprang into being and pursued their careers in the contact zones between its rigid body and its fluidal envelopes. These contact zones are, in a special sense, the province of geography in both its physical and its biotic aspects. The evolution of the biotic and the psychic worlds in these horizons is an essential part of the history of the whole, for each factor has reacted powerfully on the others. An appreciative grasp of these great evolutions, and of their relations to one another, is essential to a really broad view of the world of which we are a part; it is scarcely less than an essential factor in a modern liberal education. =Geology embraces all the great evolutions= Let us agree, then, at the outset, that a true study of the career of the earth is not adequately compassed by a mere tracing of its inorganic history or an elucidation of its physical structure and mineral content, but that it embraces as well all the great evolutions fostered within the earth's mantles in the course of its career. Greatest among these fostered evolutions, from the homocentric point of view, are the living, the sentient, and the thinking kingdoms that have grown up with the later phases of the physical evolution. It does not militate against this view that each of these kingdoms is, in itself, the subject of special sciences, and that these, in turn, envelop a multitude of sub-sciences, for that is true of every comprehensive unit. Nor is it inconsistent with this larger view of the scope of geology that it is, itself, often given a much narrower definition, as already implied. In its broader sense, geology is an enveloping science, surveying, in a broad historical way, many subjects that call for intensive study under more special sciences, just as human history sweeps comprehensively over a broad field cultivated more intensively by special humanistic sciences. In a comprehensive study of the earth as an organism, it is essential that there be embraced a sufficient consideration of all the vital factors that entered into its history to give these their due place and their true value among the agencies that contributed to its evolution. A true biography of the earth can no more be regarded as complete without the biotic and psychic elements that sprang forth from it, or were fostered within its mantles, than can the biography of a human being be complete with a mere sketch of his physical frame and bodily growth. The physical and biological evolutions are well recognized as essential parts of earth history. Although the mental evolutions have emerged gradually with the biological evolutions, and have run more or less nearly parallel with them--have, indeed, been a working part of them--they have been less fully and frankly recognized as elements of geological history. They have been rather scantily treated in the literature of the subject; but they are, none the less, a vital part of the great history. They have found some recognition, though much too meager, in the more comprehensive and philosophical treatises on earth-science. It may be safely prophesied that the later and higher evolutions that grace our planet will be more adequately emphasized as the science grows into its full maturity and comes into its true place among the sciences. It is important to emphasize this here, since it is preëminently the function of a liberal college course to give precedence to the comprehensive and the essential, both in its selection of its subject matter and in its treatment of what it selects. It is the function of a liberal course of study to bring that which is broad and basal and vital into relief, and to set it over against that which is limited, special, and technical, however valuable the latter may be in vocational training and in economic application. =Physical and dynamic boundaries of geology--Implications for teaching= In view of these considerations--and frankly recognizing the inadequacies of current treatment--let us note, before we go further, what are the physical and dynamic boundaries of the geologic field, that we may the better see how that field merges into the domains of other sciences. This will the better prepare us to realize the nature of the disciplines for which earth-science forms a suitable basis, as well as the types of intellectual furniture it yields to the mind. Obviously these disciplines and this substance of thought should determine the place of the science in the curriculum of any course that assumes the task of giving a broad and liberal education. Earth-science is the domestic chapter of celestial science. Our planet is but a modest unit among the great celestial assemblage of worlds; but, modest as it is, it is that unit about which we have by far the fullest and most reliable knowledge. The earth not only furnishes the physical baseline of celestial observation, but supplies all the appliances by which inquiry penetrates the depths of the heavens. Not alone earth-science, as such, but several of the intensive sciences brought into being through the intellectual evolutions that have attended the later history of the earth, have been prerequisites to the development of the broad science of the outer heavens. The science of the lower heavens is a factor of earth-science in the definition we are just about to give. At the same time, the whole earth, including the lower heavens, is enveloped by the more comprehensive domain of celestial science. If we seek the most logical limit that may be assigned the realm of earth-science, as distinguished from that of celestial science, of which it is the home unit, it may be found at that borderline _within which_ any passive body obeys the call of the earth, as against the call of the outer worlds, and _without which_ such a passive body obeys the call of the outer worlds, the call of the sun in particular. This limit is the _dynamic dividing line_ between the kingdom of the earth and the kingdom of the outer heavens. This boundary, according to Moulton, incloses a spheroid whose minimum radius is about 620,000 miles, and whose maximum radius is about 930,000 miles. We may, then, conveniently say that the earth's sphere of control stretches out a million kilometers from its center and that this defines its true realm. At the same time, this defines the logical limit of the earth's ultra-atmosphere and appears to mark a zone of exchange between the ultra-atmosphere of the earth and the ultra-atmosphere of the sun. It thus appears to imply the place and the mode of an exchange of vital elements upon which probably hangs the wonderful maintenance of the earth's atmosphere for many millions of years and the equally wonderful regulation of the essential qualities of the atmosphere so that these have always remained within the narrow range subservient to terrestrial life. It is needless to add that this regulation also conditions the present intellectual status of the thinking factor among the inhabitants of the earth out of which--may I be pardoned for saying?--has grown the present educational discussion. If this last shall seem to squint toward special pleading, let it be considered that, as we see things, it is precisely those views that take hold of the issues upon which our very being and all its activities depend, that serve best to train youth to broad views and penetrating thought. Such thinking seems to me to form the very essence of a really liberal education. Not only is this definition of the sphere of geology comprehensive, but it has the special merit of being _dynamic_, rather than material. Such a dynamic definition comports with the view that earth-study should center on the forces and energies that actuated its evolution, since these are the most vital feature of the evolution itself. It is important to form adequate concepts of the energies that have maintained the past ongoings of the earth not only, but that still maintain its present activities and predetermine its future. It is the study of the forces and the processes of past and of present evolutions that constitute the soul of the science, rather than the apparently fixed and passive aspects of the earth's formations and configurations which are but the products of the processes that have gone before. Even the apparent passiveness of the geologic products is illusive, for they are in reality expressions of continued internal activities of an intense, though occult, order. These escape notice largely because they are balanced against one another in a system of equilibrium which pervades them and gives them the appearance of fixity. To serve their proper functions as sources of higher education, the concepts of the constitution of the earth should penetrate even to these refined aspects of physical organization and should bring the whole into harmony with the most advanced views of the real nature of physical organisms. This removes from the whole terrestrial organism every similitude of inertness and gives it a fundamental refinement, activity, and potency of the highest order. To form a true and consistent concept, the enveloping earth-science must be assumed to embrace, potentially at least, the essentials of all that was evolved within it and from it, with, of course, due recognition of what was added from without. _The history of the earth should therefore be taught in college courses as a succession of complex dynamic events, great in the past and great in future potentialities._ The formations and configurations left by the successive phases of action are to be studied primarily as the vestiges of the processes that gave them birth, and hence as their historic credentials. They are to be looked upon less as the vital things in themselves, than as the _record_ of the events of the time and as the forerunners of the subsequent events that may be potential in them. And so, primarily, the geologic records are to be scrutinized to find _the deeper meanings which they embody_, whether such meanings lie in the physical, the biological, or the psychological world. =Geology the means of developing scientific imagination of time and space= Turning to specific phases of the subject, it may first be noted that geology is singularly suited to develop clear visions of vast stretches of time; it opens broad visions of the panorama of world events, a panorama still passing before us. While the celestial order of things no doubt involves greater lapses of time, these are not so easily realized, for they are not so well filled in with a succession of records of the passing stages that make up the whole. But even the lapses of geologic time are greater than immature minds can readily grasp; however, their _powers of realization_ are greatly strengthened by studying so protracted a record, built up stage upon stage. The very slowness with which the geologic record was made, as well as the evidences of slowness in each part of the record, help to draw out an appreciation of the immensity of the whole. The round period covered by the more legible range of the geologic record rises to the order of a hundred million years, perhaps to several hundred million years. The large view of history which this implies has already come to form the ample background on which are projected the concepts of the broader class of thinkers; such largeness of view will quite surely be held to be an indispensable prerequisite to the still broader thinking of the future for which the better order of students are now preparing. While this is preëminently true of the concept of time, the concept of space is fairly well cultivated by geologic study, though far less effectively than is done by astronomical study. Astronomy and geology work happily together in contributing to largeness of thought. The study of the origin and early history of the earth brings the student into touch with the most far-reaching problems that have thus far called forth the intellectual efforts of man. If rightly handled, these great themes may be made to teach the true method of inquiry into past natural events whose vastness puts them quite beyond the resources of the laboratory. This method finds its key in a search for the history of such vast and remote events by a scrutiny of the vestiges these events have left as their own automatic record. This method stands in sharp contradistinction to simple speculation without such search for talismanic vestiges, a discredited method which is too often supposed to be the only way of dealing with such themes. To be really competent in the field of larger and deeper thinking, every courageous mind should be able to cross the threshold of any of the profound problems of the universe with safe and circumspect steps, however certain it may be that only a slight measure of penetration of the problem may be attainable. A well-ordered mind will remain at once complacent and wholesome when brought to the limit of its effort by the limit of evidence. The problem of the origin of celestial worlds, of which the genesis of the earth is the theme of largest human interest, is admirably suited to give college students at once a modest sense of their limitations and a wholesome attitude toward problems of the vaster type. Without having acquired the power to make prudent and duly controlled excursions into the vaster fields of thought, the mind can scarcely be said to have been liberalized. =Geology a means of training in thinking in scientific experiences= From the very outset, the tracing of the earth history forces a comprehensive study of the co-workings of the three dominant states of matter massively embodied in the atmosphere, the hydrosphere, and the lithosphere, the great terrestrial triumvirate. The strata of the earth are the joint products of these three elements and constitute their lithographic record. These three coöperating and contending elements not only bring into view the three typical phases of physical action, but they present this action in such titanic aspects as to force the young mind to think along large lines, with the great advantage that these actions are controlled by determinate laws, while the causes and the results are both tangible and impressive. While there is a large class of tangible and determinate problems of this kind, embracing shiftings of matter on the earth's surface, distortions of strata, and changes of bodily form, there are also problems of a more hidden nature such as internal mutations. These give rise to mathematical, physical, and chemical inquiries while at the same time they call into play the use of the scientific imagination and are thus rich in the possibilities of training. Thus in varied ways geological work joins hands with chemical, physical, mechanical, and mathematical work. When life first appears in the record, there is occasion to raise the profound question of its origin, and with this arises a closely related question as to the nature of the conditions that invited life, which leads on to the further question, what fostered the development of life throughout its long history? While the obscurity of the earliest record leaves the question of origin indeterminate for the present, duly guarded thought upon the subject should foster a wholesome spirit toward inquiry in this vital line as well as a hospitable attitude toward whatever solution may finally await us. In all such studies the student should be invited to look to _the vestiges left automatically by the process itself_ for the answer, and he should learn to accept the teachings of evidence precisely as it presents itself. So also when a problem is, for the present, indeterminate, it is peculiarly wholesome for the inquirer to learn to rest the case where the light of evidence fails, and to be complacent in such suspension of judgment and to wait further light patiently in serene confidence that the vestiges left by the actuating agencies in their constructive processes are the surest index of the ultimate truth and are likely to be sooner or later detected and read truly. =Relation of geology to botany, zoölogy, psychology, and sociology= In the successive records of past life impressed on strata piled one upon another until they form the great paleontologic register, there is an ample and a solid basis for the study of the historic evolution of life. With this also go evidences of the conditions that attended this life progress and that gave trend to it. This record of the relations of life to the environing physical conditions forms one of the most stimulating fields of study that can engage the student who seeks light on the great problems of biological progress. Here geology joins hands with botany and zoölogy in a mutual helpfulness that is scarcely less than indispensable to each. Following, or perhaps immediately attending, the introduction of physiological life, there appeared signs of sentient life. The preservation of certain of the sense organs, taken together with the collateral evidences of sense action, as early as Cambrian times, furnish the groundwork for a historical study of the progress of sentient life, eventuating in the higher forms of mental life. Here the problems of geology run hand in hand with the problems of psychology. The limitations of the evidence bearing on psychological phenomena, while regrettable, are not without some compensation in that they center the attention on the simpler aspects of the protracted deployment of the psychological functions. In addition to the clear evidences of psychic action, in at least its elementary forms, there appeared early in the stratigraphic records intimations of some of the relationships that sentient beings then bore to one another; and this relationship gives occasion to study the primitive aspects of sociological phenomena. If nothing more is learned than the important lesson that sociology is not a thing of today, not an untried realm inviting all kinds of ill-digested projects, but on the contrary is a field of vast and instructive history, the gain will not be inconsiderable. There are intimations of the early existence and effective activity of those affections that precede and that cluster about the parental relationship, the nucleus of the most vital of all the sociological relationships. In contrast to the affections, there are distinct evidences of antagonistic relations, of pursuit and capture, of attack and defense; there were tools of warfare and devices for protection. In time, a wide-ranging series of experiments, so to speak, were tried to secure advantage, to avoid suffering, to escape death, and to preserve the species. There were even suggestions of the cruder forms of government. The many stages in the evolution of the various devices, as well as the stages of their abandonment, that followed one another in the course of the ages recorded the results of a multitude of efforts at sociological adjustment. They raise the question whether a common set of guiding principles does not underlie all such relationships, earlier and later, whatever their rank in our scale of valuation. And so this great field of inquiry--too narrowly regarded as merely humanistic--comes into view early in the history of the earth. The geological and the sociological sciences find in it common working ground. If the geologic and the humanistic sciences are given each their widest interpretation and their freest application, the advantage cannot be other than mutual. It is perhaps not too much to say that studies in the physiological, the psychological, the sociological, and the allied fields necessarily lack completeness if they do not bring into their purview the data of their common historical record traced as far back as it is found to contain intimations of their actual extension. It is customary to speak of the geologic ages as though they were wholly past; they are, indeed, chiefly past as the record now stands, but time runs on and earth history continues; the processes of the past are still active, and they are likely to work on far into the future. And so geologic study links itself fundamentally into all such present terrestrial interests as take hold of the distant future. The forecast of the earth's endurance, attended by conditions congenial to life and to the mental and moral activities, hinges on a sound insight into the great actuating forces inherent in the earth, together with those likely to come into play from the celestial environment. All human interests, in so far as they are dependent on a protracted future, center in the prognosis of the earth based on its present and its past. The latest phases of geologic doctrine prophesy a long future habitability of the earth. They thus give meaning and emphasis to the deeper purposes sought in all the higher endeavors, not the least of which is education, particularly those phases of education that lead to effects which may be handed down from age to age. =Standard for selecting subject matter for the general college course: select fundamentals or that which bears on fundamentals= Out of all this vast physical, biological, and psychological history, the things to be selected for substance of thought and for service in mental training in a college course are, first of all, those that are either fundamental in themselves, or that have vital bearings on what is fundamental. These are chiefly the great dynamic factors, the agencies that gave trend to the master events, the forces that actuated the basal processes by which the vast results were attained. The material formations and the surficial configurations that resulted are to be duly considered, to be sure, for they form the basis of interpretation and they are, besides, the repositories of economic values of indispensable worth; but, as already urged, in a course of intellectual training, these are to be regarded rather as the relics of the great agencies and the proofs of their actions, than as the most vital subjects of study, which are the agencies themselves. As already remarked, the geologic formations are to be treated rather as the credentials of the potencies that reside in the earth organism, than as the vital things themselves. The vestiges of creation and the footprints of historical progress embody the soul of the subject; they constitute the chief source of inspiration to those who aspire to think in large, deep ways of really great things. It is of little value, from the viewpoint of liberal culture, to know that there is a certain succession of sandstones, shales, and limestones; that professional convention has given them certain names, more or less infelicitous in derivation and in phonic quality; but it is of vital consequence to learn how and why these relics of former processes came to be left as they were left, and thus came to be witnesses to the history of the far past. It was a wise thing, no doubt, that the fathers of geology strongly insisted that there should be a rigorous and rather literal adhesion to the terrestrial record in all earth studies, because in those times of transition from the loose, more or less fantastic thought that marked the adolescent stage of the human race, it was imperative that students should stick close to the immediate evidence of what had transpired, and should withhold themselves from much enlargement of view based on the less tangible evidences; but at the present stage, when the general nature of the earth's history has been firmly established, it would be an error on the part of those who seek for the most liberalizing and broadening values of the science, to treat the record merely as a material register of immediate import only, to the neglect of the less tangible but more vital teachings immanent in its great forces and processes. The seeker of liberal culture should direct his attention to the great events, and, above all, to the larger and deeper meanings implied by these events. And so--may I be pardoned for reëmphasizing?--the teacher of geology whose essential purpose is liberal training, leading to broad and firm knowledge and to sound processes of thought, will critically observe the distinction between geology taught appropriately from the collegiate point of view, and geology taught specifically from the professional and technical points of view. In these latter, specific details in specific lines are important, and may even be essential, but it is the function of the college teacher of geology _to select_ from the great mass of material of the science such factors as are basal, vital, and talismanic. He will give these emphasis, while he neglects the multitude of details that lack significance as working elements or as landmarks of progress, whatever their value in other relations. This selection is equally important, whether applied to the great physical processes that have shaped the earth into its present configuration, or to the great chemical and mineralogical processes that have determined its texture and its structure, or to the great biological and psychological processes that have given trend to the development of its inhabitants. Even if the undergraduate course in geology is pursued less for the purpose of liberal culture than as a means of preparing for a professional career as an economic geologist, no essential departure from an effort to master first the basal features and the broader aspects of the science, especially the dynamic aspects, is to be advised. The shortest road to _declared success_ in professional and economic geology lies through the early mastery of its fundamentals. No doubt immediate and apparent success may often be sooner reached by a narrower and shallower study of such special phases of the subject as happen just now to be most obviously related to the existing state of the industries; but industrial demands are constantly changing--indeed, at present, rather rapidly--and new aspects follow one another in close succession. These new aspects almost inevitably spring from the more basal factors as these rise into function with the progress of experience or the stress of new demands. Those who have sought only the immediate and the superficial, at the expense of the basal, and especially those who have neglected to acquire _the power and the disposition to search out the fundamentals_, are quite sure to be left among the unfortunates who trail behind; they are little likely to be found among those who lead at the times when leadership counts. In the judgment of those master minds that lead in affairs and that take large and penetrating views, the lines along which the most vital contributions to economic interests are being made connect closely with basal studies of the actuating agencies that condition great enterprises. In the judgment of the writer, it is a false view to suppose that any short, superficial study of so vast a subject as the constitution and history of the earth can result in economic competency. In so far as time for study is limited, it should be concentrated on the great underlying factors that constitute the essentials of the science. It is here assumed that men who care to take a college course at all are seeking for a large success and are ambitious for a high personal career. If they look ultimately to professional work in economic lines, they may safely be advised that the straight road to declared success lies in a search for the vital forces, the critical agencies, and the profound principles that make for great results, not along the by-paths whose winding, superficial courses are turned hither and thither by adventitious conditions whose very nature invites distrust rather than confidence. =Evaluations of methods of teaching= Turning to some of the more formal phases of treatment, three types of work are presented: (1) the use of nature's laboratory, the world itself, (2) the use of the college collections and laboratories, and (3) the use of the literature of the subject. (1) Fortunately, there is no place on the face of the earth where there is not some natural material for geologic study, for even in the most artificialized locations geological processes are active. In crowded cities these processes may be easily overlooked, but yet they are susceptible of effective use. Within easy access from almost every college site there are serviceable fields of study, and these, in any live course, will be assiduously cultivated. They may be relatively modest in their phenomena; they may seem to lack that impressiveness which has played so large a part in the popular notion of the content of geology, but they may nevertheless serve as most excellent training grounds for young geologists. If students are so situated as to be brought at the beginning of study under the influence of very impressive displays of geologic phenomena--precipitous mountains, rugged cliffs, deep cañons, and the like--there is danger that their mental habits may become diffusive rather than close and keen; the emotions may be called forth in wonder rather than turned into zest in the search for evidence. If students are to be trained to diligence in inquiry and to the highest virility in inference and interpretation, it is perhaps fortunate for them if they are located where only modest records of geological processes are presented for study. In such regions they are more likely to be led to scrutinize the field keenly, sharply, and diligently for data on which to build their interpretations. The scientific use of their imaginations is all the better trained if, in their endeavor to build up a consistent concept of the whole structure that underlies their field, they are forced to project their inferences from a few out-crops far beneath the cover of the adjacent mantle that shuts off direct vision. Few teachers have, therefore, any real occasion to long for richer fields than those accessible to them, if they have the tact to render these fertile in stimulus and suggestion. (2) Laboratory work upon the material collected in the field work, as well as laboratory work upon the college collections, are essential adjuncts. Ample provisions for this supplementary work, however modest the appointments, are important and can usually be secured by ingenuity and diligence in spite of financial limitations. Both field and laboratory work should be well correlated with one another and with the systematic work on the text that guides the study, so that each shall whet the edge of the other and all together accomplish what neither could alone. (3) The text selected should be such as lends itself, in some notable degree at least, to the general purposes set forth above. It should be supplemented, so far as may be, by judicious assignments for reading and for special study. Lectures may be made a valuable aid to the discussions of the classroom, but with college classes they can rarely be made an advantageous substitute for the discussions. Lecturing, so far as used, is best woven informally into the classroom discussions. Supplementary lecturettes may be advised if they are of such an informal sort that they may almost unconsciously take their start from any vital point encountered in the course of discussion, may run on as far as the occasion invites, and may then give way again to the discussion with the utmost informality. Such little participations in the work of the classroom, on the part of the teacher, are likely to be cordially welcomed. At the same time, if well done, they will set an excellent example in the presentative art as also in an apt organization of thought. =Organization of courses= If the stated course in earth-science is limited to the junior and senior year by the existing requirements of the curriculum of the institution or by the rulings of its officers--as is not uncommonly the case at present--it is relatively immaterial whether the sections of the course are marshaled under the single name "geology" or whether they are given separate titles as sub-sciences, provided the special subjects are arranged in logical sequence and in consecutive order. If, on the other hand, the teacher's choice of time and relations is freer, the more accessible phases of earth study, now well organized under the name of "physiography," form an excellent course for either freshmen or sophomores. It opens their minds to a world of interesting activities about them which have probably been largely overlooked in previous years. It gives them substance of thought that will be of much service in the pursuit of other sciences. It has been found that it is not without rather notable service to young students as the basis of efforts in the art of literary presentation, a felicity to which teachers of this important art frequently give emphatic testimony. The secret seems to lie in the fact that physiography gives varied and vivid material susceptible of literary presentation, while the fixed qualities of the subject matter control the choice of terms and the mode of expression. If geography and physiography are given in the earlier years, the course in historical geology, as well as the study of the more difficult phases of geological processes, of the principles of dynamic geology, together with mineralogy, petrology, and paleontology, may best fall into the later years, even if some interval separates them from the geography and physiography. One hundred and twenty classroom hours, or their equivalent in laboratory and field work, are perhaps to be regarded as the irreducible minimum in a well-balanced undergraduate course, while twice that time or more is required to give a notably strong college course in earth-science. A consideration of the sequences among the geological sub-subjects, as also among the subjects that are held to be preliminary to the earth-sciences, is important, but it would lead us too far into details which depend more or less on local conditions. In the experience of American teachers it appears to have been found advisable to put geological processes and typical phenomena to the front and to take up geological history afterwards. The earlier method of taking up the history first, beginning with recent stages and working backward down the ages,--once in vogue abroad,--has been abandoned in this country. It was the order in which the science was developed and it had the advantage of starting with the living present and with the most accessible formations, but this latter advantage is secured by studying the living processes, as such, first, and turning to the history later. This permits the study of the history in its natural order, which seems better to call forth the relations of cause and effect and to give emphasis to the influence of inherited conditions. Respecting antecedents to the study, the more knowledge of physics, chemistry, zoölogy, and botany, the better, but it is easy to over-stress the necessity for such preparation, however logical it may seem, for in reality all the natural sciences are so interwoven that, in strict logic, a complete knowledge of all the others should be had before any one is begun, a _reductio ad absurdum_. The sciences have been developed more or less contemporaneously and progressively, each helping on the others. They may be pursued much in the same way, or by alternations in which each prior study favors the sequent one. They may even be taken in a seemingly illogical order without serious disadvantage, for the alternative advantages and other considerations may outweigh the force of the logical order, which is at best only partially logical. It is of prime importance to stimulate in students a habit of observing natural phenomena at an early age. It may be wise for a student to take up physiography, or its equivalent, early in the college course, irrespective of an ideal preparation in the related sciences. It is unfortunate to defer such study to a stage when the student's natural aptitude for observation and inference has become dulled by neglect or by confinement to subjects devoid of naturalistic stimulus. To permit students to take up earth-science in the freshman and sophomore years, even without the ideal preparation, is therefore probably wiser than to defer the study beyond the age of responsiveness to the touch of the natural environment. The geographic and geologic environment conditioned the mental evolution of the race. It left an inherited impress on the perceptive and emotional nature, only to be awakened most felicitously, it would seem, at about the age at which the naturalistic phases of the youth's mentality were originally called into their most intense exercise. T. C. CHAMBERLIN _The University of Chicago_ VIII THE TEACHING OF MATHEMATICS =Recent changes and some of their sources= In recent years the teaching of mathematics has undergone remarkable changes in many countries, both as regards method and as regards content. With respect to college mathematics these changes have been evidenced by a growing emphasis on applications and on the historic setting of the various questions. To understand one direct source of these changes it is only necessary to recall the fact that in about 1880 there began a steady stream of American mathematical students to Europe, especially to Germany. Most of these students entered the faculties of our colleges and universities on their return to America It is therefore of great importance to inquire what mathematical situation served to inspire these students. The German mathematical developments of the greater part of the nineteenth century exhibited a growing tendency to disregard applications. It was not until about 1890 that a strong movement was inaugurated to lay more stress on applied mathematics in Germany.[3] Our early American students therefore brought with them from Germany a decided tendency toward investigations in mathematical fields remote from direct contact with applications to other scientific subjects, such as physics and astronomy, which had so largely dominated mathematical investigations in earlier years. This picture would, however, be very incomplete without exhibiting another factor of a similar type working in our own midst. J. J. Sylvester was selected as the first professor of mathematics at Johns Hopkins University, which opened its doors in 1876 and began at once to wield a powerful influence in starting young men in higher research. Sylvester's own investigations related mainly to the formal and abstract side of mathematics. Moreover, "he was a poor teacher with an imperfect knowledge of mathematical literature. He possessed, however, an extraordinary personality; and had in remarkable degree the gift of imparting enthusiasm, a quality of no small value in pioneer days such as these were with us."[4] =Influence of researches in mathematics on methods of teaching= Mathematical research was practically introduced into the American colleges during the last quarter of the nineteenth century, and the wave of enthusiasm which attended this introduction was unfortunately not sufficiently tempered by emphasis on good teaching and breadth of knowledge, especially as regards applications. In fact, the leading mathematician in America during the early part of this period was glaringly weak along these lines. By means of his bountiful enthusiasm he was able to do a large amount of good for the selected band of gifted students who attended his lectures, but some of these were not so fortunate in securing the type of students who are helped more by the direct enthusiasm of their teacher than by the indirect enthusiasm resulting from good teaching. The need of good mathematical teaching in our colleges and universities began to become more pronounced at about the time that the wave of research enthusiasm set in, as a result of the growing emphasis on technical education which exhibited itself most emphatically in the development of the schools of engineering. While the student who is specially interested in mathematics may be willing to get along with a teacher whose enthusiasm for the new and general leads him to neglect to emphasize essential details in the presentation, the average engineering student insists on clearness in presentation and usability of the results. As the latter student does not expect to become a mathematical specialist, he is naturally much more interested in good teaching than in the mathematical reputation of his teacher, even if his reputation is not an entirely insignificant factor for him. During the last decade of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the present century the mathematical departments of our colleges and universities faced an unusually serious situation as a result of the conditions just noted. The new wave of research enthusiasm was still in its youthful vigor and in its youthful mood of inconsiderateness as regards some of the most important factors. On the other hand, many of the departments of engineering had become strong and were therefore able to secure the type of teaching suited to their needs. In a number of institutions this led to the breaking up of the mathematical department into two or more separate departments aiming to meet special needs. In view of the fact that the mathematical needs of these various classes of students have so much in common, leading mathematicians viewed with much concern this tendency to disrupt many of the stronger departments. Hence the question of good teaching forced itself rapidly to the front. It was commonly recognized that the students of pure mathematics profit by a study of various applications of the theories under consideration, and that the students who expect to work along special technical lines gain by getting broad and comprehensive views of the fundamental mathematical questions involved. Moreover, it was also recognized that the investigational work of the instructors would gain by the broader scholarship secured through greater emphasis on applications and the historic setting of the various problems under consideration. To these fundamental elements relating to the improvement of college teaching there should perhaps be added one arising from the recognition of the fact that the number of men possessing excellent mathematical research ability was much smaller than the number of positions in the mathematical departments of our colleges and universities. The publication of inferior research results is of questionable value. On the other hand, many who could have done excellent work as teachers by devoting most of their energies to this work became partial failures both as teachers and as investigators through their ambition to excel in the latter direction. =Range of subjects and preparation of students= It should be emphasized that the college and university teachers of mathematics have to deal with a wide range of subjects and conditions, especially where graduate work is carried on. Advanced graduate students have needs which differ widely from those of the freshmen who aim to become engineers. This wide range of conditions calls for unusual adaptability on the part of the college and university teacher. This range is much wider than that which confronts the teachers in the high school, and the lack of sufficient adaptability on the part of some of the college teachers is probably responsible for the common impression that some of the poorest mathematical teaching is done in the colleges. It is doubtless equally true that some of the very best mathematical teaching is to be found in these institutions. In some of the colleges there has been a tendency to diminish the individual range of mathematical teaching by explicitly separating the undergraduate work and the more advanced work. For instance, in Johns Hopkins University, L. S. Hulburt was appointed "Professor of Collegiate Mathematics" in 1897, with the understanding that he should devote himself to the interests of the undergraduates. In many of the larger universities the younger members of the department usually teach only undergraduate courses, while some of the older members devote either all or most of their time to the advanced work; but there is no uniformity in this direction, and the present conditions are often unsatisfactory. The undergraduate courses in mathematics in the American colleges and universities differ considerably. The normal beginning courses now presuppose a year of geometry and a year and a half of algebra in addition to the elementary courses in arithmetic, but much higher requirements are sometimes imposed, especially for engineering courses. In recent years several of the largest universities have reduced the minimum admission requirement in algebra to one year's work, but students entering with this minimum preparation are sometimes not allowed to proceed with the regular mathematical classes in the university. =Variety of college courses in mathematics= Freshmen courses in mathematics differ widely, but the most common subjects are advanced algebra, plane trigonometry, and solid geometry. The most common subjects of a somewhat more advanced type are plane analytic geometry, differential and integral calculus, and spherical trigonometry. Beyond these courses there is much less uniformity, especially in those institutions which aim to complete a well-rounded undergraduate mathematical course rather than to prepare for graduate work. Among the most common subjects beyond those already named are differential equations, theory of equations, solid analytic geometry, and mechanics. A very important element affecting the mathematical courses in recent years is the rapid improvement in the training of our teachers in the secondary schools. This has led to the rapid introduction of courses which aim to lead up to broad views in regard to the fundamental subjects. In particular, courses relating to the historical development of concepts involved therein are receiving more and more attention. Indirect historical sources have become much more plentiful in recent years through the publication of various translations of ancient works and through the publication of extensive historical notes in the _Encyclopédie des Sciences Mathématiques_ and in other less extensive works of reference. The problem presented by those who are preparing to teach mathematics may at first appear to differ widely from that presented by those who expect to become engineers. The latter are mostly interested in obtaining from their mathematical courses a powerful equipment for doing things, while the former take more interest in those developments which illumine and clarify the elements of their subject. Hence the prospective teacher and the prospective engineer might appear to have conflicting mathematical interests. As a matter of fact, these interests are not conflicting. The prospective teacher is greatly benefited by the emphasis on the serviceableness of mathematics, and the prospective engineer finds that the generality and clarity of view sought by the prospective teacher is equally helpful to him in dealing with new applications. Hence these two classes of students can well afford to pursue many of the early mathematical courses together, while the finishing courses should usually be different. The rapidly growing interest in statistical methods and in insurance, pensions, and investments has naturally directed special attention to the underlying mathematical theories, especially to the theory of probability. Some institutions have organized special mathematical courses relating to these subjects and have thus extended still further the range of undergraduate subjects covered by the mathematical departments. The rapidly growing emphasis on college education specially adapted to the needs of the prospective business man has recently led to a greater emphasis on some of these subjects in several institutions. The range of mathematical subjects suited for graduate students is unlimited, but it is commonly assumed to be desirable that the graduate student should pursue at least one general course in each one of broader subjects such as the theory of numbers, higher algebra, theory of functions, and projective geometry, before he begins to specialize along a particular line. It is usually taken for granted that the undergraduate courses in mathematics should not presuppose a knowledge of any language besides English, but graduate work in this subject cannot be successfully pursued in many cases without a reading knowledge of the three other great mathematical languages; viz., French, German, and Italian. Hence the study of graduate mathematics necessarily presupposes some linguistic training in addition to an acquaintance with the elements of fundamental mathematical subjects. Historical studies make especially large linguistic demands in case these studies are not largely restricted to predigested material. This is particularly true as regards the older historical material. In the study of contemporary mathematical history the linguistic prerequisites are about the same as those relating to the study of other modern mathematical subjects. With the rapid spread of mathematical research activity during recent years there has come a growing need of more extensive linguistic attainments on the part of those mathematicians who strive to keep in touch with progress along various lines. For instance, a thriving Spanish national mathematical society was organized in 1911 at Madrid, Spain, and in March, 1916, a new mathematical journal entitled _Revista de Matematicas_ was started at Buenos Aires, Argentine Republic. Hence a knowledge of Spanish is becoming more useful to the mathematical student. Similar activities have recently been inaugurated in other countries. =History of college mathematics= Until about the beginning of the nineteenth century the courses in college mathematics did not usually presuppose a mathematical foundation carefully prepared for a superstructure. According to M. Gebhardt, the function of teaching elementary mathematics in Germany was assumed by the gymnasiums during the years from 1810 to 1830.[5] Before this time the German universities usually gave instruction in the most elementary mathematical subjects. In our own country, Yale University instituted a mathematical entrance requirement under the title of arithmetic as early as 1745, but at Harvard University no mathematics was required for admission before 1803. On the other hand, _L'Ecole Polytechnique_ of Paris, which occupies a prominent place in the history of college mathematics, had very high admission requirements in mathematics from the start. According to a law enacted in 1795, the candidates for admission were required to pass an examination in arithmetic; in algebra, including the solution of equations of the first four degrees and the theory of series; and in geometry, including trigonometry, the applications of algebra to geometry, and conic sections.[6] It should be noted that these requirements are more extensive than the usual present mathematical requirements of our leading universities and technical schools, but _L'Ecole Polytechnique_ laid special emphasis on mathematics and physics and became the world's prototype of strong technical institutions. The influence of _L'Ecole Polytechnique_ was greatly augmented by the publication of a regular periodical entitled _Journal de l'Ecole Polytechnique_, which was started in 1795 and is still being published. A number of the courses of lectures delivered at _L'Ecole Polytechnique_ and at _L'Ecole Normale_ appeared in the early volumes of this journal. The fact that some of these courses were given by such eminent mathematicians as J. L. Lagrange, G. Monge, and P. S. Laplace is sufficient guarantee of their great value and of their good influence on the later textbooks along similar lines. In particular, it may be noted that G. Monge gave the first course in descriptive geometry at _L'Ecole Normale_ in 1795, and he was also for a number of years one of the most influential teachers at _L'Ecole Polytechnique_. A most fundamental element in the history of college mathematics is the broadening of the scope of the college work. As long as college students were composed almost entirely of prospective preachers, lawyers, and physicians, there was comparatively little interest taken in mathematics. It is true that the mental disciplinary value of mathematics was emphasized by many, but this supposed value did not put any real life into mathematical work. The dead abstract reasonings of Euclid's _Elements_, or even the number speculations of the ancient Pythagoreans, were enough to satisfy most of those who were looking to mathematics as a subject suitable for mental gymnastics. On the other hand, when the colleges began to train men for other lines of work, when the applications of steam led to big enterprises, like the building of railroads and large ocean steamers, mathematics became a living subject whose great direct usefulness in practical affairs began to be commonly recognized. Moreover, it became apparent that there was great need of mathematical growth, since mathematics was no longer to be used merely as mental Indian clubs or dumb-bells, where a limited assortment would answer all practical needs, but as an implement of mental penetration into the infinitude of barriers which have checked progress along various lines and seem to require an infinite variety of methods of penetration. The American colleges were naturally somewhat slower than some of those of Europe in adapting themselves to the changed conditions, but the rapidity of the changes in our country may be inferred from the fact that in the first half of the nineteenth century Harvard placed in comparatively short succession three mathematical subjects on its list of entrance requirements; viz., arithmetic in 1802, algebra in 1820, and geometry in 1844. Although Harvard had not established any mathematical admission requirements for more than a century and a half after its opening, she initiated three such requirements within half a century. It is interesting to note that for at least ninety years from the opening of Harvard, arithmetic was taught during the senior year as one of the finishing subjects of a college education.[7] The passage of some of the subjects of elementary mathematics from the colleges to the secondary schools raised two very fundamental questions. The first of these concerned mostly the secondary schools, since it involved an adaptation to the needs of younger students of the more or less crystallized textbook material which came to them from the colleges. The second of these questions affected the colleges only, since it involved the selection of proper material to base upon the foundations laid by the secondary schools. It is natural that the influence of the colleges should have been somewhat harmful with respect to the secondary schools, since the interests of the former seemed to be best met by restricting most of the energies of the secondary teachers of mathematics to the thorough drilling of their students in dexterous formal manipulations of algebraic symbols and the demonstration of fundamental abstract theorems of geometry. =Relation of mathematics in secondary schools and college= Students who come to college with a solid and broad foundation but without any knowledge of the superstructure can readily be inspired and enthused by the erection of a beautiful superstructure on a foundation laid mostly underground, with little direct evidence of its value or importance. The injustice and shortsightedness of the tendency to restrict the secondary schools to such foundation work would not have been so apparent if the majority of the secondary school students would have entered college. As a matter of fact it tended to bring secondary mathematics into disrepute and thus to threaten college mathematics at its very foundation. It is only in recent years that strong efforts have been made to correct this very serious mathematical situation. Much progress has been made toward the saner view of letting secondary mathematics build its little structure into the air with some view to harmony and proportion, and of requiring college mathematics to build _on_ as well as _upon_ the work done by the secondary schools. The fruitful and vivifying notions of function, derivative, and group are slowly making their way into secondary mathematics, and the graphic methods have introduced some of the charms of analytic geometry into the same field. This transformation is naturally affecting college mathematics most profoundly. The tedious work of building foundations in college mathematics is becoming more imperative. The use of the rock drill is forcing itself more and more on the college teacher accustomed to use only hammer and saw. As we are just entering upon this situation, it is too early to prophesy anything in regard to its permanency, but it seems likely that the secondary teachers will no more assume a yoke which some of the college teachers would so gladly have them bear and which they bore a long time with a view to serving the interests of the latter teachers. As many of the textbooks used by secondary teachers are written by college men, and as the success of these teachers is often gauged by the success of their students who happen to go to college, it is easily seen that there is a serious temptation on the part of the secondary teacher to look at his work through the eyes of the college teacher. The recent organizations which bring together the college and the secondary teachers have already exerted a very wholesome influence and have tended to exhibit the fact that the success of the college teacher of mathematics is very intimately connected with that of the teachers of secondary mathematics. While it is difficult to determine the most important single event in the history of college teaching in America, there are few events in this history which seem to deserve such a distinction more than the organization of the Mathematical Association of America which was effected in December, 1915. This association aims especially to promote the interests of mathematics in the collegiate field and it publishes a journal entitled _The American Mathematical Monthly_, containing many expository articles of special interest to teachers. It also holds regular meetings and has organized various sections so as to enable its members to attend meetings without incurring the expense of long trips. Its first four presidents were E. R. Hedrick, Florian Cajori, E. V. Huntington, and H. E. Slaught. An event which has perhaps affected the very vitals of mathematical teaching in America still more is the founding of the American Mathematical Society in 1888, called the New York Mathematical Society until 1894. Through its _Bulletin_ and _Transactions_, as well as through its meetings and colloquia lectures, this society has stood for inspiration and deep mathematical interest without which college teaching will degenerate into an art. During the first thirty years of its history it has had as presidents the following: J. H. Van Amringe, Emory McClintock, G. W. Hill, Simon Newcomb, R. S. Woodward, E. H. Moore, T. S. Fiske, W. F. Osgood, H. S. White, Maxime Böcher, H. B. Fine, E. B. Van Vleck, E. W. Brown, L. E. Dickson, and Frank Morley. =Aims of college mathematics: methods of teaching= The aims of college mathematics can perhaps be most clearly understood by recalling the fact that mathematics constitutes a kind of intellectual shorthand and that many of the newer developments in a large number of the sciences tend toward pure mathematics. In particular, "there is a constant tendency for mathematical physics to be absorbed in pure mathematics."[8] As sciences grow, they tend to require more and more the strong methods of intellectual penetration provided by pure mathematics. The principal modern aim of college mathematics is not the training of the mind, but the providing of information which is absolutely necessary to those who seek to work most efficiently along various scientific lines. Mathematical knowledge rather than mathematical discipline is the main modern objective in the college courses in mathematics. As this knowledge must be in a usable form, its acquisition is naturally attended by mental discipline, but the knowledge is absolutely needed and would have to be acquired even if the process of acquisition were not attended by a development of intellectual power. The fact that practically all of the college mathematics of the eighteenth century has been gradually taken over by the secondary schools of today might lead some to question the wisdom of replacing this earlier mathematics by more advanced subjects. In particular, the question might arise whether the college mathematics of today is not superfluous. This question has been partially answered by the preceding general observations. The rapid scientific advances of the past century have increased the mathematical needs very rapidly. The advances in college mathematics which have been made possible by the improvements of the secondary schools have scarcely kept up with the growth of these needs, so that the current mathematical needs cannot be as fully provided for by the modern college as the recognized mathematical needs of the eighteenth century were provided for by the colleges of those days. There appears to be no upper limit to the amount of useful mathematics, and hence the aim of the college must be to supply the mathematical needs of the students to the greatest possible extent under the circumstances. In order to supply these needs in the most economical manner, it seems necessary that some of them should be supplied before they are fully appreciated on the part of the student. The first steps in many scientific subjects do not call for mathematical considerations and the student frequently does not go beyond these first steps in his college days, but he needs to go much further later in life. College mathematics should prepare for life rather than for college days only, and hence arises the desirability of deeper mathematical penetration than appears directly necessary for college work. =Advanced work in college mathematics= Another reason for more advanced mathematics than seems to be directly needed by the student is that the more advanced subjects in mathematics are a kind of applied mathematics relative to the more elementary ones, and the former subjects serve to throw much light on the latter. In other words, the student who desires to understand an elementary subject completely should study more advanced subjects which are connected therewith, since such a study is usually more effective than the repeated review of the elementary subject. In particular, many students secure a better understanding of algebra during their course in calculus than during the course in algebra itself, and a course in differential equations will throw new light on the course in calculus. Hence college mathematics usually aims to cover a rather wide range of subjects in a comparatively short time. Since mathematics is largely the language of advanced science, especially of astronomy, physics, and engineering, one of the prominent aims of college mathematics should be to keep in close touch with the other sciences. That is, the idea of rendering direct and efficient services to other departments should animate the mathematical department more deeply than any other department of the university. The tendency toward disintegration to which we referred above has forcefully directed attention to the great need of emphasizing this aspect of our subject, since such disintegration is naturally accompanied by a weakening of mathematical vigor. It may be noted that such a disintegration would mean a reverting to primitive conditions, since some of the older works treated mathematics merely as a chapter of astronomy. This was done, for instance, in some of the ancient treatises of the Hindus. =Mathematics and technical education= The great increase in college students during recent years and the growing emphasis on college activities outside of the work connected with the classroom, especially on those relating to college athletics, would doubtless have left college mathematics in a woefully neglected state if there had not been a rapidly growing interest in technical education, especially in engineering subjects, at the same time. Naval engineering was one of the first scientific subjects to exert a strong influence on popularizing mathematics. In particular, the teaching of mathematics in the Russian schools supported by the government began with the founding of the government school for mathematics and navigation at Moscow in 1701. It is interesting to note that the earlier Russian schools established by the clergy after the adoption of Christianity in that country did not provide for the teaching of any arithmetic whatever, notwithstanding the usefulness of arithmetic for the computing of various dates in the church calendar, for land surveying, and for the ordinary business transactions.[9] The direct aims in the teaching of college mathematics have naturally been somewhat affected by the needs of the engineering students, who constitute in many of our leading institutions a large majority in the mathematical classes. These students are usually expected to receive more drill in actual numerical work than is demanded by those who seek mainly a deeper penetration into the various mathematical theories. The most successful methods of teaching the former students have much in common with those usually employed in the high schools and are known as the recitation and problem-solving methods. They involve the correction and direct supervision of a large number of graded exercises worked out by the students on the blackboard or on paper, and aim to overcome the peculiar difficulties of the individual students. The lecture method, on the other hand, aims to exhibit the main facts in a clear light and to leave to the student the task of supplying further illustrative examples and of reconsidering the various steps. The purely lecture method does not seem to be well adapted to American conditions, and it is frequently combined with what is commonly known as the "quiz." The quiz seems to be an American institution, although it has much in common with a species of the French "conference." It is intended to review the content of a set of lectures by means of discussions in which the students and the teacher participate, and it is most commonly employed in connection with the courses of an advanced undergraduate or of a beginning graduate grade. A prominent aim in graduate courses is to lead the student as rapidly as possible to the boundary of knowledge along the particular line considered therein. While some of the developments in such courses are apt to be somewhat special or to be too general to have much meaning, their novelty frequently adds a sufficiently strong element of interest to more than compensate losses in other directions. Moreover, the student who aims to do research work will thus be enabled to consider various fields as regards their attractiveness for prolonged investigations of his own. =Preparation of the college teacher of mathematics.= The fact that the college teacher has need of much more mathematical knowledge than he can possibly secure during the period of his preparation, especially if he expects to take an active part in research and in directing graduate work, has usually led to the assumption that the future teacher of college mathematics should devote all his energies to securing a deep mathematical insight and a wide range of mathematical knowledge.[10] On the other hand, students prepared in accord with this assumption have frequently found it very difficult to adapt themselves to the needs of large freshman classes of engineering students entering upon the duties for which they were supposed to have been prepared. The breadth of view and the sweep of abstraction needed for effective graduate work have little in common with accuracy in numerical work and emphasis on details which are so essential to the young engineering students. The difficulty of the situation is increased by the fact that the young instructor is often led to believe that his advancement and the appreciation of his services are directly proportional to his achievements in investigations of a high order. This belief naturally leads many to begrudge the time and thought which their teaching duties should normally receive. The young college teacher of mathematics is thus confronted with a much more complex situation than that which confronts the mathematics teachers in secondary school work. Here the success in the classroom is the one great goal, and the mathematical knowledge required is comparatively very modest. Possibly the situation of the college teacher could be materially improved if it were understood that his first promotion would be mainly dependent upon his success as a teacher, but that later promotions involved the element of productive scholarship in an increasing ratio. The schools of education which have in recent years been established in most of our leading universities have thus far had only a slight influence on the preparation of the college teachers, but it seems likely that this influence will increase as the needs of professional training become better known. It is probably true that the ratio of courses on methods to courses on knowledge of the subject will always be largest for the elementary teacher, in view of the great difference between the mental maturity of the student and the teacher, somewhat less for the secondary teacher and least for the college teacher; but this least should not be zero, as is so frequently the case at present, since there usually is even here a considerable difference between the mathematical maturity of the student and that of the teacher. It may be argued that the future college teacher will probably profit more by noting the methods employed by his instructors than he would by the theoretic discussions relating to methods. This is doubtless true, but it does not prove that the latter discussions are without value. On the other hand, these discussions will often serve to fix more attention on the former methods and will lead the student to note more accurately their import and probable adaptability to the needs of the younger students. Among the useful features for the training of the future mathematics teachers are the mathematical clubs which are connected with most of the active mathematical departments. In many cases, at least, two such clubs are maintained, the one being devoted largely to the presentation of research work while the other aims to provide opportunities for the presentation of papers of special interest to the students. The latter papers are often presented by graduate students or by advanced undergraduates, and they offer a splendid opportunity for such students to acquire effective and clear methods of presentation. The same desirable end is often promoted by reports given by students in seminars or in advanced courses. Prominent factors in the training of the future college teachers are the teaching scholarships or fellowships and the assistantships. Many of the larger universities provide a number of positions of this type. It sometimes happens that the teaching duties connected with these positions are so heavy as to leave too little energy for vigorous graduate work. On the other hand, these positions have made it possible for many to continue their graduate studies longer than they could otherwise have done and at the same time to acquire sound habits of teaching while in close contact with men of proved ability along this line. It should be emphasized that the ideal college teacher of mathematics is not the one who acquires a respectable fund of mathematical knowledge which he passes along to his students, but the one imbued with an abiding interest in learning more and more about his subject as long as life lasts. This interest naturally soon forces him to conduct researches where progress usually is slow and uncertain. Research work should be animated by the desire for more knowledge and not by the desire for publication. In fact, only those new results should be published which are likely to be helpful to others in starting at a more favorable point in their efforts to secure intellectual mastery over certain important problems. Half a century ago it was commonly assumed that graduation from a good college implied enough training to enter upon the duties of a college teacher, but this view has been practically abandoned, at least as regards the college teacher of mathematics. The normal preparation is now commonly placed three years later, and the Ph.D. degree is usually regarded to be evidence of this normal preparation. This degree is supposed by many to imply that its possessor has reached a stage where he can do independent research work and direct students who seek similar degrees. In view of the fact that in America as well as in Germany the student often receives much direct assistance while working on his Ph.D. thesis, this supposition is frequently not in accord with the facts.[11] The emphasis on the Ph.D. degree for college teachers has in many cases led to an improvement in ideals, but in some other cases it has had the opposite effect. Too many possessors of this degree have been able to count on it as accepted evidence of scientific attainments, while they allowed themselves to become absorbed in non-scientific matters, especially in administrative details. Professors of mathematics in our colleges have been called on to shoulder an unusual amount of the administrative work, and many men of fine ability and scholarship have thus been hindered from entering actively into research work. Conditions have, however, improved rapidly in recent years, and it is becoming better known that the productive college teacher needs all his energies for scientific work; and in no field is this more emphatically true than in mathematics. Some departmental administrative duties will doubtless always devolve upon the mathematics teachers. By a careful division of these duties they need not interfere seriously with the main work of the various teachers. =The mathematical textbook= The American teachers of mathematics follow the textbook more closely than is customary in Germany, for instance. Among college teachers there is a wide difference of view in regard to the suitable use of the textbook. While some use it simply for the purpose of providing illustrative examples and do not expect the student to begin any subject by a study of the presentation found in the textbook, there are others who expect the normal student to secure all the needed assistance from the textbook and who employ the class periods mainly for the purpose of teaching the students how to use the textbook most effectively. The practice of most teachers falls between these two extremes, and, as a rule, the textbook is followed less and less closely as the student advances in his work. In fact, in many advanced courses no particular textbook is followed. In such courses the principal results and the exercises are often dictated by the teacher or furnished by means of mimeographed notes. The close adherence to the textbook is apt to cultivate the habit on the part of the student of trying to understand what the author meant instead of confining his attention to trying to understand the subject. In view of the fact that the American secondary mathematics teachers usually follow textbooks so slavishly, the college teacher of mathematics who believes in emphasizing the subject rather than the textbook often meets with considerable difficulty with the beginning classes. On the other hand, it is clear that as the student advances he should be encouraged to seek information from all available sources instead of from one particular book only. The rapid improvement in our library facilities makes this attitude especially desirable. An advantage of the textbook is that it is limited in all directions, while the subject itself is of indefinite extent. In the textbook the subject has been pressed into a linear sequence, while its natural form usually exhibits various dimensions. The textbook presents those phases about which there is usually no doubt, while the subject itself exhibits limitations of knowledge in many directions. From these few characteristics it is evident that the study of textbooks is apt to cultivate a different attitude and a different point of view from those cultivated by the unhampered study of subjects. The latter are, however, the ones which correspond to the actual world and which therefore should receive more and more emphasis as the mental vision of the student can be enlarged. The number of different available college mathematical textbooks on the subjects usually studied by the large classes of engineering students has increased rapidly in recent years. On the other hand, the number of suitable textbooks for the more advanced classes is often very limited. In fact, it is often found desirable to use textbooks written in some foreign language, especially in French, German, or Italian, for such courses. This procedure has the advantage that it helps to cultivate a better reading knowledge of these languages, which is in itself a very worthy end for the advanced student of mathematics. This procedure has, however, become less necessary in recent years in view of the publication of various excellent advanced works in the English language. The greatest mathematical treasure is constituted by the periodic literatures, and the larger colleges and universities aim to have complete sets of the leading mathematical periodicals available for their students. This literature has been made more accessible by the publication of various catalogues, such as the _Subject Index_, Volume I, published by the Royal Society of London in 1908, and the volumes "A" of the annual publications entitled _International Catalogue of Scientific Literature_. All students who have access to large libraries should learn how to utilize this great store of mathematical lore whenever mathematical questions present themselves to them in their scientific work. This is especially true as regards those who specialize along mathematical lines. In some of the colleges and universities general informational courses along mathematical lines have been organized under different names, such as history of mathematics, synoptic course, fundamental concepts, cultural course, etc. Several books have recently been prepared with a view to meeting the needs of textbooks for such courses. College teachers of mathematics usually find it difficult to interest their students sufficiently in the current periodic literature, and one of the greatest problems of the college teacher is to instill such a broad interest in mathematics that the student will seek mathematical knowledge in all available sources instead of confining himself to the study of a few textbooks or the work of a particular school. G. A. MILLER _University of Illinois_ REFERENCES For articles on the teaching of mathematics which appeared during the nineteenth century, consult 0050 _Pedagogy_ in the _Royal Society Index_, Vol. I, Pure Mathematics, 1908. For literature appearing during the first twelve years of the present century the reader may consult the _Bibliography of the Teaching of Mathematics_, 1900-1912, by D. E. Smith and Charles Goldziher, published by the United States Bureau of Education, Bulletin, 1912, No. 29. More recent literature may be found by consulting annual indexes, such as the _International Catalogue of Scientific Literature_, A, Mathematics, under 0050, and _Revue Semestrielle des Publications Mathématiques_, under V 1. The volumes of the international review entitled _L'Enseignement Mathématique_, founded in 1899, contain a large number of articles relating to college teaching. This subject will be treated in the closing volumes of the large French and German mathematical encyclopedias in course of publication. Footnotes: [3] P. Zühlke. _Zeitschrift für Mathematischen und Naturwissenschuftlichen Unterricht_, Vol. 45 (1915), page 483. [4] Committee No. XII, American Report of the International Commission on the Teaching of Mathematics, 1912, page 9. [5] _Internationale Mathematische Unterrichtskomission_, Vol. 3, No. 6 (1912), page 2. [6] _Journal de l'Ecole Polytechnique_, Vol. 1 (1896), part 4, page lx. [7] F. Cajori, _Teaching and History of Mathematics in the United States_, 1890, page 22. [8] A. E. H. Love, _Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society_, Vol. 14 (1915), page 183. [9] V. V. Bobynin, _L'Enseignement Mathématique_, Vol. 1 (1899), page 78. [10] The Training of Teachers of Mathematics, 1917, by R. C. Archibald. Bulletin No. 27, 1917, United States Bureau of Education. [11] Cf. M. Bôcher, _Science_, Vol. 38 (1913), page 546. IX PHYSICAL EDUCATION IN THE COLLEGE =Lessons for physical education from the world war= The events of the four years between the summer of 1914 and the winter of 1918 have brought us to a full realization of the real significance of physical education in the training of youth. America and her allies have had very dramatic reasons for regretting their careless indifference to the welfare of childhood and youth in former years. Only yesterday, we were told that the great war would be won by the country that could furnish the last man or fight for the last quarter of an hour. America and her allies looked with a new and fearful concern upon the army of young men who were found physically unfit for military service. With the danger of war past, there is no lack of evidence that we and our allies will make practical application of this particular lesson. It will be fortunate indeed if the enlightened people of the earth are really permanently awake to the importance of the physical education of their citizens-in-the-making. Governmental agencies have already started the movement to guarantee to the coming generation more extensive and more scientific physical education. Public and private institutions are joining forces so that the advantages of this extended program of physical education will be enjoyed by the young men and young women in industry and commerce as well as by those in schools and colleges. It is to be hoped that the American college will do its full share and neglect no reasonable measure whereby the college graduate may be developed into the vigorous and healthy human being that the mentally trained ought to be. It must be admitted that our findings by the military draft boards, as well as other evidences secured through physical examinations, are not such as to make the American college proud of the quality or the extent of physical education which it has given in the past. We must express our keen disappointment at the prevalence of under-development, remediable defects, and unachieved physical and functional possibilities in our college graduates. =Aims of physical education= Physical training is concerned with the achievement and the conservation of human health. It has to do with conditioning the human being for the exigencies of life in peace or in war. Its standards are not set by a degree of health which merely enables the individual to keep out of bed, eat three meals a day, and run no abnormal temperature. Physical training is concerned with developing vigorous, enduring health that is based upon the perfect function, coördination, and integration of every organ of the human body; health that is not found wanting at the military draft; health that meets all its community obligations; health that is not affected by diseases of decay; and health that resists infection and postpones preventable death. =Formulations of aims and scope of physical education in official documents--By Regents of the State of New York= Official statements and information from reliable sources indicate that physical education and hygiene and physical training are regarded by authorities as covering about the same general field. The general plan and syllabus for physical training adopted by the Regents of the University of the State of New York in 1916 interprets physical training as covering "(1) Individual health examinations and personal health instruction (medical inspection); (2) instruction concerning the care of the body and the important facts of hygiene (recitations in hygiene); (3) physical examinations as a health habit, including gymnastics, elementary marching, and organized, supervised play, recreation, and athletics." =By national committee on physical education= In March of 1918 a National Committee on Physical Education, formed of representatives from twenty or more national organizations, adopted the following resolutions: I. That a comprehensive, thoroughgoing program of health education and physical education is absolutely needed for all boys and girls of elementary and secondary school age, both rural and urban, in every state in the Union. II. That legislation, similar in purpose and scope to the provisions and requirements in the laws recently enacted in California, New York State, and New Jersey, is desirable in every state, to provide authorization and support for state-wide programs in the health and physical education field. III. That the United States Bureau of Education should be empowered by law, and provided with sufficient appropriations, to exert adequate influence and supervision in relation to a nationwide program of instruction in health and physical education. IV. That it seems most desirable that Congress should give recognition to this vital and neglected phase of education, with a bill and appropriation similar in purpose and scope to the Smith-Hughes Law, to give sanction, leadership, and support to a national program of health and physical education; and to encourage, standardize, and, in part, finance the practical program of constructive work that should be undertaken in every state. V. That federal recognition, supervision, and support are urgently needed, as the effective means, under the Constitution, to secure that universal training of boys and girls in health and physical fitness which are equally essential to efficiency of all citizens both in peace and in war. =By five national organizations= In December, 1918, five national organizations, assembled in regular annual meeting, adopted resolutions which read in part as follows: First: That this Society shall make every reasonable effort to influence the Congress of the United States and the legislatures of our various states to enact laws providing for the effective physical education of all children of all ages in our elementary and secondary schools, public, institutional and private, a physical education that will bring these children instruction in hygiene, regular periodic health examinations and a training in the practice of health habits with a full educational emphasis upon play, games, recreation, athletics and physical exercise, and shall further make every possible reasonable effort to influence communities and municipalities to enact laws and pass ordinances providing for community and industrial physical training and recreative activities for all classes and ages of society. Second: That this Association shall make persistent effort to influence state boards of education, or their equivalent bodies, in all the states of the United States, to make it their effective rule that on or after June, 1922, or some other reasonable date, no applicant may receive a license to teach any subject in any school who does not first present convincing evidence of having covered in creditable manner a satisfactory course in physical education in a reputable training school for teachers. Third: And that this Association hereby directs and authorizes its president to appoint a committee of three to take such steps as may be necessary to put the above resolutions into active and effective operation, and to coöperate in every practical and substantial way with the National Committee on Physical Education, the division of physical education of the Playground and Recreation Association of America, and any other useful agency that may be in the field for the purpose of securing the proper and sufficient physical education of the boys and girls of to-day, so that they may to-morrow constitute a nation of men and women of normal physical growth, normal physical development and normal functional resource, practicing wise habits of health conservation and possessed of greater consequent vitality, larger endurance, longer lives and more complete happiness--the most precious assets of a nation. =By the United States Interdepartmental Social Hygiene Board= In January, 1919, the United States Interdepartmental Social Hygiene Board suggested the following organization of a department of hygiene for the purpose of establishing such a department in at least one normal school, college, or university training school for teachers in each state of the Union. SUGGESTED ORGANIZATION OF A DEPARTMENT OF HYGIENE I. _Division of Informational Hygiene._ (Stressing in each of its several divisions with due proportion and with appropriate emphasis, the venereal diseases, their causes, carriers, injuries, and prevention): (_a_) The principles of hygiene. Required of all students at least twice a week for at least four terms. (1) General hygiene. (The agents that injure health, the carriers of disease, the contributory causes of poor health, the defenses of health, and the sources of health.) (2) Individual hygiene. (Informational hygiene, the care of the body and its organs, correction, and repair, preventive hygiene, constructive hygiene.) (3) Group hygiene. (Hygiene of the home and the family, school hygiene, occupational hygiene, community hygiene.) (4) Intergroup hygiene. (Interfamily, intercommunity, interstate, and international hygiene.) (_b_) Principles of physical training. (Gymnastics, exercise, athletics, recreation, and play.) Required of all students. To be given at least twice a week for two terms in the Junior or Senior Years. (_c_) Health examinations-- (1) Medical examination required each half year of every student. (Making reasonable provisions for a private, personal, confidential relationship between the examiner and the student.) (2) Sanitary surveys and hygienic inspections applied regularly to all divisions of the institution, their curriculums, buildings, dormitories, equipment, personal service, and surroundings. II. _Division of Applied Hygiene._ (_a_) Health conference and consultations. (1) Every student advised under "c" above (health examinations) must report to his health examiner within a reasonable time, as directed, with evidence that he has followed the advice given, or with a satisfactory explanation for not having done so. (2) Must provide student with opportunities for safe, confidential consultations with competent medical advisors concerning the intimate problems of sex life as well as those of hygiene in general. (_b_) Physical training. (1) Gymnastic exercises, recreation, games, athletics, and competitive sports. Required of all students six hours a week every term. (2) Reconstructional and special training and exercise for students not qualified organically for the regular activities covered in "1" above. It is assumed that every teacher-in-training physically able to go to school is entitled to and should take some form of physical exercise. III. _Division of Research._ (_a_) Investigations, tests, evaluating measurements, records, and reports required each term covering progress made under each division and subdivision of the department, for the purpose of discovering and developing more effective educational methods in hygiene. (_b_) Provide facilities for the sifting, selection, and investigation of problems in hygiene that may be submitted to or proposed by the department of hygiene. (_c_) Arrange for frequent lectures on public hygiene and public health from competent members of municipal, state, and national departments of health, and from other appropriate sources. IV. _Personnel requisite for such a department._--Men and women should be chosen for service in the several divisions of the Department, who have a sane, well-balanced, and experienced appreciation of the importance of the whole field of hygiene as well as of the place and relations of the venereal diseases. (1) One director or head of department. Must have satisfactory scientific training and special experience, fitting him for supervision, leadership, teaching, research, and administrative responsibility. (2) One medical examiner for men and one medical examiner for women. There should be one examiner for each 500 students. Must be selected with special care because of the presence of extraordinary opportunities to exercise a powerful intimate influence upon the mental, moral, and physical health of the students with whom such examiners come in contact. (3) One special teacher of physical training (a "Physical Director") for each group of 500 students. There must be a man for the men and a woman for the women students. The physical training instructors employed in this department should be in charge of and should cover satisfactorily all the directing, training, and coaching carried on in the department and in the institution in its relation to athletics and competitive sports. The men and women who are placed in charge of individual students and groups of students engaged in the various activities of physical training (gymnastics, athletics, recreation and play) should be selected with special reference to their wholesome influence on young men and young women. (4) One coördinator (this function may be covered by one of the personnel covered by "1," "2" or "3" above). Will serve to influence every teacher in every department on the entire staff of the institution to meet his obligations, in relation to the individual hygiene of the students in his classes and to the sanitation of the class rooms in which he meets his students. The coördinator should bring information to all teachers and assist them to meet more satisfactorily their opportunities to help students in their individual problems in social hygiene. (5) Special lectures on the principles and progress of public hygiene and public health. A close coördination should be secured between this department and community agencies like the Department of Health that are concerned with public hygiene. (6) Sufficient clerical, stenographic and filing service to meet the needs of the department. In February, 1919, the field service of the National Committee on Physical Education issued a tentative outline for a state law for physical education, suggested for use in planning future legislation. The purposes of physical education as stated in the preamble of this law read as follows: 1. In order that the children of the State of .... shall receive a quality and an amount of physical education that will bring to them the health, growth and a normal organic development that is essential to their fullest present and future education, happiness and usefulness; and in order that the future citizenship of the State of .... may receive regularly from the growing and developing youth of the Commonwealth a rapidly increasing number of more vigorous, better educated, healthier, happier, more prosperous and longer lived men and women, we, the people of the State of .... represented in the Senate and Assembly do enact as follows: =By Legislative Committee of National Committee on Physical Education= In February, 1919, the legislative committee of the National Committee on Physical Education prepared a bill for federal legislation for the purpose of assisting the states in establishing physical education in their schools. This proposed federal law stated the purpose and aim of physical education as follows: The purpose and aim of physical education in the meaning of this act shall be: more fully and thoroughly to prepare the boys and girls of the nation for the duties and responsibilities of citizenship through the development of bodily vigor and endurance, muscular strength and skill, bodily and mental poise, and such desirable moral and social qualities as courage, self-control, self-subordination and obedience to authority, coöperation under leadership, and disciplined initiative. The processes and agencies for securing these ends shall be understood to include: comprehensive courses of physical training activities, periodical physical examination; correction of postural and other remediable defects; health supervision of schools and school children; practical instruction in the care of the body and in the principles of health; hygienic school life, sanitary school buildings, playgrounds, and athletic fields and the equipment thereof; and such other means as may be conducive to these purposes. An analysis of these several authoritative and more or less official documents indicates very clearly a unanimity as to scope and aims of physical education, for they all seek to promote and conserve, in the broadest sense of the term, the health of the nation. =Poor type of physical education in secondary schools intensifies problem in the college= The problem of physical education in the college is intensified by the fact that freshmen come to their chosen institutions with a variety of experience in physical training, but unfortunately this experience is, too often, either inadequate or ineffective. The natural physical training of the earlier age periods produces whatever neuro-muscular development, whatever neuro-muscular coördination, whatever neuro-muscular control, and whatever other organic growth, development, or functional perfection is achieved by the young human concerned. A program of physical training wisely planned with reference to infancy, childhood, and early youth would include types of exercises, play, games, and sports, that would perfect the neuro-muscular and other functions far more completely than is commonly accomplished through the natural unsupervised and undirected physical training of those early age periods either in city or in rural communities. The force of modern habits of life has led to the destruction of those natural habits of work, play, and recreation that gave a proportion of our forebears a fairly complete natural program of physical exercise during the plastic or formative periods of life. As a result, many students reach college nowadays with stunted growths and with poorly developed, poorly trained, or poorly controlled neuro-muscular equipment. Some of these matriculates are physically weak. They lack alertness; their response is slow. Others are awkward and muscularly inefficient, though their physical growth is objectively--height and weight--normal or even above normal. The College Department faces these problems through special provisions made for the purpose of supplying a belated neuro-muscular training to such cases. It often happens that successful training along these lines is possible only through individual instruction of a most elementary sort, taking the student through simple exercises that ought to have been a part of his experience in early childhood. =Individual needs of students augment problem of department of physical education= For the same reasons that are stated above, the College Department of Physical Training finds it necessary to concern itself with individual students who need special attention directed to specified organs or groups of organs whose training or care could have been accomplished ordinarily far better at an earlier period. These students present problems of posture, lung capacity, and regional weakness. =Supervision of athletics and recreation adds further to its problem= The College Department of Physical Training finds also a significant opportunity and an urgent duty in the fact that various types of physical exercise are intimately associated with social, ethical, and moral consequences. No other human activity gives the same opportunity for the development of a social spirit and personal ethical standards as do play, games, and sports of children and adolescents. Unsupervised, these activities degenerate and bring unmoral practices and an anti-social spirit in their wake. Because of these opportunities and obligations, College Departments of Physical Training are including within their programs and jurisdictions more and more supervision of college athletics, and assume an ever increasing rôle in the direction of recreational activities of college students. It remains true, however, that these influences of supervised play and athletics should operate long before the individual reaches college age. The intense interest of college students in athletic competitions, united with the opportunity which athletics offer for social and character training, has decided a number of colleges to turn athletic training over to the Department of Physical Training. This preparation for the supreme physical and physiological test must be built upon a foundation of safe and sound health. There is no more fitting place in the collegiate organization for these athletic and recreational activities. =Organization of Department of Physical Education= The college departments that cover this field in whole or in part are known by various names. We have departments of Physical Training; of Physical Education; of Physical Culture; of Hygiene; of Physiology and Physical Education; of Hygiene and Physical Education; of Physical Training and Athletics, and so on. An analysis of these college departments shows that they all concern themselves with much the same important objects, although they differ in their lines of greater emphasis. We find, too, that in some colleges the department includes activities that form separate, though related departments in other institutions. The activities of such departments fall into three large divisions, each one of which has its logical subdivisions. One of these large divisions may be called the division of health examination. It has to do with the health examination of the individual student and with the health advice that is based on and consequent to such examination. The second division has to do with health instruction covering the subject matter of physical training. The third division covers directed experiences in right living and the formation of health habits, and includes the special activities noted above. We often refer to the first division noted above as the division of medical inspection, physical examination, or health examination; to the second as hygiene, physiology, biology, or bacteriology; and to the third as gymnastics, physical exercise, organized play, recreation, athletics, or narrowly as physical training. The prime purpose of collegiate physical training, then, is to furnish the student such information and such habit-forming experiences as will lead him to formulate and practice an intelligent policy of personal health control and an intelligent policy of community health control. The collateral and special objects of physical training vary with the individual student under the influence of his previous training and his present and future life plans. The Collegiate Department of Physical Training is primarily concerned, therefore, with the acquisition and conservation of human health--mental, moral, and physical health. Because of his physical training, the college man should live longer; he should meet his environments obligations more successfully; he should be better able to protect himself from, and better able to avoid, injury; he should lose less time on account of injury, poor health, and sickness; he should get well more rapidly when he is sick; he should be better able to recover his health and strength after injury or illness; and he should therefore give to society a fuller, happier, and more useful life. Such a department is concerned secondarily with (_a_) those special defects of earlier physical training that bring to college, students in need of neuro-muscular training and organic development, (_b_) with social, ethical, and character training, and (_c_) with the conditioning and special training of students for athletic competition or for other extraordinary physical and physiological demands. In the light of the above statements, the objects of physical training may be summarized as follows: I. The fundamental and ever present object of physical training is the acquisition and conservation of vigorous, enduring health, the summated effect of perfect functions in each and every organ of the human body. II. The special objects of physical training vary in their needs for emphasis at different age periods and under the changing stresses of life. Among the more important of these special objects are: (1) General, normal growth. An object in the early age periods. (2) Neuro-muscular development, coördination, and control. Accomplished best in early age periods. (3) Special organic (anatomical and functional) development. Optimum period in childhood and youth. (4) Social, ethical, and moral training. Character building. Objects more easily secured in childhood and youth. (5) Preparation for some supreme physical and physiological test; e.g., athletic competition, police or fire service, military service. Most desirable training period in late youth and early maturity. Must depend, however, on the effects of earlier physical training. (6) The formation of health habits. Best accomplished in early life but commonly an important function of the College Department of Physical Training. (7) The conservation of health. Always an object, but more particularly so in the middle and later life. THE MEDICAL EXAMINATION In the American college of today, the student's first contact with the Department of Physical Training is very likely to be in the examining room. In the College of the City of New York[12] it has become the established custom to require a satisfactory health examination before admitting the applicant to registration as a student in the college. Entering classes are enrolled in this institution at the beginning of each term, and in each list of applicants there are always a few to whom admission is denied because of unsatisfactory health conditions. In each case in which admission is denied because of unsatisfactory health, the individual is given careful advice relative to his present and probable future condition, and every effort is made to help the applicant plan his life so that he may be able at a later time to enter the college. Of course, it occasionally happens that applicants are found with serious and incurable health defects which make it very improbable that they will ever be in condition to attempt a college education. =Scope of health examination= The health examination of the student should cover those facts in his family and personal health history that are likely to have a bearing upon his present or future health, and the examination should include a very careful investigation of the important organs of his body. This examination calls for expert medical and dental service. =How to conduct health examination= The most useful examiner is he who is at the same time a teacher. Nowhere else is a better or even an equally good opportunity given to drive home impressively, and sometimes dramatically, important lessons in individual hygiene. Through a pair of experimental lenses placed by his examiner before his hitherto undiscovered visual brain cells, the young student who has had poor vision and has never known it, may obtain, for the first time, a glimpse of the beauty in his surroundings. The dental examiner who finds bad teeth and explains bad teeth to the student whose health is being, or may be, destroyed by such teeth, has before him all the elements necessary for very effective health instruction. The health examination should be a personal and private affair. It is often best not to have even a recorder present. The student should understand that whatever passes between him and his examiner is entirely confidential. All advice given a student at these examinations should be followed up if it is the kind of advice that can be followed up. If the advice involves the attention of a dentist or treatment by a physician, time should be allowed for making arrangements and for securing the treatment necessary. After that time has elapsed the student should be called upon to report with information from his parent or guardian, or from his family health adviser, indicating what has been done or will be done for the betterment of the conditions for which the advice was originally given. In the hands of a tactful examiner--one who is a teacher as well as an examiner--the student and parent, particularly the parent, will coöperate effectively in this plan for the development of health habits of the student. Less than three tenths of one per cent of the parents of City College students refuse to secure special health attention for their boys when we do so advise. These examinations should be repeated at reasonable intervals throughout the entire college course. We have found in the College of the City of New York that a repetition every term is none too frequent. Visual defects, dental defects, evidences of heart trouble and signs of pulmonary tuberculosis, and other defects, not infrequently arise in cases of individuals who have been seen several times before without showing any evidence of poor health. It is hoped that these repeated examinations may lead to the continuation of such habits of bodily care in postgraduate years. A careful and concise record must be made covering the main facts of each examination and of each conference with the student subsequent to his examination. These memoranda enable the examiner at each later examination to talk to the student with a knowledge of what has been found and what has been said and what has been done on preceding examinations, and on preceding follow-up conferences. As a result, the examiner-teacher is in position to be very much more useful not only because of significant facts before him concerning the student with whom he is talking, but also because of the greater confidence which the student will necessarily have in an examiner who is obviously interested in him and who possesses such an accurate record of his health history. These examinations should apply to every student in a college or a university, regardless of the division to which he belongs. The need for health instruction or for the establishment of health habits, in order that one may be physically trained for the exigencies of life, is not peculiar to any student age period or to any academic or technicological group, or to a college for men or a college for women. One of the dangers present in these college examinations is the tendency of the examiner to become more interested in the number of students examined and the number of diagnoses made than in the good influence he may have upon the health future of the student. Every "case" should be treated by the health examiner as if it were the first and only case on hand for the day. The student certainly classifies the examiner as the first and only one he has had that day. The examiner should plan to make every contact he has with a student a help to the student. HEALTH INSTRUCTION A second large division of physical training deals with health instruction. As has been pointed out above, the division of health examination produces a very important and very useful opportunity for individual health instruction. =Content of hygiene instruction= Hygiene, however, is presented commonly to groups of students in class organization rather than individually. Anatomy, physiology, psychology, bacteriology, pathology, general hygiene, individual hygiene, group hygiene, and intergroup hygiene are sciences, or combinations of sciences, from which physical training draws its facts. These sciences and those phases of economics and sociology that have to do with the economic and social influences of health and disease, of physical efficiency and physical degeneracy, supply physical training with its general subject matter. Health instruction, then, as a part of physical training, draws its content from these sources. A logical plan of class instruction would, therefore, include the elements of anatomy, physiology, psychology, bacteriology (and general parasitology), pathology, economics, and sociology, as a basis for a more complete presentation of the facts of general hygiene, individual hygiene, group hygiene, and intergroup hygiene. =Method of health instruction= The most satisfactory presentation of these subjects involves the grouping of students into small classes, the employment of laboratory methods, the use of reference libraries, and the assignment of problems for investigation and study, with a general group discussion of these problems. Unfortunately, college classes are large and the number of teachers employed in the department of physical training, or in those departments from which physical training draws its science and its philosophy, is small, so that it is impractical to plan to give this instruction to small groups of students covering this range of subject matter. As a result, the lecture method with its obvious defects and shortcomings is the common medium for the health instruction of college students organized into classes. The more intimate and detailed instruction in these subjects is secured in special courses and in professional schools. In the College of the City of New York, we expect that students who come to us from high schools and preparatory schools have had the elements of anatomy and physiology either in courses on those subjects or in courses in biology.[13] Our health instruction, therefore, has been developed along the lines of lectures on general hygiene, individual hygiene, group hygiene, and intergroup hygiene running through the four terms of the freshman and sophomore years. These lectures are given in periods of from ten to fifteen minutes each, preceding class work in various forms of physical exercise. They are often called "floor talks." The shortness of the presentation favors vigor of address; necessitates a concise organization of material and a clarity and brevity of statement; and is more likely to command student attention and concentration. It has, however, its obvious defects. In these lectures persistent effort is made to influence the daily habits of the student. The lecture content is selected with reference to the practical problems of the daily life of the individual and of the community of which he is a part. It is obvious that the amount of time devoted to the presentation of the subject matter is utterly inadequate. Short written tests are given once each month, and a longer written test is given at the end of each term. These examinations stimulate the student to organize his information and make it more completely his own property. The classes are too large[14] and the instructional force relatively too small to permit the assignment of references, presentation of reports, and the conduct of investigations. Further instruction in physiology and bacteriology is secured in this institution through elective courses open to students in their junior and senior years. These elective courses, however, are not planned primarily for the health education of the student, but rather for his partial preparation as a teacher of physical training, a student of medicine, a scientific specialist, or for public health work. HEALTH-FORMING ACTIVITIES OF THE DEPARTMENT OF PHYSICAL EDUCATION The third division of activities contains the health-habit-forming influences covered by the Department of Physical Training. These influences are formed partly in connection with the follow-up activities associated with the health examinations and advice noted above; partly through impressions made by way of individual and class instruction concerning the laws of health (also noted above); and partly through systematic class work, group work, and individual work in gymnastics, organized recreation, games, play, and athletics. The student who has been given a health examination each term throughout his college career will be very likely to continue the practice as a habit after graduation. This habit will follow more surely if the examiner has been a real health teacher and not a perfunctory recorder of observations made upon the student. A lack of sympathy and tact may easily prejudice the student against the examination. The student who has been led regularly to care for defects of one sort or another; whose contact with his examiner-teacher in conferences following up the advice that has been given at the time of examination has been accompanied by the right sort of explanation and mutual understanding, will be more likely to continue to exercise that sort of care for the welfare of his body after he is no longer under the influence of the college. The student who has seen the application of class health talks to his everyday problems is likely to be influenced to the practice of consequent health habits, particularly if those short lectures serve to correlate his various habit-forming experiences while in college. And finally, the student who is brought into contact with regular systematic exercise may, if the exercise is attractive and interesting, achieve a health habit that will be carried out into his postgraduate life. The existence of the Department of Physical Training would be amply justified if its influence upon the health and vigor of the student were limited to the period of his stay in college. The full success of this department, however, like that of all other college departments, must be measured by its influence upon the life of the student after he has left college. The formation of lasting health habits is, therefore, the most important object of this department. =Place of physical exercise in program for physical education= Regular appropriate physical exercise is one of our most important health habits. It is perhaps safe to say that for the average individual it is the most important health habit. This is true because of its intimate and impressive influence upon all the fundamental organic functions of the body. Physical exercise in the American college is provided either as organized class work in the gymnasium, or by means of voluntary recreational opportunities, or through athletics. =Class work in physical exercise= Class work may include: marching, mass drills with or without light apparatus, work on heavy apparatus, games, dancing, swimming, and track and field work. This class work may be indoors or outdoors, depending on the season or climate. =Additional facilities for physical exercise= Voluntary recreational opportunities are offered through free mass drills open to all students who may desire to take them regularly or irregularly; through open periods for apparatus work; and through facilities and space for games, swimming, mass athletics, and so on. =Recreational activities and athletics= Competitive athletics are typical of the American college. Theoretically, athletics are open to all students. Practically, in many of our colleges athletics are made available only to the student with leisure time and exceptional physique. Consistent effort is being made today by college authorities to provide opportunities for intramural (interclass, intergroup, and mass) athletics for the whole student body; at the same time preserving the desirable features of the more specialized intercollegiate competitions. =Inculcating habits of physical exercise= Physical exercise in these various forms has its immediate and valuable influence upon the health condition of the individual student, if taken in sufficient quantity. It has its lasting and very much more important influence in those cases in which physical exercise becomes a habit. It has, therefore, become the increasing concern of the college teacher of physical training to develop activities in physical exercise that the student may use after graduation. Teachers of physical training have become more and more impressed with the importance of interesting exercise, not only because interesting exercise is more likely to become habitual exercise, but also because exercise that is accompanied by the play spirit, by happiness and joy, is physiologically and therefore healthfully of very much more value to the individual. The relationship between cheerfulness and good health has become very firmly established through the scientific researches of the modern physiologist. We know that health habits which are associated with cheerfulness and happiness are bound to be more effective. =Opportunities for character building= The teacher of physical training finds opportunity for incidental and yet very important instruction leading to the formation of fine qualities of character and fine standards of personal conduct. These opportunities arise constantly in the various general types of physical exercise found in the curriculum of the department of physical training. They are especially present in those activities in which competition occurs, as in play, games, and athletics. These activities do not in themselves produce excellent qualities of character or high standards of conduct, but the teacher--whether he be called a coach or a trainer or a professor of hygiene--who sets a good example and who insists that every game played, and every contest, whether it be in a handball court between college chums or on the football field between college teams, shall be clean and fair, is using in the right way one of the opportunities present in the entire college life of the student, for the formation of fine character. SPECIAL EXERCISES FOR SPECIAL GROUPS In any given group of college students one will find a number of individuals in need of special or modified physical exercise. These students may be grouped commonly under the following heads: (1) undeveloped, (2) bad posture, (3) awkward, (4) originally weak, (5) deformed. Some of these students suffer from defects that are remediable, Some of these defects are due to poor physical training in earlier years. Some are the results of disease. All of them call for modified exercise and recreation. The fact that a student may fall into one of these groups in no way justifies the assumption that he is therefore no longer subject to the laws of health or to the need for rational health habits. As a matter of fact, such cases generally call for greater care and attention in the formulation and operation of a rational policy of right living. Every student physically able to go to college is physically able to exercise. No student in attendance on recitations anywhere can offer a rational plea for exemption from exercise, The individual whose physical condition contraindicates all forms of exercise needs careful medical advice and probably needs hospital or sanitarium treatment. College Departments of Physical Training are planning for cases in need of special or modified exercise, through the organization of special classes and through individual attention. In the College of the City of New York we attempt to group the weak students in a given class, into squads of four such students with a squad leader, a student. The awkward students are grouped in the same manner. The exercise of the cripple and the student with serious organic weakness is individualized. These special individualized cases are under the direct supervision of a physician on the staff. ORGANIZATION OF THE STUDENTS FOR PRESCRIBED WORK IN THE COLLEGE COURSES In this college, organized, directed physical exercise as outlined above is covered in the division of physical training, the division of recreation, and the division of athletics, all of which are subdivisions of the Department of Hygiene. The enrollment in the required classes in the division of Physical Training varies from thirty in the smaller classes to over two hundred in the larger. The total enrollment has been approximately eleven hundred each term for several years. These courses are required of all students during the first four collegiate terms. Each of these four courses requires three hours a week, distributed over two or into three periods, and credits the student with one half point toward graduation. This time allowance is, however, inadequate. The class organization in the division of the Department of Hygiene is based on a unit composed of five students. Each of these units or squads contains one student who is designated as the "leader" of that unit. Persistent effort is made to assign students of like physical development and needs to the same squads. In this manner a single class of a hundred young men will have a graduation on the basis of proficiency which makes it possible for the teacher to come very near to the rational application of exercise for the individual student. These units or squads are organized into divisions, each division being made up of four squads. Each division is under the supervision and instruction of a member of the departmental staff. In any given class, then, there is a regular instructor for each group of twenty students, and a student leader for each group of four students. The aim in this organization is to establish a relationship between the instructor and his twenty students that will secure for him an intimate knowledge of each young man, relating to his physical training needs, general and special. =A class period in physical exercise= A typical class period is made up of a short health talk, 10 minutes; a mass drill, 10 minutes; apparatus period, two changes, 20 minutes; and a play period, 15 minutes. If the health talk is not given the play period is lengthened. The mass drills referred to above are made up of drill in marching and in gymnastics with and without hand apparatus. These drills are graded within the term and from term to term so that a desirable variety is secured. They are devised for disciplinary, postural, developmental, and health purposes. During the progress of the drill the instructors present inspect the posture and work of the students in their divisions. The apparatus periods referred to include work on the conventional pieces of gymnastic apparatus, with the addition of chest weights, an indoor track, and a swimming pool. The squad organization for this work gives opportunity for the development of student leadership which is often of extraordinary educational value to the individual boy. These periods, because of this squad organization, may be utilized for such _special exercise_ emphasis as may be decided upon for any given group of students. It is here that _special conditioning_ may be given those young men who are planning for military training or who need selected exercise for neuro-muscular development. The play period in the regular class program is devoted largely to looser games that contain a predominating element of big muscle activities. Competition is a fairly constant factor. Here, again, our squad unit permits us to assign selected groups of students to special types of games. It is feasible, in this organization, to satisfy a need for the training that is furnished by highly organized games, fighting games, and by games and out-of-door events that develop special groups of muscles and special coördinations. A well-organized Collegiate Department of Physical Training could coöperate very effectively with a Collegiate Department of Military Training. The squad organization in apparatus periods and in play periods offers the best possible avenue for a successful emphasis of several of the very important phases of military physical training. =Recreational facilities in addition to prescribed work= The division of recreation in the Department of Hygiene in the College of the City of New York, takes charge of all recreational and athletic space and all recreational and intramural athletic activities in those periods of the day in which regular class work does not take precedence. Students of all classes are admitted freely throughout their four collegiate years to these activities, and a studied effort is made to increase their attractiveness as well as to secure from them their full social and character-training values. Such values depend to a very large degree upon the experienced supervision and direction given these activities. It does not follow that the creation of play opportunity is bound to produce good citizenship. The quality of the product depends upon the quality of the man or men in charge of the enterprise. The most important mission of the Recreational Division is its purpose to furnish the student lasting habits of play and recreation based upon the physical development he has secured in his earlier experiences in physical training. After all, one's physical training should begin at birth and continue throughout life. The Division of Athletic Instruction is concerned with all plans for intercollegiate athletics, including organization, financing, training, coaching, and scheduling. All these activities are under the direction of members of the staff of the Department of Hygiene. There is no one employed in this relationship who is not a member of the staff. Constant attempts are made, in every reasonable way, to accomplish the athletic ideals that have been set up by the National Collegiate Athletic Association. Clean play, honorable methods, and sportsmanly standards dominate the theory and practice of this athletic instruction and supervision. The scope and content of physical training which I have attempted to present in these pages is brought out more clearly by the following announcement of the Department of Hygiene of the College of the City of New York: HYGIENE (1916-17) The Department of Hygiene is made up of the divisions of Physical Training, Physiology, Bacteriology, Health Examination, Recreational Instruction, and Athletics. Through these divisions the Department attempts to train young men for the exigencies of life through the establishment of enduring habits of health examination and repair, health information and individual and community protection against the agents that injure health and cause disease, and through the establishment of wise habits of daily life. This organization gives opportunity for the development of neglected organic and neuromuscular growth, coördination and control; for the social, ethical, and moral training (character building influences) inherent in wisely supervised athletic and recreational experiences; and for the special conditioning that accompanies training for severe physical and physiological competition and other tests. Finally, preparation may be secured for life work along certain lines of research, certain medical sciences, various phases of public health, physical training and social work. In addition, this Department is concerned with all those influences within the College which affect the health of the student. Every reasonable effort is made to keep the institution safe and attractive to the clean, healthy individual. DIVISION OF PHYSICAL TRAINING 1. _Course One._ (_a_) Lectures. "Some of the common causes of disease." (_b_) Physical Exercise. i. Graded mass drills. (_a_) Elementary drills are used in order to develop obedience, alertness, and ready response to command, accurate execution, good posture and carriage and facility of control. (_b_) More advanced drills are given in which movements are made in response to commands. Strength, endurance, and coördination are brought into play. ii. Apparatus work. Continuation of graded exercises for squads of five students each. iii. Selected, graded, recreative indoor and outdoor games and play. iv. Swimming. Each student is required to learn to swim with more than one variety of stroke. Prescribed. Freshman, first term; three hours a week; counts 1/2. 2. _Course Two._ (_a_) Lectures. "The carriers of disease." (_b_) Physical Exercise. i. Graded mass drills. Two-count movements. These drills are continuations of, but more advanced than those given in the preceding term. ii. Apparatus work. Continuation of graded exercises for squads of five. iii. Selected, graded, recreative indoor and outdoor games and play. iv. Swimming. Each student is required to develop endurance in swimming. Prerequisite: Hygiene 1. Prescribed. Freshman, second term; three hours a week; counts 1/2. 3. _Course Three._ (_a_) Lectures. "The contributory causes and carriers of disease." (_b_) Physical Exercise. i. Graded mass drills. Four-count movements. More advanced work. ii. Apparatus work. Continuation of graded exercises for squads of five. iii. Selected, graded, recreative indoor and outdoor games and play. iv. Swimming. Diving, rescue and resuscitation of the drowning. Prerequisite: Hygiene 2. Prescribed. Sophomore, first term; three hours a week; counts 1/2. 4. _Course Four._ (_a_) Lectures. "Defenses against poor health and disease." (_b_) Physical Exercise. i. Advanced graded mass drills. Eight-count movements. ii. Advanced graded apparatus work. For squads of five. iii. Selected, graded, recreative indoor and outdoor games and play. iv. Swimming. Advanced continuation of requirements outlined for Courses 2 and 3. Prerequisite: Hygiene 3. Prescribed. Sophomore, second term; three hours a week; counts 1/2. _Modified Course._ In each of the above required courses provision is made for those students whose organic condition may permanently disqualify them for the regular scheduled work. This special work is under the immediate direction of a medical member of the Staff. 5. _Intermediate Physical Training._ This course is planned to supply the student with such organic development and efficiency as will enable him to demonstrate successfully as a teacher various type exercises for classes in elementary and intermediate indoor and outdoor gymnastics, aquatics, games, play and athletics. Prerequisite: Hygiene 4. Three hours a week; counts 1/2. 6. _Advanced Physical Training._ This course is a continuation of Course 5, and is designed for the physical equipment of teachers of more advanced physical work. Prerequisite: Hygiene 5. Three hours a week; counts 1/2. 7. _Class Management._ This course supplies the practical instruction and experience needed for the training of special teachers in the management of elementary and intermediate classes in various forms of physical exercise. Prerequisite: Hygiene 6 and 32. Fall term, three hours a week; counts 1. 8. _Class Management._ This course is a continuation of Course 7. It is planned to give a training in the management of more advanced classes. Prerequisite: Hygiene 7. Spring term, three hours a week; counts 1. 9. _Control of Emergencies and First Aid to the Injured._ This course supplies instruction concerning the management and protective care of common emergencies. The instruction is practical and rational. It covers such emergencies as: sprains, fractures, dislocations, wounds, bruises, sudden pain, fainting, epileptic attacks, unconsciousness, drowning, electric shock, and so on. Prerequisite: Hygiene 32. Fall term, two hours a week; counts 1. 10. _Theory and Practice of Individual Instruction in Hygiene and in Departmental Sanitation._ Students taking this subject will be given practical first hand experience of special use to teachers; (a) in connection with health examination, inspection, conference, consultation, and follow up service carried on in the departmental examining room; and (b) in connection with the sanitary supervision carried on by the department. Prerequisites or Co-requisites: Hygiene 32, 41 and 48. Spring term, six hours a week in two periods of three hours each; counts 2. DIVISION OF PHYSIOLOGY 32. _Elements of Physiology._ This subject deals with the general concepts of the science of physiology, the chemical and physical conditions which underlie and determine the action of the individual organs, and the integrative relationship of the parts of the body. One lecture, one recitation and two laboratory hours a week; counts 3. 33. _Special Physiology._ A study of the fundamental facts of physiology and methods of investigation. The aim is to give a complete study of certain topics: the phenomena of contraction, conduction, sense perception and the various mechanisms of general metabolism. Laboratory work is arranged to show the methods of physiologic experimentation and to emphasize the necessity of using care and accuracy in their application. Spring term, two lectures and three laboratory hours a week; counts 3. 34. _Physiology of Nutrition._ The aim of this subject is to study broadly the metabolism of the human body. In the development of this plan the following topics will be considered: the food requirements of man, the nutritive history of the physiologic ingredients, the principles of dietetics and their application to daily living. Fall term, two lectures and three laboratory hours a week; counts 3. DIVISION OF BACTERIOLOGY 41. _General Bacteriology._ Lectures, recitations and laboratory work introducing the student to the technique of bacteriology and to the more important facts about the structure and function of bacteria. Special applications of bacteriology to agriculture and the industries are discussed, and brief references are made to the activities of allied microbes, the yeasts and molds. The general relations of bacteria to disease and the principles of immunity and its control are included. One lecture, one recitation and four laboratory hours a week; counts 3. 42. _Bacteriology of Foods._ This includes the bacteriologic examination of water, sewage, air, milk, the various food products together with the methods used in the standardization of disinfectants, a detailed study of yeast and bacterial fermentation and their application to the industries. Numerous trips to industrial plants will be made. Prerequisite: Hygiene 41. Fall term, one lecture and six laboratory hours a week; counts 3. 43. _Bacteriology of Pathogenic Micro-organisms._ This subject is devoted to the laboratory methods of biology as applied in the state and municipal boards of health. Practice will be given in the methods used for the diagnosis of diphtheria, tuberculosis, malaria, rabies, and other diseases caused by micro-organisms, together with a detailed study of the groups to which they belong. Prerequisite: Hygiene 41. Spring term, one lecture and six laboratory hours a week; counts 3. 44. _Potable and Industrial Water._ Very few industries are independent of a water supply. No one is independent of the source of his drinking water. Water varies in its usefulness for definite purposes. This subject differentiates between various waters, takes them up from industrial and hygienic standpoints, considers softening, filtering, purifying and water analysis. Work is divided into three groups. A. Industrial Water ) } given in the Chemistry Department. B. Potable Water ) C. Water Bacteriology ) } given in the Department of Hygiene. (microscopy of water) ) Municipal students may elect any or all of the three groups. Prerequisite: Chemistry 4 and Hygiene 41. Chemistry 9 is desirable. Spring term, seven hours a week; counts 3. 48. _Municipal Sanitation._ Lectures, discussions and visits to public works of special importance. The principles which underlie a pure water supply and the means by which the wastes of the city, its sewage and garbage may be successfully disposed of, and the problems of pure milk and pure food supplies, the housing question with its special phase of ventilation and plumbing, and the methods by which a municipal board of health is organized to fight tuberculosis and other specific diseases will be studied. Fall term, two lectures and one field trip a week; counts 3. 49. _Municipal Sanitary Inspection._ _Professor B---- and Bureau of Foods and Drugs, New York City Department of Health._ The seminar work of this subject is done in the College and the field work in company with and under the direct supervision of an Inspector of the Department of Health of the City. The subject is limited to six students each semester, and is intended for those planning to go into this branch of the City's service. The qualifications will be based upon individuality, personality playing an important part. Prerequisite: Hygiene 41 and 48 and Chemistry 19. Spring term, two seminar hours, one recitation and one inspection tour a week; counts 3. 50. _Research._ Seniors who have completed satisfactorily a sufficient amount of work in the Department may be assigned some topic to serve as a basis for a thesis which will be submitted as credit for the work at its completion. The student will receive the advice of the instructor in the subject in which the research falls, but as much independent work as possible will be insisted upon. The purpose is to introduce the student into research methods, and also to foster independence. DIVISION OF HEALTH EXAMINATION I. _Individual Instruction in Hygiene._ This instruction is of a personal confidential character, and is given in the form of advice based upon medical history supplied by the individual, and upon medical and hygienic examinations and inspections of the individual. (_a_) Medical and hygienic history and examination. In this relationship with the student the Department attempts to secure such information concerning environmental and habit influences in the life of the student as may be used as a basis for supplying him with helpful advice concerning the organization of his policy of personal health control. The medical examinations are utilized for the purpose of finding remediable physical defects whose proper treatment may be added to the physiological efficiency and therefore to the health possibilities of the student. Prescribed: freshman, sophomore, junior, senior and special students. Once each term. No credits. (_b_) Hygiene inspections. These inspections are applied in the mutual interest of personal, departmental and institutional hygiene. Prescribed: freshman and sophomore. (_c_) Conferences. All students who have been given personal hygienic or medical advice are required to report in conference by appointment in order that the advice may be followed up. All individuals found with communicable diseases are debarred from all classes until it is shown in conference that they are receiving proper medical treatment, and that they may return to class attendance with safety to their comrades. All individuals found with remediable physical or hygienic defects are required to report in conference with evidence that the abnormal condition has been brought to the serious attention of the parent, guardian or family medical or hygienic adviser. Students failing to report as directed may be denied admission to all classes. II. _Medical and Sanitary Supervision._ (_a_) Sanitary supervision. An "Advisory Committee on Hygiene and Sanitation" with the Professor of Hygiene as Chairman, has been appointed by the President. This committee has been instructed to "inquire from time to time into all our institutional influences which are likely to affect the health of the student and instructor, and to make such reports with recommendations to the President as may seem wise and expedient." (_b_) A medical examination is required of all applicants for admission to the College. Approval of the Medical Examiner must be secured before registration is permitted. (_c_) Medical consultation. Open to all students. (Optional.) (_d_) Medical examination of Athletes. Required of all students before admission to athletic training and repeated at intervals during the training season. (_e_) Treatment. Emergency treatment is the only treatment attempted by the Department. Such treatment will be applied only for the purpose of protecting the individual until he can secure the services he selects for that purpose. (_f_) Conferences. (See "c" under I.) (_g_) Laboratory: The Department Laboratories are equipped for bacteriological and other analyses. The water in the swimming pool is examined daily. The laboratory service is utilized to identify disease carriers, and in every other reasonable way to assist in the protection of student health. DIVISION OF RECREATIONAL INSTRUCTION Liberal provision is made by the College for voluntary recreational activities indoors and outdoors during six days of the week and throughout vacation periods. Emphasis is laid on recreation as a health habit and a means of social training. DIVISION OF ATHLETICS (1) _Athletic Supervision._ Three organizations are concerned: (_a_) The Faculty Athletic Committee, which has to do with all athletic activities that involve academic relationships. (_b_) The Athletic Council, a committee of the Department of Hygiene, charged with the supervision of all business activities connected with student athletic enterprises. (_c_) The Athletic Association of the Student Body. (2) _Athletic Instruction._ The Department utilizes various intramural and extramural athletic activities for the purpose of securing a further influence on the promotion of health habits, the development of physical power, and the establishment and maintenance of high standards of sportsmanly conduct on part of the individual and the group. At present the schedule includes the following sports: baseball, basket ball, track and field, swimming and water polo, tennis, soccer foot ball, and hand ball. THOMAS ANDREW STOREY, M.D. _College of the City of New York_ [It was hoped that it would be possible to include with Professor Storey's chapter a number of forms and photographs calculated to serve as aids in the organization and conduct of a College Department of Hygiene. As Professor Storey's work is very distinctive, other institutions which are striving to organize effective departments of physical education would have found his experiences as graphically depicted in these photographs and summed up in these charts extremely helpful. Unfortunately it has proved impossible to print them here on account of limitations of space, but all who are interested in securing further information can obtain these valuable guides in the introductory stages of the inauguration of a Department of Hygiene by applying to the College of the City of New York. EDITOR.] Footnotes: [12] The construction of this chapter on the teaching of physical training is based very largely upon the experiences and organization of the Department of Hygiene in the College of the City of New York. [13] This precollegiate instruction is, unfortunately, uniformly poor in so far as it relates to health. [14] The present enrollment in these classes, February, 1919, is approximately 1500. PART THREE THE SOCIAL SCIENCES CHAPTER X THE TEACHING OF ECONOMICS _Frank A. Fetter_ XI THE TEACHING OF SOCIOLOGY _A. J. Todd_ XII THE TEACHING OF HISTORY A. AMERICAN HISTORY _H. W. Elson_ B. MODERN EUROPEAN HISTORY _Edward Krehbiel_ XIII THE TEACHING OF POLITICAL SCIENCE _Charles Grove Haines_ XIV THE TEACHING OF PHILOSOPHY _Frank Thilly_ XV THE TEACHING OF ETHICS _Henry Neumann_ XVI THE TEACHING OF PSYCHOLOGY _Robert S. Woodworth_ XVII THE TEACHING OF EDUCATION A. TEACHING THE HISTORY OF EDUCATION _Herman H. Horne_ B. TEACHING EDUCATIONAL THEORY _Frederick E. Bolton_ X THE TEACHING OF ECONOMICS =Conception and aims of economics= Even though economics be so defined as to exclude a large part of the field of the social sciences, its scope is still very broad. Economics is less homogeneous in its content, is far less clearly defined, than is any one of the natural sciences. A very general definition of economics is: The study of men engaged in making a living. More fully expressed, economics is a study of men exercising their own powers and making use of their environment for the purposes of existence, of welfare, and of enjoyment. Within such a broad definition of economics is found room for various narrower conceptions. To mention only the more important of these we may distinguish individual economics, domestic economics, business economics, governmental economics (public finance), and political (or national) economics. Any one of these subjects may be approached and treated primarily either with regard to its more immediate financial, material, acquisitive aspects, or to its more far-reaching social, psychical, and welfare aspects. These various ideas appear and reappear most confusingly in economic literature. The aims that different students and teachers have in the pursuit of economics are as varied as are the conceptions of its nature. The teaching aims are, indeed, largely determined by those conceptions. Moreover, the teaching aims are modified by still other conditions, such as the environment of the college and its constituency, and such as the temperament, business experience, and scholarly training of the teacher. We may distinguish broadly three aims: the vocational, the civic, and the cultural. _The vocational aim_ is the most elementary and most usual. Xenophon's treatise on domestic "economy" was the nucleus from which have grown all the systematic formulations of economic principles. Vocational economics is the economics of the craftsman and of the shop. Every practical craft and art has its economic aspect, which concerns the right and best use of labor and valuable materials to attain a certain artistic, mechanical, or other technical end in its particular field. Economics is not mere technology, which has to do with the mastery of materials and forces to attain any material end. Vocational economics, however, modifies and determines technical practice, which, in the last analysis, is subject to the economic rule. The economic engineer should construct not the best bridge that is possible, mechanically considered, but the best possible or advisable for the purpose and with the means at hand. The economic agriculturist should not produce the largest crop possible, but the crop that gives the largest additional value. The rapidly growing recognition of the importance, in all technical training, of cultivating the ability to take the economic view has led to the development of household economics in connection with the teaching of cooking, sewing, decorating, etc.; of the economics of farm management to supplement the older technical courses in natural science, crops, and animal husbandry; of the economics of factory management in connection with mechanical engineering; of the economics of railway location in connection with certain phases of civil engineering; and many more such special groupings and formulations of economic principles with reference to particular vocations and industries. The ancient and the medieval crafts and mysteries undoubtedly had embodied in their maxims, proverbs, traditional methods, and teachings, many economic principles suitable to their comparatively simple and unchanging conditions. The rapid changes that have occurred, especially in the last half century, in the natural sciences and in the practical arts have rendered useless much of this wisdom of the fathers. Recently there has been a belated and sudden awakening to the need of studying, consciously and systematically, the economic aspects of the new dynamic forces and industrial conditions. Hence the almost dramatic appearance of vocational, or technical, economics under such names as "scientific management" and the "economics of engineering." Viewed in this perspective such a development appears to be commendable and valuable in its main purpose. Unfortunately, some, if not all, of the adherents of this new cult of "economy" and "efficiency" fail to appreciate how very restricted and special it is, compared with the whole broad economic field. _The civic aim_ in teaching economics is to fit the student to perform the duties of a citizen. We need not attempt to prove here that a large proportion of public questions are economic in nature, and that in a democracy a wise decision on these questions ultimately depends on an intelligent public opinion and not merely on the knowledge possessed by a small group of specialists. The civic conception of economics, seen from one point of view, shows little in common with the vocational conception. Yet from another point of view it may be looked upon as the vocational conception "writ large" and is the art of training men to be citizens in a republic. Good citizenship involves an attitude of interest, a capacity to form judgments on public economic issues, and, if need be, to perform efficiently public functions of a legislative, executive or judicial nature. The state-supported colleges usually now recognize very directly their obligation to provide economic training with the civic aim, and, in some cases, even to require it as a part of the work for a college degree. Often also is found the thought that it is the duty of the student while obtaining an education at public expense, to take a minimum of economics with the civic aim even if he regards it as in no way to his individual advantage or if it has in his case no direct vocational bearings. In the privately endowed institutions this policy may be less clearly formulated, but it is hardly less actively practiced. Indeed, the privately endowed institutions have been recognizing more and more fully their fiduciary and public nature. Their public character is involved in their charters, in their endowments, in their exemption from taxation, and in their essential educational functions. The proudest pages in their history are those recording their services to the state.[15] =Evaluations of aims of teaching economics in college= _The cultural aim_ in economics is to enable the student to comprehend the industrial world about him. It aims to liberate the mind from ignorance and prejudice, giving him insight into, and appreciation of, the industrial world in which he lives. In this aspect it is a liberal study. Economics produces in some measure this cultural result, even when it is studied primarily with the vocational or with the civic aim. But in vocational economics the choice of materials and the mode of treatment are deliberately restricted by the immediate utilitarian purposes; and in economic teaching with a civic purpose there is the continual temptation to arouse the sympathies for an immediate social program and to take a view limited by the contemporary popular interest in specific proposals for reform. Economics at its highest level is the search for truth. It has its place in any system of higher education as has pure natural science, apart from any immediate or so far as we may know, any possible, utilitarian application. It is a disinterested philosophy of the industrial world. Though it may not demonstrably be a _means_ to other useful things, it is itself a worthy _end_. It helps to enrich the community with the immaterial goods of the spirit, and it yields the psychic income of dignity and joy in the individual and national life. And as a final appeal to any doubting Philistine it may be said that just as the cult of pure science is necessary to the continual and most effective progress in the practical arts, so the study of economics on the philosophical plane surely is necessary to the highest and most lasting results in the application of economics to the arts and to civic life. The differences in aims set forth in this paragraph result in much of the futile discussion in recent years regarding methods of teaching. Enthusiastic innovators have debated at cross purposes about teaching methods as if they were to be measured by some absolute standard of pedagogic values, not recognizing that the chief differences of views as to teaching methods were rooted in the differing aims. This truth will reappear at many points in the following discussion. "What will you have," quoth the Gods, "pay the price and take it." =Place of economics in the college curriculum= The place assigned to economics in the college curriculum in respect to the year in which the student is admitted to its study is very different in various colleges. In the last investigation of the subject it appeared that the first economics course might be taken first in the freshman year in 14 per cent of cases, in the sophomore year in 31 per cent of cases, in the junior year in 42 per cent of cases, in the senior year in 13 per cent of cases.[16] Among those institutions giving an economic course in the freshman year are some small and some large institutions (some of the latter being Stanford, New York University, Pennsylvania, Bryn Mawr, and the state universities of California, Iowa, Nebraska, North Dakota, Colorado, Utah). Frequently the elementary course given to freshmen is in matter and method historical and descriptive, rather than theoretical, and is planned to precede a more rigid course in the principles.[17] The plan of beginning economics in the sophomore year is the mode among the state universities and larger colleges, including nearly all of the larger institutions that do not begin the subject in the freshman year. This group includes Yale, Hopkins, Chicago, Northwestern, Mount Holyoke, Wellesley, Vassar, and (after 1919) Princeton. The group of institutions beginning economics in the junior year is the largest, but consists mostly of small colleges having some advanced economics courses, but no more than can be given in the senior year. It contains, besides, a few colleges of arts which maintain a more strictly prescribed curriculum for underclassmen (freshmen and sophomores), such as Dartmouth, Columbia, Smith, and Simmons. It should be observed also that in a great many institutions, where economics may be taken by some students in the first two years, it is in fact scheduled as late as junior or senior year in the prescribed courses of students in special departments such as agriculture, engineering, and law. This statement applies doubtless to many thousands of technical students.[18] In view of these divergencies in practice we must hesitate to declare that the subject should be begun at precisely this or that point in the college course. These differences, to be sure, are in many cases the result of accidental factors in the college curriculum, and often have been determined by illogical departmental rivalries within the faculty rather than by wise and disinterested educators studying the merits of the case. But in large part these differences are the expression of different purposes and practical needs in planning a college curriculum, and are neither quite indefensible nor necessarily contradictory in pedagogic theory. In the small college with a nearly uniform curriculum and with limited means, a general course is perhaps best planned for the senior year, or in the junior year if there is an opportunity given to the student to do some more advanced work the year following. At the other extreme are some larger institutions in which the pressure of new subjects within the arts curriculum has shattered the fixed curriculum into fragments. This has made possible specialization along any one of a number of lines. Where this idea is carried out to the full, every general group of subjects eventually must make good its claim to a place in the freshman year for its fundamental course. But inasmuch as, in most institutions, the freshman year is still withheld from this free elective plan by the requirement of a small group of general subjects, economics is first open to students in the sophomore year. The license of the elective system is of course much moderated by the requirement to elect a department, usually at the beginning either of the sophomore or of the junior year, and within each department both a more or less definite sequence of courses and a group of collateral requirements are usually enforced. Where resources are very limited it is probably best to give the economics course in the last two years, but where several more specialized courses in economics are given, it should be introduced as early as the sophomore year. If a freshman course in the subject is given it should be historical, descriptive, or methodical (e.g., statistical methods, graphics, etc.) rather than theoretical. The experience (or lack of experience) and knowledge of the industrial world, past and present, possessed by the average American college student is such that courses of that kind meet a great need.[19] =Time to be given to economics in a college curriculum= Teachers of economics today are doubtless attempting the impossible in compressing the present "general course" into three hours for two semesters. No other department of a university attempts to treat in such a brief time so broad a subject, including both principles and applications. Such a course was quite long enough in the days when all economic instruction was given by gray-haired theologians, philosophers, mathematicians, and linguists, dogmatically expounding the _pons asinorum_ of economics, and quizzing from a dusty textbook of foreign authorship. But now the growing and vigorous tribe of specialized economic teachers is bursting with information and illustrations. Moreover, the range of economic topics and of economic interests has expanded wonderfully. The resulting overcrowded condition of the general course is possibly the main cause of the difficulties increasingly felt by teachers in handling that course satisfactorily. As a part of a general college curriculum "general economics" cannot be satisfactorily treated in less than three hours a week for two years. The additional time should not be spent in narrow specialization but rather in getting a broader understanding of the subject through economic history and geography, through observation and description of actual conditions, through a greater use of problems and examples, and through more detailed, less superficial study of the fundamental principles. As a part of sixteen years of the whole educational scheme from primary grade to college diploma such a course would claim but 2-1/2 per cent of the student's whole time, while the subjects of English, mathematics, and foreign linguistics each gets about 20 per cent, in the case even of students who do not specialize in one of these branches. Of the replies[20] from nearly three hundred colleges to the question whether economics was required for graduation, about 55 per cent were in the affirmative. Unfortunately the question was ambiguous, and the replies apparently were understood to mean generally that it was required in one or more curricula, not of all graduates (though in some cases the question was probably taken in the other sense). It is noteworthy that more frequently economics is required in the smaller colleges having but one curriculum, that of liberal studies. In the larger institutions economics is usually not required of students in the humanities, although of late it has increasingly been made a part of the technical college curricula, especially in engineering and agriculture.[21] So we are in a fair way to arrive at the situation where no student except in those "liberal" arts courses can get a college diploma without studying economics; only in a modern course in the humanities may the study of human society be left out. The economists have not been active in urging their subject as a requirement. The call for increasing requirements in economics has come from the public and from the alumni. The steady increase in the number of students electing economic courses without corresponding additions to the teaching forces has made the overworked professors of the subject thankful when nothing more was done to increase by faculty requirements the burden of their class work. It is charged and it is admitted in some institutions that the standards of marking are purposely made more severe in the economics courses than in courses in most other subjects. The purpose avowed is "to cut out the dead timber," so that only the better students will be eligible for enrollment in the advanced economics courses. An unfortunate result is to discourage some excellent students, ambitious for high marks or honors, from electing courses in economics because thereby their average grades would be reduced. In many cases, for this reason, good students take the subject optionally (without credit), though doing full work in it. =Organization of the subject in the college curriculum= We have already, in discussing the place of economics, necessarily touched upon the organization of the courses. In most colleges this organization is very simple. The whole economic curriculum consists of the "general" course, or at most of that plus one or more somewhat specialized courses given the next year. The most usual year of advanced work consists of one semester each of money and banking and of public finance. A not unusual plan, well suited to the situation in a small college where economics takes the full time of one teacher, is to give the general course in the sophomore year, and to offer a two-year cycle of advanced work, the two courses being given in alternate years, the class consisting of juniors and seniors. In this plan the additional courses may be in transportation, in labor problems, in trusts and corporations, and frequently of late, in accounting. Ordinarily the "general" course itself involves a logical sequence, the first term dealing with fundamental concepts and theories, and the second term covering in a rapid survey a pretty wide range of special problems. The majority of the students take only the general course. Those who go on to more advanced courses retrace the next year some of the ground of the second semester's work, but this is probably for few of them a loss of time. Indeed, in such a subject as economics this opportunity to let first teachings "sink in," and strange concepts become familiar, is for most students of great value. Yet the plan was adopted and is followed as a compromise, using one course as a ready-made fit for the differing needs of two groups of students. We have seen above (page 221) that preceding the general, or systematic, course, there is in a number of colleges a simpler one. In some cases[22] the experiment has been undertaken of studying first for a time certain broad institutional features of our existing society, such as property, the wage system, competition, and the amount and distribution of wealth. The need of such a course is said to be especially great in the women's colleges. If so, it is truly urgent, for most young men come to college with very meager experience in economic lines. Few, if any, teachers would deny that such an introductory course preceding the principles is distinctly of advantage.[23] Some would favor it even at the price of shortening materially the more general course. But most teachers would agree that together the introductory course and the general course should take two full years (three hours a week, twelve college credit hours, as usually reckoned), an amount of time which cannot be given by the "floater" electing economics. And to accommodate both those who have had the introductory course and those who have not, the general course would have to be given in two divisions and in two ways. Again we come to the thought, suggested above, that probably we are attempting too much in too brief a time in the general course today. A longer time for the study would permit of a sequence that would be more logically defensible. It would begin with historical and descriptive studies, both because they are fundamentally necessary and because, being of more concrete nature, they may be given in a form easier for the beginner to get. In this period a good deal of the terminology can be gradually familiarized. Then should come the more elementary analytical studies and fundamental principles, followed by a discussion of a number of practical problems. In conclusion should come a more systematic survey of general principles, of which most students now get but a superficial idea. The work in the specialized elective courses would then be built upon much firmer foundation than is the case at present. =Methods of teaching= The main methods that have been developed and tested in the teaching of undergraduate classes in economics may be designated as the lecture method, the textbook method, the problem method. Any one of these may be used well-nigh exclusively, or, as is more usual, two or more may be combined in varying proportions; e.g., lectures with "supplementary" (or "collateral") readings, with or without an occasional meeting in a quiz section. Along with these main methods often are used such supplementary methods as topical reports requiring individual library work; laboratory exercises, as in statistics, accounting, etc.; individual field work to study some industrial problem; and visits, as a class, and with guidance, to factories and industrial enterprises. The choice of these particular methods of teaching is, however, largely conditioned by the teacher's antecedent choice between the deductive or the inductive forms of presentation. This is an old controversy ever recurring. But it should be observed that the question here is not whether induction or deduction is a greater aid in arriving at new truth, but it is whether the inductive or the deductive process is the better for the imparting of instruction to beginners. In teaching mathematics, the most deductive of the sciences, use may be made of such inductive aids as object lessons, physical models, and practical problems; and _per contra_, in the natural sciences, where induction is the chief instrument of research, elementary instruction is largely given in a deductive manner by the statement of general propositions, the workings of which are then exemplified. The decision of the question which is the better of these two pedagogic methods in a particular case, depends (_a_) partly on the average maturity and experience of the class; (_b_) partly on the mental quality of the students; and (_c_) partly on the interest and qualifications of the teacher. (_a_) The choice of the best method of teaching is of course dependent on the same factors that have been shown above to affect the nature and sequence of the courses. The simpler method leading to more limited results is more suitable for the less mature classes; but the scientific stage in the treatment of any subject is not reached until general principles are discussed. If one is content with a vocational result in economic teaching, stopping short of the theoretical, philosophic outlook, more can be accomplished in a short time by the concrete method. But such teaching would seem to belong in a trade school rather than in a college of higher studies, and in any case should be given by a vocational teacher rather than by a specialist in social, or political, economy. =Various methods evaluated= (_b_) Every college class presents a gradation of minds capable (whether from nature or training) of attaining different states of comprehension. Of students in the lower half of the classes in American colleges, it may be said broadly that they never can or will develop the capacity of thinking abstractly and that the concrete method of teaching would give better results in their cases. Therefore the teacher attempts to compromise, to adopt a method that fits the "mode," the middle third of the class, wasting much of the time of the brighter (or of the more earnest) students, and letting those in the lowest third trail along as best they can. This difficulty may be met with some success where there are several sections of a class by grouping the men in accordance with their previous scholarship records. This grouping is beneficial alike to those lower and to those higher than the average in scholarship. (_c_) Quite as important in this connection as this subjective quality of the students, is the characteristic quality of the teacher. A particular teacher will succeed better or worse with any particular method according as it fits his aim and is in accord with his endowment and training. If he is himself of the "hard-headed" unimaginative or unphilosophic type, he will of course deem effort wasted that goes beyond concrete facts. He will give little place to the larger aspects and principles of "political" economy, but will deal exhaustively with the details of commercial economy. If the teacher is civic-minded and sympathetic, he will be impelled to trace economic forces, in their actions and interactions, far beyond the particular enterprise, to show how the welfare of others is affected. To do this rightly, knowledge of the conditions must be combined with a deeper theoretical insight; but the civic aim operates selectively to limit the choice of materials and analysis to those contemporary issues that appeal at the time to the textbook writer, to the teacher, or to the public. Still different is the case of the teacher who finds his greatest joy in the theoretical aspects of economics, possesses a clean-cut economic philosophy (even though it may not be ultimate truth), and has faith in economics as a disciplinary subject. Such a teacher will (other things being equal) have, relatively, his greatest success with the students of greatest ability; he will get better results in teaching the "principles" than in teaching historical and descriptive facts. None will deny that this type of education has an important place. Even in the more descriptive courses appeal should be made to the higher intellectual qualities of the class, leaving a lasting disciplinary result rather than a memory stored with merely ephemeral and mostly insignificant information. The teacher with colorless personality and without interest in, and knowledge of, the world of reality, will fail, whatever be the purpose of his teaching. The higher the teacher's aim, the farther may he fall below its attainment. A college teacher whose message is delivered on the mental level of grammar school children should, of course, score a pretty high percentage of success in giving a passing mark to sophomores, juniors, and seniors in American colleges. But is this really a success, or is it rather not evidence of a failure in the whole school curriculum, and of woful waste in our system of so-called "higher" education? Are colleges for the training of merely mediocre minds? =Aim and attitude more fundamental than method of instruction= These questions of aim and of attitude are more fundamental than is the question of the particular device of instruction to be used, as lecture, textbook, etc. Yet the latter question is not without its importance. In general it appears that practice has moved and still moves in a cycle. In the American college world as a whole each particular college repeats some or all of the typical phases with the growth of its economic department. (1) First is the textbook, with recitations in small classes. (2) Next, the lecture gradually takes a larger place as the classes grow, until, supplemented by required readings, it becomes the main tool of instruction, this being the cheapest and easiest way to take care of the rapidly growing enrollment. (3) Then, when this proves unsatisfactory, the lectures are perhaps cut down to two a week, and the class is divided into quiz sections for one meeting a week under assistants or instructors, the lecture still being the main center of the scheme of teaching. (4) This still being unsatisfactory (partly because it lacks oversight of the students' daily work, and partly because the lecture is unsuited to the development of general principles that require careful and repeated study for their mastery), a textbook is made the basis of section meetings, held usually twice a week, and the lectures are reduced to one a week, given to the combined class, and so changed in character as to be merely supplementary to the class work. The lectures are given either in close connection week by week with the class work or bearing only a general relation with the term's work as a whole. This may be deemed the prevailing mode today in institutions where the introductory course has a large enrollment.[24] (5) Another change completes the cycle; the lecture is dropped and the class is divided, each section, consisting of twenty to thirty students, meeting with the same teacher regularly for class work. This change was made after mature consideration in "the College" in Columbia University; is in operation in Chicago University, where the meetings are held five times a week; and has been adopted more recently still in New York University. There have been for years evidences of the growing desire to abolish the lecture from the introductory course and also to limit its use in some of the special undergraduate courses. The preceptorial plan adopted in 1905 by Princeton University is the most notable instance of the latter change.[25] Even in graduate teaching in economics there has been a growing opinion and practice favorable to the "working" course or "seminar" course to displace lecture courses.[26] Thus the lecture seems likely to play a less prominent role, especially in the introductory courses, but it is not likely to be displaced entirely in the scheme of instruction. =Selection of a textbook= Numerous American textbooks on political economy (thirty, it is said) have been published in the last quarter of a century, a fact which has now and then been deplored by the pessimistic critic.[27] Few share this opinion, however. The textbooks have, to be sure, often served, not to unfold a consistent system of thought, but to reveal the lack of one. But they have afforded to the teachers and students, in a period of developing conceptions on the subjects, a wide choice of treatment of the principles much more exactly worked out and carefully expressed than is possible through the medium of lectures as recorded in the students' hastily written notes. Questions, exercises, and test problems are widely used as supplementary material for classroom discussion.[28] Separately printed collections of such material date back at least to W. G. Sumner's _Problems in Political Economy_ (1884), which in turn acknowledged indebtedness to other personal sources and to Milnes' collection of two thousand questions and problems from English examination papers. With somewhat varying aims, further commented upon below, and in varying degrees, all teachers of economics now make use of such questions in their teaching of both general and special courses. Unquestionably there are, in the use of the problem method, possibilities for good which few teachers have fully realized.[29] The selection and arrangement of materials for supplementary readings is guided by various motives, more or less intermingling. It may be chiefly to parallel a systematic text by extracts taken largely from the older "classics" of the subject (as in C. J. Bullock's _Selected Readings in Economics_, 1907); or to provide additional concrete material bearing mostly upon present economic problems (as in the author's _Source Book in Economics_, 1912); or to supplement a set of exercises and problems (as in F. M. Taylor's _Some Readings in Economics_, 1907); or to constitute of itself an almost independent textbook of extracts, carefully edited with original introductions to chapters (as Marshall, Wright, and Field's _Materials for the Study of Elementary Economics_, 1913, and W. H. Hamilton's _Readings in Current Economic Problems_, 1914). Whatever be the particular tool of instruction, whether lecture, textbook with classroom discussion, problem study, or collateral readings, its use may be very different according as the teacher seeks to develop the subject positively or negatively, to present a single definite and (if he can) coherent body of doctrines, or a variety of opinions that have been held, among which the student is encouraged to choose. Evidently the conditions determining choice in the case of advanced courses are different from those in the introductory course. For the beginner time is required in order that economic principles may sink in, and so he is bewildered if at first he is introduced to a number of theories by different authors. Materials that supplement the general course of principles should therefore be limited to subject matter that is descriptive, concrete, and illustrative. The beginner, somewhat dazed with the variety of new facts, ideas, terminology, and problems in the field into which he has entered, needs guidance to think clearly step by step about them.[30] Not until the pupil has learned to see and apprehend the simpler economic phenomena near him can he be expected to survey the broader fields and to form independent judgments concerning complex situations. He must creep before he can run. In fact, teachers are often self-deceived when they imagine that they are leaving students to judge for themselves among various opinions or to find their way inductively to their own conclusions. The recitation, in truth, becomes the simple game of "hot and cold." The teacher has in mind what he considers the right answer; the groping student tries to guess it; and as he ventures this or that inexpert or lucky opinion he is either gently chided or encouraged. At length some bright pupil wins the game by agreeing with the teacher's theretofore skilfully concealed opinion. This is called teaching by the inductive method. Undoubtedly it is more desirable to develop in the student the ability to think independently about economic questions than it is to drill him into an acceptance of ready-made opinions on contemporary practical issues. The more fundamental economic theory--the more because its bearing on pecuniary and class interests is not close or obvious--is an admirable organ for the development of the student's power of reasoning. But to give the student this training it is not necessary to keep him in the dark as to what he is to learn. The Socratic method is still unexcelled in the discussion of a text and of lectures in which propositions are clearly laid down and explained. The theorem in geometry is first stated, and then the student is conducted step by step through the reasoning leading to that conclusion. Should not the student of economics have presented to him in a similar way the idea or principle, and then be required to follow the reasoning upon which it is based? Then, through questions and problems,--the more the better, if time permits of their thorough discussion and solution,--the student may be exercised in the interpretation of the principles, and by illustrations drawn from history and contemporary conditions may be shown the various applications of the principle to practical problems. To get and hold the student's _interest_, to fascinate him with the subject, is equal in importance to the method, for without interest good results are impossible.[31] =Tests or teaching results= It must be confessed that no exact objective measure of the efficiency of teaching methods in economics has been found. At best we have certain imperfect indices, among which are the formal examination, the student's own opinion at the close of the course, and the student's revised opinion after leaving college. The primary purpose of the traditional examination is not to test the relative merits of the different methods of teaching, but to test the relative merits of the various students in a class, whatever be the method of teaching. Every teacher knows that high or low average marks in an entire class are evidences rather of the standard that he is setting than it is of the merits of his teaching methods,--though in some cases he is able to compare the results obtained after using two different methods of exposition for the same subject. But, as was indicated above, such a difference may result from his own temperament and may point only to the method that he can best use, not to the best absolutely considered. Moreover, the teacher may make the average marks high or low merely by varying the form and content of the examination papers or the strictness of his markings. Each ideal and method of teaching has its corresponding type of examination. Descriptive and concrete courses lend themselves naturally to memory tests; theoretical courses lend themselves to problems and reasoning. A high type of question is one whose proper answer necessitates knowledge of the facts acquired in the course together with an interpretation of the principles and their application to new problems. Memory tests serve to mark off "the sheep from the goats" as regards attention and faithful work; reasoning tests serve to give a motive for disciplinary study and to measure its results. It may perhaps seem easier to test the results of the student's work in memory subjects; but even as to that we know that there are various types of memory and how much less significant are marks obtained by "the cramming process" than are equally good marks obtained as a result of regular attention to daily tasks. The students' revised and matured judgment of the value of their various college studies generally differ, often greatly, from their judgments while taking or just after completing the courses. Yet even years afterward can man judge rightly in his own case just what has been the relative usefulness to him of the different elements of his complex college training, or of the different methods employed?[32] But the evidence that comes from the most successful alumni to the college teacher in economics is increasingly to the effect that the college work they have come to value most is that which "teaches the student to think." Our judgments in this matter are influenced by the larger educational philosophy that we hold. Each will have his standard of spiritual values. =Moot questions in economics affecting the teaching of the subject= The moot questions in the teaching of the subject have, perhaps, been sufficiently indicated, but we may here add a word as to the bearings which certain moot questions in the theory of the subject may have on the methods of teaching. The fundamental theory of economics has, since the days of Adam Smith, been undergoing a process of continuous transition, but the broader concepts never have been more in dispute than in the last quarter century in America. The possibility of such diversity of opinion in the fundamentals among the leading exponents of the subject argues strongly that economics is still a philosophy--a general attitude of mind and system of opinion--rather than a positive science. At best it is a "becoming science" which never can cease entirely to have a speculative, or philosophic character. This is not the place to go into details of matters in controversy. Suffice it to say that in rivalry to the older school--which is variously designated Ricardian, Orthodox, English, or classical--newer ideas have been developed, dating from the work of the Austrian economists, of Jevons, and of J. B. Clark in the last decades of the nineteenth century. The older school had sought the explanation of value and the theory of distribution in objective factors,--partly in the chemical qualities of the soil, partly in labor, partly in the costs (or outlays) of the employing class. The psychological factor in value had been almost eliminated from this older treatment of value and price, or at best was imperfectly recognized under the name of "utility." The newer school made the psychological element primary in the positive treatment of economic principles, and launched a negative criticism against the older terms and ideas that effectively exposed their unsoundness considered separately and their inconsistency as a system of economic thought. Both the negative criticisms and the proposed amendments taken one by one gained wide acceptance among economists. But when it came to embodying them in a general theory of economics, many economists have balked.[33] Most of the American texts in economics and much of our teaching show disastrous effects of this confusion and irresolution. The newer concepts, guardedly admitted to have some validity, appear again and again in the troubled discussions of recent textbook writers, which usually end with a rejection, "on the whole," of the logical implications of these newer concepts. Many teachers thus have lost their grip on any coördinating theory of distribution. They no longer have any general economic philosophy. The old Ricardian cock-sureness had its pedagogic merits. Without faith, teaching perishes. The complaints of growing difficulty in the teaching of the introductory course seem to have come particularly from teachers that are in this unhappy state of mind. They declare that it is impossible longer to interest students successfully in a general theoretical course, and they are experimenting with all kinds of substitutes--de-nicotinized tobacco and Kaffee Hag--from which poisonous theory has been extracted. At the same time, economics "with a punch in it," economics "with a back bone," is being taught by strong young teachers of the new faith more successfully, perhaps, than economics has ever been taught in the past. This greater question of the teacher's conception of economics dominates all the minor questions of method. Economics cannot be taught as an integrated course in principles by teachers without theoretical training and conceptions; in such hands its treatment is best limited to the descriptive phases of concrete special problems,--valuable, indeed, as a background and basis, but never rising to the plane upon which alone economics is fully worth the student's while as a college subject. FRANK ALBERT FETTER _Princeton University_ BIBLIOGRAPHY The literature on the teaching of economics in the secondary schools, its need and its proper scope and method, is somewhat extensive. Another goodly group of articles discusses the teaching of economic history and of other social sciences related to economics, either in high schools or colleges. A somewhat smaller group pertains to graduate instruction in the universities. The following brief list of titles, arranged chronologically, is most pertinent to our present purpose: "The Relation of the Teaching of Economic History to the Teaching of Political Economy" (pages 88-101), and "Methods of Teaching Economics" (pages 105-111), _A. E. A. Economic Studies_, Vol. 3, 1898. Proceedings of a conference on the teaching of elementary economics, _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. 17, December, 1909. TAYLOR, F. M. "Methods of Teaching Elementary Economics," _Journal of Political Economy_. Vol. 17, December, 1909, page 688. WOLFE, A. B. "Aim and Content of a College Course in Elementary Economics," _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. 17, December, 1909, page 673. Symposium by Carver, Clark, Seager, Seligman, Nearing, _et al._, _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. 18, 1910. Report of the Committee on the Teaching of Economics, _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. 19, 1911, pages 760-789. ROBINSON, L. N. "The Seminar in the Colleges," _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. 21, 1913, page 643. WOLFE, A. B. "The Aim and Content of the Undergraduate Economics Curriculum," _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. 21, 1913, page 1. PERSONS, CHARLES E. "Teaching the Introductory Course in Economics," _Quarterly Journal of Economics_, November, 1916. Footnotes: [15] See article by Charles E. Persons, on Teaching the Introductory Course in Economics, in _Quarterly Journal of Economics_ Vol. XXXI, November, 1916, for a strong presentation of this civic ideal in economic study. [16] Compiled by the writer from data in the report of the committee appointed by the conference on the teaching of elementary economics, 1909; _Journal of Political Economy_, November, 1911, Vol. 19, pages 760-789. [17] See page 767 of the committee report cited above. [18] Evidently it is not possible to draw from these data any definite conclusions as to the proportion of students beginning economics in each of the four years respectively. But probably three-fourths of all, possibly four-fifths, take the general course either in the sophomore or the junior year. Most of the institutions giving economics only in the senior year are small, with a very restricted curriculum, often limited to one general course. But it is a widely observed fact that many students in large institutions postpone the election of the subject till their senior year. [19] Of this see further below, page 226. [20] Article cited, _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. 19, page 768. [21] The society for the Promotion of Engineering Education has had a standing committee on economics, since 1915. The first committee was composed of three engineers (all of them consulting and in practice and two of them also teachers) and the present writer. [22] In Amherst, as described in _Journal of Political Economy_ by Professor W. H. Hamilton, on "The Amherst Program in Economics"; and in Chicago University beginning in 1916. See also, by the same writer, a paper on "The Institutional Approach to Economic Theory", in the _American Economic Review_, Supplement, page 309, March, 1919. [23] At the meeting of the American Economic Association in 1897, at which was discussed "The Relation of the Teaching of Economic History to the Teaching of Political Economy," the opinion was expressed by one teacher that economic history should follow the general course. But all the others agreed that such a course should begin the sequence, and this seems to be the almost invariable practice. See _Economic Studies_, Volume III. pages 88-101, Publications of the American Economic Association, 1898. [24] This plan has at various times been followed at Stanford, Cornell, Harvard, and Princeton, to cite only a few of the numerous examples. [25] In this plan the sections are small (three to seven students) and the preceptor is expected to give much time to the personal supervision of the student's reading, reports, and general scholarship. The preceptorial work is rated at more than half of the entire work of the term. The one great difficulty of the preceptorial system is its cost. [26] A strong plea is made for the "retirement of the lectures" by C. E. Persons, in the _Quarterly Journal of Economics_, Vol. XXXI, "Teaching the Introductory Course in Economics," November, 1916, pages 96-98. [27] Professor J. H. Hollander, _American Economic Review_, Vol. VI, No. 1, Supplement (March, 1916), page 135. See dissenting opinions in the discussion that followed. [28] Professor C. E. Persons (art. cited page 86, November, 1916) gives the titles of ten separate books or pamphlets of this kind; since which date have appeared the author's "Manual of References and Exercises," Parts I and II, to accompany _Economic Principles_, 1915, and _Modern Economic Problems_, 1916, respectively. [29] Among those most elaborately developing this method has been Professor F. M. Taylor of the University of Michigan. See his paper on the subject and discussion in the _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. VII, pages 688-703 (December, 1909). Marshall, Wright, and Field published the _Outline of Economics_, developed as a series of problems in 1910, which they used for a time as the main tool of instruction in the introductory course in Chicago University. [30] A thoughtful discussion of some phases of this problem is given by Persons, art. cited, pages 98 ff., favoring the more positive treatment with less distracting multiplicity of detail. [31] To a former student of mine and now a successful teacher, Dean J. R. Turner of New York University, I am indebted for the suggestion of the following practical rules, a few among many possible, which should be helpful to younger teachers: (_a_) Keep the student expecting a surprise, afraid to relax attention for fear of missing something. (_b_) By Socratic method lead him into error, then have him (under cross fire and criticism of class) reason his way out. (_c_) Make fallacious argument, then call for criticism giving distinction to him who renders best judgment. (_d_) Set tasks and have members of class compete in intellectual contests. (_e_) Make sure that each principle learned is seen in its relationship to practical affairs. (_f_) Enliven each dry principle with an anecdote or illustration to elucidate it, for principles devoid of interesting features cannot secure attention and so will not be remembered. (_g_) Accompany the discussion with charts and board work to visualize facts and questions to stimulate thought. (_h_) Ask questions and so handle the class discussions that a few will not do all the talking, that foreign subject matter is not introduced, that a consistent and logical development of thought is strictly adhered to. (_i_) The last few minutes of the period might well be devoted to the assignment for the next meeting. The best manner of assignment must depend upon the nature of task, the advancement of the student, the purpose in view. [32] An interesting study made by the department of education of Harvard University of the teaching methods and results in the department of economics was referred to in President Lowell's report. According to the answers of the alumni their work in economics is now valued mainly for its civic and disciplinary results (these do not seem to have been further distinguished). In the introductory course reading was ranked first, class work next, and lectures least, in value. In the advanced courses the lecture was ranked higher and class work lower, but that may be because the lecture plays a more important role there than in the lower classes. Answers regarding such matters are at most significant as indicating the relative importance of the various methods as they have actually been employed in the particular institution, and have little validity in reference to the work and methods of other teachers working under other conditions, and with students having different life aims. [33] The typical attitude of many economists is expressed about as follows: It is one thing to give assent to refinements when they are used in the discussion of some single point of theory, and it is quite another thing to accept them when one sees how, in their combined effect, they would carry us away from "the old familiar moorings." Such a view, it need not be urged, reflects an unscientific state of mind. The real cause of the rejection of the ideas probably is the shrinking of over-busy men, in middle life, and absorbed in teaching and in special problems, from the intellectual task of restudying the fundamentals and revising many of their earlier formed opinions--to say nothing of rewriting many of their old lectures and manuscripts. XI THE TEACHING OF SOCIOLOGY =Growth of sociology as a college subject= The teaching of sociology as a definite college subject in the United States began at Yale nearly forty-five years ago. Since 1873 it has been introduced into nearly 200 American colleges, universities, normal schools, and seminaries. A study of this teaching in 1910 revealed over 700 courses offered to over 8000 undergraduates and 1100 graduate students. It is safe to assume a steady growth during the last six years. Hence the problem of teaching is of no little concern to sociologists. The American Sociological Society early recognized this fact and in 1909 appointed a Committee of Ten to report on certain aspects of the problem. But that all teachers of sociology have not grasped the bearing of pedagogy upon their work is clear from complaints still heard from students that sociology is vague, indefinite, abstract, dull, or scattered. Not long ago some bright members of a class were overheard declaring that their professor must have been struck by a gust of wind which scattered his notes every day before getting to his desk. =The pedagogy of sociology the pedagogy of all college subjects= Sociology is simply a way of looking at the same world of reality which every other science looks at in its own way. It cannot therefore depart far from the pedagogical principles tried out in teaching other subjects. It must utilize the psychology of attention, interest, drill, the problem method, procedure from the student's known to the new, etc. The universal pitfalls have been charted for all teachers by the educational psychologists. In addition, sociology may offer a few on its own account, partly because it is new, partly because a general agreement as to the content of fundamentals in sociology courses is just beginning to make itself felt, partly because there is so far no really good textbook available as a guide to the beginner. =Methods of teaching sociology determined by a complex of vital factors= Specific methods of teaching vary according to individual temperament, the "set" of the teacher's mind; according to his bias of class, birth, or training; according to whether he has been formed or deformed by some strong personality whose disciple he has become; according to whether he is a radical or a conservative; according to whether he is the dreamy, idealistic type or whether he hankers after concrete facts; according to whether sociology is a primary interest or only an incidental, more or less unwelcome. Hence part of the difficulty, though by no means all, comes from the fact that sociology is frequently expounded by men who have received no specific training themselves in the subject, or who have had the subject thrust upon them as a side issue. In this connection it is interesting to note that in 1910 sociology was "given" in only 20 cases by sociology departments, in 63 by combinations of economics, history, and politics, in 11 by philosophy and psychology, in 2 by economics and applied Christianity or theology, in 1 by practical theology! =Guiding principles in the teaching of sociology--The teacher as keen analyst, not revivalist= Whatever the path which led into the sociological field or whatever the bias of temperament, experience justifies several preliminary hints for successful teaching. First, avoid the voice, the yearning manner, and the gesture of the preacher. Sociology needs the cool-headed analyst rather than the social revivalist. Let the sentimentalist and the muck-raker stay with their lecture circuits and the newspapers. The student wants enthusiasm and inspiration rather than sentimentality. =Avoiding the formal lecture= Second, renounce the lecture, particularly with young students. There is no surer method of blighting the interest of students, of murdering their minds, and of ossifying the instructor than to persist in the pernicious habit of the formal lecture. Some men plead large classes in excuse. If they were honest with themselves they would usually find that they like large classes as a subtle sort of compliment to themselves. Given the opportunity to break up a class of two hundred into small discussion groups they would frequently refuse, on the score that they would lose a fine opportunity to influence a large group. Dodge it as you will, the lecture is and will continue to be an unsatisfactory, even vicious, way of attempting to teach social science. No reputable university tries to teach economics or politics nowadays in huge lecture sections. Only an abnormal conceit or abysmal poverty will prevent sociology departments from doing likewise. Remember that education is always an exchange, never a free gift. =Adjusting instruction to the capacities of your students= Third, do not be afraid to utilize commonplace facts and illustrations. A successful professor of sociology writes me that he can remember that what are mere commonplaces now were revelations to him at twenty-one. Two of the greatest teachers of the nineteenth century, Faraday and Huxley, attributed their success to the simple maxim, take nothing for granted. It is safe to assume that most students come from homes where business and petty neighborhood doings are the chief concern, and where a broad, well-informed outlook on life is rare. Since so many of my colleagues insist that young Ph.D.'s tend constantly to "shoot over the heads" of their students, the best way of avoiding this particular pitfall seems to lie along the road of simple, elementary, concrete fact. The discussion method in the classroom will soon put the instructor right if he has gone to the other extreme of depreciating his students through kindergarten methods. Likewise he can guard against being oracular and pedantic by letting out his superior stores of information through free discussion in the Socratic fashion. Nothing is more important to good teaching than the knack of apt illustration. While to a certain extent it can be taught, just as the art of telling a humorous story or making a presentation speech can be communicated by teachers of oral English, yet in the long run it is rather a matter of spontaneous upwellings from a well-stored mind. For example, suppose a class is studying the factors of variation and selection in social evolution: the instructor shows how Nature loves averages, not only by statistics and experiments with the standard curve of distribution, but also, if he is a really illuminated teacher, by reference, say, to the legend of David and Goliath, the fairy tale of _Little One-Eye, Little Two-Eye, Little Three-Eye_, and Lincoln's famous aphorism to the effect that the Lord must love the common people because he made so many of them. Sad experience advises that it is unsafe for an instructor any longer to assume that college sophomores are familiar with the Old Testament, classic myths, or Greek and Roman history. Hence he must beware of using any recondite allusions or illustrations which themselves need so much explanation that their bearing on the immediate problem in hand is obscured. An illustration, like a funny story, loses its pungency if it requires a scholium. =Pedagogical suggestions summarized= Fourth, adhere to what a friend calls the 16 to 1 basis--16 parts fact and 1 part theory. Fifth, eschew the professor's chair. The blackboard is the teacher's "next friend." Recent time-motion studies lead us to believe that no man can use a blackboard efficiently unless he stands! The most celebrated teaching in history was peripatetic. Sixth, postpone the reconciling of discrepant social theorizings to the tougher-hided seniors or graduate students, and stick to the presentation of "accessible realities." Finally, an occasional friendly meeting with students, say once or twice a semester at an informal supper, will create an atmosphere of coöperative learning, will break down the traditional barriers of hostility between master and pupil, and may incidentally bring to the surface many useful hints for the framing of discussion problems. =The course of study--(a) Determined by the maturity of the students= To a certain extent teaching methods are determined by the age of the students. In 1910, of all the institutions reporting, 73 stated that sociology instruction began in the junior year; 23 admitted sophomores, 4 freshmen, 39 seniors. But the unmistakable drift is in the direction of introducing sociology earlier in the college curriculum, and even into secondary and elementary schools. Hence the cautions voiced above tend to become all the more imperative. Moreover, while in the past it has been possible to exact history, economics, political science, philosophy, psychology, or education as prerequisite to beginning work in sociology, in view of the downward trend of sociology courses it becomes increasingly more difficult to take things for granted in the student's preparation. Until the dream of offering a semester or year of general social science to all freshmen as the introduction to work in the specialized branches of social science comes true, the sociologist must communicate to his elementary classes a sense of the relations between his view of social phenomena and the aspects of the same phenomena which the historian, the economist, the political scientist, and the psychologist handle. =(b) Determined by its aims= Both the content and methods of sociological instruction are determined also in part by what its purpose is conceived to be. A study of the beginnings of teaching this subject in the United States shows that it was prompted primarily by practical ends. For example, the American Social Science Association proposal (1878), in so far as it covered the field of sociology, included only courses on punishment and reformation of criminals, public and private charities, and prevention of vice. President White of Cornell in 1871 recommended a course of practical instruction "calculated to fit young men to discuss intelligently such important social questions as the best methods of dealing practically with pauperism, intemperance, crime of various degrees and among persons of different ages, insanity, idiocy, and the like." Columbia University early announced that a university situated in such a city, full of problems at a time when "industrial and social progress is bringing the modern community face to face with social questions of the greatest magnitude, the solution of which will demand the best scientific study and the most honest practical endeavor," must provide facilities for bringing university study into connection with practical work. In 1901 definite practical courses shared honors of first place with the elementary or general course in college announcements. The situation was practically the same ten years later. Still more recently Professor Blackmar, one of the veterans in sociology teaching, worked out rather an elaborate program of what he called a "reasonable department of sociology for colleges and universities." In spite of the fact that theoretical, biological, anthropological, and psychological aspects of the subject were emphasized, his conclusion was that "the whole aim is to ground sociology in general utility and social service. It is a preparation for social efficiency." =(c) Determined by the social character of the community= The principle of adaptation to environment comes into play also in the choice of teaching methods. An urban department can send its students directly into the field for first-hand observation of industry, housing, sanitation, congestion, playgrounds, immigration, etc., and may encourage "supervised field work" as fulfilling course requirements. But the country or small town department far removed from large cities must emphasize rural social study, or get its urban data second hand through print, charts, photographs, or lantern slides. A semester excursion to the city or to some state charitable institution adds such a touch of vividness to the routine class work. But "slumming parties" are to be ruthlessly tabooed, particularly when featured in the newspapers. Social science is not called upon to make experimental guinea pigs of the poor simply because of their poverty and inability to protect themselves. =The introductory course the vital point of contact between student and the department= For many reasons the most serious problems of teaching sociology center about the elementary or introductory course. Advanced undergraduate and graduate courses usually stand or fall by the inherent appeal of their content as organized by the peculiar genius of the instructor. If the student has been able to weather the storms of his "Introduction," he will usually have gained enough momentum to carry him along even against the adverse winds of bad pedagogy in the upper academic zones. Since the whole purpose of sociology is the very practical one of giving the student mental tools with which to think straight on societal problems (what Comte called the "social point of view"), and since usually only a comparatively small number find it possible to specialize in advanced courses, the introductory course assumes what at first sight might seem a disproportionate importance. Only one or two teachers of sociology, so far as I know, discount the value of an elementary course. The rest are persuaded of its fundamental importance, and many, therefore, consider it a breach of trust to turn over this course to green, untried instructors. Partly as a recruiting device for their advanced courses, partly from this sense of duty, they undertake instruction of beginners. But it is often impossible for the veteran to carry this elementary work: he must commit it to younger men. For that reason the remainder of this chapter will be given over to a discussion of teaching methods for such an elementary course, with younger teachers in mind. =Teaching suggestions for the introductory course= First, two or three general hints. It is unwise, to say the least, to attempt to cover the social universe in one course. Better a few simple concepts, abundantly illustrated, organized clearly and systematically. Perhaps it is dangerous to suggest a few recurrent catch phrases to serve as guiding threads throughout the course, but that was the secret of the old ballad and the folk tale. Homer and the makers of fairy tales combined art and pedagogy in their use of descriptive epithets. Such a phrase as Ward's "struggle for existence is struggle for structure" might furnish the framework of a whole course. "Like-mindedness," "interest-groups," "belief-groups," and "folk-ways" are also convenient refrains. Nobody but a thoroughgoing pedant will drag his students through two weeks' lectures and a hundred pages of text at the beginning of the course in the effort to define sociology and chart all its affinities and relations with every other science. Twenty minutes at the first class meeting should suffice to develop an understanding of what the scientific attitude is and a tentative definition of sociology. The whole course is its real definition. At the end of the term the very best way of indicating the relation of sociology to other sciences is through suggestions about following up the leads obtained in the course by work in biology, economics, psychology, and other fields. This correlation of the student's program gives him an intimate sense of the unity in diversity of the whole range of science. If the student is to avoid several weeks of floundering, he should be led directly to observe societal relations in the making. This can perhaps be accomplished best through assigning a series of four problems at the first class meetings. Problem I: To show how each student spins a web of social relationship. Let him take a sheet of paper, place a circle representing himself in the middle of it, then add dots and connecting lines for every individual or institution he forms a contact with during the next two or three days. He will get a figure looking something like this: [Illustration] Problem II: To show how neighborhoods are socially bound up. Let the student take a section, say two or three blocks square, in a district he knows well, and map it,--showing all the contacts. Again he will get a web somewhat like this: [Illustration] These diagrams are adapted from students' reports. If they seem absurdly simple, it is well to remember that experience reveals the student's amazing lack of ability to vizualize social relationships without some such device. These diagrams, however, should serve merely as the point of departure. Add to them charts showing the sources of milk and other food supplies of a large city, and a sense of the interdependence and reciprocity of city and country will develop. Take a Mercator's projection map of the world and draw the trade routes and immigration streams to indicate international solidarities. Such diagrams as the famous health tract "A Day in the Life of a Fly" or the story of Typhoid Mary are helpful in establishing how closely a community is bound together. Problem III: To show the variety and kinds of social activities, i.e., activities that bring two or more people into contact. Have the student note down even the homeliest sorts of such activities, the butcher, the postman, the messenger boy; insist that he go out and look instead of guessing or reading; require him to group these activities under headings which he may work out for himself. He will usually arrive at three or four, such as getting a living, recreation, political. It may be wise to ask him to grade these activities as helpful, harmful, strengthening, or weakening, in order to accustom him to the idea that sociology must treat of good, bad, and indifferent objects. Problem IV: To determine what the preponderant social interests and activities are as judged by the amount of time men devote to them. Let the student try a "time budget" for a fortnight. For this purpose Giddings suggests a large sheet of paper ruled for a wide left-hand margin and 32 narrow columns: the first 24 columns for hours of the day, the 25th for the word "daily," and the last seven for the seven days of the week. In the margin the student writes the names of every activity of whatever description during the waking hours. This will furnish excellent training in exact habits of observation and recording, and inductive generalization. When the summary is made at the end of the fortnight, the student will have worked for himself the habitual "planes of interest" along which social activities lie. At this point he ought to have convinced himself that the subject matter of sociology is concrete reality, not moonshine. Moreover, he should be able to lay down certain fundamental marks of a social group, such as a common impulse to get together, common sentiments, ideas, and beliefs, reciprocal service. From the discovery of habitual planes of interest (self-maintenance, self-perpetuation, self-assertion, self-subordination, etc.) it is a simple step to show diagrammatically how each interest impels an activity, which tends to precipitate itself into a social habit or institution. --------------------------------------------------------------------- INNER URGE OR INTEREST | MOTOR EXPRESSION IN | RESULTANT GROUP HABIT (INSTINCT OR | ACTIVITY | OR INSTITUTION DISPOSITION) | | -----------------------+----------------------+---------------------- HUNGER; WILL-TO-LIVE | The food-quest | Economic technique Self-Maintenance | | property, invention, | | material arts of life -----------------------+----------------------+---------------------- SEX : | Procreation and | The family, ancestor Self-Perpetuation | parenthood | worship, courts of | | domestic relations, | | patriarchal government, | | etc. --------------------------------------------------------------------- =To make sociology real make it egocentric= The way is now clear for the two next steps, the concepts of causation and development. Here again why not follow the egocentric plan of starting with what the student knows? Ask him to write a brief but careful autobiography answering the questions--How have I come to be what I am? What influences personal or otherwise have played upon me?[34] The student is almost certain to lay hold of the principle of determining or controlling forces, and of evolution or change; he may even be able to analyze rather clearly the different types of control which have coöperated in his development. From this start it is easy to develop the genetic concept of social life. The individual grows from simple to complex. Why not the race? Here introduce a comparison between the social group known to the student, a retarded group (such as MacClintock's or Vincent's study of the Kentucky Mountaineers[35]) or a frontier community, and a contemporary primitive tribe (say, the Hupa or Seri Indians, Negritos, Bontoc Igorot, Bangala, Kafirs, Yakuts, Eskimo, or Andaman Islanders). Require a detailed comparison arranged in parallel columns on such points as size, variety of occupation, food supply, security of life, institutions, family life, language, religion, superstitions, and opportunities for culture. These two points of departure--the student's interest in his own personality and the community influences that have molded it, and the comparative study of a primitive group--should harmonize the two chief rival views of teaching sociologists; namely, those who urge the approach to sociology through anthropology and those who find the best avenue through the concrete knowledge of the _socius_. Moreover, it lays a foundation for a discussion of the antiquity of man, his kinship with other living things, and his evolution; that is, the biological presupposition of human society. Here let me testify to the great help which Osborn's photographs[36] of reconstructions of the Pithecanthropos, Piltdown, Neanderthal, and Crô-Magnon types have rendered in clearing away prejudices and in vivifying the remote past. Religious apprehensions in particular may be allayed also by referring students to articles on race, man, evolution, anthropology, etc., in such compilations as the _Catholic Encyclopedia_ and Hastings' _Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics_. The opening chapters in Marett's little book on _Anthropology_ are so sanely and admirably written that they also clear away many prejudices and fears. With such a concrete body of facts contrasting primitive with modern civilized social life the student will naturally inquire, How did these changes come about? At this point should come normally the answer in terms of what practically all sociologists agree upon; namely, the three great sets of determining forces or phenomena, the three "controls": (1) the physical environment (climate, topography, natural resources, etc.); (2) man's own nature (psycho-physical factors, the factors in biological evolution, the role of instinct, race, and possibly the concrete problems of immigration and eugenics); (3) social heredity (folk-ways, customs, institutions, the arts of life, the methods of getting a living, significance of tools, distribution of wealth, standards of living, etc.) A blackboard diagram will show how these various factors converge upon any given individual.[37] The amplification of these three points will ordinarily make up the body of an introductory course so far as class work goes. Ethnography should furnish rich illustrative material. But to make class discussions really productive the student's knowledge of his own community must be drawn upon. And the best way of getting this correlation is through community surveys. The student should be required as parallel laboratory work to prepare a series of chapters on his ward or part of his ward or village, covering the three sets of determining factors. The instructor may furnish an outline of the topics to be investigated, or he may pass around copies of such brief survey outlines as Aronovici's _Knowing One's Own Community_ or Miss Byington's _What Social Workers Should Know about Their Own Communities_; he may also refer them to any one of the rapidly growing number of good urban and rural surveys as models. But he should not give too much information as to where materials for student reports may be obtained. The disciplinary value of having to hunt out facts and uncover sources is second only to the value of accurate observation and effective presentation. If the aim of a sociology course is social efficiency, experience shows no better way of getting a vivid, sober, first-hand knowledge of community conditions. And there is likewise no surer way of compelling students to substitute facts for vapid wordiness and snap judgments. Toward the end of the course many of us have found it profitable to introduce a brief discussion of what may be called the highest term of the series; namely, the evolution of two or three typical institutions, say law and government, education, religion, and the family. These topics will serve to clinch the earlier discussions and to crystallize a few ideas on social control and perhaps even social progress. Normally such a course will close with a fuller definition of the meaning of sociology, its content, its value in the study of other sciences, and, if time permits, a brief historical sketch of the development of sociology as a separate science. =The use of a text for study= I have no certified advice to offer on the question of textbooks. But the almost universal cry of sociology teachers is that so far no really satisfactory text has been produced. Some men still use Spencer, some write their own books, some try to adapt to their particular needs such texts as are issued from time to time, some use none at all but depend upon a more or less well-correlated syllabus or set of readings. There is undoubtedly a profitable demand for a good elementary source book comparable to Thomas's _Source Book on Social Origins_ or Marshall, Wright, and Field's _Materials for the Study of Elementary Economics_. Nearly any text will need freshening up by collateral reading from such periodicals as _The Survey or The New Republic_. In order to secure effective and correlated outside reading, many teachers have found it helpful to require the students to devote the first five or ten minutes of a class meeting once a week or even daily to a written summary of their readings and of class discussions. Such a device keeps readings fresh and enables the teacher to emphasize the points of contact between readings and class work. =The social museum= Every university should develop some sort of a social museum, to cover primitive types of men, the evolution of tools, arts of life, manners and customs, and contemporary social conditions. These can be displayed in the form of plaster casts, ethnographic specimens, photographs, lantern slides, models of housing, statistical charts, printed monographs, etc. The massing of a series of these illustrations sometimes produces a profound effect. For example, the corridor leading to the sociology rooms at the University of Minnesota has been lined with large photographs of tenement conditions, child labor, immigrant types, etc. The student's interest and curiosity have been heightened immensely. Once a semester, during the discussion of the economic factor in social life, we stage what is facetiously called "a display of society's dirty linen." The classroom is decorated with a set of charts showing the distribution of wealth, wages, cost of living, growth of labor unions and other organizations of economic protest. The mass effect is a cumulative challenge. =Field work: values and limitations= Finally, a word about "field work" as a teaching device. Field work usually means some sort of social service practice work under direction of a charitable agency, juvenile court, settlement, or playground. But beginning students are usually more of a liability than an asset to such agencies; they lack the time to supervise students' work, and field work without strict supervision is a farcical waste of time. If such agencies will accept a few students who have the learner's attitude rather than an inflated persuasion of their social Messiahship, field work can become a very valuable adjunct to class work. In default of such opportunities the very best field work is an open-eyed study of one's own community, in the attempt to find out what actually is rather than to reform a hypothetical evil.[38] ARTHUR J. TODD _University of Minnesota_ Footnotes: [34] In order to secure frank statements, both these autobiographies and the time budgets may be handed in anonymously. [35] _American Journal of Sociology_, 4:1-20; 7:1-28, 171-187. [36] In his _Men of the Old Stone Age_. [37] See such a diagram in Todd, _Theories of Social Progress_, page 240. [38] While accepting full responsibility for the opinions herein set forth, I wish to express my appreciation of assistance rendered by a large group of colleagues in the American Sociological Society. XII THE TEACHING OF HISTORY A. THE TEACHING OF AMERICAN HISTORY =Function of the teacher of history= History as a science attempts to explain the development of civilization. The investigator of the sources of history must do his part in a truly scientific spirit. He must examine with the utmost scrutiny the many sources on which the history of the past has its foundation. He reveals facts, and through them the truth is established. But history is more than a science. It is an art. The investigator is not necessarily a historian, any more than a lumberman is an architect. The historian must use all available material, whether the result of his own researches or that of others. He must weigh all facts and deduct from them the truth. He must analyze, synthesize, organize, and generalize. He must absorb the spirit of the people of whom he writes and color the narrative as little as possible with his own prejudices. But the historian must be more than a narrator; he must be an interpreter. As an interpreter he should never lose sight of the fact that all his deductions should be along scientific lines. Even then he will not escape errors. In pure science error is inadmissible. In history minor errors of fact are unavoidable, but their presence need not seriously affect the general conclusions. In spite of many misstatements of fact, a historical work may be substantially correct in the main things--in presenting and interpreting with true perspective the life and spirit of the people of whom it treats. The historian must be more than a chronicler and an interpreter. He must be master of a lucid, virile, attractive literary style. The power of expression, indeed, must be one of his chief accomplishments. The old notion, it is true, that history is merely a branch of literature is quite as erroneous as the later theory that history is a pure science and must be dissociated from all literary form. =The teacher of history as the teacher of the evolution of civilization= The pioneer investigator who patiently delves into sources and brings to light new material deserves high praise, but far rarer is the gift of the man who sees history in its true perspective, who can construct the right relationships and can then reproduce the past in compelling literary form. A historian without literary charm is like an architect who cares only for the utility and nothing for the grace and beauty of his building. =The chronological point of view= The history teacher who slavishly follows old chronological methods has not kept pace with modern progress; but the teacher who has discarded the chronological method has ventured without a compass on an unknown sea. Chronology, the sequence of events, is as necessary in history as distance and direction in geography. =The economic point of view= A modern school of history teachers would make economics the sole background of history, would explain all historic events from the economic standpoint--to which school this writer does not belong. Economics has played a great part in the course of human events, but it is only one of many causes that explain history. For example, the Trojan War (if there was a Trojan War), the conquests of Alexander, the Mohammedan invasions, were due chiefly to other causes. =The culture viewpoint= Nor would we agree with the school of modern educators who would eliminate the culture studies from the curriculum, retaining only those which make for present-day utilitarianism. A general education imparts power and enlarges life, and such an education should precede all technical and specialized training. If a young man with the solid foundation of a liberal education fail in this or that walk of life, the fault must be sought elsewhere than in his education. The late E. H. Harriman made a wise observation when he said that though a high school graduate may excel the college graduate in the same employment for the first year, the latter would at length overtake and pass him and henceforth remain in the lead. =Aims of history in the college curriculum= The uses of the study of history are many, the most important of which perhaps is that it aids us in penetrating the present. Our understanding of every phase of modern life is no doubt strengthened by a knowledge of the past. It is trite but true to say that the study of history is a study of human nature, that a knowledge of the origin and growth of the institutions we enjoy makes for a good citizenship, that the study of history is a cultural study and that it ranks with other studies as a means of mental discipline. Finally, the reading of history by one who has learned to love it is an abiding source of entertainment and mental recreation. It is one of the two branches of knowledge (the other being literature) which no intelligent person, whatever his occupation, can afford to lay aside after quitting school. =What can the study of American history give the college student?= The most important historical study is always that of one's own country. In our American colleges, therefore, the study of American history must take precedence over that of any other, though an exception may be made in case a student is preparing to teach the history of some other country or period. It must not be forgotten, however, by the student of American history that a study of the European background is an essential part of it. From its very newness the history of the United States may seem less fascinating than that of the older countries, and, indeed, it is true that the glamour of romance that gathers around the stories of royal dynasties, orders of nobility, and ancient castles is wanting in American history. But there is much to compensate for this. The coming of the early settlers, often because of oppression in their native land, their long struggle with the forest and with the wild men and wild beasts of the forest, the gradual conquest of the soil, the founding of cities, the transplanting of European institutions and their development under new environment--the successful revolt against political oppression and the fearless grappling with the problem of self-government when nearly all governments in the world were monarchical--these and many other phases of American history furnish a most fascinating story as a mere story. =To the college student American history must be presented as evidence of the success of democracy= But to the student of politics and history the most unique and interesting thing, perhaps, in American history lies in the fact that the United States is the first great country in the world's history in which the federal system has been successful--if we assume that our experimental period has passed. Perhaps the greatest of all governmental problems is just this: How to strike the right balance between these opposing tendencies--liberty and union, democracy and nationality--so that the people may enjoy the benefits of both. The United States has, no doubt, come nearer than any other country to solving this problem, and the fact greatly enhances the interest in our history. This is a question of political science rather than of history, it is true, but the history of any country and its government are inseparably bound together. =Utilitarian value= In the regular college curriculum there should be, in my opinion, two courses in American history. =Organization of courses and methods of teaching= _Course I_--about 3 hours for one academic year (6 semester-hours) in the freshman or sophomore year, covering the whole story of the United States. About one third of the year's work should cover the Colonial and Revolutionary periods. Of the remaining two thirds of the year I should devote about half to the period since the Civil War. This course should be required of all students taking the A.B. degree and in all other liberal arts courses; an exception may be made in the case of those taking certain specialized scientific courses--for these students, the history required in the high school may be deemed sufficient. In this course a textbook is necessary, and if the class is large it is desirable that the text be uniform. The text should be written by a true historian with broad and comprehensive views, by one who knows how to appraise historic values, and, if possible, by one who commands an attractive literary style. If the textbook is written by Dr. Dry-as-dust, however learned he may be, the whole burden of keeping the class interested rests with the teacher; and, moreover, many of the students will never become lovers of the subject to such a degree as to make it a lifelong study. The exclusive lecture system is intolerable, and the same is true of the quiz. A teacher will do his best work if untrammeled by rules. He should conduct a class in his own way and according to his own temperament. It is doubtful if the teacher who carefully plans and maps out the work he intends to present to the class is the most successful teacher. A teacher who is free, spontaneous, without a fixed method, ready in passing from the lecture to the quiz and vice versa at any moment, quick in asking unexpected questions, will usually have little trouble in keeping a class alert. Above all, a teacher of college history must explain the meaning of things with far greater fullness than is possible in a condensed textbook, and it is a most excellent practice to ask opinions of members of the class on almost all debatable questions that may arise. The reason for this is obvious. The usual method of the writer, in as far as he has a method, is to spend the first fifteen or twenty minutes of the class hour in hearing reports from two or three students on special topics that have been assigned them a week or two before, topics that require library reference work and that could not possibly be developed from the textbook. These topics are not on the subject of the day's lesson, but of some preceding lesson. After commenting on these reports and often asking for opinions and comments of the class, we plunge into the day's lesson. The use of a current periodical in class should be encouraged. It brings the learner into direct contact with life and often illuminates the past. Current events as presented in the daily papers should often be the subject of comment, but the daily newspaper is not suitable for class use. Even the weekly is, for several reasons, less desirable than the monthly. It must not be forgotten that the basal, fundamental work of the class is, not to keep posted on current affairs, but to study the elements under the guidance of a textbook and an inspiring teacher to interpret it. The weekly is less accurate than the monthly and less literary in form, and, moreover, it comes too often. It is apt to take too much time from the study of the fundamentals. The use of the periodical in the history class has probably come to stay and it should stay, but it should be only incidental and supplementary. _Course II_ should be given in the junior or senior year. It should be elective, should cover at least two year-hours, and should be wholly devoted to the national period of American history. Only those having taken Course I should be eligible to this class. Every student who expects to read law, to enter journalism or politics, or to teach history or political science should take this course. The class will be smaller than in Course I. Uniform textbooks need not be required, or the class may be conducted without a text. Most of the work must be done from the library. It is assumed that the members of this class have a good knowledge of the narrative, and it is needless to follow it closely again. A better plan is to choose an important phase of the history here and there and study intensively. Much use should be made of original sources such as Presidents' messages, _Congressional Record_, speeches and writings of the times, but the class must not ignore the fact that a vast amount of good material may be had from the historians. It must also be remembered that original research is for the graduate student and the specialist rather than for the undergraduate. =Testing the results of instruction= In conclusion, I shall explain a method of examination that I have frequently employed with apparently excellent results. Two or three weeks before the time of the examination I give the class a series of topics, perhaps fifty or more, carefully chosen from the entire subject that has been studied during the semester. Instead of having the usual review of the text, we talk over these subjects in class during the remainder of the semester. The examination is oral, not written. The time for examination is divided into three, four, or five minute periods, according to the number in the class. When a student's name is called, he comes forward and draws from a box one of the topics and dilates on it before the class during his allotted time. If he fails on the first topic he may have another draw, but his grade will be reduced. A second failure would mean a "flunk," unless the class marks are very high. There are three or four real advantages in this form of examination: (1) It saves the teacher hours of labor in reading examination papers; (2) the teacher, in selecting the topics, omits the unimportant and chooses only the salient, leading subjects such as every student should master and remember; (3) the student, knowing that no new questions will be sprung for the examination, will be almost sure to be prepared on every question. Failures under this system have been much less frequent than under the old system of written examinations; (4) it practically eliminates all chance of cheating in examination. HENRY W. ELSON _Thiel College_ B. MODERN EUROPEAN HISTORY =History to be taught as an evolutionary process= Teaching European history in colleges is, in many ways, not different from teaching any other history. In each instance it is to be remembered that history includes all activities of man and not merely his political life, that facts and data are not intrinsically valuable but are merely a means to an end, that the end of history is to inform us where man came from, what experiences he passed through, and _chiefly_, what were the fundamental forces behind his experiences. The emphasis should be put on the stimuli--economic, political, religious, or social--that lead man to act, instead of narrating his action. In a word, not _what_ happened or _when_ it happened, but _why_ it happened, is of importance in college history. Stressing the stimuli in history will almost inevitably lead to treating history as a continuous or evolutionary process, which of itself greatly increases the interest of the subject. =Because history is an evolution it must explain the present= It is highly desirable that in teaching modern history very much more time be given to recent history than has generally been the case. Frederick William I showed that he accepted this when he instructed the tutors of Frederick (later the Great) to teach the history of the last fifty years to the exactest pitch. So important is this that, even when teaching early periods, constant contrasts or comparisons with present conditions should be made, and the descent of ideas and institutions to modern times should be sketched, as it shows the student that remote events or institutions have a relationship to current life. =Disciplinary values of history= Certain special aims of history have been advocated. It is held to be of disciplinary value, especially in strengthening the memory. Though this is true, it is hardly a good reason for studying history, as the memory can be perfected on almost anything, on the dictionary, poetry, formulæ, family records, gossip, or cans on grocery shelves, some of which may indeed be of more practical value than dates. In college, at least, history should aim to explain social tendencies and processes in a rational way rather than to develop the memory. The latter method tends to make the student passive and narrow, the former requires cerebration and develops breadth and depth of vision. Understanding history, rather than memorizing it, has cultural value. To be sure, understanding presupposes information; but where there is a desire to understand, the process of seeking and acquiring the information is natural and tends to care for itself. History is not a prerequisite to professional careers in the way mathematics is to engineering; still, special periods, chiefly the modern, are highly useful to lawyers, journalists, publicists, statesmen, and others, each of whom selects what he finds most useful to his purposes. =Organization of courses in history--What to teach in the beginning course= The point of view in history teaching is more material than the machinery or methods employed. These must and should vary with persons and conditions. Ordinarily, however, it seems preferable to offer some part of European history as the first-year college course, because students have usually had considerable American history in high school, and the change adds new interest. Whether this course be general, medieval, or modern European history is of little importance, though, of course, medieval should precede modern history. In any case, the course should offer the student a good deal more than he may have had in high school, if for no other reason than to justify the profound respect with which he ordinarily comes to college. It should come often enough a week to grip the student, especially the history major. =Gradation of courses determined by content= Gradation of courses in history on the basis of subject matter is largely arbitrary, and turns upon the method of presentation. General courses naturally precede period courses. A sound principle is to select courses adapted to the stages of the student's development. On this principle it has already been suggested that the first college course should be, not American but European history. English, ancient, medieval, or modern history immediately suggest themselves, with strong arguments in favor of the first if but one freshman course is offered, as it forms a natural projection of American history into the past. Beyond this, what subject matter is offered in the several years is largely a matter of local convenience, as the college student understands the general history of all nations or periods about equally well. It is now clear, however, that the student should know more modern and contemporary European history than he has been getting, and the sound training of an American of the future should include thorough training in modern European history. =Gradation of courses may be determined by method of teaching= Gradation based on the method of presentation is more nearly possible. Graduate courses presuppose training in the auxiliary sciences, in the necessary languages, in research methods, in the special field of research, as well as a knowledge of general history. This establishes a sort of sequence of the methods to be employed, irrespective of subject matter. =Method of teaching introductory courses--Lecture method= The lecture method is convenient for the elementary courses, especially if, as is so often the case, these have a large number of students. It cannot, however, be gainsaid that convenience or, worse still, economy is a weak argument in favor of the lecture course, especially for the first-year student. To him the lecture method is unknown, and he flounders about a good deal if he is left to work out his own salvation; and then, too, just when he needs personal direction and particularly when, as a youth away from home for the first time, he needs some definite and unescapable task that shall teach discipline and duty as well as give information, the lecture system gives him the maximum of liberty with the minimum of aid or direction. These considerations strongly advocate small classes for freshmen, frequent recitations, discussions, tests, papers and maps, library problems--in short, a laboratory system. Every student should always have at least one course in which he is held to rigid and exact performance. These courses should be required, no matter what the special field or period of history, and should form a sequence leading to a degree and providing training for a technical and professional career. In addition to these courses, designed to assure personal work and supervision, enough other, presumably lecture, courses should be required to secure a general knowledge of history. Beyond that there are always enough electives to satisfy any personal wish or whim of the student. =Topical method in European history= There is much to be said, especially in modern history, for the topical treatment of institutions. In a very specialized course a single institution may be treated; but even in a general course, treating the several human institutions as evolutionary organisms seems preferable and is more interesting than a chronological narrative, which grows more inane the more general the course. Courses which come to modern times can trace existing institutions and their immediate antecedents, thus giving an advantage that many instructors neglect from the mere tradition that history does not come down to living man. No primitive superstition needs to be dispelled more than this, if history is to maintain its hold in the modern college. Indeed, whenever possible--which is always with modern history--a course should start from the present by dwelling on the existing conditions the historical antecedents of which are to be traced. If this is done, the student forthwith secures a vital interest and feels that he is trying to understand his own rather than past times. After this preliminary the past can be traced chronologically or topically as preferred, the textbook serving as a quarry for data, the teacher seeing to it that the change or progress toward the present condition is perceived and understood, and furnishing corroborative and analogous materials from the history of other nations and periods. =Assigned reading= It is the general practice of college courses in history to require outside reading. Though this rests on the sound ground that the student ought to get a large background and learn to know books and writers, it is very doubtful whether this aim is, in fact, achieved. The student often has too much work to permit of much outside reading, and often the library is too limited to give him a good choice, or to permit him to keep a desirable book until he has finished reading it. Unguided reading is almost certainly a failure; reading guided only by putting a selected list of books before the student is not sure to be a success. The instructor ought from time to time to tell his class something about the books he suggests, and about their authors and their careers, viewpoints and merits, as a reader always profits by knowing these things. As the reading of snatches from collateral books is hardly profitable, so the perusal of longer histories is often impossible, and generally confines the student for a long time to the minutiæ of one period while the class is going forward. In view of these difficulties there is much to be said in favor of putting a large textbook into the hands of a class, and requiring a thorough reading and understanding of it, and correspondingly reducing outside readings. If collateral reading is demanded, it is a good plan to require students to read a biography or a work on some special institution falling within the scope of the course,--some selected historical novel even,--for in that way the student reads, as he will in later life, something he selects instead of a required number of pages, a specific thing is covered, an author's acquaintance is made, and therefore a significant test can be conducted. Furthermore, as some students will buy special volumes of this kind, the pressure on the library is reduced. Direct access to reference shelves is always recommended. One of our universities has a system of renting preferred books to students. =Tests on outside reading= Tests on outside reading are always difficult, but they must be employed if the reading is not to become a farce. By having weekly reading reports on uniform cards, one can often arrange groups of students who have read the same thing and can therefore be tested by a single question. By extending this over several weeks the majority of students, even in a large class, can be tested with relatively few questions. Some instructors require students to hand in their reading notes, others check up the books the students use in the library, still others have consultation periods in which they inquire into the student's reading. Quiz sections, if there are any, offer a good opportunity to test collateral reading. =Miscellaneous aids in teaching history= Map making, coördinated with the recitations and so designed as to require more than mere tracing, is desirable in introductory courses. The imaginative historical theme written by the student is employed--and successfully, it is declared--in one college. A syllabus is highly useful in the hands of students in lecture courses. It can be mimeographed at comparatively slight expense for each lecture, thus permitting changes in successive years--a distinct advantage over the printed syllabus. =The problem of suitable examination= How to give a fair and telling examination is the college teacher's perennial problem. The less he teaches and insists on facts and details, the greater his quandary. A majority of students incline to parrot what they have heard, to the dismay of the teacher who wants them to make the subject their own. Hence tests calling the memory only into play do not satisfy the true teacher or the thoughtful student. At the least there should be some questions requiring constructive or synthetic thinking by the student. Above all, the instructor of introductory work should form a first-hand personal opinion of the student by requiring him to come to the office for consultation. Nothing can take the place of the personal touch. Quiz masters are better than no touch; but they are a poor substitute for the small class and direct contact, even if the instructor is not one of the masters of the profession. =The worth of topical or institutional treatment= The topical or institutional treatment of history has been mentioned above as being particularly applicable to modern history. If carefully worked out beforehand it can be made to embrace virtually everything--certainly everything significant--that is contained either in the text or in a chronological narrative. To be sure, a topical treatment of this kind places more emphasis on the common experiences of mankind than does national history, and, as some nations or peoples precede others in a given development, history becomes continuous instead of fragmentary. Perhaps, too, the way certain matters are introduced into "continuous" history may appear forced, unless it be remembered that this impression is created merely by its dissimilarity from the usual interpretation, which is just as arbitrary and forced until one gets accustomed to it. =Classification in topical treatment= It will be serviceable in arranging a topical treatment of any period of history, which shall show a sense of historical continuity and keep in mind the fundamental stimuli and causes of human action, to note that virtually all human interests can be classified under one of the following six heads: physical, economic, social, religious, political, and intellectual (or cultural). Though these are never wholly isolated and are always interactive, one or the other may be specially significant in a given era, and thus we speak of a religious age, an age of rationalism, or the period of the industrial revolution. SUGGESTED TOPICAL OUTLINE OF MODERN EUROPEAN HISTORY To apply this more specifically to modern European history, there follows an outline of topics. It is general to about 1789, and more detailed for the period since that time (IV below), the endeavor being to show how a topical treatment of the development of democracy can be made to include practically everything of significance. There are certain cautions necessary here: that the outline is suggestive only, that it does not pretend or aim to be complete, that specific data often found in the sub-heads are to serve as illustrations and not as a complete statement of sub-topics; and that it is in fact merely a skeleton which can be extended and amplified indefinitely by insertions. I. Background of the modern period. _A._ Economic and social conditions at the close of the Middle Age. _B._ Political nature of feudalism. The governments of the 15th century. _C._ The medieval church. II. The development of religious liberty. _A._ The Reformation. _B._ Varieties of Protestant sects, from state churches to individualistic sects. _C._ The Religious Wars, and toleration. III. Absolute monarchy. _A._ Dynastic states. _B._ Dynastic wars and the balance of power. IV. The development of democracy. _A._ The dynastic feudal state (_Ancien Régime_). 1. Description of the _Ancien Régime_. 2. Proponents of the _Ancien Régime_. Dynasties (divine right monarchs). Feudal landlords. Higher clergy and state churches. The army command (younger sons of the nobility). The schools (education for privileged classes only). _B._ The revolutionary elements. 1. The dissatisfied feudal serf. 2. The intellectuals, rationalists, political theorists. The "social compact." ... Popular sovereignty. 3. Religious dissenters. 4. Industrial elements. _a._ The Industrial Revolution. Resulting in exportation, markets, and _laissez-faire_ doctrines. _b._ The bourgeoisie (employers) ... The Third Estate. _c._ The proletariat ... Unorganized labor elements. _C._ The Revolutionary Period, 1789-1800. 1. Triumph of bourgeoisie over feudal aristocracy in France, 1789-1791. Limited monarchy. Mirabeau. 2. Increasing influence and rise to control of France of the Parisian proletariat. The Republic ... The Terror ... Robespierre. 3. Radiation of revolutionary ideas to other nations. 4. Wars between revolutionary France and monarchical Europe. The rise of Napoleon. _D._ The decline of the revolutionary elements, 1800-1815. 1. France converted from a republic to an empire by Napoleon. 2. The Napoleonic Wars. _a._ Reveal Napoleon's dynastic ambition. _b._ Lead Europe to combine against him and to blame democratic ideas for the sorrows of the time. _c._ Result in the defeat of Napoleon and the triumph of anti-democratic or reactionary elements. _E._ The fruits of the principle of popular sovereignty during the 19th century (chronologically England and France lead the other countries in most of these developments).[39] 1. Constitutions, embodying ever-increasing popular rights and powers. 2. Extension of suffrage. Political parties and party politics. 3. The spirit of nationality. Independence of Greece and Belgium. Unification of Italy and Germany. National revivals in Poland, Bulgaria, Servia, Rumania, Bohemia, Finland, Ireland, and elsewhere. Pan-Germanism, Pan-Slavism, Imperial Federation. 4. Class consciousness and strife. Feudal aristocratic class--leans toward absolute monarchy. Bourgeoisie (employing capitalists)--leans toward limited monarchies or republics. Labor--leans toward socialism. (The other elements in the society are slow in developing a group consciousness.) 5. Abolition of feudal forms and tenures. Fight on great landlords. Encouragement of independent farmers. Emancipation and protection of peasants: France, 1789; Prussia, 1808; Austria, 1848; Russia, 1861. 6. Social, socialistic, and humanitarian legislation. Factory acts, minimum wage laws, industrial insurance, old age insurance, labor exchanges, child labor laws, prison reform acts, revision of penal codes, abolition of slavery and slave trade, government control or ownership of railways, telephones, telegraph, and mails. 7. Opposition to state or national churches. Disestablishment agitations ... Separation of church and state. 8. Demand for free public schools to replace church or other private schools. State lay schools in England ... Suppression of teaching orders in France ... Kulturkampf in Germany ... Expulsion of Jesuits ... Tendency toward compulsory non-sectarian education. 9. Imperialism. Industrial societies depend on imports, exports, and markets as means of keeping labor employed and people prosperous. This means export of capital, hence, plans for colonies, closed doors, preferential markets, and demands for the protection of citizens abroad and political stability in backward areas. Partition of Africa, Asia, and Near East. 10. Militarism. Expansion and colonial acquisition by one country exclude another, thus unsettling the balance of power. Therefore rival nations depend on force and go in for military and naval programs. _F._ The conflict between reactionary and bourgeois interests, 1815-1848. 1. Reactionary elements in control--opposed to democracy and revolutionary doctrines. _a._ Restore Europe as nearly as possible on old lines at Vienna, 1815. Ignore liberal tendencies and national sentiments. _b._ Seek to maintain _status quo_. Metternich ... Holy Alliance. Carlsbad Decrees ... Congresses of Troppau, Laibach, Verona ... Intervention in Naples, Piedmont, and Spain. Proposal to restore Latin America to Monarchy. Opposed by Great Britain in compliance with bourgeois interests. Monroe Doctrine. _c._ Failed to prevent: Greek revolution and independence (national movement). Separation of Belgium from the Netherlands (national). Revival of liberal demands in various quarters, producing the revolution of 1830 in France and elsewhere. 2. The ascendancy of the bourgeoisie, 1830-1848. _a._ Industrialism on the continent. _b._ The bourgeois (capitalist employer) secures political power to advance his interests. Revolution of 1830. Reform bill of 1832. Legislation against labor organizations and for tariffs favoring trade. _c._ The development of organized labor and socialism. Legislation hostile to labor. Chartism. Labor in France, Germany, and Belgium. Spread of socialist doctrines. _d._ The Revolution of 1848. Socialist republican state in France, 1848. The winning of constitutions in Prussia, Austria, and elsewhere--breach in the walls of reaction. _G._ The broadening base of democracy, 1848-1914. 1. The organization of labor. 2. The spread of socialistic views and of class consciousness. Karl Marx. 3. The resistance of the old aristocratic class and the bourgeoisie, who gradually fuse to form the conservative element in all nations. Napoleon III restores the Empire in France. In Austria and Prussia, Bismarck and Francis Joseph II retrieve losses of 1848. Disraeli and Conservatives in England. 4. The progress toward universal suffrage after 1865, strengthening political position of lower classes. Vindication of democratic government through triumph of the North in the United States gave impetus to democracy abroad. Electoral reform bills in Great Britain, 1867, 1884, 1885. Franco-Prussian War and the Third French Republic. Universal suffrage. Unification of Germany and universal suffrage. Russian Revolution, 1917. Woman suffrage. 5. Popular sovereignty and its consequences. _a._ Triumph of republicans and radicals in France over monarchists and clericals. _b._ Liberal ministries in United Kingdom. Lloyd George Budget ... Parliament Act. Social legislation. _c._ Growth of Social Democratic party in Germany. Bismarck and state socialism. _d._ In recent times the many divergent political parties fall rather instinctively into three groups which have opposing views and policies on almost every question, and which may be called: Conservatives (Tories, aristocrats, monarchists, Junkers, clericals, capitalists, imperialists, militarists); peasants and farmers, being conservative, are usually politically allied to this group. Liberals (progressives, democrats, labor parties, Socialists, social democrats, Dissenters, anti-imperialists, anti-militarists). Radicals, Bolsheviki or revolutionists seeking change of the economic and social order. 6. Effects of the war _a._ Extensive nationalization and socialization of industry and human rights in all belligerent countries. _b._ Develops into a "war for democracy," and for moral as opposed to materialistic aims. _c._ Culminates in an attempt to secure a righteous and lasting peace through the instrumentality of a league of nations. EDWARD KREHBIEL _Leland Stanford Junior University_ BIBLIOGRAPHY TEXTS ANDREWS, C. M. _Historical Development of Modern Europe._ Two vols. G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1900. HAYES, CARLTON J. H. _A Political and Social History of Modern Europe._ Two vols. The Macmillan Company, 1916. ROBINSON, J. H., and BEARD, C. A. _The Development of Modern Europe._ Two vols. Ginn and Co., 1907, 1908. SCHEVILL, FERDINAND. A_ Political History of Modern Europe._ Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907. PERIOD HISTORIES BOURNE, HENRY ELDREDGE. _The Revolutionary Period in Europe._ The Century Company, 1914. _Cambridge Modern History._ Thirteen vols. and maps. I. the Renaissance; II. The Reformation; III. The Wars of Religion; IV. The Thirty Years' War; V. The Age of Louis XIV; VI. The Eighteenth Century; VII. The United States; VIII. The French Revolution; IX. Napoleon; X. The Restoration; XI. The Growth of Nationalities; XII. The Latest Age; XIII. Genealogical Tables and Lists and General Index; also on atlas, in another volume. Cambridge, the University Press, 1902-1912. HAZEN, CHARLES DOWNER. _Europe since 1815._ Henry Holt & Co., 1910. LINDSAY, T. M. _A History of the Reformation._ Two vols. Charles Scribner's Sons, 1906-1907. LOWELL, E. J. _The Eve of the French Revolution._ SCHAPIRO, JACOB SALWYN. _Modern and Contemporary European History._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1918. WAKEMAN, H. O. _The Ascendancy of France._ The Macmillan Company, 1894. SOURCE BOOKS ANDERSON, FRANK MALOY. _The Constitutions and Other Select Documents Illustrative of the History of France, 1789-1901._ H. W. Wilson Company, Minneapolis, 1904. FLING, FRED MORROW. _Source Problems of the French Revolution._ Harper and Brothers, 1913. ROBINSON, J. H. _Readings in European History._ Two vols. Ginn and Co., 1904. ---- _Readings in European History._ Abridged Edition. Ginn and Co., 1906. ROBINSON, J. H., and BEARD, C. A. _Readings in Modern European History._ Two vols. Ginn and Co., 1908. ---- _Readings in Modern European History._ Abridged Edition. Ginn and Co., 1909. ATLASES _Cambridge Modern History._ Volume of Maps. Cambridge, the University Press, 1912. DOW, EARLE W. _Atlas of European History._ Henry Holt & Co., 1909. DROYSE, GUSTAV. _Allgemeiner historischer Kandatlas._ Velhagen und Klasing, Leipzig, 1886. GARDINER, SAMUEL RAWSON. _A School Atlas of English History._ Longmans, Green & Co., 1910. POOLE, REGINAL LANE. _Historical Atlas of Modern Europe from the Decline of the Roman Empire._ H. Frowde, 1896-1902. PUTZGER, FRIEDRICH WILHELM. _Historischer Schul-atlas zur alten, mittleren, und neunen Geschichte._ Velhagen und Klasing, Leipzig, 1910. SHEPHERD, WILLIAM ROBERT. _Historical Atlas._ Henry Holt & Co., 1911. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ADAMS, CHARLES KENDALL. _A Manual of Historical Literature._ Harper and Brothers, 1888. ANDREWS, GAMBRILL, and TALL. _A Bibliography of History for Schools and Libraries._ Longmans, Green & Co., 1911. PEDAGOGICAL Committee of Seven. American Historical Association. _The Study of History in the Schools._ The Macmillan Company, 1899. Committee of Five. American Historical Association. _The Study of_ _History in the Secondary Schools._ The Macmillan Company, 1911. DUNN, ARTHUR WILLIAM. _The Social Studies in Secondary Education._ Department of the Interior, Bureau of Education, Bulletin No. 28, 1916. JOHNSON, H. _The Teaching of History in Elementary and Secondary Schools._ 1915. ROBINSON, JAMES HARVEY. _The New History; Essays Illustrating the Modern History Outlook._ The Macmillan Company, 1912. HISTORICAL FICTION BAKER, E. A. _History in Fiction._ Two vols. E. P. Dutton & Co., 1907. NIELD, JONATHAN. _A Guide to the Best Historical Novels and Tales._ G. P. Putnam's Sons. PERIODICALS _The American Historical Review._ Published by the American Historical Association, Washington, D. C. _The History Teacher's Magazine._ McKinley Publishing Company, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Footnotes: [39] This summary of the consequences of the doctrines of democracy is allowed to break into the topical development of the outline, as it gives a sort of general introduction to tendencies since 1815. It will not escape the teacher that he could treat history since 1815 by taking up in order the topics given under this heading. XIII THE TEACHING OF POLITICAL SCIENCE =Scope of political science= Certain phases of what is known as political science form to no small degree the content of courses in other branches of study. The engineering schools in their effort to set forth the regulation of public utilities with respect to engineering problems have begun to offer courses which deal extensively with politics and government. In political and constitutional history, considerable attention is given to the organization and administration of the various divisions of government. To a greater degree, however, the allied departments of economics and sociology have begun, in the development of their respective fields, to analyze matters which are primarily of a political nature. Especially in what is designated as applied economics and applied sociology there is to be found material a large part of which relates directly to the regulation and administration of governmental affairs. Thus in portions of the courses designated as labor problems, money and banking, public finance, trust problems, public utility regulation, problems in social welfare, and immigration, primary consideration is frequently given to government activities and to the influences and conditions surrounding government control. While these courses, then, deal in part with subject matter which belongs primarily to the science of politics and while any comprehensive survey of instruction in political science would include an account of the phases of the subject presented in other departments, for the present purpose it has been advisable to limit the consideration of the teaching of political science to the subjects usually offered under that designation.[40] Some attention, however, will be given later to the relation of political science to allied subjects. A difference of opinion exists as to the meaning of political science, some institutions using the term in a broad sense to embody courses offered in history, economics, politics, public law, and sociology, and others giving the word a very narrow meaning to include a few specialized courses in constitutional and administrative law. There is, nevertheless, a strong tendency to have the term "political science" comprise all of the subjects which deal primarily with the organization and the administration of public affairs. =Courses usually offered in political science= Through an exhaustive survey made by the Committee on Instruction of the American Political Science Association, covering instruction in political science in colleges and universities, the subjects which are usually offered may be indicated in two groups: LEADING COURSES FOR COLLEGES AND UNIVERSITIES[41] (Given in order of number of instruction hours, with highest ranked first.) _A._ Major Courses. 1. American government--including national, state, and local. 2. General political science--mainly political theory, with some comparative government. 3. Comparative government--devoted chiefly to a study of England, France, Germany, and the United States. 4. International law. 5. Commercial law. 6. Municipal government. 7. Constitutional law. _B._ Minor Courses. 1. Jurisprudence, or elements of law. 2. Political theories. 3. Diplomacy. 4. State government. 5. Political parties. 6. Government of England. 7. Legislative methods of procedure. 8. Roman law. 9. Regulation of social and industrial affairs. While the purposes and objects of instruction in this rather extensive group of subjects vary considerably, it seems desirable to analyze the chief objects in accordance with which political science courses are presented to students of collegiate grade. =Aims of instruction in government= The aims of instruction in government are (1) to train for citizenship; (2) to prepare for professions such as law, teaching, business, and journalism; (3) to train experts and prepare specialists for government positions; (4) to provide facilities and lead students into research material and research methods. Each of these aims affects to a certain extent a different class of students and renders the problem as to methods of instruction correspondingly difficult. =1. Training for citizenship= In a certain sense all instruction may be looked upon as giving training for the duties and responsibilities of citizenship, and undoubtedly a great deal of instruction in other subjects aids in the process of citizenship training. Nevertheless, a heavy responsibility rests upon departments of political science to lead students into the extensive literature on government as well as to instruct them with respect to the organizations and methods by which the political and social affairs are being conducted. In short, one of the primary aims of government instruction and one which is kept foremost in the arrangement of courses is elementary training for the average student in the principles, the practices, and the technique of governmental affairs. For such citizenship training, which is usually given in large elementary classes, a special method of instruction and system of procedure are pursued. It is necessary to provide subject matter which is informational in character, as the lack of knowledge of the governments of home and foreign countries is ordinarily appalling, and which will open up by way of discussion and comparison many of the leading problems of modern politics. More necessary and indispensable is a method of study which will aid in pursuing inquiries along the many and varied lines which will devolve upon the citizen performing his multifarious duties and discharging his many responsibilities. As many of the students will take but a single course, the opening up to them of the vast field of government literature is one of the aims to be constantly kept in mind. Moreover, while all of the above are essential matters in the elementary courses, the most important consideration of all is that the teaching of politics and government will have utterly failed unless there are created a desire and an interest which will lead into many lines of investigation beyond those offered in a single introductory course. The development of this interest and appreciation is the all-important object. =2. Preparation for the professions= Many who enter the introductory courses in government select the subject with the idea of continuing their preparation for professional life in their chosen fields. Among the professions which particularly seek instruction in government are chiefly law, teaching, business, and journalism. For these groups of students, many of whom continue the study of the subject for several years, often going on into the advanced courses in graduate departments, it is recognized that beginning work which is too general and discursive may be less useful than a specialized course which may be rounded out by a series of correlated courses. Consequently, there is a question whether the professional student, interested in the study of government, should begin his work under the same conditions and with the same methods as the student who does not expect to continue the subject. The number of those who are preparing for the professions is often so large as to require separate consideration and to affect seriously the determination of the method and content of the introductory course. This difficulty is obviated where professional courses are provided, giving instruction in government and citizenship, as is now the practice in certain law schools, in some departments of journalism, and in a few engineering schools. For each of the major professions in which government instruction is particularly sought a different type of course is desired. For the law student comparative public law, jurisprudence, and specialized government courses in various fields are usually demanded. For the journalist, general subjects dealing with specific countries and with the political practices of all governments are regarded of special benefit. For the teaching profession the study of some one line and specialization in a particular field seem to be a necessity. Which is the better, such specialized government courses for professional students, or a general course for all introductory students, is still an undetermined problem. The fact that most of the conditions and problems of citizenship are similar for all these groups and that there is great difficulty in providing separate instruction for each group renders it necessary to provide an elementary course which is adapted to the needs and which will serve the purpose of the citizen seeking a general introduction in one course and the professional student who seeks entrance to advanced courses. =3. Training for public service and preparation of specialists for government positions= Colleges and universities have recently begun to give special instruction for the training of those who desire to enter the government service. A few institutions are offering courses and a considerable number are beginning to adapt instruction which will be of service not only to those who anticipate entrance into some form of public work, but also to those who are engaged in performing public service in some department of government. As a matter of fact, the training of specialists must in large measure be cared for by professional and technical schools, such as the provision for directors of public health by medical schools, the training of sanitary engineers by the engineering schools, the training of accountants, statisticians, and financial experts by the schools of commerce and finance. Nevertheless, departments offering instruction in general political subjects are expected to give some consideration to and to make special arrangements for advanced courses in the way of preparing those who seek to enter the various divisions of the government service, such as the consular and diplomatic affairs, charitable and social work, and the administrative regulation of public utilities, industrial affairs, and the public welfare. Through the introduction of specialized courses in municipal, state, and national administration it is possible to prepare more adequately for various branches of public administration. =4. Special courses in research and research methods= Although research methods and graduate courses of instruction in political science developed rather slowly, a substantial beginning has been made by the universities in the offering of advanced courses in which a specialized study is made of some of the problems of government and the methods of administration. Through these courses valuable contributions have been made to the historical and comparative phases of the subject and to some extent to the analytical study of government in operation. The primary aim has been to provide an avenue and an opportunity for those who look forward to teaching or to entering the field of special research work in politics and governmental affairs. The results of the research work have been rendered available to government officials and departments through bureaus of research and other agencies devised to aid in improving the public service. Only a few universities separate the graduate from the undergraduate students, and as a result the instruction cannot be of strictly graduate character and quality. Much of the present research is done with small groups of students in a seminar where personal direction is given to investigations and where the methods of research are developed under direct supervision. =Value of the subject= Any determination of the value of a subject in the school curriculum is necessarily based upon the opinions of individuals whose judgment will vary in large measure according to their respective training, influences, and predilections. The value of the subject which is usually placed first is its usefulness in imparting information. Much instruction in government is descriptive and informational in character and is offered primarily to increase the stock of knowledge and to give information with respect to the present and the future interests of the citizen. While this descriptive material has served a useful purpose, it is doubtful whether, as in the formal civics of the public schools, the method of imparting information has not been used so extensively as to have a detrimental effect. Too much attention has been given to the memorization of facts and the temporary accumulation of information more or less useful, and correspondingly too little to thinking on the great political and social issues of the day. When governments are engaging in endless activities which affect the welfare of society in its social and æsthetic, as well as political aspects, government instruction becomes increasingly necessary and valuable as a cultural study. The recent development in European political affairs has impressed upon the citizens of this country as never before the results of a profound ignorance with respect to conditions in foreign countries. While the knowledge of the affairs of the great nations of the world has hitherto appeared advisable, it has now come to be regarded as a necessity. From the standpoint of culture a knowledge of the institutions of one's own country and of other countries is one of the cardinal elements of education and provisions for such instruction ought to be placed among the few primary topics in the preparation of all educational programs. If culture involves an understanding of the social and political conditions of the past and present as well as some appreciation of the problems which confront the individual in his activities of life, then the study of both history and government must be given a foremost rank among the subjects now classified as cultural. With respect to formal discipline government instruction has been rated lower than that of the more exact subjects, the languages and mathematics. While it is true that from the standpoint of formal discipline and exact methods government instruction has not measured up to that of some other subjects, it must be remembered that the standardization of instruction, and the methods pursued in other subjects, have developed through a long process of years to the present effectiveness in mental discipline. As the study of government becomes more specialized, the material in the field worked into more concrete form for purposes of instruction, the methods better developed with the formulation of standard plans and principles, the disciplinary value of the subject will be increased. The development now in process is bringing about changes which will greatly enhance not only the usefulness but in a large measure the disciplinary value of the subject. =Place in college curriculum= Instruction in government is usually offered only to students who have acquired sophomore standing. A few institutions now give a course in government in the freshman year, and the practice seems to be meeting with success. Sentiment is growing in favor of this plan. The argument presented for this change is that a large percentage of the freshman class does not continue college work, and consequently many students have no opportunity to become acquainted with the special problems of politics and government. To meet the need of those who spend but one year in college, it is claimed that an introduction should be given to the study of government problems. While there are strong reasons in support of this change, the prevailing sentiment for the present favors the requirement of a year's work in college as a prerequisite. The advocates of this arrangement contend that in view of the fact that most of the high schools are now giving a half of a year or a year to civic instruction on somewhat the same plan as would be necessary in a first-year college course, it seems better from the standpoint of the student as well as of the department to defer the introductory course until better methods of study and greater maturity of mind are acquired. Sophomore standing is the only prerequisite for the elementary course except in a few institutions where the selection of a course in history in the freshman year is required. A few colleges are offering to freshmen an introductory course in the social sciences, comprising mainly some elementary material from economics, sociology, and political science. While there are some advantages in the effort to give a general introduction to the social sciences, no practicable content or method for such a course has yet been prepared. Moreover, it seems likely now that such a general introduction will be attempted either in the junior or in the senior high school. For advanced work in the senior high school and for the introductory college course reason and practice both favor a separation of these subjects, with close correlation and constant consideration of the interrelations. =The introductory course= It is customary to introduce students to the study of government through a general course in American government, dealing briefly with national, state, and local institutions. Other subjects, such as comparative government,--including a consideration of some representative foreign countries along with American government,--an introductory course in political science, and international law, are sometimes used as basic courses to introduce students to subsequent work. The general practice in the introductory course seems to be approaching a standard in which either American government is made the basis of study, with comparisons from European practices and methods, or European governments are studied, with attention by way of comparison to the American system of government. The Committee of Seven of the American Political Science Association offered the following suggestions relative to the introductory course, which it seems well to quote in full. The Committee recommended that: American government be taken as the basis for the introductory course because it is convinced that there is an imperative need for a more thorough study of American institutions, because the opportunity for this study is not now offered in any but a few of the best secondary schools, and because it is exceedingly important that the attention of an undergraduate be directed early in his course to a vital personal interest in his own government, national, state, and local. Instruction in political science is rarely given until the second or third year of the college work, and thus unless American government is selected for the first course only a small percentage of students receive encouragement and direction in the study of political affairs with which they will constantly be expected to deal in their ordinary relations as citizens. But the committee believes that this study of American government can be distinctly vitalized by the introduction of such comparisons with European practices and forms as will supply the student with a broader basis of philosophical conclusions as to constitutional development and administrative practices. The Committee is of the opinion that despite the very marked increase of courses in American government within the past few years, one of the immediate needs is the further extension and enlargement of these courses. In only a few institutions is enough time given to the subject to permit anything more than the most cursory survey of the various features of the government, and almost invariably state and local government suffer in the cutting process which is necessary. About seventy institutions only give courses in which state and local government are the basis of special study. In order that state and local government shall be given more consideration, and in order that judicial procedure and administrative methods shall receive more than passing notice, it is absolutely necessary that the time allotted to American government be increased. Nothing short of a full year of at least three hours a week gives the necessary time and opportunity do anything like full justice to the national, state, and local units.[42] Because of the fact that only a small percentage of the student body elects this course under present conditions, and because the majority of those who do elect it never have an opportunity to continue the study of government, it is thought that the selection of American government for the beginning subject has the tendency to foster provincialism. When but one course is taken this one, it is contended, should deal with foreign governments, to supply a broader basis for the comparison of political institutions. As the study of government is introduced in the grades and thorough and effective instruction is offered in the high school, it will become increasingly practicable to introduce the comparative method in introductory courses. =Sequence of courses= One of the difficulties in the instruction in political science which has received less consideration than it deserves is that of the sequence of courses. In the determination of sequence it is customary to have an introductory course, such as American government, European government, or political theory, and to make this subject a prerequisite for all advanced courses. As the introductory course requires sophomore standing, it renders entrance into advanced courses open only to students of junior rank or above. After passing the first course, there are open for election a number of subjects, mainly along specialized lines. This condition is to be found, particularly, in the large universities, where a group of instructors offer specialized work, with either little or no advice to students as to the proper arrangement or sequence of courses. The ordinary classification is into three groups: (1) an elementary course, prerequisite for advanced instruction; (2) courses for graduate and undergraduate students, seldom arranged on a basis of sequence or logical order;--the lack of sequence is due in part to the fact that after taking elementary work the student in government frequently wishes to specialize in the field of federal government, or of state government, or of international law, or possibly of political theory; (3) courses for graduate students, which are intended primarily for investigation and research. Students who specialize in government are generally advised by the head of the department or the professor under whom their work is directed, as to the proper arrangement and correlation of courses. It is, however, questionable whether some plan of sequence more definitely outlined than that now to be found in most catalogs ought not to be prepared in advance for the consideration of those who look forward to specializing in political science. Such an arrangement of sequence has been prepared by the department of political science of the University of Chicago, which divides its work into (1) elementary, (2) intermediate, (3) advanced--the advanced courses being subdivided into (_a_) theory, (_b_) constitutional relations, (_c_) public administration, and (_d_) law. Suggestions are offered as to the principal and secondary sequences for various groups of students. The sequence of courses could be better arranged provided a freshman course were offered. A freshman course in American government could be given, with some attention by way of comparison to European methods and practices, and followed by an intermediate course dealing with some select foreign governments, again using the comparative method and viewpoint. Two courses of this character would offer a greater opportunity to give the instruction now desired from the standpoint of the average student and citizen, and would serve as a better basis for advanced instruction than the single course now customarily offered either in American or comparative government. After taking the elementary courses the student could then be allowed to select from a group of subjects in one of the various lines, according to the special field in which he is interested. In short, the arrangement of the sequence of courses will necessarily be unsatisfactory as long as the elementary course is offered only to those of at least sophomore rank, a practice which unfortunately necessitates in many cases the beginning of the work in the junior or senior year. It will be necessary to introduce the subject earlier in the curriculum, in order to arrange such a sequence as would seem desirable from the standpoint of thorough and effective instruction. =Methods of instruction= Methods of instruction[43] vary according to the size of the institution and the number in the classes. In the preliminary courses the system of informal lectures is combined with recitations, discussions, reports, and quizzes. The students in the advanced courses are obliged to carry on independent work under the supervision of the instructor. For seniors and graduate students the seminar has been found most satisfactory in developing a keen interest in the problems of politics. Unfortunately, where the classes are small and the time is limited, it is customary to rely largely on textbooks and recitations, with a moderate amount of special readings and occasional class reports. But, on the other hand, courses in government have been improved recently by the appearance of good textbooks. American and European governments are now presented in texts which have proved satisfactory and which have aided in the development of standard courses for these elementary subjects. Then, too, interest has been aroused and better results obtained through the use of texts and manuals dealing with the actual work and the problems of government. The neglected fields of state government and administrative practices are just beginning to receive attention. One method of government instruction, and a very valuable one, is to encourage the examination of evidence and to consider different viewpoints on public questions, with the purpose of forming judgments based on the facts. For this purpose extensive reading and frequent reports are necessary to check up the work completed. It is possible to keep in constant touch with the amount of work and the methods of study or investigation by means of discussions in small sections for one or two hours each week and by the use of the problem sheet. In the courses offered in departments of government in such subjects as constitutional law, international law, commercial law, and to some extent in courses in jurisprudence and government regulation of public utilities and social welfare, the case method has been adopted quite extensively. This method has been sufficiently tried and its effectiveness has been demonstrated in the teaching of law, so that nothing need be said in its defense. The introduction of the case method in political science and public law has undoubtedly improved the teaching of certain phases of these subjects. That the use of cases and extracts may be carried to an extreme which is detrimental is becoming apparent, for opinions and data change so rapidly that any collection of cases and materials is out of date before it issues from the press. Moreover, the use of such collections encourages the reliance on secondary sources and secondary material, a tendency which ought to be discouraged. Every encouragement and advantage should be given to have students and investigators in government deal with original rather than secondary sources. There is, in addition to the use of textbooks, lectures, extensive reference reading, case books, and the writing of papers, a tendency to introduce the problem method of instruction and to encourage field work, observation, and, so far as practicable, a first-hand study of government functions and activities. Another line in which the study of government is undergoing considerable modification is the emphasis placed on administration and administrative practices. While special attention heretofore has been given either to the history of politics and political institutions or to political theories and principles, the tendency is now to give import to political practices and the methods pursued in carrying on government divisions and departments. The introduction of courses in the principles of administration, with the consideration of problems in connection with public administration in national, state, and local affairs, is tending to modify the content as well as the methods of the teaching of government. New methods and a new content are changing the emphasis from the formal, theoretical, and historical study of government and turning attention to the practical phases and to the technique of administration. As a result of this change and through the work which is being undertaken by bureaus of reference and research, instruction is brought much closer to public officers and greater service is rendered in a practical way to government administration. =Some unsolved problems= Among the difficulties and unsolved problems in the teaching of political science are, first, the beginning course; second, the relation of courses in government to economics, sociology, history, and law; third, the extent to which field investigation and the problem method can be used to advantage in offering instruction and the development of new standards and of new tests which are applicable to these methods; fourth, the introduction of the scientific method. =1. The introductory course= While the elementary course in government is now usually American government and is, as a rule, offered to sophomores, both the content and the present position of the course in the curriculum are matters on which there is considerable difference of opinion. Where the subject matter now offered to beginning students is comprised of comparative material selected from a number of modern governments, it is contended that this arrangement is preferable to confining attention to American institutions with which there is at least general but often vague familiarity. If provision is made in the high school, by which the majority of those who enter the university have had a good course in American government, there seems to be a strong presumption that the beginners' course should be devoted to comparative government. It is quite probable that the introductory course will cease to be confined to a distinct and separate study of either foreign governments or of American government and that the most satisfactory course will be the development of one in which main emphasis is given to one or the other of these fields and in which constant and frequent comparisons will be made for purposes of emphasis, discussion, and the consideration of government issues and problems. In some cases it is undoubtedly true that emphasis should be given to foreign governments, and as the high schools improve their instruction in our local institutions, national and state, it will become increasingly necessary in colleges to turn attention to the study of foreign governments in the beginners' course. There appears to be a desire to introduce government into the freshman year, and it is likely that provision will be made to begin the study of the subject in the first college year, thereby rendering it possible for those who enter college to profit by a year's work and to give an earlier start to those who wish to specialize. Another difficulty in connection with the introductory course which is still not clearly determined is the time and attention which may be given to lectures, to discussions, to the writing of papers or theses, to the investigation and report on problems, and the extent to which use may be made of some of the practical devices such as field investigation. There is a general belief that in the elementary course only a slight use may be made of practical methods, but that it is necessary to begin these methods in the elementary years and to render instruction practical and concrete to a larger extent than is now done, by means of problems and the discussion of matters of direct interest to all citizens. No doubt as the problem method and field study are more definitely systematized and the ways of supervision and checking up the work developed, these devices will be used much more extensively. The preparation of problem sheets and of guides to the selection of concrete material gives promise of a more general and effective use of the problem method. =2. Relation of instruction in government to other subjects= The proper relationship and correlation of instruction in government with that of other subjects has not yet been determined satisfactorily. The matter of correlation is slowly being worked out along certain lines; for example, the relationship between courses in history and in government is coming to be much better defined. Such subjects as constitutional history and the development of modern governments are being treated almost entirely in departments of history, and less attention is being given to the historical development of institutions in departments of political science. As long as it is impossible to make certain history courses prerequisites before beginning the study of government, it becomes necessary to give some attention in political science to the historical development of political institutions. By correlation and by proper arrangement of courses, however, the necessity of introducing government courses with historical introductions ought to be considerably reduced. The relation between work in government and in economics and sociology is a more difficult problem and one which has not as yet been satisfactorily adjusted. Some of the courses given in departments of economics and sociology deal to a considerable extent with the regulation of public affairs. In these courses, including public finance, the regulation of public utilities, the regulation of trusts, labor organizations, and the administration and regulation of social and industrial affairs, a more definite correlation between political science and so-called applied economics and applied sociology must be made. While it is undoubtedly necessary for the economist and the sociologist to deal with government regulation of economic and social affairs, and while it is very desirable that these departments should emphasize the practical and applied phases of their subjects, it is nevertheless true that courses which are, to a large extent, comprised of government instruction should be given under the direction of the department of political science, or, at least, in an arrangement of definite coöperation therewith. There is no reason why in such a subject as the regulation of public utilities a portion of the course might not be given in the department of economics and a portion in the department of government. Or it may be better, perhaps, for a course to be arranged in the regulation of public utilities, continuing throughout the year, in which the professors of economics, government, commerce, finance, and engineering participate in the presentation of various phases of the same subject. At all events, the present separation into different departments of the subject matter of government regulation of such affairs as public utilities, taxation, and social welfare regulation is, to say the least, not producing the best results. The relation of government courses to instruction in law is likewise a partially unsolved problem. A few years ago, when the curricula of law schools dealt with matters of law and procedure in which only the practitioner was interested, it became necessary to introduce the study of public law in departments of government and political science. Thus we find courses in international law, constitutional law, Roman law, and elements of law and jurisprudence being offered in large part in departments of political science. The recent changes in law school curricula, however, by which many of these subjects are now offered in the law school and in some cases are offered to qualified undergraduate students, render the situation somewhat more difficult to adjust. There is a tendency to introduce these courses into the law school for law students and to offer a similar course in the department of government for undergraduates and graduates. The problem has been further complicated by the provision in some of the leading law schools of a fourth year, in which the dominant courses relate to public and international law, legal history and foreign law, jurisprudence and legislative problems.[44] As these courses become entirely legal in nature and content and require a background of three years of law, it becomes practically impossible for any but law students to be admitted to them. With the prospect of a permanent arrangement for a fourth year of law devoted primarily to subjects formerly given in departments of political science, it seems to be necessary to provide instruction in constitutional law and international law, at least, for those advanced students in political science who seek this instruction but who do not expect to take the private law instruction required to admit them to a fourth-year law class. The preferable arrangement may prove to be one in which a thorough course is offered which will be open to qualified seniors and graduate students and to law students, thus avoiding the duplication which is now characteristic of instruction in law and the public law phases of government. In this matter, as in the relation of economics and sociology, the most appropriate and effective adjustment for coöperation remains to be formulated. =3. Problem method of instruction= As the criticism of eminent specialists in government and politics has impressed upon instructors the idea that too large a portion of the teaching of the subject is theoretical, treating of what ought to be rather than of what actually occurs, dealing with facts only on a limited scale and with superficial attention to actual conditions, there has developed the necessity of revising the methods of instruction. This revision is being made largely in the introduction of field investigation, observation of government activities, and the problem and research methods. The prevailing practice of the teaching of politics, which involves lectures, recitations, and the reading and writing of theses, with a considerable amount of supplementary work, is being revised by means of a research and reference division, by the constant use of field investigation and by the study of governmental problems. The difficulty with all these devices lies in the indefinite and vague way in which so much of this work must be done. For the present, in only a few instances, such as the New York Bureau of Municipal Research, has the technique for field investigation and the research method been effectively developed. One of the chief lines for the improvement of the teaching of government is in the standardization and systematization of the problem method and its more extensive use in the elementary and advanced government instruction. =4. Introduction of the scientific method= In the past and to a great extent at the present time that part of the study of government which has to do with political theory and with a descriptive and historical account of government has comprised the greater portion of what is usually designated as political science. The nature of these studies is such as to render inapplicable the use of the scientific method. If the study of government is to be developed as a science in the true sense, then the above subjects must be supplemented by exhaustive inductive studies and research in the actual operation of government. Such methods are now being employed in the examination of government records and the comparison of administrative practices. And there is being developed also a science of government based on the practices and the technique of public administration. This science now finds its exemplification in some of the exceptional work of the graduate schools. Unfortunately, the connection between these schools and the government departments has not been such as to secure the best results. Moreover, departments of political science are not now doing their part to place the results of scientific investigations at the disposal of government officials. The introduction of courses in extension departments and evening classes has in part met this deficiency. But much remains to be done to render through the department of political science effective service in the practical operation of government. With the introduction of the problem method and field investigation in the elementary instruction, so far as seems feasible, with the development of standard methods and the technique of research for advanced instruction, the teaching of government will be rendered not only more valuable to the citizen, but colleges and universities may render aid to government officials and citizens interested in social and political affairs. A significant development as an aid for research and for rendering more effective public service has come in the establishment of bureaus of government research. The method of investigation and research which has been applied to the problems of government by private organizations has been found applicable to the handling of research material in the universities. Through a bureau of this character recent publications and ephemeral material may be collected for the use of advanced students, digests may be prepared on topics of special interest to legislators and administrators, and publications of particular interest to the citizens may be issued. Such a bureau serves as a government laboratory for the university and can be placed at the service of public officials and others who desire to use a reference department in securing reliable data on governmental affairs. Thus it is coming to be realized that research in government may be encouraged and the resources of higher institutions may be so organized as to render a distinct and much appreciated public service. CHARLES GROVE HAINES _University of Texas_ BIBLIOGRAPHY ALLIX, E. H. NÉZARD, and MEUNIER, A. _Instruction Civique._ Paris, F. Juven, 1910; pages 238. American Political Science Association. Report of the Committee on Instruction in Political Science in Colleges and Universities. _Proceedings_, 1913; pages 249-270. ---- Report of Committee of Seven on Instruction in Colleges and Universities. _Political Science Review_, Vol. IX, pages 353-374. ---- The Teaching of Government. Report to the American Political Science Association by the Committee on Instruction. The Macmillan Company, 1916; pages 135-226. BALDWIN, SIMEON E. _The Relations of Education to Citizenship._ Yale University Press, 1912; pages 178. BEACH, W. G. The College and Citizenship. _Proceedings of the Washington Educational Association._ School Journal Publishing Co., 1908; pages 55-57. BEARD, C. A. _The Study and Teaching of Politics._ Columbia University Press, June, 1912; Vol. XII, pages 268-274. ---- _Politics_, Columbia University Press, 1912; pages 35. ---- _Training for Efficient Public Service._ Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, March, 1916. BOITEL, J., and FOIGUET, R. _Notions elementaires d'instruction civique de droit usuel et d'économie politique._ Paris, Delagrave, 1910; pages 307. BOURGUEIL, E. _Instruction civique._ Paris: F. Nathan, 1910; pages 223. BRYCE, JAMES. _The Hindrances to Good Citizenship._ Yale University Press, 1910; pages 138. DROWN, THOMAS M. Instruction in Municipal Government in American Educational Institutions. _National Municipal League: Proceedings_, Boston, 1902; pages 268-271. FAIRLIE, JOHN A. Instruction in Municipal Government. _National Municipal League: Proceedings_, Detroit, 1903; pages 222-230. FREUND, ERNST. Correlation of Work for Higher Degrees in Graduate School and Law School. _Illinois Law Review_, Vol. XI, page 301. HALL, G. STANLEY. Civic Education. _Educational Problems_, New York, 1911, Vol. II, pages 667-682. HILL, DAVID J. _A Plan for a School of the Political Sciences._ 1907, pages 34. HINMAN, GEORGE W. The New Duty of American colleges. 63d Congress, 1st session. Senate Document No. 236, 1913. LOWELL, A. LAWRENCE. Administrative Experts in Municipal Governments. _National Municipal Review_, Vol. IV, pages 26-32. ---- The Physiology of Politics, _American Political Science Review_, February, 1910. ---- _Public Opinion and Popular Government_, Chapters 17-19. MOREY, WILLIAM C. _American Education and American Citizenship._ Rochester, N. Y., pages 20. MUNRO, W. B. The Present Status of Instruction in Municipal Government in the Universities and Colleges of the United States. _National Municipal League: Proceedings._ Pittsburgh, 1908, pages 348-366. ---- Instruction in Municipal Government in the Universities and Colleges of the United States. _National Municipal Review_, Vol. II, pages 427-438, and Vol. V, pages 565-574. National Municipal League. Report of the Committee on Instruction in Municipal Government. _Proceedings_, Rochester, 1901; pages 218-225. Report of the Committee on Organized Coöperation between the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. _Bulletin of the Alumni Association_, 1914, No. 3. Report of the Committee on Training for Public Service. Columbia University. Charles A. Beard, Chairman. _Bulletin_, March 27, 1915. ROBINSON, FREDERICK B. The Municipal Courses. _City College (N. Y.) Quarterly_, Vol. XII, page 18. ROWE, J. S. University and Collegiate Research in Municipal Government. _National Municipal League: Proceedings._ Chicago, 1904, pages 242-248. SCHAPER, W. A. What Do Students Know about American government before Taking College Courses in Political Science? _Journal of Pedagogy_, June, 1906. Vol. XVIII, pages 265-288. Society for the Promotion of Training for the Public Service. E. A. Fitzpatrick, Director. Madison, Wisconsin. _The Public Servant._ Issued monthly. ---- Universities and Public Service. _Proceedings of the First National Conference._ Madison, 1914, pages 289. Training for Public Service. New York Bureau of Municipal Research, Annual Reports. WHITE, A. D. The Provision for Higher Instruction Bearing Directly upon Public Affairs. _House Executive Document No. 42_, part 2, 46th Congress, 3d Session. ---- Education in Political Science. Baltimore, pages 51. ---- European Schools of History and Politics. _Johns Hopkins University Studies_, Series 5, Vol. XII. WILSON, WOODROW. _The Study of Politics. An Old Master and Other Essays._ Charles Scribner's Sons, 1893, pages 31-57. WOLFE, A. B. Shall We Have an Introductory Course in Social Sciences? _Journal of Political Economy_, Vol. XXII, pages 253-267. YOUNG, JAMES T. University Instruction in Municipal Government. _National Municipal League: Proceedings._ Rochester, 1901; pages 226-234. Footnotes: [40] The courses usually given in departments of political science are: 1. American government, (_a_) National, (_b_) State and local, (_c_) Municipal. 2. General political science. 3. Comparative government. 4. English government. 5. International law. 6. Diplomacy. 7. Jurisprudence or elements of law. 8. World politics. 9. Commercial law. 10. Roman law. 11. Administrative law. 12. Political theories (History of political thought). 13. Party government. 14. Colonial government. 15. Legislative methods and legislative procedure. 16. Current political problems. 17. Municipal corporations. 18. Law of officers and taxation. 19. Seminar. 20. Additional courses, such as the government of foreign countries, the regulation of public utilities, and the political and legal status of women. Cf. _The Teaching of Government_, page 137. Published by the Macmillan Company, 1916. With the permission of the publishers some extracts from the report of the committee on instruction have been used. The report should be consulted for the presentation of data and for a further consideration of some questions of instruction which cannot be taken up fully within the compass of this chapter. [41] Cf. _The Teaching of Government_, page 182. [42] _The Teaching of Government_, pages 206-207. [43] The discussion of methods follows in part the Report of the Committee on Instruction, pages 192-194. [44] See especially article by Ernst Freund on "Correlation of Work for Higher Degrees in Graduate School and Law School," Vol. XI, _Illinois Law Review_, page 301. XIV THE TEACHING OF PHILOSOPHY The study of philosophy covers such a wide range of subjects that it is difficult to generalize in attempting to answer the basal questions which call for consideration in a book like this. In the great European universities it includes psychology, logic, ethics, æsthetics, epistemology, metaphysics, the history of philosophy, and sometimes even the philosophy of religion, the philosophy of history, the philosophy of law, and the philosophy of the State. Although special courses may not be offered in every one of these fields in our American colleges, their philosophical territory is sufficiently extensive and the separate provinces sufficiently unlike to baffle any one seeking to describe the educational aims and methods of the domain as a whole. In order, therefore, to do full justice to our task it would be necessary to treat each one of the various philosophical branches separately and to expand the space assigned to us into a fair-sized volume. Since this is not to be thought of, we shall have to confine ourselves to a consideration of the traits common to all the subjects, without forgetting, however, such differences as may call for different educational treatment. =The unified college course in philosophy= The difficulty of which we have spoken becomes less formidable when the teacher of the traditional philosophical subjects regards them not as so many independent and disconnected fields of study, but as parts of a larger whole held together by some central idea. The great systematic thinkers, from Plato down to Herbert Spencer, have aimed at "completely unified knowledge" and have sought to bring order and coherence into what may seem to the casual onlooker as a disunited array of phenomena. Philosophical teaching will be the more fruitful, the more it is inspired by the thought of unity of aim, and the more consciously the teachers of the different disciplines keep this idea in mind. That is the reason why philosophical instruction given in a small college and by one man is, in some respects, often more satisfactory than in the large university with its numberless specialists, in which the beginning student frequently does not see the forest for the trees. It is not essential that the teacher present a thoroughly worked-out and definitive system of thought, but it is important that he constantly keep in mind the interrelatedness of the various parts of his subject and the notion of unity which binds them together,--at least as an ideal. And perhaps this notion of the unity of knowledge ought to be made one of the chief aims of philosophical instruction in the college. The ideal of philosophy in the sense of metaphysics is to see things whole, to understand the interrelations not only of the branches taught in the department of philosophy but of all the diverse subjects studied throughout the university. The student obtains glimpses of various pictures presented by different departments and different men, and from different points of view. Each teacher offers him fragments of knowledge, the meaning of which, as parts of an all-inclusive system, the pupil does not comprehend. Indeed, it frequently happens that the different pieces do not fit into one another; and he is mystified and bewildered by the seemingly disparate array of facts and theories crowding his brain which he cannot correlate and generally does not even suspect of being capable of correlation. To be sure, every teacher ought to be philosophical, if not a philosopher, and indicate the place of his specialty in the universe of knowledge; but that is an ideal which has not yet been realized. In the meanwhile, the study of philosophy ought to make plain that knowledge is not a mere heap of broken fragments, that the inorganic, organic, and mental realms are not detached and independent principalities but kingdoms in a larger empire, and that the world in which we live is not a chaos but a cosmos. An introductory course in philosophy, the type of course given in many German universities under the title "Einleitung in die Philosophie" and attended by students from all sections of the university, will help the young student to find his bearings in the multifarious thought-world unfolded before him and will, at the same time, put him in the way of developing some sort of world-view later on. Philosophical instruction that succeeds in the task outlined above will have accomplished much. Nevertheless, it cannot attain its goal unless the student is introduced to the study of the human-mental world which constitutes a large portion of the field assigned to the philosophical department: the study of psychology, logic, ethics, and the history of philosophy. These branches deal with things in which the human race has been interested from its early civilized beginnings and with which the young persons entering college have had little or no opportunity of becoming acquainted. And they deal with a world which no man can ignore who seeks to understand himself and his relation to the natural and social environment in which his lot is cast. A knowledge of the processes of mind (psychology), of the laws of thought (logic), of the principles of conduct (ethics), and of the development of man's interpretation of reality (history of philosophy) will supplement the knowledge acquired by the study of physical nature, preventing a one-sided and narrow world-view, and will serve as a preparation for intelligent reflection upon the meaning of reality (philosophy in the sense of metaphysics). =Controlling aims in the teaching of philosophy= All these subjects, therefore, have as one of their aims the training of the powers of thought (judgment and reasoning); and philosophical teaching should never lose sight of this. Thinking is a difficult business,--an art which is practiced, to be sure, in every field of study, but one for which the philosophical branches provide unusual opportunity and material. It has become a habit with many of recent years to decry the study of logic as an antiquated discipline, but it still remains, if properly taught, an excellent means of cultivating clear thinking; there is no reason why a consciousness of correct ways of thinking and of the methods employed in reaching reliable judgments should not prove useful to every one. We should say, therefore, that the study of philosophy has a high cultural value: it encourages the student to reflect upon himself and his human and natural surroundings (society and nature) and to come to grips with reality; it frees him from the incubus of transmitted opinions and borrowed beliefs, and makes him earn his spiritual possessions in the sweat of his face,--mindful of Goethe's warning that "he alone deserves freedom and life who is compelled to battle for them day by day";--it helps him to see things in their right relations, to acquire the proper intellectual and volitional attitude toward his world through an understanding of its meaning and an appreciation of its values; in short, it strengthens him in his struggle to win his soul, to become a person. This is its ideal; and in seeking to realize it, philosophy coöperates with the other studies in the task of developing human beings, in preparing men for complete living, and is therefore practical in a noble sense of the term. It has a high disciplinary value in that it trains the powers of analysis and judgment, at least in the fields in which it operates. And the habit acquired there of examining judgments, hypotheses, and beliefs critically and impartially, of testing them in the light of experience and of reason, cannot fail to prove helpful wherever clear thinking is a requisite. The teacher should keep all these aims in view in organizing his material and applying his methods. He should not forget that philosophy is above all things a reflection upon life; he should endeavor to train his pupils in the art of interpreting human experience, of grasping its meaning. His chief concern should be to make _thinkers_ of them, not to fasten upon them a final philosophic creed,--not to give them a philosophy, but to teach them how to philosophize. If he succeeds in arousing in them a keen intellectual interest and a love of truth, and in developing in them the will and the power to think a problem through to the bitter end, he will have done more for them than would have been possible by furnishing them with ready-made formulas. There is nothing so hopelessly dead as a young man without the spirit of intellectual adventure, with his mind made up, with the master's ideas so deeply driven into his head that his intellectual career is finished. The Germans call such a person _vernagelt_, a term that fitly describes the case. What should be aimed at is the cultivation of the mind so that it will broaden with enlarging experience, that it will be hospitable to new ideas and yet not be overwhelmed by them, that it will preserve inviolate its intellectual integrity and keep fresh the spirit of inquiry. Such a mind may be safely left to work out its own salvation in the quest for a _Weltanschauung_. "Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old." In emphasizing the need of such central aims in instruction we do not wish to be understood as not appreciating the utilitarian value of the philosophical branches and their importance as a preparation for professional activity. Like all knowledge, these subjects have their worth not merely as means of developing human personality but also as means of equipping the student with such knowledge of facts, methods, and theories as will prove useful to him in his other studies and in the daily affairs of life. The teacher, the physician, the lawyer, the clergyman, the artist, the engineer, the business man, will be benefited by an understanding of the workings of the human mind, of the laws of human thinking, and of the principles of human conduct. It is not absolutely necessary, however, in our opinion, that separate classes specially designed for the different professions be formed in the colleges; after all, it is the same human mind that operates in all the fields of human activity, and a knowledge of mental life in general will serve the purposes of every vocation. Doubtless, courses in psychology, logic, and ethics, for example, might be offered having in view the particular needs of prospective members of the various callings, but such courses would, in order to meet the situation, presuppose an acquaintance with the respective professional fields in question which only students well along in their professional studies could be expected to possess. Courses of this character might profitably be given for the benefit of professional students who have already taken the introductory subjects necessary to their proper understanding. =Introduction of philosophy in the college course= It is not easy to determine the most favorable period in a student's college career at which philosophical subjects should be taught. The more mature the student is, the more successful the instruction is apt to be; but this may be said of many other studies. There is no reason why an intelligent freshman may not begin the study of psychology and logic and perhaps of some other introductory philosophical branches; but as a rule better results may be obtained by admitting only such persons to these classes as have familiarized themselves with university methods. =Problems of philosophy and the development of thought to be emphasized, rather than the historical sequence= We should recommend that every student in the college devote at least three hours a week for four terms to the study of psychology, logic, ethics, and the history of philosophy. In case not all these fundamental courses can be taken, the student will most likely derive the greatest benefit by giving a year to the study of the history of philosophy, or one term to the introduction to philosophy, where he has only that much time at his disposal. It seems easier, however, to arouse a philosophical interest in the average student through a study of the basal philosophical questions from the standpoint of contemporaneous thinking than through the study of the history of philosophy. He is generally lacking in the historic sense, and is apt to be wearied and even confused by the endless procession of systems. This is particularly the case when the teacher fails to emphasize sufficiently the progressive nature of philosophical thinking in its history, when he regards this as a mere succession of ideas rather than as a more or less logical unfolding of problems and solutions--as a continuous effort on the part of the universal mind, so to speak, to understand itself and the world. A course in the introduction to philosophy acquainting the student with the aims of philosophy and its relation to other fields of study, and placing before him an account of the most important problems of metaphysics and epistemology as well as of the solutions which have been offered by the great thinkers, together with such criticisms and suggestions as may stimulate his thought, will awaken in him a proper appreciation of a deeper study of the great systems and lead him to seek light from the history of philosophy. =Methods of instruction= The place and relative worth of the various methods of instruction in the province of philosophy will, of course, depend, among other things, upon the character of the particular subject taught and the size and quality of the class. In nearly all the introductory philosophical branches in which the classes are large the lecture method will prove a valuable auxiliary. In no case, however, should this method be employed exclusively; and in formal logic, it should be used rather sparingly. Ample opportunity should always be given in smaller groups for raising questions and discussing important issues with a view to clearing up obscure points, overcoming difficulties, developing the student's powers of thought, and enabling him to exercise his powers of expression. It is also essential that the student be trained in the difficult art of reading philosophical works. It is wise as a rule to refer him to a good textbook, which should be carefully studied, to passages or chapters in other standard manuals, and in historical study to the writings of the great masters. And frequent opportunity to express himself in the written word must be afforded him; to this end written reports giving the thought of an author in the student's own language, occasional critical essays, and written examinations appealing not only to his memory but to his intelligence should be required during the term. Such exercises keep the student's interest alive, increase his stock of knowledge, develop maturity and independence of thought, and create a sense of growing intellectual power. The written tests encourage members of the class to review the work gone over and to discuss with one another important phases of it; in the effort to organize their knowledge they obtain a much better grasp of the subject than would have been possible without such an intensive re-appraisal of the material. =Logic to be related to the intellectual life of the student= In the course on formal logic a large part of the time should be spent in examining and criticizing examples of the processes of thought studied (definitions, arguments, methods employed in reaching knowledge) and in applying the principles of correct thinking in written discourses. It is a pity that we have no comprehensive work containing the illustrative material needed for the purpose. As it is, the teacher will do well to select his examples from scientific works, speeches, and the textbooks used in other classes. As every one knows, nothing is so likely to deaden the interest and to make the study of logic seem trivial as the use of the puerile examples found in many of the older treatises. With the proper material this subject can be made one of the most interesting and profitable courses in the curriculum,--in spite of what its modern detractors may say. =Students to be familiarized with sources and original writings of the leading philosophers= In the history of philosophy the lectures and textbook should be supplemented by the reading of the writings of the great philosophers. Wherever it is possible, the learner should be sent to the sources themselves. It will do him good to finger the books and to find the references; and by and by he may be tempted to read beyond the required assignment--a thing greatly to be encouraged, and out of the question so long as he limits himself to some one's selections from the writings of the philosophers. In the advanced courses the research method may be introduced; special problems may be assigned to the student who has acquired a knowledge of the fundamentals, to be worked out under the guidance of the instructor. =Lecture method should arouse dynamic interest and a desire to master the problems of philosophy= In the lecture intended for beginners the teacher should seek to arouse in his hearers an interest in the subject and the desire to plunge more deeply into it. He should not bewilder the student with too many details and digressions but present the broad outlines of the field, placing before him the essentials and leaving him to fill in the minutiæ by a study of the books of reference. Each lecture ought to constitute an organic whole, as it were, in which the different parts are held together by a central idea; and its connection with the subject matter of the preceding lectures should be kept before the hearer's mind. All this requires careful and conscientious preparation on the part of the teacher, who must understand the intellectual quality of his class and avoid "shooting over their heads" as well as going to the other extreme of aiming below the level of their mental capacities. Lecturing that is more than mere entertainment is an art which young instructors sometimes look upon as an easy acquisition and which older heads, after long years of experience, often despair of ever mastering. The lecture aims to do what books seldom accomplish--to infuse life and spirit into the subject; and this ideal a living personality may hope to realize where a dead book fails. =How to secure active participation by students through lecture method= In order, however, that the philosophical lecture may not fail of its purpose, the hearer must be more than a mere listener; he must bring with him an alert mind that grasps meanings and can follow thought-sequences. And he cannot keep his attention fixed upon the discourse and understand the relations of its parts unless other senses coöperate with the sense of hearing and unless the motor centers are called into play also. He should carefully cultivate the art of taking notes, an accomplishment in which the average student is sadly lacking and to acquire which he needs the assistance of the instructor, which he seldom receives. An examination of the student's notebook frequently reveals such a woeful lack of discrimination on the writer's part that one is led to doubt the wisdom of following this method at all; wholly unimportant things are set down in faithful detail and essential ones wholly ignored. The hour spent in the lecture room, however, can and should be made a fruitful means of instruction, one that will awaken processes of thought and leave its mark. But in order to get the best result, the student should be urged to study his notes and the books to which he has been referred while the matters discussed in the lecture are still fresh in his mind; he will be able to clear up points he did not fully grasp, see connections that have escaped him, understand the force of arguments which he missed; and he will assume a more independent and critical attitude toward what he has heard than was possible on the spur of the moment, when he was driven on and could not stop and reflect. At home, in the quiet of his study, he can organize the material, see the parts of the discourse in their relations to each other, and re-create the whole as it lived and moved in the mind of the teacher. In doing this work he is called on to exercise his thinking and takes an important step forward. It is for this reason that I am somewhat skeptical of the value of the syllabus prepared by the teacher for the use of classes in philosophy,--it does for the student what he should do for himself. Whatever value the syllabus may have in other fields of study, its use in the philosophical branches ought to be discouraged. The great weakness of the lecture method lies in its tendency to relieve the hearer of the necessity of doing his own thinking, to leave him passive, to feed him with predigested food; and this defect is augmented by providing him with "helps" which rob him of the benefit and pleasure of putting the pieces of the puzzle-picture together himself. However, even at its best, the lecture method, unless supplemented in the ways already indicated, runs the danger of making the student an intellectual sponge, a mere absorber of knowledge, or a kind of receptacle for professors to shoot ideas into. As was said before, the student must cultivate the art of reading books and of expressing his thoughts by means of the spoken and written word. At the early stages and in some fields of philosophical study, however, the reading of many books may confuse the beginner and leave his mind in a state of bewilderment. It is indispensable that he acquire the working concepts and the terminology of the subject, and to this end it is generally wise to limit his reading until he has gained sufficient skill in handling his tools, as it were. In the elementary courses many members of the class will be unable to do more than follow the lectures and study the textbook; the more gifted ones, however, should be encouraged to extend the range of their reading under the guidance of the instructor. =Organization of undergraduate courses in philosophy= An answer to the question concerning the desired sequence of courses in philosophy will depend upon many considerations,--upon one's conception of philosophy and of the various subjects generally embraced under it, upon one's notion of the aims of philosophical instruction, upon one's estimate of the difficulties encountered by the student in the study of the different branches of it, and so on. There is wide divergence of opinion among thinkers on all these points. Philosophy is variously conceived as metaphysics, as theory of knowledge, as the science of mind (_Geisteswissenschaft_), as the science of values (_Werttheorie_), or as all of these together. Logic is conceived by some thinkers as dependent upon psychology, by others as the presupposition of _all_ the sciences, including psychology. Ethics is regarded both as a branch of psychology, or as dependent upon psychology, and as an independent study having nothing whatever to do with psychology. Psychology itself is treated both as a natural science, its connection with philosophy being explained as a historical survival, and as the fundamental study upon which all the other subjects of the philosophical department must rest. Where there is such a lack of agreement, it will not be easy to map out a sequential course of study that will satisfy everybody. Even when philosophy is defined in the old historic sense as an attempt to reach a theory of the world and of life, men may differ as to the exact order in which the basal studies should be pursued. By many the history of philosophy is considered the best introduction to the entire field, while others would place it at the end of the series of fundamentals (psychology, logic, ethics), holding that a student who has studied these will be best equipped for a study that includes the history of their development. As a matter of fact, given students of mature mind and the necessary general preparation, either order may be justified. The average underclassman is, however, too immature to plunge at once into the study of the history of philosophy, and the present writer would recommend that it be preceded by courses in general psychology, logic and ethics. The average sophomore will have little difficulty in following courses in psychology and logic; and it is immaterial which of these he takes up first. The course in the theory of ethics should come in the junior or senior year and after the student has gained some knowledge of psychology (preferably from a book like Stout's _Manual of Psychology_). And it would be an advantage if the course in ethics could be preceded by a study of the development of moral ideas, of the kind, let us say, presented in Hobhouse's _Morals in Evolution_. For reasons already stated, the entire course in philosophy should be inaugurated by the Introduction to Philosophy. Advanced courses in metaphysics and the theory of knowledge should come at the end and follow the history of philosophy. The ideal sequence would, therefore, be in the view of the present writer: Introduction to Philosophy, Psychology or Logic, the Development of Moral Ideas, Theory of Ethics, History of Philosophy, Metaphysics, and Theory of Knowledge. It must be admitted, however, that a rigorous insistence upon this scheme in the American college, in which freedom of election is the rule, would impair the usefulness of the department of philosophy. Few students will be willing to take all these subjects, and there is no reason why an intelligent junior or senior should not be admitted to a course in ethics or the history of philosophy without having first studied the other branches. A person possessing sufficient maturity of mind to pursue these studies will be greatly benefited by them even when he comes to them without previous preparation; and it would be a pity to deprive him of the opportunity to become acquainted with a field in which some of the ablest thinkers have exercised their powers. At all events, he should not leave college without having had a course in the history of philosophy, which will open up a new world to him and may perhaps stimulate him to read the best books in the other branches later on. It would not be possible, of course, to prescribe all the fundamental philosophical courses, even if it were desirable,--few faculties would go so far,--but it would be wise to require every candidate for the bachelor's degree to give at least six hours of his time (three hours a term, on the two-term basis) to one or two of the elementary courses, preferably in the sophomore year. Ethics and the history of philosophy could then be chosen as electives and be followed by the more advanced and specialized courses. =Moot questions: controversy between philosopher and psychologist= We have already touched upon some of the debatable questions in the sphere of philosophical education. The dispute concerning the place of psychology in the scheme of philosophical instruction has its cause in differences of view concerning the aims, nature, and methods of that subject. Philosophers ask for an introductory course in psychology which shall serve as a propaedeutic to the philosophical studies, while teachers of education wish to have it treated in a way to throw light upon educational methods and theory. "Some biologists treat mental phenomena as mere correlates of physiological processes.... Others, including a number of psychologists also, regard psychological phenomena as fully explicable in terms of behavior, and as constituting therefore a phase of biological science." The Committee of the American Psychological Association on the Academic Status of Psychology recommends "that the Association adopt the principle that the undergraduate psychological curriculum in every college or university, great or small, should be planned from the standpoint of psychology and in accordance with psychological ideals, rather than to fit the needs and meet the demands of some other branch of learning."[45] This declaration of principle might lead to peace between the philosophers and the psychologists if there were agreement concerning the "psychological ideals" in accordance with which the subject is to be studied. The desideratum of the philosophers is a psychology which will give the student an understanding of the various phases of mental life; but they do not believe that this can be reached by an exclusive use of the natural-scientific method. The objection of some psychologists, that the philosophers wish to inject metaphysics into the study of mental processes, is met by the rejoinder that the natural-scientific psychology is itself based upon an unconscious metaphysics, and a false one at that. What the philosophers desire is psychological courses which will do full justice to the facts of the mental life and not falsify them to meet the demands of a scientific theory or method--courses of the kind given in European universities by men whose reputation as psychologists is beyond suspicion. =Divergent views as to nature of introductory course in philosophy= We have likewise alluded, in this chapter, to the controversy over the need and nature of an introductory course in philosophy. Of those who favor such a philosophical propaedeutic some recommend the History of Philosophy, others an Introduction to Philosophy of the type described in the preceding pages. Some teachers regard as the ideal course a study of the evolving attitudes of the individual toward the world, after the manner of Hegel's Phenomenology of the Spirit; some the Philosophy of History; some _Kulturgeschichte_, that is, the study of "the evolution of science, morality, art, religion, and political life,--in short, the history of institutions"; some the study of the great literatures; and some would seek the approach to the subject through the religious interest.[46] It is plain that the History of Philosophy will receive help from all these sources; and a wise teacher will make frequent use of them. Nor can the course in the Introduction to Philosophy afford to ignore them; it will do well to lay particular stress upon the philosophical attitudes, the embryonic philosophies which are to be found in the great literatures, in the great religions, in science, and in the common sense of mankind. Wherever the human mind is at work, there philosophical conceptions,--world-views, crude or developed,--play their part; and they form the background of the lives of peoples as well as of individuals. In the systems of the great thinkers they are formulated and made more or less consistent; but everywhere they are the result of the mind's yearning to understand the meaning of life in its manifold expressions. When the student comes to see that philosophy is simply an attempt to do what mankind has always been doing and will always continue to do, in a rough way, that it is "only an unusually obstinate attempt to think clearly and consistently,"--to continue the process of thinking to the bitter end,--his attitude toward it will be one of intelligent interest and respect. But not one of these subjects taken by itself will serve the purpose of an introductory course. =The "case method" in the teaching of philosophy= Another moot question is concerned with the use of the "case method," employed in law instruction, in ethics. The case method seeks to know what the moral law is by studying the moral judgments of society; or, more definitely, to quote the words of Professor Coxe,[47] one of its champions: "to discover, if possible, a law running through the judgments _which society has made through its duly appointed officials_." "Historical cases, properly attested, alone give us the means of objective judgment." There can be no doubt that this method will prove serviceable, if judiciously applied; but its exclusive use either as a method of study or as a method of instruction,--even in an introductory course in ethics,--is not to be recommended.[48] The student will not gain an adequate conception of morality from a study of the varying and often contradictory "historical cases," much less from a study of the judgments which society has made "through its duly appointed officials." The legal "case" literature of our country does indeed furnish valuable and interesting material for ethical study, but it would require a riper mind than that of a beginner to discover and to evaluate the moral principles which lie embodied in it. =Testing the results of instruction= The problem of testing the effectiveness of one's teaching presents few difficulties in classes which are small and in which individual instruction is possible. Wherever teacher and student come in close personal contact and opportunity is afforded for full and frequent discussions as well as for written exercises, it is a comparatively easy matter to judge the mental caliber of the members of the class and to determine the extent of their progress. In the case of the large classes, however, which crowd into the lecture halls of the modern university, the task is not so simple. Here every effort should be made to divide such concourses of students into numerous sections, small enough to enable the instructor to become acquainted with those under his charge and to watch their development. The professor who gives the lectures should take one or more of these sections himself in order that he may understand the minds to which he is addressing himself, and govern himself accordingly. The tests should consist of discussions, essays, and written and oral examinations; by means of these it is not impossible to determine whether the aims of the subject have been realized in the instruction or not. But the tasks set should be of such a character as to test the student's power of thought, his ability to understand what he has read and heard with all its implications, his ability to assume a critical attitude toward what he has assimilated, and his ability to try his intellectual wings in independent flights. A person who devotes himself faithfully to his work during the entire term, who puts his mind upon it, takes an active part in the discussions, and is encouraged to express himself frequently by means of the written word, will surely give some indication of the progress he has made, even in a written examination--it being a fair assumption that one who knows will somehow succeed in revealing his knowledge. Care must be taken, of course, that the test is not a mere appeal to the memory; it is only when the examination makes demands upon the student's intelligence that it can be considered a fair measure of the value of philosophical instruction. It must not be forgotten, however, that the examination may reveal not only the weakness of the learner but the weakness of the teacher. It is possible for a student, even in philosophy, to make a fine showing in a written examination by repeating the words of the master which he does not understand, without having derived any real benefit from the course. The teacher may set an examination which will hide the deficiencies of the instruction, and the temptation to do this in large classes which he knows have not been properly taught is great. FRANK THILLY _Cornell University_ BIBLIOGRAPHY COXE, G. C. The Case Method in the Study and Teaching of Ethics. _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods_, Vol. X, 13, page 337. DAVIES, A. E. Education and Philosophy, _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods_, Vol. VI, 14, page 365. HINMAN, E. L. The Aims of an Introductory Course in Philosophy. _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods_, Vol. VII, 21, page 561. HÖFLER, A. _Zur Propädeutik-Frage._ HÖFLER, A. Zur Reform der philosophischen Propädeutik. _Zeitschrift für die Österreichischen Gymnasien_, Vol. L, 3, page 255. HUDSON, J. W. Hegel's Conception of an Introduction to Philosophy. _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods_, Vol. VI, 13, page 337. ---- An Introduction to Philosophy through the Philosophy of History. _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods._ Vol. VII, 21, page 569. ---- The Aims and Methods of Introduction Courses: A Questionnaire. _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods_, Vol. IX, 2, page 29. LEHMANN, R. _Der deutsche Unterricht_, pages 389-437. LEUCHTENBERGER, G. _Die philosophische Propädeutik auf den höheren Schulen._ OVERSTREET, H. A. Professor Coxe's "Case Method" in Ethics. _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods_, Vol. X, 17, page 464. PAULSEN, F. _German Universities and University Studies._ English translation by Frank Thilly and W. W. Elwang, Book III and Book IV. ---- _Ueber Vergangenheit und Zukunft der Philosophie im gelehrten Unterricht, Central-Organ für die Interessen des Realschulwesens_, Vol. XIV, 1, page 4. ---- _Geschichte des gelehrten Unterrichts_, Conclusion. Report of the Committee on the Academic Status of Psychology, published by the American Psychological Association, December, 1914. TUFTS, J. H. Garman as a Teacher. _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods_, Vol. IV, 10, page 263. WEISSENFELS, O. Die Philosophie auf dem Gymnasium. _Zeitschrift für das Gymnasialwesen_, Vol. LIII, 1, page 1. WENDT, G. _Didaktik und Methodik des deutschen Unterrichts, Handbuch der Erziehungs- und Unterrichtslehre für höhere Schulen._ Footnotes: [45] The sentences quoted are taken from the Report of this committee, which was published in December, 1914. [46] See the articles of J. W. Hudson and others in the Bibliography. [47] See Bibliography. [48] See Professor Overstreet's Discussion mentioned in the Bibliography. XV THE TEACHING OF ETHICS =Interest in the study of ethics determined by the aim of instruction= Nowhere does academic tediousness work a more dire mischief than in the teaching of ethics. It is bad to have students forever shun the best books because of poor instruction in literature; the damage is worse when it is the subject of moral obligation which they associate with only the duller hours of their college life. Not that the aim of a course in ethics is to afford a number of entertaining periods. The object rather is to help our students realize that here is a subject which seeks to interpret for them the most important problems of their own lives present and to come. Where this end is kept in view, the question of interesting them is settled. A sincere interpretation of life always takes the interest when once it is grasped that this is what is really being interpreted. =Viewpoint in the past= The procedure in the past (and still quite common) was to introduce the subject by way of its history. A book like Sidgwick's _History of Ethics_ was studied, with supplements in the shape of the students' own reading of the classics, or lectures, with quotations, by the teacher. That this method was frequently of much service is undeniable. Teachers there are with rare gifts of inspiration who can put freshness into any course which ordinary teachers leave hopelessly arid. But this should not blind us to the fact that certain modes of procedure are in general more likely to be fruitful than others. =The business of right living the aim of ethics teaching= These methods depend upon the aim; and the aim, we venture to hold, should be eminently practical. The content of ethics is not primarily a matter of whether Kant's judgments are sounder than Mill's or Spencer's. Its subject is human life and the business of right living: how should people--real people, that is, not textbook illustrations--live with one another? This is the essential concern of our subject matter, and in it our student is intimately and practically involved. Charged with the fact, he may deny the impeachment. He refuses to worry over the merits of hedonism versus rigorism, the distinction between hypothetical and categorical imperatives, or the claim of ethics to be called a science. Ethics, that is, as an intellectual discipline through the survey of historic disputations is indeed remote from the concerns that touch his life. But all the time there is no subject of greater interest when approached from the side of its bearing on practical problems. Consider the earnestness with which the student will discuss with his friends such questions as these: What sense is there in a labor strike? Is a conscientious objector justified in refusing military service? Why should any one oppose easy divorce laws? May a lawyer defend a rogue whom he knows to be guilty? Can one change the nature with which he was born? Is violence justified in the name of social reform? If what is right in one age or place is wrong in another, is it fair to object when moral laws are broken? If a practice like prostitution is common, what makes it wrong? These do not sound like the questions likely to receive a welcome hearing in the classroom; but it is precisely upon the interest in such topics as these that the course in ethics should build; for its subject is right living, a matter in which the student may indeed be assumed to feel a genuine concern. If the questions that he wants answered are not all as broad in their significance as the foregoing, there are others of a more immediate personal kind which arise in his life as a student, as a friend, as a son and brother, problems in which standards of fair play and "decency" are involved, and upon which it may be taken for granted that he has done some thinking, howsoever crude. These interests are invaluable. Out of them the finer product is to be created in the shape of better standards, higher ideals, and habits of moral thoughtfulness, leading in turn to still better standards and still worthier conduct. The course in ethics should be practical in the sense that both its starting point and its final object are found in the student's management of his life. =Illustrations of the problems of right living= Consider, for example, how his interest in problems of friendship may be used as the point of departure for an extremely important survey over general questions of right relationship. Just because friendship is so vital a concern of adolescent years, he can be led to read what Aristotle, Kant, Emerson, have to say upon this subject and be introduced as well to that larger life of ideal relationships from which these writers regard the dealings of friends. The topic of right attitudes toward a friend broadens out readily into such considerations as treating persons aright for their own sake or regarding them as ends _per se_, a dead abstraction when approached as it is by Kant, but a living reality when the students get Aristotle's point about magnanimous treatment of friends. They can then proceed by way of contrast to note, for example, how this magnanimity was limited to friends in the upper levels of Athenian society, and went hand in hand with approval of slave labor and other exploitations which a modern conscience forbids. To give sharper edge to the conception of man as deserving right treatment for his own sake, the class might go on to examine other notable violations of personality in past and present; e.g., slavery (read for instance Sparr's _History of the African Slave Trade_) or the more recent cruelties toward the natives in the rubber regions of the Congo and the Amazon. Reference may also be made (without undue emphasis) to the white-slave traffic of today and the fact be noted that a right sense of chivalry will keep a man from partnership in the degradation which creates both the demand for white slavery and ultimately its supply. We mention this to show how a common practical interest can be employed to introduce the students to so fundamental an ethical conception as the idea of inviolable human worth. It may, no doubt, be highly unconventional for them to begin with a discussion of friendship and after a few periods find themselves absorbed in these other questions; but if care is exercised to sum up and to emphasize the big conceptions underlying the topic, we may be sure that their grasp of the subject will be no less firm than under the older method. Their acquaintance with a study requiring hard, abstract thinking will surely not be hurt, to say the least, by an introduction which is concrete and practical. Or take another matter of real concern to the student at this period of his life. He is certain to be giving some thought to the matter of his future vocation; and here again is a topic which, properly handled, broadens out into the most far-reaching inquiries. It is to be regretted that as yet the vocational-guidance movement has been occupied in the main with external features--comparing jobs, making objective tests of efficiency, and so on. The central ethical conceptions are usually slighted. That one's vocation is a prime influence in the shaping of personality in oneself, in one's fellow workers, in the public served (or disserved) by one's work, in the world of nations in so far as war and peace are connected with commerce and other interchange of vocational products--all this is matter for the teacher who wishes the ethics course to work over into better living.[49] Nor again, as will be noted later in the chapter, need the claims of the subject as a scholarly discipline suffer from such treatment. Questions of the nature of moral standards, of the distinction between expedient and right, etc., can be taken up more profitably when, instead of dealing with the academic questions forming the stock in trade of most textbooks, the course examines a few vocations, let us say, business, teaching, art, law, medicine,--in the light of such standards as these: A history of the calling; e.g., what has it contributed to the elevation of mankind, to the development of the arts and sciences, and to specific kinds of human betterment? What is the best service it can accomplish today? What traits does it require in those who pursue it? What traits is it likely to encourage in them for better and for worse? Report on great leaders in the calling, with special reference to what their work made of them. What are the darker sides of the picture? What efforts are being made today to raise the moral code in this vocation? Sum up the ideal rewards. We do not mean, of course, that the only problems are those which center around the demands of today for a more just economic and social order. On the contrary, we believe that the movement for social justice is greatly in need of precisely that appreciation of the claims of moral personality which it is the main business of ethical study to promote. But we shall never get our students to profit from their work in social ethics, or in ethical theory, or in any branch of the subject whatever, unless we keep fresh and close the contact with their own experiences and ambitions. Indeed, we venture to assert that unless this connection is kept unbroken, the subject is not ethics at all but an abstraction which ought to take some other name. Ethics deals with human volitions; but the latter term is meaningless to the student save as he interprets it by his own experiences in the preference of better ways to lower. He knows the difficulties that arise in his own group-associations,--his home or his class or his club, for example,--the conflicts of ambitions, the readiness to shirk one's share of common responsibility, the discordant prides and appetites of one sort and another which lead to overt injustices. All these should be used to throw light upon the living moral problems of group-life in the vocations, in the civic world, in the international order. Temperamentally, to be sure, the teacher may be inclined to handle his subject in what he prefers to regard as academic detachment. But where the subject is ethics and not dead print, complete aloofness is out of the question. There would be no textbooks in ethics if the men whose convictions are there recorded had not grappled earnestly with problems of vital moment to their day and generation. The crucial questions raised by a changing Athenian democracy were no matters of air-born speculation to Socrates and Plato and Aristotle. Nor is it an accident that the philosopher who so sought to vindicate the worth of man as an end _per se_ should have sent from his apparently isolated study in Königsberg his glad acclaim of the French Revolution. The abounding interest of the English Utilitarians in the economics, the politics, the social reform, of the nineteenth century needs no comment. There are texts for study today because the men who wrote them were keenly concerned about a nobler mode of life for mankind. To invite the student to share their reflections without expecting worthier conduct is to ignore the essential purpose by which those reflections were prompted. =Governing aim in ethics teaching= Hence our first recommendation--that the _content of the ethics courses be determined by the principal aim of so interpreting the experiences and interests of the student as to stimulate worthier behavior through a better understanding of the general problem of right human relationships_. Our second recommendation as to aims is suggested by certain extremes in the practice of today. Reference to problems of immediate concern does not mean that ultimate considerations are to be shelved. Indeed, it must rather be stressed that such discussions miss their best object, _if they fail to lead to searching reflection upon ultimate standards_. The temptation to forego such inquiry today is strong. In their desire to be practical and up-to-date, many teachers are altogether too ready to rest the case for moral obligation upon a kind of easy-going hedonism, the fallacy of provisionalism, as Professor Felix Adler calls it. Tangible "goods" like happiness or "social values" are held up as standards, as if these values were ends in themselves and the problem of an ultimate human worth were irrelevant. It may very well be a modest attitude to say that we can no longer busy ourselves with the nature of ultimate ends and that we can best employ our energies in trying to define the various goods which contribute now and here to human betterment. Let the effort be made, by all means. But when the last of empirical goods have been examined and appraised (assuming for the moment that we can indeed appraise without possessing ultimate norms) the cardinal question still waits for answer: To what are all these goods instrumental? What kind of life is best? What is it that permits man, with all his faults, his sordid appetites, his meannesses and gross dishonors, to hold his head erect as one yet worthy of the tribute implied in the fact that we have duties toward him? An answer satisfying to all may never be reached; but to evade these questions is to abdicate the teacher's function. Many young people are led by the biologic teachings of the day to regard man as the utterly helpless product of his environment. Or they are so impressed with the obvious and immediate needs of whole masses for better food, better homes, greater opportunities for culture, that they do not stop to ask whether these goods are worth while in themselves, or if not, what is the deeper purpose to which they should minister. A conception of personality is needed, sufficiently exalted to permit the various immediate utilities to find their due place as tributes to the ideal excellence latent in man; and on the other hand there is need for a view of the spiritual life free from the misuse to which that term is put by the various cults evoked by reaction against modern mechanism. Painstaking inquiry into the grounds upon which the assurance of human dignity can justify itself, has never been more urgently required.[50] =Ideals and tendencies in ethics teaching= Let us beware of surrendering to the common but often pernicious demand of our swift-moving America that in order to receive consideration a new idea should prove itself capable of yielding immediate dividends. There seems to be a certain hesitancy today among some in our educated classes about speaking of "ideals." Ideals connote a long look ahead. They imply a sense that there is something perfect even though the steps toward embodying or approximating it will be many and arduous, perhaps discouragingly hard. They betoken the likelihood of appearing before men as the victims of ultimately unworkable dreams. In refreshing contrast is the seeming practicability of encouraging present tendencies. Your tendency is no far-off projection of mere thought; it is something solid and "real," here and now, respected at the bank, in the newspaper office, and other meeting places of those whose heads are hard. Tendencies turn elections; ideals carry no such palpable witness of their power. "Hence let us study tendencies." This characterization is perhaps extreme, but the danger to which it refers is all too frequent. A strike, for instance, sets most of us to discussing ways by which this particular disturbance can be ended quickly. It is only the few who are willing to hold in mind both terms of the problem, namely the procedure for tomorrow morning and the positive ideal toward which all our vocational life should set its face even if the distant tomorrow is still so far ahead. So of our conceptions of political life. A given election may indeed involve an immediate moral issue; but even the issue of next month can be faced properly only when it is related to an ideal of public life which may have to wait long years for appreciation by the majority. Nothing is more necessary in a democracy than a leadership trained in the long forward look, trained in distinguishing morally right and morally wrong from expedient, and best from merely better, trained in the courage to champion a distant ideal in the face of clamor to accept some inferior but belligerently present substitute. In short, the student should be offered every encouragement to thinking out the ultimate obligations of his own life and of his various groups and to reaching the conviction that there is such a reality as a permanent human worth, a fundamentally right way for men and women to seek, a rightness whose authority is undiminished by the blunders of the human mind in trying to define it. An ever more earnest attempt to find that way, and to find it by practice illumined by all the knowledge that can be brought to bear, should be the leading object. Not a series of definitions and quotations, nor yet a little information about the social movements of our time, but a truer understanding of life as the result of interpreting it in terms of the obligation to create right human adjustments--such an aim saves college ethics alike from dryness and from superficial attempts to sprinkle interest over a subject of inherent and intense practical importance. It is not essential that an introductory course in ethics should enter into the philosophy of religion. This may be left to other agencies, like the church, or to later courses, with every confidence that the outcome will be sound if mind and soul and will (to use the old formula) are first enlisted in behalf of noble conduct. Whatever thinking the student may do along these lines will be the better if its nurture is drawn first from moral thinking and moral practice.[51] =Course in ethics prescribed, and early in college course= From the foregoing it follows that the ethics course should be taken by all the students. The earlier it can be given the better, inasmuch as its demands upon their conduct apply to all the years of their life, and because the whole career at college is more likely to benefit from beginning early such reflections as this study particularly invites. =Sequence determined by development of the student= The sequence of courses will perhaps be best determined by remembering the need of following the natural growth of the student. Experiences come first and then the interpretations. Hence the insistence upon the practical content of the introductory courses. Theory and history should follow, not precede. Nobody is interested in the history or the theory of a thing unless he is interested in the thing itself. Furthermore, we must bear in mind the needs of those students who are not likely to care enough for the more theoretical aspects to continue the subject. If the introductory course is to be all that they take, obviously the more practical we can make it the better. =In teaching ethics follow the maxim from the concrete to the abstract= As to method, a variety of profitable ways abounds if only the contact with life is kept close and the principles studied are tested by their outcome in the life which the student knows best. In general, the best procedure is to work back from concrete instances to the principles underlying the problem, formulate the principles and test them in other fields. Our illustrative strike, for instance, can be used to throw light upon the actual and the ideal principles involved in human relationship in some such manner as the following: =Method of procedure illustrated= What do the employers want? What do they mean by liberty? What were the circumstances under which Mill formulated his principle of "liberty within the limits of non-infringement?" What have been the consequences in America of reliance upon this formula? Why does it break down in practice? Compare it with the theory of the balance of power in international relations. What is likely to be the effect of the possession of power upon the possessor himself? Restate the ideal of liberty in terms of duty, not of privilege. What are the obstacles to the fulfillment of such an ideal in industry? In homes? What are the personal obstacles to clear understanding of the meaning of right? What do the workers want? Examine each of their demands--shorter hours, more pay, recognition of the union, etc. What should the granting of these demands contribute to their lives? Give instances to show whether "better off" means better persons or not. Compare the working man's use of the word "liberty" with that of the employer. Why do workers often become oppressors when they themselves become employers? What is the difference between demanding a redress of your grievance and making a moral demand? What makes the cry of fraternity as uttered by the workers repugnant to those who otherwise would accept fraternity as an ideal? How would you formulate the ideal for the vocational life of the factory worker? Apply it to other vocations--journalism, law, teaching. Sum up the ideal rewards of work. Make tentative definitions of liberty, rights, duty, justice. * * * * * Each of the questions mentioned above--and many more will occur in the course of the discussion--furnishes occasion for extended considerations that call upon the student for scholarly gathering of facts, for close thinking, and--not least--for reflection upon his own experiences and volitions. Other problems will suggest themselves. It is obvious how the interest of the student in prison reform, for example, can be employed in like manner as a motive to searching reflection upon questions of moral responsibility. The principle that punishment should be a means of awaking in the offender the consciousness of a self which can and should hold itself to account despite the magnitude of its temptations is of special usefulness, in the years when a broadening altruism (and we might add, a tendency to self-pity) is likely to lead to loose notions of personal obligation. =Place of the textbook in ethics teaching= The use of a textbook is a minor matter. To prevent the courses from running off into mere talk--and even ethics classes are not averse to "spontaneous" recitation on their own part or to monologues by the teacher--a textbook may be required, with, let us say, monthly reports or examinations. So much depends, however, upon the enthusiasm of the instructor that here particularly recommendations can be only of the most general kind. Some of the most effective work in this subject is being done by teachers who forget the textbook for weeks at a time in order to push home a valuable inquiry suggested by an unforeseen problem raised in the course of the discussion. Others use no textbooks at all. Some outline the year's work in a series of cases or problems with questions to be answered in writing after consulting selected passages in the classics or in current literature or in both.[52] This method has the advantage of laying out the whole year's work beforehand and of guaranteeing that the student comes to the classroom with something more than a facility in unpremeditated utterance. It is generally found to be of greater interest because it follows the lines of his own ordinary thinking--first the problem and then the attempt to find the principles that will help to solve it. =Moral concepts deepened by participation in social or philanthropic endeavors= More important than any of these details of technique is the need of helping the student to clarify his thinking by engaging in some practical moral endeavor. The broadening and deepening of the altruistic interests is a familiar feature of adolescent life. The instructor in ethics, in the very interest of his own subject, is the one who should take the lead in encouraging these expressions, not only because of the general obligation of the college to make the most of aptitudes which, neglected in youth, may never again be so vigorous, but also because of the truth in Aristotle's dictum that insight is shaped by conduct. Hence the work in ethics should be linked up wherever possible with student self-government and other participation in the management of the college, and with philanthropics like work in settlements or in social reform groups or cosmopolitan societies. For the students of finer grain it is eminently worth the trouble to form clubs to intensify the spirit of the members by activities more pointedly directed to the refining of human relationships. They might engage in activities in which the task of elevating the personality is specially marked, that is, in problems which have to do with mutual interpretation--e.g., black folk and white, foreign and native stocks in America, delinquents and the community, immigrant parents and unsympathetic children. They might organize clubs for one or more of these purposes, for discussing intimately the problems of personal life, for public meetings on the ethics of the vocations and on the more distinctly ethical phases of political and international progress. Such organizations can be made to do vastly more good for their members then the average debating society, with its usual premium on mere forensic skill, or the fraternity, with its encouragement of snobbishness. The wholesome thing about the spirit of fraternity should be set to work upon some such creative activities as we have mentioned. Not only does the comradeship strengthen faith in right doing, but these practical endeavors offer a notable help to the deepening, extending, and clarifying of that interest in moral progress without which there can be none of the intelligent leadership for which our democracy looks to its colleges. =Peculiar difficulty of applying usual test to courses in ethics= To test how far the subject has been of value to the student is unusually difficult. His interest in the discussions is by no means an unfailing index. There are those who may be both eager and skilled in the intellectual combat incidental to the course but whose lives remain untouched for the better. The worthier outcome is hard to trace. It is quite possible for the teacher to take credit for the instilling of an ideal whose generation was due to some agency wholly unknown, perhaps even to the student himself. On the other hand, the best results may take years for overt appearance. In the nature of the case, their more intimate expressions can never be recorded. Moreover, students vary in the force of character which they bring with them to the study. A lad whose home training has been deficient may take more time than the best teacher can give in order to reach the degree of excellence to which others among his classmates ascend more quickly. Or a lad whom the course has moved with a desire to take up some philanthropic endeavor may hesitate to pursue it through lack of the necessary gift or failure in self-confidence. The forces which enter into the making of character are so complex, including as they do not only acquisitions of new moral standards, but temperamental qualities, early training, potent example, physical stamina, dozens of accidental circumstances, that it is unfair to use the tests applicable, let us say, to a course in engineering. Hence we must be beware of testing the value of the work by immediate results. Something may be gathered by having the students write confidentially what they think the course has done for them and where it could be improved. This they can do both at the end of the course and years later when time has brought perspective. But tests are of minor importance. The ethical shortcomings of our time, the constant need of our students for ever finer standards, convey challenge enough. Even though the obvious results fall short of our hopes, we can make the most of our resources with every assurance that they are amply needed. Are young men more likely to be the better for setting time aside to obtain with the help of an earnest student of life a clearer insight into the principles of the best living? If they are the courses are justified, even though some who take them can show little immediate profit. HENRY NEUMANN, Ph.D. _Ethical Culture School, New York_ Footnotes: [49] See Adler: _The Present World-Crisis and Its Meaning_, chapter on "An Ethical Program of Social Reform": also _An Ethical Philosophy of Life_, Chapters 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. [50] From this point of view the ethical justification for the war on the slum becomes: (_a_) to make possible for the slum-dweller the better performance of his various duties as parent, worker, citizen; (_b_) to drive home to all concerned the meaning of interdependence; (_c_) to clarify for all of us the ideals to which better living conditions should minister. There is every need today to further the conviction that the highest service we can perform for another is not to make him happier, but to help him make himself a better person through the better performance of his duties. [51] Note the emphasis placed by modern philosophy upon ethical value as the point of approach to the problem of Godhead. [52] Professor Sharp of Wisconsin has found this method so serviceable that he has interested many teachers in his state and elsewhere in using it with high school students for purposes of moral instruction. See "A Course in Moral Instruction for High Schools," by F. C. Sharp; _Bulletin, University of Wisconsin_. XVI THE TEACHING OF PSYCHOLOGY =Place of psychology in the curriculum= Historically, as an offshoot, and rather a recent offshoot, from philosophy, psychology has been under the care of the department of philosophy in colleges and universities, foreign as well as American, and has been taught by professors concerned in part with the courses in philosophy. Though this state of affairs still obtains to a considerable extent, the tendency is undoubtedly towards allowing psychology an independent position in the organization and curriculum of the college. In recent appointments, indeed, the affiliation of psychology with education has frequently been emphasized instead of its affiliation with philosophy, for the professional applications of psychology lie more in the field of education than elsewhere. As a required study, our science is more likely to find a place in the college for teachers than in the college of arts. But, on the other hand, the applications to medicine, business, and industry are increasing so rapidly in importance as to make it logical to maintain an independent position for the science. Only in an independent position can the psychologist be free to cultivate the central body of his subject, the "pure" as distinguished from the applied science; and, with the multiplication of practical applications, it is more than ever important to center psychological teaching in the person of some one who is simply and distinctively a psychologist. =The introductory course to be general, not vocationally applied psychology= For a similar reason, psychologists are wont to insist that the introductory course in their subject, no matter for what class of students, with general or with professional aims, should be definitely a course in _psychology_ as distinguished from educational or medical or business psychology. Illustrative material may very well be chosen with an eye to the special interests of a class of students, but the general principles should be the same for all classes, and should not be too superficially treated in the rush for practical applications. Some years ago, a Committee of the American Psychological Association was appointed to make a survey of the teaching of psychology in universities, colleges, and normal schools, and the Report of this Committee (1), still the most important contribution to the pedagogy of the subject, emphasizes the concurrent view of psychologists to the effect just stated, that the study of psychology should begin with a course in the central body of doctrine. The psychological point of view must be acquired before intelligent application can be made, whether to practical pursuits or to other branches of study such as philosophy and the social sciences, to which psychology stands in the relation of an ancillary science. During the war, the applications of psychology in the testing and selection of men and training them for specified military and naval work, in rating officers, in morale and intelligence work, and in several other lines, became so important that it was decided to give psychology a place as an "allied subject" in the curriculum of the Students' Army Training Corps; and the report of the committee of psychologists that prepared the outline of a course for this purpose deserves attention as a contribution to the pedagogy of the subject. They proposed a course on "Human Action," to be free from questions of a speculative or theoretical nature and concentrated on matters relevant to military practice and the military uses of psychology. The aim was to enlist the student's practical concern at the very outset, and to give him the psychological point of view as applied to his problems as a member of the Army and a prospective officer. In method, the course was to depend little on lectures, or even on extensive readings, and much on the student's own solution of practical psychological problems. Evidently the psychologists who prepared this plan were driven by the emergency to abandon "academic" prepossessions in favor of a course in pure psychology as the necessary prerequisite to any study of applications; and it is quite possible that courses in psychology for different groups of students could be prepared that should follow this general plan and be intensely practical from the start. It would still remain true that the thorough psychologist should be the one to plan and conduct such courses. =The psychological point of view must be emphasized in the introductory course= The psychological point of view means attentiveness to certain matters that are neglected in the usual objective attitude toward things. It is identified by many with introspection, but there is at present considerable dissent from this doctrine, the dissenters holding that an objective type of observation of human behavior is distinctively psychological and probably more significant and fruitful than the introspective attitude. However this may be, both introspection and behavior study require attention to matters that are commonly disregarded. Every one is of course interested in what people do, or at least in the outcome of their activities; but psychology is interested in the activities themselves, in how the outcome is reached rather than in the outcome itself. Ordinarily, we are interested in the fact that an inventor has solved a problem, but regard it as rather irrelevant if he proceeds to tell us the mental process by which he reached the solution. We are interested in the fact that a child has learned to speak, but devote little thought to the question as to how he has learned. It is to bring such psychological questions to light and arouse intelligent interest in them, with some knowledge of the answers that have been found, that the psychologist is chiefly concerned when initiating beginners into his science. This primary aim is accomplished in the case of those students who testify, as some do, that the course in psychology has "opened their eyes" and made them see life in a different light than hitherto. =Values of the study of psychology--cultural rather than disciplinary= Whether this primary value of psychology is to be counted among the disciplinary or among the cultural values may be a matter of doubt. Psychologists themselves have seldom made special claims in behalf of their science as a means of formal discipline, many of them, in fact, taking a very negative position with regard to the whole conception of such discipline. What psychology can give of general value is a point of view, and a habit of attentiveness to the mental factor. The need of some systematic attention to these matters often comes to light in the queer efforts at a psychology made by intelligent but uninstructed persons in the presence of practical problems involving the mental factor. =The practical value= Besides this "cultural" value, and besides the special uses of psychology as a preparation for teaching and certain other professions, there is a very real and practical value to be expected from an understanding of the mental mechanism. Since every one works with this mechanism, every one can make practical use of the science of it. Most persons get on passably well, perhaps, without any expert knowledge of the machinery which they are running; yet the machine is not entirely "fool proof," by any means, but sometimes comes to grief from what is in essence a lack of psychological wisdom either in the person himself or in his close companions. Mental hygiene, in short, depends on psychology. The college student, looking forward to a life of mental activity, is specially in a position to utilize information regarding the most economical working of the mental machine; and, as a matter of experience, some students are considerably helped in their methods of mental work by what they learn in the psychology class. Among the results of recent investigation are many bearing on economy and efficiency of mental work. This value of psychology, it will be seen, is practical without being professional--except in so far as all educated men can be said to adopt the profession of mental engineer. Much more emphasis than has been customary might well be laid on this side of the subject in elementary courses. =Content of the introductory course in psychology= The content of the first course in psychology is just now undergoing a certain amount of revision. Traditionally the aim has been, not so much, as in most other subjects, to initiate the student into a range of facts lying outside his previous experience, as to bring definitely to his attention facts lying within the experience of all, and to cause him to classify these so as to refer any given mental process to the class or classes where it belongs. This calls for definition, the making of distinctions, the analysis of complex facts, the use of a technical vocabulary, and in general for much more precision of statement than the student has been used to employ in speaking of such matters. Some laws of mental action, verifiable within ordinary experience, are also brought to light in such a course, and some account of the neural mechanisms of mental life is usually included; but its chief accomplishment is in leading the student to attend to mental processes and gain a point of view that may remain his future possession. With the great expansion of psychological knowledge in recent decades, due to research by experimental and other empirical methods, it has become possible to give a course more informational in character and going quite beyond the range of the student's previous experience; and this new material is finding its way into elementary texts and courses. Many of the results of research are not at all beyond the comprehension of the beginner; indeed, they are often more tangible than the distinctions and analyses that give the stamp to the traditional course. These empirical results also have the advantage, in many cases, of throwing light on the practical problems of mental health and efficiency; and some inclusion of such material is desirable if only to fit the needs of the considerable number of students who cannot become interested in a course of the traditional sort. Practice in this matter is at present quite variable, some teachers basing the introductory course as far as possible on the results of experiment, and others adhering closely to the older plan. =Methods of teaching psychology--Practical exercises= There is certainly some advantage in keeping the first course untechnical. The student can then be set to observing for himself, instead of depending on books. Many of the facts of psychology are so accessible, at least in a rough form, as to make the subject a good one for appealing to the spirit of independence in the student. Some teachers are, in fact, accustomed to introduce each part of the subject by exercises, introspective or other, designed to bring the salient facts home to the student in a direct way, before he has become inoculated with the doctrine of the authorities. "The essential point is that the student be led to observe his own experience, to record his observation accurately--in a word, to psychologize; and to make the observation before, not after, discovering from book or from lecture what answers are expected to these questions. Individual experiments should so far as possible be performed in like manner before the class discussion of typical results. In all cases the results of these introspections should be recorded in writing; representative records should be read and commented on in class; and the discussion based on them should form the starting point for textbook study and for lecture." The plan thus highly recommended by Professor Calkins[53] she found not to be widely used at the time of her inquiry; a commoner practice was the assignment of reading for the student's first introduction to a given topic. This alternative plan is a line of less resistance; and it is also true that exercises in original observation by beginners in psychology are likely to be instructive mostly as evidence of the ineptness of the beginner in psychological observation. Moreover, when the content of the course is informational and based on the results of research, preliminary exercises by the student are of rather limited value, though they still could serve a useful purpose in bringing forcibly to his attention the problems to be studied. The use of "exercises," somewhat analogous to the examples of algebra or the "originals" of geometry, is quite widespread in introductory courses in psychology, and several much-used textbooks offer sets of exercises with each chapter. Several types are in vogue: (1) some call for introspections, as, for example, "Think of your breakfast table as you sat down to it this morning--do you see it clearly as a scene before your mind's eye?" (2) some call for a review and generalization of facts presumably already known, as "Find instances of the dependence of character upon habit;" (3) many consist of simple experiments demanding no special apparatus and serving to give a direct acquaintance with matters treated in the text, such as after-images or fluctuations of attention; and (4) many call for the application of the principles announced in the text to special cases, the object being to "give the student some very definite thing to do" (Thorndike), in doing which he will secure a firm hold of the principles involved. In general, teachers of psychology aim to "keep the student doing things, instead of merely listening, reading, or seeing them done" (Seashore, 1, page 83). In a few colleges, laboratory work of a simple character forms part of the introductory course, and in one or two the laboratory part is developed to a degree comparable with what is common in chemistry or biology. As a rule, however, considerations of time and equipment have prevented the introduction of real laboratory work into the first course in psychology. =Classroom methods--The lecture= Of classroom methods, perhaps all that are employed in other subjects find application also in psychology, some teachers preferring one and some another. The lecture method is employed with great success by some of the leaders, who devote much attention to the preparation of discourse and demonstrations. One professor (anonymous) is quoted[54] as follows: "I must here interject my ideas on the lecture system. The lecture has a twofold advantage over the recitation. (1) It is economical, since one man handles a large number of students; the method of recitation is extravagant. This fact alone will mean the retention of the lecture system, wherever it can possibly be employed with success. (2) It is educationally the better method, for the average student and the average teacher. For the reconstruction of a lecture from notes means an essay in original work, in original thinking; while the recitation lapses all too readily into textbook rote and verbal repetition. "It is, nevertheless, true that sophomore students are on the whole inadequate to a lecture course. They cannot take notes; they cannot tear the heart out of a lecture. (They are also, I may add, inadequate to the reading of textbooks or general literature, in much the same way.) Hence one has to supplement the lecture by syllabi, by lists of questions (indexes, so to speak, to the lectures), and by personal interviews.... "The sum and substance of my recommendations is that you provide a competently trained instructor, and let him teach psychology as he best can. What the student needs is the effect of an individuality, a personality; and the lecture system provides admirably for such effect." =The recitation= Though the lecture system is used with great success by a number of professors, the general practice inclines more to the plan of oral recitations on assigned readings in one or more texts, and large classes are often handled in several divisions in order to make the recitation method successful. Not infrequently a combination of lectures by the professor and recitations conducted by his assistants is the plan adopted, the lecturer to add impressiveness to the course, and the recitations to hold the student up to his work. Written exercises, such as those already mentioned, are often combined with the oral recitation; and in some cases themes are to be written by the students. Probably the seminar method, in which the subject is chiefly presented in themes prepared by the students, is never attempted in the introductory course. =Class discussion= On the other hand, a number of successful teachers reject both the lecture and the recitation methods, and rely for the most part upon class discussions, with outside readings in the textbooks, and frequent written recitations as a check on the student's work. A champion of the discussion method writes as follows:[55] "A teacher has not the right to spend any considerable part of the time of a class in finding out by oral questions ... whether or not the student has done the work assigned to him. The good student does not need the questions and is bored by the stumbling replies which he hears; and even the poor student does not get what he needs, which is either instruction _a deux_, or else a corrected written recitation.... Not in this futile way should the instructor squander the short hours spent with his students. The purpose of these hours is twofold: first, to give to the students such necessary information as they cannot gain, or cannot so expediently gain, in some other way; second, and most important, to incite them to 'psychologize' for themselves. The first of these purposes is best gained by the lecture, the second by guided discussion. 'Guided discussion' does not mean a reversal of the recitation process--an hour in which students ask questions in any order, and of any degree of relevancy and seriousness, which the instructor answers. On the contrary, the instructor initiates and leads the discussion; he chooses its subject, maps out its field, pulls it back when it threatens to transgress its bonds, and, from time to time, summarizes its results. This he does, however, with the least possible show of his hand. He puts his question and leaves it to the student interested to answer him; he restates the bungling answer and the confused question; he leaves one student to answer the difficulties of another.... The advantage of the discussion over the lecture is, thus, that it fosters in the student the active attitude of the thinker in place of the passive attitude of the listener.... Obviously it is simplest to teach large classes by lecturing to them. Yet a spirited and relevant discussion may be conducted in a class of a hundred or so. Of course no more than eight or twelve, or, at most, twenty of these will take even a small part on a given day; perhaps a half or two thirds will never take part; and some will remain uninterested. But there will be many intelligent listeners as well as active participants; and these gain more, I believe, by the give and take of a good discussion than by constant lectures however effective." =Class experiments= Brief mention should be made of a form of class exercise peculiar to psychology, the "class experiment." This is in some respects like a demonstration, but differs from that in calling for a more active participation on the part of the student. Any psychological experiment is performed _on_ a human (or animal) subject, and many experiments can be performed on a group of subjects together, each of them being called on to perform a certain task or to make a certain observation. Each of the class having made his individual record, the instructor may gather them together into an average or summary statement, and the individual variations as well as the general tendency may thus be brought to light. Very satisfactory and even scientific experiments can thus be performed, with genuine results instructive to the class. =Checking the work of the students= Of methods of holding the student to his work, mention has already been made of the much-used written recitation. The usual plan is to have frequent, very brief written examinations. Sometimes the practice is to correct and return all the papers; sometimes to place them all on file and correct samples chosen at random for determining the student's "term mark." A plan that has some psychological merit is to follow the examination immediately by a statement of the correct answers, with brief discussion of difficulties that may arise, and to ask each student to estimate the value of his own paper in the standard marking system. The papers are then collected and examined, and returned with the instructor's estimate. Since an examination is, in effect, a form of psychological test, it is natural that psychologists should have attempted to introduce some of the technique of psychological testing into the work of examining students, in the interest of economy of the student's time as well as that of the examiner. The teacher prepares blanks which the student can quickly fill out if he knows the subject, not otherwise. To discover how far the student has attained a psychological point of view, written work or examination questions often demand some independence in the application to new cases of what has been learned. Far-reaching tests of the later value to the student of a course in psychology have not as yet been attempted. =Place of psychology in the college course= No attempt has yet been made to obtain the consensus of opinion among psychologists as to whether the introductory course should be required of all arts students, and probably opinions would differ, without anything definitive to be said on either side. In quite a number of colleges psychology forms part of a required general course in philosophy. Where a separation has occurred between philosophy and psychology, the latter is seldom absolutely required. As a general rule, however, the introductory course, even if not required, is taken by a large share of the arts students. The traditional position for the course in psychology is late in the college curriculum, originally in the senior but more recently in the junior year. In many of the larger colleges it is now open to sophomores or even to freshmen. One motive for pushing the introductory course back into the earlier years is naturally to provide for more advanced courses in the subject; and another is the desire to make psychology prerequisite for courses in philosophy, education, or sociology. Still another motive tending in the same direction is the desire to make the practical benefits of psychological study available for the student in the further conduct of his work as a student in whatever field. If considerable attention is devoted in the introductory course to questions of mental hygiene and efficiency, the advantage of bringing these matters early to the attention of the student outweighs the objection which is often raised by teachers of psychology, as of other subjects, to admitting the younger students, on the ground of immaturity. The teachers who get the younger students may have to put up with immaturity in order that the benefit of their teaching may be carried over by the students into later parts of the curriculum. =Length of the introductory course= When the introductory course in psychology forms part of a course in philosophy, it is usually restricted to one semester, with three hours of class work per week. When psychology is an independent subject in the curriculum, a two-semester course is usually provided, since it is the feeling of psychologists that this amount of time is needed in order to make the student really at home in the subject, and to realize for him the values that are looked for from psychology. Often there is a break between the two semesters of such a course, the second being devoted to advanced or social or applied psychology. Sometimes, on the other hand, the two-semester course is treated as a unit, the various topics being distributed over the year; this latter procedure is probably the one that finds most favor with psychologists. Still, good results can be obtained with the semester course supplemented by other courses. =Content of advanced courses in psychology= The most frequent advanced course is one in experimental psychology. This is taken by only a small fraction of those who have taken the introductory course, partly because the laboratory work attached to the experimental course demands considerable time from the student, partly because students are not encouraged to go into the laboratory unless they have a pretty serious interest in the subject. For a student who has it in him to become somewhat of an "insider" in psychology, no course is the equal of the laboratory course, supplemented by judicious readings in the original sources or in advanced treatises. Next in frequency to the experimental course stands that in applied psychology, since the recent applications of psychology to business, industry, vocational guidance, law, and medicine appeal to a considerable number of college students. Other courses which appear not infrequently in college curricula are those in social, abnormal, and animal psychology. No precise order is necessary in the taking of these courses, and it is not customary to make any beyond the introductory course prerequisite for the others. ROBERT S. WOODWORTH _Columbia University_ BIBLIOGRAPHY Many of the textbooks contain, in their prefaces, important suggestions toward the teaching of the subject. There are also frequent articles in the psychological journals on apparatus for demonstrations and class or laboratory experiments. 1. Report of the Committee of the American Psychological Association on the Teaching of Psychology. _Psychological Monographs_, No. 51, 1910. 2. American Psychological Association, Report of the Committee on the Academic Status of Psychology, 1915: "The Academic Status of Psychology in the Normal Schools." 3. Same Committee, 1916: "A Survey of Psychological Investigations with Reference to Differentiations between Psychological Experiments and Mental Tests." Concerned with the availability of mental tests as material for the experimental course. 4. Courses in Psychology for the Students' Army Training Corps. _Psychological Bulletin_, 1918, 15, 129-136. See also the Outlines of parts of the course in the same journal, pages 137-167, 177-206; and a note on the success of the courses by Edgar S. Brightman, in the _Bulletin_ for 1919, pages 24-26. Footnotes: [53] In Report, pages 50-51. [54] By Sanford, 1, page 66. [55] Calkins, 1, pages 47-48. XVII THE TEACHING OF EDUCATION A. TEACHING THE HISTORY OF EDUCATION IN COLLEGE =Kinds of educational values= There are three main kinds of educational value; viz., practical, cultural, and disciplinary. These three types of educational value probably originated in the order in which they are here mentioned. In early educational periods, all values are practical, or utilitarian. With the growth of social classes, some values become cultural; viz., those pursued by the upper classes. The disciplinary values are recognized when studies cease to have the practical and cultural values. =Meaning of educational values= By the "educational value" of a subject we mean, of course, the service which the pursuit of that subject renders. Any one subject will naturally have all three values, but no two subjects will have the same values mixed in the same proportion. The practical value of a subject depends on the use in life to which it can be put, especially its use in making a living. The cultural value of a subject depends largely on the enjoyment it contributes to life. While culture does not make a living, it makes it worth while that a living should be made. The disciplinary value of a subject depends on the amount of mental training that subject affords. Such mental training is available in further pursuit of the same, or a similar, subject. It is the fashion of educational thinking in our day to put greatest stress on the practical values, less on the cultural, and least on the disciplinary. There is no denying the reality of each type of value. =Value of the history of education= Now, what is the value of the history of education? There are no experimental studies as yet, nor scientific measurements, upon which to base an answer. The poor best we can do is to express an opinion. This opinion is based on the views of others and on the writer's experience in teaching the history of education ten years in a liberal college (Dartmouth) and ten years in a professional graduate school (New York University). On this basis I should say that the aim of the history of education, at least as recorded in existing texts, is first cultural, then practical, and last disciplinary. Texts yet to be written for the use of teachers in training may shift the places of the cultural and the practical. This new type of text will give the history, not of educational epochs in chronological succession, but of modern educational problems in their origin and development.[56] =Its cultural value= As cultural, the history of education is the record of the efforts of society to project its own ideals into the future through shaping the young and plastic generation. There comes into this purview the successive social organizations, their ideals, and the methods utilized in embodying these ideals in young lives. Interpretations of the nature of social progress, the contribution of education to such progress, and the goal of human progress, naturally arise for discussion, and the history of education well taught as the effort of man to improve himself is both informing and inspiring. This is the cultural value of the history of education. The sense of the meaning and value of human life is enhanced. As President Faunce says,[57] "A college of arts and sciences which has no place for the study of student life past and present, no serious consideration of the great schools which have largely created civilization, is a curiously one-sided and illiberal institution." =Its practical value= As practical, the history of education, even when taught from the customary general texts, throws some light on such everyday school matters as educational organization, the best methods of teaching, the right principles of education for women, how to manage classes, and the art of administering education. History cannot give the final answer to such questions, but it makes a contribution to the final answer in reporting the results of racial experience and in assisting students to understand present problems in the light of their past. The history of education has a practical value, but it is not alone the source of guidance. =Its disciplinary value= As disciplinary, the history of education shows the value of all historical study. The appeal is mainly to the memory and the judgment. The teaching is inadequate, if the appeal is only to the memory. The judgment must also be requisitioned in comparing, estimating, generalizing, and applying. Memory is indispensable in retaining the knowledge of the historical facts, and judgment is utilized in seeing the meaning of these facts. With all studies in general, history shares in training perceptive, associative, and effortful activities. Training in history is commonly supposed also to make one conservative, in contrast with training in science, which is supposed to make one progressive. But this result is not necessary, being dependent upon one's attitude toward the past. If past events are viewed as a lapse from an ideal, the study of history makes one conservative and skeptical about progress. If, on the other hand, the past is viewed as progress toward an ideal, the study of history makes one progressive, and expectant of the best that is yet to be. But, even so, familiarity with the past breeds criticism of quick expedients whereby humanity is at last to arrive. On the whole, the disciplinary value of the history of education is attained as an incident of its cultural and practical values. We are no longer trying to discipline the mind by memorizing lists of names and dates, though they be such euphonious names as those of the native American Indian tribes, but we are striving to understand man's past and present efforts at conscious self-improvement. =The various aims of students= College students will elect a course in the history of education with many different motives. They may like the teacher, they may like history in any form, they may like the hours at which the class is scheduled, some person who had the course recommended it, or they have an idea they may teach for a while after graduating. A few know they are going into teaching as a vocation in life, and appreciate in a measure the increasing exactitudes of professional training. Thus, from the student standpoint, the aims are eclectic. The results with them will be that as human beings they have a wider view of life; as citizens, perhaps as members of school boards, they are more intelligent in school matters; and as teachers they make a start in their progressive equipment. The general course in the history of education is pursued by a group of students with varying but undifferentiated motives. =A student's reaction= Once I asked a group of college students to write a frank reaction on a sixty-hour course they had just completed in the general history of education. One wrote as follows: "The history of education makes me feel that a number of what we call innovations today are a renaissance of something as 'old as the hills.' We hear a lot about pupil self-government, and we find it back in the seventeenth century. The trade school also is not a modern tendency. "I also feel that maybe we are not giving our boys and girls a liberal education; maybe we are too utilitarian (I was very much inclined that way myself before I took this course). "That when we wish to try something new, let's go back and see if it has not been tried before, study the circumstances, the mistakes made, the results attained, and see whether we can't profit by the experience given us by the past. "I was also very much surprised to learn the close connection that there is between civilization and education. "I feel that we are laying too much stress on the thinking side of training rather than on the volitional side: not doing in the sense of utility alone, but as a means of expression." It is easy to see the parts of the course that particularly gripped him. Another wrote as follows: =Another reaction= "The history of education makes me feel as follows about teaching: (1) It shows the knowledge of method to be obtained from the experiences of others. (2) It makes me feel the importance of the teacher. (3) It shows a great field and encourages us to try to improve our own methods. (4) It shows us the great responsibility of the profession in connection with the nation, for the school teacher to a marked degree determines the destiny of a nation. (5) It shows the importance of free-thinking. (Illustration omitted.) (6) It shows us the great importance of individuality along the line of teaching, for, as soon as we begin to adopt the methods of others exactly without examining them carefully, progress stops, and we are like the teachers of the Middle Ages. (7) It shows that every teacher should have a heartfelt interest in his pupil. (8) It makes us feel that discipline is unnecessary, if we utilize the right methods. (9) It tells us and makes us feel above everything else that a good education is worth as much as riches and that, since we are all brothers, we ought to try to teach everybody." An analysis of these two answers would show a combination of the cultural and practical values and, by implication at least, since they were able to say these things, a disciplinary value. =History of education should be an elective course= Should the history of education be a required or an elective course in the college curriculum? In a school of education offering a bachelor's degree, it might well be required, for both cultural and professional reasons, but in the usual department of education in a college it will be offered as an elective course. Its cultural and disciplinary values are not such as to make its pursuit a requisite for a liberal education, and its practical value for prospective teachers, as it has been commonly taught, is not such as to warrant its prescription. Besides, the prospective teacher is animated by the vocational motive and will elect the history of education anyway, unless there are more practical courses to be had. Students in all the college courses should have the privilege of electing the history of education in view of their future citizenship. =A forty-five-hour course= A three-hour-per-week elective course for a half year, about forty-five classroom hours, will meet the needs of the average undergraduate in this subject. This amount of time is adequate for a bird's eye view of the general field, affording a unit of accomplishment in itself preparing the way for more specialized study later, though it is only about half the time requisite for presenting the details of the subject. =First term senior year= In my judgment the study of the history of education would best fall between principles and methods. The study of the principles of education should come first, as it is closely related to preceding work in the natural and mental sciences, especially biology, physiology, sociology, and psychology; it also gives a point of view from which to continue the study of education, some standard of judgment. The study of educational methods, such as general method in teaching, special method for different subjects, the technique of instruction, class management, organization and administration of schools, should come last in the course, because it will be soonest used. These practical matters should be fresh in the mind of any young college graduate beginning to teach. The history of education is a good transition in study from the theory of the first principles to the practice of school matters, affording a panorama of facts to be judged by principles and racial experiments in educational practice. This means that the choice time for the course in the history of education is the first semester of the senior year in college. There is something to be said for making this course the introductory one in the study of education, connecting with preceding courses in history and being objective in character. There is also something to be said for giving only a practical course dealing with the history of educational problems to college undergraduates and reserving the general history of education as a complex social study for the graduate school. There is no unanimity of opinion or practice concerning the history of education.[58] =Texts and contents= What should be the content of the one-semester general course? Three modern available texts are Monroe, _A Brief Course in the History of Education_ (The Macmillan Company); Graves, _A Student's History of Education_ (The Macmillan Company); and Duggan, _A Student's Textbook in the History of Education_ (D. Appleton & Co.). Of these Monroe's book is the first (1907), and it has greatly influenced every later text in the field. There is a general agreement in these three texts as to the content of such a course; viz., a general survey of education in the successive periods of history, including primitive, oriental, Greek, Roman, Early Christian and medieval, renaissance, reformation, realism, Locke and the disciplinary tendency, Rousseau, the psychologists, and the scientific, sociological, and eclectic tendencies. All are written from the standpoint of the conflict between the interests of society and the individual. The pages of the three books number respectively 409, 453, and 397. Graves pays most attention to the development of American education. Duggan omits the treatment of primitive and oriental education (except Jewish), "which did not contribute _directly_ to Western culture and education." All are illustrated. All have good summaries, which Graves and Duggan, following S. C. Parker, who derived the suggestion from Herbart, place at the beginning of the chapter. All have bibliographical references, and Duggan adds lists of questions also. Perhaps in order of ease for students the books would be Duggan, Graves, and Monroe, though teachers would not all agree in this. Users of Monroe have a valuable aid in his epoch-making _Textbook in the History of Education_ (The Macmillan Company), 772 pages, 1905, and users of Graves likewise have his three volumes as supplementary material (The Macmillan Company). The same general ground is covered by P. J. McCormick, _History of Education_ (The Catholic Educational Press), 1915, 401 pages, with especial attention given to the Middle Ages and the religious organizations of the seventeenth century. This work contains references and summaries also. Duggan is right in omitting the treatment of primitive and oriental education on the principle of strict historical continuity, but for purposes of comparison the chapters on primitive and oriental education in the other texts serve a useful purpose. =Educational classics= A more intensive elective course in the history of education intended especially for those expecting to teach might well be offered in a college with sufficient instructors. These courses might be in educational classics, the history of modern elementary education, or the history of the high school. Texts are now available in these fields. Monroe's _Source Book for the History of Education_ (The Macmillan Company), 1901, is a most useful book in studying the ancient educational classics, in which, however, the Anacharsis of Lucian does not appear, though it can be found in the Report of the United States Commissioner of Education, 1897-1898, Vol. I, pages 571-589. The renaissance classics may be studied in the works of Woodward and Laurie. The realists may be studied in the various editions of Comenius, Locke, Spencer, and Huxley. Likewise the modern naturalistic movement may be followed in the writings of Rousseau, Pestalozzi, Herbart, and Froebel. These four courses are available in educational classics: the ancient, the renaissance or humanistic, the realistic and the naturalistic. =History of elementary and high schools= _The History of Modern Elementary Education_ (Ginn and Co.) by S. C. Parker and _The High School_ (The Macmillan Company) by F. W. Smith may be profitably used as texts in the courses on these topics. Parker's has but little on the organization of the elementary school, is weak on the philosophical side of the theorists treated, has nothing on Montessori, draws no lessons from history, is very brief on the present tendencies, and is somewhat heavy, prosaic, and unimaginative in style; but it is painstaking, covers all the main points well and has uncovered some valuable new material, and on the whole is the best history in English on its problem. Dr. Smith's book is really a history of education written around the origin and tendencies of the high school as central. It is a scholarly work, based on access to original Latin and other sources, though diffuse. =American education= An elective course in the history of American education is highly desirable. Chancellor E. E. Brown's scholarly book on _The Making of Our Middle Schools_, or E. G. Dexter's encyclopedic book on _History of Education in the United States_, may profitably serve as texts. This course should show the European influences on American schools, the development of the American system, and the rôle of education in a democratic society. There is great opportunity for research in this field. =History of educational problems= There is room for yet another course for college undergraduates expecting to teach,--a history of educational problems. The idea is to trace the intimate history of a dozen or more of the present most urgent educational questions, with a view to understanding them better and solving them more wisely, thus enabling the study of the history of education to function more in the practice of teachers. Such a text has not yet been written. The point of view is expressed by Professor Joseph K. Hart as follows: "The large problem of education is the making of new educational history. The real reason for studying the history of education is that one may learn how to become a maker of history. For this purpose, history must awaken the mind of the student to the problems, forces, and conditions of the present; and its outlook must be toward the future."[59] =Methods Of teaching= What should be the method of teaching the history of education in college? One of the texts will be used as a basis for assignments and study. Not less than two hours of preparation on each assignment will be expected. The general account in the text will be supplemented by the reading of source and parallel material, concerning which very definite directions will have to be given by the teacher. Each student will keep a notebook as one of the requirements of the course, which is examined by the instructor at the end. A profitable way to make a notebook is for each student to select a different modern problem and trace its origin and growth as he goes through the general history of education and its source material. In this way each student becomes a crude historian of a problem. The examination will test judgment and reason as well as memory. In the classroom the instructor will at times question the class, will at times be questioned by the class, will lecture on supplementary material, will use some half-dozen stereopticon lectures in close conjunction with the text, will have debates between chosen students, seeking variety in method without loss of unity in result. Some questions for debate might be, the superiority of the Athenian to the modern school product, the necessity of Latin and Greek for a liberal education, religious instruction in the public schools, formal discipline, whether the aim of education is cultural or vocational, whether private philanthropy is a benefit to public education, etc. It is very important in teaching so remote a subject as the history of education that the teacher have imagination, be constantly pointing modern parallels, communicate the sense that the past has made a difference in the present, and be himself kindled and quickened by man's aspirations for self-improvement. Unless our subject first inspires us, it cannot inspire our pupils. Whoever teaches the history of education because he has to instead of because he wants to must expect thin results. =Testing results= In addition to the formal indication of the results of the course in the examination paper, teachers can test their results by asking for frank unsigned statements as to what the course has meant to each student, by securing suggestions from the class for the future conduct of the course, by noting whether education as a means of social evolution has been appreciated, by observing whether the attitude of individual students toward education as a life-work or as a human enterprise deserving adequate support from all intelligent citizens has developed. As future citizens, has the motive to improve schools been awakened? Particularly do more men want to teach, despite small pay and slight male companionship? The history of education does not really grip the class until its members want to rise up and do something by educational means to help set the world right. The limits of this paper exclude the treatment of the subject in the professional training of teachers in normal schools, high schools, and graduate schools, as well as in extension courses for teachers or in their private reading. HERMAN H. HORNE _New York University_ BIBLIOGRAPHY BUISSON, F. _Dictionnaire de la Pédagogie_, Histoire de l'Education. BURNHAM, W. H. Education as a University Subject. _Educational Review_, Vol. 26, pages 236-245. BURNHAM and SUZZALO, _The History of Education as a Professional Subject_, Teachers College, New York, 1908. COOK, H. M. _History of the History of Education as a Professional Study in the United States._ Unpublished thesis. HINSDALE, B. A. The Study of Education in American Colleges and Universities, _Educational Review_, Vol. 19, pages 105-120. HORNE, H. H. A New Method in the History of Education. _The School Review Monographs_, No. 3, Chicago, 1913; pages 31-35. Discussion of same in _School Review_, May, 1913. KIEHLE, D. L. The History of Education: What It Stands For. _School Review_, Vol. 9, pages 310-315. MONROE, P., and Others. History of Education; in Monroe's _Cyclopedia of Education_, Vol. 3, New York, 1912. MONROE, P. Opportunity and Need for Research Work in the History of Education. _Pedagogical Seminary_, Vol. 17, pages 54-62. MOORE, E. C. The History of Education. _School Review_, Vol. XI, pages 350-360. NORTON, A. O. Scope and Aims of the History of Education. _Educational Review_, Vol. 27. PAYNE, W. H. Practical Value of the History of Education. _Proceedings National Education Association_, 1889, pages 218-223. REIN, W. Encyclopädisches Handbuch der Pädagogik. _Historische Pädagogik._ ROBBINS, C. L. History of Education in State Normal Schools. _Pedagogical Seminary_, Vol. 22, No. 3, pages 377-390. ROSS, D. _Education as a University Subject: Its History, Present Position, and Prospects._ Glasgow, 1883. SUTTON, W. L., and BOLTON, F. E. The Relation of the Department of Education to other Departments in Colleges and Universities. _Journal of Pedagogy_, Vol. 19, Nos. 2-3. WILLIAMS, S. G. Value of the History of Education to Teachers. _Proceedings National Education Association_, 1889, pages 223-231. WILSON, G. M. Titles of College Courses in Education. _Educational Monographs_, No. 8, 1919, pages 12-30. B. TEACHING EDUCATIONAL THEORY IN COLLEGE AND UNIVERSITY DEPARTMENTS OF EDUCATION =Introductory= Courses in education in a college or university department may be roughly classified into (_a_) the theoretical phases of education, (_b_) the historical phases, and (_c_) the applied phases. Under the historical phases may properly be included courses in the general history of education as well as those in the history of education in special countries. The applied courses may include general and special method, organization, administration, observation, and practice. Educational theory is discussed below. A couple of decades ago the terms "philosophy of education," "science of education," and "general pedagogy," or just "pedagogy," were most generally employed. At that time most of the work in education was given in the departments of philosophy or psychology. Gradually departments of education came to have an independent status. Among the earliest were those at Michigan, under Dr. Joseph Payne, and the one at Iowa, under Dr. Stephen Fellows. Previous to the vigorous development of departments of education, the departments of psychology and philosophy gave no special attention to the educational bearings of psychology. But as soon as departments of education began to introduce courses in educational psychology and child study, the occupants of the departments of psychology rubbed their eyes, became aware of unutilized opportunities, and then began to assert claims. =Place of educational theory in the curriculum= Ordinarily the courses in educational theory are given in the junior year of college. In a few places, elementary or introductory courses are open to freshmen. There is a distinct advantage in giving courses to freshmen, if they can be made sufficiently concrete and grow out of their previous experiences. The college of education in the University of Washington, for example, is so organized that the student shall begin to think of the profession of teaching immediately upon entering the University. While the main work in education courses does not come until the junior and senior years, the student receives guidance and counsel from the outset in selecting his courses and is helped to get in touch with the professional atmosphere that should surround a teacher's college. The foundation work in zoölogy and psychology is given as far as possible with the teaching profession in mind. It is planned to give some work of a general nature in education during the first two years, that will serve as vocational guidance and will assist the student to arrange his work most advantageously and to accomplish it most economically. By the more prolonged individual acquaintance between students and faculty of the college of education, it is hoped that the students will receive greater professional help and the faculty will be better able to judge of the teaching abilities of the students. The work in education and allied courses has been so extended that adequate professional preparation may be secured. The courses in zoölogy, psychology, and sociology are all directly contributory to a knowledge of, and to an interpretation of, the courses in education. The great majority of undergraduate students taking education are preparing to teach, and more and more they plan to teach in the high schools. However, not a few students of medicine, law, engineering, and other technical subjects take courses in education as a means of general information. It would be exceedingly desirable if all citizens would take general courses in education, and would come to understand the meaning of educational processes and past and present practices in educational procedure. If all parents and members of school boards could have a few modern courses in educational theory and organization, the work of school teachers would be very much simplified. So far as is known, no college or university makes education an absolute requirement such as is made with respect to foreign languages, science, mathematics, or philosophy. In a large majority of states, some work in education is required for teacher's certification. The number of states making such requirements is rapidly increasing. Before long it will be impossible for persons to engage in teaching without either attending a normal school or taking professional courses in education in college. =The scope of college courses in educational theory= The theory of education as considered in this chapter will include all those courses which have for their purpose the consideration of the fundamental meaning of education and the underlying laws or principles governing the education process. Educational theory is given in different institutions under a great variety of titles. The following are the most frequently offered: Principles of education, philosophy of education, theory of education, educational psychology, genetic psychology, experimental education, child study, adolescence, moral education, educational sociology, social aspects of education. Educational theory may be divided into courses which are elementary in character, and those which are advanced. The purpose of the former is to present to beginning students the fundamentals of reasonably well-tested principles and laws, and to indicate to them something of the various phases of education. The purpose of advanced courses, especially in experimental education, is to reach out into new fields and by study and experiment to test and develop new theories. The experimental phases of education seek to blaze new trails and to discover new methods of reaching more economically and efficiently the goals which education seeks. Both of these phases should be given in a college course in the theory of education. Enough of the experimental work should be given in the elementary course to enable students to distinguish between mere opinion and well-established theory, to understand how the theories have been derived, to know how to subject them to crucial tests, and to give them some knowledge of methods of experimentation. Education as a science is constantly confronted by the questions, "What are the ends and aims of education?" and "What are the means of accomplishing these ends?" These mean that there must be a study of the ends of education as necessitated by the demands of society and the needs of the individual himself. In determining the ends of education, adult society, of which the individual is to be a part, must be surveyed, as must also the social group of which the child is now an integral part. In addition to these the laws of growth and development must be studied, to understand what will contribute effectively to the child's normal unfoldment. The interpretation of the ends and means of education will determine the field of the theory of education. This interpretation has been so splendidly stated by Dewey that I venture to quote him at length. He says (_My Pedagogic Creed_): "I believe that this educational process has two sides--one psychological and one sociological: and that neither can be subordinated to the other or neglected without evil results following. Of these two sides, the psychological is the basis. The child's own instincts and powers furnish the material and give the starting point for all education. Save as the efforts of the educator connect with some activity which the child is carrying on of his own initiative independent of the educator, education becomes reduced to a pressure from without. It may, indeed, give certain external results, but cannot truly be called educative. Without insight into the psychological structure and activities of the individual, the educative processes will, therefore, be haphazard and arbitrary. If it chances to coincide with the child's activity, it will get a leverage; if it does not, it will result in friction, or disintegration, or arrest of the child nature. "I believe that knowledge of social conditions, of the present state of civilization, is necessary in order properly to interpret the child's powers. The child has his own instincts and tendencies, but we do not know what these mean until we can translate them into their social equivalents. We must be able to carry them back into a social past and see them as the inheritance of previous race activities. We must be able to project them into the future to see what their outcome and end will be. In the illustration just used, it is the ability to see in the child's babblings the promise and potency of the future social intercourse and conversation which enables one to deal in the proper way with that instinct. "I believe that the psychological and social sides are organically related, and that education cannot be regarded as a compromise between the two, or a superimposition of one upon the other. We are told that the psychological definition of education is barren and formal--that it gives us only the idea of a development of all the mental powers without giving us an idea of the use to which these powers are put. On the other hand, it is urged that the social definition of education, as getting adjusted to civilization, makes a forced and external process, and results in subordinating the freedom of the individual to a preconceived social and political status. "I believe each of these objections is true when urged against one side isolated from the other. In order to know what a power really is we must know what its end, use, or function is; and this we cannot know, save as we conceive of the individual as active in social relationships. But, on the other hand, the only possible adjustment which we can give to the child under existing conditions is that which arises through putting him in complete possession of all of his powers. With the advent of democracy and modern industrial conditions, it is impossible to foretell definitely just what civilization will be twenty years from now. Hence it is impossible to prepare the child for any precise set of conditions. To prepare him for the future life means to give him command of himself; it means so to train him that he will have the full and ready use of all his capacities, that his eye and ear and hand may be tools ready to command, that his judgment may be capable of grasping the conditions under which it has to work, and the executive forces be trained to act economically and efficiently. It is impossible to reach this sort of adjustment save as constant regard is had to the individual's own powers, tastes, and interests; say, that is, as education is continually converted into psychological terms. "In sum, I believe that the individual who is to be educated is a social individual, and that society is an organic union of individuals. If we eliminate the social factor from the child, we are left only with an abstraction; if we eliminate the individual factor from society, we are left only with an inert and lifeless mass. Education, therefore, must begin with a psychological insight into the child's capacities, interests, and habits. It must be controlled at every point by reference to these same considerations. These powers, interests, and habits must be continually interpreted--we must know what they mean. They must be translated into terms of their social equivalents--into terms of what they are capable of in the way of social service." Therefore, the fundamental course in educational theory must include (1) the biological principles of education, (2) the psychological principles of education, and (3) the social principles of education. This does not mean that the sequence must be as enumerated here. In some places that is the sequence followed, in some other places the social principles are studied first. As a matter of fact, all three phases must be studied together to a considerable extent. Probably a purely logical arrangement would place the social phases first, but it is almost futile to attempt to present them effectively until something of the biological and psychological laws are first established. Again, the student in beginning the formal study of education is already in possession of a vast body of facts concerning society and the relation of education to it, so that reference can be advantageously made in connection with the study of biological and psychological laws of education. Then the social principles and applications can be more thoroughly and scientifically considered in the light of the other phases. In administering a college course in the theory of education the great desideratum is to try to formulate a body of knowledge which will give the undergraduate students an idea of the meaning of education and its problems and processes. In so far as possible it is desirable to present material which in a certain sense will be practical. Inasmuch as the majority of undergraduates who study education in a college department intend to go into the practical work of teaching, it is important to fortify them, as well as possible in the brief time which they devote to the subject, concerning the best means of securing definite results in education. The majority are not so much interested in the abstract science or the philosophy of education as they are in its practical problems. All courses in education should seek to deal with fundamental principles and not dole out dogmatic statements of practical means and devices, but at the same time no principles should be considered with which the student cannot see some relation to the educative processes. They are not primarily concerned with the place of education among the sciences or with ontological and teleological meanings of education or of its laws. =Academic recognition of the introductory course= The course in elementary educational theory should be on a par with a course in principles of physics, one in principles of biology, principles of psychology, principles of political science, etc. A course in the principles of any of these subjects attempts to set forth the main problems with which the science deals. Elementary courses attempt to select those principles which have frequent application in everyday life. The course in the principles of physics deals with the elementary notions of matter, motion, and force, and everyday illustrations and problems are sought. It would seem that in a similar manner the college course in the foundations of education should seek elementary principles which will enable the student to accomplish the purpose of education; namely, to produce modifications in individuals and in society in harmony with the ideals and ends of education. Education is a process of adjusting individuals to their environment, natural and accidental, and the environment which is created through ideals held by society and by individuals themselves. All education has to do with the development of the individual in accordance with his potentialities and the ideals of education which are set up. It is a practical science, an applied science, in the same way that engineering is an applied science. Engineering does not deal with ultimate theories of matter, force, and motion, except as they are important in considering practical ends to be secured through the application of forces. An elementary course in educational theory should seek to include the foundations rather than to encompass all knowledge about education. It is rather an introduction than an encyclopedia. Although a complete and logical treatise on the theory of education might include a consideration of the course of study and the methods of instruction, the making of a course of study, the problem of the arrangement of the course of study, the various studies as instruments of experience, the organization and administration of education, etc., it is questionable from a practical point of view whether they should be given consideration in the undergraduate course. Mere passing notice would at any rate seem sufficient. Each topic of the scope of the foregoing is sufficient to form a course in itself, and the introductory course should do no more than define their relation to the general problem. In the principles of psychology the fields of abnormal psychology, comparative psychology, child psychology, adolescent psychology, etc., are defined and drawn upon for illustration, yet no separate chapters are devoted to them. In departments of political economy there are usually elemental courses designed as an introduction to the leading principles of economic science, but there are special courses in currency and banking, public finance, taxation, transportation, distribution of wealth, etc. Similarly in the college course in the theory of education, the work should be concentrated upon fundamentals designed to introduce the student to the many special problems. For example, the course of study and the organization and administration of education should be regarded as accessory rather than as fundamental. The laws underlying processes of development and modification are what should occupy the attention of the student in this elemental survey. A study of the special means and agencies of education and forms of social organization should be given in other courses by special names. Secondary education, the kindergarten, administration and supervision, methods in special subjects, etc., each deserve attention as a distinct and separate course. As shown by two surveys made by the writer, one in 1909 and the last in 1916, the theory of education is most frequently given under the terms "Principles of Education," "Educational Psychology," "Social Phases of Education," "Educational Sociology," and "Child Study." Therefore, a brief special discussion of each of these fields may be desirable. =Principles of education= Under various names courses in principles of education are given in most departments of education. The term "Principles of Education" does not appear in all, being replaced by "Principles of Teaching," "Philosophy of Education," "Fundamentals of Teaching," "Introduction to Education," "Science of Education," "Principles of Method," "Theory of Education," etc. In some institutions the terms "Educational Psychology" and "Child Study" stand for essentially the same thing as the foregoing. In most institutions it is recognized that the teacher must understand (_a_) the meaning and aim of education, (_b_) the nature of the child considered biologically, psychologically, socially, and morally, (_c_) the foundations of society and the industries, (_d_) how to adapt and utilize educational means so as to develop the potentialities of the child's nature and cause him to achieve the aims of education. =Biological principles= In this section there should be an attempt first to enlarge the notion of education, aiming to have it regarded as practically coincident with life and experience. Of course there is the ideal side to which individuals will strive, but the student should be impressed with the fact that every experience leaves its ineffaceable effect upon all organisms. In order to convey this idea we may begin with a discussion of the effects of experience upon simple animal and plant life and the general modifications produced in the adjustment of such life to surroundings. Some familiar, non-technical facts in the evolution of plant and animal life may be considered in their relation to the question of adaptation and adjustment. Due notice should be taken of the facts of adjustment as manifested in such illustrations as the change of the eyes of cave animals, gradual modifications of plant and animal life, the change of animals from sea life to land life, some of the retrogressions, etc. A general study of the gradual evolution of sense organs and the nervous system should be made, because these illustrate in an excellent way the gradual modifications produced by experience in the race. After this general survey, the subject of innate tendencies may be considered through the discussion of such chapters as Drummond's "The ascent of the body," "The scaffolding left in the body," "The arrest of the body," "The dawn of mind," "The evolution of language," etc. These discussions naturally lead to a consideration of the lengthening period of human infancy, and the importance of infancy in education. This in turn leads to a brief consideration of the periods of childhood, adolescence, and maturity, largely from a biological point of view. These should be followed by a discussion of such topics as instinct, heredity, from fundamental to accessory, the brain as an organ of mind, some of the facts of psycho-physical correlation, and the reciprocal influence of mind and body upon each other. Before leaving this general field, thorough and designedly practical discussions of the importance of physical development and culture for education in general and for mental development, fatigue, habit, physical and mental hygiene, and play should be considered. =Educational psychology= The next section should include what some authors term educational psychology, and others call the psychological aspects of education. In this section the first topic naturally considered is that of memory. It grows out of the biological discussion of instinct, heredity, etc. Included in the subject of memory is that of association. Following this come imagination, imitation, training of the senses, apperception, formal discipline, feeling, volition, motor training, induction, etc. Periods of mental development and the specific topics of childhood and adolescence should receive definite consideration, though more exhaustive treatment should be reserved for a distinct course in child study. The genetic point of view should be emphasized throughout. While the number of students registered for educational psychology is not large, the numbers that are in reality pursuing this branch are increasing. Fortunately, the "psychology for teachers" and "applied psychology" of a score of years ago are giving way to a kind of educational psychology that is much more vital. Men like Judd and Thorndike are formulating a psychology of the different branches of study and of the teaching processes involved that will enable the teacher to see the connection between the psychological laws and the processes to be learned. This sort of work has been made possible by the work of Hall and his followers in studying the child and the adolescent from the standpoint of growth periods and the types of activity suited to each period. Educational psychology is therefore represented richly in principles of education, genetic psychology, mental development, child study, and adolescence, as well as in the courses labeled "Educational Psychology." =Social aspects of education= Twelve years ago courses on social phases of education were probably not offered anywhere, as they are not listed in my tabulation at that time. Today they appear in some form or other in almost every department of education. In Columbia the work is given as "Educational Sociology." The departments of sociology also emphasize various phases of educational problems. Courses on vocational education, industrial education, and vocational guidance all emphasize the same idea. The introduction of these courses means that the merely disciplinary aim of education is fast giving way to that of adjustment and utility. Educational means are (1) to enable the child to live happily and to develop normally, and (2) to furnish a kind of training which will enable him to serve society to the utmost advantage. In the courses on educational sociology, there should be an attempt to help the student feel that the highest aim of education is not individualistic, but social. The purpose is to fit the individual for coöperation, developing agencies of life that shall be mutually advantageous, for democratic society seeks the highest welfare of all its members through the coöperation and contribution of each of its members. It teaches us not only the rights and privileges of society but also its duties and obligations. The best individual development also comes only through the social interaction of minds, and consequently various phases of social psychology must receive consideration. Various forms of coöperative effort which enlist the interest of children at various stages of development should be studied. Inasmuch as educators should link school and home, typical illustrations of the manifold means of relating the school and society should be studied, so that the teacher will not be without knowledge of their possibilities. =The child the center= Throughout the country there is evidence that the curricula in education departments have for their central object a scientific knowledge of the child, and the better adaptation of educational means to the development of the potentialities possessed by the child. This idea is evidenced by the fact that the foundation courses are psychology, principles of education, child study, educational psychology. The fact that the history of education is still so largely given as a relatively beginning course shows that the new idea has not gained complete acceptance. Many specialized courses in child study are offered, among them being such courses as the "Psychology of Childhood," "Childhood and Adolescence," "Psychopathic, Retarded, and Mentally Deficient Children," "Genetic Psychology," "The Anthropological Study of Children," "The Physical Nature of the Child." At the University of Pittsburgh a school of childhood has been established which will combine in theory and practice the best ideals in the kindergarten, the modern primary school, and the Montessori system. Clark University has had for some years its Children's Institute, which attempts to assemble the best literature on childhood and the best materials of instruction in childhood. Many of the courses in educational tests and measurements center around the study of the child. =Methods of teaching the subject= Naturally, methods of teaching the subject vary exceedingly in the different institutions. Each instructor to a large extent follows his own individual inclinations. Probably the great majority pursue the lecture method to a considerable extent. The lectures are generally accompanied by readings either from some textbook or from collateral readings. The writer has personally pursued the combination method. For years before his own book on _Principles of Education_ was completed the subject was presented in lecture form, and accompanied by library readings. Even now, with a textbook at hand, each new topic is outlined in an informal development lecture. Definite assignments are made from the text, and from collateral readings, which include additional texts, periodical literature, and selected chapters from various educational books. After students have had an opportunity to read copiously and to think out special problems, an attempt is made to discuss the entire topic orally. That is possible and very fruitful in classes of the right size,--not over thirty. In large classes numbering from sixty to one hundred or more, the oral discussion is not profitable unless the instructor is very skilled in conducting the discussion. The questions should never be for the purpose of merely securing answers perfectly obvious to all in the class. The questions should seek to unfold new phases of the subject. Difficult points should be considered, new contributions should be made by the students and the instructor, and all should feel that it is really an enlargement, a broadening, and a deepening of ideas gained through the lectures and the assigned readings. Very frequently individual students should be assigned special topics for report. A good deal of care must be exercised in this connection, for unless the material is a real contribution and is presented effectively, the rest of the students become wearied. If possible, the instructor should know exactly what points are to be brought out, and the approximate amount of time to be occupied. Throughout, an attempt is made to make the work as concrete as possible, and to show its relation to matters pertaining to the schoolroom, the home, and the everyday conduct of the students themselves. Each topic is treated with considerable thoroughness and detail. No endeavor is made to secure an absolutely systematic and ultra-logical system. The charge of being logically unsystematic and incomplete would not be resented. There is no desire for a system. As in the elementary stages of any subject, the first requisite is a body of fundamental facts. There is time enough later to evolve an all-inclusive and all-exclusive system. I am not aware that even the "doctors" have yet fully settled this question. The psychological order is the one sought. What is intelligible, full of living interest, and of largest probable importance in the life and work of the student teacher are the criteria applied in the selection of materials. The student verdict is given much weight in deciding. A rather successful plan of providing an adequate number of duplicates of books much used has been developed by the writer at the State University of Iowa and at the University of Washington. In all courses in which no single suitable text is found the students are asked to contribute a small sum, from twenty-five to fifty cents, for the purpose of purchasing duplicates. These books are placed on the reserve shelf, and this makes it possible for large classes to be accommodated with a relatively small number of books. Ordinarily there should be one book for every four or five students, if all are expected to read the same assignment. If options are allowed, the proportion of books may be reduced. The books become the property of the institution, and a fine library of duplicate sets rapidly accumulates. In about five years about fifteen hundred volumes have been secured in this way at the University of Washington. Valuable pamphlet material and reprints of important articles also are collected and kept in filing boxes. FREDERICK E. BOLTON _University of Washington_ BIBLIOGRAPHY 1. ARTICLES ON TEACHING OF EDUCATIONAL THEORY BOLTON, FREDERICK E. The Relation of the Department of Education to Other Departments in Colleges and Universities. _Journal of Pedagogy_, Vol. XIX, Nos. 2, 3, December, 1906, March, 1907. ---- Curricula in University Departments of Education. _School and Society_, December 11, 1915, pages 829-841. JUDD, CHARLES H. The Department of Education in American Universities. _School Review_, Vol. 17, November, 1909. HOLLISTER, HORACE A. Courses in Education Best Adapted to the Needs of High School Teachers and High School Principals. _School and Home Education_, April, 1917. 2. BOOKS ON THE GENERAL, BIOLOGICAL, AND PSYCHOLOGICAL PHASES OF EDUCATION BAGLEY, WILLIAM C. _The Educative Process._ The Macmillan Company, 1907. 358 pages. ---- _Educational Values._ The Macmillan Company, 1911. 267 pages. BOLTON, FREDERICK E. _Principles of Education._ Charles Scribner's Sons, 1910. 790 pages. BUTLER, NICHOLAS MURRAY. _The Meaning of Education, and Other Essays._ The Macmillan Company, 1915. 386 pages. Revised Edition. CUBBERLEY, ELLWOOD P. _Changing Conceptions of Education._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1909. 70 pages. DAVENPORT, EUGENE. _Education for Efficiency._ D. C. Heath & Company, 1909. 184 pages. DEWEY, JOHN. _Democracy and Education: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Education._ Macmillan, 1916. 434 pages. FREEMAN, FRANK N. _Experimental Education._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1916. 220 pages. ---- _Psychology of the Common Branches._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1916. 275 pages. ---- _How Children Learn._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1917. 322 pages. GORDON, KATE. _Educational Psychology._ Henry Holt & Co., 1917. 294 pages. GROSZMANN, M. P. E. _Some Fundamental Verities in Education._ Richard Badger, 1916. 118 pages. GUYER, MICHAEL. _Being Well-Born._ Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1916. 374 pages. HALL, G. S. _Educational Problems._ D. Appleton & Co., 1911. 2 volumes, 710 pages and 714 pages. HECK, W. H. _Mental Discipline and Educational Values._ John Lane & Co., 1911. 208 pages. HENDERSON, CHARLES H. _Education and the Larger Life._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912. 386 pages. ---- _What Is It to be Educated?_ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1914. 462 pages. HENDERSON, ERNEST N. _A Textbook on the Principles of Education._ The Macmillan Company, 1910. 593 pages. HORNE, HERMAN H. _The Philosophy of Education._ The Macmillan Company, 1904. 295 pages. ---- _The Psychological Principles of Education._ The Macmillan Company, 1906. 435 pages. KLAPPER, PAUL. _Principles of Educational Practice._ D. Appleton & Co., 1912. 485 pages. MOORE, ERNEST C. _What is Education?_ Ginn and Co., 1915. 357 pages. O'SHEA, M. VINCENT. _Dynamic Factors in Education._ The Macmillan Company, 1906. 321 pages. ---- _Education as Adjustment._ Longmans, Green & Co., 1903. 348 pages. ---- _Linguistic Development and Education._ The Macmillan Company, 1907. 247 pages. PYLE, WILLIAM H. _The Science of Human Nature._ Silver, Burdett & Co., 1917. 229 pages. ---- _The Outlines of Educational Psychology._ Warwick & York, 1911. 276 pages. RUEDIGER, WILLIAM C. _Principles of Education._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1910. 305 pages. SPENCER, HERBERT. _Education, Intellectual, Moral, and Physical._ D. Appleton & Co., 1900. 301 pages. THORNDIKE, EDWARD L. _Principles of Teaching._ A. G. Seiler, 1906. 293 pages. ---- _Education: A First Book._ The Macmillan Company, 1912. 292 pages. ---- _Individuality._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1911. 56 pages. ---- _Educational Psychology._ Teachers College, 1913. Vol. 1. The Original Nature of Man. 327 pages. 3. BOOKS ON THE SOCIAL PHASES OF EDUCATION BETTS, GEORGE H. _Social Principles of Education._ Charles Scribner's Sons, 1912. 313 pages. CABOT, ELLA L. _Volunteer Help to the Schools._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1914. 141 pages. DEWEY, JOHN. _The School and Society._ University of Chicago Press, 1907. 129 pages. ---- _The Schools of Tomorrow._ E. P. Dutton & Co., 1915. 316 pages. ---- _Democracy and Education._ The Macmillan Company, 1916. 434 pages. DEWEY, JOHN, and SMALL, ALBION W. _My Educational Creed._ E. L. Kellogg & Co., 1897. 36 pages. DUTTON, SAMUEL T. _Social Phases of Education in the School and the Home._ The Macmillan Company, 1900. 259 pages. GILLETTE, JOHN M. _Constructive Rural Sociology._ Sturgis & Walton, 1913. 301 pages. KING, IRVING. _Education for Social Efficiency._ D. Appleton & Co., 1913. 371 pages. ---- _Social Aspects of Education. A Book of Sources and Original Discussions, with Annotated Bibliographies._ The Macmillan Company, 1912. MCDOUGALL, WILLIAM. _An Introduction to Social Psychology._ John W. Luce, 1914. 355 pages. O'SHEA, M. VINCENT. _Social Development and Education._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1909. 561 pages. SCOTT, COLIN A. _Social Education._ Ginn and Co., 1908. 300 pages. SMITH, WALTER R. _An Introduction to Educational Sociology._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1917. 412 pages. 4. BOOKS ON CHILDHOOD AND ADOLESCENCE DRUMMOND, WILLIAM B. _An Introduction to Child Study._ Longmans, Green & Co., 1907. 347 pages. GESELL, BEATRICE C. and ARNOLD. _The Normal Child and Primary Education._ Ginn and Co., 1912. 342 pages. GROSZMANN, M. P. E. _The Career of the Child._ Richard Badger, 1911. 335 pages. HALL, G. STANLEY. _Youth, Its Education, Regimen, and Hygiene._ D. Appleton & Co., 1907. 379 pages. ---- _Aspects of Child Life and Education._ Ginn and Co., 1907. 326 pages. ---- _Adolescence: Its Psychology and Its Relations to Physiology, Anthropology, Sociology, Sex, Crime, Religion, and Education._ D. Appleton & Co., 1904. 2 vols., 589 and 784 pages. KING, IRVING. _The High School Age._ Robbs-Merrill Company, 1914. 288 pages. KIRKPATRICK, EDWIN A. _Fundamentals of Child Study._ The Macmillan Company, 1903. 384 pages. ---- _Genetic Psychology: An Introduction to an objective and genetic view of intelligence._ The Macmillan Company, 1909. 373 pages. OPPENHEIM, NATHAN. _The Development of the Child._ The Macmillan Company, 1898. 296 pages. SULLY, JAMES. _Studies of Childhood._ D. Appleton & Co., 1910. 527 pages. SWIFT, EDGAR J. _Youth and the Race._ Charles Scribner's Sons, 1912. 342 pages. TANNER, AMY E. _The Child: His Thinking, Feeling, and Doing._ 1904. 430 pages. TERMAN, LEWIS M. _The Hygiene of the School Child._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1914. 417 pages. TRACY, FREDERICK, and STIMPEL, JAMES. _The Psychology of Childhood._ D. C. Heath & Co., 1909. 231 pages. TYLER, JOHN MASON. _Growth and Education._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1907. 294 pages. WADDLE, CHARLES W. _Introduction to Child Psychology._ Houghton Mifflin Company, 1918. 307 pages. Footnotes: [56] "A New Method in the History of Education," _School Review Monographs_, No. 3. H. H. Horne. [57] Quoted in _School and Society_, Vol. 5, page 23, from President Faunce's annual report. Recent articles on the cultural value of courses in education are: J. M. Mecklin, "The Problem of the Training of the Secondary Teacher," _School and Society_, Vol. 4, pages 64-67. H. E. Townsend, "The Cultural Value of Courses in Education," _School and Society_, Vol. 4, pages 175-176. [58] Cf. Thomas M. Balliet, "Normal School Curricula," _School and Society_, Vol. IV, page 340. [59] "Can a College Department of Education Become Scientific?" _The Scientific Monthly_, Vol. 3, No. 4, page 381. PART FOUR THE LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES CHAPTER XVIII THE TEACHING OF English LITERATURE _Caleb T. Winchester_ XIX THE TEACHING OF English COMPOSITION _Henry Seidel Canby_ XX THE TEACHING OF THE CLASSICS _William K. Prentice_ XXI THE TEACHING OF THE ROMANCE LANGUAGES _William A. Nitze_ XXII THE TEACHING OF GERMAN _E. Prokosch_ XVIII THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH LITERATURE =Scope of study of English literature in college= It should be understood at the outset that this paper is concerned with the study of literature, not in the university or graduate school, but in the college, by the undergraduate candidate for the bachelor's degree; and, furthermore, that the object of study is not the history, biography, bibliography, or criticism of literature, but the literature itself. Perhaps also the term "literature" may need definition. As commonly--and correctly--used, the word "literature" denotes all writing which has sufficient emotional interest, whether primary or incidental, to give it permanence. As thus defined, literature would include, for example, history and much philosophical writing, and would exclude only writing of purely scientific or technical character. But in the following pages the word will be used in a narrower sense, as indicating those books that are read for their own sake, not solely or primarily for their intellectual content. This definition is elastic enough to comprise not only poetry, drama, and fiction, but the essay, oratory, and much political and satirical prose. It should be further understood that for the purpose of this paper, English literature may be considered to begin about the middle of the fourteenth century. Earlier and Anglo-Saxon writings are by no means without great literary value, and it may at once be granted that no college teacher of English literature is thoroughly equipped for his work who is ignorant of them; but they can be read appreciatively only after considerable study of the language, the method and motives of which are linguistic rather than literary. =Aims governing the teaching of English literature= Perhaps it may be asked just here whether English literature, as thus defined, need be studied in college at all. Until quite recently that question seems generally to have been answered in the negative. Fifty years ago, few if any of our American colleges gave any study to texts of English classics. There were, indeed, in most colleges professors of rhetoric and _belles-lettres_, whose lectures upon the history and criticism of our literature were often of great value as an inspiration to literary study; but it was only in the decade from 1865 to 1875 that in most of our colleges the literature itself, with hesitating caution, began to be read and studied in the classroom. =Can literary appreciation be developed?= Nor was this hesitation without some reasons, at least plausible. The chief object of college training, it was said, is to discipline and strengthen the intellect, to give the student that grasp and power of thought which he may apply to all the work of later life. The college should not be expected to pay much attention to the cultivation of the imagination and the emotions. These faculties, to which literature makes appeal, are not, it was said, under the control of the will, and you cannot cultivate or strengthen them by sheer resolve or strenuous exertion. The first condition of any real appreciation of literature, so ran the argument, is spontaneous enjoyment of it; and you cannot command a right feeling for literature or for anything else. But a normal development of the imagination and the emotions does usually accompany the vigorous development of the intellect, so that the advancing student will be found to turn spontaneously to art and literature. And his appreciation of all the highest and deepest meanings in literature will be quickened because he brings to his reading a mind trained to accurate and vigorous thinking. Moreover, all substantial advantages from the study of modern vernacular literature can be better obtained from the Greek and Latin classics. They afford the same richness of thought and charm of form as our modern writing; but they demand for their appreciation that careful attention and study which modern literature too often discourages. The survivors of a former generation sometimes ask us today, with a touch of sarcasm, "Do you think the average New England college student of fifty to seventy-five years ago, when the Emersons and Longfellows and Lowells were young men, the days of the old _North American Review_ and the new _Atlantic Monthly_, had any less appreciation and enjoyment of whatever is good in literature, or any less power to produce it, than the young fellows who are coming out of college today after more than a quarter century of literary instruction?" And they occasionally suggest that, at all events, it is difficult to find any evidences of the result of such instruction in the quality of the literature produced or demanded today. =Conflict of utilitarian and cultural standards= On the other hand, the study of English literature often fares little better with the advocates of the modern practical tendency in education. They have but scanty allowance for a study assumed to be of so little use in the actual work of life. An acquaintance with well-known English books, especially if they be modern books, is, they admit, a desirable accomplishment if it can be gained without too much cost, but not to be allowed the place of more valuable knowledge. A typical modern father, writing not long ago to a modern educator, after giving with equal positiveness the subjects that his boy must have and must not have included in his course of study, added by way of concession, "The boy might, if he has time, take English literature." =Cultural and utilitarian standards harmonized= Now in answer to this second class of objectors, it may be frankly admitted that the study of English literature is primarily, if not entirely, cultural. A boy may not make a better engineer or practical chemist for having studied in college the plays of Shakespeare or the prose of Ruskin. And to the older objectors, who urge that literary study can ever give that severe intellectual discipline afforded by the older, narrower college course, we reply that it is not merely the intellectual powers that need culture and discipline. The ideal college training will surely not neglect the imagination and emotions, the faculties which so largely determine the conduct of life. And at no period in the educational process is the need of wide moral training so urgent as in those years when the young man is forming independent judgments and his tastes are taking their final set. The study of English literature finds its warrant for a place in the college curriculum principally because, better than any other subject, it is fitted to cultivate both the emotional and the intellectual sides of our nature. For in all genuine literature those two elements, the intellectual and the emotional, are united; you cannot get either one fully without getting the other. In some forms of literature, as in poetry, the emotional appeal is the main purpose of the writing; but even here no really profound or sublime emotion is possible without a solid basis of thought. =Appreciation the ultimate aim in the teaching of literature= This, then, let us understand, is the primary object of all college teaching in this department. It affords the student opportunity and incitement to read, during his four years, a considerable number of our best classics, representative of different periods and different forms of literature, and to read them with such intelligence and appreciation as to receive from them that discipline of thought and feeling which literature better than anything else is fitted to impart. If the student would or could do this reading by himself, without formal requirement or assistance, there might be little need of undergraduate teaching of literature; but every one who knows much of American college conditions knows that the average undergraduate has neither time, inclination, nor ability for such voluntary reading. =Appreciative study of literary masterpieces involves vigorous mental exercise= Just here lies a difficulty peculiar to the college teacher in this department. All studies that appeal primarily to the intellect and call only for careful attention and vigorous thinking can be prescribed, and mastery of them rigidly enforced. Indeed, the ambitious student is often stimulated to more vigorous effort by the very difficulty of his subject. But the appreciative reading of any work of literature cannot thus be prescribed. Of course the instructor may do much to help the student to such appreciation--that, indeed, is his chief duty; but he will not try to expound or enjoin emotional effects. Recognizing these limitations upon his work, he often finds it difficult to avoid one or the other of two dangers that beset all efforts to teach a vernacular literature; the student must not think his reading an idle pastime, nor, on the other hand, must he think it a repellent task. In the first case, he is likely never to read anything well; in the second case, the things best worth reading he will probably never read at all. Of the two dangers, the first is the more serious. The student ought early to learn that no really good reading is "light reading." And it may be remarked that this lesson was never more needed than today. There was never a time when people of all classes read more and thought less. We have what might almost be called a plague of reading, and an astonishing amount of what is called "reading matter" rolling out of our presses every year; while, significantly, we are producing very few books of permanent literary value. If the college study of literature is to encourage this indolent receptive temper, and relax the intellectual fiber of the student, then we might better drop it from the curriculum. The student must somehow learn that the book that is worth while will tax his thought, his imagination, his sympathies. He cannot be content merely to leave the door of his mind lazily open to it. Every teacher knows the difficulty in any attempt to inspire or direct such a pupil. And the simpler the subject assigned him, the greater the difficulty. Give him, for example, a group of the best lyrics in the language, in which the thought is simple and the sentiment homely or familiar. He will glance over them in half an hour, and then wonder what more you want of him. And you may not find it so easy to tell him. For he does not perceive nice shades of feeling, he has little sense of poetic form, he has not read the poems aloud to get the charm of their melody, and he will not let them linger in his mind long enough to feel that the simplest sentiments are often the most profound and moving. He simply tries to conjecture what sort of questions he is likely to meet on examination. Doubtless from this type of pupil better results can be obtained by the reading of prose not too familiar, that suggests more questions for reflection and discussion. =Suggestions for teaching of English literature--Emotional appreciation to have an intellectual basis= It is perhaps impossible to lay down a detailed method for the teaching of English literature. Much depends upon the nature of the literature read, the temperament of the teacher, the aptitude of the pupil. Every teacher will, in great measure, discover his own methods. At all events, no attempts will be made here to give more than a few suggestions. In the first place, the teacher will remember that every work of literature--except purely "imagist" poetry, which it is hardly worth while to teach--is based upon some thought or truth; in most varieties of prose literature this forms the main purpose of the writing. The first object of the student's reading, therefore, must be to understand thoroughly the intellectual element in what he reads; and here the instructor can often be of direct assistance. And after such careful reading, the higher emotional values of what he has read will often disclose themselves spontaneously, so that the reader will need little further help. =Abundant oral reading by teacher an aid to appreciation= Just here it is worth while to note the great value of reading aloud, both by the teacher as a means of instruction, and by the pupil as a test of appreciation. All good writing gains vastly when read thus. Mentally, at all events, we must image its sound if we are to get its full value. As to poetry, that goes without saying; for the essential, defining element in poetry is music. You may have truth, beauty, imagination, emotion, but without music you have not yet got poetry. But it is hardly less true that prose should be read aloud. "The best test of good writing," said Hazlitt--and no man in his generation wrote better prose than he--"is, does it read well aloud." The sympathetic oral reading of a passage from any prose master, a reading that naturally indicates points of emphasis, shades of thought, nuances of feeling, is often better than any formal explanation, for it reproduces the living voice of the writer. The wise teacher will avoid the mannerisms of the professed elocutionist or dramatic reader, but he will not neglect the value of truthful oral interpretation for many passages of beautiful, or subtle, or powerful writing. And the student will often give a better proof of intelligent appreciation by reading aloud, "with good accent and discretion," than by any more elaborate form of examination. =Knowledge of author's life and art and of ideals of the times necessary for comprehension and appreciation= Some varieties of literature can best be approached indirectly, through a study of the life of the author, or of the age in which he lived. As any great work of pure literature must come out of the author's deepest life, it is evident that any knowledge of that life gained from other sources may be an important aid in the appreciation of his work. It is true that in the case of a writer of supreme and almost impartial dramatic genius, such knowledge may be of comparatively little value; though few of us will admit that it is merely an idle curiosity that would be gratified by a fuller knowledge even of the man William Shakespeare. But all the more subjective forms of literature, such as the lyric and the essay, can hardly be studied intelligently without some biographical introduction. Still more obvious is the need in many instances of some accurate knowledge of the period in which a given work is produced. For all such writing as grows directly out of political or social conditions, as oratory, or political satire, or various forms of the essay, this is clearly necessary. It would be folly to attempt to read the speeches of Edmund Burke or the political writings of Swift without historical introduction and comment. But the historical setting is hardly less important in many other forms of literature. For the whole cast of an author's mind, the habitual tone of his feeling on most important matters, is often largely decided by his environment. It is only a very inadequate appreciation, for example, of the work not only of Carlyle and Ruskin but of Tennyson, Browning, and Matthew Arnold, that is possible without some correct knowledge of the varying attitude of these men toward important movements in English thought, social, economic, religious, between 1830 and 1880. It must always be an important part of the duty of the college teacher of literature to provide such biographical and historical information. =Knowledge of an author's style to be result of appreciative study of his works and not gathered from texts on literary criticism= All careful study of literature must involve some attention to manner or style--not so much, however, for its own sake, as a means for the fuller appreciation of what is read. In strictness, style has only one virtue, clearness; only one vice, obscurity. A perfect style is a transparent medium through which we plainly see the thought and feeling of the writer. Such a style may, indeed, often have striking peculiarities, but these are really the marks of the writer's personality, which his style reveals without exaggerating. All rhetorical study ought, therefore, to accompany or follow, not to precede, the careful reading for appreciation. No good book ought ever to be considered a mere _corpus vile_ for rhetorical praxis. =Careful attention to critical analysis= Of much greater value is that distinctively critical analysis which endeavors to discover the different elements, intellectual, imaginative, emotional, that enter into any work of literature, and to determine their relative amount and importance. Such analysis may well form the subject of classroom discussion, and advanced students should often be required to put the conclusions they have drawn from such discussion into the form of a finished critical essay. All exercises of this kind presuppose, of course, that the work criticized has been read with interest and intelligence; but no form of literary study is more stimulating or tends more directly to the formation of original and accurate critical judgments. It affords the best test of real literary appreciation. =Content of college course in literature= Obviously it is impossible with this method of study to cover the entire field of English literature in the four college years. It is wiser to read a few great books well than to read many smaller ones hurriedly. It becomes, therefore, an important question on what principle these books should be selected and grouped in courses. In the opinion of the present writer, it is well to begin with a brief outline sketch of the history of the literature given either in a textbook or by lectures, and illustrated by a few representative works, read carefully but without much detailed or intensive study. Such an introductory course may have little cultural value; but it furnishes that knowledge of the chronological succession of English writers, and the varieties of literature dominant in each period, that is necessary for further intelligent study. This knowledge should, indeed, be given in the preparatory schools, but unfortunately it usually is not. When given in college, the course should, if possible, be assigned to the freshman year. In the later years, the works selected for study will best be grouped either by period or by subject. Both plans have their advantages, but in most instances the first will be found the better. The study of a group of contemporary writers always gains in interest as we see how they all, with striking individual differences in temper and subject, yet reflect the social and moral life of their age. Sometimes the two plans may be united; a particular form of literature may be studied as the best representative of a period, as the political pamphlet for the age of Queen Anne or the extended essay for the first quarter of the nineteenth century. And in some rare instances a single writer is at once the highest representative of the age in which he lived and the supreme master of the form in which he wrote--as Shakespeare for the drama and Milton for the epic. =Gradation of courses and adaptation of methods to growing capacities of students= These courses should all--in the judgment of the present writer--be elective, but should be arranged in some natural sequence, those assigned to a lower year being preparatory to those of a higher. This sequence need not always be historical; the simpler course may well precede those which for any reason are more difficult. Methods of instruction will also naturally change, becoming less narrowly didactic with the advancement of the student. In the senior year the teacher will usually prefer to meet his classes in small sections, on the seminar plan, for informal discussion and the criticism of papers written by his pupils on questions suggested by their reading. Of such questions, students who for four years have been reading the masterpieces of English literature will surely find no lack. The number of courses that can be offered in the department will depend in some cases upon the relative size of the faculty and the student body. For in no other subject is it more important, especially in the later years, that the classes or sections should be small enough to allow some intimate personal touch between professor and student. It may be safely said that no college department of English literature is well officered or equipped that does not furnish at least four or five year-long courses of instruction. And certainly no student can maintain for four years such an acquaintance with the best specimens of a great literature without gaining something of that broad intelligence, heightened imagination, and just appreciation of whatever is best in nature and in human life, which combine in what we call culture. =Undergraduate vs. graduate teaching of English literature= Throughout this paper it has been assumed that what has been termed appreciation--that is, the ability to understand and enjoy the best things in literature--is the one central purpose to which all efforts must be subservient, in the teaching of English literature. But it should be remembered, as stated at the outset, that this paper has to do with the college undergraduate only, the candidate for the bachelor's degree. In the university, and to some extent in the graduate courses of the college leading to the master's degree, the subjects and methods of teaching may well be very different. Studies in comparative literature, studies of literary origins, the investigation of perplexed or controverted questions in the life or work of an author, the study and elucidation of the work of an unknown or little-known writer--all these and many other similar matters may very properly be the subjects of specialized graduate study. But they will rarely be found of most profit to undergraduate classes. CALEB T. WINCHESTER _Wesleyan University_ XIX THE TEACHING OF ENGLISH COMPOSITION[60] =Language an index of mental development= "Deeds, not words," is a platitude--a flat statement which reduces the facts of the case to an average, and calls that truth. It is absurd to imply, as does this old truism, that we may never judge a man by his words. Words are often the most convenient indices of education, of cultivation, and of intellectual power. And what is more, a man's speech, a man's writing, when properly interpreted, may sometimes measure the potentialities of the mind more thoroughly, more accurately, than the deeds which environment, opportunity, or luck permit. It is hard enough to take the intellectual measure even of the makers of history by their acts, so rapidly does the apparent value of their accomplishments vary with changing conceptions of what is and what is not worth doing. It is infinitely more difficult to judge in advance of youths just going out into the world by what they do. Their words, which reveal what they are thinking and how they are thinking, give almost the only vision of their minds; and "by their words ye shall know them" becomes not a perversion, but an adaptation of the old text. Would you judge of a boy just graduated entirely by the acts he had performed in college? If you did, you would make some profound and illuminating mistakes. This explains, I think, why parents, and teachers, and college presidents, and even undergraduates, are exercised over the study of writing English--which is, after all, just the study of the proper putting together of words. They may believe, all of them, that their concern is merely for the results of the power to write well--the ability to compose a good letter, to speak forcibly on occasion, to offer the amount of literacy required for most "jobs." But I wonder if the quite surprising keenness of their interest is not due to another cause. I wonder if they do not feel--perhaps unconsciously--that words indicate the man, that the power to write well shows intellect, and measures, if not its profundity, at least the stage of its development. We fasten on the defects of the letters written by undergraduates, on their faltering speeches, on their confused examination papers, as something significant, ominous, worthy even of comment in the press. And we are, I believe, perfectly right. Speech and writing, if you get them in fair samples, indicate the extent and the value of a college education far better than a degree. =Disappointing results from teaching of composition= It is this conviction which, pressing upon the schools and colleges, has caused such a flood of courses and textbooks, such an expenditure of time, energy, and money in the teaching of composition, so many ardent hopes of accomplishment, so much bitter disappointment at relative failure. I do not know how many are directly or indirectly teaching the writing of English in America--perhaps some tens of thousands; the imagination falters at the thought of how many are trying to learn it. Thus the parent, conscious of this enormous endeavor and the convictions which inspire it, is somewhat appalled to hear the critics without the colleges maintaining that we are not teaching good writing, and the critics within protesting that good writing cannot be taught. =Fixing responsibility for alleged failure of composition teaching= It is with the teachers, the administrators, the theorists on education, but most of all the teachers, that the responsibility for the alleged failure of this great project--to endow the college graduate with adequate powers of expression--must be sought. But these guardians of expression are divided into many groups, of which four are chief. There is first the great party of the Know-Nothings, who plan and teach with no opinion whatsoever as to the ends of their teaching. Under the conditions of human nature and current financial rewards for the work, this party is inevitably large; but it counts for nothing except inertia. There is next the respectable and efficient cohort of the Do-Nothings, who believe that good writing and speaking are natural emanations from culture, as health from exercise or clouds from the sea. They would cultivate the mind of the undergraduate, and let expression take care of itself. They do not believe in teaching English composition. Next are the Formalists, who hold up a dictionary in one hand, the rules of rhetoric in the other, and say, "Learn these, and good writing and good speaking shall be added unto you." The Formalists have weakened in late years. There have been desertions to the Do-Nothings, for the work of grinding rules into unwilling minds is hard, and it is far easier to adopt a policy of _laissez-faire_. But there have been far more desertions into a party which I shall call, for want of a better name, the Optimists. The Optimists believe that in teaching to write and speak the American college is accepting its most significant if not its greatest duty. They believe that we must understand what causes good writing, in order to teach it; and that for the average undergraduate writing must be taught. =Divergent views on teaching of composition= The best way to approach this grand battleground of educational policies is by the very practical fashion of pretending (if pretense is necessary) that you have a son (or a daughter) ready for college. What does he need, what must he have in a writing way, in a speaking way, when he has passed through all the education you see fit to give him? What should he possess of such ability in order to satisfy the world and himself? Facts, ideas and imagination, to put it roughly, make up the substance of expression. Facts he must be able to present clearly and faithfully; ideas he must be able to present clearly and comprehensively; his imagination he will need to express when his nature demands it. And for all these needs he must be able to use knowingly the words which study and experience will feed to him. He must be able to combine these words effectively in order to express the thoughts of which he is capable. And these thoughts he must work out along lines of logical, reasonable developments, so that what he says or writes will have an end and attain it. In addition, if he is imaginative--and who is not?--he should know the color and fire of words, the power of rhythm and harmony over the emotions, the qualities of speech whose secret will enable him to mold language to his personality and perhaps achieve a style. This he should know; the other powers he must have, or stop short of his full efficiency. Alas, we all know that the undergraduate, in the mass, fails often to attain even to the power of logical, accurate statement, whether of facts or ideas. It is true that most of the charges against him are to a greater or less degree irrelevant. Weighty indictments of his powers of expression are based upon bad spelling: a sign, it is true, of slovenliness, an indication of a lack of thoroughness which goes deeper than the misplacing of letters, but not in itself a proof of inability to express. Great writers have often misspelled; and the letters which some of our capable business men write when the stenographer fails to come back after lunch are by no means impeccable. Other accusations refer to a childish vagueness of expression--due to the fact that the American undergraduate is often a child intellectually rather than to any defects in composition _per se_. But it is a waste of time to deny that he writes, if not badly, at least not so clearly, so correctly, so intelligently, as we expect. The question is, why? It would be a comfort to place the blame upon the schools; and indeed they must take some blame, not only because they deserve it, but also to enlighten those critics of the college who never consider the kind of grain which comes into our hoppers. The readers of college entrance papers could tell a mournful story of how the candidates for our freshman classes write. Here, for an instance, is a paragraph intended to prove that the writer had a command of simple English, correct in sentence structure, spelling, capitalization, and punctuation. The subject is "The Value of Organized Athletics in Schools"--not an abstruse one, or too academic: If fellows are out in the open and take athletics say at a certain time every-day; These fellows are in good health and allert in their lessons, while those who take no exercise are logy and soft. Organized athletics in a school bring the former, while if a school has no athletics every-thing goes more or less slipshod, and the fellows are more liable to get into trouble, because they are nervious from having nothing to do. This is a little below the average of the papers rejected for entrance to college. It is not a fair sample of what the schools can do, but it is a very fair sample of what they often do not do. It was not written by a foreigner, nor, I judge, by a son of illiterate parents, since it came from an expensive Eastern preparatory school. The reader, marking with some heat a failure for the essay from which this paragraph is extracted, would not complain of the writer's paucity of ideas. His ideas are not below the average of his age. He would keep his wrath for the broken, distorted sentences, the silly spelling, the lack (which would appear in the whole composition) of even a rudimentary construction to carry the thought. Spelling, the fundamentals of punctuation, and the compacting of a sentence must be taught in the schools, for it is too late to cure diseases of these members in college. They can be abated; but again and again they will break out. It is the school's business to teach them; and the weary reader sees in this unhappy specimen but a dark and definite manifestation of a widespread slovenliness in secondary education, a lack of thoroughness which appears not only in the failures, but also, though in less measure, among the better writers, whose work is too good in other respects not to be reluctantly passed. Again, it would be easy to place much of the blame for the slipshod writings of the undergraduate upon the standards set by his elders outside the colleges. Editors can tell of the endless editing which contributions, even from writers supposed to be professional, will sometimes require. And when such a sentence as the following slips through, and begins an article in a well-known, highly respectable magazine, we can only say, "If gold rust, what will iron do?" Yes the Rot--and with a very big R--in sport: for that, thanks to an overdone and too belauded a Professionalism by a large section of the pandering press, is what it has got to. Again, any business man could produce from his files a collection of letters full of phrasing so vague and inconsequential that only his business instincts and knowledge of the situation enable him to interpret it. Any lawyer could give numberless instances where an inability to write clear and simple English has caused litigation without end. Indeed, the bar is largely supported by errors in English composition! And as for conversation conducted--I will not say with pedantical correctness, for that is not an ideal, but with accuracy and transparency of thought--listen to the talk about you! However, it is the business of the colleges to improve all that; and though it is not easy to develop in youth virtues which are more admired than practiced by maturity, let us assume that they should succeed in turning out writers of satisfactory ability, even with these handicaps, and look deeper for the cause of their relative failure. =Democratizing education and immigration the cause of poor quality of expression= The chief cause of the prevalent inadequacy of expression among our undergraduates is patent, and its effects are by no means limited to America, as complaints from France and from England prove. The mob--the many-headed, the many-mouthed, figured in the past by poets as dumb, or, at best, an incoherent thing of brutish noises signifying speech--is acquiring education and learning how to express it. Hundreds of thousands whose ancestors never read, and seldom talked except of the simpler needs of life, are doing the talking and the writing which their large share in the transaction of the world's business demands. Indeed, democracy requires not only that the illiterate shall learn to read and write in the narrower sense of the words, but also that the relatively literate must seek with their growing intellectuality a more perfect power of expression. And it is precisely from the classes only relatively literate--those for whom in the past there has been no opportunity, and no need, to become highly educated--that the bulk of our college students today are coming, the bulk of the students in the endowed institutions of the East as well as in the newer State universities of the West. The typical undergraduate is no longer the son of a lawyer or a clergyman, with an intellectual background behind him. There is plenty of grumbling among college faculties, and in certain newspapers, over this state of affairs. In reality, of course, it is the opportunity of the American colleges. Let the motives be what they may, the simple fact that so many American parents wish to give their children more education than they themselves were blessed with is a condition so favorable for those who believe that in the long run only intelligence can keep our civilization on the path of real progress, that one expects to hear congratulations instead of wails from the college campuses. Nevertheless, we pay for our opportunity, and we must expect to pay. The thousands of intellectual immigrants, ill-supplied with means of progress, indefinite of aim, unaware of their opportunities, who land every September at the college gates, constitute a weighty burden, a terrible responsibility. And the burden rests upon no one with more crushing weight than upon the unfortunate teacher of composition. That these entering immigrants cannot write well is a symptom of their mental rawness. It is to be expected. But thanks to the methods of slipshod, ambitious America, the schools have passed them on still shaky in the first steps of accurate writing--spelling, punctuation, sentence structure, and the use of words. Thanks to the failure of America to demand thoroughness in anything but athletics and business, they are blind to the need of thoroughness in expression. And thanks to the inescapable difficulty of accurate writing, they resist the attempt to make them thorough, with the youthful mind's instinctive rebellion against work. Nevertheless, whatever the cost, they must learn if they are to become educated in any practical and efficient sense; the immigrants especially must learn, since they come from environments where accurate expression has not been practiced--often has not been needed--and go to a future where it will be required of them. Not even the Do-Nothing school denies the necessity that the undergraduate should learn to write well. But how? =Solutions proposed by four types of instructors= The Know-Nothing school proposes no ultimate solution and knows none, unless faithfully teaching what they are told to teach, and accepting the sweat and burden of the day, with few of its rewards, be not in its blind way a better solution than to dodge the responsibility altogether. The Formalists labor over precept and principle--disciplining, commanding, threatening--feeling more grief over one letter lost, or one comma mishandled, than joy over the most spirited of incorrect effusions. They turn out sulky youths who nevertheless have learned something. The Do-Nothings propose a solution which is engaging, logical--and insufficient. They are the philosophers and the æsthetes among teachers, who see, what the Formalists miss, that he who thinks well will in the long run write as he should. Their special horror is of the compulsory theme, extracted from unwilling and idealess minds. Their remedy for all ills of speech and pen is: teach, not writing and speaking, but thinking; give, not rules and principles, but materials for thought. And above all, do not force college students to study composition. The Do-Nothing school has almost enough truth on its side to be right. It has more truth, in fact, than its principles permit it to make use of. The umpire in this contest--who is the parent with a son ready for college--should note, however, two pervading fallacies in this _laissez-faire_ theory of writing English. The first belongs to the party of the right among the Do-Nothings--the older teachers who come from the generation which sent only picked men to college; the second, to the party of the left--the younger men who are distressed by the toil, the waste, the stupidity which accompany so much work in composition. The older men attack the attempt to teach the making of literature. Their hatred of the cheap, the banal, and the false in literature that has been machine-made by men who have learned to express finely what is not worth expressing at all, leads them to distrust the teaching of English composition. They condemn, however, a method of teaching that long since withered under their scorn. The aim of the college course in composition today is not the making of literature, but writing; not the production of imaginative masterpieces, but the orderly arrangement of thought in words. Through no foresight of our own, but thanks to the pressure of our immigrants upon us, we have ceased teaching "eloquence" and "rhetoric," and have taken upon ourselves the humbler task of helping the thinking mind to find words and a form of expression as quickly and as easily as possible. The old teacher of rhetoric aspired to make Burkes, Popes, or De Quinceys. We are content if our students become the masters rather than the servants of their prose. The party of the left presents a more frontal attack upon the teaching of the writing of English. Show the undergraduate how to think, they say; fill his mind with knowledge, and his pen will find the way. Ah, but there is the fallacy! Why not help him to find the way--as in Latin, or surveying, or English literature? The way in composition can be taught, as in these other subjects. Writing, like skating, or sailing a boat, has its special methods, its special technique, even as it has its special medium, words, and the larger unities of expression. The laws which govern it are simple. They are always in intimate connection with the thought behind, and worthless without it; but they can be taught. Ask any effective teacher of composition to show you what he has done time and again for the freshman whose sprawling thought he has helped to form into coherent and unified expression. And do not be deceived by analogies drawn from our colleges of the mid-nineteenth century, where composition was not taught, and men wrote well; or from the English universities, where the same conditions are said (with dissenting voices) to exist. In the first place, they had no immigrant problem in the mid-century, nor have they in Oxford and Cambridge. In the second, the rigorous translation back and forward between the classics and the mother tongue, now obsolete in America, but still a requisite for an English university training, provides a drill in accuracy of language whose efficiency is not to be despised. The student must express his intellectual gains even as he absorbs them, or the crystallization of knowledge into personal thought will be checked at the beginning. The boy must be able to say what he knows, or write what he knows, or he does not know it. And it is as important to help him express as to help him absorb. The teachers in other departments must aid in this task or we fail; but where the whole duty of making expression keep pace with thought and with life is given to them, they will be forced either to overload, or to neglect all but the little arcs that bound their subjects. And since they are specialists in other fields, and so may neglect that technique of writing which in itself is a special study, their task, when they accept it, is hard, and their labor, when it is forced upon them, too often ineffective. Composition must be taught where college education proceeds--that is the truth of the matter; and if not taught directly, then indirectly, with pain and with waste. The school of the Optimists approaches this question of writing English with self-criticism and with a full realization of the difficulties, and of the tentative nature of the methods now in use, but with confidence as to the possibility of ultimate success. In order to be an Optimist in composition you must have some stirrings of democracy in your veins. You must be interested in the need of the average man to shape his writing into a useful tool that will serve his purposes, whether in the ministry or the soap business. This is the utilitarian end of writing English. And you must be interested in developing his powers of self-expression, even when convinced that no great soul is longing for utterance, but only a commonplace human mind--like your own--that will be eased by powers of writing and of speech. It is here that composition is of service to the imagination, and incidentally to culture; and I should speak more largely of this service if there were space in this chapter to bring forward all the aspects of college composition. It is the personal end of writing English. If the average man turns out to be a superman with mighty purposes ahead, or if he has a great soul seeking utterance, he will have far less need of your assistance; but you can aid him, nevertheless, and your aid will count as never before, and will be your greatest personal reward, though no greater service to the community than the countless hours spent upon the minds of the multitude. In order to be an Optimist it is still more important to understand that writing English well depends first upon intellectual grasp, and second upon technical skill, and always upon both. As for the first, your boy, if you are the parent of an undergraduate, is undergoing a curious experience in college. Against his head a dozen teachers are discharging round after round of information. Sometimes they miss; sometimes the shots glance off; sometimes the charge sinks in. And his brain is undergoing less obvious assaults. He is like the core of soft iron in an electro-magnet upon which invisible influences are constantly beating. His teachers are harassing his mind with methods of thinking: the historical method; the experimental method of science; the interpretative method of literature. Unfortunately, the charges of information too often lodge higgledy-piggledy, like bird-shot in a signboard; and the waves of influence make an impression which is too often incoherent and confused. If the historians really taught the youth to think historically from the beginning, and the scientists really taught him to think scientifically from the beginning, and he could apply his new methods of thought to the expression of his own emotions, experiences, life, then the teacher of composition might confine himself to the second of his duties, and teach only that technique which makes writing to uncoil itself as easily and as vividly as a necklace of matched and harmonious stones. In the University of Utopia we shall leave the organization of thought to the other departments, and have plenty left to do; but we are not yet in Utopia. At present, the teacher of composition stands like a sentry at the gates of knowledge, challenging all who come out speaking random words and thoughts; asking, "Have you thought it out?" "Have you thought it out clearly?" "Can you put your conclusions into adequate words?" And if the answers are unsatisfactory, he must proceed to teach that orderly, logical development of thought from cause to effect which underlies all provinces of knowledge, and reaches well into the unmapped territories of the imagination. But even in Utopia composition must remain the testing ground of education, though we shall hope for more satisfactory answers to our challenges. And even in Utopia, where the undergraduate perfects his thinking while acquiring his facts, it will be the duty of the teacher of writing to help him to apply his intellectual powers to his experiences, his emotions, his imagination, in short, to self-expression. And there will still remain the technique of writing. =How to teach college students the art of self-expression?= Theoretically, when the undergraduate has assembled his thoughts he is ready and competent to write them, but practically he is neither entirely ready nor usually entirely competent. It is one thing to assemble an automobile; it is another thing to run it. The technique of writing is not nearly as interesting as the subject and the thought of writing; just as the method of riding a horse is not nearly as interesting as the ride itself. And yet when you consider it as a means to an end, as a subtle, elastic, and infinitely useful craft, the method of writing is not uninteresting even to those who have to learn and not to teach it. The technique of composition has to do with words. We are most of us inapt with words; even when ideas begin to come plentifully they too often remain vague, shapeless, ineffective, for want of words to name them. And words can be taught--not merely the words themselves, but their power, their suggestiveness, their rightness or wrongness for the meaning sought. The technique of writing has to do with sentences. Good thinking makes good sentences, but the sentence must be flexible if it is to ease the thought. We can learn its elasticity, we can practice the flow of clauses, until the wooden declaration which leaves half unexpressed gives place to a fluent and accurate transcript of the mind, form fitting substance as the vase the water within it. This technique has to do with paragraphs. The critic knows how few even among our professional writers master their paragraphs. It is not a dead, fixed form that is to be sought. It is rather a flexible development, which grows beneath the reader's eye until the thought is opened with vigor and with truth. It is interesting to search in the paragraph of an ineffective editorial, an article, or theme, for the sentence that embodies the thought; to find it dropped like a turkey's egg where the first opportunity offers, or hidden by the rank growth of comment and reflection about it. Such research is illuminating for those who do not believe in the teaching of composition; and if it begins at home, so much the better. And finally, the technique of writing has to do with the whole, whether sonnet, or business letter, or report to a board of directors. How to lead one thought into another; how to exclude the irrelevant; how to weigh upon that which is important; how to hold together the whole structure so that the subject, all the subject, and nothing but the subject shall be laid before the reader; this requires good thinking, but good thinking without technical skill is like a strong arm in tennis without facility in the strokes. The program I have outlined is simpler in theory than in practice. In practice, it is easier to discover the disorder than the thought which it confuses; in practice, technical skill must be forced upon undergraduates unaccustomed to thoroughness, in a country that in no department of life, except perhaps business, has hitherto been compelled to value technique. Even the optimist grows pessimistic sometimes in teaching composition. And yet in the teaching of English the results are perhaps more evident than elsewhere in the whole range of college work. It is wonderful to see what can be accomplished by an enthusiast in the sport of transmuting brains into words. When the teacher seeks for his material in the active interests of the student--whether athletics or engineering or literature or catching trout--when he stirs up the finer interests, drawing off, as it were, the cream into words, the results are convincing. Writing is one of the most fascinating, most engaging of pursuits for the man with a craving to grasp the reality about him and name it in words. And even for the undergraduate, whose imagination is just developing, and whose brain protests against logical thought, it can be made as interesting as it is useful. The teaching of English composition in this country is a vast industry in which thousands of workmen are employed and in which a million or so of young minds are invested. I do not wish to take it too seriously. There are many accomplishments more important for the welfare of the race. And yet, if it be true that maturity of intellect is never attained without that clearness and accuracy of thinking which can be made to show itself in good writing, then the failure of the undergraduate to write well is serious, and the struggle to make him write better worthy of the attention of those who have children to be educated. I do not think that success in this struggle will come through the policy of _laissez-faire_. All undergraduates profit by organized help in their writing; many require it. I do not think that success will come by a pedantical insistence upon correctness in form without regard to the sense. Squeezing unwilling words from indifferent minds may be discipline; it certainly is not teaching. I think that success will come only to the teacher who is a middleman between thought and expression, valuing both. When we succeed in making the bulk of the undergraduates really think; when we can inspire them with a modicum of that passion for truth in words which is the moving force of the good writer; when the schools help us and the outside world demands and supports efficiency in diction; then we shall carry through the program of the Optimists. HENRY SEIDEL CANBY _Yale University_ Footnotes: [60] Reprinted in revised form from _College Sons and College Fathers_, Harper and Brothers. XX THE TEACHING OF THE CLASSICS =Significance of recent criticisms of the teaching of the classics= Methods of teaching are determined to a large extent by appreciation of the objects to be attained. If teachers make clear to themselves just what they wish to accomplish, they will more easily develop the means. The storm of objection now rising against the study of the Classics indicates clearly that there is a general dissatisfaction with the result of this study. There is a striking unanimity on this subject among persons of widely different talent and experience, of whom some are still students, while others are looking back upon their training in school and college after years of mature life. Their adverse criticism is all the more significant because often expressed with obvious regret. Some, who have had unusual opportunities for observation, state their opinion in no uncertain language. For example, Mr. Abraham Flexner, in his pamphlet "A Modern School," on page 18 says: "Neither Latin nor Greek would be contained in the curriculum of the Modern School--not, of course, because their literatures are less wonderful than they are reputed to be, but because their present position in the curriculum rests upon tradition and assumption. A positive case can be made out for neither." The president of Columbia University, in his Annual Report for 1915-1916, page 15, speaking of the "teachers of the ancient classics," says: "They have heretofore been all too successful in concealing from their pupils the real significance and importance of Greek and Latin studies." Such criticisms, however, do not prove that the study of the Classics cannot accomplish all that its advocates claim for it, but only that it is not now accomplishing satisfactory results. Undoubtedly there are various causes for a depreciation of classical studies at the present time. Other subjects, such as mathematics, are suffering from a similar disparagement. In recent years interest has centered more and more in studies designed to develop powers of observation, give knowledge of certain facts, or provide equipment for some particular vocation, to the neglect of those which discipline the mind or impart a general culture. It is certainly important, therefore, to consider the relative values of these various studies. To do so it is desirable to examine the aims of classical teaching and the methods by which these aims may be realized; for it is at least possible that the widespread dissatisfaction with this teaching is due not so much to the subject itself as to defects and insufficiency in the methods employed. =The present aims of classical teaching= Not all teachers of the Classics agree in all respects as to the aims of their teaching. Certain aims, however, are common to all the classical departments in American colleges. These are: 1. To train students, through the acquisition and use of the ancient languages, in memory, accuracy, analysis and logic, clearness and fluency of expression, and style. 2. To enable certain students to read with profit and enjoyment the masterpieces of Greek and Latin literature. 3. To impart to certain students a knowledge, as complete as possible, of the classical civilization as a whole. To a complete knowledge of this civilization belongs all that the ancients possessed or did, all that they thought or wrote, whether or not any particular part of it had an influence upon later times or is, in itself, interesting or valuable now. All parts alike are phenomena of the life of these ancient peoples and so of the life of the human race. 4. To impart a knowledge and understanding of the thoughts and ideas, the forms of expression, the institutions, and the experiences of the ancients, in so far as these are either actually valuable in themselves to the modern world or have influenced the development of modern civilization. Besides these aims which are common to all, there are certain others less generally pursued by classical teachers in this country. Among these are: 5. To make students familiar with "the Greek (and Latin) in English," i.e. with the etymology and history of words in our own language which had their origin in or through Greek or Latin.[61] 6. To trace the influences of the classic literature upon modern literature and thought.[62] 7. To train those who expect to teach the Classics in pedagogical methods, and to familiarize them with modern pedagogical appliances.[63] 8. To teach the language of the New Testament and of the Church Fathers.[64] The classical departments of some colleges also give courses in Modern Greek[65]: such courses, however, belong properly to the field of Modern Languages. Now it is by no means certain that all of these aims properly concern all classes of students. On the contrary, every one would doubtless agree that those described under Nos. 7 and 8 do not concern the average student of the Classics. It is also a debatable question whether it should be the aim of classical teaching to give all classical students some knowledge of the classic civilization as a whole; whether, for example, Aristophanes and Plautus, however important these authors may be for a complete understanding of the ancient life and literature, are worth while for all classical students alike. It is far more important, however, to determine whether, in that which seems to many persons the chief business of a classical department, all who study the masterpieces of the ancient literatures should be taught to study them in the original language. =Teaching from the originals only= No one doubts that classical departments should provide courses on the ancient literature in the original, or that the æsthetic qualities of a literature can be _fully_ appreciated only in the original language. Some people, however, maintain that every literary production is primarily a work of art, and consequently that its æsthetic qualities are its most essential qualities: that to teach the classical literature through the medium of translations would be aiming at an imperfect appreciation of its most essential qualities, and would also divert students from the study of its original form. Yet in most colleges courses on painting and sculpture are given through the medium of photographs, casts and copies, and no one questions the value and effectiveness of such courses, or doubts that they tend to increase the desire of the students to know the originals themselves. Similarly courses on Greek literature in translations are given at many American colleges, for example at Bucknell, California, Colorado, Harvard,[66] Idaho, Illinois, Kansas, Lafayette, Leland Stanford, Michigan, Missouri, New York University, North Dakota, Pennsylvania, Syracuse, Tennessee, Vermont, Washington University, Wesleyan, and Wisconsin: courses in Latin literature in translations at California, Colorado, Kansas, Leland Stanford, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, and Washington University. Besides these there are courses at some colleges on Greek or Roman Life and Thought,[67] or Life and Letters,[68] or Civilization,[69] most of which do not involve the use of the ancient languages on the part of the students. For example, at Brown courses which require no knowledge of the ancient languages are given in both Greek and Roman "Civilization as Illustrated by the Literature, History and Monuments of Art."[70] Harvard also offers courses entitled "A Survey of Greek Civilization" and "A Survey of Roman Civilization, Illustrated from the Monuments and Literature," in which a knowledge of the ancient languages is not required. In deciding the question here at issue it is essential to distinguish between the different kinds of literature. The value of certain literary productions undoubtedly consists chiefly in the æsthetic qualities of their form; that is, the excellence and influence of these productions depends upon the particular language actually used by the author. Such works of literature lose very much in translation, and it may be asserted with some reason that they lose their most essential qualities. It may well be doubted, therefore, whether any one can derive great pleasure or benefit from the study of the poems of Sappho or the odes of Horace, for example, unless these are studied in the original. The value of other literary productions, on the other hand, lies partly in their form and partly in their content, or in their content alone. It is quite a different question, therefore, whether one may derive a satisfactory pleasure and benefit from a translation of the _Agamemnon_ of Æschylus or Thucydides' _History of the Peloponnesian War_, of Lucretius or Tacitus, to say nothing of such books as Aristotle's _Constitution of Athens_. =Teaching only from classical texts= There is another and still more important question connected with the theory of classical teaching, namely whether all classical courses should be based upon or begin with the study of some classical text. Some are of the opinion that it is the business of classical teachers to teach the Greek and Latin languages, and the literatures in these languages, and that anything which cannot be taught best through the study of some portion of the classical literature in the original should be taught by some other department of the college. Consequently in some institutions courses on ancient literature in English translations are given by the English Department,[71] courses on Greek and Roman History, Archaeology, and Philosophy by the Departments of History, Archaeology, and Philosophy, respectively, courses on the Methods and Equipment of Teaching the Classics by the Department of Pedagogy. Others, less extreme in their views, hold (_a_) that any study of the Greek or Roman civilization apart from the original ancient literature would be vague, discoursive, and unprofitable, and in particular that a discussion of a literature or of literary forms without an immediate, personal acquaintance with this literature or these literary forms in the original would not be useful, and (_b_) that such courses would have little permanent value for the students because it would not be possible to compel the students to make much effort for themselves. Quite the opposite opinion on this most important question is held by those who believe (_a_) that the study of the Classics should not be confined to those who are now able, or may in the future be expected, to read the ancient literature in the original, (_b_) that there are some things even about the ancient literature and civilization which can be taught more effectively without the loss of time and the division of attention involved in reading the ancient authors in the original, and (_c_) that in courses such as those dealing with ancient history ancient books on these subjects, either in the original or in translations, cannot properly be used as textbooks for the reason that, quite apart from their errors and misconceptions, these books do not contain, except incidentally, those phases of the ancient life which are the most interesting and valuable to the modern world. Such persons consider that the attempt to convey an appreciation of the ancient literature through those limited portions of it which can be read by the students in the original is necessarily ineffective. They hold that to appreciate any literature one must study it as literature,--i.e., as English literature should be studied by English students, French literature by French students,--and that literary study of this sort properly begins where translation and exegesis leave off. And finally, they maintain that the effort to give students a lively knowledge of ancient life or ancient history through the ancient texts is precisely like the effort to illustrate ancient life by ancient works of art; e.g., to give a student an idea of an ancient soldier by showing him an ancient picture of a soldier. Such illustrations convey instead the impression that ancient life was both unattractive and unreal, that the study of it is childish and unpractical.[72] =Courses in the ancient languages= Many classical courses are designed primarily to teach the classical languages themselves, or to give mental training through the study and use of these languages. Until recently most American colleges required for admission an elementary knowledge of these languages involving commonly at least three years of preparatory training in Greek and from three to five years of preparatory Latin. Now, however, many colleges provide courses for beginners in Greek, some also for beginners in Latin. For example, courses for beginners in Greek are given at Bryn Mawr, University of California, Chicago, Colorado, Columbia, University of North Dakota, Dartmouth, Harvard, Idaho, Illinois, Johns Hopkins, Kansas, Lafayette, Leland Stanford, Michigan, New York University, Northwestern, University of Pennsylvania, University of Tennessee, Vanderbilt, Vermont, Washington University, Wesleyan, Williams, Wisconsin, Yale, and elsewhere. Courses for beginners in Latin are given, for example, at the Universities of Idaho, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin. Ordinarily these courses resemble in general plan and method the corresponding courses in secondary schools; but inasmuch as the students are more mature, the progress is much more rapid. =The "Natural Method"= In some institutions the attempt is made in teaching ancient Greek and Latin to employ methods used by the teachers of modern languages. Some classical teachers have even adopted to some extent the so-called "natural" or "direct" method of language teaching[73]: commonly such attempts have not been very successful, and where some degree of success has been attained the success seems due to the personality and enthusiasm of the individual teacher. Others have contented themselves with devoting a part of certain courses to exercises designed to show the students that the classical languages were at one time in daily use among living people and were the media of ordinary conversation[74]. Students in such courses commonly memorize certain colloquial phrases and take part in simple conversations in which these phrases can be used. Such methods, skillfully employed, undoubtedly relieve the tedium of the familiar drill in grammar and "prose composition," and may help materially in imparting both a knowledge of the ancient languages and a facility in reading the ancient authors. An interesting experiment is now being tried at the University of California in a course in Greek for beginners, given by Professor James T. Allen. The description of the course in the university catalogue is as follows: "An Introduction to the Greek Language based upon graded selections from the works of Menander, Euclid, Aristophanes, Plato, Herodotus, and the New Testament. The method of presentation emphasizes the living phrase, and has as its chief object the acquiring of reading power. Mastery of essential forms; memorizing of quotations; practice in reading at sight." This course has had considerable success. More than three hundred students have been enrolled thus far in a period of six or seven years, and some of these have testified that it was one of the most valuable courses they have had in any subject. One of the chief advantages has been that the students, while learning forms and vocabulary, are reading some real Greek, and that of first-rate quality.[75] =Use of modern literature in ancient Greek or Latin= Various attempts have been made, especially in recent years, to provide for classical students modern stories in ancient Latin, in the belief that modern students will acquire a practical knowledge of the language more readily from such textbooks than from any parts of the ancient literature.[76] The story of Robinson Crusoe was translated into Latin by G. F. Goffeaux, and this version has been edited and republished by Dr. Arcadius Avellanus, Philadelphia, 1900 (173 pages). An abridgement of the original edition was edited by P. A. Barnett, under the title _The Story of Robinson Crusoe in Latin, adapted from Defoe by Goffeaux_, Longmans, Green and Co., 1907. Among original compositions in ancient Latin for students may be mentioned (1) Ritchie's _Fabulae Faciles_, A First Latin Reader, edited by John Copeland Kirtland, Jr., of Phillips Exeter Academy, Longmans, Green & Co., 1903 (134 pages). (2) _The Fables of Orbilius_ by A. D. Godley, London, Edward Arnold, two small pamphlets, illustrated, containing short and witty stories for beginners. (3) _Ora Maritima_, A Latin Story for Beginners, by E. A. Sonnenschein, seventh edition, 1908, London, Kegan, Paul and Co.; New York, The Macmillan Company (157 pages). This is the account of the experiences of some boys during a summer in Kent. (4) _Pro Patria_, A Latin Story for Beginners by Professor E. A. Sonnenschein, London, Swan, Sonnenschein and Co.; New York, The Macmillan Company, 1910 (188 pages). (5) _Rex Aurei Rivi, auctore Johanne Ruskin, Latine interpretatus est Arcadius Avellanus, Neo-eboraci_, 1914 (Published by E. P. Prentice). (6) F. G. Moore: _Porta Latina_, Fables of La Fontaine in a Latin Version, Ginn and Co., 1915. A series of translations of modern fiction is now being produced under the title of The Mount Hope Classics, published by Mr. E. P. Prentice, 37 Wall Street, New York City. The translator is Dr. Arcadius Avellanus. The first of these appeared in 1914 under the title _Pericla Navarci Magonis_, this being a translation of _The Adventures of Captain Mago_, or _With a Phoenician Expedition, B. C. 1000_, by Léon Cahun, Scribner's, 1889. The second volume, _Mons Spes et Fabulae Aliae_, a collection of short stories, was published in 1918. The third, _Mysterium Arcae Boule_, published in 1916, is the well-known Mystery of the Boule Cabinet by Mr. Burton Egbert Stevenson. The fourth, _Fabulae Divales_, published in 1918, is a collection of fairy stories for young readers to which is added a version of Ovid's _Amor et Psyche_. Over these books a lively controversy has arisen between Dr. Avellanus and Mr. Charles H. Forbes, of Phillips Academy, Andover.[77] Undoubtedly the translator's style and vocabulary are far from being strictly in accord with the present canons of classical Latin. He employs a multitude of words and idioms unfamiliar to those whose reading has been confined to the masterpieces of the ancient literature which are most commonly studied. On the other hand, the ancient language is made in these books a medium of modern thought. The stories presented hold the attention, the vividness of the narrative captivates the reader and carries him through the obscurities of diction and of style to a wholly unexpected realization that Latin is a real language after all. It is a serious question whether students can ever acquire a mastery of a language, or even a sufficient knowledge of it really to appreciate its literature, unless they learn to use this language to express their own thoughts. But it is evident that it is impossible adequately to express modern ideas in the language of Cæsar and Cicero. Those who would exclude the Latin of comparatively recent authors such as Erasmus from the canon of the Latin which may be taught, as well as those who confine their teaching to the translation and parsing of certain texts, are raising the question whether the Latin language should be taught at all in modern times. Naturally less effort has been made to provide for students modern literature in ancient Greek. At least one such book, however, is available, _The Greek War of Independence, 1821-27, told in classical Greek for the use of beginners_ (with notes and exercises) by C. D. Chambers: published by Swan, Sonnenschein and Co. =Courses in "Prose Composition"= In nearly all American colleges courses in Greek and Latin composition are given, either as a means of mental training or in order to give a more complete mastery of these languages and a greater facility in reading the literature. In some places, for example at the University of California, a series of courses is given in both Greek and Latin composition culminating in original compositions, translations of selections from modern literature, and conversation in the ancient languages. Courses in Latin conversation[78] are given in other places also, and courses in the pronunciation of ancient Greek and Latin.[79] All such courses belong to the general field of the study of the classical languages as distinguished from the study of the literature, history, or any other phase of the classical civilization. This branch of language study, of course, includes such purely linguistic courses as those in Comparative Philology, Comparative Grammar, the Morphology of the Ancient Languages, Syntax, Dialects, etc. =Courses in literature= The bulk of classical teaching in American colleges is devoted to the literature. The great majority of all college courses in Latin and Greek have the same general characteristics.[80] A certain limited portion of text is assigned for preparation. This text is then translated by the students in class, and the translation corrected. Grammatical and exegetical questions and the content of the passage are discussed. Most of the time at each meeting of the class is consumed in such exercises. Generally lectures or informal talks are given by the instructor upon the life and personality of each author whose work is read, upon the life and thought of his times, upon the literary activity as a whole, and upon the value of those selections from his works which are the subject of the course. Sometimes the students are required to read more of the original literature than can be translated in class. Generally some collateral reading in English is assigned. Often the instructor reads to the class, usually from the original, other portions of the ancient literature. The number and extent of such courses in the different institutions vary according to the strength of the faculty, the plan of the curriculum, and the number and demands of the students in each. In the main, however, the list of selections from the ancient literature presented in such courses in all the colleges is much the same. Many of these courses deal with one particular author and his works, such as Sophocles, Plato, Plautus, or Horace. Others deal with some particular kind of literature, such as Greek tragedy or oratory, Latin comedy, etc., or with a group of authors of different types combined for the sake of variety.[81] =Methods commonly pursued= The methods as well as the aims of such courses are well exemplified in the following passages contained in the _Circular of Information_ for 1915-1916 of the University of Chicago, page 211: "Ability to read Greek with accuracy and ease, and intelligent enjoyment of the masterpieces of Greek literature are the indispensable prerequisites of all higher Greek scholarship. All other interests that may attach to the study are subordinate to these, and their pursuit is positively harmful if it prematurely distracts the student's attention from his main purpose." It is not immediately apparent what distinction is made here, if there is any, between the "prerequisites" and the "main purpose" of classical scholarship. What the chief aim of classical teaching is according to this view, however, is made clear by the two paragraphs which follow, as well as by the descriptions of the individual courses offered by the Chicago faculty. "In the work of the Junior Colleges the Department will keep this principle steadily in view, and will endeavor to teach a practical knowledge of Greek vocabulary and idiom, and to impart literary and historic culture by means of rapid viva voce translation and interpretation of the simpler masterpieces of the literature.... In the Senior Colleges the chief stress will be laid on reading and exegesis, but the range of authors presented to the student's choice will be enlarged." =Value of such courses= The advantage of such courses is that they make the students who take them familiar with at least some limited portions of the best of the ancient literature in its original form, and most people are agreed that this is the only way in which students can be taught to appreciate that part of this literature, the value of which lies chiefly or wholly in its form. But people are not agreed upon two most serious questions which arise in this connection. The first is whether all students are capable of appreciating at all literature of this sort, especially when it is conveyed in an ancient and difficult language. The other question is how much of the classical literature really depends for its values chiefly upon its form. To say that the Psalms and the Gospels have no value or little value for the world apart from the original form and language in which they were written would, of course, be absurd. Is it any less absurd to say that the study of the Homeric poems, the Attic tragedies, the works of Thucydides and Plato would have little value for students unless this literature were studied in the original language? These questions cannot properly be ignored any longer by teachers of the Classics. =Defects of these courses= The defects of such courses are manifest to most persons. Students who pursue these courses through most of the years of secondary school and college fail to acquire either such a knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages as would enable them to read with pleasure and profit a Greek or Latin book, or such a knowledge of the Greek and Roman literature and civilization as would enable them to appreciate the value of classical studies. Many of them graduate from college without even knowing that there is anything really worthy of their attention in the classical literatures. The fact stares the teachers of the Classics grimly in the face that they are not accomplishing the aims which they profess. One explanation of this fact suggests itself. In the classical courses commonly given in American colleges the attention paid to the content of the literature, to the author and his times--the lectures and readings by the instructor, the discussion of archaeological, historical, literary, and philosophical matters introduced into the course,--distract attention from the study of the language itself, and check this study before a real mastery of the language has been secured. On the other hand, the time and still more the attention devoted in these courses to the mere process of translation detracts from the appreciation of the literature and obstructs the study of the life and thought. In attempting to accomplish both purposes in these courses the teachers fail to accomplish either, and the result is chiefly a certain mental training, the practical value of which depends largely upon the mental capacity and skill of each individual teacher, and is not readily appreciated. =Courses not requiring knowledge of the ancient languages= To obviate some of these defects, and also to provide courses on Greek and Roman culture for those unfamiliar with the ancient languages, courses which require no use of these languages are now given at various colleges on Classical Literature or Civilization.[82] A course on the "Greek Epic" at the University of California is described as follows: "A study chiefly of the Iliad and the Odyssey; their form, origin, and content; Homeric and pre-Homeric Aegean civilizations; relative merits of modern translations; influence of the Homeric poems on the later Greek, Roman, and modern literature. Lectures (partly illustrated), assigned readings, discussions, and reports." The course at Harvard entitled "Survey of Greek Civilization" is "A lecture course, with written tests on a large body of private reading (mostly in English). No knowledge of Greek is required beyond the terms which must necessarily be learned to understand the subject." "The prescribed reading includes translations of Greek authors as well as modern books on Greek life and thought." The lecturer frequently reads and comments upon selections from the ancient literature. At Brown University a course is given on Greek Civilization, including the following topics: I Topography of Greece, II Prehistoric Greece, III The Language, IV Early Greece (The Makers of Homer, Expansion of Greece, Tyrannies, The New Poetry, etc.), V The Transition Century, 600-500 B. C. ((_a_) Government and Political Life, (_b_) Literature, (_c_) art), VI The Classical Epoch, 500-338 B. C. ((_a_) Political and Military History, (_b_) Literature, (_c_) The Fine Arts), VII The Hellenistic and Græco-Roman Periods, ((_a_) History, (_b_) Literature, (_c_) Philosophy, (_d_) Learning and Science, (_e_) Art), VIII The Sequel of Greek History (The Byzantine Empire, the Italian Renaissance, Mediæval and Modern Greece). This is described as "Wholly a lecture course, with frequent written tests, examination of the notebooks, and a final examination on the whole. Definite selections of the most conspicuous authors are required in English translations." The Lecturer also reads selections from Homer, the Greek drama, Pindar, etc. Similar courses on Roman civilization are given at both Brown and Harvard. There is also a course of fifteen lectures on "Greek Civilization" at Vermont; "The Culture History of Rome, lectures with supplementary reading in English," at Washington University; "Greek Civilization, lectures and collateral reading on the political institutions, the art, religion, and scientific thought of ancient Greece in relation to modern civilization," at Wesleyan; "The Role of the Greeks in Civilization" at Wisconsin.[83] =Defects of the lecture system= Whatever success such courses may have, they are open to one criticism. Most, if not all of them, appear to be primarily lecture courses, with more or less collateral reading controlled by tests and examinations. The experience of many, however, justifies to some extent the belief that college students derive little benefit from collateral reading controlled only in this way, because such reading is commonly most superficial. Little mental training, therefore, is involved in courses such as those just described, and the ideas which the students acquire in them are chiefly those given to them by others. And it may reasonably be doubted whether the value to the students of ideas received in this way is comparable to the value of those which they are led to discover for themselves. So far, then, as such courses fail to accomplish the purposes for which they were designed, their failure may be due wholly to this cause. =The study of literature apart from its original language= It is entirely possible to conceive of courses in which no use of the ancient languages would be required, but in which the students would acquire by their own efforts a knowledge of the classical literature and civilization far more extensive and more satisfying than in courses largely devoted to translating from Greek and Latin. Such courses would not merely substitute English translations for the originals, and treat these translations as the originals are treated in courses of the traditional type; the ancient literature would be studied in the same way as English literature is studied. For example, in a course of this kind on Greek literature, in dealing with the Odyssey the students would discuss in class, or present written reports upon, the composition of the poem as a whole, and the relation to the main plot of different episodes such as the quest of Telemachus, his visit to Pylos and Lacedæmon, the scene in Calypso's cave, the building of the raft, the arrival of Odysseus among the Phæacians, his account of his own adventures, his return to Ithaca, the slaying of the wooers, etc.; also the characters of the poem, their individual experiences and behavior in various circumstances, and the ideas which they express, comparing these characters and ideas with those of modern times. In dealing with the drama, the students would study the composition of each play, present its plot in narrative form, and criticize it from the dramatic as well as from the literary standpoint; they would discuss the characters and situations, and the ideas embodied in each.[84] In dealing with Thucydides they would discuss the plan of his book and the artistic elements in its composition; also the critical standards of the author, his methods, his objectivity, and his personal bias. They would study the debates in which the arguments on both sides of great issues are presented, expressing their own opinions on the questions involved. They would study the great descriptions, such as the account of the siege of Platæa, the plague at Athens, the last fight in the harbor of Syracuse, making a summary in their own language of the most essential or effective details. Lastly they would discuss such figures as Pericles, Nicias and Alcibiades, Archidamus, Brasidas and Hermocrates, their characters, principles, and motives. In dealing with Plato they would study the character of Socrates and those ideas contained in the Platonic dialogues which can be most readily comprehended by college students. =Classical studies not confined to the ancient authors= The study of "The Classics" is not properly confined to the Greek and Latin literatures: it includes the military, political, social, and economic history of the ancient Greeks and Romans, their institutions, their religion, morals, philosophy, science, art, and private life. The geography and topography of ancient lands, anthropology and ethnology, archaeology and epigraphy contribute to its material. It is not necessary that all these subjects be taught by members of a classical department. In particular it is the common practice in this country to relegate the study of ancient philosophy to the Department of Philosophy, whereas in England and on the Continent such distinctions between departments are not recognized. But certainly these branches of the study of the classical civilization should be taught best by those most familiar with the classical civilization in all its phases, and most thoroughly trained in the interpretation and criticism of its literature. It is also obvious that the teaching of the classical literature would be emasculated if it were separated from these other subjects mentioned. Only, such subjects as history should not be taught from the literary point of view. History should be an account of what actually took place, derived from every available source and not from a synthesis of a literary tradition. In this respect the teachers of the Classics have from the earliest times made the most serious mistakes. To some extent the same charges may be brought against the methods and traditions of the teachers of modern history. The teaching of Greek and Roman history, however, is affected in a peculiar degree by the traditions of classical scholarship. The historical courses given by most classical teachers are based upon the translation and discussion of the works of certain ancient authors, whose accounts are not only false and misleading in many respects, but characteristically omit those factors in the ancient life which are the most significant and interesting to the modern world. Such courses begin by implanting false impressions which no amount of explanation can eradicate. The ancient world, therefore, is made to appear to modern students unreal and unworthy of serious attention: it is not strange that they are dissatisfied with such teaching, and that it seems to many practically worthless. A true picture of the life and experience of the ancient Greeks and Romans would appear both interesting and profitable to a normal college student. =Summary of objects to be sought in the teaching of the classics= The aims of the teaching of the Classics in American colleges should be to give, in addition to a training of the mind: 1. An appreciation of the best of the classical literature. For this is, in many respects, the best literature which we have at all, even when without any allowances it is compared with the best of modern literatures. Much of it is universal in character. It is also the foundation of the modern literatures. By learning to appreciate it, students would learn to judge and appreciate all literature. 2. A familiarity with the characters and narratives of the ancient literature. The knowledge of these characters, their behavior under various vicissitudes of fortune, and their experiences, would of itself be a valuable possession and equipment for life. 3. A knowledge of the ideas of the ancient Greeks and Romans, revealed and developed in their literature, and tested in the realities of their life. Many of these ideas are of the utmost value today, and are in danger of being overlooked and forgotten in this materialistic age of ours, unless they are constantly recalled to our minds by such studies. 4. A knowledge of the actual experiences of the ancients, as individuals and as nations, their experiments in democracy and other forms of government, in imperialism, arbitration, and the like, their solutions of the moral, social, and economic problems which were as prominent in their world as in ours. To realize these aims old methods should be revised and improved, new methods developed. For there can hardly be a study more valuable and practical than this. WILLIAM K. PRENTICE _Princeton University_ Footnotes: [61] For example, at the University of Kansas. [62] Leland Stanford, Michigan, Princeton. [63] California, North Dakota, Harvard, Idaho, Illinois, Kansas, Leland Stanford, Michigan, Oberlin, Otterbein, Pennsylvania, Vermont, Wisconsin, Yale, etc. Some of these courses are offered only to graduate students, and some are given by the Departments of Pedagogics. [64] In New Testament or Patristic Greek at Austin, Bucknell, California, Cornell, Harvard, Illinois, Lafayette, Michigan, Millsaps, Trinity, Wesleyan. In Patristic Latin, Bucknell and elsewhere. [65] Brown, Cornell, Leland Stanford. [_N. B._ These lists are by no means complete.] [66] History of Greek Tragedy. Lectures with reading and study of the plays of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Requires no knowledge of the Greek language. [67] E.g., Columbia, Lafayette. [68] California, Washington University. [69] Colorado, Idaho, Syracuse, Vermont, Washington University, Wesleyan, Wisconsin. [70] It should be noted that at Brown the titles of the classical departments are "The Department of Greek Literature and History" and "The Department of Roman Literature and History." [71] At Cornell and Oberlin, for example. [72] See especially Clarence P. Bill. "The Business of a College Greek Department," _Classical Journal_, IX (1913-14), pp. 111-121. [73] See the article by Mr. Theodosius S. Tyng in _Classical Weekly_, VIII (1915), Nos. 24 and 25. Also M. J. Russell: "The Direct Method of Teaching Latin," in the _Classical Journal_, XII (1916), pages 209-211, and other articles on this subject in the _Classical Journal_ and the _Classical Weekly_ in recent years. [74] For example, "Latin Conversation," at Columbia; "Oral Latin," at Leland Stanford; "Sight Reading and Latin Speaking," at New York University. [75] See Professor Allen's article, "The First Year of Greek," in the _Classical Journal_, X (1915), pages 262-266. [76] As early as the seventeenth century books were produced which may be regarded as the forerunners of this sort of modern composition in the ancient language. One of these was published in 1604 under the title: "Iocorum atque seriorum tum novorum tum selectorum atque memorabilium libri duo, recensente Othone Melandro." Another is the "Terentius Christianus seu Comoediae Sacrae--Terentiano stylo a Corn. Schonaeo Goudono conscriptae, editio nova Amstelodami 1646": this includes dramas such as Naaman (princeps Syrus), Tobaeus (senex), Saulus, Iuditha, Susanna, Ananias, etc. Still another is the "Poesis Dramatica Nicolai Amancini S. J.," in two parts, published in 1674 and 1675. A century later there appeared a story which, judging from its title, was designed primarily for students: "Joachimi Henrici Campe Robinson Secundus Tironum causa latine vertit Philippus Julius Lieberkühn," Zullich, 1785. [77] See the _Classical Journal_, XI (1914), pages 25-32; _Classical Weekly_, IX (1915-16), pages 149-151; X (1916), pages 38 f.; _Classical Weekly_, X (1916), pages 37 f. [78] See note 2, page 411. [79] Columbia. [80] This is true of the courses in secondary schools and graduate courses in universities also; but in the secondary and graduate schools the proportion of translation courses to the others is smaller. [81] For example, at Harvard one course includes Plato, Lysias, Lyric Poetry, and Euripides, with lectures on the history of Greek literature; another Livy, Terence, Horace and other Latin Poets. [82] See above, page 407 f. [83] For a fuller list of institutions where classical courses not requiring a knowledge of the ancient languages are given see above, page 407. [84] "Die höchste Aufgabe bei der Lektüre des griechischen Dramas sei das Stück Leben, das uns der Dichter vor Augen führt, in seinem vollen Inhalt miterleben zu lassen." C. Wunderer, in _Blätter für das Gymnasial-Schulwesen_, Vol. LII (1916), 1. XXI THE TEACHING OF THE ROMANCE LANGUAGES =The college course must emphasize power, not facts= IT is well at times to emphasize old truths, mainly because they are old and are consecrated by experience. One of these, frequently combated nowadays, is that any college course--worthy of the name--has other than utilitarian ends. I therefore declare my belief that the student does not go to college primarily to acquire facts. These he can learn from books or from private instruction. _Me judice_--he goes to college primarily to learn _how to interpret_ facts, and to arrive through this experience at their practical as well as their theoretic value: as respects himself, as respects others, and in an ever widening circle as regards humanity in general. The first object, thus, of a college course is to humanize the individual, to emancipate him intellectually and emotionally from his prejudices and conventions by giving him a wider horizon, a sounder judgment, a firmer and yet a more tolerant point of view. "Our proclivity to details," said Emerson, "cannot quite degrade our life and divest it of poetry." The college seizes upon the liberating instinct of youth and utilizes it for all it is worth. We summarize by saying that the college prepares not merely for "life" but for "living"; so that the society whom the individual serves will be served by him loyally, intelligently, and broad-mindedly, with an increasing understanding of its aims and purposes. =The college can attain its aim only when the student brings necessary facts from secondary schools= This, let us assume, is the somewhat lofty ideal. What about its concrete realization? Especially when the subject is a language, which, considering that it consists of parts of speech, inflections, phonetics, etc., is a very practical matter and apparently far removed from the ideal in question. Every language teacher is familiar with this stock objection. How often has he not been told that his business is not to teach French culture or Spanish life, but French and Spanish? And as everybody knows, French and Spanish are not learned in a day, nor, indeed, if we judge by the average graduate of our colleges, in four years of classroom work. It is not my purpose to combat the contention that college French or Spanish or Italian could be taught better, and that from a utilitarian point of view the subject is capable of a great deal of improvement. As Professor Grandgent has trenchantly said "I do not believe there is or ever was a language more difficult to acquire than French; most of us can name worthy persons who have been assiduously struggling with it from childhood to mature age, and who do not know it now: yet it is treated as something any one can pick up offhand.... French staggers under the fearful burden of apparent easiness." I do not think these words overstate the case. All the more reason, then, to bear in mind that the burden of this accomplishment should not fall on the college course alone, or, I should even say, on the college course at all. For the fact is that a thorough knowledge of the Romance tongues cannot be acquired in any college course, and to attack the problem from that angle alone is to attempt the impossible. It is on the school, and not on the college, that the obligation of the practical language problem rests. If our students are to become proficient in French--in the sense that they can not only read it but write and speak it with passable success--the language must be begun early, in the grade school (when memory and apperception are still fresh), and then carried forward systematically over a period of from six to seven years. But this will require on the part of our schools: (1) a longer time allotment to the subject than it now generally has, (2) a closer articulation between the grade-school, high-school, and college courses, and (3) the appointment of better and higher-paid teachers of the subject. An encouraging move is being made in many parts of the country to carry out this plan, though of course we are still a long way from its realization; and when it is realized we shall not yet have reached the millennium. But at least we shall have given the practical teaching of the subject a chance, comparable to the opportunity it has in Europe; and the complaint against the French and Spanish teacher--if there still be a chronic complaint--will have other grounds than the one we so commonly hear at present. =Limitations of elementary and intermediate courses as college courses= In the meantime, let us remember that the college has other, and more pressing, things to do than to attempt to supply the shortcomings of the school. It is certainly essential that the college should continue and develop the practical work of the school in various ways, such as advanced exercises and lectures in the foreign idiom, special conversation classes, and the like--if only for the simple reason that a language that is not used soon falls into desuetude and is forgotten. But assuredly the so-called elementary, intermediate, and advanced courses in French and Spanish (as given in college) do not fall under that head. They exist in the college by _tolerance_ rather than by sound pedagogical theory, and the effort now being made to force all such courses back into the school by reducing the college "credits" they give is worthy of undivided support. Not only are they out of place in the college program, but the burden of numerous and often large "sections" in these courses has seriously impeded the college in its proper language work. The college in its true function is the clarifier of ideas, the correlator of facts, the molder of personalities; and the student of modern languages should enter college prepared to study his subject from the college point of view. Much of the apparent "silliness" of the French class which our more virile undergraduates object to would be obviated if a larger percentage of them could at once enter upon the more advanced phases of the subject. It is, then, to their interest, to the interest of the subject, and to the advantage of the college concerned, that this reform be brought about. =Aim of the teaching of Romance languages in the college= In any case, the function of a college subject can be stated, as President Meiklejohn has stated it, in terms of two principles. He says: "The first is shared by both liberal and technical teaching. The second applies to liberal education alone. The principles are these: (1) that activity guided by ideas is on the whole more successful than the same activity without the control of ideas, and (2) that in the activities common to all men the guidance of ideas is quite as essential as in the case of those which different groups of men carry on in differentiation from one another." As applied to the Romance languages, this means that while the college must of course give "technical" instruction in language, the emphasis of that instruction should be upon the "ideas" which the language expresses, in itself and in its literature. It is not enough that the college student should gain fluency in French or Spanish, he must also and primarily be made conscious of the processes of language, its logical and æsthetic values, the civilization it expresses, and the thoughts it has to convey. While it may be said that all thorough language instruction accomplishes this incidentally, the college makes this _the_ aim of its teaching. The college should furnish an objective appraisal of the fundamental elements of the foreign idiom, not merely a subjective (and often superficial) mastery of details. For the old statement remains true that--when properly studied--"proverbs, words, and grammar inflections convey the public sense with more purity and precision than the wisest individual";[85] and what shall we say when "literature" is added to this list? =Status of Romance languages in representative colleges--Early status= From these preliminary observations let us now turn to the present status of Romance languages in some of our representative colleges.[86] One gratifying fact may be noted at once. Whereas a quarter of a century ago Greek and Latin were still considered the _sine qua non_ of a liberal education, today French and German, and to a lesser extent Spanish and Italian, have their legitimate share in this distinction. Indeed, to judge merely by the number of students, they would seem to have replaced Latin and Greek. To be sure, several colleges, as for instance Amherst and Chicago, alarmed by this swing of the pendulum, have reserved the B.A. degree for the traditional classical discipline. But in the first case the entire curriculum includes "two years of Greek or Latin," and in the second the B.A. students comprise but a very small percentage of the college body; and while in both cases Latin and Greek are required subjects, Romance is admitted as an elective, in which--to mention only Amherst--six consecutive semester courses, covering the main phases of modern French literature, can be chosen. As noted, the recognition of modern languages as cultural subjects is relatively recent. As late as 1884 a commission, appointed by the Modern Language Association, found that "few colleges have a modern language requirement for admission to the course in arts; ... of the fifty reported, three require French, two offer an election between French and German, and two require both French and German." And of these same colleges, "eighteen require no foreign language, twenty-nine require either French or German, and eighteen require both French and German, for graduation in the arts." Obviously, few (at most seven) of the colleges examined admitted students prepared to take advanced courses in French; and only eighteen, or 36 per cent, allowed students to begin French in the freshman year, over one half of the entire number postponing the beginners' French until the sophomore, junior, or even senior year. It is clear, therefore, that as late as 1864, and in spite of such illustrious examples as that set by Harvard in the appointment of Ticknor to the Smith professorship in 1816, the Romance languages could hardly be classed as a recognized college subject. At best, they were taught on the principles that "it is never too late to learn," and although this teaching failed from the "practical" point of view, it yet had little or no opportunity to concern itself with the cultural aspects of the subject. No wonder the commission reported[87] that in the circumstances "a mastery of language, as well as a comprehensive study of the literature, is impossible." With the part played by our Greek and Latin colleagues in keeping the modern languages out of the curriculum we need not deal in detail here. It is enough, in order to explain their attitude, to observe that previous to 1884 the teaching of modern languages was generally poor: it was intrusted for the most part to foreigners, who, being usually ignorant of the finer shades of English and woefully ignorant of American students, could not have been expected to succeed, or to native Americans, who for various and often excellent reasons lacked the proper training, and therefore succeeded--when in rare cases they did succeed--in spite of their qualifications rather than because of them. Add to all this the conviction natural to every classicist, that Latin and Greek are the keys to all Western civilization and that without them Romance literatures (not to say "languages") are incomprehensible, and the situation up to the 90's is amply clear. =Contemporary status of Romance Languages in college curricula= Today, then, conditions are changed, and for better or worse the Romance tongues are on a par with other collegiate subjects. A glance at the latest statistics is instructive. In 1910, out of 340 colleges and universities in the United States, 328 taught French; 112 (the universities) offered more than four years' instruction, 50 offered four years, 90 three years, 68 two years, and only 8 one year. The present status can easily be divined: the interest in Spanish has certainly not waned, while the interest in French has grown by leaps and bounds. Some curtailment there has been, owing to the adoption of the "group system" of studies on the part of most of the colleges, and as the colleges are relieved of more and more of the elementary work there doubtless will be more. But, in any case, it is safe to say that French, Spanish, and Italian are now firmly installed as liberal studies in the curricula of most of our colleges. Now, how do they fulfill this function? What changes will be necessary in order that they may fulfill it better? What particular advantages have they to offer as a college subject? A brief consideration of each of these points follows. In general, our colleges require fifteen units of entrance credit and about twenty collegiate units for the college degree.[88] Of the entrance units, a maximum of four in French and two in Spanish is allowed; and of the college units, an average of five, or about one fourth of the entire college work,[89] must be taken consecutively in _one_ department of study or in not more than _two_ departments. This last group of approximately five units thus constitutes, so to speak, the backbone of the student's work. It is his so-called "principal sequence" (Chicago) or his "two majors" (Amherst) or his "major subject" (Wisconsin and Colorado); and while in the case of Amherst it cannot be begun "until after the freshman year," in general it must be begun by the junior year. Considerable variety prevails, of course, in carrying out this idea; for example, Johns Hopkins requires "at least two courses in the major and at least two in some cognate subject." Harvard states that "every student shall take at least six of his courses in some one department, or in one of the recognized fields of distinction." Princeton demands of "every junior and senior ... at least two 3-hour courses in some one department." But almost all representative colleges now recognize four general groups of study: Philosophy (including history), language, science, and mathematics; and the student's work must be so arranged that while it is fairly evenly distributed over three of the groups it is at the same time definitely concentrated in one of them. =Normal prescription in a Romance Language= In answer to our first question, it follows that the student entering with the maximum of French should be able, before graduation, to get enough advanced courses to give him an intelligent grasp of the literature as well as the language. In our better-equipped colleges this is undoubtedly the case. Harvard, for instance, would admit him to a course (French 2) in French Prose and Poetry, which includes some "composition," to be followed by (6) a General View of French Literature, (8) French Literature in the Eighteenth Century, (9) French Literature in the Seventeenth Century, (16) Comedy of Manners in France, (17) Literary Criticism in France; and in some of these courses the linguistic aspects would be considered in the form of "themes," "reports," etc., while the student could choose (5) Advanced French Composition for that special purpose. Other colleges (e.g., Johns Hopkins, Chicago, Stanford) offer the same or similar opportunities. So that, although titles of courses are often deceptive, the general plan of offering (1) an introductory course in which both the language and the literature are treated, (2) a survey-course in literature, leading to (3) various courses in literature after 1600, and supported by (4) at least one specific course in language, now constitutes the normal collegiate "major" in French; and, on the whole, it would be difficult in the present circumstances to devise a better plan. =Changes in current practice that will enhance effectiveness of teaching of Romance Languages--Danger of minimizing the language phase= It is obvious that the success of any plan depends on the thoroughness with which it is carried out, and this in turn depends on the qualifications and energy of those who have the matter in hand. That contingency does not concern us here. But what is worth noting is that the fourth point mentioned above,--the specific language part of the "major"--might be strengthened, especially since some excellent institutions omit this consideration entirely. The danger of falling between two stools is never greater, it seems, than in treating both language and literature. An instructor who is bent on elucidating the range of Anatole France's thought naturally has little time to deal adequately with his rich vocabulary, his deft use of tense, the subtle structure of his phrase--and yet who can be said really to "know" such an author if he be ignorant of either side of his work? "Thought expands but lames," said Goethe--unless it is constantly controlled by fact. In order to give the undergraduate that control, it is essential that he should be placed in the position everywhere to verify his author's thought. How difficult it is to bring even the best of our undergraduates to this point I need not discuss. But at least once in the process of his work he might be held to a stricter account than elsewhere. And if we ask ourselves by what method this can best be accomplished, I believe the answer is by some _special_ course in which the language of several representative writers is treated as such.[90] The point could be elaborated, particularly in view of the present-day tendency to dwell unduly on so-called _realia_, French daily life, and the like--all legitimate enough in their proper time and place. But enough has been said to show that excellent as the present plan is, it could without detriment enlarge the place given to linguistics. In this bewildered age of ours we are forever hearing the cry of "literature," more "literature": not only our students but our teachers--and the connection is obvious--find language study dull and uninspiring, oblivious to the fact that the fault is theirs and not the subject's. Yet, as we observed above, French is "hard," and its grammatical structure, apparently so simple, is in truth very complicated. Manifestly, to understand a foreign literature we must understand the language in which it is written. How few of our students really do! Moreover, language and literature are ultimately only parts of one indivisible entity: Philology--though the fact often escapes us. "The most effective work," said Gildersleeve,[91] "is done by those who see all in the one as well as one in the all." And strange as it appears to the laity, a linguistic fact may convey a universal lesson. I hesitate to generalize, but I believe most of our colleges need to emphasize the language side of the French "major" more. =Relative positions of French, Spanish, and Italian in a college course= As for Italian and Spanish, few of the colleges as yet grant these subjects the importance given to French. For one reason, entrance credit in Italian is extremely rare, and neither there nor in Spanish, in which it is now rather common, owing to the teaching of Spanish in the high schools, does it exceed two units. Some work of an elementary nature must therefore be done in the college; indeed, at Amherst neither language can be begun until the sophomore year--though fortunately this is an isolated case. Further, even when the college is prepared to teach these subjects adequately, it is still a debatable question whether they are entitled to precisely the same consideration as their more venerable sister. It is unnecessary to point out that such great names as Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Alfieri, Leopardi, Carducci, Cervantes, Calderón, Lope de Vega, Benavente, _e tutti quanti_, are abundant evidence of the value of Italian and Spanish culture. They unquestionably are. Where the emphasis is cultural, it would certainly be unwise to neglect Italian, since the Renaissance is Italian and underlies modern European culture in general. On the other hand, Spanish is, so to speak, at our very doors because of our island possessions: it is the _one_ foreign language which calls for no argument to make the undergraduate willing to learn to speak, and Spanish literature, especially in the drama, has the same romantic freedom as English literature and is thus readily accessible to the American type of mind. Pedagogically, thus, the question is far from simple. But while it is impossible to lay down any fixed precept, it seems worth while to remember: that the French genius is preëminently the vehicle of definite and clear ideas, that in a very real sense France has been and is the intellectual clearinghouse of the world, and that potentially, at least, her civilization is of the greatest value to our intellectually dull and undiscriminating youth. From French, better than from Italian and Spanish, he can learn the discipline of accurate expression, of clear articulation, and the enlightenment that springs from contact with "general ideas." Moreover, we must not forget that the undergraduate's time is limited and that under the "group system" some discrimination must necessarily be made. Granted, then, that, all things considered, the first place will doubtless be left to French, the question remains whether the attention given to Spanish and Italian is at least adequate. And do the colleges extract from them the values they should? As a general proposition, we may take it for granted that the college should offer at least _four_ units in each of these subjects. For Spanish, certainly, the tendency will be to make the proportion larger. But two units devoted to learning the language and two devoted to the literature may be regarded as essential, and are as a matter of fact the common practice. Several illustrations will make this clear. _Johns Hopkins_ offers: in Italian, 1. Grammar, Short Stories, etc., 2. Grammar, Written Exercises, Selections from classic authors, Lectures on Italian Literature; in Spanish, 1. Grammar, Oral and written exercises, Reading from Alarcón, Valdés, etc., 2. Contemporary Novel and Drama, Oral practice, Grammar and Composition, 3. The Classic Drama and Cervantes, oral practice, etc., History of Spanish Literature. _Illinois_: in Italian, 1a-1b Elementary Course, 2a-2b Italian Literature, nineteenth century; in Spanish, 1a-1b Elementary Course, 2a-2b Modern Spanish, 3a-3b Introduction to Spanish Literature, 4a-4b Business Correspondence and Conversation, 5a-5b Business Practice in Spanish, 11a-11b The Spanish Drama of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, 17a-17b The Spanish Drama of the Nineteenth Century. _Harvard_: in Italian, 1. Italian Grammar, reading and composition, 4. General View of Italian Literature, 5. Modern Italian Literature, 2. Italian Literature of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries, 10. The Works of Dante; in Spanish, 1. Spanish Grammar, reading and composition, 7. Spanish Composition, 8. Spanish Composition and Conversation (advanced course), 4. General View of Spanish Literature, 5. Spanish Prose and Poetry of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, 2. Spanish Literature of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries.[92] Since Spanish and Italian fall into the department of Romance languages, in order to make up his "major" the student is at present compelled to combine them with French. On the whole, this arrangement appears to me wise. To be sure, the deans of our colleges of commerce and administration will say that, granting the greater cultural value of French, the business interests of the country will force us nevertheless to give Spanish the same place in the curriculum as French. And the more radical educators will affirm with Mr. Flexner:[93] "Languages have no value in themselves; they exist solely for the purpose of communicating ideas and abbreviating our thought and action processes. If studied, they are valuable only in so far as they are practically mastered--not otherwise." I have taken a stand against this matter-of-fact conception of education throughout this chapter. I may now return to the charge by adding that the banality of our college students' thinking stares us in the face; if we wish to quicken it, to refine it, we should have them study other media of expression _qua_ expression besides their own (that is what Europe did in the Renaissance, and the example of the Renaissance is still pertinent); that if Mr. Flexner's reasoning were valid the French might without detriment convey their "ideas" in Volapük or Ido (I suggest that Mr. Flexner subject Anatole France to this test); and that instead of being valueless in themselves, on the contrary, languages are the repositories of the ages: "We infer," said Emerson, "the spirit of the nation in great measure from the language, which is a sort of monument in which each forcible individual in the course of many hundred years has contributed a stone." In other words, however great the claim of Spanish as "a practical subject" may be and whatever concessions our schools and colleges may make to this fact, I still believe that Spanish should be subordinated as a college subject to the study of French. In principle we may admit the Spanish "major," as in fact we do at present with the Italian "major"; but some knowledge of French on the part of the student should be presupposed, or if not, it should be a required part of the Spanish sequence. This may seem extreme, but in reality few students would wish to proceed far in Spanish without some French, and, practically, the knowledge of one Romance tongue is always a great aid in the study of another. =Training teachers of Romance Languages= Thus we see that, with the addition here and there of an extra course (where the college is not up to the standard as we have outlined it), and an added stress on the advanced linguistics, the present curriculum in Romance apparently provides an excellent working basis. If properly carried out--and the success of all teaching depends of course ultimately on the teacher--it ought to fulfill all legitimate needs, so far as the strictly collegiate aims are concerned. A word is now in order as to its fitness for those students who are planning to take Romance as a profession. Normally these students would coincide with those who are taking up "special honors" in Romance languages; and for the latter group most of our colleges now make special provision--in the form of "independent work done outside the regular courses in the major subject and at least one other department during the junior and senior year (Wisconsin)," or as Amherst states it, "special work involving collateral reading or investigation under special conditions." In general, this gives the candidate certain professional options among the courses listed (in cases where the college is part of the university) as "primarily for graduates." In this way the student is able to add to his "major" such subjects as Old French (Chicago), Introduction to Romance Philology (Columbia), Practical Phonetics (Chicago), a Teachers' Course (Wisconsin), etc. Personally I am of the opinion that the day has passed when any of our graduates who has not at least a Master's degree in Romance should be recommended to a teaching position. But evidently any such hard and fast rule is bound to be unfair, especially since a large percentage of our students is compelled to earn a living immediately upon graduation. Thus here again--as in the elementary courses as now given in the colleges--we are confronted with a makeshift which only time and continued effort can correct. In the meantime the value of such professional courses depends to a very marked degree upon the success with which they can be carried out where they are counted toward a higher degree (M.A. or Ph.D.) the difficulty is not so great, since their introductory nature is self-evident; but where they conclude, so to speak, the student's formal training the difficulty of making them "fit in" is often sadly apparent. At any rate, in this borderland between cultural and professional studies, where the college is merging with the university or professional school, the necessity for the able teacher is a paramount issue. If the transition is to be successful, the obligation rests upon the teacher so to develop his subject that the specializing will not drown out the general interest but will inform it with those values which only the specialist can impart. =Final contributions of Romance Languages to the American college student= And now as to our final consideration: What particular advantages have the Romance tongues to offer as a college subject? An obvious advantage is: an understanding of foreign peoples. The Romance languages are modern. They are spoken today over a large part of the habitable globe. We stand in direct relations with those who speak them and write them. Above all, a large share of the world's best thought is being expressed in them. The point requires no arguing, that translations cannot take the place of originals: _traduttore traditore_, says an excellent Italian proverb. If we are really to know what other nations think,--whether we accept or reject their thought makes little or no difference here,--we can do so only by knowing their language. And the better we know it, the greater our insight will be. To speak at least _one_ foreign language is not only a parlor accomplishment: it is for whoever is to be a citizen-of-the-world a necessity. There is a Turkish proverb that he who knows two languages, his own and another, has two souls. Certainly there is no better way to approach a nation's soul than through its language. But, in the second place, the Romance tongues have certain artistic qualities which English in a great measure lacks. The student who has intelligently mastered one of them has a better sense of form, of delicate shades of expression, and--if the language be French--of clarity of phrase: what Pater termed _netteté d'expression_. He learns to respect language (as few Americans now do), to study its possibilities in a way which a mere knowledge of English might never have suggested, and to appreciate its moral as well as its social power: for French forces him to curb his thought, to weigh his contention, to be simple and clear in the most abstruse matters. In a famous essay on the Universality of French, Rivarol said: "Une traduction française est toujours une _explication_." And lastly, in themselves and in the civilizations they stand for, the Romance tongues are the bridge between ourselves and antiquity. Since the decline in the study of Greek and Latin, this is a factor to be seriously considered. It is the fashion today to berate the past, to speak of the dead hand of tradition, and to flatter ourselves with the delusion of self-sufficiency. To be sure, the aim of education is never to pile up information but to "fit your mind for any sort of exertion, to make it keen and flexible." But the best way to encompass this is to feed the mind on ideas, and ideas are not produced every day, nor for that matter every year, and luckily all ideas have not the same value. There are the ideas of Taine, of Rousseau, of Voltaire, of Descartes, of Montaigne, of Ficino, of Petrarch, of Dante, of Cicero, of Aristotle, of Plato; and in a moment I have run the gamut of all the centuries of our Western civilization. Who will tell me which ideas we shall need most tomorrow? Evidently, we cannot know them all. But we can at least make the attempt to know the best. And incidentally let it be said that he who professes the Romance tongues can no more dispense with the Classics than the Classics can today afford to dispense with Romance: French, Italian, and Spanish are the Latin--and one might add the Greek--of today. But to return to our theme: to deny our interest in the past is to throw away our heritage, to sell our mess of pottage to the lowest bidder. If the Romance languages have one function in our American colleges, it is this: To keep alive the old humanistic lesson: _nihil humani a me alienum puto_; to the end that the modern college graduate may continue to say with Montaigne: "All moral philosophy is applied as well to a private life as to one of the greatest employment. Every man carries the entire form of the human condition. Authors have thitherto communicated themselves to the people by some particular and foreign mark; I ... by my _universal_ being, not as a grammarian, a poet, or a lawyer." The college course in the Romance languages should prepare for a profession, but it must first help to prepare thinking men and women. WILLIAM A. NITZE _University of Chicago_ Footnotes: [85] The quotation is from Emerson, _Nominalist and Realist_. [86] I make no attempt in this article, written before 1917, to treat actual teaching conditions: the premises are too uncertain. [87] The above statistics are from C. H. Handschin, _The Teaching of Modern Languages in the United States_, Washington, 1913, pages 40ff. [88] I cite the following figures: (_a_) Entrance: Harvard 16-1/2, Amherst 14, Wisconsin 14, Columbia 14-1/2, Colorado 15, Illinois 15, Chicago 15; (_b_) Collegiate Degree: Harvard 17-1/2 "courses," Amherst 20 "courses," Wisconsin 120 "credits," Columbia 124 "points," Colorado 120 "hours of scholastic work," Chicago 36 "trimester majors." It is certainly desirable that our colleges adopt some uniform system for the notation of their courses. Johns Hopkins, at least, is specific in explaining the relationship of its "125 points" to its "courses"; see page 262 of the _University Register_, 1916. [89] At Chicago exactly 1/4 or "at least 9 coherent and progressive majors" must be taken in "one department or in a group of departments." But Chicago also requires a secondary sequence of at least 6 majors; Columbia requires three years of "sequential study--in each of two departments." Illinois, "a major subject (20 hours)" and "an allied minor subject (20 hours)." [90] An excellent manner of procedure is that outlined by Professor Terracher in his interesting article in the _Compte rendu du Congrès de Langue et de Littérature Française_, New York (Fédération de l'Alliance Française), 1913. [91] From _Johns Hopkins University Circular_, No. 151. [92] It will be noted that throughout the amount offered in Spanish exceeds that in Italian. This is to be expected in view of the boom in Spanish studies. Moreover, most colleges now allow two units of entrance credit in Spanish, and 7 and 8 above, under Harvard, are half courses. Columbia is, I believe, the only college accepting 2 units of entrance credit in Italian; but I have not examined the catalogues of all our colleges. [93] Publications of the General Education Board, 3, 1916, page 13. XXII THE TEACHING OF GERMAN =Our aim= The mechanical achievements of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have obliterated geographical distances. The contact between nations, intermittent in former ages, has become a continuous one. It is no longer possible to ignore great cultural forces in foreign nations even temporarily--we may repudiate or appreciate them, as we see fit, but we should do so in a spirit of fairness and understanding, and not in ignorance. This, however, is not possible unless those who are to become leaders of the people are intimately familiar with those treasure chests of the nations that contain the true gems of racial spirit more abundantly than even art or literature, history, law or religion, stored up in the course of hundreds and thousands of years--the nations' languages. It is the clear duty of the college to instill, through the right way of teaching foreign languages, a cosmopolitan spirit of this character into the growing minds of our young men and women, after the secondary school has given them the first rudiments of knowledge and cultural training. According to one's point of view, there is as much to be said in favor of the classical as the modern languages. Without doubt, their growing neglect in our institutions of learning is deeply to be regretted; however, its causes do not concern us here directly. The study of modern languages is, relatively speaking, so manifestly in the ascendency, that a return to the emphasis that was formerly laid upon Latin and Greek is hardly imaginable. The choice between several modern languages must very largely be determined by personal preferences and purposes. So much, however, can safely be said, that an intelligent reading knowledge of German and French is the least that should be expected of a college graduate. For, while in theory the humanistic importance of modern language study is the same for all languages, it rises, in practice, proportionately with the cultural level of the foreign nation--German and French obviously taking the lead in this regard. =Place of German in the college curriculum= I am optimistic enough to assume it to be generally granted that the study of a foreign language ought to be started early in life--say, at the age of twelve. While hardly challenged in theory, this desirable condition is far from being carried out in practice. Probably the time will never come when colleges will be able to dispense with elementary courses in modern foreign languages--not only for those who enter without any linguistic preparation, but also, and perhaps preëminently, for students who are taking up a second foreign language in addition to the one (or two) started in the preparatory school. Thus, the starting point of the modern language course in college is easily fixed: it must begin at the very rudiments of the language. Nor is it difficult to state, in general terms, the purpose of the most advanced work of the undergraduate curriculum: it must consist in adequate linguistic skill, literary knowledge and feeling, and cultural understanding to such an extent that the college graduate who has specialized in German may safely be intrusted with the teaching of German in secondary schools. At least, this holds good for the majority of institutions; a small number of colleges devote their whole effort to cultural training, and some of the larger institutions, particularly in the East, find it possible to postpone most of the professional preparation to a period of graduate work. But on the whole the average well-equipped college includes the training of teachers as one end of its foreign-language work. Ordinarily, such mastery of the subject as would prepare for teaching cannot be gained within the four years' college course. Rather, it might be said to require the average equivalent of something like six college years, with the understanding that not much more than one fourth of the student's time be devoted to German. This implies that only under uncommonly favorable conditions should students be encouraged to specialize in a foreign language that they begin on entering college. =Organization of the German course= Thus, the peculiar conditions of modern language instruction bring it about that a discussion of its organization in college must deal with a six years' course: elementary instruction must be offered to those entering without any knowledge of German; courses of a sufficiently advanced character must be provided for those who enter with three or four years of high-school German; and there must be advanced work for students who intend to make the study and teaching of German their life's work. In this six years' college course three divisions are clearly distinguishable: an elementary division devoted to such linguistic training as will enable a student to read with fair ease texts of moderate difficulty; an intermediate group during which literary and cultural appreciation should be developed, and an advanced group intended for the professional preparation of prospective teachers of German. These three divisions may be approximately equal, so that each of them covers about two years, with four or five hours a week. For graduation, all students should be required to present the equivalent of the first period for two languages (either classical or modern), one or both of which might with advantage be absolved in high school. The second division should be required of all students for at least one foreign language. Colleges of high standing may find it possible to exceed these requirements; no college should remain below them. The first or elementary division should, at least for one foreign language, be finished before the student is admitted to the college. All that can reasonably be expected from this part of the work is a study of the elements of grammar, the development of a good pronunciation, a fair working vocabulary, and some ability to read, speak, understand, and write German. The second group should include, in the main, reading courses to introduce the student to what is best in German literature, but no general theoretical study of the history of literature need be contemplated. Besides, it must offer such work in speaking and writing as will develop and establish more firmly the results gained in the first two years, and an appropriate study of German history and institutions. Each of the three aims might be given about one third of the time available, but they may overlap to some extent. Thus, writing and speaking can be connected with each of them, and historical readings and reports may furnish a part of language practice. The third group, intended for the training of teachers, must contain a course in the method of modern language teaching (connected with observation and practice), an advanced grammar course, and courses in the phonetics and historical development of the German language. These courses are indispensable for teachers, but will also be of advantage to students not intending to teach. =The elementary group= The first group is frankly of high school character. It is best to admit this fully and freely, and to teach these courses accordingly. Through greater intensity of study (more home work and longer class periods), the work of three or even four high school years may be concentrated into two college years, but the method cannot differ essentially. The way of learning a new language is the same, in principle, for a child of twelve years and a man of fifty years; in the latter case, there is merely the difficulty to be overcome that older persons are less easily inclined to submit to that drill which is necessary for the establishment of those new habits that constitute _Sprachgefühl_. It is a fallacy that the maturer mind of the college student requires a more synthetic-deductive study of the language than that of the high school student. It is sad but true that many college teachers are more reactionary in questions of method than the better class of high school teachers. The claim that elementary work in college requires a method different from that used in the high school is one symptom of this, and another symptom of the same tendency is the motto of so many college teachers that there is no "best method," and that a good teacher will secure good results with any method. At the bottom of such phrases there is usually not much more than indifference and unwillingness to look for information on the real character of the method at which they are generally aimed: the _direct method_. The regrettable superficiality appearing in the frequent confusion of the "direct" with the "natural" method is characteristic of this. I am, of course, willing to admit that what nowadays is termed the "direct method" is not the best way possible, but that it may and will be improved upon. However, it is not one of many methods that, according to circumstances, might be equally good, but it represents the application of the present results of psychological and linguistic research to the teaching of languages and distinctly deserves the preference over older ways. The first demand of the direct method is the development not only of a fair but of a perfect pronunciation--not so much as the independent aim, but as an indispensable condition for the development of _Sprachgefühl_. It is immeasurably easier to obtain good pronunciation from the start than to improve bad pronunciation by later efforts. In the teaching of pronunciation a slight difference in the treatment of children of twelve years and of college students might be granted: young children are generally able to learn the sounds of a foreign language by imitation; students of college age can hardly ever do this well, and careful phonetic instruction is absolutely necessary with them. Whoever wishes to keep aloof from phonetic _terms_ may do so; but not to know or not to apply phonetic _principles_ is bad teaching pure and simple. The use of phonetic _transcription_, however, is a moot question. Its advantages are obvious enough: it insures a clear consciousness of correct pronunciation; it takes up the difficulties one by one: first pronunciation, then spelling; it safeguards greater care in matters of pronunciation in general. The objections are chiefly two: economy of time, and the fear of confusion between the two ways of spelling. The writer admits that until a few years ago he was skeptical as to the value of phonetic transcription in the teaching of German. But the nearly general recognition of its value by the foremost educators of European countries and the good results achieved with it by teachers of French in this country caused him to give it a trial, under conditions that afforded not more than an average chance of success. The result was greatly beyond his expectations. Neither he nor, as far as he knows, any of his colleagues would contemplate abandoning phonetic script again. Without wishing to be dogmatic, I believe that this at least can be asserted with safety: on purely theoretical grounds, no teacher has a right to condemn phonetic transcription; those who doubt its value should try it before they judge. In the writer's opinion it is best not to use any historical spelling at all during the first six or eight weeks of college German. If the confusing features of traditional orthography are eliminated during this period, it will be found that there results not a loss, but an actual _gain in time_ from the use of phonetic script. Nor does the transition to common spelling cause any confusion. The less ado made about it, the better. It is a fact of experience, that students who have been trained in the use of phonetic script turn out to be better spellers than those who have not--simply because this training has made them more careful and has given them a clearer conception of the discrepancy between sound and letter. That elementary grammar should be taught inductively is true to an extent, but often overstated. It is true for the more abstract principles, such as the formation of the compound tenses, the formation and the use of the passive voice, and so on. But attempts at inductive teaching of concrete elements of mechanical memory, such as the gender and plural of nouns, or the principal parts of strong verbs, are a misunderstanding of the principles of induction. It goes without saying that thorough drill is much more valuable than the most explicit explanation. It holds good for college as well as for high schools that there is but very little to "explain" about the grammar of any language. Unnecessary explanations rather increase than remove difficulties. =The use of English= The use of English is another debated question. As far as the teaching of grammar is concerned, it is unessential. If inductive drill takes the place of explanations and abstract rules, the question is very largely eliminated from practical consideration. In those very rare cases when theoretical discussions might seem desirable, it does not make much difference whether a few minutes a week are devoted to English or not. The question assumes greater importance when the development of the vocabulary is considered. In this, there are three fairly well-defined elements to be distinguished. The first vocabulary, say, of the first two or three months should be developed by concrete associations with objects and actions in the classroom; the use of the vernacular has no justification whatever during that time--not on account of any objection to an occasional English word or phrase, but simply because there is no need of it, and every minute devoted to German is a clear gain. After this, the vocabulary should be further developed through the thorough practice of connected texts. If they are well constructed, the context will explain a considerable portion of the words occurring; those that are not made clear through the context form the third division of the vocabulary and can without hesitation be explained by English equivalents. In general, the principle will go rather far that the use of an occasional English _word_ is entirely harmless, but that English _sentences_ should as much as possible be avoided in elementary work. Connected translation, both from and into English, must absolutely be excluded from the first year's work, for the chief purpose of this year is not only the study of grammar and the development of an elementary vocabulary, but, even more than that, the cultivation of the right _attitude_ toward language study. Reading should be our chief aim, and speaking a means to that end, but the student must be trained, from the very beginning, to understand what he is reading rather through an intelligent grasp of the contents than by fingering the dictionary. In this way he will become accustomed to associating the German sentences _directly_ with the thought expressed in them, instead of _indirectly_ through the medium of his native tongue. A great deal of misunderstanding is frequently involved in the emphasis laid upon speaking. There can hardly be a more absurd misinterpretation of the principles of the direct method than for college teachers to try to "converse" with the students in German--to have with them German chats about the weather, the games, the political situation. This procedure is splendidly fit to develop in the students a habit of guessing at random at what they hear and read--a slovenly contentedness with an approximate understanding. Both teacher and students should speak and hear German practically all the time. But this should be distinctly in the service of reading and grammar work, containing almost exclusively words and forms that the student must _know_, not guess at. At the end of the first year a college student ought to have mastered the elements of grammar and possess good pronunciation and an active vocabulary of about six hundred or eight hundred words. If the second year is devoted to further drill on grammatical elements and to careful reading, its result ought to be the ability to read authors of average difficulty at a fair speed. During the first year all reading material should be practiced so intensively that an average of a little more than a page a week is not exceeded materially; but toward the end of the second year a limit of six or eight pages an hour may well be reached. By this time, translation into good English begins to be a valuable factor in the achievement of conscious accuracy; but it must under no circumstances be resorted to until the students have clearly obtained the habitual attitude of direct association between thought and sentence. It is little short of a misfortune that there exists no adequate German-German dictionary (such as La Rousse's French dictionary). It would not be very difficult to write such a book, but until we possess it the irritating use of German-English dictionaries and vocabularies will be a necessary evil. The hardest problem of the second year--and this is progressively true of more advanced work--is the uneven preparation of the students. In large colleges it will often be feasible to have as many sections as possible at the same hour, distributing the students in accordance with their preparation. Where this is not possible, special help for poorly prepared students is generally indispensable. =The literature group= The literature group is as distinctly of college character as the elementary group is admittedly high school work. It is here, in fact, that the best ideals of the American college find the fullest opportunity. This is true both for the teacher and for the student. In the elementary group, pedagogical skill and a fair mastery of the language are the chief prerequisites of a successful teacher. In the second group, other qualities are of greater importance. While a certain degree of pedagogical skill is just as necessary here as there, it is now no longer a question of the systematic development of habits, but of the ability to create sympathetic understanding, idealism, depth of knowledge, and literary taste--in short, to strive for humanistic education in the fullest sense of the word. This is true not only for colleges with a professedly humanistic tendency; the broadening and deepening influence of foreign language study is nowhere needed more urgently than in technical and other professional colleges. Speaking and writing must no longer stand in the center of instruction in the courses of the second group, but their importance should not be underrated, as is done so frequently (it is a fact that students often know less German at the end of the third year in college than at the end of the second year). At least during the first year of this group, a practice course in advanced grammar, connected with composition, is absolutely necessary. The grammatical work should consist in review and observation, supported by the study of a larger reference grammar (e.g., chapters from Curme's grammar, to introduce the students to the consistent use of this marvelous work). In composition, free reproduction should still be the main thing, but independent themes and translation from English into German--which would be distinctly harmful in elementary work--are now valuable exercises in the study of German style. It would be wholly wrong, however, to make linguistic drill the Alpha and Omega of this part of the college course. The preparatory years should have laid a sound basis, which during the college work proper should not be allowed to disintegrate, but the fact should not be lost sight of that the cultural aim must be stressed most in the second group. To reach this aim, a familiarity with the best works of German literature is the foremost means. German literature affords a scant choice of good and easy reading for the elementary stage: Storm, Ebner-Eschenbach, Seidel, and Wildenbruch are justly favorites, but absurdities like Baumbach's _Schwiegersohn_ are, unfortunately, still found in the curriculum of many colleges. In contrast with the small number of good elementary texts, there exists an abundance of excellent material for the second group. Aside from the classical poets, the novelists Keller, Meyer, Fontane, Raabe; the dramatists Hebbel, Grillparzer, Kleist, Hauptmann; poems collected in the _Balladenbuch_ or the _Ernte_ present an inexhaustible wealth, without our having to resort to the literary rubbish of Benedix or Moser or the sneering pretentiousness of Heine's _Harzreise_. The details of organization will vary greatly for this group, according to special conditions. But in general it may be said that during the first year of this period about two hours a week should be devoted to the continuation of systematic language practice as outlined above, and three hours to the reading of German authors for literary purposes. Nor should this consist in "reading" alone. Reading as such should no longer present any difficulty, if the work of the elementary group has been done well. Special courses should be devoted to the study of the modern German novel, the drama, and the lyrics, and to individual authors like those mentioned. In these detached literature courses the principal endeavor must be to help the students to understand and feel, not so much the linguistic side of the texts read, as the soul of the author, and through him the soul of the German nation. Reading must become more and more independent, the major part of the time in class being devoted to the cultural and æsthetic interpretation of what has been read at home. It is evident that in this, the most important part of the German college work, all depends upon the personality of the instructor: literary and human understanding cannot be instilled into the student's mind by one who does not possess them himself, together with a love for teaching and the power to create enthusiasm. All other requirements must be subordinate to this--even the instructor's mastery of the language. No doubt, in theory it would be most desirable that German be the exclusive language of instruction throughout; but in literary courses practical considerations will so often speak against this, that no sweeping answer to this question seems possible. For the chief aim must not be overshadowed by any other. If poor preparation on the part of the students or a deficient command of the language on the part of the instructor makes it doubtful whether the cultural aim can be attained, if German is the language of instruction, English should be used unhesitatingly. This implies that for this part of the work an instructor with a strong personality and an artistic understanding, although lacking in speaking knowledge, is far preferable to one who speaks German fluently but cannot introduce his students to the greatness of German literature and the spirit of the German people. On the other hand, written reports in literary courses should always be required to be in German; it is also a good plan to devote a few minutes of each period to prepared oral reports, in German, on the part of the individual students. Where systematic practice in the colloquial use of the language is desirable for special reasons, a conversation course may be established in addition to the main work, but literary courses are not the place for starting conversational practice with classes that have been neglected in this respect during their preparatory work. The second year of the literary group should offer a choice between two directions of further literary development: about three hours of each week should be devoted either to a course on the general history of German literature, or to the intensive study of one of the greatest factors in German literature--such as Goethe's _Faust_. In large institutions both courses can probably be given side by side, the students taking their choice according to their preference, but in most colleges an alternation of two courses of this kind will be preferable. The method of instruction is determined by the students' preparation and the teacher's personality, in literature courses more than anything else. Obviously, lectures (in German, where circumstances permit), extensive, systematic reading, written reports, and class discussion are the dominating features of such courses. Some knowledge of German history and institutions is an indispensable adjunct of any serious work in German literature. Probably in all colleges such instruction will be incumbent upon the German departments, and it is rarely possible to combine it with the course on the general history of German literature. Therefore, a special course in German history and institutions should be offered during the second year of the literature group. =The professional group= The work of this group may overlap that of the second group to a considerable extent, in the sense that courses in both groups may be taken at the same time. The professional preparation of a teacher of German should include: a thorough knowledge of the structure of the German language, an appreciative familiarity with German literature, and a fair amount of specialized pedagogical training. The study of literature cannot be different for prospective teachers from that for all other types of college students, and, therefore, belongs to the second group. But their knowledge of language structure, though not necessarily of a specialistic philological character, must include a more detailed knowledge of German grammar, a familiarity with technical German phonetics, and at least an elementary insight into the historical development of the language. In addition to suitable courses in these three subjects, a pedagogical course, dealing with the methods of modern language teaching, and connected with observation and practice teaching, must be provided for. Where the previous training has been neglected, a course in German conversation may be added; but, generally speaking, this should no longer be necessary with students in their fifth or sixth year of German instruction. Wherever this need exists, the system of instruction is at fault. =Conclusion= Incomplete though this brief outline must necessarily be, the writer has attempted to touch upon the most important phases of the students' development of linguistic, cultural, and, where demanded, professional command of German. Little has so far been said concerning the college teacher. The strong emphasis placed upon the direct method in this article should not be misinterpreted as meaning that a fluent command of the spoken language is a _conditio sine qua non_. Nothing could be farther from the truth. First of all, the necessity of the exclusive use of the direct method exists obviously only in the elementary group. In this group, however, "conversation" in the generally accepted sense of the word should not be attempted--it will do more harm than good. The constant practice in speaking and hearing should be so rigidly subservient to the interpretation and practice of the texts being read and to grammatical drill, that only a minimum of "speaking knowledge" on the part of the teacher is unavoidably necessary; his pronunciation, of course, must be perfect. However desirable it may be that a teacher should know intimately well the language he is teaching in college, there are other requirements even higher than this; they are, in the first group, energy, thoroughness, and pedagogical skill, coupled with an intelligent understanding of the basic principles of the direct method; in the second group, literary appreciation and a sympathetic understanding of German thought, history, and civilization; and, for the third group, elementary philological training, theoretical as well as practical acquaintance with the needs of the classroom, and a long and varied experience in teaching. Rarely will all three qualifications be combined in one person, nor are such fortunate combinations necessary in most colleges. A wise distribution of courses among the members of the department can in most cases be effected in such a way that each teacher's talents are utilized in their proper places. E. PROKOSCH PART FIVE THE ARTS CHAPTER XXIII THE TEACHING OF MUSIC _Edward Dickinson_ XXIV THE TEACHING OF ART _Holmes Smith_ XXIII THE TEACHING OF MUSIC =Music a comparatively recent addition to the college curriculum= There is perhaps no more direct way of throwing a sort of flashlight upon the musical activity in the colleges of America than the statement that a volume of this kind, if prepared a dozen years ago, would either have contained no chapter upon music, or, if music were given a place at all, the argument would have been occupied with hopes rather than achievements. Not that it would be literally true to say that music was wholly a negligible quantity in the homes of higher education until the twentieth century, but the seat assigned to it in the few institutions where it was found was an obscure and lowly one, and the influence radiating therefrom reached so small a fragment of the academic community that no one who was not engaged in a careful, sympathizing search could have been aware of its existence. It was less than twenty years ago that a prominent musical journal printed the very moderate statement that "the youth who is graduated at Yale, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Brown, Dartmouth, Bowdoin, Amherst, Cornell, or Columbia has not even a smattering of music beyond the music of the college glee and mandolin club; and of course to cultivate that is the easiest road to musical perdition." One who looks at those institutions now, and attempts to measure the power and reach of their departments of music, will not deny the right to the satisfaction which their directors--men of national influence--must feel, and would almost expect them to echo the words of ancient Simeon. The contrast is indeed extraordinary, and, I believe, unparalleled. The work of these men, and of others who could be named with them, has not been merely development, but might even be called creation. Any one who attempts to keep track of the growth of musical education in our colleges, universities, and also in the secondary schools of the present day, will find that the bare statistics of this increase, to say nothing of a study of the problems involved, will engage much more than his hours of leisure. Music, which not long ago held tolerance only as an outside interest, confined to the sphere of influence of the glee club and the chapel choir, is now, in hundreds of educational institutions, accorded the privileges due to those arts and sciences whose function in historic civilization, and potency in scholarly discipline and liberal culture, give them domicile by obvious and inalienable right. =History of the subject of music in the American college curriculum= The first university professorships in music were founded at Harvard in 1876, and at the University of Pennsylvania at about the same time. Vassar College established musical courses in 1867, Oberlin in 1869. Harvard took the lead in granting credit for certain courses in music toward the degree of A.B. in 1870.[94] Progress thereafter for many years was slow; but in 1907 investigation showed that "approximately one half the colleges in the country recognize the value of instruction in music sufficiently to grant credit in this subject."[95] Since this date college after college and university after university have fallen into line, only a few resisting the current that sets toward the universal acceptance of music as a legitimate and necessary element in higher education. The problem with the musical educators of the country is no longer how to crowd their subject into the college preserve, but how to organize its forces there, how to develop its methods on a basis of scholarly efficiency, how to harmonize its courses with the ideals of the old established departments, and now, last of all, how to bring the universities and colleges into coöperation with the rapid extension of musical practice, education, and taste which has, in recent days, become a conspicuous factor in our national progress. =Changing social ideals responsible for the new attitude toward the study of music in colleges= An investigation into the causes of this great change would be fully as interesting as a critical examination of its results. The limits of this chapter require that consideration be given to the present and future of this movement rather than to its past; but it is especially instructive, I think, to those who are called upon to deal practically with it, to observe that the welcome now accorded to music in our higher institutions of learning is due to changes in both the college and its environment. In view of the constitution and relationships of our higher schools (unlike those of the universities of Europe), any alteration in the ideals, the practical activities, and the living conditions of the people of the democracy will sooner or later affect those institutions whose aim is fundamentally to equip young men and women for social leadership. It is unnecessary to remind the readers of such a book as this of the marked enlargement of the interests of the intelligent people of America in recent years, or of the prominent place which æsthetic considerations hold among these interests. The ancient thinker, to whom nothing of human concern was alien, would find the type he represented enormously increased in these latter days. The passion for the release of all the latent energies and the acquisition of every material good, which characterizes the American people to a degree hitherto unknown in the world since the outburst of the Renaissance, issues, as in the Renaissance, in an enormous multiplication of the machinery by which the enjoyment of life and its outward embellishment are promoted. But more than this and far better--the eager pursuit of the means for enhancing physical and mental gratification has coincided with a growing desire for the general welfare;--hence the æsthetic movement of recent years, and the zeal for social betterment which excludes no section or class or occupation, tend to unite, and at the same time to work inward and develop a type of character which seeks joy not only in beauty but also in the desire to give beauty a home in the low as well as in the high places. Whatever may be one's view of the final value of the recent American productions in literature and the fine arts, the social, democratic tendency in them is unmistakable. The company of enthusiastic men and women who are preaching the gospel of beauty as a common human birthright is neither small nor feeble. The fine arts are emerging from the studios, professional schools, and coteries; they are no longer conceived as the special prerogative of privileged classes; not even is the creation of masterpieces as objects of national pride the pervading motive;--but they are seen to be potential factors in national education, ministering to the happiness and mental and moral health of the community at large. It was impossible that the most enlightened directors of our colleges, universities, and public schools should not perceive the nature and possibilities of this movement, hasten to ally themselves with it, and in many cases assume a leadership in it to which their position and advantages entitled them. =The educative function of music= The commanding claims which the arts of design, music, and the drama are asserting for an organized share in the higher education is also, I think, a consequence of the change that has come about in recent years in the constitution of the curriculum, the methods of instruction, the personnel of the student body, the multiplication of their sanctioned activities, and especially in the attitude of the undergraduates toward the traditional idea of scholarship. The old college was a place where strict, inherited conceptions of scholarship and mental discipline were piously maintained. The curriculum rested for its main support upon a basis of the classics and mathematics, which imparted a classic and mathematical rigidity to the whole structure. The professor was an oracle, backed by oracular textbooks; the student's activity was restricted by a traditional association of learning with self-restraint and outward severity of life. The revolutionary change came with the marvelous development of the natural sciences, compelling radical readjustments of thought both within and without the college, the quickening of the social life about the campus, and the sharp division of interest, together with a multiplication of courses which made the elective system inevitable. The consequence was, as President Wilson states it, that a "disintegration was brought about which destroyed the old college with its fixed disciplines and ordered life, and gave us our present problem of reorganization and recovery. It centered in the break-up of the old curriculum and the introduction of the principle that the student was to select his own studies from a great variety of courses. But the change could not, in the nature of things, stop with the plan of study. It held in its heart a tremendous implication;--the implication of full manhood on the part of the pupil, and all the untrammeled choice of manhood. The pupil who was mature and well-informed enough to study what he chose, was also by necessary implication mature enough to be left free to _do_ what he pleased, to choose his own associations and ways of life outside the curriculum without restraint or suggestion; and the varied, absorbing life of our day sprang up as the natural offspring of the free election of studies."[96] =The development of emotions as well as the intellect a vital concern of the college curriculum= Into an academic life so constituted, art, music, and the drama must perforce make their way by virtue of their appeal to those instincts, always latent, which were now set in action. Those agencies by which the emotional life has always been expressed and stimulated found a welcome prepared for them in the hearts of college youths, stirred with new zests and a more lively self-consciousness. But for a time they met resistance in the supremacy of the exact sciences, erroneously set in opposition to the forces which move the emotions and the imagination, and the stern grip, still jealously maintained, of the old conception of "mental discipline" and the communication of information as the prime purpose of college teaching. The relaxation came with the recognition of æsthetic pursuits as "outside interests," and organization and endowment soon followed. But a college art museum logically involves lectures upon art, a theater an authoritative regulation of the things offered therein, a concert hall and concert courses instruction in the history and appreciation of music. And so, with surprising celerity, the colleges began to readjust their schemes to admit those agencies that act upon the emotion as well as the understanding, and the problem how to bring æsthetic culture into a working union with the traditional aims and the larger social opportunities of the college faced the college educator, and disturbed his repose with its peremptory insistence upon a practical solution. =Problems in teaching of music in the college= Although the question of purpose, method, and adaptation presents general difficulties of similar character in respect to the college administration of all the fine arts, music is undoubtedly the most embarrassing item in the list. In this department of our colleges there is no common conviction as to methods, no standardized system; but rather a bewildering disagreement in regard to the subjects to be taught, the extent and nature of their recognition, the character of the response to be expected of the student mind, and the kind of gauge by which that response shall be measured by teachers, deans, and registrars. In the matter of literature and the arts of design, where there is likewise an implicit intention of enriching æsthetic appreciation, an agreement is more easily reached, by reason of their closer relationship to outer life, to action, and the more familiar processes of thought. Few would maintain that the purpose of college courses in English literature is to train professional novelists and poets; the college leaves to the special art schools and to private studios the development of painters, sculptors, and architects. What remains to the college is reasonably clear. But in music, on the contrary, the function of the college is by no means so evident as to induce anything like general agreement. Should the musical courses be exclusively cultural, or should they be so shaped as to provide training for professional work in composition or performance? Should they be "practical" (that is, playing and singing), or simply theoretical (harmony, counterpoint, etc.), or entirely confined to musical history and appreciation? Should credits leading to the A.B. degree be given for musical work, and if so, ought they to include performance, or only theory and composition? Should musical degrees be granted, and if so, for what measure of knowledge or proficiency? One or two Western colleges give credit for work done under the direction of private teachers in no way connected with the institution:--is this procedure to be commended, and if so, under what safeguards? Should a college maintain a musical "conservatory" working under a separate administrative and financial system, many or all of whose teachers are not college graduates; or should its musical department be necessarily an organic part of the college of arts and sciences, exactly like the department of Latin or chemistry? If the former, as is the case with many Western institutions, to what extent should the work in the music school be supervised by the college president and general faculty; under what limitations may candidates for the A.B. degree be allowed to take accredited work in the music school? What should be the relation of the college to the university in respect to the musical courses? Is it possible to establish a systematic progress from step to step similar to that which exists in many of the old established lines? What should be the relation between the college and the secondary schools? Should the effort be to establish a continuity of study and promotion, such as that which exists in such subjects as Latin and mathematics? Should the college give entrance credits for musical work? If so, should it be on examination or certificate, for practical or theoretical work, or both? Should the courses in the history and appreciation of music be thrown open to all students, or only to those who have some preliminary technical knowledge? These are some of the questions that face a college governing board when music is under discussion--questions that are dealt with on widely divergent principles by colleges of equal rank. Some institutions in the West permit to music a freedom and variety in respect to grades, subjects, and methods which they allow to no other subject. The University of Kansas undertakes musical extension work throughout the state. Brown University restricts its musical instruction to lecture courses on the history and appreciation of music. Between these extremes there is every diversity of opinion and procedure that can be conceived. The problem, as I have said, is twofold, and so long as disagreement exists as to the object of collegiate musical work, there can be no uniformity in administration. In a university the problem is or should be somewhat more simple, just as there is a more general accord concerning the precise object of university training. In place of the confusion of views in regard to ideals and systems and methods which exist in the present-day college, we find in the university a calmness of conviction touching essentials that results from the comparative simplicity of its functions and aims. A conspicuous tendency in our universities is toward specialization; their spirit and methods are largely derived from the professional and graduate schools which give them their tone and prestige. They look toward research and the advancement of learning as their particular _raison d'être_, and also toward the practical application of knowledge to actual life and the disciplining of special faculties for definite vocational ends.[97] Since our universities, unlike those of Europe, consist of a union of graduate and undergraduate departments, any single problem, like that of music, is simplified by the opportunity afforded by the direct passage from undergraduate to graduate work, and the greater encouragement to specialization in the earlier courses. A graduate school which admits music will naturally do so on a vocational basis, and the question is not of the aim to be sought, but the much easier one of the means of its attainment, since there is no more of a puzzle in teaching an embryo composer or music teacher than there is in teaching an incipient physician or engineer. It seems to me that the opportunity before the university has been stated in a very clear and suggestive manner by Professor Albert A. Stanley of the University of Michigan: "If in the future the line of demarcation between the college and the university shall cease to be as sinuous and shadowy as at present, the university will offer well-defined courses in research, in creative work, possibly in interpretation--by which I do not mean criticism, but rather that which is criticized. [Professor Stanley evidently refers to musical performance.] The college courses will then be so broadened that the preparatory work will of necessity be relegated to the secondary schools. This will impose on the colleges and universities still another duty--the fitting of competent teachers. Logically music will then be placed on the list of entrance studies, and the circle will be complete. The fitting of teachers who can satisfy the conditions of such work as will then be demanded will be by no means the least function of the higher institutions. There will be more and more demand for the broadly trained teacher, and there will be an even greater demand for the specialist. By this I mean the specialist who has been developed in a normal manner, and who appreciates the greater relations of knowledge and life."[98] =Problems in teaching of music in secondary schools are intelligently attacked= There is no question that the future of music in the colleges will greatly depend upon the developments in the secondary schools. If the time ever comes when the administrators of our public school system accept and act upon the assertion of Dr. Claxton, United States Commissioner of Education, that "after the beginnings of reading, writing, and mathematics music has greater practical value than any other subject taught in the schools," the college will find its determination of musical courses an easier matter than it is now. Students will in that event come prepared to take advantage of the more advanced instruction offered by the college, as they do at present in the standard subjects, and the musical pathway through the college, and then through the university, will be direct and unimpeded. Although such a prospect may seem to many only a roseate dream, it is a safer prophecy than it would have appeared a half-dozen years ago. The number of grammar and high schools is rapidly increasing in which the pupils are given solid instruction in chorus singing, ensemble playing, musical theory, and the history and appreciation of music; and in many places pupils are also permitted to carry on private study in vocal and instrumental music at the hands of approved teachers, and school credit given therefor. So apparent is the need of this latter privilege, and so full of fine possibilities, that the question of licensing private teachers with a view to an official recognition of the fittest has begun to receive the attention of state associations and legislatures. It is impossible that the colleges should remain indifferent to these tendencies in the preparatory schools, for their duty and their advantage are found in coöperating with them. The opportunity has been most clearly seen by those colleges which have established departments for the training of supervisors of public school music. Such service comes eminently within the rôle of the college, for a disciplined understanding, a liberal culture, an acquaintance with subjects once unrecognized as related to music teaching, are coming to be demanded in the music supervisor. The day of the old country-school singing master transferred to the public school is past; the day of the trained supervisor, who measures up to the intellectual stature of his colleagues, is at hand. So clearly is this perceived that college courses in public school music, which at first occupied one year at the most, are being extended to two years and three years, and in at least one or two instances occupying four years. And the benefit is not confined to the schoolroom, for an educated man, conscious of his peculiar powers, will see and use opportunities afforded him not merely as a salaried preceptor but also as a citizen. =Vital function of music in college curriculum is emotional and æsthetic= To revert to the difficulties which the college faces in adjusting musical courses to the general scheme of academic instruction: it is clear that these difficulties lie partly in the very nature of musical art. For music is not only an art but a science. It is the product of constructive ingenuity as well as of "inspiration"; its technique is of exquisite refinement and appalling difficulty; it appeals to the intellect as well as to the emotion. And yet the intellectual element is but tributary, and if the consciousness willfully shuts its gates against the tide of rapture rushing to flood the sense and the emotion, then in reality music is not, for its spirit is dead. What shall be done with an agency so fierce and absorbing as this? Can it be tamed and fettered by the old conceptions of mental discipline and scholastic routine? Only by falsifying its nature and denying its essential appeal. Some colleges attempt so to evade the difficulty, and lend favor, so far at least as credit is concerned, only to the theoretical studies in which the training is as severe, and almost as unimaginative, as it is in mathematics. But to many this appears too much like a reversion to the viewpoint of the mediæval convent schools which classed music in the _quadrivium_ along with arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy. Neither the creative power nor the æsthetic receptivity is considered in such courses as these, and the spirit of music revolts against this confinement and gives its pedantic jailers no peace. =The practical course as disciplinary as the theoretical= Shall practical courses in playing and singing be accepted? Now the objection arises that any proficiency with which a student--at least a talented one--would be satisfied, entails hours each day of purely technical practice, involving little of the kind of mental activity that is presupposed in the tradition of college training. Those institutions that have no practical courses are logical, at all events, and seem to follow the line of least resistance. But the opposition against the purely theoretical side of musical culture will not down, and the "practical" element makes steady headway as the truth shines more dearly upon the administrative mind that musical performance is not a matter of mechanical technique alone, but of scholarship, imaginative insight, keen emotional reaction, and interpretation which involves a sympathetic understanding of the creative mind. The objection to practical exercise dwindles as the conception of its nature and goal enlarges. =Lack of college-trained teachers adds to difficulty of recognizing music as a college subject= Another hindrance presents itself--not so inherent in the nature of the case as those just mentioned--and that is the lack of teachers of music whose educational equipment corresponds in all particulars to the standard which the colleges have always maintained as a condition of election to their corps of instructors. That one who is not a college graduate should be appointed to a professorship or instructorship in a college or university might seem to a college man of the old school very near an absurdity. Yet as matters now stand it would be impossible to fill the collegiate musical departments with holders of the A.B. degree. The large and increasing number of college graduates who are entering the musical profession, especially with a view to finding a home in higher educational institutions, is an encouraging phase of present tendencies, and seems to hold out an assurance that this aspect of the college dilemma will eventually disappear.[99] It is possible, however, that the colleges may be willing to agree to a compromise, making a distinction between the teachers of the history and criticism of music and those engaged in the departments of musical theory and performance. Certainly no man should be given a college position who is not in sympathy with the largest purposes of the institution and able to contribute to their realization; but it must be remembered that broad intelligence and elevated character are to be found outside the ranks of college alumni, and are not guaranteed by a college diploma. =Teaching of the history and appreciation of music= Amid the jangle of conflicting opinions in regard to courses and methods and credits and degrees, etc., etc., one subject enjoys the distinction of unanimous consent, and that is the history and appreciation of music. This department may stand alone, as it does at Brown University, or it may supplement theoretical and practical courses; but there seems to be a universal conviction that if the colleges accept music in any guise, they must use it as a means of enlarging comprehension and taste on the part of their young people, and of bringing them to sympathetic acceptance of its finest manifestations. It seems incredible that a college should employ literature and the fine arts except with the fixed intention of bringing them to bear upon the mind of youth according to the purpose of those who made them what they are in the spiritual development of humanity. Even from the most rigid theoretical and technical drill the cultural aim must not be excluded if the college would be true to itself; how much more urgent is the duty of providing courses in which the larger vision of art, with the resultant spiritual quickening, is the prime intention! President Nicholas Murray Butler, in his address of welcome to the Music Teachers' National Association at their meeting in New York in 1907, struck a note that must find response in the minds of all who are called upon to deal officially with this question, when he recognized as a department of music worthy of the college dignity "one which is not to deal merely with the technique of musical expression or musical processes, but one which is to interpret the underlying principles of musical art and the various sciences on which it rests, and to set out and to illustrate to men and women who are seeking education what those principles signify, how they may be brought helpfully and inspiringly into intellectual life, and what part they should play in the public consciousness of a cultivated and civilized nation." =Emphasis on appreciation rather than technique= The first step in understanding the part which the principles of music should play in the consciousness of a civilized nation is to learn the part they have played in history. A survey of this history shows that all the phenomena of musical development, even those apparently transient and superficial, testify to a necessity of human nature, an unappeasable thirst for self-expression. In view of the relationship of musical art to the individual and the collective need, it is plain that musical history and musical appreciation must be taught together as a supplementary phase of one great theme. And, furthermore, this phase is one that is not only necessary in a complete scheme of musical culture, but is also one that is conveyed in a language which all can understand. It is significant of the broad democratic outlook of our American institutions of learning, in contrast to the universities of Europe, that the needs of the unprepared students are considered as well as the benefit of those who have had musical preparation, and the mysteries of musical art are submitted to all who desire initiation. Too much emphasis cannot be laid upon this wise and generous attitude toward the fine arts which is maturing in our American colleges; by which they demonstrate their belief in the power of adaptation of all manifestations of beauty to the condition of every one of intelligence, however slight the experience or limited the talent. There are, unquestionably, certain puzzling difficulties in imparting an understanding of musical structure and principles to those who have not even a preliminary smattering of the musical speech, but the experiment has gone far enough to prove that music, with all its abstruseness, complexity, and remoteness from the world of ordinary experience, has still a message so direct, so penetrating, so human and humanizing, that no one can be wholly indifferent to its eloquence when it comes through the ministry of a qualified interpreter. =The properly trained college teacher of music= A qualified interpreter!--yes, there's the rub. Only a few years ago men competent to teach the history and philosophy of music in a manner which a college or university could consistently tolerate, were almost non-existent, and even today many colleges are out of sheer necessity giving over this department to men of very scanty qualifications. Few men have faith enough to prepare for work that is not yet in sight. Then with the sudden breaking out of musical history and appreciation courses all over the country, the demand appeared instantly far in excess of the supply. The few men who had prepared themselves for scholarly critical work were, as a rule, in the employ of daily newspapers, and the colleges were compelled to delegate the historical and interpretative lectures to those whose training had been almost wholly in other lines of musical interest. No reputable college would think for a moment of offering chairs of political science, or general history, or English literature to men with so meager an equipment. There is no doubt that the disfavor with which the musical courses are still regarded by professors of the old school is largely due to the feeling that their musical colleagues as a rule have undergone an education so narrow and special that it keeps them apart from the full life of the institution. That this is the tendency of an education that is exclusively special, no one can deny. It is equally undeniable that such an education is quite inadequate in the case of one who assumes to teach the history and appreciation of music. This subject, by reason of the multifarious relations between music and individual and social life, demands not only a complete technical knowledge, but also a familiarity with languages, general history, literature, and art not less than that required by any other subject that could be mentioned. The suggestion by a French critic that a lecturer on art must be an artist, a historian, a philosopher, and a poet, applies with equal relevance to a lecturer on music. It is only fair to the musical profession to say that its members are as eager to meet these requirements as the colleges are to make them. If music still holds an inferior place in many colleges, both in fact and in esteem, the fault lies in no small measure in the ignorance on the part of trustees, presidents, and faculties of the nature of music, its demands, its social values, and its mission in the development of civilization. With the enlightenment of the powers that control the college machinery, encouragement will be given to men of liberal culture and scholarly habit to prepare themselves directly for college work. The hundreds of college graduates now in the musical profession will be followed by other hundreds still more amply equipped as critics and expounders. The natural place for the majority of them, I maintain, is not in the private studio or newspaper office, but in the college and university classroom. There is no reason in the nature of things why our colleges and universities should not also be the centers of a concentrated and intensive activity, directed upon research and philosophic generalization in the things of music as in other fields of inquiry. For this they must provide libraries, endowments, and fellowships. Such works as Mr. Elson's _History of American Music_, Mr. Krehbiel's _Afro-American Folksongs_, and Mr. Kelly's _Chopin as a Composer_ should properly emanate from the organized institutions of learning which are able to give leisure and facility to men of scholarly ambition. The French musical historian, Jules Combarieu, enumerates as the domains constantly open to musical scholarship: acoustics, physiology, mathematics, psychology, æsthetics, history, philology, palæography, and sociology.[100] Every one of these topics has already an indispensable place in the college and university system--it is for trained scholarship to draw from them the contributions that will relate music explicitly to the active life of the intellect. But not for the intellect only. Here the colleges are still in danger of error, due to their long-confirmed emphasis upon concepts, demonstrations, scientific methods, and "positive" results, to the neglect of the imagination, the emotions, the intuitions, and the things spiritually discerned. "The sovereign of the arts," says Edmund Clarence Stedman, "is the imagination, by whose aid man makes every leap forward; and emotion is its twin, through which come all fine experiences, and all great deeds are achieved. Youth demands its share in every study that can engender a power or a delight. Universities must enhance the use, the joy, the worth of existence. They are institutions both human and humane."[101] =The test of effective teaching of music in the college: Does it enrich the life of the student through the inculcation of an æsthetic interest?= Institutions which exclude the agencies which act directly to enhance "the joy and the worth of existence" are universities only in name. Equally imperfect are they if, while nominally accepting these agencies, they recognize only those elements in them which are susceptible to scientific analysis, whose effects upon the student can be tested by examinations and be marked and graded--elements which are only means, and not final ends. The college forever needs the humanizing, socializing power of music, the drama, the arts of design, and it must use them not as confined to the classroom or to any single section of the institution, but as the effluence of spiritual life, permeating and invigorating the whole. In the mental life of the college there have always ruled investigation, comparison, analysis, and the temper fostered is that of reflection and didacticism. Into this world of deliberation, routine, mechanical calculation, there has come the warm breath of music, art, and poetry, stirring a new fire of rapture amid the embers of speculation. The instincts of youth spring to inhale it; youth feels affiliation with it, for art and poesy, like nature, are ever self-renewing and never grow old. It works to unify the life of the college whose tendency is to divide into sealed compartments of special intellectual interests. It introduces a life that all may share, because men divide when led by their intellects, they unite when led by their emotions. Among the fine arts music is perhaps supreme in its power to refine the sense of beauty, to soften the heart at the touch of high thought and tender sentiment, to bring the individual soul into sympathy with the over-soul of humanity. It is this that gives music its supreme claim to an honored place in the halls of learning, as it is its crowning glory. The whole argument, then, is reduced to this: that with all the scientific aspects of the art with respect to material, structure, psychological action, historical origins and developments and relations, of which the college, as an institution of exact learning, may take cognizance, music must be accepted and taught just because it is beautiful and promotes the joy of life, and the development of the higher sense of beauty and the spiritual quickening that issues therefrom must be the final reason for its use. At the same time it must be so cultivated and taught that it will unite its forces for a common end with all those factors which, within the college and without the college, are now working with an energy never known before in American history for a social life animated by a zeal for ideal rather than material ends, and inspired by nobler visions of the true meaning of national progress. Among the worthy functions of our colleges there is none more needful than that of inspiring ardent young crusaders who shall go forth to contend against the hosts of mediocrity, ugliness, and vulgarity. One encouragement to this warfare is in the fact that these hosts, although legion, are dull as well as gross, and may easily be bewildered and put to rout by the organized assaults of the children of light. So may it be said of our institutions of culture, as Matthew Arnold said of Oxford, that they "keep ever calling us nearer to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection--to beauty, in a word, which is only truth seen from another side." EDWARD DICKINSON _Oberlin College_ Footnotes: [94] Arthur L. Manchester: "Music Education in the United States; Schools and Departments of Music." United States Bureau of Education Bulletin, 1908, No. 4. [95] Papers and Proceedings of the Music Teachers' National Association, 1907; report by Leonard B. McWhood. [96] _The Spirit of Learning_, Woodrow Wilson: in _Representative Phi Beta Kappa Orations_, edited by Northup, Lane and Schwab. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1915. [97] I wish to safeguard this statement by saying that I have in mind not the more conservative universities of the East, but the state institutions of the Middle and Western commonwealths. In speaking of universities as compared with colleges I am also considering the graduate and professional departments. It is difficult to make general assertions, on such a subject that do not meet with exceptions. [98] Papers and Proceedings of the Music Teachers' National Association, 1906. [99] There is an interesting statistical article on the college graduate in the musical profession by W. J. Baltzell in the _Musical Quarterly_, October, 1915. [100] _Music; its Laws and Evolution_: Introduction. Translation in Appleton's International Scientific Series. [101] _The Nature and Elements of Poetry_, page 5. XXIV THE TEACHING OF ART =Art instruction defined= In this chapter an attempt is made to set forth the aims, content, and methods of art instruction in the college. In this discussion the word "college" will be regarded in the usual sense of the College of Liberal Arts, and art instruction as one of the courses which lead to the degree of bachelor of arts. There is no term that is used more freely and with less precision than the word "art." In some usages it is given a very broad and comprehensive meaning, in others a very narrow and exclusive one. The term is sometimes applied to a human activity, at other times to the products of but a small part of that activity--for example, paintings and statuary. In this chapter the term will be used in accordance with the definition evolved by Tolstoi, who says: "Art is a human activity, consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are affected by these feelings, and also experience them."[102] The external signs by which the feelings are handed on are movements, as in dancing and pantomime; lines, masses, colors, as in architecture, painting and sculpture; sounds, as in music; or forms expressed in words, as in poetry and other forms of literature. The external signs with which art instruction in the college deals are lines, masses, and colors. This discussion, therefore, treats of instruction in the formative or visual arts, which include architecture, painting, sculpture, decoration, and the various crafts, in so far as they come within the meaning of the definition given above. =Instruction in art should be an integral part of a liberal education= Concerning the nature of art and the purpose of art instruction in the college, there is so much misunderstanding that it will be well to make an attempt at clarification. Art is too commonly regarded as a luxury--a superfluity that may serve to occupy the leisure of the well-to-do--a kind of embroidery upon the edge of life that may be affixed or discarded at will. Whereas, art is a factor that is fundamental in human life and development, a factor that has entered into the being of the race from the dawn of reason. Its products, which antedate written history by thousands of years, form the most reliable source of information we possess of the habits and thoughts of prehistoric man. It has been the medium of expression of many of the choicest products of human thought throughout the ages. These products have been embodied in forms other than that of writing. Its functions are limited neither to the citizen, the community, nor the country; they extend beyond national bounds to the world at large. Art belongs to the brotherhood of man. It is no respecter of nationalities. It is obvious that in a general college course, a study of the religious, social, and political factors in civilization that does not include art among these factors is incomplete. The question under discussion concerns the teaching of art to the candidate for the bachelor of arts degree, and this question will be solely kept in view. Since, however, graduates in science, engineering, law, medicine, etc., are not exempt from the needs of artistic culture, they too should have at least an effective minimum of art instruction. =Art a social activity= Art is recognized as a social activity. It enters largely into such practical and utilitarian problems of the community as town planning and other forms of civic improvement. As workers in such activities, college graduates are frequently called to serve on boards of directors and committees which have such work in charge. To most of such persons, education in art comes as a post-collegiate activity. Surely the interests of the community would be promoted if the men and women into whose hands these interests are committed had had some formal instruction in art during their college years. If by practical education we mean training which prepares the individual for living, then the study of an activity that so pervades human life should be included in the curriculum of even a so-called practical college course. Art education has a more important function than to promote the love of the beautiful, to purify and elevate public taste, to awaken intellectual and spiritual desires, to create a permanent means of investing leisure. Important as all these purposes are, they are merely a part of a larger one--that of revealing to the student the relationship of art to living. =Flexibility of art expression determines flexibility of art instruction= Art expression has the quality of utmost flexibility. This flexibility appears also in art instruction, and it is for this reason that in no two institutions of higher learning is the problem of art instruction attacked in the same way. There is, consequently, a great diversity in the types of art courses, even in the college. The flexibility of art instruction is both advantageous and embarrassing. It is an advantage in that it can be adapted to almost any requirement. It can be applied to the occupations of the kindergarten, or it can be made an intensive study suitable for the graduate school. But this very breadth is also a source of weakness in that it tends to divert the attention from that precision of purpose which all formal instruction should have, however elementary or advanced. It is apt to be too scattering in its aims. It is not easy to determine exact values either in the subject studied or in the accomplishment of the student. Estimates in art are, and should be, largely a matter of personal taste and opinion. They are not infrequently colored by prejudice, especially where the judgment of producing artists is invoked. This, again, is as it should be. An artist who assumes toward all works of art a catholic attitude, weakens that intensity of view and of purpose which animates his enthusiasm. It can easily be understood that to a larger extent than in other subjects the nature and scope of art instruction depends upon the personality of the instructor. =Values of art instruction= The flexibility to which we have adverted adapts art instruction to diverse educational aims. In that it can be made to conduce to accurate observation of artistic manifestations, and to logical deduction therefrom, it may be given a disciplinary purpose. In its highest development, to which only the specially gifted can attain, the ability to observe accurately and to deduce logically demands the most exacting training of the eye, of the visual memory, and of the judgment. As an example of the exercise of this sort of discipline we may cite Professor Waldstein's recognition of a marble fragment in the form of a head in the Louvre as belonging to a metope of the Parthenon. When, after Professor Waldstein's suggestion of the probable connection, a plaster cast of the head was taken to the British Museum and placed upon the headless figure of one of the metopes, the surfaces of fracture were found to correspond.[103] The most useful application of this ability lies in the correct attribution of works of art to their proper schools and authorship. Signor Morelli in his method of identification used a system that is almost mechanical, yet the evidence supplied by concurrence or discrepancy of form in the delineation of anatomical details was supplemented by a highly cultivated sense for style, for craftsmanship, and for color as well as by an extensive historical knowledge. In that art instruction cultivates taste and the appreciation of works of art, it has a cultural purpose. By many persons it is assumed that this is its sole value. In that it serves to illuminate the study of the progress of civilization, it has an informative purpose. In that it enables the technical student to correlate his work with that of past and present workers, it aids in the preparation for professional studies. =Difference between technical and lay courses in art one of emphasis= Art has been defined as "the harmonic expression of the emotions."[104] Accepting this definition as a modified condensation of Tolstoi's definition, it is clear that in a work of art two separate personalities are involved--that which makes the expression, and the other to whom the expression is addressed; thus, there are artists on the one hand, and the public on the other. Since we shall have to speak of two distinct classes of students,--namely, those who are in training as future artists (as architects, painters, sculptors, designers, etc.), and those who are taking courses in the understanding or appreciation of art,--it will be convenient in this discussion to refer to the former as art students and to the latter as lay students. Formal art instruction has been offered by colleges to both these groups. It is evident that for the training of the art student emphasis must be placed upon the technique of creative work, whereas for the lay student emphasis must be placed upon the study of the theory and the history of art. It would seem, however, that these two methods are not mutually exclusive; nor should they be, for the art student would surely gain by a study of the principles of art and its history, while the lay student would profit by a certain amount of practice directed by an observance of the principles. Mr. Duncan Phillips, in an article entitled "What Instruction in Art Should the College A.B. Course Offer to the Future Writer on Art?" proposes a hypothetical course in which "the ultimate intention would be to awaken the æsthetic sensibilities of the youthful mind, to encourage the emergence of the artists and art critics, and the establishment of a residue of well-instructed appreciators."[105] This proposal assumes the desirability of the completion of a general course designed for college students, before beginning the special courses designed for those individuals whose aptitudes seem to fit them for successful careers as artists on the one hand, or as successful writers on art, or art instructors on the other. In this place the question of professional training will not be discussed. The courses under consideration are designed to serve the group of lay students from which specialists may, from time to time, emerge. It is of the utmost importance that provision for the further training of such specialists should be made in the college, in the postgraduate school, or in an allied professional school of art. In view of the great diversity in the treatment of the subject in different colleges, it will be impossible to present a series of courses that might, under other conditions, be representative of a general practice throughout the country. On the other hand, the attempt to make an epitome of the various methods in use at the more important colleges would result in the presentation of a succession of unrelated statements drawn from catalogues which would be hardly less exasperating to the reader than it would be for him to follow, successively, the outlines as presented in the catalogues themselves. Various summaries of these outlines have been made, and to these the reader is referred.[106] =A general course of study--Must be adjusted to local conditions= An attempt is here made to set forth a programme which is offered as a suggestion, upon which actual courses may be based, with such modifications as are demanded by local conditions, the number and personal training of the teaching staff, and the physical equipment available. The task before the college art instructor is to cultivate the lay student's understanding and appreciation of the works of art and to develop an ardent enthusiasm for his subject, tempered by good taste. This understanding will be based upon a workable body of principles which the student can use in making his artistic estimates and choices. Such a body of principles will constitute his theory of art. =Two methods of presenting art instruction to lay students= Art instruction for lay students may be presented in two ways: 1. By the study of theory supplemented by the experimental application of theory to practice, as by drawing, design, etc. 2. By the study of theory supplemented by an application of theory to the analysis and estimation of works of art as they are presented in a systematic study of the history of art. Consider now the relation of practice and history to theory: First as to practice: Art instructors are divided into three camps on the question of giving to the lay student instruction in practice: (1) Those who believe that not only is practice unnecessary in the study of theory, but actually harmful; (2) those who believe that practice will aid in a study of the theory of art; (3) Those who believe that practice is indispensable and who would, therefore, require that all students supplement their study of the theory of art by practice. As may be surmised, by far the largest number of advocates is found in the middle division. One form of practice is Representation. In this form the student begins by drawing in freehand very simple objects either in outline or mass, and proceeds through more advanced exercises in drawing from still life, to drawing and painting of landscape and the human figure. With the addition of supplementary studies, such as anatomy, perspective, modeling, composition, craft work, theory, history, etc., this would be, broadly speaking, the method followed in schools of art, where courses, occupying from two to four or five years, are given, intended primarily for those who expect to make some sort of creative art their vocation. It is this kind of work which opponents to practice for the lay student have in mind. They claim that only by long and severe training can he produce such works as will give satisfaction to him or to others who examine his handiwork. They contend that the understanding of works of art is not dependent upon ability to produce a poor example. They offer many amusing analogies as arguments against practice courses for lay students. They maintain that the proof of the pudding is in the eating, rather than in the making; that to enjoy music one need not practice five-finger exercises; that other creatures than domestic fowls are capable of judging of the quality of eggs; that to appreciate the beauty of a tapestry it is not necessary to examine the reverse side. It will perhaps be sufficient, for the present, to point out that in so far as such alleged analogies can be submitted for arguments, they are equally applicable to laboratory courses in any subject which is studied with a non-professional or non-vocational purpose. It is true, however, that such a course as that outlined above demands a large amount of time, compared with the results attained; and while successful courses in Representation are offered in certain colleges, the great mass of college students, who cannot hope to acquire a high degree of skill, would hesitate to devote a large part of their training to technical work, even if college faculties were willing to grant considerable proportions of credit for it toward the bachelor of arts degree. =Relative value of freehand drawing and design= It will be understood by the reader that the value of elementary freehand drawing as a means of discipline or as an aid to the technical student is not under discussion. The value of drawing as a fundamental language for such purposes is universally admitted. The questions are these: Can some form of practice in art be used to aid in the understanding of the principles of art? Is representative drawing the only form of practice available for the lay student who undertakes the study of art? Fortunately, the advocates of practice can offer an alternative; namely Design. Mr. Arthur Dow distinguishes between the Drawing method (Representation) and the Design method by calling the former _Analytical_ and the latter _Synthetical_. In an article on "Archaism in Art Teaching"[107] he says: "I wish to show that the traditional 'drawing method' of teaching art is too weak to meet the new art criticism and new demands, or to connect with vocational and industrial education in an effective way; but that the 'Design method' is broad and strong enough to do all of these things." "The drawing method," he continues, "is analytic, dealing with the small, the details, the _application_ of art; the design method is synthetic, dealing with wholes, unities, principles of art." Mr. Dow carries his exposition into the application of the Design method to vocational work, but it can be used with equal effect in supplementing the lay student's study of art. But the questions immediately arise: Is not a preparation as long and arduous required to make a designer as to make a painter or a sculptor? And is not the half-baked designer in as sorry a plight as the half-baked artist of any kind? The answer to both is simple: The lay student is not in any degree a painter or a sculptor or a designer, neither is he in training for any of these professions. The advantage of the Design method is, that with no skill whatsoever in drawing, the beginner in the study of art can apply to his own efforts the same principles of design which have from time immemorial entered into the creation of great works of art. The college freshman planning a surface design with the aid of "squared" paper is applying the same principles that guided the hand of Michelangelo as it swept across the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Such principles as symmetry, balance, rhythm, emphasis, harmony in form, mass, value, and color can be inculcated by solving the simplest as well as the most complicated problems. A graded series of exercises can be undertaken by the student that will, with a comparatively small amount of manual skill carry him a considerable distance in the understanding of the principles of design upon which all creative art rests. Another advantage is that, in the process, considerable skill in freehand drawing also can be acquired. But this advantage is merely incidental. The greatest value lies in the fact that the Design method offers to the student an excellent means of self-expression. The student, through no fault of his, is too prone to absorb and too little inclined to yield of the fruits of his knowledge. Herein lies a partial remedy for the tendency of college students to make receptacles of their minds into which knowledge is poured through the ear by listening to lectures, or through the eye by reading. Herein is a means of overcoming mental inertia, for, certainly, the solution of a problem in design calls for thought--the amount of mental exertion being commensurate with the difficulty of the problem. In this, the Design method is superior to the Representation method, though it would be an error to assume that freehand drawing is chiefly a manual operation. Such an error is entertained by those only who never have learned to draw. Another considerable value lies in the fact that even if the lay student of design should in later life never set hand to paper,--as he probably will not, any more than he who has taken courses in drawing and painting will ever attempt to paint a picture,--yet he has come into practical contact with the leading principles of art, and has gained a knowledge that can be applied not merely to the discriminating understanding of the artistic qualities of the exhibits in art museums or in private galleries, but to the art of every day. It can be applied to the estimating of the artistic value of a poster, a book cover, or a title page; to the choosing of wall paper; to the arranging of the furniture in a room; to the laying out of a garden; to intelligent coöperation in the designing of a house or in replanning, on paper at least, the street system of a city; or to the selecting of a design for a public memorial. It is not to be assumed that in thus exercising a cultivated taste he would always make conscious application of the principles of design in making his estimates. These would have so entered into his habit of thought that he would unconsciously make what Mr. Dow calls "fine choices." The educational value of the Design method is almost universally recognized in the art departments of our public schools and in our art schools, and it is probable that when its aims and methods are better understood by our college faculties, its disciplinary, cultural, and informative value will be more widely recognized in the college of liberal arts, and that it will take equal rank with theme and report writing as a means of cultivating a taste for literature, with the practice of harmony and counterpoint as a means of appreciating music, and with laboratory work in acquiring knowledge of a science. =Art history as a means of inculcating principles of art= Next, consider art history as a means of inculcating the principles of art. It is evident that the emotions or feelings of the artist and the methods he employs to express them may be studied in such masterpieces as the _Hermes_ of Praxiteles and the _Lincoln_ of St. Gaudens. In either he may observe the application of the principles of balance, mass, repose, harmony, and the analysis of character. In either he may study the technique which involves the material of the statues, the tools employed, and the manner of working. There is, however, great advantage in considering such examples in their place in the evolution of art, and their significance in their relation to the social and political development of the human race--in other words, in studying systematically the history and development of art. Instruction in history of art is not without its pitfalls. It is too apt to lapse into a mere listing of names and dates of artists and their work, with the introduction of interesting biographical details and some discussion limited to the subjects treated in selected examples. It is often too much concerned with _who_, _when_, and _where_ and not sufficiently with _why_ and _how_. A person may possess a large fund of the facts of art history and yet have but little understanding or appreciation of the aims and underlying principles of art production. It should never be forgotten that for the college student the history of art is merely a convenient scheme or system upon which to base discussions of the principles of art as involved in the works themselves, an outline for the study of the artistic affiliations of any artist with the great company of his antecedents, his contemporaries, and his successors. The instructor should never regard practice or history as ends in themselves, but as means to the development of the understanding. =Years in which art courses should be offered= In some colleges only the more advanced students are permitted to take art courses. It does not seem wise thus to limit the years in which courses may be taken. An elementary course should be offered in the freshman year, while other courses of increasing difficulty should be offered in each of the succeeding years. The greatest variety is seen in the colleges throughout the country in the amount of art taught, and the amount of credit given toward the A.B. degree. When the subject is elected as a "minor," it should be one-tenth to one-eighth of all the work undertaken by a candidate for the bachelor's degree; while a "major" elective usually should cover from one-fifth to one-fourth of all the work of a candidate for the same degree. Some zealous advocates maintain that a certain amount of art training should be required for graduation. Valuable as art training would be to every graduate, it does not seem wise to make art a required subject in the curriculum. To compel men and women to study art against their will would destroy much of the charm of the subject both for the teacher and the student. Unless the subject is pursued with enthusiasm by both, it loses its value. =Organization and content of courses in art= The courses suggested are as follows: _Course I_ (_Freshman year_). Introduction to the study of art. A study of the various forms of artistic expression, together with the principles which govern those forms. The study would be carried on (1) by means of lectures, (2) by discussions led by the instructor and carried on by members of the class, (3) by laboratory or studio practice in the application of the principles of art expression to graded problems in design, (4) by collateral reading, (5) by the occasional writing of themes and reports, (6) by excursions to art collections (public and private), artists' studios, and craft shops. Some of the topics for lectures and discussion would be: Primitive art and the factors which control its rise and development; principles of harmony; design in the various arts; an outline study of historic ornament; composition in architecture, painting, and sculpture; concept in art, with a study of examples drawn from the master works of all ages; processes in the artistic crafts; application of the principles of design to room decoration. The studio or laboratory work would include: Application of the principles of design; spacing of lines and spots; borders and all-over designs achieved by repetition of various units; studies in symmetry and balance; color study, including hue, value, intensity; exercises in color harmony; problems in form and proportions, decoration of given geometrical areas; applications to practical uses; studies in form and color from still life; use of charcoal, brush, pastel, water color; simple exercises in pictorial composition; problems in simplification necessitated by technique; application of principles of design to room decoration. (This course would be prerequisite for all subsequent courses in practice.) _Course II_ (_Sophomore year_). A general course in the history of art. A consideration of the development of the arts of architecture, sculpture, and painting from prehistoric periods to recent times. In this course emphasis would be laid upon the periods of higher attainments in artistic expression, and the discussions would be directed toward the qualities of great masterpieces rather than toward those of the multitude of lesser works. The work would be carried on (1) by means of lectures; (2) by discussions led by the instructor and carried on by members of the class; (3) by collateral reading; (4) by study of original works of art, photographs, and other forms of reproduction; (5) by the writing of themes and reports; (6) by visits to art galleries and artists' studios. (This course would be prerequisite for subsequent courses in history, etc.) Following these two general courses there should be two groups of courses: _Group A, Practice courses_; _Group B, History courses_. Candidates for the A.B. degree who expect to take postgraduate work in creative art or in the teaching of creative art would elect chiefly from Group A. Lay students who are candidates for the A.B. degree and who expect to make writing or criticism in art, or teaching of art to lay students, or art museum work their vocation, would elect chiefly from Group B; as would, also, those composing the greater number, who study art as one means of acquiring general culture. In the following lists of courses the grade of each course is indicated by a roman numeral placed after the title of the course, the indications being as follows: I. Elementary (primarily for freshmen and sophomores). II. Intermediate (primarily for sophomores and juniors). III. Advanced (primarily for juniors and seniors). IV. Graduate (primarily for seniors and graduates). Beyond these indications no attempt is here made to prescribe the subdivisions of the courses, nor the number of hours per week, nor the number of weeks per year in each course. GROUP A: PRACTICE COURSES A1 _Freehand Drawing._ (I) Drawing in charcoal and pencil from simple objects, plaster casts, still life, etc. Elements of perspective with elementary problems. A2 _Freehand Drawing_ (_continued_). (II) Drawing in charcoal, pencil, pen and ink, brush (monochrome in water color) from plaster casts, still life and the costumed figure. Out-of-door sketching. A3 _Color_ (Water Color or Oil Color). (II) Drawing in color from still life and the costumed figure. Out-of-door sketching. A4 _Modeling._ (III) Modeling in clay from casts of antique sculpture and of architectural ornament as an aid to the study of form and proportion. A5 _Advanced Design._ (III) Theory and practice. (Continuation of Course I. Introduction to the study of art.) A6, A7, ... etc. _Advanced Courses in Drawing, Painting, Modeling, and Applied Design_ (IV) selected from the following: Studies in various media from life. Composition. Illustration. Portrait work. Practical work in pottery, bookbinding, enameling, metal work, interior decoration, wood carving, engraving, etching. These courses would be supplemented by lectures on the theory and principles of art. Topics of such lectures would be: Theory of Design, Composition, Technique of the Various Arts, Artistic Anatomy, Perspective, Shades and Shadows, etc. GROUP B: HISTORY COURSES B1_ History of Ancient Art._ (II) B2 _History of Roman and Medieval Art._ (II) B3 _History of Renaissance Art in Italy._ (III) B4 _History of Modern Art._ (III) History of art in Western Europe during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. B5, B6, ... etc. _History of Special Periods; Consideration of Special Forms of Art, and of Great Masters in Art_ (IV) selected from the following: Art of Primitive Greece, Greek Sculpture, Greek Vases, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, History of Mosaic; Medieval Illumination; Sienese Painters of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries; Florentine Painting; Domestic Architecture of Various Countries; Leonardo da Vinci and His Works; Art of the Netherlands; History of Mural Painting; History and Principles of Engraving; Prints and Their Makers; Chinese and Japanese Art; Colonial Architecture in America; Painting and Sculpture in America, etc., etc. =Teaching equipment for college courses in art= No attempt will here be made to comment upon the general furnishing and equipment of lecture rooms, laboratories, and studios. Nevertheless, some reference to the special teaching equipment is necessary for the further consideration of the methods of teaching. Illustrations are of the greatest importance in the study of art. The best illustrations are original works of art. For manifest reasons these are not usually available in the classroom, and the teacher is dependent upon facsimiles and other reproductions. These take the form of copies, replicas, casts, models, photographs, stereopticon slides, prints in black and white and in color, including the ubiquitous picture postal card. The collections of public art museums and of private galleries are of great value for illustrative purposes; but of still greater value to the student is the departmental museum, with which, unfortunately, but few colleges are equipped. Some colleges have been saddled by well-meaning donors with collections of various kinds of works of art which are but ill related to the instruction given in the department of art. The collections of the college museum need not be large but they should be selected especially with their instructional purpose in view. The problems of expense debars most colleges from establishing museums of art; but with a modest annual appropriation a working collection can be gradually gathered together. A collection which is the result of gradual growth and of careful consideration will usually be of greater instructional value than one which is acquired at one time. An institution which owns a few original works of painting, sculpture, and the crafts of representative masters is indeed fortunate, but even institutions whose expenditures for this purpose are slight may possess at least a few original lithographs, engravings, etchings, etc., in its collection of prints. Fortunately, there are means whereby some of the unobtainable originals of the great public museums and private collections of the world may be represented in the college museums by adequate reproductions. The methods of casting in plaster of Paris, in bronze and other materials; of producing squeezes in papier maché; and of reproducing by the galvano-plastic process, are used for making facsimiles of statues, vases, terra cottas, carved ivories, inscriptions and other forms of incised work, gems, coins, etc., at a cost which, when compared with that of originals, is trivial.[108] Paintings, drawings, engravings, etc., are often admirably reproduced by various photographic and printing processes in color or black and white. Generally speaking, the most valuable adjunct of the college art museum or of the college art library is the collection of photographs properly classified and filed for ready reference by the instructor or student. A specially designed museum building would present opportunities for service that would extend beyond the walls of the art department, but if such a building is not available, a single well-lighted room furnished with suitable cabinets and wall cases, and with ample wall space for the display of paintings, prints, charts, etc., would be of great service. A departmental library of carefully chosen books on the theory, history, and the practice of the various arts, together with current and bound numbers of the best art periodicals of America and of foreign countries, is indispensable. =Methods of teaching= Methods will naturally depend somewhat upon the size of the class. In large classes--of, say, more than forty--the lecture method, supplemented by section meetings and conferences, would usually be followed. In the following discussion it is assumed that the classes will not exceed forty. Under the head of Methods of Teaching are here included: Work in Class and Work outside of Class. The work in class consists of lectures; discussions by the members of the class; laboratory or studio work; excursions. There is no worse method than that of exclusive lecturing by the instructor. If the methods employed do not induce the student to do his own thinking, they have but little value. Much of the instructor's time will be occupied in devising methods by which the students themselves will contribute to their own and their fellows' advancement. Discussions led by the instructor and carried on by the members of the class should be frequent. From time to time a separate division of a general topic should be assigned to each member of the class, who will prepare himself to present his part of the topic before the class either by reading a paper or otherwise. Discussions by the members of the class, concluded by the instructor, should generally follow this presentation. Topics for investigation, study, and discussion should be so selected as to require the students to make application of their study to their daily life and environment. In this way their critical interest in the design of public and private buildings, of monuments, and of the innumerable art productions which they see about them would be stimulated. For the purpose of illustrating lectures and aiding in discussions, prints and photographs may be shown either directly or through the medium of the reflectoscope. Or, they may be transferred to lantern slides and shown by means of the stereopticon. To a limited extent the Lumière color process has been used in preparing slides. The methods of laboratory and studio work have already been briefly treated under the head of Courses of Instruction, and hardly need to be further amplified here. It has already been stated that original works of art are the best illustrations, and that these are but rarely available within the walls of the college. Instructors in institutions which are situated within or near to large centers of population can usually supply this deficiency by arranging visits to museums and other places where works of art are preserved and exhibited; and to artists' studios and to workshops where works of art are produced. Instructors in institutions which are not so situated may supply the deficiency, in some measure, by arranging for temporary exhibitions in the museum or other rooms of the department. Rotary exhibitions of paintings, prints, craftwork, sculpture, designs, examples of students' work, etc., may be arranged whereby groups of institutions within convenient distances from each other may share the benefits offered by such exhibitions, as well as the expense of assemblage, transportation, and insurance. In arranging for such temporary exhibitions it is essential that only works of the highest quality, of their kind, should be selected. Selections can best be made personally by the instructor or by capable and trustworthy agents who are thoroughly informed as to the purpose of the exhibition and as to the needs of the institutions forming the circuits. Such rotary exhibitions possess a wider usefulness than that of serving as illustrative material for the college department of art: they serve also as an artistic stimulus to the members of the college at large, and to the community in which the college is situated.[109] The work of students outside of class has already been mentioned. It consists of collateral reading, the study of prints and photographs, and the preparation of written themes and reports. Notwithstanding the lavish production of books relating to art, there are but very few that are suitable for use as college textbooks. The instructor will usually assign collateral reading from various authors. =Testing results of art instruction= In attempting to measure the success or failure of the work, the teacher must ask himself, What do our college graduates who have taken art courses possess that is lacking in those who have not taken such courses? The immediate test of the results of the work is in the attitude of mind of the students. Do they think differently about works of art from what they did before entering the courses? Is there a change in their habit of thought? Have they done no more than accept the lessons they have been taught, or have they so absorbed them and made them their own that they are capable of self-expression in making their estimates of works of art? These questions may be answered by the result of the written examination and by the oral quiz. It must be confessed that the chief purpose of art instruction in the college is to supply a lack in our national and private life. Citizens of the older communities of Europe pass their lives among the accumulated art treasures of past ages. The mere daily contact with such forms of beauty engenders a taste for them. Partly through our Puritan origin, partly through our preoccupation with the development of the material resources of our country, we, as a people, have failed to cultivate some of the imponderable things of the spirit. So far as we have had to do with its creation, our environment in town and village is generally lacking in artistic charm. The study by lay students of the art of the past has one chief object; namely, to train them to understand the works of the masters in order that they may discriminate between what is beautiful and what is meretricious in the art of the present day; to learn the lessons of art from the monoliths of Egypt, the tawny marbles of ancient Greece, the balanced thrusts of the Gothic cathedral, the gracious and reverent harmonies of the primitives, the delicate handicrafts of the Orient, the splendors of the Renaissance, the vibrant colors of the latest phase of impressionism, and to apply these lessons in the search for hidden elements of beauty in nature and art in their own country and in their own lives and surroundings. Believing, as he does, in the value of artistic culture, it becomes the duty of the college art instructor to teach with enthusiasm unmarred by prejudice; to cultivate in the minds of his students a catholic receptivity to all that is sincere in artistic expression; to open up avenues of thought in the minds of those whose lives would otherwise be barren of artistic sympathy; to cull the best from the experience of the past, and, by its help, to impart to his hearers some of his own enthusiasm; for their lives cannot fail to touch at some point the borderlands of the magic realm of art. HOLMES SMITH _Washington University_ BIBLIOGRAPHY ANKENEY, J. S., LAKE, E. J., and WOODWARD, W. Final Report of the Committee on the Condition of Art Work in Colleges and Universities. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association._ Oak Park, Illinois. 1910. ANKENEY, J. S. The Place and Scope of Art Education in the University. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 16th Annual Report._ St. Louis, 1909. BEAUX, CELIA. What Instruction in Art Should the College A. B. Course Offer to the Future Artists? _The American Magazine of Art._ Washington. D. C., October, 1916. BLAYNEY, T. L. The History of Art in the College Curriculum. _Proceedings of the American Federation of Arts._ Washington, D. C., 1910. BROOKS, ALFRED The Study of Art in Universities. _Education._ Boston, February, 1901. CHURCHILL, A. V. Art in the College Course. _The Smith Alumnæ Quarterly._ New York, February, 1915. CLOPATH, H. The Scope and Organization of Art Instruction in the A. B. Course. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 17th Annual Report._ Oak Park, Illinois, 1910. CROSS, H. R. The College Degree in Fine Arts. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 17th Annual Report._ Oak Park, Illinois, 1910. DOW, A. W. Anarchism in Art Teaching. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 19th Annual Report._ Cincinnati, 1912. DOW, A. W. _Theory and Practice of Teaching Art._ Teachers College, Columbia University. 2d edition. New York, 1912. DOW, A. W. Modernism in Art. _The American Magazine of Art._ New York, January, 1917. FREDERICK, F. F. The Study of Fine Art in American Colleges and Universities: Its Relation to the Study in Public Schools. _Addresses and Proceedings of the National Education Association._ Detroit, 1901. HELLER, O. Art as a Liberal Study. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 17th Annual Report._ Oak Park. Illinois, 1910. JASTROW, J. The place of the Study of Art in a College Course. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association._ Oak Park, Illinois, 1910. KELLEY, C. F. Art in American Universities. _Nation_, 91: 74. New York, July 28, 1910. KELLEY, C. F. Art Education. _Report of the Commissioner of Education._ (Department of Interior, Bureau of Education). Washington, D. C., 1915. LEONARD, WILLIAM J. The Place of Art in the American College. _Education_, 32; 597-607. Boston, June, 1912. LOW, W. H. The Proposed Department of Art in Columbia University. _Scribner's Magazine._ New York, December, 1902. MANN, F. M. Coöperation among Art Workers in Universities. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 16th Annual Report._ St. Louis, 1909. MARSHALL, H. R. The Relation of the University to the Teaching of Art. _Architectural Record._ New York, April, 1903. MONROE, PAUL (editor). Art in Education, etc. _Cyclopedia of Education._ The Macmillan Company, New York, 1911. NORTON, C. E. The Educational Value of the History of Art. _Educational Review_, New York, April, 1895. PHILLIPS, DUNCAN. What Instruction in Art Should the College A.B. Course Offer to the Future Writer on Art? _The American Magazine of Art._ New York, March, 1917. PICKARD, J. Message of Art for the Collegian. _The American Magazine of Art._ Washington, D. C., February, 1916. ROBINSON, D. M. Reproductions of Classical Art. _Art and Archaelogy._ Washington, D. C., April, 1917. SARGENT, W. Instruction in Art in the United States. _Biennial Survey of Education in the United States 1916-18_ (Department of the Interior, Bureau of Education). Washington, D. C. SEELYE, L. C. The Place of Art in the Smith College Curriculum. _Educational Review._ New York, January, 1904. SMITH, E. B. _The History of Art in the Colleges and Universities of the United States._ Princeton University Press. Princeton, 1912. SMITH, HOLMES. Art as an Integral Part of University Work. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 16th Annual Report._ St. Louis, 1909. SMITH, HOLMES. The Future of the University Round Table. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association._ Oak Park, Illinois, 1910. SMITH, HOLMES, LAKE, E. J., and MARQUAND, A. The College Art Association of America. Report of Committee Appointed to Investigate the Condition of Art Instruction in the Colleges and Universities of the United States. _School and Society._ Garrison, New York, August 26, 1916. STANLEY, H. M. Our Education and the Progress of Art. _Education._ Boston, October, 1890. SWIFT, F. H. What Art Does for Life. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 18th Annual Report._ Springfield, Illinois, 1911. SYLVESTER, F. O. Esthetic and Practical Values in Art Courses. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 16th Annual Report._ St. Louis, 1909. WALDSTEIN, C. _The Study of Art in Universities._ Harper & Brothers. New York, 1896. WALKER, C. H. Art in Education. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 16th Annual Report._ St. Louis, 1909. WOODWARD, W. Art Education in the Colleges. Art Education in the Public Schools of the United States. _American Art Annual._ New York, 1908. WUERPEL, E. H. The Relation of the Art School to the University. _Western Drawing and Manual Training Association, 16th Annual Report._ St. Louis, 1909. ZANTZINGER, C. C. Report of Committee on Education. _Proceedings of the 47th Annual Convention of the American Institute of Architects._ Washington, D. C., December, 1913. NOTE. For numerous discussions of problems of college art teaching, the Bulletins of the College Art Association of America may be consulted. Footnotes: [102] Tolstoi, L. N., _What Is Art?_ Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1899. Chapter V, page 43. [103] Waldstein: _Essays on the Art of Pheidias_, Cambridge University Press. 1885, pages 95 et seq. [104] _New Princeton Review_, II, 29. [105] _The American Magazine of Art_, Vol. 8, No. 5, page 177. [106] Woodward, W. "Art Education in the Colleges," _Art Education in the Public Schools of the United States_, edited by J. P. Haney; American Art Annual, New York, 1908. Ankeney, J. S., Woodward, W., Lake, E. J., "Final Report of the Committee on the Condition of Art Instruction in Colleges and Universities." _Seventeenth Annual Report of the Western Drawing and Manual Training Association._ Minneapolis, 1910. Kelley, C. F., "Art Education." _Report of the Commissioner of Education_, Vol. I, Chap. XV. Washington, D. C., 1915. Smith, E. B., _The Study of the History of Art in the Colleges and Universities of the United States._ University Press, Princeton, 1912. [107] _Nineteenth Annual Report, Western Drawing and Manual Training Association_, Cincinnati, 1912, page 19. [108] Robinson, D. M., "Reproductions of Classical Art," _Art and Archaeology_, Vol. V, No. 4, pages 221-234. [109] Rotary art exhibitions for educational purposes are arranged by the American Federation of Arts, 1741, New York Avenue, Washington, D. C. PART SIX VOCATIONAL SUBJECTS CHAPTER XXV THE TEACHING OF ENGINEERING SUBJECTS _Ira O. Baker_ XXVI THE TEACHING OF MECHANICAL DRAWING _J. D. Phillips and H. D. Orth_ XXVII THE TEACHING OF JOURNALISM _Talcott Williams_ XXVIII BUSINESS EDUCATION _Frederick B. Robinson_ XXV THE TEACHING OF ENGINEERING SUBJECTS Each of the preceding chapters of this volume treats of a subject which is substantially a unit in method and content; but the subjects assigned to this chapter include a variety of topics which are quite diverse in scope and character. For example, such subjects as German and physics represent the work of single collegiate departments; while engineering subjects represent substantially the entire work of an engineering college, of which there are many in this country, each having a thousand or more students. It is necessary, then, to inquire as to the scope of this chapter. I. SCOPE OF THIS CHAPTER =Contents of engineering curricula= The contents of the representative four-year engineering curriculum of the leading institutions may be classified about as in the table on page 502. In addition to the subjects listed, most institutions require freshmen to take gymnasium practice and lectures on hygiene, and many colleges require freshmen, and some also sophomores, to take military drill and tactics. Formerly many institutions required all engineering freshmen to take elementary shop work; but at present in most institutions this practice has been discontinued, owing to the establishment of manual-training high schools and to the development of other engineering subjects. The order of the subjects varies somewhat in the different institutions. For example, instead of as in the table on page 502, rhetoric may be given in the sophomore year and language in the first. Again, in some institutions a little technical work is given in the freshman year. Further, the total number of semester-hours varies somewhat among the different institutions. However, the table is believed to be fairly representative. CONTENTS OF ENGINEERING CURRICULA The unit is a semester-hour; i.e., five class-periods a week for half a year. --------------------------------------+-----------------------+-------- | COLLEGIATE YEAR | GENERAL SUBJECT +-----+-----+-----+-----+ TOTAL | I | II | III | IV | --------------------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-------- Mechanical drawing and descriptive | | | | | geometry | 10 | ... | ... | ... | 10 | | | | | Rhetoric | 6 | ... | ... | ... | 6 | | | | | Modern language | ... | 8 | ... | ... | 8 | | | | | Pure mathematics | 10 | 8 | ... | ... | 18 | | | | | Science--physical and social | 10 | 9 | 6 | 4 | 29 | | | | | Theoretical and applied mechanics | ... | 3 | 10 | ... | 13 | | | | | Technical engineering | ... | 8 | 20 | 32 | 60 | ----| ----| ----| ----| ---- Total | 36 | 36 | 36 | 36 | 144 --------------------------------------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-------- =The different engineering curricula= Below is a list of the principal four-year curricula offered by the engineering colleges of this country. The list contains forty different engineering curricula. No one institution offers all of these, but some of the larger and better equipped offer fifteen or sixteen different curricula for which a degree is given. 1. _Architecture_ (which is usually classified as an engineering subject): general architecture; architectural design; architectural construction. 2. _Ceramics engineering:_ general ceramics and ceramics engineering; ceramics; ceramics engineering. 3. _Chemical engineering_: general chemical engineering; metallurgical engineering; gas engineering; pulp and paper engineering; electro-chemical engineering. 4. _Civil engineering_: general civil engineering; railway civil engineering; municipal engineering; structural engineering; topographic or geodetic engineering; hydraulic engineering; irrigation engineering; highway engineering. 5. _Electrical engineering_: general electrical engineering; telephone engineering; electrical design; power-plant design; electrical railway engineering. 6. _Marine engineering:_ general marine engineering; naval architecture; marine engineering. 7. _Mechanical engineering:_ general mechanical engineering; steam engineering; railway mechanical engineering; hydro-mechanical engineering; machine design and construction; heating, ventilating, and refrigerating; industrial engineering; automobile engineering; aëronautical engineering. 8. _Mining engineering:_ general mining engineering; metallurgical engineering; coal mining; ore mining. The first engineering curriculum established was civil engineering, which was so called to distinguish it from military engineering. At first the course contained only a little technical work, but in course of time specialized work was increased; and later courses were established in mining and mechanical engineering, and more recently followed specialized courses in architecture, electrical engineering, marine engineering, chemical engineering, and ceramic engineering--about in the order named. The order of the various special courses in the several groups above is roughly that of their establishment. =Number of engineering subjects= In the preceding list are eight groups of curricula, each of which contains about 60 semester-hours peculiar to itself; and, considering only a single curriculum in each of the eight groups, there are 480 semester-hours of specialized work. In addition there are in the list thirty-two subdivisions, each of which differs from the parent by at least 10 semester-hours. Hence the total number of engineering subjects offered is at least 800 semester-hours. It is safe to assume that for administrative reasons, each 3 semester-hours on the average represents a distinct title or topic, and that therefore the engineering colleges of the country offer instruction in 267 different engineering subjects. However, the diversity is not so great as the preceding statement seems to imply, since for convenience in program making and in bookkeeping many subjects are listed under two or more heads. For example, a subject which runs through two semesters will for administrative reasons appear under two different heads in the above computations. Again, the lecture or textbook work in a subject will usually appear under one head and the laboratory work under a separate title. Finally, some subjects which differ but little in character may for convenience be listed under two different titles. If the subjects that are subdivided for the above reasons were listed under a single head, the number of topics would be reduced something like 20 to 25 per cent. Therefore, the topics of engineering instruction which differ materially in character number about 200. This, then, is the field assigned to this chapter. Obviously it is impossible to consider the several subjects separately. II. DIFFERENTIATION IN ENGINEERING CURRICULA For a considerable number of years there has been much discussion by both college teachers and practicing engineers concerning differentiation in engineering curricula; and the usual conclusion is that undue differentiation is detrimental. But nevertheless specialization has gone on comparatively rapidly and extensively--as shown in the previous article. Since the degree of differentiation determines in a large measure (1) the spirit with which a student does his work, (2) the method of teaching that should be employed, and (3) the results obtained, it will be wise briefly to consider the merits of specialization. The arguments against specialization have been more widely and more earnestly presented than those in favor of specialization. The usual arguments pro and con may be summarized as follows: 1. It is frequently claimed that the undergraduate is incapable of wisely choosing a specialty, and that hence specialization should come after a four-year course,--i.e., in the graduate school or by self-instruction after graduation. But the parents and friends of a student usually help him in deciding upon a profession or on a special line of study, and therefore it is not likely that a very serious mistake will be made. Of necessity a decision must be made whether or not to seek a college education; and a decision must also be made between the great fields of knowledge,--liberal arts, agriculture, engineering, etc. If the student decides to take any branch of engineering, he usually has his whole freshman year in which to make a further specialization. At the end of the sophomore year the specialization has not gone very far; and therefore if the student finds he has made a mistake, it is not difficult to change. 2. "The undergraduate seldom knows the field of his future employment, and hence does not have the data necessary for an intelligent decision." The young man will never have all of the data for such a decision until he has actually worked in that field for a time, and there is no reason why he should not make a decision and try some particular line of preparation. 3. Some opponents of specialization claim that the more general the engineering training, the easier to obtain employment after graduation; but this is not in harmony with the facts. The opposite is more nearly true. For example, who ever heard of a practicing engineer preferring a liberal arts student to a civil engineering student as a rodman? 4. Specialized courses require that the college should have larger equipment and a more versatile staff. The larger institutions can prepare for specialized sections nearly as easily and cheaply as for duplicate sections; and institutions having only a few students or meager financial support should not offer highly specialized courses. 5. The opponents of specialization claim that to be a successful specialist one should have a broad training, and that therefore the broader the curriculum the better. It is true that to be a successful specialist requires a considerable breadth of knowledge, but that does not prove that the student should be required to get all of his general knowledge before he gives attention to matters peculiar to his specialty. No engineer can be reasonably successful in any field with only the knowledge obtained in college, whether that be general or special. 6. It is claimed that specialization should be postponed to a fifth year. It seems to have been settled by experience that four years is about the right length of the college course for the average engineering student, and that in that time he should test his fitness and liking for his future work by studying some of the subjects relating to his proposed specialized field. 7. The chief reason in favor of specialization is that the field of knowledge is so vast that it is absolutely necessary for every college student--engineering or otherwise--to specialize; and in engineering this specialization is vitally important, since fundamental principles can be taught most effectively in connection with their application to specialized problems. In no other way is it possible to invest theoretical principles with definite meaning to the student, and by this process it is possible to transform abstract theory into glowing realities which under a competent teacher arouse the student's interest and even his enthusiasm. 8. Specialization in engineering curricula is a natural outgrowth of the evolution of engineering knowledge, and is in harmony with sound principles of teaching. For example, all engineering students should have a certain amount of mechanical drawing; but the best results will be obtained if the civil engineer, after a study of the elementary principles, continues his practice in drawing by making maps, while the mechanical engineer continues his by making details of machinery. Both will do their work with more zest and much more efficiency than if both were compelled to make drawings which meant nothing to them except practice in the art of drawing. Similar illustration can be found throughout any well-arranged engineering curriculum. A vitally essential element in any educational diet is that the subject shall not pall upon the appetite of the student. He should go to every intellectual meal with a hearty gusto. The specialized course appeals more strongly to the ambition of the student than a general course. The engineering student selects a specialized course because he has an ambition to become an architect, a chemical engineer, a civil engineer, or perhaps a bridge engineer, a highway engineer, a mechanical engineer, or perhaps a heating engineer or an automobile engineer; and having an opportunity to study subjects in which he is specially interested, he works with zest and usually accomplishes much more than a student who is pursuing a course of study only remotely, if at all, related to the field of his proposed activities after leaving college. Further, the more specialized the course, the greater the energy with which the student will work. Many of those who have discussed specialization seem to assume that the only, or at least the chief, purpose of an engineering education is to give technical information, and that specialization is synonymous with superficiality. From this point of view the aim of a college education is to give a student information useful in his future work, and the inevitable result is that the student has neither the intellectual power nor the technical knowledge to enable him to render efficient service in any position in which he will work whole-heartedly. The weakness and superficiality of such a student, it is usually said, is due to excessive specialization, while in reality it is primarily due to wrong methods of teaching. Within reasonable limits specialization has little or nothing to do with the result; and under certain conditions, as previously stated, specialization helps rather than hinders intellectual development. If a subject has real educational value and is so taught as to train a student to see, to analyze, to discriminate, to describe, the more the specialization the better; but if a subject is taught chiefly to give unrelated information about details of practice, the more the specialization the less the educational value. 10. Experience has conclusively shown that an engineering student is very likely to slight a general subject in favor of a simultaneous technical or specialized subject. This fact, together with the necessity of a fixed sequence in technical engineering subjects, makes it practically impossible to secure any reasonable work in most general subjects when a student is at the same time carrying one or more technical studies. For these reasons it is necessary to make the later years of the curriculum nearly wholly technical, which makes specialization possible, if it does not invite it. III. AIM OF ENGINEERING EDUCATION =Disciplinary values of engineering subjects= The three elements of engineering education, as indeed of all education, should be development, training, and information. The first is the attainment of intellectual power, the capacity for abstract conception and reasoning. The second includes the formation of correct habits of thought and methods of work; the cultivation of the ability to observe closely, to reason correctly, to write and speak clearly; and the training of the hand to execute. The third includes the acquisition of the thoughts and experiences of others, and of the truths of nature. The development of the mental faculties is by far the most important, since it alone confers that "power which masters all it touches, which can adapt old forms to new uses, or create new and better means of reaching old ends." Without this power the engineer cannot hope to practice his profession with any chance of success. The formation of correct habits of thinking and working, habits of observing, of classifying, of investigating, of discriminating, of proving instead of guessing, of weighing evidence, of patient perseverance, and of doing thoroughly honest work, is a method of using that power efficiently. The accumulation of facts is the least important. The power to acquire information and the knowledge of how to use it is of far greater value than any number of the most useful facts. The value of an education does not consist in the number of facts acquired, but in the ability to discover facts by personal observation and investigation and in the power to use these facts in deducing new conclusions and establishing fundamental principles. There is no comparison between the value of a ton of horseshoe nails and the ability to make a single nail. =Utilitarian aim of the engineering subjects: information and training= The engineering student usually desires to reverse the above order and assumes that the acquisition of information, especially that directly useful in his proposed profession, is the most valuable element of an education; and unfortunately some instructors seem to make the same mistake. The truth is that methods of construction, details of practice, mechanical appliances, prices of materials and labor, change so rapidly that it is useless to teach many such matters. However important such items are to the practicing engineer, they are of little or no use to the student; for later, when he does have need of them, methods, machines, and prices have changed so much that the information he acquired in college will probably be worse than useless. Technical details are learned of necessity in practice, and more easily then than in college; whereas in practice fundamental principles are learned with difficulty, if at all. A man ignorant of principles does not usually realize his own ignorance and limitations, or rather he is unaware of the existence of unknown principles. The engineering college should teach the principles upon which sound engineering practice is based, but should not attempt to teach the details of practice any further than is necessary to give zest and reality to the instruction and to give an intelligent understanding of the uses to be made of fundamental principles. As evidence that technical information is not essential for success in an engineering profession, attention is called to the fact that a considerable number of men who took a course in one of the major divisions of engineering have practiced in another branch with reasonable success. The only collegiate training one of the most distinguished American engineers of the last generation had was a general literary course followed by a law course. Further, a considerable number have successfully practiced engineering, after only a general college education, and this in recent years when engineering curricula have become widely differentiated. Examples in other lines of business could be cited to show that a knowledge of technical details is not the most important element in a preparation for a profession or for business. The all-important thing is that the engineering student shall acquire the power to observe closely, to reason correctly, to state clearly, that he shall be able to extract information from books certainly and rapidly, and that he shall cultivate his judgment, initiative, and self-reliance. A student may have any amount of technical information, but if he seriously lacks any of the qualities just enumerated, he cannot attain to any considerable professional success. However, if he has these qualities to a fair degree, he can speedily acquire sufficient technical details to enable him to succeed fairly well. The chief aim of the engineering college should be to develop the intellectual power that will enable the student not only to acquire quickly the details of practice, but will also enable him ultimately to establish precedents and determine the practice of his times. Incidentally the engineering college should seek to expand the horizon and widen the sympathy of its students. In college classes there will be those who are either unable or unwilling to attain the highest educational ideals, and who will become only the hewers of wood and drawers of water of the engineering profession; but a setting before them of the highest ideals and even an ineffective training in methods of work will prepare them the better to fill mediocre positions. The nearly universal engineering college course requires four years. The field properly belonging to even a specialized curriculum is so wide and the importance of a proper preparation of the engineers of the future is so great as appropriately to require more than four years of time; but the consensus of opinion is that for various reasons only four years are available for undergraduate work--the only kind here under consideration. Hence it is of vital importance that the highest ideals shall be set before the engineering students and that the methods of instruction employed shall be the best attainable. IV. METHODS OF TEACHING Instruction in technical engineering subjects is given by lectures, recitations from textbooks, assigned reading, laboratory work, surveying, field-practice, problems in design, memoirs, and examinations. Each of these will be briefly considered. =Lecture system= The term "lecture system" will be used to designate that method of instruction in which knowledge is presented by the instructor without immediate questioning of, or discussion by, the student. In the early history of engineering education, when instruction in technical engineering subjects was beginning to be differentiated from other branches of education, the lecture was the only means of acquainting the student with either the principles or details of engineering practice, since textbooks were then few and unsatisfactory. But at present, when there are so many fields of technical knowledge in which there are excellent books, the lecture system is indefensible as a means either of communicating knowledge or of developing intellectual strength. It is a waste of the student's time to present orally that which can be found in print. At best the lecturer can present only about one third as much as a student could read in the same time; and, besides, the student can understand what he reads better than what he hears, since he can go more slowly over that which he does not understand. The lecturer moves along approximately uniformly, while some students fail to understand one part, and others would like to pause over some other portion. A poor textbook is usually better than a good lecturer. It is a fundamental principle of pedagogy that there can be no development without the activity of the learner's mind; and hence with the lecture system it is customary to require the student to take notes, and subsequently submit himself to a quiz or present his lecture notes carefully written up. If the student is required to take notes, either for future study or to be submitted, his whole time and attention are engrossed in writing; and at the close of the lecture, if it has covered any considerable ground, the student has only a vague idea of what has been said. Further, the notes are probably so incomplete as to afford inadequate material for future study. If the subject matter is really new and not found in print, the lecture should be reproduced for the student's use. It is more economical and more effective for the student to pay his share of the cost of printing, than to spend his time in making imperfect notes and perhaps ultimately writing them out more fully. The lecture system is less suitable for giving instruction in engineering subjects than in general subjects, such for example as history, sociology, and economics, since technical engineering subjects usually include principles and more or less numerical data that must be stated briefly and clearly. If a student has had an opportunity to study a subject from either a textbook or a printed copy of the lecture notes, then comments by the teacher explaining some difficult point, or describing some later development, or showing some other application or consequence of the principle, may be both instructive and inspiring; but the main work of teaching engineering subjects should be from carefully prepared textbooks. However, an occasional formal lecture by an instructor or a practicing engineer upon some subject already studied from a textbook can be a means of valuable instruction and real inspiration, provided the lecture is well prepared and properly presented. In the preceding discussion the term "lecture" has been employed as meaning a formal presentation of information; but there is another form of lecture, a demonstration lecture, which consists of an explanation and discussion by the instructor of an experiment conducted before the class. The prime purpose of the experiment and the demonstration lecture is to explain and fix in mind general principles. This form of lecture is an excellent method of giving information; and if the student is questioned as to the facts disclosed and is required to discuss the principles established, it is an effective means of training the student to observe, to analyze, and to describe. =Recitation system= This system of instruction consists in assigning a lesson upon which the student subsequently recites. In subjects involving mathematical work, the recitation may consist of the presentation of the solution of examples or problems; but in engineering subjects the recitation usually consists either of answers to questions or of the discussion of a topic. The question may be either a "fact" question or a "thought" question. If the main purpose is to give information, the "fact" question is used, the object being to determine whether the student has acquired a particular item of information. Not infrequently, even in college teaching, the question can be answered by a single word or a short sentence; and usually such a question, even if it does not itself suggest the answer, requires a minimum of mental effort on the part of the student. This method determines only whether the student has acquired a number of unrelated facts, and does not insure that he has any knowledge of their relation to each other or to other facts he may know, nor does it test his ability to use these facts in deducing conclusions or establishing principles. Apparently this method of conducting a recitation, or quiz as it is often called, is far too common in teaching engineering subjects. It is the result chiefly of the mistaken belief that the purpose of technical teaching is to give information. The "thought" question is one which requires the student to reflect upon the facts stated in the book and to draw his own conclusions. This method is intermediate between the "fact" question and the topical discussion; it is not so suitable to college students as to younger ones, and is not so easily applied in engineering subjects as in more general subjects such as history, economics, or social science. It will not be considered further. The topical recitation consists in calling upon the student to state what he knows upon a given topic. This method not only tests the student's knowledge of facts, but also trains him in arranging his facts in logical order and in presenting them in clear, correct, and forceful language. (1) One advantage of this method of conducting the recitation is that it stimulates the student to acquire a proper method of attacking the assigned lesson. Many college students know little or nothing concerning the art of studying. Apparently, they simply read the lesson over without attempting to weigh the relative importance of the several statements and without attempting to skeletonize or summarize the text. The ability to acquire quickly and easily the essential statements of a printed page is an accomplishment which will be valuable in any walk of life. In other words, this method of conducting a recitation forces the student to adopt the better method of study. (2) A second advantage of the topical recitation is that it trains the student in expressing his ideas. It is generally conceded that the engineering-college graduate is deficient in his ability to use good English, which is evidence that either the topical recitation is not usually employed, or good English is not insisted upon, or perhaps both. (3) A third advantage of the topical recitation is that it trains the student in judgment and discrimination--two elements essential in the practical work of all engineers. Apparently many college teachers think it more creditable to deliver lectures than to conduct recitations. The formal lecture is an inefficient means of either conveying information or developing intellectual power, and hence no one should take pride in it. The textbook and quiz method of conducting a recitation is more effective than the lecture system, but is by no means an ideal method of either imparting information or giving intellectual training. Neither of these methods is worthy of a conscientious teacher. The textbook and topical recitation affords an excellent opportunity to teach the student to analyze, to observe, to discriminate, to train him in the use of clear and correct language, and in the presentation of his thoughts in logical order--an object worthy of any teacher and an opportunity to employ the highest ability of any person. In the conduct of such a recitation in engineering subjects, there is abundant opportunity to supplement the textbook by calling attention to new discoveries and other applications, and to introduce interesting historic references. It is often instructive to discuss differences in construction which depend upon differences in physical conditions or in preferences of the constructor, and such discussions afford excellent opportunities to train the student in discovering the causes of the differences and in weighing evidence, all of which helps to develop his powers of observation and analysis and above all to cultivate his judgment. If a teacher is truly interested in his work, such a recitation gives opportunity for an interchange of thoughts between the student and teacher that may be made of great value to the former and of real interest to the latter. The conduct of such a recitation should be much more inspiring to the teacher than the repetition of a formal lecture which at best can have only little instructional value. =Suggestions for increasing effectiveness of the recitation= The recitation is such an important method of instruction that it is believed a few suggestions as to its conduct may be permissible, although a discussion of methods of teaching does not properly belong in this chapter. (1) The students should not be called upon in any regular order. (2) If at all possible, each student should be called upon during each recitation. (3) The question or topic should be stated, and then after a brief pause a particular student should be called upon to recite. (4) The question or topic should not be repeated. (5) The student should not be helped. (6) The question should be so definite as to admit of only one answer. (7) "Fact" questions and topical discussions should be interspersed. (8) Irrelevant discussion should be eliminated. (9) The thoughtful attention of the entire class and an opportunity for all to participate may be secured by interrupting a topical discussion and asking another to continue it. (10) Clear, correct and concise answers should be insisted upon. (11) In topical discussions the facts should be stated in a logical order. (12) Commend any exceptionally good answer. =Assigned reading= A student is sometimes required to read an assigned chapter in a book or some particular article in a technical journal as a supplement to a lecture or a textbook. Sometimes the whole class has the same assignment, and sometimes different students have different assignments. Each student should be quizzed on his reading, or should be required to give a summary of it. The method of instruction by assigned reading is most appropriate when the lecture presentation or textbook is comparatively brief. This method is only sparingly permissible with an adequate textbook. =Laboratory work= The chief purpose of laboratory work is to illustrate the principles of the textbook and thereby fix them in the student's mind. The manipulation of the apparatus and the making of the observations is valuable training for the hand and the eye, and the computation of the results familiarizes the student with the limitations of mathematical processes. The interpretation of the meaning of the results cultivates the student's judgment and power of discrimination, and the writing up of the report should give valuable experience in orderly and concise statement. Sometimes the student is not required to interpret the meaning or to discuss the accuracy of his results, and sometimes he is provided with a tabular form in which he inserts his observed data without consideration of any other reason for securing the particular information. He should not be provided with a sample report nor with a tabular form, but should be required to plan his own method of presentation, determine for himself what matter shall be in tabular form and what in narrative form, and plan his own illustrations. Of course, he should be required to keep neat, accurate, and reasonably full notes of the laboratory work, and should be held to a high standard of clearness, conciseness, and correctness in his final report. Providing the student with tabular forms and sample reports may lessen the teacher's labors and improve the appearance of the report, but such practice greatly decreases the educational value to the student. =Surveying field-practice.= In its aims surveying field-practice is substantially the same as engineering laboratory work, and all the preceding remarks concerning laboratory work apply equally well also to surveying practice. Ordinarily the latter has a higher educational value than the former in that the method of attack, at least in minor details, is left to the student's initiative, and also in that the difficulties or obstacles encountered require the student to exercise his own resourcefulness. The cultivation of initiative and self-reliance is of the highest engineering as well as educational value. Further, in the better institutions the instructor in surveying usually knows the result the student should obtain, and consequently the latter has a greater stimulus to secure accuracy than occurs in most laboratory work. Finally, the students, at least the civil engineering ones, always feel that surveying is highly practical, and hence are unusually enthusiastic in their work. =Design.= When properly taught an exercise in design has the highest educational value; and, besides, the student is usually easily interested, since he is likely to regard such work as highly practical and therefore to give it his best efforts. Instruction in design should accomplish two purposes; viz., (1) familiarize the student with the application of principles, and (2) train him in initiative. Different subjects necessarily have these elements in different degrees, and any particular subject may be so taught as specially to emphasize one or the other of these objects. Sometimes a problem in design is little more than the following of an outline or example in the textbook and substituting values in formulas. The design of an ordinary short-span steel truss bridge, as ordinarily taught, is an example of this method of instruction. Another example is the design of a residence for which no predetermined limiting conditions are laid down and which does not differ materially from those found in the surrounding community or illustrated in the textbook or the architectural magazine. Such work illustrates and enforces theory, gives the student some knowledge of the materials and processes of construction, and also trains him in drafting; but it does not give him much intellectual exercise nor develop his mental fiber, although it may prepare him to take a place as a routine worker in his profession. Such instruction emphasizes utilitarian training but neglects intellectual development, mental vigor, and breadth of view. The exercise in design which has the highest educational value is one in which the student must discover for himself the conditions to be fulfilled, the method of treatment to be employed, the materials to be used, and the details to be adopted. An example of this form of problem is the design of a bridge for a particular river crossing, without any limitations as to materials of construction, type of structure, time of construction, etc., except such as are inherent in the problem and which the student must determine for himself. A better example is the architectural design of a building to be erected in a given locality to serve some particular purpose, with no limitations except perhaps cost or architectural style. Experience of several teachers with a considerable number of students during each of several years conclusively shows that students who have had only comparatively little of the design work mentioned in the preceding paragraph greatly exceed other students having the same preparation except this form of design work, in mental vigor, breadth of view, intellectual power, and initiative. This difference in capacity is certainly observable in subsequent college work, and is apparently quite effective after graduation. =Examinations= The term "examination" will be used as including the comparatively brief and informal quizzes held at intervals during the progress of the work and also the longer and more formal examinations held at the end of the work. Usually the examination is regarded as a test to determine the accuracy and extent of the student's information, which form may be called a question-and-answer examination or quiz. A more desirable form of examination is one which requires the student to survey his information on a particular topic, and to summarize the same or to state his own conclusions concerning either the relative importance of the different items or his interpretation of the meaning or application of the facts. Such an examination could be called a "topical examination." The remarks in the earlier part of this chapter concerning the relative merits of the question-and-answer and the topical recitation apply also with equal force to these two forms of examinations. However, the topical examination can be made of greater educational value than the topical recitation, since the student is likely to be required to survey a wider field and organize a larger mass of information, and also since the examination is usually written and hence affords a better opportunity to secure accuracy and finish. It is much easier for the instructor to prepare and grade the papers for the question-and-answer examination than for the topical examination, and perhaps this is one reason why the former is nearly universally employed. Of course, the topical examination should not be used except in connection with the topical recitation. Some executives of public school systems require that at least a third, and others at least a half, of all formal examinations shall be topical; and as the examination papers and the grades thereon are subject to the inspection of the executive, this requirement indirectly insures that the teacher shall not neglect the topical recitation. Apparently a somewhat similar requirement would be beneficial in college work. =Memoir= The term "memoir" is here employed to designate either a comparatively brief report upon some topic assigned in connection with the daily recitation or the graduating thesis. The former is substantially a form of laboratory work in which the library is the workroom and books the apparatus. This method of instruction has several merits. It makes the student familiar with books and periodicals and with the method of extracting information from them. It stimulates his interest in a wider knowledge than that obtained only from the textbook or the instructor's lectures. It is valuable as an exercise in English composition, particularly if the student is held to an orderly form of presentation and to good English, and is not permitted simply to make extracts. The value to be obtained from such literary report depends, of course, upon the time devoted to it, and also upon whether the instructor tells the student of the articles to be read or requires him to find the sources of information for himself. =Thesis= The thesis may be a description of some original design, or a critical review of some engineering construction, or an account of an experimental investigation. The thesis differs from other subjects in the college curriculum in that in the latter the student is expected simply to follow the directions of the instructor, to study specified lessons and recite thereon, to solve the problems assigned, and to read the articles recommended; while the preparation of the thesis is intended to develop the student's ability to do independent work. There is comparatively little in the ordinary college curriculum to stimulate the student's power of initiative, but in his thesis work he is required to take the lead in devising ways and means. The power of self-direction, the ability to invent methods of attack, the capacity to foresee the probable results of experiments, and the ability to interpret correctly the results of experiments is of vital importance in the future of any engineering student. Within certain limits the thesis is a test of the present attainments of the student and also a prophecy of his future success. Therefore, the preparation of a thesis is of the very highest educational possibility. Unfortunately many students are too poorly prepared, or too lacking in ambition, or too deficient in self-reliance and initiative to make it feasible for them to undertake the independent work required in a thesis. Such students should take instead work under direction. Further, it is unfortunate that, for administrative reasons, the requirement of a thesis for graduation is made less frequently now than formerly. The increase in number of students has made it practically impossible to require a thesis of all graduates, because of the difficulty of providing adequate facilities and of supervising the work. Again, it is difficult to administer a requirement that only part of the seniors shall prepare a thesis. Consequently the result is that at present only a very few undergraduate engineering students prepare theses. =Graduate work= All of the preceding discussion applies only to undergraduate work. Only comparatively few engineering students take graduate work. A few institutions have enough such students to justify, for administrative reasons, the organization of classes in graduate work, but usually such classes are conducted upon principles quite different from those employed for undergraduates. No textbooks in the ordinary sense are used. Often the student is assigned an experimental or other investigation, and is expected to work almost independently of the teacher, the chief function of the latter being to criticize the methods proposed and to review the results obtained. Such work under the guidance of a competent teacher is a most valuable means for mental development, training, and inspiration. IRA O. BAKER _University of Illinois_ BIBLIOGRAPHY Below is a list of the principal articles relating to engineering education, arranged approximately in chronological order. 1. The annual _Proceedings of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education_, from 1913 to date, contain many valuable articles on various phases of engineering education. Each volume consists of 200 to 300 8vo pages. The society has no permanent address. All business is conducted by the secretary, whose address at present is University of Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The more important papers of the above _Proceedings_ which are closely related to the subject of this chapter are included in the list below. Many of the articles relate to the teaching of a particular branch of engineering, and hence are not mentioned in the following list. 2. "Methods of Teaching Engineering: By Textbook, by Lecturing, by Design, by Laboratory, by Memoir." Professor C. F. Allen, Massachusetts Institute of Technology. An excellent presentation, and discussion by others. _Proceedings of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education_, Vol. VII, pages 29-54. 3. "Two Kinds of Education for Engineers." Dean J. B. Johnson, University of Wisconsin. An address to the students of the College of Engineering of the University of Wisconsin, 1901. Pamphlet published by the author; 15 8vo pages. Reprinted in _Addresses of Engineering Students_, edited by Waddell and Harrington, pages 25-35. 4. "Potency of Engineering Schools and Their Imperfections." Professor D. C. Jackson, University of Wisconsin. An address presented at the Quarto-Centennial Celebration of the University of Colorado, 1902. _Proceedings_ of that celebration, pages 53-65. 5. "Technical and Pedagogic Value of Examinations." Professor Henry H. Norris, Cornell University. A discussion of the general subject, containing examples of questions in a topical examination in an electrical engineering subject. Discussed at length by several others. _Proceedings of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education._ Vol. XV, pages 605-618. 6. "Limitations of Efficiency in Engineering Education." Professor George F. Swain, Harvard University. An address at the opening of the General Engineering Building of Union University, 1910. A discussion of various limitations and defects in engineering education. Pamphlet published by Union University; 28 small 8vo pages. Reprinted in _Addresses of Engineering Students_, edited by Waddell and Harrington, pages 231-252. 7. "The Good Engineering Teacher: His Personality and Training." Professor William T. Magruder, Ohio State University. An inspiring and instructive presidential address. _Proceedings of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education_, Vol. XXI, pages 27-38. 8. "Hydraulic Engineering Education." D. W. Mead, University of Wisconsin. An interesting discussion of the elements an engineer should acquire in his education. The article is instructive, and is broader than its title; but it contains nothing directly on methods of teaching engineering subjects. _Bulletin of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education_, Vol. IV, No. 5, 1914, pages 185-198. 9. "Some Considerations Regarding Engineering Education in America." Professor G. F. Swain, Harvard University. A paper presented at the International Engineering Congress in 1915 in San Francisco, California. A brief presentation of the early history of engineering education in America, and an inquiry as to the effectiveness of present methods. _Transactions of International Engineering Congress_, Miscellany, San Francisco, 1915, pages 324-330; discussion, pages 340-348. 10. "Technical Education for the Professions of Applied Science," President Ira N. Hollis, Worcester Polytechnic Institute. A discussion of the methods and scope of engineering education, and of the contents of a few representative engineering curricula. _Transactions International Engineering Congress_, San Francisco, 1915, Miscellany, pages 306-325. 11. "What is Best in Engineering Education." Professor H. H. Higbie, president Tau Beta Pi Association. An elaborate inquiry among graduate members of that association as to the value and relative importance of the different subjects pursued in college, of the time given to each, and of the methods employed in presenting them. Pamphlet published by the Association, 107 8vo pages. 12. "Some Details in Engineering Education." Professor Henry S. Jacoby, Cornell University. A president's address, containing many interesting and instructive suggestions concerning various details of teaching engineering subjects and the relations between students and instructor. _Proceedings of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education_, Vol. XXIII, 15 pages. 13. "Report of Progress in the Study of Engineering Education." Professor C. R. Mann. Several of the National Engineering Societies requested the Carnegie Foundation to conduct a thorough investigation of engineering education, and the Foundation committed the investigation to Professor C. R. Mann. First Report of Progress, _Proceedings of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education_, Vol. XXIII, pages 70-85; Second Report, Bulletin, same, November, 1916, pages 125-144; Final Report: A Study of Engineering Education by Charles Riborg Mann, _Bulletin Number 11, Carnegie Foundation for Advancement of Teaching_, 1918. 14. "Relation of Mathematical Training to the Engineering Profession." H. D. Gaylord, Secretary of the Association of Teachers of Mathematics in New England, and Professor Paul H. Hanus, Harvard University. An elaborate inquiry as to the opinion of practicing engineers concerning the importance of mathematics in the work of the engineer. _Bulletin of the Society for the Promotion of Engineering Education_, October, 1916, pages 54-72. 15. "Does Present-Day Engineering College Education Produce Accuracy and Thoroughness?" Professor D. W. Mead, University of Wisconsin, and Professor G. F. Swain, Harvard University. An animated discussion as to the effectiveness of a collegiate engineering education. _Engineering Record_, Vol. 73 (May 6, 1916), pages 607-609. 16. "Teach Engineering Students Fundamental Principles." Professor D. S. Jacobus, Stevens Institute. Address of the retiring president of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers. A clear and forceful discussion of general methods of studying and teaching, and of the choice of subjects to be taught. _Engineering Record_, December 16, 1916, pages 739-740. 17. A considerable number of thoughtful articles on the general subject of technical education appeared in the columns of _Mining and Scientific Press_ (San Francisco, California) during the year 1916. In the main these articles discuss general engineering education, and give a little attention to mining engineering education. 18. Since the preceding was written there has appeared a little book, the reading of which would be of great value to all engineering students, entitled _How to Study_, by George Fillmore Swain, LL.D., Professor of Civil Engineering in Harvard University and in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. McGraw-Hill Book Company, New York City, 1917. 5 x 7-1/2 inches, paper, 63 pages, 25 cents. XXVI THE TEACHING OF MECHANICAL DRAWING =Mechanical drawing a mode of expression= Drawing is a mode of expression and is therefore a form of language. As applied in the engineering field drawing is mechanical in character and is used principally for the purpose of conveying information relative to the construction of machines and structures. It seems logical that the methods employed and the standards adopted in the teaching of engineering drawing should be based on an analysis of conditions found in the engineering world. In the best engineering practice the technical standards of drawing are high, so high in fact that they may be used as an ideal toward which to work in the classroom. Examples of good draftsmanship selected from practice may well serve to furnish standards for classroom work, both in technique and methods of representation. =Mechanical drawing disciplinary as well as practical in value= Engineering drawing demands intellectual power quite as much as it does skill of hand. The draftsman in conceiving and planning his design visualizes his problem, makes calculations for it, and graphically represents the results upon the drafting board. The development of the details of his design makes it necessary that he be a trained observer of forms. Since new designs frequently involve modifications of old forms, in his efforts to recall old forms and create new ones, he develops visual memory. If the requirements of a successful draftsman or designer be taken as typical, it is evident that the young engineer must develop, in addition to a technical knowledge of the subject, and a certain degree of skill of hand, a habit of quick and accurate observation and the ability to perceive and retain mental images of forms. Modern methods of instruction recognize both the motor and mental factors involved in the production of engineering drawings. It is the aim of the drawing courses in engineering colleges to familiarize the student with the standards of technique and methods of representation found in the best commercial practice; likewise to develop in him the powers to visualize and reason, which are possessed by the commercial draftsman and designers. =Organization and content of courses in mechanical drawing= The drawing courses of engineering curricula may be divided into two groups: (1) _General courses_, in which the principles and methods of representation are taught, together with such practice in drawing as will develop a satisfactory technique. (2) _Technical courses_, the aim of which is to assist the student to acquire technical knowledge or training, drawing being used primarily for the purpose of developing or testing a student's knowledge of the subject matter. The general courses usually include an elementary course and a course in descriptive geometry. These courses deal with the fundamental principles and methods which have universal application in the advanced and technical courses. While the courses of the two groups may overlap, the general courses precede the courses of the technical group. There is no general agreement as to the order in which the subjects belonging to the general group should be given. Each of the following orders is in use: 1. A course in descriptive geometry followed by an elementary technical course. 2. An elementary course and a course in descriptive geometry given simultaneously. 3. An elementary course followed by a course in descriptive geometry. The _first plan_ is followed by a number of institutions which conclude, because of the general practice of offering courses in drawing in the secondary schools, that pupils entering college have a knowledge of the fundamentals ordinarily included in an elementary course. In other institutions it is held that the principles of projection can be taught to students of college age in a course of descriptive geometry without preliminary drill. Where the _second plan_ is used, the courses are so correlated that the instruction in the use of instruments given in an elementary course is applied in solving problems in descriptive geometry, while the principles of projection taught in descriptive geometry are applied in the making of working drawings. This plan is followed by several of the larger engineering colleges. Under the _third plan_ the principles of projection are taught through their applications in the form of working drawings. In this way the principles may be taught in more elementary form than is possible in any adequate treatment of descriptive geometry. The illustration of the principles in a concrete way makes it possible for those who find visualizing difficult, to develop that power before abstract principles of projection are taken up in the descriptive geometry. The skill of hand developed in the elementary course makes it possible to give entire attention to a study of the principles in the course in descriptive geometry. While excellent results are being obtained under each of the three plans, this plan is the one most generally adopted. The order of courses in the technical drawing groups is determined by other considerations than those relating to drawing, such as prerequisites in mathematics, strength of materials, etc. =The elementary courses= The elementary courses have undergone a number of important changes during recent years. In those of the present day more attention than formerly is given to the making of complete working drawings. In the earlier courses the elements were taught in the form of exercises. In the latter part of the courses the elements were combined in working drawings. In the modern courses, however, there is a very marked tendency to eliminate the exercise and make the applications of elements in the form of working drawings throughout the course. In the early type of course the theory of projection was taught by using the synthetic method; i.e., by placing the emphasis first upon the projection of points, then lines, surfaces, and finally geometrical solids. In the modern type of course, however, this order is reversed and the analytic method is used; i.e., solids in the form of simple machine or structural parts are first represented, then the principles of projection involved in the representation of their surfaces, edges, and finally their corners are studied. In this type of course the student works from the concrete to the abstract rather than from the abstract to the concrete. =Fundamentals of the elementary course= _Geometrical constructions_, which were formerly given as exercises and which served as a means of giving excellent practice in the use of instruments, are now incorporated in working drawings and emphasized in making views of objects. It is believed that in the applied form these constructions offer the same opportunity for the training in accuracy in the use of instruments that was had in the abstract exercises, to which is added interest naturally secured by making applications of elements in working drawings. _Conventions_ are also taught in an applied form and are introduced as the skill for executing them and the theory involved in their construction are developed in the progress of the course. The type of _freehand lettering_ most generally taught is that used in practice; i.e., the single-stroke Gothic. The best commercial drafting-room practice suggests the use of the vertical capitals for titles and subtitles, and the inclined, lower case letters and numerals for notes and dimensions. The plan generally found to produce satisfactory results is to divide the letters and numerals of the alphabet into groups containing four or five letters and numerals on the basis of form and to concentrate the attention of the student on these, one group at a time. The simple forms are considered first, and enough practice is given to enable the student to proportion the letters and numerals and make the strokes in the proper order. It is more natural to make inclined letters than vertical ones, and they are therefore easier to execute. If both vertical and inclined letters are taught, the instruction on the vertical should be given first, as it is more difficult to make vertical strokes after becoming accustomed to the inclined strokes. _Freehand perspective sketching_ affords the most natural method of representing objects in outline. It is of particular value in interpreting orthographic drawing. The student who first draws a perspective sketch of an object becomes so familiar with every detail of it that he cannot fail to have a clearer mental image of its form when he attempts to draw its orthographic views. It gives a valuable training in coördinating the hand and eye in drawing freehand lines and estimating proportions. It also serves as an intermediate step between observing an object and drawing it orthographically. _Freehand orthographic sketching_ is now quite commonly incorporated in modern courses in mechanical drawing. Such sketches serve as a preliminary step in the preparation of the mechanical drawing. They correspond to the sketches made by the engineer or draftsman for drafting-room or shop use. The experience of many instructors seems to indicate that the early introduction of freehand perspective and orthographic sketching in a course of mechanical drawing serves as a means of developing that skill in freehand execution which is so necessary in rendering the freehand features of a mechanical drawing. When this type of skill is acquired before the mechanical work is started, the mechanical and freehand technique may be simultaneously developed. The organization of an elementary course composed largely of a progressive series of working drawings necessitates the giving of considerable attention to the selection of problems involving the use of the above-named fundamentals to make the course increasingly difficult for the student. The drawing of views involves geometrical constructions and conventions, while the dimensions, notes, and title invoke the making of arrowheads, letters, and numerals. In such an elementary course the student receives not only the training in the fundamentals, but also in their application in working drawings which furnish complete and accurate information in the desired form. =Descriptive geometry= The modern methods of teaching descriptive geometry apply the theory of the subject to applications in problems taken from engineering practice. The introduction of practical applications adds interest to the subject and makes the theory more easily understood. The number of applications should be as great as possible without interfering with the development of the theory. Such a treatment of descriptive geometry, following a thorough course in elementary drawing, should make it possible to deal with abstract principles of projection with a few well-chosen applications. Descriptive geometry aids materially in developing the power of visualization which is so essential to the training of the engineer. The graphical applications of the subject in the solution of engineering problems may be used as a means of testing the student's ability to visualize. There is now very little discussion relative to the advantages and disadvantages of the first and third angle projection. Since the third angle is generally used in the elementary course as well as in engineering practice, it seems logical that it should be emphasized in descriptive geometry. Recent textbooks on this subject confirm the tendency toward the use of the third angle. The use of the third angle presents new difficulties, such as that of locating the positions of magnitudes in space in relation to their projections. Magnitudes must be located behind or below the drawing surface. To obviate such difficulties, some instructors demonstrate principles by first angle constructions. Others invert surfaces which in the first angle have their bases in the horizontal plane. This undesirable device may be overcome by using a second horizontal plane in the third angle. Such means of demonstration may be avoided altogether by considering the space relations of magnitude to one another instead of relating them to the planes of projection. This method centers the attention of the student on the relation of magnitudes represented and develops visualization. It has been found to give excellent results in both elementary drawing and descriptive geometry. To bring the teaching of descriptive geometry into closer harmony with its application in practice, auxiliary views are frequently used instead of the method of rotations. Briefly, then, it appears that the modern course in descriptive geometry should contain enough applications to hold the interest of the student and to test his power of visualization; that the third angle should be emphasized, and some use should be made of auxiliary views. Above all, the development of visualizing ability should be considered one of the chief aims of the course. =Methods of instruction in general courses= In teaching drawing and descriptive geometry, lectures, demonstrations, and individual instruction each have a place. Principles can best be presented in the form of lectures. The manual part of the work can be presented most effectively by means of demonstrations. The instructor should illustrate the proper use of instruments and materials by actually going through the process himself, calling attention to important points and explaining each step as he proceeds. Individual instruction given at the student's desk is a vital factor in teaching drawing, as it offers the best means of clearing up erroneous impressions and ministering to the needs of the individual student. Frequent recitations and quizzes serve the purpose of keeping the instructor informed as to the effectiveness of his instruction and as a means by which the student can measure his own progress and grasp upon the subject. =Methods of instruction in technical drawing courses= Those drawing courses which have for their primary object the teaching of technical subject matter make use of the drawings as an instrument to record facts and to test the student's knowledge of principles and methods. In the technical courses it should be possible to assume a knowledge of the material given in the general courses. Some effort is usually necessary, however, to maintain the standards already established. The effort thus expended should result in improving technique and increased speed. =The four-year drawing course= In an institution where drawing courses are given throughout the four years, much can be done by organization and coöperation to make the time spent by the student productive of the best results. More time than can usually be secured for the general courses is necessary to develop skill that will be comparable with that found in practice. The conditions in technical drawing courses approximate those in practice. They apply methods taught in the general courses. The limited time, frequently less than 300 clock hours, devoted to the general courses makes it desirable that advantage be taken in the technical courses for further development of technique and skill. In a number of institutions all work in drawing is so organized as to form a single drawing unit. This plan calls for coöperation on the part of all drawing teachers in the institution. The results obtained by this method seem amply to justify the effort put forth. =Conclusion= The final test in any course or group of drawing courses may be measured by the student's ability to solve problems met with in engineering practice. Measured upon this basis, the newer types of courses discussed herein, those founded upon the analytic method and developed largely as a progressive series of working drawings, seem to be meeting with better results than did those of the older type in which the synthetic method predominated and in which abstract problems were principally used. While the college man is not fitting himself to become a draftsman, it is quite true that many start their engineering careers in the drafting office. Those who think well and are proficient in expressing their thoughts through the medium of drawing are most apt to attract attention which places them in line for higher positions. Those who do not enter the engineering field through the drafting office will find the cultural and disciplinary training and the habits of precision and neatness instilled by a good course in drawing of great value. J. D. PHILLIPS and H. D. ORTH _University of Wisconsin_ XXVII THE TEACHING OF JOURNALISM The education of the journalist or newspaper man has been brought into being by the evolution of the newspaper during the last half century. Addison's _Spectator_ two centuries ago counted almost wholly on the original and individual expression of opinion. It had nothing beyond a few advertisements. The news sheet of the day was as wholly personal, a billboard of news and advertisements with contributed opinion in signed articles. A century ago, nearly half the space in a daily went to such communications. In the four-page and the eight-page newspaper of sixty to eighty years ago, taking all forms of opinions,--leaders contributed, political correspondence from capitals, state and federal, and criticism,--about one fourth of the space went to utterance editorial in character. The news filled as much more, running to a larger or smaller share as advertisements varied. The news was little edited. The telegraph down to 1880 was taken, not as it came, but more nearly so than today. In an eight-page New York paper between 1865 and 1875, a news editor with one assistant and a city editor with one assistant easily handled city, telegraph, and other copy. None of it had the intensive treatment of today. It was not until 1875 that telegraph and news began to be sharply edited, the New York Sun and the Springfield _Republican_ leading. Between 1875 and 1895, the daily paper doubled in size, and the Sunday paper quadrupled and quintupled. The relative share taken by editorial and critical matter remained about the same in amount, grew more varied in character, but dropped from 25 per cent of the total space in a four-page newspaper to 3 to 5 per cent in the dailies with sixteen to twenty pages, and the news required from three to five times as many persons to handle it. The circulation of individual papers in our large cities doubled and quadrupled, and the weekly expenditure of a New York paper rose from $10,000 a week to thrice that. These rough, general statements, varying with different newspapers as well as issue by issue in the same newspaper, represent a still greater change in the character of the subjects covered. When the newspaper was issued in communities, of a simple organization, in production, transportation, and distribution, the newspaper had some advertising, some news, and personal expression of opinion--political-partisan for the most part, critical in small part. This opinion was chiefly, though even then not wholly, expressed by a single personality, sometimes dominant, able, unselfish, and in nature a social prophet, but in most instances weak, time-serving, and self-seeking, and partisan, with one eye on advertising, official preferred, and the other on profits, public office, and other contingent personal results. In the complex society today, classified, stratified, organized, and differentiated, the newspaper is a complex representation of this life. The railroad is a far more important social agency than the stagecoach. It carries more people; it offers the community more; but the individual passenger counted for more in the eye of the traveling public in the stagecoach than today in the railroad train; but nobody would pretend to say that the railroad president was less important than the head of a stage line, Mr. A. J. Cassatt, President of the Pennsylvania Railroad and builder of its terminal, than John E. Reeside, the head of the express stage line from New York to Philadelphia, who beat all previous records in speed and stages. The newspaper-complex, representing all society, still expressing the opinion of society, not merely on politics but on all the range of life, creating, developing, and modifying this opinion, publishes news which has been standardized by coöperative news-gathering associations, local, national, and international. In the daily of today "politics" is but a part and a decreasing part, and a world of new topics has come into pages which require technical skill, the well-equipped mind, a wide information, and knowledge of the condition of the newspaper. The early reporter who once gathered the city news and turned it in to be put into type and made up by the foreman,--often also, owner and publisher,--in a sheet as big as a pocket-handkerchief, is as far removed from the men who share in the big modern daily, as far as is the modern railroad man from the rough, tough individual proprietor and driver of the stagecoach, though the driver of the latter was often a most original character, and a well-known figure on the highway as railroad men are not. =Evolution of the profession of journalism= As this change in the American newspaper came between 1860 and 1880, the public demand came for the vocational training of the journalist and experiments in obtaining it began. When Charles A. Dana bought the New York _Sun_ in 1868, he made up his staff, managing editor, news editor, city editor, Albany correspondent and political man, from among the printers he had known on the New York _Tribune_. In ten years these were succeeded by college graduates, and the _Sun_ became a paper whose writing staff, as a whole, had college training, nearly all men from the colleges. College men were in American journalism from its early beginnings; but, speaking in a broad sense, the American newspaper drew most of its staff in the eighteenth century and in the first half of the nineteenth century from among men who had the rough but effective training of the composing room, with the common school as a beginning. When the high school developed from 1860 on, it began to furnish a large number of journalists, particularly in Philadelphia, where the Central High School manned many papers. By 1880, college men began to appear in a steadily growing proportion, so far as the general writing staff was concerned. If one counted the men at the top, they were in a small proportion. In journalism, as in all arts of expression, a special and supreme gift will probably always make up for lack of special training. Between 1890 and 1900, the American newspaper as it is today was fairly launched, and Joseph Pulitzer, the ablest man in dealing with the journalism of and for the many, was the first conspicuous figure in the newspaper world to see that the time had come for the professional training of the journalist, the term he preferred to "newspaper men." Neither the calling nor the public were ready when he made his first proposal, and with singular nobility of soul and sad disappointment of heart he determined to pledge his great gift of $2,000,000, paying $1,000,000 of it to Columbia University before his death and providing that the School of Journalism, to which he furnished building and endowment, should be operated within a year after his death. This came October 29, 1911, and the school opened the following year. =Journalism today requires general and technical training= The discussion of the education of the journalist has been in progress for twoscore years. In 1870 Whitelaw Reid published his address on the "School of Journalism" and urged systematic training, for which in the bitter personal newspaper of the day he was ridiculed as "the young professor of journalism." In 1885, Mr. Charles E. Fitch, but just gone after long newspaper service, delivered a course of lectures on the training of the journalist, at Cornell University. Two years later Mr. Brainerd Smith, before and after of the New York _Sun_, then professor of elocution in the same university, began training in the work of the newspaper in his class in composition, sending out his class on assignments and outlining possible occurrences which the class wrote out. This experiment was abruptly closed by Mr. Henry W. Sage, Chairman of the Cornell Board of Trustees, because the newspapers of Minneapolis inclined to treat the university as important, chiefly because it taught "journalism." Mr. Fred Newton Scott, professor of rhetoric in the University of Michigan in 1893, began, with less newspaper notice, training in newspaper English, continuing to the present time his happy success in teaching style to his students. In 1908, Mr. Walter Williams, for twenty-four years editor, first of the Boonville _Advertiser_, and then of the Columbia, Missouri, _Herald_, became dean of the first school of journalism opened in the same year by the University of Missouri. This example was followed under the direction of Willard G. Bleyer in the University of Wisconsin. By 1911, nearly a score of colleges, universities, and technical schools were giving courses in journalism. By 1916, the directory of teachers of journalism compiled by Mr. Carl F. Getz, of the University of Ohio, showed 107 universities and colleges which gave courses in journalism, 28 state universities, 17 state colleges and schools of journalism, and 62 colleges, endowed, denominational, or municipal. The teachers who offered courses in journalism numbered 127. Of these, 25 were in trade, industrial, and agricultural schools, their courses dealing with aspects of writing demanded in the fields to which the institution devoted its work. The number of students in all these institutions numbered about 5000. This gave about 1200 students a year, who had completed their studies and gone out with a degree recording college or technical work in which training in journalism played its part. With about 40,000 men and women who were "journalists" in the country at this time, there are probably--the estimate is little better than a guess--about 3000 posts becoming vacant each year, in all branches of periodical work, monthly, weekly, and daily. The various training in journalism now offered stands ready to furnish a little less than half this demand. I judge it actually supplies yearly somewhat less than a fourth of the new men and women entering the calling, say about 750 in all. As in all professional schools, a number never enter the practice of the calling for which they are presumably prepared and still larger numbers leave it after a short trial. In addition, training for the work of the journalist opens the door to much publicity work, to some teaching, and to a wide range of business posts where writing is needed. No account also has been made here of the wide range of miscellaneous courses in advertising provided by universities, colleges and schools of journalism by advertising clubs, by private schools, and by teachers, local, lecturing and peripatetic. It will take at least ten years more before those who have systematic teaching in journalism will be numerous enough to color the life of the office of the magazine or newspaper, and a generation before they are in the majority. =Development of courses and schools of journalism= But numbers are not the only gauge of the influence of professional study on the calling itself. The mere presence, the work, the activities, and the influence of professional schools raise the standards of a calling. Those in its work begin to see their daily task from the standpoint which training implies. Since the overwhelming majority of newspaper men believe in their calling, love it, rejoice in it, regret its defects, and honor its achievements, they begin consciously to try to show how good a newspaper can be made with nothing but the tuition of the office. Inaccuracy, carelessness, bad taste, and dubious ethics present themselves at a different angle when judged in the light of a calling for which colleges and universities furnish training. A corporate spirit and a corporate standard are felt more strongly, and men who have learned all they know in a newspaper office have a just, noble, and often successful determination to advance these standards and endeavor to equal in advance anything the school can accomplish. This affects both those who have had college training and those who come to their work as newspaper men with only the education of the public schools, high or elementary. More than 1000 letters have been received by the School of Journalism in Columbia University, since it was opened, asking advice as to the reading and study which could aid a man or woman unable to leave the newspaper office to study to improve their work. College graduates, in particular on newspapers, begin systematic study on their own account, aware of an approaching competition. Definite standards in newspaper writing and in diction begin to be recognized and practiced in the office, and slips in either meet a more severe criticism. Newspaper associations of all orders play their part in this spontaneous training. Advertising clubs and their great annual gatherings have censored the periodic publicity of the advertising column as no other agency whatever could possibly have done. How far this educating influence has transformed this share of the American periodical in all its fields only those can realize who have studied past advertisements. Every state has its editorial association. These draw together more men from the weeklies and the dailies in cities under 50,000 of population than from cities of more than 500,000. These associations thirty years ago were little more than social. They have come to be educational agencies of the first importance. They create and assert new norms of conduct and composition. The papers read are normally didactic. All men try to be what they assert they are. From the American Newspaper Publishers' Association, bringing together nearly 1000 of our leading newspapers to meetings of the weeklies of a county, a region in a state, a whole state, sections like New England or the Southern States of particular classes of periodicals, these various organizations are rapidly instituting a machinery, and breathing a spirit whose work is a valid factor in the education of the newspaper man. Not the least influence which the schools of journalism exert on the active work of the calling is through these associations, particularly in the states west of the Mississippi where, at the present stage of journalism in this region, state universities can through schools of journalism bring newspapers together at a "newspaper week." =Journalism raised to dignity of a profession by schools of journalism= The rapid growth in students registered in "journalism" courses did not gauge the demand for professional teaching in the craft of the newspaper or the magazine. A large share of the "journalism" taught consisted simply in teaching newspaper English. The college course has been nowhere so vehemently and vigorously attacked as in the training it gave in writing English. Few were satisfied with it, least of all those who taught it. At least one college professor, whose method and textbooks were launched thirty years ago, has recanted all his early work in teaching composition and pronounced it valueless or worse. The college graduate, after courses in English composition (at least one in the freshman year and often two or three more), in many instances found himself unable to write a business letter, describe a plan projected in business affairs, compose advertisements, or narrate a current event. This was not invariably the case, but it occurred often enough to be noted. Books, pamphlets, and papers multiplied on this lack of training for practical writing in college composition courses. The world of education discovered, what the newspapers had found by experience, that the style of expression successful in literature did not bring results in man's daily task of reaching his fellow man on the homely and direct issues of daily life. In literature, genius is seeking to express itself. In the newspaper and in business, the writer is trying--and only trying--to express and interpret his subject so as to reach the other and contemporary man. If he does this, he wins. If not, he fails. Genius can, should be, careless of the immediate audience, and wait for the final and ultimate response. No newspaper article and no advertisement can. For them, style is only a means. In letters, form is final. The verdict of posterity and not of the yearly subscriber or daily purchaser is decisive. =Journalistic writing demands a distinctive style and calls for immediate response= In the high school and college, from 1910 on, there came courses in English which turned to the newspaper for methods and means of expression, and were called "courses in journalism." They were really courses in the English of the newspaper, besprinkled with lectures on the diction of the newspaper and the use of words--futile efforts, through lists of words that must not be used, to give a sound rule of the selection of language by the writer, and, above all, attempts to secure simple, direct, incisive narrative and discussion. These are all useful in their place and work. They prepare a man for some of the first steps of the newspaper office, particularly in the swift, mechanical routine and technique of "copy," indispensable where what is copy now is on the street for sale within an hour. Where an instructor has himself the gift of style and the capacity to impart it, where he is himself a man who sells his stuff and knows what stuff will sell, where he has taste and inspiring, effective teaching power, a course in newspaper English may carry a man far in acquiring command of his powers of expression to their profitable use. These "courses in journalism" sometimes run for only a single semester. Many run for the normal span of three hours a week through a year. Sometimes there are two in succession, the second assuming the task of teaching work which a newspaper beginner usually reaches in from three to five years: the special article, the supplement, study of a subject, the "feature" story, criticism, and the editorial. When these courses are based on assignments which lead a man to go out and get the facts on which he writes, they furnish a certain share of training in the art of reporting. Where this is done in a college town and a college community, however, the work is a far remove from that where the reporter must dive and wrestle in the seething tide of a great city, to return with news wrested from its native bed. =Courses in "newspaper English"= Newspaper English has its great and widest value to the man who wishes to learn how he can affect the other man. A course in it is certain, if the instruction is effective, to leave a student better able to express himself in the normal needs of life. This work is taken by many students as part of the effective training of college life, with no expectation of entering active newspaper work. The demand for publicity work in all business fields, and its value to the social worker, the teacher, and the clergyman, lead others to this specialized training. In at least one of our state universities, half those who take the courses in journalism do not look to the newspaper in the future. The curriculum is often so arranged that in a four-year college course it will be practicable to combine these courses in newspaper English with the parts of work offered, required for, or preparatory to the three learned professions, social service, business, and the applied sciences. Such an arrangement of studies frankly recognizes the value in general education and after life of training in the direct expression the newspaper uses. In no long time every college will have at least one such course in its English department. But this course in direct writing stands alone, without any systematic training in journalism; it should not be called a course in journalism any more than a course in political science dealing with law, or a course in physiology or hygiene, can be called courses in law or medicine, because they cover material used in schools of law or schools of medicine. It is an advantage for any educated man to learn to write clearly, simply, to the point; to put the purpose, object, and force of an article at the beginning, and to be as much like Daniel Defoe and Franklin, and as little like Walter Pater or Samuel Johnson, as possible; it is well for him to have a general view of the newspaper and its needs; it is a mistake to leave him with the impression that he has the training journalism demands. He is no better off at this point than any college graduate who has picked up for himself, by nature or through practice and imitation, the direct newspaper method. =Functions of a school of journalism: To select as well as to train= President Eliot, when the organization of a school of journalism came before him, cast his august and misleading influence for the view that a college education was enough training for newspaper work. Many still believe this. In more than one city-room today college men are challenging the right of the graduates of a school of journalism to look on themselves as better fitted for the newspaper office than those who are graduates of a good college. If the training of the school has done no more than graft some copy-writing and some copy-editing on the usual curriculum, they are right. If the coming journalist has got his training in classes, half of whose number had no professional interest in the course offered, the claim for the college course may be found to be well based. Men teach each other in the classroom. A common professional purpose creates common professional ideals and common professional aims as no training can, given without this, though it deal with identically the same subjects. The training of the journalist will at this point go through the same course as the training of other callings. The palpable thing about law, the objective fact it presents first to the layman, is procedure and form. This began legal education. A man entered a law office. He ran errands and served papers which taught him how suits were opened. A bright New York office boy in a law firm will know how many days can pass before some steps must be taken or be too late, better than the graduate of a law school. The law students in an office once endlessly copied forms and learned that phase of law. For generations men "eat their dinners" at the Inns of Court and learned no more. The law itself they learned through practice, at the expense of their clients. Anatomy was the obvious thing about medicine when Vesalius, of the strong head and weak heart, cleaned away the superstitions of part of the medical art and discovered a new world at twenty-eight. The medical training of even seventy years ago, twenty years after cellular pathology had dawned, held wearisome hours of dissection now known to be a waste. It is the functions of the body and its organs which we now know to be the more important, and not the bones, muscles, nerves, and organs considered as mere mechanism. The classroom is the patent thing about instruction. The normal schools lavished time on the tricks of teaching until flocks of instructors in the high schools and colleges could not inaccurately be divided into those who could teach and knew nothing and those who knew something and could not teach. Our colleges early thought they could weave in Hebrew and theology, and send out clergymen, and later tried to give the doctor a foundation on which eighteen subsequent months could graft all he needed of medicine. Reporting is the obvious aspect of journalism which the ignorant layman sees. Many hold the erroneous view that the end of a school of journalism is to train reporters. Reporting is not journalism. It is the open door to the newspaper office, partly because there are very few reporters of many years' service. Some of them are, but able men before long usually work out of a city-room, or gain charge of some field of city news, doing thus what is in fact reporting, but combined with editorial, critical, and correspondent work. Such is the Wall Street man, the local politics man, the City Hall man, or the Police Headquarters man, who gathers facts and counts acquaintance as one of his professional assets. But these men are doing, in their work, far more than reporting as it presents itself to those who see in the task only an assignment. Such men know the actual working of the financial mechanism, not as economists see it, but as Bagehot knew it. They understand the actual working of municipal machinery besides having a minute knowledge of character, decision, practice, and precedent in administration. In our real politics, big and little, they and the Washington and Albany correspondents are the only men who know both sides, are trusted with the secrets of both parties, and read closed pages of the book of the chronicles of the Republic. As for the Police Headquarters man, he too alone knows both police and crime, and no investigation surprises him by its revelations. If a man, for a season, has had the work of one of these posts, he comes to feel that he writes for an ignorant world, and if he have the precious gift of youth, looks on himself as favored of mortals early, seeing the events of which others hear, daily close to the center of affairs, knowing men as they are and storing confidence against the day of revelation. Men like these are the very heart's core of a newspaper. Their posts train them. So do the key posts of a newspaper, its guiding and directing editors and those who do the thinking for thinking men by the hundred thousand in editorial, criticism, and article. It is for this order of work on a newspaper that a school of journalism trains. It is to these posts that, if its men are properly trained, its graduates rapidly ascend, after a brief apprenticeship in the city-room and a round in the routine work of a paper. Dull men, however educated, will never pass these grades, and not passing they will drop out. A school should sift such out; but so far, in all our professional training, it is only the best medical schools which are inflexible in dealing with mediocrity. Most teachers know better, but let the shifty and dull pass by. The newspaper itself has to be inexorable, and no well-organized office helps twice the man who is dull once; but he and his kind come often enough to mar the record. Journalism, like other professions, has its body of special tasks and training, but, as in other callings, clear comprehension of this body of needs will develop in instruction slowly. The case system in law and the laboratory method in medicine came after some generations or centuries of professional work and are only a generation old. Any one who has sought to know the development of these two methods sees that much in our schools of journalism is where law and medical schools were sixty years ago. We are still floundering and have not yet solved the problem of giving background, concision, accuracy, and interest to the report, of really editing copy and not merely condensing and heading it, of recognizing and developing the editorial and critical mind, and most of all, of shutting out early the shallow, the wrong-headed, the self-seeking, and the unballasted student. =The average college student lacks expressional power: Reasons= The very best law and medical schools get the better of this, and only the best. They are greatly aided by a state examination which tests and tries all their work, braces their teaching, stimulates their men, and directs their studies. This will inevitably come in journalism, though most practicing newspaper men do not believe this. Neither did doctors before 1870 expect this. As the newspaper comes closer and closer into daily life, inflicts wounds without healing and does damage for which no remedy exists, the public will require of the writer on a daily at least as much proof of competency as it does of a plumber. This competency sharply divides between training in the technical work of the newspaper and in those studies that knowledge which newspaper work requires. Capacity to write with accuracy, with effect, with interest, and with style is the first and most difficult task among the technical requirements of the public journal. As has already been said, a gift for expression is needed, but even this cannot be exercised or developed unless a man has acquired diction and come in contact with style, for all the arts rest on the imitation of accepted models. Many students in all schools of journalism come from immigrant families and are both inconceivably ignorant of English and inconceivably satisfied with their acquirement of English, as we all are with a strange tongue we have learned to speak. Even in families with two or more generations of American life, the vocabulary is limited, construction careless, and the daily contact with any literature, now that family prayers and Bible reading are gone; almost nil. Of the spoken English of teachers in our public schools, considered as the basis of training for the writer, it is not seemly to speak. Everybody knows college teachers who have never shaken off the slovenly phrases and careless syntax of their homes. The thesis on which advanced degrees are conferred is a fair and just measure of the capacity to write conferred by eleven years of education above the "grammar grades." The old drill in accurate and exact rendering of Greek and Latin was once the best training for the writer; but slovenly sight reading has reduced its value, and a large part of its true effect was because the youth who studied the classics fifty years ago came in a far larger share than today from families whose elders had themselves had their expression and vocabulary trained and developed by liberal studies. The capacity for good writing apparent at Oxford and Cambridge rests in no small measure on the classical family horizon in teacher and taught. =Kind of training in composition to be given students of journalism= Those who turn to journalism naturally care for writing, but in an art to "care" is little and most have never had the personal environment, the training, or the personal command of English to enable them to do more than write a stiff prose with a narrow vocabulary and no sense of style. Even those who have some such capacity are hampered by the family heritage already outlined. College writing is in the same condition; but the average college man is not expecting to earn his living by his typewriter. In order to receive a minimum capacity in writing enough to pass, every year of study for journalism must have a writing course and the technical work must run to constant writing. From start to finish there must be patient, individual correction. The use of the typewriter must be made obligatory. Rigid discipline must deal with errors in spelling, grammar, the choice of words and phrases. Previous college training in composition must in general be revised and made over to secure directness and simplicity. At the end, the utmost that can be gained for nineteen out of twenty is some facility, a little sense of style and diction, and copy that will be above the average of the newspaper and not much above that. Examine the writing in the newspapers issued by some schools and the work in schools that do not, and a distressingly large portion is either dull or "smart," the last, worst fault of the two. =Effective training in reporting must be given in large urban centers= Reporting is the first use to which writing is put and through which the writer is trained. For this, abundant material is indispensable, as much as clinical material for a medical school. As the medical schools gravitate to cities, and the rural institutions flicker out one by one, so in the end the effectively trained reporter will gravitate to a large city. Towns of under 20,000 population furnish a very tame sort of reporting, and those who get this training in them find reporting is under new conditions in a great metropolis. In such a place the peril is that routine news will take too much of the precious time for training the reporter and the demands of academic hours will interfere with sharing in the best of big stories. =Aims in teaching the art of reporting= Routine is the curse of the newspaper, and it is at its worst in reporting. In its face the four hard things to get are the combination of the vivid, the accurate, and the informed and the condensed story. Equipped newspapers of high standards like the New York _World_ require recourse to reference books, the "morgue," and the files in every story where details can be added to the day's digging in that particular news vein. Condensation comes next. The young cub reporter generally shuns both. He hates to look up his subject. He spreads himself like a sitting hen over one egg. Both must be required for efficient training. Compression it is difficult to enforce in a school where paper bills are small or do not exist and the space pressure of the large daily is absent. A number of dailies of large circulation are cultivating very close handling of news and space for feature and woman stuff with very great profit, and the schools give too little attention to this new phase of the newspaper. In all papers, the old tendency to print anything that came by wire is gone and mere "news" has not the place it once had. In particular, local news was cut down one half in a majority of dailies in cities of 250,000 and over from August, 1914, to the close of the war. The small daily in places of less than 50,000 and weeklies did not do this, which is one reason why great tracts of the United States were not ready for war when it came. Woe to the land whose watchmen sleep! =The teaching of copy-editing= Copy-editing is the next task in the training of the coming newspaper man. On the small daily and weekly, there is little of this, but it is practiced on the metropolitan daily. There ten to twelve men are needed, doing nothing else but editing copy. In the office, two or three years are needed to bring a man to this work. No school can teach this unless its men give at least a full day to editing a flood of copy that will fill a 12 to 16 page newspaper. Where the work of the students runs day by day on the copy of one of the lesser dailies, editing for that purpose is secured, but not the intensive training needed to handle the copy-desk requirements of newspapers in a city of 1,000,000 population or more in its urban ring. Success in this field is proved when men go direct from the classroom to such a desk. This carries with it tuition in heads for all needs, make-up, and the close editing of special articles, features, and night Associated Press copy. =A liberal curriculum must be part of training for journalism= Newspaper training will always deal also with subjects and needs a course containing a larger proportion of the studies usually taught in college or offered in its curriculum. Medicine requires the same chemistry, organic and inorganic, the same physics, and the same elementary biology as our college courses cover; these sciences are more or less like a Mother Hubbard, no very close fit and concealing more than is revealed. Johns Hopkins has been able at this point to apply tests, personal and particular, gauging both teacher and taught, more searching than are elsewhere required. The fruits abundantly justify this course, and in time some school of journalism will apply like tests to history,--ancient, medieval, and modern,--political economy, political science, and the modern languages, which are the basis of its work. The practical difficulty is that it is far easier to test the three sciences just mentioned than history, politics, and economics. No one will seriously assert that these are as rigorously taught as chemistry, physics, and biology. The personal equation of the teacher counts for more, it is both easier and more tempting to inject social theories, not yet tested by current facts, than in science. Sciolism is less easily detected in courses which deal with the humanitarian held than in science, but it is not less perilous and it is not less possible to apply the same experimental tests as in the scientific laboratory. He is blind, however, who does not see that much advance in the current teaching at any time of history, politics, and economics has had its experimental tests as complete and as convincing as in any laboratory, which certain teachers wholly refuse to accept--sometimes because they are behind the times, sometimes because they are before the times; sometimes they are in no time whatever but the fool time of vain imaginings that somewhere, somewhen, and somehow there is a place where human desires are stronger than the inevitable laws which guide and guard the physics, the chemistry, and the biology of social bodies. =Social sciences must be related to life= A notable difference exists between the views of law taught and discussed in a law school and in a school of political science. The medical lectures preserve a sobriety in discussing sundry biological problems not always present in advanced courses of biology. Both lecturers, in both instances, are scientific men, both are faithful to the truths of science, but as a distinguished economist, who in his early years had been accused of being an advanced socialist, said, after he had won a comfortable fortune by judicious investments in business, banking, and realty, to a friend of earlier and far-distant years: "My principles remain exactly the same, but, I admit, my point of view has changed." There is not one biology of the medical school, another of the biological laboratory. Neither does the body of law differ in a law school or in a school of political science. The principles remain exactly the same. Of necessity, however, the point of view has changed and treatment has changed with it. So has responsibility. The subject offers some difficulties. The analogy is not at all points exact. Medicine and law have a definite body of doctrine. Schools of biology and political science have not, but granting all this, it still remains true that exactly as the law student and the medical student must have what is defined, established, and unmistakable in the world of law and of life, so the student looking to journalism needs and must have what is defined, established, and unmistakable in economics and political science. Here, again, no one will pretend that the usual college course in either of these branches is taught with the same determination to keep within the same metes and bounds of recorded, tested, and ascertained facts as is true of courses in physics, chemistry, and biology. The boundary marked is less distinct. The periodic law by which the atomic values of elements are established is more definite than the periodic law under which wealth is distributed through society, though in the end some Mendelléeff will record the periodic law of social elements in their composition and action. Research is needed and must be free. Theory and speculation are as necessary to secure an experiment and observation. The principle is clear, however, that the student who is to make professional use of a topic needs to have a definite and established instruction, not required in one to whom topic is incidental. The medical student or law student who has a new view of economic results or a new theory of the cause and purpose of our judicial and constitutional system as organized to protect the few against the many will work this off in the school of life, and is unaffected in his professional work. The journalist within his first year's work must apply his college economics and political science, and a wrong starting point may have serious consequences to his own career in the end, perhaps to society. Fortunately the work of the journalist so brings him in contact with things as they are, that the body of newspaper writers, taken as a whole, represents the stability of society. The convictions and principles created by their daily work tend this way. The labor union has few illusions to the reporter, and it was the editorial writers of the land who carried the gold standard in 1896, when many a publisher was hazy and scary. The causes of crime grow pretty clear to a police reporter, and a few assignments in which a newspaper man sees a riot convinces him of the value of public order, rigidly enforced. None the less, the reporter should start right on these sciences, basic in his calling; in the end, as the medical school has steadied the college teaching of chemistry and biology, so the school of journalism, the school of business, and the school of railroad practice _et al_ will steady economics and political science. But the duty of the college and university remains clear, to be as watchful that the sciences of social action and reaction shall be taught with the same adherence to the established and the same responsibility to their professional use as the sciences of physical, chemical, and biological action and reaction. =Especially adapted content in social sciences to meet professional needs= The college studies needed as preparation for journalism call for a special proficiency and content as much as for a professional viewpoint. The journalist makes precisely the same use of his fundamental studies as does the medical student of his. If a future lawyer neglects his chemistry and biology, it is of little moment. He can get up what he needs of a case. A medical student who neglects these studies will find that the best schools bar him. In time the school of journalism will refuse the college passing mark for admission. The newspaper man almost from the start has to use his economics, his political science, and his history. Elementary economics is in great measure given to theory, though a change has begun. For the journalist, this course needs to be brought in close contact with the actual economic working of society. The theory may be useful to the man who expects in the end to teach economics. It is of next to no value to the writer on public affairs. Of what possible use is it to him to learn the various theoretic explanations of Boehm-Bawerk's cost and value? The newspaper man needs to see these things and be taught them as Bagehot wrote on them and Walker and Sumner taught them. =General science course of inestimable worth to the journalist= In Columbia, this change is already recognized as necessary. So in political science, the actual working of the body politic needs to be taught, and this is too often neglected for explanatory theories and a special interpretation. A single elementary course in chemistry, physics, or biology presupposes two or three more courses which fill out the special opening sketch. Newspaper works requires a general account of science, derided by the scientist who is himself satisfied in his own education with a similar sketch in history. These general science courses are being smuggled in as "history of science," or "scientific nomenclature." Much can be done in a year with such a three-hour course, if the teaching be in exceptional hands; but adequate treatment requires two years of three hours, one on organic and one on inorganic science. The latter should give a view of anthropology and the former dwell on the application of science in modern industry. =In history attention must be focalized on modern movements= College history courses end thirty to fifty years ago. The journalist needs to know closely the last thirty years, at home and abroad. Weeks given to colonial charters in American history are as much waste as to set a law student to a special study of the Year Books of Edward I and II. College students have to put up with a good deal of this kind of waste. If twelve hours can be assigned to history, three should be on the classical period, three introductory to the modern world, three to European history since 1870, and three hours for American history; at least two of these three hours should go to American history since Garfield. =Recent progress in all subjects must be summed up for the student of journalism= The writing course should be used to supplement this by articles on both these fields so that a student will learn the sources of history for the last thirty years, its treaties, its elections, its movements, its statutes, its reference works. He will need all this knowledge as soon as he has to write as a correspondent, a feature writer, or an editor, on the important topics of the day. Statistics need to supplement economics and advanced courses, two, if possible, should give knowledge and method in the approach to new problems in currency, banking, trusts, and unions. At least one general course in philosophy is needed, and Freud is as important for him here as Aristotle. The contact of the newspaper man with book reviewing, book advertising, and the selection of fiction and news in supplements and magazines calls for the "survey course in English literature" and a knowledge of the current movement in letters for thirty years back. In science, in politics, in history, in economics, in philosophy, and in letters, it is indispensable that the young newspaper man should be introduced by lecture, and still more by reading, to the speaking figures of his own day on affairs, political life, letters, the theatre, and art. =The journalist must ever be a student of human affairs= These things are indispensable. The man who knows them can learn to write and edit, but the man who can only write and edit and does not know them will speedily run dry in the newspaper, weekly and monthly. News is today standardized. Each President, each decade, each great war, the Associated Press and City Press Associations cover more completely the current news. Presentation, comment, handling special articles, grow each year more important and more in demand. The price of supplement and magazine articles has trebled in the last twenty years. The newspaper grows more and more to be a platform, particularly the Sunday newspaper and popular magazine. If a man is to be a figure in the day's conflict and on its wider issues, he needs the special training just outlined, and when this outline is begun, he will find the toil of the years in these fields has but begun. About the safe harbors of journalism where men come and go, dealing with the affairs of and ending the ready market of the day, are the reefs strewn with the wrecks of ready and often "brilliant" writers whose few brief years left them empty and adrift, telling all they meet that no man can long earn a fair income and hold his own through the years in journalism. A school can ameliorate all this by one course which requires much reading of the Bible and Shakespeare, by furnishing in the school library abundant access to the best current prose and verse of the day which will directly appeal to the young reader, since each decade has its new gods in letters, and by selecting teachers for the professional courses who have shown that they can write at least well enough to be paid by newspapers and magazines for their work. The teacher in writing whose work is not salable is not as likely to teach students how to write so that their work can sell as one who has earned his living by selling his stuff. TALCOTT WILLIAMS _School of Journalism, Columbia University_ XXVIII BUSINESS EDUCATION =Evolution of business education= Business education of collegiate grade is a very recent development. The world's first commercial college was established at Antwerp in 1852, while the forerunner of American institutions of this sort, the Wharton School, was founded in 1881. Others followed in the nineties, but the general establishment of schools of commerce as parts of colleges and universities, as well as the inclusion of business subjects in the curricula of liberal colleges, took place after 1900. This sudden flowering at the top was preceded by a long evolution quite typical of the development of education in all the branches of learning to which institutions devote time because of their cultural or professional worth. Some practical end and not the desire for abstract knowledge prompted early instruction and stimulated business education as well as education in general through various stages of progress. Of course all education is a process whereby technical operations and abstract truth developed by many generations are systematized, compressed, and imparted to individuals in a relatively short time. The first stage in the evolution in a given field may be called the _apprentice stage_. Just as physicians, lawyers, and in fact practitioners in all the professions and crafts trained their assistants in their establishments for the purpose of making them proficient in their daily work, so did merchants at this stage give apprentice training in commercial branches to their employees. Traditional ways of carrying out certain transactions, convenient rules of thumb, and habits of neatness and reliability were passed on in a given establishment. As industry grew and guilds were formed, the training tended to become more standardized and merchants joined in establishing guild schools for their employees. Many such schools were conducted in the various crafts, and their modern counterparts are the well-known vocational or trade schools. This _vocational training_ stage was developed by business men for persons not employed as productive craftsmen but rather as workers in business offices which administered production and directly attended to selling and exchange, and for others looking forward to such employment. At this stage there grew up also private schools, usually conducted by teachers especially proficient in particular lines of service. Thus inventors of shorthand systems, devisers of systems of penmanship, and authors of methods of bookkeeping and accounting set up schools in these specialties. Here we have training outside the business house itself to prepare for participation in business, and the enterprises flourish because there is a demand for the people they train. At this stage rules of thumb are supplanted by systems based on principles, and the way is paved for the _technical school stage_. The training here is practical, but it is broad and based on scientific knowledge. This stage is not reached in all fields of endeavor, for some stop at the first or the second, while on the other hand the existence of a higher stage of education does not preclude the continuation at the same time of agencies carrying on instruction after the mode of the lower stages. With the rise of the factory system and the extension of capitalistic production and industrial integration in the form of "big business," there came a demand in the business world for men widely informed and thoroughly trained. Not only did men to meet this demand have to have good foundations of general education, but they needed technical preparation in the specialized field of business itself. Business science is not only applied science, but it is secondary or derived from a number of the fundamental sciences. It draws its principles from the physical sciences of physics, chemistry, geology, and biology; it utilizes the engineering applications of these sciences; it derives valuable information from physiology and psychology, and it makes use of the modern languages. Borrowing from all the pure sciences and their applied counterparts, it formulates its own regulations so that it may manage the work of the world _economically_, so that it may bring about the production of goods necessary to meet humanity's many, varied, and recurrent wants, and make these commodities available in advantageous times and places with individual title to them established according to existing standards of personal justice and social expediency. The final stage, the _cultural stage_, is reached when the educator determines that the field in question is so much a part of the general civilization or intellectual wealth of the world that it ought to receive some consideration, not only by specialists in the field but also by the student pursuing a well-planned course of a general or non-technical character designed to enable him to appreciate and play some rôle in the world in which he lives. It is because new branches of human endeavor constantly blossom forth into this stage, while more ancient branches wither and no longer bear fruit of contemporary significance, that the very humanities themselves change as well as realities. Business as a field of human thought and activity has reached this stage, and educators reckon with it in laying out courses of general elementary, secondary, and collegiate study. No one would contend that educators should in any way cease to offer general or cultural courses, but they should insist that these general courses embrace all of humanity's wealth, including that which modern society contributed, and that they should with each addition reshape their general offerings so that appropriate proportions will be preserved. =Definition of business education= Before the development of modern highly organized production, business training would have been synonymous with commercial training; that is, training to prepare men to play their parts in the _exchange_ of goods. This would embrace correspondence with customers, the keeping of records of stock, the cost of stock, making out bills, and attending to all financial operations which were associated with marketing and exchange. Successful training would imply, of course, the broad foundational grasp of arithmetic, reading, and writing of the mother tongue and of such foreign languages as the nature of the market might require, a grasp of various money values, banking procedure, and other information concerning financial affairs, the means of transportation, freight charges, etc. Manual skill had to be developed in penmanship, in the technique of bookkeeping, general office organization, and filing. With the invention of mechanical and labor-saving office devices, facility in operating them was required to supplement skill in penmanship. Of course, with the development of the market the complexity of office management increased. In modern times the business man concerns himself not only with the duties of the merchant and exchanger, but also with the organization of industry and economical procedure. The modern business man, entrepreneur or manager, and all those assisting him in the discharge of his duties, perform functions in two directions: first, in the direction of the market in the establishment of price, in the selling of his goods, and in attending to all matters which flow therefrom, and secondly toward the production plant itself; while he employs technicians who know how to perform operations skillfully according to the laws of science, nevertheless he must know how to buy labor and how to organize labor and materials and put them in coördinate working relationship most economically. We can therefore define business _education as education which directly prepares people to discharge the business function: namely, the economical organization of men and materials in production and the most advantageous distribution and exchange of the commodities or service for consumption_. In the modern world it is hard sometimes to draw the line between the field of technology in production and the field of business management in production, but in general the two functions are fairly distinct. The technician is interested in operations of production, while the business manager is interested in their economical organization and in their government with relation to market conditions. The very engineers themselves must be selected, engineered, and paid by the business man. The business manager is interested in keeping the total price of his commodities above his total entrepreneur's cost. The technician is interested in inventing and operating the machinery of production, if and when the business man determines what operations will be profitable. =Aims and curricula of business education= The aims of business education are, first and foremost, professional; second, civic; and third, cultural. At no time can the three be separated, but it is possible to devise a curriculum which stresses one or two of the aims. It is also possible to treat a subject so as to emphasize technical and practical skill or to promote philosophical reflection. The professional aim prompted the establishment of the first schools or colleges of commerce, and it is kept to the fore not only in institutions giving courses of study which lead to distinctive degrees in commerce, but also in places which give specialized instruction in particular fields. We shall consider curricula of the following types: _Type I._ Curriculum designed to give the student training to meet a definite professional requirement established by law. _Type II._ Curriculum designed to make a student proficient in a particular narrow field. _Type III._ Curriculum leading to a baccalaureate degree in commerce or business, vertical type. _Type IV._ Curriculum leading to a baccalaureate degree in commerce or business, horizontal type. TYPE I. TECHNICAL COURSE, DESIGNED TO PREPARE STUDENTS TO MEET THE STATE REQUIREMENTS FOR CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANTS _Entrance requirements_ for students matriculating for the whole course as candidates for a Diploma of Graduate in Accountancy--high school graduation, college entrance or a State Regents' C.P.A. Qualifying Certificate. Non-matriculated students--mature persons wishing to pursue certain subjects without academic credit. _Prescribed_ Accounting, Theory, Practice and Problems 4 terms, 4 hours a week--256 hours This course covers general accounting for the single proprietor, partnerships and corporations, embracing financing, manufacturing, and selling operations, with agencies and branches, the formation of mergers, syndicates, holding companies, etc.; dissolutions and reorganizations. Cost accounting 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Auditing 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Public utilities accounting 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Judicial (fiduciary) accounting 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Advanced accounting, theory, and problems 2 term, 2 hours a week--64 hours Commercial Law 3 terms, 3 hours a week 144 hours Covering general principles of law, contracts, and all forms of special contracts of interest to the business man, especially those related to personal property, risk insurance, credit and real property, and forms of business associations. Economics Economic principles 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Economic development of the United States 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Money and banking 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours English--Written, Business English 2 terms, 2 hours a week--64 hours Oral English--Public Speaking 4 terms, 1 hour a week--64 hours _Additional electives_--one course of at least 96 hours in Government and enough other elective subjects in technical commercial work or Political Science to accrue at least a total of 1000 hours. The available additional electives in accounting are advanced courses in different special fields such as Advanced Cost Accounting, Municipal Accounting--General and Departmental, Systems for particular industries or forms of business, Public Utilities Rate Making and Regulation, etc. In Government the available electives include such subjects as American Government and Citizenship, American Constitutional Law, International Law, Political Theory, Comparative Government, State Legislation and Administration, Municipal Administration, etc. In Political Science, courses in Economics and Business, such as Economic Problems, Business Organization and Management, Public Finance, Foreign Trade, Foreign Exchange, Insurance, Advertising, Salesmanship, etc., are available, while general and special courses may be taken in Sociology and Statistics. Courses of study of this sort in a specialized field are offered in colleges usually at night for students who are in active business during the day. With more or less extensive additions in scientific, literary, and linguistic fields they become the curricula leading to baccalaureate degrees as represented by Type III, to follow. Large private institutes or schools conducted for profit and also correspondence institutions offer similar courses. Other groups of studies in particular fields are: in banking, in transportation or traffic, in sales management, including advertising and salesmanship, and in foreign trade. A group in Foreign Trade will typify this sort of course of study, which differs from the one in Accountancy just given because the make-up will be determined wholly by each institution quite independent of legally established professional standards. TYPE II. TO PREPARE STUDENTS FOR WORK IN A SPECIAL FIELD, FOREIGN TRADE Principles of economics 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Economic resources of the U. S. 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Commercial geography 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Money and banking 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Foreign exchange 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Foreign credit 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours International law 1 term, 3 hours a week--48 hours Tariff history of the U. S. 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours U. S. and foreign customs administrations 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Export technique 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Practical steamship operation 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Marketing and salesmanship General course 1 term, 2 hours a week--32 hours Special courses as desired on South American Markets, Mediterranean Markets, Russian Markets, Northwest Empire Markets, etc. Foreign Languages: Practical courses in Conversation and correspondence in French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Russian, etc., according to market in which trade is specialized, at least 4 terms, 3 hours a week--192 hours Total (in 2 years, with weekly schedule of 10 or 12 hrs.) 672 hours A special course of this sort usually leads to a certificate but not a diploma or degree. Obviously the technical aim is very prominent, though civic and cultural benefits of no mean character will of necessity be derived. New groups will be found as new fields of business become important and develop definite, recognizable requirements of a scientific sort. Naturally each such specialty goes through the usual evolution and contributes its philosophical distillation or essence to the cultural college course. When we come to the construction of a curriculum leading to a bachelor's degree in business, economics, or commerce, we have the problems of the engineering schools. Just how far will specialization be carried, in what sequence will the foundational subjects and the specialties be taken up, and to what extent will other more general subjects not directly contributing to a technical end be admitted? In most institutions of good standards the degree is regarded as representing not only technical proficiency in business but also some acquaintance with science, politics, and letters in general. The question (already an old one in schools of engineering) arises then concerning the best way to arrange the special or distinctively business subjects in relation to the more general. Although there are a number of variations, two outstanding types are recognizable. We may devise labels for them: the _vertical_ curriculum, which offers both general and special courses side by side right up through the college course, and the _horizontal_, which requires a completion of the whole or nearly all of the general group during the first two years of college before the special subjects are pursued in the last two. TYPE III. VERTICAL TYPE OF UNDERGRADUATE CURRICULUM, LEADING TO THE DEGREE OF B. S. IN ECONOMICS _Entrance_: College entrance requirements. _Requirement for graduation_: 74 units, of which 40 must be in general business and in liberal subjects, with 34 in specialized fields of business activity, to be taken after the freshman year. A unit here represents successful work for one hour a week for two semesters. Therefore the total 74 is equivalent to 148 of the usual collegiate units. _Freshman Required Work_ English composition 2 hours a week--2 terms English, history of the language 1 hour a week--2 terms English literature 1 hour a week--2 terms Chemistry--general ) or } 3 hours a week--2 terms Business law ) Physical education 2 hours a week--2 terms Government--federal and state 3 hours a week--2 terms Principles of economics 3 hours a week--2 terms Economic resources 2 hours a week--2 terms Accounting--general course 3 hours a week--2 terms _Sophomore Required Work_ English literature and composition 3 hours a week--2 terms Physical education 2 hours a week--2 terms General history 2 hours a week--2 terms _Required before End of Junior Year_ Additional political science 2 hours a week--2 terms Physical education 1 hour a week--2 terms _Required before Graduation_ Additional history 3 hours a week--2 terms Physical education 1 hour a week--2 terms A modern language beyond the first year in college 3 hours a week--4 terms Total required units 40 units Elect after the Freshman year courses aggregating 34 additional units in fields of I. Business law 4 courses, 10 units available II. Commerce and transportation 9 courses, 19 units available III. Economics 8 courses, 15 units available IV. Finance and accounting 20 courses, 53 units available V. Geography and industry 11 courses, 26 units available VI. Insurance 7 courses, 16 units available VII. Political science 22 courses, 43 units available VIII. Sociology 6 courses, 12 units available Total required for the degree, 74 units There is a school which grants a degree in Commerce for the equivalent of 36 of these units or 72 of the usual college credits, if the student has business experience, and for the equivalent of 48 of these units or 96 of the usual college credits if he has not. The course is essentially like Type I and includes no broad liberal requirements in literature, foreign language, and history and on the other hand is not so strictly prescribed as Type I. A strictly technical degree may be desirable for such a short course, provided the prescription is severe and includes languages. Generally it seems best to reserve degrees for full college courses of four years or more which include a reasonable general requirement in languages and science. This leads us to Type IV, or the curriculum which requires the first regular two years of the college course prescribed for one of the liberal degrees and permits business specialization in the last two undergraduate years or these with an additional postgraduate year. One institution requires the first three years as a foundation for a two-year course in business, and one conducts a postgraduate school of business administration leading to the degree of Ph.D. in Business Economics. No doubt postgraduate work will be continued mainly in the research direction, but undergraduate day and continuation courses will be devoted mainly to preparation for business. It is not necessary to illustrate Type IV, because the first two years consist simply of the Freshman and Sophomore work of any sort of liberal college course, Classical, Scientific, or Modern Language, while the succeeding years are made up of special work in Economics and Business of more or less concentrated character. The advantage of the type is obviously administrative. The whole vexing problem of insuring fairly wide cultivation along with opportunities for specialization is conveniently settled by giving general training, most of it remote from business work, for two years, after which the student is considered cultivated enough to withstand the blighting effect of specialization. But there are serious pedagogical objections to this arrangement which make the vertical plan seem preferable. A student coming from one of our constantly improving high schools of commerce is checked for two years and given time to forget all the bookkeeping and other commercial work which he has learned and on which advanced commercial instruction may be built, while he pursues an academic course. It would be far better to continue the modern languages, the mathematics, and natural sciences, along with business courses. Furthermore there is much to be done by educators in arranging such parallel sequences of subjects so that advantage may be taken of vocational interest to stimulate broad and deep study of related fundamentals. Considerable improvement could be made over Type III, but that type seems better than the one we have styled "horizontal." In all these courses of study we quite properly find both the philosophical and analytical courses, those which are historical and descriptive and those of detailed practical technique; we find economic theory, industrial history, business management, and practical accounting; we find theory of money and banking, history of banking in the United States, and practical banking; we find theory of international exchange, tariff history, and the technique of customs administration. Concerning methods of teaching particular subjects we shall speak later. Seldom do we find curricula drawn up with the purely civic end in view, though many schools and associations throughout the country are agitating the question of organized training of men for public service. Strictly speaking, this kind of training is both professional and civic because it is designed to make men proficient in carrying on the business of the State. In New York City the municipal college conducts courses of this sort for persons in the city service, while private bureaus of municipal research conduct their own courses. So far in America no courses are yet accepted officially for entrance into public service or as the only qualification for advancement in the service. Nevertheless, progress is being made in this direction. The curricula offered include courses in Government and especially Municipal Government, Public Finance and Taxation, the practical organization and administration of various departments such as Police, Charities, Public Works, the establishment and maintenance of special systems of municipal accounts. But the great civic benefit comes from general courses in business, for the business man who has a real grasp of his work and sees it in the light of general social welfare becomes a good citizen. Business education gives some sense of the interdependence of industry, personal ethics, and government. The broadly trained business man realizes that he is in a sense a servant of the community, that his property is wrapped up with the welfare of his fellow men, and that what he has is a trust which society grants to him to be conducted after the manner of a good steward. Such training reveals to him the _raison d'être_ of labor legislation, factory laws, the various qualifications of the property right, the necessity for taxation, and the importance of good government to all the citizens of the State both as coöperative agents in production and as consumers. Continued and improved business education will elevate the mind of the merchant and the manager so that its horizon is no longer the profit balance but the welfare of all society. The cultural aim of business courses is consciously kept in mind by the makers of curricula for colleges of liberal arts and sciences which permit a rather free choice of electives in the department of Economics and Business or of Political Science, according to the departmental organization of the institution. Here, of course, we find Economics, which bears to practical business much the relation which Philosophy bears to active life in general. We find also courses in Money and Banking, usually offered from the historical and descriptive rather than the technical point of view. Recently, however, colleges have included in this field of election practical courses in Accountancy and Commercial Law. The tendency is in the direction of including more and more of the practical and technical courses, although the historical and philosophical courses are retained. Nevertheless the cultural value is undiminished, unless one were to maintain that nothing which is exact can be cultural. =Methods of teaching= The field of business is so wide and embraces so many subjects that the methods of teaching giving the best results will be varied and used in different combinations with different subjects. Those subjects which are practical and largely habit forming, such as stenography, typewriting, bookkeeping, and the manipulation of mechanical and labor-saving office devices, are of course taught by some method of training which will insure quick reaction. In these courses the object is to cultivate habits of manual dexterity and habits of orderliness and neatness. Here we find that exposition is reduced to a minimum, lectures are few, recitations do not exist to any great extent, but that practice, 1st, to secure proper form, and 2d, to secure speed, is the controlling aim of the method. The teachers show their ingenuity in devising exercises which will give accuracy of form and then develop speed without sacrifice of accuracy. In colleges these courses are reduced to a minimum because they are usually cared for in lower schools, but for students who come directly to the commercial college without them, preparatory courses of this sort are often conducted. Among the technical subjects the one which calls for the most practice is, of course, Accountancy, first for the single proprietor, next for the partnership, and finally for the corporation. Various methods of presenting Accountancy have been suggested. Very few teachers employ extensive recitation work in this field. It is found most desirable to have periods of at least two hours' duration, so that the teacher can give such exposition and lecture work at the beginning of the period as he may see fit, and the class may then take up practice. In some schools it is customary to have one course in theory, another course in practical accounting, and another course in problems of accounting. However, the tendency seems to be in the direction of making these three aspects of the work mutually helpful, and the course is offered as a course in Accounting, Theory, Practice, and Problems. The theory is set forth in a lecture, practice is given with typical situations in mind, and then related problems are taken up for solution. Many excellent texts are now appearing and can be used in the customary manner. Assignments in these books tend to make unnecessary many long or formal lectures, but there still remains the need for classroom talks and quizzes. As the course progresses, the problems become more and more difficult and complicated, and the final problem work is exceedingly difficult and calls for a considerable power of analysis, clarity of statement, and care in arrangement on the part of the student. A complete course of this sort usually covers two and a half or three years. At the end of the first year of general accountancy, special subjects may be pursued parallel with the general course. The order in which these specialties are introduced is usually Cost Accounting, Auditing Systems, Judicial or Fiduciary Accounting, and then other special branches such as Brokers' Accounts, Public Utilities Accounting, Foreign Exchange Accounting, etc. General Accounting is very important both as an instrument for the business man to use and as a training to insure the grasp of general business organization. It is the opinion of the writer that whether a business man expects to become an accountant or not, he should have a thorough and technical grasp of this subject. In these specialties it is necessary to depend upon lectures rather than textbooks, not only because textbooks here are few and other works are not well adapted to teaching use, but also because the subject matter must be kept up to date and in keeping with changing practice. The lecturers should be practical experts in each particular field as well as acceptable teachers. Closely related to Accountancy is Commercial Law. Commercial Law should, of course, be understood by every business man, not because he expects to become a practitioner of law but because he wishes to avoid unnecessary disputes and to shape his course wisely from a legal standpoint in dealing with his employees, his business associates, and his customers. There are various methods of teaching Commercial Law. The one which has been in vogue thus far has been the textbook method, in which the principles of law of interest to the business man are set forth. Lessons are assigned in the book, and recitations are held. The lecture method also is advocated. In some universities which have both law schools and schools of commerce, the commercial students receive lectures in the school of law in such subjects as contracts, agencies, insurance, etc. It seems to the writer that neither of these practices is desirable but that the proper way to teach Commercial Law to the commercial students is the case method, in which the principles of law of interest to the business man are developed from an examination of actual cases of business litigation. We may very likely look forward to the publication of case books which can be used either alone or in conjunction with textbooks on legal principles. Lectures on law to commercial students should be reduced to a minimum, and then they should confine themselves to very broad principles which need no lengthy exposition or to fields in which the students may be expected to have a general grasp but no very detailed knowledge. But such subjects as contracts, agency, bankruptcy, sales, insurance, negotiable instruments, and forms of business association should be taught thoroughly to the student in the classroom through the case method, in which each case is fully discussed by the class and from which discussion legal principles are evolved. It is interesting to note that the states which stand highest in the matter of Certified Public Accountancy licenses are requiring very thorough preparation in law. To meet such requirements a course in law covering at least three semesters, three hours a week, with a case method is certainly necessary. The modern languages taught in schools of commerce should be by the direct method, and always with the vocational end clearly before the student. Actual business transactions, such as selling to a foreign customer in the foreign language, correspondence, newspapers, catalogues and other documents of business, should be the supplementary reading and exercise material of the class. Facility in conversation and writing should be developed as rapidly as possible, and the grasp of the methodical rules should follow. It would probably be presumptuous to take a strong position here on the question of teaching modern languages, but experience with commercial students has clearly indicated that greatest progress can be made if the language is taught by a conversation or direct method from the very start, and if paradigms and rules of syntax are evolved after some vocabulary has been developed and some facility in speech has been acquired. We may say here, incidentally, that it seems wise to teach the spoken language for a while before taking up the problem of the written language, especially where the foreign language assigns different phonetic values to the printed symbols from those assigned in English. While the various technical subjects offer different problems because of differences in their character, we may say in general that the aim of the school should always be to keep in touch with the actual practice in the business world; to have the lecturer use material which is up to the minute, and, where possible, to give the students the advantage of field work or at least to take them on tours of inspection in the different houses engaged in this or that line of business. The curriculum of any good commercial college or university department of business includes courses in Economics, Commercial Geography, Industrial History, Business Management, and similar subjects. No doubt other chapters of this book discuss methods of teaching these subjects. But it may not be out of place here to indicate that the best approach to the study of Economics is through practical business courses in Accountancy, Commercial Law, and Practical Management. Economics is the Philosophy of Business, and it cannot be understood by one who is unfamiliar with the facts of business. Certainly it cannot be related to real business life by the academic student. It would seem, therefore, best to reserve the course in Economic Theory for the senior year of a business course and precede it with courses in Accounting, Law, Industrial History, and Management. Then, when it is taught, it should be presented through practical problems from which the general principles may, by induction, be derived. =Relations with the business world= It is important that commercial education should not grow academic and remote from the real world of affairs. Therefore schools of business should keep in close contact with merchants' associations, chambers of commerce, and such other bodies of business men as may be in the neighborhood of the school. Committees from such associations should have either a voice in the conduct of the school, or at least have very strong advisory representation on committees. In France, Germany, and in fact most European countries, colleges of commerce were directly established by chambers of commerce and associations of merchants, and the work is to a large extent conducted under their direction. Whether the college of commerce in America be a private institution or one supported by the public, it should form some sympathetic contact with the leading business organizations. Of course certain business associations have their own technical schools of training. The American Bankers' Association conducts its own courses, drawing upon various universities for lecturers in some subjects and drawing upon experts in business for other kinds of technical work. So also various corporations have their corporation schools which seek to develop business executives by progressive courses of training for those in the lower ranks. Nevertheless, the collegiate institutions offering organized courses in commerce will do well to keep in touch with business men. Another way in which such schools and colleges can keep abreast of the times is to employ lecturers who do not make teaching their main business of life but who are expert in certain particular fields. Indeed, it is almost impossible to teach certain of the very advanced and specialized courses without employing men of this sort. They are attracted to teaching not by the pay but by the honor of being connected with an institution of learning, and by sincere desire to contribute something to the development of the work in which they are interested. These men, of course, can be scheduled only for a relatively few hours a week, and sometimes they can be had only for evening lectures, but in any event they are very much worth while. Obviously the director of studies in the college should give these men all possible assistance of a pedagogical sort, so that their advantages as experts in business will not be offset by deficiencies as teachers. =Evening work in commercial courses= This brings us to another consideration which is very important. It seems to the writer that the ideal training for a student who has reached the stage of entrance to college and who wishes to go into business is as follows: He should enroll in the college course which is preparatory for business training and pursue his modern languages, Mathematics, English, and the Social Sciences, and also take up such accounting and technical work as he can have the first two years of his course. Then he should enter the world of business itself, be in a business house during the day, and continue his studies at night. It seems very desirable that this parallel progress, in organized theory and instruction, on the one hand, and in actual business with its difficulties which arise almost haphazard, should be carried on. The relationship is very helpful. Of course a substitute for this is the coöperative plan, in which the student spends a part of his time in college and a part of the time in a business house. Another alternative in institutions which have the three-term year is to put two terms in at college and one term in at business. The calendar arrangement of any institution will suggest variations of this suggested arrangement, the purpose of which will be to insure progressive development in business practice and also in collegiate instruction. =Recent developments= It is to be noticed that in the last few years business has become more and more intense. The developments are in two directions. The first direction is saving and efficiency through organization. This tends to keep down cost. The other direction is in the stimulation of the market and in perfecting advertising and selling methods. Naturally there have been developments in the recording, accounting, and clerical ends of the business, but scientific management in production on the one hand, and scientific selling on the other, are the two great developments. In both, engineering plays a prominent part and dictates a close correlation of the business and the engineering curricula of a college or university seeking to give most effective training either to the student of business or the student of engineering. On the selling side we are having the further developments which come with the growth of foreign trade. In order to meet the demand for men competent to organize production wisely and from a business viewpoint, more courses will be given in what we may call production management or commercial engineering. Furthermore, the sales engineer must be trained. The curriculum of the course of collegiate grade should be made up somewhat as follows: A two years' prescribed course in the general sciences and in general principles of business, followed by a two or three year curriculum in technical business management, on the one hand, including especially accounting, cost accounting, wage systems, employment management, and some branch of engineering on the other hand. The engineering course should be general but thorough. It should not go up into specialized fields of design, but it should include all the fundamental courses of engineering--of mechanical, electrical, and civil engineering. A combination course in engineering and business management is needed also to prepare men for places in banks as investment managers. The banks must advance funds to industrial concerns, and such loans cannot be made wisely save upon the advice of one who is thoroughly acquainted with plant management, equipment, and mechanical operations as well as costs of production and market possibilities. In addition, such a man must be well acquainted with systems of accounting and methods of preparing financial statements. In the field of salesmanship, engineering training is growing in importance. In short, the highly organized state of modern production and the tremendous part played by engineering in modern industry indicate the need for a close coördination of business and engineering education. In conclusion we may say that business education is now at the stage where it has its own technology, is in close touch with other fields of technology, and is making its contribution to the general fund of modern culture. Texts and scientific treatises in the field of business are increasing, the pedagogy of the various included subjects is receiving satisfactory attention, and schools of collegiate and university grade are keeping abreast of the demands of the business world for adequate general and specific training in business. FREDERICK B. ROBINSON _College of the City of New York_ BIBLIOGRAPHY COOLEY, E. G. _Vocational Education in Europe._ Commercial Club of Chicago, Chicago, Illinois, 1912. Chapters on Vocational Education in General, Commercial Schools, and the Conclusion. FARRINGTON, F. E. _Commercial Education in Germany._ The Macmillan Company, 1914. HERRICK, C. A. _Meaning and Practice of Commercial Education_, and other works in the Macmillan Commercial Series, 1904. There is an excellent bibliography on the whole subject of commercial education as an appendix to Herrick's Commercial Education. HOOPER, FREDERICK, and GRAHAM, JAMES. _Commercial Education at Home and Abroad._ The Macmillan Company, 1901. There are numerous contributions on particular aspects and general methods and special methods in commercial subjects. The best printed bibliography of these is in the back of Herrick's book. A typical work on methods is Klein and Kahn's _Methods in Commercial Education_. INDEX Accountancy. _See_ Business Education Adapting course of study, 95-97, 202, 244, 480, 572 Adler, Felix, 323, 325 Æsthetic aim, in teaching, 52, 92; in music, 470 Aims, in teaching, 48-51; modified for different students, 54; in organization of knowledge, 65; in teaching biology, 88-94; in teaching mathematics, 172; in physical education, 184-190; in teaching economics, 217-220; in teaching American history, 218; in teaching political science, 282-287; in teaching philosophy, 304; in teaching ethics, 320-328; in teaching psychology, 337; in teaching English literature, 380-384, 422-423; in teaching classics, 405; in teaching Romance languages, 426-427; in teaching music, 460-462, 467; of art instruction, 478; in teaching engineering subjects, 508-511; in teaching mechanical drawing, 525-527; in business education, 559. _See_ Civic, Disciplinary, Utilitarian Allen, J. T., 411 Angell, J. B., 30 Application of knowledge, 72 Art, 475-497 Art instruction, 475 Athletics. _See_ Physical education Author's life, in literary study, 385 Biological basis of education, 85-87, 94, 364 Biology, 85-109 Brown, E. E., 358 Brown University, 5 Business education, 555-577 Butler, N. M., 30, 404 Calkins, Mary W., 339 Canby, H. S., 42 Case method, in political science, 292; in philosophy, 316; in ethics, 329; in psychology, 338-340; in commercial law, 572-573 Cattell, J. M., 30 Chemistry, 108-125 Chronological viewpoint in history, 257 Citizenship, training for, 282 Civic aim in economics, 219 Classics, 404-423; in Colonial colleges, 5-6; status in college teaching, 404; through the vernacular, 418; through ancient authors, 421 Coeducation, 18-21 College teaching, why ineffective, 46-48 Collegiate Institute, 4 Colonial period, 3 Columbia University, 5, 8 Commercial education. _See_ Business education Commercial law, 571-572 Committee on standards of American universities, 42 Comparisons in teaching, 70 Composition and journalism, 546 Composition teaching, status of, 390. _See_ English Correlation, 70, 151, 156-157, 297, 295-297, 314 Course of study, 477, 481-485, 486-490; in biology, 95-98; logical and psychological, 103; in chemistry, 111; in physics, 134-137, 138-139; in geology, 153-156, 158; in hygiene and physical training, 206; in economics, 225; in sociology, 244-246; determined by community, 246; in American history, 259-262; in European history, 269-276; in political science, 280-281; in philosophy, 312-314; in education, 353; in English literature, 386; in classics, 410; in Romance languages, 431-436; in German, 442-453; in engineering, 502-504; in mechanical drawing, 526-530; in business education, 559-567 Cultural aim, 220, 336, 348, 382-384 Dartmouth College Case and college development, 8-9 Democracy, 259 Descriptive geometry, 530 Design in engineering, 517 Development method, 73, 75-76 _See_ Recitation Dewey, J., 362-364 Dexter, E. G., 30, 355 Differentiated courses, 504-508 Direct method, 444 Disciplinary aim, 51-52; in physics, 126-127; in geology, 143-150; in history, 264; in psychology, 336; in education, 349; in literature, 382-384; in Romance languages, 424; in music, 467-468 Draper, A. S., 30 Duggan, S. P., 353 Economic viewpoint in history, 257 Economics, 58, 217-240 Education as college subject, 347-376 Educational and instructional aim, 50-51 Elective system, 11-14 Elementary language courses as college courses, 426 Eliot, Charles W., 11 Emotional reaction in literature, 384 Engineering subjects, 501-524 English, teaching of, 49, 379-388, 389-403. _See_ Composition, Literature Equipment for art instruction, 490 Ethics, 320-333 Evening session for business education, 573 Examination, 80. _See_ Tests Experimental work in psychology, 342. _See_ Laboratory method Expressional limitations of college students, 545 Field work, 254, 298, 517 Finance, teaching of. _See_ Business education Flexner, A., 30, 42 Foster, W. T., 30 Functional aspect in teaching, 292 Geology, 142-160 German, 440-453 German influence on American college, 14 Gradation of subject matter, 56, 387 Graduate schools, 14-15 Graves, 353 Habits, 91, 199. _See_ Aims, Disciplinary aim Handschin, C. H., 42 Harper, W. R., 30 Hart, 355 Harvard, 3 Health instruction, 197. _See_ Physical education Heuristic method. _See_ Development method, Recitation High school preparation, in physical education, 190; in music, 469, 485 History, of American college, 3; of college mathematics, 167; of sociology, 241; of music as college subject, 357; of teaching of journalism, 533-539; of business education in the college, 555-557 Holliday, C., 42 Horne, H. H., 36, 42 Illustrations, 243 Immigration and status of English teaching, 394. Informal aim in teaching, 51 Informal examination, 308 Introductory course, in ethics, 328; in political science, 288, 298; in philosophy, 307, 315; in psychology, 334; in mechanical drawing, 527-528 Jefferson and founding of American college, 7 Johns Hopkins University, 32 Journalism as college subject, 24, 533-554 Junior college, 26-27 King's College, 5 Kingsley, C. D., 30 Laboratory method, 73, 78; in chemistry, 62, 114; in biology, 99; in physics, 132; in geology, 157; in psychology, 343; in engineering, 516 Language as index of mentality, 388 Law, 17; commercial, 571-572 Lecture method, 73; in chemistry, 113-114; in physics, 131, 133; in mathematics, 175; in economics, 227, 231-235; in sociology, 242; in history, 260, 265; in philosophy, 308-310; in psychology, 340-341; in classics, 419-421; in engineering, 511-513; in commercial education, 568-572 Length of periods in accountancy, 569 Literary analysis, 386 Literary appreciation, 380. _See_ Aims, Cultural, Æsthetic Literary style, 386 Literature and the classics, 407-408, 415. _See_ English Logical association, 63-64 MacLean, G. E., 30 Mathematics, 59, 161-182 Mechanical drawing, 525-532 Medicine, 17 Mental development and acquisition of language, 388 Methods of teaching conditioned by aims, 98. _See_ Aims Mezes, S. F., 48 Modern languages, when introduced, 7; in business education, 571 Modern literature and the classics, 412 Monroe, P., 353 Morrill Act, 10 Motivation in teaching, 55-56 Municipal research, 298. _See_ Laboratory method, Sociology, Political science Music in secondary schools, 465 Natural method in classics, 411, 416-417 Newspaper English, 541-542 Non-sectarianism in American colleges, 7 Notebook of students, 356 Oberlin and coeducation, 20 Oral composition in German, 447 Oral reading and English literature, 384 Ordinance of 1787, 9 Organization of subject matter, 62-66 Outlines in biology, 102 Parker, S. C., 355 Pennsylvania University, 4 Philosophy, 57, 70-71, 123, 127, 302-319 Physical education, 22, 183-314 Physics, 126-141 Pitkin, W. B., 46-50 Place in curriculum, of political science, 287; of ethics, 328; of psychology, 334, 344; of history of education, 351; of educational theory, 359; of German, 440; of art education, 475 Point of contact in teaching, 57-62 Political science, 279-301 Preparatory training, in chemistry, 109; in physics, 129; in mathematics, 164, 176-178; in physical education, 190; in German, 448; for journalism, 549 Problem method, in economics, 228, 231-235; in sociology, 248-251 Professional preparation, for women, 20; through political science, 283 Prose composition and the classics, 414 Psychology, 57, 334-346, 364 Public service, training for, 284 Quiz, how to conduct, 118 Recitation, 118, 174, 513-516, 568-572 Reduction of college course, 27 Reference reading, 73, 76, 267, 514 Relating course to students, 128, 370; in chemistry, 120; in sociology, 245; in philosophy, 309; in ethics, 321-327, 331-332; in psychology, 338; in music, 459; in business education, 572. _See_ Adapting course of study Relative importance in organization of knowledge, 64 Religious character of American college, 5-7, 22 Reporting, teaching art of, 547 Research, 285. _See_ Reference reading, Problem method, Seminar Research scholars as teachers, 105-106, 124, 137, 178 Robinson, M. L., 42 Romance languages, 424-428 Scholarship as preparation for teaching, 38 Science, teaching of, 61-64; place of, in journalism course, 552 Scientific methods, in political science, 298; in psychology, 343 Scope of course in educational theory, 361 Self-activity, 72 Self-government, 24 Seminar, 76 Senior college, 26-28 Sequence of courses in political science, 289 Skill to be developed in biology, 90 Smith, F. W., 55 Snow, L. F., 30 Social museum, the, 254 Social sciences, place in journalism course, 550 Sociology, 241-255 Socratic method. _See_ Recitation, Development method Stanley, A. A., 465 Student Army Training Corps, 335 Summaries in teaching, 66 Teacher, as scholar, 105. _See_ Research, Teacher training Teacher training, 18, 31, 37-39, 256-257, 436, 468-470 Technical subjects in college curriculum, 16, 25-26, 479, 504-508 Technique, as aim in teaching, 52 Testing results of instruction, 136; in economics, 244; in history, 261, 268; in psychology, 343; in music, 473; in art, 493-496; in engineering subjects, 519-522 Textbook, in geology, 158; in mathematics, 179; in economics, 228, 231-235; in sociology, 253; in history, 259; in ethics, 330 Theology, in separate school, 16 Thoroughness, 66-72, 104 Thwing, C. F., 30 Time to be given to subjects, 345, 486. _See_ Place in curriculum Topical method in history, 266 Types of instruction, 396-398 Undergraduate and graduate teaching, 388 Unified courses, 59, 302 Utilitarian aim, 217; of physics, 126; of geology, 142; of political science, 286; of psychology, 337; of history of education, 348 Values, 355. _See_ Aims Vernacular, in teaching German, 445 Viewpoint in teaching, a new, 69 Virginia, University of, 7 West, A. F., 30 William and Mary, 4 Wolfe, A. B., 36, 42 Women, education of, 18-21. _See_ Coeducation World War, effect on curriculum, 183 Yale, 4 _A review of the factors and problems connected with the learning and teaching of modern languages with an analysis of the various methods which may be adopted in order to obtain satisfactory results._ THE SCIENTIFIC STUDY AND TEACHING OF LANGUAGES By HAROLD D. 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Misprints corrected: missing "By" added (Table of Contents) "Asisstant" corrected to "Assistant" (Table of Contents) "is is" corrected to "is" (page 198) missing "to" added to sidenote (page 400) "scupltors" corrected to "sculptors" (page 479) "Coöperaton" corrected to "Coöperation" (page 496) missing hyphens added as necessary Additional spacing after some of the quotations is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text.