{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_852/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_852","id":"gutenberg_852","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/852","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Teaching & Education","Education -- Philosophy","Education -- Social aspects","Philosophy"],"text":"DEMOCRACY AND EDUCATION\n\nby John Dewey\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note: I have tried to make this the most accurate text\npossible but I am sure that there are still mistakes. Please feel free\nto email me any errors or mistakes that you find. Citing the Chapter\nand paragraph. Haradda@aol.com and davidr@inconnect.com are my email\naddresses for now. David Reed\n\nI would like to dedicate this etext to my mother who was a elementary\nschool teacher for more years than I can remember. Thanks.\n\n\n\n\nContents:\n\n     Chapter One: Education as a Necessity of Life\n     Chapter Two: Education as a Social Function\n     Chapter Three: Education as Direction\n     Chapter Four: Education as Growth\n     Chapter Five: Preparation, Unfolding, and Formal Discipline\n     Chapter Six: Education as Conservative and Progressive\n     Chapter Seven: The Democratic Conception in Education\n     Chapter Eight: Aims in Education\n     Chapter Nine: Natural Development and Social Efficiency as Aims\n     Chapter Ten: Interest and Discipline\n     Chapter Eleven: Experience and Thinking\n     Chapter Twelve: Thinking in Education\n     Chapter Thirteen: The Nature of Method\n     Chapter Fourteen: The Nature of Subject Matter\n     Chapter Fifteen: Play and Work in the Curriculum\n     Chapter Sixteen: The Significance of Geography and History\n     Chapter Seventeen: Science in the Course of Study\n     Chapter Eighteen: Educational Values\n     Chapter Nineteen: Labor and Leisure\n     Chapter Twenty: Intellectual and Practical Studies\n     Chapter Twenty-one: Physical and Social Studies: Naturalism and\n             Humanism\n     Chapter Twenty-two: The Individual and the World\n     Chapter Twenty-Three: Vocational Aspects of Education\n     Chapter Twenty-four: Philosophy of Education\n     Chapter Twenty-five: Theories of Knowledge\n     Chapter Twenty-six: Theories of Morals\n\n\n\n\nChapter One: Education as a Necessity of Life\n\n1. Renewal of Life by Transmission. The most notable distinction between\nliving and inanimate things is that the former maintain themselves by\nrenewal. A stone when struck resists. If its resistance is greater than\nthe force of the blow struck, it remains outwardly unchanged. Otherwise,\nit is shattered into smaller bits. Never does the stone attempt to react\nin such a way that it may maintain itself against the blow, much less so\nas to render the blow a contributing factor to its own continued action.\nWhile the living thing may easily be crushed by superior force, it none\nthe less tries to turn the energies which act upon it into means of its\nown further existence. If it cannot do so, it does not just split into\nsmaller pieces (at least in the higher forms of life), but loses its\nidentity as a living thing.\n\nAs long as it endures, it struggles to use surrounding energies in its\nown behalf. It uses light, air, moisture, and the material of soil. To\nsay that it uses them is to say that it turns them into means of its own\nconservation. As long as it is growing, the energy it expends in thus\nturning the environment to account is more than compensated for by\nthe return it gets: it grows. Understanding the word \"control\" in this\nsense, it may be said that a living being is one that subjugates\nand controls for its own continued activity the energies that would\notherwise use it up. Life is a self-renewing process through action upon\nthe environment.\n\nIn all the higher forms this process cannot be kept up indefinitely.\nAfter a while they succumb; they die. The creature is not equal to the\ntask of indefinite self-renewal. But continuity of the life process\nis not dependent upon the prolongation of the existence of any one\nindividual. Reproduction of other forms of life goes on in continuous\nsequence. And though, as the geological record shows, not merely\nindividuals but also species die out, the life process continues in\nincreasingly complex forms. As some species die out, forms better\nadapted to utilize the obstacles against which they struggled in vain\ncome into being. Continuity of life means continual readaptation of the\nenvironment to the needs of living organisms.\n\nWe have been speaking of life in its lowest terms--as a physical thing.\nBut we use the word \"Life\" to denote the whole range of experience,\nindividual and racial. When we see a book called the Life of Lincoln\nwe do not expect to find within its covers a treatise on physiology.\nWe look for an account of social antecedents; a description of early\nsurroundings, of the conditions and occupation of the family; of the\nchief episodes in the development of character; of signal struggles and\nachievements; of the individual's hopes, tastes, joys and sufferings. In\nprecisely similar fashion we speak of the life of a savage tribe, of\nthe Athenian people, of the American nation. \"Life\" covers customs,\ninstitutions, beliefs, victories and defeats, recreations and\noccupations.\n\nWe employ the word \"experience\" in the same pregnant sense. And to it,\nas well as to life in the bare physiological sense, the principle\nof continuity through renewal applies. With the renewal of physical\nexistence goes, in the case of human beings, the recreation of beliefs,\nideals, hopes, happiness, misery, and practices. The continuity of any\nexperience, through renewing of the social group, is a literal fact.\nEducation, in its broadest sense, is the means of this social continuity\nof life. Every one of the constituent elements of a social group, in a\nmodern city as in a savage tribe, is born immature, helpless, without\nlanguage, beliefs, ideas, or social standards. Each individual, each\nunit who is the carrier of the life-experience of his group, in time\npasses away. Yet the life of the group goes on.\n\nThe primary ineluctable facts of the birth and death of each one of\nthe constituent members in a social group determine the necessity of\neducation. On one hand, there is the contrast between the immaturity of\nthe new-born members of the group--its future sole representatives--and\nthe maturity of the adult members who possess the knowledge and customs\nof the group. On the other hand, there is the necessity that these\nimmature members be not merely physically preserved in adequate numbers,\nbut that they be initiated into the interests, purposes, information,\nskill, and practices of the mature members: otherwise the group will\ncease its characteristic life. Even in a savage tribe, the achievements\nof adults are far beyond what the immature members would be capable of\nif left to themselves. With the growth of civilization, the gap between\nthe original capacities of the immature and the standards and customs of\nthe elders increases. Mere physical growing up, mere mastery of the bare\nnecessities of subsistence will not suffice to reproduce the life of\nthe group. Deliberate effort and the taking of thoughtful pains are\nrequired. Beings who are born not only unaware of, but quite indifferent\nto, the aims and habits of the social group have to be rendered\ncognizant of them and actively interested. Education, and education\nalone, spans the gap.\n\nSociety exists through a process of transmission quite as much as\nbiological life. This transmission occurs by means of communication of\nhabits of doing, thinking, and feeling from the older to the younger.\nWithout this communication of ideals, hopes, expectations, standards,\nopinions, from those members of society who are passing out of the group\nlife to those who are coming into it, social life could not survive.\nIf the members who compose a society lived on continuously, they\nmight educate the new-born members, but it would be a task directed\nby personal interest rather than social need. Now it is a work of\nnecessity.\n\nIf a plague carried off the members of a society all at once, it is\nobvious that the group would be permanently done for. Yet the death of\neach of its constituent members is as certain as if an epidemic took\nthem all at once. But the graded difference in age, the fact that some\nare born as some die, makes possible through transmission of ideas and\npractices the constant reweaving of the social fabric. Yet this renewal\nis not automatic. Unless pains are taken to see that genuine and\nthorough transmission takes place, the most civilized group will relapse\ninto barbarism and then into savagery. In fact, the human young are so\nimmature that if they were left to themselves without the guidance\nand succor of others, they could not acquire the rudimentary abilities\nnecessary for physical existence. The young of human beings compare\nso poorly in original efficiency with the young of many of the lower\nanimals, that even the powers needed for physical sustentation have to\nbe acquired under tuition. How much more, then, is this the case with\nrespect to all the technological, artistic, scientific, and moral\nachievements of humanity!\n\n2. Education and Communication. So obvious, indeed, is the necessity of\nteaching and learning for the continued existence of a society that we\nmay seem to be dwelling unduly on a truism. But justification is found\nin the fact that such emphasis is a means of getting us away from an\nunduly scholastic and formal notion of education. Schools are, indeed,\none important method of the transmission which forms the dispositions\nof the immature; but it is only one means, and, compared with other\nagencies, a relatively superficial means. Only as we have grasped the\nnecessity of more fundamental and persistent modes of tuition can we\nmake sure of placing the scholastic methods in their true context.\n\nSociety not only continues to exist by transmission, by communication,\nbut it may fairly be said to exist in transmission, in communication.\nThere is more than a verbal tie between the words common, community,\nand communication. Men live in a community in virtue of the things which\nthey have in common; and communication is the way in which they come to\npossess things in common. What they must have in common in order to\nform a community or society are aims, beliefs, aspirations, knowledge--a\ncommon understanding--like-mindedness as the sociologists say. Such\nthings cannot be passed physically from one to another, like bricks;\nthey cannot be shared as persons would share a pie by dividing it into\nphysical pieces. The communication which insures participation in a\ncommon understanding is one which secures similar emotional and\nintellectual dispositions--like ways of responding to expectations and\nrequirements.\n\nPersons do not become a society by living in physical proximity, any\nmore than a man ceases to be socially influenced by being so many feet\nor miles removed from others. A book or a letter may institute a more\nintimate association between human beings separated thousands of miles\nfrom each other than exists between dwellers under the same roof.\nIndividuals do not even compose a social group because they all work\nfor a common end. The parts of a machine work with a maximum of\ncooperativeness for a common result, but they do not form a community.\nIf, however, they were all cognizant of the common end and all\ninterested in it so that they regulated their specific activity in\nview of it, then they would form a community. But this would involve\ncommunication. Each would have to know what the other was about and\nwould have to have some way of keeping the other informed as to his own\npurpose and progress. Consensus demands communication.\n\nWe are thus compelled to recognize that within even the most social\ngroup there are many relations which are not as yet social. A large\nnumber of human relationships in any social group are still upon the\nmachine-like plane. Individuals use one another so as to get desired\nresults, without reference to the emotional and intellectual disposition\nand consent of those used. Such uses express physical superiority, or\nsuperiority of position, skill, technical ability, and command of tools,\nmechanical or fiscal. So far as the relations of parent and child,\nteacher and pupil, employer and employee, governor and governed, remain\nupon this level, they form no true social group, no matter how closely\ntheir respective activities touch one another. Giving and taking of\norders modifies action and results, but does not of itself effect a\nsharing of purposes, a communication of interests.\n\nNot only is social life identical with communication, but all\ncommunication (and hence all genuine social life) is educative. To be\na recipient of a communication is to have an enlarged and changed\nexperience. One shares in what another has thought and felt and in so\nfar, meagerly or amply, has his own attitude modified. Nor is the one\nwho communicates left unaffected. Try the experiment of communicating,\nwith fullness and accuracy, some experience to another, especially if it\nbe somewhat complicated, and you will find your own attitude toward\nyour experience changing; otherwise you resort to expletives and\nejaculations. The experience has to be formulated in order to be\ncommunicated. To formulate requires getting outside of it, seeing it as\nanother would see it, considering what points of contact it has with\nthe life of another so that it may be got into such form that he can\nappreciate its meaning. Except in dealing with commonplaces and catch\nphrases one has to assimilate, imaginatively, something of another's\nexperience in order to tell him intelligently of one's own experience.\nAll communication is like art. It may fairly be said, therefore, that\nany social arrangement that remains vitally social, or vitally shared,\nis educative to those who participate in it. Only when it becomes cast\nin a mold and runs in a routine way does it lose its educative power.\n\nIn final account, then, not only does social life demand teaching and\nlearning for its own permanence, but the very process of living together\neducates. It enlarges and enlightens experience; it stimulates and\nenriches imagination; it creates responsibility for accuracy and\nvividness of statement and thought. A man really living alone (alone\nmentally as well as physically) would have little or no occasion\nto reflect upon his past experience to extract its net meaning. The\ninequality of achievement between the mature and the immature not only\nnecessitates teaching the young, but the necessity of this teaching\ngives an immense stimulus to reducing experience to that order and form\nwhich will render it most easily communicable and hence most usable.\n\n3. The Place of Formal Education. There is, accordingly, a marked\ndifference between the education which every one gets from living\nwith others, as long as he really lives instead of just continuing to\nsubsist, and the deliberate educating of the young. In the former case\nthe education is incidental; it is natural and important, but it is not\nthe express reason of the association. While it may be said, without\nexaggeration, that the measure of the worth of any social institution,\neconomic, domestic, political, legal, religious, is its effect in\nenlarging and improving experience; yet this effect is not a part of\nits original motive, which is limited and more immediately practical.\nReligious associations began, for example, in the desire to secure the\nfavor of overruling powers and to ward off evil influences; family\nlife in the desire to gratify appetites and secure family perpetuity;\nsystematic labor, for the most part, because of enslavement to others,\netc. Only gradually was the by-product of the institution, its effect\nupon the quality and extent of conscious life, noted, and only more\ngradually still was this effect considered as a directive factor in the\nconduct of the institution. Even today, in our industrial life, apart\nfrom certain values of industriousness and thrift, the intellectual and\nemotional reaction of the forms of human association under which the\nworld's work is carried on receives little attention as compared with\nphysical output.\n\nBut in dealing with the young, the fact of association itself as an\nimmediate human fact, gains in importance. While it is easy to ignore in\nour contact with them the effect of our acts upon their disposition,\nor to subordinate that educative effect to some external and tangible\nresult, it is not so easy as in dealing with adults. The need of\ntraining is too evident; the pressure to accomplish a change in their\nattitude and habits is too urgent to leave these consequences wholly\nout of account. Since our chief business with them is to enable them to\nshare in a common life we cannot help considering whether or no we are\nforming the powers which will secure this ability. If humanity has made\nsome headway in realizing that the ultimate value of every institution\nis its distinctively human effect--its effect upon conscious\nexperience--we may well believe that this lesson has been learned\nlargely through dealings with the young.\n\nWe are thus led to distinguish, within the broad educational\nprocess which we have been so far considering, a more formal kind of\neducation--that of direct tuition or schooling. In undeveloped social\ngroups, we find very little formal teaching and training. Savage groups\nmainly rely for instilling needed dispositions into the young upon the\nsame sort of association which keeps adults loyal to their group. They\nhave no special devices, material, or institutions for teaching save in\nconnection with initiation ceremonies by which the youth are inducted\ninto full social membership. For the most part, they depend upon\nchildren learning the customs of the adults, acquiring their emotional\nset and stock of ideas, by sharing in what the elders are doing. In\npart, this sharing is direct, taking part in the occupations of adults\nand thus serving an apprenticeship; in part, it is indirect, through the\ndramatic plays in which children reproduce the actions of grown-ups\nand thus learn to know what they are like. To savages it would seem\npreposterous to seek out a place where nothing but learning was going on\nin order that one might learn.\n\nBut as civilization advances, the gap between the capacities of the\nyoung and the concerns of adults widens. Learning by direct sharing in\nthe pursuits of grown-ups becomes increasingly difficult except in the\ncase of the less advanced occupations. Much of what adults do is so\nremote in space and in meaning that playful imitation is less and less\nadequate to reproduce its spirit. Ability to share effectively in adult\nactivities thus depends upon a prior training given with this end in\nview. Intentional agencies--schools--and explicit material--studies--are\ndevised. The task of teaching certain things is delegated to a special\ngroup of persons.\n\nWithout such formal education, it is not possible to transmit all the\nresources and achievements of a complex society. It also opens a way to\na kind of experience which would not be accessible to the young, if they\nwere left to pick up their training in informal association with others,\nsince books and the symbols of knowledge are mastered.\n\nBut there are conspicuous dangers attendant upon the transition from\nindirect to formal education. Sharing in actual pursuit, whether\ndirectly or vicariously in play, is at least personal and vital. These\nqualities compensate, in some measure, for the narrowness of available\nopportunities. Formal instruction, on the contrary, easily becomes\nremote and dead--abstract and bookish, to use the ordinary words of\ndepreciation. What accumulated knowledge exists in low grade societies\nis at least put into practice; it is transmuted into character; it\nexists with the depth of meaning that attaches to its coming within\nurgent daily interests.\n\nBut in an advanced culture much which has to be learned is stored in\nsymbols. It is far from translation into familiar acts and objects. Such\nmaterial is relatively technical and superficial. Taking the ordinary\nstandard of reality as a measure, it is artificial. For this measure is\nconnection with practical concerns. Such material exists in a world by\nitself, unassimilated to ordinary customs of thought and expression.\nThere is the standing danger that the material of formal instruction\nwill be merely the subject matter of the schools, isolated from the\nsubject matter of life-experience. The permanent social interests are\nlikely to be lost from view. Those which have not been carried over\ninto the structure of social life, but which remain largely matters\nof technical information expressed in symbols, are made conspicuous\nin schools. Thus we reach the ordinary notion of education: the notion\nwhich ignores its social necessity and its identity with all human\nassociation that affects conscious life, and which identifies it with\nimparting information about remote matters and the conveying of learning\nthrough verbal signs: the acquisition of literacy.\n\nHence one of the weightiest problems with which the philosophy of\neducation has to cope is the method of keeping a proper balance between\nthe informal and the formal, the incidental and the intentional,\nmodes of education. When the acquiring of information and of technical\nintellectual skill do not influence the formation of a social\ndisposition, ordinary vital experience fails to gain in meaning, while\nschooling, in so far, creates only \"sharps\" in learning--that is,\negoistic specialists. To avoid a split between what men consciously\nknow because they are aware of having learned it by a specific job of\nlearning, and what they unconsciously know because they have absorbed it\nin the formation of their characters by intercourse with others,\nbecomes an increasingly delicate task with every development of special\nschooling.\n\nSummary. It is the very nature of life to strive to continue in being.\nSince this continuance can be secured only by constant renewals, life\nis a self-renewing process. What nutrition and reproduction are to\nphysiological life, education is to social life. This education consists\nprimarily in transmission through communication. Communication is a\nprocess of sharing experience till it becomes a common possession. It\nmodifies the disposition of both the parties who partake in it. That\nthe ulterior significance of every mode of human association lies in\nthe contribution which it makes to the improvement of the quality\nof experience is a fact most easily recognized in dealing with the\nimmature. That is to say, while every social arrangement is educative\nin effect, the educative effect first becomes an important part of the\npurpose of the association in connection with the association of the\nolder with the younger. As societies become more complex in structure\nand resources, the need of formal or intentional teaching and learning\nincreases. As formal teaching and training grow in extent, there is the\ndanger of creating an undesirable split between the experience gained in\nmore direct associations and what is acquired in school. This danger was\nnever greater than at the present time, on account of the rapid growth\nin the last few centuries of knowledge and technical modes of skill.\n\nChapter Two: Education as a Social Function\n\n1. The Nature and Meaning of Environment. We have seen that a community\nor social group sustains itself through continuous self-renewal, and\nthat this renewal takes place by means of the educational growth of the\nimmature members of the group. By various agencies, unintentional and\ndesigned, a society transforms uninitiated and seemingly alien beings\ninto robust trustees of its own resources and ideals. Education is thus\na fostering, a nurturing, a cultivating, process. All of these words\nmean that it implies attention to the conditions of growth. We also\nspeak of rearing, raising, bringing up--words which express the\ndifference of level which education aims to cover. Etymologically, the\nword education means just a process of leading or bringing up. When\nwe have the outcome of the process in mind, we speak of education as\nshaping, forming, molding activity--that is, a shaping into the standard\nform of social activity. In this chapter we are concerned with the\ngeneral features of the way in which a social group brings up its\nimmature members into its own social form.\n\nSince what is required is a transformation of the quality of experience\ntill it partakes in the interests, purposes, and ideas current in the\nsocial group, the problem is evidently not one of mere physical forming.\nThings can be physically transported in space; they may be bodily\nconveyed. Beliefs and aspirations cannot be physically extracted and\ninserted. How then are they communicated? Given the impossibility of\ndirect contagion or literal inculcation, our problem is to discover the\nmethod by which the young assimilate the point of view of the old, or\nthe older bring the young into like-mindedness with themselves. The\nanswer, in general formulation, is: By means of the action of the\nenvironment in calling out certain responses. The required beliefs\ncannot be hammered in; the needed attitudes cannot be plastered on. But\nthe particular medium in which an individual exists leads him to see and\nfeel one thing rather than another; it leads him to have certain plans\nin order that he may act successfully with others; it strengthens some\nbeliefs and weakens others as a condition of winning the approval of\nothers. Thus it gradually produces in him a certain system of behavior,\na certain disposition of action. The words \"environment,\" \"medium\"\ndenote something more than surroundings which encompass an individual.\nThey denote the specific continuity of the surroundings with his own\nactive tendencies. An inanimate being is, of course, continuous with\nits surroundings; but the environing circumstances do not, save\nmetaphorically, constitute an environment. For the inorganic being is\nnot concerned in the influences which affect it. On the other hand,\nsome things which are remote in space and time from a living creature,\nespecially a human creature, may form his environment even more truly\nthan some of the things close to him. The things with which a man varies\nare his genuine environment. Thus the activities of the astronomer vary\nwith the stars at which he gazes or about which he calculates. Of\nhis immediate surroundings, his telescope is most intimately his\nenvironment. The environment of an antiquarian, as an antiquarian,\nconsists of the remote epoch of human life with which he is concerned,\nand the relics, inscriptions, etc., by which he establishes connections\nwith that period.\n\nIn brief, the environment consists of those conditions that promote or\nhinder, stimulate or inhibit, the characteristic activities of a living\nbeing. Water is the environment of a fish because it is necessary to the\nfish's activities--to its life. The north pole is a significant element\nin the environment of an arctic explorer, whether he succeeds in\nreaching it or not, because it defines his activities, makes them what\nthey distinctively are. Just because life signifies not bare passive\nexistence (supposing there is such a thing), but a way of acting,\nenvironment or medium signifies what enters into this activity as a\nsustaining or frustrating condition.\n\n2. The Social Environment. A being whose activities are associated with\nothers has a social environment. What he does and what he can do depend\nupon the expectations, demands, approvals, and condemnations of others.\nA being connected with other beings cannot perform his own activities\nwithout taking the activities of others into account. For they are the\nindispensable conditions of the realization of his tendencies. When he\nmoves he stirs them and reciprocally. We might as well try to imagine a\nbusiness man doing business, buying and selling, all by himself, as to\nconceive it possible to define the activities of an individual in terms\nof his isolated actions. The manufacturer moreover is as truly socially\nguided in his activities when he is laying plans in the privacy of his\nown counting house as when he is buying his raw material or selling\nhis finished goods. Thinking and feeling that have to do with action in\nassociation with others is as much a social mode of behavior as is the\nmost overt cooperative or hostile act.\n\nWhat we have more especially to indicate is how the social medium\nnurtures its immature members. There is no great difficulty in seeing\nhow it shapes the external habits of action. Even dogs and horses have\ntheir actions modified by association with human beings; they form\ndifferent habits because human beings are concerned with what they do.\nHuman beings control animals by controlling the natural stimuli which\ninfluence them; by creating a certain environment in other words. Food,\nbits and bridles, noises, vehicles, are used to direct the ways in\nwhich the natural or instinctive responses of horses occur. By operating\nsteadily to call out certain acts, habits are formed which function with\nthe same uniformity as the original stimuli. If a rat is put in a\nmaze and finds food only by making a given number of turns in a given\nsequence, his activity is gradually modified till he habitually takes\nthat course rather than another when he is hungry.\n\nHuman actions are modified in a like fashion. A burnt child dreads the\nfire; if a parent arranged conditions so that every time a child touched\na certain toy he got burned, the child would learn to avoid that toy\nas automatically as he avoids touching fire. So far, however, we are\ndealing with what may be called training in distinction from educative\nteaching. The changes considered are in outer action rather than in\nmental and emotional dispositions of behavior. The distinction is not,\nhowever, a sharp one. The child might conceivably generate in time a\nviolent antipathy, not only to that particular toy, but to the class\nof toys resembling it. The aversion might even persist after he had\nforgotten about the original burns; later on he might even invent some\nreason to account for his seemingly irrational antipathy. In some cases,\naltering the external habit of action by changing the environment to\naffect the stimuli to action will also alter the mental disposition\nconcerned in the action. Yet this does not always happen; a person\ntrained to dodge a threatening blow, dodges automatically with\nno corresponding thought or emotion. We have to find, then, some\ndifferentia of training from education.\n\nA clew may be found in the fact that the horse does not really share in\nthe social use to which his action is put. Some one else uses the horse\nto secure a result which is advantageous by making it advantageous\nto the horse to perform the act--he gets food, etc. But the horse,\npresumably, does not get any new interest. He remains interested in\nfood, not in the service he is rendering. He is not a partner in a\nshared activity. Were he to become a copartner, he would, in engaging\nin the conjoint activity, have the same interest in its accomplishment\nwhich others have. He would share their ideas and emotions.\n\nNow in many cases--too many cases--the activity of the immature human\nbeing is simply played upon to secure habits which are useful. He is\ntrained like an animal rather than educated like a human being. His\ninstincts remain attached to their original objects of pain or pleasure.\nBut to get happiness or to avoid the pain of failure he has to act in\na way agreeable to others. In other cases, he really shares or\nparticipates in the common activity. In this case, his original impulse\nis modified. He not merely acts in a way agreeing with the actions of\nothers, but, in so acting, the same ideas and emotions are aroused\nin him that animate the others. A tribe, let us say, is warlike. The\nsuccesses for which it strives, the achievements upon which it sets\nstore, are connected with fighting and victory. The presence of this\nmedium incites bellicose exhibitions in a boy, first in games, then\nin fact when he is strong enough. As he fights he wins approval and\nadvancement; as he refrains, he is disliked, ridiculed, shut out\nfrom favorable recognition. It is not surprising that his original\nbelligerent tendencies and emotions are strengthened at the expense of\nothers, and that his ideas turn to things connected with war. Only in\nthis way can he become fully a recognized member of his group. Thus his\nmental habitudes are gradually assimilated to those of his group.\n\nIf we formulate the principle involved in this illustration, we shall\nperceive that the social medium neither implants certain desires and\nideas directly, nor yet merely establishes certain purely muscular\nhabits of action, like \"instinctively\" winking or dodging a blow.\nSetting up conditions which stimulate certain visible and tangible ways\nof acting is the first step. Making the individual a sharer or partner\nin the associated activity so that he feels its success as his success,\nits failure as his failure, is the completing step. As soon as he is\npossessed by the emotional attitude of the group, he will be alert to\nrecognize the special ends at which it aims and the means employed to\nsecure success. His beliefs and ideas, in other words, will take a form\nsimilar to those of others in the group. He will also achieve pretty\nmuch the same stock of knowledge since that knowledge is an ingredient\nof his habitual pursuits.\n\nThe importance of language in gaining knowledge is doubtless the chief\ncause of the common notion that knowledge may be passed directly from\none to another. It almost seems as if all we have to do to convey an\nidea into the mind of another is to convey a sound into his ear. Thus\nimparting knowledge gets assimilated to a purely physical process. But\nlearning from language will be found, when analyzed, to confirm the\nprinciple just laid down. It would probably be admitted with little\nhesitation that a child gets the idea of, say, a hat by using it as\nother persons do; by covering the head with it, giving it to others\nto wear, having it put on by others when going out, etc. But it may be\nasked how this principle of shared activity applies to getting through\nspeech or reading the idea of, say, a Greek helmet, where no direct use\nof any kind enters in. What shared activity is there in learning from\nbooks about the discovery of America?\n\nSince language tends to become the chief instrument of learning about\nmany things, let us see how it works. The baby begins of course with\nmere sounds, noises, and tones having no meaning, expressing, that is,\nno idea. Sounds are just one kind of stimulus to direct response, some\nhaving a soothing effect, others tending to make one jump, and so on.\nThe sound h-a-t would remain as meaningless as a sound in Choctaw, a\nseemingly inarticulate grunt, if it were not uttered in connection\nwith an action which is participated in by a number of people. When the\nmother is taking the infant out of doors, she says \"hat\" as she puts\nsomething on the baby's head. Being taken out becomes an interest to the\nchild; mother and child not only go out with each other physically,\nbut both are concerned in the going out; they enjoy it in common. By\nconjunction with the other factors in activity the sound \"hat\" soon gets\nthe same meaning for the child that it has for the parent; it becomes a\nsign of the activity into which it enters. The bare fact that language\nconsists of sounds which are mutually intelligible is enough of\nitself to show that its meaning depends upon connection with a shared\nexperience.\n\nIn short, the sound h-a-t gains meaning in precisely the same way that\nthe thing \"hat\" gains it, by being used in a given way. And they acquire\nthe same meaning with the child which they have with the adult because\nthey are used in a common experience by both. The guarantee for the\nsame manner of use is found in the fact that the thing and the sound are\nfirst employed in a joint activity, as a means of setting up an active\nconnection between the child and a grownup. Similar ideas or meanings\nspring up because both persons are engaged as partners in an action\nwhere what each does depends upon and influences what the other does. If\ntwo savages were engaged in a joint hunt for game, and a certain signal\nmeant \"move to the right\" to the one who uttered it, and \"move to the\nleft\" to the one who heard it, they obviously could not successfully\ncarry on their hunt together. Understanding one another means that\nobjects, including sounds, have the same value for both with respect to\ncarrying on a common pursuit.\n\nAfter sounds have got meaning through connection with other things\nemployed in a joint undertaking, they can be used in connection with\nother like sounds to develop new meanings, precisely as the things for\nwhich they stand are combined. Thus the words in which a child\nlearns about, say, the Greek helmet originally got a meaning (or were\nunderstood) by use in an action having a common interest and end. They\nnow arouse a new meaning by inciting the one who hears or reads to\nrehearse imaginatively the activities in which the helmet has its use.\nFor the time being, the one who understands the words \"Greek helmet\"\nbecomes mentally a partner with those who used the helmet. He engages,\nthrough his imagination, in a shared activity. It is not easy to get\nthe full meaning of words. Most persons probably stop with the idea that\n\"helmet\" denotes a queer kind of headgear a people called the Greeks\nonce wore. We conclude, accordingly, that the use of language to convey\nand acquire ideas is an extension and refinement of the principle\nthat things gain meaning by being used in a shared experience or joint\naction; in no sense does it contravene that principle. When words do\nnot enter as factors into a shared situation, either overtly or\nimaginatively, they operate as pure physical stimuli, not as having\na meaning or intellectual value. They set activity running in a given\ngroove, but there is no accompanying conscious purpose or meaning.\nThus, for example, the plus sign may be a stimulus to perform the act of\nwriting one number under another and adding the numbers, but the person\nperforming the act will operate much as an automaton would unless he\nrealizes the meaning of what he does.\n\n3. The Social Medium as Educative. Our net result thus far is that\nsocial environment forms the mental and emotional disposition of\nbehavior in individuals by engaging them in activities that arouse\nand strengthen certain impulses, that have certain purposes and entail\ncertain consequences. A child growing up in a family of musicians will\ninevitably have whatever capacities he has in music stimulated, and,\nrelatively, stimulated more than other impulses which might have been\nawakened in another environment. Save as he takes an interest in music\nand gains a certain competency in it, he is \"out of it\"; he is unable\nto share in the life of the group to which he belongs. Some kinds of\nparticipation in the life of those with whom the individual is connected\nare inevitable; with respect to them, the social environment exercises\nan educative or formative influence unconsciously and apart from any set\npurpose.\n\nIn savage and barbarian communities, such direct participation\n(constituting the indirect or incidental education of which we have\nspoken) furnishes almost the sole influence for rearing the young into\nthe practices and beliefs of the group. Even in present-day societies,\nit furnishes the basic nurture of even the most insistently schooled\nyouth. In accord with the interests and occupations of the group,\ncertain things become objects of high esteem; others of aversion.\nAssociation does not create impulses or affection and dislike, but it\nfurnishes the objects to which they attach themselves. The way our group\nor class does things tends to determine the proper objects of attention,\nand thus to prescribe the directions and limits of observation\nand memory. What is strange or foreign (that is to say outside\nthe activities of the groups) tends to be morally forbidden and\nintellectually suspect. It seems almost incredible to us, for example,\nthat things which we know very well could have escaped recognition\nin past ages. We incline to account for it by attributing congenital\nstupidity to our forerunners and by assuming superior native\nintelligence on our own part. But the explanation is that their modes\nof life did not call for attention to such facts, but held their minds\nriveted to other things. Just as the senses require sensible objects\nto stimulate them, so our powers of observation, recollection, and\nimagination do not work spontaneously, but are set in motion by the\ndemands set up by current social occupations. The main texture of\ndisposition is formed, independently of schooling, by such influences.\nWhat conscious, deliberate teaching can do is at most to free the\ncapacities thus formed for fuller exercise, to purge them of some of\ntheir grossness, and to furnish objects which make their activity more\nproductive of meaning.\n\nWhile this \"unconscious influence of the environment\" is so subtle and\npervasive that it affects every fiber of character and mind, it may\nbe worth while to specify a few directions in which its effect is most\nmarked. First, the habits of language. Fundamental modes of speech, the\nbulk of the vocabulary, are formed in the ordinary intercourse of life,\ncarried on not as a set means of instruction but as a social necessity.\nThe babe acquires, as we well say, the mother tongue. While speech\nhabits thus contracted may be corrected or even displaced by conscious\nteaching, yet, in times of excitement, intentionally acquired modes of\nspeech often fall away, and individuals relapse into their really native\ntongue. Secondly, manners. Example is notoriously more potent than\nprecept. Good manners come, as we say, from good breeding or rather are\ngood breeding; and breeding is acquired by habitual action, in response\nto habitual stimuli, not by conveying information. Despite the never\nending play of conscious correction and instruction, the surrounding\natmosphere and spirit is in the end the chief agent in forming manners.\nAnd manners are but minor morals. Moreover, in major morals, conscious\ninstruction is likely to be efficacious only in the degree in which\nit falls in with the general \"walk and conversation\" of those who\nconstitute the child's social environment. Thirdly, good taste and\nesthetic appreciation. If the eye is constantly greeted by harmonious\nobjects, having elegance of form and color, a standard of taste\nnaturally grows up. The effect of a tawdry, unarranged, and\nover-decorated environment works for the deterioration of taste, just as\nmeager and barren surroundings starve out the desire for beauty. Against\nsuch odds, conscious teaching can hardly do more than convey second-hand\ninformation as to what others think. Such taste never becomes\nspontaneous and personally engrained, but remains a labored reminder of\nwhat those think to whom one has been taught to look up. To say that the\ndeeper standards of judgments of value are framed by the situations\ninto which a person habitually enters is not so much to mention a fourth\npoint, as it is to point out a fusion of those already mentioned. We\nrarely recognize the extent in which our conscious estimates of what is\nworth while and what is not, are due to standards of which we are not\nconscious at all. But in general it may be said that the things which we\ntake for granted without inquiry or reflection are just the things which\ndetermine our conscious thinking and decide our conclusions. And these\nhabitudes which lie below the level of reflection are just those which\nhave been formed in the constant give and take of relationship with\nothers.\n\n4. The School as a Special Environment. The chief importance of this\nforegoing statement of the educative process which goes on willy-nilly\nis to lead us to note that the only way in which adults consciously\ncontrol the kind of education which the immature get is by controlling\nthe environment in which they act, and hence think and feel. We never\neducate directly, but indirectly by means of the environment. Whether\nwe permit chance environments to do the work, or whether we design\nenvironments for the purpose makes a great difference. And any\nenvironment is a chance environment so far as its educative influence\nis concerned unless it has been deliberately regulated with reference to\nits educative effect. An intelligent home differs from an unintelligent\none chiefly in that the habits of life and intercourse which prevail are\nchosen, or at least colored, by the thought of their bearing upon the\ndevelopment of children. But schools remain, of course, the typical\ninstance of environments framed with express reference to influencing\nthe mental and moral disposition of their members.\n\nRoughly speaking, they come into existence when social traditions are\nso complex that a considerable part of the social store is committed\nto writing and transmitted through written symbols. Written symbols are\neven more artificial or conventional than spoken; they cannot be picked\nup in accidental intercourse with others. In addition, the written form\ntends to select and record matters which are comparatively foreign\nto everyday life. The achievements accumulated from generation to\ngeneration are deposited in it even though some of them have fallen\ntemporarily out of use. Consequently as soon as a community depends to\nany considerable extent upon what lies beyond its own territory and its\nown immediate generation, it must rely upon the set agency of schools\nto insure adequate transmission of all its resources. To take an obvious\nillustration: The life of the ancient Greeks and Romans has profoundly\ninfluenced our own, and yet the ways in which they affect us do not\npresent themselves on the surface of our ordinary experiences. In\nsimilar fashion, peoples still existing, but remote in space, British,\nGermans, Italians, directly concern our own social affairs, but\nthe nature of the interaction cannot be understood without explicit\nstatement and attention. In precisely similar fashion, our daily\nassociations cannot be trusted to make clear to the young the part\nplayed in our activities by remote physical energies, and by invisible\nstructures. Hence a special mode of social intercourse is instituted,\nthe school, to care for such matters.\n\nThis mode of association has three functions sufficiently specific,\nas compared with ordinary associations of life, to be noted. First, a\ncomplex civilization is too complex to be assimilated in toto. It has to\nbe broken up into portions, as it were, and assimilated piecemeal, in a\ngradual and graded way. The relationships of our present social life are\nso numerous and so interwoven that a child placed in the most favorable\nposition could not readily share in many of the most important of them.\nNot sharing in them, their meaning would not be communicated to him,\nwould not become a part of his own mental disposition. There would be\nno seeing the trees because of the forest. Business, politics, art,\nscience, religion, would make all at once a clamor for attention;\nconfusion would be the outcome. The first office of the social organ we\ncall the school is to provide a simplified environment. It selects the\nfeatures which are fairly fundamental and capable of being responded to\nby the young. Then it establishes a progressive order, using the\nfactors first acquired as means of gaining insight into what is more\ncomplicated.\n\nIn the second place, it is the business of the school environment to\neliminate, so far as possible, the unworthy features of the existing\nenvironment from influence upon mental habitudes. It establishes a\npurified medium of action. Selection aims not only at simplifying but at\nweeding out what is undesirable. Every society gets encumbered with what\nis trivial, with dead wood from the past, and with what is positively\nperverse. The school has the duty of omitting such things from the\nenvironment which it supplies, and thereby doing what it can to\ncounteract their influence in the ordinary social environment. By\nselecting the best for its exclusive use, it strives to reinforce the\npower of this best. As a society becomes more enlightened, it realizes\nthat it is responsible not to transmit and conserve the whole of\nits existing achievements, but only such as make for a better future\nsociety. The school is its chief agency for the accomplishment of this\nend.\n\nIn the third place, it is the office of the school environment to\nbalance the various elements in the social environment, and to see to it\nthat each individual gets an opportunity to escape from the limitations\nof the social group in which he was born, and to come into living\ncontact with a broader environment. Such words as \"society\" and\n\"community\" are likely to be misleading, for they have a tendency to\nmake us think there is a single thing corresponding to the single word.\nAs a matter of fact, a modern society is many societies more or less\nloosely connected. Each household with its immediate extension of\nfriends makes a society; the village or street group of playmates is a\ncommunity; each business group, each club, is another. Passing beyond\nthese more intimate groups, there is in a country like our own a variety\nof races, religious affiliations, economic divisions. Inside the modern\ncity, in spite of its nominal political unity, there are probably more\ncommunities, more differing customs, traditions, aspirations, and forms\nof government or control, than existed in an entire continent at an\nearlier epoch.\n\nEach such group exercises a formative influence on the active\ndispositions of its members. A clique, a club, a gang, a Fagin's\nhousehold of thieves, the prisoners in a jail, provide educative\nenvironments for those who enter into their collective or conjoint\nactivities, as truly as a church, a labor union, a business partnership,\nor a political party. Each of them is a mode of associated or community\nlife, quite as much as is a family, a town, or a state. There are also\ncommunities whose members have little or no direct contact with one\nanother, like the guild of artists, the republic of letters, the members\nof the professional learned class scattered over the face of the\nearth. For they have aims in common, and the activity of each member is\ndirectly modified by knowledge of what others are doing.\n\nIn the olden times, the diversity of groups was largely a geographical\nmatter. There were many societies, but each, within its own territory,\nwas comparatively homogeneous. But with the development of commerce,\ntransportation, intercommunication, and emigration, countries like the\nUnited States are composed of a combination of different groups with\ndifferent traditional customs. It is this situation which has, perhaps\nmore than any other one cause, forced the demand for an educational\ninstitution which shall provide something like a homogeneous and\nbalanced environment for the young. Only in this way can the centrifugal\nforces set up by juxtaposition of different groups within one and the\nsame political unit be counteracted. The intermingling in the school\nof youth of different races, differing religions, and unlike customs\ncreates for all a new and broader environment. Common subject matter\naccustoms all to a unity of outlook upon a broader horizon than\nis visible to the members of any group while it is isolated. The\nassimilative force of the American public school is eloquent testimony\nto the efficacy of the common and balanced appeal.\n\nThe school has the function also of coordinating within the disposition\nof each individual the diverse influences of the various social\nenvironments into which he enters. One code prevails in the family;\nanother, on the street; a third, in the workshop or store; a fourth,\nin the religious association. As a person passes from one of the\nenvironments to another, he is subjected to antagonistic pulls, and\nis in danger of being split into a being having different standards of\njudgment and emotion for different occasions. This danger imposes upon\nthe school a steadying and integrating office.\n\n\nSummary. The development within the young of the attitudes and\ndispositions necessary to the continuous and progressive life of a\nsociety cannot take place by direct conveyance of beliefs, emotions, and\nknowledge. It takes place through the intermediary of the environment.\nThe environment consists of the sum total of conditions which are\nconcerned in the execution of the activity characteristic of a living\nbeing. The social environment consists of all the activities of fellow\nbeings that are bound up in the carrying on of the activities of any\none of its members. It is truly educative in its effect in the degree in\nwhich an individual shares or participates in some conjoint activity. By\ndoing his share in the associated activity, the individual appropriates\nthe purpose which actuates it, becomes familiar with its methods and\nsubject matters, acquires needed skill, and is saturated with its\nemotional spirit.\n\nThe deeper and more intimate educative formation of disposition\ncomes, without conscious intent, as the young gradually partake of the\nactivities of the various groups to which they may belong. As a society\nbecomes more complex, however, it is found necessary to provide a\nspecial social environment which shall especially look after nurturing\nthe capacities of the immature. Three of the more important functions\nof this special environment are: simplifying and ordering the factors\nof the disposition it is wished to develop; purifying and idealizing\nthe existing social customs; creating a wider and better balanced\nenvironment than that by which the young would be likely, if left to\nthemselves, to be influenced.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Three: Education as Direction\n\n1. The Environment as Directive.\n\nWe now pass to one of the special forms which the general function of\neducation assumes: namely, that of direction, control, or guidance.\nOf these three words, direction, control, and guidance, the last best\nconveys the idea of assisting through cooperation the natural capacities\nof the individuals guided; control conveys rather the notion of an\nenergy brought to bear from without and meeting some resistance from the\none controlled; direction is a more neutral term and suggests the\nfact that the active tendencies of those directed are led in a certain\ncontinuous course, instead of dispersing aimlessly. Direction expresses\nthe basic function, which tends at one extreme to become a guiding\nassistance and at another, a regulation or ruling. But in any case, we\nmust carefully avoid a meaning sometimes read into the term \"control.\"\nIt is sometimes assumed, explicitly or unconsciously, that an\nindividual's tendencies are naturally purely individualistic or\negoistic, and thus antisocial. Control then denotes the process by which\nhe is brought to subordinate his natural impulses to public or common\nends. Since, by conception, his own nature is quite alien to this\nprocess and opposes it rather than helps it, control has in this view\na flavor of coercion or compulsion about it. Systems of government\nand theories of the state have been built upon this notion, and it has\nseriously affected educational ideas and practices. But there is no\nground for any such view. Individuals are certainly interested, at\ntimes, in having their own way, and their own way may go contrary to\nthe ways of others. But they are also interested, and chiefly interested\nupon the whole, in entering into the activities of others and taking\npart in conjoint and cooperative doings. Otherwise, no such thing as\na community would be possible. And there would not even be any one\ninterested in furnishing the policeman to keep a semblance of harmony\nunless he thought that thereby he could gain some personal advantage.\nControl, in truth, means only an emphatic form of direction of powers,\nand covers the regulation gained by an individual through his own\nefforts quite as much as that brought about when others take the lead.\n\nIn general, every stimulus directs activity. It does not simply excite\nit or stir it up, but directs it toward an object. Put the other way\naround, a response is not just a re-action, a protest, as it were,\nagainst being disturbed; it is, as the word indicates, an answer. It\nmeets the stimulus, and corresponds with it. There is an adaptation of\nthe stimulus and response to each other. A light is the stimulus to the\neye to see something, and the business of the eye is to see. If the\neyes are open and there is light, seeing occurs; the stimulus is but a\ncondition of the fulfillment of the proper function of the organ, not an\noutside interruption. To some extent, then, all direction or control is\na guiding of activity to its own end; it is an assistance in doing fully\nwhat some organ is already tending to do.\n\nThis general statement needs, however, to be qualified in two respects.\nIn the first place, except in the case of a small number of instincts,\nthe stimuli to which an immature human being is subject are not\nsufficiently definite to call out, in the beginning, specific responses.\nThere is always a great deal of superfluous energy aroused. This energy\nmay be wasted, going aside from the point; it may also go against the\nsuccessful performance of an act. It does harm by getting in the way.\nCompare the behavior of a beginner in riding a bicycle with that of the\nexpert. There is little axis of direction in the energies put forth;\nthey are largely dispersive and centrifugal. Direction involves\na focusing and fixating of action in order that it may be truly a\nresponse, and this requires an elimination of unnecessary and confusing\nmovements. In the second place, although no activity can be produced in\nwhich the person does not cooperate to some extent, yet a response may\nbe of a kind which does not fit into the sequence and continuity of\naction. A person boxing may dodge a particular blow successfully, but in\nsuch a way as to expose himself the next instant to a still harder\nblow. Adequate control means that the successive acts are brought into\na continuous order; each act not only meets its immediate stimulus but\nhelps the acts which follow.\n\nIn short, direction is both simultaneous and successive. At a given\ntime, it requires that, from all the tendencies that are partially\ncalled out, those be selected which center energy upon the point of\nneed. Successively, it requires that each act be balanced with those\nwhich precede and come after, so that order of activity is achieved.\nFocusing and ordering are thus the two aspects of direction, one\nspatial, the other temporal. The first insures hitting the mark; the\nsecond keeps the balance required for further action. Obviously, it is\nnot possible to separate them in practice as we have distinguished them\nin idea. Activity must be centered at a given time in such a way as to\nprepare for what comes next. The problem of the immediate response is\ncomplicated by one's having to be on the lookout for future occurrences.\n\nTwo conclusions emerge from these general statements. On the one hand,\npurely external direction is impossible. The environment can at most\nonly supply stimuli to call out responses. These responses proceed from\ntendencies already possessed by the individual. Even when a person\nis frightened by threats into doing something, the threats work only\nbecause the person has an instinct of fear. If he has not, or if, though\nhaving it, it is under his own control, the threat has no more influence\nupon him than light has in causing a person to see who has no eyes.\nWhile the customs and rules of adults furnish stimuli which direct\nas well as evoke the activities of the young, the young, after all,\nparticipate in the direction which their actions finally take. In the\nstrict sense, nothing can be forced upon them or into them. To overlook\nthis fact means to distort and pervert human nature. To take into\naccount the contribution made by the existing instincts and habits\nof those directed is to direct them economically and wisely. Speaking\naccurately, all direction is but re-direction; it shifts the activities\nalready going on into another channel. Unless one is cognizant of the\nenergies which are already in operation, one's attempts at direction\nwill almost surely go amiss.\n\nOn the other hand, the control afforded by the customs and regulations\nof others may be short-sighted. It may accomplish its immediate effect,\nbut at the expense of throwing the subsequent action of the person\nout of balance. A threat may, for example, prevent a person from\ndoing something to which he is naturally inclined by arousing fear of\ndisagreeable consequences if he persists. But he may be left in the\nposition which exposes him later on to influences which will lead him\nto do even worse things. His instincts of cunning and slyness may be\naroused, so that things henceforth appeal to him on the side of evasion\nand trickery more than would otherwise have been the case. Those engaged\nin directing the actions of others are always in danger of overlooking\nthe importance of the sequential development of those they direct.\n\n2. Modes of Social Direction. Adults are naturally most conscious of\ndirecting the conduct of others when they are immediately aiming so\nto do. As a rule, they have such an aim consciously when they find\nthemselves resisted; when others are doing things they do not wish them\nto do. But the more permanent and influential modes of control are those\nwhich operate from moment to moment continuously without such deliberate\nintention on our part.\n\n1. When others are not doing what we would like them to or are\nthreatening disobedience, we are most conscious of the need of\ncontrolling them and of the influences by which they are controlled. In\nsuch cases, our control becomes most direct, and at this point we are\nmost likely to make the mistakes just spoken of. We are even likely to\ntake the influence of superior force for control, forgetting that while\nwe may lead a horse to water we cannot make him drink; and that while we\ncan shut a man up in a penitentiary we cannot make him penitent. In\nall such cases of immediate action upon others, we need to discriminate\nbetween physical results and moral results. A person may be in such a\ncondition that forcible feeding or enforced confinement is necessary for\nhis own good. A child may have to be snatched with roughness away from\na fire so that he shall not be burnt. But no improvement of disposition,\nno educative effect, need follow. A harsh and commanding tone may be\neffectual in keeping a child away from the fire, and the same desirable\nphysical effect will follow as if he had been snatched away. But there\nmay be no more obedience of a moral sort in one case than in the other.\nA man can be prevented from breaking into other persons' houses by\nshutting him up, but shutting him up may not alter his disposition to\ncommit burglary. When we confuse a physical with an educative result,\nwe always lose the chance of enlisting the person's own participating\ndisposition in getting the result desired, and thereby of developing\nwithin him an intrinsic and persisting direction in the right way.\n\nIn general, the occasion for the more conscious acts of control should\nbe limited to acts which are so instinctive or impulsive that the one\nperforming them has no means of foreseeing their outcome. If a person\ncannot foresee the consequences of his act, and is not capable of\nunderstanding what he is told about its outcome by those with more\nexperience, it is impossible for him to guide his act intelligently. In\nsuch a state, every act is alike to him. Whatever moves him does move\nhim, and that is all there is to it. In some cases, it is well to permit\nhim to experiment, and to discover the consequences for himself in order\nthat he may act intelligently next time under similar circumstances. But\nsome courses of action are too discommoding and obnoxious to others to\nallow of this course being pursued. Direct disapproval is now resorted\nto. Shaming, ridicule, disfavor, rebuke, and punishment are used. Or\ncontrary tendencies in the child are appealed to to divert him from his\ntroublesome line of behavior. His sensitiveness to approbation, his hope\nof winning favor by an agreeable act, are made use of to induce action\nin another direction.\n\n2. These methods of control are so obvious (because so intentionally\nemployed) that it would hardly be worth while to mention them if it were\nnot that notice may now be taken, by way of contrast, of the other more\nimportant and permanent mode of control. This other method resides in\nthe ways in which persons, with whom the immature being is associated,\nuse things; the instrumentalities with which they accomplish their own\nends. The very existence of the social medium in which an individual\nlives, moves, and has his being is the standing effective agency of\ndirecting his activity.\n\nThis fact makes it necessary for us to examine in greater detail what\nis meant by the social environment. We are given to separating from\neach other the physical and social environments in which we live. The\nseparation is responsible on one hand for an exaggeration of the moral\nimportance of the more direct or personal modes of control of which\nwe have been speaking; and on the other hand for an exaggeration, in\ncurrent psychology and philosophy, of the intellectual possibilities of\ncontact with a purely physical environment. There is not, in fact, any\nsuch thing as the direct influence of one human being on another apart\nfrom use of the physical environment as an intermediary. A smile, a\nfrown, a rebuke, a word of warning or encouragement, all involve some\nphysical change. Otherwise, the attitude of one would not get over to\nalter the attitude of another. Comparatively speaking, such modes of\ninfluence may be regarded as personal. The physical medium is reduced to\na mere means of personal contact. In contrast with such direct modes of\nmutual influence, stand associations in common pursuits involving the\nuse of things as means and as measures of results. Even if the mother\nnever told her daughter to help her, or never rebuked her for not\nhelping, the child would be subjected to direction in her activities\nby the mere fact that she was engaged, along with the parent, in the\nhousehold life. Imitation, emulation, the need of working together,\nenforce control.\n\nIf the mother hands the child something needed, the latter must reach\nthe thing in order to get it. Where there is giving there must be\ntaking. The way the child handles the thing after it is got, the use\nto which it is put, is surely influenced by the fact that the child\nhas watched the mother. When the child sees the parent looking for\nsomething, it is as natural for it also to look for the object and to\ngive it over when it finds it, as it was, under other circumstances, to\nreceive it. Multiply such an instance by the thousand details of daily\nintercourse, and one has a picture of the most permanent and enduring\nmethod of giving direction to the activities of the young.\n\nIn saying this, we are only repeating what was said previously\nabout participating in a joint activity as the chief way of forming\ndisposition. We have explicitly added, however, the recognition of the\npart played in the joint activity by the use of things. The philosophy\nof learning has been unduly dominated by a false psychology. It is\nfrequently stated that a person learns by merely having the qualities of\nthings impressed upon his mind through the gateway of the senses. Having\nreceived a store of sensory impressions, association or some power of\nmental synthesis is supposed to combine them into ideas--into things\nwith a meaning. An object, stone, orange, tree, chair, is supposed to\nconvey different impressions of color, shape, size, hardness, smell,\ntaste, etc., which aggregated together constitute the characteristic\nmeaning of each thing. But as matter of fact, it is the characteristic\nuse to which the thing is put, because of its specific qualities, which\nsupplies the meaning with which it is identified. A chair is a thing\nwhich is put to one use; a table, a thing which is employed for another\npurpose; an orange is a thing which costs so much, which is grown in\nwarm climes, which is eaten, and when eaten has an agreeable odor and\nrefreshing taste, etc.\n\nThe difference between an adjustment to a physical stimulus and a mental\nact is that the latter involves response to a thing in its meaning;\nthe former does not. A noise may make me jump without my mind being\nimplicated. When I hear a noise and run and get water and put out a\nblaze, I respond intelligently; the sound meant fire, and fire meant\nneed of being extinguished. I bump into a stone, and kick it to one side\npurely physically. I put it to one side for fear some one will stumble\nupon it, intelligently; I respond to a meaning which the thing has. I am\nstartled by a thunderclap whether I recognize it or not--more likely, if\nI do not recognize it. But if I say, either out loud or to myself, that\nis thunder, I respond to the disturbance as a meaning. My behavior has\na mental quality. When things have a meaning for us, we mean (intend,\npropose) what we do: when they do not, we act blindly, unconsciously,\nunintelligently.\n\nIn both kinds of responsive adjustment, our activities are directed or\ncontrolled. But in the merely blind response, direction is also blind.\nThere may be training, but there is no education. Repeated responses to\nrecurrent stimuli may fix a habit of acting in a certain way. All of us\nhave many habits of whose import we are quite unaware, since they were\nformed without our knowing what we were about. Consequently they possess\nus, rather than we them. They move us; they control us. Unless we become\naware of what they accomplish, and pass judgment upon the worth of the\nresult, we do not control them. A child might be made to bow every time\nhe met a certain person by pressure on his neck muscles, and bowing\nwould finally become automatic. It would not, however, be an act of\nrecognition or deference on his part, till he did it with a certain end\nin view--as having a certain meaning. And not till he knew what he was\nabout and performed the act for the sake of its meaning could he be said\nto be \"brought up\" or educated to act in a certain way. To have an idea\nof a thing is thus not just to get certain sensations from it. It is\nto be able to respond to the thing in view of its place in an inclusive\nscheme of action; it is to foresee the drift and probable consequence of\nthe action of the thing upon us and of our action upon it. To have the\nsame ideas about things which others have, to be like-minded with them,\nand thus to be really members of a social group, is therefore to attach\nthe same meanings to things and to acts which others attach. Otherwise,\nthere is no common understanding, and no community life. But in a shared\nactivity, each person refers what he is doing to what the other is doing\nand vice-versa. That is, the activity of each is placed in the same\ninclusive situation. To pull at a rope at which others happen to be\npulling is not a shared or conjoint activity, unless the pulling is\ndone with knowledge that others are pulling and for the sake of either\nhelping or hindering what they are doing. A pin may pass in the course\nof its manufacture through the hands of many persons. But each may do\nhis part without knowledge of what others do or without any reference\nto what they do; each may operate simply for the sake of a separate\nresult--his own pay. There is, in this case, no common consequence to\nwhich the several acts are referred, and hence no genuine intercourse\nor association, in spite of juxtaposition, and in spite of the fact\nthat their respective doings contribute to a single outcome. But if each\nviews the consequences of his own acts as having a bearing upon what\nothers are doing and takes into account the consequences of their\nbehavior upon himself, then there is a common mind; a common intent\nin behavior. There is an understanding set up between the different\ncontributors; and this common understanding controls the action of each.\nSuppose that conditions were so arranged that one person automatically\ncaught a ball and then threw it to another person who caught and\nautomatically returned it; and that each so acted without knowing where\nthe ball came from or went to. Clearly, such action would be without\npoint or meaning. It might be physically controlled, but it would not be\nsocially directed. But suppose that each becomes aware of what the\nother is doing, and becomes interested in the other's action and thereby\ninterested in what he is doing himself as connected with the action of\nthe other. The behavior of each would then be intelligent; and socially\nintelligent and guided. Take one more example of a less imaginary kind.\nAn infant is hungry, and cries while food is prepared in his presence.\nIf he does not connect his own state with what others are doing, nor\nwhat they are doing with his own satisfaction, he simply reacts with\nincreasing impatience to his own increasing discomfort. He is physically\ncontrolled by his own organic state. But when he makes a back and forth\nreference, his whole attitude changes. He takes an interest, as we say;\nhe takes note and watches what others are doing. He no longer reacts\njust to his own hunger, but behaves in the light of what others are\ndoing for its prospective satisfaction. In that way, he also no\nlonger just gives way to hunger without knowing it, but he notes, or\nrecognizes, or identifies his own state. It becomes an object for him.\nHis attitude toward it becomes in some degree intelligent. And in such\nnoting of the meaning of the actions of others and of his own state, he\nis socially directed.\n\nIt will be recalled that our main proposition had two sides. One of them\nhas now been dealt with: namely, that physical things do not influence\nmind (or form ideas and beliefs) except as they are implicated in action\nfor prospective consequences. The other point is persons modify one\nanother's dispositions only through the special use they make of\nphysical conditions. Consider first the case of so-called expressive\nmovements to which others are sensitive; blushing, smiling, frowning,\nclinching of fists, natural gestures of all kinds. In themselves, these\nare not expressive. They are organic parts of a person's attitude. One\ndoes not blush to show modesty or embarrassment to others, but because\nthe capillary circulation alters in response to stimuli. But others\nuse the blush, or a slightly perceptible tightening of the muscles of\na person with whom they are associated, as a sign of the state in\nwhich that person finds himself, and as an indication of what course\nto pursue. The frown signifies an imminent rebuke for which one must\nprepare, or an uncertainty and hesitation which one must, if possible,\nremove by saying or doing something to restore confidence. A man at some\ndistance is waving his arms wildly. One has only to preserve an attitude\nof detached indifference, and the motions of the other person will be on\nthe level of any remote physical change which we happen to note. If we\nhave no concern or interest, the waving of the arms is as meaningless\nto us as the gyrations of the arms of a windmill. But if interest is\naroused, we begin to participate. We refer his action to something we\nare doing ourselves or that we should do. We have to judge the meaning\nof his act in order to decide what to do. Is he beckoning for help? Is\nhe warning us of an explosion to be set off, against which we should\nguard ourselves? In one case, his action means to run toward him; in the\nother case, to run away. In any case, it is the change he effects in\nthe physical environment which is a sign to us of how we should conduct\nourselves. Our action is socially controlled because we endeavor to\nrefer what we are to do to the same situation in which he is acting.\n\nLanguage is, as we have already seen (ante, p. 15) a case of this joint\nreference of our own action and that of another to a common situation.\nHence its unrivaled significance as a means of social direction. But\nlanguage would not be this efficacious instrument were it not that\nit takes place upon a background of coarser and more tangible use of\nphysical means to accomplish results. A child sees persons with whom he\nlives using chairs, hats, tables, spades, saws, plows, horses, money in\ncertain ways. If he has any share at all in what they are doing, he is\nled thereby to use things in the same way, or to use other things in a\nway which will fit in. If a chair is drawn up to a table, it is a sign\nthat he is to sit in it; if a person extends his right hand, he is to\nextend his; and so on in a never ending stream of detail. The prevailing\nhabits of using the products of human art and the raw materials of\nnature constitute by all odds the deepest and most pervasive mode\nof social control. When children go to school, they already have\n\"minds\"--they have knowledge and dispositions of judgment which may\nbe appealed to through the use of language. But these \"minds\" are the\norganized habits of intelligent response which they have previously\nrequired by putting things to use in connection with the way\nother persons use things. The control is inescapable; it saturates\ndisposition. The net outcome of the discussion is that the fundamental\nmeans of control is not personal but intellectual. It is not \"moral\" in\nthe sense that a person is moved by direct personal appeal from others,\nimportant as is this method at critical junctures. It consists in\nthe habits of understanding, which are set up in using objects in\ncorrespondence with others, whether by way of cooperation and assistance\nor rivalry and competition. Mind as a concrete thing is precisely\nthe power to understand things in terms of the use made of them; a\nsocialized mind is the power to understand them in terms of the use to\nwhich they are turned in joint or shared situations. And mind in this\nsense is the method of social control.\n\n3. Imitation and Social Psychology. We have already noted the defects of\na psychology of learning which places the individual mind naked, as\nit were, in contact with physical objects, and which believes that\nknowledge, ideas, and beliefs accrue from their interaction. Only\ncomparatively recently has the predominating influence of association\nwith fellow beings in the formation of mental and moral disposition been\nperceived. Even now it is usually treated as a kind of adjunct to an\nalleged method of learning by direct contact with things, and as merely\nsupplementing knowledge of the physical world with knowledge of persons.\nThe purport of our discussion is that such a view makes an absurd and\nimpossible separation between persons and things. Interaction with\nthings may form habits of external adjustment. But it leads to activity\nhaving a meaning and conscious intent only when things are used to\nproduce a result. And the only way one person can modify the mind of\nanother is by using physical conditions, crude or artificial, so as\nto evoke some answering activity from him. Such are our two main\nconclusions. It is desirable to amplify and enforce them by placing them\nin contrast with the theory which uses a psychology of supposed direct\nrelationships of human beings to one another as an adjunct to the\npsychology of the supposed direct relation of an individual to physical\nobjects. In substance, this so-called social psychology has been built\nupon the notion of imitation. Consequently, we shall discuss the nature\nand role of imitation in the formation of mental disposition.\n\nAccording to this theory, social control of individuals rests upon the\ninstinctive tendency of individuals to imitate or copy the actions of\nothers. The latter serve as models. The imitative instinct is so strong\nthat the young devote themselves to conforming to the patterns set by\nothers and reproducing them in their own scheme of behavior. According\nto our theory, what is here called imitation is a misleading name for\npartaking with others in a use of things which leads to consequences of\ncommon interest. The basic error in the current notion of imitation is\nthat it puts the cart before the horse. It takes an effect for the\ncause of the effect. There can be no doubt that individuals in forming a\nsocial group are like-minded; they understand one another. They tend\nto act with the same controlling ideas, beliefs, and intentions, given\nsimilar circumstances. Looked at from without, they might be said to\nbe engaged in \"imitating\" one another. In the sense that they are doing\nmuch the same sort of thing in much the same sort of way, this would be\ntrue enough. But \"imitation\" throws no light upon why they so act; it\nrepeats the fact as an explanation of itself. It is an explanation of\nthe same order as the famous saying that opium puts men to sleep because\nof its dormitive power.\n\nObjective likeness of acts and the mental satisfaction found in being in\nconformity with others are baptized by the name imitation. This social\nfact is then taken for a psychological force, which produced the\nlikeness. A considerable portion of what is called imitation is simply\nthe fact that persons being alike in structure respond in the same way\nto like stimuli. Quite independently of imitation, men on being insulted\nget angry and attack the insulter. This statement may be met by citing\nthe undoubted fact that response to an insult takes place in different\nways in groups having different customs. In one group, it may be met by\nrecourse to fisticuffs, in another by a challenge to a duel, in a third\nby an exhibition of contemptuous disregard. This happens, so it is said,\nbecause the model set for imitation is different. But there is no need\nto appeal to imitation. The mere fact that customs are different means\nthat the actual stimuli to behavior are different. Conscious instruction\nplays a part; prior approvals and disapprovals have a large influence.\nStill more effective is the fact that unless an individual acts in the\nway current in his group, he is literally out of it. He can associate\nwith others on intimate and equal terms only by behaving in the way in\nwhich they behave. The pressure that comes from the fact that one is\nlet into the group action by acting in one way and shut out by acting\nin another way is unremitting. What is called the effect of imitation\nis mainly the product of conscious instruction and of the selective\ninfluence exercised by the unconscious confirmations and ratifications\nof those with whom one associates.\n\nSuppose that some one rolls a ball to a child; he catches it and rolls\nit back, and the game goes on. Here the stimulus is not just the\nsight of the ball, or the sight of the other rolling it. It is the\nsituation--the game which is playing. The response is not merely rolling\nthe ball back; it is rolling it back so that the other one may catch and\nreturn it,--that the game may continue. The \"pattern\" or model is not\nthe action of the other person. The whole situation requires that each\nshould adapt his action in view of what the other person has done and is\nto do. Imitation may come in but its role is subordinate. The child has\nan interest on his own account; he wants to keep it going. He may then\nnote how the other person catches and holds the ball in order to improve\nhis own acts. He imitates the means of doing, not the end or thing to be\ndone. And he imitates the means because he wishes, on his own behalf, as\npart of his own initiative, to take an effective part in the game. One\nhas only to consider how completely the child is dependent from his\nearliest days for successful execution of his purposes upon fitting his\nacts into those of others to see what a premium is put upon behaving as\nothers behave, and of developing an understanding of them in order that\nhe may so behave. The pressure for likemindedness in action from this\nsource is so great that it is quite superfluous to appeal to imitation.\nAs matter of fact, imitation of ends, as distinct from imitation of\nmeans which help to reach ends, is a superficial and transitory affair\nwhich leaves little effect upon disposition. Idiots are especially apt\nat this kind of imitation; it affects outward acts but not the meaning\nof their performance. When we find children engaging in this sort of\nmimicry, instead of encouraging them (as we would do if it were an\nimportant means of social control) we are more likely to rebuke them\nas apes, monkeys, parrots, or copy cats. Imitation of means of\naccomplishment is, on the other hand, an intelligent act. It involves\nclose observation, and judicious selection of what will enable one to do\nbetter something which he already is trying to do. Used for a purpose,\nthe imitative instinct may, like any other instinct, become a factor in\nthe development of effective action.\n\nThis excursus should, accordingly, have the effect of reinforcing the\nconclusion that genuine social control means the formation of a certain\nmental disposition; a way of understanding objects, events, and acts\nwhich enables one to participate effectively in associated activities.\nOnly the friction engendered by meeting resistance from others leads\nto the view that it takes place by forcing a line of action contrary to\nnatural inclinations. Only failure to take account of the situations\nin which persons are mutually concerned (or interested in acting\nresponsively to one another) leads to treating imitation as the chief\nagent in promoting social control.\n\n4. Some Applications to Education. Why does a savage group perpetuate\nsavagery, and a civilized group civilization? Doubtless the first answer\nto occur to mind is because savages are savages; being of low-grade\nintelligence and perhaps defective moral sense. But careful study\nhas made it doubtful whether their native capacities are appreciably\ninferior to those of civilized man. It has made it certain that native\ndifferences are not sufficient to account for the difference in culture.\nIn a sense the mind of savage peoples is an effect, rather than a cause,\nof their backward institutions. Their social activities are such as to\nrestrict their objects of attention and interest, and hence to limit\nthe stimuli to mental development. Even as regards the objects that come\nwithin the scope of attention, primitive social customs tend to arrest\nobservation and imagination upon qualities which do not fructify in the\nmind. Lack of control of natural forces means that a scant number of\nnatural objects enter into associated behavior. Only a small number of\nnatural resources are utilized and they are not worked for what they are\nworth. The advance of civilization means that a larger number of natural\nforces and objects have been transformed into instrumentalities of\naction, into means for securing ends. We start not so much with superior\ncapacities as with superior stimuli for evocation and direction of\nour capacities. The savage deals largely with crude stimuli; we have\nweighted stimuli. Prior human efforts have made over natural conditions.\nAs they originally existed they were indifferent to human endeavors.\nEvery domesticated plant and animal, every tool, every utensil, every\nappliance, every manufactured article, every esthetic decoration,\nevery work of art means a transformation of conditions once hostile\nor indifferent to characteristic human activities into friendly and\nfavoring conditions. Because the activities of children today are\ncontrolled by these selected and charged stimuli, children are able to\ntraverse in a short lifetime what the race has needed slow, tortured\nages to attain. The dice have been loaded by all the successes which\nhave preceded.\n\nStimuli conducive to economical and effective response, such as our\nsystem of roads and means of transportation, our ready command of heat,\nlight, and electricity, our ready-made machines and apparatus for every\npurpose, do not, by themselves or in their aggregate, constitute a\ncivilization. But the uses to which they are put are civilization,\nand without the things the uses would be impossible. Time otherwise\nnecessarily devoted to wresting a livelihood from a grudging environment\nand securing a precarious protection against its inclemencies is\nfreed. A body of knowledge is transmitted, the legitimacy of which\nis guaranteed by the fact that the physical equipment in which it is\nincarnated leads to results that square with the other facts of nature.\nThus these appliances of art supply a protection, perhaps our chief\nprotection, against a recrudescence of these superstitious beliefs,\nthose fanciful myths and infertile imaginings about nature in which so\nmuch of the best intellectual power of the past has been spent. If we\nadd one other factor, namely, that such appliances be not only used,\nbut used in the interests of a truly shared or associated life, then\nthe appliances become the positive resources of civilization. If Greece,\nwith a scant tithe of our material resources, achieved a worthy and\nnoble intellectual and artistic career, it is because Greece operated\nfor social ends such resources as it had. But whatever the situation,\nwhether one of barbarism or civilization, whether one of stinted control\nof physical forces, or of partial enslavement to a mechanism not yet\nmade tributary to a shared experience, things as they enter into action\nfurnish the educative conditions of daily life and direct the formation\nof mental and moral disposition.\n\nIntentional education signifies, as we have already seen, a specially\nselected environment, the selection being made on the basis of materials\nand method specifically promoting growth in the desired direction. Since\nlanguage represents the physical conditions that have been subjected\nto the maximum transformation in the interests of social life--physical\nthings which have lost their original quality in becoming social\ntools--it is appropriate that language should play a large part compared\nwith other appliances. By it we are led to share vicariously in past\nhuman experience, thus widening and enriching the experience of the\npresent. We are enabled, symbolically and imaginatively, to anticipate\nsituations. In countless ways, language condenses meanings that record\nsocial outcomes and presage social outlooks. So significant is it of\na liberal share in what is worth while in life that unlettered and\nuneducated have become almost synonymous.\n\nThe emphasis in school upon this particular tool has, however, its\ndangers--dangers which are not theoretical but exhibited in practice.\nWhy is it, in spite of the fact that teaching by pouring in, learning by\na passive absorption, are universally condemned, that they are still so\nentrenched in practice? That education is not an affair of \"telling\"\nand being told, but an active and constructive process, is a principle\nalmost as generally violated in practice as conceded in theory. Is not\nthis deplorable situation due to the fact that the doctrine is itself\nmerely told? It is preached; it is lectured; it is written about. But\nits enactment into practice requires that the school environment be\nequipped with agencies for doing, with tools and physical materials, to\nan extent rarely attained. It requires that methods of instruction and\nadministration be modified to allow and to secure direct and continuous\noccupations with things. Not that the use of language as an educational\nresource should lessen; but that its use should be more vital and\nfruitful by having its normal connection with shared activities. \"These\nthings ought ye to have done, and not to have left the others\nundone.\" And for the school \"these things\" mean equipment with the\ninstrumentalities of cooperative or joint activity.\n\nFor when the schools depart from the educational conditions effective in\nthe out-of-school environment, they necessarily substitute a bookish, a\npseudo-intellectual spirit for a social spirit. Children doubtless go to\nschool to learn, but it has yet to be proved that learning occurs most\nadequately when it is made a separate conscious business. When treating\nit as a business of this sort tends to preclude the social sense which\ncomes from sharing in an activity of common concern and value, the\neffort at isolated intellectual learning contradicts its own aim. We may\nsecure motor activity and sensory excitation by keeping an individual by\nhimself, but we cannot thereby get him to understand the meaning which\nthings have in the life of which he is a part. We may secure technical\nspecialized ability in algebra, Latin, or botany, but not the kind of\nintelligence which directs ability to useful ends. Only by engaging in\na joint activity, where one person's use of material and tools is\nconsciously referred to the use other persons are making of their\ncapacities and appliances, is a social direction of disposition\nattained.\n\nSummary. The natural or native impulses of the young do not agree with\nthe life-customs of the group into which they are born. Consequently\nthey have to be directed or guided. This control is not the same thing\nas physical compulsion; it consists in centering the impulses acting\nat any one time upon some specific end and in introducing an order of\ncontinuity into the sequence of acts. The action of others is always\ninfluenced by deciding what stimuli shall call out their actions. But\nin some cases as in commands, prohibitions, approvals, and disapprovals,\nthe stimuli proceed from persons with a direct view to influencing\naction. Since in such cases we are most conscious of controlling the\naction of others, we are likely to exaggerate the importance of this\nsort of control at the expense of a more permanent and effective method.\nThe basic control resides in the nature of the situations in which the\nyoung take part. In social situations the young have to refer their\nway of acting to what others are doing and make it fit in. This directs\ntheir action to a common result, and gives an understanding common to\nthe participants. For all mean the same thing, even when performing\ndifferent acts. This common understanding of the means and ends of\naction is the essence of social control. It is indirect, or emotional\nand intellectual, not direct or personal. Moreover it is intrinsic to\nthe disposition of the person, not external and coercive. To achieve\nthis internal control through identity of interest and understanding\nis the business of education. While books and conversation can do much,\nthese agencies are usually relied upon too exclusively. Schools require\nfor their full efficiency more opportunity for conjoint activities in\nwhich those instructed take part, so that they may acquire a social\nsense of their own powers and of the materials and appliances used.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Four: Education as Growth\n\n1. The Conditions of Growth.\n\nIn directing the activities of the young, society determines its own\nfuture in determining that of the young. Since the young at a given time\nwill at some later date compose the society of that period, the latter's\nnature will largely turn upon the direction children's activities were\ngiven at an earlier period. This cumulative movement of action toward a\nlater result is what is meant by growth.\n\nThe primary condition of growth is immaturity. This may seem to be a\nmere truism--saying that a being can develop only in some point in which\nhe is undeveloped. But the prefix \"im\" of the word immaturity means\nsomething positive, not a mere void or lack. It is noteworthy that the\nterms \"capacity\" and \"potentiality\" have a double meaning, one\nsense being negative, the other positive. Capacity may denote mere\nreceptivity, like the capacity of a quart measure. We may mean by\npotentiality a merely dormant or quiescent state--a capacity to become\nsomething different under external influences. But we also mean by\ncapacity an ability, a power; and by potentiality potency, force. Now\nwhen we say that immaturity means the possibility of growth, we are\nnot referring to absence of powers which may exist at a later time; we\nexpress a force positively present--the ability to develop.\n\nOur tendency to take immaturity as mere lack, and growth as something\nwhich fills up the gap between the immature and the mature is due to\nregarding childhood comparatively, instead of intrinsically. We treat\nit simply as a privation because we are measuring it by adulthood as a\nfixed standard. This fixes attention upon what the child has not, and\nwill not have till he becomes a man. This comparative standpoint is\nlegitimate enough for some purposes, but if we make it final, the\nquestion arises whether we are not guilty of an overweening presumption.\nChildren, if they could express themselves articulately and sincerely,\nwould tell a different tale; and there is excellent adult authority for\nthe conviction that for certain moral and intellectual purposes adults\nmust become as little children. The seriousness of the assumption of the\nnegative quality of the possibilities of immaturity is apparent when\nwe reflect that it sets up as an ideal and standard a static end. The\nfulfillment of growing is taken to mean an accomplished growth: that is\nto say, an Ungrowth, something which is no longer growing. The futility\nof the assumption is seen in the fact that every adult resents the\nimputation of having no further possibilities of growth; and so far\nas he finds that they are closed to him mourns the fact as evidence of\nloss, instead of falling back on the achieved as adequate manifestation\nof power. Why an unequal measure for child and man?\n\nTaken absolutely, instead of comparatively, immaturity designates a\npositive force or ability,--the power to grow. We do not have to draw\nout or educe positive activities from a child, as some educational\ndoctrines would have it. Where there is life, there are already eager\nand impassioned activities. Growth is not something done to them; it is\nsomething they do. The positive and constructive aspect of possibility\ngives the key to understanding the two chief traits of immaturity,\ndependence and plasticity.\n\n(1) It sounds absurd to hear dependence spoken of as something positive,\nstill more absurd as a power. Yet if helplessness were all there were\nin dependence, no development could ever take place. A merely impotent\nbeing has to be carried, forever, by others. The fact that dependence is\naccompanied by growth in ability, not by an ever increasing lapse into\nparasitism, suggests that it is already something constructive. Being\nmerely sheltered by others would not promote growth. For\n\n(2) it would only build a wall around impotence. With reference to the\nphysical world, the child is helpless. He lacks at birth and for a\nlong time thereafter power to make his way physically, to make his own\nliving. If he had to do that by himself, he would hardly survive an\nhour. On this side his helplessness is almost complete. The young of\nthe brutes are immeasurably his superiors. He is physically weak and not\nable to turn the strength which he possesses to coping with the physical\nenvironment.\n\n1. The thoroughgoing character of this helplessness suggests, however,\nsome compensating power. The relative ability of the young of brute\nanimals to adapt themselves fairly well to physical conditions from an\nearly period suggests the fact that their life is not intimately bound\nup with the life of those about them. They are compelled, so to speak,\nto have physical gifts because they are lacking in social gifts. Human\ninfants, on the other hand, can get along with physical incapacity just\nbecause of their social capacity. We sometimes talk and think as if they\nsimply happened to be physically in a social environment; as if social\nforces exclusively existed in the adults who take care of them, they\nbeing passive recipients. If it were said that children are themselves\nmarvelously endowed with power to enlist the cooperative attention of\nothers, this would be thought to be a backhanded way of saying\nthat others are marvelously attentive to the needs of children. But\nobservation shows that children are gifted with an equipment of the\nfirst order for social intercourse. Few grown-up persons retain all\nof the flexible and sensitive ability of children to vibrate\nsympathetically with the attitudes and doings of those about them.\nInattention to physical things (going with incapacity to control them)\nis accompanied by a corresponding intensification of interest and\nattention as to the doings of people. The native mechanism of the child\nand his impulses all tend to facile social responsiveness. The statement\nthat children, before adolescence, are egotistically self-centered, even\nif it were true, would not contradict the truth of this statement. It\nwould simply indicate that their social responsiveness is employed on\ntheir own behalf, not that it does not exist. But the statement is not\ntrue as matter of fact. The facts which are cited in support of the\nalleged pure egoism of children really show the intensity and directness\nwith which they go to their mark. If the ends which form the mark seem\nnarrow and selfish to adults, it is only because adults (by means of a\nsimilar engrossment in their day) have mastered these ends, which\nhave consequently ceased to interest them. Most of the remainder of\nchildren's alleged native egoism is simply an egoism which runs counter\nto an adult's egoism. To a grown-up person who is too absorbed in\nhis own affairs to take an interest in children's affairs, children\ndoubtless seem unreasonably engrossed in their own affairs.\n\nFrom a social standpoint, dependence denotes a power rather than a\nweakness; it involves interdependence. There is always a danger that\nincreased personal independence will decrease the social capacity of\nan individual. In making him more self-reliant, it may make him more\nself-sufficient; it may lead to aloofness and indifference. It often\nmakes an individual so insensitive in his relations to others as to\ndevelop an illusion of being really able to stand and act alone--an\nunnamed form of insanity which is responsible for a large part of the\nremediable suffering of the world.\n\n2. The specific adaptability of an immature creature for growth\nconstitutes his plasticity. This is something quite different from the\nplasticity of putty or wax. It is not a capacity to take on change\nof form in accord with external pressure. It lies near the pliable\nelasticity by which some persons take on the color of their surroundings\nwhile retaining their own bent. But it is something deeper than this. It\nis essentially the ability to learn from experience; the power to retain\nfrom one experience something which is of avail in coping with the\ndifficulties of a later situation. This means power to modify actions\non the basis of the results of prior experiences, the power to develop\ndispositions. Without it, the acquisition of habits is impossible.\n\nIt is a familiar fact that the young of the higher animals, and\nespecially the human young, have to learn to utilize their instinctive\nreactions. The human being is born with a greater number of instinctive\ntendencies than other animals. But the instincts of the lower animals\nperfect themselves for appropriate action at an early period after\nbirth, while most of those of the human infant are of little account\njust as they stand. An original specialized power of adjustment secures\nimmediate efficiency, but, like a railway ticket, it is good for one\nroute only. A being who, in order to use his eyes, ears, hands,\nand legs, has to experiment in making varied combinations of their\nreactions, achieves a control that is flexible and varied. A chick,\nfor example, pecks accurately at a bit of food in a few hours after\nhatching. This means that definite coordinations of activities of the\neyes in seeing and of the body and head in striking are perfected in a\nfew trials. An infant requires about six months to be able to gauge with\napproximate accuracy the action in reaching which will coordinate with\nhis visual activities; to be able, that is, to tell whether he can reach\na seen object and just how to execute the reaching. As a result, the\nchick is limited by the relative perfection of its original endowment.\nThe infant has the advantage of the multitude of instinctive tentative\nreactions and of the experiences that accompany them, even though he is\nat a temporary disadvantage because they cross one another. In learning\nan action, instead of having it given ready-made, one of necessity\nlearns to vary its factors, to make varied combinations of them,\naccording to change of circumstances. A possibility of continuing\nprogress is opened up by the fact that in learning one act, methods are\ndeveloped good for use in other situations. Still more important is the\nfact that the human being acquires a habit of learning. He learns to\nlearn.\n\nThe importance for human life of the two facts of dependence and\nvariable control has been summed up in the doctrine of the significance\nof prolonged infancy. 1 This prolongation is significant from the\nstandpoint of the adult members of the group as well as from that of the\nyoung. The presence of dependent and learning beings is a stimulus to\nnurture and affection. The need for constant continued care was probably\na chief means in transforming temporary cohabitations into permanent\nunions. It certainly was a chief influence in forming habits of\naffectionate and sympathetic watchfulness; that constructive interest\nin the well-being of others which is essential to associated life.\nIntellectually, this moral development meant the introduction of many\nnew objects of attention; it stimulated foresight and planning for the\nfuture. Thus there is a reciprocal influence. Increasing complexity of\nsocial life requires a longer period of infancy in which to acquire the\nneeded powers; this prolongation of dependence means prolongation of\nplasticity, or power of acquiring variable and novel modes of control.\nHence it provides a further push to social progress.\n\n2. Habits as Expressions of Growth. We have already noted that\nplasticity is the capacity to retain and carry over from prior\nexperience factors which modify subsequent activities. This signifies\nthe capacity to acquire habits, or develop definite dispositions. We\nhave now to consider the salient features of habits. In the first place,\na habit is a form of executive skill, of efficiency in doing. A habit\nmeans an ability to use natural conditions as means to ends. It is\nan active control of the environment through control of the organs of\naction. We are perhaps apt to emphasize the control of the body at the\nexpense of control of the environment. We think of walking, talking,\nplaying the piano, the specialized skills characteristic of the etcher,\nthe surgeon, the bridge-builder, as if they were simply ease, deftness,\nand accuracy on the part of the organism. They are that, of course; but\nthe measure of the value of these qualities lies in the economical and\neffective control of the environment which they secure. To be able to\nwalk is to have certain properties of nature at our disposal--and so\nwith all other habits.\n\nEducation is not infrequently defined as consisting in the acquisition\nof those habits that effect an adjustment of an individual and his\nenvironment. The definition expresses an essential phase of growth. But\nit is essential that adjustment be understood in its active sense of\ncontrol of means for achieving ends. If we think of a habit simply as\na change wrought in the organism, ignoring the fact that this change\nconsists in ability to effect subsequent changes in the environment, we\nshall be led to think of \"adjustment\" as a conformity to environment as\nwax conforms to the seal which impresses it. The environment is thought\nof as something fixed, providing in its fixity the end and standard\nof changes taking place in the organism; adjustment is just fitting\nourselves to this fixity of external conditions. 2 Habit as\nhabituation is indeed something relatively passive; we get used to our\nsurroundings--to our clothing, our shoes, and gloves; to the atmosphere\nas long as it is fairly equable; to our daily associates, etc.\nConformity to the environment, a change wrought in the organism without\nreference to ability to modify surroundings, is a marked trait of such\nhabituations. Aside from the fact that we are not entitled to carry\nover the traits of such adjustments (which might well be called\naccommodations, to mark them off from active adjustments) into habits of\nactive use of our surroundings, two features of habituations are worth\nnotice. In the first place, we get used to things by first using them.\n\nConsider getting used to a strange city. At first, there is excessive\nstimulation and excessive and ill-adapted response. Gradually certain\nstimuli are selected because of their relevancy, and others are\ndegraded. We can say either that we do not respond to them any longer,\nor more truly that we have effected a persistent response to them--an\nequilibrium of adjustment. This means, in the second place, that this\nenduring adjustment supplies the background upon which are made specific\nadjustments, as occasion arises. We are never interested in changing\nthe whole environment; there is much that we take for granted and accept\njust as it already is. Upon this background our activities focus at\ncertain points in an endeavor to introduce needed changes. Habituation\nis thus our adjustment to an environment which at the time we are not\nconcerned with modifying, and which supplies a leverage to our active\nhabits. Adaptation, in fine, is quite as much adaptation of the\nenvironment to our own activities as of our activities to the\nenvironment. A savage tribe manages to live on a desert plain. It adapts\nitself. But its adaptation involves a maximum of accepting, tolerating,\nputting up with things as they are, a maximum of passive acquiescence,\nand a minimum of active control, of subjection to use. A civilized\npeople enters upon the scene. It also adapts itself. It introduces\nirrigation; it searches the world for plants and animals that will\nflourish under such conditions; it improves, by careful selection, those\nwhich are growing there. As a consequence, the wilderness blossoms as\na rose. The savage is merely habituated; the civilized man has habits\nwhich transform the environment.\n\nThe significance of habit is not exhausted, however, in its executive\nand motor phase. It means formation of intellectual and emotional\ndisposition as well as an increase in ease, economy, and efficiency of\naction. Any habit marks an inclination--an active preference and choice\nfor the conditions involved in its exercise. A habit does not wait,\nMicawber-like, for a stimulus to turn up so that it may get busy;\nit actively seeks for occasions to pass into full operation. If its\nexpression is unduly blocked, inclination shows itself in uneasiness and\nintense craving. A habit also marks an intellectual disposition. Where\nthere is a habit, there is acquaintance with the materials and equipment\nto which action is applied. There is a definite way of understanding the\nsituations in which the habit operates. Modes of thought, of observation\nand reflection, enter as forms of skill and of desire into the habits\nthat make a man an engineer, an architect, a physician, or a merchant.\nIn unskilled forms of labor, the intellectual factors are at minimum\nprecisely because the habits involved are not of a high grade. But there\nare habits of judging and reasoning as truly as of handling a tool,\npainting a picture, or conducting an experiment. Such statements are,\nhowever, understatements. The habits of mind involved in habits of the\neye and hand supply the latter with their significance. Above all,\nthe intellectual element in a habit fixes the relation of the habit to\nvaried and elastic use, and hence to continued growth. We speak of fixed\nhabits. Well, the phrase may mean powers so well established that their\npossessor always has them as resources when needed. But the phrase\nis also used to mean ruts, routine ways, with loss of freshness,\nopen-mindedness, and originality. Fixity of habit may mean that\nsomething has a fixed hold upon us, instead of our having a free hold\nupon things. This fact explains two points in a common notion about\nhabits: their identification with mechanical and external modes of\naction to the neglect of mental and moral attitudes, and the tendency\nto give them a bad meaning, an identification with \"bad habits.\" Many\na person would feel surprised to have his aptitude in his chosen\nprofession called a habit, and would naturally think of his use of\ntobacco, liquor, or profane language as typical of the meaning of habit.\nA habit is to him something which has a hold on him, something not\neasily thrown off even though judgment condemn it.\n\nHabits reduce themselves to routine ways of acting, or degenerate into\nways of action to which we are enslaved just in the degree in which\nintelligence is disconnected from them. Routine habits are unthinking\nhabits: \"bad\" habits are habits so severed from reason that they are\nopposed to the conclusions of conscious deliberation and decision. As we\nhave seen, the acquiring of habits is due to an original plasticity\nof our natures: to our ability to vary responses till we find an\nappropriate and efficient way of acting. Routine habits, and habits that\npossess us instead of our possessing them, are habits which put an end\nto plasticity. They mark the close of power to vary. There can be no\ndoubt of the tendency of organic plasticity, of the physiological basis,\nto lessen with growing years. The instinctively mobile and eagerly\nvarying action of childhood, the love of new stimuli and new\ndevelopments, too easily passes into a \"settling down,\" which means\naversion to change and a resting on past achievements. Only an\nenvironment which secures the full use of intelligence in the process\nof forming habits can counteract this tendency. Of course, the same\nhardening of the organic conditions affects the physiological structures\nwhich are involved in thinking. But this fact only indicates the need\nof persistent care to see to it that the function of intelligence is\ninvoked to its maximum possibility. The short-sighted method which falls\nback on mechanical routine and repetition to secure external efficiency\nof habit, motor skill without accompanying thought, marks a deliberate\nclosing in of surroundings upon growth.\n\n3. The Educational Bearings of the Conception of Development. We have\nhad so far but little to say in this chapter about education. We have\nbeen occupied with the conditions and implications of growth. If our\nconclusions are justified, they carry with them, however, definite\neducational consequences. When it is said that education is development,\neverything depends upon how development is conceived. Our net conclusion\nis that life is development, and that developing, growing, is life.\nTranslated into its educational equivalents, that means (i) that the\neducational process has no end beyond itself; it is its own end; and\nthat (ii) the educational process is one of continual reorganizing,\nreconstructing, transforming.\n\n1. Development when it is interpreted in comparative terms, that is,\nwith respect to the special traits of child and adult life, means\nthe direction of power into special channels: the formation of habits\ninvolving executive skill, definiteness of interest, and specific\nobjects of observation and thought. But the comparative view is not\nfinal. The child has specific powers; to ignore that fact is to stunt\nor distort the organs upon which his growth depends. The adult uses his\npowers to transform his environment, thereby occasioning new stimuli\nwhich redirect his powers and keep them developing. Ignoring this fact\nmeans arrested development, a passive accommodation. Normal child\nand normal adult alike, in other words, are engaged in growing. The\ndifference between them is not the difference between growth and\nno growth, but between the modes of growth appropriate to different\nconditions. With respect to the development of powers devoted to coping\nwith specific scientific and economic problems we may say the child\nshould be growing in manhood. With respect to sympathetic curiosity,\nunbiased responsiveness, and openness of mind, we may say that the adult\nshould be growing in childlikeness. One statement is as true as the\nother.\n\nThree ideas which have been criticized, namely, the merely privative\nnature of immaturity, static adjustment to a fixed environment, and\nrigidity of habit, are all connected with a false idea of growth or\ndevelopment,--that it is a movement toward a fixed goal. Growth is\nregarded as having an end, instead of being an end. The educational\ncounterparts of the three fallacious ideas are first, failure to take\naccount of the instinctive or native powers of the young; secondly,\nfailure to develop initiative in coping with novel situations; thirdly,\nan undue emphasis upon drill and other devices which secure automatic\nskill at the expense of personal perception. In all cases, the adult\nenvironment is accepted as a standard for the child. He is to be brought\nup to it.\n\nNatural instincts are either disregarded or treated as nuisances--as\nobnoxious traits to be suppressed, or at all events to be brought into\nconformity with external standards. Since conformity is the aim, what is\ndistinctively individual in a young person is brushed aside, or regarded\nas a source of mischief or anarchy. Conformity is made equivalent to\nuniformity. Consequently, there are induced lack of interest in the\nnovel, aversion to progress, and dread of the uncertain and the unknown.\nSince the end of growth is outside of and beyond the process of growing,\nexternal agents have to be resorted to to induce movement toward it.\nWhenever a method of education is stigmatized as mechanical, we may be\nsure that external pressure is brought to bear to reach an external end.\n\n2. Since in reality there is nothing to which growth is relative save\nmore growth, there is nothing to which education is subordinate save\nmore education. It is a commonplace to say that education should not\ncease when one leaves school. The point of this commonplace is that the\npurpose of school education is to insure the continuance of education by\norganizing the powers that insure growth. The inclination to learn from\nlife itself and to make the conditions of life such that all will learn\nin the process of living is the finest product of schooling.\n\nWhen we abandon the attempt to define immaturity by means of fixed\ncomparison with adult accomplishments, we are compelled to give up\nthinking of it as denoting lack of desired traits. Abandoning this\nnotion, we are also forced to surrender our habit of thinking of\ninstruction as a method of supplying this lack by pouring knowledge into\na mental and moral hole which awaits filling. Since life means growth,\na living creature lives as truly and positively at one stage as at\nanother, with the same intrinsic fullness and the same absolute claims.\nHence education means the enterprise of supplying the conditions which\ninsure growth, or adequacy of life, irrespective of age. We first look\nwith impatience upon immaturity, regarding it as something to be got\nover as rapidly as possible. Then the adult formed by such educative\nmethods looks back with impatient regret upon childhood and youth as a\nscene of lost opportunities and wasted powers. This ironical situation\nwill endure till it is recognized that living has its own intrinsic\nquality and that the business of education is with that quality.\nRealization that life is growth protects us from that so-called\nidealizing of childhood which in effect is nothing but lazy indulgence.\nLife is not to be identified with every superficial act and interest.\nEven though it is not always easy to tell whether what appears to be\nmere surface fooling is a sign of some nascent as yet untrained power,\nwe must remember that manifestations are not to be accepted as ends in\nthemselves. They are signs of possible growth. They are to be turned\ninto means of development, of carrying power forward, not indulged or\ncultivated for their own sake. Excessive attention to surface phenomena\n(even in the way of rebuke as well as of encouragement) may lead to\ntheir fixation and thus to arrested development. What impulses are\nmoving toward, not what they have been, is the important thing for\nparent and teacher. The true principle of respect for immaturity cannot\nbe better put than in the words of Emerson: \"Respect the child. Be not\ntoo much his parent. Trespass not on his solitude. But I hear the outcry\nwhich replies to this suggestion: Would you verily throw up the reins\nof public and private discipline; would you leave the young child to\nthe mad career of his own passions and whimsies, and call this anarchy\na respect for the child's nature? I answer,--Respect the child, respect\nhim to the end, but also respect yourself.... The two points in a boy's\ntraining are, to keep his naturel and train off all but that; to keep\nhis naturel, but stop off his uproar, fooling, and horseplay; keep\nhis nature and arm it with knowledge in the very direction in which it\npoints.\" And as Emerson goes on to show this reverence for childhood\nand youth instead of opening up an easy and easy-going path to the\ninstructors, \"involves at once, immense claims on the time, the thought,\non the life of the teacher. It requires time, use, insight, event, all\nthe great lessons and assistances of God; and only to think of using it\nimplies character and profoundness.\"\n\nSummary. Power to grow depends upon need for others and plasticity.\nBoth of these conditions are at their height in childhood and youth.\nPlasticity or the power to learn from experience means the formation of\nhabits. Habits give control over the environment, power to utilize\nit for human purposes. Habits take the form both of habituation, or\na general and persistent balance of organic activities with the\nsurroundings, and of active capacities to readjust activity to meet new\nconditions. The former furnishes the background of growth; the latter\nconstitute growing. Active habits involve thought, invention, and\ninitiative in applying capacities to new aims. They are opposed\nto routine which marks an arrest of growth. Since growth is the\ncharacteristic of life, education is all one with growing; it has no\nend beyond itself. The criterion of the value of school education is the\nextent in which it creates a desire for continued growth and supplies\nmeans for making the desire effective in fact.\n\n1 Intimations of its significance are found in a number of writers, but\nJohn Fiske, in his Excursions of an Evolutionist, is accredited with its\nfirst systematic exposition.\n\n2 This conception is, of course, a logical correlate of the conceptions\nof the external relation of stimulus and response, considered in\nthe last chapter, and of the negative conceptions of immaturity and\nplasticity noted in this chapter.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Five: Preparation, Unfolding, and Formal Discipline\n\n1. Education as Preparation. We have laid it down that the educative\nprocess is a continuous process of growth, having as its aim at every\nstage an added capacity of growth. This conception contrasts sharply\nwith other ideas which have influenced practice. By making the contrast\nexplicit, the meaning of the conception will be brought more clearly to\nlight. The first contrast is with the idea that education is a process\nof preparation or getting ready. What is to be prepared for is, of\ncourse, the responsibilities and privileges of adult life. Children are\nnot regarded as social members in full and regular standing. They are\nlooked upon as candidates; they are placed on the waiting list. The\nconception is only carried a little farther when the life of adults\nis considered as not having meaning on its own account, but as a\npreparatory probation for \"another life.\" The idea is but another form\nof the notion of the negative and privative character of growth already\ncriticized; hence we shall not repeat the criticisms, but pass on to the\nevil consequences which flow from putting education on this basis.\nIn the first place, it involves loss of impetus. Motive power is not\nutilized. Children proverbially live in the present; that is not only\na fact not to be evaded, but it is an excellence. The future just as\nfuture lacks urgency and body. To get ready for something, one knows not\nwhat nor why, is to throw away the leverage that exists, and to seek for\nmotive power in a vague chance. Under such circumstances, there is, in\nthe second place, a premium put on shilly-shallying and procrastination.\nThe future prepared for is a long way off; plenty of time will intervene\nbefore it becomes a present. Why be in a hurry about getting ready for\nit? The temptation to postpone is much increased because the present\noffers so many wonderful opportunities and proffers such invitations to\nadventure. Naturally attention and energy go to them; education accrues\nnaturally as an outcome, but a lesser education than if the full stress\nof effort had been put upon making conditions as educative as possible.\nA third undesirable result is the substitution of a conventional average\nstandard of expectation and requirement for a standard which concerns\nthe specific powers of the individual under instruction. For a severe\nand definite judgment based upon the strong and weak points of the\nindividual is substituted a vague and wavering opinion concerning what\nyouth may be expected, upon the average, to become in some more or less\nremote future; say, at the end of the year, when promotions are to take\nplace, or by the time they are ready to go to college or to enter\nupon what, in contrast with the probationary stage, is regarded as the\nserious business of life. It is impossible to overestimate the loss\nwhich results from the deflection of attention from the strategic point\nto a comparatively unproductive point. It fails most just where it\nthinks it is succeeding--in getting a preparation for the future.\n\nFinally, the principle of preparation makes necessary recourse on a\nlarge scale to the use of adventitious motives of pleasure and pain. The\nfuture having no stimulating and directing power when severed from the\npossibilities of the present, something must be hitched on to it to make\nit work. Promises of reward and threats of pain are employed. Healthy\nwork, done for present reasons and as a factor in living, is largely\nunconscious. The stimulus resides in the situation with which one is\nactually confronted. But when this situation is ignored, pupils have to\nbe told that if they do not follow the prescribed course penalties will\naccrue; while if they do, they may expect, some time in the future,\nrewards for their present sacrifices. Everybody knows how largely\nsystems of punishment have had to be resorted to by educational systems\nwhich neglect present possibilities in behalf of preparation for a\nfuture. Then, in disgust with the harshness and impotency of this\nmethod, the pendulum swings to the opposite extreme, and the dose of\ninformation required against some later day is sugar-coated, so that\npupils may be fooled into taking something which they do not care for.\n\nIt is not of course a question whether education should prepare for the\nfuture. If education is growth, it must progressively realize present\npossibilities, and thus make individuals better fitted to cope with\nlater requirements. Growing is not something which is completed in odd\nmoments; it is a continuous leading into the future. If the environment,\nin school and out, supplies conditions which utilize adequately the\npresent capacities of the immature, the future which grows out of\nthe present is surely taken care of. The mistake is not in attaching\nimportance to preparation for future need, but in making it the\nmainspring of present effort. Because the need of preparation for a\ncontinually developing life is great, it is imperative that every energy\nshould be bent to making the present experience as rich and significant\nas possible. Then as the present merges insensibly into the future, the\nfuture is taken care of.\n\n2. Education as Unfolding. There is a conception of education which\nprofesses to be based upon the idea of development. But it takes back\nwith one hand what it proffers with the other. Development is conceived\nnot as continuous growing, but as the unfolding of latent powers toward\na definite goal. The goal is conceived of as completion,--perfection.\nLife at any stage short of attainment of this goal is merely an\nunfolding toward it. Logically the doctrine is only a variant of the\npreparation theory. Practically the two differ in that the adherents of\nthe latter make much of the practical and professional duties for which\none is preparing, while the developmental doctrine speaks of the ideal\nand spiritual qualities of the principle which is unfolding.\n\nThe conception that growth and progress are just approximations to\na final unchanging goal is the last infirmity of the mind in its\ntransition from a static to a dynamic understanding of life. It\nsimulates the style of the latter. It pays the tribute of speaking\nmuch of development, process, progress. But all of these operations\nare conceived to be merely transitional; they lack meaning on their own\naccount. They possess significance only as movements toward something\naway from what is now going on. Since growth is just a movement toward a\ncompleted being, the final ideal is immobile. An abstract and indefinite\nfuture is in control with all which that connotes in depreciation of\npresent power and opportunity.\n\nSince the goal of perfection, the standard of development, is very far\naway, it is so beyond us that, strictly speaking, it is unattainable.\nConsequently, in order to be available for present guidance it must be\ntranslated into something which stands for it. Otherwise we should\nbe compelled to regard any and every manifestation of the child as an\nunfolding from within, and hence sacred. Unless we set up some definite\ncriterion representing the ideal end by which to judge whether a given\nattitude or act is approximating or moving away, our sole alternative is\nto withdraw all influences of the environment lest they interfere with\nproper development. Since that is not practicable, a working substitute\nis set up. Usually, of course, this is some idea which an adult would\nlike to have a child acquire. Consequently, by \"suggestive questioning\"\nor some other pedagogical device, the teacher proceeds to \"draw out\"\nfrom the pupil what is desired. If what is desired is obtained, that\nis evidence that the child is unfolding properly. But as the pupil\ngenerally has no initiative of his own in this direction, the result is\na random groping after what is wanted, and the formation of habits of\ndependence upon the cues furnished by others. Just because such methods\nsimulate a true principle and claim to have its sanction they may do\nmore harm than would outright \"telling,\" where, at least, it remains\nwith the child how much will stick.\n\nWithin the sphere of philosophic thought there have been two typical\nattempts to provide a working representative of the absolute goal. Both\nstart from the conception of a whole--an absolute--which is \"immanent\"\nin human life. The perfect or complete ideal is not a mere ideal; it\nis operative here and now. But it is present only implicitly,\n\"potentially,\" or in an enfolded condition. What is termed development\nis the gradual making explicit and outward of what is thus wrapped up.\nFroebel and Hegel, the authors of the two philosophic schemes\nreferred to, have different ideas of the path by which the progressive\nrealization of manifestation of the complete principle is effected.\nAccording to Hegel, it is worked out through a series of historical\ninstitutions which embody the different factors in the Absolute.\nAccording to Froebel, the actuating force is the presentation of\nsymbols, largely mathematical, corresponding to the essential traits\nof the Absolute. When these are presented to the child, the Whole,\nor perfection, sleeping within him, is awakened. A single example\nmay indicate the method. Every one familiar with the kindergarten is\nacquainted with the circle in which the children gather. It is not\nenough that the circle is a convenient way of grouping the children. It\nmust be used \"because it is a symbol of the collective life of mankind\nin general.\" Froebel's recognition of the significance of the native\ncapacities of children, his loving attention to them, and his influence\nin inducing others to study them, represent perhaps the most effective\nsingle force in modern educational theory in effecting widespread\nacknowledgment of the idea of growth. But his formulation of the notion\nof development and his organization of devices for promoting it were\nbadly hampered by the fact that he conceived development to be the\nunfolding of a ready-made latent principle. He failed to see that\ngrowing is growth, developing is development, and consequently placed\nthe emphasis upon the completed product. Thus he set up a goal which\nmeant the arrest of growth, and a criterion which is not applicable to\nimmediate guidance of powers, save through translation into abstract and\nsymbolic formulae.\n\nA remote goal of complete unfoldedness is, in technical philosophic\nlanguage, transcendental. That is, it is something apart from direct\nexperience and perception. So far as experience is concerned, it is\nempty; it represents a vague sentimental aspiration rather than anything\nwhich can be intelligently grasped and stated. This vagueness must be\ncompensated for by some a priori formula. Froebel made the connection\nbetween the concrete facts of experience and the transcendental ideal of\ndevelopment by regarding the former as symbols of the latter. To\nregard known things as symbols, according to some arbitrary a priori\nformula--and every a priori conception must be arbitrary--is an\ninvitation to romantic fancy to seize upon any analogies which appeal\nto it and treat them as laws. After the scheme of symbolism has been\nsettled upon, some definite technique must be invented by which the\ninner meaning of the sensible symbols used may be brought home to\nchildren. Adults being the formulators of the symbolism are naturally\nthe authors and controllers of the technique. The result was that\nFroebel's love of abstract symbolism often got the better of his\nsympathetic insight; and there was substituted for development as\narbitrary and externally imposed a scheme of dictation as the history of\ninstruction has ever seen.\n\nWith Hegel the necessity of finding some working concrete counterpart of\nthe inaccessible Absolute took an institutional, rather than symbolic,\nform. His philosophy, like Froebel's, marks in one direction an\nindispensable contribution to a valid conception of the process of life.\nThe weaknesses of an abstract individualistic philosophy were evident\nto him; he saw the impossibility of making a clean sweep of historical\ninstitutions, of treating them as despotisms begot in artifice and\nnurtured in fraud. In his philosophy of history and society culminated\nthe efforts of a whole series of German writers--Lessing, Herder, Kant,\nSchiller, Goethe--to appreciate the nurturing influence of the great\ncollective institutional products of humanity. For those who learned\nthe lesson of this movement, it was henceforth impossible to conceive\nof institutions or of culture as artificial. It destroyed completely--in\nidea, not in fact--the psychology that regarded \"mind\" as a ready-made\npossession of a naked individual by showing the significance of\n\"objective mind\"--language, government, art, religion--in the formation\nof individual minds. But since Hegel was haunted by the conception of an\nabsolute goal, he was obliged to arrange institutions as they concretely\nexist, on a stepladder of ascending approximations. Each in its time\nand place is absolutely necessary, because a stage in the self-realizing\nprocess of the absolute mind. Taken as such a step or stage, its\nexistence is proof of its complete rationality, for it is an integral\nelement in the total, which is Reason. Against institutions as they are,\nindividuals have no spiritual rights; personal development, and nurture,\nconsist in obedient assimilation of the spirit of existing institutions.\nConformity, not transformation, is the essence of education.\nInstitutions change as history shows; but their change, the rise and\nfall of states, is the work of the \"world-spirit.\" Individuals, save the\ngreat \"heroes\" who are the chosen organs of the world-spirit, have\nno share or lot in it. In the later nineteenth century, this type of\nidealism was amalgamated with the doctrine of biological evolution.\n\n\"Evolution\" was a force working itself out to its own end. As against\nit, or as compared with it, the conscious ideas and preference of\nindividuals are impotent. Or, rather, they are but the means by which\nit works itself out. Social progress is an \"organic growth,\" not an\nexperimental selection. Reason is all powerful, but only Absolute Reason\nhas any power.\n\nThe recognition (or rediscovery, for the idea was familiar to the\nGreeks) that great historic institutions are active factors in the\nintellectual nurture of mind was a great contribution to educational\nphilosophy. It indicated a genuine advance beyond Rousseau, who had\nmarred his assertion that education must be a natural development and\nnot something forced or grafted upon individuals from without, by the\nnotion that social conditions are not natural. But in its notion of\na complete and all-inclusive end of development, the Hegelian theory\nswallowed up concrete individualities, though magnifying The Individual\nin the abstract. Some of Hegel's followers sought to reconcile the\nclaims of the Whole and of individuality by the conception of society as\nan organic whole, or organism. That social organization is presupposed\nin the adequate exercise of individual capacity is not to be doubted.\nBut the social organism, interpreted after the relation of the organs of\nthe body to each other and to the whole body, means that each individual\nhas a certain limited place and function, requiring to be supplemented\nby the place and functions of the other organs. As one portion of the\nbodily tissue is differentiated so that it can be the hand and the\nhand only, another, the eye, and so on, all taken together making the\norganism, so one individual is supposed to be differentiated for the\nexercise of the mechanical operations of society, another for those of\na statesman, another for those of a scholar, and so on. The notion\nof \"organism\" is thus used to give a philosophic sanction to class\ndistinctions in social organization--a notion which in its educational\napplication again means external dictation instead of growth.\n\n3. Education as Training of Faculties. A theory which has had great\nvogue and which came into existence before the notion of growth had much\ninfluence is known as the theory of \"formal discipline.\" It has in view\na correct ideal; one outcome of education should be the creation of\nspecific powers of accomplishment. A trained person is one who can do\nthe chief things which it is important for him to do better than he\ncould without training: \"better\" signifying greater ease, efficiency,\neconomy, promptness, etc. That this is an outcome of education was\nindicated in what was said about habits as the product of educative\ndevelopment. But the theory in question takes, as it were, a short\ncut; it regards some powers (to be presently named) as the direct and\nconscious aims of instruction, and not simply as the results of growth.\nThere is a definite number of powers to be trained, as one might\nenumerate the kinds of strokes which a golfer has to master.\nConsequently education should get directly at the business of training\nthem. But this implies that they are already there in some untrained\nform; otherwise their creation would have to be an indirect product of\nother activities and agencies. Being there already in some crude form,\nall that remains is to exercise them in constant and graded repetitions,\nand they will inevitably be refined and perfected. In the phrase \"formal\ndiscipline\" as applied to this conception, \"discipline\" refers both\nto the outcome of trained power and to the method of training through\nrepeated exercise.\n\nThe forms of powers in question are such things as the faculties of\nperceiving, retaining, recalling, associating, attending, willing,\nfeeling, imagining, thinking, etc., which are then shaped by exercise\nupon material presented. In its classic form, this theory was expressed\nby Locke. On the one hand, the outer world presents the material or\ncontent of knowledge through passively received sensations. On the\nother hand, the mind has certain ready powers, attention, observation,\nretention, comparison, abstraction, compounding, etc. Knowledge results\nif the mind discriminates and combines things as they are united and\ndivided in nature itself. But the important thing for education is\nthe exercise or practice of the faculties of the mind till they become\nthoroughly established habitudes. The analogy constantly employed is\nthat of a billiard player or gymnast, who by repeated use of certain\nmuscles in a uniform way at last secures automatic skill. Even the\nfaculty of thinking was to be formed into a trained habit by repeated\nexercises in making and combining simple distinctions, for which, Locke\nthought, mathematics affords unrivaled opportunity.\n\nLocke's statements fitted well into the dualism of his day. It seemed to\ndo justice to both mind and matter, the individual and the world. One of\nthe two supplied the matter of knowledge and the object upon which mind\nshould work. The other supplied definite mental powers, which were few\nin number and which might be trained by specific exercises. The scheme\nappeared to give due weight to the subject matter of knowledge, and\nyet it insisted that the end of education is not the bare reception\nand storage of information, but the formation of personal powers of\nattention, memory, observation, abstraction, and generalization. It\nwas realistic in its emphatic assertion that all material whatever is\nreceived from without; it was idealistic in that final stress fell upon\nthe formation of intellectual powers. It was objective and impersonal\nin its assertion that the individual cannot possess or generate any true\nideas on his own account; it was individualistic in placing the end of\neducation in the perfecting of certain faculties possessed at the outset\nby the individual. This kind of distribution of values expressed with\nnicety the state of opinion in the generations following upon Locke.\nIt became, without explicit reference to Locke, a common-place of\neducational theory and of psychology. Practically, it seemed to provide\nthe educator with definite, instead of vague, tasks. It made the\nelaboration of a technique of instruction relatively easy. All that was\nnecessary was to provide for sufficient practice of each of the powers.\nThis practice consists in repeated acts of attending, observing,\nmemorizing, etc. By grading the difficulty of the acts, making each set\nof repetitions somewhat more difficult than the set which preceded it,\na complete scheme of instruction is evolved. There are various ways,\nequally conclusive, of criticizing this conception, in both its alleged\nfoundations and in its educational application. (1) Perhaps the most\ndirect mode of attack consists in pointing out that the supposed\noriginal faculties of observation, recollection, willing, thinking,\netc., are purely mythological. There are no such ready-made powers\nwaiting to be exercised and thereby trained. There are, indeed, a great\nnumber of original native tendencies, instinctive modes of action, based\non the original connections of neurones in the central nervous system.\nThere are impulsive tendencies of the eyes to follow and fixate light;\nof the neck muscles to turn toward light and sound; of the hands to\nreach and grasp; and turn and twist and thump; of the vocal apparatus to\nmake sounds; of the mouth to spew out unpleasant substances; to gag\nand to curl the lip, and so on in almost indefinite number. But these\ntendencies (a) instead of being a small number sharply marked off from\none another, are of an indefinite variety, interweaving with one another\nin all kinds of subtle ways. (b) Instead of being latent intellectual\npowers, requiring only exercise for their perfecting, they are\ntendencies to respond in certain ways to changes in the environment\nso as to bring about other changes. Something in the throat makes one\ncough; the tendency is to eject the obnoxious particle and thus\nmodify the subsequent stimulus. The hand touches a hot thing; it is\nimpulsively, wholly unintellectually, snatched away. But the withdrawal\nalters the stimuli operating, and tends to make them more consonant with\nthe needs of the organism. It is by such specific changes of organic\nactivities in response to specific changes in the medium that that\ncontrol of the environment of which we have spoken (see ante, p. 24) is\neffected. Now all of our first seeings and hearings and touchings and\nsmellings and tastings are of this kind. In any legitimate sense of the\nwords mental or intellectual or cognitive, they are lacking in these\nqualities, and no amount of repetitious exercise could bestow any\nintellectual properties of observation, judgment, or intentional action\n(volition) upon them.\n\n(2) Consequently the training of our original impulsive activities is\nnot a refinement and perfecting achieved by \"exercise\" as one might\nstrengthen a muscle by practice. It consists rather (a) in selecting\nfrom the diffused responses which are evoked at a given time those which\nare especially adapted to the utilization of the stimulus. That is to\nsay, among the reactions of the body in general occur upon stimulation\nof the eye by light, all except those which are specifically adapted to\nreaching, grasping, and manipulating the object effectively are\ngradually eliminated--or else no training occurs. As we have already\nnoted, the primary reactions, with a very few exceptions are too\ndiffused and general to be practically of much use in the case of the\nhuman infant. Hence the identity of training with selective response.\n(Compare p. 25.) (b) Equally important is the specific coordination of\ndifferent factors of response which takes place. There is not merely a\nselection of the hand reactions which effect grasping, but of the\nparticular visual stimuli which call out just these reactions and no\nothers, and an establishment of connection between the two. But the\ncoordinating does not stop here. Characteristic temperature reactions\nmay take place when the object is grasped. These will also be brought\nin; later, the temperature reaction may be connected directly with the\noptical stimulus, the hand reaction being suppressed--as a bright flame,\nindependent of close contact, may steer one away. Or the child in\nhandling the object pounds with it, or crumples it, and a sound issues.\nThe ear response is then brought into the system of response. If a\ncertain sound (the conventional name) is made by others and accompanies\nthe activity, response of both ear and the vocal apparatus connected\nwith auditory stimulation will also become an associated factor in the\ncomplex response.\n\n(3) The more specialized the adjustment of response and stimulus to each\nother (for, taking the sequence of activities into account, the stimuli\nare adapted to reactions as well as reactions to stimuli) the more rigid\nand the less generally available is the training secured. In equivalent\nlanguage, less intellectual or educative quality attaches to the\ntraining. The usual way of stating this fact is that the more\nspecialized the reaction, the less is the skill acquired in practicing\nand perfecting it transferable to other modes of behavior. According\nto the orthodox theory of formal discipline, a pupil in studying his\nspelling lesson acquires, besides ability to spell those particular\nwords, an increase of power of observation, attention, and recollection\nwhich may be employed whenever these powers are needed. As matter of\nfact, the more he confines himself to noticing and fixating the forms of\nwords, irrespective of connection with other things (such as the\nmeaning of the words, the context in which they are habitually used, the\nderivation and classification of the verbal form, etc.) the less likely\nis he to acquire an ability which can be used for anything except the\nmere noting of verbal visual forms. He may not even be increasing his\nability to make accurate distinctions among geometrical forms, to say\nnothing of ability to observe in general. He is merely selecting the\nstimuli supplied by the forms of the letters and the motor reactions\nof oral or written reproduction. The scope of coordination (to use\nour prior terminology) is extremely limited. The connections which are\nemployed in other observations and recollections (or reproductions) are\ndeliberately eliminated when the pupil is exercised merely upon forms\nof letters and words. Having been excluded, they cannot be restored when\nneeded. The ability secured to observe and to recall verbal forms is\nnot available for perceiving and recalling other things. In the ordinary\nphraseology, it is not transferable. But the wider the context--that is\nto say, the more varied the stimuli and responses coordinated--the more\nthe ability acquired is available for the effective performance of\nother acts; not, strictly speaking, because there is any \"transfer,\"\nbut because the wide range of factors employed in the specific act is\nequivalent to a broad range of activity, to a flexible, instead of to a\nnarrow and rigid, coordination. (4) Going to the root of the matter, the\nfundamental fallacy of the theory is its dualism; that is to say, its\nseparation of activities and capacities from subject matter. There is no\nsuch thing as an ability to see or hear or remember in general; there\nis only the ability to see or hear or remember something. To talk about\ntraining a power, mental or physical, in general, apart from the subject\nmatter involved in its exercise, is nonsense. Exercise may react\nupon circulation, breathing, and nutrition so as to develop vigor or\nstrength, but this reservoir is available for specific ends only by use\nin connection with the material means which accomplish them. Vigor will\nenable a man to play tennis or golf or to sail a boat better than he\nwould if he were weak. But only by employing ball and racket, ball and\nclub, sail and tiller, in definite ways does he become expert in any one\nof them; and expertness in one secures expertness in another only so far\nas it is either a sign of aptitude for fine muscular coordinations or as\nthe same kind of coordination is involved in all of them. Moreover, the\ndifference between the training of ability to spell which comes from\ntaking visual forms in a narrow context and one which takes them in\nconnection with the activities required to grasp meaning, such\nas context, affiliations of descent, etc., may be compared to the\ndifference between exercises in the gymnasium with pulley weights to\n\"develop\" certain muscles, and a game or sport. The former is uniform\nand mechanical; it is rigidly specialized. The latter is varied from\nmoment to moment; no two acts are quite alike; novel emergencies have to\nbe met; the coordinations forming have to be kept flexible and elastic.\nConsequently, the training is much more \"general\"; that is to say, it\ncovers a wider territory and includes more factors. Exactly the same\nthing holds of special and general education of the mind.\n\nA monotonously uniform exercise may by practice give great skill in one\nspecial act; but the skill is limited to that act, be it bookkeeping or\ncalculations in logarithms or experiments in hydrocarbons. One may be\nan authority in a particular field and yet of more than usually poor\njudgment in matters not closely allied, unless the training in the\nspecial field has been of a kind to ramify into the subject matter\nof the other fields. (5) Consequently, such powers as observation,\nrecollection, judgment, esthetic taste, represent organized results of\nthe occupation of native active tendencies with certain subject matters.\nA man does not observe closely and fully by pressing a button for\nthe observing faculty to get to work (in other words by \"willing\"\nto observe); but if he has something to do which can be accomplished\nsuccessfully only through intensive and extensive use of eye and hand,\nhe naturally observes. Observation is an outcome, a consequence, of\nthe interaction of sense organ and subject matter. It will vary,\naccordingly, with the subject matter employed.\n\nIt is consequently futile to set up even the ulterior development of\nfaculties of observation, memory, etc., unless we have first determined\nwhat sort of subject matter we wish the pupil to become expert in\nobserving and recalling and for what purpose. And it is only repeating\nin another form what has already been said, to declare that the\ncriterion here must be social. We want the person to note and recall and\njudge those things which make him an effective competent member of the\ngroup in which he is associated with others. Otherwise we might as well\nset the pupil to observing carefully cracks on the wall and set him to\nmemorizing meaningless lists of words in an unknown tongue--which is\nabout what we do in fact when we give way to the doctrine of formal\ndiscipline. If the observing habits of a botanist or chemist or engineer\nare better habits than those which are thus formed, it is because\nthey deal with subject matter which is more significant in life. In\nconcluding this portion of the discussion, we note that the distinction\nbetween special and general education has nothing to do with the\ntransferability of function or power. In the literal sense, any transfer\nis miraculous and impossible. But some activities are broad; they\ninvolve a coordination of many factors. Their development demands\ncontinuous alternation and readjustment. As conditions change, certain\nfactors are subordinated, and others which had been of minor importance\ncome to the front. There is constant redistribution of the focus of the\naction, as is seen in the illustration of a game as over against pulling\na fixed weight by a series of uniform motions. Thus there is practice in\nprompt making of new combinations with the focus of activity shifted to\nmeet change in subject matter. Wherever an activity is broad in\nscope (that is, involves the coordinating of a large variety of\nsub-activities), and is constantly and unexpectedly obliged to change\ndirection in its progressive development, general education is bound\nto result. For this is what \"general\" means; broad and flexible. In\npractice, education meets these conditions, and hence is general, in the\ndegree in which it takes account of social relationships. A person may\nbecome expert in technical philosophy, or philology, or mathematics or\nengineering or financiering, and be inept and ill-advised in his action\nand judgment outside of his specialty. If however his concern with\nthese technical subject matters has been connected with human activities\nhaving social breadth, the range of active responses called into play\nand flexibly integrated is much wider. Isolation of subject matter\nfrom a social context is the chief obstruction in current practice to\nsecuring a general training of mind. Literature, art, religion, when\nthus dissociated, are just as narrowing as the technical things which\nthe professional upholders of general education strenuously oppose.\n\nSummary. The conception that the result of the educative process is\ncapacity for further education stands in contrast with some other\nideas which have profoundly influenced practice. The first contrasting\nconception considered is that of preparing or getting ready for some\nfuture duty or privilege. Specific evil effects were pointed out which\nresult from the fact that this aim diverts attention of both teacher\nand taught from the only point to which it may be fruitfully\ndirected--namely, taking advantage of the needs and possibilities of the\nimmediate present. Consequently it defeats its own professed purpose.\nThe notion that education is an unfolding from within appears to have\nmore likeness to the conception of growth which has been set forth. But\nas worked out in the theories of Froebel and Hegel, it involves\nignoring the interaction of present organic tendencies with the present\nenvironment, just as much as the notion of preparation. Some implicit\nwhole is regarded as given ready-made and the significance of growth\nis merely transitory; it is not an end in itself, but simply a means\nof making explicit what is already implicit. Since that which is not\nexplicit cannot be made definite use of, something has to be found to\nrepresent it. According to Froebel, the mystic symbolic value of certain\nobjects and acts (largely mathematical) stand for the Absolute\nWhole which is in process of unfolding. According to Hegel, existing\ninstitutions are its effective actual representatives. Emphasis upon\nsymbols and institutions tends to divert perception from the direct\ngrowth of experience in richness of meaning. Another influential but\ndefective theory is that which conceives that mind has, at birth,\ncertain mental faculties or powers, such as perceiving, remembering,\nwilling, judging, generalizing, attending, etc., and that education is\nthe training of these faculties through repeated exercise. This theory\ntreats subject matter as comparatively external and indifferent, its\nvalue residing simply in the fact that it may occasion exercise of\nthe general powers. Criticism was directed upon this separation of the\nalleged powers from one another and from the material upon which they\nact. The outcome of the theory in practice was shown to be an undue\nemphasis upon the training of narrow specialized modes of skill at the\nexpense of initiative, inventiveness, and readaptability--qualities\nwhich depend upon the broad and consecutive interaction of specific\nactivities with one another. 1 As matter of fact, the interconnection is\nso great, there are so many paths of construction, that every stimulus\nbrings about some change in all of the organs of response. We are\naccustomed however to ignore most of these modifications of the total\norganic activity, concentrating upon that one which is most specifically\nadapted to the most urgent stimulus of the moment. 2 This statement\nshould be compared with what was said earlier about the sequential\nordering of responses (p. 25). It is merely a more explicit statement of\nthe way in which that consecutive arrangement occurs.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Six: Education as Conservative and Progressive\n\n1. Education as Formation. We now come to a type of theory which denies\nthe existence of faculties and emphasizes the unique role of subject\nmatter in the development of mental and moral disposition. According to\nit, education is neither a process of unfolding from within nor is it\na training of faculties resident in mind itself. It is rather the\nformation of mind by setting up certain associations or connections of\ncontent by means of a subject matter presented from without. Education\nproceeds by instruction taken in a strictly literal sense, a building\ninto the mind from without. That education is formative of mind is not\nquestioned; it is the conception already propounded. But formation here\nhas a technical meaning dependent upon the idea of something operating\nfrom without. Herbart is the best historical representative of this type\nof theory. He denies absolutely the existence of innate faculties. The\nmind is simply endowed with the power of producing various qualities in\nreaction to the various realities which act upon it. These qualitatively\ndifferent reactions are called presentations (Vorstellungen). Every\npresentation once called into being persists; it may be driven below the\n\"threshold\" of consciousness by new and stronger presentations, produced\nby the reaction of the soul to new material, but its activity continues\nby its own inherent momentum, below the surface of consciousness. What\nare termed faculties--attention, memory, thinking, perception, even the\nsentiments, are arrangements, associations, and complications, formed\nby the interaction of these submerged presentations with one another and\nwith new presentations. Perception, for example, is the complication of\npresentations which result from the rise of old presentations to greet\nand combine with new ones; memory is the evoking of an old presentation\nabove the threshold of consciousness by getting entangled with another\npresentation, etc. Pleasure is the result of reinforcement among the\nindependent activities of presentations; pain of their pulling different\nways, etc.\n\nThe concrete character of mind consists, then, wholly of the various\narrangements formed by the various presentations in their different\nqualities. The \"furniture\" of the mind is the mind. Mind is wholly a\nmatter of \"contents.\" The educational implications of this doctrine are\nthreefold.\n\n(1) This or that kind of mind is formed by the use of objects which\nevoke this or that kind of reaction and which produce this or that\narrangement among the reactions called out. The formation of mind is\nwholly a matter of the presentation of the proper educational materials.\n\n(2) Since the earlier presentations constitute the \"apperceiving organs\"\nwhich control the assimilation of new presentations, their character is\nall important. The effect of new presentations is to reinforce groupings\npreviously formed. The business of the educator is, first, to select the\nproper material in order to fix the nature of the original reactions,\nand, secondly, to arrange the sequence of subsequent presentations\non the basis of the store of ideas secured by prior transactions. The\ncontrol is from behind, from the past, instead of, as in the unfolding\nconception, in the ultimate goal.\n\n(3) Certain formal steps of all method in teaching may be laid down.\nPresentation of new subject matter is obviously the central thing,\nbut since knowing consists in the way in which this interacts with the\ncontents already submerged below consciousness, the first thing is\nthe step of \"preparation,\"--that is, calling into special activity and\ngetting above the floor of consciousness those older presentations which\nare to assimilate the new one. Then after the presentation, follow the\nprocesses of interaction of new and old; then comes the application of\nthe newly formed content to the performance of some task. Everything\nmust go through this course; consequently there is a perfectly uniform\nmethod in instruction in all subjects for all pupils of all ages.\n\nHerbart's great service lay in taking the work of teaching out of\nthe region of routine and accident. He brought it into the sphere of\nconscious method; it became a conscious business with a definite aim\nand procedure, instead of being a compound of casual inspiration\nand subservience to tradition. Moreover, everything in teaching and\ndiscipline could be specified, instead of our having to be content with\nvague and more or less mystic generalities about ultimate ideals and\nspeculative spiritual symbols. He abolished the notion of ready-made\nfaculties, which might be trained by exercise upon any sort of\nmaterial, and made attention to concrete subject matter, to the content,\nall-important. Herbart undoubtedly has had a greater influence in\nbringing to the front questions connected with the material of study\nthan any other educational philosopher. He stated problems of method\nfrom the standpoint of their connection with subject matter: method\nhaving to do with the manner and sequence of presenting new subject\nmatter to insure its proper interaction with old.\n\nThe fundamental theoretical defect of this view lies in ignoring the\nexistence in a living being of active and specific functions which are\ndeveloped in the redirection and combination which occur as they are\noccupied with their environment. The theory represents the Schoolmaster\ncome to his own. This fact expresses at once its strength and its\nweakness. The conception that the mind consists of what has been\ntaught, and that the importance of what has been taught consists in\nits availability for further teaching, reflects the pedagogue's view\nof life. The philosophy is eloquent about the duty of the teacher in\ninstructing pupils; it is almost silent regarding his privilege of\nlearning. It emphasizes the influence of intellectual environment\nupon the mind; it slurs over the fact that the environment involves a\npersonal sharing in common experiences. It exaggerates beyond reason\nthe possibilities of consciously formulated and used methods, and\nunderestimates the role of vital, unconscious, attitudes. It insists\nupon the old, the past, and passes lightly over the operation of the\ngenuinely novel and unforeseeable. It takes, in brief, everything\neducational into account save its essence,--vital energy seeking\nopportunity for effective exercise. All education forms character,\nmental and moral, but formation consists in the selection and\ncoordination of native activities so that they may utilize the subject\nmatter of the social environment. Moreover, the formation is not only a\nformation of native activities, but it takes place through them. It is a\nprocess of reconstruction, reorganization.\n\n2. Education as Recapitulation and Retrospection. A peculiar combination\nof the ideas of development and formation from without has given rise\nto the recapitulation theory of education, biological and cultural. The\nindividual develops, but his proper development consists in repeating in\norderly stages the past evolution of animal life and human history. The\nformer recapitulation occurs physiologically; the latter should be made\nto occur by means of education. The alleged biological truth that the\nindividual in his growth from the simple embryo to maturity repeats the\nhistory of the evolution of animal life in the progress of forms\nfrom the simplest to the most complex (or expressed technically, that\nontogenesis parallels phylogenesis) does not concern us, save as it is\nsupposed to afford scientific foundation for cultural recapitulation\nof the past. Cultural recapitulation says, first, that children at a\ncertain age are in the mental and moral condition of savagery; their\ninstincts are vagrant and predatory because their ancestors at one time\nlived such a life. Consequently (so it is concluded) the proper subject\nmatter of their education at this time is the material--especially the\nliterary material of myths, folk-tale, and song--produced by humanity\nin the analogous stage. Then the child passes on to something\ncorresponding, say, to the pastoral stage, and so on till at the time\nwhen he is ready to take part in contemporary life, he arrives at the\npresent epoch of culture.\n\nIn this detailed and consistent form, the theory, outside of a small\nschool in Germany (followers of Herbart for the most part), has had\nlittle currency. But the idea which underlies it is that education\nis essentially retrospective; that it looks primarily to the past\nand especially to the literary products of the past, and that mind\nis adequately formed in the degree in which it is patterned upon the\nspiritual heritage of the past. This idea has had such immense influence\nupon higher instruction especially, that it is worth examination in its\nextreme formulation.\n\nIn the first place, its biological basis is fallacious. Embyronic growth\nof the human infant preserves, without doubt, some of the traits of\nlower forms of life. But in no respect is it a strict traversing of\npast stages. If there were any strict \"law\" of repetition, evolutionary\ndevelopment would clearly not have taken place. Each new generation\nwould simply have repeated its predecessors' existence. Development, in\nshort, has taken place by the entrance of shortcuts and alterations in\nthe prior scheme of growth. And this suggests that the aim of education\nis to facilitate such short-circuited growth. The great advantage of\nimmaturity, educationally speaking, is that it enables us to emancipate\nthe young from the need of dwelling in an outgrown past. The business of\neducation is rather to liberate the young from reviving and retraversing\nthe past than to lead them to a recapitulation of it. The social\nenvironment of the young is constituted by the presence and action\nof the habits of thinking and feeling of civilized men. To ignore the\ndirective influence of this present environment upon the young is simply\nto abdicate the educational function. A biologist has said: \"The history\nof development in different animals. . . offers to us. . . a series of\ningenious, determined, varied but more or less unsuccessful efforts to\nescape from the necessity of recapitulating, and to substitute for the\nancestral method a more direct method.\" Surely it would be foolish if\neducation did not deliberately attempt to facilitate similar efforts in\nconscious experience so that they become increasingly successful.\n\nThe two factors of truth in the conception may easily be disentangled\nfrom association with the false context which perverts them. On the\nbiological side we have simply the fact that any infant starts with\nprecisely the assortment of impulsive activities with which he does\nstart, they being blind, and many of them conflicting with one another,\ncasual, sporadic, and unadapted to their immediate environment. The\nother point is that it is a part of wisdom to utilize the products\nof past history so far as they are of help for the future. Since they\nrepresent the results of prior experience, their value for future\nexperience may, of course, be indefinitely great. Literatures produced\nin the past are, so far as men are now in possession and use of them, a\npart of the present environment of individuals; but there is an enormous\ndifference between availing ourselves of them as present resources and\ntaking them as standards and patterns in their retrospective character.\n\n(1) The distortion of the first point usually comes about through misuse\nof the idea of heredity. It is assumed that heredity means that past\nlife has somehow predetermined the main traits of an individual, and\nthat they are so fixed that little serious change can be introduced into\nthem. Thus taken, the influence of heredity is opposed to that of\nthe environment, and the efficacy of the latter belittled. But for\neducational purposes heredity means neither more nor less than the\noriginal endowment of an individual. Education must take the being as he\nis; that a particular individual has just such and such an equipment of\nnative activities is a basic fact. That they were produced in such\nand such a way, or that they are derived from one's ancestry, is not\nespecially important for the educator, however it may be with the\nbiologist, as compared with the fact that they now exist. Suppose one\nhad to advise or direct a person regarding his inheritance of\nproperty. The fallacy of assuming that the fact it is an inheritance,\npredetermines its future use, is obvious. The advisor is concerned with\nmaking the best use of what is there--putting it at work under the most\nfavorable conditions. Obviously he cannot utilize what is not there;\nneither can the educator. In this sense, heredity is a limit of\neducation. Recognition of this fact prevents the waste of energy and the\nirritation that ensue from the too prevalent habit of trying to make\nby instruction something out of an individual which he is not naturally\nfitted to become. But the doctrine does not determine what use shall\nbe made of the capacities which exist. And, except in the case of the\nimbecile, these original capacities are much more varied and potential,\neven in the case of the more stupid, than we as yet know properly how to\nutilize. Consequently, while a careful study of the native aptitudes\nand deficiencies of an individual is always a preliminary necessity, the\nsubsequent and important step is to furnish an environment which will\nadequately function whatever activities are present. The relation of\nheredity and environment is well expressed in the case of language. If a\nbeing had no vocal organs from which issue articulate sounds, if he had\nno auditory or other sense-receptors and no connections between the two\nsets of apparatus, it would be a sheer waste of time to try to teach him\nto converse. He is born short in that respect, and education must accept\nthe limitation. But if he has this native equipment, its possession in\nno way guarantees that he will ever talk any language or what language\nhe will talk. The environment in which his activities occur and by which\nthey are carried into execution settles these things. If he lived in a\ndumb unsocial environment where men refused to talk to one another and\nused only that minimum of gestures without which they could not get\nalong, vocal language would be as unachieved by him as if he had no\nvocal organs. If the sounds which he makes occur in a medium of persons\nspeaking the Chinese language, the activities which make like sounds\nwill be selected and coordinated. This illustration may be applied to\nthe entire range of the educability of any individual. It places the\nheritage from the past in its right connection with the demands and\nopportunities of the present.\n\n(2) The theory that the proper subject matter of instruction is found\nin the culture-products of past ages (either in general, or more\nspecifically in the particular literatures which were produced in\nthe culture epoch which is supposed to correspond with the stage of\ndevelopment of those taught) affords another instance of that divorce\nbetween the process and product of growth which has been criticized. To\nkeep the process alive, to keep it alive in ways which make it easier\nto keep it alive in the future, is the function of educational subject\nmatter. But an individual can live only in the present. The present\nis not just something which comes after the past; much less something\nproduced by it. It is what life is in leaving the past behind it. The\nstudy of past products will not help us understand the present, because\nthe present is not due to the products, but to the life of which they\nwere the products. A knowledge of the past and its heritage is of great\nsignificance when it enters into the present, but not otherwise. And the\nmistake of making the records and remains of the past the main material\nof education is that it cuts the vital connection of present and past,\nand tends to make the past a rival of the present and the present a more\nor less futile imitation of the past. Under such circumstances, culture\nbecomes an ornament and solace; a refuge and an asylum. Men escape\nfrom the crudities of the present to live in its imagined refinements,\ninstead of using what the past offers as an agency for ripening these\ncrudities. The present, in short, generates the problems which lead us\nto search the past for suggestion, and which supplies meaning to what we\nfind when we search. The past is the past precisely because it does\nnot include what is characteristic in the present. The moving present\nincludes the past on condition that it uses the past to direct its own\nmovement. The past is a great resource for the imagination; it adds a\nnew dimension to life, but OD condition that it be seen as the past of\nthe present, and not as another and disconnected world. The principle\nwhich makes little of the present act of living and operation of\ngrowing, the only thing always present, naturally looks to the past\nbecause the future goal which it sets up is remote and empty. But having\nturned its back upon the present, it has no way of returning to it laden\nwith the spoils of the past. A mind that is adequately sensitive to the\nneeds and occasions of the present actuality will have the liveliest of\nmotives for interest in the background of the present, and will never\nhave to hunt for a way back because it will never have lost connection.\n\n3. Education as Reconstruction. In its contrast with the ideas both\nof unfolding of latent powers from within, and of the formation from\nwithout, whether by physical nature or by the cultural products of the\npast, the ideal of growth results in the conception that education is\na constant reorganizing or reconstructing of experience. It has all the\ntime an immediate end, and so far as activity is educative, it reaches\nthat end--the direct transformation of the quality of experience.\nInfancy, youth, adult life,--all stand on the same educative level\nin the sense that what is really learned at any and every stage of\nexperience constitutes the value of that experience, and in the sense\nthat it is the chief business of life at every point to make living thus\ncontribute to an enrichment of its own perceptible meaning.\n\nWe thus reach a technical definition of education: It is that\nreconstruction or reorganization of experience which adds to the meaning\nof experience, and which increases ability to direct the course of\nsubsequent experience. (1) The increment of meaning corresponds to\nthe increased perception of the connections and continuities of the\nactivities in which we are engaged. The activity begins in an impulsive\nform; that is, it is blind. It does not know what it is about; that is\nto say, what are its interactions with other activities. An activity\nwhich brings education or instruction with it makes one aware of some\nof the connections which had been imperceptible. To recur to our simple\nexample, a child who reaches for a bright light gets burned. Henceforth\nhe knows that a certain act of touching in connection with a certain\nact of vision (and vice-versa) means heat and pain; or, a certain\nlight means a source of heat. The acts by which a scientific man in his\nlaboratory learns more about flame differ no whit in principle. By doing\ncertain things, he makes perceptible certain connections of heat with\nother things, which had been previously ignored. Thus his acts in\nrelation to these things get more meaning; he knows better what he\nis doing or \"is about\" when he has to do with them; he can intend\nconsequences instead of just letting them happen--all synonymous ways\nof saying the same thing. At the same stroke, the flame has gained in\nmeaning; all that is known about combustion, oxidation, about light and\ntemperature, may become an intrinsic part of its intellectual content.\n\n(2) The other side of an educative experience is an added power of\nsubsequent direction or control. To say that one knows what he is about,\nor can intend certain consequences, is to say, of course, that he can\nbetter anticipate what is going to happen; that he can, therefore, get\nready or prepare in advance so as to secure beneficial consequences and\navert undesirable ones. A genuinely educative experience, then, one\nin which instruction is conveyed and ability increased, is\ncontradistinguished from a routine activity on one hand, and a\ncapricious activity on the other. (a) In the latter one \"does not\ncare what happens\"; one just lets himself go and avoids connecting the\nconsequences of one's act (the evidences of its connections with other\nthings) with the act. It is customary to frown upon such aimless\nrandom activity, treating it as willful mischief or carelessness or\nlawlessness. But there is a tendency to seek the cause of such aimless\nactivities in the youth's own disposition, isolated from everything\nelse. But in fact such activity is explosive, and due to maladjustment\nwith surroundings. Individuals act capriciously whenever they act under\nexternal dictation, or from being told, without having a purpose of\ntheir own or perceiving the bearing of the deed upon other acts. One may\nlearn by doing something which he does not understand; even in the most\nintelligent action, we do much which we do not mean, because the largest\nportion of the connections of the act we consciously intend are not\nperceived or anticipated. But we learn only because after the act is\nperformed we note results which we had not noted before. But much work\nin school consists in setting up rules by which pupils are to act of\nsuch a sort that even after pupils have acted, they are not led to\nsee the connection between the result--say the answer--and the method\npursued. So far as they are concerned, the whole thing is a trick and\na kind of miracle. Such action is essentially capricious, and leads to\ncapricious habits. (b) Routine action, action which is automatic, may\nincrease skill to do a particular thing. In so far, it might be said\nto have an educative effect. But it does not lead to new perceptions\nof bearings and connections; it limits rather than widens the\nmeaning-horizon. And since the environment changes and our way of acting\nhas to be modified in order successfully to keep a balanced connection\nwith things, an isolated uniform way of acting becomes disastrous at\nsome critical moment. The vaunted \"skill\" turns out gross ineptitude.\n\nThe essential contrast of the idea of education as continuous\nreconstruction with the other one-sided conceptions which have been\ncriticized in this and the previous chapter is that it identifies the\nend (the result) and the process. This is verbally self-contradictory,\nbut only verbally. It means that experience as an active process\noccupies time and that its later period completes its earlier portion;\nit brings to light connections involved, but hitherto unperceived.\nThe later outcome thus reveals the meaning of the earlier, while the\nexperience as a whole establishes a bent or disposition toward the\nthings possessing this meaning. Every such continuous experience\nor activity is educative, and all education resides in having such\nexperiences.\n\nIt remains only to point out (what will receive more ample attention\nlater) that the reconstruction of experience may be social as well as\npersonal. For purposes of simplification we have spoken in the earlier\nchapters somewhat as if the education of the immature which fills them\nwith the spirit of the social group to which they belong, were a sort of\ncatching up of the child with the aptitudes and resources of the adult\ngroup. In static societies, societies which make the maintenance of\nestablished custom their measure of value, this conception applies in\nthe main. But not in progressive communities. They endeavor to shape the\nexperiences of the young so that instead of reproducing current habits,\nbetter habits shall be formed, and thus the future adult society be\nan improvement on their own. Men have long had some intimation of the\nextent to which education may be consciously used to eliminate obvious\nsocial evils through starting the young on paths which shall not produce\nthese ills, and some idea of the extent in which education may be made\nan instrument of realizing the better hopes of men. But we are doubtless\nfar from realizing the potential efficacy of education as a constructive\nagency of improving society, from realizing that it represents not only\na development of children and youth but also of the future society of\nwhich they will be the constituents.\n\nSummary. Education may be conceived either retrospectively or\nprospectively. That is to say, it may be treated as process of\naccommodating the future to the past, or as an utilization of the past\nfor a resource in a developing future. The former finds its standards\nand patterns in what has gone before. The mind may be regarded as a\ngroup of contents resulting from having certain things presented. In\nthis case, the earlier presentations constitute the material to which\nthe later are to be assimilated. Emphasis upon the value of the early\nexperiences of immature beings is most important, especially because of\nthe tendency to regard them as of little account. But these experiences\ndo not consist of externally presented material, but of interaction of\nnative activities with the environment which progressively modifies both\nthe activities and the environment. The defect of the Herbartian theory\nof formation through presentations consists in slighting this constant\ninteraction and change. The same principle of criticism applies to\ntheories which find the primary subject matter of study in the cultural\nproducts--especially the literary products--of man's history. Isolated\nfrom their connection with the present environment in which individuals\nhave to act, they become a kind of rival and distracting environment.\nTheir value lies in their use to increase the meaning of the things with\nwhich we have actively to do at the present time. The idea of education\nadvanced in these chapters is formally summed up in the idea of\ncontinuous reconstruction of experience, an idea which is marked off\nfrom education as preparation for a remote future, as unfolding, as\nexternal formation, and as recapitulation of the past.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Seven: The Democratic Conception in Education\n\nFor the most part, save incidentally, we have hitherto been concerned\nwith education as it may exist in any social group. We have now to\nmake explicit the differences in the spirit, material, and method of\neducation as it operates in different types of community life. To say\nthat education is a social function, securing direction and development\nin the immature through their participation in the life of the group to\nwhich they belong, is to say in effect that education will vary with the\nquality of life which prevails in a group. Particularly is it true that\na society which not only changes but-which has the ideal of such\nchange as will improve it, will have different standards and methods\nof education from one which aims simply at the perpetuation of its\nown customs. To make the general ideas set forth applicable to our own\neducational practice, it is, therefore, necessary to come to closer\nquarters with the nature of present social life.\n\n1. The Implications of Human Association. Society is one word, but many\nthings. Men associate together in all kinds of ways and for all kinds\nof purposes. One man is concerned in a multitude of diverse groups, in\nwhich his associates may be quite different. It often seems as if they\nhad nothing in common except that they are modes of associated life.\nWithin every larger social organization there are numerous minor groups:\nnot only political subdivisions, but industrial, scientific, religious,\nassociations. There are political parties with differing aims, social\nsets, cliques, gangs, corporations, partnerships, groups bound closely\ntogether by ties of blood, and so on in endless variety. In many modern\nstates and in some ancient, there is great diversity of populations,\nof varying languages, religions, moral codes, and traditions. From this\nstandpoint, many a minor political unit, one of our large cities, for\nexample, is a congeries of loosely associated societies, rather than an\ninclusive and permeating community of action and thought. (See ante, p.\n20.)\n\nThe terms society, community, are thus ambiguous. They have both a\neulogistic or normative sense, and a descriptive sense; a meaning\nde jure and a meaning de facto. In social philosophy, the former\nconnotation is almost always uppermost. Society is conceived as one by\nits very nature. The qualities which accompany this unity, praiseworthy\ncommunity of purpose and welfare, loyalty to public ends, mutuality of\nsympathy, are emphasized. But when we look at the facts which the term\ndenotes instead of confining our attention to its intrinsic connotation,\nwe find not unity, but a plurality of societies, good and bad. Men\nbanded together in a criminal conspiracy, business aggregations that\nprey upon the public while serving it, political machines held together\nby the interest of plunder, are included. If it is said that such\norganizations are not societies because they do not meet the ideal\nrequirements of the notion of society, the answer, in part, is that the\nconception of society is then made so \"ideal\" as to be of no use, having\nno reference to facts; and in part, that each of these organizations,\nno matter how opposed to the interests of other groups, has something of\nthe praiseworthy qualities of \"Society\" which hold it together. There\nis honor among thieves, and a band of robbers has a common interest as\nrespects its members. Gangs are marked by fraternal feeling, and narrow\ncliques by intense loyalty to their own codes. Family life may be marked\nby exclusiveness, suspicion, and jealousy as to those without, and yet\nbe a model of amity and mutual aid within. Any education given by a\ngroup tends to socialize its members, but the quality and value of the\nsocialization depends upon the habits and aims of the group. Hence, once\nmore, the need of a measure for the worth of any given mode of social\nlife. In seeking this measure, we have to avoid two extremes. We cannot\nset up, out of our heads, something we regard as an ideal society. We\nmust base our conception upon societies which actually exist, in order\nto have any assurance that our ideal is a practicable one. But, as we\nhave just seen, the ideal cannot simply repeat the traits which are\nactually found. The problem is to extract the desirable traits of forms\nof community life which actually exist, and employ them to criticize\nundesirable features and suggest improvement. Now in any social group\nwhatever, even in a gang of thieves, we find some interest held in\ncommon, and we find a certain amount of interaction and cooperative\nintercourse with other groups. From these two traits we derive\nour standard. How numerous and varied are the interests which are\nconsciously shared? How full and free is the interplay with other forms\nof association? If we apply these considerations to, say, a criminal\nband, we find that the ties which consciously hold the members together\nare few in number, reducible almost to a common interest in plunder; and\nthat they are of such a nature as to isolate the group from other\ngroups with respect to give and take of the values of life. Hence, the\neducation such a society gives is partial and distorted. If we take, on\nthe other hand, the kind of family life which illustrates the standard,\nwe find that there are material, intellectual, aesthetic interests in\nwhich all participate and that the progress of one member has worth for\nthe experience of other members--it is readily communicable--and\nthat the family is not an isolated whole, but enters intimately into\nrelationships with business groups, with schools, with all the agencies\nof culture, as well as with other similar groups, and that it plays a\ndue part in the political organization and in return receives support\nfrom it. In short, there are many interests consciously communicated and\nshared; and there are varied and free points of contact with other modes\nof association.\n\nI. Let us apply the first element in this criterion to a despotically\ngoverned state. It is not true there is no common interest in such an\norganization between governed and governors. The authorities in command\nmust make some appeal to the native activities of the subjects, must\ncall some of their powers into play. Talleyrand said that a government\ncould do everything with bayonets except sit on them. This cynical\ndeclaration is at least a recognition that the bond of union is\nnot merely one of coercive force. It may be said, however, that the\nactivities appealed to are themselves unworthy and degrading--that such\na government calls into functioning activity simply capacity for fear.\nIn a way, this statement is true. But it overlooks the fact that\nfear need not be an undesirable factor in experience. Caution,\ncircumspection, prudence, desire to foresee future events so as to avert\nwhat is harmful, these desirable traits are as much a product of calling\nthe impulse of fear into play as is cowardice and abject submission. The\nreal difficulty is that the appeal to fear is isolated. In evoking dread\nand hope of specific tangible reward--say comfort and ease--many other\ncapacities are left untouched. Or rather, they are affected, but in such\na way as to pervert them. Instead of operating on their own account they\nare reduced to mere servants of attaining pleasure and avoiding pain.\n\nThis is equivalent to saying that there is no extensive number of common\ninterests; there is no free play back and forth among the members of\nthe social group. Stimulation and response are exceedingly one-sided. In\norder to have a large number of values in common, all the members of\nthe group must have an equable opportunity to receive and to take\nfrom others. There must be a large variety of shared undertakings and\nexperiences. Otherwise, the influences which educate some into masters,\neducate others into slaves. And the experience of each party loses in\nmeaning, when the free interchange of varying modes of life-experience\nis arrested. A separation into a privileged and a subject-class prevents\nsocial endosmosis. The evils thereby affecting the superior class are\nless material and less perceptible, but equally real. Their culture\ntends to be sterile, to be turned back to feed on itself; their art\nbecomes a showy display and artificial; their wealth luxurious; their\nknowledge overspecialized; their manners fastidious rather than humane.\n\nLack of the free and equitable intercourse which springs from a variety\nof shared interests makes intellectual stimulation unbalanced. Diversity\nof stimulation means novelty, and novelty means challenge to thought.\nThe more activity is restricted to a few definite lines--as it is\nwhen there are rigid class lines preventing adequate interplay of\nexperiences--the more action tends to become routine on the part of the\nclass at a disadvantage, and capricious, aimless, and explosive on\nthe part of the class having the materially fortunate position. Plato\ndefined a slave as one who accepts from another the purposes which\ncontrol his conduct. This condition obtains even where there is no\nslavery in the legal sense. It is found wherever men are engaged in\nactivity which is socially serviceable, but whose service they do\nnot understand and have no personal interest in. Much is said about\nscientific management of work. It is a narrow view which restricts\nthe science which secures efficiency of operation to movements of the\nmuscles. The chief opportunity for science is the discovery of the\nrelations of a man to his work--including his relations to others who\ntake part--which will enlist his intelligent interest in what he is\ndoing. Efficiency in production often demands division of labor. But\nit is reduced to a mechanical routine unless workers see the technical,\nintellectual, and social relationships involved in what they do,\nand engage in their work because of the motivation furnished by such\nperceptions. The tendency to reduce such things as efficiency of\nactivity and scientific management to purely technical externals is\nevidence of the one-sided stimulation of thought given to those in\ncontrol of industry--those who supply its aims. Because of their lack\nof all-round and well-balanced social interest, there is not sufficient\nstimulus for attention to the human factors and relationships in\nindustry. Intelligence is narrowed to the factors concerned with\ntechnical production and marketing of goods. No doubt, a very acute and\nintense intelligence in these narrow lines can be developed, but the\nfailure to take into account the significant social factors means none\nthe less an absence of mind, and a corresponding distortion of emotional\nlife. II. This illustration (whose point is to be extended to all\nassociations lacking reciprocity of interest) brings us to our second\npoint. The isolation and exclusiveness of a gang or clique brings its\nantisocial spirit into relief. But this same spirit is found wherever\none group has interests \"of its own\" which shut it out from full\ninteraction with other groups, so that its prevailing purpose is the\nprotection of what it has got, instead of reorganization and progress\nthrough wider relationships. It marks nations in their isolation from\none another; families which seclude their domestic concerns as if they\nhad no connection with a larger life; schools when separated from the\ninterest of home and community; the divisions of rich and poor; learned\nand unlearned. The essential point is that isolation makes for rigidity\nand formal institutionalizing of life, for static and selfish ideals\nwithin the group. That savage tribes regard aliens and enemies as\nsynonymous is not accidental. It springs from the fact that they have\nidentified their experience with rigid adherence to their past customs.\nOn such a basis it is wholly logical to fear intercourse with others,\nfor such contact might dissolve custom. It would certainly occasion\nreconstruction. It is a commonplace that an alert and expanding mental\nlife depends upon an enlarging range of contact with the physical\nenvironment. But the principle applies even more significantly to the\nfield where we are apt to ignore it--the sphere of social contacts.\nEvery expansive era in the history of mankind has coincided with the\noperation of factors which have tended to eliminate distance between\npeoples and classes previously hemmed off from one another. Even the\nalleged benefits of war, so far as more than alleged, spring from the\nfact that conflict of peoples at least enforces intercourse between\nthem and thus accidentally enables them to learn from one another,\nand thereby to expand their horizons. Travel, economic and commercial\ntendencies, have at present gone far to break down external barriers;\nto bring peoples and classes into closer and more perceptible\nconnection with one another. It remains for the most part to secure the\nintellectual and emotional significance of this physical annihilation of\nspace.\n\n2. The Democratic Ideal. The two elements in our criterion both point\nto democracy. The first signifies not only more numerous and more\nvaried points of shared common interest, but greater reliance upon\nthe recognition of mutual interests as a factor in social control. The\nsecond means not only freer interaction between social groups (once\nisolated so far as intention could keep up a separation) but change\nin social habit--its continuous readjustment through meeting the new\nsituations produced by varied intercourse. And these two traits are\nprecisely what characterize the democratically constituted society.\n\nUpon the educational side, we note first that the realization of a form\nof social life in which interests are mutually interpenetrating, and\nwhere progress, or readjustment, is an important consideration, makes a\ndemocratic community more interested than other communities have cause\nto be in deliberate and systematic education. The devotion of democracy\nto education is a familiar fact. The superficial explanation is that\na government resting upon popular suffrage cannot be successful unless\nthose who elect and who obey their governors are educated. Since a\ndemocratic society repudiates the principle of external authority, it\nmust find a substitute in voluntary disposition and interest; these\ncan be created only by education. But there is a deeper explanation. A\ndemocracy is more than a form of government; it is primarily a mode of\nassociated living, of conjoint communicated experience. The extension\nin space of the number of individuals who participate in an interest so\nthat each has to refer his own action to that of others, and to\nconsider the action of others to give point and direction to his own,\nis equivalent to the breaking down of those barriers of class, race,\nand national territory which kept men from perceiving the full import\nof their activity. These more numerous and more varied points of contact\ndenote a greater diversity of stimuli to which an individual has to\nrespond; they consequently put a premium on variation in his action.\nThey secure a liberation of powers which remain suppressed as long as\nthe incitations to action are partial, as they must be in a group which\nin its exclusiveness shuts out many interests.\n\nThe widening of the area of shared concerns, and the liberation of a\ngreater diversity of personal capacities which characterize a democracy,\nare not of course the product of deliberation and conscious effort.\nOn the contrary, they were caused by the development of modes of\nmanufacture and commerce, travel, migration, and intercommunication\nwhich flowed from the command of science over natural energy. But\nafter greater individualization on one hand, and a broader community\nof interest on the other have come into existence, it is a matter of\ndeliberate effort to sustain and extend them. Obviously a society to\nwhich stratification into separate classes would be fatal, must see to\nit that intellectual opportunities are accessible to all on equable\nand easy terms. A society marked off into classes need he specially\nattentive only to the education of its ruling elements. A society which\nis mobile, which is full of channels for the distribution of a change\noccurring anywhere, must see to it that its members are educated\nto personal initiative and adaptability. Otherwise, they will\nbe overwhelmed by the changes in which they are caught and whose\nsignificance or connections they do not perceive. The result will be a\nconfusion in which a few will appropriate to themselves the results of\nthe blind and externally directed activities of others.\n\n3. The Platonic Educational Philosophy. Subsequent chapters will be\ndevoted to making explicit the implications of the democratic ideas in\neducation. In the remaining portions of this chapter, we shall consider\nthe educational theories which have been evolved in three epochs when\nthe social import of education was especially conspicuous. The first one\nto be considered is that of Plato. No one could better express than did\nhe the fact that a society is stably organized when each individual is\ndoing that for which he has aptitude by nature in such a way as to be\nuseful to others (or to contribute to the whole to which he belongs);\nand that it is the business of education to discover these aptitudes and\nprogressively to train them for social use. Much which has been said so\nfar is borrowed from what Plato first consciously taught the world. But\nconditions which he could not intellectually control led him to restrict\nthese ideas in their application. He never got any conception of the\nindefinite plurality of activities which may characterize an individual\nand a social group, and consequently limited his view to a limited\nnumber of classes of capacities and of social arrangements. Plato's\nstarting point is that the organization of society depends ultimately\nupon knowledge of the end of existence. If we do not know its end, we\nshall be at the mercy of accident and caprice. Unless we know the end,\nthe good, we shall have no criterion for rationally deciding what the\npossibilities are which should be promoted, nor how social arrangements\nare to be ordered. We shall have no conception of the proper limits and\ndistribution of activities--what he called justice--as a trait of both\nindividual and social organization. But how is the knowledge of the\nfinal and permanent good to be achieved? In dealing with this question\nwe come upon the seemingly insuperable obstacle that such knowledge is\nnot possible save in a just and harmonious social order. Everywhere\nelse the mind is distracted and misled by false valuations and false\nperspectives. A disorganized and factional society sets up a number of\ndifferent models and standards. Under such conditions it is impossible\nfor the individual to attain consistency of mind. Only a complete whole\nis fully self-consistent. A society which rests upon the supremacy of\nsome factor over another irrespective of its rational or proportionate\nclaims, inevitably leads thought astray. It puts a premium on certain\nthings and slurs over others, and creates a mind whose seeming unity is\nforced and distorted. Education proceeds ultimately from the patterns\nfurnished by institutions, customs, and laws. Only in a just state will\nthese be such as to give the right education; and only those who have\nrightly trained minds will be able to recognize the end, and ordering\nprinciple of things. We seem to be caught in a hopeless circle.\nHowever, Plato suggested a way out. A few men, philosophers or lovers\nof wisdom--or truth--may by study learn at least in outline the proper\npatterns of true existence. If a powerful ruler should form a state\nafter these patterns, then its regulations could be preserved. An\neducation could be given which would sift individuals, discovering what\nthey were good for, and supplying a method of assigning each to the\nwork in life for which his nature fits him. Each doing his own part,\nand never transgressing, the order and unity of the whole would be\nmaintained.\n\nIt would be impossible to find in any scheme of philosophic thought a\nmore adequate recognition on one hand of the educational significance\nof social arrangements and, on the other, of the dependence of those\narrangements upon the means used to educate the young. It would be\nimpossible to find a deeper sense of the function of education in\ndiscovering and developing personal capacities, and training them so\nthat they would connect with the activities of others. Yet the society\nin which the theory was propounded was so undemocratic that Plato could\nnot work out a solution for the problem whose terms he clearly saw.\n\nWhile he affirmed with emphasis that the place of the individual in\nsociety should not be determined by birth or wealth or any conventional\nstatus, but by his own nature as discovered in the process of education,\nhe had no perception of the uniqueness of individuals. For him they fall\nby nature into classes, and into a very small number of classes at that.\nConsequently the testing and sifting function of education only shows\nto which one of three classes an individual belongs. There being no\nrecognition that each individual constitutes his own class, there could\nbe no recognition of the infinite diversity of active tendencies and\ncombinations of tendencies of which an individual is capable. There\nwere only three types of faculties or powers in the individual's\nconstitution. Hence education would soon reach a static limit in each\nclass, for only diversity makes change and progress.\n\nIn some individuals, appetites naturally dominate; they are assigned\nto the laboring and trading class, which expresses and supplies human\nwants. Others reveal, upon education, that over and above appetites,\nthey have a generous, outgoing, assertively courageous disposition.\nThey become the citizen-subjects of the state; its defenders in war; its\ninternal guardians in peace. But their limit is fixed by their lack of\nreason, which is a capacity to grasp the universal. Those who possess\nthis are capable of the highest kind of education, and become in time\nthe legislators of the state--for laws are the universals which control\nthe particulars of experience. Thus it is not true that in intent, Plato\nsubordinated the individual to the social whole. But it is true that\nlacking the perception of the uniqueness of every individual, his\nincommensurability with others, and consequently not recognizing that a\nsociety might change and yet be stable, his doctrine of limited powers\nand classes came in net effect to the idea of the subordination of\nindividuality. We cannot better Plato's conviction that an individual is\nhappy and society well organized when each individual engages in those\nactivities for which he has a natural equipment, nor his conviction that\nit is the primary office of education to discover this equipment to its\npossessor and train him for its effective use. But progress in\nknowledge has made us aware of the superficiality of Plato's lumping\nof individuals and their original powers into a few sharply marked-off\nclasses; it has taught us that original capacities are indefinitely\nnumerous and variable. It is but the other side of this fact to say\nthat in the degree in which society has become democratic, social\norganization means utilization of the specific and variable qualities\nof individuals, not stratification by classes. Although his educational\nphilosophy was revolutionary, it was none the less in bondage to static\nideals. He thought that change or alteration was evidence of lawless\nflux; that true reality was unchangeable. Hence while he would radically\nchange the existing state of society, his aim was to construct a state\nin which change would subsequently have no place. The final end of life\nis fixed; given a state framed with this end in view, not even\nminor details are to be altered. Though they might not be inherently\nimportant, yet if permitted they would inure the minds of men to the\nidea of change, and hence be dissolving and anarchic. The breakdown of\nhis philosophy is made apparent in the fact that he could not trust to\ngradual improvements in education to bring about a better society which\nshould then improve education, and so on indefinitely. Correct education\ncould not come into existence until an ideal state existed, and after\nthat education would be devoted simply to its conservation. For the\nexistence of this state he was obliged to trust to some happy accident\nby which philosophic wisdom should happen to coincide with possession of\nruling power in the state.\n\n4. The \"Individualistic\" Ideal of the Eighteenth Century. In the\neighteenth-century philosophy we find ourselves in a very different\ncircle of ideas. \"Nature\" still means something antithetical to existing\nsocial organization; Plato exercised a great influence upon Rousseau.\nBut the voice of nature now speaks for the diversity of individual\ntalent and for the need of free development of individuality in all\nits variety. Education in accord with nature furnishes the goal and the\nmethod of instruction and discipline. Moreover, the native or original\nendowment was conceived, in extreme cases, as nonsocial or even as\nantisocial. Social arrangements were thought of as mere external\nexpedients by which these nonsocial individuals might secure a greater\namount of private happiness for themselves. Nevertheless, these\nstatements convey only an inadequate idea of the true significance\nof the movement. In reality its chief interest was in progress and\nin social progress. The seeming antisocial philosophy was a somewhat\ntransparent mask for an impetus toward a wider and freer society--toward\ncosmopolitanism. The positive ideal was humanity. In membership in\nhumanity, as distinct from a state, man's capacities would be liberated;\nwhile in existing political organizations his powers were hampered and\ndistorted to meet the requirements and selfish interests of the\nrulers of the state. The doctrine of extreme individualism was but the\ncounterpart, the obverse, of ideals of the indefinite perfectibility of\nman and of a social organization having a scope as wide as humanity.\nThe emancipated individual was to become the organ and agent of a\ncomprehensive and progressive society.\n\nThe heralds of this gospel were acutely conscious of the evils of the\nsocial estate in which they found themselves. They attributed these\nevils to the limitations imposed upon the free powers of man. Such\nlimitation was both distorting and corrupting. Their impassioned\ndevotion to emancipation of life from external restrictions which\noperated to the exclusive advantage of the class to whom a past feudal\nsystem consigned power, found intellectual formulation in a worship\nof nature. To give \"nature\" full swing was to replace an artificial,\ncorrupt, and inequitable social order by a new and better kingdom of\nhumanity. Unrestrained faith in Nature as both a model and a working\npower was strengthened by the advances of natural science. Inquiry\nfreed from prejudice and artificial restraints of church and state had\nrevealed that the world is a scene of law. The Newtonian solar system,\nwhich expressed the reign of natural law, was a scene of wonderful\nharmony, where every force balanced with every other. Natural law would\naccomplish the same result in human relations, if men would only get rid\nof the artificial man-imposed coercive restrictions.\n\nEducation in accord with nature was thought to be the first step in\ninsuring this more social society. It was plainly seen that economic\nand political limitations were ultimately dependent upon limitations of\nthought and feeling. The first step in freeing men from external chains\nwas to emancipate them from the internal chains of false beliefs and\nideals. What was called social life, existing institutions, were too\nfalse and corrupt to be intrusted with this work. How could it\nbe expected to undertake it when the undertaking meant its own\ndestruction? \"Nature\" must then be the power to which the enterprise was\nto be left. Even the extreme sensationalistic theory of knowledge which\nwas current derived itself from this conception. To insist that mind is\noriginally passive and empty was one way of glorifying the possibilities\nof education. If the mind was a wax tablet to be written upon by\nobjects, there were no limits to the possibility of education by means\nof the natural environment. And since the natural world of objects is\na scene of harmonious \"truth,\" this education would infallibly produce\nminds filled with the truth.\n\n5. Education as National and as Social. As soon as the first enthusiasm\nfor freedom waned, the weakness of the theory upon the constructive side\nbecame obvious. Merely to leave everything to nature was, after all, but\nto negate the very idea of education; it was to trust to the accidents\nof circumstance. Not only was some method required but also some\npositive organ, some administrative agency for carrying on the process\nof instruction. The \"complete and harmonious development of all\npowers,\" having as its social counterpart an enlightened and progressive\nhumanity, required definite organization for its realization. Private\nindividuals here and there could proclaim the gospel; they could\nnot execute the work. A Pestalozzi could try experiments and exhort\nphilanthropically inclined persons having wealth and power to follow his\nexample. But even Pestalozzi saw that any effective pursuit of the new\neducational ideal required the support of the state. The realization\nof the new education destined to produce a new society was, after all,\ndependent upon the activities of existing states. The movement for the\ndemocratic idea inevitably became a movement for publicly conducted and\nadministered schools.\n\nSo far as Europe was concerned, the historic situation identified the\nmovement for a state-supported education with the nationalistic movement\nin political life--a fact of incalculable significance for subsequent\nmovements. Under the influence of German thought in particular,\neducation became a civic function and the civic function was identified\nwith the realization of the ideal of the national state. The \"state\" was\nsubstituted for humanity; cosmopolitanism gave way to nationalism. To\nform the citizen, not the \"man,\" became the aim of education. 1 The\nhistoric situation to which reference is made is the after-effects of\nthe Napoleonic conquests, especially in Germany. The German states felt\n(and subsequent events demonstrate the correctness of the belief) that\nsystematic attention to education was the best means of recovering and\nmaintaining their political integrity and power. Externally they were\nweak and divided. Under the leadership of Prussian statesmen they\nmade this condition a stimulus to the development of an extensive and\nthoroughly grounded system of public education.\n\nThis change in practice necessarily brought about a change in theory.\nThe individualistic theory receded into the background. The state\nfurnished not only the instrumentalities of public education but also\nits goal. When the actual practice was such that the school system, from\nthe elementary grades through the university faculties, supplied\nthe patriotic citizen and soldier and the future state official and\nadministrator and furnished the means for military, industrial, and\npolitical defense and expansion, it was impossible for theory not to\nemphasize the aim of social efficiency. And with the immense importance\nattached to the nationalistic state, surrounded by other competing and\nmore or less hostile states, it was equally impossible to interpret\nsocial efficiency in terms of a vague cosmopolitan humanitarianism.\nSince the maintenance of a particular national sovereignty required\nsubordination of individuals to the superior interests of the state\nboth in military defense and in struggles for international supremacy\nin commerce, social efficiency was understood to imply a like\nsubordination. The educational process was taken to be one of\ndisciplinary training rather than of personal development. Since,\nhowever, the ideal of culture as complete development of personality\npersisted, educational philosophy attempted a reconciliation of the\ntwo ideas. The reconciliation took the form of the conception of the\n\"organic\" character of the state. The individual in his isolation is\nnothing; only in and through an absorption of the aims and meaning of\norganized institutions does he attain true personality. What appears to\nbe his subordination to political authority and the demand for sacrifice\nof himself to the commands of his superiors is in reality but making his\nown the objective reason manifested in the state--the only way in which\nhe can become truly rational. The notion of development which we have\nseen to be characteristic of institutional idealism (as in the Hegelian\nphilosophy) was just such a deliberate effort to combine the two ideas\nof complete realization of personality and thoroughgoing \"disciplinary\"\nsubordination to existing institutions. The extent of the transformation\nof educational philosophy which occurred in Germany in the generation\noccupied by the struggle against Napoleon for national independence,\nmay be gathered from Kant, who well expresses the earlier\nindividual-cosmopolitan ideal. In his treatise on Pedagogics, consisting\nof lectures given in the later years of the eighteenth century, he\ndefines education as the process by which man becomes man. Mankind\nbegins its history submerged in nature--not as Man who is a creature of\nreason, while nature furnishes only instinct and appetite. Nature\noffers simply the germs which education is to develop and perfect. The\npeculiarity of truly human life is that man has to create himself by his\nown voluntary efforts; he has to make himself a truly moral, rational,\nand free being. This creative effort is carried on by the educational\nactivities of slow generations. Its acceleration depends upon men\nconsciously striving to educate their successors not for the existing\nstate of affairs but so as to make possible a future better humanity.\nBut there is the great difficulty. Each generation is inclined to\neducate its young so as to get along in the present world instead of\nwith a view to the proper end of education: the promotion of the best\npossible realization of humanity as humanity. Parents educate their\nchildren so that they may get on; princes educate their subjects as\ninstruments of their own purposes.\n\nWho, then, shall conduct education so that humanity may improve? We must\ndepend upon the efforts of enlightened men in their private capacity.\n\"All culture begins with private men and spreads outward from them.\nSimply through the efforts of persons of enlarged inclinations, who\nare capable of grasping the ideal of a future better condition, is the\ngradual approximation of human nature to its end possible. Rulers are\nsimply interested in such training as will make their subjects better\ntools for their own intentions.\" Even the subsidy by rulers of privately\nconducted schools must be carefully safeguarded. For the rulers'\ninterest in the welfare of their own nation instead of in what is best\nfor humanity, will make them, if they give money for the schools, wish\nto draw their plans. We have in this view an express statement of\nthe points characteristic of the eighteenth century individualistic\ncosmopolitanism. The full development of private personality is\nidentified with the aims of humanity as a whole and with the idea\nof progress. In addition we have an explicit fear of the hampering\ninfluence of a state-conducted and state-regulated education upon the\nattainment of these ideas. But in less than two decades after this time,\nKant's philosophic successors, Fichte and Hegel, elaborated the idea\nthat the chief function of the state is educational; that in particular\nthe regeneration of Germany is to be accomplished by an education\ncarried on in the interests of the state, and that the private\nindividual is of necessity an egoistic, irrational being, enslaved to\nhis appetites and to circumstances unless he submits voluntarily to the\neducative discipline of state institutions and laws. In this spirit,\nGermany was the first country to undertake a public, universal, and\ncompulsory system of education extending from the primary school\nthrough the university, and to submit to jealous state regulation and\nsupervision all private educational enterprises. Two results should\nstand out from this brief historical survey. The first is that such\nterms as the individual and the social conceptions of education are\nquite meaningless taken at large, or apart from their context. Plato had\nthe ideal of an education which should equate individual realization and\nsocial coherency and stability. His situation forced his ideal into\nthe notion of a society organized in stratified classes, losing the\nindividual in the class. The eighteenth century educational philosophy\nwas highly individualistic in form, but this form was inspired by a\nnoble and generous social ideal: that of a society organized to include\nhumanity, and providing for the indefinite perfectibility of mankind.\nThe idealistic philosophy of Germany in the early nineteenth century\nendeavored again to equate the ideals of a free and complete\ndevelopment of cultured personality with social discipline and political\nsubordination. It made the national state an intermediary between the\nrealization of private personality on one side and of humanity on the\nother. Consequently, it is equally possible to state its animating\nprinciple with equal truth either in the classic terms of \"harmonious\ndevelopment of all the powers of personality\" or in the more recent\nterminology of \"social efficiency.\" All this reinforces the statement\nwhich opens this chapter: The conception of education as a social\nprocess and function has no definite meaning until we define the kind\nof society we have in mind. These considerations pave the way for our\nsecond conclusion. One of the fundamental problems of education in and\nfor a democratic society is set by the conflict of a nationalistic and a\nwider social aim. The earlier cosmopolitan and \"humanitarian\" conception\nsuffered both from vagueness and from lack of definite organs of\nexecution and agencies of administration. In Europe, in the Continental\nstates particularly, the new idea of the importance of education for\nhuman welfare and progress was captured by national interests and\nharnessed to do a work whose social aim was definitely narrow and\nexclusive. The social aim of education and its national aim were\nidentified, and the result was a marked obscuring of the meaning of a\nsocial aim.\n\nThis confusion corresponds to the existing situation of human\nintercourse. On the one hand, science, commerce, and art transcend\nnational boundaries. They are largely international in quality and\nmethod. They involve interdependencies and cooperation among the peoples\ninhabiting different countries. At the same time, the idea of national\nsovereignty has never been as accentuated in politics as it is at the\npresent time. Each nation lives in a state of suppressed hostility and\nincipient war with its neighbors. Each is supposed to be the supreme\njudge of its own interests, and it is assumed as matter of course that\neach has interests which are exclusively its own. To question this is\nto question the very idea of national sovereignty which is assumed to\nbe basic to political practice and political science. This contradiction\n(for it is nothing less) between the wider sphere of associated and\nmutually helpful social life and the narrower sphere of exclusive and\nhence potentially hostile pursuits and purposes, exacts of educational\ntheory a clearer conception of the meaning of \"social\" as a function\nand test of education than has yet been attained. Is it possible for an\neducational system to be conducted by a national state and yet the full\nsocial ends of the educative process not be restricted, constrained, and\ncorrupted? Internally, the question has to face the tendencies, due to\npresent economic conditions, which split society into classes some\nof which are made merely tools for the higher culture of others.\nExternally, the question is concerned with the reconciliation of\nnational loyalty, of patriotism, with superior devotion to the things\nwhich unite men in common ends, irrespective of national political\nboundaries. Neither phase of the problem can be worked out by merely\nnegative means. It is not enough to see to it that education is not\nactively used as an instrument to make easier the exploitation of one\nclass by another. School facilities must be secured of such amplitude\nand efficiency as will in fact and not simply in name discount the\neffects of economic inequalities, and secure to all the wards of the\nnation equality of equipment for their future careers. Accomplishment\nof this end demands not only adequate administrative provision of school\nfacilities, and such supplementation of family resources as will\nenable youth to take advantage of them, but also such modification\nof traditional ideals of culture, traditional subjects of study and\ntraditional methods of teaching and discipline as will retain all the\nyouth under educational influences until they are equipped to be masters\nof their own economic and social careers. The ideal may seem remote\nof execution, but the democratic ideal of education is a farcical yet\ntragic delusion except as the ideal more and more dominates our public\nsystem of education. The same principle has application on the side of\nthe considerations which concern the relations of one nation to another.\nIt is not enough to teach the horrors of war and to avoid everything\nwhich would stimulate international jealousy and animosity. The emphasis\nmust be put upon whatever binds people together in cooperative human\npursuits and results, apart from geographical limitations. The secondary\nand provisional character of national sovereignty in respect to the\nfuller, freer, and more fruitful association and intercourse of all\nhuman beings with one another must be instilled as a working disposition\nof mind. If these applications seem to be remote from a consideration\nof the philosophy of education, the impression shows that the meaning\nof the idea of education previously developed has not been adequately\ngrasped. This conclusion is bound up with the very idea of education\nas a freeing of individual capacity in a progressive growth directed to\nsocial aims. Otherwise a democratic criterion of education can only be\ninconsistently applied.\n\nSummary. Since education is a social process, and there are many kinds\nof societies, a criterion for educational criticism and construction\nimplies a particular social ideal. The two points selected by which to\nmeasure the worth of a form of social life are the extent in which the\ninterests of a group are shared by all its members, and the fullness\nand freedom with which it interacts with other groups. An undesirable\nsociety, in other words, is one which internally and externally sets up\nbarriers to free intercourse and communication of experience. A society\nwhich makes provision for participation in its good of all its\nmembers on equal terms and which secures flexible readjustment of its\ninstitutions through interaction of the different forms of associated\nlife is in so far democratic. Such a society must have a type of\neducation which gives individuals a personal interest in social\nrelationships and control, and the habits of mind which secure\nsocial changes without introducing disorder. Three typical historic\nphilosophies of education were considered from this point of view.\nThe Platonic was found to have an ideal formally quite similar to that\nstated, but which was compromised in its working out by making a class\nrather than an individual the social unit. The so-called individualism\nof the eighteenth-century enlightenment was found to involve the notion\nof a society as broad as humanity, of whose progress the individual was\nto be the organ. But it lacked any agency for securing the development\nof its ideal as was evidenced in its falling back upon Nature. The\ninstitutional idealistic philosophies of the nineteenth century supplied\nthis lack by making the national state the agency, but in so doing\nnarrowed the conception of the social aim to those who were members of\nthe same political unit, and reintroduced the idea of the subordination\nof the individual to the institution. 1 There is a much neglected strain\nin Rousseau tending intellectually in this direction. He opposed the\nexisting state of affairs on the ground that it formed neither the\ncitizen nor the man. Under existing conditions, he preferred to try for\nthe latter rather than for the former. But there are many sayings of his\nwhich point to the formation of the citizen as ideally the higher, and\nwhich indicate that his own endeavor, as embodied in the Emile, was\nsimply the best makeshift the corruption of the times permitted him to\nsketch.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Eight: Aims in Education\n\n1. The Nature of an Aim.\n\nThe account of education given in our earlier chapters virtually\nanticipated the results reached in a discussion of the purport of\neducation in a democratic community. For it assumed that the aim of\neducation is to enable individuals to continue their education--or that\nthe object and reward of learning is continued capacity for growth. Now\nthis idea cannot be applied to all the members of a society except\nwhere intercourse of man with man is mutual, and except where there\nis adequate provision for the reconstruction of social habits and\ninstitutions by means of wide stimulation arising from equitably\ndistributed interests. And this means a democratic society. In our\nsearch for aims in education, we are not concerned, therefore, with\nfinding an end outside of the educative process to which education is\nsubordinate. Our whole conception forbids. We are rather concerned with\nthe contrast which exists when aims belong within the process in which\nthey operate and when they are set up from without. And the latter\nstate of affairs must obtain when social relationships are not equitably\nbalanced. For in that case, some portions of the whole social group will\nfind their aims determined by an external dictation; their aims will not\narise from the free growth of their own experience, and their nominal\naims will be means to more ulterior ends of others rather than truly\ntheir own.\n\nOur first question is to define the nature of an aim so far as it falls\nwithin an activity, instead of being furnished from without. We approach\nthe definition by a contrast of mere results with ends. Any exhibition\nof energy has results. The wind blows about the sands of the desert; the\nposition of the grains is changed. Here is a result, an effect, but not\nan end. For there is nothing in the outcome which completes or fulfills\nwhat went before it. There is mere spatial redistribution. One state\nof affairs is just as good as any other. Consequently there is no basis\nupon which to select an earlier state of affairs as a beginning, a\nlater as an end, and to consider what intervenes as a process of\ntransformation and realization.\n\nConsider for example the activities of bees in contrast with the changes\nin the sands when the wind blows them about. The results of the bees'\nactions may be called ends not because they are designed or consciously\nintended, but because they are true terminations or completions of what\nhas preceded. When the bees gather pollen and make wax and build cells,\neach step prepares the way for the next. When cells are built, the queen\nlays eggs in them; when eggs are laid, they are sealed and bees brood\nthem and keep them at a temperature required to hatch them. When they\nare hatched, bees feed the young till they can take care of themselves.\nNow we are so familiar with such facts, that we are apt to dismiss them\non the ground that life and instinct are a kind of miraculous thing\nanyway. Thus we fail to note what the essential characteristic of the\nevent is; namely, the significance of the temporal place and order of\neach element; the way each prior event leads into its successor while\nthe successor takes up what is furnished and utilizes it for some other\nstage, until we arrive at the end, which, as it were, summarizes and\nfinishes off the process. Since aims relate always to results, the first\nthing to look to when it is a question of aims, is whether the work\nassigned possesses intrinsic continuity. Or is it a mere serial\naggregate of acts, first doing one thing and then another? To talk about\nan educational aim when approximately each act of a pupil is dictated\nby the teacher, when the only order in the sequence of his acts is that\nwhich comes from the assignment of lessons and the giving of directions\nby another, is to talk nonsense. It is equally fatal to an aim to\npermit capricious or discontinuous action in the name of spontaneous\nself-expression. An aim implies an orderly and ordered activity, one\nin which the order consists in the progressive completing of a process.\nGiven an activity having a time span and cumulative growth within\nthe time succession, an aim means foresight in advance of the end or\npossible termination. If bees anticipated the consequences of their\nactivity, if they perceived their end in imaginative foresight, they\nwould have the primary element in an aim. Hence it is nonsense to talk\nabout the aim of education--or any other undertaking--where conditions\ndo not permit of foresight of results, and do not stimulate a person to\nlook ahead to see what the outcome of a given activity is to be. In the\nnext place the aim as a foreseen end gives direction to the activity; it\nis not an idle view of a mere spectator, but influences the steps taken\nto reach the end. The foresight functions in three ways. In the first\nplace, it involves careful observation of the given conditions to see\nwhat are the means available for reaching the end, and to discover the\nhindrances in the way. In the second place, it suggests the proper order\nor sequence in the use of means. It facilitates an economical selection\nand arrangement. In the third place, it makes choice of alternatives\npossible. If we can predict the outcome of acting this way or that, we\ncan then compare the value of the two courses of action; we can pass\njudgment upon their relative desirability. If we know that stagnant\nwater breeds mosquitoes and that they are likely to carry disease, we\ncan, disliking that anticipated result, take steps to avert it. Since we\ndo not anticipate results as mere intellectual onlookers, but as persons\nconcerned in the outcome, we are partakers in the process which produces\nthe result. We intervene to bring about this result or that.\n\nOf course these three points are closely connected with one another.\nWe can definitely foresee results only as we make careful scrutiny\nof present conditions, and the importance of the outcome supplies the\nmotive for observations. The more adequate our observations, the more\nvaried is the scene of conditions and obstructions that presents itself,\nand the more numerous are the alternatives between which choice may be\nmade. In turn, the more numerous the recognized possibilities of the\nsituation, or alternatives of action, the more meaning does the chosen\nactivity possess, and the more flexibly controllable is it. Where only\na single outcome has been thought of, the mind has nothing else to think\nof; the meaning attaching to the act is limited. One only steams ahead\ntoward the mark. Sometimes such a narrow course may be effective. But if\nunexpected difficulties offer themselves, one has not as many resources\nat command as if he had chosen the same line of action after a broader\nsurvey of the possibilities of the field. He cannot make needed\nreadjustments readily.\n\nThe net conclusion is that acting with an aim is all one with acting\nintelligently. To foresee a terminus of an act is to have a basis\nupon which to observe, to select, and to order objects and our own\ncapacities. To do these things means to have a mind--for mind is\nprecisely intentional purposeful activity controlled by perception of\nfacts and their relationships to one another. To have a mind to do a\nthing is to foresee a future possibility; it is to have a plan for its\naccomplishment; it is to note the means which make the plan capable of\nexecution and the obstructions in the way,--or, if it is really a mind\nto do the thing and not a vague aspiration--it is to have a plan which\ntakes account of resources and difficulties. Mind is capacity to refer\npresent conditions to future results, and future consequences to present\nconditions. And these traits are just what is meant by having an aim\nor a purpose. A man is stupid or blind or unintelligent--lacking in\nmind--just in the degree in which in any activity he does not know what\nhe is about, namely, the probable consequences of his acts. A man is\nimperfectly intelligent when he contents himself with looser guesses\nabout the outcome than is needful, just taking a chance with his luck,\nor when he forms plans apart from study of the actual conditions,\nincluding his own capacities. Such relative absence of mind means to\nmake our feelings the measure of what is to happen. To be intelligent we\nmust \"stop, look, listen\" in making the plan of an activity.\n\nTo identify acting with an aim and intelligent activity is enough to\nshow its value--its function in experience. We are only too given to\nmaking an entity out of the abstract noun \"consciousness.\" We forget\nthat it comes from the adjective \"conscious.\" To be conscious is to\nbe aware of what we are about; conscious signifies the deliberate,\nobservant, planning traits of activity. Consciousness is nothing\nwhich we have which gazes idly on the scene around one or which has\nimpressions made upon it by physical things; it is a name for the\npurposeful quality of an activity, for the fact that it is directed by\nan aim. Put the other way about, to have an aim is to act with meaning,\nnot like an automatic machine; it is to mean to do something and to\nperceive the meaning of things in the light of that intent.\n\n2. The Criteria of Good Aims. We may apply the results of our discussion\nto a consideration of the criteria involved in a correct establishing of\naims. (1) The aim set up must be an outgrowth of existing conditions. It\nmust be based upon a consideration of what is already going on; upon the\nresources and difficulties of the situation. Theories about the proper\nend of our activities--educational and moral theories--often violate\nthis principle. They assume ends lying outside our activities; ends\nforeign to the concrete makeup of the situation; ends which issue from\nsome outside source. Then the problem is to bring our activities to\nbear upon the realization of these externally supplied ends. They are\nsomething for which we ought to act. In any case such \"aims\" limit\nintelligence; they are not the expression of mind in foresight,\nobservation, and choice of the better among alternative possibilities.\nThey limit intelligence because, given ready-made, they must be imposed\nby some authority external to intelligence, leaving to the latter\nnothing but a mechanical choice of means.\n\n(2) We have spoken as if aims could be completely formed prior to the\nattempt to realize them. This impression must now be qualified. The aim\nas it first emerges is a mere tentative sketch. The act of striving\nto realize it tests its worth. If it suffices to direct activity\nsuccessfully, nothing more is required, since its whole function is\nto set a mark in advance; and at times a mere hint may suffice. But\nusually--at least in complicated situations--acting upon it brings to\nlight conditions which had been overlooked. This calls for revision\nof the original aim; it has to be added to and subtracted from. An\naim must, then, be flexible; it must be capable of alteration to meet\ncircumstances. An end established externally to the process of action is\nalways rigid. Being inserted or imposed from without, it is not supposed\nto have a working relationship to the concrete conditions of the\nsituation. What happens in the course of action neither confirms,\nrefutes, nor alters it. Such an end can only be insisted upon. The\nfailure that results from its lack of adaptation is attributed simply\nto the perverseness of conditions, not to the fact that the end is not\nreasonable under the circumstances. The value of a legitimate aim, on\nthe contrary, lies in the fact that we can use it to change conditions.\nIt is a method for dealing with conditions so as to effect desirable\nalterations in them. A farmer who should passively accept things just as\nhe finds them would make as great a mistake as he who framed his plans\nin complete disregard of what soil, climate, etc., permit. One of the\nevils of an abstract or remote external aim in education is that its\nvery inapplicability in practice is likely to react into a haphazard\nsnatching at immediate conditions. A good aim surveys the present state\nof experience of pupils, and forming a tentative plan of treatment,\nkeeps the plan constantly in view and yet modifies it as conditions\ndevelop. The aim, in short, is experimental, and hence constantly\ngrowing as it is tested in action.\n\n(3) The aim must always represent a freeing of activities. The term end\nin view is suggestive, for it puts before the mind the termination\nor conclusion of some process. The only way in which we can define\nan activity is by putting before ourselves the objects in which it\nterminates--as one's aim in shooting is the target. But we must remember\nthat the object is only a mark or sign by which the mind specifies the\nactivity one desires to carry out. Strictly speaking, not the target\nbut hitting the target is the end in view; one takes aim by means of the\ntarget, but also by the sight on the gun. The different objects which\nare thought of are means of directing the activity. Thus one aims at,\nsay, a rabbit; what he wants is to shoot straight: a certain kind of\nactivity. Or, if it is the rabbit he wants, it is not rabbit apart from\nhis activity, but as a factor in activity; he wants to eat the rabbit,\nor to show it as evidence of his marksmanship--he wants to do something\nwith it. The doing with the thing, not the thing in isolation, is\nhis end. The object is but a phase of the active end,--continuing the\nactivity successfully. This is what is meant by the phrase, used above,\n\"freeing activity.\"\n\nIn contrast with fulfilling some process in order that activity may go\non, stands the static character of an end which is imposed from without\nthe activity. It is always conceived of as fixed; it is something to be\nattained and possessed. When one has such a notion, activity is a mere\nunavoidable means to something else; it is not significant or important\non its own account. As compared with the end it is but a necessary evil;\nsomething which must be gone through before one can reach the object\nwhich is alone worth while. In other words, the external idea of the\naim leads to a separation of means from end, while an end which grows\nup within an activity as plan for its direction is always both ends and\nmeans, the distinction being only one of convenience. Every means is a\ntemporary end until we have attained it. Every end becomes a means of\ncarrying activity further as soon as it is achieved. We call it end\nwhen it marks off the future direction of the activity in which we are\nengaged; means when it marks off the present direction. Every divorce of\nend from means diminishes by that much the significance of the activity\nand tends to reduce it to a drudgery from which one would escape if he\ncould. A farmer has to use plants and animals to carry on his farming\nactivities. It certainly makes a great difference to his life whether he\nis fond of them, or whether he regards them merely as means which he has\nto employ to get something else in which alone he is interested. In the\nformer case, his entire course of activity is significant; each phase\nof it has its own value. He has the experience of realizing his end at\nevery stage; the postponed aim, or end in view, being merely a sight\nahead by which to keep his activity going fully and freely. For if he\ndoes not look ahead, he is more likely to find himself blocked. The\naim is as definitely a means of action as is any other portion of an\nactivity.\n\n3. Applications in Education. There is nothing peculiar about\neducational aims. They are just like aims in any directed occupation.\nThe educator, like the farmer, has certain things to do, certain\nresources with which to do, and certain obstacles with which to contend.\nThe conditions with which the farmer deals, whether as obstacles or\nresources, have their own structure and operation independently of\nany purpose of his. Seeds sprout, rain falls, the sun shines, insects\ndevour, blight comes, the seasons change. His aim is simply to utilize\nthese various conditions; to make his activities and their energies\nwork together, instead of against one another. It would be absurd if\nthe farmer set up a purpose of farming, without any reference to these\nconditions of soil, climate, characteristic of plant growth, etc.\nHis purpose is simply a foresight of the consequences of his energies\nconnected with those of the things about him, a foresight used to direct\nhis movements from day to day. Foresight of possible consequences leads\nto more careful and extensive observation of the nature and performances\nof the things he had to do with, and to laying out a plan--that is, of a\ncertain order in the acts to be performed.\n\nIt is the same with the educator, whether parent or teacher. It is as\nabsurd for the latter to set up his \"own\" aims as the proper objects of\nthe growth of the children as it would be for the farmer to set up an\nideal of farming irrespective of conditions. Aims mean acceptance of\nresponsibility for the observations, anticipations, and arrangements\nrequired in carrying on a function--whether farming or educating. Any\naim is of value so far as it assists observation, choice, and planning\nin carrying on activity from moment to moment and hour to hour; if it\ngets in the way of the individual's own common sense (as it will surely\ndo if imposed from without or accepted on authority) it does harm.\n\nAnd it is well to remind ourselves that education as such has no aims.\nOnly persons, parents, and teachers, etc., have aims, not an abstract\nidea like education. And consequently their purposes are indefinitely\nvaried, differing with different children, changing as children grow and\nwith the growth of experience on the part of the one who teaches. Even\nthe most valid aims which can be put in words will, as words, do more\nharm than good unless one recognizes that they are not aims, but rather\nsuggestions to educators as to how to observe, how to look ahead, and\nhow to choose in liberating and directing the energies of the concrete\nsituations in which they find themselves. As a recent writer has\nsaid: \"To lead this boy to read Scott's novels instead of old Sleuth's\nstories; to teach this girl to sew; to root out the habit of bullying\nfrom John's make-up; to prepare this class to study medicine,--these\nare samples of the millions of aims we have actually before us in the\nconcrete work of education.\" Bearing these qualifications in mind, we\nshall proceed to state some of the characteristics found in all good\neducational aims. (1) An educational aim must be founded upon the\nintrinsic activities and needs (including original instincts and\nacquired habits) of the given individual to be educated. The tendency of\nsuch an aim as preparation is, as we have seen, to omit existing powers,\nand find the aim in some remote accomplishment or responsibility. In\ngeneral, there is a disposition to take considerations which are dear\nto the hearts of adults and set them up as ends irrespective of the\ncapacities of those educated. There is also an inclination to propound\naims which are so uniform as to neglect the specific powers and\nrequirements of an individual, forgetting that all learning is something\nwhich happens to an individual at a given time and place. The larger\nrange of perception of the adult is of great value in observing the\nabilities and weaknesses of the young, in deciding what they may amount\nto. Thus the artistic capacities of the adult exhibit what certain\ntendencies of the child are capable of; if we did not have the adult\nachievements we should be without assurance as to the significance of\nthe drawing, reproducing, modeling, coloring activities of childhood.\nSo if it were not for adult language, we should not be able to see the\nimport of the babbling impulses of infancy. But it is one thing to use\nadult accomplishments as a context in which to place and survey the\ndoings of childhood and youth; it is quite another to set them up as a\nfixed aim without regard to the concrete activities of those educated.\n\n(2) An aim must be capable of translation into a method of cooperating\nwith the activities of those undergoing instruction. It must suggest the\nkind of environment needed to liberate and to organize their capacities.\nUnless it lends itself to the construction of specific procedures, and\nunless these procedures test, correct, and amplify the aim, the latter\nis worthless. Instead of helping the specific task of teaching, it\nprevents the use of ordinary judgment in observing and sizing up the\nsituation. It operates to exclude recognition of everything except what\nsquares up with the fixed end in view. Every rigid aim just because\nit is rigidly given seems to render it unnecessary to give careful\nattention to concrete conditions. Since it must apply anyhow, what is\nthe use of noting details which do not count?\n\nThe vice of externally imposed ends has deep roots. Teachers receive\nthem from superior authorities; these authorities accept them from what\nis current in the community. The teachers impose them upon children. As\na first consequence, the intelligence of the teacher is not free; it is\nconfined to receiving the aims laid down from above. Too rarely is\nthe individual teacher so free from the dictation of authoritative\nsupervisor, textbook on methods, prescribed course of study, etc., that\nhe can let his mind come to close quarters with the pupil's mind and\nthe subject matter. This distrust of the teacher's experience is then\nreflected in lack of confidence in the responses of pupils. The latter\nreceive their aims through a double or treble external imposition,\nand are constantly confused by the conflict between the aims which are\nnatural to their own experience at the time and those in which they are\ntaught to acquiesce. Until the democratic criterion of the intrinsic\nsignificance of every growing experience is recognized, we shall be\nintellectually confused by the demand for adaptation to external aims.\n\n(3) Educators have to be on their guard against ends that are alleged\nto be general and ultimate. Every activity, however specific, is,\nof course, general in its ramified connections, for it leads out\nindefinitely into other things. So far as a general idea makes us more\nalive to these connections, it cannot be too general. But \"general\"\nalso means \"abstract,\" or detached from all specific context. And such\nabstractness means remoteness, and throws us back, once more, upon\nteaching and learning as mere means of getting ready for an end\ndisconnected from the means. That education is literally and all\nthe time its own reward means that no alleged study or discipline is\neducative unless it is worth while in its own immediate having. A\ntruly general aim broadens the outlook; it stimulates one to take more\nconsequences (connections) into account. This means a wider and more\nflexible observation of means. The more interacting forces, for example,\nthe farmer takes into account, the more varied will be his immediate\nresources. He will see a greater number of possible starting places, and\na greater number of ways of getting at what he wants to do. The fuller\none's conception of possible future achievements, the less his present\nactivity is tied down to a small number of alternatives. If one knew\nenough, one could start almost anywhere and sustain his activities\ncontinuously and fruitfully.\n\nUnderstanding then the term general or comprehensive aim simply in the\nsense of a broad survey of the field of present activities, we shall\ntake up some of the larger ends which have currency in the educational\ntheories of the day, and consider what light they throw upon the\nimmediate concrete and diversified aims which are always the educator's\nreal concern. We premise (as indeed immediately follows from what\nhas been said) that there is no need of making a choice among them or\nregarding them as competitors. When we come to act in a tangible way we\nhave to select or choose a particular act at a particular time, but any\nnumber of comprehensive ends may exist without competition, since they\nmean simply different ways of looking at the same scene. One cannot\nclimb a number of different mountains simultaneously, but the views had\nwhen different mountains are ascended supplement one another: they do\nnot set up incompatible, competing worlds. Or, putting the matter in\na slightly different way, one statement of an end may suggest certain\nquestions and observations, and another statement another set of\nquestions, calling for other observations. Then the more general ends we\nhave, the better. One statement will emphasize what another slurs over.\nWhat a plurality of hypotheses does for the scientific investigator, a\nplurality of stated aims may do for the instructor.\n\nSummary. An aim denotes the result of any natural process brought to\nconsciousness and made a factor in determining present observation\nand choice of ways of acting. It signifies that an activity has\nbecome intelligent. Specifically it means foresight of the alternative\nconsequences attendant upon acting in a given situation in different\nways, and the use of what is anticipated to direct observation and\nexperiment. A true aim is thus opposed at every point to an aim which is\nimposed upon a process of action from without. The latter is fixed and\nrigid; it is not a stimulus to intelligence in the given situation, but\nis an externally dictated order to do such and such things. Instead of\nconnecting directly with present activities, it is remote, divorced from\nthe means by which it is to be reached. Instead of suggesting a\nfreer and better balanced activity, it is a limit set to activity. In\neducation, the currency of these externally imposed aims is responsible\nfor the emphasis put upon the notion of preparation for a remote future\nand for rendering the work of both teacher and pupil mechanical and\nslavish.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Nine: Natural Development and Social Efficiency as Aims\n\n1. Nature as Supplying the Aim. We have just pointed out the futility\nof trying to establish the aim of education--some one final aim which\nsubordinates all others to itself. We have indicated that since general\naims are but prospective points of view from which to survey the\nexisting conditions and estimate their possibilities, we might have any\nnumber of them, all consistent with one another. As matter of fact, a\nlarge number have been stated at different times, all having great local\nvalue. For the statement of aim is a matter of emphasis at a given time.\nAnd we do not emphasize things which do not require emphasis--that is,\nsuch things as are taking care of themselves fairly well. We tend rather\nto frame our statement on the basis of the defects and needs of the\ncontemporary situation; we take for granted, without explicit statement\nwhich would be of no use, whatever is right or approximately so. We\nframe our explicit aims in terms of some alteration to be brought about.\nIt is, then, DO paradox requiring explanation that a given epoch or\ngeneration tends to emphasize in its conscious projections just the\nthings which it has least of in actual fact. A time of domination by\nauthority will call out as response the desirability of great individual\nfreedom; one of disorganized individual activities the need of social\ncontrol as an educational aim.\n\nThe actual and implicit practice and the conscious or stated aim thus\nbalance each other. At different times such aims as complete living,\nbetter methods of language study, substitution of things for words,\nsocial efficiency, personal culture, social service, complete\ndevelopment of personality, encyclopedic knowledge, discipline, a\nesthetic contemplation, utility, etc., have served. The following\ndiscussion takes up three statements of recent influence; certain others\nhave been incidentally discussed in the previous chapters, and others\nwill be considered later in a discussion of knowledge and of the values\nof studies. We begin with a consideration that education is a process\nof development in accordance with nature, taking Rousseau's statement,\nwhich opposed natural to social (See ante, p. 91); and then pass over\nto the antithetical conception of social efficiency, which often opposes\nsocial to natural.\n\n(1) Educational reformers disgusted with the conventionality and\nartificiality of the scholastic methods they find about them are prone\nto resort to nature as a standard. Nature is supposed to furnish the\nlaw and the end of development; ours it is to follow and conform to her\nways. The positive value of this conception lies in the forcible way\nin which it calls attention to the wrongness of aims which do not have\nregard to the natural endowment of those educated. Its weakness is the\nease with which natural in the sense of normal is confused with the\nphysical. The constructive use of intelligence in foresight, and\ncontriving, is then discounted; we are just to get out of the way and\nallow nature to do the work. Since no one has stated in the doctrine\nboth its truth and falsity better than Rousseau, we shall turn to him.\n\n\"Education,\" he says, \"we receive from three sources--Nature, men,\nand things. The spontaneous development of our organs and capacities\nconstitutes the education of Nature. The use to which we are taught to\nput this development constitutes that education given us by Men. The\nacquirement of personal experience from surrounding objects constitutes\nthat of things. Only when these three kinds of education are consonant\nand make for the same end, does a man tend towards his true goal. If we\nare asked what is this end, the answer is that of Nature. For since\nthe concurrence of the three kinds of education is necessary to their\ncompleteness, the kind which is entirely independent of our control must\nnecessarily regulate us in determining the other two.\" Then he defines\nNature to mean the capacities and dispositions which are inborn, \"as\nthey exist prior to the modification due to constraining habits and the\ninfluence of the opinion of others.\"\n\nThe wording of Rousseau will repay careful study. It contains as\nfundamental truths as have been uttered about education in conjunction\nwith a curious twist. It would be impossible to say better what is said\nin the first sentences. The three factors of educative development\nare (a) the native structure of our bodily organs and their functional\nactivities; (b) the uses to which the activities of these organs are put\nunder the influence of other persons; (c) their direct interaction with\nthe environment. This statement certainly covers the ground. His other\ntwo propositions are equally sound; namely, (a) that only when the\nthree factors of education are consonant and cooperative does adequate\ndevelopment of the individual occur, and (b) that the native activities\nof the organs, being original, are basic in conceiving consonance. But\nit requires but little reading between the lines, supplemented by other\nstatements of Rousseau, to perceive that instead of regarding these\nthree things as factors which must work together to some extent in\norder that any one of them may proceed educatively, he regards them as\nseparate and independent operations. Especially does he believe that\nthere is an independent and, as he says, \"spontaneous\" development of\nthe native organs and faculties. He thinks that this development can\ngo on irrespective of the use to which they are put. And it is to this\nseparate development that education coming from social contact is to be\nsubordinated. Now there is an immense difference between a use of native\nactivities in accord with those activities themselves--as distinct from\nforcing them and perverting them--and supposing that they have a normal\ndevelopment apart from any use, which development furnishes the standard\nand norm of all learning by use. To recur to our previous illustration,\nthe process of acquiring language is a practically perfect model of\nproper educative growth. The start is from native activities of the\nvocal apparatus, organs of hearing, etc. But it is absurd to suppose\nthat these have an independent growth of their own, which left to itself\nwould evolve a perfect speech. Taken literally, Rousseau's principle\nwould mean that adults should accept and repeat the babblings and\nnoises of children not merely as the beginnings of the development\nof articulate speech--which they are--but as furnishing language\nitself--the standard for all teaching of language.\n\nThe point may be summarized by saying that Rousseau was right,\nintroducing a much-needed reform into education, in holding that the\nstructure and activities of the organs furnish the conditions of all\nteaching of the use of the organs; but profoundly wrong in intimating\nthat they supply not only the conditions but also the ends of their\ndevelopment. As matter of fact, the native activities develop, in\ncontrast with random and capricious exercise, through the uses to which\nthey are put. And the office of the social medium is, as we have seen,\nto direct growth through putting powers to the best possible use. The\ninstinctive activities may be called, metaphorically, spontaneous,\nin the sense that the organs give a strong bias for a certain sort of\noperation,--a bias so strong that we cannot go contrary to it, though by\ntrying to go contrary we may pervert, stunt, and corrupt them. But the\nnotion of a spontaneous normal development of these activities is pure\nmythology. The natural, or native, powers furnish the initiating and\nlimiting forces in all education; they do not furnish its ends or aims.\nThere is no learning except from a beginning in unlearned powers, but\nlearning is not a matter of the spontaneous overflow of the unlearned\npowers. Rousseau's contrary opinion is doubtless due to the fact that he\nidentified God with Nature; to him the original powers are wholly good,\ncoming directly from a wise and good creator. To paraphrase the old\nsaying about the country and the town, God made the original human\norgans and faculties, man makes the uses to which they are put.\nConsequently the development of the former furnishes the standard to\nwhich the latter must be subordinated. When men attempt to determine the\nuses to which the original activities shall be put, they interfere with\na divine plan. The interference by social arrangements with Nature,\nGod's work, is the primary source of corruption in individuals.\n\nRousseau's passionate assertion of the intrinsic goodness of all natural\ntendencies was a reaction against the prevalent notion of the total\ndepravity of innate human nature, and has had a powerful influence in\nmodifying the attitude towards children's interests. But it is hardly\nnecessary to say that primitive impulses are of themselves neither good\nnor evil, but become one or the other according to the objects for which\nthey are employed. That neglect, suppression, and premature forcing\nof some instincts at the expense of others, are responsible for many\navoidable ills, there can be no doubt. But the moral is not to leave\nthem alone to follow their own \"spontaneous development,\" but to provide\nan environment which shall organize them.\n\nReturning to the elements of truth contained in Rousseau's statements,\nwe find that natural development, as an aim, enables him to point the\nmeans of correcting many evils in current practices, and to indicate\na number of desirable specific aims. (1) Natural development as an aim\nfixes attention upon the bodily organs and the need of health and vigor.\nThe aim of natural development says to parents and teachers: Make health\nan aim; normal development cannot be had without regard to the vigor of\nthe body--an obvious enough fact and yet one whose due recognition\nin practice would almost automatically revolutionize many of our\neducational practices. \"Nature\" is indeed a vague and metaphorical\nterm, but one thing that \"Nature\" may be said to utter is that there are\nconditions of educational efficiency, and that till we have learned what\nthese conditions are and have learned to make our practices accord with\nthem, the noblest and most ideal of our aims are doomed to suffer--are\nverbal and sentimental rather than efficacious.\n\n(2) The aim of natural development translates into the aim of respect\nfor physical mobility. In Rousseau's words: \"Children are always in\nmotion; a sedentary life is injurious.\" When he says that \"Nature's\nintention is to strengthen the body before exercising the mind\"\nhe hardly states the fact fairly. But if he had said that nature's\n\"intention\" (to adopt his poetical form of speech) is to develop the\nmind especially by exercise of the muscles of the body he would have\nstated a positive fact. In other words, the aim of following nature\nmeans, in the concrete, regard for the actual part played by use of the\nbodily organs in explorations, in handling of materials, in plays\nand games. (3) The general aim translates into the aim of regard for\nindividual differences among children. Nobody can take the principle of\nconsideration of native powers into account without being struck by the\nfact that these powers differ in different individuals. The difference\napplies not merely to their intensity, but even more to their quality\nand arrangement. As Rouseau said: \"Each individual is born with\na distinctive temperament. We indiscriminately employ children of\ndifferent bents on the same exercises; their education destroys the\nspecial bent and leaves a dull uniformity. Therefore after we have\nwasted our efforts in stunting the true gifts of nature we see the\nshort-lived and illusory brilliance we have substituted die away, while\nthe natural abilities we have crushed do not revive.\"\n\nLastly, the aim of following nature means to note the origin, the\nwaxing, and waning, of preferences and interests. Capacities bud and\nbloom irregularly; there is no even four-abreast development. We must\nstrike while the iron is hot. Especially precious are the first dawnings\nof power. More than we imagine, the ways in which the tendencies of\nearly childhood are treated fix fundamental dispositions and condition\nthe turn taken by powers that show themselves later. Educational concern\nwith the early years of life--as distinct from inculcation of useful\narts--dates almost entirely from the time of the emphasis by Pestalozzi\nand Froebel, following Rousseau, of natural principles of growth.\nThe irregularity of growth and its significance is indicated in the\nfollowing passage of a student of the growth of the nervous system.\n\"While growth continues, things bodily and mental are lopsided, for\ngrowth is never general, but is accentuated now at one spot, now at\nanother. The methods which shall recognize in the presence of these\nenormous differences of endowment the dynamic values of natural\ninequalities of growth, and utilize them, preferring irregularity to the\nrounding out gained by pruning will most closely follow that which\ntakes place in the body and thus prove most effective.\" 1 Observation of\nnatural tendencies is difficult under conditions of restraint. They\nshow themselves most readily in a child's spontaneous sayings and\ndoings,--that is, in those he engages in when not put at set tasks and\nwhen not aware of being under observation. It does not follow that\nthese tendencies are all desirable because they are natural; but it does\nfollow that since they are there, they are operative and must be\ntaken account of. We must see to it that the desirable ones have an\nenvironment which keeps them active, and that their activity shall\ncontrol the direction the others take and thereby induce the disuse of\nthe latter because they lead to nothing. Many tendencies that trouble\nparents when they appear are likely to be transitory, and sometimes too\nmuch direct attention to them only fixes a child's attention upon them.\nAt all events, adults too easily assume their own habits and wishes as\nstandards, and regard all deviations of children's impulses as evils\nto be eliminated. That artificiality against which the conception of\nfollowing nature is so largely a protest, is the outcome of attempts to\nforce children directly into the mold of grown-up standards.\n\nIn conclusion, we note that the early history of the idea of following\nnature combined two factors which had no inherent connection with one\nanother. Before the time of Rousseau educational reformers had been\ninclined to urge the importance of education by ascribing practically\nunlimited power to it. All the differences between peoples and between\nclasses and persons among the same people were said to be due to\ndifferences of training, of exercise, and practice. Originally, mind,\nreason, understanding is, for all practical purposes, the same in all.\nThis essential identity of mind means the essential equality of all and\nthe possibility of bringing them all to the same level. As a protest\nagainst this view, the doctrine of accord with nature meant a much less\nformal and abstract view of mind and its powers. It substituted specific\ninstincts and impulses and physiological capacities, differing from\nindividual to individual (just as they differ, as Rousseau pointed out,\neven in dogs of the same litter), for abstract faculties of discernment,\nmemory, and generalization. Upon this side, the doctrine of educative\naccord with nature has been reinforced by the development of modern\nbiology, physiology, and psychology. It means, in effect, that great\nas is the significance of nurture, of modification, and transformation\nthrough direct educational effort, nature, or unlearned capacities,\naffords the foundation and ultimate resources for such nurture. On the\nother hand, the doctrine of following nature was a political dogma. It\nmeant a rebellion against existing social institutions, customs, and\nideals (See ante, p. 91). Rousseau's statement that everything is good\nas it comes from the hands of the Creator has its signification only in\nits contrast with the concluding part of the same sentence: \"Everything\ndegenerates in the hands of man.\" And again he says: \"Natural man has\nan absolute value; he is a numerical unit, a complete integer and has no\nrelation save to himself and to his fellow man. Civilized man is only a\nrelative unit, the numerator of a fraction whose value depends upon its\ndominator, its relation to the integral body of society. Good political\ninstitutions are those which make a man unnatural.\" It is upon this\nconception of the artificial and harmful character of organized social\nlife as it now exists 2 that he rested the notion that nature not merely\nfurnishes prime forces which initiate growth but also its plan and goal.\nThat evil institutions and customs work almost automatically to give a\nwrong education which the most careful schooling cannot offset is\ntrue enough; but the conclusion is not to education apart from the\nenvironment, but to provide an environment in which native powers will\nbe put to better uses.\n\n2. Social Efficiency as Aim. A conception which made nature supply the\nend of a true education and society the end of an evil one, could hardly\nfail to call out a protest. The opposing emphasis took the form of a\ndoctrine that the business of education is to supply precisely what\nnature fails to secure; namely, habituation of an individual to social\ncontrol; subordination of natural powers to social rules. It is not\nsurprising to find that the value in the idea of social efficiency\nresides largely in its protest against the points at which the doctrine\nof natural development went astray; while its misuse comes when it is\nemployed to slur over the truth in that conception. It is a fact that we\nmust look to the activities and achievements of associated life to find\nwhat the development of power--that is to say, efficiency--means. The\nerror is in implying that we must adopt measures of subordination rather\nthan of utilization to secure efficiency. The doctrine is rendered\nadequate when we recognize that social efficiency is attained not by\nnegative constraint but by positive use of native individual capacities\nin occupations having a social meaning. (1) Translated into specific\naims, social efficiency indicates the importance of industrial\ncompetency. Persons cannot live without means of subsistence; the ways\nin which these means are employed and consumed have a profound influence\nupon all the relationships of persons to one another. If an individual\nis not able to earn his own living and that of the children dependent\nupon him, he is a drag or parasite upon the activities of others. He\nmisses for himself one of the most educative experiences of life. If he\nis not trained in the right use of the products of industry, there\nis grave danger that he may deprave himself and injure others in his\npossession of wealth. No scheme of education can afford to neglect\nsuch basic considerations. Yet in the name of higher and more spiritual\nideals, the arrangements for higher education have often not only\nneglected them, but looked at them with scorn as beneath the level of\neducative concern. With the change from an oligarchical to a democratic\nsociety, it is natural that the significance of an education which\nshould have as a result ability to make one's way economically in the\nworld, and to manage economic resources usefully instead of for mere\ndisplay and luxury, should receive emphasis.\n\nThere is, however, grave danger that in insisting upon this end,\nexisting economic conditions and standards will be accepted as final.\nA democratic criterion requires us to develop capacity to the point of\ncompetency to choose and make its own career. This principle is violated\nwhen the attempt is made to fit individuals in advance for definite\nindustrial callings, selected not on the basis of trained original\ncapacities, but on that of the wealth or social status of parents. As a\nmatter of fact, industry at the present time undergoes rapid and abrupt\nchanges through the evolution of new inventions. New industries spring\nup, and old ones are revolutionized. Consequently an attempt to train\nfor too specific a mode of efficiency defeats its own purpose. When the\noccupation changes its methods, such individuals are left behind\nwith even less ability to readjust themselves than if they had a less\ndefinite training. But, most of all, the present industrial constitution\nof society is, like every society which has ever existed, full of\ninequities. It is the aim of progressive education to take part in\ncorrecting unfair privilege and unfair deprivation, not to perpetuate\nthem. Wherever social control means subordination of individual\nactivities to class authority, there is danger that industrial education\nwill be dominated by acceptance of the status quo. Differences\nof economic opportunity then dictate what the future callings of\nindividuals are to be. We have an unconscious revival of the defects\nof the Platonic scheme (ante, p. 89) without its enlightened method of\nselection.\n\n(2) Civic efficiency, or good citizenship. It is, of course, arbitrary\nto separate industrial competency from capacity in good citizenship. But\nthe latter term may be used to indicate a number of qualifications which\nare vaguer than vocational ability. These traits run from whatever make\nan individual a more agreeable companion to citizenship in the political\nsense: it denotes ability to judge men and measures wisely and to take\na determining part in making as well as obeying laws. The aim of civic\nefficiency has at least the merit of protecting us from the notion of a\ntraining of mental power at large. It calls attention to the fact that\npower must be relative to doing something, and to the fact that the\nthings which most need to be done are things which involve one's\nrelationships with others.\n\nHere again we have to be on guard against understanding the aim too\nnarrowly. An over-definite interpretation would at certain periods have\nexcluded scientific discoveries, in spite of the fact that in the last\nanalysis security of social progress depends upon them. For scientific\nmen would have been thought to be mere theoretical dreamers, totally\nlacking in social efficiency. It must be borne in mind that ultimately\nsocial efficiency means neither more nor less than capacity to share\nin a give and take of experience. It covers all that makes one's own\nexperience more worth while to others, and all that enables one to\nparticipate more richly in the worthwhile experiences of others. Ability\nto produce and to enjoy art, capacity for recreation, the significant\nutilization of leisure, are more important elements in it than elements\nconventionally associated oftentimes with citizenship. In the broadest\nsense, social efficiency is nothing less than that socialization of mind\nwhich is actively concerned in making experiences more communicable;\nin breaking down the barriers of social stratification which make\nindividuals impervious to the interests of others. When social\nefficiency is confined to the service rendered by overt acts, its\nchief constituent (because its only guarantee) is omitted,--intelligent\nsympathy or good will. For sympathy as a desirable quality is something\nmore than mere feeling; it is a cultivated imagination for what men have\nin common and a rebellion at whatever unnecessarily divides them.\nWhat is sometimes called a benevolent interest in others may be but an\nunwitting mask for an attempt to dictate to them what their good shall\nbe, instead of an endeavor to free them so that they may seek and find\nthe good of their own choice. Social efficiency, even social service,\nare hard and metallic things when severed from an active acknowledgment\nof the diversity of goods which life may afford to different persons,\nand from faith in the social utility of encouraging every individual to\nmake his own choice intelligent.\n\n3. Culture as Aim. Whether or not social efficiency is an aim which is\nconsistent with culture turns upon these considerations. Culture means\nat least something cultivated, something ripened; it is opposed to\nthe raw and crude. When the \"natural\" is identified with this rawness,\nculture is opposed to what is called natural development. Culture is\nalso something personal; it is cultivation with respect to appreciation\nof ideas and art and broad human interests. When efficiency is\nidentified with a narrow range of acts, instead of with the spirit and\nmeaning of activity, culture is opposed to efficiency. Whether called\nculture or complete development of personality, the outcome is identical\nwith the true meaning of social efficiency whenever attention is given\nto what is unique in an individual--and he would not be an individual if\nthere were not something incommensurable about him. Its opposite is\nthe mediocre, the average. Whenever distinctive quality is developed,\ndistinction of personality results, and with it greater promise for\na social service which goes beyond the supply in quantity of material\ncommodities. For how can there be a society really worth serving unless\nit is constituted of individuals of significant personal qualities?\n\nThe fact is that the opposition of high worth of personality to social\nefficiency is a product of a feudally organized society with its rigid\ndivision of inferior and superior. The latter are supposed to have time\nand opportunity to develop themselves as human beings; the former are\nconfined to providing external products. When social efficiency as\nmeasured by product or output is urged as an ideal in a would-be\ndemocratic society, it means that the depreciatory estimate of the\nmasses characteristic of an aristocratic community is accepted and\ncarried over. But if democracy has a moral and ideal meaning, it is\nthat a social return be demanded from all and that opportunity for\ndevelopment of distinctive capacities be afforded all. The separation\nof the two aims in education is fatal to democracy; the adoption of\nthe narrower meaning of efficiency deprives it of its essential\njustification.\n\nThe aim of efficiency (like any educational aim) must be included within\nthe process of experience. When it is measured by tangible external\nproducts, and not by the achieving of a distinctively valuable\nexperience, it becomes materialistic. Results in the way of commodities\nwhich may be the outgrowth of an efficient personality are, in the\nstrictest sense, by-products of education: by-products which are\ninevitable and important, but nevertheless by-products. To set up an\nexternal aim strengthens by reaction the false conception of culture\nwhich identifies it with something purely \"inner.\" And the idea of\nperfecting an \"inner\" personality is a sure sign of social divisions.\nWhat is called inner is simply that which does not connect with\nothers--which is not capable of free and full communication. What is\ntermed spiritual culture has usually been futile, with something rotten\nabout it, just because it has been conceived as a thing which a man\nmight have internally--and therefore exclusively. What one is as a\nperson is what one is as associated with others, in a free give and take\nof intercourse. This transcends both the efficiency which consists\nin supplying products to others and the culture which is an exclusive\nrefinement and polish.\n\nAny individual has missed his calling, farmer, physician, teacher,\nstudent, who does not find that the accomplishments of results of value\nto others is an accompaniment of a process of experience inherently\nworth while. Why then should it be thought that one must take his\nchoice between sacrificing himself to doing useful things for others,\nor sacrificing them to pursuit of his own exclusive ends, whether the\nsaving of his own soul or the building of an inner spiritual life and\npersonality? What happens is that since neither of these things is\npersistently possible, we get a compromise and an alternation. One tries\neach course by turns. There is no greater tragedy than that so much\nof the professedly spiritual and religious thought of the world\nhas emphasized the two ideals of self-sacrifice and spiritual\nself-perfecting instead of throwing its weight against this dualism of\nlife. The dualism is too deeply established to be easily overthrown; for\nthat reason, it is the particular task of education at the present time\nto struggle in behalf of an aim in which social efficiency and personal\nculture are synonyms instead of antagonists.\n\nSummary. General or comprehensive aims are points of view for surveying\nthe specific problems of education. Consequently it is a test of the\nvalue of the manner in which any large end is stated to see if it\nwill translate readily and consistently into the procedures which are\nsuggested by another. We have applied this test to three general aims:\nDevelopment according to nature, social efficiency, and culture or\npersonal mental enrichment. In each case we have seen that the aims\nwhen partially stated come into conflict with each other. The partial\nstatement of natural development takes the primitive powers in an\nalleged spontaneous development as the end-all. From this point of view\ntraining which renders them useful to others is an abnormal constraint;\none which profoundly modifies them through deliberate nurture is\ncorrupting. But when we recognize that natural activities mean native\nactivities which develop only through the uses in which they are\nnurtured, the conflict disappears. Similarly a social efficiency which\nis defined in terms of rendering external service to others is of\nnecessity opposed to the aim of enriching the meaning of experience,\nwhile a culture which is taken to consist in an internal refinement of a\nmind is opposed to a socialized disposition. But social efficiency as an\neducational purpose should mean cultivation of power to join freely\nand fully in shared or common activities. This is impossible without\nculture, while it brings a reward in culture, because one cannot share\nin intercourse with others without learning--without getting a broader\npoint of view and perceiving things of which one would otherwise be\nignorant. And there is perhaps no better definition of culture than that\nit is the capacity for constantly expanding the range and accuracy of\none's perception of meanings.\n\n1 Donaldson, Growth of Brain, p. 356.\n\n2 We must not forget that Rousseau had the idea of a radically different\nsort of society, a fraternal society whose end should be identical with\nthe good of all its members, which he thought to be as much better than\nexisting states as these are worse than the state of nature.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Ten: Interest and Discipline\n\n1. The Meaning of the Terms. We have already noticed the difference in\nthe attitude of a spectator and of an agent or participant. The former\nis indifferent to what is going on; one result is just as good as\nanother, since each is just something to look at. The latter is bound\nup with what is going on; its outcome makes a difference to him. His\nfortunes are more or less at stake in the issue of events. Consequently\nhe does whatever he can to influence the direction present occurrences\ntake. One is like a man in a prison cell watching the rain out of the\nwindow; it is all the same to him. The other is like a man who has\nplanned an outing for the next day which continuing rain will frustrate.\nHe cannot, to be sure, by his present reactions affect to-morrow's\nweather, but he may take some steps which will influence future\nhappenings, if only to postpone the proposed picnic. If a man sees a\ncarriage coming which may run over him, if he cannot stop its movement,\nhe can at least get out of the way if he foresees the consequence\nin time. In many instances, he can intervene even more directly. The\nattitude of a participant in the course of affairs is thus a double\none: there is solicitude, anxiety concerning future consequences, and a\ntendency to act to assure better, and avert worse, consequences. There\nare words which denote this attitude: concern, interest. These words\nsuggest that a person is bound up with the possibilities inhering in\nobjects; that he is accordingly on the lookout for what they are likely\nto do to him; and that, on the basis of his expectation or foresight,\nhe is eager to act so as to give things one turn rather than another.\nInterest and aims, concern and purpose, are necessarily connected. Such\nwords as aim, intent, end, emphasize the results which are wanted and\nstriven for; they take for granted the personal attitude of solicitude\nand attentive eagerness. Such words as interest, affection, concern,\nmotivation, emphasize the bearing of what is foreseen upon the\nindividual's fortunes, and his active desire to act to secure a possible\nresult. They take for granted the objective changes. But the difference\nis but one of emphasis; the meaning that is shaded in one set of words\nis illuminated in the other. What is anticipated is objective and\nimpersonal; to-morrow's rain; the possibility of being run over. But\nfor an active being, a being who partakes of the consequences instead of\nstanding aloof from them, there is at the same time a personal response.\nThe difference imaginatively foreseen makes a present difference,\nwhich finds expression in solicitude and effort. While such words\nas affection, concern, and motive indicate an attitude of personal\npreference, they are always attitudes toward objects--toward what is\nforeseen. We may call the phase of objective foresight intellectual, and\nthe phase of personal concern emotional and volitional, but there is no\nseparation in the facts of the situation.\n\nSuch a separation could exist only if the personal attitudes ran their\ncourse in a world by themselves. But they are always responses to\nwhat is going on in the situation of which they are a part, and their\nsuccessful or unsuccessful expression depends upon their interaction\nwith other changes. Life activities flourish and fail only in connection\nwith changes of the environment. They are literally bound up with these\nchanges; our desires, emotions, and affections are but various ways in\nwhich our doings are tied up with the doings of things and persons about\nus. Instead of marking a purely personal or subjective realm, separated\nfrom the objective and impersonal, they indicate the non-existence of\nsuch a separate world. They afford convincing evidence that changes in\nthings are not alien to the activities of a self, and that the career\nand welfare of the self are bound up with the movement of persons and\nthings. Interest, concern, mean that self and world are engaged with\neach other in a developing situation.\n\nThe word interest, in its ordinary usage, expresses (i) the whole state\nof active development, (ii) the objective results that are foreseen and\nwanted, and (iii) the personal emotional inclination.\n\n(I) An occupation, employment, pursuit, business is often referred to\nas an interest. Thus we say that a man's interest is politics, or\njournalism, or philanthropy, or archaeology, or collecting Japanese\nprints, or banking.\n\n(ii) By an interest we also mean the point at which an object touches\nor engages a man; the point where it influences him. In some legal\ntransactions a man has to prove \"interest\" in order to have a standing\nat court. He has to show that some proposed step concerns his affairs.\nA silent partner has an interest in a business, although he takes no\nactive part in its conduct because its prosperity or decline affects his\nprofits and liabilities.\n\n(iii) When we speak of a man as interested in this or that the emphasis\nfalls directly upon his personal attitude. To be interested is to be\nabsorbed in, wrapped up in, carried away by, some object. To take an\ninterest is to be on the alert, to care about, to be attentive. We say\nof an interested person both that he has lost himself in some affair and\nthat he has found himself in it. Both terms express the engrossment of\nthe self in an object.\n\nWhen the place of interest in education is spoken of in a depreciatory\nway, it will be found that the second of the meanings mentioned is first\nexaggerated and then isolated. Interest is taken to mean merely the\neffect of an object upon personal advantage or disadvantage, success or\nfailure. Separated from any objective development of affairs, these are\nreduced to mere personal states of pleasure or pain. Educationally, it\nthen follows that to attach importance to interest means to attach some\nfeature of seductiveness to material otherwise indifferent; to secure\nattention and effort by offering a bribe of pleasure. This procedure is\nproperly stigmatized as \"soft\" pedagogy; as a \"soup-kitchen\" theory of\neducation.\n\nBut the objection is based upon the fact--or assumption--that the forms\nof skill to be acquired and the subject matter to be appropriated have\nno interest on their own account: in other words, they are supposed to\nbe irrelevant to the normal activities of the pupils. The remedy is not\nin finding fault with the doctrine of interest, any more than it is to\nsearch for some pleasant bait that may be hitched to the alien material.\nIt is to discover objects and modes of action, which are connected with\npresent powers. The function of this material in engaging activity and\ncarrying it on consistently and continuously is its interest. If the\nmaterial operates in this way, there is no call either to hunt for\ndevices which will make it interesting or to appeal to arbitrary,\nsemi-coerced effort.\n\nThe word interest suggests, etymologically, what is between,--that\nwhich connects two things otherwise distant. In education, the distance\ncovered may be looked at as temporal. The fact that a process takes\ntime to mature is so obvious a fact that we rarely make it explicit. We\noverlook the fact that in growth there is ground to be covered between\nan initial stage of process and the completing period; that there is\nsomething intervening. In learning, the present powers of the pupil are\nthe initial stage; the aim of the teacher represents the remote limit.\nBetween the two lie means--that is middle conditions:--acts to be\nperformed; difficulties to be overcome; appliances to be used. Only\nthrough them, in the literal time sense, will the initial activities\nreach a satisfactory consummation.\n\nThese intermediate conditions are of interest precisely because the\ndevelopment of existing activities into the foreseen and desired end\ndepends upon them. To be means for the achieving of present tendencies,\nto be \"between\" the agent and his end, to be of interest, are different\nnames for the same thing. When material has to be made interesting,\nit signifies that as presented, it lacks connection with purposes and\npresent power: or that if the connection be there, it is not perceived.\nTo make it interesting by leading one to realize the connection that\nexists is simply good sense; to make it interesting by extraneous\nand artificial inducements deserves all the bad names which have been\napplied to the doctrine of interest in education.\n\nSo much for the meaning of the term interest. Now for that of\ndiscipline. Where an activity takes time, where many means and obstacles\nlie between its initiation and completion, deliberation and persistence\nare required. It is obvious that a very large part of the everyday\nmeaning of will is precisely the deliberate or conscious disposition\nto persist and endure in a planned course of action in spite of\ndifficulties and contrary solicitations. A man of strong will, in\nthe popular usage of the words, is a man who is neither fickle nor\nhalf-hearted in achieving chosen ends. His ability is executive; that\nis, he persistently and energetically strives to execute or carry out\nhis aims. A weak will is unstable as water.\n\nClearly there are two factors in will. One has to do with the foresight\nof results, the other with the depth of hold the foreseen outcome has\nupon the person.\n\n(I) Obstinacy is persistence but it is not strength of volition.\nObstinacy may be mere animal inertia and insensitiveness. A man keeps\non doing a thing just because he has got started, not because of any\nclearly thought-out purpose. In fact, the obstinate man generally\ndeclines (although he may not be quite aware of his refusal) to make\nclear to himself what his proposed end is; he has a feeling that if\nhe allowed himself to get a clear and full idea of it, it might not\nbe worth while. Stubbornness shows itself even more in reluctance to\ncriticize ends which present themselves than it does in persistence and\nenergy in use of means to achieve the end. The really executive man is\na man who ponders his ends, who makes his ideas of the results of his\nactions as clear and full as possible. The people we called weak-willed\nor self-indulgent always deceive themselves as to the consequences of\ntheir acts. They pick out some feature which is agreeable and neglect\nall attendant circumstances. When they begin to act, the disagreeable\nresults they ignored begin to show themselves. They are discouraged,\nor complain of being thwarted in their good purpose by a hard fate, and\nshift to some other line of action. That the primary difference between\nstrong and feeble volition is intellectual, consisting in the degree\nof persistent firmness and fullness with which consequences are thought\nout, cannot be over-emphasized.\n\n(ii) There is, of course, such a thing as a speculative tracing out\nof results. Ends are then foreseen, but they do not lay deep hold of\na person. They are something to look at and for curiosity to play\nwith rather than something to achieve. There is no such thing as\nover-intellectuality, but there is such a thing as a one-sided\nintellectuality. A person \"takes it out\" as we say in considering the\nconsequences of proposed lines of action. A certain flabbiness of fiber\nprevents the contemplated object from gripping him and engaging him in\naction. And most persons are naturally diverted from a proposed course\nof action by unusual, unforeseen obstacles, or by presentation of\ninducements to an action that is directly more agreeable.\n\nA person who is trained to consider his actions, to undertake them\ndeliberately, is in so far forth disciplined. Add to this ability\na power to endure in an intelligently chosen course in face of\ndistraction, confusion, and difficulty, and you have the essence of\ndiscipline. Discipline means power at command; mastery of the resources\navailable for carrying through the action undertaken. To know what one\nis to do and to move to do it promptly and by use of the requisite means\nis to be disciplined, whether we are thinking of an army or a mind.\nDiscipline is positive. To cow the spirit, to subdue inclination, to\ncompel obedience, to mortify the flesh, to make a subordinate perform an\nuncongenial task--these things are or are not disciplinary according as\nthey do or do not tend to the development of power to recognize what one\nis about and to persistence in accomplishment.\n\nIt is hardly necessary to press the point that interest and discipline\nare connected, not opposed.\n\n(i) Even the more purely intellectual phase of trained\npower--apprehension of what one is doing as exhibited in\nconsequences--is not possible without interest. Deliberation will be\nperfunctory and superficial where there is no interest. Parents and\nteachers often complain--and correctly--that children \"do not want\nto hear, or want to understand.\" Their minds are not upon the subject\nprecisely because it does not touch them; it does not enter into their\nconcerns. This is a state of things that needs to be remedied, but the\nremedy is not in the use of methods which increase indifference and\naversion. Even punishing a child for inattention is one way of trying to\nmake him realize that the matter is not a thing of complete unconcern;\nit is one way of arousing \"interest,\" or bringing about a sense of\nconnection. In the long run, its value is measured by whether it\nsupplies a mere physical excitation to act in the way desired by the\nadult or whether it leads the child \"to think\"--that is, to reflect upon\nhis acts and impregnate them with aims.\n\n(ii) That interest is requisite for executive persistence is even more\nobvious. Employers do not advertise for workmen who are not interested\nin what they are doing. If one were engaging a lawyer or a doctor, it\nwould never occur to one to reason that the person engaged would stick\nto his work more conscientiously if it was so uncongenial to him that he\ndid it merely from a sense of obligation. Interest measures--or rather\nis--the depth of the grip which the foreseen end has upon one, moving\none to act for its realization.\n\n2. The Importance of the Idea of Interest in Education. Interest\nrepresents the moving force of objects--whether perceived or presented\nin imagination--in any experience having a purpose. In the concrete,\nthe value of recognizing the dynamic place of interest in an educative\ndevelopment is that it leads to considering individual children in their\nspecific capabilities, needs, and preferences. One who recognizes the\nimportance of interest will not assume that all minds work in the same\nway because they happen to have the same teacher and textbook. Attitudes\nand methods of approach and response vary with the specific appeal\nthe same material makes, this appeal itself varying with difference of\nnatural aptitude, of past experience, of plan of life, and so on. But\nthe facts of interest also supply considerations of general value to the\nphilosophy of education. Rightly understood, they put us on our guard\nagainst certain conceptions of mind and of subject matter which have\nhad great vogue in philosophic thought in the past, and which exercise\na serious hampering influence upon the conduct of instruction and\ndiscipline. Too frequently mind is set over the world of things and\nfacts to be known; it is regarded as something existing in isolation,\nwith mental states and operations that exist independently. Knowledge is\nthen regarded as an external application of purely mental existences\nto the things to be known, or else as a result of the impressions which\nthis outside subject matter makes on mind, or as a combination of the\ntwo. Subject matter is then regarded as something complete in itself;\nit is just something to be learned or known, either by the voluntary\napplication of mind to it or through the impressions it makes on mind.\n\nThe facts of interest show that these conceptions are mythical. Mind\nappears in experience as ability to respond to present stimuli on the\nbasis of anticipation of future possible consequences, and with a view\nto controlling the kind of consequences that are to take place. The\nthings, the subject matter known, consist of whatever is recognized\nas having a bearing upon the anticipated course of events, whether\nassisting or retarding it. These statements are too formal to be very\nintelligible. An illustration may clear up their significance. You are\nengaged in a certain occupation, say writing with a typewriter. If you\nare an expert, your formed habits take care of the physical movements\nand leave your thoughts free to consider your topic. Suppose, however,\nyou are not skilled, or that, even if you are, the machine does not work\nwell. You then have to use intelligence. You do not wish to strike the\nkeys at random and let the consequences be what they may; you wish to\nrecord certain words in a given order so as to make sense. You attend to\nthe keys, to what you have written, to your movements, to the ribbon\nor the mechanism of the machine. Your attention is not distributed\nindifferently and miscellaneously to any and every detail. It is\ncentered upon whatever has a bearing upon the effective pursuit of\nyour occupation. Your look is ahead, and you are concerned to note\nthe existing facts because and in so far as they are factors in the\nachievement of the result intended. You have to find out what your\nresources are, what conditions are at command, and what the difficulties\nand obstacles are. This foresight and this survey with reference to\nwhat is foreseen constitute mind. Action that does not involve such a\nforecast of results and such an examination of means and hindrances\nis either a matter of habit or else it is blind. In neither case is\nit intelligent. To be vague and uncertain as to what is intended and\ncareless in observation of conditions of its realization is to be, in\nthat degree, stupid or partially intelligent.\n\nIf we recur to the case where mind is not concerned with the physical\nmanipulation of the instruments but with what one intends to write, the\ncase is the same. There is an activity in process; one is taken up with\nthe development of a theme. Unless one writes as a phonograph talks,\nthis means intelligence; namely, alertness in foreseeing the various\nconclusions to which present data and considerations are tending,\ntogether with continually renewed observation and recollection to\nget hold of the subject matter which bears upon the conclusions to be\nreached. The whole attitude is one of concern with what is to be, and\nwith what is so far as the latter enters into the movement toward the\nend. Leave out the direction which depends upon foresight of possible\nfuture results, and there is no intelligence in present behavior. Let\nthere be imaginative forecast but no attention to the conditions upon\nwhich its attainment depends, and there is self-deception or idle\ndreaming--abortive intelligence.\n\nIf this illustration is typical, mind is not a name for something\ncomplete by itself; it is a name for a course of action in so far as\nthat is intelligently directed; in so far, that is to say, as aims,\nends, enter into it, with selection of means to further the attainment\nof aims. Intelligence is not a peculiar possession which a person owns;\nbut a person is intelligent in so far as the activities in which he\nplays a part have the qualities mentioned. Nor are the activities\nin which a person engages, whether intelligently or not, exclusive\nproperties of himself; they are something in which he engages and\npartakes. Other things, the independent changes of other things and\npersons, cooperate and hinder. The individual's act may be initial in\na course of events, but the outcome depends upon the interaction of\nhis response with energies supplied by other agencies. Conceive mind as\nanything but one factor partaking along with others in the production of\nconsequences, and it becomes meaningless.\n\nThe problem of instruction is thus that of finding material which will\nengage a person in specific activities having an aim or purpose of\nmoment or interest to him, and dealing with things not as gymnastic\nappliances but as conditions for the attainment of ends. The remedy for\nthe evils attending the doctrine of formal discipline previously\nspoken of, is not to be found by substituting a doctrine of specialized\ndisciplines, but by reforming the notion of mind and its training.\nDiscovery of typical modes of activity, whether play or useful\noccupations, in which individuals are concerned, in whose outcome they\nrecognize they have something at stake, and which cannot be carried\nthrough without reflection and use of judgment to select material of\nobservation and recollection, is the remedy. In short, the root of the\nerror long prevalent in the conception of training of mind consists in\nleaving out of account movements of things to future results in which\nan individual shares, and in the direction of which observation,\nimagination, and memory are enlisted. It consists in regarding mind as\ncomplete in itself, ready to be directly applied to a present material.\n\nIn historic practice the error has cut two ways. On one hand, it has\nscreened and protected traditional studies and methods of teaching\nfrom intelligent criticism and needed revisions. To say that they are\n\"disciplinary\" has safeguarded them from all inquiry. It has not been\nenough to show that they were of no use in life or that they did\nnot really contribute to the cultivation of the self. That they were\n\"disciplinary\" stifled every question, subdued every doubt, and removed\nthe subject from the realm of rational discussion. By its nature, the\nallegation could not be checked up. Even when discipline did not accrue\nas matter of fact, when the pupil even grew in laxity of application and\nlost power of intelligent self-direction, the fault lay with him, not\nwith the study or the methods of teaching. His failure was but proof\nthat he needed more discipline, and thus afforded a reason for retaining\nthe old methods. The responsibility was transferred from the educator to\nthe pupil because the material did not have to meet specific tests; it\ndid not have to be shown that it fulfilled any particular need or served\nany specific end. It was designed to discipline in general, and if it\nfailed, it was because the individual was unwilling to be disciplined.\nIn the other direction, the tendency was towards a negative conception\nof discipline, instead of an identification of it with growth in\nconstructive power of achievement. As we have already seen, will\nmeans an attitude toward the future, toward the production of possible\nconsequences, an attitude involving effort to foresee clearly and\ncomprehensively the probable results of ways of acting, and an active\nidentification with some anticipated consequences. Identification\nof will, or effort, with mere strain, results when a mind is set up,\nendowed with powers that are only to be applied to existing material. A\nperson just either will or will not apply himself to the matter in hand.\nThe more indifferent the subject matter, the less concern it has for the\nhabits and preferences of the individual, the more demand there is\nfor an effort to bring the mind to bear upon it--and hence the more\ndiscipline of will. To attend to material because there is something\nto be done in which the person is concerned is not disciplinary in this\nview; not even if it results in a desirable increase of constructive\npower. Application just for the sake of application, for the sake of\ntraining, is alone disciplinary. This is more likely to occur if the\nsubject matter presented is uncongenial, for then there is no motive\n(so it is supposed) except the acknowledgment of duty or the value of\ndiscipline. The logical result is expressed with literal truth in the\nwords of an American humorist: \"It makes no difference what you teach a\nboy so long as he doesn't like it.\"\n\nThe counterpart of the isolation of mind from activities dealing with\nobjects to accomplish ends is isolation of the subject matter to be\nlearned. In the traditional schemes of education, subject matter means\nso much material to be studied. Various branches of study represent so\nmany independent branches, each having its principles of arrangement\ncomplete within itself. History is one such group of facts; algebra\nanother; geography another, and so on till we have run through the\nentire curriculum. Having a ready-made existence on their own account,\ntheir relation to mind is exhausted in what they furnish it to acquire.\nThis idea corresponds to the conventional practice in which the program\nof school work, for the day, month, and successive years, consists\nof \"studies\" all marked off from one another, and each supposed to be\ncomplete by itself--for educational purposes at least.\n\nLater on a chapter is devoted to the special consideration of the\nmeaning of the subject matter of instruction. At this point, we need\nonly to say that, in contrast with the traditional theory, anything\nwhich intelligence studies represents things in the part which they\nplay in the carrying forward of active lines of interest. Just as one\n\"studies\" his typewriter as part of the operation of putting it to use\nto effect results, so with any fact or truth. It becomes an object of\nstudy--that is, of inquiry and reflection--when it figures as a factor\nto be reckoned with in the completion of a course of events in which one\nis engaged and by whose outcome one is affected. Numbers are not objects\nof study just because they are numbers already constituting a branch of\nlearning called mathematics, but because they represent qualities and\nrelations of the world in which our action goes on, because they are\nfactors upon which the accomplishment of our purposes depends. Stated\nthus broadly, the formula may appear abstract. Translated into details,\nit means that the act of learning or studying is artificial and\nineffective in the degree in which pupils are merely presented with\na lesson to be learned. Study is effectual in the degree in which the\npupil realizes the place of the numerical truth he is dealing with\nin carrying to fruition activities in which he is concerned. This\nconnection of an object and a topic with the promotion of an activity\nhaving a purpose is the first and the last word of a genuine theory of\ninterest in education.\n\n3. Some Social Aspects of the Question. While the theoretical errors\nof which we have been speaking have their expressions in the conduct of\nschools, they are themselves the outcome of conditions of social life.\nA change confined to the theoretical conviction of educators will not\nremove the difficulties, though it should render more effective efforts\nto modify social conditions. Men's fundamental attitudes toward the\nworld are fixed by the scope and qualities of the activities in which\nthey partake. The ideal of interest is exemplified in the artistic\nattitude. Art is neither merely internal nor merely external; merely\nmental nor merely physical. Like every mode of action, it brings about\nchanges in the world. The changes made by some actions (those which\nby contrast may be called mechanical) are external; they are shifting\nthings about. No ideal reward, no enrichment of emotion and intellect,\naccompanies them. Others contribute to the maintenance of life, and\nto its external adornment and display. Many of our existing social\nactivities, industrial and political, fall in these two classes. Neither\nthe people who engage in them, nor those who are directly affected by\nthem, are capable of full and free interest in their work. Because of\nthe lack of any purpose in the work for the one doing it, or because\nof the restricted character of its aim, intelligence is not adequately\nengaged. The same conditions force many people back upon themselves.\nThey take refuge in an inner play of sentiment and fancies. They are\naesthetic but not artistic, since their feelings and ideas are\nturned upon themselves, instead of being methods in acts which modify\nconditions. Their mental life is sentimental; an enjoyment of an inner\nlandscape. Even the pursuit of science may become an asylum of refuge\nfrom the hard conditions of life--not a temporary retreat for the sake\nof recuperation and clarification in future dealings with the world. The\nvery word art may become associated not with specific transformation of\nthings, making them more significant for mind, but with stimulations\nof eccentric fancy and with emotional indulgences. The separation and\nmutual contempt of the \"practical\" man and the man of theory or culture,\nthe divorce of fine and industrial arts, are indications of this\nsituation. Thus interest and mind are either narrowed, or else made\nperverse. Compare what was said in an earlier chapter about the\none-sided meanings which have come to attach to the ideas of efficiency\nand of culture.\n\nThis state of affairs must exist so far as society is organized on a\nbasis of division between laboring classes and leisure classes. The\nintelligence of those who do things becomes hard in the unremitting\nstruggle with things; that of those freed from the discipline of\noccupation becomes luxurious and effeminate. Moreover, the majority of\nhuman beings still lack economic freedom. Their pursuits are fixed\nby accident and necessity of circumstance; they are not the normal\nexpression of their own powers interacting with the needs and resources\nof the environment. Our economic conditions still relegate many men to\na servile status. As a consequence, the intelligence of those in control\nof the practical situation is not liberal. Instead of playing freely\nupon the subjugation of the world for human ends, it is devoted to the\nmanipulation of other men for ends that are non-human in so far as they\nare exclusive.\n\nThis state of affairs explains many things in our historic educational\ntraditions. It throws light upon the clash of aims manifested in\ndifferent portions of the school system; the narrowly utilitarian\ncharacter of most elementary education, and the narrowly disciplinary\nor cultural character of most higher education. It accounts for the\ntendency to isolate intellectual matters till knowledge is scholastic,\nacademic, and professionally technical, and for the widespread\nconviction that liberal education is opposed to the requirements of an\neducation which shall count in the vocations of life. But it also helps\ndefine the peculiar problem of present education. The school cannot\nimmediately escape from the ideals set by prior social conditions. But\nit should contribute through the type of intellectual and emotional\ndisposition which it forms to the improvement of those conditions. And\njust here the true conceptions of interest and discipline are full\nof significance. Persons whose interests have been enlarged and\nintelligence trained by dealing with things and facts in active\noccupations having a purpose (whether in play or work) will be those\nmost likely to escape the alternatives of an academic and aloof\nknowledge and a hard, narrow, and merely \"practical\" practice. To\norganize education so that natural active tendencies shall be fully\nenlisted in doing something, while seeing to it that the doing\nrequires observation, the acquisition of information, and the use of\na constructive imagination, is what most needs to be done to improve\nsocial conditions. To oscillate between drill exercises that strive to\nattain efficiency in outward doing without the use of intelligence, and\nan accumulation of knowledge that is supposed to be an ultimate end in\nitself, means that education accepts the present social conditions as\nfinal, and thereby takes upon itself the responsibility for perpetuating\nthem. A reorganization of education so that learning takes place\nin connection with the intelligent carrying forward of purposeful\nactivities is a slow work. It can only be accomplished piecemeal, a\nstep at a time. But this is not a reason for nominally accepting one\neducational philosophy and accommodating ourselves in practice to\nanother. It is a challenge to undertake the task of reorganization\ncourageously and to keep at it persistently.\n\nSummary. Interest and discipline are correlative aspects of activity\nhaving an aim. Interest means that one is identified with the objects\nwhich define the activity and which furnish the means and obstacles to\nits realization. Any activity with an aim implies a distinction between\nan earlier incomplete phase and later completing phase; it implies also\nintermediate steps. To have an interest is to take things as entering\ninto such a continuously developing situation, instead of taking them\nin isolation. The time difference between the given incomplete state of\naffairs and the desired fulfillment exacts effort in transformation, it\ndemands continuity of attention and endurance. This attitude is what\nis practically meant by will. Discipline or development of power of\ncontinuous attention is its fruit. The significance of this doctrine for\nthe theory of education is twofold. On the one hand it protects us\nfrom the notion that mind and mental states are something complete in\nthemselves, which then happen to be applied to some ready-made objects\nand topics so that knowledge results. It shows that mind and intelligent\nor purposeful engagement in a course of action into which things\nenter are identical. Hence to develop and train mind is to provide an\nenvironment which induces such activity. On the other side, it protects\nus from the notion that subject matter on its side is something isolated\nand independent. It shows that subject matter of learning is identical\nwith all the objects, ideas, and principles which enter as resources or\nobstacles into the continuous intentional pursuit of a course of action.\nThe developing course of action, whose end and conditions are perceived,\nis the unity which holds together what are often divided into an\nindependent mind on one side and an independent world of objects and\nfacts on the other.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Eleven: Experience and Thinking\n\n1. The Nature of Experience. The nature of experience can be understood\nonly by noting that it includes an active and a passive element\npeculiarly combined. On the active hand, experience is trying--a meaning\nwhich is made explicit in the connected term experiment. On the passive,\nit is undergoing. When we experience something we act upon it, we do\nsomething with it; then we suffer or undergo the consequences. We do\nsomething to the thing and then it does something to us in return:\nsuch is the peculiar combination. The connection of these two phases of\nexperience measures the fruitfulness or value of the experience. Mere\nactivity does not constitute experience. It is dispersive, centrifugal,\ndissipating. Experience as trying involves change, but change is\nmeaningless transition unless it is consciously connected with the\nreturn wave of consequences which flow from it. When an activity is\ncontinued into the undergoing of consequences, when the change made\nby action is reflected back into a change made in us, the mere flux is\nloaded with significance. We learn something. It is not experience when\na child merely sticks his finger into a flame; it is experience when the\nmovement is connected with the pain which he undergoes in consequence.\nHenceforth the sticking of the finger into flame means a burn. Being\nburned is a mere physical change, like the burning of a stick of wood,\nif it is not perceived as a consequence of some other action. Blind and\ncapricious impulses hurry us on heedlessly from one thing to another. So\nfar as this happens, everything is writ in water. There is none of that\ncumulative growth which makes an experience in any vital sense of that\nterm. On the other hand, many things happen to us in the way of pleasure\nand pain which we do not connect with any prior activity of our own.\nThey are mere accidents so far as we are concerned. There is no before\nor after to such experience; no retrospect nor outlook, and consequently\nno meaning. We get nothing which may be carried over to foresee what\nis likely to happen next, and no gain in ability to adjust ourselves\nto what is coming--no added control. Only by courtesy can such an\nexperience be called experience. To \"learn from experience\" is to make a\nbackward and forward connection between what we do to things and what we\nenjoy or suffer from things in consequence. Under such conditions, doing\nbecomes a trying; an experiment with the world to find out what it is\nlike; the undergoing becomes instruction--discovery of the connection of\nthings.\n\nTwo conclusions important for education follow. (1) Experience is\nprimarily an active-passive affair; it is not primarily cognitive. But\n(2) the measure of the value of an experience lies in the perception\nof relationships or continuities to which it leads up. It includes\ncognition in the degree in which it is cumulative or amounts to\nsomething, or has meaning. In schools, those under instruction are\ntoo customarily looked upon as acquiring knowledge as theoretical\nspectators, minds which appropriate knowledge by direct energy of\nintellect. The very word pupil has almost come to mean one who is\nengaged not in having fruitful experiences but in absorbing knowledge\ndirectly. Something which is called mind or consciousness is severed\nfrom the physical organs of activity. The former is then thought to be\npurely intellectual and cognitive; the latter to be an irrelevant and\nintruding physical factor. The intimate union of activity and undergoing\nits consequences which leads to recognition of meaning is broken;\ninstead we have two fragments: mere bodily action on one side, and\nmeaning directly grasped by \"spiritual\" activity on the other.\n\nIt would be impossible to state adequately the evil results which have\nflowed from this dualism of mind and body, much less to exaggerate them.\nSome of the more striking effects, may, however, be enumerated. (a)\nIn part bodily activity becomes an intruder. Having nothing, so it is\nthought, to do with mental activity, it becomes a distraction, an evil\nto be contended with. For the pupil has a body, and brings it to school\nalong with his mind. And the body is, of necessity, a wellspring of\nenergy; it has to do something. But its activities, not being utilized\nin occupation with things which yield significant results, have to be\nfrowned upon. They lead the pupil away from the lesson with which his\n\"mind\" ought to be occupied; they are sources of mischief. The chief\nsource of the \"problem of discipline\" in schools is that the teacher\nhas often to spend the larger part of the time in suppressing the bodily\nactivities which take the mind away from its material. A premium is put\non physical quietude; on silence, on rigid uniformity of posture and\nmovement; upon a machine-like simulation of the attitudes of intelligent\ninterest. The teachers' business is to hold the pupils up to these\nrequirements and to punish the inevitable deviations which occur.\n\nThe nervous strain and fatigue which result with both teacher and pupil\nare a necessary consequence of the abnormality of the situation in which\nbodily activity is divorced from the perception of meaning. Callous\nindifference and explosions from strain alternate. The neglected body,\nhaving no organized fruitful channels of activity, breaks forth, without\nknowing why or how, into meaningless boisterousness, or settles into\nequally meaningless fooling--both very different from the normal play\nof children. Physically active children become restless and unruly; the\nmore quiescent, so-called conscientious ones spend what energy they have\nin the negative task of keeping their instincts and active tendencies\nsuppressed, instead of in a positive one of constructive planning\nand execution; they are thus educated not into responsibility for the\nsignificant and graceful use of bodily powers, but into an enforced duty\nnot to give them free play. It may be seriously asserted that a chief\ncause for the remarkable achievements of Greek education was that it was\nnever misled by false notions into an attempted separation of mind and\nbody.\n\n(b) Even, however, with respect to the lessons which have to be learned\nby the application of \"mind,\" some bodily activities have to be used.\nThe senses--especially the eye and ear--have to be employed to take in\nwhat the book, the map, the blackboard, and the teacher say. The lips\nand vocal organs, and the hands, have to be used to reproduce in speech\nand writing what has been stowed away. The senses are then regarded as\na kind of mysterious conduit through which information is conducted from\nthe external world into the mind; they are spoken of as gateways and\navenues of knowledge. To keep the eyes on the book and the ears open\nto the teacher's words is a mysterious source of intellectual grace.\nMoreover, reading, writing, and figuring--important school arts--demand\nmuscular or motor training. The muscles of eye, hand, and vocal organs\naccordingly have to be trained to act as pipes for carrying knowledge\nback out of the mind into external action. For it happens that using the\nmuscles repeatedly in the same way fixes in them an automatic tendency\nto repeat.\n\nThe obvious result is a mechanical use of the bodily activities which\n(in spite of the generally obtrusive and interfering character of the\nbody in mental action) have to be employed more or less. For the\nsenses and muscles are used not as organic participants in having an\ninstructive experience, but as external inlets and outlets of mind.\nBefore the child goes to school, he learns with his hand, eye, and ear,\nbecause they are organs of the process of doing something from which\nmeaning results. The boy flying a kite has to keep his eye on the kite,\nand has to note the various pressures of the string on his hand. His\nsenses are avenues of knowledge not because external facts are somehow\n\"conveyed\" to the brain, but because they are used in doing something\nwith a purpose. The qualities of seen and touched things have a bearing\non what is done, and are alertly perceived; they have a meaning. But\nwhen pupils are expected to use their eyes to note the form of words,\nirrespective of their meaning, in order to reproduce them in spelling or\nreading, the resulting training is simply of isolated sense organs and\nmuscles. It is such isolation of an act from a purpose which makes it\nmechanical. It is customary for teachers to urge children to read with\nexpression, so as to bring out the meaning. But if they originally\nlearned the sensory-motor technique of reading--the ability to identify\nforms and to reproduce the sounds they stand for--by methods which did\nnot call for attention to meaning, a mechanical habit was established\nwhich makes it difficult to read subsequently with intelligence. The\nvocal organs have been trained to go their own way automatically in\nisolation; and meaning cannot be tied on at will. Drawing, singing, and\nwriting may be taught in the same mechanical way; for, we repeat, any\nway is mechanical which narrows down the bodily activity so that a\nseparation of body from mind--that is, from recognition of meaning--is\nset up. Mathematics, even in its higher branches, when undue emphasis\nis put upon the technique of calculation, and science, when laboratory\nexercises are given for their own sake, suffer from the same evil.\n\n(c) On the intellectual side, the separation of \"mind\" from direct\noccupation with things throws emphasis on things at the expense of\nrelations or connections. It is altogether too common to separate\nperceptions and even ideas from judgments. The latter are thought to\ncome after the former in order to compare them. It is alleged that the\nmind perceives things apart from relations; that it forms ideas of them\nin isolation from their connections--with what goes before and comes\nafter. Then judgment or thought is called upon to combine the separated\nitems of \"knowledge\" so that their resemblance or causal connection\nshall be brought out. As matter of fact, every perception and every idea\nis a sense of the bearings, use, and cause, of a thing. We do not really\nknow a chair or have an idea of it by inventorying and enumerating its\nvarious isolated qualities, but only by bringing these qualities into\nconnection with something else--the purpose which makes it a chair and\nnot a table; or its difference from the kind of chair we are accustomed\nto, or the \"period\" which it represents, and so on. A wagon is not\nperceived when all its parts are summed up; it is the characteristic\nconnection of the parts which makes it a wagon. And these connections\nare not those of mere physical juxtaposition; they involve connection\nwith the animals that draw it, the things that are carried on it, and so\non. Judgment is employed in the perception; otherwise the perception is\nmere sensory excitation or else a recognition of the result of a prior\njudgment, as in the case of familiar objects.\n\nWords, the counters for ideals, are, however, easily taken for ideas.\nAnd in just the degree in which mental activity is separated from active\nconcern with the world, from doing something and connecting the doing\nwith what is undergone, words, symbols, come to take the place of ideas.\nThe substitution is the more subtle because some meaning is recognized.\nBut we are very easily trained to be content with a minimum of meaning,\nand to fail to note how restricted is our perception of the relations\nwhich confer significance. We get so thoroughly used to a kind of\npseudo-idea, a half perception, that we are not aware how half-dead\nour mental action is, and how much keener and more extensive our\nobservations and ideas would be if we formed them under conditions of\na vital experience which required us to use judgment: to hunt for the\nconnections of the thing dealt with. There is no difference of opinion\nas to the theory of the matter. All authorities agree that that\ndiscernment of relationships is the genuinely intellectual matter;\nhence, the educative matter. The failure arises in supposing that\nrelationships can become perceptible without experience--without that\nconjoint trying and undergoing of which we have spoken. It is assumed\nthat \"mind\" can grasp them if it will only give attention, and that this\nattention may be given at will irrespective of the situation. Hence\nthe deluge of half-observations, of verbal ideas, and unassimilated\n\"knowledge\" which afflicts the world. An ounce of experience is better\nthan a ton of theory simply because it is only in experience that any\ntheory has vital and verifiable significance. An experience, a very\nhumble experience, is capable of generating and carrying any amount of\ntheory (or intellectual content), but a theory apart from an experience\ncannot be definitely grasped even as theory. It tends to become a mere\nverbal formula, a set of catchwords used to render thinking, or genuine\ntheorizing, unnecessary and impossible. Because of our education we use\nwords, thinking they are ideas, to dispose of questions, the disposal\nbeing in reality simply such an obscuring of perception as prevents us\nfrom seeing any longer the difficulty.\n\n2. Reflection in Experience. Thought or reflection, as we have already\nseen virtually if not explicitly, is the discernment of the relation\nbetween what we try to do and what happens in consequence. No experience\nhaving a meaning is possible without some element of thought. But we\nmay contrast two types of experience according to the proportion of\nreflection found in them. All our experiences have a phase of \"cut and\ntry\" in them--what psychologists call the method of trial and error. We\nsimply do something, and when it fails, we do something else, and keep\non trying till we hit upon something which works, and then we adopt\nthat method as a rule of thumb measure in subsequent procedure. Some\nexperiences have very little else in them than this hit and miss or\nsucceed process. We see that a certain way of acting and a certain\nconsequence are connected, but we do not see how they are. We do not see\nthe details of the connection; the links are missing. Our discernment is\nvery gross. In other cases we push our observation farther. We analyze\nto see just what lies between so as to bind together cause and effect,\nactivity and consequence. This extension of our insight makes foresight\nmore accurate and comprehensive. The action which rests simply upon the\ntrial and error method is at the mercy of circumstances; they may change\nso that the act performed does not operate in the way it was expected\nto. But if we know in detail upon what the result depends, we can look\nto see whether the required conditions are there. The method extends our\npractical control. For if some of the conditions are missing, we may,\nif we know what the needed antecedents for an effect are, set to work to\nsupply them; or, if they are such as to produce undesirable effects\nas well, we may eliminate some of the superfluous causes and economize\neffort.\n\nIn discovery of the detailed connections of our activities and what\nhappens in consequence, the thought implied in cut and try experience is\nmade explicit. Its quantity increases so that its proportionate value is\nvery different. Hence the quality of the experience changes; the\nchange is so significant that we may call this type of experience\nreflective--that is, reflective par excellence. The deliberate\ncultivation of this phase of thought constitutes thinking as a\ndistinctive experience. Thinking, in other words, is the intentional\nendeavor to discover specific connections between something which we do\nand the consequences which result, so that the two become continuous.\nTheir isolation, and consequently their purely arbitrary going together,\nis canceled; a unified developing situation takes its place. The\noccurrence is now understood; it is explained; it is reasonable, as we\nsay, that the thing should happen as it does.\n\nThinking is thus equivalent to an explicit rendering of the intelligent\nelement in our experience. It makes it possible to act with an end\nin view. It is the condition of our having aims. As soon as an infant\nbegins to expect he begins to use something which is now going on as\na sign of something to follow; he is, in however simple a fashion,\njudging. For he takes one thing as evidence of something else, and so\nrecognizes a relationship. Any future development, however elaborate\nit may be, is only an extending and a refining of this simple act of\ninference. All that the wisest man can do is to observe what is going on\nmore widely and more minutely and then select more carefully from what\nis noted just those factors which point to something to happen. The\nopposites, once more, to thoughtful action are routine and capricious\nbehavior. The former accepts what has been customary as a full measure\nof possibility and omits to take into account the connections of the\nparticular things done. The latter makes the momentary act a measure\nof value, and ignores the connections of our personal action with the\nenergies of the environment. It says, virtually, \"things are to be just\nas I happen to like them at this instant,\" as routine says in effect\n\"let things continue just as I have found them in the past.\" Both refuse\nto acknowledge responsibility for the future consequences which\nflow from present action. Reflection is the acceptance of such\nresponsibility.\n\nThe starting point of any process of thinking is something going on,\nsomething which just as it stands is incomplete or unfulfilled. Its\npoint, its meaning lies literally in what it is going to be, in how it\nis going to turn out. As this is written, the world is filled with the\nclang of contending armies. For an active participant in the war, it is\nclear that the momentous thing is the issue, the future consequences, of\nthis and that happening. He is identified, for the time at least, with\nthe issue; his fate hangs upon the course things are taking. But even\nfor an onlooker in a neutral country, the significance of every move\nmade, of every advance here and retreat there, lies in what it portends.\nTo think upon the news as it comes to us is to attempt to see what is\nindicated as probable or possible regarding an outcome. To fill our\nheads, like a scrapbook, with this and that item as a finished and\ndone-for thing, is not to think. It is to turn ourselves into a piece\nof registering apparatus. To consider the bearing of the occurrence\nupon what may be, but is not yet, is to think. Nor will the reflective\nexperience be different in kind if we substitute distance in time for\nseparation in space. Imagine the war done with, and a future historian\ngiving an account of it. The episode is, by assumption, past. But he\ncannot give a thoughtful account of the war save as he preserves the\ntime sequence; the meaning of each occurrence, as he deals with it, lies\nin what was future for it, though not for the historian. To take it by\nitself as a complete existence is to take it unreflectively.\nReflection also implies concern with the issue--a certain sympathetic\nidentification of our own destiny, if only dramatic, with the outcome of\nthe course of events. For the general in the war, or a common soldier,\nor a citizen of one of the contending nations, the stimulus to thinking\nis direct and urgent. For neutrals, it is indirect and dependent upon\nimagination. But the flagrant partisanship of human nature is evidence\nof the intensity of the tendency to identify ourselves with one possible\ncourse of events, and to reject the other as foreign. If we cannot take\nsides in overt action, and throw in our little weight to help determine\nthe final balance, we take sides emotionally and imaginatively. We\ndesire this or that outcome. One wholly indifferent to the outcome does\nnot follow or think about what is happening at all. From this dependence\nof the act of thinking upon a sense of sharing in the consequences\nof what goes on, flows one of the chief paradoxes of thought. Born in\npartiality, in order to accomplish its tasks it must achieve a certain\ndetached impartiality. The general who allows his hopes and desires to\naffect his observations and interpretations of the existing situation\nwill surely make a mistake in calculation. While hopes and fears may be\nthe chief motive for a thoughtful following of the war on the part of\nan onlooker in a neutral country, he too will think ineffectively in the\ndegree in which his preferences modify the stuff of his observations and\nreasonings. There is, however, no incompatibility between the fact that\nthe occasion of reflection lies in a personal sharing in what is going\non and the fact that the value of the reflection lies upon keeping one's\nself out of the data. The almost insurmountable difficulty of achieving\nthis detachment is evidence that thinking originates in situations where\nthe course of thinking is an actual part of the course of events and is\ndesigned to influence the result. Only gradually and with a widening of\nthe area of vision through a growth of social sympathies does thinking\ndevelop to include what lies beyond our direct interests: a fact of\ngreat significance for education.\n\nTo say that thinking occurs with reference to situations which are still\ngoing on, and incomplete, is to say that thinking occurs when things are\nuncertain or doubtful or problematic. Only what is finished, completed,\nis wholly assured. Where there is reflection there is suspense. The\nobject of thinking is to help reach a conclusion, to project a possible\ntermination on the basis of what is already given. Certain other facts\nabout thinking accompany this feature. Since the situation in which\nthinking occurs is a doubtful one, thinking is a process of inquiry, of\nlooking into things, of investigating. Acquiring is always secondary,\nand instrumental to the act of inquiring. It is seeking, a quest,\nfor something that is not at hand. We sometimes talk as if \"original\nresearch\" were a peculiar prerogative of scientists or at least of\nadvanced students. But all thinking is research, and all research is\nnative, original, with him who carries it on, even if everybody else in\nthe world already is sure of what he is still looking for.\n\nIt also follows that all thinking involves a risk. Certainty cannot be\nguaranteed in advance. The invasion of the unknown is of the nature of\nan adventure; we cannot be sure in advance. The conclusions of thinking,\ntill confirmed by the event, are, accordingly, more or less tentative or\nhypothetical. Their dogmatic assertion as final is unwarranted, short of\nthe issue, in fact. The Greeks acutely raised the question: How can we\nlearn? For either we know already what we are after, or else we do not\nknow. In neither case is learning possible; on the first alternative\nbecause we know already; on the second, because we do not know what to\nlook for, nor if, by chance, we find it can we tell that it is what\nwe were after. The dilemma makes no provision for coming to know, for\nlearning; it assumes either complete knowledge or complete ignorance.\nNevertheless the twilight zone of inquiry, of thinking, exists. The\npossibility of hypothetical conclusions, of tentative results, is\nthe fact which the Greek dilemma overlooked. The perplexities of the\nsituation suggest certain ways out. We try these ways, and either push\nour way out, in which case we know we have found what we were looking\nfor, or the situation gets darker and more confused--in which case, we\nknow we are still ignorant. Tentative means trying out, feeling one's\nway along provisionally. Taken by itself, the Greek argument is a nice\npiece of formal logic. But it is also true that as long as men kept a\nsharp disjunction between knowledge and ignorance, science made only\nslow and accidental advance. Systematic advance in invention and\ndiscovery began when men recognized that they could utilize doubt for\npurposes of inquiry by forming conjectures to guide action in tentative\nexplorations, whose development would confirm, refute, or modify the\nguiding conjecture. While the Greeks made knowledge more than learning,\nmodern science makes conserved knowledge only a means to learning, to\ndiscovery. To recur to our illustration. A commanding general cannot\nbase his actions upon either absolute certainty or absolute ignorance.\nHe has a certain amount of information at hand which is, we will assume,\nreasonably trustworthy. He then infers certain prospective movements,\nthus assigning meaning to the bare facts of the given situation. His\ninference is more or less dubious and hypothetical. But he acts upon it.\nHe develops a plan of procedure, a method of dealing with the situation.\nThe consequences which directly follow from his acting this way rather\nthan that test and reveal the worth of his reflections. What he already\nknows functions and has value in what he learns. But will this account\napply in the case of the one in a neutral country who is thoughtfully\nfollowing as best he can the progress of events? In form, yes, though\nnot of course in content. It is self-evident that his guesses about\nthe future indicated by present facts, guesses by which he attempts to\nsupply meaning to a multitude of disconnected data, cannot be the basis\nof a method which shall take effect in the campaign. That is not his\nproblem. But in the degree in which he is actively thinking, and\nnot merely passively following the course of events, his tentative\ninferences will take effect in a method of procedure appropriate to his\nsituation. He will anticipate certain future moves, and will be on the\nalert to see whether they happen or not. In the degree in which he is\nintellectually concerned, or thoughtful, he will be actively on the\nlookout; he will take steps which although they do not affect the\ncampaign, modify in some degree his subsequent actions. Otherwise his\nlater \"I told you so\" has no intellectual quality at all; it does\nnot mark any testing or verification of prior thinking, but only a\ncoincidence that yields emotional satisfaction--and includes a\nlarge factor of self-deception. The case is comparable to that of an\nastronomer who from given data has been led to foresee (infer) a future\neclipse. No matter how great the mathematical probability, the inference\nis hypothetical--a matter of probability. 1 The hypothesis as to the\ndate and position of the anticipated eclipse becomes the material of\nforming a method of future conduct. Apparatus is arranged; possibly\nan expedition is made to some far part of the globe. In any case, some\nactive steps are taken which actually change some physical conditions.\nAnd apart from such steps and the consequent modification of the\nsituation, there is no completion of the act of thinking. It remains\nsuspended. Knowledge, already attained knowledge, controls thinking and\nmakes it fruitful.\n\nSo much for the general features of a reflective experience. They are\n(i) perplexity, confusion, doubt, due to the fact that one is implicated\nin an incomplete situation whose full character is not yet determined;\n(ii) a conjectural anticipation--a tentative interpretation of the given\nelements, attributing to them a tendency to effect certain consequences;\n(iii) a careful survey (examination, inspection, exploration, analysis)\nof all attainable consideration which will define and clarify the\nproblem in hand; (iv) a consequent elaboration of the tentative\nhypothesis to make it more precise and more consistent, because squaring\nwith a wider range of facts; (v) taking one stand upon the projected\nhypothesis as a plan of action which is applied to the existing state of\naffairs: doing something overtly to bring about the anticipated result,\nand thereby testing the hypothesis. It is the extent and accuracy of\nsteps three and four which mark off a distinctive reflective experience\nfrom one on the trial and error plane. They make thinking itself into an\nexperience. Nevertheless, we never get wholly beyond the trial and error\nsituation. Our most elaborate and rationally consistent thought has to\nbe tried in the world and thereby tried out. And since it can never\ntake into account all the connections, it can never cover with perfect\naccuracy all the consequences. Yet a thoughtful survey of conditions is\nso careful, and the guessing at results so controlled, that we have a\nright to mark off the reflective experience from the grosser trial and\nerror forms of action.\n\nSummary. In determining the place of thinking in experience we first\nnoted that experience involves a connection of doing or trying with\nsomething which is undergone in consequence. A separation of the active\ndoing phase from the passive undergoing phase destroys the vital meaning\nof an experience. Thinking is the accurate and deliberate instituting of\nconnections between what is done and its consequences. It notes not only\nthat they are connected, but the details of the connection. It makes\nconnecting links explicit in the form of relationships. The stimulus\nto thinking is found when we wish to determine the significance of some\nact, performed or to be performed. Then we anticipate consequences. This\nimplies that the situation as it stands is, either in fact or to us,\nincomplete and hence indeterminate. The projection of consequences means\na proposed or tentative solution. To perfect this hypothesis, existing\nconditions have to be carefully scrutinized and the implications of the\nhypothesis developed--an operation called reasoning. Then the suggested\nsolution--the idea or theory--has to be tested by acting upon it. If it\nbrings about certain consequences, certain determinate changes, in the\nworld, it is accepted as valid. Otherwise it is modified, and another\ntrial made. Thinking includes all of these steps,--the sense of a\nproblem, the observation of conditions, the formation and rational\nelaboration of a suggested conclusion, and the active experimental\ntesting. While all thinking results in knowledge, ultimately the value\nof knowledge is subordinate to its use in thinking. For we live not in a\nsettled and finished world, but in one which is going on, and where our\nmain task is prospective, and where retrospect--and all knowledge\nas distinct from thought is retrospect--is of value in the solidity,\nsecurity, and fertility it affords our dealings with the future.\n\n1 It is most important for the practice of science that men in many\ncases can calculate the degree of probability and the amount of probable\nerror involved, but that does alter the features of the situation as\ndescribed. It refines them.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twelve: Thinking in Education\n\n1. The Essentials of Method. No one doubts, theoretically, the\nimportance of fostering in school good habits of thinking. But apart\nfrom the fact that the acknowledgment is not so great in practice as in\ntheory, there is not adequate theoretical recognition that all which the\nschool can or need do for pupils, so far as their minds are concerned\n(that is, leaving out certain specialized muscular abilities), is to\ndevelop their ability to think. The parceling out of instruction\namong various ends such as acquisition of skill (in reading, spelling,\nwriting, drawing, reciting); acquiring information (in history and\ngeography), and training of thinking is a measure of the ineffective way\nin which we accomplish all three. Thinking which is not connected with\nincrease of efficiency in action, and with learning more about ourselves\nand the world in which we live, has something the matter with it just\nas thought (See ante, p. 147). And skill obtained apart from thinking is\nnot connected with any sense of the purposes for which it is to be used.\nIt consequently leaves a man at the mercy of his routine habits and of\nthe authoritative control of others, who know what they are about and\nwho are not especially scrupulous as to their means of achievement.\nAnd information severed from thoughtful action is dead, a mind-crushing\nload. Since it simulates knowledge and thereby develops the poison of\nconceit, it is a most powerful obstacle to further growth in the grace\nof intelligence. The sole direct path to enduring improvement in the\nmethods of instruction and learning consists in centering upon the\nconditions which exact, promote, and test thinking. Thinking is the\nmethod of intelligent learning, of learning that employs and rewards\nmind. We speak, legitimately enough, about the method of thinking, but\nthe important thing to bear in mind about method is that thinking is\nmethod, the method of intelligent experience in the course which it\ntakes.\n\nI. The initial stage of that developing experience which is called\nthinking is experience. This remark may sound like a silly truism. It\nought to be one; but unfortunately it is not. On the contrary, thinking\nis often regarded both in philosophic theory and in educational practice\nas something cut off from experience, and capable of being cultivated\nin isolation. In fact, the inherent limitations of experience are often\nurged as the sufficient ground for attention to thinking. Experience\nis then thought to be confined to the senses and appetites; to a mere\nmaterial world, while thinking proceeds from a higher faculty (of\nreason), and is occupied with spiritual or at least literary things. So,\noftentimes, a sharp distinction is made between pure mathematics as a\npeculiarly fit subject matter of thought (since it has nothing to do\nwith physical existences) and applied mathematics, which has utilitarian\nbut not mental value.\n\nSpeaking generally, the fundamental fallacy in methods of instruction\nlies in supposing that experience on the part of pupils may be assumed.\nWhat is here insisted upon is the necessity of an actual empirical\nsituation as the initiating phase of thought. Experience is here taken\nas previously defined: trying to do something and having the thing\nperceptibly do something to one in return. The fallacy consists\nin supposing that we can begin with ready-made subject matter of\narithmetic, or geography, or whatever, irrespective of some direct\npersonal experience of a situation. Even the kindergarten and Montessori\ntechniques are so anxious to get at intellectual distinctions, without\n\"waste of time,\" that they tend to ignore--or reduce--the immediate\ncrude handling of the familiar material of experience, and to introduce\npupils at once to material which expresses the intellectual distinctions\nwhich adults have made. But the first stage of contact with any new\nmaterial, at whatever age of maturity, must inevitably be of the trial\nand error sort. An individual must actually try, in play or work, to do\nsomething with material in carrying out his own impulsive activity,\nand then note the interaction of his energy and that of the material\nemployed. This is what happens when a child at first begins to build\nwith blocks, and it is equally what happens when a scientific man in his\nlaboratory begins to experiment with unfamiliar objects.\n\nHence the first approach to any subject in school, if thought is to be\naroused and not words acquired, should be as unscholastic as possible.\nTo realize what an experience, or empirical situation, means, we have\nto call to mind the sort of situation that presents itself outside of\nschool; the sort of occupations that interest and engage activity in\nordinary life. And careful inspection of methods which are permanently\nsuccessful in formal education, whether in arithmetic or learning to\nread, or studying geography, or learning physics or a foreign language,\nwill reveal that they depend for their efficiency upon the fact that\nthey go back to the type of the situation which causes reflection out\nof school in ordinary life. They give the pupils something to do, not\nsomething to learn; and the doing is of such a nature as to demand\nthinking, or the intentional noting of connections; learning naturally\nresults.\n\nThat the situation should be of such a nature as to arouse thinking\nmeans of course that it should suggest something to do which is not\neither routine or capricious--something, in other words, presenting\nwhat is new (and hence uncertain or problematic) and yet sufficiently\nconnected with existing habits to call out an effective response. An\neffective response means one which accomplishes a perceptible result,\nin distinction from a purely haphazard activity, where the consequences\ncannot be mentally connected with what is done. The most significant\nquestion which can be asked, accordingly, about any situation or\nexperience proposed to induce learning is what quality of problem it\ninvolves.\n\nAt first thought, it might seem as if usual school methods measured\nwell up to the standard here set. The giving of problems, the putting of\nquestions, the assigning of tasks, the magnifying of difficulties, is\na large part of school work. But it is indispensable to discriminate\nbetween genuine and simulated or mock problems. The following questions\nmay aid in making such discrimination. (a) Is there anything but\na problem? Does the question naturally suggest itself within some\nsituation or personal experience? Or is it an aloof thing, a problem\nonly for the purposes of conveying instruction in some school topic?\nIs it the sort of trying that would arouse observation and engage\nexperimentation outside of school? (b) Is it the pupil's own problem, or\nis it the teacher's or textbook's problem, made a problem for the pupil\nonly because he cannot get the required mark or be promoted or win\nthe teacher's approval, unless he deals with it? Obviously, these two\nquestions overlap. They are two ways of getting at the same point:\nIs the experience a personal thing of such a nature as inherently to\nstimulate and direct observation of the connections involved, and to\nlead to inference and its testing? Or is it imposed from without, and\nis the pupil's problem simply to meet the external requirement? Such\nquestions may give us pause in deciding upon the extent to which\ncurrent practices are adapted to develop reflective habits. The physical\nequipment and arrangements of the average schoolroom are hostile to the\nexistence of real situations of experience. What is there similar to\nthe conditions of everyday life which will generate difficulties? Almost\neverything testifies to the great premium put upon listening, reading,\nand the reproduction of what is told and read. It is hardly possible\nto overstate the contrast between such conditions and the situations of\nactive contact with things and persons in the home, on the playground,\nin fulfilling of ordinary responsibilities of life. Much of it is not\neven comparable with the questions which may arise in the mind of a boy\nor girl in conversing with others or in reading books outside of the\nschool. No one has ever explained why children are so full of questions\noutside of the school (so that they pester grown-up persons if they get\nany encouragement), and the conspicuous absence of display of curiosity\nabout the subject matter of school lessons. Reflection on this striking\ncontrast will throw light upon the question of how far customary school\nconditions supply a context of experience in which problems naturally\nsuggest themselves. No amount of improvement in the personal technique\nof the instructor will wholly remedy this state of things. There must\nbe more actual material, more stuff, more appliances, and more\nopportunities for doing things, before the gap can be overcome. And\nwhere children are engaged in doing things and in discussing what arises\nin the course of their doing, it is found, even with comparatively\nindifferent modes of instruction, that children's inquiries are\nspontaneous and numerous, and the proposals of solution advanced,\nvaried, and ingenious.\n\nAs a consequence of the absence of the materials and occupations which\ngenerate real problems, the pupil's problems are not his; or, rather,\nthey are his only as a pupil, not as a human being. Hence the lamentable\nwaste in carrying over such expertness as is achieved in dealing\nwith them to the affairs of life beyond the schoolroom. A pupil has a\nproblem, but it is the problem of meeting the peculiar requirements set\nby the teacher. His problem becomes that of finding out what the teacher\nwants, what will satisfy the teacher in recitation and examination and\noutward deportment. Relationship to subject matter is no longer direct.\nThe occasions and material of thought are not found in the arithmetic\nor the history or geography itself, but in skillfully adapting\nthat material to the teacher's requirements. The pupil studies, but\nunconsciously to himself the objects of his study are the conventions\nand standards of the school system and school authority, not the nominal\n\"studies.\" The thinking thus evoked is artificially one-sided at the\nbest. At its worst, the problem of the pupil is not how to meet the\nrequirements of school life, but how to seem to meet them--or, how to\ncome near enough to meeting them to slide along without an undue amount\nof friction. The type of judgment formed by these devices is not a\ndesirable addition to character. If these statements give too highly\ncolored a picture of usual school methods, the exaggeration may at least\nserve to illustrate the point: the need of active pursuits, involving\nthe use of material to accomplish purposes, if there are to be\nsituations which normally generate problems occasioning thoughtful\ninquiry.\n\nII. There must be data at command to supply the considerations required\nin dealing with the specific difficulty which has presented itself.\nTeachers following a \"developing\" method sometimes tell children to\nthink things out for themselves as if they could spin them out of their\nown heads. The material of thinking is not thoughts, but actions,\nfacts, events, and the relations of things. In other words, to think\neffectively one must have had, or now have, experiences which will\nfurnish him resources for coping with the difficulty at hand. A\ndifficulty is an indispensable stimulus to thinking, but not all\ndifficulties call out thinking. Sometimes they overwhelm and submerge\nand discourage. The perplexing situation must be sufficiently like\nsituations which have already been dealt with so that pupils will have\nsome control of the meanings of handling it. A large part of the art of\ninstruction lies in making the difficulty of new problems large enough\nto challenge thought, and small enough so that, in addition to the\nconfusion naturally attending the novel elements, there shall be\nluminous familiar spots from which helpful suggestions may spring.\n\nIn one sense, it is a matter of indifference by what psychological means\nthe subject matter for reflection is provided. Memory, observation,\nreading, communication, are all avenues for supplying data. The relative\nproportion to be obtained from each is a matter of the specific\nfeatures of the particular problem in hand. It is foolish to insist\nupon observation of objects presented to the senses if the student is\nso familiar with the objects that he could just as well recall the facts\nindependently. It is possible to induce undue and crippling dependence\nupon sense-presentations. No one can carry around with him a museum of\nall the things whose properties will assist the conduct of thought. A\nwell-trained mind is one that has a maximum of resources behind it, so\nto speak, and that is accustomed to go over its past experiences to\nsee what they yield. On the other hand, a quality or relation of even\na familiar object may previously have been passed over, and be just the\nfact that is helpful in dealing with the question. In this case direct\nobservation is called for. The same principle applies to the use to\nbe made of observation on one hand and of reading and \"telling\" on the\nother. Direct observation is naturally more vivid and vital. But it has\nits limitations; and in any case it is a necessary part of education\nthat one should acquire the ability to supplement the narrowness of his\nimmediately personal experiences by utilizing the experiences of others.\nExcessive reliance upon others for data (whether got from reading\nor listening) is to be depreciated. Most objectionable of all is the\nprobability that others, the book or the teacher, will supply solutions\nready-made, instead of giving material that the student has to adapt and\napply to the question in hand for himself.\n\nThere is no inconsistency in saying that in schools there is usually\nboth too much and too little information supplied by others. The\naccumulation and acquisition of information for purposes of reproduction\nin recitation and examination is made too much of. \"Knowledge,\" in\nthe sense of information, means the working capital, the indispensable\nresources, of further inquiry; of finding out, or learning, more things.\nFrequently it is treated as an end itself, and then the goal becomes\nto heap it up and display it when called for. This static, cold-storage\nideal of knowledge is inimical to educative development. It not only\nlets occasions for thinking go unused, but it swamps thinking. No one\ncould construct a house on ground cluttered with miscellaneous junk.\nPupils who have stored their \"minds\" with all kinds of material which\nthey have never put to intellectual uses are sure to be hampered\nwhen they try to think. They have no practice in selecting what is\nappropriate, and no criterion to go by; everything is on the same dead\nstatic level. On the other hand, it is quite open to question whether,\nif information actually functioned in experience through use in\napplication to the student's own purposes, there would not be need of\nmore varied resources in books, pictures, and talks than are usually at\ncommand.\n\nIII. The correlate in thinking of facts, data, knowledge already\nacquired, is suggestions, inferences, conjectured meanings,\nsuppositions, tentative explanations:--ideas, in short. Careful\nobservation and recollection determine what is given, what is already\nthere, and hence assured. They cannot furnish what is lacking. They\ndefine, clarify, and locate the question; they cannot supply its answer.\nProjection, invention, ingenuity, devising come in for that purpose. The\ndata arouse suggestions, and only by reference to the specific data can\nwe pass upon the appropriateness of the suggestions. But the suggestions\nrun beyond what is, as yet, actually given in experience. They forecast\npossible results, things to do, not facts (things already done).\nInference is always an invasion of the unknown, a leap from the known.\n\nIn this sense, a thought (what a thing suggests but is not as it is\npresented) is creative,--an incursion into the novel. It involves some\ninventiveness. What is suggested must, indeed, be familiar in some\ncontext; the novelty, the inventive devising, clings to the new light\nin which it is seen, the different use to which it is put. When Newton\nthought of his theory of gravitation, the creative aspect of his\nthought was not found in its materials. They were familiar; many of\nthem commonplaces--sun, moon, planets, weight, distance, mass, square of\nnumbers. These were not original ideas; they were established facts. His\noriginality lay in the use to which these familiar acquaintances were\nput by introduction into an unfamiliar context. The same is true of\nevery striking scientific discovery, every great invention, every\nadmirable artistic production. Only silly folk identify creative\noriginality with the extraordinary and fanciful; others recognize\nthat its measure lies in putting everyday things to uses which had not\noccurred to others. The operation is novel, not the materials out of\nwhich it is constructed.\n\nThe educational conclusion which follows is that all thinking is\noriginal in a projection of considerations which have not been\npreviously apprehended. The child of three who discovers what can be\ndone with blocks, or of six who finds out what he can make by putting\nfive cents and five cents together, is really a discoverer, even though\neverybody else in the world knows it. There is a genuine increment of\nexperience; not another item mechanically added on, but enrichment by a\nnew quality. The charm which the spontaneity of little children has\nfor sympathetic observers is due to perception of this intellectual\noriginality. The joy which children themselves experience is the joy of\nintellectual constructiveness--of creativeness, if the word may be used\nwithout misunderstanding. The educational moral I am chiefly concerned\nto draw is not, however, that teachers would find their own work less of\na grind and strain if school conditions favored learning in the sense\nof discovery and not in that of storing away what others pour into\nthem; nor that it would be possible to give even children and youth the\ndelights of personal intellectual productiveness--true and important\nas are these things. It is that no thought, no idea, can possibly be\nconveyed as an idea from one person to another. When it is told, it\nis, to the one to whom it is told, another given fact, not an idea. The\ncommunication may stimulate the other person to realize the question for\nhimself and to think out a like idea, or it may smother his intellectual\ninterest and suppress his dawning effort at thought. But what he\ndirectly gets cannot be an idea. Only by wrestling with the conditions\nof the problem at first hand, seeking and finding his own way out, does\nhe think. When the parent or teacher has provided the conditions which\nstimulate thinking and has taken a sympathetic attitude toward the\nactivities of the learner by entering into a common or conjoint\nexperience, all has been done which a second party can do to instigate\nlearning. The rest lies with the one directly concerned. If he\ncannot devise his own solution (not of course in isolation, but in\ncorrespondence with the teacher and other pupils) and find his own way\nout he will not learn, not even if he can recite some correct answer\nwith one hundred per cent accuracy. We can and do supply ready-made\n\"ideas\" by the thousand; we do not usually take much pains to see\nthat the one learning engages in significant situations where his own\nactivities generate, support, and clinch ideas--that is, perceived\nmeanings or connections. This does not mean that the teacher is to stand\noff and look on; the alternative to furnishing ready-made subject\nmatter and listening to the accuracy with which it is reproduced is not\nquiescence, but participation, sharing, in an activity. In such shared\nactivity, the teacher is a learner, and the learner is, without knowing\nit, a teacher--and upon the whole, the less consciousness there is, on\neither side, of either giving or receiving instruction, the better.\nIV. Ideas, as we have seen, whether they be humble guesses or\ndignified theories, are anticipations of possible solutions. They are\nanticipations of some continuity or connection of an activity and a\nconsequence which has not as yet shown itself. They are therefore tested\nby the operation of acting upon them. They are to guide and organize\nfurther observations, recollections, and experiments. They are\nintermediate in learning, not final. All educational reformers, as we\nhave had occasion to remark, are given to attacking the passivity of\ntraditional education. They have opposed pouring in from without, and\nabsorbing like a sponge; they have attacked drilling in material as into\nhard and resisting rock. But it is not easy to secure conditions which\nwill make the getting of an idea identical with having an experience\nwhich widens and makes more precise our contact with the environment.\nActivity, even self-activity, is too easily thought of as something\nmerely mental, cooped up within the head, or finding expression only\nthrough the vocal organs.\n\nWhile the need of application of ideas gained in study is acknowledged\nby all the more successful methods of instruction, the exercises in\napplication are sometimes treated as devices for fixing what has\nalready been learned and for getting greater practical skill in its\nmanipulation. These results are genuine and not to be despised. But\npractice in applying what has been gained in study ought primarily to\nhave an intellectual quality. As we have already seen, thoughts just\nas thoughts are incomplete. At best they are tentative; they are\nsuggestions, indications. They are standpoints and methods for dealing\nwith situations of experience. Till they are applied in these situations\nthey lack full point and reality. Only application tests them, and only\ntesting confers full meaning and a sense of their reality. Short of use\nmade of them, they tend to segregate into a peculiar world of their\nown. It may be seriously questioned whether the philosophies (to which\nreference has been made in section 2 of chapter X) which isolate mind\nand set it over against the world did not have their origin in the fact\nthat the reflective or theoretical class of men elaborated a large stock\nof ideas which social conditions did not allow them to act upon and\ntest. Consequently men were thrown back into their own thoughts as ends\nin themselves.\n\nHowever this may be, there can be no doubt that a peculiar artificiality\nattaches to much of what is learned in schools. It can hardly be said\nthat many students consciously think of the subject matter as unreal;\nbut it assuredly does not possess for them the kind of reality which the\nsubject matter of their vital experiences possesses. They learn not to\nexpect that sort of reality of it; they become habituated to treating\nit as having reality for the purposes of recitations, lessons, and\nexaminations. That it should remain inert for the experiences of daily\nlife is more or less a matter of course. The bad effects are twofold.\nOrdinary experience does not receive the enrichment which it should;\nit is not fertilized by school learning. And the attitudes which spring\nfrom getting used to and accepting half-understood and ill-digested\nmaterial weaken vigor and efficiency of thought.\n\nIf we have dwelt especially on the negative side, it is for the sake\nof suggesting positive measures adapted to the effectual development\nof thought. Where schools are equipped with laboratories, shops,\nand gardens, where dramatizations, plays, and games are freely used,\nopportunities exist for reproducing situations of life, and for\nacquiring and applying information and ideas in the carrying forward of\nprogressive experiences. Ideas are not segregated, they do not form an\nisolated island. They animate and enrich the ordinary course of life.\nInformation is vitalized by its function; by the place it occupies in\ndirection of action. The phrase \"opportunities exist\" is used purposely.\nThey may not be taken advantage of; it is possible to employ manual\nand constructive activities in a physical way, as means of getting just\nbodily skill; or they may be used almost exclusively for \"utilitarian,\"\ni.e., pecuniary, ends. But the disposition on the part of upholders of\n\"cultural\" education to assume that such activities are merely physical\nor professional in quality, is itself a product of the philosophies\nwhich isolate mind from direction of the course of experience and hence\nfrom action upon and with things. When the \"mental\" is regarded as\na self-contained separate realm, a counterpart fate befalls bodily\nactivity and movements. They are regarded as at the best mere external\nannexes to mind. They may be necessary for the satisfaction of bodily\nneeds and the attainment of external decency and comfort, but they do\nnot occupy a necessary place in mind nor enact an indispensable role\nin the completion of thought. Hence they have no place in a liberal\neducation--i.e., one which is concerned with the interests of\nintelligence. If they come in at all, it is as a concession to the\nmaterial needs of the masses. That they should be allowed to invade\nthe education of the elite is unspeakable. This conclusion follows\nirresistibly from the isolated conception of mind, but by the same\nlogic it disappears when we perceive what mind really is--namely, the\npurposive and directive factor in the development of experience. While\nit is desirable that all educational institutions should be equipped so\nas to give students an opportunity for acquiring and testing ideas and\ninformation in active pursuits typifying important social situations, it\nwill, doubtless, be a long time before all of them are thus furnished.\nBut this state of affairs does not afford instructors an excuse for\nfolding their hands and persisting in methods which segregate school\nknowledge. Every recitation in every subject gives an opportunity for\nestablishing cross connections between the subject matter of the lesson\nand the wider and more direct experiences of everyday life. Classroom\ninstruction falls into three kinds. The least desirable treats each\nlesson as an independent whole. It does not put upon the student the\nresponsibility of finding points of contact between it and other lessons\nin the same subject, or other subjects of study. Wiser teachers see to\nit that the student is systematically led to utilize his earlier lessons\nto help understand the present one, and also to use the present to\nthrow additional light upon what has already been acquired. Results are\nbetter, but school subject matter is still isolated. Save by accident,\nout-of-school experience is left in its crude and comparatively\nirreflective state. It is not subject to the refining and expanding\ninfluences of the more accurate and comprehensive material of direct\ninstruction. The latter is not motivated and impregnated with a sense of\nreality by being intermingled with the realities of everyday life. The\nbest type of teaching bears in mind the desirability of affecting this\ninterconnection. It puts the student in the habitual attitude of finding\npoints of contact and mutual bearings.\n\nSummary. Processes of instruction are unified in the degree in which\nthey center in the production of good habits of thinking. While we may\nspeak, without error, of the method of thought, the important thing is\nthat thinking is the method of an educative experience. The essentials\nof method are therefore identical with the essentials of reflection.\nThey are first that the pupil have a genuine situation of\nexperience--that there be a continuous activity in which he is\ninterested for its own sake; secondly, that a genuine problem develop\nwithin this situation as a stimulus to thought; third, that he possess\nthe information and make the observations needed to deal with it;\nfourth, that suggested solutions occur to him which he shall be\nresponsible for developing in an orderly way; fifth, that he have\nopportunity and occasion to test his ideas by application, to make their\nmeaning clear and to discover for himself their validity.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Thirteen: The Nature of Method\n\n1. The Unity of Subject Matter and Method.\n\nThe trinity of school topics is subject matter, methods, and\nadministration or government. We have been concerned with the two former\nin recent chapters. It remains to disentangle them from the context in\nwhich they have been referred to, and discuss explicitly their nature.\nWe shall begin with the topic of method, since that lies closest to the\nconsiderations of the last chapter. Before taking it up, it may be well,\nhowever, to call express attention to one implication of our theory; the\nconnection of subject matter and method with each other. The idea\nthat mind and the world of things and persons are two separate\nand independent realms--a theory which philosophically is known as\ndualism--carries with it the conclusion that method and subject matter\nof instruction are separate affairs. Subject matter then becomes a\nready-made systematized classification of the facts and principles\nof the world of nature and man. Method then has for its province a\nconsideration of the ways in which this antecedent subject matter may\nbe best presented to and impressed upon the mind; or, a consideration\nof the ways in which the mind may be externally brought to bear upon the\nmatter so as to facilitate its acquisition and possession. In theory, at\nleast, one might deduce from a science of the mind as something existing\nby itself a complete theory of methods of learning, with no knowledge of\nthe subjects to which the methods are to be applied. Since many who\nare actually most proficient in various branches of subject matter\nare wholly innocent of these methods, this state of affairs gives\nopportunity for the retort that pedagogy, as an alleged science\nof methods of the mind in learning, is futile;--a mere screen for\nconcealing the necessity a teacher is under of profound and accurate\nacquaintance with the subject in hand.\n\nBut since thinking is a directed movement of subject matter to a\ncompleting issue, and since mind is the deliberate and intentional phase\nof the process, the notion of any such split is radically false. The\nfact that the material of a science is organized is evidence that it has\nalready been subjected to intelligence; it has been methodized, so\nto say. Zoology as a systematic branch of knowledge represents crude,\nscattered facts of our ordinary acquaintance with animals after\nthey have been subjected to careful examination, to deliberate\nsupplementation, and to arrangement to bring out connections which\nassist observation, memory, and further inquiry. Instead of furnishing a\nstarting point for learning, they mark out a consummation. Method means\nthat arrangement of subject matter which makes it most effective in use.\nNever is method something outside of the material.\n\nHow about method from the standpoint of an individual who is dealing\nwith subject matter? Again, it is not something external. It is simply\nan effective treatment of material--efficiency meaning such treatment as\nutilizes the material (puts it to a purpose) with a minimum of waste of\ntime and energy. We can distinguish a way of acting, and discuss it by\nitself; but the way exists only as way-of-dealing-with-material. Method\nis not antithetical to subject matter; it is the effective direction\nof subject matter to desired results. It is antithetical to random and\nill-considered action,--ill-considered signifying ill-adapted.\n\nThe statement that method means directed movement of subject matter\ntowards ends is formal. An illustration may give it content. Every\nartist must have a method, a technique, in doing his work. Piano playing\nis not hitting the keys at random. It is an orderly way of using them,\nand the order is not something which exists ready-made in the musician's\nhands or brain prior to an activity dealing with the piano. Order is\nfound in the disposition of acts which use the piano and the hands and\nbrain so as to achieve the result intended. It is the action of the\npiano directed to accomplish the purpose of the piano as a musical\ninstrument. It is the same with \"pedagogical\" method. The only\ndifference is that the piano is a mechanism constructed in advance for\na single end; while the material of study is capable of indefinite uses.\nBut even in this regard the illustration may apply if we consider the\ninfinite variety of kinds of music which a piano may produce, and\nthe variations in technique required in the different musical results\nsecured. Method in any case is but an effective way of employing some\nmaterial for some end.\n\nThese considerations may be generalized by going back to the conception\nof experience. Experience as the perception of the connection between\nsomething tried and something undergone in consequence is a process.\nApart from effort to control the course which the process takes, there\nis no distinction of subject matter and method. There is simply an\nactivity which includes both what an individual does and what the\nenvironment does. A piano player who had perfect mastery of his\ninstrument would have no occasion to distinguish between his\ncontribution and that of the piano. In well-formed, smooth-running\nfunctions of any sort,--skating, conversing, hearing music, enjoying a\nlandscape,--there is no consciousness of separation of the method of the\nperson and of the subject matter. In whole-hearted play and work there\nis the same phenomenon.\n\nWhen we reflect upon an experience instead of just having it, we\ninevitably distinguish between our own attitude and the objects toward\nwhich we sustain the attitude. When a man is eating, he is eating food.\nHe does not divide his act into eating and food. But if he makes a\nscientific investigation of the act, such a discrimination is the first\nthing he would effect. He would examine on the one hand the properties\nof the nutritive material, and on the other hand the acts of the\norganism in appropriating and digesting. Such reflection upon experience\ngives rise to a distinction of what we experience (the experienced) and\nthe experiencing--the how. When we give names to this distinction we\nhave subject matter and method as our terms. There is the thing seen,\nheard, loved, hated, imagined, and there is the act of seeing, hearing,\nloving, hating, imagining, etc.\n\nThis distinction is so natural and so important for certain purposes,\nthat we are only too apt to regard it as a separation in existence and\nnot as a distinction in thought. Then we make a division between a self\nand the environment or world. This separation is the root of the dualism\nof method and subject matter. That is, we assume that knowing, feeling,\nwilling, etc., are things which belong to the self or mind in its\nisolation, and which then may be brought to bear upon an independent\nsubject matter. We assume that the things which belong in isolation to\nthe self or mind have their own laws of operation irrespective of the\nmodes of active energy of the object. These laws are supposed to furnish\nmethod. It would be no less absurd to suppose that men can eat without\neating something, or that the structure and movements of the jaws,\nthroat muscles, the digestive activities of stomach, etc., are not what\nthey are because of the material with which their activity is engaged.\nJust as the organs of the organism are a continuous part of the very\nworld in which food materials exist, so the capacities of seeing,\nhearing, loving, imagining are intrinsically connected with the subject\nmatter of the world. They are more truly ways in which the environment\nenters into experience and functions there than they are independent\nacts brought to bear upon things. Experience, in short, is not a\ncombination of mind and world, subject and object, method and subject\nmatter, but is a single continuous interaction of a great diversity\n(literally countless in number) of energies.\n\nFor the purpose of controlling the course or direction which the moving\nunity of experience takes we draw a mental distinction between the\nhow and the what. While there is no way of walking or of eating or of\nlearning over and above the actual walking, eating, and studying, there\nare certain elements in the act which give the key to its more effective\ncontrol. Special attention to these elements makes them more obvious\nto perception (letting other factors recede for the time being from\nconspicuous recognition). Getting an idea of how the experience proceeds\nindicates to us what factors must be secured or modified in order that\nit may go on more successfully. This is only a somewhat elaborate way\nof saying that if a man watches carefully the growth of several plants,\nsome of which do well and some of which amount to little or nothing, he\nmay be able to detect the special conditions upon which the prosperous\ndevelopment of a plant depends. These conditions, stated in an orderly\nsequence, would constitute the method or way or manner of its growth.\nThere is no difference between the growth of a plant and the prosperous\ndevelopment of an experience. It is not easy, in either case, to seize\nupon just the factors which make for its best movement. But study of\ncases of success and failure and minute and extensive comparison, helps\nto seize upon causes. When we have arranged these causes in order, we\nhave a method of procedure or a technique.\n\nA consideration of some evils in education that flow from the isolation\nof method from subject matter will make the point more definite.\n\n(I) In the first place, there is the neglect (of which we have spoken)\nof concrete situations of experience. There can be no discovery of\na method without cases to be studied. The method is derived from\nobservation of what actually happens, with a view to seeing that it\nhappen better next time. But in instruction and discipline, there is\nrarely sufficient opportunity for children and youth to have the direct\nnormal experiences from which educators might derive an idea of method\nor order of best development. Experiences are had under conditions\nof such constraint that they throw little or no light upon the normal\ncourse of an experience to its fruition. \"Methods\" have then to be\nauthoritatively recommended to teachers, instead of being an expression\nof their own intelligent observations. Under such circumstances, they\nhave a mechanical uniformity, assumed to be alike for all minds. Where\nflexible personal experiences are promoted by providing an environment\nwhich calls out directed occupations in work and play, the methods\nascertained will vary with individuals--for it is certain that each\nindividual has something characteristic in his way of going at things.\n\n(ii) In the second place, the notion of methods isolated from subject\nmatter is responsible for the false conceptions of discipline and\ninterest already noted. When the effective way of managing material\nis treated as something ready-made apart from material, there are just\nthree possible ways in which to establish a relationship lacking by\nassumption. One is to utilize excitement, shock of pleasure, tickling\nthe palate. Another is to make the consequences of not attending\npainful; we may use the menace of harm to motivate concern with the\nalien subject matter. Or a direct appeal may be made to the person to\nput forth effort without any reason. We may rely upon immediate strain\nof \"will.\" In practice, however, the latter method is effectual only\nwhen instigated by fear of unpleasant results. (iii) In the third place,\nthe act of learning is made a direct and conscious end in itself. Under\nnormal conditions, learning is a product and reward of occupation with\nsubject matter. Children do not set out, consciously, to learn walking\nor talking. One sets out to give his impulses for communication and for\nfuller intercourse with others a show. He learns in consequence of his\ndirect activities. The better methods of teaching a child, say, to read,\nfollow the same road. They do not fix his attention upon the fact that\nhe has to learn something and so make his attitude self-conscious\nand constrained. They engage his activities, and in the process of\nengagement he learns: the same is true of the more successful methods in\ndealing with number or whatever. But when the subject matter is not used\nin carrying forward impulses and habits to significant results, it is\njust something to be learned. The pupil's attitude to it is just that\nof having to learn it. Conditions more unfavorable to an alert and\nconcentrated response would be hard to devise. Frontal attacks are even\nmore wasteful in learning than in war. This does not mean, however, that\nstudents are to be seduced unaware into preoccupation with lessons. It\nmeans that they shall be occupied with them for real reasons or ends,\nand not just as something to be learned. This is accomplished whenever\nthe pupil perceives the place occupied by the subject matter in the\nfulfilling of some experience.\n\n(iv) In the fourth place, under the influence of the conception of the\nseparation of mind and material, method tends to be reduced to a cut and\ndried routine, to following mechanically prescribed steps. No one can\ntell in how many schoolrooms children reciting in arithmetic or grammar\nare compelled to go through, under the alleged sanction of method,\ncertain preordained verbal formulae. Instead of being encouraged to\nattack their topics directly, experimenting with methods that seem\npromising and learning to discriminate by the consequences that accrue,\nit is assumed that there is one fixed method to be followed. It is\nalso naively assumed that if the pupils make their statements and\nexplanations in a certain form of \"analysis,\" their mental habits will\nin time conform. Nothing has brought pedagogical theory into greater\ndisrepute than the belief that it is identified with handing out to\nteachers recipes and models to be followed in teaching. Flexibility and\ninitiative in dealing with problems are characteristic of any conception\nto which method is a way of managing material to develop a conclusion.\nMechanical rigid woodenness is an inevitable corollary of any theory\nwhich separates mind from activity motivated by a purpose.\n\n2. Method as General and as Individual. In brief, the method of teaching\nis the method of an art, of action intelligently directed by ends. But\nthe practice of a fine art is far from being a matter of extemporized\ninspirations. Study of the operations and results of those in the past\nwho have greatly succeeded is essential. There is always a tradition, or\nschools of art, definite enough to impress beginners, and often to take\nthem captive. Methods of artists in every branch depend upon thorough\nacquaintance with materials and tools; the painter must know canvas,\npigments, brushes, and the technique of manipulation of all his\nappliances. Attainment of this knowledge requires persistent and\nconcentrated attention to objective materials. The artist studies the\nprogress of his own attempts to see what succeeds and what fails. The\nassumption that there are no alternatives between following ready-made\nrules and trusting to native gifts, the inspiration of the moment and\nundirected \"hard work,\" is contradicted by the procedures of every art.\n\nSuch matters as knowledge of the past, of current technique, of\nmaterials, of the ways in which one's own best results are assured,\nsupply the material for what may be called general method. There exists\na cumulative body of fairly stable methods for reaching results, a body\nauthorized by past experience and by intellectual analysis, which an\nindividual ignores at his peril. As was pointed out in the discussion of\nhabit-forming (ante, p. 49), there is always a danger that these methods\nwill become mechanized and rigid, mastering an agent instead of being\npowers at command for his own ends. But it is also true that the\ninnovator who achieves anything enduring, whose work is more than a\npassing sensation, utilizes classic methods more than may appear to\nhimself or to his critics. He devotes them to new uses, and in so far\ntransforms them.\n\n\nEducation also has its general methods. And if the application of this\nremark is more obvious in the case of the teacher than of the pupil, it\nis equally real in the case of the latter. Part of his learning, a very\nimportant part, consists in becoming master of the methods which the\nexperience of others has shown to be more efficient in like cases of\ngetting knowledge. 1 These general methods are in no way opposed to\nindividual initiative and originality--to personal ways of doing things.\nOn the contrary they are reinforcements of them. For there is radical\ndifference between even the most general method and a prescribed rule.\nThe latter is a direct guide to action; the former operates indirectly\nthrough the enlightenment it supplies as to ends and means. It operates,\nthat is to say, through intelligence, and not through conformity to\norders externally imposed. Ability to use even in a masterly way an\nestablished technique gives no warranty of artistic work, for the latter\nalso depends upon an animating idea.\n\nIf knowledge of methods used by others does not directly tell us what to\ndo, or furnish ready-made models, how does it operate? What is meant by\ncalling a method intellectual? Take the case of a physician. No mode\nof behavior more imperiously demands knowledge of established modes of\ndiagnosis and treatment than does his. But after all, cases are like,\nnot identical. To be used intelligently, existing practices, however\nauthorized they may be, have to be adapted to the exigencies of\nparticular cases. Accordingly, recognized procedures indicate to the\nphysician what inquiries to set on foot for himself, what measures to\ntry. They are standpoints from which to carry on investigations; they\neconomize a survey of the features of the particular case by suggesting\nthe things to be especially looked into. The physician's own personal\nattitudes, his own ways (individual methods) of dealing with the\nsituation in which he is concerned, are not subordinated to the general\nprinciples of procedure, but are facilitated and directed by the latter.\nThe instance may serve to point out the value to the teacher of a\nknowledge of the psychological methods and the empirical devices found\nuseful in the past. When they get in the way of his own common sense,\nwhen they come between him and the situation in which he has to act,\nthey are worse than useless. But if he has acquired them as intellectual\naids in sizing up the needs, resources, and difficulties of the unique\nexperiences in which he engages, they are of constructive value. In the\nlast resort, just because everything depends upon his own methods of\nresponse, much depends upon how far he can utilize, in making his own\nresponse, the knowledge which has accrued in the experience of others.\nAs already intimated, every word of this account is directly applicable\nalso to the method of the pupil, the way of learning. To suppose that\nstudents, whether in the primary school or in the university, can\nbe supplied with models of method to be followed in acquiring and\nexpounding a subject is to fall into a self-deception that has\nlamentable consequences. (See ante, p. 169.) One must make his own\nreaction in any case. Indications of the standardized or general methods\nused in like cases by others--particularly by those who are already\nexperts--are of worth or of harm according as they make his personal\nreaction more intelligent or as they induce a person to dispense with\nexercise of his own judgment. If what was said earlier (See p. 159)\nabout originality of thought seemed overstrained, demanding more of\neducation than the capacities of average human nature permit, the\ndifficulty is that we lie under the incubus of a superstition. We have\nset up the notion of mind at large, of intellectual method that is the\nsame for all. Then we regard individuals as differing in the quantity of\nmind with which they are charged. Ordinary persons are then expected to\nbe ordinary. Only the exceptional are allowed to have originality. The\nmeasure of difference between the average student and the genius is a\nmeasure of the absence of originality in the former. But this notion\nof mind in general is a fiction. How one person's abilities compare in\nquantity with those of another is none of the teacher's business. It is\nirrelevant to his work. What is required is that every individual shall\nhave opportunities to employ his own powers in activities that have\nmeaning. Mind, individual method, originality (these are convertible\nterms) signify the quality of purposive or directed action. If we act\nupon this conviction, we shall secure more originality even by the\nconventional standard than now develops. Imposing an alleged uniform\ngeneral method upon everybody breeds mediocrity in all but the very\nexceptional. And measuring originality by deviation from the mass breeds\neccentricity in them. Thus we stifle the distinctive quality of the\nmany, and save in rare instances (like, say, that of Darwin) infect the\nrare geniuses with an unwholesome quality.\n\n3. The Traits of Individual Method. The most general features of the\nmethod of knowing have been given in our chapter on thinking. They\nare the features of the reflective situation: Problem, collection and\nanalysis of data, projection and elaboration of suggestions or ideas,\nexperimental application and testing; the resulting conclusion or\njudgment. The specific elements of an individual's method or way of\nattack upon a problem are found ultimately in his native tendencies and\nhis acquired habits and interests. The method of one will vary from that\nof another (and properly vary) as his original instinctive capacities\nvary, as his past experiences and his preferences vary. Those who have\nalready studied these matters are in possession of information which\nwill help teachers in understanding the responses different pupils\nmake, and help them in guiding these responses to greater efficiency.\nChild-study, psychology, and a knowledge of social environment\nsupplement the personal acquaintance gained by the teacher. But methods\nremain the personal concern, approach, and attack of an individual, and\nno catalogue can ever exhaust their diversity of form and tint.\n\nSome attitudes may be named, however,-which are central in effective\nintellectual ways of dealing with subject matter. Among the most\nimportant are directness, open-mindedness, single-mindedness (or\nwhole-heartedness), and responsibility.\n\n1. It is easier to indicate what is meant by directness through negative\nterms than in positive ones. Self-consciousness, embarrassment, and\nconstraint are its menacing foes. They indicate that a person is not\nimmediately concerned with subject matter. Something has come between\nwhich deflects concern to side issues. A self-conscious person is partly\nthinking about his problem and partly about what others think of his\nperformances. Diverted energy means loss of power and confusion of\nideas. Taking an attitude is by no means identical with being conscious\nof one's attitude. The former is spontaneous, naive, and simple. It is\na sign of whole-souled relationship between a person and what he is\ndealing with. The latter is not of necessity abnormal. It is sometimes\nthe easiest way of correcting a false method of approach, and of\nimproving the effectiveness of the means one is employing,--as golf\nplayers, piano players, public speakers, etc., have occasionally to give\nespecial attention to their position and movements. But this need\nis occasional and temporary. When it is effectual a person thinks of\nhimself in terms of what is to be done, as one means among others of the\nrealization of an end--as in the case of a tennis player practicing to\nget the \"feel\" of a stroke. In abnormal cases, one thinks of himself not\nas part of the agencies of execution, but as a separate object--as when\nthe player strikes an attitude thinking of the impression it will make\nupon spectators, or is worried because of the impression he fears his\nmovements give rise to.\n\nConfidence is a good name for what is intended by the term directness.\nIt should not be confused, however, with self-confidence which may be a\nform of self-consciousness--or of \"cheek.\" Confidence is not a name for\nwhat one thinks or feels about his attitude it is not reflex. It denotes\nthe straightforwardness with which one goes at what he has to do.\nIt denotes not conscious trust in the efficacy of one's powers but\nunconscious faith in the possibilities of the situation. It signifies\nrising to the needs of the situation. We have already pointed out (See\np. 169) the objections to making students emphatically aware of the fact\nthat they are studying or learning. Just in the degree in which they\nare induced by the conditions to be so aware, they are not studying\nand learning. They are in a divided and complicated attitude. Whatever\nmethods of a teacher call a pupil's attention off from what he has to\ndo and transfer it to his own attitude towards what he is doing impair\ndirectness of concern and action. Persisted in, the pupil acquires a\npermanent tendency to fumble, to gaze about aimlessly, to look for some\nclew of action beside that which the subject matter supplies. Dependence\nupon extraneous suggestions and directions, a state of foggy confusion,\ntake the place of that sureness with which children (and grown-up people\nwho have not been sophisticated by \"education\") confront the situations\nof life.\n\n2. Open-mindedness. Partiality is, as we have seen, an accompaniment of\nthe existence of interest, since this means sharing, partaking, taking\nsides in some movement. All the more reason, therefore, for an attitude\nof mind which actively welcomes suggestions and relevant information\nfrom all sides. In the chapter on Aims it was shown that foreseen ends\nare factors in the development of a changing situation. They are\nthe means by which the direction of action is controlled. They are\nsubordinate to the situation, therefore, not the situation to them. They\nare not ends in the sense of finalities to which everything must be bent\nand sacrificed. They are, as foreseen, means of guiding the development\nof a situation. A target is not the future goal of shooting; it is\nthe centering factor in a present shooting. Openness of mind means\naccessibility of mind to any and every consideration that will throw\nlight upon the situation that needs to be cleared up, and that will help\ndetermine the consequences of acting this way or that. Efficiency in\naccomplishing ends which have been settled upon as unalterable can\ncoexist with a narrowly opened mind. But intellectual growth means\nconstant expansion of horizons and consequent formation of new purposes\nand new responses. These are impossible without an active disposition\nto welcome points of view hitherto alien; an active desire to entertain\nconsiderations which modify existing purposes. Retention of capacity\nto grow is the reward of such intellectual hospitality. The worst\nthing about stubbornness of mind, about prejudices, is that they arrest\ndevelopment; they shut the mind off from new stimuli. Open-mindedness\nmeans retention of the childlike attitude; closed-mindedness means\npremature intellectual old age.\n\nExorbitant desire for uniformity of procedure and for prompt external\nresults are the chief foes which the open-minded attitude meets in\nschool. The teacher who does not permit and encourage diversity of\noperation in dealing with questions is imposing intellectual blinders\nupon pupils--restricting their vision to the one path the teacher's mind\nhappens to approve. Probably the chief cause of devotion to rigidity\nof method is, however, that it seems to promise speedy, accurately\nmeasurable, correct results. The zeal for \"answers\" is the explanation\nof much of the zeal for rigid and mechanical methods. Forcing and\noverpressure have the same origin, and the same result upon alert and\nvaried intellectual interest.\n\nOpen-mindedness is not the same as empty-mindedness. To hang out a sign\nsaying \"Come right in; there is no one at home\" is not the equivalent\nof hospitality. But there is a kind of passivity, willingness to let\nexperiences accumulate and sink in and ripen, which is an essential of\ndevelopment. Results (external answers or solutions) may be hurried;\nprocesses may not be forced. They take their own time to mature. Were\nall instructors to realize that the quality of mental process, not\nthe production of correct answers, is the measure of educative growth\nsomething hardly less than a revolution in teaching would be worked.\n\n3. Single-mindedness. So far as the word is concerned, much that was\nsaid under the head of \"directness\" is applicable. But what the word is\nhere intended to convey is completeness of interest, unity of purpose;\nthe absence of suppressed but effectual ulterior aims for which the\nprofessed aim is but a mask. It is equivalent to mental integrity.\nAbsorption, engrossment, full concern with subject matter for its own\nsake, nurture it. Divided interest and evasion destroy it.\n\nIntellectual integrity, honesty, and sincerity are at bottom not\nmatters of conscious purpose but of quality of active response.\nTheir acquisition is fostered of course by conscious intent, but\nself-deception is very easy. Desires are urgent. When the demands and\nwishes of others forbid their direct expression they are easily driven\ninto subterranean and deep channels. Entire surrender, and wholehearted\nadoption of the course of action demanded by others are almost\nimpossible. Deliberate revolt or deliberate attempts to deceive others\nmay result. But the more frequent outcome is a confused and divided\nstate of interest in which one is fooled as to one's own real intent.\nOne tries to serve two masters at once. Social instincts, the strong\ndesire to please others and get their approval, social training, the\ngeneral sense of duty and of authority, apprehension of penalty, all\nlead to a half-hearted effort to conform, to \"pay attention to the\nlesson,\" or whatever the requirement is. Amiable individuals want to do\nwhat they are expected to do. Consciously the pupil thinks he is\ndoing this. But his own desires are not abolished. Only their evident\nexhibition is suppressed. Strain of attention to what is hostile to\ndesire is irksome; in spite of one's conscious wish, the underlying\ndesires determine the main course of thought, the deeper emotional\nresponses. The mind wanders from the nominal subject and devotes\nitself to what is intrinsically more desirable. A systematized divided\nattention expressing the duplicity of the state of desire is the result.\nOne has only to recall his own experiences in school or at the present\ntime when outwardly employed in actions which do not engage one's\ndesires and purposes, to realize how prevalent is this attitude of\ndivided attention--double-mindedness. We are so used to it that we take\nit for granted that a considerable amount of it is necessary. It may be;\nif so, it is the more important to face its bad intellectual effects.\nObvious is the loss of energy of thought immediately available when\none is consciously trying (or trying to seem to try) to attend to one\nmatter, while unconsciously one's imagination is spontaneously going out\nto more congenial affairs. More subtle and more permanently crippling\nto efficiency of intellectual activity is a fostering of habitual\nself-deception, with the confused sense of reality which accompanies it.\nA double standard of reality, one for our own private and more or less\nconcealed interests, and another for public and acknowledged concerns,\nhampers, in most of us, integrity and completeness of mental action.\nEqually serious is the fact that a split is set up between conscious\nthought and attention and impulsive blind affection and desire.\nReflective dealings with the material of instruction is constrained\nand half-hearted; attention wanders. The topics to which it wanders are\nunavowed and hence intellectually illicit; transactions with them\nare furtive. The discipline that comes from regulating response by\ndeliberate inquiry having a purpose fails; worse than that, the deepest\nconcern and most congenial enterprises of the imagination (since they\ncenter about the things dearest to desire) are casual, concealed. They\nenter into action in ways which are unacknowledged. Not subject to\nrectification by consideration of consequences, they are demoralizing.\n\nSchool conditions favorable to this division of mind between\navowed, public, and socially responsible undertakings, and private,\nill-regulated, and suppressed indulgences of thought are not hard\nto find. What is sometimes called \"stern discipline,\" i.e., external\ncoercive pressure, has this tendency. Motivation through rewards\nextraneous to the thing to be done has a like effect. Everything that\nmakes schooling merely preparatory (See ante, p. 55) works in this\ndirection. Ends being beyond the pupil's present grasp, other agencies\nhave to be found to procure immediate attention to assigned tasks. Some\nresponses are secured, but desires and affections not enlisted must\nfind other outlets. Not less serious is exaggerated emphasis upon\ndrill exercises designed to produce skill in action, independent of any\nengagement of thought--exercises have no purpose but the production of\nautomatic skill. Nature abhors a mental vacuum. What do teachers imagine\nis happening to thought and emotion when the latter get no outlet in\nthe things of immediate activity? Were they merely kept in temporary\nabeyance, or even only calloused, it would not be a matter of so much\nmoment. But they are not abolished; they are not suspended; they are\nnot suppressed--save with reference to the task in question. They follow\ntheir own chaotic and undisciplined course. What is native, spontaneous,\nand vital in mental reaction goes unused and untested, and the habits\nformed are such that these qualities become less and less available for\npublic and avowed ends.\n\n4. Responsibility. By responsibility as an element in intellectual\nattitude is meant the disposition to consider in advance the probable\nconsequences of any projected step and deliberately to accept them: to\naccept them in the sense of taking them into account, acknowledging them\nin action, not yielding a mere verbal assent. Ideas, as we have seen,\nare intrinsically standpoints and methods for bringing about a solution\nof a perplexing situation; forecasts calculated to influence responses.\nIt is only too easy to think that one accepts a statement or believes a\nsuggested truth when one has not considered its implications; when one\nhas made but a cursory and superficial survey of what further things one\nis committed to by acceptance. Observation and recognition, belief and\nassent, then become names for lazy acquiescence in what is externally\npresented.\n\nIt would be much better to have fewer facts and truths in\ninstruction--that is, fewer things supposedly accepted,--if a smaller\nnumber of situations could be intellectually worked out to the point\nwhere conviction meant something real--some identification of the self\nwith the type of conduct demanded by facts and foresight of results. The\nmost permanent bad results of undue complication of school subjects\nand congestion of school studies and lessons are not the worry, nervous\nstrain, and superficial acquaintance that follow (serious as these are),\nbut the failure to make clear what is involved in really knowing and\nbelieving a thing. Intellectual responsibility means severe standards\nin this regard. These standards can be built up only through practice in\nfollowing up and acting upon the meaning of what is acquired.\n\nIntellectual thoroughness is thus another name for the attitude we are\nconsidering. There is a kind of thoroughness which is almost purely\nphysical: the kind that signifies mechanical and exhausting drill upon\nall the details of a subject. Intellectual thoroughness is seeing a\nthing through. It depends upon a unity of purpose to which details are\nsubordinated, not upon presenting a multitude of disconnected details.\nIt is manifested in the firmness with which the full meaning of the\npurpose is developed, not in attention, however \"conscientious\" it may\nbe, to the steps of action externally imposed and directed.\n\nSummary. Method is a statement of the way the subject matter of an\nexperience develops most effectively and fruitfully. It is derived,\naccordingly, from observation of the course of experiences where\nthere is no conscious distinction of personal attitude and manner from\nmaterial dealt with. The assumption that method is something separate\nis connected with the notion of the isolation of mind and self from the\nworld of things. It makes instruction and learning formal, mechanical,\nconstrained. While methods are individualized, certain features of the\nnormal course of an experience to its fruition may be discriminated,\nbecause of the fund of wisdom derived from prior experiences and because\nof general similarities in the materials dealt with from time to time.\nExpressed in terms of the attitude of the individual the traits of\ngood method are straightforwardness, flexible intellectual interest\nor open-minded will to learn, integrity of purpose, and acceptance of\nresponsibility for the consequences of one's activity including thought.\n\n\n1 This point is developed below in a discussion of what are termed\npsychological and logical methods respectively. See p. 219.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Fourteen: The Nature of Subject Matter\n\n1. Subject Matter of Educator and of Learner. So far as the nature of\nsubject matter in principle is concerned, there is nothing to add\nto what has been said (See ante, p. 134). It consists of the facts\nobserved, recalled, read, and talked about, and the ideas suggested, in\ncourse of a development of a situation having a purpose. This statement\nneeds to be rendered more specific by connecting it with the materials\nof school instruction, the studies which make up the curriculum. What is\nthe significance of our definition in application to reading, writing,\nmathematics, history, nature study, drawing, singing, physics,\nchemistry, modern and foreign languages, and so on? Let us recur to two\nof the points made earlier in our discussion. The educator's part in the\nenterprise of education is to furnish the environment which stimulates\nresponses and directs the learner's course. In last analysis, all that\nthe educator can do is modify stimuli so that response will as surely\nas is possible result in the formation of desirable intellectual and\nemotional dispositions. Obviously studies or the subject matter of the\ncurriculum have intimately to do with this business of supplying an\nenvironment. The other point is the necessity of a social environment\nto give meaning to habits formed. In what we have termed informal\neducation, subject matter is carried directly in the matrix of social\nintercourse. It is what the persons with whom an individual associates\ndo and say. This fact gives a clew to the understanding of the subject\nmatter of formal or deliberate instruction. A connecting link is found\nin the stories, traditions, songs, and liturgies which accompany the\ndoings and rites of a primitive social group. They represent the stock\nof meanings which have been precipitated out of previous experience,\nwhich are so prized by the group as to be identified with their\nconception of their own collective life. Not being obviously a part of\nthe skill exhibited in the daily occupations of eating, hunting, making\nwar and peace, constructing rugs, pottery, and baskets, etc., they\nare consciously impressed upon the young; often, as in the initiation\nceremonies, with intense emotional fervor. Even more pains are\nconsciously taken to perpetuate the myths, legends, and sacred verbal\nformulae of the group than to transmit the directly useful customs of\nthe group just because they cannot be picked up, as the latter can be in\nthe ordinary processes of association.\n\nAs the social group grows more complex, involving a greater number of\nacquired skills which are dependent, either in fact or in the belief\nof the group, upon standard ideas deposited from past experience, the\ncontent of social life gets more definitely formulated for purposes of\ninstruction. As we have previously noted, probably the chief motive for\nconsciously dwelling upon the group life, extracting the meanings which\nare regarded as most important and systematizing them in a coherent\narrangement, is just the need of instructing the young so as to\nperpetuate group life. Once started on this road of selection,\nformulation, and organization, no definite limit exists. The invention\nof writing and of printing gives the operation an immense impetus.\nFinally, the bonds which connect the subject matter of school study with\nthe habits and ideals of the social group are disguised and covered up.\nThe ties are so loosened that it often appears as if there were none;\nas if subject matter existed simply as knowledge on its own independent\nbehoof, and as if study were the mere act of mastering it for its own\nsake, irrespective of any social values. Since it is highly important\nfor practical reasons to counter-act this tendency (See ante, p. 8)\nthe chief purposes of our theoretical discussion are to make clear the\nconnection which is so readily lost from sight, and to show in some\ndetail the social content and function of the chief constituents of the\ncourse of study.\n\nThe points need to be considered from the standpoint of instructor and\nof student. To the former, the significance of a knowledge of subject\nmatter, going far beyond the present knowledge of pupils, is to supply\ndefinite standards and to reveal to him the possibilities of the\ncrude activities of the immature. (i) The material of school studies\ntranslates into concrete and detailed terms the meanings of current\nsocial life which it is desirable to transmit. It puts clearly\nbefore the instructor the essential ingredients of the culture to\nbe perpetuated, in such an organized form as to protect him from the\nhaphazard efforts he would be likely to indulge in if the meanings had\nnot been standardized. (ii) A knowledge of the ideas which have been\nachieved in the past as the outcome of activity places the educator in\na position to perceive the meaning of the seeming impulsive and aimless\nreactions of the young, and to provide the stimuli needed to direct them\nso that they will amount to something. The more the educator knows of\nmusic the more he can perceive the possibilities of the inchoate musical\nimpulses of a child. Organized subject matter represents the ripe\nfruitage of experiences like theirs, experiences involving the same\nworld, and powers and needs similar to theirs. It does not represent\nperfection or infallible wisdom; but it is the best at command to\nfurther new experiences which may, in some respects at least, surpass\nthe achievements embodied in existing knowledge and works of art.\n\nFrom the standpoint of the educator, in other words, the various studies\nrepresent working resources, available capital. Their remoteness from\nthe experience of the young is not, however, seeming; it is real. The\nsubject matter of the learner is not, therefore, it cannot be, identical\nwith the formulated, the crystallized, and systematized subject matter\nof the adult; the material as found in books and in works of art, etc.\nThe latter represents the possibilities of the former; not its existing\nstate. It enters directly into the activities of the expert and the\neducator, not into that of the beginner, the learner. Failure to bear in\nmind the difference in subject matter from the respective standpoints of\nteacher and student is responsible for most of the mistakes made in the\nuse of texts and other expressions of preexistent knowledge.\n\nThe need for a knowledge of the constitution and functions, in the\nconcrete, of human nature is great just because the teacher's attitude\nto subject matter is so different from that of the pupil. The teacher\npresents in actuality what the pupil represents only in posse. That is,\nthe teacher already knows the things which the student is only learning.\nHence the problem of the two is radically unlike. When engaged in the\ndirect act of teaching, the instructor needs to have subject matter\nat his fingers' ends; his attention should be upon the attitude and\nresponse of the pupil. To understand the latter in its interplay with\nsubject matter is his task, while the pupil's mind, naturally, should be\nnot on itself but on the topic in hand. Or to state the same point in\na somewhat different manner: the teacher should be occupied not with\nsubject matter in itself but in its interaction with the pupils' present\nneeds and capacities. Hence simple scholarship is not enough. In\nfact, there are certain features of scholarship or mastered subject\nmatter--taken by itself--which get in the way of effective teaching\nunless the instructor's habitual attitude is one of concern with\nits interplay in the pupil's own experience. In the first place,\nhis knowledge extends indefinitely beyond the range of the pupil's\nacquaintance. It involves principles which are beyond the immature\npupil's understanding and interest. In and of itself, it may no\nmore represent the living world of the pupil's experience than the\nastronomer's knowledge of Mars represents a baby's acquaintance with the\nroom in which he stays. In the second place, the method of organization\nof the material of achieved scholarship differs from that of\nthe beginner. It is not true that the experience of the young is\nunorganized--that it consists of isolated scraps. But it is organized in\nconnection with direct practical centers of interest. The child's home\nis, for example, the organizing center of his geographical knowledge.\nHis own movements about the locality, his journeys abroad, the tales of\nhis friends, give the ties which hold his items of information together.\nBut the geography of the geographer, of the one who has already\ndeveloped the implications of these smaller experiences, is organized\non the basis of the relationship which the various facts bear to\none another--not the relations which they bear to his house, bodily\nmovements, and friends. To the one who is learned, subject matter is\nextensive, accurately defined, and logically interrelated. To the\none who is learning, it is fluid, partial, and connected through\nhis personal occupations. 1 The problem of teaching is to keep the\nexperience of the student moving in the direction of what the expert\nalready knows. Hence the need that the teacher know both subject matter\nand the characteristic needs and capacities of the student.\n\n\n2. The Development of Subject Matter in the Learner. It is possible,\nwithout doing violence to the facts, to mark off three fairly typical\nstages in the growth of subject matter in the experience of the learner.\nIn its first estate, knowledge exists as the content of intelligent\nability--power to do. This kind of subject matter, or known material, is\nexpressed in familiarity or acquaintance with things. Then this material\ngradually is surcharged and deepened through communicated knowledge or\ninformation. Finally, it is enlarged and worked over into rationally or\nlogically organized material--that of the one who, relatively speaking,\nis expert in the subject.\n\nI. The knowledge which comes first to persons, and that remains most\ndeeply ingrained, is knowledge of how to do; how to walk, talk, read,\nwrite, skate, ride a bicycle, manage a machine, calculate, drive a\nhorse, sell goods, manage people, and so on indefinitely. The popular\ntendency to regard instinctive acts which are adapted to an end as a\nsort of miraculous knowledge, while unjustifiable, is evidence of the\nstrong tendency to identify intelligent control of the means of action\nwith knowledge. When education, under the influence of a scholastic\nconception of knowledge which ignores everything but scientifically\nformulated facts and truths, fails to recognize that primary or initial\nsubject matter always exists as matter of an active doing, involving\nthe use of the body and the handling of material, the subject matter of\ninstruction is isolated from the needs and purposes of the learner, and\nso becomes just a something to be memorized and reproduced upon demand.\nRecognition of the natural course of development, on the contrary,\nalways sets out with situations which involve learning by doing. Arts\nand occupations form the initial stage of the curriculum, corresponding\nas they do to knowing how to go about the accomplishment of ends.\nPopular terms denoting knowledge have always retained the connection\nwith ability in action lost by academic philosophies. Ken and can are\nallied words. Attention means caring for a thing, in the sense of both\naffection and of looking out for its welfare. Mind means carrying out\ninstructions in action--as a child minds his mother--and taking care\nof something--as a nurse minds the baby. To be thoughtful, considerate,\nmeans to heed the claims of others. Apprehension means dread of\nundesirable consequences, as well as intellectual grasp. To have\ngood sense or judgment is to know the conduct a situation calls for;\ndiscernment is not making distinctions for the sake of making them, an\nexercise reprobated as hair splitting, but is insight into an affair\nwith reference to acting. Wisdom has never lost its association with\nthe proper direction of life. Only in education, never in the life of\nfarmer, sailor, merchant, physician, or laboratory experimenter, does\nknowledge mean primarily a store of information aloof from doing.\nHaving to do with things in an intelligent way issues in acquaintance\nor familiarity. The things we are best acquainted with are the things we\nput to frequent use--such things as chairs, tables, pen, paper, clothes,\nfood, knives and forks on the commonplace level, differentiating into\nmore special objects according to a person's occupations in life.\nKnowledge of things in that intimate and emotional sense suggested by\nthe word acquaintance is a precipitate from our employing them with a\npurpose. We have acted with or upon the thing so frequently that we can\nanticipate how it will act and react--such is the meaning of familiar\nacquaintance. We are ready for a familiar thing; it does not catch us\nnapping, or play unexpected tricks with us. This attitude carries with\nit a sense of congeniality or friendliness, of ease and illumination;\nwhile the things with which we are not accustomed to deal are strange,\nforeign, cold, remote, \"abstract.\"\n\nII. But it is likely that elaborate statements regarding this primary\nstage of knowledge will darken understanding. It includes practically\nall of our knowledge which is not the result of deliberate technical\nstudy. Modes of purposeful doing include dealings with persons as well\nas things. Impulses of communication and habits of intercourse have to\nbe adapted to maintaining successful connections with others; a large\nfund of social knowledge accrues. As a part of this intercommunication\none learns much from others. They tell of their experiences and of the\nexperiences which, in turn, have been told them. In so far as one is\ninterested or concerned in these communications, their matter becomes a\npart of one's own experience. Active connections with others are such\nan intimate and vital part of our own concerns that it is impossible to\ndraw sharp lines, such as would enable us to say, \"Here my experience\nends; there yours begins.\" In so far as we are partners in common\nundertakings, the things which others communicate to us as the\nconsequences of their particular share in the enterprise blend at once\ninto the experience resulting from our own special doings. The ear is as\nmuch an organ of experience as the eye or hand; the eye is available\nfor reading reports of what happens beyond its horizon. Things remote in\nspace and time affect the issue of our actions quite as much as\nthings which we can smell and handle. They really concern us, and,\nconsequently, any account of them which assists us in dealing with\nthings at hand falls within personal experience.\n\nInformation is the name usually given to this kind of subject matter.\nThe place of communication in personal doing supplies us with a\ncriterion for estimating the value of informational material in school.\nDoes it grow naturally out of some question with which the student\nis concerned? Does it fit into his more direct acquaintance so as to\nincrease its efficacy and deepen its meaning? If it meets these two\nrequirements, it is educative. The amount heard or read is of no\nimportance--the more the better, provided the student has a need for it\nand can apply it in some situation of his own.\n\nBut it is not so easy to fulfill these requirements in actual practice\nas it is to lay them down in theory. The extension in modern times of\nthe area of intercommunication; the invention of appliances for securing\nacquaintance with remote parts of the heavens and bygone events of\nhistory; the cheapening of devices, like printing, for recording and\ndistributing information--genuine and alleged--have created an immense\nbulk of communicated subject matter. It is much easier to swamp a\npupil with this than to work it into his direct experiences. All too\nfrequently it forms another strange world which just overlies the world\nof personal acquaintance. The sole problem of the student is to learn,\nfor school purposes, for purposes of recitations and promotions, the\nconstituent parts of this strange world. Probably the most conspicuous\nconnotation of the word knowledge for most persons to-day is just the\nbody of facts and truths ascertained by others; the material found in\nthe rows and rows of atlases, cyclopedias, histories, biographies, books\nof travel, scientific treatises, on the shelves of libraries.\n\nThe imposing stupendous bulk of this material has unconsciously\ninfluenced men's notions of the nature of knowledge itself. The\nstatements, the propositions, in which knowledge, the issue of active\nconcern with problems, is deposited, are taken to be themselves\nknowledge. The record of knowledge, independent of its place as an\noutcome of inquiry and a resource in further inquiry, is taken to be\nknowledge. The mind of man is taken captive by the spoils of its prior\nvictories; the spoils, not the weapons and the acts of waging the battle\nagainst the unknown, are used to fix the meaning of knowledge, of fact,\nand truth.\n\nIf this identification of knowledge with propositions stating\ninformation has fastened itself upon logicians and philosophers, it is\nnot surprising that the same ideal has almost dominated instruction.\nThe \"course of study\" consists largely of information distributed into\nvarious branches of study, each study being subdivided into lessons\npresenting in serial cutoff portions of the total store. In the\nseventeenth century, the store was still small enough so that men set up\nthe ideal of a complete encyclopedic mastery of it. It is now so bulky\nthat the impossibility of any one man's coming into possession of it\nall is obvious. But the educational ideal has not been much affected.\nAcquisition of a modicum of information in each branch of learning,\nor at least in a selected group, remains the principle by which the\ncurriculum, from elementary school through college, is formed; the\neasier portions being assigned to the earlier years, the more difficult\nto the later. The complaints of educators that learning does not enter\ninto character and affect conduct; the protests against memoriter work,\nagainst cramming, against gradgrind preoccupation with \"facts,\" against\ndevotion to wire-drawn distinctions and ill-understood rules and\nprinciples, all follow from this state of affairs. Knowledge which\nis mainly second-hand, other men's knowledge, tends to become merely\nverbal. It is no objection to information that it is clothed in words;\ncommunication necessarily takes place through words. But in the degree\nin which what is communicated cannot be organized into the existing\nexperience of the learner, it becomes mere words: that is, pure\nsense-stimuli, lacking in meaning. Then it operates to call out\nmechanical reactions, ability to use the vocal organs to repeat\nstatements, or the hand to write or to do \"sums.\"\n\nTo be informed is to be posted; it is to have at command the subject\nmatter needed for an effective dealing with a problem, and for giving\nadded significance to the search for solution and to the solution\nitself. Informational knowledge is the material which can be fallen back\nupon as given, settled, established, assured in a doubtful situation. It\nis a kind of bridge for mind in its passage from doubt to discovery. It\nhas the office of an intellectual middleman. It condenses and records in\navailable form the net results of the prior experiences of mankind, as\nan agency of enhancing the meaning of new experiences. When one is told\nthat Brutus assassinated Caesar, or that the length of the year is\nthree hundred sixty-five and one fourth days, or that the ratio of the\ndiameter of the circle to its circumference is 3.1415. . . one receives\nwhat is indeed knowledge for others, but for him it is a stimulus to\nknowing. His acquisition of knowledge depends upon his response to what\nis communicated.\n\n3. Science or Rationalized Knowledge. Science is a name for knowledge in\nits most characteristic form. It represents in its degree, the perfected\noutcome of learning,--its consummation. What is known, in a given case,\nis what is sure, certain, settled, disposed of; that which we think with\nrather than that which we think about. In its honorable sense, knowledge\nis distinguished from opinion, guesswork, speculation, and mere\ntradition. In knowledge, things are ascertained; they are so and\nnot dubiously otherwise. But experience makes us aware that there is\ndifference between intellectual certainty of subject matter and our\ncertainty. We are made, so to speak, for belief; credulity is\nnatural. The undisciplined mind is averse to suspense and intellectual\nhesitation; it is prone to assertion. It likes things undisturbed,\nsettled, and treats them as such without due warrant. Familiarity,\ncommon repute, and congeniality to desire are readily made measuring\nrods of truth. Ignorance gives way to opinionated and current error,--a\ngreater foe to learning than ignorance itself. A Socrates is thus led\nto declare that consciousness of ignorance is the beginning of effective\nlove of wisdom, and a Descartes to say that science is born of doubting.\n\nWe have already dwelt upon the fact that subject matter, or data, and\nideas have to have their worth tested experimentally: that in themselves\nthey are tentative and provisional. Our predilection for premature\nacceptance and assertion, our aversion to suspended judgment, are signs\nthat we tend naturally to cut short the process of testing. We are\nsatisfied with superficial and immediate short-visioned applications. If\nthese work out with moderate satisfactoriness, we are content to suppose\nthat our assumptions have been confirmed. Even in the case of failure,\nwe are inclined to put the blame not on the inadequacy and incorrectness\nof our data and thoughts, but upon our hard luck and the hostility of\ncircumstance. We charge the evil consequence not to the error of our\nschemes and our incomplete inquiry into conditions (thereby getting\nmaterial for revising the former and stimulus for extending the latter)\nbut to untoward fate. We even plume ourselves upon our firmness in\nclinging to our conceptions in spite of the way in which they work out.\n\nScience represents the safeguard of the race against these natural\npropensities and the evils which flow from them. It consists of the\nspecial appliances and methods which the race has slowly worked out in\norder to conduct reflection under conditions whereby its procedures and\nresults are tested. It is artificial (an acquired art), not spontaneous;\nlearned, not native. To this fact is due the unique, the invaluable\nplace of science in education, and also the dangers which threaten its\nright use. Without initiation into the scientific spirit one is not\nin possession of the best tools which humanity has so far devised for\neffectively directed reflection. One in that case not merely conducts\ninquiry and learning without the use of the best instruments, but fails\nto understand the full meaning of knowledge. For he does not become\nacquainted with the traits that mark off opinion and assent from\nauthorized conviction. On the other hand, the fact that science marks\nthe perfecting of knowing in highly specialized conditions of technique\nrenders its results, taken by themselves, remote from ordinary\nexperience--a quality of aloofness that is popularly designated by the\nterm abstract. When this isolation appears in instruction, scientific\ninformation is even more exposed to the dangers attendant upon\npresenting ready-made subject matter than are other forms of\ninformation.\n\nScience has been defined in terms of method of inquiry and testing. At\nfirst sight, this definition may seem opposed to the current conception\nthat science is organized or systematized knowledge. The opposition,\nhowever, is only seeming, and disappears when the ordinary definition\nis completed. Not organization but the kind of organization effected by\nadequate methods of tested discovery marks off science. The knowledge of\na farmer is systematized in the degree in which he is competent. It\nis organized on the basis of relation of means to ends--practically\norganized. Its organization as knowledge (that is, in the eulogistic\nsense of adequately tested and confirmed) is incidental to its\norganization with reference to securing crops, live-stock, etc. But\nscientific subject matter is organized with specific reference to the\nsuccessful conduct of the enterprise of discovery, to knowing as a\nspecialized undertaking. Reference to the kind of assurance\nattending science will shed light upon this statement. It is rational\nassurance,--logical warranty. The ideal of scientific organization is,\ntherefore, that every conception and statement shall be of such a\nkind as to follow from others and to lead to others. Conceptions\nand propositions mutually imply and support one another. This double\nrelation of \"leading to and confirming\" is what is meant by the terms\nlogical and rational. The everyday conception of water is more available\nfor ordinary uses of drinking, washing, irrigation, etc., than the\nchemist's notion of it. The latter's description of it as H20 is\nsuperior from the standpoint of place and use in inquiry. It states\nthe nature of water in a way which connects it with knowledge of other\nthings, indicating to one who understands it how the knowledge is\narrived at and its bearings upon other portions of knowledge of the\nstructure of things. Strictly speaking, it does not indicate the\nobjective relations of water any more than does a statement that water\nis transparent, fluid, without taste or odor, satisfying to thirst,\netc. It is just as true that water has these relations as that it is\nconstituted by two molecules of hydrogen in combination with one of\noxygen. But for the particular purpose of conducting discovery with a\nview to ascertainment of fact, the latter relations are fundamental. The\nmore one emphasizes organization as a mark of science, then, the more he\nis committed to a recognition of the primacy of method in the definition\nof science. For method defines the kind of organization in virtue of\nwhich science is science.\n\n4. Subject Matter as Social. Our next chapters will take up various\nschool activities and studies and discuss them as successive stages\nin that evolution of knowledge which we have just been discussing. It\nremains to say a few words upon subject matter as social, since our\nprior remarks have been mainly concerned with its intellectual aspect. A\ndifference in breadth and depth exists even in vital knowledge; even\nin the data and ideas which are relevant to real problems and which are\nmotivated by purposes. For there is a difference in the social scope of\npurposes and the social importance of problems. With the wide range\nof possible material to select from, it is important that education\n(especially in all its phases short of the most specialized) should use\na criterion of social worth. All information and systematized scientific\nsubject matter have been worked out under the conditions of social life\nand have been transmitted by social means. But this does not prove that\nall is of equal value for the purposes of forming the disposition and\nsupplying the equipment of members of present society. The scheme of a\ncurriculum must take account of the adaptation of studies to the needs\nof the existing community life; it must select with the intention of\nimproving the life we live in common so that the future shall be better\nthan the past. Moreover, the curriculum must be planned with reference\nto placing essentials first, and refinements second. The things which\nare socially most fundamental, that is, which have to do with the\nexperiences in which the widest groups share, are the essentials. The\nthings which represent the needs of specialized groups and technical\npursuits are secondary. There is truth in the saying that education must\nfirst be human and only after that professional. But those who utter\nthe saying frequently have in mind in the term human only a highly\nspecialized class: the class of learned men who preserve the classic\ntraditions of the past. They forget that material is humanized in the\ndegree in which it connects with the common interests of men as men.\nDemocratic society is peculiarly dependent for its maintenance upon the\nuse in forming a course of study of criteria which are broadly human.\nDemocracy cannot flourish where the chief influences in selecting\nsubject matter of instruction are utilitarian ends narrowly conceived\nfor the masses, and, for the higher education of the few, the traditions\nof a specialized cultivated class. The notion that the \"essentials\" of\nelementary education are the three R's mechanically treated, is based\nupon ignorance of the essentials needed for realization of democratic\nideals. Unconsciously it assumes that these ideals are unrealizable;\nit assumes that in the future, as in the past, getting a livelihood,\n\"making a living,\" must signify for most men and women doing things\nwhich are not significant, freely chosen, and ennobling to those who\ndo them; doing things which serve ends unrecognized by those engaged in\nthem, carried on under the direction of others for the sake of pecuniary\nreward. For preparation of large numbers for a life of this sort, and\nonly for this purpose, are mechanical efficiency in reading, writing,\nspelling and figuring, together with attainment of a certain amount\nof muscular dexterity, \"essentials.\" Such conditions also infect the\neducation called liberal, with illiberality. They imply a somewhat\nparasitic cultivation bought at the expense of not having the\nenlightenment and discipline which come from concern with the deepest\nproblems of common humanity. A curriculum which acknowledges the social\nresponsibilities of education must present situations where problems are\nrelevant to the problems of living together, and where observation and\ninformation are calculated to develop social insight and interest.\n\nSummary. The subject matter of education consists primarily of the\nmeanings which supply content to existing social life. The continuity of\nsocial life means that many of these meanings are contributed to present\nactivity by past collective experience. As social life grows more\ncomplex, these factors increase in number and import. There is need of\nspecial selection, formulation, and organization in order that they may\nbe adequately transmitted to the new generation. But this very process\ntends to set up subject matter as something of value just by itself,\napart from its function in promoting the realization of the meanings\nimplied in the present experience of the immature. Especially is the\neducator exposed to the temptation to conceive his task in terms of the\npupil's ability to appropriate and reproduce the subject matter in set\nstatements, irrespective of its organization into his activities as a\ndeveloping social member. The positive principle is maintained when the\nyoung begin with active occupations having a social origin and use,\nand proceed to a scientific insight in the materials and laws involved,\nthrough assimilating into their more direct experience the ideas and\nfacts communicated by others who have had a larger experience. 1 Since\nthe learned man should also still be a learner, it will be understood\nthat these contrasts are relative, not absolute. But in the earlier\nstages of learning at least they are practically all-important.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Fifteen: Play and Work in the Curriculum\n\n1. The Place of Active Occupations in Education. In consequence partly\nof the efforts of educational reformers, partly of increased interest in\nchild-psychology, and partly of the direct experience of the schoolroom,\nthe course of study has in the past generation undergone considerable\nmodification. The desirability of starting from and with the experience\nand capacities of learners, a lesson enforced from all three quarters,\nhas led to the introduction of forms of activity, in play and work,\nsimilar to those in which children and youth engage outside of school.\nModern psychology has substituted for the general, ready-made faculties\nof older theory a complex group of instinctive and impulsive tendencies.\nExperience has shown that when children have a chance at physical\nactivities which bring their natural impulses into play, going to\nschool is a joy, management is less of a burden, and learning is easier.\nSometimes, perhaps, plays, games, and constructive occupations are\nresorted to only for these reasons, with emphasis upon relief from the\ntedium and strain of \"regular\" school work. There is no reason, however,\nfor using them merely as agreeable diversions. Study of mental life has\nmade evident the fundamental worth of native tendencies to explore,\nto manipulate tools and materials, to construct, to give expression\nto joyous emotion, etc. When exercises which are prompted by these\ninstincts are a part of the regular school program, the whole pupil is\nengaged, the artificial gap between life in school and out is reduced,\nmotives are afforded for attention to a large variety of materials and\nprocesses distinctly educative in effect, and cooperative associations\nwhich give information in a social setting are provided. In short, the\ngrounds for assigning to play and active work a definite place in\nthe curriculum are intellectual and social, not matters of temporary\nexpediency and momentary agreeableness. Without something of the kind,\nit is not possible to secure the normal estate of effective learning;\nnamely, that knowledge-getting be an outgrowth of activities having\ntheir own end, instead of a school task. More specifically, play and\nwork correspond, point for point, with the traits of the initial stage\nof knowing, which consists, as we saw in the last chapter, in learning\nhow to do things and in acquaintance with things and processes gained\nin the doing. It is suggestive that among the Greeks, till the rise\nof conscious philosophy, the same word, techne, was used for art and\nscience. Plato gave his account of knowledge on the basis of an\nanalysis of the knowledge of cobblers, carpenters, players of musical\ninstruments, etc., pointing out that their art (so far as it was not\nmere routine) involved an end, mastery of material or stuff worked upon,\ncontrol of appliances, and a definite order of procedure--all of which\nhad to be known in order that there be intelligent skill or art.\n\nDoubtless the fact that children normally engage in play and work out\nof school has seemed to many educators a reason why they should concern\nthemselves in school with things radically different. School time seemed\ntoo precious to spend in doing over again what children were sure to do\nany way. In some social conditions, this reason has weight. In pioneer\ntimes, for example, outside occupations gave a definite and valuable\nintellectual and moral training. Books and everything concerned with\nthem were, on the other hand, rare and difficult of access; they were\nthe only means of outlet from a narrow and crude environment. Wherever\nsuch conditions obtain, much may be said in favor of concentrating\nschool activity upon books. The situation is very different, however,\nin most communities to-day. The kinds of work in which the young\ncan engage, especially in cities, are largely anti-educational. That\nprevention of child labor is a social duty is evidence on this point.\nOn the other hand, printed matter has been so cheapened and is in such\nuniversal circulation, and all the opportunities of intellectual culture\nhave been so multiplied, that the older type of book work is far from\nhaving the force it used to possess.\n\nBut it must not be forgotten that an educational result is a by-product\nof play and work in most out-of-school conditions. It is incidental,\nnot primary. Consequently the educative growth secured is more or less\naccidental. Much work shares in the defects of existing industrial\nsociety--defects next to fatal to right development. Play tends to\nreproduce and affirm the crudities, as well as the excellencies, of\nsurrounding adult life. It is the business of the school to set up an\nenvironment in which play and work shall be conducted with reference to\nfacilitating desirable mental and moral growth. It is not enough just\nto introduce plays and games, hand work and manual exercises. Everything\ndepends upon the way in which they are employed.\n\n2. Available Occupations. A bare catalogue of the list of activities\nwhich have already found their way into schools indicates what a rich\nfield is at hand. There is work with paper, cardboard, wood, leather,\ncloth, yarns, clay and sand, and the metals, with and without tools.\nProcesses employed are folding, cutting, pricking, measuring, molding,\nmodeling, pattern-making, heating and cooling, and the operations\ncharacteristic of such tools as the hammer, saw, file, etc. Outdoor\nexcursions, gardening, cooking, sewing, printing, book-binding, weaving,\npainting, drawing, singing, dramatization, story-telling, reading and\nwriting as active pursuits with social aims (not as mere exercises for\nacquiring skill for future use), in addition to a countless variety of\nplays and games, designate some of the modes of occupation.\n\nThe problem of the educator is to engage pupils in these activities in\nsuch ways that while manual skill and technical efficiency are gained\nand immediate satisfaction found in the work, together with\npreparation for later usefulness, these things shall be subordinated\nto education--that is, to intellectual results and the forming of a\nsocialized disposition. What does this principle signify? In the first\nplace, the principle rules out certain practices. Activities which\nfollow definite prescription and dictation or which reproduce without\nmodification ready-made models, may give muscular dexterity, but they\ndo not require the perception and elaboration of ends, nor (what is\nthe same thing in other words) do they permit the use of judgment in\nselecting and adapting means. Not merely manual training specifically\nso called but many traditional kindergarten exercises have erred here.\nMoreover, opportunity for making mistakes is an incidental requirement.\nNot because mistakes are ever desirable, but because overzeal to select\nmaterial and appliances which forbid a chance for mistakes to occur,\nrestricts initiative, reduces judgment to a minimum, and compels the use\nof methods which are so remote from the complex situations of life\nthat the power gained is of little availability. It is quite true that\nchildren tend to exaggerate their powers of execution and to select\nprojects that are beyond them. But limitation of capacity is one of the\nthings which has to be learned; like other things, it is learned through\nthe experience of consequences. The danger that children undertaking\ntoo complex projects will simply muddle and mess, and produce not merely\ncrude results (which is a minor matter) but acquire crude standards\n(which is an important matter) is great. But it is the fault of the\nteacher if the pupil does not perceive in due season the inadequacy of\nhis performances, and thereby receive a stimulus to attempt exercises\nwhich will perfect his powers. Meantime it is more important to keep\nalive a creative and constructive attitude than to secure an external\nperfection by engaging the pupil's action in too minute and too closely\nregulated pieces of work. Accuracy and finish of detail can be insisted\nupon in such portions of a complex work as are within the pupil's\ncapacity.\n\nUnconscious suspicion of native experience and consequent overdoing of\nexternal control are shown quite as much in the material supplied as in\nthe matter of the teacher's orders. The fear of raw material is shown\nin laboratory, manual training shop, Froebelian kindergarten, and\nMontessori house of childhood. The demand is for materials which have\nalready been subjected to the perfecting work of mind: a demand which\nshows itself in the subject matter of active occupations quite as\nwell as in academic book learning. That such material will control the\npupil's operations so as to prevent errors is true. The notion that a\npupil operating with such material will somehow absorb the intelligence\nthat went originally to its shaping is fallacious. Only by starting with\ncrude material and subjecting it to purposeful handling will he gain the\nintelligence embodied in finished material. In practice, overemphasis\nupon formed material leads to an exaggeration of mathematical qualities,\nsince intellect finds its profit in physical things from matters of\nsize, form, and proportion and the relations that flow from them. But\nthese are known only when their perception is a fruit of acting upon\npurposes which require attention to them. The more human the purpose, or\nthe more it approximates the ends which appeal in daily experience, the\nmore real the knowledge. When the purpose of the activity is restricted\nto ascertaining these qualities, the resulting knowledge is only\ntechnical.\n\nTo say that active occupations should be concerned primarily with wholes\nis another statement of the same principle. Wholes for purposes of\neducation are not, however, physical affairs. Intellectually the\nexistence of a whole depends upon a concern or interest; it is\nqualitative, the completeness of appeal made by a situation. Exaggerated\ndevotion to formation of efficient skill irrespective of present purpose\nalways shows itself in devising exercises isolated from a purpose.\nLaboratory work is made to consist of tasks of accurate measurement\nwith a view to acquiring knowledge of the fundamental units of physics,\nirrespective of contact with the problems which make these units\nimportant; or of operations designed to afford facility in the\nmanipulation of experimental apparatus. The technique is acquired\nindependently of the purposes of discovery and testing which alone give\nit meaning. Kindergarten employments are calculated to give information\nregarding cubes, spheres, etc., and to form certain habits of\nmanipulation of material (for everything must always be done \"just so\"),\nthe absence of more vital purposes being supposedly compensated for by\nthe alleged symbolism of the material used. Manual training is reduced\nto a series of ordered assignments calculated to secure the mastery of\none tool after another and technical ability in the various elements of\nconstruction--like the different joints. It is argued that pupils must\nknow how to use tools before they attack actual making,--assuming that\npupils cannot learn how in the process of making. Pestalozzi's just\ninsistence upon the active use of the senses, as a substitute for\nmemorizing words, left behind it in practice schemes for \"object\nlessons\" intended to acquaint pupils with all the qualities of selected\nobjects. The error is the same: in all these cases it is assumed that\nbefore objects can be intelligently used, their properties must\nbe known. In fact, the senses are normally used in the course of\nintelligent (that is, purposeful) use of things, since the qualities\nperceived are factors to be reckoned with in accomplishment. Witness the\ndifferent attitude of a boy in making, say, a kite, with respect to\nthe grain and other properties of wood, the matter of size, angles, and\nproportion of parts, to the attitude of a pupil who has an object-lesson\non a piece of wood, where the sole function of wood and its properties\nis to serve as subject matter for the lesson.\n\nThe failure to realize that the functional development of a situation\nalone constitutes a \"whole\" for the purpose of mind is the cause of the\nfalse notions which have prevailed in instruction concerning the simple\nand the complex. For the person approaching a subject, the simple\nthing is his purpose--the use he desires to make of material, tool, or\ntechnical process, no matter how complicated the process of execution\nmay be. The unity of the purpose, with the concentration upon details\nwhich it entails, confers simplicity upon the elements which have to be\nreckoned with in the course of action. It furnishes each with a single\nmeaning according to its service in carrying on the whole enterprise.\nAfter one has gone through the process, the constituent qualities and\nrelations are elements, each possessed with a definite meaning of its\nown. The false notion referred to takes the standpoint of the expert,\nthe one for whom elements exist; isolates them from purposeful action,\nand presents them to beginners as the \"simple\" things. But it is time\nfor a positive statement. Aside from the fact that active occupations\nrepresent things to do, not studies, their educational significance\nconsists in the fact that they may typify social situations. Men's\nfundamental common concerns center about food, shelter, clothing,\nhousehold furnishings, and the appliances connected with production,\nexchange, and consumption.\n\nRepresenting both the necessities of life and the adornments with which\nthe necessities have been clothed, they tap instincts at a deep level;\nthey are saturated with facts and principles having a social quality.\n\nTo charge that the various activities of gardening, weaving,\nconstruction in wood, manipulation of metals, cooking, etc., which carry\nover these fundamental human concerns into school resources, have a\nmerely bread and butter value is to miss their point. If the mass of\nmankind has usually found in its industrial occupations nothing but\nevils which had to be endured for the sake of maintaining existence, the\nfault is not in the occupations, but in the conditions under which\nthey are carried on. The continually increasing importance of economic\nfactors in contemporary life makes it the more needed that education\nshould reveal their scientific content and their social value. For in\nschools, occupations are not carried on for pecuniary gain but for their\nown content. Freed from extraneous associations and from the pressure\nof wage-earning, they supply modes of experience which are intrinsically\nvaluable; they are truly liberalizing in quality.\n\nGardening, for example, need not be taught either for the sake of\npreparing future gardeners, or as an agreeable way of passing time.\nIt affords an avenue of approach to knowledge of the place farming and\nhorticulture have had in the history of the race and which they\noccupy in present social organization. Carried on in an environment\neducationally controlled, they are means for making a study of the facts\nof growth, the chemistry of soil, the role of light, air, and moisture,\ninjurious and helpful animal life, etc. There is nothing in the\nelementary study of botany which cannot be introduced in a vital way in\nconnection with caring for the growth of seeds. Instead of the subject\nmatter belonging to a peculiar study called botany, it will then belong\nto life, and will find, moreover, its natural correlations with the\nfacts of soil, animal life, and human relations. As students grow\nmature, they will perceive problems of interest which may be pursued for\nthe sake of discovery, independent of the original direct interest in\ngardening--problems connected with the germination and nutrition of\nplants, the reproduction of fruits, etc., thus making a transition to\ndeliberate intellectual investigations.\n\nThe illustration is intended to apply, of course, to other school\noccupations,--wood-working, cooking, and on through the list. It is\npertinent to note that in the history of the race the sciences grew\ngradually out from useful social occupations. Physics developed slowly\nout of the use of tools and machines; the important branch of physics\nknown as mechanics testifies in its name to its original associations.\nThe lever, wheel, inclined plane, etc., were among the first great\nintellectual discoveries of mankind, and they are none the less\nintellectual because they occurred in the course of seeking for means of\naccomplishing practical ends. The great advance of electrical science in\nthe last generation was closely associated, as effect and as cause,\nwith application of electric agencies to means of communication,\ntransportation, lighting of cities and houses, and more economical\nproduction of goods. These are social ends, moreover, and if they are\ntoo closely associated with notions of private profit, it is not because\nof anything in them, but because they have been deflected to private\nuses:--a fact which puts upon the school the responsibility of restoring\ntheir connection, in the mind of the coming generation, with public\nscientific and social interests. In like ways, chemistry grew out of\nprocesses of dying, bleaching, metal working, etc., and in recent times\nhas found innumerable new uses in industry.\n\nMathematics is now a highly abstract science; geometry, however, means\nliterally earth-measuring: the practical use of number in counting to\nkeep track of things and in measuring is even more important to-day\nthan in the times when it was invented for these purposes. Such\nconsiderations (which could be duplicated in the history of any science)\nare not arguments for a recapitulation of the history of the race or for\ndwelling long in the early rule of thumb stage. But they indicate\nthe possibilities--greater to-day than ever before--of using active\noccupations as opportunities for scientific study. The opportunities\nare just as great on the social side, whether we look at the life of\ncollective humanity in its past or in its future. The most direct\nroad for elementary students into civics and economics is found in\nconsideration of the place and office of industrial occupations in\nsocial life. Even for older students, the social sciences would be less\nabstract and formal if they were dealt with less as sciences (less as\nformulated bodies of knowledge) and more in their direct subject-matter\nas that is found in the daily life of the social groups in which the\nstudent shares.\n\nConnection of occupations with the method of science is at least as\nclose as with its subject matter. The ages when scientific progress was\nslow were the ages when learned men had contempt for the material and\nprocesses of everyday life, especially for those concerned with manual\npursuits. Consequently they strove to develop knowledge out of general\nprinciples--almost out of their heads--by logical reasons. It seems\nas absurd that learning should come from action on and with physical\nthings, like dropping acid on a stone to see what would happen, as that\nit should come from sticking an awl with waxed thread through a piece of\nleather. But the rise of experimental methods proved that, given control\nof conditions, the latter operation is more typical of the right way of\nknowledge than isolated logical reasonings. Experiment developed in the\nseventeenth and succeeding centuries and became the authorized way of\nknowing when men's interests were centered in the question of control\nof nature for human uses. The active occupations in which appliances\nare brought to bear upon physical things with the intention of effecting\nuseful changes is the most vital introduction to the experimental\nmethod.\n\n3. Work and Play. What has been termed active occupation includes both\nplay and work. In their intrinsic meaning, play and industry are by\nno means so antithetical to one another as is often assumed, any sharp\ncontrast being due to undesirable social conditions. Both involve ends\nconsciously entertained and the selection and adaptations of materials\nand processes designed to effect the desired ends. The difference\nbetween them is largely one of time-span, influencing the directness\nof the connection of means and ends. In play, the interest is more\ndirect--a fact frequently indicated by saying that in play the activity\nis its own end, instead of its having an ulterior result. The statement\nis correct, but it is falsely taken, if supposed to mean that play\nactivity is momentary, having no element of looking ahead and none of\npursuit. Hunting, for example, is one of the commonest forms of adult\nplay, but the existence of foresight and the direction of present\nactivity by what one is watching for are obvious. When an activity is\nits own end in the sense that the action of the moment is complete in\nitself, it is purely physical; it has no meaning (See p. 77). The\nperson is either going through motions quite blindly, perhaps purely\nimitatively, or else is in a state of excitement which is exhausting to\nmind and nerves. Both results may be seen in some types of kindergarten\ngames where the idea of play is so highly symbolic that only the adult\nis conscious of it. Unless the children succeed in reading in some quite\ndifferent idea of their own, they move about either as if in a hypnotic\ndaze, or they respond to a direct excitation.\n\nThe point of these remarks is that play has an end in the sense of a\ndirecting idea which gives point to the successive acts. Persons who\nplay are not just doing something (pure physical movement); they are\ntrying to do or effect something, an attitude that involves anticipatory\nforecasts which stimulate their present responses. The anticipated\nresult, however, is rather a subsequent action than the production of\na specific change in things. Consequently play is free, plastic. Where\nsome definite external outcome is wanted, the end has to be held to with\nsome persistence, which increases as the contemplated result is complex\nand requires a fairly long series of intermediate adaptations. When the\nintended act is another activity, it is not necessary to look far ahead\nand it is possible to alter it easily and frequently. If a child\nis making a toy boat, he must hold on to a single end and direct a\nconsiderable number of acts by that one idea. If he is just \"playing\nboat\" he may change the material that serves as a boat almost at will,\nand introduce new factors as fancy suggests. The imagination makes what\nit will of chairs, blocks, leaves, chips, if they serve the purpose of\ncarrying activity forward.\n\nFrom a very early age, however, there is no distinction of exclusive\nperiods of play activity and work activity, but only one of emphasis.\nThere are definite results which even young children desire, and try\nto bring to pass. Their eager interest in sharing the occupations of\nothers, if nothing else, accomplishes this. Children want to \"help\";\nthey are anxious to engage in the pursuits of adults which effect\nexternal changes: setting the table, washing dishes, helping care for\nanimals, etc. In their plays, they like to construct their own toys and\nappliances. With increasing maturity, activity which does not give back\nresults of tangible and visible achievement loses its interest. Play\nthen changes to fooling and if habitually indulged in is demoralizing.\nObservable results are necessary to enable persons to get a sense and\na measure of their own powers. When make-believe is recognized to be\nmake-believe, the device of making objects in fancy alone is too easy\nto stimulate intense action. One has only to observe the countenance of\nchildren really playing to note that their attitude is one of serious\nabsorption; this attitude cannot be maintained when things cease to\nafford adequate stimulation.\n\nWhen fairly remote results of a definite character are foreseen and\nenlist persistent effort for their accomplishment, play passes into\nwork. Like play, it signifies purposeful activity and differs not in\nthat activity is subordinated to an external result, but in the fact\nthat a longer course of activity is occasioned by the idea of a result.\nThe demand for continuous attention is greater, and more intelligence\nmust be shown in selecting and shaping means. To extend this account\nwould be to repeat what has been said under the caption of aim,\ninterest, and thinking. It is pertinent, however, to inquire why the\nidea is so current that work involves subordination of an activity to an\nulterior material result. The extreme form of this subordination,\nnamely drudgery, offers a clew. Activity carried on under conditions\nof external pressure or coercion is not carried on for any significance\nattached to the doing. The course of action is not intrinsically\nsatisfying; it is a mere means for avoiding some penalty, or for gaining\nsome reward at its conclusion. What is inherently repulsive is endured\nfor the sake of averting something still more repulsive or of securing a\ngain hitched on by others. Under unfree economic conditions, this state\nof affairs is bound to exist. Work or industry offers little to engage\nthe emotions and the imagination; it is a more or less mechanical series\nof strains. Only the hold which the completion of the work has upon\na person will keep him going. But the end should be intrinsic to the\naction; it should be its end--a part of its own course. Then it affords\na stimulus to effort very different from that arising from the thought\nof results which have nothing to do with the intervening action. As\nalready mentioned, the absence of economic pressure in schools supplies\nan opportunity for reproducing industrial situations of mature life\nunder conditions where the occupation can be carried on for its own\nsake. If in some cases, pecuniary recognition is also a result of an\naction, though not the chief motive for it, that fact may well increase\nthe significance of the occupation. Where something approaching drudgery\nor the need of fulfilling externally imposed tasks exists, the demand\nfor play persists, but tends to be perverted. The ordinary course of\naction fails to give adequate stimulus to emotion and imagination. So in\nleisure time, there is an imperious demand for their stimulation by any\nkind of means; gambling, drink, etc., may be resorted to. Or, in less\nextreme cases, there is recourse to idle amusement; to anything which\npasses time with immediate agreeableness. Recreation, as the word\nindicates, is recuperation of energy. No demand of human nature is more\nurgent or less to be escaped. The idea that the need can be suppressed\nis absolutely fallacious, and the Puritanic tradition which disallows\nthe need has entailed an enormous crop of evils. If education does\nnot afford opportunity for wholesome recreation and train capacity\nfor seeking and finding it, the suppressed instincts find all sorts of\nillicit outlets, sometimes overt, sometimes confined to indulgence\nof the imagination. Education has no more serious responsibility than\nmaking adequate provision for enjoyment of recreative leisure; not only\nfor the sake of immediate health, but still more if possible for the\nsake of its lasting effect upon habits of mind. Art is again the answer\nto this demand.\n\nSummary. In the previous chapter we found that the primary subject\nmatter of knowing is that contained in learning how to do things of a\nfairly direct sort. The educational equivalent of this principle is the\nconsistent use of simple occupations which appeal to the powers of youth\nand which typify general modes of social activity. Skill and information\nabout materials, tools, and laws of energy are acquired while activities\nare carried on for their own sake. The fact that they are socially\nrepresentative gives a quality to the skill and knowledge gained which\nmakes them transferable to out-of-school situations. It is important not\nto confuse the psychological distinction between play and work with the\neconomic distinction. Psychologically, the defining characteristic of\nplay is not amusement nor aimlessness. It is the fact that the aim\nis thought of as more activity in the same line, without defining\ncontinuity of action in reference to results produced. Activities as\nthey grow more complicated gain added meaning by greater attention to\nspecific results achieved. Thus they pass gradually into work. Both\nare equally free and intrinsically motivated, apart from false economic\nconditions which tend to make play into idle excitement for the well\nto do, and work into uncongenial labor for the poor. Work is\npsychologically simply an activity which consciously includes regard for\nconsequences as a part of itself; it becomes constrained labor when the\nconsequences are outside of the activity as an end to which activity is\nmerely a means. Work which remains permeated with the play attitude is\nart--in quality if not in conventional designation.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Sixteen: The Significance of Geography and History\n\n1. Extension of Meaning of Primary Activities. Nothing is more striking\nthan the difference between an activity as merely physical and the\nwealth of meanings which the same activity may assume. From the outside,\nan astronomer gazing through a telescope is like a small boy looking\nthrough the same tube. In each case, there is an arrangement of glass\nand metal, an eye, and a little speck of light in the distance. Yet at\na critical moment, the activity of an astronomer might be concerned\nwith the birth of a world, and have whatever is known about the starry\nheavens as its significant content. Physically speaking, what man has\neffected on this globe in his progress from savagery is a mere scratch\non its surface, not perceptible at a distance which is slight in\ncomparison with the reaches even of the solar system. Yet in meaning\nwhat has been accomplished measures just the difference of civilization\nfrom savagery. Although the activities, physically viewed, have changed\nsomewhat, this change is slight in comparison with the development\nof the meanings attaching to the activities. There is no limit to the\nmeaning which an action may come to possess. It all depends upon the\ncontext of perceived connections in which it is placed; the reach of\nimagination in realizing connections is inexhaustible. The advantage\nwhich the activity of man has in appropriating and finding meanings\nmakes his education something else than the manufacture of a tool or\nthe training of an animal. The latter increase efficiency; they do\nnot develop significance. The final educational importance of such\noccupations in play and work as were considered in the last chapter is\nthat they afford the most direct instrumentalities for such extension\nof meaning. Set going under adequate conditions they are magnets for\ngathering and retaining an indefinitely wide scope of intellectual\nconsiderations. They provide vital centers for the reception and\nassimilation of information. When information is purveyed in chunks\nsimply as information to be retained for its own sake, it tends to\nstratify over vital experience. Entering as a factor into an activity\npursued for its own sake--whether as a means or as a widening of the\ncontent of the aim--it is informing. The insight directly gained fuses\nwith what is told. Individual experience is then capable of taking up\nand holding in solution the net results of the experience of the group\nto which he belongs--including the results of sufferings and trials over\nlong stretches of time. And such media have no fixed saturation point\nwhere further absorption is impossible. The more that is taken in, the\ngreater capacity there is for further assimilation. New receptiveness\nfollows upon new curiosity, and new curiosity upon information gained.\n\nThe meanings with which activities become charged, concern nature\nand man. This is an obvious truism, which however gains meaning when\ntranslated into educational equivalents. So translated, it signifies\nthat geography and history supply subject matter which gives background\nand outlook, intellectual perspective, to what might otherwise be narrow\npersonal actions or mere forms of technical skill. With every increase\nof ability to place our own doings in their time and space connections,\nour doings gain in significant content. We realize that we are citizens\nof no mean city in discovering the scene in space of which we are\ndenizens, and the continuous manifestation of endeavor in time of which\nwe are heirs and continuers. Thus our ordinary daily experiences cease\nto be things of the moment and gain enduring substance. Of course if\ngeography and history are taught as ready-made studies which a person\nstudies simply because he is sent to school, it easily happens that a\nlarge number of statements about things remote and alien to everyday\nexperience are learned. Activity is divided, and two separate worlds are\nbuilt up, occupying activity at divided periods. No transmutation takes\nplace; ordinary experience is not enlarged in meaning by getting its\nconnections; what is studied is not animated and made real by entering\ninto immediate activity. Ordinary experience is not even left as it\nwas, narrow but vital. Rather, it loses something of its mobility and\nsensitiveness to suggestions. It is weighed down and pushed into\na corner by a load of unassimilated information. It parts with its\nflexible responsiveness and alert eagerness for additional meaning. Mere\namassing of information apart from the direct interests of life makes\nmind wooden; elasticity disappears.\n\nNormally every activity engaged in for its own sake reaches out beyond\nits immediate self. It does not passively wait for information to be\nbestowed which will increase its meaning; it seeks it out. Curiosity is\nnot an accidental isolated possession; it is a necessary consequence of\nthe fact that an experience is a moving, changing thing, involving all\nkinds of connections with other things. Curiosity is but the tendency\nto make these conditions perceptible. It is the business of educators to\nsupply an environment so that this reaching out of an experience may be\nfruitfully rewarded and kept continuously active. Within a certain kind\nof environment, an activity may be checked so that the only meaning\nwhich accrues is of its direct and tangible isolated outcome. One may\ncook, or hammer, or walk, and the resulting consequences may not take\nthe mind any farther than the consequences of cooking, hammering,\nand walking in the literal--or physical--sense. But nevertheless\nthe consequences of the act remain far-reaching. To walk involves a\ndisplacement and reaction of the resisting earth, whose thrill is felt\nwherever there is matter. It involves the structure of the limbs and the\nnervous system; the principles of mechanics. To cook is to utilize heat\nand moisture to change the chemical relations of food materials; it has\na bearing upon the assimilation of food and the growth of the body. The\nutmost that the most learned men of science know in physics, chemistry,\nphysiology is not enough to make all these consequences and connections\nperceptible. The task of education, once more, is to see to it that\nsuch activities are performed in such ways and under such conditions as\nrender these conditions as perceptible as possible. To \"learn geography\"\nis to gain in power to perceive the spatial, the natural, connections of\nan ordinary act; to \"learn history\" is essentially to gain in power\nto recognize its human connections. For what is called geography as a\nformulated study is simply the body of facts and principles which have\nbeen discovered in other men's experience about the natural medium in\nwhich we live, and in connection with which the particular acts of our\nlife have an explanation. So history as a formulated study is but the\nbody of known facts about the activities and sufferings of the social\ngroups with which our own lives are continuous, and through reference to\nwhich our own customs and institutions are illuminated.\n\n2. The Complementary Nature of History and Geography. History and\ngeography--including in the latter, for reasons about to be mentioned,\nnature study--are the information studies par excellence of the schools.\nExamination of the materials and the method of their use will make clear\nthat the difference between penetration of this information into living\nexperience and its mere piling up in isolated heaps depends upon whether\nthese studies are faithful to the interdependence of man and nature\nwhich affords these studies their justification. Nowhere, however, is\nthere greater danger that subject matter will be accepted as appropriate\neducational material simply because it has become customary to teach\nand learn it. The idea of a philosophic reason for it, because of the\nfunction of the material in a worthy transformation of experience, is\nlooked upon as a vain fancy, or as supplying a high-sounding phraseology\nin support of what is already done. The words \"history\" and \"geography\"\nsuggest simply the matter which has been traditionally sanctioned in the\nschools. The mass and variety of this matter discourage an attempt to\nsee what it really stands for, and how it can be so taught as to fulfill\nits mission in the experience of pupils. But unless the idea that there\nis a unifying and social direction in education is a farcical pretense,\nsubjects that bulk as large in the curriculum as history and geography,\nmust represent a general function in the development of a truly\nsocialized and intellectualized experience. The discovery of this\nfunction must be employed as a criterion for trying and sifting the\nfacts taught and the methods used.\n\nThe function of historical and geographical subject matter has been\nstated; it is to enrich and liberate the more direct and personal\ncontacts of life by furnishing their context, their background and\noutlook. While geography emphasizes the physical side and history\nthe social, these are only emphases in a common topic, namely, the\nassociated life of men. For this associated life, with its experiments,\nits ways and means, its achievements and failures, does not go on in the\nsky nor yet in a vacuum. It takes place on the earth. This setting of\nnature does not bear to social activities the relation that the scenery\nof a theatrical performance bears to a dramatic representation; it\nenters into the very make-up of the social happenings that form history.\nNature is the medium of social occurrences. It furnishes original\nstimuli; it supplies obstacles and resources. Civilization is the\nprogressive mastery of its varied energies. When this interdependence of\nthe study of history, representing the human emphasis, with the study\nof geography, representing the natural, is ignored, history sinks to\na listing of dates with an appended inventory of events, labeled\n\"important\"; or else it becomes a literary phantasy--for in purely\nliterary history the natural environment is but stage scenery.\n\nGeography, of course, has its educative influence in a counterpart\nconnection of natural facts with social events and their consequences.\nThe classic definition of geography as an account of the earth as the\nhome of man expresses the educational reality. But it is easier to give\nthis definition than it is to present specific geographical subject\nmatter in its vital human bearings. The residence, pursuits, successes,\nand failures of men are the things that give the geographic data their\nreason for inclusion in the material of instruction. But to hold the two\ntogether requires an informed and cultivated imagination. When the ties\nare broken, geography presents itself as that hodge-podge of unrelated\nfragments too often found. It appears as a veritable rag-bag of\nintellectual odds and ends: the height of a mountain here, the course\nof a river there, the quantity of shingles produced in this town, the\ntonnage of the shipping in that, the boundary of a county, the capital\nof a state. The earth as the home of man is humanizing and unified; the\nearth viewed as a miscellany of facts is scattering and imaginatively\ninert. Geography is a topic that originally appeals to imagination--even\nto the romantic imagination. It shares in the wonder and glory that\nattach to adventure, travel, and exploration. The variety of peoples and\nenvironments, their contrast with familiar scenes, furnishes infinite\nstimulation. The mind is moved from the monotony of the customary.\nAnd while local or home geography is the natural starting point in\nthe reconstructive development of the natural environment, it is an\nintellectual starting point for moving out into the unknown, not an end\nin itself. When not treated as a basis for getting at the large world\nbeyond, the study of the home geography becomes as deadly as do object\nlessons which simply summarize the properties of familiar objects. The\nreason is the same. The imagination is not fed, but is held down to\nrecapitulating, cataloguing, and refining what is already known. But\nwhen the familiar fences that mark the limits of the village proprietors\nare signs that introduce an understanding of the boundaries of great\nnations, even fences are lighted with meaning. Sunlight, air, running\nwater, inequality of earth's surface, varied industries, civil officers\nand their duties--all these things are found in the local environment.\nTreated as if their meaning began and ended in those confines, they are\ncurious facts to be laboriously learned. As instruments for extending\nthe limits of experience, bringing within its scope peoples and things\notherwise strange and unknown, they are transfigured by the use to which\nthey are put. Sunlight, wind, stream, commerce, political relations\ncome from afar and lead the thoughts afar. To follow their course is to\nenlarge the mind not by stuffing it with additional information, but by\nremaking the meaning of what was previously a matter of course.\n\nThe same principle coordinates branches, or phases, of geographical\nstudy which tend to become specialized and separate. Mathematical\nor astronomical, physiographic, topographic, political, commercial,\ngeography, all make their claims. How are they to be adjusted? By an\nexternal compromise that crowds in so much of each? No other method is\nto be found unless it be constantly borne in mind that the educational\ncenter of gravity is in the cultural or humane aspects of the subject.\nFrom this center, any material becomes relevant in so far as it is\nneeded to help appreciate the significance of human activities and\nrelations. The differences of civilization in cold and tropical regions,\nthe special inventions, industrial and political, of peoples in the\ntemperate regions, cannot be understood without appeal to the earth as a\nmember of the solar system. Economic activities deeply influence social\nintercourse and political organization on one side, and reflect physical\nconditions on the other. The specializations of these topics are for the\nspecialists; their interaction concerns man as a being whose experience\nis social.\n\nTo include nature study within geography doubtless seems forced;\nverbally, it is. But in educational idea there is but one reality, and\nit is pity that in practice we have two names: for the diversity of\nnames tends to conceal the identity of meaning. Nature and the earth\nshould be equivalent terms, and so should earth study and nature\nstudy. Everybody knows that nature study has suffered in schools from\nscrappiness of subject matter, due to dealing with a large number of\nisolated points. The parts of a flower have been studied, for example,\napart from the flower as an organ; the flower apart from the plant; the\nplant apart from the soil, air, and light in which and through which it\nlives. The result is an inevitable deadness of topics to which attention\nis invited, but which are so isolated that they do not feed imagination.\nThe lack of interest is so great that it was seriously proposed to\nrevive animism, to clothe natural facts and events with myths in order\nthat they might attract and hold the mind. In numberless cases, more or\nless silly personifications were resorted to. The method was silly, but\nit expressed a real need for a human atmosphere. The facts had been torn\nto pieces by being taken out of their context. They no longer belonged\nto the earth; they had no abiding place anywhere. To compensate,\nrecourse was had to artificial and sentimental associations. The real\nremedy is to make nature study a study of nature, not of fragments made\nmeaningless through complete removal from the situations in which they\nare produced and in which they operate. When nature is treated as a\nwhole, like the earth in its relations, its phenomena fall into their\nnatural relations of sympathy and association with human life, and\nartificial substitutes are not needed.\n\n3. History and Present Social Life. The segregation which kills the\nvitality of history is divorce from present modes and concerns of social\nlife. The past just as past is no longer our affair. If it were wholly\ngone and done with, there would be only one reasonable attitude toward\nit. Let the dead bury their dead. But knowledge of the past is the key\nto understanding the present. History deals with the past, but this past\nis the history of the present. An intelligent study of the discovery,\nexplorations, colonization of America, of the pioneer movement westward,\nof immigration, etc., should be a study of the United States as it\nis to-day: of the country we now live in. Studying it in process of\nformation makes much that is too complex to be directly grasped open\nto comprehension. Genetic method was perhaps the chief scientific\nachievement of the latter half of the nineteenth century. Its principle\nis that the way to get insight into any complex product is to trace the\nprocess of its making,--to follow it through the successive stages of\nits growth. To apply this method to history as if it meant only the\ntruism that the present social state cannot be separated from its past,\nis one-sided. It means equally that past events cannot be separated\nfrom the living present and retain meaning. The true starting point of\nhistory is always some present situation with its problems.\n\nThis general principle may be briefly applied to a consideration of its\nbearing upon a number of points. The biographical method is generally\nrecommended as the natural mode of approach to historical study. The\nlives of great men, of heroes and leaders, make concrete and vital\nhistoric episodes otherwise abstract and incomprehensible. They condense\ninto vivid pictures complicated and tangled series of events spread over\nso much space and time that only a highly trained mind can follow and\nunravel them. There can be no doubt of the psychological soundness\nof this principle. But it is misused when employed to throw into\nexaggerated relief the doings of a few individuals without reference to\nthe social situations which they represent. When a biography is related\njust as an account of the doings of a man isolated from the conditions\nthat aroused him and to which his activities were a response, we do not\nhave a study of history, for we have no study of social life, which is\nan affair of individuals in association. We get only a sugar coating\nwhich makes it easier to swallow certain fragments of information. Much\nattention has been given of late to primitive life as an introduction\nto learning history. Here also there is a right and a wrong way of\nconceiving its value. The seemingly ready-made character and the\ncomplexity of present conditions, their apparently hard and fast\ncharacter, is an almost insuperable obstacle to gaining insight into\ntheir nature. Recourse to the primitive may furnish the fundamental\nelements of the present situation in immensely simplified form. It is\nlike unraveling a cloth so complex and so close to the eyes that its\nscheme cannot be seen, until the larger coarser features of the\npattern appear. We cannot simplify the present situations by deliberate\nexperiment, but resort to primitive life presents us with the sort of\nresults we should desire from an experiment. Social relationships and\nmodes of organized action are reduced to their lowest terms. When this\nsocial aim is overlooked, however, the study of primitive life becomes\nsimply a rehearsing of sensational and exciting features of savagery.\nPrimitive history suggests industrial history. For one of the chief\nreasons for going to more primitive conditions to resolve the present\ninto more easily perceived factors is that we may realize how the\nfundamental problems of procuring subsistence, shelter, and protection\nhave been met; and by seeing how these were solved in the earlier days\nof the human race, form some conception of the long road which has had\nto be traveled, and of the successive inventions by which the race has\nbeen brought forward in culture. We do not need to go into disputes\nregarding the economic interpretation of history to realize that the\nindustrial history of mankind gives insight into two important phases of\nsocial life in a way which no other phase of history can possibly do.\nIt presents us with knowledge of the successive inventions by which\ntheoretical science has been applied to the control of nature in the\ninterests of security and prosperity of social life. It thus reveals the\nsuccessive causes of social progress. Its other service is to put\nbefore us the things that fundamentally concern all men in common--the\noccupations and values connected with getting a living. Economic history\ndeals with the activities, the career, and fortunes of the common man as\ndoes no other branch of history. The one thing every individual must do\nis to live; the one thing that society must do is to secure from each\nindividual his fair contribution to the general well being and see to it\nthat a just return is made to him.\n\nEconomic history is more human, more democratic, and hence more\nliberalizing than political history. It deals not with the rise and\nfall of principalities and powers, but with the growth of the effective\nliberties, through command of nature, of the common man for whom powers\nand principalities exist.\n\nIndustrial history also offers a more direct avenue of approach to the\nrealization of the intimate connection of man's struggles, successes,\nand failures with nature than does political history--to say nothing of\nthe military history into which political history so easily runs when\nreduced to the level of youthful comprehension. For industrial history\nis essentially an account of the way in which man has learned to utilize\nnatural energy from the time when men mostly exploited the muscular\nenergies of other men to the time when, in promise if not in actuality,\nthe resources of nature are so under command as to enable men to\nextend a common dominion over her. When the history of work, when\nthe conditions of using the soil, forest, mine, of domesticating and\ncultivating grains and animals, of manufacture and distribution,\nare left out of account, history tends to become merely literary--a\nsystematized romance of a mythical humanity living upon itself instead\nof upon the earth.\n\nPerhaps the most neglected branch of history in general education is\nintellectual history. We are only just beginning to realize that the\ngreat heroes who have advanced human destiny are not its politicians,\ngenerals, and diplomatists, but the scientific discoverers and inventors\nwho have put into man's hands the instrumentalities of an expanding and\ncontrolled experience, and the artists and poets who have celebrated his\nstruggles, triumphs, and defeats in such language, pictorial, plastic,\nor written, that their meaning is rendered universally accessible to\nothers. One of the advantages of industrial history as a history of\nman's progressive adaptation of natural forces to social uses is the\nopportunity which it affords for consideration of advance in the methods\nand results of knowledge. At present men are accustomed to eulogize\nintelligence and reason in general terms; their fundamental importance\nis urged. But pupils often come away from the conventional study of\nhistory, and think either that the human intellect is a static quantity\nwhich has not progressed by the invention of better methods, or else\nthat intelligence, save as a display of personal shrewdness, is a\nnegligible historic factor. Surely no better way could be devised of\ninstilling a genuine sense of the part which mind has to play in life\nthan a study of history which makes plain how the entire advance\nof humanity from savagery to civilization has been dependent upon\nintellectual discoveries and inventions, and the extent to which the\nthings which ordinarily figure most largely in historical writings have\nbeen side issues, or even obstructions for intelligence to overcome.\n\nPursued in this fashion, history would most naturally become of ethical\nvalue in teaching. Intelligent insight into present forms of associated\nlife is necessary for a character whose morality is more than colorless\ninnocence. Historical knowledge helps provide such insight. It is an\norgan for analysis of the warp and woof of the present social fabric, of\nmaking known the forces which have woven the pattern. The use of\nhistory for cultivating a socialized intelligence constitutes its moral\nsignificance. It is possible to employ it as a kind of reservoir of\nanecdotes to be drawn on to inculcate special moral lessons on this\nvirtue or that vice. But such teaching is not so much an ethical use of\nhistory as it is an effort to create moral impressions by means of more\nor less authentic material. At best, it produces a temporary emotional\nglow; at worst, callous indifference to moralizing. The assistance which\nmay be given by history to a more intelligent sympathetic understanding\nof the social situations of the present in which individuals share is a\npermanent and constructive moral asset.\n\nSummary. It is the nature of an experience to have implications which\ngo far beyond what is at first consciously noted in it. Bringing these\nconnections or implications to consciousness enhances the meaning of the\nexperience. Any experience, however trivial in its first appearance, is\ncapable of assuming an indefinite richness of significance by extending\nits range of perceived connections. Normal communication with others is\nthe readiest way of effecting this development, for it links up the\nnet results of the experience of the group and even the race with the\nimmediate experience of an individual. By normal communication is meant\nthat in which there is a joint interest, a common interest, so that one\nis eager to give and the other to take. It contrasts with telling or\nstating things simply for the sake of impressing them upon another,\nmerely in order to test him to see how much he has retained and can\nliterally reproduce.\n\nGeography and history are the two great school resources for bringing\nabout the enlargement of the significance of a direct personal\nexperience. The active occupations described in the previous chapter\nreach out in space and time with respect to both nature and man. Unless\nthey are taught for external reasons or as mere modes of skill their\nchief educational value is that they provide the most direct and\ninteresting roads out into the larger world of meanings stated in\nhistory and geography. While history makes human implications explicit\nand geography natural connections, these subjects are two phases of\nthe same living whole, since the life of men in association goes on in\nnature, not as an accidental setting, but as the material and medium of\ndevelopment.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Seventeen: Science in the Course of Study\n\n1. The Logical and the Psychological. By science is meant, as already\nstated, that knowledge which is the outcome of methods of observation,\nreflection, and testing which are deliberately adopted to secure\na settled, assured subject matter. It involves an intelligent and\npersistent endeavor to revise current beliefs so as to weed out what is\nerroneous, to add to their accuracy, and, above all, to give them such\nshape that the dependencies of the various facts upon one another may\nbe as obvious as possible. It is, like all knowledge, an outcome of\nactivity bringing about certain changes in the environment. But in its\ncase, the quality of the resulting knowledge is the controlling factor\nand not an incident of the activity. Both logically and educationally,\nscience is the perfecting of knowing, its last stage.\n\nScience, in short, signifies a realization of the logical implications\nof any knowledge. Logical order is not a form imposed upon what is\nknown; it is the proper form of knowledge as perfected. For it means\nthat the statement of subject matter is of a nature to exhibit to\none who understands it the premises from which it follows and the\nconclusions to which it points (See ante, p. 190). As from a few bones\nthe competent zoologist reconstructs an animal; so from the form of a\nstatement in mathematics or physics the specialist in the subject can\nform an idea of the system of truths in which it has its place.\n\nTo the non-expert, however, this perfected form is a stumbling block.\nJust because the material is stated with reference to the furtherance\nof knowledge as an end in itself, its connections with the material of\neveryday life are hidden. To the layman the bones are a mere curiosity.\nUntil he had mastered the principles of zoology, his efforts to make\nanything out of them would be random and blind. From the standpoint of\nthe learner scientific form is an ideal to be achieved, not a starting\npoint from which to set out. It is, nevertheless, a frequent practice to\nstart in instruction with the rudiments of science somewhat simplified.\nThe necessary consequence is an isolation of science from significant\nexperience. The pupil learns symbols without the key to their meaning.\nHe acquires a technical body of information without ability to trace\nits connections with the objects and operations with which he is\nfamiliar--often he acquires simply a peculiar vocabulary. There is\na strong temptation to assume that presenting subject matter in its\nperfected form provides a royal road to learning. What more natural\nthan to suppose that the immature can be saved time and energy, and be\nprotected from needless error by commencing where competent inquirers\nhave left off? The outcome is written large in the history of education.\nPupils begin their study of science with texts in which the subject\nis organized into topics according to the order of the specialist.\nTechnical concepts, with their definitions, are introduced at the\noutset. Laws are introduced at a very early stage, with at best a few\nindications of the way in which they were arrived at. The pupils learn\na \"science\" instead of learning the scientific way of treating the\nfamiliar material of ordinary experience. The method of the advanced\nstudent dominates college teaching; the approach of the college is\ntransferred into the high school, and so down the line, with such\nomissions as may make the subject easier.\n\nThe chronological method which begins with the experience of the learner\nand develops from that the proper modes of scientific treatment is often\ncalled the \"psychological\" method in distinction from the logical method\nof the expert or specialist. The apparent loss of time involved is\nmore than made up for by the superior understanding and vital interest\nsecured. What the pupil learns he at least understands. Moreover by\nfollowing, in connection with problems selected from the material of\nordinary acquaintance, the methods by which scientific men have reached\ntheir perfected knowledge, he gains independent power to deal with\nmaterial within his range, and avoids the mental confusion and\nintellectual distaste attendant upon studying matter whose meaning\nis only symbolic. Since the mass of pupils are never going to become\nscientific specialists, it is much more important that they should get\nsome insight into what scientific method means than that they should\ncopy at long range and second hand the results which scientific men have\nreached. Students will not go so far, perhaps, in the \"ground covered,\"\nbut they will be sure and intelligent as far as they do go. And it is\nsafe to say that the few who go on to be scientific experts will have\na better preparation than if they had been swamped with a large mass of\npurely technical and symbolically stated information. In fact, those\nwho do become successful men of science are those who by their own power\nmanage to avoid the pitfalls of a traditional scholastic introduction\ninto it.\n\nThe contrast between the expectations of the men who a generation or\ntwo ago strove, against great odds, to secure a place for science\nin education, and the result generally achieved is painful. Herbert\nSpencer, inquiring what knowledge is of most worth, concluded that\nfrom all points of view scientific knowledge is most valuable. But\nhis argument unconsciously assumed that scientific knowledge could be\ncommunicated in a ready-made form. Passing over the methods by which the\nsubject matter of our ordinary activities is transmuted into scientific\nform, it ignored the method by which alone science is science.\nInstruction has too often proceeded upon an analogous plan. But there is\nno magic attached to material stated in technically correct scientific\nform. When learned in this condition it remains a body of inert\ninformation. Moreover its form of statement removes it further from\nfruitful contact with everyday experiences than does the mode of\nstatement proper to literature. Nevertheless that the claims made for\ninstruction in science were unjustifiable does not follow. For material\nso taught is not science to the pupil.\n\nContact with things and laboratory exercises, while a great improvement\nupon textbooks arranged upon the deductive plan, do not of themselves\nsuffice to meet the need. While they are an indispensable portion\nof scientific method, they do not as a matter of course constitute\nscientific method. Physical materials may be manipulated with scientific\napparatus, but the materials may be disassociated in themselves and in\nthe ways in which they are handled, from the materials and processes\nused out of school. The problems dealt with may be only problems of\nscience: problems, that is, which would occur to one already initiated\nin the science of the subject. Our attention may be devoted to getting\nskill in technical manipulation without reference to the connection of\nlaboratory exercises with a problem belonging to subject matter. There\nis sometimes a ritual of laboratory instruction as well as of heathen\nreligion. 1 It has been mentioned, incidentally, that scientific\nstatements, or logical form, implies the use of signs or symbols.\nThe statement applies, of course, to all use of language. But in the\nvernacular, the mind proceeds directly from the symbol to the thing\nsignified. Association with familiar material is so close that the mind\ndoes not pause upon the sign. The signs are intended only to stand for\nthings and acts. But scientific terminology has an additional use. It is\ndesigned, as we have seen, not to stand for the things directly in their\npractical use in experience, but for the things placed in a cognitive\nsystem. Ultimately, of course, they denote the things of our common\nsense acquaintance. But immediately they do not designate them in their\ncommon context, but translated into terms of scientific inquiry. Atoms,\nmolecules, chemical formulae, the mathematical propositions in the study\nof physics--all these have primarily an intellectual value and only\nindirectly an empirical value. They represent instruments for\nthe carrying on of science. As in the case of other tools, their\nsignificance can be learned only by use. We cannot procure understanding\nof their meaning by pointing to things, but only by pointing to their\nwork when they are employed as part of the technique of knowledge. Even\nthe circle, square, etc., of geometry exhibit a difference from the\nsquares and circles of familiar acquaintance, and the further one\nproceeds in mathematical science the greater the remoteness from the\neveryday empirical thing. Qualities which do not count for the pursuit\nof knowledge about spatial relations are left out; those which are\nimportant for this purpose are accentuated. If one carries his study\nfar enough, he will find even the properties which are significant for\nspatial knowledge giving way to those which facilitate knowledge of\nother things--perhaps a knowledge of the general relations of number.\nThere will be nothing in the conceptual definitions even to suggest\nspatial form, size, or direction. This does not mean that they are\nunreal mental inventions, but it indicates that direct physical\nqualities have been transmuted into tools for a special end--the end\nof intellectual organization. In every machine the primary state of\nmaterial has been modified by subordinating it to use for a purpose.\nNot the stuff in its original form but in its adaptation to an end\nis important. No one would have a knowledge of a machine who could\nenumerate all the materials entering into its structure, but only he\nwho knew their uses and could tell why they are employed as they are. In\nlike fashion one has a knowledge of mathematical conceptions only when\nhe sees the problems in which they function and their specific utility\nin dealing with these problems. \"Knowing\" the definitions, rules,\nformulae, etc., is like knowing the names of parts of a machine without\nknowing what they do. In one case, as in the other, the meaning, or\nintellectual content, is what the element accomplishes in the system of\nwhich it is a member.\n\n2. Science and Social Progress. Assuming that the development of the\ndirect knowledge gained in occupations of social interest is carried\nto a perfected logical form, the question arises as to its place in\nexperience. In general, the reply is that science marks the emancipation\nof mind from devotion to customary purposes and makes possible the\nsystematic pursuit of new ends. It is the agency of progress in action.\nProgress is sometimes thought of as consisting in getting nearer to ends\nalready sought. But this is a minor form of progress, for it requires\nonly improvement of the means of action or technical advance. More\nimportant modes of progress consist in enriching prior purposes and in\nforming new ones. Desires are not a fixed quantity, nor does progress\nmean only an increased amount of satisfaction. With increased culture\nand new mastery of nature, new desires, demands for new qualities\nof satisfaction, show themselves, for intelligence perceives new\npossibilities of action. This projection of new possibilities leads to\nsearch for new means of execution, and progress takes place; while the\ndiscovery of objects not already used leads to suggestion of new ends.\n\nThat science is the chief means of perfecting control of means of action\nis witnessed by the great crop of inventions which followed intellectual\ncommand of the secrets of nature. The wonderful transformation of\nproduction and distribution known as the industrial revolution is the\nfruit of experimental science. Railways, steamboats, electric motors,\ntelephone and telegraph, automobiles, aeroplanes and dirigibles are\nconspicuous evidences of the application of science in life. But none\nof them would be of much importance without the thousands of less\nsensational inventions by means of which natural science has been\nrendered tributary to our daily life.\n\nIt must be admitted that to a considerable extent the progress thus\nprocured has been only technical: it has provided more efficient means\nfor satisfying preexistent desires, rather than modified the quality of\nhuman purposes. There is, for example, no modern civilization which is\nthe equal of Greek culture in all respects. Science is still too recent\nto have been absorbed into imaginative and emotional disposition. Men\nmove more swiftly and surely to the realization of their ends, but\ntheir ends too largely remain what they were prior to scientific\nenlightenment. This fact places upon education the responsibility of\nusing science in a way to modify the habitual attitude of imagination\nand feeling, not leave it just an extension of our physical arms and\nlegs.\n\nThe advance of science has already modified men's thoughts of the\npurposes and goods of life to a sufficient extent to give some idea of\nthe nature of this responsibility and the ways of meeting it. Science\ntaking effect in human activity has broken down physical barriers\nwhich formerly separated men; it has immensely widened the area of\nintercourse. It has brought about interdependence of interests on an\nenormous scale. It has brought with it an established conviction of the\npossibility of control of nature in the interests of mankind and thus\nhas led men to look to the future, instead of the past. The coincidence\nof the ideal of progress with the advance of science is not a mere\ncoincidence. Before this advance men placed the golden age in remote\nantiquity. Now they face the future with a firm belief that intelligence\nproperly used can do away with evils once thought inevitable. To\nsubjugate devastating disease is no longer a dream; the hope of\nabolishing poverty is not utopian. Science has familiarized men with\nthe idea of development, taking effect practically in persistent gradual\namelioration of the estate of our common humanity.\n\n\nThe problem of an educational use of science is then to create an\nintelligence pregnant with belief in the possibility of the direction\nof human affairs by itself. The method of science engrained through\neducation in habit means emancipation from rule of thumb and from the\nroutine generated by rule of thumb procedure. The word empirical in its\nordinary use does not mean \"connected with experiment,\" but rather\ncrude and unrational. Under the influence of conditions created by the\nnon-existence of experimental science, experience was opposed in all\nthe ruling philosophies of the past to reason and the truly rational.\nEmpirical knowledge meant the knowledge accumulated by a multitude of\npast instances without intelligent insight into the principles of any\nof them. To say that medicine was empirical meant that it was not\nscientific, but a mode of practice based upon accumulated observations\nof diseases and of remedies used more or less at random. Such a mode of\npractice is of necessity happy-go-lucky; success depends upon chance. It\nlends itself to deception and quackery. Industry that is \"empirically\"\ncontrolled forbids constructive applications of intelligence; it depends\nupon following in an imitative slavish manner the models set in\nthe past. Experimental science means the possibility of using past\nexperiences as the servant, not the master, of mind. It means that\nreason operates within experience, not beyond it, to give it an\nintelligent or reasonable quality. Science is experience becoming\nrational. The effect of science is thus to change men's idea of the\nnature and inherent possibilities of experience. By the same token, it\nchanges the idea and the operation of reason. Instead of being something\nbeyond experience, remote, aloof, concerned with a sublime region\nthat has nothing to do with the experienced facts of life, it is found\nindigenous in experience:--the factor by which past experiences are\npurified and rendered into tools for discovery and advance.\n\nThe term \"abstract\" has a rather bad name in popular speech, being used\nto signify not only that which is abstruse and hard to understand,\nbut also that which is far away from life. But abstraction is an\nindispensable trait in reflective direction of activity. Situations do\nnot literally repeat themselves. Habit treats new occurrences as if\nthey were identical with old ones; it suffices, accordingly, when the\ndifferent or novel element is negligible for present purposes. But when\nthe new element requires especial attention, random reaction is the\nsole recourse unless abstraction is brought into play. For abstraction\ndeliberately selects from the subject matter of former experiences that\nwhich is thought helpful in dealing with the new. It signifies conscious\ntransfer of a meaning embedded in past experience for use in a new one.\nIt is the very artery of intelligence, of the intentional rendering of\none experience available for guidance of another.\n\nScience carries on this working over of prior subject matter on a large\nscale. It aims to free an experience from all which is purely personal\nand strictly immediate; it aims to detach whatever it has in common with\nthe subject matter of other experiences, and which, being common, may\nbe saved for further use. It is, thus, an indispensable factor in social\nprogress. In any experience just as it occurs there is much which,\nwhile it may be of precious import to the individual implicated in\nthe experience, is peculiar and unreduplicable. From the standpoint\nof science, this material is accidental, while the features which are\nwidely shared are essential. Whatever is unique in the situation, since\ndependent upon the peculiarities of the individual and the coincidence\nof circumstance, is not available for others; so that unless what is\nshared is abstracted and fixed by a suitable symbol, practically all the\nvalue of the experience may perish in its passing. But abstraction\nand the use of terms to record what is abstracted put the net value of\nindividual experience at the permanent disposal of mankind. No one\ncan foresee in detail when or how it may be of further use. The man of\nscience in developing his abstractions is like a manufacturer of tools\nwho does not know who will use them nor when. But intellectual tools\nare indefinitely more flexible in their range of adaptation than other\nmechanical tools.\n\nGeneralization is the counterpart of abstraction. It is the functioning\nof an abstraction in its application to a new concrete experience,--its\nextension to clarify and direct new situations. Reference to these\npossible applications is necessary in order that the abstraction may be\nfruitful, instead of a barren formalism ending in itself. Generalization\nis essentially a social device. When men identified their interests\nexclusively with the concerns of a narrow group, their generalizations\nwere correspondingly restricted. The viewpoint did not permit a wide and\nfree survey. Men's thoughts were tied down to a contracted space and a\nshort time,--limited to their own established customs as a measure\nof all possible values. Scientific abstraction and generalization are\nequivalent to taking the point of view of any man, whatever his location\nin time and space. While this emancipation from the conditions and\nepisodes of concrete experiences accounts for the remoteness, the\n\"abstractness,\" of science, it also accounts for its wide and free\nrange of fruitful novel applications in practice. Terms and propositions\nrecord, fix, and convey what is abstracted. A meaning detached from a\ngiven experience cannot remain hanging in the air. It must acquire a\nlocal habitation. Names give abstract meanings a physical locus and\nbody. Formulation is thus not an after-thought or by-product; it is\nessential to the completion of the work of thought. Persons know many\nthings which they cannot express, but such knowledge remains practical,\ndirect, and personal. An individual can use it for himself; he may be\nable to act upon it with efficiency. Artists and executives often have\ntheir knowledge in this state. But it is personal, untransferable, and,\nas it were, instinctive. To formulate the significance of an experience\na man must take into conscious account the experiences of others. He\nmust try to find a standpoint which includes the experience of others\nas well as his own. Otherwise his communication cannot be understood. He\ntalks a language which no one else knows. While literary art furnishes\nthe supreme successes in stating of experiences so that they are vitally\nsignificant to others, the vocabulary of science is designed, in another\nfashion, to express the meaning of experienced things in symbols which\nany one will know who studies the science. Aesthetic formulation reveals\nand enhances the meaning of experiences one already has; scientific\nformulation supplies one with tools for constructing new experiences\nwith transformed meanings.\n\nTo sum up: Science represents the office of intelligence, in projection\nand control of new experiences, pursued systematically, intentionally,\nand on a scale due to freedom from limitations of habit. It is the sole\ninstrumentality of conscious, as distinct from accidental, progress.\nAnd if its generality, its remoteness from individual conditions, confer\nupon it a certain technicality and aloofness, these qualities are very\ndifferent from those of merely speculative theorizing. The latter are in\npermanent dislocation from practice; the former are temporarily detached\nfor the sake of wider and freer application in later concrete action.\nThere is a kind of idle theory which is antithetical to practice; but\ngenuinely scientific theory falls within practice as the agency of its\nexpansion and its direction to new possibilities.\n\n3. Naturalism and Humanism in Education. There exists an educational\ntradition which opposes science to literature and history in the\ncurriculum. The quarrel between the representatives of the two interests\nis easily explicable historically. Literature and language and a\nliterary philosophy were entrenched in all higher institutions of\nlearning before experimental science came into being. The latter had\nnaturally to win its way. No fortified and protected interest readily\nsurrenders any monopoly it may possess. But the assumption, from\nwhichever side, that language and literary products are exclusively\nhumanistic in quality, and that science is purely physical in import,\nis a false notion which tends to cripple the educational use of both\nstudies. Human life does not occur in a vacuum, nor is nature a mere\nstage setting for the enactment of its drama (ante, p. 211). Man's\nlife is bound up in the processes of nature; his career, for success or\ndefeat, depends upon the way in which nature enters it. Man's power of\ndeliberate control of his own affairs depends upon ability to direct\nnatural energies to use: an ability which is in turn dependent upon\ninsight into nature's processes. Whatever natural science may be for the\nspecialist, for educational purposes it is knowledge of the conditions\nof human action. To be aware of the medium in which social intercourse\ngoes on, and of the means and obstacles to its progressive development\nis to be in command of a knowledge which is thoroughly humanistic in\nquality. One who is ignorant of the history of science is ignorant of\nthe struggles by which mankind has passed from routine and caprice, from\nsuperstitious subjection to nature, from efforts to use it magically,\nto intellectual self-possession. That science may be taught as a set of\nformal and technical exercises is only too true. This happens whenever\ninformation about the world is made an end in itself. The failure of\nsuch instruction to procure culture is not, however, evidence of the\nantithesis of natural knowledge to humanistic concern, but evidence of a\nwrong educational attitude. Dislike to employ scientific knowledge as it\nfunctions in men's occupations is itself a survival of an aristocratic\nculture. The notion that \"applied\" knowledge is somehow less worthy than\n\"pure\" knowledge, was natural to a society in which all useful work was\nperformed by slaves and serfs, and in which industry was controlled by\nthe models set by custom rather than by intelligence. Science, or the\nhighest knowing, was then identified with pure theorizing, apart from\nall application in the uses of life; and knowledge relating to useful\narts suffered the stigma attaching to the classes who engaged in them\n(See below, Ch. XIX). The idea of science thus generated persisted after\nscience had itself adopted the appliances of the arts, using them for\nthe production of knowledge, and after the rise of democracy. Taking\ntheory just as theory, however, that which concerns humanity is of more\nsignificance for man than that which concerns a merely physical world.\nIn adopting the criterion of knowledge laid down by a literary culture,\naloof from the practical needs of the mass of men, the educational\nadvocates of scientific education put themselves at a strategic\ndisadvantage. So far as they adopt the idea of science appropriate\nto its experimental method and to the movements of a democratic and\nindustrial society, they have no difficulty in showing that natural\nscience is more humanistic than an alleged humanism which bases its\neducational schemes upon the specialized interests of a leisure\nclass. For, as we have already stated, humanistic studies when set\nin opposition to study of nature are hampered. They tend to reduce\nthemselves to exclusively literary and linguistic studies, which in turn\ntend to shrink to \"the classics,\" to languages no longer spoken. For\nmodern languages may evidently be put to use, and hence fall under the\nban. It would be hard to find anything in history more ironical than the\neducational practices which have identified the \"humanities\"\nexclusively with a knowledge of Greek and Latin. Greek and Roman art and\ninstitutions made such important contributions to our civilization\nthat there should always be the amplest opportunities for making their\nacquaintance. But to regard them as par excellence the humane studies\ninvolves a deliberate neglect of the possibilities of the subject matter\nwhich is accessible in education to the masses, and tends to cultivate\na narrow snobbery: that of a learned class whose insignia are the\naccidents of exclusive opportunity. Knowledge is humanistic in quality\nnot because it is about human products in the past, but because of what\nit does in liberating human intelligence and human sympathy. Any subject\nmatter which accomplishes this result is humane, and any subject matter\nwhich does not accomplish it is not even educational.\n\nSummary. Science represents the fruition of the cognitive factors in\nexperience. Instead of contenting itself with a mere statement of\nwhat commends itself to personal or customary experience, it aims at a\nstatement which will reveal the sources, grounds, and consequences of\na belief. The achievement of this aim gives logical character to\nthe statements. Educationally, it has to be noted that logical\ncharacteristics of method, since they belong to subject matter which has\nreached a high degree of intellectual elaboration, are different from\nthe method of the learner--the chronological order of passing from a\ncruder to a more refined intellectual quality of experience. When this\nfact is ignored, science is treated as so much bare information, which\nhowever is less interesting and more remote than ordinary information,\nbeing stated in an unusual and technical vocabulary. The function which\nscience has to perform in the curriculum is that which it has performed\nfor the race: emancipation from local and temporary incidents of\nexperience, and the opening of intellectual vistas unobscured by the\naccidents of personal habit and predilection. The logical traits of\nabstraction, generalization, and definite formulation are all associated\nwith this function. In emancipating an idea from the particular context\nin which it originated and giving it a wider reference the results of\nthe experience of any individual are put at the disposal of all men.\nThus ultimately and philosophically science is the organ of general\nsocial progress. 1 Upon the positive side, the value of problems arising\nin work in the garden, the shop, etc., may be referred to (See p.\n200). The laboratory may be treated as an additional resource to supply\nconditions and appliances for the better pursuit of these problems.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Eighteen: Educational Values\n\nThe considerations involved in a discussion of educational values have\nalready been brought out in the discussion of aims and interests.\n\nThe specific values usually discussed in educational theories coincide\nwith aims which are usually urged. They are such things as utility,\nculture, information, preparation for social efficiency, mental\ndiscipline or power, and so on. The aspect of these aims in virtue of\nwhich they are valuable has been treated in our analysis of the nature\nof interest, and there is no difference between speaking of art as an\ninterest or concern and referring to it as a value. It happens,\nhowever, that discussion of values has usually been centered about a\nconsideration of the various ends subserved by specific subjects of the\ncurriculum. It has been a part of the attempt to justify those subjects\nby pointing out the significant contributions to life accruing from\ntheir study. An explicit discussion of educational values thus affords\nan opportunity for reviewing the prior discussion of aims and interests\non one hand and of the curriculum on the other, by bringing them into\nconnection with one another.\n\n1. The Nature of Realization or Appreciation. Much of our experience is\nindirect; it is dependent upon signs which intervene between the things\nand ourselves, signs which stand for or represent the former. It is\none thing to have been engaged in war, to have shared its dangers and\nhardships; it is another thing to hear or read about it. All language,\nall symbols, are implements of an indirect experience; in technical\nlanguage the experience which is procured by their means is \"mediated.\"\nIt stands in contrast with an immediate, direct experience, something\nin which we take part vitally and at first hand, instead of through\nthe intervention of representative media. As we have seen, the scope of\npersonal, vitally direct experience is very limited. If it were not\nfor the intervention of agencies for representing absent and distant\naffairs, our experience would remain almost on the level of that of the\nbrutes. Every step from savagery to civilization is dependent upon\nthe invention of media which enlarge the range of purely immediate\nexperience and give it deepened as well as wider meaning by connecting\nit with things which can only be signified or symbolized. It is\ndoubtless this fact which is the cause of the disposition to identify\nan uncultivated person with an illiterate person--so dependent are we on\nletters for effective representative or indirect experience.\n\nAt the same time (as we have also had repeated occasion to see) there\nis always a danger that symbols will not be truly representative; danger\nthat instead of really calling up the absent and remote in a way to make\nit enter a present experience, the linguistic media of representation\nwill become an end in themselves. Formal education is peculiarly exposed\nto this danger, with the result that when literacy supervenes, mere\nbookishness, what is popularly termed the academic, too often comes\nwith it. In colloquial speech, the phrase a \"realizing sense\" is used\nto express the urgency, warmth, and intimacy of a direct experience\nin contrast with the remote, pallid, and coldly detached quality of\na representative experience. The terms \"mental realization\" and\n\"appreciation\" (or genuine appreciation) are more elaborate names for\nthe realizing sense of a thing. It is not possible to define these ideas\nexcept by synonyms, like \"coming home to one\" \"really taking it\nin,\" etc., for the only way to appreciate what is meant by a direct\nexperience of a thing is by having it. But it is the difference between\nreading a technical description of a picture, and seeing it; or between\njust seeing it and being moved by it; between learning mathematical\nequations about light and being carried away by some peculiarly glorious\nillumination of a misty landscape. We are thus met by the danger of the\ntendency of technique and other purely representative forms to encroach\nupon the sphere of direct appreciations; in other words, the tendency to\nassume that pupils have a foundation of direct realization of situations\nsufficient for the superstructure of representative experience erected\nby formulated school studies. This is not simply a matter of quantity or\nbulk. Sufficient direct experience is even more a matter of quality; it\nmust be of a sort to connect readily and fruitfully with the symbolic\nmaterial of instruction. Before teaching can safely enter upon conveying\nfacts and ideas through the media of signs, schooling must provide\ngenuine situations in which personal participation brings home the\nimport of the material and the problems which it conveys. From the\nstandpoint of the pupil, the resulting experiences are worth while on\ntheir own account; from the standpoint of the teacher they are also\nmeans of supplying subject matter required for understanding instruction\ninvolving signs, and of evoking attitudes of open-mindedness and concern\nas to the material symbolically conveyed.\n\nIn the outline given of the theory of educative subject matter, the\ndemand for this background of realization or appreciation is met by\nthe provision made for play and active occupations embodying typical\nsituations. Nothing need be added to what has already been said except\nto point out that while the discussion dealt explicitly with the\nsubject matter of primary education, where the demand for the available\nbackground of direct experience is most obvious, the principle applies\nto the primary or elementary phase of every subject. The first and basic\nfunction of laboratory work, for example, in a high school or college in\na new field, is to familiarize the student at first hand with a certain\nrange of facts and problems--to give him a \"feeling\" for them.\nGetting command of technique and of methods of reaching and testing\ngeneralizations is at first secondary to getting appreciation. As\nregards the primary school activities, it is to be borne in mind that\nthe fundamental intent is not to amuse nor to convey information with a\nminimum of vexation nor yet to acquire skill,--though these results\nmay accrue as by-products,--but to enlarge and enrich the scope of\nexperience, and to keep alert and effective the interest in intellectual\nprogress.\n\nThe rubric of appreciation supplies an appropriate head for bringing out\nthree further principles: the nature of effective or real (as distinct\nfrom nominal) standards of value; the place of the imagination in\nappreciative realizations; and the place of the fine arts in the course\nof study.\n\n1. The nature of standards of valuation. Every adult has acquired, in\nthe course of his prior experience and education, certain measures of\nthe worth of various sorts of experience. He has learned to look upon\nqualities like honesty, amiability, perseverance, loyalty, as moral\ngoods; upon certain classics of literature, painting, music, as\naesthetic values, and so on. Not only this, but he has learned certain\nrules for these values--the golden rule in morals; harmony, balance,\netc., proportionate distribution in aesthetic goods; definition,\nclarity, system in intellectual accomplishments. These principles are\nso important as standards of judging the worth of new experiences that\nparents and instructors are always tending to teach them directly to the\nyoung. They overlook the danger that standards so taught will be merely\nsymbolic; that is, largely conventional and verbal. In reality, working\nas distinct from professed standards depend upon what an individual has\nhimself specifically appreciated to be deeply significant in concrete\nsituations. An individual may have learned that certain characteristics\nare conventionally esteemed in music; he may be able to converse with\nsome correctness about classic music; he may even honestly believe that\nthese traits constitute his own musical standards. But if in his own\npast experience, what he has been most accustomed to and has most\nenjoyed is ragtime, his active or working measures of valuation are\nfixed on the ragtime level. The appeal actually made to him in his own\npersonal realization fixes his attitude much more deeply than what he\nhas been taught as the proper thing to say; his habitual disposition\nthus fixed forms his real \"norm\" of valuation in subsequent musical\nexperiences.\n\nProbably few would deny this statement as to musical taste. But it\napplies equally well in judgments of moral and intellectual worth. A\nyouth who has had repeated experience of the full meaning of the value\nof kindliness toward others built into his disposition has a measure\nof the worth of generous treatment of others. Without this vital\nappreciation, the duty and virtue of unselfishness impressed upon him by\nothers as a standard remains purely a matter of symbols which he cannot\nadequately translate into realities. His \"knowledge\" is second-handed;\nit is only a knowledge that others prize unselfishness as an excellence,\nand esteem him in the degree in which he exhibits it. Thus there grows\nup a split between a person's professed standards and his actual ones.\nA person may be aware of the results of this struggle between his\ninclinations and his theoretical opinions; he suffers from the conflict\nbetween doing what is really dear to him and what he has learned will\nwin the approval of others. But of the split itself he is unaware;\nthe result is a kind of unconscious hypocrisy, an instability of\ndisposition. In similar fashion, a pupil who has worked through some\nconfused intellectual situation and fought his way to clearing up\nobscurities in a definite outcome, appreciates the value of clarity\nand definition. He has a standard which can be depended upon. He may\nbe trained externally to go through certain motions of analysis and\ndivision of subject matter and may acquire information about the value\nof these processes as standard logical functions, but unless it somehow\ncomes home to him at some point as an appreciation of his own, the\nsignificance of the logical norms--so-called--remains as much an\nexternal piece of information as, say, the names of rivers in China. He\nmay be able to recite, but the recital is a mechanical rehearsal.\n\nIt is, then, a serious mistake to regard appreciation as if it were\nconfined to such things as literature and pictures and music. Its scope\nis as comprehensive as the work of education itself. The formation\nof habits is a purely mechanical thing unless habits are also\ntastes--habitual modes of preference and esteem, an effective sense of\nexcellence. There are adequate grounds for asserting that the premium\nso often put in schools upon external \"discipline,\" and upon marks and\nrewards, upon promotion and keeping back, are the obverse of the lack of\nattention given to life situations in which the meaning of facts, ideas,\nprinciples, and problems is vitally brought home.\n\n2. Appreciative realizations are to be distinguished from symbolic or\nrepresentative experiences. They are not to be distinguished from\nthe work of the intellect or understanding. Only a personal response\ninvolving imagination can possibly procure realization even of pure\n\"facts.\" The imagination is the medium of appreciation in every field.\nThe engagement of the imagination is the only thing that makes any\nactivity more than mechanical. Unfortunately, it is too customary to\nidentify the imaginative with the imaginary, rather than with a warm and\nintimate taking in of the full scope of a situation. This leads to an\nexaggerated estimate of fairy tales, myths, fanciful symbols, verse, and\nsomething labeled \"Fine Art,\" as agencies for developing imagination and\nappreciation; and, by neglecting imaginative vision in other matters,\nleads to methods which reduce much instruction to an unimaginative\nacquiring of specialized skill and amassing of a load of information.\nTheory, and--to some extent--practice, have advanced far enough to\nrecognize that play-activity is an imaginative enterprise. But it is\nstill usual to regard this activity as a specially marked-off stage of\nchildish growth, and to overlook the fact that the difference between\nplay and what is regarded as serious employment should be not a\ndifference between the presence and absence of imagination, but a\ndifference in the materials with which imagination is occupied. The\nresult is an unwholesome exaggeration of the phantastic and \"unreal\"\nphases of childish play and a deadly reduction of serious occupation to\na routine efficiency prized simply for its external tangible results.\nAchievement comes to denote the sort of thing that a well-planned\nmachine can do better than a human being can, and the main effect of\neducation, the achieving of a life of rich significance, drops by the\nwayside. Meantime mind-wandering and wayward fancy are nothing but the\nunsuppressible imagination cut loose from concern with what is done.\n\nAn adequate recognition of the play of imagination as the medium of\nrealization of every kind of thing which lies beyond the scope of direct\nphysical response is the sole way of escape from mechanical methods in\nteaching. The emphasis put in this book, in accord with many tendencies\nin contemporary education, upon activity, will be misleading if it is\nnot recognized that the imagination is as much a normal and integral\npart of human activity as is muscular movement. The educative value\nof manual activities and of laboratory exercises, as well as of play,\ndepends upon the extent in which they aid in bringing about a sensing\nof the meaning of what is going on. In effect, if not in name, they are\ndramatizations. Their utilitarian value in forming habits of skill to be\nused for tangible results is important, but not when isolated from the\nappreciative side. Were it not for the accompanying play of imagination,\nthere would be no road from a direct activity to representative\nknowledge; for it is by imagination that symbols are translated over\ninto a direct meaning and integrated with a narrower activity so as to\nexpand and enrich it. When the representative creative imagination is\nmade merely literary and mythological, symbols are rendered mere means\nof directing physical reactions of the organs of speech.\n\n3. In the account previously given nothing was explicitly said about\nthe place of literature and the fine arts in the course of study. The\nomission at that point was intentional. At the outset, there is no sharp\ndemarcation of useful, or industrial, arts and fine arts. The activities\nmentioned in Chapter XV contain within themselves the factors later\ndiscriminated into fine and useful arts. As engaging the emotions and\nthe imagination, they have the qualities which give the fine arts\ntheir quality. As demanding method or skill, the adaptation of tools\nto materials with constantly increasing perfection, they involve the\nelement of technique indispensable to artistic production. From the\nstandpoint of product, or the work of art, they are naturally defective,\nthough even in this respect when they comprise genuine appreciation\nthey often have a rudimentary charm. As experiences they have both an\nartistic and an esthetic quality. When they emerge into activities which\nare tested by their product and when the socially serviceable value of\nthe product is emphasized, they pass into useful or industrial arts.\nWhen they develop in the direction of an enhanced appreciation of the\nimmediate qualities which appeal to taste, they grow into fine arts.\n\nIn one of its meanings, appreciation is opposed to depreciation. It\ndenotes an enlarged, an intensified prizing, not merely a prizing,\nmuch less--like depreciation--a lowered and degraded prizing. This\nenhancement of the qualities which make any ordinary experience\nappealing, appropriable--capable of full assimilation--and enjoyable,\nconstitutes the prime function of literature, music, drawing, painting,\netc., in education. They are not the exclusive agencies of appreciation\nin the most general sense of that word; but they are the chief agencies\nof an intensified, enhanced appreciation. As such, they are not only\nintrinsically and directly enjoyable, but they serve a purpose\nbeyond themselves. They have the office, in increased degree, of all\nappreciation in fixing taste, in forming standards for the worth of\nlater experiences. They arouse discontent with conditions which fall\nbelow their measure; they create a demand for surroundings coming up to\ntheir own level. They reveal a depth and range of meaning in experiences\nwhich otherwise might be mediocre and trivial. They supply, that\nis, organs of vision. Moreover, in their fullness they represent the\nconcentration and consummation of elements of good which are otherwise\nscattered and incomplete. They select and focus the elements of\nenjoyable worth which make any experience directly enjoyable. They are\nnot luxuries of education, but emphatic expressions of that which makes\nany education worth while.\n\n2. The Valuation of Studies. The theory of educational values involves\nnot only an account of the nature of appreciation as fixing the measure\nof subsequent valuations, but an account of the specific directions\nin which these valuations occur. To value means primarily to prize, to\nesteem; but secondarily it means to apprise, to estimate. It means, that\nis, the act of cherishing something, holding it dear, and also the act\nof passing judgment upon the nature and amount of its value as compared\nwith something else. To value in the latter sense is to valuate or\nevaluate. The distinction coincides with that sometimes made between\nintrinsic and instrumental values. Intrinsic values are not objects of\njudgment, they cannot (as intrinsic) be compared, or regarded as greater\nand less, better or worse. They are invaluable; and if a thing is\ninvaluable, it is neither more nor less so than any other invaluable.\nBut occasions present themselves when it is necessary to choose, when\nwe must let one thing go in order to take another. This establishes an\norder of preference, a greater and less, better and worse. Things judged\nor passed upon have to be estimated in relation to some third thing,\nsome further end. With respect to that, they are means, or instrumental\nvalues.\n\nWe may imagine a man who at one time thoroughly enjoys converse with his\nfriends, at another the hearing of a symphony; at another the eating of\nhis meals; at another the reading of a book; at another the earning of\nmoney, and so on. As an appreciative realization, each of these is an\nintrinsic value. It occupies a particular place in life; it serves its\nown end, which cannot be supplied by a substitute. There is no question\nof comparative value, and hence none of valuation. Each is the specific\ngood which it is, and that is all that can be said. In its own place,\nnone is a means to anything beyond itself. But there may arise a\nsituation in which they compete or conflict, in which a choice has to be\nmade. Now comparison comes in. Since a choice has to be made, we want\nto know the respective claims of each competitor. What is to be said\nfor it? What does it offer in comparison with, as balanced over against,\nsome other possibility? Raising these questions means that a particular\ngood is no longer an end in itself, an intrinsic good. For if it were,\nits claims would be incomparable, imperative. The question is now as\nto its status as a means of realizing something else, which is then the\ninvaluable of that situation. If a man has just eaten, or if he is well\nfed generally and the opportunity to hear music is a rarity, he will\nprobably prefer the music to eating. In the given situation that will\nrender the greater contribution. If he is starving, or if he is satiated\nwith music for the time being, he will naturally judge food to have the\ngreater worth. In the abstract or at large, apart from the needs of a\nparticular situation in which choice has to be made, there is no such\nthing as degrees or order of value. Certain conclusions follow with\nrespect to educational values. We cannot establish a hierarchy of values\namong studies. It is futile to attempt to arrange them in an order,\nbeginning with one having least worth and going on to that of maximum\nvalue. In so far as any study has a unique or irreplaceable function in\nexperience, in so far as it marks a characteristic enrichment of life,\nits worth is intrinsic or incomparable. Since education is not a means\nto living, but is identical with the operation of living a life which is\nfruitful and inherently significant, the only ultimate value which can\nbe set up is just the process of living itself. And this is not an end\nto which studies and activities are subordinate means; it is the whole\nof which they are ingredients. And what has been said about appreciation\nmeans that every study in one of its aspects ought to have just such\nultimate significance. It is true of arithmetic as it is of poetry that\nin some place and at some time it ought to be a good to be appreciated\non its own account--just as an enjoyable experience, in short. If it is\nnot, then when the time and place come for it to be used as a means or\ninstrumentality, it will be in just that much handicapped. Never having\nbeen realized or appreciated for itself, one will miss something of its\ncapacity as a resource for other ends.\n\nIt equally follows that when we compare studies as to their values,\nthat is, treat them as means to something beyond themselves, that which\ncontrols their proper valuation is found in the specific situation in\nwhich they are to be used. The way to enable a student to apprehend the\ninstrumental value of arithmetic is not to lecture him upon the benefit\nit will be to him in some remote and uncertain future, but to let him\ndiscover that success in something he is interested in doing depends\nupon ability to use number.\n\nIt also follows that the attempt to distribute distinct sorts of value\namong different studies is a misguided one, in spite of the amount of\ntime recently devoted to the undertaking. Science for example may have\nany kind of value, depending upon the situation into which it enters\nas a means. To some the value of science may be military; it may be\nan instrument in strengthening means of offense or defense; it may be\ntechnological, a tool for engineering; or it may be commercial--an aid\nin the successful conduct of business; under other conditions, its\nworth may be philanthropic--the service it renders in relieving\nhuman suffering; or again it may be quite conventional--of value in\nestablishing one's social status as an \"educated\" person. As matter of\nfact, science serves all these purposes, and it would be an arbitrary\ntask to try to fix upon one of them as its \"real\" end. All that we can\nbe sure of educationally is that science should be taught so as to be an\nend in itself in the lives of students--something worth while on account\nof its own unique intrinsic contribution to the experience of life.\nPrimarily it must have \"appreciation value.\" If we take something\nwhich seems to be at the opposite pole, like poetry, the same sort of\nstatement applies. It may be that, at the present time, its chief value\nis the contribution it makes to the enjoyment of leisure. But that may\nrepresent a degenerate condition rather than anything necessary. Poetry\nhas historically been allied with religion and morals; it has served the\npurpose of penetrating the mysterious depths of things. It has had an\nenormous patriotic value. Homer to the Greeks was a Bible, a textbook\nof morals, a history, and a national inspiration. In any case, it may\nbe said that an education which does not succeed in making poetry\na resource in the business of life as well as in its leisure, has\nsomething the matter with it--or else the poetry is artificial poetry.\n\nThe same considerations apply to the value of a study or a topic of\na study with reference to its motivating force. Those responsible\nfor planning and teaching the course of study should have grounds\nfor thinking that the studies and topics included furnish both direct\nincrements to the enriching of lives of the pupils and also materials\nwhich they can put to use in other concerns of direct interest. Since\nthe curriculum is always getting loaded down with purely inherited\ntraditional matter and with subjects which represent mainly the energy\nof some influential person or group of persons in behalf of something\ndear to them, it requires constant inspection, criticism, and revision\nto make sure it is accomplishing its purpose. Then there is always the\nprobability that it represents the values of adults rather than those\nof children and youth, or those of pupils a generation ago rather than\nthose of the present day. Hence a further need for a critical outlook\nand survey. But these considerations do not mean that for a subject to\nhave motivating value to a pupil (whether intrinsic or instrumental)\nis the same thing as for him to be aware of the value, or to be able to\ntell what the study is good for.\n\nIn the first place, as long as any topic makes an immediate appeal, it\nis not necessary to ask what it is good for. This is a question which\ncan be asked only about instrumental values. Some goods are not good for\nanything; they are just goods. Any other notion leads to an absurdity.\nFor we cannot stop asking the question about an instrumental good, one\nwhose value lies in its being good for something, unless there is at\nsome point something intrinsically good, good for itself. To a hungry,\nhealthy child, food is a good of the situation; we do not have to bring\nhim to consciousness of the ends subserved by food in order to supply a\nmotive to eat. The food in connection with his appetite is a motive. The\nsame thing holds of mentally eager pupils with respect to many topics.\nNeither they nor the teacher could possibly foretell with any exactness\nthe purposes learning is to accomplish in the future; nor as long as the\neagerness continues is it advisable to try to specify particular goods\nwhich are to come of it. The proof of a good is found in the fact that\nthe pupil responds; his response is use. His response to the material\nshows that the subject functions in his life. It is unsound to urge\nthat, say, Latin has a value per se in the abstract, just as a study, as\na sufficient justification for teaching it. But it is equally absurd\nto argue that unless teacher or pupil can point out some definite\nassignable future use to which it is to be put, it lacks justifying\nvalue. When pupils are genuinely concerned in learning Latin, that is of\nitself proof that it possesses value. The most which one is entitled to\nask in such cases is whether in view of the shortness of time, there\nare not other things of intrinsic value which in addition have greater\ninstrumental value.\n\nThis brings us to the matter of instrumental values--topics studied\nbecause of some end beyond themselves. If a child is ill and his\nappetite does not lead him to eat when food is presented, or if his\nappetite is perverted so that he prefers candy to meat and vegetables,\nconscious reference to results is indicated. He needs to be made\nconscious of consequences as a justification of the positive or negative\nvalue of certain objects. Or the state of things may be normal enough,\nand yet an individual not be moved by some matter because he does not\ngrasp how his attainment of some intrinsic good depends upon active\nconcern with what is presented. In such cases, it is obviously the part\nof wisdom to establish consciousness of connection. In general what is\ndesirable is that a topic be presented in such a way that it either have\nan immediate value, and require no justification, or else be perceived\nto be a means of achieving something of intrinsic value. An instrumental\nvalue then has the intrinsic value of being a means to an end. It may\nbe questioned whether some of the present pedagogical interest in the\nmatter of values of studies is not either excessive or else too narrow.\nSometimes it appears to be a labored effort to furnish an apologetic for\ntopics which no longer operate to any purpose, direct or indirect, in\nthe lives of pupils. At other times, the reaction against useless lumber\nseems to have gone to the extent of supposing that no subject or topic\nshould be taught unless some quite definite future utility can be\npointed out by those making the course of study or by the pupil himself,\nunmindful of the fact that life is its own excuse for being; and that\ndefinite utilities which can be pointed out are themselves justified\nonly because they increase the experienced content of life itself. 3.\nThe Segregation and Organization of Values. It is of course possible to\nclassify in a general way the various valuable phases of life. In order\nto get a survey of aims sufficiently wide (See ante, p. 110) to give\nbreadth and flexibility to the enterprise of education, there is some\nadvantage in such a classification. But it is a great mistake to regard\nthese values as ultimate ends to which the concrete satisfactions of\nexperience are subordinate. They are nothing but generalizations,\nmore or less adequate, of concrete goods. Health, wealth, efficiency,\nsociability, utility, culture, happiness itself are only abstract\nterms which sum up a multitude of particulars. To regard such things as\nstandards for the valuation of concrete topics and process of education\nis to subordinate to an abstraction the concrete facts from which the\nabstraction is derived. They are not in any true sense standards of\nvaluation; these are found, as we have previously seen, in the specific\nrealizations which form tastes and habits of preference. They are,\nhowever, of significance as points of view elevated above the details of\nlife whence to survey the field and see how its constituent details are\ndistributed, and whether they are well proportioned. No classification\ncan have other than a provisional validity. The following may prove of\nsome help. We may say that the kind of experience to which the work of\nthe schools should contribute is one marked by executive competency in\nthe management of resources and obstacles encountered (efficiency);\nby sociability, or interest in the direct companionship of others; by\naesthetic taste or capacity to appreciate artistic excellence in at\nleast some of its classic forms; by trained intellectual method, or\ninterest in some mode of scientific achievement; and by sensitiveness\nto the rights and claims of others--conscientiousness. And while these\nconsiderations are not standards of value, they are useful criteria\nfor survey, criticism, and better organization of existing methods and\nsubject matter of instruction.\n\nThe need of such general points of view is the greater because of a\ntendency to segregate educational values due to the isolation from one\nanother of the various pursuits of life. The idea is prevalent that\ndifferent studies represent separate kinds of values, and that the\ncurriculum should, therefore, be constituted by gathering together\nvarious studies till a sufficient variety of independent values have\nbeen cared for. The following quotation does not use the word value,\nbut it contains the notion of a curriculum constructed on the idea that\nthere are a number of separate ends to be reached, and that various\nstudies may be evaluated by referring each study to its respective end.\n\"Memory is trained by most studies, but best by languages and history;\ntaste is trained by the more advanced study of languages, and still\nbetter by English literature; imagination by all higher language\nteaching, but chiefly by Greek and Latin poetry; observation by science\nwork in the laboratory, though some training is to be got from the\nearlier stages of Latin and Greek; for expression, Greek and Latin\ncomposition comes first and English composition next; for abstract\nreasoning, mathematics stands almost alone; for concrete reasoning,\nscience comes first, then geometry; for social reasoning, the Greek and\nRoman historians and orators come first, and general history next. Hence\nthe narrowest education which can claim to be at all complete includes\nLatin, one modern language, some history, some English literature, and\none science.\" There is much in the wording of this passage which is\nirrelevant to our point and which must be discounted to make it clear.\nThe phraseology betrays the particular provincial tradition within\nwhich the author is writing. There is the unquestioned assumption\nof \"faculties\" to be trained, and a dominant interest in the ancient\nlanguages; there is comparative disregard of the earth on which men\nhappen to live and the bodies they happen to carry around with them.\nBut with allowances made for these matters (even with their complete\nabandonment) we find much in contemporary educational philosophy which\nparallels the fundamental notion of parceling out special values to\nsegregated studies. Even when some one end is set up as a standard of\nvalue, like social efficiency or culture, it will often be found to be\nbut a verbal heading under which a variety of disconnected factors\nare comprised. And although the general tendency is to allow a greater\nvariety of values to a given study than does the passage quoted, yet the\nattempt to inventory a number of values attaching to each study and\nto state the amount of each value which the given study possesses\nemphasizes an implied educational disintegration.\n\nAs matter of fact, such schemes of values of studies are largely but\nunconscious justifications of the curriculum with which one is familiar.\nOne accepts, for the most part, the studies of the existing course\nand then assigns values to them as a sufficient reason for their being\ntaught. Mathematics is said to have, for example, disciplinary value\nin habituating the pupil to accuracy of statement and closeness of\nreasoning; it has utilitarian value in giving command of the arts\nof calculation involved in trade and the arts; culture value in\nits enlargement of the imagination in dealing with the most general\nrelations of things; even religious value in its concept of the infinite\nand allied ideas. But clearly mathematics does not accomplish such\nresults, because it is endowed with miraculous potencies called values;\nit has these values if and when it accomplishes these results, and not\notherwise. The statements may help a teacher to a larger vision of the\npossible results to be effected by instruction in mathematical topics.\nBut unfortunately, the tendency is to treat the statement as indicating\npowers inherently residing in the subject, whether they operate or not,\nand thus to give it a rigid justification. If they do not operate, the\nblame is put not on the subject as taught, but on the indifference and\nrecalcitrancy of pupils.\n\nThis attitude toward subjects is the obverse side of the conception of\nexperience or life as a patchwork of independent interests which exist\nside by side and limit one another. Students of politics are familiar\nwith a check and balance theory of the powers of government. There are\nsupposed to be independent separate functions, like the legislative,\nexecutive, judicial, administrative, and all goes well if each of these\nchecks all the others and thus creates an ideal balance. There is a\nphilosophy which might well be called the check and balance theory of\nexperience. Life presents a diversity of interests. Left to themselves,\nthey tend to encroach on one another. The ideal is to prescribe a\nspecial territory for each till the whole ground of experience is\ncovered, and then see to it each remains within its own boundaries.\nPolitics, business, recreation, art, science, the learned professions,\npolite intercourse, leisure, represent such interests. Each of these\nramifies into many branches: business into manual occupations, executive\npositions, bookkeeping, railroading, banking, agriculture, trade and\ncommerce, etc., and so with each of the others. An ideal education\nwould then supply the means of meeting these separate and pigeon-holed\ninterests. And when we look at the schools, it is easy to get the\nimpression that they accept this view of the nature of adult life, and\nset for themselves the task of meeting its demands. Each interest is\nacknowledged as a kind of fixed institution to which something in the\ncourse of study must correspond. The course of study must then have\nsome civics and history politically and patriotically viewed: some\nutilitarian studies; some science; some art (mainly literature of\ncourse); some provision for recreation; some moral education; and so\non. And it will be found that a large part of current agitation about\nschools is concerned with clamor and controversy about the due meed of\nrecognition to be given to each of these interests, and with struggles\nto secure for each its due share in the course of study; or, if this\ndoes not seem feasible in the existing school system, then to secure a\nnew and separate kind of schooling to meet the need. In the multitude of\neducations education is forgotten.\n\nThe obvious outcome is congestion of the course of study, overpressure\nand distraction of pupils, and a narrow specialization fatal to the very\nidea of education. But these bad results usually lead to more of the\nsame sort of thing as a remedy. When it is perceived that after all the\nrequirements of a full life experience are not met, the deficiency is\nnot laid to the isolation and narrowness of the teaching of the existing\nsubjects, and this recognition made the basis of reorganization of the\nsystem. No, the lack is something to be made up for by the introduction\nof still another study, or, if necessary, another kind of school. And\nas a rule those who object to the resulting overcrowding and consequent\nsuperficiality and distraction usually also have recourse to a merely\nquantitative criterion: the remedy is to cut off a great many studies as\nfads and frills, and return to the good old curriculum of the three R's\nin elementary education and the equally good and equally old-fashioned\ncurriculum of the classics and mathematics in higher education.\n\nThe situation has, of course, its historic explanation. Various epochs\nof the past have had their own characteristic struggles and interests.\nEach of these great epochs has left behind itself a kind of cultural\ndeposit, like a geologic stratum. These deposits have found their way\ninto educational institutions in the form of studies, distinct courses\nof study, distinct types of schools. With the rapid change of political,\nscientific, and economic interests in the last century, provision had to\nbe made for new values. Though the older courses resisted, they have had\nat least in this country to retire their pretensions to a monopoly. They\nhave not, however, been reorganized in content and aim; they have only\nbeen reduced in amount. The new studies, representing the new interests,\nhave not been used to transform the method and aim of all instruction;\nthey have been injected and added on. The result is a conglomerate, the\ncement of which consists in the mechanics of the school program or time\ntable. Thence arises the scheme of values and standards of value which\nwe have mentioned.\n\nThis situation in education represents the divisions and separations\nwhich obtain in social life. The variety of interests which should mark\nany rich and balanced experience have been torn asunder and deposited in\nseparate institutions with diverse and independent purposes and methods.\nBusiness is business, science is science, art is art, politics is\npolitics, social intercourse is social intercourse, morals is morals,\nrecreation is recreation, and so on. Each possesses a separate and\nindependent province with its own peculiar aims and ways of proceeding.\nEach contributes to the others only externally and accidentally. All of\nthem together make up the whole of life by just apposition and addition.\nWhat does one expect from business save that it should furnish money,\nto be used in turn for making more money and for support of self and\nfamily, for buying books and pictures, tickets to concerts which may\nafford culture, and for paying taxes, charitable gifts and other things\nof social and ethical value? How unreasonable to expect that the pursuit\nof business should be itself a culture of the imagination, in breadth\nand refinement; that it should directly, and not through the money which\nit supplies, have social service for its animating principle and be\nconducted as an enterprise in behalf of social organization! The same\nthing is to be said, mutatis mutandis, of the pursuit of art or science\nor politics or religion. Each has become specialized not merely in\nits appliances and its demands upon time, but in its aim and animating\nspirit. Unconsciously, our course of studies and our theories of the\neducational values of studies reflect this division of interests. The\npoint at issue in a theory of educational value is then the unity or\nintegrity of experience. How shall it be full and varied without losing\nunity of spirit? How shall it be one and yet not narrow and monotonous\nin its unity? Ultimately, the question of values and a standard of\nvalues is the moral question of the organization of the interests of\nlife. Educationally, the question concerns that organization of schools,\nmaterials, and methods which will operate to achieve breadth and\nrichness of experience. How shall we secure breadth of outlook without\nsacrificing efficiency of execution? How shall we secure the diversity\nof interests, without paying the price of isolation? How shall the\nindividual be rendered executive in his intelligence instead of at the\ncost of his intelligence? How shall art, science, and politics reinforce\none another in an enriched temper of mind instead of constituting ends\npursued at one another's expense? How can the interests of life and the\nstudies which enforce them enrich the common experience of men instead\nof dividing men from one another? With the questions of reorganization\nthus suggested, we shall be concerned in the concluding chapters.\n\nSummary. Fundamentally, the elements involved in a discussion of value\nhave been covered in the prior discussion of aims and interests. But\nsince educational values are generally discussed in connection with the\nclaims of the various studies of the curriculum, the consideration\nof aim and interest is here resumed from the point of view of special\nstudies. The term \"value\" has two quite different meanings. On the one\nhand, it denotes the attitude of prizing a thing finding it worth\nwhile, for its own sake, or intrinsically. This is a name for a full\nor complete experience. To value in this sense is to appreciate. But\nto value also means a distinctively intellectual act--an operation\nof comparing and judging--to valuate. This occurs when direct full\nexperience is lacking, and the question arises which of the various\npossibilities of a situation is to be preferred in order to reach a full\nrealization, or vital experience.\n\nWe must not, however, divide the studies of the curriculum into\nthe appreciative, those concerned with intrinsic value, and the\ninstrumental, concerned with those which are of value or ends beyond\nthemselves. The formation of proper standards in any subject depends\nupon a realization of the contribution which it makes to the immediate\nsignificance of experience, upon a direct appreciation. Literature and\nthe fine arts are of peculiar value because they represent appreciation\nat its best--a heightened realization of meaning through selection and\nconcentration. But every subject at some phase of its development should\npossess, what is for the individual concerned with it, an aesthetic\nquality.\n\nContribution to immediate intrinsic values in all their variety\nin experience is the only criterion for determining the worth of\ninstrumental and derived values in studies. The tendency to assign\nseparate values to each study and to regard the curriculum in its\nentirety as a kind of composite made by the aggregation of segregated\nvalues is a result of the isolation of social groups and classes. Hence\nit is the business of education in a democratic social group to struggle\nagainst this isolation in order that the various interests may reinforce\nand play into one another.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Nineteen: Labor and Leisure\n\n1. The Origin of the Opposition.\n\nThe isolation of aims and values which we have been considering leads to\nopposition between them. Probably the most deep-seated antithesis which\nhas shown itself in educational history is that between education in\npreparation for useful labor and education for a life of leisure. The\nbare terms \"useful labor\" and \"leisure\" confirm the statement already\nmade that the segregation and conflict of values are not self-inclosed,\nbut reflect a division within social life. Were the two functions\nof gaining a livelihood by work and enjoying in a cultivated way the\nopportunities of leisure, distributed equally among the different\nmembers of a community, it would not occur to any one that there was\nany conflict of educational agencies and aims involved. It would be\nself-evident that the question was how education could contribute most\neffectively to both. And while it might be found that some materials of\ninstruction chiefly accomplished one result and other subject matter\nthe other, it would be evident that care must be taken to secure as\nmuch overlapping as conditions permit; that is, the education which had\nleisure more directly in view should indirectly reinforce as much as\npossible the efficiency and the enjoyment of work, while that aiming at\nthe latter should produce habits of emotion and intellect which would\nprocure a worthy cultivation of leisure. These general considerations\nare amply borne out by the historical development of educational\nphilosophy. The separation of liberal education from professional\nand industrial education goes back to the time of the Greeks, and was\nformulated expressly on the basis of a division of classes into those\nwho had to labor for a living and those who were relieved from this\nnecessity. The conception that liberal education, adapted to men in the\nlatter class, is intrinsically higher than the servile training given\nto the latter class reflected the fact that one class was free and the\nother servile in its social status. The latter class labored not only\nfor its own subsistence, but also for the means which enabled the\nsuperior class to live without personally engaging in occupations\ntaking almost all the time and not of a nature to engage or reward\nintelligence.\n\nThat a certain amount of labor must be engaged in goes without saying.\nHuman beings have to live and it requires work to supply the resources\nof life. Even if we insist that the interests connected with getting\na living are only material and hence intrinsically lower than those\nconnected with enjoyment of time released from labor, and even if it\nwere admitted that there is something engrossing and insubordinate\nin material interests which leads them to strive to usurp the place\nbelonging to the higher ideal interests, this would not--barring\nthe fact of socially divided classes--lead to neglect of the kind of\neducation which trains men for the useful pursuits. It would rather lead\nto scrupulous care for them, so that men were trained to be efficient in\nthem and yet to keep them in their place; education would see to it\nthat we avoided the evil results which flow from their being allowed to\nflourish in obscure purlieus of neglect. Only when a division of these\ninterests coincides with a division of an inferior and a superior social\nclass will preparation for useful work be looked down upon with contempt\nas an unworthy thing: a fact which prepares one for the conclusion that\nthe rigid identification of work with material interests, and leisure\nwith ideal interests is itself a social product. The educational\nformulations of the social situation made over two thousand years ago\nhave been so influential and give such a clear and logical recognition\nof the implications of the division into laboring and leisure classes,\nthat they deserve especial note. According to them, man occupies the\nhighest place in the scheme of animate existence. In part, he shares\nthe constitution and functions of plants and animals--nutritive,\nreproductive, motor or practical. The distinctively human function is\nreason existing for the sake of beholding the spectacle of the universe.\nHence the truly human end is the fullest possible of this distinctive\nhuman prerogative. The life of observation, meditation, cogitation, and\nspeculation pursued as an end in itself is the proper life of man. From\nreason moreover proceeds the proper control of the lower elements\nof human nature--the appetites and the active, motor, impulses. In\nthemselves greedy, insubordinate, lovers of excess, aiming only at their\nown satiety, they observe moderation--the law of the mean--and serve\ndesirable ends as they are subjected to the rule of reason.\n\nSuch is the situation as an affair of theoretical psychology and as most\nadequately stated by Aristotle. But this state of things is reflected\nin the constitution of classes of men and hence in the organization of\nsociety. Only in a comparatively small number is the function of reason\ncapable of operating as a law of life. In the mass of people, vegetative\nand animal functions dominate. Their energy of intelligence is so feeble\nand inconstant that it is constantly overpowered by bodily appetite and\npassion. Such persons are not truly ends in themselves, for only reason\nconstitutes a final end. Like plants, animals and physical tools, they\nare means, appliances, for the attaining of ends beyond themselves,\nalthough unlike them they have enough intelligence to exercise a certain\ndiscretion in the execution of the tasks committed to them. Thus by\nnature, and not merely by social convention, there are those who are\nslaves--that is, means for the ends of others. 1 The great body of\nartisans are in one important respect worse off than even slaves.\nLike the latter they are given up to the service of ends external to\nthemselves; but since they do not enjoy the intimate association with\nthe free superior class experienced by domestic slaves they remain on a\nlower plane of excellence. Moreover, women are classed with slaves and\ncraftsmen as factors among the animate instrumentalities of production\nand reproduction of the means for a free or rational life.\n\nIndividually and collectively there is a gulf between merely living and\nliving worthily. In order that one may live worthily he must first live,\nand so with collective society. The time and energy spent upon mere\nlife, upon the gaining of subsistence, detracts from that available for\nactivities that have an inherent rational meaning; they also unfit for\nthe latter. Means are menial, the serviceable is servile. The true life\nis possible only in the degree in which the physical necessities are had\nwithout effort and without attention. Hence slaves, artisans, and\nwomen are employed in furnishing the means of subsistence in order that\nothers, those adequately equipped with intelligence, may live the life\nof leisurely concern with things intrinsically worth while.\n\nTo these two modes of occupation, with their distinction of servile and\nfree activities (or \"arts\") correspond two types of education: the base\nor mechanical and the liberal or intellectual. Some persons are trained\nby suitable practical exercises for capacity in doing things, for\nability to use the mechanical tools involved in turning out physical\ncommodities and rendering personal service. This training is a\nmere matter of habituation and technical skill; it operates through\nrepetition and assiduity in application, not through awakening and\nnurturing thought. Liberal education aims to train intelligence for its\nproper office: to know. The less this knowledge has to do with practical\naffairs, with making or producing, the more adequately it engages\nintelligence. So consistently does Aristotle draw the line between\nmenial and liberal education that he puts what are now called the \"fine\"\narts, music, painting, sculpture, in the same class with menial arts\nso far as their practice is concerned. They involve physical agencies,\nassiduity of practice, and external results. In discussing, for example,\neducation in music he raises the question how far the young should\nbe practiced in the playing of instruments. His answer is that such\npractice and proficiency may be tolerated as conduce to appreciation;\nthat is, to understanding and enjoyment of music when played by slaves\nor professionals. When professional power is aimed at, music sinks from\nthe liberal to the professional level. One might then as well teach\ncooking, says Aristotle. Even a liberal concern with the works of fine\nart depends upon the existence of a hireling class of practitioners who\nhave subordinated the development of their own personality to attaining\nskill in mechanical execution. The higher the activity the more purely\nmental is it; the less does it have to do with physical things or\nwith the body. The more purely mental it is, the more independent or\nself-sufficing is it.\n\nThese last words remind us that Aristotle again makes a distinction of\nsuperior and inferior even within those living the life of reason. For\nthere is a distinction in ends and in free action, according as one's\nlife is merely accompanied by reason or as it makes reason its own\nmedium. That is to say, the free citizen who devotes himself to the\npublic life of his community, sharing in the management of its affairs\nand winning personal honor and distinction, lives a life accompanied\nby reason. But the thinker, the man who devotes himself to scientific\ninquiry and philosophic speculation, works, so to speak, in reason, not\nsimply by *. Even the activity of the citizen in his civic relations,\nin other words, retains some of the taint of practice, of external or\nmerely instrumental doing. This infection is shown by the fact that\ncivic activity and civic excellence need the help of others; one cannot\nengage in public life all by himself. But all needs, all desires imply,\nin the philosophy of Aristotle, a material factor; they involve lack,\nprivation; they are dependent upon something beyond themselves for\ncompletion. A purely intellectual life, however, one carries on by\nhimself, in himself; such assistance as he may derive from others is\naccidental, rather than intrinsic. In knowing, in the life of theory,\nreason finds its own full manifestation; knowing for the sake of knowing\nirrespective of any application is alone independent, or self-sufficing.\nHence only the education that makes for power to know as an end in\nitself, without reference to the practice of even civic duties, is\ntruly liberal or free. 2. The Present Situation. If the Aristotelian\nconception represented just Aristotle's personal view, it would be a\nmore or less interesting historical curiosity. It could be dismissed\nas an illustration of the lack of sympathy or the amount of academic\npedantry which may coexist with extraordinary intellectual gifts.\nBut Aristotle simply described without confusion and without that\ninsincerity always attendant upon mental confusion, the life that was\nbefore him. That the actual social situation has greatly changed since\nhis day there is no need to say. But in spite of these changes, in spite\nof the abolition of legal serfdom, and the spread of democracy, with\nthe extension of science and of general education (in books, newspapers,\ntravel, and general intercourse as well as in schools), there remains\nenough of a cleavage of society into a learned and an unlearned class,\na leisure and a laboring class, to make his point of view a most\nenlightening one from which to criticize the separation between culture\nand utility in present education. Behind the intellectual and abstract\ndistinction as it figures in pedagogical discussion, there looms a\nsocial distinction between those whose pursuits involve a minimum of\nself-directive thought and aesthetic appreciation, and those who are\nconcerned more directly with things of the intelligence and with the\ncontrol of the activities of others.\n\nAristotle was certainly permanently right when he said that \"any\noccupation or art or study deserves to be called mechanical if it\nrenders the body or soul or intellect of free persons unfit for the\nexercise and practice of excellence.\" The force of the statement is\nalmost infinitely increased when we hold, as we nominally do at present,\nthat all persons, instead of a comparatively few, are free. For when the\nmass of men and all women were regarded as unfree by the very nature\nof their bodies and minds, there was neither intellectual confusion nor\nmoral hypocrisy in giving them only the training which fitted them\nfor mechanical skill, irrespective of its ulterior effect upon their\ncapacity to share in a worthy life. He was permanently right also when\nhe went on to say that \"all mercenary employments as well as those which\ndegrade the condition of the body are mechanical, since they deprive\nthe intellect of leisure and dignity,\"--permanently right, that is,\nif gainful pursuits as matter of fact deprive the intellect of the\nconditions of its exercise and so of its dignity. If his statements\nare false, it is because they identify a phase of social custom with\na natural necessity. But a different view of the relations of mind and\nmatter, mind and body, intelligence and social service, is better than\nAristotle's conception only if it helps render the old idea obsolete\nin fact--in the actual conduct of life and education. Aristotle was\npermanently right in assuming the inferiority and subordination of\nmere skill in performance and mere accumulation of external products to\nunderstanding, sympathy of appreciation, and the free play of ideas. If\nthere was an error, it lay in assuming the necessary separation of the\ntwo: in supposing that there is a natural divorce between efficiency in\nproducing commodities and rendering service, and self-directive thought;\nbetween significant knowledge and practical achievement. We hardly\nbetter matters if we just correct his theoretical misapprehension, and\ntolerate the social state of affairs which generated and sanctioned\nhis conception. We lose rather than gain in change from serfdom to\nfree citizenship if the most prized result of the change is simply an\nincrease in the mechanical efficiency of the human tools of production.\nSo we lose rather than gain in coming to think of intelligence as an\norgan of control of nature through action, if we are content that an\nunintelligent, unfree state persists in those who engage directly in\nturning nature to use, and leave the intelligence which controls to be\nthe exclusive possession of remote scientists and captains of industry.\nWe are in a position honestly to criticize the division of life into\nseparate functions and of society into separate classes only so far\nas we are free from responsibility for perpetuating the educational\npractices which train the many for pursuits involving mere skill in\nproduction, and the few for a knowledge that is an ornament and a\ncultural embellishment. In short, ability to transcend the Greek\nphilosophy of life and education is not secured by a mere shifting about\nof the theoretical symbols meaning free, rational, and worthy. It is not\nsecured by a change of sentiment regarding the dignity of labor, and\nthe superiority of a life of service to that of an aloof self-sufficing\nindependence. Important as these theoretical and emotional changes\nare, their importance consists in their being turned to account in the\ndevelopment of a truly democratic society, a society in which all share\nin useful service and all enjoy a worthy leisure. It is not a mere\nchange in the concepts of culture--or a liberal mind--and social service\nwhich requires an educational reorganization; but the educational\ntransformation is needed to give full and explicit effect to the\nchanges implied in social life. The increased political and economic\nemancipation of the \"masses\" has shown itself in education; it has\neffected the development of a common school system of education, public\nand free. It has destroyed the idea that learning is properly a monopoly\nof the few who are predestined by nature to govern social affairs. But\nthe revolution is still incomplete. The idea still prevails that a truly\ncultural or liberal education cannot have anything in common, directly\nat least, with industrial affairs, and that the education which is fit\nfor the masses must be a useful or practical education in a sense which\nopposes useful and practical to nurture of appreciation and liberation\nof thought. As a consequence, our actual system is an inconsistent\nmixture. Certain studies and methods are retained on the supposition\nthat they have the sanction of peculiar liberality, the chief content\nof the term liberal being uselessness for practical ends. This aspect\nis chiefly visible in what is termed the higher education--that of the\ncollege and of preparation for it. But it has filtered through into\nelementary education and largely controls its processes and aims. But,\non the other hand, certain concessions have been made to the masses\nwho must engage in getting a livelihood and to the increased role of\neconomic activities in modern life. These concessions are exhibited in\nspecial schools and courses for the professions, for engineering, for\nmanual training and commerce, in vocational and prevocational courses;\nand in the spirit in which certain elementary subjects, like the three\nR's, are taught. The result is a system in which both \"cultural\" and\n\"utilitarian\" subjects exist in an inorganic composite where the former\nare not by dominant purpose socially serviceable and the latter not\nliberative of imagination or thinking power.\n\nIn the inherited situation, there is a curious intermingling, in even\nthe same study, of concession to usefulness and a survival of traits\nonce exclusively attributed to preparation for leisure. The \"utility\"\nelement is found in the motives assigned for the study, the \"liberal\"\nelement in methods of teaching. The outcome of the mixture is perhaps\nless satisfactory than if either principle were adhered to in its\npurity. The motive popularly assigned for making the studies of the\nfirst four or five years consist almost entirely of reading, spelling,\nwriting, and arithmetic, is, for example, that ability to read, write,\nand figure accurately is indispensable to getting ahead. These studies\nare treated as mere instruments for entering upon a gainful employment\nor of later progress in the pursuit of learning, according as pupils do\nnot or do remain in school. This attitude is reflected in the emphasis\nput upon drill and practice for the sake of gaining automatic skill.\nIf we turn to Greek schooling, we find that from the earliest years the\nacquisition of skill was subordinated as much as possible to acquisition\nof literary content possessed of aesthetic and moral significance. Not\ngetting a tool for subsequent use but present subject matter was the\nemphasized thing. Nevertheless the isolation of these studies from\npractical application, their reduction to purely symbolic devices,\nrepresents a survival of the idea of a liberal training divorced from\nutility. A thorough adoption of the idea of utility would have led to\ninstruction which tied up the studies to situations in which they\nwere directly needed and where they were rendered immediately and not\nremotely helpful. It would be hard to find a subject in the curriculum\nwithin which there are not found evil results of a compromise between\nthe two opposed ideals. Natural science is recommended on the ground\nof its practical utility, but is taught as a special accomplishment in\nremoval from application. On the other hand, music and literature are\ntheoretically justified on the ground of their culture value and are\nthen taught with chief emphasis upon forming technical modes of skill.\n\nIf we had less compromise and resulting confusion, if we analyzed more\ncarefully the respective meanings of culture and utility, we might find\nit easier to construct a course of study which should be useful and\nliberal at the same time. Only superstition makes us believe that the\ntwo are necessarily hostile so that a subject is illiberal because it\nis useful and cultural because it is useless. It will generally be found\nthat instruction which, in aiming at utilitarian results, sacrifices the\ndevelopment of imagination, the refining of taste and the deepening of\nintellectual insight--surely cultural values--also in the same degree\nrenders what is learned limited in its use. Not that it makes it\nwholly unavailable but that its applicability is restricted to routine\nactivities carried on under the supervision of others. Narrow modes of\nskill cannot be made useful beyond themselves; any mode of skill which\nis achieved with deepening of knowledge and perfecting of judgment is\nreadily put to use in new situations and is under personal control. It\nwas not the bare fact of social and economic utility which made certain\nactivities seem servile to the Greeks but the fact that the activities\ndirectly connected with getting a livelihood were not, in their days,\nthe expression of a trained intelligence nor carried on because of a\npersonal appreciation of their meaning. So far as farming and the trades\nwere rule-of-thumb occupations and so far as they were engaged in for\nresults external to the minds of agricultural laborers and mechanics,\nthey were illiberal--but only so far. The intellectual and social\ncontext has now changed. The elements in industry due to mere custom and\nroutine have become subordinate in most economic callings to elements\nderived from scientific inquiry. The most important occupations of today\nrepresent and depend upon applied mathematics, physics, and chemistry.\nThe area of the human world influenced by economic production\nand influencing consumption has been so indefinitely widened that\ngeographical and political considerations of an almost infinitely wide\nscope enter in. It was natural for Plato to deprecate the learning of\ngeometry and arithmetic for practical ends, because as matter of fact\nthe practical uses to which they were put were few, lacking in content\nand mostly mercenary in quality. But as their social uses have increased\nand enlarged, their liberalizing or \"intellectual\" value and their\npractical value approach the same limit.\n\nDoubtless the factor which chiefly prevents our full recognition and\nemployment of this identification is the conditions under which so much\nwork is still carried on. The invention of machines has extended the\namount of leisure which is possible even while one is at work. It is a\ncommonplace that the mastery of skill in the form of established habits\nfrees the mind for a higher order of thinking. Something of the same\nkind is true of the introduction of mechanically automatic operations in\nindustry. They may release the mind for thought upon other topics. But\nwhen we confine the education of those who work with their hands to a\nfew years of schooling devoted for the most part to acquiring the use of\nrudimentary symbols at the expense of training in science, literature,\nand history, we fail to prepare the minds of workers to take advantage\nof this opportunity. More fundamental is the fact that the great\nmajority of workers have no insight into the social aims of their\npursuits and no direct personal interest in them. The results actually\nachieved are not the ends of their actions, but only of their employers.\nThey do what they do, not freely and intelligently, but for the sake of\nthe wage earned. It is this fact which makes the action illiberal, and\nwhich will make any education designed simply to give skill in such\nundertakings illiberal and immoral. The activity is not free because not\nfreely participated in.\n\nNevertheless, there is already an opportunity for an education which,\nkeeping in mind the larger features of work, will reconcile liberal\nnurture with training in social serviceableness, with ability to share\nefficiently and happily in occupations which are productive. And such an\neducation will of itself tend to do away with the evils of the existing\neconomic situation. In the degree in which men have an active concern\nin the ends that control their activity, their activity becomes free or\nvoluntary and loses its externally enforced and servile quality, even\nthough the physical aspect of behavior remain the same. In what is\ntermed politics, democratic social organization makes provision for this\ndirect participation in control: in the economic region, control remains\nexternal and autocratic. Hence the split between inner mental action and\nouter physical action of which the traditional distinction between the\nliberal and the utilitarian is the reflex. An education which should\nunify the disposition of the members of society would do much to unify\nsociety itself.\n\nSummary. Of the segregations of educational values discussed in the\nlast chapter, that between culture and utility is probably the most\nfundamental. While the distinction is often thought to be intrinsic and\nabsolute, it is really historical and social. It originated, so far as\nconscious formulation is concerned, in Greece, and was based upon the\nfact that the truly human life was lived only by a few who subsisted\nupon the results of the labor of others. This fact affected the\npsychological doctrine of the relation of intelligence and desire,\ntheory and practice. It was embodied in a political theory of a\npermanent division of human beings into those capable of a life of\nreason and hence having their own ends, and those capable only of desire\nand work, and needing to have their ends provided by others. The two\ndistinctions, psychological and political, translated into educational\nterms, effected a division between a liberal education, having to do\nwith the self-sufficing life of leisure devoted to knowing for its\nown sake, and a useful, practical training for mechanical occupations,\ndevoid of intellectual and aesthetic content. While the present\nsituation is radically diverse in theory and much changed in fact, the\nfactors of the older historic situation still persist sufficiently to\nmaintain the educational distinction, along with compromises which\noften reduce the efficacy of the educational measures. The problem of\neducation in a democratic society is to do away with the dualism and\nto construct a course of studies which makes thought a guide of\nfree practice for all and which makes leisure a reward of accepting\nresponsibility for service, rather than a state of exemption from it.\n\n1 Aristotle does not hold that the class of actual slaves and of natural\nslaves necessarily coincide.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twenty: Intellectual and Practical Studies\n\n1. The Opposition of Experience and True Knowledge. As livelihood\nand leisure are opposed, so are theory and practice, intelligence\nand execution, knowledge and activity. The latter set of oppositions\ndoubtless springs from the same social conditions which produce the\nformer conflict; but certain definite problems of education connected\nwith them make it desirable to discuss explicitly the matter of the\nrelationship and alleged separation of knowing and doing.\n\nThe notion that knowledge is derived from a higher source than is\npractical activity, and possesses a higher and more spiritual worth, has\na long history. The history so far as conscious statement is concerned\ntakes us back to the conceptions of experience and of reason formulated\nby Plato and Aristotle. Much as these thinkers differed in many\nrespects, they agreed in identifying experience with purely practical\nconcerns; and hence with material interests as to its purpose and with\nthe body as to its organ. Knowledge, on the other hand, existed for its\nown sake free from practical reference, and found its source and organ\nin a purely immaterial mind; it had to do with spiritual or ideal\ninterests. Again, experience always involved lack, need, desire; it was\nnever self-sufficing. Rational knowing on the other hand, was complete\nand comprehensive within itself. Hence the practical life was in a\ncondition of perpetual flux, while intellectual knowledge concerned\neternal truth.\n\nThis sharp antithesis is connected with the fact that Athenian\nphilosophy began as a criticism of custom and tradition as standards of\nknowledge and conduct. In a search for something to replace them, it\nhit upon reason as the only adequate guide of belief and activity. Since\ncustom and tradition were identified with experience, it followed at\nonce that reason was superior to experience. Moreover, experience, not\ncontent with its proper position of subordination, was the great foe\nto the acknowledgment of the authority of reason. Since custom and\ntraditionary beliefs held men in bondage, the struggle of reason for\nits legitimate supremacy could be won only by showing the inherently\nunstable and inadequate nature of experience. The statement of Plato\nthat philosophers should be kings may best be understood as a statement\nthat rational intelligence and not habit, appetite, impulse, and emotion\nshould regulate human affairs. The former secures unity, order, and law;\nthe latter signify multiplicity and discord, irrational fluctuations\nfrom one estate to another.\n\nThe grounds for the identification of experience with the unsatisfactory\ncondition of things, the state of affairs represented by rule of mere\ncustom, are not far to seek. Increasing trade and travel, colonizations,\nmigrations and wars, had broadened the intellectual horizon. The customs\nand beliefs of different communities were found to diverge sharply\nfrom one another. Civil disturbance had become a custom in Athens;\nthe fortunes of the city seemed given over to strife of factions. The\nincrease of leisure coinciding with the broadening of the horizon had\nbrought into ken many new facts of nature and had stimulated curiosity\nand speculation. The situation tended to raise the question as to the\nexistence of anything constant and universal in the realm of nature and\nsociety. Reason was the faculty by which the universal principle and\nessence is apprehended; while the senses were the organs of perceiving\nchange,--the unstable and the diverse as against the permanent and\nuniform. The results of the work of the senses, preserved in memory\nand imagination, and applied in the skill given by habit, constituted\nexperience.\n\nExperience at its best is thus represented in the various\nhandicrafts--the arts of peace and war. The cobbler, the flute player,\nthe soldier, have undergone the discipline of experience to acquire the\nskill they have. This means that the bodily organs, particularly the\nsenses, have had repeated contact with things and that the result of\nthese contacts has been preserved and consolidated till ability in\nforesight and in practice had been secured. Such was the essential\nmeaning of the term \"empirical.\" It suggested a knowledge and an ability\nnot based upon insight into principles, but expressing the result of a\nlarge number of separate trials. It expressed the idea now conveyed by\n\"method of trial and error,\" with especial emphasis upon the more or\nless accidental character of the trials. So far as ability of control,\nof management, was concerned, it amounted to rule-of-thumb procedure,\nto routine. If new circumstances resembled the past, it might work well\nenough; in the degree in which they deviated, failure was likely. Even\nto-day to speak of a physician as an empiricist is to imply that he\nlacks scientific training, and that he is proceeding simply on the basis\nof what he happens to have got out of the chance medley of his past\npractice. Just because of the lack of science or reason in \"experience\"\nit is hard to keep it at its poor best. The empiric easily degenerates\ninto the quack. He does not know where his knowledge begins or leaves\noff, and so when he gets beyond routine conditions he begins to\npretend--to make claims for which there is no justification, and\nto trust to luck and to ability to impose upon others--to \"bluff.\"\nMoreover, he assumes that because he has learned one thing, he knows\nothers--as the history of Athens showed that the common craftsmen\nthought they could manage household affairs, education, and politics,\nbecause they had learned to do the specific things of their trades.\nExperience is always hovering, then, on the edge of pretense, of sham,\nof seeming, and appearance, in distinction from the reality upon which\nreason lays hold.\n\nThe philosophers soon reached certain generalizations from this state\nof affairs. The senses are connected with the appetites, with wants and\ndesires. They lay hold not on the reality of things but on the relation\nwhich things have to our pleasures and pains, to the satisfaction of\nwants and the welfare of the body. They are important only for the\nlife of the body, which is but a fixed substratum for a higher life.\nExperience thus has a definitely material character; it has to do\nwith physical things in relation to the body. In contrast, reason, or\nscience, lays hold of the immaterial, the ideal, the spiritual. There is\nsomething morally dangerous about experience, as such words as sensual,\ncarnal, material, worldly, interests suggest; while pure reason and\nspirit connote something morally praiseworthy. Moreover, ineradicable\nconnection with the changing, the inexplicably shifting, and with the\nmanifold, the diverse, clings to experience. Its material is inherently\nvariable and untrustworthy. It is anarchic, because unstable. The man\nwho trusts to experience does not know what he depends upon, since it\nchanges from person to person, from day to day, to say nothing of\nfrom country to country. Its connection with the \"many,\" with various\nparticulars, has the same effect, and also carries conflict in its\ntrain.\n\nOnly the single, the uniform, assures coherence and harmony. Out of\nexperience come warrings, the conflict of opinions and acts within\nthe individual and between individuals. From experience no standard\nof belief can issue, because it is the very nature of experience to\ninstigate all kinds of contrary beliefs, as varieties of local custom\nproved. Its logical outcome is that anything is good and true to the\nparticular individual which his experience leads him to believe true and\ngood at a particular time and place. Finally practice falls of necessity\nwithin experience. Doing proceeds from needs and aims at change. To\nproduce or to make is to alter something; to consume is to alter. All\nthe obnoxious characters of change and diversity thus attach themselves\nto doing while knowing is as permanent as its object. To know, to grasp\na thing intellectually or theoretically, is to be out of the region of\nvicissitude, chance, and diversity. Truth has no lack; it is untouched\nby the perturbations of the world of sense. It deals with the eternal\nand the universal. And the world of experience can be brought under\ncontrol, can be steadied and ordered, only through subjection to its law\nof reason.\n\nIt would not do, of course, to say that all these distinctions persisted\nin full technical definiteness. But they all of them profoundly\ninfluenced men's subsequent thinking and their ideas about education.\nThe contempt for physical as compared with mathematical and logical\nscience, for the senses and sense observation; the feeling that\nknowledge is high and worthy in the degree in which it deals with ideal\nsymbols instead of with the concrete; the scorn of particulars except\nas they are deductively brought under a universal; the disregard for\nthe body; the depreciation of arts and crafts as intellectual\ninstrumentalities, all sought shelter and found sanction under this\nestimate of the respective values of experience and reason--or, what\ncame to the same thing, of the practical and the intellectual. Medieval\nphilosophy continued and reinforced the tradition. To know reality\nmeant to be in relation to the supreme reality, or God, and to enjoy the\neternal bliss of that relation. Contemplation of supreme reality was the\nultimate end of man to which action is subordinate. Experience had to\ndo with mundane, profane, and secular affairs, practically necessary\nindeed, but of little import in comparison with supernatural objects\nof knowledge. When we add to this motive the force derived from the\nliterary character of the Roman education and the Greek philosophic\ntradition, and conjoin to them the preference for studies which\nobviously demarcated the aristocratic class from the lower classes, we\ncan readily understand the tremendous power exercised by the persistent\npreference of the \"intellectual\" over the \"practical\" not simply in\neducational philosophies but in the higher schools. 2. The Modern Theory\nof Experience and Knowledge. As we shall see later, the development of\nexperimentation as a method of knowledge makes possible and necessitates\na radical transformation of the view just set forth. But before\ncoming to that, we have to note the theory of experience and knowledge\ndeveloped in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In general, it\npresents us with an almost complete reversal of the classic doctrine\nof the relations of experience and reason. To Plato experience meant\nhabituation, or the conservation of the net product of a lot of past\nchance trials. Reason meant the principle of reform, of progress, of\nincrease of control. Devotion to the cause of reason meant breaking\nthrough the limitations of custom and getting at things as they really\nwere. To the modern reformers, the situation was the other way around.\nReason, universal principles, a priori notions, meant either blank forms\nwhich had to be filled in by experience, by sense observations, in\norder to get significance and validity; or else were mere indurated\nprejudices, dogmas imposed by authority, which masqueraded and found\nprotection under august names. The great need was to break way from\ncaptivity to conceptions which, as Bacon put it, \"anticipated nature\"\nand imposed merely human opinions upon her, and to resort to experience\nto find out what nature was like. Appeal to experience marked the breach\nwith authority. It meant openness to new impressions; eagerness\nin discovery and invention instead of absorption in tabulating and\nsystematizing received ideas and \"proving\" them by means of the\nrelations they sustained to one another. It was the irruption into the\nmind of the things as they really were, free from the veil cast over\nthem by preconceived ideas.\n\nThe change was twofold. Experience lost the practical meaning which it\nhad borne from the time of Plato. It ceased to mean ways of doing\nand being done to, and became a name for something intellectual and\ncognitive. It meant the apprehension of material which should ballast\nand check the exercise of reasoning. By the modern philosophic\nempiricist and by his opponent, experience has been looked upon just as\na way of knowing. The only question was how good a way it is. The\nresult was an even greater \"intellectualism\" than is found in ancient\nphilosophy, if that word be used to designate an emphatic and almost\nexclusive interest in knowledge in its isolation. Practice was not\nso much subordinated to knowledge as treated as a kind of tag-end or\naftermath of knowledge. The educational result was only to confirm the\nexclusion of active pursuits from the school, save as they might be\nbrought in for purely utilitarian ends--the acquisition by drill of\ncertain habits. In the second place, the interest in experience as a\nmeans of basing truth upon objects, upon nature, led to looking at the\nmind as purely receptive. The more passive the mind is, the more truly\nobjects will impress themselves upon it. For the mind to take a hand, so\nto speak, would be for it in the very process of knowing to vitiate\ntrue knowledge--to defeat its own purpose. The ideal was a maximum of\nreceptivity. Since the impressions made upon the mind by objects were\ngenerally termed sensations, empiricism thus became a doctrine of\nsensationalism--that is to say, a doctrine which identified knowledge\nwith the reception and association of sensory impressions. In\nJohn Locke, the most influential of the empiricists, we find this\nsensationalism mitigated by a recognition of certain mental faculties,\nlike discernment or discrimination, comparison, abstraction, and\ngeneralization which work up the material of sense into definite and\norganized forms and which even evolve new ideas on their own account,\nsuch as the fundamental conceptions of morals and mathematics. (See\nante, p. 61.) But some of his successors, especially in France in the\nlatter part of the eighteenth century, carried his doctrine to the\nlimit; they regarded discernment and judgment as peculiar sensations\nmade in us by the conjoint presence of other sensations. Locke had held\nthat the mind is a blank piece of paper, or a wax tablet with nothing\nengraved on it at birth (a tabula rasa) so far as any contents of ideas\nwere concerned, but had endowed it with activities to be exercised upon\nthe material received. His French successors razed away the powers and\nderived them also from impressions received.\n\nAs we have earlier noted, this notion was fostered by the new interest\nin education as method of social reform. (See ante, p. 93.) The emptier\nthe mind to begin with, the more it may be made anything we wish by\nbringing the right influences to bear upon it. Thus Helvetius, perhaps\nthe most extreme and consistent sensationalist, proclaimed that\neducation could do anything--that it was omnipotent. Within the sphere\nof school instruction, empiricism found its directly beneficial office\nin protesting against mere book learning. If knowledge comes from the\nimpressions made upon us by natural objects, it is impossible to procure\nknowledge without the use of objects which impress the mind. Words,\nall kinds of linguistic symbols, in the lack of prior presentations of\nobjects with which they may be associated, convey nothing but sensations\nof their own shape and color--certainly not a very instructive kind of\nknowledge. Sensationalism was an extremely handy weapon with which\nto combat doctrines and opinions resting wholly upon tradition and\nauthority. With respect to all of them, it set up a test: Where are the\nreal objects from which these ideas and beliefs are received? If such\nobjects could not be produced, ideas were explained as the result of\nfalse associations and combinations. Empiricism also insisted upon a\nfirst-hand element. The impression must be made upon me, upon my\nmind. The further we get away from this direct, first-hand source of\nknowledge, the more numerous the sources of error, and the vaguer the\nresulting idea.\n\n\nAs might be expected, however, the philosophy was weak upon the positive\nside. Of course, the value of natural objects and firsthand acquaintance\nwas not dependent upon the truth of the theory. Introduced into the\nschools they would do their work, even if the sensational theory about\nthe way in which they did it was quite wrong. So far, there is nothing\nto complain of. But the emphasis upon sensationalism also operated to\ninfluence the way in which natural objects were employed, and to prevent\nfull good being got from them. \"Object lessons\" tended to isolate the\nmere sense-activity and make it an end in itself. The more isolated the\nobject, the more isolated the sensory quality, the more distinct the\nsense-impression as a unit of knowledge. The theory worked not only\nin the direction of this mechanical isolation, which tended to reduce\ninstruction to a kind of physical gymnastic of the sense-organs (good\nlike any gymnastic of bodily organs, but not more so), but also to\nthe neglect of thinking. According to the theory there was no need of\nthinking in connection with sense-observation; in fact, in strict\ntheory such thinking would be impossible till afterwards, for thinking\nconsisted simply in combining and separating sensory units which had\nbeen received without any participation of judgment.\n\nAs a matter of fact, accordingly, practically no scheme of education\nupon a purely sensory basis has ever been systematically tried, at least\nafter the early years of infancy. Its obvious deficiencies have caused\nit to be resorted to simply for filling in \"rationalistic\" knowledge\n(that is to say, knowledge of definitions, rules, classifications, and\nmodes of application conveyed through symbols), and as a device for\nlending greater \"interest\" to barren symbols. There are at least\nthree serious defects of sensationalistic empiricism as an educational\nphilosophy of knowledge. (a) the historical value of the theory was\ncritical; it was a dissolvent of current beliefs about the world and\npolitical institutions. It was a destructive organ of criticism of\nhard and fast dogmas. But the work of education is constructive, not\ncritical. It assumes not old beliefs to be eliminated and revised, but\nthe need of building up new experience into intellectual habitudes as\ncorrect as possible from the start. Sensationalism is highly unfitted\nfor this constructive task. Mind, understanding, denotes responsiveness\nto meanings (ante, p. 29), not response to direct physical stimuli. And\nmeaning exists only with reference to a context, which is excluded\nby any scheme which identifies knowledge with a combination of\nsense-impressions. The theory, so far as educationally applied, led\neither to a magnification of mere physical excitations or else to a mere\nheaping up of isolated objects and qualities.\n\n(b) While direct impression has the advantage of being first hand, it\nalso has the disadvantage of being limited in range. Direct acquaintance\nwith the natural surroundings of the home environment so as to give\nreality to ideas about portions of the earth beyond the reach of the\nsenses, and as a means of arousing intellectual curiosity, is one\nthing. As an end-all and be-all of geographical knowledge it is fatally\nrestricted. In precisely analogous fashion, beans, shoe pegs, and\ncounters may be helpful aids to a realization of numerical relations,\nbut when employed except as aids to thought--the apprehension of\nmeaning--they become an obstacle to the growth of arithmetical\nunderstanding. They arrest growth on a low plane, the plane of specific\nphysical symbols. Just as the race developed especial symbols as tools\nof calculation and mathematical reasonings, because the use of the\nfingers as numerical symbols got in the way, so the individual must\nprogress from concrete to abstract symbols--that is, symbols whose\nmeaning is realized only through conceptual thinking. And undue\nabsorption at the outset in the physical object of sense hampers this\ngrowth. (c) A thoroughly false psychology of mental development\nunderlay sensationalistic empiricism. Experience is in truth a matter\nof activities, instinctive and impulsive, in their interactions with\nthings. What even an infant \"experiences\" is not a passively received\nquality impressed by an object, but the effect which some activity of\nhandling, throwing, pounding, tearing, etc., has upon an object, and the\nconsequent effect of the object upon the direction of activities. (See\nante, p. 140.) Fundamentally (as we shall see in more detail), the\nancient notion of experience as a practical matter is truer to fact that\nthe modern notion of it as a mode of knowing by means of sensations. The\nneglect of the deep-seated active and motor factors of experience is a\nfatal defect of the traditional empirical philosophy. Nothing is more\nuninteresting and mechanical than a scheme of object lessons which\nignores and as far as may be excludes the natural tendency to learn\nabout the qualities of objects by the uses to which they are put through\ntrying to do something with them.\n\nIt is obvious, accordingly, that even if the philosophy of experience\nrepresented by modern empiricism had received more general theoretical\nassent than has been accorded to it, it could not have furnished\na satisfactory philosophy of the learning process. Its educational\ninfluence was confined to injecting a new factor into the older\ncurriculum, with incidental modifications of the older studies and\nmethods. It introduced greater regard for observation of things directly\nand through pictures and graphic descriptions, and it reduced the\nimportance attached to verbal symbolization. But its own scope was\nso meager that it required supplementation by information concerning\nmatters outside of sense-perception and by matters which appealed\nmore directly to thought. Consequently it left unimpaired the scope of\ninformational and abstract, or \"rationalistic\" studies.\n\n3. Experience as Experimentation. It has already been intimated that\nsensational empiricism represents neither the idea of experience\njustified by modern psychology nor the idea of knowledge suggested by\nmodern scientific procedure. With respect to the former, it omits the\nprimary position of active response which puts things to use and which\nlearns about them through discovering the consequences that result from\nuse. It would seem as if five minutes' unprejudiced observation of\nthe way an infant gains knowledge would have sufficed to overthrow the\nnotion that he is passively engaged in receiving impressions of isolated\nready-made qualities of sound, color, hardness, etc. For it would\nbe seen that the infant reacts to stimuli by activities of handling,\nreaching, etc., in order to see what results follow upon motor response\nto a sensory stimulation; it would be seen that what is learned are not\nisolated qualities, but the behavior which may be expected from a thing,\nand the changes in things and persons which an activity may be expected\nto produce. In other words, what he learns are connections. Even such\nqualities as red color, sound of a high pitch, have to be discriminated\nand identified on the basis of the activities they call forth and the\nconsequences these activities effect. We learn what things are hard and\nwhat are soft by finding out through active experimentation what they\nrespectively will do and what can be done and what cannot be done with\nthem. In like fashion, children learn about persons by finding out what\nresponsive activities these persons exact and what these persons will\ndo in reply to the children's activities. And the combination of what\nthings do to us (not in impressing qualities on a passive mind) in\nmodifying our actions, furthering some of them and resisting and\nchecking others, and what we can do to them in producing new changes\nconstitutes experience. The methods of science by which the revolution\nin our knowledge of the world dating from the seventeenth century, was\nbrought about, teach the same lesson. For these methods are nothing but\nexperimentation carried out under conditions of deliberate control. To\nthe Greek, it seemed absurd that such an activity as, say, the cobbler\npunching holes in leather, or using wax and needle and thread, could\ngive an adequate knowledge of the world. It seemed almost axiomatic\nthat for true knowledge we must have recourse to concepts coming from a\nreason above experience. But the introduction of the experimental method\nsignified precisely that such operations, carried on under conditions\nof control, are just the ways in which fruitful ideas about nature are\nobtained and tested. In other words, it is only needed to conduct such\nan operation as the pouring of an acid on a metal for the purpose of\ngetting knowledge instead of for the purpose of getting a trade result,\nin order to lay hold of the principle upon which the science of nature\nwas henceforth to depend. Sense perceptions were indeed indispensable,\nbut there was less reliance upon sense perceptions in their natural or\ncustomary form than in the older science. They were no longer regarded\nas containing within themselves some \"form\" or \"species\" of universal\nkind in a disguised mask of sense which could be stripped off by\nrational thought. On the contrary, the first thing was to alter and\nextend the data of sense perception: to act upon the given objects of\nsense by the lens of the telescope and microscope, and by all sorts of\nexperimental devices. To accomplish this in a way which would arouse\nnew ideas (hypotheses, theories) required even more general ideas (like\nthose of mathematics) than were at the command of ancient science. But\nthese general conceptions were no longer taken to give knowledge\nin themselves. They were implements for instituting, conducting,\ninterpreting experimental inquiries and formulating their results.\n\nThe logical outcome is a new philosophy of experience and knowledge,\na philosophy which no longer puts experience in opposition to rational\nknowledge and explanation. Experience is no longer a mere summarizing\nof what has been done in a more or less chance way in the past; it is a\ndeliberate control of what is done with reference to making what happens\nto us and what we do to things as fertile as possible of suggestions\n(of suggested meanings) and a means for trying out the validity of the\nsuggestions. When trying, or experimenting, ceases to be blinded by\nimpulse or custom, when it is guided by an aim and conducted by measure\nand method, it becomes reasonable--rational. When what we suffer from\nthings, what we undergo at their hands, ceases to be a matter of chance\ncircumstance, when it is transformed into a consequence of our own prior\npurposive endeavors, it becomes rationally significant--enlightening\nand instructive. The antithesis of empiricism and rationalism loses the\nsupport of the human situation which once gave it meaning and relative\njustification.\n\nThe bearing of this change upon the opposition of purely practical and\npurely intellectual studies is self-evident. The distinction is not\nintrinsic but is dependent upon conditions, and upon conditions which\ncan be regulated. Practical activities may be intellectually narrow and\ntrivial; they will be so in so far as they are routine, carried on\nunder the dictates of authority, and having in view merely some external\nresult. But childhood and youth, the period of schooling, is just the\ntime when it is possible to carry them on in a different spirit. It\nis inexpedient to repeat the discussions of our previous chapters on\nthinking and on the evolution of educative subject matter from childlike\nwork and play to logically organized subject matter. The discussions of\nthis chapter and the prior one should, however, give an added meaning to\nthose results.\n\n(i) Experience itself primarily consists of the active relations\nsubsisting between a human being and his natural and social\nsurroundings. In some cases, the initiative in activity is on the\nside of the environment; the human being undergoes or suffers certain\ncheckings and deflections of endeavors. In other cases, the behavior of\nsurrounding things and persons carries to a successful issue the active\ntendencies of the individual, so that in the end what the individual\nundergoes are consequences which he has himself tried to produce.\nIn just the degree in which connections are established between what\nhappens to a person and what he does in response, and between what he\ndoes to his environment and what it does in response to him, his acts\nand the things about him acquire meaning. He learns to understand\nboth himself and the world of men and things. Purposive education or\nschooling should present such an environment that this interaction will\neffect acquisition of those meanings which are so important that they\nbecome, in turn, instruments of further learnings. (ante, Ch. XI.) As\nhas been repeatedly pointed out, activity out of school is carried on\nunder conditions which have not been deliberately adapted to promoting\nthe function of understanding and formation of effective intellectual\ndispositions. The results are vital and genuine as far as they go, but\nthey are limited by all kinds of circumstances. Some powers are left\nquite undeveloped and undirected; others get only occasional and\nwhimsical stimulations; others are formed into habits of a routine skill\nat the expense of aims and resourceful initiative and inventiveness. It\nis not the business of the school to transport youth from an environment\nof activity into one of cramped study of the records of other men's\nlearning; but to transport them from an environment of relatively chance\nactivities (accidental in the relation they bear to insight and thought)\ninto one of activities selected with reference to guidance of learning.\nA slight inspection of the improved methods which have already shown\nthemselves effective in education will reveal that they have laid hold,\nmore or less consciously, upon the fact that \"intellectual\"\nstudies instead of being opposed to active pursuits represent an\nintellectualizing of practical pursuits. It remains to grasp the\nprinciple with greater firmness.\n\n(ii) The changes which are taking place in the content of social life\ntremendously facilitate selection of the sort of activities which will\nintellectualize the play and work of the school. When one bears in mind\nthe social environment of the Greeks and the people of the Middle Ages,\nwhere such practical activities as could be successfully carried on were\nmostly of a routine and external sort and even servile in nature, one is\nnot surprised that educators turned their backs upon them as unfitted\nto cultivate intelligence. But now that even the occupations of the\nhousehold, agriculture, and manufacturing as well as transportation\nand intercourse are instinct with applied science, the case stands\notherwise. It is true that many of those who now engage in them are\nnot aware of the intellectual content upon which their personal actions\ndepend. But this fact only gives an added reason why schooling should\nuse these pursuits so as to enable the coming generation to acquire\na comprehension now too generally lacking, and thus enable persons to\ncarry on their pursuits intelligently instead of blindly. (iii) The most\ndirect blow at the traditional separation of doing and knowing and at\nthe traditional prestige of purely \"intellectual\" studies, however, has\nbeen given by the progress of experimental science. If this progress\nhas demonstrated anything, it is that there is no such thing as genuine\nknowledge and fruitful understanding except as the offspring of doing.\nThe analysis and rearrangement of facts which is indispensable to the\ngrowth of knowledge and power of explanation and right classification\ncannot be attained purely mentally--just inside the head. Men have to do\nsomething to the things when they wish to find out something; they have\nto alter conditions. This is the lesson of the laboratory method,\nand the lesson which all education has to learn. The laboratory is a\ndiscovery of the condition under which labor may become intellectually\nfruitful and not merely externally productive. If, in too many cases\nat present, it results only in the acquisition of an additional mode\nof technical skill, that is because it still remains too largely but an\nisolated resource, not resorted to until pupils are mostly too old\nto get the full advantage of it, and even then is surrounded by other\nstudies where traditional methods isolate intellect from activity.\n\nSummary. The Greeks were induced to philosophize by the increasing\nfailure of their traditional customs and beliefs to regulate life. Thus\nthey were led to criticize custom adversely and to look for some other\nsource of authority in life and belief. Since they desired a rational\nstandard for the latter, and had identified with experience the customs\nwhich had proved unsatisfactory supports, they were led to a flat\nopposition of reason and experience. The more the former was exalted,\nthe more the latter was depreciated. Since experience was identified\nwith what men do and suffer in particular and changing situations of\nlife, doing shared in the philosophic depreciation. This influence fell\nin with many others to magnify, in higher education, all the methods\nand topics which involved the least use of sense-observation and bodily\nactivity. The modern age began with a revolt against this point of\nview, with an appeal to experience, and an attack upon so-called purely\nrational concepts on the ground that they either needed to be ballasted\nby the results of concrete experiences, or else were mere expressions\nof prejudice and institutionalized class interest, calling themselves\nrational for protection. But various circumstances led to considering\nexperience as pure cognition, leaving out of account its intrinsic\nactive and emotional phases, and to identifying it with a passive\nreception of isolated \"sensations.\" Hence the education reform effected\nby the new theory was confined mainly to doing away with some of\nthe bookishness of prior methods; it did not accomplish a consistent\nreorganization.\n\nMeantime, the advance of psychology, of industrial methods, and of the\nexperimental method in science makes another conception of experience\nexplicitly desirable and possible. This theory reinstates the idea of\nthe ancients that experience is primarily practical, not cognitive--a\nmatter of doing and undergoing the consequences of doing. But the\nancient theory is transformed by realizing that doing may be directed so\nas to take up into its own content all which thought suggests, and so as\nto result in securely tested knowledge. \"Experience\" then ceases to be\nempirical and becomes experimental. Reason ceases to be a remote and\nideal faculty, and signifies all the resources by which activity is made\nfruitful in meaning. Educationally, this change denotes such a plan\nfor the studies and method of instruction as has been developed in the\nprevious chapters.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twenty-one: Physical and Social Studies: Naturalism and Humanism\n\nALLUSION has already been made to the conflict of natural science with\nliterary studies for a place in the curriculum. The solution thus far\nreached consists essentially in a somewhat mechanical compromise whereby\nthe field is divided between studies having nature and studies having\nman as their theme. The situation thus presents us with another instance\nof the external adjustment of educational values, and focuses attention\nupon the philosophy of the connection of nature with human affairs. In\ngeneral, it may be said that the educational division finds a reflection\nin the dualistic philosophies. Mind and the world are regarded as two\nindependent realms of existence having certain points of contact with\neach other. From this point of view it is natural that each sphere of\nexistence should have its own separate group of studies connected with\nit; it is even natural that the growth of scientific studies should be\nviewed with suspicion as marking a tendency of materialistic philosophy\nto encroach upon the domain of spirit. Any theory of education which\ncontemplates a more unified scheme of education than now exists is under\nthe necessity of facing the question of the relation of man to nature.\n\n1. The Historic Background of Humanistic Study. It is noteworthy that\nclassic Greek philosophy does not present the problem in its modern\nform. Socrates indeed appears to have thought that science of nature was\nnot attainable and not very important. The chief thing to know is the\nnature and end of man. Upon that knowledge hangs all that is of deep\nsignificance--all moral and social achievement. Plato, however,\nmakes right knowledge of man and society depend upon knowledge of the\nessential features of nature. His chief treatise, entitled the Republic,\nis at once a treatise on morals, on social organization, and on the\nmetaphysics and science of nature. Since he accepts the Socratic\ndoctrine that right achievement in the former depends upon rational\nknowledge, he is compelled to discuss the nature of knowledge. Since he\naccepts the idea that the ultimate object of knowledge is the discovery\nof the good or end of man, and is discontented with the Socratic\nconviction that all we know is our own ignorance, he connects the\ndiscussion of the good of man with consideration of the essential good\nor end of nature itself. To attempt to determine the end of man apart\nfrom a knowledge of the ruling end which gives law and unity to nature\nis impossible. It is thus quite consistent with his philosophy that he\nsubordinates literary studies (under the name of music) to mathematics\nand to physics as well as to logic and metaphysics. But on the other\nhand, knowledge of nature is not an end in itself; it is a necessary\nstage in bringing the mind to a realization of the supreme purpose of\nexistence as the law of human action, corporate and individual. To use\nthe modern phraseology, naturalistic studies are indispensable, but they\nare in the interests of humanistic and ideal ends.\n\nAristotle goes even farther, if anything, in the direction of\nnaturalistic studies. He subordinates (ante, p. 254) civic relations\nto the purely cognitive life. The highest end of man is not human but\ndivine--participation in pure knowing which constitutes the divine life.\nSuch knowing deals with what is universal and necessary, and finds,\ntherefore, a more adequate subject matter in nature at its best than in\nthe transient things of man. If we take what the philosophers stood\nfor in Greek life, rather than the details of what they say, we might\nsummarize by saying that the Greeks were too much interested in free\ninquiry into natural fact and in the aesthetic enjoyment of nature, and\nwere too deeply conscious of the extent in which society is rooted in\nnature and subject to its laws, to think of bringing man and nature\ninto conflict. Two factors conspire in the later period of ancient\nlife, however, to exalt literary and humanistic studies. One is the\nincreasingly reminiscent and borrowed character of culture; the other is\nthe political and rhetorical bent of Roman life.\n\nGreek achievement in civilization was native; the civilization of the\nAlexandrians and Romans was inherited from alien sources. Consequently\nit looked back to the records upon which it drew, instead of looking\nout directly upon nature and society, for material and inspiration.\nWe cannot do better than quote the words of Hatch to indicate the\nconsequences for educational theory and practice. \"Greece on one hand\nhad lost political power, and on the other possessed in her splendid\nliterature an inalienable heritage. It was natural that she should turn\nto letters. It was natural also that the study of letters should be\nreflected upon speech. The mass of men in the Greek world tended to lay\nstress on that acquaintance with the literature of bygone generations,\nand that habit of cultivated speech, which has ever since been commonly\nspoken of as education. Our own comes by direct tradition from it. It\nset a fashion which until recently has uniformly prevailed over the\nentire civilized world. We study literature rather than nature because\nthe Greeks did so, and because when the Romans and the Roman provincials\nresolved to educate their sons, they employed Greek teachers and\nfollowed in Greek paths.\" 1\n\nThe so-called practical bent of the Romans worked in the same direction.\nIn falling back upon the recorded ideas of the Greeks, they not only\ntook the short path to attaining a cultural development, but they\nprocured just the kind of material and method suited to their\nadministrative talents. For their practical genius was not directed to\nthe conquest and control of nature but to the conquest and control of\nmen.\n\nMr. Hatch, in the passage quoted, takes a good deal of history for\ngranted in saying that we have studied literature rather than nature\nbecause the Greeks, and the Romans whom they taught, did so. What is the\nlink that spans the intervening centuries? The question suggests that\nbarbarian Europe but repeated on a larger scale and with increased\nintensity the Roman situation. It had to go to school to Greco-Roman\ncivilization; it also borrowed rather than evolved its culture. Not\nmerely for its general ideas and their artistic presentation but for\nits models of law it went to the records of alien peoples. And its\ndependence upon tradition was increased by the dominant theological\ninterests of the period. For the authorities to which the Church\nappealed were literatures composed in foreign tongues. Everything\nconverged to identify learning with linguistic training and to make\nthe language of the learned a literary language instead of the mother\nspeech.\n\nThe full scope of this fact escapes us, moreover, until we recognize\nthat this subject matter compelled recourse to a dialectical method.\nScholasticism frequently has been used since the time of the revival of\nlearning as a term of reproach. But all that it means is the method of\nThe Schools, or of the School Men. In its essence, it is nothing but a\nhighly effective systematization of the methods of teaching and learning\nwhich are appropriate to transmit an authoritative body of truths.\nWhere literature rather than contemporary nature and society furnishes\nmaterial of study, methods must be adapted to defining, expounding, and\ninterpreting the received material, rather than to inquiry, discovery,\nand invention. And at bottom what is called Scholasticism is the\nwhole-hearted and consistent formulation and application of the methods\nwhich are suited to instruction when the material of instruction is\ntaken ready-made, rather than as something which students are to find\nout for themselves. So far as schools still teach from textbooks and\nrely upon the principle of authority and acquisition rather than upon\nthat of discovery and inquiry, their methods are Scholastic--minus the\nlogical accuracy and system of Scholasticism at its best. Aside from\nlaxity of method and statement, the only difference is that geographies\nand histories and botanies and astronomies are now part of the\nauthoritative literature which is to be mastered.\n\nAs a consequence, the Greek tradition was lost in which a humanistic\ninterest was used as a basis of interest in nature, and a knowledge of\nnature used to support the distinctively human aims of man. Life found\nits support in authority, not in nature. The latter was moreover an\nobject of considerable suspicion. Contemplation of it was dangerous, for\nit tended to draw man away from reliance upon the documents in which the\nrules of living were already contained. Moreover nature could be known\nonly through observation; it appealed to the senses--which were merely\nmaterial as opposed to a purely immaterial mind. Furthermore, the\nutilities of a knowledge of nature were purely physical and secular;\nthey connected with the bodily and temporal welfare of man, while the\nliterary tradition concerned his spiritual and eternal well-being.\n\n2. The Modern Scientific Interest in Nature. The movement of the\nfifteenth century which is variously termed the revival of learning\nand the renascence was characterized by a new interest in man's present\nlife, and accordingly by a new interest in his relationships with\nnature. It was naturalistic, in the sense that it turned against the\ndominant supernaturalistic interest. It is possible that the influence\nof a return to classic Greek pagan literature in bringing about this\nchanged mind has been overestimated. Undoubtedly the change was mainly\na product of contemporary conditions. But there can be no doubt that\neducated men, filled with the new point of view, turned eagerly to\nGreek literature for congenial sustenance and reinforcement. And to\na considerable extent, this interest in Greek thought was not in\nliterature for its own sake, but in the spirit it expressed. The mental\nfreedom, the sense of the order and beauty of nature, which animated\nGreek expression, aroused men to think and observe in a similar\nuntrammeled fashion. The history of science in the sixteenth century\nshows that the dawning sciences of physical nature largely borrowed\ntheir points of departure from the new interest in Greek literature.\nAs Windelband has said, the new science of nature was the daughter of\nhumanism. The favorite notion of the time was that man was in microcosm\nthat which the universe was in macrocosm.\n\nThis fact raises anew the question of how it was that nature and man\nwere later separated and a sharp division made between language and\nliterature and the physical sciences. Four reasons may be suggested. (a)\nThe old tradition was firmly entrenched in institutions. Politics,\nlaw, and diplomacy remained of necessity branches of authoritative\nliterature, for the social sciences did not develop until the methods of\nthe sciences of physics and chemistry, to say nothing of biology, were\nmuch further advanced. The same is largely true of history. Moreover,\nthe methods used for effective teaching of the languages were well\ndeveloped; the inertia of academic custom was on their side. Just as the\nnew interest in literature, especially Greek, had not been allowed at\nfirst to find lodgment in the scholastically organized universities, so\nwhen it found its way into them it joined hands with the older learning\nto minimize the influence of experimental science. The men who taught\nwere rarely trained in science; the men who were scientifically\ncompetent worked in private laboratories and through the medium of\nacademies which promoted research, but which were not organized as\nteaching bodies. Finally, the aristocratic tradition which looked down\nupon material things and upon the senses and the hands was still mighty.\n\n(b) The Protestant revolt brought with it an immense increase of\ninterest in theological discussion and controversies. The appeal on both\nsides was to literary documents. Each side had to train men in ability\nto study and expound the records which were relied upon. The demand for\ntraining men who could defend the chosen faith against the other side,\nwho were able to propagandize and to prevent the encroachments of the\nother side, was such that it is not too much to say that by the middle\nof the seventeenth century the linguistic training of gymnasia and\nuniversities had been captured by the revived theological interest, and\nused as a tool of religious education and ecclesiastical controversy.\nThus the educational descent of the languages as they are found in\neducation to-day is not direct from the revival of learning, but from\nits adaptation to theological ends.\n\n(c) The natural sciences were themselves conceived in a way which\nsharpened the opposition of man and nature. Francis Bacon presents\nan almost perfect example of the union of naturalistic and\nhumanistic interest. Science, adopting the methods of observation and\nexperimentation, was to give up the attempt to \"anticipate\" nature--to\nimpose preconceived notions upon her--and was to become her humble\ninterpreter. In obeying nature intellectually, man would learn to\ncommand her practically. \"Knowledge is power.\" This aphorism meant that\nthrough science man is to control nature and turn her energies to the\nexecution of his own ends. Bacon attacked the old learning and logic as\npurely controversial, having to do with victory in argument, not with\ndiscovery of the unknown. Through the new method of thought which\nwas set forth in his new logic an era of expansive discoveries was to\nemerge, and these discoveries were to bear fruit in inventions for the\nservice of man. Men were to give up their futile, never-finished effort\nto dominate one another to engage in the cooperative task of dominating\nnature in the interests of humanity.\n\nIn the main, Bacon prophesied the direction of subsequent progress. But\nhe \"anticipated\" the advance. He did not see that the new science\nwas for a long time to be worked in the interest of old ends of human\nexploitation. He thought that it would rapidly give man new ends.\nInstead, it put at the disposal of a class the means to secure their old\nends of aggrandizement at the expense of another class. The industrial\nrevolution followed, as he foresaw, upon a revolution in scientific\nmethod. But it is taking the revolution many centuries to produce a new\nmind. Feudalism was doomed by the applications of the new science, for\nthey transferred power from the landed nobility to the manufacturing\ncenters. But capitalism rather than a social humanism took its place.\nProduction and commerce were carried on as if the new science had no\nmoral lesson, but only technical lessons as to economies in production\nand utilization of saving in self-interest. Naturally, this application\nof physical science (which was the most conspicuously perceptible\none) strengthened the claims of professed humanists that science\nwas materialistic in its tendencies. It left a void as to man's\ndistinctively human interests which go beyond making, saving, and\nexpending money; and languages and literature put in their claim to\nrepresent the moral and ideal interests of humanity.\n\n(d) Moreover, the philosophy which professed itself based upon science,\nwhich gave itself out as the accredited representative of the net\nsignificance of science, was either dualistic in character, marked by\na sharp division between mind (characterizing man) and matter,\nconstituting nature; or else it was openly mechanical, reducing the\nsignal features of human life to illusion. In the former case, it\nallowed the claims of certain studies to be peculiar consignees of\nmental values, and indirectly strengthened their claim to superiority,\nsince human beings would incline to regard human affairs as of chief\nimportance at least to themselves. In the latter case, it called out\na reaction which threw doubt and suspicion upon the value of physical\nscience, giving occasion for treating it as an enemy to man's higher\ninterests.\n\nGreek and medieval knowledge accepted the world in its qualitative\nvariety, and regarded nature's processes as having ends, or in technical\nphrase as teleological. New science was expounded so as to deny the\nreality of all qualities in real, or objective, existence. Sounds,\ncolors, ends, as well as goods and bads, were regarded as purely\nsubjective--as mere impressions in the mind. Objective existence was\nthen treated as having only quantitative aspects--as so much mass in\nmotion, its only differences being that at one point in space there was\na larger aggregate mass than at another, and that in some spots there\nwere greater rates of motion than at others. Lacking qualitative\ndistinctions, nature lacked significant variety. Uniformities were\nemphasized, not diversities; the ideal was supposed to be the discovery\nof a single mathematical formula applying to the whole universe at once\nfrom which all the seeming variety of phenomena could be derived. This\nis what a mechanical philosophy means.\n\nSuch a philosophy does not represent the genuine purport of science.\nIt takes the technique for the thing itself; the apparatus and the\nterminology for reality, the method for its subject matter. Science\ndoes confine its statements to conditions which enable us to predict and\ncontrol the happening of events, ignoring the qualities of the events.\nHence its mechanical and quantitative character. But in leaving them out\nof account, it does not exclude them from reality, nor relegate them\nto a purely mental region; it only furnishes means utilizable for ends.\nThus while in fact the progress of science was increasing man's power\nover nature, enabling him to place his cherished ends on a firmer basis\nthan ever before, and also to diversify his activities almost at will,\nthe philosophy which professed to formulate its accomplishments reduced\nthe world to a barren and monotonous redistribution of matter in space.\nThus the immediate effect of modern science was to accentuate the\ndualism of matter and mind, and thereby to establish the physical and\nthe humanistic studies as two disconnected groups. Since the difference\nbetween better and worse is bound up with the qualities of experience,\nany philosophy of science which excludes them from the genuine content\nof reality is bound to leave out what is most interesting and most\nimportant to mankind.\n\n3. The Present Educational Problem. In truth, experience knows no\ndivision between human concerns and a purely mechanical physical world.\nMan's home is nature; his purposes and aims are dependent for execution\nupon natural conditions. Separated from such conditions they become\nempty dreams and idle indulgences of fancy. From the standpoint of human\nexperience, and hence of educational endeavor, any distinction which\ncan be justly made between nature and man is a distinction between the\nconditions which have to be reckoned with in the formation and execution\nof our practical aims, and the aims themselves. This philosophy is\nvouched for by the doctrine of biological development which shows that\nman is continuous with nature, not an alien entering her processes from\nwithout. It is reinforced by the experimental method of science which\nshows that knowledge accrues in virtue of an attempt to direct physical\nenergies in accord with ideas suggested in dealing with natural objects\nin behalf of social uses. Every step forward in the social sciences--the\nstudies termed history, economics, politics, sociology--shows that\nsocial questions are capable of being intelligently coped with only\nin the degree in which we employ the method of collected data, forming\nhypotheses, and testing them in action which is characteristic of\nnatural science, and in the degree in which we utilize in behalf of\nthe promotion of social welfare the technical knowledge ascertained by\nphysics and chemistry. Advanced methods of dealing with such perplexing\nproblems as insanity, intemperance, poverty, public sanitation, city\nplanning, the conservation of natural resources, the constructive use of\ngovernmental agencies for furthering the public good without weakening\npersonal initiative, all illustrate the direct dependence of our\nimportant social concerns upon the methods and results of natural\nscience.\n\nWith respect then to both humanistic and naturalistic studies, education\nshould take its departure from this close interdependence. It should aim\nnot at keeping science as a study of nature apart from literature as\na record of human interests, but at cross-fertilizing both the natural\nsciences and the various human disciplines such as history, literature,\neconomics, and politics. Pedagogically, the problem is simpler than the\nattempt to teach the sciences as mere technical bodies of information\nand technical forms of physical manipulation, on one side; and to teach\nhumanistic studies as isolated subjects, on the other. For the latter\nprocedure institutes an artificial separation in the pupils' experience.\nOutside of school pupils meet with natural facts and principles in\nconnection with various modes of human action. (See ante, p. 30.) In\nall the social activities in which they have shared they have had to\nunderstand the material and processes involved. To start them in school\nwith a rupture of this intimate association breaks the continuity of\nmental development, makes the student feel an indescribable unreality in\nhis studies, and deprives him of the normal motive for interest in them.\n\nThere is no doubt, of course, that the opportunities of education\nshould be such that all should have a chance who have the disposition to\nadvance to specialized ability in science, and thus devote themselves to\nits pursuit as their particular occupation in life. But at present, the\npupil too often has a choice only between beginning with a study of the\nresults of prior specialization where the material is isolated from his\ndaily experiences, or with miscellaneous nature study, where material\nis presented at haphazard and does not lead anywhere in particular. The\nhabit of introducing college pupils into segregated scientific subject\nmatter, such as is appropriate to the man who wishes to become an expert\nin a given field, is carried back into the high schools. Pupils in the\nlatter simply get a more elementary treatment of the same thing, with\ndifficulties smoothed over and topics reduced to the level of their\nsupposed ability. The cause of this procedure lies in following\ntradition, rather than in conscious adherence to a dualistic philosophy.\nBut the effect is the same as if the purpose were to inculcate an idea\nthat the sciences which deal with nature have nothing to do with man,\nand vice versa. A large part of the comparative ineffectiveness of\nthe teaching of the sciences, for those who never become scientific\nspecialists, is the result of a separation which is unavoidable when one\nbegins with technically organized subject matter. Even if all students\nwere embryonic scientific specialists, it is questionable whether this\nis the most effective procedure. Considering that the great majority\nare concerned with the study of sciences only for its effect upon\ntheir mental habits--in making them more alert, more open-minded, more\ninclined to tentative acceptance and to testing of ideas propounded\nor suggested,--and for achieving a better understanding of their daily\nenvironment, it is certainly ill-advised. Too often the pupil comes\nout with a smattering which is too superficial to be scientific and too\ntechnical to be applicable to ordinary affairs.\n\nThe utilization of ordinary experience to secure an advance into\nscientific material and method, while keeping the latter connected with\nfamiliar human interests, is easier to-day than it ever was before.\nThe usual experience of all persons in civilized communities to-day is\nintimately associated with industrial processes and results. These in\nturn are so many cases of science in action. The stationary and traction\nsteam engine, gasoline engine, automobile, telegraph and telephone, the\nelectric motor enter directly into the lives of most individuals. Pupils\nat an early age are practically acquainted with these things. Not only\ndoes the business occupation of their parents depend upon scientific\napplications, but household pursuits, the maintenance of health,\nthe sights seen upon the streets, embody scientific achievements and\nstimulate interest in the connected scientific principles. The obvious\npedagogical starting point of scientific instruction is not to teach\nthings labeled science, but to utilize the familiar occupations and\nappliances to direct observation and experiment, until pupils have\narrived at a knowledge of some fundamental principles by understanding\nthem in their familiar practical workings.\n\nThe opinion sometimes advanced that it is a derogation from the\n\"purity\" of science to study it in its active incarnation, instead of\nin theoretical abstraction, rests upon a misunderstanding. AS matter of\nfact, any subject is cultural in the degree in which it is apprehended\nin its widest possible range of meanings. Perception of meanings depends\nupon perception of connections, of context. To see a scientific fact or\nlaw in its human as well as in its physical and technical context is\nto enlarge its significance and give it increased cultural value. Its\ndirect economic application, if by economic is meant something having\nmoney worth, is incidental and secondary, but a part of its actual\nconnections. The important thing is that the fact be grasped in its\nsocial connections--its function in life.\n\nOn the other hand, \"humanism\" means at bottom being imbued with an\nintelligent sense of human interests. The social interest, identical in\nits deepest meaning with a moral interest, is necessarily supreme with\nman. Knowledge about man, information as to his past, familiarity with\nhis documented records of literature, may be as technical a possession\nas the accumulation of physical details. Men may keep busy in a variety\nof ways, making money, acquiring facility in laboratory manipulation, or\nin amassing a store of facts about linguistic matters, or the chronology\nof literary productions. Unless such activity reacts to enlarge the\nimaginative vision of life, it is on a level with the busy work of\nchildren. It has the letter without the spirit of activity. It readily\ndegenerates itself into a miser's accumulation, and a man prides himself\non what he has, and not on the meaning he finds in the affairs of life.\nAny study so pursued that it increases concern for the values of life,\nany study producing greater sensitiveness to social well-being and\ngreater ability to promote that well-being is humane study. The\nhumanistic spirit of the Greeks was native and intense but it was narrow\nin scope. Everybody outside the Hellenic circle was a barbarian,\nand negligible save as a possible enemy. Acute as were the social\nobservations and speculations of Greek thinkers, there is not a word in\ntheir writings to indicate that Greek civilization was not self-inclosed\nand self-sufficient. There was, apparently, no suspicion that its future\nwas at the mercy of the despised outsider. Within the Greek community,\nthe intense social spirit was limited by the fact that higher culture\nwas based on a substratum of slavery and economic serfdom--classes\nnecessary to the existence of the state, as Aristotle declared, and\nyet not genuine parts of it. The development of science has produced an\nindustrial revolution which has brought different peoples in such close\ncontact with one another through colonization and commerce that no\nmatter how some nations may still look down upon others, no country can\nharbor the illusion that its career is decided wholly within itself. The\nsame revolution has abolished agricultural serfdom, and created a class\nof more or less organized factory laborers with recognized political\nrights, and who make claims for a responsible role in the control of\nindustry--claims which receive sympathetic attention from many among the\nwell-to-do, since they have been brought into closer connections with\nthe less fortunate classes through the breaking down of class barriers.\n\nThis state of affairs may be formulated by saying that the older\nhumanism omitted economic and industrial conditions from its purview.\nConsequently, it was one sided. Culture, under such circumstances,\ninevitably represented the intellectual and moral outlook of the class\nwhich was in direct social control. Such a tradition as to culture is,\nas we have seen (ante, p. 260), aristocratic; it emphasizes what marks\noff one class from another, rather than fundamental common interests.\nIts standards are in the past; for the aim is to preserve what has been\ngained rather than widely to extend the range of culture.\n\nThe modifications which spring from taking greater account of industry\nand of whatever has to do with making a living are frequently condemned\nas attacks upon the culture derived from the past. But a wider\neducational outlook would conceive industrial activities as agencies for\nmaking intellectual resources more accessible to the masses, and giving\ngreater solidity to the culture of those having superior resources.\nIn short, when we consider the close connection between science and\nindustrial development on the one hand, and between literary and\naesthetic cultivation and an aristocratic social organization on the\nother, we get light on the opposition between technical scientific\nstudies and refining literary studies. We have before us the need\nof overcoming this separation in education if society is to be truly\ndemocratic.\n\nSummary. The philosophic dualism between man and nature is reflected in\nthe division of studies between the naturalistic and the humanistic with\na tendency to reduce the latter to the literary records of the past.\nThis dualism is not characteristic (as were the others which we have\nnoted) of Greek thought. It arose partly because of the fact that the\nculture of Rome and of barbarian Europe was not a native product,\nbeing borrowed directly or indirectly from Greece, and partly because\npolitical and ecclesiastic conditions emphasized dependence upon\nthe authority of past knowledge as that was transmitted in literary\ndocuments.\n\nAt the outset, the rise of modern science prophesied a restoration of\nthe intimate connection of nature and humanity, for it viewed knowledge\nof nature as the means of securing human progress and well-being. But\nthe more immediate applications of science were in the interests of\na class rather than of men in common; and the received philosophic\nformulations of scientific doctrine tended either to mark it off as\nmerely material from man as spiritual and immaterial, or else to reduce\nmind to a subjective illusion. In education, accordingly, the tendency\nwas to treat the sciences as a separate body of studies, consisting of\ntechnical information regarding the physical world, and to reserve\nthe older literary studies as distinctively humanistic. The account\npreviously given of the evolution of knowledge, and of the educational\nscheme of studies based upon it, are designed to overcome the\nseparation, and to secure recognition of the place occupied by the\nsubject matter of the natural sciences in human affairs.\n\n1 The Influence of Greek Ideas and Usages upon the Christian Church. pp.\n43-44.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twenty-two: The Individual and the World\n\n1. Mind as Purely Individual. We have been concerned with the influences\nwhich have effected a division between work and leisure, knowing and\ndoing, man and nature. These influences have resulted in splitting up\nthe subject matter of education into separate studies. They have also\nfound formulation in various philosophies which have opposed to each\nother body and mind, theoretical knowledge and practice, physical\nmechanism and ideal purpose. Upon the philosophical side, these various\ndualisms culminate in a sharp demarcation of individual minds from\nthe world, and hence from one another. While the connection of this\nphilosophical position with educational procedure is not so obvious as\nis that of the points considered in the last three chapters, there are\ncertain educational considerations which correspond to it; such as the\nantithesis supposed to exist between subject matter (the counterpart of\nthe world) and method (the counterpart of mind); such as the tendency to\ntreat interest as something purely private, without intrinsic connection\nwith the material studied. Aside from incidental educational bearings,\nit will be shown in this chapter that the dualistic philosophy of\nmind and the world implies an erroneous conception of the relationship\nbetween knowledge and social interests, and between individuality or\nfreedom, and social control and authority. The identification of the\nmind with the individual self and of the latter with a private psychic\nconsciousness is comparatively modern. In both the Greek and medieval\nperiods, the rule was to regard the individual as a channel through\nwhich a universal and divine intelligence operated. The individual was\nin no true sense the knower; the knower was the \"Reason\" which operated\nthrough him. The individual interfered at his peril, and only to the\ndetriment of the truth. In the degree in which the individual rather\nthan reason \"knew,\" conceit, error, and opinion were substituted for\ntrue knowledge. In Greek life, observation was acute and alert; and\nthinking was free almost to the point of irresponsible speculations.\nAccordingly the consequences of the theory were only such as were\nconsequent upon the lack of an experimental method. Without such a\nmethod individuals could not engage in knowing, and be checked up by the\nresults of the inquiries of others. Without such liability to test\nby others, the minds of men could not be intellectually responsible;\nresults were to be accepted because of their aesthetic consistency,\nagreeable quality, or the prestige of their authors. In the barbarian\nperiod, individuals were in a still more humble attitude to truth;\nimportant knowledge was supposed to be divinely revealed, and nothing\nremained for the minds of individuals except to work it over after\nit had been received on authority. Aside from the more consciously\nphilosophic aspects of these movements, it never occurs to any one to\nidentify mind and the personal self wherever beliefs are transmitted by\ncustom.\n\nIn the medieval period there was a religious individualism. The deepest\nconcern of life was the salvation of the individual soul. In the later\nMiddle Ages, this latent individualism found conscious formulation in\nthe nominalistic philosophies, which treated the structure of knowledge\nas something built up within the individual through his own acts, and\nmental states. With the rise of economic and political individualism\nafter the sixteenth century, and with the development of Protestantism,\nthe times were ripe for an emphasis upon the rights and duties of the\nindividual in achieving knowledge for himself. This led to the view that\nknowledge is won wholly through personal and private experiences. As a\nconsequence, mind, the source and possessor of knowledge, was thought\nof as wholly individual. Thus upon the educational side, we find\neducational reformers, like Montaigne, Bacon, Locke, henceforth\nvehemently denouncing all learning which is acquired on hearsay, and\nasserting that even if beliefs happen to be true, they do not constitute\nknowledge unless they have grown up in and been tested by personal\nexperience. The reaction against authority in all spheres of life, and\nthe intensity of the struggle, against great odds, for freedom of action\nand inquiry, led to such an emphasis upon personal observations and\nideas as in effect to isolate mind, and set it apart from the world to\nbe known.\n\nThis isolation is reflected in the great development of that branch\nof philosophy known as epistemology--the theory of knowledge. The\nidentification of mind with the self, and the setting up of the self as\nsomething independent and self-sufficient, created such a gulf between\nthe knowing mind and the world that it became a question how knowledge\nwas possible at all. Given a subject--the knower--and an object--the\nthing to be known--wholly separate from one another, it is necessary to\nframe a theory to explain how they get into connection with each other\nso that valid knowledge may result. This problem, with the allied one\nof the possibility of the world acting upon the mind and the mind acting\nupon the world, became almost the exclusive preoccupation of philosophic\nthought.\n\nThe theories that we cannot know the world as it really is but only the\nimpressions made upon the mind, or that there is no world beyond the\nindividual mind, or that knowledge is only a certain association of\nthe mind's own states, were products of this preoccupation. We are not\ndirectly concerned with their truth; but the fact that such desperate\nsolutions were widely accepted is evidence of the extent to which mind\nhad been set over the world of realities. The increasing use of the term\n\"consciousness\" as an equivalent for mind, in the supposition that there\nis an inner world of conscious states and processes, independent of\nany relationship to nature and society, an inner world more truly and\nimmediately known than anything else, is evidence of the same fact.\nIn short, practical individualism, or struggle for greater freedom of\nthought in action, was translated into philosophic subjectivism.\n\n2. Individual Mind as the Agent of Reorganization. It should be obvious\nthat this philosophic movement misconceived the significance of\nthe practical movement. Instead of being its transcript, it was a\nperversion. Men were not actually engaged in the absurdity of striving\nto be free from connection with nature and one another. They were\nstriving for greater freedom in nature and society. They wanted greater\npower to initiate changes in the world of things and fellow beings;\ngreater scope of movement and consequently greater freedom in\nobservations and ideas implied in movement. They wanted not isolation\nfrom the world, but a more intimate connection with it. They wanted to\nform their beliefs about it at first hand, instead of through tradition.\nThey wanted closer union with their fellows so that they might influence\none another more effectively and might combine their respective actions\nfor mutual aims.\n\nSo far as their beliefs were concerned, they felt that a great deal\nwhich passed for knowledge was merely the accumulated opinions of the\npast, much of it absurd and its correct portions not understood when\naccepted on authority. Men must observe for themselves, and form their\nown theories and personally test them. Such a method was the only\nalternative to the imposition of dogma as truth, a procedure which\nreduced mind to the formal act of acquiescing in truth. Such is the\nmeaning of what is sometimes called the substitution of inductive\nexperimental methods of knowing for deductive. In some sense, men\nhad always used an inductive method in dealing with their immediate\npractical concerns. Architecture, agriculture, manufacture, etc., had\nto be based upon observation of the activities of natural objects, and\nideas about such affairs had to be checked, to some extent, by results.\nBut even in such things there was an undue reliance upon mere\ncustom, followed blindly rather than understandingly. And this\nobservational-experimental method was restricted to these \"practical\"\nmatters, and a sharp distinction maintained between practice and\ntheoretical knowledge or truth. (See Ch. XX.) The rise of free cities,\nthe development of travel, exploration, and commerce, the evolution\nof new methods of producing commodities and doing business, threw men\ndefinitely upon their own resources. The reformers of science like\nGalileo, Descartes, and their successors, carried analogous methods into\nascertaining the facts about nature. An interest in discovery took the\nplace of an interest in systematizing and \"proving\" received beliefs.\n\nA just philosophic interpretation of these movements would, indeed, have\nemphasized the rights and responsibilities of the individual in gaining\nknowledge and personally testing beliefs, no matter by what authorities\nthey were vouched for. But it would not have isolated the individual\nfrom the world, and consequently isolated individuals--in theory--from\none another. It would have perceived that such disconnection, such\nrupture of continuity, denied in advance the possibility of success in\ntheir endeavors. As matter of fact every individual has grown up, and\nalways must grow up, in a social medium. His responses grow intelligent,\nor gain meaning, simply because he lives and acts in a medium of\naccepted meanings and values. (See ante, p. 30.) Through social\nintercourse, through sharing in the activities embodying beliefs, he\ngradually acquires a mind of his own. The conception of mind as a purely\nisolated possession of the self is at the very antipodes of the truth.\nThe self achieves mind in the degree in which knowledge of things\nis incarnate in the life about him; the self is not a separate mind\nbuilding up knowledge anew on its own account.\n\nYet there is a valid distinction between knowledge which is objective\nand impersonal, and thinking which is subjective and personal. In one\nsense, knowledge is that which we take for granted. It is that which is\nsettled, disposed of, established, under control. What we fully know,\nwe do not need to think about. In common phrase, it is certain, assured.\nAnd this does not mean a mere feeling of certainty. It denotes not a\nsentiment, but a practical attitude, a readiness to act without\nreserve or quibble. Of course we may be mistaken. What is taken for\nknowledge--for fact and truth--at a given time may not be such. But\neverything which is assumed without question, which is taken for granted\nin our intercourse with one another and nature is what, at the given\ntime, is called knowledge. Thinking on the contrary, starts, as we\nhave seen, from doubt or uncertainty. It marks an inquiring, hunting,\nsearching attitude, instead of one of mastery and possession. Through\nits critical process true knowledge is revised and extended, and our\nconvictions as to the state of things reorganized. Clearly the last few\ncenturies have been typically a period of revision and reorganization\nof beliefs. Men did not really throw away all transmitted beliefs\nconcerning the realities of existence, and start afresh upon the basis\nof their private, exclusive sensations and ideas. They could not have\ndone so if they had wished to, and if it had been possible general\nimbecility would have been the only outcome. Men set out from what had\npassed as knowledge, and critically investigated the grounds upon which\nit rested; they noted exceptions; they used new mechanical appliances to\nbring to light data inconsistent with what had been believed; they used\ntheir imaginations to conceive a world different from that in which\ntheir forefathers had put their trust. The work was a piecemeal, a\nretail, business. One problem was tackled at a time. The net results\nof all the revisions amounted, however, to a revolution of prior\nconceptions of the world. What occurred was a reorganization of prior\nintellectual habitudes, infinitely more efficient than a cutting loose\nfrom all connections would have been.\n\nThis state of affairs suggests a definition of the role of the\nindividual, or the self, in knowledge; namely, the redirection, or\nreconstruction of accepted beliefs. Every new idea, every conception of\nthings differing from that authorized by current belief, must have its\norigin in an individual. New ideas are doubtless always sprouting, but a\nsociety governed by custom does not encourage their development. On the\ncontrary, it tends to suppress them, just because they are deviations\nfrom what is current. The man who looks at things differently from\nothers is in such a community a suspect character; for him to persist\nis generally fatal. Even when social censorship of beliefs is not so\nstrict, social conditions may fail to provide the appliances which are\nrequisite if new ideas are to be adequately elaborated; or they may fail\nto provide any material support and reward to those who entertain them.\nHence they remain mere fancies, romantic castles in the air, or aimless\nspeculations. The freedom of observation and imagination involved in\nthe modern scientific revolution were not easily secured; they had to be\nfought for; many suffered for their intellectual independence. But, upon\nthe whole, modern European society first permitted, and then, in some\nfields at least, deliberately encouraged the individual reactions which\ndeviate from what custom prescribes. Discovery, research, inquiry in new\nlines, inventions, finally came to be either the social fashion, or in\nsome degree tolerable. However, as we have already noted, philosophic\ntheories of knowledge were not content to conceive mind in the\nindividual as the pivot upon which reconstruction of beliefs turned,\nthus maintaining the continuity of the individual with the world of\nnature and fellow men. They regarded the individual mind as a separate\nentity, complete in each person, and isolated from nature and hence from\nother minds. Thus a legitimate intellectual individualism, the attitude\nof critical revision of former beliefs which is indispensable to\nprogress, was explicitly formulated as a moral and social individualism.\nWhen the activities of mind set out from customary beliefs and strive\nto effect transformations of them which will in turn win general\nconviction, there is no opposition between the individual and the\nsocial. The intellectual variations of the individual in observation,\nimagination, judgment, and invention are simply the agencies of\nsocial progress, just as conformity to habit is the agency of social\nconservation. But when knowledge is regarded as originating and\ndeveloping within an individual, the ties which bind the mental life of\none to that of his fellows are ignored and denied.\n\nWhen the social quality of individualized mental operations is denied,\nit becomes a problem to find connections which will unite an individual\nwith his fellows. Moral individualism is set up by the conscious\nseparation of different centers of life. It has its roots in the notion\nthat the consciousness of each person is wholly private, a self-inclosed\ncontinent, intrinsically independent of the ideas, wishes, purposes of\neverybody else. But when men act, they act in a common and public world.\nThis is the problem to which the theory of isolated and independent\nconscious minds gave rise: Given feelings, ideas, desires, which have\nnothing to do with one another, how can actions proceeding from them\nbe controlled in a social or public interest? Given an egoistic\nconsciousness, how can action which has regard for others take place?\n\nMoral philosophies which have started from such premises have developed\nfour typical ways of dealing with the question. (i) One method\nrepresents the survival of the older authoritative position, with\nsuch concessions and compromises as the progress of events has made\nabsolutely inevitable. The deviations and departures characterizing an\nindividual are still looked upon with suspicion; in principle they are\nevidences of the disturbances, revolts, and corruptions inhering in\nan individual apart from external authoritative guidance. In fact, as\ndistinct from principle, intellectual individualism is tolerated in\ncertain technical regions--in subjects like mathematics and physics and\nastronomy, and in the technical inventions resulting therefrom. But\nthe applicability of a similar method to morals, social, legal, and\npolitical matters, is denied. In such matters, dogma is still to be\nsupreme; certain eternal truths made known by revelation, intuition,\nor the wisdom of our forefathers set unpassable limits to individual\nobservation and speculation. The evils from which society suffers are\nset down to the efforts of misguided individuals to transgress\nthese boundaries. Between the physical and the moral sciences, lie\nintermediate sciences of life, where the territory is only grudgingly\nyielded to freedom of inquiry under the pressure of accomplished fact.\nAlthough past history has demonstrated that the possibilities of human\ngood are widened and made more secure by trusting to a responsibility\nbuilt up within the very process of inquiry, the \"authority\" theory sets\napart a sacred domain of truth which must be protected from the inroads\nof variation of beliefs. Educationally, emphasis may not be put on\neternal truth, but it is put on the authority of book and teacher, and\nindividual variation is discouraged.\n\n(ii) Another method is sometimes termed rationalism or abstract\nintellectualism. A formal logical faculty is set up in distinction from\ntradition and history and all concrete subject matter. This faculty of\nreason is endowed with power to influence conduct directly. Since it\ndeals wholly with general and impersonal forms, when different persons\nact in accord with logical findings, their activities will be externally\nconsistent. There is no doubt of the services rendered by this\nphilosophy. It was a powerful factor in the negative and dissolving\ncriticism of doctrines having nothing but tradition and class interest\nbehind them; it accustomed men to freedom of discussion and to the\nnotion that beliefs had to be submitted to criteria of reasonableness.\nIt undermined the power of prejudice, superstition, and brute force, by\nhabituating men to reliance upon argument, discussion, and persuasion.\nIt made for clarity and order of exposition. But its influence was\ngreater in destruction of old falsities than in the construction of new\nties and associations among men. Its formal and empty nature, due to\nconceiving reason as something complete in itself apart from subject\nmatter, its hostile attitude toward historical institutions, its\ndisregard of the influence of habit, instinct, and emotion, as operative\nfactors in life, left it impotent in the suggestion of specific aims\nand methods. Bare logic, however important in arranging and criticizing\nexisting subject matter, cannot spin new subject matter out of itself.\nIn education, the correlative is trust in general ready-made rules and\nprinciples to secure agreement, irrespective of seeing to it that the\npupil's ideas really agree with one another.\n\n(iii) While this rationalistic philosophy was developing in France,\nEnglish thought appealed to the intelligent self-interest of individuals\nin order to secure outer unity in the acts which issued from isolated\nstreams of consciousness. Legal arrangements, especially penal\nadministration, and governmental regulations, were to be such as to\nprevent the acts which proceeded from regard for one's own private\nsensations from interfering with the feelings of others. Education was\nto instill in individuals a sense that non-interference with others\nand some degree of positive regard for their welfare were necessary for\nsecurity in the pursuit of one's own happiness. Chief emphasis was\nput, however, upon trade as a means of bringing the conduct of one into\nharmony with that of others. In commerce, each aims at the satisfaction\nof his own wants, but can gain his own profit only by furnishing some\ncommodity or service to another. Thus in aiming at the increase of his\nown private pleasurable states of consciousness, he contributes to\nthe consciousness of others. Again there is no doubt that this view\nexpressed and furthered a heightened perception of the values of\nconscious life, and a recognition that institutional arrangements\nare ultimately to be judged by the contributions which they make to\nintensifying and enlarging the scope of conscious experience. It also\ndid much to rescue work, industry, and mechanical devices from the\ncontempt in which they had been held in communities founded upon the\ncontrol of a leisure class. In both ways, this philosophy promoted a\nwider and more democratic social concern. But it was tainted by\nthe narrowness of its fundamental premise: the doctrine that every\nindividual acts only from regard for his own pleasures and pains, and\nthat so-called generous and sympathetic acts are only indirect ways\nof procuring and assuring one's own comfort. In other words, it made\nexplicit the consequences inhering in any doctrine which makes mental\nlife a self-inclosed thing, instead of an attempt to redirect and\nreadapt common concerns. It made union among men a matter of calculation\nof externals. It lent itself to the contemptuous assertions of Carlyle\nthat it was a doctrine of anarchy plus a constable, and recognized only\na \"cash nexus\" among men. The educational equivalents of this doctrine\nin the uses made of pleasurable rewards and painful penalties are only\ntoo obvious. (iv) Typical German philosophy followed another path.\nIt started from what was essentially the rationalistic philosophy of\nDescartes and his French successors. But while French thought upon\nthe whole developed the idea of reason in opposition to the religious\nconception of a divine mind residing in individuals, German thought (as\nin Hegel) made a synthesis of the two. Reason is absolute. Nature is\nincarnate reason. History is reason in its progressive unfolding in\nman. An individual becomes rational only as he absorbs into himself\nthe content of rationality in nature and in social institutions. For an\nabsolute reason is not, like the reason of rationalism, purely formal\nand empty; as absolute it must include all content within itself. Thus\nthe real problem is not that of controlling individual freedom so that\nsome measure of social order and concord may result, but of achieving\nindividual freedom through developing individual convictions in accord\nwith the universal law found in the organization of the state as\nobjective Reason. While this philosophy is usually termed absolute or\nobjective idealism, it might better be termed, for educational purposes\nat least, institutional idealism. (See ante, p. 59.) It idealized\nhistorical institutions by conceiving them as incarnations of an\nimmanent absolute mind. There can be no doubt that this philosophy was\na powerful influence in rescuing philosophy in the beginning of the\nnineteenth century from the isolated individualism into which it had\nfallen in France and England. It served also to make the organization of\nthe state more constructively interested in matters of public concern.\nIt left less to chance, less to mere individual logical conviction, less\nto the workings of private self-interest. It brought intelligence to\nbear upon the conduct of affairs; it accentuated the need of nationally\norganized education in the interests of the corporate state. It\nsanctioned and promoted freedom of inquiry in all technical details of\nnatural and historical phenomena. But in all ultimate moral matters, it\ntended to reinstate the principle of authority. It made for efficiency\nof organization more than did any of the types of philosophy previously\nmentioned, but it made no provision for free experimental modification\nof this organization. Political democracy, with its belief in the right\nof individual desire and purpose to take part in readapting even the\nfundamental constitution of society, was foreign to it.\n\n3. Educational Equivalents. It is not necessary to consider in detail\nthe educational counterparts of the various defects found in these\nvarious types of philosophy. It suffices to say that in general the\nschool has been the institution which exhibited with greatest clearness\nthe assumed antithesis between purely individualistic methods of\nlearning and social action, and between freedom and social control. The\nantithesis is reflected in the absence of a social atmosphere and motive\nfor learning, and the consequent separation, in the conduct of the\nschool, between method of instruction and methods of government; and in\nthe slight opportunity afforded individual variations. When learning\nis a phase of active undertakings which involve mutual exchange, social\ncontrol enters into the very process of learning. When the social factor\nis absent, learning becomes a carrying over of some presented material\ninto a purely individual consciousness, and there is no inherent reason\nwhy it should give a more socialized direction to mental and emotional\ndisposition. There is tendency on the part of both the upholders and\nthe opponents of freedom in school to identify it with absence of social\ndirection, or, sometimes, with merely physical unconstraint of movement.\nBut the essence of the demand for freedom is the need of conditions\nwhich will enable an individual to make his own special contribution\nto a group interest, and to partake of its activities in such ways that\nsocial guidance shall be a matter of his own mental attitude, and not a\nmere authoritative dictation of his acts. Because what is often called\ndiscipline and \"government\" has to do with the external side of conduct\nalone, a similar meaning is attached, by reaction, to freedom. But when\nit is perceived that each idea signifies the quality of mind expressed\nin action, the supposed opposition between them falls away. Freedom\nmeans essentially the part played by thinking--which is personal--in\nlearning:--it means intellectual initiative, independence in\nobservation, judicious invention, foresight of consequences, and\ningenuity of adaptation to them.\n\nBut because these are the mental phase of behavior, the needed play of\nindividuality--or freedom--cannot be separated from opportunity for\nfree play of physical movements. Enforced physical quietude may be\nunfavorable to realization of a problem, to undertaking the observations\nneeded to define it, and to performance of the experiments which\ntest the ideas suggested. Much has been said about the importance of\n\"self-activity\" in education, but the conception has too frequently been\nrestricted to something merely internal--something excluding the free\nuse of sensory and motor organs. Those who are at the stage of learning\nfrom symbols, or who are engaged in elaborating the implications of a\nproblem or idea preliminary to more carefully thought-out activity,\nmay need little perceptible overt activity. But the whole cycle\nof self-activity demands an opportunity for investigation and\nexperimentation, for trying out one's ideas upon things, discovering\nwhat can be done with materials and appliances. And this is incompatible\nwith closely restricted physical activity. Individual activity has\nsometimes been taken as meaning leaving a pupil to work by himself or\nalone. Relief from need of attending to what any one else is doing is\ntruly required to secure calm and concentration. Children, like grown\npersons, require a judicious amount of being let alone. But the time,\nplace, and amount of such separate work is a matter of detail, not of\nprinciple. There is no inherent opposition between working with others\nand working as an individual. On the contrary, certain capacities of an\nindividual are not brought out except under the stimulus of associating\nwith others. That a child must work alone and not engage in group\nactivities in order to be free and let his individuality develop, is\na notion which measures individuality by spatial distance and makes a\nphysical thing of it.\n\nIndividuality as a factor to be respected in education has a double\nmeaning. In the first place, one is mentally an individual only as he\nhas his own purpose and problem, and does his own thinking. The phrase\n\"think for one's self\" is a pleonasm. Unless one does it for one's self,\nit isn't thinking. Only by a pupil's own observations, reflections,\nframing and testing of suggestions can what he already knows be\namplified and rectified. Thinking is as much an individual matter as\nis the digestion of food. In the second place, there are variations of\npoint of view, of appeal of objects, and of mode of attack, from person\nto person. When these variations are suppressed in the alleged interests\nof uniformity, and an attempt is made to have a single mold of method\nof study and recitation, mental confusion and artificiality inevitably\nresult. Originality is gradually destroyed, confidence in one's own\nquality of mental operation is undermined, and a docile subjection to\nthe opinion of others is inculcated, or else ideas run wild. The harm\nis greater now than when the whole community was governed by customary\nbeliefs, because the contrast between methods of learning in school and\nthose relied upon outside the school is greater. That systematic advance\nin scientific discovery began when individuals were allowed, and then\nencouraged, to utilize their own peculiarities of response to subject\nmatter, no one will deny. If it is said in objection, that pupils\nin school are not capable of any such originality, and hence must be\nconfined to appropriating and reproducing things already known by\nthe better informed, the reply is twofold. (i) We are concerned with\noriginality of attitude which is equivalent to the unforced response of\none's own individuality, not with originality as measured by product.\nNo one expects the young to make original discoveries of just the same\nfacts and principles as are embodied in the sciences of nature and man.\nBut it is not unreasonable to expect that learning may take place under\nsuch conditions that from the standpoint of the learner there is genuine\ndiscovery. While immature students will not make discoveries from\nthe standpoint of advanced students, they make them from their own\nstandpoint, whenever there is genuine learning. (ii) In the normal\nprocess of becoming acquainted with subject matter already known to\nothers, even young pupils react in unexpected ways. There is something\nfresh, something not capable of being fully anticipated by even the\nmost experienced teacher, in the ways they go at the topic, and in\nthe particular ways in which things strike them. Too often all this is\nbrushed aside as irrelevant; pupils are deliberately held to rehearsing\nmaterial in the exact form in which the older person conceives it. The\nresult is that what is instinctively original in individuality, that\nwhich marks off one from another, goes unused and undirected. Teaching\nthen ceases to be an educative process for the teacher. At most he\nlearns simply to improve his existing technique; he does not get new\npoints of view; he fails to experience any intellectual companionship.\nHence both teaching and learning tend to become conventional and\nmechanical with all the nervous strain on both sides therein implied.\n\nAs maturity increases and as the student has a greater background of\nfamiliarity upon which a new topic is projected, the scope of more or\nless random physical experimentation is reduced. Activity is defined or\nspecialized in certain channels. To the eyes of others, the student may\nbe in a position of complete physical quietude, because his energies are\nconfined to nerve channels and to the connected apparatus of the eyes\nand vocal organs. But because this attitude is evidence of intense\nmental concentration on the part of the trained person, it does not\nfollow that it should be set up as a model for students who still have\nto find their intellectual way about. And even with the adult, it does\nnot cover the whole circuit of mental energy. It marks an intermediate\nperiod, capable of being lengthened with increased mastery of a\nsubject, but always coming between an earlier period of more general and\nconspicuous organic action and a later time of putting to use what has\nbeen apprehended.\n\nWhen, however, education takes cognizance of the union of mind and body\nin acquiring knowledge, we are not obliged to insist upon the need of\nobvious, or external, freedom. It is enough to identify the freedom\nwhich is involved in teaching and studying with the thinking by which\nwhat a person already knows and believes is enlarged and refined. If\nattention is centered upon the conditions which have to be met in order\nto secure a situation favorable to effective thinking, freedom will take\ncare of itself. The individual who has a question which being really a\nquestion to him instigates his curiosity, which feeds his eagerness for\ninformation that will help him cope with it, and who has at command\nan equipment which will permit these interests to take effect, is\nintellectually free. Whatever initiative and imaginative vision he\npossesses will be called into play and control his impulses and habits.\nHis own purposes will direct his actions. Otherwise, his seeming\nattention, his docility, his memorizings and reproductions, will partake\nof intellectual servility. Such a condition of intellectual subjection\nis needed for fitting the masses into a society where the many are not\nexpected to have aims or ideas of their own, but to take orders from the\nfew set in authority. It is not adapted to a society which intends to be\ndemocratic.\n\nSummary. True individualism is a product of the relaxation of the grip\nof the authority of custom and traditions as standards of belief. Aside\nfrom sporadic instances, like the height of Greek thought, it is a\ncomparatively modern manifestation. Not but that there have always been\nindividual diversities, but that a society dominated by conservative\ncustom represses them or at least does not utilize them and promote\nthem. For various reasons, however, the new individualism was\ninterpreted philosophically not as meaning development of agencies\nfor revising and transforming previously accepted beliefs, but as an\nassertion that each individual's mind was complete in isolation from\neverything else. In the theoretical phase of philosophy, this produced\nthe epistemological problem: the question as to the possibility of any\ncognitive relationship of the individual to the world. In its practical\nphase, it generated the problem of the possibility of a purely\nindividual consciousness acting on behalf of general or social\ninterests,--the problem of social direction. While the philosophies\nwhich have been elaborated to deal with these questions have not\naffected education directly, the assumptions underlying them have\nfound expression in the separation frequently made between study and\ngovernment and between freedom of individuality and control by others.\nRegarding freedom, the important thing to bear in mind is that it\ndesignates a mental attitude rather than external unconstraint of\nmovements, but that this quality of mind cannot develop without a fair\nleeway of movements in exploration, experimentation, application, etc. A\nsociety based on custom will utilize individual variations only up to\na limit of conformity with usage; uniformity is the chief ideal within\neach class. A progressive society counts individual variations as\nprecious since it finds in them the means of its own growth. Hence\na democratic society must, in consistency with its ideal, allow for\nintellectual freedom and the play of diverse gifts and interests in its\neducational measures.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twenty-Three: Vocational Aspects of Education\n\n1. The Meaning of Vocation. At the present time the conflict of\nphilosophic theories focuses in discussion of the proper place and\nfunction of vocational factors in education. The bald statement that\nsignificant differences in fundamental philosophical conceptions find\ntheir chief issue in connection with this point may arouse incredulity:\nthere seems to be too great a gap between the remote and general terms\nin which philosophic ideas are formulated and the practical and concrete\ndetails of vocational education. But a mental review of the intellectual\npresuppositions underlying the oppositions in education of labor and\nleisure, theory and practice, body and mind, mental states and the\nworld, will show that they culminate in the antithesis of vocational and\ncultural education. Traditionally, liberal culture has been linked to\nthe notions of leisure, purely contemplative knowledge and a spiritual\nactivity not involving the active use of bodily organs. Culture has also\ntended, latterly, to be associated with a purely private refinement, a\ncultivation of certain states and attitudes of consciousness, separate\nfrom either social direction or service. It has been an escape from the\nformer, and a solace for the necessity of the latter.\n\nSo deeply entangled are these philosophic dualisms with the whole\nsubject of vocational education, that it is necessary to define the\nmeaning of vocation with some fullness in order to avoid the impression\nthat an education which centers about it is narrowly practical, if not\nmerely pecuniary. A vocation means nothing but such a direction of life\nactivities as renders them perceptibly significant to a person, because\nof the consequences they accomplish, and also useful to his associates.\nThe opposite of a career is neither leisure nor culture, but\naimlessness, capriciousness, the absence of cumulative achievement in\nexperience, on the personal side, and idle display, parasitic dependence\nupon the others, on the social side. Occupation is a concrete term for\ncontinuity. It includes the development of artistic capacity of any\nkind, of special scientific ability, of effective citizenship, as well\nas professional and business occupations, to say nothing of mechanical\nlabor or engagement in gainful pursuits.\n\nWe must avoid not only limitation of conception of vocation to the\noccupations where immediately tangible commodities are produced, but\nalso the notion that vocations are distributed in an exclusive way, one\nand only one to each person. Such restricted specialism is impossible;\nnothing could be more absurd than to try to educate individuals with an\neye to only one line of activity. In the first place, each individual\nhas of necessity a variety of callings, in each of which he should be\nintelligently effective; and in the second place any one occupation\nloses its meaning and becomes a routine keeping busy at something in the\ndegree in which it is isolated from other interests. (i) No one is\njust an artist and nothing else, and in so far as one approximates that\ncondition, he is so much the less developed human being; he is a kind\nof monstrosity. He must, at some period of his life, be a member of\na family; he must have friends and companions; he must either support\nhimself or be supported by others, and thus he has a business career.\nHe is a member of some organized political unit, and so on. We naturally\nname his vocation from that one of the callings which distinguishes him,\nrather than from those which he has in common with all others. But we\nshould not allow ourselves to be so subject to words as to ignore and\nvirtually deny his other callings when it comes to a consideration of\nthe vocational phases of education.\n\n(ii) As a man's vocation as artist is but the emphatically specialized\nphase of his diverse and variegated vocational activities, so his\nefficiency in it, in the humane sense of efficiency, is determined by\nits association with other callings. A person must have experience,\nhe must live, if his artistry is to be more than a technical\naccomplishment. He cannot find the subject matter of his artistic\nactivity within his art; this must be an expression of what he suffers\nand enjoys in other relationships--a thing which depends in turn upon\nthe alertness and sympathy of his interests. What is true of an artist\nis true of any other special calling. There is doubtless--in general\naccord with the principle of habit--a tendency for every distinctive\nvocation to become too dominant, too exclusive and absorbing in its\nspecialized aspect. This means emphasis upon skill or technical method\nat the expense of meaning. Hence it is not the business of education to\nfoster this tendency, but rather to safeguard against it, so that the\nscientific inquirer shall not be merely the scientist, the teacher\nmerely the pedagogue, the clergyman merely one who wears the cloth, and\nso on.\n\n2. The Place of Vocational Aims in Education. Bearing in mind the varied\nand connected content of the vocation, and the broad background upon\nwhich a particular calling is projected, we shall now consider education\nfor the more distinctive activity of an individual.\n\n1. An occupation is the only thing which balances the distinctive\ncapacity of an individual with his social service. To find out what\none is fitted to do and to secure an opportunity to do it is the key to\nhappiness. Nothing is more tragic than failure to discover one's true\nbusiness in life, or to find that one has drifted or been forced by\ncircumstance into an uncongenial calling. A right occupation means\nsimply that the aptitudes of a person are in adequate play, working with\nthe minimum of friction and the maximum of satisfaction. With reference\nto other members of a community, this adequacy of action signifies, of\ncourse, that they are getting the best service the person can render.\nIt is generally believed, for example, that slave labor was ultimately\nwasteful even from the purely economic point of view--that there was not\nsufficient stimulus to direct the energies of slaves, and that there\nwas consequent wastage. Moreover, since slaves were confined to certain\nprescribed callings, much talent must have remained unavailable to the\ncommunity, and hence there was a dead loss. Slavery only illustrates on\nan obvious scale what happens in some degree whenever an individual does\nnot find himself in his work. And he cannot completely find himself when\nvocations are looked upon with contempt, and a conventional ideal of\na culture which is essentially the same for all is maintained. Plato\n(ante, p. 88) laid down the fundamental principle of a philosophy of\neducation when he asserted that it was the business of education to\ndiscover what each person is good for, and to train him to mastery of\nthat mode of excellence, because such development would also secure the\nfulfillment of social needs in the most harmonious way. His error was\nnot in qualitative principle, but in his limited conception of the scope\nof vocations socially needed; a limitation of vision which reacted to\nobscure his perception of the infinite variety of capacities found in\ndifferent individuals.\n\n2. An occupation is a continuous activity having a purpose. Education\nthrough occupations consequently combines within itself more of the\nfactors conducive to learning than any other method. It calls instincts\nand habits into play; it is a foe to passive receptivity. It has an end\nin view; results are to be accomplished. Hence it appeals to thought; it\ndemands that an idea of an end be steadily maintained, so that activity\ncannot be either routine or capricious. Since the movement of activity\nmust be progressive, leading from one stage to another, observation\nand ingenuity are required at each stage to overcome obstacles and\nto discover and readapt means of execution. In short, an occupation,\npursued under conditions where the realization of the activity rather\nthan merely the external product is the aim, fulfills the requirements\nwhich were laid down earlier in connection with the discussion of aims,\ninterest, and thinking. (See Chapters VIII, X, XII.)\n\nA calling is also of necessity an organizing principle for information\nand ideas; for knowledge and intellectual growth. It provides an axis\nwhich runs through an immense diversity of detail; it causes different\nexperiences, facts, items of information to fall into order with one\nanother. The lawyer, the physician, the laboratory investigator in\nsome branch of chemistry, the parent, the citizen interested in his own\nlocality, has a constant working stimulus to note and relate whatever\nhas to do with his concern. He unconsciously, from the motivation of his\noccupation, reaches out for all relevant information, and holds to it.\nThe vocation acts as both magnet to attract and as glue to hold. Such\norganization of knowledge is vital, because it has reference to needs;\nit is so expressed and readjusted in action that it never becomes\nstagnant. No classification, no selection and arrangement of facts,\nwhich is consciously worked out for purely abstract ends, can ever\ncompare in solidity or effectiveness with that knit under the stress of\nan occupation; in comparison the former sort is formal, superficial, and\ncold.\n\n3. The only adequate training for occupations is training through\noccupations. The principle stated early in this book (see Chapter VI)\nthat the educative process is its own end, and that the only sufficient\npreparation for later responsibilities comes by making the most of\nimmediately present life, applies in full force to the vocational phases\nof education. The dominant vocation of all human beings at all times\nis living--intellectual and moral growth. In childhood and youth, with\ntheir relative freedom from economic stress, this fact is naked and\nunconcealed. To predetermine some future occupation for which education\nis to be a strict preparation is to injure the possibilities of present\ndevelopment and thereby to reduce the adequacy of preparation for a\nfuture right employment. To repeat the principle we have had occasion\nto appeal to so often, such training may develop a machine-like skill in\nroutine lines (it is far from being sure to do so, since it may develop\ndistaste, aversion, and carelessness), but it will be at the expense of\nthose qualities of alert observation and coherent and ingenious planning\nwhich make an occupation intellectually rewarding. In an autocratically\nmanaged society, it is often a conscious object to prevent the\ndevelopment of freedom and responsibility, a few do the planning and\nordering, the others follow directions and are deliberately confined to\nnarrow and prescribed channels of endeavor. However much such a scheme\nmay inure to the prestige and profit of a class, it is evident that it\nlimits the development of the subject class; hardens and confines the\nopportunities for learning through experience of the master class, and\nin both ways hampers the life of the society as a whole. (See ante, p.\n260.)\n\nThe only alternative is that all the earlier preparation for vocations\nbe indirect rather than direct; namely, through engaging in those active\noccupations which are indicated by the needs and interests of the pupil\nat the time. Only in this way can there be on the part of the educator\nand of the one educated a genuine discovery of personal aptitudes so\nthat the proper choice of a specialized pursuit in later life may be\nindicated. Moreover, the discovery of capacity and aptitude will be a\nconstant process as long as growth continues. It is a conventional and\narbitrary view which assumes that discovery of the work to be chosen\nfor adult life is made once for all at some particular date. One has\ndiscovered in himself, say, an interest, intellectual and social, in the\nthings which have to do with engineering and has decided to make that\nhis calling. At most, this only blocks out in outline the field in which\nfurther growth is to be directed. It is a sort of rough sketch for use\nin direction of further activities. It is the discovery of a profession\nin the sense in which Columbus discovered America when he touched\nits shores. Future explorations of an indefinitely more detailed and\nextensive sort remain to be made. When educators conceive vocational\nguidance as something which leads up to a definitive, irretrievable, and\ncomplete choice, both education and the chosen vocation are likely to be\nrigid, hampering further growth. In so far, the calling chosen will\nbe such as to leave the person concerned in a permanently subordinate\nposition, executing the intelligence of others who have a calling which\npermits more flexible play and readjustment. And while ordinary usages\nof language may not justify terming a flexible attitude of readjustment\na choice of a new and further calling, it is such in effect. If even\nadults have to be on the lookout to see that their calling does not shut\ndown on them and fossilize them, educators must certainly be careful\nthat the vocational preparation of youth is such as to engage them in a\ncontinuous reorganization of aims and methods.\n\n3. Present Opportunities and Dangers. In the past, education has been\nmuch more vocational in fact than in name. (i) The education of the\nmasses was distinctly utilitarian. It was called apprenticeship rather\nthan education, or else just learning from experience. The schools\ndevoted themselves to the three R's in the degree in which ability to go\nthrough the forms of reading, writing, and figuring were common elements\nin all kinds of labor. Taking part in some special line of work, under\nthe direction of others, was the out-of-school phase of this education.\nThe two supplemented each other; the school work in its narrow and\nformal character was as much a part of apprenticeship to a calling as\nthat explicitly so termed.\n\n(ii) To a considerable extent, the education of the dominant classes was\nessentially vocational--it only happened that their pursuits of ruling\nand of enjoying were not called professions. For only those things were\nnamed vocations or employments which involved manual labor, laboring for\na reward in keep, or its commuted money equivalent, or the rendering of\npersonal services to specific persons. For a long time, for example, the\nprofession of the surgeon and physician ranked almost with that of the\nvalet or barber--partly because it had so much to do with the body,\nand partly because it involved rendering direct service for pay to some\ndefinite person. But if we go behind words, the business of directing\nsocial concerns, whether politically or economically, whether in war or\npeace, is as much a calling as anything else; and where education has\nnot been completely under the thumb of tradition, higher schools in the\npast have been upon the whole calculated to give preparation for this\nbusiness. Moreover, display, the adornment of person, the kind of social\ncompanionship and entertainment which give prestige, and the spending\nof money, have been made into definite callings. Unconsciously to\nthemselves the higher institutions of learning have been made to\ncontribute to preparation for these employments. Even at present, what\nis called higher education is for a certain class (much smaller than it\nonce was) mainly preparation for engaging effectively in these pursuits.\n\nIn other respects, it is largely, especially in the most advanced work,\ntraining for the calling of teaching and special research. By a peculiar\nsuperstition, education which has to do chiefly with preparation for\nthe pursuit of conspicuous idleness, for teaching, and for literary\ncallings, and for leadership, has been regarded as non-vocational and\neven as peculiarly cultural. The literary training which indirectly\nfits for authorship, whether of books, newspaper editorials, or magazine\narticles, is especially subject to this superstition: many a teacher and\nauthor writes and argues in behalf of a cultural and humane education\nagainst the encroachments of a specialized practical education, without\nrecognizing that his own education, which he calls liberal, has been\nmainly training for his own particular calling. He has simply got into\nthe habit of regarding his own business as essentially cultural and\nof overlooking the cultural possibilities of other employments. At\nthe bottom of these distinctions is undoubtedly the tradition which\nrecognizes as employment only those pursuits where one is responsible\nfor his work to a specific employer, rather than to the ultimate\nemployer, the community.\n\nThere are, however, obvious causes for the present conscious emphasis\nupon vocational education--for the disposition to make explicit and\ndeliberate vocational implications previously tacit. (i) In the first\nplace, there is an increased esteem, in democratic communities, of\nwhatever has to do with manual labor, commercial occupations, and the\nrendering of tangible services to society. In theory, men and women are\nnow expected to do something in return for their support--intellectual\nand economic--by society. Labor is extolled; service is a much-lauded\nmoral ideal. While there is still much admiration and envy of those who\ncan pursue lives of idle conspicuous display, better moral sentiment\ncondemns such lives. Social responsibility for the use of time and\npersonal capacity is more generally recognized than it used to be.\n\n(ii) In the second place, those vocations which are specifically\nindustrial have gained tremendously in importance in the last century\nand a half. Manufacturing and commerce are no longer domestic and local,\nand consequently more or less incidental, but are world-wide. They\nengage the best energies of an increasingly large number of persons. The\nmanufacturer, banker, and captain of industry have practically displaced\na hereditary landed gentry as the immediate directors of social affairs.\nThe problem of social readjustment is openly industrial, having to\ndo with the relations of capital and labor. The great increase in the\nsocial importance of conspicuous industrial processes has inevitably\nbrought to the front questions having to do with the relationship of\nschooling to industrial life. No such vast social readjustment could\noccur without offering a challenge to an education inherited from\ndifferent social conditions, and without putting up to education new\nproblems.\n\n(iii) In the third place, there is the fact already repeatedly\nmentioned: Industry has ceased to be essentially an empirical,\nrule-of-thumb procedure, handed down by custom. Its technique is now\ntechnological: that is to say, based upon machinery resulting from\ndiscoveries in mathematics, physics, chemistry, bacteriology, etc.\nThe economic revolution has stimulated science by setting problems\nfor solution, by producing greater intellectual respect for mechanical\nappliances. And industry received back payment from science with\ncompound interest. As a consequence, industrial occupations have\ninfinitely greater intellectual content and infinitely larger cultural\npossibilities than they used to possess. The demand for such education\nas will acquaint workers with the scientific and social bases and\nbearings of their pursuits becomes imperative, since those who are\nwithout it inevitably sink to the role of appendages to the machines\nthey operate. Under the old regime all workers in a craft were\napproximately equals in their knowledge and outlook. Personal knowledge\nand ingenuity were developed within at least a narrow range, because\nwork was done with tools under the direct command of the worker. Now the\noperator has to adjust himself to his machine, instead of his tool to\nhis own purposes. While the intellectual possibilities of industry\nhave multiplied, industrial conditions tend to make industry, for great\nmasses, less of an educative resource than it was in the days of hand\nproduction for local markets. The burden of realizing the intellectual\npossibilities inhering in work is thus thrown back on the school.\n\n(iv) In the fourth place, the pursuit of knowledge has become, in\nscience, more experimental, less dependent upon literary tradition, and\nless associated with dialectical methods of reasoning, and with symbols.\nAs a result, the subject matter of industrial occupation presents\nnot only more of the content of science than it used to, but greater\nopportunity for familiarity with the method by which knowledge is made.\nThe ordinary worker in the factory is of course under too immediate\neconomic pressure to have a chance to produce a knowledge like that of\nthe worker in the laboratory. But in schools, association with machines\nand industrial processes may be had under conditions where the chief\nconscious concern of the students is insight. The separation of shop\nand laboratory, where these conditions are fulfilled, is largely\nconventional, the laboratory having the advantage of permitting the\nfollowing up of any intellectual interest a problem may suggest; the\nshop the advantage of emphasizing the social bearings of the scientific\nprinciple, as well as, with many pupils, of stimulating a livelier\ninterest.\n\n(v) Finally, the advances which have been made in the psychology of\nlearning in general and of childhood in particular fall into line with\nthe increased importance of industry in life. For modern psychology\nemphasizes the radical importance of primitive unlearned instincts of\nexploring, experimentation, and \"trying on.\" It reveals that learning is\nnot the work of something ready-made called mind, but that mind itself\nis an organization of original capacities into activities having\nsignificance. As we have already seen (ante, p. 204), in older pupils\nwork is to educative development of raw native activities what play is\nfor younger pupils. Moreover, the passage from play to work should be\ngradual, not involving a radical change of attitude but carrying into\nwork the elements of play, plus continuous reorganization in behalf\nof greater control. The reader will remark that these five points\npractically resume the main contentions of the previous part of the\nwork. Both practically and philosophically, the key to the present\neducational situation lies in a gradual reconstruction of school\nmaterials and methods so as to utilize various forms of occupation\ntypifying social callings, and to bring out their intellectual and\nmoral content. This reconstruction must relegate purely literary\nmethods--including textbooks--and dialectical methods to the position of\nnecessary auxiliary tools in the intelligent development of consecutive\nand cumulative activities.\n\nBut our discussion has emphasized the fact that this educational\nreorganization cannot be accomplished by merely trying to give a\ntechnical preparation for industries and professions as they now\noperate, much less by merely reproducing existing industrial conditions\nin the school. The problem is not that of making the schools an adjunct\nto manufacture and commerce, but of utilizing the factors of industry\nto make school life more active, more full of immediate meaning, more\nconnected with out-of-school experience. The problem is not easy of\nsolution. There is a standing danger that education will perpetuate\nthe older traditions for a select few, and effect its adjustment to the\nnewer economic conditions more or less on the basis of acquiescence\nin the untransformed, unrationalized, and unsocialized phases of our\ndefective industrial regime. Put in concrete terms, there is danger that\nvocational education will be interpreted in theory and practice as trade\neducation: as a means of securing technical efficiency in specialized\nfuture pursuits. Education would then become an instrument of\nperpetuating unchanged the existing industrial order of society,\ninstead of operating as a means of its transformation. The desired\ntransformation is not difficult to define in a formal way. It signifies\na society in which every person shall be occupied in something which\nmakes the lives of others better worth living, and which accordingly\nmakes the ties which bind persons together more perceptible--which\nbreaks down the barriers of distance between them. It denotes a state\nof affairs in which the interest of each in his work is uncoerced and\nintelligent: based upon its congeniality to his own aptitudes. It goes\nwithout saying that we are far from such a social state; in a literal\nand quantitative sense, we may never arrive at it. But in principle, the\nquality of social changes already accomplished lies in this direction.\nThere are more ample resources for its achievement now than ever there\nhave been before. No insuperable obstacles, given the intelligent will\nfor its realization, stand in the way.\n\nSuccess or failure in its realization depends more upon the adoption of\neducational methods calculated to effect the change than upon anything\nelse. For the change is essentially a change in the quality of mental\ndisposition--an educative change. This does not mean that we can change\ncharacter and mind by direct instruction and exhortation, apart from\na change in industrial and political conditions. Such a conception\ncontradicts our basic idea that character and mind are attitudes of\nparticipative response in social affairs. But it does mean that we may\nproduce in schools a projection in type of the society we should like\nto realize, and by forming minds in accord with it gradually modify the\nlarger and more recalcitrant features of adult society. Sentimentally,\nit may seem harsh to say that the greatest evil of the present regime is\nnot found in poverty and in the suffering which it entails, but in the\nfact that so many persons have callings which make no appeal to them,\nwhich are pursued simply for the money reward that accrues. For such\ncallings constantly provoke one to aversion, ill will, and a desire\nto slight and evade. Neither men's hearts nor their minds are in their\nwork. On the other hand, those who are not only much better off in\nworldly goods, but who are in excessive, if not monopolistic, control of\nthe activities of the many are shut off from equality and generality of\nsocial intercourse. They are stimulated to pursuits of indulgence and\ndisplay; they try to make up for the distance which separates them from\nothers by the impression of force and superior possession and enjoyment\nwhich they can make upon others.\n\nIt would be quite possible for a narrowly conceived scheme of vocational\neducation to perpetuate this division in a hardened form. Taking its\nstand upon a dogma of social predestination, it would assume that some\nare to continue to be wage earners under economic conditions like\nthe present, and would aim simply to give them what is termed a trade\neducation--that is, greater technical efficiency. Technical proficiency\nis often sadly lacking, and is surely desirable on all accounts--not\nmerely for the sake of the production of better goods at less cost, but\nfor the greater happiness found in work. For no one cares for what one\ncannot half do. But there is a great difference between a proficiency\nlimited to immediate work, and a competency extended to insight into its\nsocial bearings; between efficiency in carrying out the plans of others\nand in one forming one's own. At present, intellectual and emotional\nlimitation characterizes both the employing and the employed class.\nWhile the latter often have no concern with their occupation beyond the\nmoney return it brings, the former's outlook may be confined to\nprofit and power. The latter interest generally involves much greater\nintellectual initiation and larger survey of conditions. For it involves\nthe direction and combination of a large number of diverse factors,\nwhile the interest in wages is restricted to certain direct muscular\nmovements. But none the less there is a limitation of intelligence to\ntechnical and non-humane, non-liberal channels, so far as the work does\nnot take in its social bearings. And when the animating motive is desire\nfor private profit or personal power, this limitation is inevitable. In\nfact, the advantage in immediate social sympathy and humane disposition\noften lies with the economically unfortunate, who have not experienced\nthe hardening effects of a one-sided control of the affairs of others.\n\nAny scheme for vocational education which takes its point of departure\nfrom the industrial regime that now exists, is likely to assume and\nto perpetuate its divisions and weaknesses, and thus to become an\ninstrument in accomplishing the feudal dogma of social predestination.\nThose who are in a position to make their wishes good, will demand a\nliberal, a cultural occupation, and one which fits for directive power\nthe youth in whom they are directly interested. To split the system, and\ngive to others, less fortunately situated, an education conceived mainly\nas specific trade preparation, is to treat the schools as an agency\nfor transferring the older division of labor and leisure, culture and\nservice, mind and body, directed and directive class, into a society\nnominally democratic. Such a vocational education inevitably discounts\nthe scientific and historic human connections of the materials and\nprocesses dealt with. To include such things in narrow trade education\nwould be to waste time; concern for them would not be \"practical.\" They\nare reserved for those who have leisure at command--the leisure due to\nsuperior economic resources. Such things might even be dangerous to the\ninterests of the controlling class, arousing discontent or ambitions\n\"beyond the station\" of those working under the direction of others. But\nan education which acknowledges the full intellectual and social meaning\nof a vocation would include instruction in the historic background\nof present conditions; training in science to give intelligence and\ninitiative in dealing with material and agencies of production; and\nstudy of economics, civics, and politics, to bring the future worker\ninto touch with the problems of the day and the various methods proposed\nfor its improvement. Above all, it would train power of readaptation\nto changing conditions so that future workers would not become blindly\nsubject to a fate imposed upon them. This ideal has to contend not only\nwith the inertia of existing educational traditions, but also with the\nopposition of those who are entrenched in command of the industrial\nmachinery, and who realize that such an educational system if made\ngeneral would threaten their ability to use others for their own ends.\nBut this very fact is the presage of a more equitable and enlightened\nsocial order, for it gives evidence of the dependence of social\nreorganization upon educational reconstruction. It is accordingly an\nencouragement to those believing in a better order to undertake the\npromotion of a vocational education which does not subject youth to\nthe demands and standards of the present system, but which utilizes its\nscientific and social factors to develop a courageous intelligence, and\nto make intelligence practical and executive.\n\nSummary. A vocation signifies any form of continuous activity which\nrenders service to others and engages personal powers in behalf of the\naccomplishment of results. The question of the relation of vocation to\neducation brings to a focus the various problems previously discussed\nregarding the connection of thought with bodily activity; of individual\nconscious development with associated life; of theoretical culture with\npractical behavior having definite results; of making a livelihood\nwith the worthy enjoyment of leisure. In general, the opposition to\nrecognition of the vocational phases of life in education (except for\nthe utilitarian three R's in elementary schooling) accompanies the\nconservation of aristocratic ideals of the past. But, at the present\njuncture, there is a movement in behalf of something called vocational\ntraining which, if carried into effect, would harden these ideas into\na form adapted to the existing industrial regime. This movement would\ncontinue the traditional liberal or cultural education for the few\neconomically able to enjoy it, and would give to the masses a narrow\ntechnical trade education for specialized callings, carried on under the\ncontrol of others. This scheme denotes, of course, simply a perpetuation\nof the older social division, with its counterpart intellectual and\nmoral dualisms. But it means its continuation under conditions where it\nhas much less justification for existence. For industrial life is now\nso dependent upon science and so intimately affects all forms of social\nintercourse, that there is an opportunity to utilize it for development\nof mind and character. Moreover, a right educational use of it would\nreact upon intelligence and interest so as to modify, in connection with\nlegislation and administration, the socially obnoxious features of the\npresent industrial and commercial order. It would turn the increasing\nfund of social sympathy to constructive account, instead of leaving it a\nsomewhat blind philanthropic sentiment.\n\nIt would give those who engage in industrial callings desire and ability\nto share in social control, and ability to become masters of their\nindustrial fate. It would enable them to saturate with meaning the\ntechnical and mechanical features which are so marked a feature of our\nmachine system of production and distribution. So much for those who now\nhave the poorer economic opportunities. With the representatives of the\nmore privileged portion of the community, it would increase sympathy\nfor labor, create a disposition of mind which can discover the\nculturing elements in useful activity, and increase a sense of social\nresponsibility. The crucial position of the question of vocational\neducation at present is due, in other words, to the fact that it\nconcentrates in a specific issue two fundamental questions:--Whether\nintelligence is best exercised apart from or within activity which puts\nnature to human use, and whether individual culture is best secured\nunder egoistic or social conditions. No discussion of details is\nundertaken in this chapter, because this conclusion but summarizes the\ndiscussion of the previous chapters, XV to XXII, inclusive.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twenty-four: Philosophy of Education\n\n1. A Critical Review. Although we are dealing with the philosophy of\neducation, DO definition of philosophy has yet been given; nor has\nthere been an explicit consideration of the nature of a philosophy of\neducation. This topic is now introduced by a summary account of the\nlogical order implied in the previous discussions, for the purpose\nof bringing out the philosophic issues involved. Afterwards we shall\nundertake a brief discussion, in more specifically philosophical\nterms, of the theories of knowledge and of morals implied in different\neducational ideals as they operate in practice. The prior chapters fall\nlogically into three parts.\n\nI. The first chapters deal with education as a social need and function.\nTheir purpose is to outline the general features of education as the\nprocess by which social groups maintain their continuous existence.\nEducation was shown to be a process of renewal of the meanings of\nexperience through a process of transmission, partly incidental to\nthe ordinary companionship or intercourse of adults and youth, partly\ndeliberately instituted to effect social continuity. This process was\nseen to involve control and growth of both the immature individual and\nthe group in which he lives.\n\nThis consideration was formal in that it took no specific account of the\nquality of the social group concerned--the kind of society aiming at\nits own perpetuation through education. The general discussion was\nthen specified by application to social groups which are intentionally\nprogressive, and which aim at a greater variety of mutually shared\ninterests in distinction from those which aim simply at the preservation\nof established customs. Such societies were found to be democratic in\nquality, because of the greater freedom allowed the constituent\nmembers, and the conscious need of securing in individuals a consciously\nsocialized interest, instead of trusting mainly to the force of customs\noperating under the control of a superior class. The sort of education\nappropriate to the development of a democratic community was then\nexplicitly taken as the criterion of the further, more detailed analysis\nof education.\n\nII. This analysis, based upon the democratic criterion, was seen to\nimply the ideal of a continuous reconstruction or reorganizing of\nexperience, of such a nature as to increase its recognized meaning or\nsocial content, and as to increase the capacity of individuals to act as\ndirective guardians of this reorganization. (See Chapters VI-VII.)\nThis distinction was then used to outline the respective characters of\nsubject matter and method. It also defined their unity, since method\nin study and learning upon this basis is just the consciously directed\nmovement of reorganization of the subject matter of experience. From\nthis point of view the main principles of method and subject matter of\nlearning were developed (Chapters XIII-XIV.)\n\nIII. Save for incidental criticisms designed to illustrate principles\nby force of contrast, this phase of the discussion took for granted the\ndemocratic criterion and its application in present social life. In the\nsubsequent chapters (XVIII-XXII) we considered the present limitation of\nits actual realization. They were found to spring from the notion that\nexperience consists of a variety of segregated domains, or interests,\neach having its own independent value, material, and method, each\nchecking every other, and, when each is kept properly bounded by the\nothers, forming a kind of \"balance of powers\" in education. We then\nproceeded to an analysis of the various assumptions underlying this\nsegregation. On the practical side, they were found to have their cause\nin the divisions of society into more or less rigidly marked-off classes\nand groups--in other words, in obstruction to full and flexible social\ninteraction and intercourse. These social ruptures of continuity were\nseen to have their intellectual formulation in various dualisms\nor antitheses--such as that of labor and leisure, practical and\nintellectual activity, man and nature, individuality and association,\nculture and vocation. In this discussion, we found that these different\nissues have their counterparts in formulations which have been made in\nclassic philosophic systems; and that they involve the chief problems of\nphilosophy--such as mind (or spirit) and matter, body and mind, the\nmind and the world, the individual and his relationships to others, etc.\nUnderlying these various separations we found the fundamental assumption\nto be an isolation of mind from activity involving physical conditions,\nbodily organs, material appliances, and natural objects. Consequently,\nthere was indicated a philosophy which recognizes the origin, place, and\nfunction of mind in an activity which controls the environment. Thus we\nhave completed the circuit and returned to the conceptions of the\nfirst portion of this book: such as the biological continuity of human\nimpulses and instincts with natural energies; the dependence of the\ngrowth of mind upon participation in conjoint activities having a common\npurpose; the influence of the physical environment through the uses made\nof it in the social medium; the necessity of utilization of individual\nvariations in desire and thinking for a progressively developing\nsociety; the essential unity of method and subject matter; the intrinsic\ncontinuity of ends and means; the recognition of mind as thinking which\nperceives and tests the meanings of behavior. These conceptions are\nconsistent with the philosophy which sees intelligence to be the\npurposive reorganization, through action, of the material of experience;\nand they are inconsistent with each of the dualistic philosophies\nmentioned.\n\n2. The Nature of Philosophy. Our further task is to extract and make\nexplicit the idea of philosophy implicit in these considerations. We\nhave already virtually described, though not defined, philosophy in\nterms of the problems with which it deals; and we have pointed out that\nthese problems originate in the conflicts and difficulties of social\nlife. The problems are such things as the relations of mind and matter;\nbody and soul; humanity and physical nature; the individual and the\nsocial; theory--or knowing, and practice--or doing. The philosophical\nsystems which formulate these problems record the main lineaments and\ndifficulties of contemporary social practice. They bring to explicit\nconsciousness what men have come to think, in virtue of the quality of\ntheir current experience, about nature, themselves, and the reality they\nconceive to include or to govern both.\n\nAs we might expect, then, philosophy has generally been defined in ways\nwhich imply a certain totality, generality, and ultimateness of both\nsubject matter and method. With respect to subject matter, philosophy\nis an attempt to _comprehend_--that is, to gather together the varied\ndetails of the world and of life into a single inclusive whole, which\nshall either be a unity, or, as in the dualistic systems, shall reduce\nthe plural details to a small number of ultimate principles. On the\nside of the attitude of the philosopher and of those who accept his\nconclusions, there is the endeavor to attain as unified, consistent,\nand complete an outlook upon experience as is possible. This aspect is\nexpressed in the word 'philosophy'--love of wisdom. Whenever philosophy\nhas been taken seriously, it has always been assumed that it signified\nachieving a wisdom which would influence the conduct of life. Witness\nthe fact that almost all ancient schools of philosophy were also\norganized ways of living, those who accepted their tenets being\ncommitted to certain distinctive modes of conduct; witness the intimate\nconnection of philosophy with the theology of the Roman church in the\nmiddle ages, its frequent association with religious interests, and, at\nnational crises, its association with political struggles.\n\nThis direct and intimate connection of philosophy with an outlook upon\nlife obviously differentiates philosophy from science. Particular facts\nand laws of science evidently influence conduct. They suggest things to\ndo and not do, and provide means of execution. When science denotes not\nsimply a report of the particular facts discovered about the world but\na _general attitude_ toward it--as distinct from special things to do\n--it merges into philosophy. For an underlying disposition represents an\nattitude not to this and that thing nor even to the aggregate of known\nthings, but to the considerations which govern conduct.\n\nHence philosophy cannot be defined simply from the side of subject\nmatter. For this reason, the definition of such conceptions as\ngenerality, totality, and ultimateness is most readily reached from\nthe side of the disposition toward the world which they connote. In any\nliteral and quantitative sense, these terms do not apply to the subject\nmatter of knowledge, for completeness and finality are out of the\nquestion. The very nature of experience as an ongoing, changing process\nforbids. In a less rigid sense, they apply to science rather than to\nphilosophy. For obviously it is to mathematics, physics, chemistry,\nbiology, anthropology, history, etc. that we must go, not to philosophy,\nto find out the facts of the world. It is for the sciences to say what\ngeneralizations are tenable about the world and what they specifically\nare. But when we ask what sort of permanent disposition of action\ntoward the world the scientific disclosures exact of us we are raising a\nphilosophic question.\n\n\nFrom this point of view, \"totality\" does not mean the hopeless task of a\nquantitative summation. It means rather consistency of mode of response\nin reference to the plurality of events which occur. Consistency does\nnot mean literal identity; for since the same thing does not happen\ntwice, an exact repetition of a reaction involves some maladjustment.\nTotality means continuity--the carrying on of a former habit of action\nwith the readaptation necessary to keep it alive and growing. Instead of\nsignifying a ready-made complete scheme of action, it means keeping\nthe balance in a multitude of diverse actions, so that each borrows and\ngives significance to every other. Any person who is open-minded\nand sensitive to new perceptions, and who has concentration and\nresponsibility in connecting them has, in so far, a philosophic\ndisposition. One of the popular senses of philosophy is calm and\nendurance in the face of difficulty and loss; it is even supposed to be\na power to bear pain without complaint. This meaning is a tribute to the\ninfluence of the Stoic philosophy rather than an attribute of\nphilosophy in general. But in so far as it suggests that the wholeness\ncharacteristic of philosophy is a power to learn, or to extract meaning,\nfrom even the unpleasant vicissitudes of experience and to embody what\nis learned in an ability to go on learning, it is justified in any\nscheme. An analogous interpretation applies to the generality\nand ultimateness of philosophy. Taken literally, they are absurd\npretensions; they indicate insanity. Finality does not mean, however,\nthat experience is ended and exhausted, but means the disposition to\npenetrate to deeper levels of meaning--to go below the surface and find\nout the connections of any event or object, and to keep at it. In like\nmanner the philosophic attitude is general in the sense that it is\naverse to taking anything as isolated; it tries to place an act in its\ncontext--which constitutes its significance. It is of assistance to\nconnect philosophy with thinking in its distinction from knowledge.\nKnowledge, grounded knowledge, is science; it represents objects which\nhave been settled, ordered, disposed of rationally. Thinking, on\nthe other hand, is prospective in reference. It is occasioned by an\nunsettlement and it aims at overcoming a disturbance. Philosophy is\nthinking what the known demands of us--what responsive attitude it\nexacts. It is an idea of what is possible, not a record of accomplished\nfact. Hence it is hypothetical, like all thinking. It presents an\nassignment of something to be done--something to be tried. Its value\nlies not in furnishing solutions (which can be achieved only in action)\nbut in defining difficulties and suggesting methods for dealing with\nthem. Philosophy might almost be described as thinking which has become\nconscious of itself--which has generalized its place, function, and\nvalue in experience.\n\nMore specifically, the demand for a \"total\" attitude arises because\nthere is the need of integration in action of the conflicting various\ninterests in life. Where interests are so superficial that they glide\nreadily into one another, or where they are not sufficiently organized\nto come into conflict with one another, the need for philosophy is not\nperceptible. But when the scientific interest conflicts with, say, the\nreligious, or the economic with the scientific or aesthetic, or when the\nconservative concern for order is at odds with the progressive interest\nin freedom, or when institutionalism clashes with individuality, there\nis a stimulus to discover some more comprehensive point of view from\nwhich the divergencies may be brought together, and consistency or\ncontinuity of experience recovered. Often these clashes may be settled\nby an individual for himself; the area of the struggle of aims is\nlimited and a person works out his own rough accommodations. Such\nhomespun philosophies are genuine and often adequate. But they do not\nresult in systems of philosophy. These arise when the discrepant claims\nof different ideals of conduct affect the community as a whole, and the\nneed for readjustment is general. These traits explain some things which\nare often brought as objections against philosophies, such as the\npart played in them by individual speculation, and their controversial\ndiversity, as well as the fact that philosophy seems to be repeatedly\noccupied with much the same questions differently stated. Without doubt,\nall these things characterize historic philosophies more or less. But\nthey are not objections to philosophy so much as they are to human\nnature, and even to the world in which human nature is set. If there\nare genuine uncertainties in life, philosophies must reflect that\nuncertainty. If there are different diagnoses of the cause of a\ndifficulty, and different proposals for dealing with it; if, that is,\nthe conflict of interests is more or less embodied in different sets of\npersons, there must be divergent competing philosophies. With respect\nto what has happened, sufficient evidence is all that is needed to bring\nagreement and certainty. The thing itself is sure. But with reference\nto what it is wise to do in a complicated situation, discussion is\ninevitable precisely because the thing itself is still indeterminate.\nOne would not expect a ruling class living at ease to have the same\nphilosophy of life as those who were having a hard struggle for\nexistence. If the possessing and the dispossessed had the same\nfundamental disposition toward the world, it would argue either\ninsincerity or lack of seriousness. A community devoted to industrial\npursuits, active in business and commerce, is not likely to see the\nneeds and possibilities of life in the same way as a country with high\naesthetic culture and little enterprise in turning the energies of\nnature to mechanical account. A social group with a fairly continuous\nhistory will respond mentally to a crisis in a very different way from\none which has felt the shock of abrupt breaks. Even if the same data\nwere present, they would be evaluated differently. But the different\nsorts of experience attending different types of life prevent just the\nsame data from presenting themselves, as well as lead to a different\nscheme of values. As for the similarity of problems, this is often\nmore a matter of appearance than of fact, due to old discussions being\ntranslated into the terms of contemporary perplexities. But in certain\nfundamental respects the same predicaments of life recur from time to\ntime with only such changes as are due to change of social context,\nincluding the growth of the sciences.\n\nThe fact that philosophic problems arise because of widespread and\nwidely felt difficulties in social practice is disguised because\nphilosophers become a specialized class which uses a technical language,\nunlike the vocabulary in which the direct difficulties are stated. But\nwhere a system becomes influential, its connection with a conflict of\ninterests calling for some program of social adjustment may always be\ndiscovered. At this point, the intimate connection between philosophy\nand education appears. In fact, education offers a vantage ground\nfrom which to penetrate to the human, as distinct from the technical,\nsignificance of philosophic discussions. The student of philosophy \"in\nitself\" is always in danger of taking it as so much nimble or severe\nintellectual exercise--as something said by philosophers and concerning\nthem alone. But when philosophic issues are approached from the side\nof the kind of mental disposition to which they correspond, or the\ndifferences in educational practice they make when acted upon, the\nlife-situations which they formulate can never be far from view. If\na theory makes no difference in educational endeavor, it must be\nartificial. The educational point of view enables one to envisage the\nphilosophic problems where they arise and thrive, where they are at\nhome, and where acceptance or rejection makes a difference in practice.\nIf we are willing to conceive education as the process of forming\nfundamental dispositions, intellectual and emotional, toward nature\nand fellow men, philosophy may even be defined as the general theory of\neducation. Unless a philosophy is to remain symbolic--or verbal--or\na sentimental indulgence for a few, or else mere arbitrary dogma, its\nauditing of past experience and its program of values must take effect\nin conduct. Public agitation, propaganda, legislative and administrative\naction are effective in producing the change of disposition which a\nphilosophy indicates as desirable, but only in the degree in which they\nare educative--that is to say, in the degree in which they modify mental\nand moral attitudes. And at the best, such methods are compromised by\nthe fact they are used with those whose habits are already largely set,\nwhile education of youth has a fairer and freer field of operation.\nOn the other side, the business of schooling tends to become a routine\nempirical affair unless its aims and methods are animated by such a\nbroad and sympathetic survey of its place in contemporary life as it is\nthe business of philosophy to provide. Positive science always implies\npractically the ends which the community is concerned to achieve.\nIsolated from such ends, it is matter of indifference whether its\ndisclosures are used to cure disease or to spread it; to increase the\nmeans of sustenance of life or to manufacture war material to wipe\nlife out. If society is interested in one of these things rather than\nanother, science shows the way of attainment. Philosophy thus has a\ndouble task: that of criticizing existing aims with respect to the\nexisting state of science, pointing out values which have become\nobsolete with the command of new resources, showing what values are\nmerely sentimental because there are no means for their realization; and\nalso that of interpreting the results of specialized science in their\nbearing on future social endeavor. It is impossible that it should have\nany success in these tasks without educational equivalents as to what to\ndo and what not to do. For philosophic theory has no Aladdin's lamp\nto summon into immediate existence the values which it intellectually\nconstructs. In the mechanical arts, the sciences become methods of\nmanaging things so as to utilize their energies for recognized aims.\nBy the educative arts philosophy may generate methods of utilizing\nthe energies of human beings in accord with serious and thoughtful\nconceptions of life. Education is the laboratory in which philosophic\ndistinctions become concrete and are tested.\n\nIt is suggestive that European philosophy originated (among the\nAthenians) under the direct pressure of educational questions. The\nearlier history of philosophy, developed by the Greeks in Asia Minor and\nItaly, so far as its range of topics is concerned, is mainly a chapter\nin the history of science rather than of philosophy as that word is\nunderstood to-day. It had nature for its subject, and speculated as to\nhow things are made and changed. Later the traveling teachers, known as\nthe Sophists, began to apply the results and the methods of the natural\nphilosophers to human conduct.\n\nWhen the Sophists, the first body of professional educators in Europe,\ninstructed the youth in virtue, the political arts, and the management\nof city and household, philosophy began to deal with the relation of\nthe individual to the universal, to some comprehensive class, or to some\ngroup; the relation of man and nature, of tradition and reflection, of\nknowledge and action. Can virtue, approved excellence in any line, be\nlearned, they asked? What is learning? It has to do with knowledge.\nWhat, then, is knowledge? How is it achieved? Through the senses, or by\napprenticeship in some form of doing, or by reason that has undergone\na preliminary logical discipline? Since learning is coming to know, it\ninvolves a passage from ignorance to wisdom, from privation to fullness\nfrom defect to perfection, from non-being to being, in the Greek way\nof putting it. How is such a transition possible? Is change, becoming,\ndevelopment really possible and if so, how? And supposing such questions\nanswered, what is the relation of instruction, of knowledge, to virtue?\nThis last question led to opening the problem of the relation of reason\nto action, of theory to practice, since virtue clearly dwelt in action.\nWas not knowing, the activity of reason, the noblest attribute of man?\nAnd consequently was not purely intellectual activity itself the highest\nof all excellences, compared with which the virtues of neighborliness\nand the citizen's life were secondary? Or, on the other hand, was\nthe vaunted intellectual knowledge more than empty and vain pretense,\ndemoralizing to character and destructive of the social ties that bound\nmen together in their community life? Was not the only true, because the\nonly moral, life gained through obedient habituation to the customary\npractices of the community? And was not the new education an enemy to\ngood citizenship, because it set up a rival standard to the established\ntraditions of the community?\n\nIn the course of two or three generations such questions were cut loose\nfrom their original practical bearing upon education and were\ndiscussed on their own account; that is, as matters of philosophy as an\nindependent branch of inquiry. But the fact that the stream of European\nphilosophical thought arose as a theory of educational procedure\nremains an eloquent witness to the intimate connection of philosophy and\neducation. \"Philosophy of education\" is not an external application of\nready-made ideas to a system of practice having a radically different\norigin and purpose: it is only an explicit formulation of the problems\nof the formation of right mental and moral habitudes in respect to\nthe difficulties of contemporary social life. The most penetrating\ndefinition of philosophy which can be given is, then, that it is the\ntheory of education in its most general phases.\n\nThe reconstruction of philosophy, of education, and of social ideals and\nmethods thus go hand in hand. If there is especial need of educational\nreconstruction at the present time, if this need makes urgent a\nreconsideration of the basic ideas of traditional philosophic systems,\nit is because of the thoroughgoing change in social life accompanying\nthe advance of science, the industrial revolution, and the development\nof democracy. Such practical changes cannot take place without demanding\nan educational reformation to meet them, and without leading men to ask\nwhat ideas and ideals are implicit in these social changes, and what\nrevisions they require of the ideas and ideals which are inherited\nfrom older and unlike cultures. Incidentally throughout the whole book,\nexplicitly in the last few chapters, we have been dealing with just\nthese questions as they affect the relationship of mind and body, theory\nand practice, man and nature, the individual and social, etc. In our\nconcluding chapters we shall sum up the prior discussions with respect\nfirst to the philosophy of knowledge, and then to the philosophy of\nmorals.\n\nSummary. After a review designed to bring out the philosophic issues\nimplicit in the previous discussions, philosophy was defined as the\ngeneralized theory of education. Philosophy was stated to be a form\nof thinking, which, like all thinking, finds its origin in what is\nuncertain in the subject matter of experience, which aims to locate the\nnature of the perplexity and to frame hypotheses for its clearing up to\nbe tested in action. Philosophic thinking has for its differentia the\nfact that the uncertainties with which it deals are found in widespread\nsocial conditions and aims, consisting in a conflict of organized\ninterests and institutional claims. Since the only way of bringing\nabout a harmonious readjustment of the opposed tendencies is through a\nmodification of emotional and intellectual disposition, philosophy is\nat once an explicit formulation of the various interests of life and a\npropounding of points of view and methods through which a better balance\nof interests may be effected. Since education is the process through\nwhich the needed transformation may be accomplished and not remain a\nmere hypothesis as to what is desirable, we reach a justification of the\nstatement that philosophy is the theory of education as a deliberately\nconducted practice.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twenty-five: Theories of Knowledge\n\n1. Continuity versus Dualism. A number of theories of knowing have been\ncriticized in the previous pages. In spite of their differences from one\nanother, they all agree in one fundamental respect which contrasts\nwith the theory which has been positively advanced. The latter\nassumes continuity; the former state or imply certain basic divisions,\nseparations, or antitheses, technically called dualisms. The origin of\nthese divisions we have found in the hard and fast walls which mark off\nsocial groups and classes within a group: like those between rich and\npoor, men and women, noble and baseborn, ruler and ruled. These barriers\nmean absence of fluent and free intercourse. This absence is equivalent\nto the setting up of different types of life-experience, each with\nisolated subject matter, aim, and standard of values. Every such social\ncondition must be formulated in a dualistic philosophy, if philosophy is\nto be a sincere account of experience. When it gets beyond dualism--as\nmany philosophies do in form--it can only be by appeal to something\nhigher than anything found in experience, by a flight to some\ntranscendental realm. And in denying duality in name such theories\nrestore it in fact, for they end in a division between things of this\nworld as mere appearances and an inaccessible essence of reality.\n\nSo far as these divisions persist and others are added to them, each\nleaves its mark upon the educational system, until the scheme of\neducation, taken as a whole, is a deposit of various purposes and\nprocedures. The outcome is that kind of check and balance of segregated\nfactors and values which has been described. (See Chapter XVIII.)\nThe present discussion is simply a formulation, in the terminology of\nphilosophy, of various antithetical conceptions involved in the theory\nof knowing. In the first place, there is the opposition of empirical and\nhigher rational knowing. The first is connected with everyday affairs,\nserves the purposes of the ordinary individual who has no specialized\nintellectual\n\npursuit, and brings his wants into some kind of working connection with\nthe immediate environment. Such knowing is depreciated, if not despised,\nas purely utilitarian, lacking in cultural significance. Rational\nknowledge is supposed to be something which touches reality in ultimate,\nintellectual fashion; to be pursued for its own sake and properly to\nterminate in purely theoretical insight, not debased by application\nin behavior. Socially, the distinction corresponds to that of the\nintelligence used by the working classes and that used by a learned\nclass remote from concern with the means of living. Philosophically, the\ndifference turns about the distinction of the particular and universal.\nExperience is an aggregate of more or less isolated particulars,\nacquaintance with each of which must be separately made. Reason deals\nwith universals, with general principles, with laws, which lie above the\nwelter of concrete details. In the educational precipitate, the pupil\nis supposed to have to learn, on one hand, a lot of items of specific\ninformation, each standing by itself, and upon the other hand, to\nbecome familiar with a certain number of laws and general relationships.\nGeography, as often taught, illustrates the former; mathematics, beyond\nthe rudiments of figuring, the latter. For all practical purposes, they\nrepresent two independent worlds.\n\nAnother antithesis is suggested by the two senses of the word\n\"learning.\" On the one hand, learning is the sum total of what is\nknown, as that is handed down by books and learned men. It is something\nexternal, an accumulation of cognitions as one might store material\ncommodities in a warehouse. Truth exists ready-made somewhere. Study is\nthen the process by which an individual draws on what is in storage. On\nthe other hand, learning means something which the individual does when\nhe studies. It is an active, personally conducted affair. The dualism\nhere is between knowledge as something external, or, as it is often\ncalled, objective, and knowing as something purely internal, subjective,\npsychical. There is, on one side, a body of truth, ready-made, and, on\nthe other, a ready-made mind equipped with a faculty of knowing--if it\nonly wills to exercise it, which it is often strangely loath to do. The\nseparation, often touched upon, between subject matter and method is the\neducational equivalent of this dualism. Socially the distinction has\nto do with the part of life which is dependent upon authority and\nthat where individuals are free to advance. Another dualism is that of\nactivity and passivity in knowing. Purely empirical and physical things\nare often supposed to be known by receiving impressions. Physical\nthings somehow stamp themselves upon the mind or convey themselves\ninto consciousness by means of the sense organs. Rational knowledge and\nknowledge of spiritual things is supposed, on the contrary, to spring\nfrom activity initiated within the mind, an activity carried on better\nif it is kept remote from all sullying touch of the senses and external\nobjects. The distinction between sense training and object lessons\nand laboratory exercises, and pure ideas contained in books, and\nappropriated--so it is thought--by some miraculous output of mental\nenergy, is a fair expression in education of this distinction. Socially,\nit reflects a division between those who are controlled by direct\nconcern with things and those who are free to cultivate themselves.\n\nAnother current opposition is that said to exist between the intellect\nand the emotions. The emotions are conceived to be purely private and\npersonal, having nothing to do with the work of pure intelligence in\napprehending facts and truths,--except perhaps the single emotion of\nintellectual curiosity. The intellect is a pure light; the emotions are\na disturbing heat. The mind turns outward to truth; the emotions\nturn inward to considerations of personal advantage and loss. Thus in\neducation we have that systematic depreciation of interest which\nhas been noted, plus the necessity in practice, with most pupils, of\nrecourse to extraneous and irrelevant rewards and penalties in order to\ninduce the person who has a mind (much as his clothes have a pocket) to\napply that mind to the truths to be known. Thus we have the spectacle\nof professional educators decrying appeal to interest while they uphold\nwith great dignity the need of reliance upon examinations, marks,\npromotions and emotions, prizes, and the time-honored paraphernalia of\nrewards and punishments. The effect of this situation in crippling\nthe teacher's sense of humor has not received the attention which it\ndeserves.\n\nAll of these separations culminate in one between knowing and doing,\ntheory and practice, between mind as the end and spirit of action and\nthe body as its organ and means. We shall not repeat what has been said\nabout the source of this dualism in the division of society into a class\nlaboring with their muscles for material sustenance and a class\nwhich, relieved from economic pressure, devotes itself to the arts of\nexpression and social direction. Nor is it necessary to speak again\nof the educational evils which spring from the separation. We shall be\ncontent to summarize the forces which tend to make the untenability of\nthis conception obvious and to replace it by the idea of continuity.\n(i) The advance of physiology and the psychology associated with it have\nshown the connection of mental activity with that of the nervous system.\nToo often recognition of connection has stopped short at this point; the\nolder dualism of soul and body has been replaced by that of the brain\nand the rest of the body. But in fact the nervous system is only\na specialized mechanism for keeping all bodily activities working\ntogether. Instead of being isolated from them, as an organ of knowing\nfrom organs of motor response, it is the organ by which they interact\nresponsively with one another. The brain is essentially an organ\nfor effecting the reciprocal adjustment to each other of the stimuli\nreceived from the environment and responses directed upon it. Note that\nthe adjusting is reciprocal; the brain not only enables organic activity\nto be brought to bear upon any object of the environment in response to\na sensory stimulation, but this response also determines what the next\nstimulus will be. See what happens, for example, when a carpenter is\nat work upon a board, or an etcher upon his plate--or in any case of a\nconsecutive activity. While each motor response is adjusted to the\nstate of affairs indicated through the sense organs, that motor response\nshapes the next sensory stimulus. Generalizing this illustration, the\nbrain is the machinery for a constant reorganizing of activity so as to\nmaintain its continuity; that is to say, to make such modifications in\nfuture action as are required because of what has already been done. The\ncontinuity of the work of the carpenter distinguishes it from a routine\nrepetition of identically the same motion, and from a random\nactivity where there is nothing cumulative. What makes it continuous,\nconsecutive, or concentrated is that each earlier act prepares the way\nfor later acts, while these take account of or reckon with the results\nalready attained--the basis of all responsibility. No one who has\nrealized the full force of the facts of the connection of knowing with\nthe nervous system and of the nervous system with the readjusting of\nactivity continuously to meet new conditions, will doubt that knowing\nhas to do with reorganizing activity, instead of being something\nisolated from all activity, complete on its own account.\n\n(ii) The development of biology clinches this lesson, with its discovery\nof evolution. For the philosophic significance of the doctrine of\nevolution lies precisely in its emphasis upon continuity of simpler\nand more complex organic forms until we reach man. The development of\norganic forms begins with structures where the adjustment of environment\nand organism is obvious, and where anything which can be called mind is\nat a minimum. As activity becomes more complex, coordinating a greater\nnumber of factors in space and time, intelligence plays a more and more\nmarked role, for it has a larger span of the future to forecast and plan\nfor. The effect upon the theory of knowing is to displace the notion\nthat it is the activity of a mere onlooker or spectator of the world,\nthe notion which goes with the idea of knowing as something complete in\nitself. For the doctrine of organic development means that the living\ncreature is a part of the world, sharing its vicissitudes and fortunes,\nand making itself secure in its precarious dependence only as it\nintellectually identifies itself with the things about it, and,\nforecasting the future consequences of what is going on, shapes its own\nactivities accordingly. If the living, experiencing being is an intimate\nparticipant in the activities of the world to which it belongs, then\nknowledge is a mode of participation, valuable in the degree in which it\nis effective. It cannot be the idle view of an unconcerned spectator.\n\n(iii) The development of the experimental method as the method of\ngetting knowledge and of making sure it is knowledge, and not mere\nopinion--the method of both discovery and proof--is the remaining great\nforce in bringing about a transformation in the theory of knowledge.\nThe experimental method has two sides. (i) On one hand, it means that we\nhave no right to call anything knowledge except where our activity has\nactually produced certain physical changes in things, which agree with\nand confirm the conception entertained. Short of such specific changes,\nour beliefs are only hypotheses, theories, suggestions, guesses, and\nare to be entertained tentatively and to be utilized as indications of\nexperiments to be tried. (ii) On the other hand, the experimental method\nof thinking signifies that thinking is of avail; that it is of avail in\njust the degree in which the anticipation of future consequences is\nmade on the basis of thorough observation of present conditions.\nExperimentation, in other words, is not equivalent to blind reacting.\nSuch surplus activity--a surplus with reference to what has been\nobserved and is now anticipated--is indeed an unescapable factor in all\nour behavior, but it is not experiment save as consequences are noted\nand are used to make predictions and plans in similar situations in the\nfuture. The more the meaning of the experimental method is perceived,\nthe more our trying out of a certain way of treating the material\nresources and obstacles which confront us embodies a prior use of\nintelligence. What we call magic was with respect to many things the\nexperimental method of the savage; but for him to try was to try his\nluck, not his ideas. The scientific experimental method is, on\nthe contrary, a trial of ideas; hence even when practically--or\nimmediately--unsuccessful, it is intellectual, fruitful; for we learn\nfrom our failures when our endeavors are seriously thoughtful.\n\nThe experimental method is new as a scientific resource--as a\nsystematized means of making knowledge, though as old as life as\na practical device. Hence it is not surprising that men have not\nrecognized its full scope. For the most part, its significance is\nregarded as belonging to certain technical and merely physical matters.\nIt will doubtless take a long time to secure the perception that it\nholds equally as to the forming and testing of ideas in social and\nmoral matters. Men still want the crutch of dogma, of beliefs fixed\nby authority, to relieve them of the trouble of thinking and the\nresponsibility of directing their activity by thought. They tend to\nconfine their own thinking to a consideration of which one among the\nrival systems of dogma they will accept. Hence the schools are better\nadapted, as John Stuart Mill said, to make disciples than inquirers. But\nevery advance in the influence of the experimental method is sure to\naid in outlawing the literary, dialectic, and authoritative methods\nof forming beliefs which have governed the schools of the past, and to\ntransfer their prestige to methods which will procure an active concern\nwith things and persons, directed by aims of increasing temporal reach\nand deploying greater range of things in space. In time the theory of\nknowing must be derived from the practice which is most successful in\nmaking knowledge; and then that theory will be employed to improve the\nmethods which are less successful.\n\n2. Schools of Method. There are various systems of philosophy with\ncharacteristically different conceptions of the method of knowing. Some\nof them are named scholasticism, sensationalism, rationalism, idealism,\nrealism, empiricism, transcendentalism, pragmatism, etc. Many of\nthem have been criticized in connection with the discussion of some\neducational problem. We are here concerned with them as involving\ndeviations from that method which has proved most effective in achieving\nknowledge, for a consideration of the deviations may render clearer\nthe true place of knowledge in experience. In brief, the function\nof knowledge is to make one experience freely available in other\nexperiences. The word \"freely\" marks the difference between the\nprinciple of knowledge and that of habit. Habit means that an individual\nundergoes a modification through an experience, which modification forms\na predisposition to easier and more effective action in a like direction\nin the future. Thus it also has the function of making one experience\navailable in subsequent experiences. Within certain limits, it performs\nthis function successfully. But habit, apart from knowledge, does not\nmake allowance for change of conditions, for novelty. Prevision of\nchange is not part of its scope, for habit assumes the essential\nlikeness of the new situation with the old. Consequently it often leads\nastray, or comes between a person and the successful performance of\nhis task, just as the skill, based on habit alone, of the mechanic\nwill desert him when something unexpected occurs in the running of the\nmachine. But a man who understands the machine is the man who knows what\nhe is about. He knows the conditions under which a given habit works,\nand is in a position to introduce the changes which will readapt it to\nnew conditions.\n\nIn other words, knowledge is a perception of those connections of an\nobject which determine its applicability in a given situation. To\ntake an extreme example; savages react to a flaming comet as they are\naccustomed to react to other events which threaten the security of\ntheir life. Since they try to frighten wild animals or their enemies by\nshrieks, beating of gongs, brandishing of weapons, etc., they use the\nsame methods to scare away the comet. To us, the method is plainly\nabsurd--so absurd that we fail to note that savages are simply falling\nback upon habit in a way which exhibits its limitations. The only reason\nwe do not act in some analogous fashion is because we do not take\nthe comet as an isolated, disconnected event, but apprehend it in\nits connections with other events. We place it, as we say, in the\nastronomical system. We respond to its connections and not simply to\nthe immediate occurrence. Thus our attitude to it is much freer. We may\napproach it, so to speak, from any one of the angles provided by its\nconnections. We can bring into play, as we deem wise, any one of the\nhabits appropriate to any one of the connected objects. Thus we get at\na new event indirectly instead of immediately--by invention, ingenuity,\nresourcefulness. An ideally perfect knowledge would represent such a\nnetwork of interconnections that any past experience would offer a\npoint of advantage from which to get at the problem presented in a new\nexperience. In fine, while a habit apart from knowledge supplies us with\na single fixed method of attack, knowledge means that selection may be\nmade from a much wider range of habits.\n\nTwo aspects of this more general and freer availability of former\nexperiences for subsequent ones may be distinguished. (See ante, p. 77.)\n(i) One, the more tangible, is increased power of control. What cannot\nbe managed directly may be handled indirectly; or we can interpose\nbarriers between us and undesirable consequences; or we may evade them\nif we cannot overcome them. Genuine knowledge has all the practical\nvalue attaching to efficient habits in any case. (ii) But it also\nincreases the meaning, the experienced significance, attaching to an\nexperience. A situation to which we respond capriciously or by routine\nhas only a minimum of conscious significance; we get nothing mentally\nfrom it. But wherever knowledge comes into play in determining a new\nexperience there is mental reward; even if we fail practically in\ngetting the needed control we have the satisfaction of experiencing a\nmeaning instead of merely reacting physically.\n\nWhile the content of knowledge is what has happened, what is taken\nas finished and hence settled and sure, the reference of knowledge\nis future or prospective. For knowledge furnishes the means of\nunderstanding or giving meaning to what is still going on and what is\nto be done. The knowledge of a physician is what he has found out by\npersonal acquaintance and by study of what others have ascertained and\nrecorded. But it is knowledge to him because it supplies the resources\nby which he interprets the unknown things which confront him, fills out\nthe partial obvious facts with connected suggested phenomena, foresees\ntheir probable future, and makes plans accordingly. When knowledge is\ncut off from use in giving meaning to what is blind and baffling,\nit drops out of consciousness entirely or else becomes an object of\naesthetic contemplation. There is much emotional satisfaction to be had\nfrom a survey of the symmetry and order of possessed knowledge, and the\nsatisfaction is a legitimate one. But this contemplative attitude is\naesthetic, not intellectual. It is the same sort of joy that comes from\nviewing a finished picture or a well composed landscape. It would make\nno difference if the subject matter were totally different, provided\nit had the same harmonious organization. Indeed, it would make no\ndifference if it were wholly invented, a play of fancy. Applicability to\nthe world means not applicability to what is past and gone--that is out\nof the question by the nature of the case; it means applicability to\nwhat is still going on, what is still unsettled, in the moving scene in\nwhich we are implicated. The very fact that we so easily overlook\nthis trait, and regard statements of what is past and out of reach as\nknowledge is because we assume the continuity of past and future. We\ncannot entertain the conception of a world in which knowledge of its\npast would not be helpful in forecasting and giving meaning to its\nfuture. We ignore the prospective reference just because it is so\nirretrievably implied.\n\nYet many of the philosophic schools of method which have been mentioned\ntransform the ignoring into a virtual denial. They regard knowledge as\nsomething complete in itself irrespective of its availability in dealing\nwith what is yet to be. And it is this omission which vitiates them\nand which makes them stand as sponsors for educational methods which an\nadequate conception of knowledge condemns. For one has only to call to\nmind what is sometimes treated in schools as acquisition of knowledge\nto realize how lacking it is in any fruitful connection with the ongoing\nexperience of the students--how largely it seems to be believed that the\nmere appropriation of subject matter which happens to be stored in books\nconstitutes knowledge. No matter how true what is learned to those who\nfound it out and in whose experience it functioned, there is nothing\nwhich makes it knowledge to the pupils. It might as well be something\nabout Mars or about some fanciful country unless it fructifies in the\nindividual's own life.\n\nAt the time when scholastic method developed, it had relevancy to social\nconditions. It was a method for systematizing and lending rational\nsanction to material accepted on authority. This subject matter meant\nso much that it vitalized the defining and systematizing brought to\nbear upon it. Under present conditions the scholastic method, for most\npersons, means a form of knowing which has no especial connection\nwith any particular subject matter. It includes making distinctions,\ndefinitions, divisions, and classifications for the mere sake of making\nthem--with no objective in experience. The view of thought as a purely\nphysical activity having its own forms, which are applied to any\nmaterial as a seal may be stamped on any plastic stuff, the view which\nunderlies what is termed formal logic is essentially the scholastic\nmethod generalized. The doctrine of formal discipline in education is\nthe natural counterpart of the scholastic method.\n\nThe contrasting theories of the method of knowledge which go by the name\nof sensationalism and rationalism correspond to an exclusive emphasis\nupon the particular and the general respectively--or upon bare facts on\none side and bare relations on the other. In real knowledge, there is a\nparticularizing and a generalizing function working together. So far as\na situation is confused, it has to be cleared up; it has to be resolved\ninto details, as sharply defined as possible. Specified facts and\nqualities constitute the elements of the problem to be dealt with, and\nit is through our sense organs that they are specified. As setting\nforth the problem, they may well be termed particulars, for they are\nfragmentary. Since our task is to discover their connections and to\nrecombine them, for us at the time they are partial. They are to be\ngiven meaning; hence, just as they stand, they lack it. Anything which\nis to be known, whose meaning has still to be made out, offers itself as\nparticular. But what is already known, if it has been worked over with\na view to making it applicable to intellectually mastering new\nparticulars, is general in function. Its function of introducing\nconnection into what is otherwise unconnected constitutes its\ngenerality. Any fact is general if we use it to give meaning to the\nelements of a new experience. \"Reason\" is just the ability to bring the\nsubject matter of prior experience to bear to perceive the significance\nof the subject matter of a new experience. A person is reasonable in\nthe degree in which he is habitually open to seeing an event which\nimmediately strikes his senses not as an isolated thing but in its\nconnection with the common experience of mankind.\n\nWithout the particulars as they are discriminated by the active\nresponses of sense organs, there is no material for knowing and no\nintellectual growth. Without placing these particulars in the context of\nthe meanings wrought out in the larger experience of the past--without\nthe use of reason or thought--particulars are mere excitations or\nirritations. The mistake alike of the sensational and the rationalistic\nschools is that each fails to see that the function of sensory\nstimulation and thought is relative to reorganizing experience in\napplying the old to the new, thereby maintaining the continuity or\nconsistency of life. The theory of the method of knowing which is\nadvanced in these pages may be termed pragmatic. Its essential feature\nis to maintain the continuity of knowing with an activity which\npurposely modifies the environment. It holds that knowledge in its\nstrict sense of something possessed consists of our intellectual\nresources--of all the habits that render our action intelligent. Only\nthat which has been organized into our disposition so as to enable us to\nadapt the environment to our needs and to adapt our aims and desires\nto the situation in which we live is really knowledge. Knowledge is\nnot just something which we are now conscious of, but consists of the\ndispositions we consciously use in understanding what now happens.\nKnowledge as an act is bringing some of our dispositions to\nconsciousness with a view to straightening out a perplexity, by\nconceiving the connection between ourselves and the world in which we\nlive.\n\nSummary. Such social divisions as interfere with free and full\nintercourse react to make the intelligence and knowing of members of\nthe separated classes one-sided. Those whose experience has to do\nwith utilities cut off from the larger end they subserve are practical\nempiricists; those who enjoy the contemplation of a realm of meanings\nin whose active production they have had no share are practical\nrationalists. Those who come in direct contact with things and have to\nadapt their activities to them immediately are, in effect, realists;\nthose who isolate the meanings of these things and put them in a\nreligious or so-called spiritual world aloof from things are, in effect,\nidealists. Those concerned with progress, who are striving to change\nreceived beliefs, emphasize the individual factor in knowing; those\nwhose chief business it is to withstand change and conserve received\ntruth emphasize the universal and the fixed--and so on. Philosophic\nsystems in their opposed theories of knowledge present an explicit\nformulation of the traits characteristic of these cut-off and one-sided\nsegments of experience--one-sided because barriers to intercourse\nprevent the experience of one from being enriched and supplemented by\nthat of others who are differently situated.\n\nIn an analogous way, since democracy stands in principle for free\ninterchange, for social continuity, it must develop a theory of\nknowledge which sees in knowledge the method by which one experience is\nmade available in giving direction and meaning to another. The recent\nadvances in physiology, biology, and the logic of the experimental\nsciences supply the specific intellectual instrumentalities demanded to\nwork out and formulate such a theory. Their educational equivalent\nis the connection of the acquisition of knowledge in the schools with\nactivities, or occupations, carried on in a medium of associated life.\n\n\n\n\nChapter Twenty-six: Theories of Morals\n\n1. The Inner and the Outer.\n\nSince morality is concerned with conduct, any dualisms which are set\nup between mind and activity must reflect themselves in the theory of\nmorals. Since the formulations of the separation in the philosophic\ntheory of morals are used to justify and idealize the practices employed\nin moral training, a brief critical discussion is in place. It is a\ncommonplace of educational theory that the establishing of character is\na comprehensive aim of school instruction and discipline. Hence it is\nimportant that we should be on our guard against a conception of the\nrelations of intelligence to character which hampers the realization\nof the aim, and on the look-out for the conditions which have to be\nprovided in order that the aim may be successfully acted upon. The first\nobstruction which meets us is the currency of moral ideas which\nsplit the course of activity into two opposed factors, often named\nrespectively the inner and outer, or the spiritual and the physical.\nThis division is a culmination of the dualism of mind and the world,\nsoul and body, end and means, which we have so frequently noted. In\nmorals it takes the form of a sharp demarcation of the motive of\naction from its consequences, and of character from conduct. Motive and\ncharacter are regarded as something purely \"inner,\" existing exclusively\nin consciousness, while consequences and conduct are regarded as outside\nof mind, conduct having to do simply with the movements which carry out\nmotives; consequences with what happens as a result. Different schools\nidentify morality with either the inner state of mind or the outer act\nand results, each in separation from the other. Action with a purpose is\ndeliberate; it involves a consciously foreseen end and a mental weighing\nof considerations pro and eon. It also involves a conscious state of\nlonging or desire for the end. The deliberate choice of an aim and of\na settled disposition of desire takes time. During this time complete\novert action is suspended. A person who does not have his mind made up,\ndoes not know what to do. Consequently he postpones definite action\nso far as possible. His position may be compared to that of a man\nconsidering jumping across a ditch. If he were sure he could or could\nnot make it, definite activity in some direction would occur. But if\nhe considers, he is in doubt; he hesitates. During the time in which a\nsingle overt line of action is in suspense, his activities are confined\nto such redistributions of energy within the organism as will prepare\na determinate course of action. He measures the ditch with his eyes;\nhe brings himself taut to get a feel of the energy at his disposal; he\nlooks about for other ways across, he reflects upon the importance of\ngetting across. All this means an accentuation of consciousness; it\nmeans a turning in upon the individual's own attitudes, powers, wishes,\netc.\n\nObviously, however, this surging up of personal factors into conscious\nrecognition is a part of the whole activity in its temporal development.\nThere is not first a purely psychical process, followed abruptly by\na radically different physical one. There is one continuous behavior,\nproceeding from a more uncertain, divided, hesitating state to a more\novert, determinate, or complete state. The activity at first consists\nmainly of certain tensions and adjustments within the organism; as\nthese are coordinated into a unified attitude, the organism as a whole\nacts--some definite act is undertaken. We may distinguish, of course,\nthe more explicitly conscious phase of the continuous activity as mental\nor psychical. But that only identifies the mental or psychical to mean\nthe indeterminate, formative state of an activity which in its fullness\ninvolves putting forth of overt energy to modify the environment.\n\nOur conscious thoughts, observations, wishes, aversions are important,\nbecause they represent inchoate, nascent activities. They fulfill their\ndestiny in issuing, later on, into specific and perceptible acts. And\nthese inchoate, budding organic readjustments are important because\nthey are our sole escape from the dominion of routine habits and\nblind impulse. They are activities having a new meaning in process\nof development. Hence, normally, there is an accentuation of personal\nconsciousness whenever our instincts and ready formed habits find\nthemselves blocked by novel conditions. Then we are thrown back upon\nourselves to reorganize our own attitude before proceeding to a definite\nand irretrievable course of action. Unless we try to drive our way\nthrough by sheer brute force, we must modify our organic resources to\nadapt them to the specific features of the situation in which we find\nourselves. The conscious deliberating and desiring which precede overt\naction are, then, the methodic personal readjustment implied in activity\nin uncertain situations. This role of mind in continuous activity is not\nalways maintained, however. Desires for something different, aversion to\nthe given state of things caused by the blocking of successful activity,\nstimulates the imagination. The picture of a different state of things\ndoes not always function to aid ingenious observation and recollection\nto find a way out and on. Except where there is a disciplined\ndisposition, the tendency is for the imagination to run loose. Instead\nof its objects being checked up by conditions with reference to their\npracticability in execution, they are allowed to develop because of\nthe immediate emotional satisfaction which they yield. When we find the\nsuccessful display of our energies checked by uncongenial surroundings,\nnatural and social, the easiest way out is to build castles in the air\nand let them be a substitute for an actual achievement which involves\nthe pains of thought. So in overt action we acquiesce, and build up\nan imaginary world in, mind. This break between thought and conduct is\nreflected in those theories which make a sharp separation between mind\nas inner and conduct and consequences as merely outer.\n\nFor the split may be more than an incident of a particular individual's\nexperience. The social situation may be such as to throw the class\ngiven to articulate reflection back into their own thoughts and desires\nwithout providing the means by which these ideas and aspirations can\nbe used to reorganize the environment. Under such conditions, men\ntake revenge, as it were, upon the alien and hostile environment by\ncultivating contempt for it, by giving it a bad name. They seek refuge\nand consolation within their own states of mind, their own imaginings\nand wishes, which they compliment by calling both more real and more\nideal than the despised outer world. Such periods have recurred in\nhistory. In the early centuries of the Christian era, the influential\nmoral systems of Stoicism, of monastic and popular Christianity and\nother religious movements of the day, took shape under the influence of\nsuch conditions. The more action which might express prevailing ideals\nwas checked, the more the inner possession and cultivation of ideals was\nregarded as self-sufficient--as the essence of morality. The external\nworld in which activity belongs was thought of as morally indifferent.\nEverything lay in having the right motive, even though that motive\nwas not a moving force in the world. Much the same sort of situation\nrecurred in Germany in the later eighteenth and early nineteenth\ncenturies; it led to the Kantian insistence upon the good will as\nthe sole moral good, the will being regarded as something complete in\nitself, apart from action and from the changes or consequences effected\nin the world. Later it led to any idealization of existing institutions\nas themselves the embodiment of reason.\n\nThe purely internal morality of \"meaning well,\" of having a good\ndisposition regardless of what comes of it, naturally led to a reaction.\nThis is generally known as either hedonism or utilitarianism. It was\nsaid in effect that the important thing morally is not what a man is\ninside of his own consciousness, but what he does--the consequences\nwhich issue, the charges he actually effects. Inner morality was\nattacked as sentimental, arbitrary, dogmatic, subjective--as giving men\nleave to dignify and shield any dogma congenial to their self-interest\nor any caprice occurring to imagination by calling it an intuition or an\nideal of conscience. Results, conduct, are what counts; they afford\nthe sole measure of morality. Ordinary morality, and hence that of the\nschoolroom, is likely to be an inconsistent compromise of both views.\nOn one hand, certain states of feeling are made much of; the individual\nmust \"mean well,\" and if his intentions are good, if he had the right\nsort of emotional consciousness, he may be relieved of responsibility\nfor full results in conduct. But since, on the other hand, certain\nthings have to be done to meet the convenience and the requirements of\nothers, and of social order in general, there is great insistence upon\nthe doing of certain things, irrespective of whether the individual has\nany concern or intelligence in their doing. He must toe the mark; he\nmust have his nose held to the grindstone; he must obey; he must form\nuseful habits; he must learn self-control,--all of these precepts being\nunderstood in a way which emphasizes simply the immediate thing tangibly\ndone, irrespective of the spirit of thought and desire in which it is\ndone, and irrespective therefore of its effect upon other less obvious\ndoings.\n\nIt is hoped that the prior discussion has sufficiently elaborated the\nmethod by which both of these evils are avoided. One or both of these\nevils must result wherever individuals, whether young or old, cannot\nengage in a progressively cumulative undertaking under conditions which\nengage their interest and require their reflection. For only in such\ncases is it possible that the disposition of desire and thinking should\nbe an organic factor in overt and obvious conduct. Given a consecutive\nactivity embodying the student's own interest, where a definite result\nis to be obtained, and where neither routine habit nor the following of\ndictated directions nor capricious improvising will suffice, and\nthere the rise of conscious purpose, conscious desire, and deliberate\nreflection are inevitable. They are inevitable as the spirit and quality\nof an activity having specific consequences, not as forming an isolated\nrealm of inner consciousness.\n\n2. The Opposition of Duty and Interest. Probably there is no antithesis\nmore often set up in moral discussion than that between acting\nfrom \"principle\" and from \"interest.\" To act on principle is to act\ndisinterestedly, according to a general law, which is above all personal\nconsiderations. To act according to interest is, so the allegation runs,\nto act selfishly, with one's own personal profit in view. It substitutes\nthe changing expediency of the moment for devotion to unswerving moral\nlaw. The false idea of interest underlying this opposition has already\nbeen criticized (See Chapter X), but some moral aspects of the question\nwill now be considered. A clew to the matter may be found in the fact\nthat the supporters of the \"interest\" side of the controversy habitually\nuse the term \"self-interest.\" Starting from the premises that unless\nthere is interest in an object or idea, there is no motive force, they\nend with the conclusion that even when a person claims to be acting from\nprinciple or from a sense of duty, he really acts as he does because\nthere \"is something in it\" for himself. The premise is sound; the\nconclusion false. In reply the other school argues that since man is\ncapable of generous self-forgetting and even self-sacrificing action, he\nis capable of acting without interest. Again the premise is sound, and\nthe conclusion false. The error on both sides lies in a false notion of\nthe relation of interest and the self.\n\nBoth sides assume that the self is a fixed and hence isolated quantity.\nAs a consequence, there is a rigid dilemma between acting for an\ninterest of the self and without interest. If the self is something\nfixed antecedent to action, then acting from interest means trying to\nget more in the way of possessions for the self--whether in the way\nof fame, approval of others, power over others, pecuniary profit, or\npleasure. Then the reaction from this view as a cynical depreciation\nof human nature leads to the view that men who act nobly act with no\ninterest at all. Yet to an unbiased judgment it would appear plain that\na man must be interested in what he is doing or he would not do it. A\nphysician who continues to serve the sick in a plague at almost certain\ndanger to his own life must be interested in the efficient performance\nof his profession--more interested in that than in the safety of his\nown bodily life. But it is distorting facts to say that this interest\nis merely a mask for an interest in something else which he gets by\ncontinuing his customary services--such as money or good repute or\nvirtue; that it is only a means to an ulterior selfish end. The moment\nwe recognize that the self is not something ready-made, but something\nin continuous formation through choice of action, the whole situation\nclears up. A man's interest in keeping at his work in spite of danger to\nlife means that his self is found in that work; if he finally gave up,\nand preferred his personal safety or comfort, it would mean that he\npreferred to be that kind of a self. The mistake lies in making a\nseparation between interest and self, and supposing that the latter\nis the end to which interest in objects and acts and others is a mere\nmeans. In fact, self and interest are two names for the same fact;\nthe kind and amount of interest actively taken in a thing reveals\nand measures the quality of selfhood which exists. Bear in mind that\ninterest means the active or moving identity of the self with a certain\nobject, and the whole alleged dilemma falls to the ground.\n\nUnselfishness, for example, signifies neither lack of interest in\nwhat is done (that would mean only machine-like indifference) nor\nselflessness--which would mean absence of virility and character. As\nemployed everywhere outside of this particular theoretical controversy,\nthe term \"unselfishness\" refers to the kind of aims and objects which\nhabitually interest a man. And if we make a mental survey of the kind\nof interests which evoke the use of this epithet, we shall see that\nthey have two intimately associated features. (i) The generous self\nconsciously identifies itself with the full range of relationships\nimplied in its activity, instead of drawing a sharp line between itself\nand considerations which are excluded as alien or indifferent; (ii)\nit readjusts and expands its past ideas of itself to take in new\nconsequences as they become perceptible. When the physician began\nhis career he may not have thought of a pestilence; he may not have\nconsciously identified himself with service under such conditions. But,\nif he has a normally growing or active self, when he finds that his\nvocation involves such risks, he willingly adopts them as integral\nportions of his activity. The wider or larger self which means inclusion\ninstead of denial of relationships is identical with a self which\nenlarges in order to assume previously unforeseen ties.\n\nIn such crises of readjustment--and the crisis may be slight as well\nas great--there may be a transitional conflict of \"principle\" with\n\"interest.\" It is the nature of a habit to involve ease in the\naccustomed line of activity. It is the nature of a readjusting of habit\nto involve an effort which is disagreeable--something to which a man\nhas deliberately to hold himself. In other words, there is a tendency to\nidentify the self--or take interest--in what one has got used to, and to\nturn away the mind with aversion or irritation when an unexpected thing\nwhich involves an unpleasant modification of habit comes up. Since\nin the past one has done one's duty without having to face such a\ndisagreeable circumstance, why not go on as one has been? To yield to\nthis temptation means to narrow and isolate the thought of the self--to\ntreat it as complete. Any habit, no matter how efficient in the past,\nwhich has become set, may at any time bring this temptation with it. To\nact from principle in such an emergency is not to act on some abstract\nprinciple, or duty at large; it is to act upon the principle of a course\nof action, instead of upon the circumstances which have attended it. The\nprinciple of a physician's conduct is its animating aim and spirit--the\ncare for the diseased. The principle is not what justifies an activity,\nfor the principle is but another name for the continuity of the\nactivity. If the activity as manifested in its consequences is\nundesirable, to act upon principle is to accentuate its evil. And a man\nwho prides himself upon acting upon principle is likely to be a man who\ninsists upon having his own way without learning from experience what\nis the better way. He fancies that some abstract principle justifies\nhis course of action without recognizing that his principle needs\njustification.\n\nAssuming, however, that school conditions are such as to provide\ndesirable occupations, it is interest in the occupation as a whole--that\nis, in its continuous development--which keeps a pupil at his work in\nspite of temporary diversions and unpleasant obstacles. Where there is\nno activity having a growing significance, appeal to principle is either\npurely verbal, or a form of obstinate pride or an appeal to extraneous\nconsiderations clothed with a dignified title. Undoubtedly there are\njunctures where momentary interest ceases and attention flags, and\nwhere reinforcement is needed. But what carries a person over these hard\nstretches is not loyalty to duty in the abstract, but interest in his\noccupation. Duties are \"offices\"--they are the specific acts needed for\nthe fulfilling of a function--or, in homely language--doing one's job.\nAnd the man who is genuinely interested in his job is the man who\nis able to stand temporary discouragement, to persist in the face of\nobstacles, to take the lean with the fat: he makes an interest out of\nmeeting and overcoming difficulties and distraction.\n\n3. Intelligence and Character. A noteworthy paradox often accompanies\ndiscussions of morals. On the one hand, there is an identification of\nthe moral with the rational. Reason is set up as a faculty from which\nproceed ultimate moral intuitions, and sometimes, as in the Kantian\ntheory, it is said to supply the only proper moral motive. On the\nother hand, the value of concrete, everyday intelligence is constantly\nunderestimated, and even deliberately depreciated. Morals is often\nthought to be an affair with which ordinary knowledge has nothing to\ndo. Moral knowledge is thought to be a thing apart, and conscience is\nthought of as something radically different from consciousness. This\nseparation, if valid, is of especial significance for education.\nMoral education in school is practically hopeless when we set up the\ndevelopment of character as a supreme end, and at the same time treat\nthe acquiring of knowledge and the development of understanding, which\nof necessity occupy the chief part of school time, as having nothing\nto do with character. On such a basis, moral education is inevitably\nreduced to some kind of catechetical instruction, or lessons about\nmorals. Lessons \"about morals\" signify as matter of course lessons\nin what other people think about virtues and duties. It amounts to\nsomething only in the degree in which pupils happen to be already\nanimated by a sympathetic and dignified regard for the sentiments of\nothers. Without such a regard, it has no more influence on character\nthan information about the mountains of Asia; with a servile regard, it\nincreases dependence upon others, and throws upon those in authority the\nresponsibility for conduct. As a matter of fact, direct instruction in\nmorals has been effective only in social groups where it was a part of\nthe authoritative control of the many by the few. Not the teaching as\nsuch but the reinforcement of it by the whole regime of which it was\nan incident made it effective. To attempt to get similar results from\nlessons about morals in a democratic society is to rely upon sentimental\nmagic.\n\nAt the other end of the scale stands the Socratic-Platonic teaching\nwhich identifies knowledge and virtue--which holds that no man does evil\nknowingly but only because of ignorance of the good. This doctrine is\ncommonly attacked on the ground that nothing is more common than for a\nman to know the good and yet do the bad: not knowledge, but habituation\nor practice, and motive are what is required. Aristotle, in fact, at\nonce attacked the Platonic teaching on the ground that moral virtue is\nlike an art, such as medicine; the experienced practitioner is better\nthan a man who has theoretical knowledge but no practical experience of\ndisease and remedies. The issue turns, however, upon what is meant by\nknowledge. Aristotle's objection ignored the gist of Plato's teaching to\nthe effect that man could not attain a theoretical insight into the\ngood except as he had passed through years of practical habituation and\nstrenuous discipline. Knowledge of the good was not a thing to be got\neither from books or from others, but was achieved through a prolonged\neducation. It was the final and culminating grace of a mature experience\nof life. Irrespective of Plato's position, it is easy to perceive that\nthe term knowledge is used to denote things as far apart as intimate\nand vital personal realization,--a conviction gained and tested in\nexperience,--and a second-handed, largely symbolic, recognition that\npersons in general believe so and so--a devitalized remote information.\nThat the latter does not guarantee conduct, that it does not profoundly\naffect character, goes without saying. But if knowledge means something\nof the same sort as our conviction gained by trying and testing that\nsugar is sweet and quinine bitter, the case stands otherwise. Every time\na man sits on a chair rather than on a stove, carries an umbrella when\nit rains, consults a doctor when ill--or in short performs any of the\nthousand acts which make up his daily life, he proves that knowledge of\na certain kind finds direct issue in conduct. There is every reason to\nsuppose that the same sort of knowledge of good has a like expression;\nin fact \"good\" is an empty term unless it includes the satisfactions\nexperienced in such situations as those mentioned. Knowledge that other\npersons are supposed to know something might lead one to act so as to\nwin the approbation others attach to certain actions, or at least so\nas to give others the impression that one agrees with them; there is no\nreason why it should lead to personal initiative and loyalty in behalf\nof the beliefs attributed to them.\n\nIt is not necessary, accordingly, to dispute about the proper meaning\nof the term knowledge. It is enough for educational purposes to note\nthe different qualities covered by the one name, to realize that it\nis knowledge gained at first hand through the exigencies of experience\nwhich affects conduct in significant ways. If a pupil learns things\nfrom books simply in connection with school lessons and for the sake of\nreciting what he has learned when called upon, then knowledge will have\neffect upon some conduct--namely upon that of reproducing statements at\nthe demand of others. There is nothing surprising that such \"knowledge\"\nshould not have much influence in the life out of school. But this is\nnot a reason for making a divorce between knowledge and conduct, but for\nholding in low esteem this kind of knowledge. The same thing may be\nsaid of knowledge which relates merely to an isolated and technical\nspecialty; it modifies action but only in its own narrow line. In truth,\nthe problem of moral education in the schools is one with the problem of\nsecuring knowledge--the knowledge connected with the system of impulses\nand habits. For the use to which any known fact is put depends upon its\nconnections. The knowledge of dynamite of a safecracker may be identical\nin verbal form with that of a chemist; in fact, it is different, for it\nis knit into connection with different aims and habits, and thus has a\ndifferent import.\n\nOur prior discussion of subject-matter as proceeding from direct\nactivity having an immediate aim, to the enlargement of meaning found in\ngeography and history, and then to scientifically organized knowledge,\nwas based upon the idea of maintaining a vital connection between\nknowledge and activity. What is learned and employed in an occupation\nhaving an aim and involving cooperation with others is moral knowledge,\nwhether consciously so regarded or not. For it builds up a social\ninterest and confers the intelligence needed to make that interest\neffective in practice. Just because the studies of the curriculum\nrepresent standard factors in social life, they are organs of initiation\ninto social values. As mere school studies, their acquisition has only\na technical worth. Acquired under conditions where their social\nsignificance is realized, they feed moral interest and develop moral\ninsight. Moreover, the qualities of mind discussed under the topic\nof method of learning are all of them intrinsically moral qualities.\nOpen-mindedness, single-mindedness, sincerity, breadth of outlook,\nthoroughness, assumption of responsibility for developing the\nconsequences of ideas which are accepted, are moral traits. The habit\nof identifying moral characteristics with external conformity to\nauthoritative prescriptions may lead us to ignore the ethical value of\nthese intellectual attitudes, but the same habit tends to reduce morals\nto a dead and machinelike routine. Consequently while such an attitude\nhas moral results, the results are morally undesirable--above all in a\ndemocratic society where so much depends upon personal disposition.\n\n4. The Social and the Moral. All of the separations which we have been\ncriticizing--and which the idea of education set forth in the\nprevious chapters is designed to avoid--spring from taking morals too\nnarrowly,--giving them, on one side, a sentimental goody-goody turn\nwithout reference to effective ability to do what is socially needed,\nand, on the other side, overemphasizing convention and tradition so\nas to limit morals to a list of definitely stated acts. As a matter of\nfact, morals are as broad as acts which concern our relationships with\nothers. And potentially this includes all our acts, even though their\nsocial bearing may not be thought of at the time of performance. For\nevery act, by the principle of habit, modifies disposition--it sets up\na certain kind of inclination and desire. And it is impossible to tell\nwhen the habit thus strengthened may have a direct and perceptible\ninfluence on our association with others. Certain traits of character\nhave such an obvious connection with our social relationships that we\ncall them \"moral\" in an emphatic sense--truthfulness, honesty, chastity,\namiability, etc. But this only means that they are, as compared with\nsome other attitudes, central:--that they carry other attitudes with\nthem. They are moral in an emphatic sense not because they are isolated\nand exclusive, but because they are so intimately connected with\nthousands of other attitudes which we do not explicitly recognize--which\nperhaps we have not even names for. To call them virtues in their\nisolation is like taking the skeleton for the living body. The bones\nare certainly important, but their importance lies in the fact that they\nsupport other organs of the body in such a way as to make them capable\nof integrated effective activity. And the same is true of the qualities\nof character which we specifically designate virtues. Morals concern\nnothing less than the whole character, and the whole character is\nidentical with the man in all his concrete make-up and manifestations.\nTo possess virtue does not signify to have cultivated a few namable\nand exclusive traits; it means to be fully and adequately what one is\ncapable of becoming through association with others in all the offices\nof life.\n\nThe moral and the social quality of conduct are, in the last analysis,\nidentical with each other. It is then but to restate explicitly\nthe import of our earlier chapters regarding the social function of\neducation to say that the measure of the worth of the administration,\ncurriculum, and methods of instruction of the school is the extent to\nwhich they are animated by a social spirit. And the great danger which\nthreatens school work is the absence of conditions which make possible\na permeating social spirit; this is the great enemy of effective moral\ntraining. For this spirit can be actively present only when certain\nconditions are met.\n\n(i) In the first place, the school must itself be a community life\nin all which that implies. Social perceptions and interests can be\ndeveloped only in a genuinely social medium--one where there is give and\ntake in the building up of a common experience. Informational statements\nabout things can be acquired in relative isolation by any one who\npreviously has had enough intercourse with others to have learned\nlanguage. But realization of the meaning of the linguistic signs is\nquite another matter. That involves a context of work and play in\nassociation with others. The plea which has been made for education\nthrough continued constructive activities in this book rests upon the\nfact they afford an opportunity for a social atmosphere. In place of a\nschool set apart from life as a place for learning lessons, we have\na miniature social group in which study and growth are incidents of\npresent shared experience. Playgrounds, shops, workrooms, laboratories\nnot only direct the natural active tendencies of youth, but they\ninvolve intercourse, communication, and cooperation,--all extending the\nperception of connections.\n\n(ii) The learning in school should be continuous with that out of\nschool. There should be a free interplay between the two. This is\npossible only when there are numerous points of contact between the\nsocial interests of the one and of the other. A school is conceivable in\nwhich there should be a spirit of companionship and shared activity,\nbut where its social life would no more represent or typify that of the\nworld beyond the school walls than that of a monastery. Social concern\nand understanding would be developed, but they would not be available\noutside; they would not carry over. The proverbial separation of\ntown and gown, the cultivation of academic seclusion, operate in\nthis direction. So does such adherence to the culture of the past as\ngenerates a reminiscent social spirit, for this makes an individual feel\nmore at home in the life of other days than in his own. A professedly\ncultural education is peculiarly exposed to this danger. An idealized\npast becomes the refuge and solace of the spirit; present-day concerns\nare found sordid, and unworthy of attention. But as a rule, the absence\nof a social environment in connection with which learning is a need and\na reward is the chief reason for the isolation of the school; and this\nisolation renders school knowledge inapplicable to life and so infertile\nin character.\n\n\nA narrow and moralistic view of morals is responsible for the failure to\nrecognize that all the aims and values which are desirable in education\nare themselves moral. Discipline, natural development, culture, social\nefficiency, are moral traits--marks of a person who is a worthy member\nof that society which it is the business of education to further. There\nis an old saying to the effect that it is not enough for a man to be\ngood; he must be good for something. The something for which a man must\nbe good is capacity to live as a social member so that what he gets from\nliving with others balances with what he contributes. What he gets and\ngives as a human being, a being with desires, emotions, and ideas, is\nnot external possessions, but a widening and deepening of conscious\nlife--a more intense, disciplined, and expanding realization of\nmeanings. What he materially receives and gives is at most opportunities\nand means for the evolution of conscious life. Otherwise, it is neither\ngiving nor taking, but a shifting about of the position of things in\nspace, like the stirring of water and sand with a stick. Discipline,\nculture, social efficiency, personal refinement, improvement of\ncharacter are but phases of the growth of capacity nobly to share in\nsuch a balanced experience. And education is not a mere means to such a\nlife. Education is such a life. To maintain capacity for such education\nis the essence of morals. For conscious life is a continual beginning\nafresh.\n\nSummary. The most important problem of moral education in the school\nconcerns the relationship of knowledge and conduct. For unless the\nlearning which accrues in the regular course of study affects character,\nit is futile to conceive the moral end as the unifying and culminating\nend of education. When there is no intimate organic connection between\nthe methods and materials of knowledge and moral growth, particular\nlessons and modes of discipline have to be resorted to: knowledge is\nnot integrated into the usual springs of action and the outlook on life,\nwhile morals become moralistic--a scheme of separate virtues.\n\nThe two theories chiefly associated with the separation of learning\nfrom activity, and hence from morals, are those which cut off inner\ndisposition and motive--the conscious personal factor--and deeds\nas purely physical and outer; and which set action from interest\nin opposition to that from principle. Both of these separations are\novercome in an educational scheme where learning is the accompaniment of\ncontinuous activities or occupations which have a social aim and utilize\nthe materials of typical social situations. For under such conditions,\nthe school becomes itself a form of social life, a miniature community\nand one in close interaction with other modes of associated experience\nbeyond school walls. All education which develops power to share\neffectively in social life is moral. It forms a character which not only\ndoes the particular deed socially necessary but one which is interested\nin that continuous readjustment which is essential to growth. Interest\nin learning from all the contacts of life is the essential moral\ninterest.","title":"Democracy and Education: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Education","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":135864}