First of all, Fear. Fear of punishment has always been the great weapon of the teacher, and will always, of course, retain some place in the conditions of the schoolroom. The subject is so familiar that nothing more need be said about it.
The same is true of Love, and the instinctive4 desire to please those whom we love. The teacher who succeeds in getting herself loved by the pupils will obtain results which one of a more forbidding temperament5 finds it impossible to secure.
Next, a word might be said about Curiosity. This is perhaps a rather poor term by which to designate the impulse toward better cognition in its full extent; but you will readily understand what I mean. Novelties in the way of sensible objects, especially if their sensational6 quality is bright, vivid, startling, invariably arrest the attention of the young and hold it until the desire to know more about the object is assuaged7. In its higher, more intellectual form, the impulse toward completer knowledge takes the character of scientific or philosophic8 curiosity. In both its sensational and its intellectual form the instinct is more vivacious9 during childhood and youth than in after life. Young children are possessed10 by curiosity about every new impression that assails11 them. It would be quite impossible for a young child to listen to a lecture for more than a few minutes, as you are now listening to me. The outside sights and sounds would inevitably12 carry his attention off. And, for most people in middle life, the sort of intellectual effort required of the average schoolboy in mastering his Greek or Latin lesson, his algebra13 or physics, would be out of the question. The middle-aged14 citizen attends exclusively to the routine details of his business; and new truths, especially when they require involved trains of close reasoning, are no longer within the scope of his capacity.
The sensational curiosity of childhood is appealed to more particularly by certain determinate kinds of objects. Material things, things that move, living things, human actions and accounts of human action, will win the attention better than anything that is more abstract. Here again comes in the advantage of the object-teaching and manual training methods. The pupil’s attention is spontaneously held by any problem that involves the presentation of a new material object or of an activity on any one’s part. The teacher’s earliest appeals, therefore, must be through objects shown or acts performed or described. Theoretic curiosity, curiosity about the rational relations between things, can hardly be said to awake at all until adolescence16 is reached. The sporadic17 metaphysical inquiries18 of children as to who made God, and why they have five fingers, need hardly be counted here. But, when the theoretic instinct is once alive in the pupil, an entirely19 new order of pedagogic relations begins for him. Reasons, causes, abstract conceptions, suddenly grow full of zest20, a fact with which all teachers are familiar. And, both in its sensible and in its rational developments, disinterested21 curiosity may be successfully appealed to in the child with much more certainty than in the adult, in whom this intellectual instinct has grown so torpid22 as usually never to awake unless it enters into association with some selfish personal interest. Of this latter point I will say more anon.
Imitation. Man has always been recognized as the imitative animal par15 excellence23. And there is hardly a book on psychology24, however old, which has not devoted25 at least one paragraph to this fact. It is strange, however, that the full scope and pregnancy26 of the imitative impulse in man has had to wait till the last dozen years to become adequately recognized. M. Tarde led the way in his admirably original work, “Les Lois de l’Imitation”; and in our own country Professors Royce and Baldwin have kept the ball rolling with all the energy that could be desired. Each of us is in fact what he is almost exclusively by virtue27 of his imitativeness. We become conscious of what we ourselves are by imitating others — the consciousness of what the others are precedes — the sense of self grows by the sense of pattern. The entire accumulated wealth of mankind — languages, arts, institutions, and sciences — is passed on from one generation to another by what Baldwin has called social heredity, each generation simply imitating the last. Into the particulars of this most fascinating chapter of psychology I have no time to go. The moment one hears Tarde’s proposition uttered, however, one feels how supremely29 true it is. Invention, using the term most broadly, and imitation, are the two legs, so to call them, on which the human race historically has walked.
Imitation shades imperceptibly into Emulation. Emulation is the impulse to imitate what you see another doing, in order not to appear inferior; and it is hard to draw a sharp line between the manifestations30 of the two impulses, so inextricably do they mix their effects. Emulation is the very nerve of human society. Why are you, my hearers, sitting here before me? If no one whom you ever heard of had attended a ‘summer school’ or teachers’ institute, would it have occurred to any one of you to break out independently and do a thing so unprescribed by fashion? Probably not. Nor would your pupils come to you unless the children of their parents’ neighbors were all simultaneously31 being sent to school. We wish not to be lonely or eccentric, and we wish not to be cut off from our share in things which to our neighbors seem desirable privileges.
In the schoolroom, imitation and emulation play absolutely vital parts. Every teacher knows the advantage of having certain things performed by whole bands of children at a time. The teacher who meets with most success is the teacher whose own ways are the most imitable. A teacher should never try to make the pupils do a thing which she cannot do herself. “Come and let me show you how” is an incomparably better stimulus32 than “Go and do it as the book directs.” Children admire a teacher who has skill. What he does seems easy, and they wish to emulate33 it. It is useless for a dull and devitalized teacher to exhort34 her pupils to wake up and take an interest. She must first take one herself; then her example is effective, as no exhortation35 can possibly be.
Every school has its tone, moral and intellectual. And this tone is a mere36 tradition kept up by imitation, due in the first instance to the example set by teachers and by previous pupils of an aggressive and dominating type, copied by the others, and passed on from year to year, so that the new pupils take the cue almost immediately. Such a tone changes very slowly, if at all; and then always under the modifying influence of new personalities38 aggressive enough in character to set new patterns and not merely to copy the old. The classic example of this sort of tone is the often quoted case of Rugby under Dr. Arnold’s administration. He impressed his own character as a model on the imagination of the oldest boys, who in turn were expected and required to impress theirs upon the younger set. The contagiousness39 of Arnold’s genius was such that a Rugby man was said to be recognizable all through life by a peculiar40 turn of character which he acquired at school. It is obvious that psychology as such can give in this field no precepts41 of detail. As in so many other fields of teaching, success depends mainly on the native genius of the teacher, the sympathy, tact42, and perception which enable him to seize the right moment and to set the right example.
Among the recent modern reforms of teaching methods, a certain disparagement43 of emulation, as a laudable spring of action in the schoolroom, has often made itself heard. More than a century ago, Rousseau, in his ‘émile,’ branded rivalry44 between one pupil and another as too base a passion to play a part in an ideal education. “Let émile,” he said, “never be led to compare himself to other children. No rivalries45, not even in running, as soon as he begins to have the power of reason. It were a hundred times better that he should not learn at all what he could only learn through jealousy46 or vanity. But I would mark out every year the progress he may have made, and I would compare it with the progress of the following years. I would say to him: ‘You are now grown so many inches taller; there is the ditch which you jumped over, there is the burden which you raised. There is the distance to which you could throw a pebble47, there the distance you could run over without losing breath. See how much more you can do now!’ Thus I should excite him without making him jealous of any one. He would wish to surpass himself. I can see no inconvenience in this emulation with his former self.”
Unquestionably, emulation with one’s former self is a noble form of the passion of rivalry, and has a wide scope in the training of the young. But to veto and taboo48 all possible rivalry of one youth with another, because such rivalry may degenerate49 into greedy and selfish excess, does seem to savor50 somewhat of sentimentality, or even of fanaticism51. The feeling of rivalry lies at the very basis of our being, all social improvement being largely due to it. There is a noble and generous kind of rivalry, as well as a spiteful and greedy kind; and the noble and generous form is particularly common in childhood. All games owe the zest which they bring with them to the fact that they are rooted in the emulous passion, yet they are the chief means of training in fairness and magnanimity. Can the teacher afford to throw such an ally away? Ought we seriously to hope that marks, distinctions, prizes, and other goals of effort, based on the pursuit of recognized superiority, should be forever banished52 from our schools? As a psychologist, obliged to notice the deep and pervasive53 character of the emulous passion, I must confess my doubts.
The wise teacher will use this instinct as he uses others, reaping its advantages, and appealing to it in such a way as to reap a maximum of benefit with a minimum of harm; for, after all, we must confess, with a French critic of Rousseau’s doctrine54, that the deepest spring of action in us is the sight of action in another. The spectacle of effort is what awakens55 and sustains our own effort. No runner running all alone on a race-track will find in his own will the power of stimulation56 which his rivalry with other runners incites57, when he feels them at his heels, about to pass. When a trotting58 horse is ‘speeded,’ a running horse must go beside him to keep him to the pace.
As imitation slides into emulation, so emulation slides into Ambition; and ambition connects itself closely with Pugnacity and Pride. Consequently, these five instinctive tendencies form an interconnected group of factors, hard to separate in the determination of a great deal of our conduct. The Ambitious Impulses would perhaps be the best name for the whole group.
Pride and pugnacity have often been considered unworthy passions to appeal to in the young. But in their more refined and noble forms they play a great part in the schoolroom and in education generally, being in some characters most potent59 spurs to effort. Pugnacity need not be thought of merely in the form of physical combativeness60. It can be taken in the sense of a general unwillingness61 to be beaten by any kind of difficulty. It is what makes us feel ‘stumped’ and challenged by arduous62 achievements, and is essential to a spirited and enterprising character. We have of late been hearing much of the philosophy of tenderness in education; ‘interest’ must be assiduously awakened63 in everything, difficulties must be smoothed away. Soft pedagogics have taken the place of the old steep and rocky path to learning. But from this lukewarm air the bracing64 oxygen of effort is left out. It is nonsense to suppose that every step in education can be interesting. The fighting impulse must often be appealed to. Make the pupil feel ashamed of being scared at fractions, of being ‘downed’ by the law of falling bodies; rouse his pugnacity and pride, and he will rush at the difficult places with a sort of inner wrath65 at himself that is one of his best moral faculties66. A victory scored under such conditions becomes a turning-point and crisis of his character. It represents the high-water mark of his powers, and serves thereafter as an ideal pattern for his self-imitation. The teacher who never rouses this sort of pugnacious67 excitement in his pupils falls short of one of his best forms of usefulness.
The next instinct which I shall mention is that of Ownership, also one of the radical68 endowments of the race. It often is the antagonist69 of imitation. Whether social progress is due more to the passion for keeping old things and habits or to the passion of imitating and acquiring new ones may in some cases be a difficult thing to decide. The sense of ownership begins in the second year of life. Among the first words which an infant learns to utter are the words ‘my’ and ‘mine,’ and woe70 to the parents of twins who fail to provide their gifts in duplicate. The depth and primitiveness71 of this instinct would seem to cast a sort of psychological discredit72 in advance upon all radical forms of communistic utopia. Private proprietorship73 cannot be practically abolished until human nature is changed. It seems essential to mental health that the individual should have something beyond the bare clothes on his back to which he can assert exclusive possession, and which he may defend adversely74 against the world. Even those religious orders who make the most stringent75 vows76 of poverty have found it necessary to relax the rule a little in favor of the human heart made unhappy by reduction to too disinterested terms. The monk77 must have his books: the nun78 must have her little garden, and the images and pictures in her room.
In education, the instinct of ownership is fundamental, and can be appealed to in many ways. In the house, training in order and neatness begins with the arrangement of the child’s own personal possessions. In the school, ownership is particularly important in connection with one of its special forms of activity, the collecting impulse. An object possibly not very interesting in itself, like a shell, a postage stamp, or a single map or drawing, will acquire an interest if it fills a gap in a collection or helps to complete a series. Much of the scholarly work of the world, so far as it is mere bibliography79, memory, and erudition (and this lies at the basis of all our human scholarship), would seem to owe its interest rather to the way in which it gratifies the accumulating and collecting instinct than to any special appeal which it makes to our cravings after rationality. A man wishes a complete collection of information, wishes to know more about a subject than anybody else, much as another may wish to own more dollars or more early editions or more engravings before the letter than anybody else.
The teacher who can work this impulse into the school tasks is fortunate. Almost all children collect something. A tactful teacher may get them to take pleasure in collecting books; in keeping a neat and orderly collection of notes; in starting, when they are mature enough, a card catalogue; in preserving every drawing or map which they may make. Neatness, order, and method are thus instinctively80 gained, along with the other benefits which the possession of the collection entails81. Even such a noisome82 thing as a collection of postage stamps may be used by the teacher as an inciter83 of interest in the geographical84 and historical information which she desires to impart. Sloyd successfully avails itself of this instinct in causing the pupil to make a collection of wooden implements85 fit for his own private use at home. Collecting is, of course, the basis of all natural history study; and probably nobody ever became a good naturalist86 who was not an unusually active collector when a boy.
Constructiveness is another great instinctive tendency with which the schoolroom has to contract an alliance. Up to the eighth or ninth year of childhood one may say that the child does hardly anything else than handle objects, explore things with his hands, doing and undoing87, setting up and knocking down, putting together and pulling apart; for, from the psychological point of view, construction and destruction are two names for the same manual activity. Both signify the production of change, and the working of effects, in outward things. The result of all this is that intimate familiarity with the physical environment, that acquaintance with the properties of material things, which is really the foundation of human consciousness. To the very last, in most of us, the conceptions of objects and their properties are limited to the notion of what we can do with them. A ‘stick’ means something we can lean upon or strike with; ‘fire,’ something to cook, or warm ourselves, or burn things up withal; ‘string,’ something with which to tie things together. For most people these objects have no other meaning. In geometry, the cylinder88, circle, sphere, are defined as what you get by going through certain processes of construction, revolving89 a parallelogram upon one of its sides, etc. The more different kinds of things a child thus gets to know by treating and handling them, the more confident grows his sense of kinship with the world in which he lives. An unsympathetic adult will wonder at the fascinated hours which a child will spend in putting his blocks together and rearranging them. But the wise education takes the tide at the flood, and from the kindergarten upward devotes the first years of education to training in construction and to object-teaching. I need not recapitulate90 here what I said awhile back about the superiority of the objective and experimental methods. They occupy the pupil in a way most congruous with the spontaneous interests of his age. They absorb him, and leave impressions durable91 and profound. Compared with the youth taught by these methods, one brought up exclusively by books carries through life a certain remoteness from reality: he stands, as it were, out of the pale, and feels that he stands so; and often suffers a kind of melancholy92 from which he might have been rescued by a more real education.
There are other impulses, such as love of approbation93 or vanity, shyness and secretiveness, of which a word might be said; but they are too familiar to need it. You can easily pursue the subject by your own reflection. There is one general law, however, that relates to many of our instinctive tendencies, and that has no little importance in education; and I must refer to it briefly94 before I leave the subject. It has been called the law of transitoriness in instincts. Many of our impulsive95 tendencies ripen96 at a certain period; and, if the appropriate objects be then and there provided, habits of conduct toward them are acquired which last. But, if the objects be not forthcoming then, the impulse may die out before a habit is formed; and later it may be hard to teach the creature to react appropriately in those directions. The sucking instincts in mammals, the following instinct in certain birds and quadrupeds, are examples of this: they fade away shortly after birth.
In children we observe a ripening97 of impulses and interests in a certain determinate order. Creeping, walking, climbing, imitating vocal98 sounds, constructing, drawing, calculating, possess the child in succession; and in some children the possession, while it lasts, may be of a semi-frantic and exclusive sort. Later, the interest in any one of these things may wholly fade away. Of course, the proper pedagogic moment to work skill in, and to clench99 the useful habit, is when the native impulse is most acutely present. Crowd on the athletic100 opportunities, the mental arithmetic, the verse-learning, the drawing, the botany, or what not, the moment you have reason to think the hour is ripe. The hour may not last long, and while it continues you may safely let all the child’s other occupations take a second place. In this way you economize101 time and deepen skill; for many an infant prodigy102, artistic103 or mathematical, has a flowering epoch104 of but a few months.
One can draw no specific rules for all this. It depends on close observation in the particular case, and parents here have a great advantage over teachers. In fact, the law of transitoriness has little chance of individualized application in the schools.
Such is the little interested and impulsive psychophysical organism whose springs of action the teacher must divine, and to whose ways he must become accustomed. He must start with the native tendencies, and enlarge the pupil’s entire passive and active experience. He must ply28 him with new objects and stimuli105, and make him taste the fruits of his behavior, so that now that whole context of remembered experience is what shall determine his conduct when he gets the stimulus, and not the bare immediate37 impression. As the pupil’s life thus enlarges, it gets fuller and fuller of all sorts of memories and associations and substitutions; but the eye accustomed to psychological analysis will discern, underneath106 it all, the outlines of our simple psychophysical scheme.
Respect then, I beg you, always the original reactions, even when you are seeking to overcome their connection with certain objects, and to supplant107 them with others that you wish to make the rule. Bad behavior, from the point of view of the teacher’s art, is as good a starting-point as good behavior. In fact, paradoxical as it may sound to say so, it is often a better starting-point than good behavior would be.
The acquired reactions must be made habitual108 whenever they are appropriate. Therefore Habit is the next subject to which your attention is invited.
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1
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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pugnacity
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| n.好斗，好战 | |
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constructiveness
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| 组织，构造 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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contagiousness
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| [医] （接）触（传）染性 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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rivalries
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| n.敌对，竞争，对抗( rivalry的名词复数 ) | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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incites
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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combativeness
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| n.好战 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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primitiveness
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| 原始，原始性 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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adversely
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| ad.有害地 | |
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stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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bibliography
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| n.参考书目；(有关某一专题的)书目 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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inciter
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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economize
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| v.节约，节省 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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stimuli
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| n.刺激（物） | |
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106
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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