Eduardo Jr Arellano Quintana

Chapter 6 Education as Conservative and Progressive Education as Formation. We now come to a type of theory that denies the existence of faculties and emphasizes the unique role of subject matter in the development of mental and moral disposition. According to it, education is neither a process of unfolding from within nor is it a training of faculties resident in the mind itself. It is rather the formation of the mind by setting up certain associations or connections of content using a subject matter presented from without. Education proceeds by instruction taken in a strictly literal sense, a building into the mind from without. That education is formative of mind is not questioned; it is the conception already propounded. But formation here has a technical meaning dependent upon the idea of something operating from without. Herbart is the best historical representative of this type of theory. He denies absolutely the existence of innate faculties. The mind is simply endowed with the power to produce various qualities in reaction to the various realities that act upon it. These qualitatively different reactions are called presentations (Vorstellungen). Every presentation once called into being persists; it may be driven below the "threshold" of consciousness by new and stronger presentations, produced by the reaction of the soul to new material, but its activity continues by its inherent momentum, below the surface of consciousness. What are termed faculties—attention, memory, thinking, perception, and even sentiments—are arrangements, associations, and complications formed by the interaction of these submerged presentations with one another and with new presentations. Perception, for example, is the complication of presentations that result from the rise of old presentations to greet and combine with new ones; memory is the evoking of an old presentation above the threshold of consciousness by getting entangled with another presentation, etc. Pleasure is the result of reinforcement among the independent activities of presentations; the pain of their pulling in different ways, etc. The concrete character of the mind consists, then, wholly of the various arrangements formed by the various presentations in their different qualities. The "furniture" of the mind is the mind. Mind is wholly a matter of "contents." The educational implications of this doctrine are threefold. (1) This or that kind of mind is formed by the use of objects that evoke this or that kind of reaction and produce this or that arrangement among the reactions called out. The formation of the mind is wholly a matter of the presentation of the proper educational materials. (2) Since the earlier presentations constitute the "apperceiving organs," which control the assimilation of new presentations, their character is all important. The effect of new presentations is to reinforce groupings previously formed. The business of the educator is, first, to select the proper material to fix the nature of the original reactions and, secondly, to arrange the sequence of subsequent presentations based on the store of ideas secured by prior transactions. The control is from behind, from the past, instead of, as in the unfolding conception, from the ultimate goal. (3) Certain formal steps of all methods in teaching may be laid down. Presentation of new subject matter is the central thing, but since knowing consists in the way in which this interacts with the contents already submerged below consciousness, the first thing is the step of "preparation," that is, calling into special activity and getting above the floor of consciousness those older presentations that are to assimilate the new one. Then, after the presentation, follow the processes of interaction between new and old; then comes the application of the newly formed content to the performance of some task. Everything must go through this course; consequently, there is a perfectly uniform method of instruction in all subjects for all pupils of all ages. Herbart's great service lay in taking the work of teaching out of the region of routine and accident. He brought it into the sphere of conscious method; it became a conscious business with a definite aim and procedure instead of being a compound of casual inspiration and subservience to tradition. Moreover, everything in teaching and discipline could be specified, instead of our having to be content with vague and more or less mystic generalities about ultimate ideals and speculative spiritual symbols. He abolished the notion of ready-made faculties, which might be trained by exercise upon any sort of material, and made attention to concrete subject matter, to the content, which was all-important. Herbart undoubtedly has had a greater influence in bringing to the front questions connected with the material of study than any other educational philosopher. He stated problems of method from the standpoint of their connection with subject matter: method has to do with the manner and sequence of presenting new subject matter to ensure its proper interaction with old. The fundamental theoretical defect of this view lies in ignoring the existence in a living being of active and specific functions that are developed in the redirection and combination that occur as they are occupied with their environment. The theory represents the schoolmaster coming to his own. This fact expresses at once its strength and its weakness. The conception that the mind consists of what has been taught and that the importance of what has been taught consists in its availability for further teaching reflects the pedagogue's view of life. The philosophy is eloquent about the duty of the teacher in instructing pupils; it is almost silent regarding his privilege of learning. It emphasizes the influence of the intellectual environment upon the mind; it slurs over the fact that the environment involves a personal sharing of common experiences. It exaggerates beyond reason the possibilities of consciously formulated and used methods and underestimates the role of vital, unconscious attitudes. It insists on the old and the past and passes lightly over the operation of the genuinely novel and unforeseeable. It takes, in brief, everything educational into account, saves its essence—vital energy-seeking opportunities for effective exercise. All education forms character, both mental and moral, but formation consists in the selection and coordination of native activities so that they may utilize the subject matter of the social environment. Moreover, the formation is not only a formation of native activities; it takes place through them. It is a process of reconstruction and reorganization. Education as Recapitulation and Retrospection. A peculiar combination of the ideas of development and formation from without has given rise to the recapitulation theory of education, both biological and cultural. The individual develops, but his proper development consists of repeating, in orderly stages, the past evolution of animal life and human history. The former recapitulation occurs physiologically; the latter should be made to occur using education. The alleged biological truth that the individual in his growth from the simple embryo to maturity repeats the history of the evolution of animal life in the progress of forms from the simplest to the most complex (or, technically, that ontogenesis parallels phylogenesis) does not concern us, save as it is supposed to afford a scientific foundation for cultural recapitulation of the past. Cultural recapitulation says, first, that children at a certain age are in the mental and moral condition of savagery; their instincts are vagrant and predatory because their ancestors at one time lived such a life. Consequently, it is concluded that the proper subject matter of their education at this time is the material—especially the literary material of myths, folktales, and songs—produced by humanity in the analogous stage. Then the child passes on to something corresponding, say, to the pastoral stage, and so on till, at the time when he is ready to take part in contemporary life, he arrives at the present epoch of culture. In this detailed and consistent form, the theory, outside of a small school in Germany (followers of Herbart for the most part), has had little currency. But the idea that underlies it is that education is essentially retrospective, that it looks primarily to the past and especially to the literary products of the past, and that the mind is adequately formed in the degree to which it is patterned upon the spiritual heritage of the past. This idea has had such immense influence on higher education, especially, that it is worth examination in its extreme formulation. In the first place, its biological basis is fallacious. The embryonic growth of the human infant preserves, without doubt, some of the traits of lower forms of life. But in no respect is it a strict traversing of past stages. If there were any strict "law" of repetition, evolutionary development would not have taken place. Each new generation would simply have repeated its predecessors' existence. Development, in short, has taken place through the entrance of shortcuts and alterations in the prior scheme of growth. And this suggests that education aims to facilitate such shortcircuited growth. The great advantage of immaturity, educationally speaking, is that it enables us to emancipate the young from the need to dwell in an outgrown past. The business of education is rather to liberate the young from reviving and retroverting the past than to lead them to a recapitulation of it. The social environment of the young is constituted by the presence and action of the habits of thinking and feeling of civilized men. To ignore the directive influence of this present environment on the young is simply to abdicate the educational function. A biologist has said: "The history of development in different animals... offers to us... a series of ingenious, determined, varied but more or less unsuccessful efforts to escape from the necessity of recapitulating and to substitute for the ancestral method a more direct method." Surely it would be foolish if education did not deliberately attempt to facilitate similar efforts in conscious experience so that they become increasingly successful. The two factors of truth in the conception may easily be disentangled from association with the false context that perverts them. On the biological side, we have simply the fact that any infant starts with precisely the assortment of impulsive activities with which he does start, they being blind, and many of them conflicting with one another, casual, sporadic, and unadopted to their immediate environment. The other point is that it is a part of wisdom to utilize the products of history so far as they are of help for the future. Since they represent the results of prior experience, their value for future experience may, of course, be indefinitely great. Literature produced in the past is, so far as men are now in possession and use of them, a part of the present environment of individuals, but there is an enormous difference between availing ourselves of them as present resources and taking them as standards and patterns in their retrospective character. (1) The distortion of the first point usually comes about through misuse of the idea of heredity. It is assumed that heredity means that past life has somehow predetermined the main traits of an individual and that they are so fixed that little serious change can be introduced into them. Thus taken, the influence of heredity is opposed to that of the environment, and the efficacy of the latter is belittled. But for educational purposes, heredity means neither more nor less than the original endowment of an individual. Education must take the being as he is; that a particular individual has just such and such equipment for native activities is a basic fact. That they were produced in such and such a way, or that they are derived from one's ancestry, is not especially important for the educator; however, it may be for the biologist, as compared with the fact that they now exist. Suppose one had to advise or direct a person regarding his inheritance of property. The fallacy of assuming that the fact that it is an inheritance predetermines its future use is obvious. The advisor is concerned with making the best use of what is there, putting it to work under the most favorable conditions. He cannot utilize what is not there; neither can the educator. In this sense, heredity is a limitation of education. Recognition of this fact prevents the waste of energy and the irritation that ensues from the too-prevalent habit of trying to make something out of an individual that he is not naturally fit to become. However, the doctrine does not determine what use will be made of the capacities that exist. And, except in the case of the imbecile, these original capacities are much more varied and potential, even in the case of the more stupid, than we as yet know properly how to utilize. Consequently, while a careful study of the native aptitudes and deficiencies of an individual is always a preliminary necessity, the subsequent and important step is to furnish an environment that will adequately function for whatever activities are present. The relation between heredity and environment is well expressed in the case of language. If a being had no vocal organs from which to issue articulate sounds, no auditory or other sense receptors, and no connections between the two sets of apparatus, it would be a sheer waste of time to try to teach him to converse. He is born short in that respect, and education must accept the limitation. But if he has this native equipment, its possession in no way guarantees that he will ever speak any language or what language he will speak. The environment in which his activities occur and by which they are carried into execution settles these things. If he lived in a dumb, unsocial environment where men refused to talk to one another and used only the minimum of gestures without which they could not get along, his vocal language would be as unachieved as if he had no vocal organs. If the sounds that he makes occur among people speaking the Chinese language, the activities that make sounds will be selected and coordinated. This illustration may be applied to the entire range of the educability of any individual. It places the heritage from the past in its right connection with the demands and opportunities of the present. (2) The theory that the proper subject matter of instruction is found in the culture-products of past ages (either in general or more specifically in the particular literature that was produced in the culture epoch, which is supposed to correspond with the stage of development of those taught) affords another instance of that divorce between the process and product of growth, which has been criticized. To keep the process alive—to keep it alive in ways that make it easier to keep it alive in the future—is the function of educational subject matter. But an individual can live only in the present. The present is not just something that comes after the past, much less something produced by it. It is what life is about—leaving the past behind. The study of past products will not help us understand the present, because the present is not due to the products but to the life of which they were the products. Knowledge of the past and its heritage is of great significance when it enters the present, but not otherwise. The mistake of making the records and remains of the past the main material of education is that it cuts the vital connection between present and past and tends to make the past a rival of the present and the present a more or less futile imitation of the past. Under such circumstances, culture becomes an ornament and solace; a refuge and an asylum. Men escape from the crudities of the present to live in their imagined refinements instead of using what the past offers as an agency for ripening these crudities. The present, in short, generates the problems that lead us to search the past for suggestions and which supply meaning to what we find when we search. The past is the past precisely because it does not include what is characteristic of the present. The moving present includes the past on the condition that it uses the past to direct its movement. The past is a great resource for the imagination; it adds a new dimension to life, but OD requires that it be seen as the past of the present and not as another disconnected world. The principle that makes little of the present act of living and the operation of growing, the only thing always present, naturally looks to the past because the future goal that it sets up is remote and empty. But having turned its back on the present, it has no way of returning to it laden with the spoils of the past. A mind that is adequately sensitive to the needs and occasions of the present will have the liveliest of motives for interest in the background of the present and will never have to hunt for a way back because it will never have lost connection. Education as Reconstruction. In contrast with the ideas of unfolding latent powers from within and of formation from without, whether by physical nature or by the cultural products of the past, the idea of growth results in the conception that education is a constant reorganizing or reconstructing of experience. It has always had an immediate end, and so far as activity is educative, it reaches that end—the direct transformation of the quality of experience. Infancy, youth, and adulthood all stand on the same educational level in the sense that what is learned at any and every stage of experience constitutes the value of that experience, and in the sense that it is the chief business of life at every point to make living thus contribute to an enrichment of its perceptible meaning. We thus reach a technical definition of education: it is the reconstruction or reorganization of experience that adds to the meaning of experience and increases the ability to direct the course of subsequent experience. (1) The increment of meaning corresponds to the increased perception of the connections and continuities of the activities in which we are engaged. The activity begins in an impulsive form; that is, it is blind. It does not know what it is about—that is, what are its interactions with other activities? An activity that brings education or instruction along with it makes one aware of some of the imperceptible connections. To return to our simple example, a child who reaches for a bright light gets burned. Henceforth, he knows that a certain act of touching in connection with a certain act of vision (and vice versa) means heat and pain, or that a certain light means a source of heat. The acts by which a scientific man in his laboratory learns more about flame differ no whit in principle. By doing certain things, he makes perceptible certain connections of heat with other things that had been previously ignored. Thus, his acts about these things get more meaning; he knows better what he is doing or "is about" when he has to do with them; he can intend consequences instead of just letting them happen—all synonymous ways of saying the same thing. At the same stroke, the flame has gained meaning; all that is known about combustion, oxidation, light, and temperature may become an intrinsic part of its intellectual content. (2) The other side of an educational experience is the added power of subsequent direction or control. To say that one knows what he is about or can intend certain consequences is to say, of course, that he can better anticipate what is going to happen and that he can, therefore, get ready or prepare in advance to secure beneficial consequences and avert undesirable ones. A genuinely educative experience, then, one in which instruction is conveyed and ability increased, is contradistinguished from a routine activity on the one hand and a capricious activity on the other. (a) In the latter, one "does not care what happens"; one just lets himself go and avoids connecting the consequences of one's act (the evidence of its connections with other things) with the act. It is customary to frown upon such aimless random activity, treating it as willful mischief, carelessness, or lawlessness. But there is a tendency to seek the cause of such aimless activities in the youth's disposition, isolated from everything else. But in fact, such activity is explosive and due to maladjustment with the surroundings. Individuals act capriciously whenever they act under external dictation or from being told, without having a purpose of their own or perceiving the bearing of the deed upon other acts. One may learn by doing something that he does not understand; even in the most intelligent action, we do much that we do not mean because the largest portion of the connections of the act we consciously intend are not perceived or anticipated. But we learn only because, after the act is performed, we note results that we had not noted before. But much work in school consists of setting up rules by which pupils are to act of such a sort that even after pupils have acted, they are not led to see the connection between the result—say, the answer—and the method pursued. So far as they are concerned, the whole thing is a trick and a kind of miracle. Such action is essentially capricious and leads to capricious habits. (b) Routine action, which is automatic, may increase the skill to do a particular thing. So far, it might be said to have an educational effect. But it does not lead to new perceptions of bearings and connections; it limits rather than widens the meaning horizon. And since the environment changes and our way of acting has to be modified to successfully keep a balanced connection with things, an isolated, uniform way of acting becomes disastrous at some critical moments. The vaunted "skill" turns out to be gross ineptitude. The essential contrast of the idea of education as continuous reconstruction with the other one-sided conceptions that have been criticized in this and the previous chapters is that it identifies the end (the result) and the process. This is verbally selfcontradictory, but only verbally. It means that experience as an active process occupies time and that its later period completes its earlier portion; it brings to light connections involved but hitherto unperceived. The later outcome thus reveals the meaning of the earlier, while the experience as a whole establishes a bent or disposition toward the things possessing this meaning. Every such continuous experience or activity is educative, and all education resides in having such experiences. It remains only to point out (which will receive more ample attention later) that the reconstruction of experience may be social as well as personal. For purposes of simplification, we have spoken in the earlier chapters somewhat as if the education of the immature, which fills them with the spirit of the social group to which they belong, was a sort of catching up of the child with the aptitudes and resources of the adult group. In static societies, societies that make the maintenance of established customs their measure of value, this conception applies in the main. But not in progressive communities. They endeavor to shape the experiences of the young so that instead of reproducing current habits, better habits will be formed, and thus the future adult society will be an improvement on its own. Men have long had some inkling of the extent to which education may be consciously used to eliminate obvious social evils by starting the young on paths that will not produce these ills and some idea of the extent to which education may be made an instrument for realizing the better hopes of men. But we are doubtless far from realizing the potential efficacy of education as a constructive agency for improving society, from realizing that it represents not only the development of children and youth but also of the future society of which they will be the constituents. Chapter 7 The Democratic Conception in Education For the most part, save incidentally, we have hitherto been concerned with education as it may exist in any social group. We have now to make explicit the differences in the spirit, material, and method of education as it operates in different types of community life. To say that education is a social function, securing direction and development in the immature through their participation in the life of the group to which they belong, is to say in effect that education will vary with the quality of life which prevails in a group. Particularly is it true that a society that not only changes but which has the ideal of such change as will improve it, will have different standards and methods of education from one that aims simply at the perpetuation of its customs? To make the general ideas set forth applicable to our educational practice, it is, therefore, necessary to come to closer quarters with the nature of present social life. The Implications of Human Association. Society is one word, but many things. Men associate together in various ways and for all kinds of purposes. One man is concerned with a multitude of diverse groups, in which his associates may be quite different. It often seems as if they have nothing in common except that they are modes of associated life. Within every larger social organization, there are numerous minor groups: not only political subdivisions but industrial, scientific, religious, associations. There are political parties with differing aims, social sets, cliques, gangs, corporations, partnerships, groups bound closely together by ties of blood, and so on in endless variety. In many modern states and some ancient, there is a great diversity of populations, of varying languages, religions, moral codes, and traditions. From this standpoint, many a minor political unit, one of our large cities, for example, is a congeries of loosely associated societies, rather than an inclusive and permeating community of action and thought. (See ante, p. 20.) The terms society, community, are thus ambiguous. They have both a eulogistic or normative sense and a descriptive sense; a meaning de jure and a meaning de facto. In social philosophy, the former connotation is almost always uppermost. Society is conceived as one by its very nature. The qualities that accompany this unity, a praiseworthy community of purpose and welfare, loyalty to public ends, and mutuality of sympathy, are emphasized. But when we look at the facts that the term denotes instead of confining our attention to its intrinsic connotation, we find not unity, but a plurality of societies, good and bad. Men banded together in a criminal conspiracy, business aggregations that prey upon the public while serving it, and political machines held together by the interest of plunder, are included. If it is said that such organizations are not societies because they do not meet the ideal requirements of the notion of society, the answer, in part, is that the conception of society is then made so "ideal" as to be of no use, having no reference to facts; and in part, that each of these organizations, no matter how opposed to the interests of other groups, has something of the praiseworthy qualities of "Society" which hold it together. There is honor among thieves, and a band of robbers has a common interest concerning its members. Gangs are marked by fraternal feeling, and narrow cliques by intense loyalty to their codes. Family life may be marked by exclusiveness, suspicion, and jealousy as to those without, and yet be a model of amity and mutual aid within. Any education given by a group tends to socialize its members, but the quality and value of the socialization depends upon the habits and aims of the group. Hence, once more, a need for a measure of the worth of any given mode of social life. In seeking this measure, we have to avoid two extremes. We cannot set up, out of our heads, something we regard as an ideal society. We must base our conception upon societies that exist, to have any assurance that our ideal is a practicable one. But, as we have just seen, the ideal cannot simply repeat the traits which are found. The problem is to extract the desirable traits of forms of community life that exist and employ them to criticize undesirable features and suggest improvement. Now in any social group whatever, even in a gang of thieves, we find some interest held in common, and we find a certain amount of interaction and cooperative intercourse with other groups. From these two traits, we derive our standard. How numerous and varied are the interests which are consciously shared? How full and free is the interplay with other forms of association? If we apply these considerations to, say, a criminal band, we find that the ties which consciously hold the members together are few, reducible almost to a common interest in plunder; and that they are of such a nature as to isolate the group from other groups to give and take of the values of life. Hence, the education such a society gives is partial and distorted. If we take, on the other hand, the kind of family life that illustrates the standard, we find that there are material, intellectual, and aesthetic interests in which all participate and that the progress of one member is worth the experience of other members - it is readily communicable - and that the family is not an isolated whole, but enters intimately into relationships with business groups, with schools, with all the agencies of culture, as well as with other similar groups, and that it plays a due part in the political organization and return receives support from it. In short, there are many interests consciously communicated and shared; and there are varied and free points of contact with other modes of association. I. Let us apply the first element in this criterion to a despotically governed state. It is not true that there is no common interest in such an organization between the governed and the governors. The authorities in command must make some appeal to the native activities of the subjects and must call some of their powers into play. Talleyrand said that a government could do everything with bayonets except sit on them. This cynical declaration is at least a recognition that the bond of union is not merely one of coercive force. It may be said, however, that the activities appealed to are themselves unworthy and degrading—that such a government calls into functioning activity simply the capacity for fear. In a way, this statement is true. But it overlooks that fear need not be an undesirable factor in experience. Caution, circumspection, prudence, and the desire to foresee future events to avert what is harmful—these desirable traits are as much a product of calling the impulse of fear into play as are cowardice and abject submission. The real difficulty is that the appeal to fear is isolated. In evoking dread and hope of a specific tangible reward—say, comfort and ease—many other capacities are left untouched. Or rather, they are affected, but in such a way as to pervert them. Instead of operating on their account, they are reduced to mere servants, attaining pleasure and avoiding pain. This is equivalent to saying that there is no extensive number of common interests; there is no free play back and forth among the members of the social group. Stimulation and response are exceedingly one-sided. To have a large number of values in common, all the members of the group must have an equal opportunity to receive and take from others. There must be a large variety of shared undertakings and experiences. Otherwise, the influences that educate some into masters also educate others into slaves. And the experience of each party loses meaning when the free interchange of varying modes of life experience is arrested. A separation between the privileged and the subject class prevents social endosmosis. The evils affecting the superior class are less material and less perceptible, but equally real. Their culture tends to be sterile, to be turned back to feed on itself; their art becomes a showy display and artificial; their wealth is luxurious; their knowledge is overspecialized; and their manners are fastidious rather than humane. The lack of free and equitable intercourse, which springs from a variety of shared interests, makes intellectual stimulation unbalanced. Diversity of stimulation means novelty, and novelty means a challenge to thought. The more activity is restricted to a few definite lines—as it is when rigid class lines are preventing adequate interplay of experiences—the more action tends to become routine on the part of the class at a disadvantage and capricious, aimless, and explosive on the part of the class having the materially fortunate position. Plato defined a slave as one who accepts from another the purposes that control his conduct. This condition exists even where there is no slavery in the legal sense. It is found wherever men are engaged in activity that is socially serviceable but whose service they do not understand and have no personal interest in. Much is said about the scientific management of work. It is a narrow view that restricts the science that secures the efficiency of operation to movements of the muscles. The chief opportunity for science is the discovery of the relations of a man to his work, including his relations to others who take part, which will enlist his intelligent interest in what he is doing. Production efficiency often demands the division of labor. However, it is reduced to a mechanical routine unless workers see the technical, intellectual, and social relationships involved in what they do and engage in their work because of the motivation furnished by such perceptions. The tendency to reduce such things as efficiency of activity and scientific management to purely technical externals is evidence of the one-sided stimulation of thought given to those in control of industry—those who supply its aims. Because of their lack of all-round and wellbalanced social interest, there is not sufficient stimulus for attention to the human factors and relationships in industry. Intelligence is narrowed to the factors concerned with the technical production and marketing of goods. No doubt, a very acute and intense intelligence in these narrow lines can be developed, but the failure to take into account the significant social factors means nonetheless an absence of mind and a corresponding distortion of emotional life. II. This illustration, whose point is to be extended to all associations lacking reciprocity of interest, brings us to our second point. The isolation and exclusiveness of a gang or clique bring its antisocial spirit into relief. But this same spirit is found wherever one group has interests "of its own," which shut it out from full interaction with other groups so that its prevailing purpose is the protection of what it has instead of reorganization and progress through wider relationships. It marks nations in their isolation from one another; families, which seclude their domestic concerns as if they had no connection with a larger life; schools, when separated from the interests of home and community; the divisions of rich and poor; and learned and unlearned. The essential point is that isolation makes for rigidity and formal institutionalizing of life, for static and selfish ideals within the group. The fact that savage tribes regard aliens and enemies as synonymous is not accidental. It springs from the fact that they have identified their experience with rigid adherence to their past customs. On such a basis, it is wholly logical to fear intercourse with others, for such contact might dissolve custom. It would certainly occasion reconstruction. It is commonplace that an alert and expanding mental life depends upon an enlarging range of contact with the physical environment. But the principle applies even more significantly to the field where we are apt to ignore it—the sphere of social contacts. Every expansive era in the history of mankind has coincided with the operation of factors that have tended to eliminate the distance between peoples and classes previously hemmed off from one another. Even the alleged benefits of war, so far as they are more than alleged, spring from the fact that conflict among peoples at least enforces intercourse between them and thus accidentally enables them to learn from one another and thereby expand their horizons. Travel, economic, and commercial tendencies have at present gone far to break down external barriers and bring people and classes into closer and more perceptible connections with one another. It remains, for the most part, to secure the intellectual and emotional significance of this physical annihilation of space. The Democratic Ideal. The two elements in our criteria both point to democracy. The first signifies not only more numerous and more varied points of shared common interest but also greater reliance upon the recognition of mutual interests as a factor in social control. The second means not only freer interaction between social groups (once isolated so far as intention could keep up a separation) but also change in social habits—its continuous readjustment through meeting the new situations produced by varied intercourse. And these two traits are precisely what characterizes a democratically constituted society. On the educational side, we note first that the realization of a form of social life in which interests are mutually interpenetrating and where progress, or readjustment, is an important consideration makes a democratic community more interested than other communities have cause to be in deliberate and systematic education. The devotion of democracy to education is a familiar fact. The superficial explanation is that a government resting on popular suffrage cannot be successful unless those who elect and obey their governors are educated. Since a democratic society repudiates the principle of external authority, it must find a substitute in voluntary disposition and interest; these can be created only by education. But there is a deeper explanation. A democracy is more than a form of government; it is primarily a mode of associated living, of jointly communicated experience. The extension in space of the number of individuals who participate in interest so that each has to refer his action to that of others and to consider the action of others to give point and direction to his own is equivalent to the breaking down of those barriers of class, race, and national territory that kept men from perceiving the full import of their activity. These more numerous and more varied points of contact denote a greater diversity of stimuli to which an individual has to respond; they consequently put a premium on variation in his action. They secure a liberation of powers that remain suppressed as long as the invitations to action are partial, as they must be in a group that, in its exclusivity, shuts out many interests. The widening of the area of shared concerns and the liberation of a greater diversity of personal capacities that characterize a democracy is, of course, not the products of deliberation and conscious effort. On the contrary, they were caused by the development of modes of manufacture and commerce, travel, migration, and intercommunication, which flowed from the command of science over natural energy. But after greater individualization on the one hand and a broader community of interest on the other have come into existence, it is a matter of deliberate effort to sustain and extend them. A society in which stratification into separate classes would be fatal must see to it that intellectual opportunities are accessible to all on equitable and easy terms. A society marked off into classes needs to be especially attentive only to the education of its ruling elements. A mobile society, which is full of channels for the distribution of change occurring anywhere, must see to it that its members are educated in personal initiative and adaptability. Otherwise, they will be overwhelmed by the changes in which they are caught and whose significance or connections they do not perceive. The result will be a confusion in which a few will appropriate to themselves the results of the blind and externally directed activities of others. The Platonic Educational Philosophy. Subsequent chapters will be devoted to making explicit the implications of democratic ideas in education. In the remaining portions of this chapter, we shall consider the educational theories that have evolved in three epochs when the social import of education was especially conspicuous. The first one to be considered is that of Plato. No one could better express than he the fact that a society is stably organized when each individual is doing that for which he has aptitude by nature in such a way as to be useful to others (or to contribute to the whole to which he belongs) and that it is the business of education to discover these aptitudes and progressively to train them for social use. Much that has been said so far is borrowed from what Plato first consciously taught the world. However, conditions that he could not intellectually control led him to restrict these ideas in their application. He never had any conception of the indefinite plurality of activities that may characterize an individual and a social group and consequently limited his view to a limited number of classes of capacities and social arrangements. Plato's starting point is that the organization of society depends ultimately upon knowledge of the end of existence. If we do not know its end, we shall be at the mercy of accident and caprice. Unless we know the end, the good, we shall have no criterion for rationally deciding what the possibilities are that should be promoted or how social arrangements are to be ordered. We shall have no conception of the proper limits and distribution of activities—what he called justice—as a trait of both individual and social organization. But how is the knowledge of the final and permanent good to be achieved? In dealing with this question, we come upon the seemingly insurmountable obstacle that such knowledge is not possible, save in a just and harmonious social order. Everywhere else, the mind is distracted and misled by false valuations and false perspectives. A disorganized and factional society sets up several different models and standards. Under such conditions, the individual can't attain consistency of mind. Only a complete whole is fully self-consistent. A society that rests on the supremacy of some factor over another, irrespective of its rational or proportionate claims, inevitably leads thought astray. It puts a premium on certain things and slurs over others, and it creates a mind whose seeming unity is forced and distorted. Education proceeds ultimately from the patterns furnished by institutions, customs, and laws. Only in a just state will these be such as to give the right education, and only those who have rightly trained minds will be able to recognize the end and ordering principle of things. We seem to be caught in a hopeless circle. However, Plato suggested a way out. A few men, philosophers, or lovers of wisdom or truth may, by study, learn at least in outline the proper patterns of true existence. If a powerful ruler should form a state after these patterns, then its regulations could be preserved. An education could be given that would sift individuals, discover what they were good for, and supply a method of assigning each to the work in life for which his nature fits him. Each doing his part and never transgressing, the order and unity of the whole would be maintained. It would be impossible to find in any scheme of philosophic thought a more adequate recognition, on the one hand, of the educational significance of social arrangements and, on the other, of the dependence of those arrangements upon the means used to educate the young. It would be impossible to find a deeper sense of the function of education in discovering and developing personal capacities and training them so that they would connect with the activities of others. Yet the society in which the theory was propounded was so undemocratic that Plato could not work out a solution for the problem, whose terms he saw. While he affirmed with emphasis that the place of the individual in society should not be determined by birth, wealth, or any conventional status but by his nature, as discovered in the process of education, he had no perception of the uniqueness of individuals. For him, they fall by nature into classes, and into a very small number of classes at that. Consequently, the testing and sifting function of education only shows to which one of three classes an individual belongs. There is no recognition that each individual constitutes his class; there is no recognition of the infinite diversity of active tendencies and combinations of tendencies of which an individual is capable. There were only three types of faculties or powers in an individual's constitution. Hence, education would soon reach a static limit in each class, for only diversity makes change and progress. In some individuals, appetites naturally dominate; they are assigned to the laboring and trading class, which expresses and supplies human wants. Others reveal, upon education, that over and above appetites, they have a generous, outgoing, assertively courageous disposition. They become the citizen subjects of the state, its defenders in war, and its internal guardians in peace. But their limit is fixed by their lack of reason, which is a capacity to grasp the universal. Those who possess this are capable of the highest kind of education and will, in time, become the legislators of the state, for laws are the universals that control the particulars of experience. Thus, it is not true that, in intent, Plato subordinated the individual to the social whole. But it is true that, lacking the perception of the uniqueness of every individual, his incommensurability with others, and consequently not recognizing that society might change and yet be stable, his doctrine of limited powers and classes had a net effect on the idea of the subordination of individuality. We cannot better Plato's conviction that an individual is happy and society is well organized when each individual engages in those activities for which he has natural equipment, nor his conviction that it is the primary office of education to discover this equipment for its possessor and train him for its effective use. But progress in knowledge has made us aware of the superficiality of Plato's lumping of individuals and their original powers into a few sharply markedoff classes; it has taught us those original capacities are indefinitely numerous and variable. It is but the other side of this fact to say that in the degree to which society has become democratic, social organization means utilization of the specific and variable qualities of individuals, not stratification by classes. Although his educational philosophy was revolutionary, it was nonetheless bound to static ideals. He thought that change or alteration was evidence of lawless flux and that true reality was unchangeable. Hence, while he would radically change the existing state of society, he aimed to construct a state in which change would subsequently have no place. The end of life is fixed; given a state framed with this end in view, not even minor details are to be altered. Though they might not be inherently important, if permitted, they would ensure the minds of men to the idea of change and hence be dissolving and anarchic. The breakdown of his philosophy is made apparent by the fact that he could not trust gradual improvements in education to bring about a better society, which should then improve education, and so on indefinitely. Correct education could not come into existence until an ideal state existed, and after that, education would be devoted simply to its conservation. For the existence of this state, he was obliged to trust some happy accident by which philosophic wisdom should coincide with the possession of ruling power in the state. The "Individualistic" Ideal of the Eighteenth Century. In eighteenth-century philosophy, we find ourselves in a very different circle of ideas. "Nature" still means something antithetical to existing social organization; Plato exercised a great influence upon Rousseau. But the voice of nature now speaks for the diversity of individual talent and the need for the free development of individuality in all its variety. Education by nature furnishes the goal and the method of instruction and discipline. Moreover, the native or original endowment was conceived, in extreme cases, as nonsocial or even antisocial. Social arrangements were thought of as mere external expedients by which these nonsocial individuals might secure a greater amount of private happiness for themselves. Nevertheless, these statements convey only an inadequate idea of the true significance of the movement. In reality, its chief interest was in progress and social progress. The seeming antisocial philosophy was a somewhat transparent mask for an impetus toward a wider and freer society—toward cosmopolitanism. The positive ideal was humanity. In membership in humanity, as distinct from a state, man's capacities would be liberated; while in existing political organizations, his powers were hampered and distorted to meet the requirements and selfish interests of the rulers of the state. The doctrine of extreme individualism was but the counterpart, the obverse, of ideals of the indefinite perfectibility of man and a social organization having a scope as wide as humanity. The emancipated individual was to become the organ and agent of a comprehensive and progressive society. The heralds of this gospel were acutely conscious of the evils of the social estate in which they found themselves. They attributed these evils to the limitations imposed upon the free powers of man. Such limitations were both distorting and corrupting. Their impassioned devotion to the emancipation of life from external restrictions operated to the exclusive advantage of the class to whom a past feudal system consigned power found intellectual formulation in a worship of nature. To give "nature" full swing was to replace an artificial, corrupt, and inequitable social order with a new and better kingdom of humanity. Unrestrained faith in nature as both a model and a working power was strengthened by the advances of natural science. Inquiry freed from prejudice and artificial restraints of church and state revealed that the world is a scene of law. The Newtonian solar system, which expressed the reign of natural law, was a scene of wonderful harmony, where every force balanced with every other. Natural law would accomplish the same result in human relations if men only got rid of the artificial, man-imposed coercive restrictions. Education as a National and as a Social. As soon as the first enthusiasm for freedom waned, the weakness of the theory on the constructive side became obvious. Merely leaving everything to nature was, after all, to negate the very idea of education; it was to trust in the accidents of circumstance. Not only was some method required but also some positive organ, some administrative agency for carrying on the process of instruction. The "complete and harmonious development of all powers," having as its social counterpart an enlightened and progressive humanity, required a definite organization for its realization. Private individuals here and there could proclaim the gospel; they could not execute the work. Pestalozzi could try experiments and exhort philanthropically inclined people with wealth and power to follow his example. But even Pestalozzi saw that any effective pursuit of the new educational ideal required the support of the state. The realization of the new education destined to produce a new society was, after all, dependent upon the activities of existing states. The movement for the democratic idea inevitably became a movement for publicly conducted and administered schools. So far as Europe was concerned, the historic situation identified the movement for state-supported education with the nationalistic movement in political life—a fact of incalculable significance for subsequent movements. Under the influence of German thought in particular, education became a civic function and the civic function was identified with the realization of the ideal of the national state. The "state" was substituted for humanity; cosmopolitanism gave way to nationalism. To form the citizen, not the "man," became the aim of education. The historical situation to which reference is made is the after-effects of the Napoleonic conquests, especially in Germany. The German states felt (and subsequent events demonstrate the correctness of the belief) that systematic attention to education was the best means of recovering and maintaining their political integrity and power. Externally, they were weak and divided. Under the leadership of Prussian statesmen, they made this condition a stimulus to the development of an extensive and thoroughly grounded system of public education. This change in practice brought about a change in theory. The individualistic theory receded into the background. The state furnished not only the instrumentalities of public education but also its goal. When the actual practice was such that the school system, from the elementary grades through the university faculties, supplied the patriotic citizen and soldier and the future state official and administrator and furnished the means for military, industrial, and political defense and expansion, it was impossible for theory not to emphasize the aim of social efficiency. And with the immense importance attached to the nationalistic state, surrounded by other competing and more or less hostile states, it was equally impossible to interpret social efficiency in terms of a vague cosmopolitan humanitarianism. Since the maintenance of a particular national sovereignty required the subordination of individuals to the superior interests of the state both in military defense and in struggles for international supremacy in commerce, social efficiency was understood to imply a similar subordination. The educational process was taken to be one of disciplinary training rather than personal development. Since, however, the idea of culture as the complete development of personality persisted, educational philosophy attempted a reconciliation of the two ideas. The reconciliation took the form of the conception of the "organic" character of the state. The individual in his isolation is nothing; only through an absorption of the aims and meaning of organized institutions does he attain true personality. What appears to be his subordination to political authority and the demand for sacrifice of himself to the commands of his superiors is, in reality, making his objective reason manifested in the state—the only way in which he can become truly rational. The notion of development, which we have seen to be characteristic of institutional idealism (as in the Hegelian philosophy), was just such a deliberate effort to combine the two ideas of complete realization of personality and thoroughgoing "disciplinary" subordination to existing institutions. The extent of the transformation of educational philosophy that occurred in Germany in the generation occupied by the struggle against Napoleon for national independence may be gathered from Kant, who well expresses the earlier individual cosmopolitan ideal. In his treatise on pedagogics, consisting of lectures given in the later years of the eighteenth century, he defines education as the process by which man becomes man. Mankind begins its history submerged in nature—not as man, who is a creature of reason, while nature furnishes only instinct and appetite. Nature offers simply the germs that education is to develop and perfect. The peculiarity of truly human life is that man has to create himself by his voluntary efforts; he has to make himself a truly moral, rational, and free being. This creative effort is carried on by the educational activities of slow generations. Its acceleration depends upon men consciously striving to educate their successors, not for the existing state of affairs but to make possible a better future for humanity. But there is a great difficulty. Each generation is inclined to educate its young to get along in the present world instead of with a view to the proper end of education: the promotion of the best possible realization of humanity as humanity. Parents educate their children so that they may get on; princes educate their subjects as instruments of their purposes. Who, then, shall conduct education so that humanity may improve? We must depend upon the efforts of enlightened men in their private capacities. "All culture begins with private men and spreads outward from them. Simply through the efforts of persons of enlarged inclinations, who are capable of grasping the ideal of a future better condition, is the gradual approximation of human nature to its end possible. Rulers are simply interested in such training as will make their subjects better tools for their intentions." Even the subsidy by rulers of privately conducted schools must be carefully safeguarded. The rulers' interest in the welfare of their nation instead of what is best for humanity will make them, if they give money for the schools, wish to draw their plans. In this view, we have an express statement of the points characteristic of eighteenth-century individualistic cosmopolitanism. The full development of private personality is identified with the aims of humanity as a whole and with the idea of progress. In addition, we have an explicit fear of the hampering influence of stateconducted and state-regulated education on the attainment of these ideas. But in less than two decades after this time, Kant's philosophic successors, Fichte and Hegel, elaborated the idea that the chief function of the state is education, that in particular, the regeneration of Germany is to be accomplished by an education carried on in the interests of the state, and that the private individual is of necessity an egoistic, irrational being, enslaved to his appetites and circumstances unless he submits voluntarily to the educative discipline of state institutions and laws. In this spirit, Germany was the first country to undertake a public, universal, and compulsory system of education extending from the primary school through the university and to submit to jealous state regulation and supervision of all private educational enterprises. Two results should stand out from this brief historical survey. The first is that such terms as the individual and the social conceptions of education are quite meaningless taken at large or apart from their context. Plato had the ideal of an education that should equate individual realization with social coherency and stability. His situation forced his ideal into the notion of a society organized in stratified classes, losing the individual in the class. The eighteenth-century educational philosophy was highly individualistic in form, but this form was inspired by a noble and generous social ideal: that of a society organized to include humanity and provide for the indefinite perfectibility of mankind. The idealistic philosophy of Germany in the early nineteenth century endeavored again to equate the ideals of free and complete development of a cultured personality with social discipline and political subordination. It made the national state an intermediary between the realization of private personality on one side and humanity on the other. Consequently, it is equally possible to state its animating principle with equal truth either in the classic terms of "harmonious development of all the powers of personality" or in the more recent terminology of "social efficiency." All this reinforces the statement that opens this chapter: The conception of education as a social process and function has no definite meaning until we define the kind of society we have in mind. These considerations pave the way for our second conclusion. One of the fundamental problems of education in and for a democratic society is the conflict between a nationalistic and a wider social aim. The earlier cosmopolitan and "humanitarian" conception suffered both from vagueness and from a lack of definite organs of execution and agencies of administration. In Europe, in the Continental States particularly, the new idea of the importance of education for human welfare and progress was captured by national interests and harnessed to do a work whose social aim was narrow and exclusive. The social aim of education and its national aim were identified, and the result was a marked obscuring of the meaning of a social aim. This confusion corresponds to the existing situation of human intercourse. On the one hand, science, commerce, and art transcend national boundaries. They are largely international in quality and method. They involve interdependence and cooperation among the people inhabiting different countries. At the same time, the idea of national sovereignty has never been as accentuated in politics as it is at present. Each nation lives in suppressed hostility and incipient war with its neighbors. Each is supposed to be the supreme judge of its interests, and it is assumed, of course, that each has interests that are exclusively its own. To question this is to question the very idea of national sovereignty, which is assumed to be basic to political practice and political science. This contradiction (for it is nothing less) between the wider sphere of associated and mutually helpful social life and the narrower sphere of exclusive and hence potentially hostile pursuits and purposes exacts in educational theory a clearer conception of the meaning of "social" as a function and test of education than has yet been attained. Is it possible for an educational system to be conducted by a national state and yet the full social ends of the educational process not be restricted, constrained, and corrupted? Internally, the question has to face the tendencies, due to present economic conditions, that split society into classes, some of which are merely tools for the higher culture of others. Externally, the question is concerned with the reconciliation of national loyalty and patriotism with superior devotion to the things that unite men for common ends, irrespective of national political boundaries. Neither phase of the problem can be worked out by merely negative means. It is not enough to see to it that education is not actively used as an instrument to make easier the exploitation of one class by another. School facilities must be secured of such amplitude and efficiency as will in fact and not simply in name discount the effects of economic inequalities, and secure to all the wards of the nation equality of equipment for their future careers. The accomplishment of this end demands not only adequate administrative provision of school facilities and such supplementation of family resources as will enable youth to take advantage of them but also such modification of traditional ideals of culture, traditional subjects of study, and traditional methods of teaching and discipline as will retain all the youth under educational influences until they are equipped to be masters of their own economic and social careers. The ideal may seem remote from execution, but the democratic ideal of education is a farcical yet tragic delusion, except as the ideal more and more dominates our public system of education. The same principle applies to the considerations that concern the relations of one nation to another. It is not enough to teach the horrors of war and to avoid everything that would stimulate international jealousy and animosity. The emphasis must be put on whatever binds people together in cooperative human pursuits and results, apart from geographical limitations. The secondary and provisional character of national sovereignty concerning the fuller, freer, and more fruitful association and intercourse of all human beings with one another must be instilled as a working disposition of mind. If these applications seem to be remote from a consideration of the philosophy of education, the impression shows that the meaning of the idea of education previously developed has not been adequately grasped. This conclusion is bound up with the very idea of education as a freeing of individual capacity in a progressive growth directed to social aims. Otherwise, a democratic criterion of education can only be inconsistently applied. Chapter 8 Aims in Education The Nature of an Aim. The account of education given in our earlier chapters virtually anticipated the results reached in a discussion of the purpose of education in a democratic community. It is assumed that education aims to enable individuals to continue their education, or that the object and reward of learning is continued capacity for growth. Now this idea cannot be applied to all the members of a society except where the intercourse of man with man is mutual and where there is adequate provision for the reconstruction of social habits and institutions using wide stimulation arising from equitably distributed interests. And this means a democratic society. In our search for aims in education, we are not concerned, therefore, with finding an end outside of the educative process to which education is subordinate. Our whole conception forbids it. We are rather concerned with the contrast that exists when aims belong within the process in which they operate and when they are set up from without. The latter state of affairs must be obtained when social relationships are not equitably balanced. For in that case, some portions of the whole social group will find their aims determined by an external dictation; their aims will not arise from the free growth of their own experience, and their nominal aims will be means to more ulterior ends of others than truly their own. Our first question is to define the nature of an aim so far as it falls within an activity, instead of being furnished from without. We approach the definition by contrasting mere results with ends. Any exhibition of energy has results. The wind blows about the sands of the desert; the position of the grains is changed. Here is a result, an effect, but not an end. There is nothing in the outcome that completes or fulfills what went before it. There is a mere spatial redistribution. One state of affairs is just as good as any other. Consequently, there is no basis upon which to select an earlier state of affairs as a beginning, a later state as an end, or to consider what intervenes as a process of transformation and realization. Consider, for example, the activities of bees in contrast with the changes in the sand when the wind blows them about. The results of the bees' actions may be called ends not because they are designed or consciously intended, but because they are true terminations or completions of what has preceded. When the bees gather pollen, make wax, and build cells, each step prepares the way for the next. When cells are built, the queen lays eggs in them; when eggs are laid, they are sealed, and bees brood them and keep them at a temperature required to hatch them. When they are hatched, bees feed the young until they can take care of themselves. Now we are so familiar with such facts that we are apt to dismiss them on the ground that life and instinct are a kind of miraculous thing anyway. Thus, we fail to note what the essential characteristic of the event is, namely, the significance of the temporal place and order of each element; the way each prior event leads into its successor while the successor takes up what is furnished and utilizes it for some other stage, until we arrive at the end, which, as it were, summarizes and finishes off the process. Since aims always relate to results, the first thing to look at when it is a question of aims is whether the work assigned possesses intrinsic continuity. Or is it a mere serial aggregate of acts, first doing one thing and then another? To talk about an educational aim when approximately every act of a pupil is dictated by the teacher when the only order in the sequence of his acts is that which comes from the assignment of lessons and the giving of directions by another is to talk nonsense. It is equally fatal to aim to permit capricious or discontinuous action in the name of spontaneous self-expression. An aim implies an orderly and ordered activity, one in which the order consists of the progressive completion of a process. Given an activity having a period and cumulative growth within the time succession, an aim means foresight in advance of the end or possible termination. If bees anticipated the consequences of their activity and perceived their end in imaginative foresight, they would have the primary element in an aim. Hence, it is nonsense to talk about the aim of education—or any other undertaking—where conditions do not permit foresight of results and do not stimulate a person to look ahead to see what the outcome of a given activity is to be. In the next place, the aim as a foreseen end gives direction to the activity; it is not an idle view of a mere spectator but influences the steps taken to reach the end. Foresight functions in three ways. In the first place, it involves careful observation of the given conditions to see what means are available for reaching the end and to discover the hindrances in the way. In the second place, it suggests the proper order or sequence in the use of means. It facilitates an economical selection and arrangement. In the third place, it chooses alternatives possible. If we can predict the outcome of acting this way or that, we can then compare the value of the two courses of action and pass judgment upon their relative desirability. If we know that stagnant water breeds mosquitoes and that they are likely to carry disease, we can, disliking that anticipated result, take steps to avert it. Since we do not anticipate results as mere intellectual onlookers but as persons concerned with the outcome, we are participants in the process that produces the result. We intervene to bring about this result or that. Of course, these three points are closely connected. We can foresee results only as we make scrutiny of present conditions, and the importance of the outcome supplies the motive for observations. The more adequate our observations, the more varied the scene of conditions and obstructions that present itself, and the more numerous are the alternatives between which choice may be made. In turn, the more numerous the recognized possibilities of the situation or alternatives of action, the more meaning the chosen activity possesses and the more flexibly controllable it is. Where only a single outcome has been thought of, the mind has nothing else to think of; the meaning attached to the act is limited. One only steams ahead toward the mark. Sometimes, such a narrow course may be effective. But if unexpected difficulties present themselves, one does not have as many resources at hand as if he had chosen the same line of action after a broader survey of the possibilities of the field. He cannot make the needed readjustments readily. The net conclusion is that acting with an aim is all about acting intelligently. To foresee the terminus of an act is to have a basis upon which to observe, select, and order objects and our capacities. To do these things means to have a mind, for the mind is precisely an intentional, purposeful activity controlled by the perception of facts and their relationships to one another. To have a mind to do a thing is to foresee a future possibility; it is to have a plan for its accomplishment; it is to note the means that make the plan capable of execution and the obstructions in the way; or, if it is a mind to do the thing and not a vague aspiration, it is to have a plan that takes account of resources and difficulties. The mind can refer to present conditions to future results and future consequences to present conditions. And these traits are just what is meant by having an aim or a purpose. A man is stupid, blind, or unintelligent, lacking in mind— just to the degree in which, in any activity, he does not know what he is about, namely, the probable consequences of his acts. A man is imperfectly intelligent when he contents himself with looser guesses about the outcome than is necessary, just taking a chance with his luck, or when he forms plans apart from studying the actual conditions, including his capacities. Such a relative absence of mind means that our feelings are the measure of what is to happen. To be intelligent, we must "stop, look, and listen" when making the plan of an activity. To identify acting with an aim and intelligent activity is enough to show its value and function in experience. We are only too given to making an entity out of the abstract noun "consciousness." We forget that it comes from the adjective "conscious." To be conscious is to be aware of what we are about; conscious signifies the deliberate, observant, planning traits of activity. Consciousness is nothing that we have that gaze idly on the scene around us or that has impressions made upon it by physical things; it is a name for the purposeful quality of an activity, for the fact that it is directed by an aim. To put it another way, to have an aim is to act with meaning, not like an automatic machine; it is to mean to do something and to perceive the meaning of things in the light of that intent. The Criteria of Good Aims. We may apply the results of our discussion to a consideration of the criteria involved in the correct establishment of aims. (1) The goal set up must be an outgrowth of existing conditions. It must be based on a consideration of what is already going on and the resources and difficulties of the situation. Theories about the proper end of our activities—educational and moral theories—often violate this principle. They assume ends lie outside our activities; ends foreign to the concrete makeup of the situation; ends that issue from some outside source. Then the problem is to bring our activities to bear upon the realization of these externally supplied ends. They are something for which we ought to act. In any case, such "aims" limit intelligence; they are not the expression of mind in foresight, observation, and choice of the better among alternative possibilities. They limit intelligence because, given that it is ready-made, it must be imposed by some authority external to intelligence, leaving the latter with nothing but a mechanical choice of means. (2) We have spoken as if aims could be completely formed before the attempt to realize them. This impression must now be qualified. The aim, as it first emerges, is a mere tentative sketch. The act of striving to realize it tests its worth. If it suffices to direct activity successfully, nothing more is required since its whole function is to set a mark in advance, and at times a mere hint may suffice. But usually, at least in complicated situations, acting upon it brings to light conditions that had been overlooked. This calls for revision of the original aim; it has to be added to and subtracted from. An aim must, then, be flexible; it must be capable of alteration to meet circumstances. An end established externally in the process of action is always rigid. Being inserted or imposed from without is not supposed to have a working relationship with the concrete conditions of the situation. What happens in the course of action neither confirms, refutes, nor alters it? Such an end can only be insisted upon. The failure that results from its lack of adaptation is attributed simply to the perverseness of conditions, not to the fact that the end is not reasonable under the circumstances. The value of a legitimate aim, on the contrary, lies in the fact that we can use it to change conditions. It is a method for dealing with conditions to effect desirable alterations in them. A farmer who should passively accept things just as he finds them would make as great a mistake as he who framed his plans in complete disregard of what soil, climate, etc., permit. One of the evils of an abstract or remote external aim in education is that its very inapplicability in practice makes it likely to react to haphazard snatching at immediate conditions. A good aim is to survey the present state of the pupil’s experiences and form a tentative plan of treatment. This keeps the plan constantly in view and yet modifies it as conditions develop. The aim, in short, is experimental and hence constantly growing as it is tested in action. (3) The aim must always represent a freeing of activities. The term end" is suggestive, for it puts before the mind the termination or conclusion of some process. The only way in which we can define an activity is by putting before ourselves the objects in which it terminates, as one's aim in shooting is the target. But we must remember that the object is only a mark or sign by which the mind specifies the activity one desires to carry out. Strictly speaking, not the target but hitting the target is the end in view; one aims using the target, but also by the sight of the gun. The different objects that are thought of are means of directing the activity. Thus, one aims at, say, a rabbit; what he wants is to shoot straight—a certain kind of activity. Or, if it is the rabbit he wants, it is not rabbit apart from his activity, but as a factor in activity; he wants to eat the rabbit, or to show it as evidence of his marksmanship—he wants to do something with it. The doing with the thing, not the thing in isolation, is his end. The object is but a phase of the active end—continuing the activity successfully. This is what is meant by the phrase used above, "freeing activity." In contrast with fulfilling some process so that activity may go on, stands the static character of an end that is imposed without the activity. It is always conceived of as fixed; it is something to be attained and possessed. When one has such a notion, activity is a mere unavoidable means to something else; it is not significant on its account. As compared with the end, it is a necessary evil, something that must be gone through before one can reach the alone worthwhile object. In other words, the external idea of the aim leads to a separation of means from ends, while an end that grows up within an activity as a plan for its direction is always both ends and means, the distinction being only one of convenience. Every means is a temporary end until we have attained it. Every end becomes a means of carrying activity forward as soon as it is achieved. We call it an end when it marks off the future direction of the activity in which we are engaged, which means when it marks off the present direction. Every divorce of end from means diminishes by that much the significance of the activity and tends to reduce it to a drudgery from which one would escape if he could. A farmer has to use plants and animals to carry on his farming activities. It certainly makes a great difference to his life, whether he is fond of them or whether he regards them merely as means that he has to employ to get something else in which he is alone. In the former case, his entire course of activity is significant; each phase of it has its value. He has the experience of realizing his end at every stage; the postponed aim, or end in view, is merely a sight ahead by which to keep his activity going fully and freely. If he does not look ahead, he is more likely to find himself blocked. The aim is a means of action, as is any other portion of an activity. Applications in Education. There is nothing peculiar about educational aims. They are just like aims in any directed occupation. The educator, like the farmer, has certain things to do, certain resources with which to do them, and certain obstacles with which to contend. The conditions with which the farmer deals, whether obstacles or resources have their structure and operation independently of any purpose of his. Seeds sprout, rain falls, the sun shines, insects devour, blight comes, and the seasons change. His aim is simply to utilize these various conditions to make his activities and their energies work together instead of against one another. It would be absurd if the farmer set up a purpose of farming without any reference to these conditions of soil, climate, characteristics of plant growth, etc. His purpose is simply a foresight of the consequences of his energies connected with those of the things about him, a foresight used to direct his movements from day to day. Foresight into possible consequences leads to a more careful and extensive observation of the nature and performances of the things he had to do and to lay out a plan—that is, of a certain order in the acts to be performed. It is the same with the educator, whether parent or teacher. It is as absurd for the latter to set up his "own" aims as the proper objects of the growth of the children as it would be for the farmer to set up an ideal of farming irrespective of conditions. Aims mean acceptance of responsibility for the observations, anticipations, and arrangements required in carrying out a function, whether farming or educating. Any aim is of value so far as it assists observation, choice, and planning in carrying on activity from moment to moment and hour to hour; if it gets in the way of the individual's common sense (as it will surely do if imposed from without or accepted by authority), it does harm. And it is well to remind ourselves that education, as such, has no aims. Only persons, parents, teachers, etc., have aims, not an abstract idea like education. And consequently, their purposes are indefinitely varied, differing with different children and changing as children grow and with the growth of experience on the part of the one who teaches. Even the most valid aims that can be put into words will, as words, do more harm than good unless one recognizes that they are not aims but rather suggestions to educators as to how to observe, how to look ahead, and how to choose in liberating and directing the energies of the concrete situations in which they find themselves. As a recent writer has said, "To lead this boy to read Scott's novels instead of old Sleuth's stories; to teach this girl to sew; to root out the habit of bullying from John's make-up; to prepare this class to study medicine—these are samples of the millions of aims we have actually before us in the concrete work of education." Bearing these qualifications in mind, we shall proceed to state some of the characteristics found in all good educational aims. (1) An educational aim must be founded upon the intrinsic activities and needs (including original instincts and acquired habits) of the given individual to be educated. The tendency of such an aim as preparation is, as we have seen, to omit existing powers and find the aim in some remote accomplishment or responsibility. In general, there is a disposition to take considerations that are dear to the hearts of adults and set them up as ends, irrespective of the capacities of those educated. There is also an inclination to propound aims that are so uniform as to neglect the specific powers and requirements of an individual, forgetting that all learning is something that happens to an individual at a given time and place. The larger range of perception of the adult is of great value in observing the abilities and weaknesses of the young and deciding what they may amount to. Thus, the artistic capacities of the adult exhibit what certain tendencies of the child are capable of; if we do not have adult achievements, we should be without assurance as to the significance of the drawing, reproducing, modeling, and coloring activities of childhood. So, if it were not for adult language, we would not be able to see the import of the babbling impulses of infancy. But it is one thing to use adult accomplishments as a context in which to place and survey the doings of childhood and youth; it is quite another to set them up as a fixed aim without regard to the concrete activities of those educated. (2) An aim must be capable of translation into a method of cooperating with the activities of those undergoing instruction. It must suggest the kind of environment needed to liberate and organize their capacities. Unless it lends itself to the construction of specific procedures, and unless these procedures test, correct, and amplify the aim, the latter is worthless. Instead of helping with the specific task of teaching, it prevents the use of ordinary judgment in observing and sizing up the situation. It operates to exclude recognition of everything except what squares up with the fixed end in view. Every rigid aim, just because it is rigidly given, seems to render it unnecessary to give careful attention to concrete conditions. Since it must apply anyhow, what is the use of noting details that do not count?? The vice of externally imposed ends has deep roots. Teachers receive them from superior authorities; these authorities accept them based on what is current in the community. The teachers impose them on children. As a first consequence, the intelligence of the teacher is not free; it is confined to receiving the aims laid down from above. Too rarely is the individual teacher so free from the dictation of the authoritative supervisor, textbook on methods, prescribed course of study, etc., that he can let his mind come to close quarters with the pupil's mind and the subject matter. This distrust of the teacher's experience is then reflected in a lack of confidence in the responses of pupils. The latter receive their aims through a double or triple external imposition and are constantly confused by the conflict between the aims that are natural to their own experience at the time and those in which they are taught to acquiesce. Until the democratic criterion of the intrinsic significance of every growing experience is recognized, we shall be intellectually confused by the demand for adaptation to external aims. (3) Educators have to be on their guard against ends that are alleged to be general and ultimate. Every activity, however specific, is, of course, general in its ramified connections, for it leads out indefinitely into other things. So far as a general idea makes us more alive to these connections, it cannot be too general. But "general" also means "abstract," or detached from all specific contexts. Such abstractness means remoteness, which throws us back once more upon teaching and learning as mere means of getting ready for an end disconnected from the means. That education is literally and all the time its reward means that no alleged study or discipline is educative unless it is worthwhile in its immediate having. A truly general aim broadens the outlook; it stimulates one to take more consequences (connections) into account. This means a wider and more flexible observation of means. The more interacting forces, for example, the farmer takes into account, the more varied will be his immediate resources. He will see a greater number of possible starting places and a greater number of ways of getting at what he wants to do. The fuller one's conception of possible future achievements, the less his present activity is tied down to a small number of alternatives. If one knew enough, one could start almost anywhere and sustain his activities continuously and fruitfully. Understanding the term general or comprehensive aim simply in the sense of a broad survey of the field of present activities, we shall take up some of the larger ends that have currency in the educational theories of the day and consider what light they throw upon the immediate concrete and diversified aims, which are always the educator's real concern. We promise (as indeed immediately follows from what has been said) that there is no need to make a choice among them or regard them as competitors. When we come to act tangibly, we have to select or choose a particular act at a particular time, but any number of comprehensive ends may exist without competition since they mean simply different ways of looking at the same scene. One cannot climb several different mountains simultaneously, but the views when different mountains are ascended supplement one another; they do not set up incompatible, competing worlds. Or, putting the matter in a slightly different way, one statement of an end may suggest certain questions and observations, and another statement may suggest another set of questions, calling for other observations. Then, the more general ends we have, the better. One statement will emphasize what other slurs over. What a plurality of hypotheses does for the scientific investigator, a plurality of stated aims may do for the instructor. Chapter 9 Natural Development and Social Efficiency as Aims Nature as Supplying the Aim. We have just pointed out the futility of trying to establish the aim of education as someone's final aim that subordinates all others to itself. We have indicated that since general aims are but prospective points of view from which to survey the existing conditions and estimate their possibilities, we might have any number of them, all consistent with one another. A large number have been stated at different times, all having great local value. The statement of aim is a matter of emphasis at a given time. And we do not emphasize things that do not require emphasis—that is, such things as taking care of themselves fairly well. We tend to frame our statement based on the defects and needs of the contemporary situation; we take for granted, without explicit statement, which would be of no use, whatever is right or approximately so. We frame our explicit aims in terms of some alteration to be brought about. It is, then, a paradox requiring explanation that a given epoch or generation tends to emphasize in its conscious projections just the things that it has least of in fact. A time of domination by authority will call out as a response to the desirability of great individual freedom; one of disorganized individual activities; and the need for social control as an educational aim. The actual and implicit practice and the conscious or stated aim thus balance each other. At different times, such aims as complete living, better methods of language study, the substitution of things for words, social efficiency, personal culture, social service, complete development of personality, encyclopedic knowledge, discipline, aesthetic contemplation, utility, etc. have served. The following discussion takes up three statements of recent influence; certain others have been incidentally discussed in the previous chapters, and others will be considered later in a discussion of knowledge and the values of studies. We begin with the consideration that education is a process of development by nature, taking Rousseau's statement, which opposes natural to social (see ante, p. 91), and then pass over to the antithetical conception of social efficiency, which often opposes social to natural. (1) Educational reformers, disgusted with the conventionality and artificiality of the scholastic methods they find about them, are prone to resorting to nature as a standard. Nature is supposed to furnish the law and the end of development; ours is to follow and conform to her ways. The positive value of this conception lies in the forcible way in which it calls attention to the wrongness of aims that do not have regard to the natural endowment of those educated. Its weakness is the ease with which natural, in the sense of normal, is confused with the physical. The constructive use of intelligence in foresight and contriving is then discounted; we are just to get out of the way and allow nature to do the work. Since no one has stated in the doctrine both its truth and falsity better than Rousseau, we shall turn to him. "Education," he says, "we receive from three sources - Nature, men, and things. The spontaneous development of our organs and capacities constitutes the education of Nature. The use to which we are taught to put this development constitutes that education given to us by Men. The acquirement of personal experience from surrounding objects constitutes that of things. Only when these three kinds of education are consonant and make for the same end, does a man tend towards his true goal. If we are asked what is this end, the answer is that of Nature. For since the concurrence of the three kinds of education is necessary to their completeness, the kind which is entirely independent of our control must necessarily regulate us in determining the other two." Then he defines Nature to mean the capacities and dispositions which are inborn, "as they exist before the modification due to constraining habits and the influence of the opinion of others." The wording of Rousseau will repay careful study. It contains as fundamental truths as have been uttered about education in conjunction with a curious twist. It would be impossible to say better than what is said in the first sentences. The three factors of educative development are (a) the native structure of our bodily organs and their functional activities; (b) the uses to which the activities of these organs are put under the influence of other persons; and (c) their direct interaction with the environment. This statement certainly covers the ground. His other two propositions are equally sound, namely, (a) that only when the three factors of education are consonant and cooperative does adequate development of the individual occur, and (b) that the native activities of the organs, being original, are basic in conceiving consonance. But it requires a little reading between the lines, supplemented by other statements of Rousseau, to perceive that instead of regarding these three things as factors that must work together to some extent so that any one of them may proceed educationally, he regards them as separate and independent operations. Especially does he believe that there is an independent and, as he says, "spontaneous" development of the native organs and faculties. He thinks that this development can go on irrespective of the use to which they are put. And it is to this separate development that education coming from social contact is to be subordinated. Now there is an immense difference between the use of native activities per those activities themselves—as distinct from forcing them and perverting them—and supposing that they have a normal development apart from any use, which development furnishes the standard and norm of all learning by use. To recur to our previous illustration, the process of acquiring language is a practically perfect model of proper educational growth. The start is from native activities of the vocal apparatus, organs of hearing, etc. But it is absurd to suppose that these have an independent growth of their own, which, left to itself, would evolve into a perfect speech. Taken literally, Rousseau's principle would mean that adults should accept and repeat the babblings and noises of children not merely as the beginnings of the development of articulate speech— which they are—but as furnishing language itself—the standard for all teaching of language. The point may be summarized by saying that Rousseau was right, introducing a much-needed reform into education, in holding that the structure and activities of the organs furnish the conditions of all teaching of the use of the organs, but profoundly wrong in intimating that they supply not only the conditions but also the ends of their development. The native activities develop, in contrast with random and capricious exercise, through the uses to which they are put. And the office of the social medium is, as we have seen, to direct growth by putting its powers to the best possible use. The instinctive activities may be called, metaphorically, spontaneous, in the sense that the organs give a strong bias for a certain sort of operation—a bias so strong that we cannot go contrary to it, though by trying to go contrary, we may pervert, stunt, and corrupt them. But the notion of a spontaneous normal development of these activities is pure mythology. The natural, or native, powers furnish the initiating and limiting forces in all education; they do not furnish its ends or aims. There is no learning except from the beginning in unlearned powers, but learning is not a matter of the spontaneous overflow of the unlearned powers. Rousseau's contrary opinion is doubtless since he identified God with nature; to him, the original powers are wholly good, coming directly from a wise and good creator. To paraphrase the old saying about the country and the town, God made the original human organs and faculties, and man makes the uses to which they are put. Consequently, the development of the former furnishes the standard to which the latter must be subordinated. When men attempt to determine the uses to which the original activities shall be put, they interfere with a divine plan. The interference of social arrangements with nature, and God's work, is the primary source of corruption in individuals. Rousseau's passionate assertion of the intrinsic goodness of all-natural tendencies was a reaction against the prevalent notion of the total depravity of innate human nature and has had a powerful influence in modifying the attitude toward children's interests. But it is hardly necessary to say that primitive impulses are of themselves neither good nor evil but become one or the other according to the objects for which they are employed. There can be no doubt that neglect, suppression, and premature forcing of some instincts at the expense of others are responsible for many avoidable ills. But the moral is not to leave them alone to follow their own "spontaneous development," but to provide an environment that will organize them. Returning to the elements of truth contained in Rousseau's statements, we find that natural development, as an aim, enables him to point out the means of correcting many evils in current practices and to indicate some desirable, specific aims. (1) Natural development as an aim fixes attention on the bodily organs and the need for health and vigor. The aim of natural development says to parents and teachers: Make health an aim; normal development cannot be had without regard to the vigor of the body—an obvious enough fact and yet one whose due recognition in practice would almost automatically revolutionize many of our educational practices. "Nature" is indeed a vague and metaphorical term, but one thing that "Nature" may be said to utter is that there are conditions of educational efficiency, and that till we have learned what these conditions are and have learned to make our practices accord with them, the noblest and most ideal of our aims are doomed to suffer—are verbal and sentimental rather than efficacious. (2) The aim of natural development translates into the aim of respect for physical mobility. In Rousseau's words, "Children are always in motion; a sedentary life is injurious." When he says that "Nature intends to strengthen the body before exercising the mind," he hardly states the fact fairly. But if he had said that nature's "intention" (to adopt his poetical form of speech) is to develop the mind, especially by exercising the muscles of the body, he would have stated a positive fact. In other words, the aim of following nature means, in concrete terms, regard for the actual part played by the use of the bodily organs in explorations, in the handling of materials, in plays, and games. (3) The general aim translates into the aim of regard for individual differences among children. Nobody can take the principle of consideration of native powers into account without being struck by the fact that these powers differ in different individuals. The difference applies not merely to their intensity but even more to their quality and arrangement. As Rousseau said: "Each individual is born with a distinctive temperament. We indiscriminately employ children of different bents on the same exercises; their education destroys the special bent and leaves a dull uniformity. Therefore, after we have wasted our efforts in stunting the true gifts of nature, we see the short-lived and illusory brilliance we have substituted die away, while the natural abilities we have crushed do not revive." Lastly, the aim of following nature is to note the origin, waxing, and waning of preferences and interests. Capacities bud and bloom irregularly; there is no even fourabreast development. We must strike while the iron is hot. Especially precious are the first dawning of power. More than we imagine, how the tendencies of early childhood are treated fix fundamental dispositions and condition the turn taken by powers that show themselves later. Educational concern with the early years of life, as distinct from the inculcation of useful arts, dates almost entirely from the time of the emphasis by Pestalozzi and Froebel, following Rousseau, on natural principles of growth. The irregularity of growth and its significance is indicated in the following passage by a student of the growth of the nervous system. "While growth continues, things bodily and mentally are lopsided, for growth is never general but is accentuated now at one spot, at another. The methods that shall recognize in the presence of these enormous differences of endowment the dynamic values of natural inequalities of growth and utilize them, preferring irregularity to the rounding outgained by pruning, will most closely follow that which takes place in the body and thus prove most effective." Observation of natural tendencies is difficult under conditions of restraint. They show themselves most readily in a child's spontaneous sayings and doings—that is, in those he engages in when not put to set tasks and when not aware of being under observation. It does not follow that these tendencies are all desirable because they are natural, but it does follow that since they are there, they are operative and must be taken into account. We must see to it that the desirable ones have an environment that keeps them active and that their activity shall control the direction the others take and thereby induce the disuse of the latter because they lead to nothing. Many tendencies that trouble parents when they appear are likely to be transitory, and sometimes too much direct attention to them only fixes a child's attention on them. At all events, adults too easily assume their habits and wishes as standards and regard all deviations from children's impulses as evils to be eliminated. That artificiality against which the conception of following nature is so largely a protest is the outcome of attempts to force children directly into the mold of grown-up standards. In conclusion, we note that the early history of the idea of following nature combined two factors that had no inherent connection with one another. Before the time of Rousseau, educational reformers were inclined to urge the importance of education by ascribing practically unlimited power to it. All the differences between people and between classes and persons among the same people were said to be due to differences in training, exercise, and practice. Originally, mind, reason, and understanding were, for all practical purposes, the same. This essential identity of mind means the essential equality of all and the possibility of bringing them all to the same level. As a protest against this view, the doctrine of accord with nature meant a much less formal and abstract view of the mind and its powers. It substituted specific instincts and impulses and physiological capacities, differing from individual to individual (just as they differ, as Rousseau pointed out, even in dogs of the same litter), for abstract faculties of discernment, memory, and generalization. On this side, the doctrine of education by nature has been reinforced by the development of modern biology, physiology, and psychology. It means, in effect, that, as great as the significance of nurture, modification, and transformation through direct educational effort, nature, or unlearned capacities, affords the foundation and ultimate resources for such nurture. On the other hand, the doctrine of following nature was a political dogma. It meant a rebellion against existing social institutions, customs, and ideals (see ante, p. 91). Rousseau's statement that everything is good as it comes from the hands of the Creator has its signification only in its contrast with the concluding part of the same sentence: "Everything degenerates in the hands of man." And again, he says: "Natural man has an absolute value; he is a numerical unit, a complete integer, and has no relation save to himself and his fellow man. Civilized man is only a relative unit, the numerator of a fraction whose value depends upon its dominator, its relation to the integral body of society. Good political institutions are those which make a man unnatural." It is upon this conception of the artificial and harmful character of organized social life as it now exists 2 that he rested the notion that nature not merely furnishes prime forces that initiate growth but also its plan and goal. That evil institutions and customs work almost automatically to give a wrong education, which the most careful schooling cannot offset, is true enough, but the conclusion is not to education apart from the environment, but to provide an environment in which native powers will be put to better uses. Social Efficiency as Aim. A conception that made nature supply the end of a true education and society the end of an evil one could hardly fail to call out a protest. The opposing emphasis took the form of a doctrine that the business of education is to supply precisely what nature fails to secure, namely, the habituation of an individual to social control and the subordination of natural powers to social rules. It is not surprising to find that the value of the idea of social efficiency resides largely in its protest against the points at which the doctrine of natural development went astray, while its misuse comes when it is employed to slur over the truth in that conception. It is a fact that we must look to the activities and achievements of associated life to find out what the development of power—that is to say, efficiency—means. The error is in implying that we must adopt measures of subordination rather than utilization to secure efficiency. The doctrine is rendered adequate when we recognize that social efficiency is attained not by negative constraint but by the positive use of native individual capacities in occupations having a social meaning. (1) Translated into specific aims, social efficiency indicates the importance of industrial competency. Persons cannot live without means of subsistence; how these means are employed and consumed has a profound influence on all their relationships with one another. If an individual is not able to earn his living and that of the children dependent upon him, he is a drag or parasite upon the activities of others. He misses for himself one of the most educative experiences of life. If he is not trained in the right use of the products of industry, there is grave danger that he may deprive himself and injure others in his possession of wealth. No scheme of education can afford to neglect such basic considerations. Yet in the name of higher and more spiritual ideals, the arrangements for higher education have often not only neglected them but looked at them with scorn as beneath the level of educational concern. With the change from an oligarchical to a democratic society, it is natural that the significance of education, which should have as a result the ability to make one's way economically in the world and to manage economic resources usefully instead of for mere display and luxury, should receive emphasis. There is, however, grave danger that, in insisting on this end, existing economic conditions and standards will be accepted as final. A democratic criterion requires us to develop the capacity to the point of competency to choose and make our careers. This principle is violated when an attempt is made to fit individuals in advance for definite industrial callings, selected not based on trained original capacities but based on the wealth or social status of parents. Industry at present undergoes rapid and abrupt changes through the evolution of new inventions. New industries spring up, and old ones are revolutionized. Consequently, an attempt to train for a too-specific mode of efficiency defeats its purpose. When the occupation changes its methods, such individuals are left behind with even less ability to readjust themselves than if they had less definite training. But, most of all, the present industrial constitution of society is, like every society that has ever existed, full of inequities. Progressive education aims to take part in correcting unfair privilege and unfair deprivation, not to perpetuate them. Wherever social control means the subordination of individual activities to class authority, there is a danger that industrial education will be dominated by acceptance of the status quo. Differences in economic opportunity then dictate what the future callings of individuals are to be. We have an unconscious revival of the defects of the Platonic scheme (ante, p. 89) without its enlightened method of selection. (2) Civic efficiency, or good citizenship. It is, of course, arbitrary to separate industrial competency from the capacity for good citizenship. However, the latter term may be used to indicate some qualifications that are vaguer than vocational ability. These traits run from whatever makes an individual a more agreeable companion to citizenship in the political sense: it denotes the ability to judge men and measure wisely and to take a determining part in making as well as obeying laws. The aim of civic efficiency has at least the merit of protecting us from the notion of training of mental power at large. It calls attention to the fact that power must be relative to doing something and to the fact that the things that most need to be done are things that involve one's relationships with others. Here again, we have to be on guard against understanding the aim too narrowly. An over-definite interpretation would, at certain periods, have excluded scientific discoveries, even though in the last analysis, the security of social progress depends upon them. For scientific men, they would have been thought to be mere theoretical dreamers, totally lacking in social efficiency. It must be borne in mind that ultimately, social efficiency means neither more nor less than the capacity to share in a give-andtake of experience. It covers all that makes one's own experience more valuable to others and all that enables one to participate more richly in the worthwhile experiences of others. The ability to produce and enjoy art, the capacity for recreation, and the significant utilization of leisure are more important elements in it than elements conventionally associated oftentimes with citizenship. In the broadest sense, social efficiency is nothing less than that socialization of mind that is actively concerned with making experiences more communicable and breaking down the barriers of social stratification that make individuals impervious to the interests of others. When social efficiency is confined to the service rendered by overt acts, its chief constituent (because it's only guarantee) is omitted: intelligent sympathy or goodwill. Sympathy as a desirable quality is something more than a mere feeling; it is a cultivated imagination for what men have in common and a rebellion against whatever unnecessarily divides them. What is sometimes called a benevolent interest in others may be an unwitting mask for an attempt to dictate to them what their good shall be, instead of an endeavor to free them so that they may seek and find the good of their own choice. Social efficiency, even social service, are hard and metallic things when severed from an active acknowledgment of the diversity of goods that life may afford to different persons and from faith in the social utility of encouraging every individual to make his own choices and intelligent. Culture as Aim. Whether or not social efficiency is an aim that is consistent with culture depends on these considerations. Culture means at least something cultivated, something ripened; it is opposed to the raw and crude. When the "natural" is identified with this rawness, culture is opposed to what is called natural development. Culture is also something personal; it is cultivation concerning appreciation of ideas and art and broad human interests. When efficiency is identified with a narrow range of acts, instead of with the spirit and meaning of activity, culture is opposed to efficiency. Whether called culture or the complete development of personality, the outcome is identical to the true meaning of social efficiency whenever attention is given to what is unique in an individual, and he would not be an individual if there were not something incommensurable about him. Its opposite is the mediocre, the average. Whenever distinctive qualities are developed, a distinction of personality results, and with it comes greater promise for a social service that goes beyond the supply of material commodities. How can there be a society worth serving unless it is composed of individuals with significant personal qualities? The fact is that the opposition of high worth of personality to social efficiency is a product of a feudally organized society with its rigid division of inferiority and superiority. The latter are supposed to have time and opportunity to develop themselves as human beings; the former is confined to providing external products. When social efficiency as measured by product or output is urged as an ideal in a would-be democratic society, it means that the depreciatory estimate of the masses characteristic of an aristocratic community is accepted and carried over. But if democracy has a moral and ideal meaning, it is that a social return be demanded from all and that the opportunity for the development of distinctive capacities be afforded to all. The separation of the two aims in education is fatal to democracy; the adoption of the narrower meaning of efficiency deprives it of its essential justification. The aim of efficiency (like any educational aim) must be included within the process of experience. When it is measured by tangible external products and not by the achievement of a distinctively valuable experience, it becomes materialistic. Results in the way of commodities that may be the outgrowth of an efficient personality are, in the strictest sense, by-products of education: by-products that are inevitable and important but by-products. To set up an external aim strengthened by the reaction to the false conception of culture, which identifies it with something purely "inner." the idea of perfecting an "inner" personality is a sure sign of social divisions. What is called inner is simply that which does not connect with others— which is not capable of free and full communication. What is termed spiritual culture has usually been futile, with something rotten about it, just because it has been conceived as a thing that a man might have internally and therefore exclusively. What one is as a person is what one is as associated with others, in a free give-and-take of intercourse. This transcends both efficiency, which consists in supplying products to others, and culture, which is exclusive refinement and polish. Any individual who has missed his calling—farmer, physician, teacher, student— does not find that the accomplishments of results of value to others are an accompaniment of a process of experience that is inherently worthwhile. Why then should it be thought that one must choose between sacrificing himself to do useful things for others or sacrificing them to pursue his exclusive ends, whether the saving of his soul or the building of an inner spiritual life and personality? What happens is that since neither of these things is persistently possible, we get a compromise and an alternation. One tries each course by turns. There is no greater tragedy than that so much of the professedly spiritual and religious thought of the world has emphasized the two ideals of self-sacrifice and spiritual self-perfecting instead of throwing its weight against this dualism of life. The dualism is too deeply established to be easily overthrown; for that reason, it is the particular task of education at present to struggle on behalf of an aim in which social efficiency and personal culture are synonyms instead of antagonists. Chapter 10 Interest and Discipline The Meaning of the Terms. We have already noticed the difference in the attitude of a spectator and that of an agent or participant. The former is indifferent to what is going on; one result is just as good as another since each is just something to look at. The latter is bound up with what is going on; its outcome makes a difference to him. His fortunes are more or less at stake in the issue of events. Consequently, he does whatever he can to influence the direction present occurrences take. One is like a man in a prison cell watching the rain out of the window; it is all the same to him. The other is like a man who has planned an outing for the next day, which continuing rain will frustrate. To be sure, his present reactions will affect tomorrow's weather, but he may take some steps that will influence future happenings if only to postpone the proposed picnic. If a man sees a carriage coming that may run over him, if he cannot stop its movement, he can at least get out of the way if he foresees the consequence in time. In many instances, he can intervene even more directly. The attitude of a participant in the course of affairs is thus a double one: there is solicitude, anxiety concerning future consequences, and a tendency to act to assure better and avert worse consequences. Some words denote this attitude: concern, interest. These words suggest that a person is bound up with the possibilities inhering in objects; that he is accordingly on the lookout for what they are likely to do to him; and that, based on his expectation or foresight, he is eager to act to give things one turn rather than another. Interest and aims, concern and purpose, are necessarily connected. Such words as aim, intent, and end emphasize the results that are wanted and striven for; they take for granted the personal attitude of solicitude and attentive eagerness. Such words as interest, affection, concern, and motivation emphasize the bearing of what is foreseen upon the individual's fortunes and his active desire to act to secure a possible result. They take for granted the objective changes. But the difference is one of emphasis; the meaning that is shaded in one set of words is illuminated in the other. What is anticipated is objective and impersonal: tomorrow's rain and the possibility of being run over. But for an active being, a being who partakes in the consequences instead of standing aloof from them, there is at the same time a personal response. The difference imaginatively foreseen makes a present difference, which finds expression in solicitude and effort. While such words as affection, concern, and motive indicate an attitude of personal preference, they are always attitudes toward objects— attitudes toward what is foreseen. We may call the phase of objective foresight intellectual and the phase of personal concern emotional and volitional, but there is no separation in the facts of the situation. Such a separation could exist only if personal attitudes ran their course in a world by themselves. But they are always responses to what is going on in the situation of which they are a part, and their successful or unsuccessful expression depends upon their interaction with other changes. Life activities flourish and fail only in connection with changes in the environment. They are bound up with these changes; our desires, emotions, and affections are but various ways in which our doings are tied up with the doings of things and people about us. Instead of marking a purely personal or subjective realm, separated from the objective and impersonal, they indicate the nonexistence of such a separate world. They afford convincing evidence that changes in things are not alien to the activities of a self and that the career and welfare of the self are bound up with the movement of people and things. Interest and concern mean that one and the world are engaged with each other in a developing situation. The word interest, in its ordinary usage, expresses (i) the whole state of active development, (ii) the objective results that are foreseen and wanted, and (iii) the personal emotional inclination. (i) An occupation, employment, pursuit, or business is often referred to as an interest. Thus, we say that a man's interest in politics, journalism, philanthropy, archaeology, collecting Japanese prints, or banking. (ii) By interest, we also mean the point at which an object touches or engages a man—the point where it influences him. In some legal transactions, a man has to prove "interest" to have standing in court. He has to show that some proposed step concerns his affairs. A silent partner has an interest in a business, although he takes no active part in its conduct because its prosperity or decline affects his profits and liabilities. (iii) When we speak of a man as interested in this or that, the emphasis falls directly upon his attitude. To be interested is to be absorbed in, wrapped up in, or carried away by some object. To take an interest is to be on the alert, to care about, to be attentive. We say of an interested person both that he has lost himself in some affair and that he has found himself in it. Both terms express the engrossment of the self in an object Such a separation could exist only if personal attitudes ran their course in a world by themselves. But they are always responses to what is going on in the situation of which they are a part, and their successful or unsuccessful expression depends upon their interaction with other changes. Life activities flourish and fail only in connection with changes in the environment. They are bound up with these changes; our desires, emotions, and affections are but various ways in which our doings are tied up with the doings of things and people about us. Instead of marking a purely personal or subjective realm, separated from the objective and impersonal, they indicate the nonexistence of such a separate world. They afford convincing evidence that changes in things are not alien to the activities of a self and that the career and welfare of the self are bound up with the movement of people and things. Interest and concern mean that one and the world are engaged with each other in a developing situation. The word interest, in its ordinary usage, expresses (i) the whole state of active development, (ii) the objective results that are foreseen and wanted, and (iii) the personal emotional inclination. (i) An occupation, employment, pursuit, or business is often referred to as an interest. Thus, we say that a man's interest in politics, journalism, philanthropy, archaeology, collecting Japanese prints, or banking. (ii) By interest, we also mean the point at which an object touches or engages a man—the point where it influences him. In some legal transactions, a man has to prove "interest" to have standing in court. He has to show that some proposed step concerns his affairs. A silent partner has an interest in a business, although he takes no active part in its conduct because its prosperity or decline affects his profits and liabilities. (iii) When we speak of a man as interested in this or that, the emphasis falls directly upon his attitude. To be interested is to be absorbed in, wrapped up in, or carried away by some object. To take an interest is to be on the alert, to care about, to be attentive. We say of an interested person both that he has lost himself in some affair and that he has found himself in it. Both terms express the engrossment of the self in an object. When the place of interest in education is spoken of in a depreciatory way, it will be found that the second of the meanings mentioned is first exaggerated and then isolated. Interest is taken to mean merely the effect of an object upon personal advantage or disadvantage, success or failure. Separated from any objective development of affairs, these are reduced to mere personal states of pleasure or pain. Educationally, it then follows that to attach importance to interest means to attach some feature of seductiveness to material otherwise indifferent; to secure attention and effort by offering a bribe of pleasure. This procedure is properly stigmatized as "soft" pedagogy, as a "soup-kitchen" theory of education. But the objection is based upon the fact—or assumption—that the forms of skill to be acquired and the subject matter to be appropriated have no interest on their account; in other words, they are supposed to be irrelevant to the normal activities of the pupils. The remedy is not in finding fault with the doctrine of interest any more than it is to search for some pleasant bait that may be hitched to the alien material. It is to discover objects and modes of action that are connected with present powers. The function of this material in engaging activity and carrying it on consistently and continuously is its interest. If the material operates in this way, there is no call either to hunt for devices that will make it interesting or to appeal to an arbitrary, semi-coerced effort. The word interest suggests, etymologically, what is between—that which connects two things otherwise distant. In education, the distance covered may be looked at as temporal. The fact that a process takes time to mature is such an obvious fact that we rarely make it explicit. We overlook the fact that in growth there is ground to be covered between the initial stage of the process and the completing period; that something is intervening. In learning, the present powers of the pupil are the initial stage; the aim of the teacher represents the remote limit. Between the two lies the middle condition: acts to be performed; difficulties to be overcome; and appliances to be used. Only through them, in the literal time sense, will the initial activities reach a satisfactory consummation. These intermediate conditions are of interest precisely because the development of existing activities into the foreseen and desired end depends upon them. To be a means for the achieving of present tendencies, to be "between" the agent and his end, to be of interest, are different names for the same thing. When material has to be made interesting, it signifies that, as presented, it lacks connection with purposes and present power, or that if the connection is there, it is not perceived. To make it interesting by leading one to realize the connection that exists is simply good sense; to make it interesting by extraneous and artificial inducements deserves all the bad names that have been applied to the doctrine of interest in education. So much for the meaning of the term interest. Now for the discipline. Where an activity takes time and where many means and obstacles lie between its initiation and completion, deliberation and persistence are required. A very large part of the everyday meaning of will is precisely the deliberate or conscious disposition to persist and endure in a planned course of action despite difficulties and contrary solicitations. A man of strong will, in the popular usage of the words, is a man who is neither fickle nor half-hearted in achieving chosen ends. His ability is executive; that is, he persistently and energetically strives to execute or carry out his aims. A weak will is as unstable as water. There are two factors in the will. One has to do with the foresight of results, and the other with the depth of hold the foreseen outcome has on the person. (I) Obstinacy is persistence but it is not strength of volition. Obstinacy may be mere animal inertia and insensitivity. A man keeps on doing something just because he has gotten started, not because of any thought-out purpose. The obstinate man generally declines (although he may not be quite aware of his refusal) to make clear to himself what his proposed end is; he has a feeling that if he allowed himself to get a clear and full idea of it, it might not be worthwhile. Stubbornness shows itself even more in reluctance to criticize ends that present themselves than it does in persistence and energy in the use of means to achieve the end. The executive man is a man who ponders his ends and makes his ideas of the results of his actions as clear and full as possible. The people we call weak-willed or self-indulgent always deceive themselves as to the consequences of their acts. They pick out some agreeable features and neglect all attendant circumstances. When they begin to act, the disagreeable results they ignore begin to show themselves. They are discouraged or complain of being thwarted in their good purpose by a hard fate and shift to some other line of action. The fact that the primary difference between strong and feeble volition is intellectual, consisting of the degree of persistent firmness and fullness with which consequences are thought out, cannot be overemphasized. (ii) There is, of course, such a thing as a speculative tracing out of results. Ends are then foreseen, but they do not lay a deep hold on a person. They are something to look at and for curiosity to play with, rather than something to achieve. There is no such thing as over-intellectuality, but there is such a thing as one-sided intellectuality. A person "takes it out," as we say, in considering the consequences of proposed lines of action. A certain flabbiness of fiber prevents the contemplated object from gripping him and engaging him in action. Most people are naturally diverted from a proposed course of action by unusual, unforeseen obstacles or by the presentation of inducements to an action that is directly more agreeable. A person who is trained to consider his actions and to undertake them deliberately is so disciplined. Add to this ability the power to endure an intelligently chosen course in the face of distraction, confusion, and difficulty, and you have the essence of discipline. Discipline means power at command; mastery of the resources available for carrying through the action undertaken. To know what one is to do and to move to do it promptly and by use of the requisite means is to be disciplined, whether we are thinking of an army or a mind. Discipline is positive. To cow the spirit, to subdue inclination, to compel obedience, to mortify the flesh, to make a subordinate perform an uncongenial task—these things are or are not disciplinary according to how they do or do not tend to the development of power to recognize what one is about and to persistence in accomplishment. It is hardly necessary to press the point that interest and discipline are connected, not opposed. (i) Even the more purely intellectual phase of trained power—apprehension of what one is doing as exhibited in consequences—is not possible without interest. Deliberation will be perfunctory and superficial where there is no interest. Parents and teachers often complain—and correctly—those children "do not want to hear or want to understand." Their minds are not upon the subject precisely because it does not touch them; it does not enter into their concerns. This is a state of things that needs to be remedied, but the remedy is not in the use of methods that increase indifference and aversion. Even punishing a child for inattention is one way of trying to make him realize that the matter is not a thing of complete unconcern; it is one way of arousing "interest" or bringing about a sense of connection. In the long run, its value is measured by whether it supplies a mere physical excitation to act in the way desired by the adult or whether it leads the child "to think"—that is, to reflect upon his acts and impregnate them with aims. (ii) That interest is requisite for executive persistence is even more obvious. Employers do not advertise for workmen who are not interested in what they are doing. If one were engaging a lawyer or a doctor, it would never occur to one to reason that the person engaged would stick to his work more conscientiously if it was so uncongenial to him that he did it merely from a sense of obligation. Interest measures, or rather, the depth of the grip that the foreseen end has upon one, moving one to act for its realization. The Importance of the Idea of Interest in Education. Interest represents the moving force of objects - whether perceived or presented in imagination - in any experience having a purpose. In the concrete, the value of recognizing the dynamic place of interest in educative development is that it leads to considering individual children in their specific capabilities, needs, and preferences. One who recognizes the importance of interest will not assume that all minds work in the same way because they happen to have the same teacher and textbook. Attitudes and methods of approach and response vary with the specific appeal the same material makes, this appeal itself varies with differences in natural aptitude, experience, plan of life, and so on. But the facts of interest also supply considerations of general value to the philosophy of education. Rightly understood, they put us on our guard against certain conceptions of mind and of subject matter which have had great vogue in philosophic thought in the past, and which exercise a serious hampering influence upon the conduct of instruction and discipline. Too frequently mind is set over the world of things and facts to be known; it is regarded as something existing in isolation, with mental states and operations that exist independently. Knowledge is then regarded as an external application of purely mental existences to the things to be known, or else as a result of the impressions that this outside subject matter makes on the mind, or as a combination of the two. Subject matter is then regarded as something complete in itself; it is just something to be learned or known, either by the voluntary application of the mind to it or through the impressions it makes on the mind. The facts of interest show that these conceptions are mythical. Mind appears in experience as the ability to respond to present stimuli based on anticipation of future possible consequences, and to control the kind of consequences that are to take place. The things, the subject matter known, consist of whatever is recognized as having a bearing upon the anticipated course of events, whether assisting or retarding it. These statements are too formal to be very intelligible. An illustration may clear up their significance. You are engaged in a certain occupation, say writing with a typewriter. If you are an expert, your formed habits take care of the physical movements and leave your thoughts free to consider your topic. Suppose, however, you are not skilled, or that, even if you are, the machine does not work well. You then have to use intelligence. You do not wish to strike the keys at random and let the consequences be what they may; you wish to record certain words in a given order to make sense. You attend to the keys, to what you have written, to your movements, to the ribbon, or the mechanism of the machine. Your attention is not distributed indifferently and miscellaneously to any and every detail. It is centered upon whatever has a bearing upon the effective pursuit of your occupation. Your look is ahead, and you are concerned to note the existing facts because and in so far as they are factors in the achievement of the result intended. You have to find out what your resources are, what conditions are at command, and what the difficulties and obstacles are. This foresight and this survey concerning what is foreseen constitute the mind. Action that does not involve such a forecast of results and such an examination of means and hindrances is either a matter of habit or else it is blind. In neither case is it intelligent? To be vague and uncertain as to what is intended and careless in observation of conditions of its realization is to be, to that degree, stupid or partially intelligent. If we recur to the case where the mind is not concerned with the physical manipulation of the instruments but with what one intends to write, the case is the same. There is activity in the process; one is taken up with the development of a theme. Unless one writes as phonograph talks, this means intelligence, namely, alertness in foreseeing the various conclusions to which present data and considerations are tending, together with continually renewed observation and recollection to get hold of the subject matter that bears upon the conclusions to be reached. The whole attitude is one of concern with what is to be and with what is so far as the latter enters into the movement toward the end. Leave out the direction that depends upon foresight of possible future results, and there is no intelligence in present behavior. Let there be imaginative forecasting but no attention to the conditions upon which its attainment depends, and there is self-deception or idle dreaming—abortive intelligence. If this illustration is typical, the mind is not a name for something complete by itself; it is a name for a course of action in so far as that is intelligently directed; in so far, that is to say, as aims and ends enter into it, with the selection of means to further the attainment of aims. Intelligence is not a peculiar possession that a person owns, but a person is intelligent in so far as the activities in which he plays a part have the qualities mentioned. Nor are the activities in which a person engages, whether intelligently or not, exclusive properties of himself; they are something in which he engages and partakes. Other things, the independent changes of other things and persons, cooperate and hinder. The individual's act may be initial in a course of events, but the outcome depends upon the interaction of his response with energies supplied by other agencies. Conceive the mind as anything but one factor partaking along with others in the production of consequences, and it becomes meaningless. The problem of instruction is thus that of finding material that will engage a person in specific activities having an aim or purpose of interest to him and dealing with things not as gymnastic appliances but as conditions for the attainment of ends. The remedy for the evils attending the doctrine of formal discipline previously spoken of is not to be found by substituting a doctrine of specialized disciplines but by reforming the notion of mind and its training. The discovery of typical modes of activity, whether play or useful occupations, in which individuals are concerned, whose outcome they recognize they have something at stake, and which cannot be carried through without reflection and use of judgment to select material of observation and recollection, is the remedy. In short, the root of the error long prevalent in the conception of training of mind consists in leaving out of account movements of things to future results in which individual shares and in the direction of which observation, imagination, and memory are enlisted. It consists of regarding the mind as complete in itself, ready to be directly applied to the present material. In historic practice, the error has been cut in two ways. On one hand, it has screened and protected traditional studies and methods of teaching from intelligent criticism and needed revisions. To say that they are "disciplinary" has safeguarded them from all inquiries. It has not been enough to show that they were of no use in life or that they did not contribute to the cultivation of the self. That they were "disciplinary" stifled every question, subdued every doubt, and removed the subject from the realm of rational discussion. By its nature, the allegation could not be checked. Even when discipline did not accrue, when the pupil even grew in laxity of application and lost the power of intelligent self-direction, the fault lay with him, not with the study or the methods of teaching. His failure was proof that he needed more discipline and thus afforded a reason for retaining the old methods. The responsibility was transferred from the educator to the pupil because the material did not have to meet specific tests; it did not have to be shown that it fulfilled any particular need or served any specific end. It was designed to discipline in general, and if it failed, it was because the individual was unwilling to be disciplined. In the other direction, the tendency was towards a negative conception of discipline instead of an identification of it with growth in constructive power of achievement. As we have already seen, will means an attitude toward the future, toward the production of possible consequences, an attitude involving an effort to foresee clearly and comprehensively the probable results of ways of acting, and an active identification with some anticipated consequences. Identification of will, or effort, with mere strain results when a mind is set up and endowed with powers that are only to be applied to existing material. A person just either will or will not apply himself to the matter at hand. The more indifferent the subject matter, the less concern it has for the habits and preferences of the individual, and the more demand there is for an effort to bring the mind to bear upon it—and hence the more discipline of the will. To attend to the material because there is something to be done in which the person is concerned is not disciplinary in this view, not even if it results in a desirable increase of constructive power. Application just for the sake of application, for the sake of training, is alone disciplinary. This is more likely to occur if the subject matter presented is uncongenial, for then there is no motive (so it is supposed) except the acknowledgment of duty or the value of discipline. The logical result is expressed with literal truth in the words of an American humorist: "It makes no difference what you teach a boy so long as he doesn't like it." The counterpart of the isolation of the mind from activities dealing with objects to accomplish ends is the isolation of the subject matter to be learned. In the traditional schemes of education, subject matter means so much material to be studied. Various branches of study represent so many independent branches, each having its principles of arrangement complete within itself. History is one such group of facts; algebra another; geography another; and so on until we have run through the entire curriculum. Having a ready-made existence on their account, their relation to the mind is exhausted in what they furnish it to acquire. This idea corresponds to the conventional practice in which the program of school work, for the day, month, and successive years, consists of "studies" all marked off from one another and each supposed to be complete by itself—for educational purposes at least. Later on, a chapter is devoted to the special consideration of the meaning of the subject matter of instruction. At this point, we need only to say that, in contrast with the traditional theory, anything that intelligence studies represent represents things in the part that they play in the carrying forward of active lines of interest. Just as one "studies" his typewriter as part of the operation of putting it to use to effect results, so with any fact or truth. It becomes an object of study—that is, of inquiry and reflection—when it figures as a factor to be reckoned with in the completion of a course of events in which one is engaged and by whose outcome one is affected. Numbers are not objects of study just because they are numbers already constituting a branch of learning called mathematics, but because they represent qualities and relations of the world in which our action goes on because they are factors upon which the accomplishment of our purposes depends. Stated thus broadly, the formula may appear abstract. Translated into details, it means that the act of learning or studying is artificial and ineffective in the degree to which pupils are merely presented with a lesson to be learned. The study is effective in the degree to which the pupil realizes the place of the numerical truth he is dealing with in carrying out the activities in which he is concerned. This connection of an object and a topic with the promotion of an activity having a purpose is the first and last word of a genuine theory of interest in education. Some Social Aspects of the Question. While the theoretical errors of which we have been speaking have their expressions in the conduct of schools, they are themselves the outcome of conditions of social life. A change confined to the theoretical conviction of educators will not remove the difficulties, though it should render more effective efforts to modify social conditions. Men's fundamental attitudes toward the world are fixed by the scope and qualities of the activities in which they partake. The idea of interest is exemplified in the artistic attitude. Art is neither merely internal nor merely external; merely mental nor merely physical. Like every mode of action, it brings about changes in the world. The changes made by some actions (those which by contrast may be called mechanical) are external; they are shifting things about. No ideal reward, no enrichment of emotion and intellect, accompanies them. Others contribute to the maintenance of life, and its external adornment and display. Many of our existing social activities, industrial and political, fall into these two classes. Neither the people who engage in them nor those who are directly affected by them, are capable of full and free interest in their work. Because of the lack of any purpose in the work for the one doing it, or because of the restricted character of its aim, intelligence is not adequately engaged. The same conditions force many people back upon themselves. They take refuge in an inner play of sentiment and fancies. They are aesthetic but not artistic since their feelings and ideas are turned upon themselves, instead of being methods in acts that modify conditions. Their mental life is sentimental; an enjoyment of an inner landscape. Even the pursuit of science may become an asylum of refuge from the hard conditions of life - not a temporary retreat for the sake of recuperation and clarification in future dealings with the world. The very word art may become associated not with the specific transformation of things, making them more significant for the mind, but with stimulations of eccentric fancy and with emotional indulgences. The separation and mutual contempt of the "practical" man and the man of theory or culture, the divorce of fine and industrial arts, are indications of this situation. Thus, interest and mind are either narrowed or else made perverse. Compare what was said in an earlier chapter about the one-sided meanings that have come to be attached to the ideas of efficiency and culture. This state of affairs must exist so far as society is organized on a basis of division between laboring classes and leisure classes. The intelligence of those who do things becomes hard in the unremitting struggle with things; that of those freed from the discipline of occupation becomes luxurious and effeminate. Moreover, the majority of human beings still lack economic freedom. Their pursuits are fixed by accident and necessity of circumstance; they are not the normal expression of their powers interacting with the needs and resources of the environment. Our economic conditions still relegate many men to a servile status. As a consequence, the intelligence of those in control of the practical situation is not liberal. Instead of playing freely upon the subjugation of the world for human ends, it is devoted to the manipulation of other men for ends that are non-human in so far as they are exclusive. This state of affairs explains many things in our historic educational traditions. It throws light upon the clash of aims manifested in different portions of the school system; the narrowly utilitarian character of most elementary education, and the narrowly disciplinary or cultural character of higher education. It accounts for the tendency to isolate intellectual matters till knowledge is scholastic, academic, and professionally technical, and for the widespread conviction that liberal education is opposed to the requirements of an education that shall count in the vocations of life. But it also helps define the peculiar problem of present education. The school cannot immediately escape from the ideals set by prior social conditions. But it should contribute through the type of intellectual and emotional disposition which it forms to the improvement of those conditions. And just here the true conceptions of interest and discipline are full of significance. Persons whose interests have been enlarged and intelligence trained by dealing with things and facts in active occupations having a purpose (whether in play or work) will be those most likely to escape the alternatives of academic and aloof knowledge and a hard, narrow, and merely "practical" practice. To organize education so that natural active tendencies shall be fully enlisted in doing something while seeing to it that the doing requires observation, the acquisition of information, and the use of a constructive imagination, is what most needs to be done to improve social conditions. To oscillate between drill exercises that strive to attain efficiency in outward doing without the use of intelligence, and an accumulation of knowledge that is supposed to be an ultimate end in itself means that education accepts the present social conditions as final, and thereby takes upon itself the responsibility for perpetuating them. A reorganization of education so that learning takes place in connection with the intelligent carrying forward of purposeful activities is slow work. It can only be accomplished piecemeal, a step at a time. But this is not a reason for nominally accepting one educational philosophy and accommodating ourselves in practice to another. It is a challenge to undertake the task of reorganization courageously and to keep at it persistently.