Читать книгу A Practical Enquiry into the Philosophy of Education - Gall James - Страница 26

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We have, in a former chapter, endeavoured to describe that particular act of the mind which generally follows simple perception, and by which an idea, when presented to it, is made the subject of active thought, or is "reiterated" again to itself. We have found upon good evidence, that it is by this process, whether simple or complex, that the powers of the mind are cultivated; and we now proceed to shew, that it is by the same act, and by it alone, that any portion of knowledge is ever communicated.[3] No truth, or idea of any kind, can make an effective entrance into the mind, or can find a permanent lodgement in the memory, so as to become "knowledge," until it has successfully undergone this process.

There are two ways by which we usually acquire knowledge:—The one is by observation, without the use of language, and which is common to us with those who are born deaf and dumb; and the other is through the medium of words, either heard or read. In both cases, however, the knowledge retained consists entirely of the several ideas which the objects or the words convey; and what we are now to shew, is, that these ideas thus conveyed, can neither be received by the mind, nor retained by the memory, till they have undergone this process of "reiteration." While, on the contrary, it will be seen that, whenever this process really takes place, the idea thus reiterated does become part of our knowledge, and is, according to circumstances, more or less permanently fixed upon the memory. We shall for this purpose endeavour to trace the operation of the principle, both in the case of ideas communicated by objects without language, and in those conveyed to the mind by means of words.

That this act of reiteration of an idea by the mind, must take place, before objects of perception can become part of our knowledge, will, we think, be obvious, from a consideration of the following facts.—When, for example, we are in a crowded room, or in the fields, numerous sounds enter the ear—thousands of images enter into and impress the eye, yet not one of these becomes part of our knowledge till it is thought of;—that is, till the idea suggested by the sensation, has not only been perceived, but reiterated by the mind. This will appear to many so plain, that any farther illustration of the fact may be deemed useless. But experience, has shewn, that the illustration of this important process in education, is not only expedient, but is really necessary; as the overlooking of this simple principle has often been the cause of great inconsistencies on the part of teachers. We shall therefore endeavour to exhibit the working of the principle in various forms, that it may be fully appreciated when we come to apply it.

Let us then suppose two children taken silently through a museum of curiosities, the one active and lively, the other dull and listless. It would be found on retiring, that the former would be able to give an account of many things which he saw, and that the other would remember little or nothing. In this case, all the objects in the exhibition were seen by both; and the question arises, "Why does the knowledge of the one, so much exceed that of the other?" The reason is, that the mind of the one was active, while the mind of the other was in a great measure inactive. Both saw the objects; but only one looked at them. The one actively employed his mind—fixed his eye on an object, and thought of it; that is, he reiterated the ideas it suggested to him, whether as to form, or colour, or movement, and by doing so, the ideas thus reiterated, were effectively received, and given over to the keeping of the memory. The other child saw the whole; they were perhaps objects of perception; but he allowed his sensations to die away as they were received; and his mind was left to wander, or to remain under the dreamy influence of a mere passive and evanescent train of thought. His "attention" was not arrested;—his mind was not actively engaged on any of the articles he saw; in other words, the ideas which they suggested were not "reiterated."[4]

Now, that it was the want of this mental reiteration which was the cause, and the only cause, why this very usual means of acquiring knowledge failed to communicate it, may be proved we think by a very simple experiment. For if we shall suppose that the child who was obtaining no knowledge by means of the various curiosities around him, had been asked at the time a question respecting any of them—a stuffed dog, for example—his attention would have been arrested, and his mind would have been roused to active thought. The words, "What is that?" from his teacher, or companion, would have made him look at it, and reiterate the ideas of its form and colour, so far as to enable him to give an answer. And if he does so, it will be found afterwards, on leaving the place, that although he might have remained unconscious of the presence of all the other objects in the museum, he will remember the stuffed dog, merely because, by the question, the idea it suggested was taken up, and reiterated by the mind; while the sensations caused by all the rest, were allowed to pass away.

There is another circumstance of daily occurrence, which adds to the evidence that it is this principle which we have called "reiteration," which forms the chief, if not the only avenue, by which ideas find access to the mind; and it is this:—That when at any time we bring to recollection some former circumstance of life, however remote, or when we recall any part of our former knowledge or experience, it comes up to the mind, accompanied with the perfect consciousness, that, at the time we are thinking of, this act of reiteration had taken place upon it; that we most assuredly have thought of it before. We are not more certain that it occupies our thoughts now, than we are that it did so when it occurred;—that the operation of which we are at present speaking, did actually then take place; and that it was by our doing so then, that it is remembered now. This circumstance, when duly considered, is of itself, we think, a sufficient proof, that no part of our knowledge—not a single idea—can be acquired, or retained on the memory by any other process, than by this act of reiteration.

Hence then it is plain, that all the knowledge which we receive by observation, without the use of language, is received and retained on the memory by the operation of this principle; and we will now proceed to shew, that the same process must also take place, when our ideas are received by means of words, whether these be spoken or read.

It is of great importance for us to remember, that the only legitimate use of words is to convey ideas; and that Nature rigidly refuses to acknowledge any other use to which they may be put. Hence it is, that in conversation, we are quite unconscious of the words which our friend uses in communicating his ideas. Nature impels us to lay hold of the ideas alone; and in proof of this we find, that we have only to attempt to concentrate our attention upon the words he uses, and then we are sure to lose sight of the ideas which the words were intended to convey. Hence it is, that our opinion of the style, and the language, and the manner of a speaker, when the subject itself is not familiar, are formed more by indirect impressions, than by direct attention to these things while he speaks; and oftener by reflection afterwards, than by any critical observation during the time. The reason of this, we may remark once for all, is, that what the mind reiterates it remembers—but nothing more. If during the hearing, it reiterates the ideas, it will then remember the ideas; but if it reiterates the words without the ideas, it will remember nothing but words. Those therefore who sow words in the minds of the young, hoping afterwards to reap ideas, are as inconsistent as those who seek to "gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles."[5]

Knowledge is received by the use of words in two ways—either by oral speech, or by written language; but in both cases, the reception of the ideas is still governed by reiteration. We shall endeavour to examine the operation in both cases.

Let us suppose that a teacher announces to a class of young children, that "Cain killed his brother Abel,"—and then examines the state of each child's mind in regard to it. All of them heard the words, but some only perhaps are now in possession of the truth communicated. Those who are so, followed the teacher in his announcement, not so much in reiterating the words, as in reiterating the idea—the truth itself; and therefore it is, that they are now acquainted with the fact. Of those who heard, but have failed to add this truth to their stock of knowledge, there may be two classes;—those who attended to what was said, but failed to interpret the words; and those whose attention was not excited at all. Those who failed to interpret the words, or to extract the idea from them, reiterated the words to themselves, and would perhaps be able to repeat the words again, but they do so in the same manner that a person reads or repeats words in an unknown tongue. The idea—the truth—is not yet perceived, and therefore cannot be remembered. The others who remember nothing, have reiterated nothing; their minds remained inactive. They also heard the words, but they failed to listen to them; in the same way as they often see objects, but do not look at them. Here it is evident that every child who reiterated the idea in his own mind, is in possession of the fact communicated; and all who did not do so, even although they reiterated the words, have no addition made to their knowledge; which shews that it is only by this act of the reiteration of the ideas, that any portion of our knowledge is ever acquired.

That this is a correct exhibition of the principle, and a legitimate inference from the phenomena, may be still farther proved by an experiment similar to one formerly recommended. Let the teacher, in the middle of a story, ask some of the inattentive pupils a question respecting some of the persons or things he is speaking about, and force the reiteration of that part of the narrative in the child's mind by getting an answer, and it will be found at the close, that although he may remember nothing else of all that he heard, yet he will most perfectly remember that part about which he was questioned, and respecting which he returned an answer.

The same thing may be ascertained by our own experience, in hearing a lecture or sermon, or even in conversation with a friend. In these cases, as long as our attention is kept up—that is, as long as we continue to reiterate the ideas that we hear—we may remember them; but when our minds flag, or wander; in other words, when we cease to reiterate the ideas of the speaker, the sounds enter our ear, but the matter is gone. All that has been said during that period of inattention has been lost; it never has formed, and never can form, part of our knowledge.

Thus we see, that in the act of hearing oral communications, the principle of reiteration of the ideas is obviously necessary for the acquiring of knowledge; and we shall now shew, that it is equally necessary in the act of reading.

Many persons must have witnessed children reading distinctly, and fluently perhaps, who yet were not made one whit wiser by what they read. The act of reading was correctly performed, and yet there was no accession to their knowledge. The cause of this is easily explained. The ideas conveyed by the words have not been reiterated by the mind—perhaps they were never perceived. For as long as the act of reading is difficult, the words undergo this process first, and the ideas must be gleaned afterwards. Hence it is, that children, when hurried from lesson to lesson before they can read them so easily as to perceive and reiterate the ideas while reading, acquire the habit of decyphering the words alone, and the eye from practice reads mechanically, while the mind at the moment is usually wandering, or is engaged in attending to something else. Nature, as we have before shewed in the act of hearing, does not intend that the mind should pay attention both to the words and the ideas at the same time; and reading being only an artificial substitute for hearing, is made subject to the same law. It is the ideas that Nature induces us to grapple with; and the reading of words like the hearing of language, is merely the means employed to get at them. Hence the necessity of children being taught to read fluently, and with perfect ease, before they leave the school; and the neglect of this is the reason why so many after leaving school, derive so little instruction from the use of books. Of these individuals, experience shews, that many, who on leaving school could not collect ideas by their mode of mechanical reading, yet persevere, and at last teach themselves by long practice to understand what they read; while there are not a few who, in similar circumstances, become discouraged, abandon the practice of reading, and soon forget the art altogether.

Of the correctness of these facts, every one may be convinced, by recollecting what must often have taken place with himself. When at any time the mind is exhausted while reading, we continue to read on, page after page, and when we have finished, we find, that not a single truth has made its way to the memory. Now this did not arise from any difficulty in comprehending the ideas in the book, because it does not make much difference whether the subject has been simple or otherwise; neither did it arise from the want of all mental activity, for the mind was so much engaged as to read every word and every letter in the pages upon which we were occupied. But it arose entirely from the want of that principle of which we are here speaking. The words were read mechanically, and the ideas were either not thought of, or at least they were not reiterated by the mind, and therefore it is that they are lost—and no effort can ever again recall them. The proof of the accuracy of these views will still be found in the circumstance, that if, while the person is reading, this act of the reiteration of some one or more of the ideas be in any way forced upon him, these ideas thus reiterated will afterwards be remembered, although all the others are lost.

Here then we have arrived at a principle connected with the acquisition of knowledge, by attending to which education may be made most efficient for that purpose; but without which, education must remain a mere mechanical routine of barren exercises. No idea, no truth, we have seen, can ever form part of our knowledge, till it has undergone this particular mental process, which we have called "reiteration." If the idea, or truth, intended to be communicated, be reiterated by the mind—thought over again—it will then be remembered:—but if it be not reiterated by the mind, it never can. It is also worthy of remark, that the tenacity with which the memory keeps hold of any idea or truth, depends greatly upon the vigour of the mind at the time, and still more perhaps upon the frequency of its reiteration. If a child, however languid, is forced to this act of reiteration of an idea but once, it will be remembered for a longer or a shorter time; but if his mind be vigorous and lively, and more especially if he can be made repeatedly to reiterate the same idea in his mind at intervals, he will on that account, retain it much more tenaciously, and will have it at the command of the will more readily. Hence the vividness with which the scenes and the circumstances of youth arise upon the mind, and the tenacity with which the memory holds them. These scenes were of daily occurrence; and the small number of remarkable circumstances connected with childhood and youth having few rivals to compete with them in attracting the attention, were witnessed frequently with all the vigour and liveliness of the youthful mind, as yet unburdened with care. They were of course frequently subjected to observation, and as frequently reiterated by the mind, and have on these accounts ever since been vividly pictured by the imagination, and continue familiar to the memory. It also accounts for another circumstance of common occurrence. For when, even in early infancy, any event happened which made a deeper impression upon the mind than usual, that simple circumstance will generally outlive all its neighbours, and will take precedence in point of distinct recollection to the close of life. The reason of this is, not only the deep impression it made upon the mind at the moment, but principally because it had so strongly excited the feelings, that it was oftener thought of then and afterwards;—in other words, this act of reiteration occurred more frequently with respect to it than the others, and therefore it is now better remembered.

This is a principle then of which the Educationist should take advantage. For if Nature invariably communicates knowledge by inducing her pupils to exercise their own minds on the subject taught, it is plain that the teacher should follow the same plan. His pupils cannot remain mentally inactive, and yet learn; neither can the mere routine of verbal exercises either cultivate the mind or increase knowledge. These are but the husks of education, which may tantalize and weaken, but which can never satisfy the cravings of the young mind for information. Their mental food must be of a perfectly different kind, consisting of ideas, and not of words; and these ideas they must receive and concoct by the active use of their own powers. The teacher must no doubt select the food for his pupils, and prepare it for their reception, by breaking it down into morsels, suited to their capacities. But this is all. They must eat and digest it for themselves. The pupil must think over in his own mind, and for himself, all that he is either to know or remember. The ideas read or heard must be reiterated by himself—thought over again—if he is ever to profit by them. Without this, no care or pains on the part of the teacher, no exertion on the part of the pupil, will be of any avail. All the knowledge that he seems to acquire in any other way is repudiated by Nature; and however plausible the exercise may appear, it will ultimately be found fruitless and vain.