Some Fallacies in the Modern Educational Scheme

I

FOR a number of years thoughtful men and women have viewed with increasing apprehension, if not alarm, the growth and spread of radical ideas in American education. The public school from its very nature has suffered most from the inroads of modern pedagogy; but institutions of all kinds, public and private, higher and lower, have felt the effects of the pressure, and in greater or less degree have been forced to modify courses of study, methods of work, and even ideals. Just now the strength of this pressure is greater than ever before, backed as it is by educational authorities and foundations whose ability cannot be questioned and whose financial resources enable them almost to force upon the public the acceptance of the ideals they advocate. The education of the past is everywhere on the defensive; old ideals are being undermined; methods that have served for generations are scorned as unworthy; and finally, to complete the destruction, we are frankly asked to tear down the old structure, carry away the very foundation-stones on which it has rested for centuries, and build anew.

Just what material we are to use in this new structure the modern pedagogical ‘experts’ are not yet quite ready to tell us. Nevermind! The old structure is inadequate. Therefore away with it! Time, an overruling Providence, the adaptable American genius, or perhaps, best of all, the American pedagogical ‘ expert,’ in due season will furnish both plans and material.

Before we examine in detail the criticisms and suggestions of these modern ‘experts’ in education it will help us to consider briefly, and in a general way, the broad contrasts between the old education and the new: not the individual studies so much as the ideals and aims involved; for unless we are seeking a definite goal subjects and subjectmatter are of little importance.

Early education in America centred largely in New England and was colored by English ideals. Settlers as they moved westward carried with them the ideas and methods to which they were accustomed, and schools and colleges arose to testify to the depth of their convictions. This early education was frankly designed to be intellectual and moral. The development of character was its chief object. It has been criticized on the ground that it was intended primarily to meet the needs of those who were training for the Christian ministry, men who were avowedly to become the intellectual, moral, and religious leaders of the communities in which they lived; and that in consequence it failed to provide for those who were destined to fill other positions in life. The public has been too ready to accept this criticism at its face value without investigating the facts on which it is based. Education has suffered greatly in consequence, for destructive criticism invariably appeals to the common mind, and that too before a constructive remedy has been offered.

It would be hard to find this early ideal of education more clearly stated than it is in the constitution of Phillips Academy, penned by the hand of the then Lieutenant Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, in the year 1777. Mr. Phillips was not a clergyman. By profession he was a business man. But he became a statesman and a judge; and he was always and primarily an intelligent, broadminded, and public-spirited citizen.

‘But above all,’ he writes, ‘it is expected that the Master’s attention to the disposition of the Minds and Morals of the Youth under his charge will exceed every other care; well considering that, though goodness without knowledge (as it respects others) is weak and feeble, yet knowledge without goodness is dangerous, and that both united form the noblest character, and lay the surest foundation of usefulness to mankind.’ In another paragraph, after specifying the subjects to be taught, and in order to emphasize the main purpose of his foundation, Mr. Phillips closes with these homely but significant words, ‘but more especially to learn them [youth] the great end and real business of living.’ And this same spirit and these same ideals inspired the large majority of those who throughout this land founded the hundreds of schools and colleges that in the passing years have done so much to make this nation truly great.

No doubt a candidate for the Christian ministry, then as to-day, would profit by an education that sought to realize such high ideals as these. But the writer was concerned with youth in general, and he knew, as every thoughtful, intelligent man must know, that the ultimate strength of any nation lies in the character of its citizens, no matter how efficient they may be on practical lines. Character must be the foundation. And character did not mean to these far-sighted men mere moral goodness. Character, then as now, was composed of the trained mind plus moral strength. Build on that foundation whatever type of building you please. It will be the stronger and the better because it is built on rock. We must search far to find a higher ideal of education than this. Its faults, regarded from present-day conditions, are to be found, not in what it advocates, but in what it omits. New conditions have developed new needs; and these needs must rightly be satisfied. But they cannot be satisfied with permanent benefit to the country and the world if the true basis of education, so clearly recognized by our fathers, is ignored or deemed outworn.

The modern educational ideal so loudly proclaimed by its advocates furnishes a marked contrast to the old. At its basis it is frankly materialistic and utilitarian. Practical efficiency is its goal. Not all will admit the truth of this assertion; but the more one studies the subject and uncovers the influences that are chiefly responsible for these modern theories of education, the more one is forced to admit the soundness of this contention. And whether one admits it in full or not, there can be no doubt that the materialistic spirit so overwhelmingly present in our American life to-day has been a powerful factor in shaping and coloring our modern educational ideals. ‘Fit our youth for life,’ is the insistent demand of the new. ‘Fit our youth to live,’ is the cry of the old.

Four years ago a typical American business man with a son to educate wrote as follows: ‘I want my boy to specialize. I want him to have the following and nothing else — Mathematics, French, German, Spanish (not the average schoolroom language, but instruction that will enable him to speak them). I want him to have the opportunity for manual training, so that he may develop a strong mechanical turn that he has. — I do not want any Latin, History or Grammar. The boy might, if he has time, take English Literature. My only reason to make a change is because I must have him develop along the lines I have indicated, not a lot of instruction that will do him no good in after life. We cannot afford to waste our time in that way in these days.’

This letter expresses with commendable frankness the opinions held by thousands of American parents of the present day, opinions with which our American schoolmasters are altogether too familiar. Its author has clearly in view the goal he seeks for his son. That goal is avowedly materialistic. With that goal in view, and with his own intellectual limitations, the father is perhaps consistent in demanding a narrow and limited course of study. But the man of wider scholarship and broader vision will refuse to admit that the boy in question would not make in the end a better business man, even in the limited sphere which his father had in view, if he had acquired in the course of his training some knowledge of history, grammar, and English Literature. Yet this is a fair sample of the kind of pressure that with increasing force has been exerted in recent years against our American educational institutions. The public high school, the avowed servant of a local public, has felt the pressure most and at first hand. Largely through the public school this same pressure has been extended to the higher institutions. The state universities are practically moulded by it. Insistent demands are made that subjects of a practical nature wholly, and designed primarily to meet the needs of pupils who will not or cannot continue their education beyond the high-school stage, shall be accepted for admission by our colleges and universities. Public pressure so pronounced cannot well be ignored. In varying degrees the higher institutions have yielded to it, until it is hard to recognize in the child of to-day the parent of the past.

But not alone in the goal sought for does the new education differ from the old. The contrast is equally marked when we examine subject-matter and methods. The old curriculum was largely linguistic; the new is primarily scientific and technical. The old laid stress on the value of mental discipline; the new denies that such a thing as mental discipline, save within the narrowest limits, exists. The old accepted as a self-evident truth the value of hard and strenuous work per se; the new denies this value save as that work is directed toward a definite end and along the lines of the pupil’s interest. The old was based on the conviction that history and literature, ancient as well as modern, had their lessons to teach and their inspiration to give even to the pupil of ‘these days,’ and that an insistence on the mastering of the general facts of history and a familiarity with the thoughts of great writers would better fit a man to meet the demands of life and would give him a reserve force of resources to draw upon over and above the narrower demands of his everyday life; the new would limit history to the study of those facts alone that can be made to fit into immediate modern needs, and would confine the study of literature to the limits of a pleasant pastime.

Surely there is enough here to convince us of the wide divergence between the new education and the old. And there is ample room for argument. From the strength of their backing and the wide publicity given to their utterances one might infer that the modernists in education had the field pretty much to themselves. But it is a significant fact that, with no matter how great assurance the ‘expert’ may proclaim his views, the majority of schoolmasters and many of our leading college authorities, whose business it is to deal at first hand with, and with all sides of, the youth committed to their care, refuse to be converted by these modern theorists and steadfastly decline to accept as true what their everyday experience convinces them is false. Not that they are unwilling to admit that there is much in the modern views that is sound. Far from it. They have accepted much and are ready to accept still more. But they are not willing to destroy the very foundations on which much of their best work has so long and so securely rested, or to swallow without a struggle the absurd nostrums which, in the name of education, are being so generously concocted for them in the laboratories of the modern pedagogical ‘expert.’ The modernists have gone too far.

II

Let us examine for a moment, and in brief detail, some of the most significant and radical of these modern views. Under the auspices of the General Education Board two striking pamphlets have recently been issued, one by President Emeritus Charles W. Eliot of Harvard University, entitled Changes Needed in Secondary Education; the other by Mr. Abraham Flexner, entitled A Modern School. Mr. Flexner has even more recently published in the Atlantic an able and interesting article under the title ‘Parents and Schools.’ These three articles, both because of the known ability of their authors and because of the wide publicity which has been given them, will supply us with all the material needed for our discussion.

Dr. Eliot is chiefly concerned with the seeming lack of observational studies in the curricula of many of our best American schools. This is not a new complaint. Those who are familiar with Dr. Eliot’s ideas of education know how long and how insistently he has advocated the introduction of observational studies. Unique modifications made in the entrance requirements of Harvard University under his leadership testify to the strength of his conviction. Dr. Eliot’s views on any subject, and especially education, are justly entitled to profound respect. No one will accuse him of dabbling in ‘fads’ and ‘fancies’ as so many modern ‘experts’ are accustomed to do. And yet it is a serious question in the minds of many observers whether the changes introduced by Dr. Eliot into the admission requirements of his own university have given any tangible evidence of the development among its students of that coordination of eye and hand and mind and that increased mental alertness which are claimed as their goal. Some even are skeptical enough to believe that the reverse is true.

No doubt there is much to be said in favor of Dr. Eliot’s contention as to the value of observational work. Many of our schools are acting in this belief, and most of them provide far more opportunity for observational study than even Dr. Eliot admits; for school programmes tell but half the tale. That the boy on the country farm has unique opportunities for this kind of study and must profit significantly thereby cannot be denied. That these opportunities are rapidly disappearing with the increase in urban life is no less true. But it is a serious question whether artificial laboratories and extended school curricula can ever be made to supply what has been lost. Much of the farmer-boy’s labor was done from a sense of duty and as a matter of course. Therein lay a large part of its permanent value to the individual. Recreation was play and pleasant. Work was work, and frequently hard and disagreeable. The interests of the boy were not consulted. Schoolmasters are only too sadly aware of the fact that, when students are left to their own devices in making use of such artificial opportunities for observational studies as schools can supply, interest points to the line of least resistance or the easiest subject offered; and even interest wanes as the work progresses. And yet we are assured that the interest of the individual pupil should be our guide in planning courses of study for undeveloped boys and girls.

In one important respect Dr. Eliot appears to differ from the modernists. Power derived from handand eyework, he says, can be transferred to book-work when once created. If this is so, the reverse should be true. But the modernists tell us with emphasis that power secured through the study of a given subject can be transferred in only a limited degree to the study of kindred subjects and not at all to subjects of a different kind. But more of this doctrine later. Dr. Eliot’s attitude is common enough among men of exceptional ability, whatever the nature of their earlier training. Possessed of unusual intellectual powers, they naturally long for those things that have been denied them; and the preeminently successful business man, engineer, or scientist, whose training has been largely if not wholly based on observation, feels the lack of memory training as keenly as Dr. Eliot feels the lack of training in observational study. Schoolmasters who have talked with parents of this class and have heard them express their ambitions for their sons can testify to the truth of this assertion. Dr. Eliot himself admits that if one were forced to choose between training the senses and training the memory and the language powers one would choose the latter. Unfortunately we are not all geniuses; and the result of the attempts to combine these two factors in our education of to-day is that our boys and girls are being given a smattering of many things and an exact knowledge of none. Observational subjects very naturally most interest a child; but that interest does not often hold; and in the meantime the average child seems clearly to lose his willingness and ability to handle successfully the less agreeable but equally, if not more, important work demanded by memory and linguistic studies.

Dr. Eliot opens up a big question when he says, ‘The men who since the nineteenth century began have done most for the human race . . . are the men of science, the artists, the craftsmen, etc.’ This may be true of the limited period specified. It is not true in the history of the human race as a whole. In spite of all science has done to make life more comfortable and more pleasant in recent years we could more readily and with less disaster to the human race part with these benefits than we could with those less tangible but infinitely more valuable possessions which lie largely within the realm of ideas, which through the centuries have moulded and lifted humanity, and which have been given to us by the world’s great philosophers and thinkers. One thing is clear: the admirers of Dr. Eliot, and they are many, will ever be grateful that he was trained and his marked ability developed under the old order rather than the new.

It is difficult to discuss the substance of the other two articles referred to above without a feeling of impatience: the changes suggested are so radical; the justification offered so unsatisfactory; and the new scheme of things so boldly proclaimed as worthy to replace the old, so indefinite and incomplete. From beginning to end these articles bristle with assumptions. And yet we are constantly reminded that the main trouble with the old education is that it is based on assumption. The author would seem to be lacking in a sense of proportion, or humor, or both.

The theory of the non-transferability of power is one to which the modern pedagogical psychologist — whatever his right to that title — has given an unusual amount of attention. Indeed, he is fully satisfied that he has settled the matter beyond dispute; that intellectual power acquired through the study of any given subject cannot be utilized for other work; and that the whole question is no longer open to argument. The absurd limits to which he is willing to carry the logical conclusion of his premises seem not yet to have been fully reached, and already cause the ordinary mortal something of a shock. To the ‘expert’ these conclusions may seem sound. To the average schoolmaster, dealing with facts rather than theories, the prosecution has signally failed to make out its case. We are perhaps ready to grant that the old theory has been a bit overworked; that we have laid a bit too much stress on the value in other work of effort directed towards the mastering of a given subject. But the ridiculous extremes to which the modernists have carried their doctrine make us only belligerent.

Such at least was the effect recently created on a representative gathering of schoolmasters when one of the acknowledged leaders in this modern school asked with commendable frankness that his remarkable claims be accepted as final truths. We were assured that even in the modern realm the old doctrine had proved itself a mere fetish. In proof of this contention we were told that it was a wellknown fact that gamblers, notoriously dishonest in ordinary relationships, would scrupulously meet all gambling obligations, and that business men who were the soul of honor in personal and domestic affairs would not hesitate to resort to dishonest practices in business. A pugnacious member of the gathering, unable longer to control himself, finally put this pointed question to the speaker. ‘Do you mean to imply that the habits of honesty in thought and speech and conduct that I am daily seeking to develop in my young son will not be of value when he enters upon a business career in later years, but that a fresh start must then be made?’ With a smile of assurance the champion of this new doctrine replied, ‘That is a fair assumption.’

A more monstrous doctrine than this it would be difficult to conceive. We must admit its consistency, to be sure, but we are not willing to deny the validity of our own senses, of the facts of everyday experience, and the testimony of the human race since the dawn of history. If the old theory, accepted through the centuries as a self-evident truth, is based on assumption as the modernists claim, their own startling doctrine is surely so based, and to an infinitely greater degree. Schoolmasters who are compelled to deal with the product of this sort of teaching find little to arouse their enthusiasm. And men and women everywhere who clearly recognize how precious to their later lives have been the results secured through training under the old established order will steadfastly refuse to accept such a gross assumption as this. The ‘expert’ is more on the defensive than he seems to realize. But he will realize the fact with increasing force just so soon as sensible men and women comprehend the absurd extremes to which his doctrine logically carries him, refuse to accept his assertions on faith, and begin to do a little serious thinking for themselves.

III

Closely related to the theory of the non-transferability of power is the problem of mental discipline so scoffed at by the modernist. Mr. Flexner tells us that mental discipline is an ‘impressive phrase,’ that it is based on pure assumption, and that no affirmative case can be made out for it. He chooses the study of Latin as the basis of his argument, and cites the case of Mr. James J. Hill to prove that mental discipline may be secured in other ways than by the study of that ancient language. Surely the modernists must be hard pressed for material if they are compelled to dig up isolated cases of this kind to support their contentions. Has any one ever claimed that mental discipline could be secured alone by the study of Latin or any other individual subject? As well argue that there is no mental discipline to be had in developing a large portion of a sparsely settled continent because, forsooth, Mr. Gladstone developed his unique intellectual powers through the study of the classics and in other old-fashioned ways. One wonders that so able a man as Mr. Flexner should have resorted to such a makeshift as this. Innumerable cases can be cited of men who in the world’s history have attained the highest degree of mental discipline without the aid of Latin, or, for that matter, of the American Northwest. Yet it might not be impertinent to ask just why Mr. Hill elected to send his sons to college, and one of them at least for a despised classical course. It is just possible that Mr. Hill recognized — as so many other self-made men like him have clearly recognized — a real lack in his earlier training, a lack which he believed could be supplied by the curriculum of an old-fashioned college. Or was it culture — perish the thought! — that he sought for his children? May we even dare to mention this subject on which the modern ‘expert’ has heaped his most violent anathema?

Yes, there are some who have not yet bowed the knee to the materialistic Baal so widely set up as our modern American god. And, strange to relate, some of these benighted old-fashioned folk, with their ‘inherited’ and ‘traditional’ ideas of education, are wonderfully successful men of business and affairs, even when success is measured in modern terms of dollars and cents and scientific accomplishment. Some, too, have dared to believe and confess that this old-fashioned training has contributed to their success. And just because they are big men and have lifted their heads above the common herd, their vision is perhaps less distorted, a bit wider in its scope, less likely to be colored by the views and opinions of the crowd that swarms about them. I have talked with such. Most schoolmasters have. And contact with such great souls brings its own cheer and inspiration, after constant dealing with the more common lot of men who honestly believe that ‘we cannot afford to waste our time in that way in these days.’

There are still men whom the business world and scientific efficiency have not warped and who see in a cultural education — even in the study of the ancient classics - an opportunity to broaden one’s vision, quicken one’s perception of the real values of life, and accumulate against dark and stormy days resources that will enable the pilot with clear eye and steady hand to bring his human craft safe to port. To such history has its lessons, literature its inspiration; and these can best be secured by an earnest effort at mastery, not by trusting to the shifting and unstable ‘interests’ of youth or the uncertain and even more unreliable selections of the modern pedagogical ‘ expert.’ And, curiously, some of these misguided souls are just foolish enough to believe that possibly — possibly their sons will be a bit bigger and better business men and engineers and men of affairs because they will have built upon this broader foundation. I have in mind several men of this kind who have very frankly stated to me their opinions on this much-discussed question — men who have done big things in a practical and scientific way, and who are recognized by the public as real leaders in their professions. These men have grave doubts — very, very grave doubts — as to the soundness or value of modern tendencies in education. Their testimony is of one general kind. They believe that the classical or cultural education supplies the best foundation for the engineer and the practical scientist — and for several reasons. They accept as valid the arguments in its favor advanced above. And they go still further, for, strange to relate, they have discovered no good reason for abandoning the doctrine of mental discipline. They have worked with and directed the work of men trained for their profession in our best scientific and technical schools, and they have not been satisfied with their material.

One of them summed up the general criticism when he said to me in substance, ‘The graduate of the modern scientific school seems lacking in imagination. He has been too accustomed to work with only exact sciences. x + y has always equalled z. Any other answer must of necessity be wrong. These men make good engineers, but seldom great ones. They can solve readily the ordinary problems known to the engineering world, but they are unequal to those that are new and unusual. And the engineer who is truly great and who exalts his profession and wins personal fame is the one who can draw upon his imagination when the necessity arises; can weigh and balance, and now and then take a chance in wrestling with, the new problems that confront him. It is my belief that study based in the main upon mathematics and science does not train the mind in this way. That training comes from the study of languages, including the classics, where shades of meaning count, and where frequently more than one construction or translation may be correct, but some are better than others.’

Yes, even the doctrine of mental discipline has still its disciples apart from incorrigible and tradition-ridden schoolmasters, and disciples too among those whom our modern pedagogical psychologist recognizes as successful and efficient men. When he falls in with men of this sort the schoolmaster takes courage, for then he realizes that the whole world has not yet lost its bearings.

But Mr. Flexner is not satisfied with heaping ridicule on the old-fashioned courses of study in which he has singled out Latin and mathematics for his most violent attacks. Under this method of training, he says, pupils not only ignominiously fail to gain either knowledge or power, but they spend an inordinately long time in failing. To prove his assertion he cites the large percentage of failures in Latin and mathematics among candidates who tried the examinations of the College Entrance Examination Board in 1915. Statistics are frequently impressive, but often misleading; and never more so than when incomplete. It is strange indeed that Mr. Flexner should have chosen this particular illustration to attempt to prove his case; for we cannot believe that he intentionally desires to mislead us. But the argument is misleading none the less; for had Mr. Flexner told us the whole story of these examination statistics he would have been forced to abandon either the illustration or the conclusion he seeks to defend. A fellow schoolmaster has very recently, in an able article in the New York Evening Post, called attention to the fact that this illustration of Mr. Flexner’s becomes something of a boomerang when all the facts are known. For the facts are these: that although in truth a regrettably large percentageof candidates fails in Latin and mathematics, a still larger percentage fails in some of those subjects which Mr. Flexner and others who share his views tell us are alone worth while. On the basis of excellence in results as reported by the secretary of the College Entrance Examination Board for 1915 the ranking of individual subjects is given as follows: botany, Greek, zoölogy, French, Latin, physics, German, biology, chemistry, drawing, mathematics, English, geography, history, Spanish, music.

Think of it! Greek second in order; Latin fifth; the sciences well behind the despised classics; and music last! How are our modernists to explain away these facts? It will not do for them to argue that more time is devoted to preparation in some subjects than in others; for in every case the examination is carefully based on the amount of time the subject has been studied. Nor can they fairly claim that the sciences and more modern subjects are unfairly handicapped by the limitations of curricula and teachers. Even granting that to a degree this might seem true, the fact remains that Greek especially, and to a large degree Latin, have been more handicapped in recent years than have any other subjects. Both have had to fight for mere existence. Notably in the public schools the fight has been a losing one. The classics have been side-tracked to make room for the practical and more modern subjects. Those who have taught them have been forced to contend against increasing limitations of time schedules, and — what is vastly more deadly in its benumbing influence — a hostile public attitude. This attitude induces a natural aversion to the subjects and leads the majority of pupils to attack them with sullen hostility or open resentment.

Mr. Flexner will have to find a better illustration than the one he has chosen. That American boys and girls spend an inordinately long time in failing — and in succeeding too for that matter — we will grant. It is not only the modernists who are awakening to the fact that several years may be saved with distinct advantage in the early period of the child’s education. On this point many of us, whatever our views may be as to subjects and methods, will heartily endorse the views of both Dr. Eliot and Mr. Flexner.

From beginning to end, discipline permeated the curriculum of the school of yesterday. The interests of the individual pupil were rarely if ever consulted. The work assigned was to be done. The question of its appeal, of its difficulty, of its practical value to a particular pupil, was not even open for discussion. And what splendid men and women this old-fashioned, not always agreeable, disciplinary education developed; or, according to Mr. Flexner, what fine characters were developed in spite of it. Under the old régime there was bred a ruggedness, a virility, a sense of obligation, a respect for authority, a readiness to respond to the call of duty, that to-day are sadly missed in the rising generation. These traits, so absolutely necessary to good citizenship and to strong manhood and womanhood, are no longer developed and fostered in our American homes and schools where modern theories have exerted their paralyzing influence. Nor has any satisfactory substitute been offered to take the place of that which has been lost. And yet we are told that all this was wrong and a waste, that hard work has no value in itself, and that our starting-point, the dominating factor indeed, should be the interest of the individual child. Fortunately the modernists are satisfied to offer us only a starting-point. Had they undertaken to do more, to map out for us for example a chart to guide us in dealing with the numerous and ever-varying interests of the child from, say, five to fifteen years of age, they would have had time for nothing else, and the office forces of our great American educational foundations would be working overtime.

In no other way, perhaps, than in their advocacy of this pernicious doctrine of individual interest have the modernists more seriously undermined sound scholarship, proper habits of study, and the development of virile, rugged character. Of all the latest educational nostrums that have been foisted upon us, this is one of the worst. Even a child can feel its appeal; for the pill is thickly coated with sugar, and every child’s ‘interest’ draws it to sugar, even though a stomach-ache or something worse may result. Where, pray, are we to begin and where end in this weighty responsibility of heeding and catering to the interests of youth? Was there ever a normal boy who did not successively show an ‘interest’ in running a candy store, in becoming a policeman, or a motorman, or an engineer, or the captain of an ocean liner? Can we conceive of a red-blooded youth to whom electricity and machinery and chemical experiments do not bring their special appeal? Would we regard a boy as having ordinary intelligence who could not readily learn to understand the mechanism of his father’s automobile? As a schoolmaster I am only too well aware that fathers with such normal sons see unmistakable signs of budding genius in this natural ability of youth; but as an ordinary individual I am disposed to class these deluded parents with those whose sons have ‘never told a lie.’ They lack perception.

IV

The modernists lay great stress on the glories of this eminently practical age of ours, with its automobiles and aeroplanes, its wireless telegraphy and its engineering feats. We are given to understand that the proper use of these great scientific inventions and accomplishments requires a special training that the old education failed to supply. And because an individual boy shows a wholesome interest in these things and a normal boy’s ability to understand their mechanism and the general theories on which they have been constructed, we are asked to give him credit for ability and powers which were developed in the minds of the inventors only after years of hard and persistent labor — a labor, too, that dealt largely with underlying and none too attractive fundamentals. Someway that old despised education, with its insistence upon hard work and its belief in mental discipline, seems to have done remarkably well in fostering inventive genius and in making science accessible to the practical life of the world. No doubt Mr. Flexner is right in believing that a capable high school boy can in a measure work out the mechanism of wireless telegraphy, if by that he means to construct a wireless apparatus that will work. Scores of cheap books can be found that will give him all needed information for such a simple task. But the practical electrician will be the first one to advise that boy to spend his time in more useful ways if he ever hopes to master and excel in his profession. A thorough grounding in mathematics and in the principles of science — including the study of electricity—would be the first and essential requirement. And when they once undertake the hard and so often unattractive work that this necessary process involves, the hosts of these aspiring geniuses rapidly dwindle, to the disappointment of doting parents and friends, but to the benefit, doubtless, of science and the world. Buildings will continue to require foundations, whatever the material may be out of which they are constructed.

Nor is this all. The modernist has yet to prove that these more practical, or scientific, or observational subjects — call them what you will — can in the end be made to hold the interest of the pupil any more than can those old school subjects he would have us discard. The testimony of those who have taught in both types of school assures me that the amount of waste is as great in one as in the other. In some of the very best of our scientific institutions the percentage of students dropped because of inability or unwillingness to master the work required of them is far greater than in classical institutions of the same high grade. Yet these students in a very real sense have selected these institutions because interest prompted them to do so. Moreover, they have generally been prepared in special subjects leading directly to this higher work, and they have passed successfully rigid entrance tests. What are the facts? As the work grows harder, interest wanes; or that which was regarded as special ability is discovered to be a superficial inclination merely, incapable of enduring the severer tests. These unfortunates, yielding to modern demands, have begun at the wrong end. Had they first of all, and regardless of the individual subjects concerned, developed by hard and sustained effort the power of concentration, of holding the mind to a given task, however hard, the story would have been a far more satisfactory one. The successful scientist, or engineer, or business man would much prefer to employ the boy who has learned to use his mind, who has developed the will to do, rather than one who, however deeply interested he may be in the work assigned him, has not acquired through hard labor those habits of mind and thought upon which in the end all true successes must depend.

And why should we believe that in the intellectual realm alone the interest of the undeveloped child should be of such paramount and controlling importance? Why not, then, in the moral and physical realms? Yet youth is proverbially a period of limitation, requiring processes, often painful, of curbing and restraint. Give the youth, whether boy or girl, free rein in yielding to moral — or immoral — interests, and moral ruin will generally result. Give the growing boy the liberty to follow his physical inclinations, and disaster must surely follow. On what fair assumption, then, may we claim that in things intellectual the child’s interest should prevail? And which interest are we to choose? And when? And how? Surely we have not grown too old ourselves to recall how many, how varied, and how shifting were the interests of our youthful days. And some of us will even remember with gratitude that it was in the days of young manhood and womanhood that the higher education that we were privileged to enjoy first revealed to us the supreme interest that was to dominate and control our lives. For let it be well remembered that one of the most valuable factors in the higher education lies in its revealing power. We are too ready to ignore this truth in these days.

What kind of books do our boys and girls read to-day? What sort of musical shows do they frequent? asks Mr. Flexner, seeking thereby to show the failure of the old-fashioned type of education to develop and foster proper tastes. Alas! We are only too readily compelled to anticipate and acknowledge the truth of the answer he implies. It is a tragic one at best. But we see a very different cause to account for the tragic fact. Does Mr. Flexner believe that modern parents and schoolmasters deliberately choose and recommend these soul-destroying pastimes for their boys and girls? Many of us are forced to believe, and with all our hearts, that at the root of this deplorable situation lies a widespread acceptance of this modern doctrine of yielding to the interests of youth. The schoolmaster, struggling with misguided parents to whom this doctrine has become law, feels at times in his depression that the fight is becoming too severe, the handicap too great. In the frequency with which he knows that his pupils, without parental guidance or restraint, attend during vacation days vulgar and sometimes obscene performances on the public stage, he sees the logical working out of this pernicious doctrine. In the ever-growing number of alluring and indecent magazines flooding the public bookstalls, especially in school and college communities, he has clear proof of the literary taste that surely eventuates wherever the interests of youth are unrestrained. Does Mr. Flexner honestly think that these boys and girls, with poison already invading their minds and undermining their characters, can ever be made to read Homer, or Chaucer, or Shakespeare ‘for sheer fun’? Or would he even admit that a ‘ lifelong hostility to Burke’ was less to be desired?

Those of us who have enjoyed the God-given privilege of old-fashioned parents, who knew better than we what was good for us, can still recall those moments of hostility when we were told to read great masterpieces of literature that ran counter to our interests. But, thank God, we can recall too, and with heartfelt gratitude, that such reading frequently kindled a new and wholesome and lasting interest that has served us well through all the passing years. Perhaps we cannot, many of us, read our Homer and our Virgil with facility in these later years; nor is this essential, for we have felt the inspiration that breathes through these masterpieces of the world’s great literature, and that inspiration has quickened us intellectually and spiritually, and has strengthened our desires for and facilitated our grasp of things that are good and true and well worth while. We cannot measure these values on charts as the modern psychologists would have us. Like countless other factors and influences that have lost their identity in the passing years in the building of character, they may no longer be visible; but we know that they exist and we know that life would be poorer and narrower without them.

We cannot attempt within the limits of such an article as this to discuss in detail all of Mr. Flexner’s unique and frequently interesting suggestions. Some are self-contradictory. Many would prove wholly unworkable. Most are based on pure assumption against which we are so often warned. The prediction that parents are conspiring to investigate us schoolmasters causes no alarm. If we could believe that this was really true we might even rejoice. There are parents and parents, as every schoolmaster knows. Those who are truly interested, who honestly care, to whom a divine Providence has vouchsafed a reasonable degree of parental common sense — how gladly we welcome them! how readily we listen to their quiet criticism and suggestion! but — how rare they are! Those ‘modern parents’ of the ‘charming’ kind, who organize societies and attend lectures that they may the better discover the duties and responsibilities of true parenthood and more intelligently supervise the work of theschools! Yes, we know them, too. Like the majority of those who seek courses of pedagogy in the deluded hope that in this way the ability to teach which has been denied them may in some way be supplied, these modern parents will be misled by superficialities, caught by phrases and formula, and hypnotized by methods and approved courses of study, forever blind to the fact that parents like teachers are born and not made, and that now as always, in teacher and parent alike, personality, not rules and methods, is the essential and determining factor. We shall not worry. We shall be glad to explain the ‘how’ and the ‘why’ to those who really care. As for the others, they can doubtless afford to and probably will start or foster private schools of their own, where the modern pedagogical ‘expert’ can give full play to his fancy at the expense of the helpless boys and girts intrusted to his care. Thoughtful parents will continue to send their boys and girls, as they have been doing in recent years in significantly increasing numbers, to schools which still place character above mere efficiency, which have not lost faith in mental discipline, or even culture, and which are not ashamed to point to their product as proof of the soundness of their methods and ideals.

In the meantime we shall watch with interest the attempt of Mr. Flexner and his followers to put into actual practice the ideals and methods advocated for his ‘Modern School.’ At present the attempt reminds us of that amusing but abortive effort of an ancient Chinese emperor to establish the beginning of knowledge with his reign. In only one way could the feat be performed. Knowledge to date must be destroyed. But somehow knowledge continued to exist in spite of imperial decree and burned books; and education to-day will survive the test. In spite of theorists and of educational foundations we shall continue to find values in the education of the past, as our fathers did before us. And we shall find too something of educational value in the mere process of watching the new experiments, if Mr. Flexner can demonstrate to the satisfaction of any intelligent human being how he is to put into actual practice his sweeping and astounding proposition that ‘What is taught, when it is taught, and how it is taught, will depend altogether on what is needed, when it is needed, and the form in which it is needed.’

Some one, somewhere, somehow, at some time, is to tell us what, and when, and how. Can human omniscience soar to greater heights? At present it would seem that only a Jules Verne and a Mark Twain combined could do full justice to such a theme. In view of these latest efforts to make chaos out of our American education one is tempted to exclaim with a great English schoolmaster facing a somewhat similar crisis, ‘For God’s sake teach anything, only insure that your great schools put the construction into more benefit through teaching, and afterwards it will be time enough to discuss subjects.’