Some General Conclusions

We shall conclude our survey of how we think and how we should think by presenting some factors of thinking which should balance each other, but which constantly tend to become so isolated that they work against each other instead of cooperating to make reflective inquiry efficient.

We will conclude our review of how we think and how we should think by considering some factors in thinking. These factors should balance each other. But they constantly tend to become isolated and work against each other instead of cooperating to make reflective inquiry effective.

It is significant that one meaning of the term understood is something so thoroughly mastered, so completely agreed upon, as to be assumed; that is to say, taken as a matter of course without explicit statement. The familiar "goes without saying" means "it is understood." If two persons can converse intelligently with each other, it is because a common experience supplies a background of mutual understanding upon which their respective remarks are projected. To dig up and to formulate this common background would be imbecile; it is "understood"; that is, it is silently supplied and implied as the taken-for-granted medium of intelligent exchange of ideas.

It is significant that one meaning of understood is something so thoroughly mastered and completely agreed upon that it can be assumed. In other words, it is taken for granted without being stated explicitly. The familiar phrase "goes without saying" means "it is understood." If two people can talk intelligently with each other, it is because they share a background of experience and mutual understanding. Their individual remarks draw on that background. It would be foolish to dig up and spell out this common background. It is "understood". In other words, it is silently supplied and implied as the taken-for-granted basis for an intelligent exchange of ideas.

If, however, the two persons find themselves at cross-purposes, it is necessary to dig up and compare the presuppositions, the implied context, on the basis of which each is speaking. The implicit is made explicit; what was unconsciously assumed is exposed to the light of conscious day. In this way, the root of the misunderstanding is removed. Some such rhythm of the unconscious and the conscious is involved in all fruitful thinking. A person in pursuing a consecutive train of thoughts takes some system of ideas for granted (which accordingly he leaves unexpressed, "unconscious") as surely as he does in conversing with others. Some context, some situation, some controlling purpose dominates his explicit ideas so thoroughly that it does not need to be consciously formulated and expounded. Explicit thinking goes on within the limits of what is implied or understood. Yet the fact that reflection originates in a problem makes it necessary at some points consciously to inspect and examine this familiar background. We have to turn upon some unconscious assumption and make it explicit.

If, however, two people find themselves at cross-purposes, they must uncover and compare the assumptions behind their words. They must also compare the implied context in which each person is speaking. What was implicit becomes explicit. What was unconsciously assumed is brought into conscious view. In this way, the root of the misunderstanding is removed. Some such rhythm between the unconscious and the conscious is involved in all fruitful thinking. A person following a continuous train of thought takes some system of ideas for granted, just as in conversation. These ideas are left unexpressed, or "unconscious." Some context, situation, or guiding purpose dominates the person's explicit ideas. It does so so thoroughly that it does not need to be consciously stated and explained. Explicit thinking takes place within the limits of what is implied or understood. Yet reflection begins with a problem, so we must consciously inspect and examine this familiar background at some points. We have to turn our attention to some unconscious assumption and make it explicit.

No rules can be laid down for attaining the due balance and rhythm of these two phases of mental life. No ordinance can prescribe at just what point the spontaneous working of some unconscious attitude and habit is to be checked till we have made explicit what is implied in it. No one can tell in detail just how far the analytic inspection and formulation are to be carried. We can say that they must be carried far enough so that the individual will know what he is about and be able to guide his thinking; but in a given case just how far is that? We can say that they must be carried far enough to detect and guard against the source of some false perception or reasoning, and to get a leverage on the investigation; but such statements only restate the original difficulty. Since our reliance must be upon the disposition and tact of the individual in the particular case, there is no test of the success of an education more important than the extent to which it nurtures a type of mind competent to maintain an economical balance of the unconscious and the conscious.

No rules can establish the proper balance and rhythm between these two phases of mental life. No rule can say exactly when we should pause the spontaneous working of an unconscious attitude or habit. We must then make clear what is implied in that attitude or habit. No one can say in detail how far we should carry this analysis and formulation. We can say they must go far enough for a person to understand and guide their own thinking. But in a particular case, just how far is that? We can say they must go far enough to detect and guard against the source of a false perception or faulty reasoning. They must also go far enough to give us a foothold in the investigation. But such statements only restate the original difficulty. We must rely on each person’s judgment and tact in the particular case. So there is no more important test of an education’s success than how well it develops a mind capable of efficiently balancing unconscious and conscious thought.

The ways of teaching criticised in the foregoing pages as false "analytic" methods of instruction (ante, p. 112), all reduce themselves to the mistake of directing explicit attention and formulation to what would work better if left an unconscious attitude and working assumption. To pry into the familiar, the usual, the automatic, simply for the sake of making it conscious, simply for the sake of formulating it, is both an impertinent interference, and a source of boredom. To be forced to dwell consciously upon the accustomed is the essence of ennui; to pursue methods of instruction that have that tendency is deliberately to cultivate lack of interest.

The teaching approaches criticized earlier as false "analytic" methods of instruction (see above, p. 112) all come down to the same mistake. They call explicit attention to, and put into words, what would work better as an unconscious attitude and working assumption. It is intrusive and boring to examine what is familiar, usual, and automatic simply to become aware of it or put it into words. Being forced to think consciously about what is customary is the essence of boredom. So teaching methods that tend to force such thought deliberately cultivate a lack of interest.

On the other hand, what has been said in criticism of merely routine forms of skill, what has been said about the importance of having a genuine problem, of introducing the novel, and of reaching a deposit of general meaning weighs on the other side of the scales. It is as fatal to good thinking to fail to make conscious the standing source of some error or failure as it is to pry needlessly into what works smoothly. To over-simplify, to exclude the novel for the sake of prompt skill, to avoid obstacles for the sake of averting errors, is as detrimental as to try to get pupils to formulate everything they know and to state every step of the process employed in getting a result. Where the shoe pinches, analytic examination is indicated. When a topic is to be clinched so that knowledge of it will carry over into an effective resource in further topics, conscious condensation and summarizing are imperative. In the early stage of acquaintance with a subject, a good deal of unconstrained unconscious mental play about it may be permitted, even at the risk of some random experimenting; in the later stages, conscious formulation and review may be encouraged. Projection and reflection, going directly ahead and turning back in scrutiny, should alternate. Unconsciousness gives spontaneity and freshness; consciousness, conviction and control.

On the other hand, the criticisms of purely routine skills weigh against this approach. So does the importance of having a genuine problem, introducing something new, and arriving at a general understanding. Good thinking suffers as much from overlooking a recurring source of error or failure as from needlessly examining what works smoothly. Oversimplifying, leaving out new things to develop skills quickly, and avoiding obstacles to prevent errors are just as harmful as asking pupils to put everything they know into words and state every step they took to reach a result. Where there is difficulty, careful analysis is called for. When a topic needs to be firmly established, conscious condensation and summary are essential. These help make knowledge of the topic an effective resource for learning later topics. When first becoming acquainted with a subject, pupils may be allowed plenty of free, unconscious mental play with it, even at the risk of some random experimenting. In later stages, they may be encouraged to put their understanding into words and review it. Moving forward and reflecting, going straight ahead and looking back critically, should alternate. Unconscious thought brings spontaneity and freshness. Conscious thought brings conviction and control.

A like balance in mental life characterizes process and product. We met one important phase of this adjustment in considering play and work. In play, interest centers in activity, without much reference to its outcome. The sequence of deeds, images, emotions, suffices on its own account. In work, the end holds attention and controls the notice given to means. Since the difference is one of direction of interest, the contrast is one of emphasis, not of cleavage. When comparative prominence in consciousness of activity or outcome is transformed into isolation of one from the other, play degenerates into fooling, and work into drudgery.

A similar balance between process and product is part of mental life. We saw one important aspect of this balance when considering play and work. In play, interest centers on the activity, with little regard for its outcome. The sequence of actions, images, and emotions is enough in itself. In work, the goal holds our attention and determines how much attention we give to the means. The difference lies in the direction of interest, so it is a difference of emphasis, not a complete separation. When we separate activity and outcome instead of merely giving one more attention than the other, play becomes fooling around, and work becomes drudgery.

By "fooling" we understand a series of disconnected temporary overflows of energy dependent upon whim and accident. When all reference to outcome is eliminated from the sequence of ideas and acts that make play, each member of the sequence is cut loose from every other and becomes fantastic, arbitrary, aimless; mere fooling follows. There is some inveterate tendency to fool in children as well as in animals; nor is the tendency wholly evil, for at least it militates against falling into ruts. But when it is excessive in amount, dissipation and disintegration follow; and the only way of preventing this consequence is to make regard for results enter into even the freest play activity.

By "fooling" we mean a series of disconnected, brief bursts of energy driven by whim and chance. Suppose all concern for outcomes is removed from the sequence of ideas and actions that make up play. Then each part of the sequence becomes disconnected from every other part. Each becomes fanciful, arbitrary, and aimless. The result is mere fooling. Children, like animals, have some deep-rooted tendency to fool. This tendency is not entirely bad, since it at least helps prevent them from falling into ruts. But when the tendency is excessive, it leads to a wasting of energy and a loss of coherence. The only way to prevent this is to bring some concern for results into even the freest play.

Exclusive interest in the result alters work to drudgery. For by drudgery is meant those activities in which the interest in the outcome does not suffuse the means of getting the result. Whenever a piece of work becomes drudgery, the process of doing loses all value for the doer; he cares solely for what is to be had at the end of it. The work itself, the putting forth of energy, is hateful; it is just a necessary evil, since without it some important end would be missed. Now it is a commonplace that in the work of the world many things have to be done the doing of which is not intrinsically very interesting. However, the argument that children should be kept doing drudgery-tasks because thereby they acquire power to be faithful to distasteful duties, is wholly fallacious. Repulsion, shirking, and evasion are the consequences of having the repulsive imposed—not loyal love of duty. Willingness to work for ends by means of acts not naturally attractive is best attained by securing such an appreciation of the value of the end that a sense of its value is transferred to its means of accomplishment. Not interesting in themselves, they borrow interest from the result with which they are associated.

Focusing only on the result turns work into drudgery. Drudgery means activities in which interest in the outcome does not carry over to the means of achieving it. Whenever work becomes drudgery, the process of doing it loses all value for the person doing it. The person cares only about what comes at the end. The work itself, the effort it requires, is hateful. It is merely a necessary evil, because without it some important goal would be missed. Of course, much of the work of the world is not very interesting in itself. But some argue that children should be made to do drudgery because it teaches them to carry out unpleasant duties faithfully. This argument is entirely wrong. Imposing unpleasant tasks leads to aversion, shirking, and evasion, not a loyal love of duty. The best way to foster willingness to work toward goals through activities that are not naturally appealing is to help people appreciate the value of those goals. Then the sense of value carries over to the means of achieving them. Though the activities are not interesting in themselves, they borrow interest from the result they help achieve.

The intellectual harm accruing from divorce of work and play, product and process, is evidenced in the proverb, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." That the obverse is true is perhaps sufficiently signalized in the fact that fooling is so near to foolishness. To be playful and serious at the same time is possible, and it defines the ideal mental condition. Absence of dogmatism and prejudice, presence of intellectual curiosity and flexibility, are manifest in the free play of the mind upon a topic. To give the mind this free play is not to encourage toying with a subject, but is to be interested in the unfolding of the subject on its own account, apart from its subservience to a preconceived belief or habitual aim. Mental play is open-mindedness, faith in the power of thought to preserve its own integrity without external supports and arbitrary restrictions. Hence free mental play involves seriousness, the earnest following of the development of subject-matter. It is incompatible with carelessness or flippancy, for it exacts accurate noting of every result reached in order that every conclusion may be put to further use. What is termed the interest in truth for its own sake is certainly a serious matter, yet this pure interest in truth coincides with love of the free play of thought.

The intellectual harm of separating work from play, and product from process, appears in the proverb, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." The reverse is perhaps made clear enough by how close fooling is to foolishness. It is possible to be playful and serious at the same time. This combination defines the ideal mental state. When the mind plays freely with a subject, it shows intellectual curiosity and flexibility, without dogmatism or prejudice. Giving the mind this freedom does not mean encouraging it to toy with a subject. It means being interested in how the subject unfolds for its own sake, rather than making it serve a preconceived belief or habitual aim. Mental play is open-mindedness. It is faith in the power of thought to maintain its own integrity without outside support or arbitrary restrictions. So free mental play involves seriousness and a sincere effort to follow the subject as it develops. It cannot go with carelessness or flippancy. It requires careful attention to every result, so that every conclusion can be used again. An interest in truth for its own sake is certainly serious. Yet this pure interest in truth goes hand in hand with a love of the free play of thought.

In spite of many appearances to the contrary—usually due to social conditions of either undue superfluity that induces idle fooling or undue economic pressure that compels drudgery—childhood normally realizes the ideal of conjoint free mental play and thoughtfulness. Successful portrayals of children have always made their wistful intentness at least as obvious as their lack of worry for the morrow. To live in the present is compatible with condensation of far-reaching meanings in the present. Such enrichment of the present for its own sake is the just heritage of childhood and the best insurer of future growth. The child forced into premature concern with economic remote results may develop a surprising sharpening of wits in a particular direction, but this precocious specialization is always paid for by later apathy and dullness.

Despite appearances, childhood normally combines free mental play with thoughtfulness. Appearances often suggest otherwise because of social conditions. Too much wealth encourages idle fooling, while too much economic pressure forces children into drudgery. Successful portrayals of children have always shown their wistful concentration at least as clearly as their freedom from worry about tomorrow. Living in the present is compatible with bringing far-reaching meanings into the present. Enriching the present for its own sake is the rightful heritage of childhood and the best guarantee of future growth. A child forced to worry too early about long-term economic results may become surprisingly sharp in one particular direction. But this early specialization always comes at the cost of later apathy and dullness.

That art originated in play is a common saying. Whether or not the saying is historically correct, it suggests that harmony of mental playfulness and seriousness describes the artistic ideal. When the artist is preoccupied overmuch with means and materials, he may achieve wonderful technique, but not the artistic spirit par excellence. When the animating idea is in excess of the command of method, æsthetic feeling may be indicated, but the art of presentation is too defective to express the feeling thoroughly. When the thought of the end becomes so adequate that it compels translation into the means that embody it, or when attention to means is inspired by recognition of the end they serve, we have the attitude typical of the artist, an attitude that may be displayed in all activities, even though not conventionally designated arts.

People often say that art began in play. Whether or not that is historically true, it suggests an artistic ideal. That ideal is a balance between mental playfulness and seriousness. When artists focus too much on methods and materials, they may achieve remarkable technique. But they do not achieve the artistic spirit par excellence. When their guiding idea exceeds their command of method, they may show aesthetic feeling. But their presentation is too flawed to express that feeling fully. The artist’s typical attitude arises when an idea of the end is clear enough to demand expression through suitable means. It also arises when attention to the means is inspired by an understanding of the end they serve. This attitude can appear in all activities, even those not conventionally called arts.

That teaching is an art and the true teacher an artist is a familiar saying. Now the teacher's own claim to rank as an artist is measured by his ability to foster the attitude of the artist in those who study with him, whether they be youth or little children. Some succeed in arousing enthusiasm, in communicating large ideas, in evoking energy. So far, well; but the final test is whether the stimulus thus given to wider aims succeeds in transforming itself into power, that is to say, into the attention to detail that ensures mastery over means of execution. If not, the zeal flags, the interest dies out, the ideal becomes a clouded memory. Other teachers succeed in training facility, skill, mastery of the technique of subjects. Again it is well—so far. But unless enlargement of mental vision, power of increased discrimination of final values, a sense for ideas—for principles—accompanies this training, forms of skill ready to be put indifferently to any end may be the result. Such modes of technical skill may display themselves, according to circumstances, as cleverness in serving self-interest, as docility in carrying out the purposes of others, or as unimaginative plodding in ruts. To nurture inspiring aim and executive means into harmony with each other is at once the difficulty and the reward of the teacher.

People often say that teaching is an art and a true teacher is an artist. A teacher’s claim to be an artist depends on how well the teacher fosters an artist’s attitude in students, whether they are young people or small children. Some teachers succeed in inspiring enthusiasm, sharing big ideas, and bringing out energy. So far, so good. But the final test is whether this encouragement toward broader aims becomes power. That power comes from attention to the details needed to master the means of carrying out those aims. If it does not, enthusiasm fades, interest dies, and the ideal becomes a vague memory. Other teachers succeed in developing fluency, skill, and mastery of the techniques of their subjects. Again, so far, so good. But this training must be accompanied by a broader mental vision, a greater ability to judge ultimate values, and a sense for ideas and principles. Otherwise, the result may be skills that can be used just as readily for any purpose. Depending on the circumstances, such technical skills may appear as cleverness in pursuing self-interest, as willingness to carry out others’ purposes, or as unimaginative work along familiar paths. Bringing inspiring aims and the means of carrying them out into harmony is both the difficulty and the reward of teaching.

Teachers who have heard that they should avoid matters foreign to pupils' experience, are frequently surprised to find pupils wake up when something beyond their ken is introduced, while they remain apathetic in considering the familiar. In geography, the child upon the plains seems perversely irresponsive to the intellectual charms of his local environment, and fascinated by whatever concerns mountains or the sea. Teachers who have struggled with little avail to extract from pupils essays describing the details of things with which they are well acquainted, sometimes find them eager to write on lofty or imaginary themes. A woman of education, who has recorded her experience as a factory worker, tried retelling Little Women to some factory girls during their working hours. They cared little for it, saying, "Those girls had no more interesting experience than we have," and demanded stories of millionaires and society leaders. A man interested in the mental condition of those engaged in routine labor asked a Scotch girl in a cotton factory what she thought about all day. She replied that as soon as her mind was free from starting the machinery, she married a duke, and their fortunes occupied her for the remainder of the day.

Teachers who have heard that they should avoid topics outside their pupils' experience are often surprised. Pupils come alive when introduced to something beyond their knowledge, yet show little interest in familiar things. In geography, a child living on the plains seems perversely uninterested in the intellectual appeal of the local environment. Yet the child is fascinated by anything concerning mountains or the sea. Teachers may struggle with little success to get pupils to write essays describing things they know well. Yet the same pupils are sometimes eager to write about grand or imaginary subjects. An educated woman who wrote about her experience as a factory worker tried retelling Little Women to some factory girls during working hours. The girls cared little for it. They said, "Those girls had no more interesting experience than we have," and asked for stories about millionaires and society leaders. A man interested in the mental lives of people doing routine work asked a Scottish girl in a cotton factory what she thought about all day. She replied that as soon as she had started the machinery and her mind was free, she married a duke. Their fortunes occupied her thoughts for the rest of the day.

Naturally, these incidents are not told in order to encourage methods of teaching that appeal to the sensational, the extraordinary, or the incomprehensible. They are told, however, to enforce the point that the familiar and the near do not excite or repay thought on their own account, but only as they are adjusted to mastering the strange and remote. It is a commonplace of psychology that we do not attend to the old, nor consciously mind that to which we are thoroughly accustomed. For this, there is good reason: to devote attention to the old, when new circumstances are constantly arising to which we should adjust ourselves, would be wasteful and dangerous. Thought must be reserved for the new, the precarious, the problematic. Hence the mental constraint, the sense of being lost, that comes to pupils when they are invited to turn their thoughts upon that with which they are already familiar. The old, the near, the accustomed, is not that to which but that with which we attend; it does not furnish the material of a problem, but of its solution.

Of course, these incidents are not meant to encourage teaching methods that appeal to the sensational, the extraordinary, or the incomprehensible. Rather, they emphasize a point about familiar, nearby things. These things do not stimulate or reward thought on their own. They do so only when used to master what is strange and distant. It is a basic principle of psychology that we do not pay attention to what is old. Nor do we consciously notice what we are thoroughly used to. There is good reason for this. New circumstances constantly arise, and we must adjust to them. Paying attention to what is old would therefore be wasteful and dangerous. We must reserve thought for what is new, uncertain, or problematic. This is why students feel mentally constrained and lost when asked to think about what they already know. The old, the near, and the familiar are not what we pay attention to, but what we pay attention with. They do not provide the material for a problem, but for its solution.

The last sentence has brought us to the balancing of new and old, of the far and that close by, involved in reflection. The more remote supplies the stimulus and the motive; the nearer at hand furnishes the point of approach and the available resources. This principle may also be stated in this form: the best thinking occurs when the easy and the difficult are duly proportioned to each other. The easy and the familiar are equivalents, as are the strange and the difficult. Too much that is easy gives no ground for inquiry; too much of the hard renders inquiry hopeless.

The last sentence brings us to the balance that reflection involves: between new and old, and between distant and nearby. What is more distant provides the stimulus and the motive. What is closer at hand provides a starting point and the resources available. We can also state this principle another way: the best thinking happens when the easy and the difficult are properly balanced. What is easy is familiar, just as what is strange is difficult. Too much that is easy leaves no reason to inquire. Too much that is difficult makes inquiry hopeless.

The necessity of the interaction of the near and the far follows directly from the nature of thinking. Where there is thought, something present suggests and indicates something absent. Accordingly unless the familiar is presented under conditions that are in some respect unusual, it gives no jog to thinking, it makes no demand upon what is not present in order to be understood. And if the subject presented is totally strange, there is no basis upon which it may suggest anything serviceable for its comprehension. When a person first has to do with fractions, for example, they will be wholly baffling so far as they do not signify to him some relation that he has already mastered in dealing with whole numbers. When fractions have become thoroughly familiar, his perception of them acts simply as a signal to do certain things; they are a "substitute sign," to which he can react without thinking. (Ante, p. 178.) If, nevertheless, the situation as a whole presents something novel and hence uncertain, the entire response is not mechanical, because this mechanical operation is put to use in solving a problem. There is no end to this spiral process: foreign subject-matter transformed through thinking into a familiar possession becomes a resource for judging and assimilating additional foreign subject-matter.

The need for the near and the far to interact follows directly from the nature of thinking. Wherever there is thought, something present suggests and points to something absent. So familiar things prompt no thought unless they are presented in some unusual way. They make no demand on us to draw on what is absent to understand them. But if a subject is completely unfamiliar, it offers no basis for suggesting anything useful for understanding it. For example, when a person first encounters fractions, they are completely baffling unless they suggest a relationship the person has already mastered with whole numbers. Once fractions have become thoroughly familiar, seeing them simply signals the person to do certain things. They are a "substitute sign" to which the person can respond without thinking. (Ante, p. 178.) Even so, if the situation as a whole presents something new and therefore uncertain, the whole response is not mechanical. That is because the mechanical operation is used to solve a problem. This spiral process has no end. Unfamiliar subject matter becomes familiar through thinking. It then becomes a resource for judging and understanding more unfamiliar subject matter.

The need for both imagination and observation in every mental enterprise illustrates another aspect of the same principle. Teachers who have tried object-lessons of the conventional type have usually found that when the lessons were new, pupils were attracted to them as a diversion, but as soon as they became matters of course they were as dull and wearisome as was ever the most mechanical study of mere symbols. Imagination could not play about the objects so as to enrich them. The feeling that instruction in "facts, facts" produces a narrow Gradgrind is justified not because facts in themselves are limiting, but because facts are dealt out as such hard and fast ready-made articles as to leave no room to imagination. Let the facts be presented so as to stimulate imagination, and culture ensues naturally enough. The converse is equally true. The imaginative is not necessarily the imaginary; that is, the unreal. The proper function of imagination is vision of realities that cannot be exhibited under existing conditions of sense-perception. Clear insight into the remote, the absent, the obscure is its aim. History, literature, and geography, the principles of science, nay, even geometry and arithmetic, are full of matters that must be imaginatively realized if they are realized at all. Imagination supplements and deepens observation; only when it turns into the fanciful does it become a substitute for observation and lose logical force.

The need for both imagination and observation in every mental undertaking shows another aspect of the same principle. Teachers who have tried conventional object lessons have usually found that pupils enjoy them at first as a diversion. But once the lessons become routine, they become as dull and tiresome as the most mechanical study of mere symbols. Imagination could not play around the objects and enrich them. People are right to feel that teaching "facts, facts" produces a narrow-minded Gradgrind. This is not because facts themselves are limiting. Rather, facts are handed out as fixed, ready-made items that leave no room for imagination. Present facts in a way that stimulates imagination, and culture follows naturally enough. The reverse is equally true. What is imaginative is not necessarily imaginary, or unreal. The proper role of imagination is to envision realities that cannot be shown under the conditions we can currently perceive. Its aim is a clear understanding of what is distant, absent, or obscure. History, literature, geography, the principles of science, and even geometry and arithmetic are full of such matters. These must be grasped through imagination if they are to be grasped at all. Imagination adds to and deepens observation. Only when imagination becomes fanciful does it take the place of observation and lose its logical force.

A final exemplification of the required balance between near and far is found in the relation that obtains between the narrower field of experience realized in an individual's own contact with persons and things, and the wider experience of the race that may become his through communication. Instruction always runs the risk of swamping the pupil's own vital, though narrow, experience under masses of communicated material. The instructor ceases and the teacher begins at the point where communicated matter stimulates into fuller and more significant life that which has entered by the strait and narrow gate of sense-perception and motor activity. Genuine communication involves contagion; its name should not be taken in vain by terming communication that which produces no community of thought and purpose between the child and the race of which he is the heir.

A final example of the necessary balance between near and far concerns two kinds of experience. One is the narrower experience a person gains through direct contact with people and things. The other is the wider experience of the human race, which a person may share through communication. Instruction always risks overwhelming the pupil’s own lively, though narrow, experience with masses of material communicated to them. The instructor becomes a teacher when communicated material gives fuller and more meaningful life to the pupil’s direct experience. That experience has entered through the narrow gate of sense perception and physical activity. Genuine communication is contagious. We should not misuse the word “communication” for something that creates no shared thought and purpose between the child and the human race, whose experience is the child’s inheritance.