Language and Training Thought

Speech has such a peculiarly intimate connection with thought as to require special discussion. Although the very word logic comes from logos (λογος), meaning indifferently both word or speech, and thought or reason, yet "words, words, words" denote intellectual barrenness, a sham of thought. Although schooling has language as its chief instrument (and often as its chief matter) of study, educational reformers have for centuries brought their severest indictments against the current use of language in the schools. The conviction that language is necessary to thinking (is even identical with it) is met by the contention that language perverts and conceals thought.

Speech is so closely connected with thought that it requires special discussion. The word logic comes from logos (λογος), which means both word or speech and thought or reason. Yet "words, words, words" suggest an absence of ideas, a pretense of thought. Language is the main tool of schooling and often its main subject of study. Yet for centuries, educational reformers have sharply criticized how schools use language. Some believe that language is necessary for thinking, or even identical to it. Others argue that language distorts and conceals thought.

Three typical views have been maintained regarding the relation of thought and language: first, that they are identical; second, that words are the garb or clothing of thought, necessary not for thought but only for conveying it; and third (the view we shall here maintain) that while language is not thought it is necessary for thinking as well as for its communication. When it is said, however, that thinking is impossible without language, we must recall that language includes much more than oral and written speech. Gestures, pictures, monuments, visual images, finger movements—anything consciously employed as a sign is, logically, language. To say that language is necessary for thinking is to say that signs are necessary. Thought deals not with bare things, but with their meanings, their suggestions; and meanings, in order to be apprehended, must be embodied in sensible and particular existences. Without meaning, things are nothing but blind stimuli or chance sources of pleasure and pain; and since meanings are not themselves tangible things, they must be anchored by attachment to some physical existence. Existences that are especially set aside to fixate and convey meanings are signs or symbols. If a man moves toward another to throw him out of the room, his movement is not a sign. If, however, the man points to the door with his hand, or utters the sound go, his movement is reduced to a vehicle of meaning: it is a sign or symbol. In the case of signs we care nothing for what they are in themselves, but everything for what they signify and represent. Canis, hund, chien, dog—it makes no difference what the outward thing is, so long as the meaning is presented.

There are three common views about the relationship between thought and language. The first is that thought and language are identical. The second is that words are the clothing of thought. According to this view, words are necessary for communicating thought, but not for thought itself. The third view is the one we will defend here. Language is not thought, but it is necessary for thinking as well as for communicating thought. When we say that thinking is impossible without language, we must remember that language includes much more than speech and writing. Gestures, pictures, monuments, visual images, and finger movements can all be language. Logically, anything consciously used as a sign is language. To say that language is necessary for thinking is to say that signs are necessary. Thought deals not with things alone, but with their meanings, with what they suggest. To grasp meanings, we must give them a concrete form that we can perceive. Without meaning, things are nothing but blind stimuli or chance sources of pleasure and pain. Meanings are not tangible things, so they must be anchored to something physical. Things that are especially set aside to fix and convey meanings are signs or symbols. Suppose a man moves toward another man to throw him out of a room. His movement is not a sign. But suppose the man points to the door or says go. His movement then serves as a vehicle of meaning. It is a sign or symbol. We care nothing about what signs are in themselves. We care entirely about what they mean and represent. Canis, hund, chien, dog. The outward form makes no difference, as long as it presents the meaning.

Natural objects are signs of other things and events. Clouds stand for rain; a footprint represents game or an enemy; a projecting rock serves to indicate minerals below the surface. The limitations of natural signs are, however, great. (i) The physical or direct sense excitation tends to distract attention from what is meant or indicated.²⁷ Almost every one will recall pointing out to a kitten or puppy some object of food, only to have the animal devote himself to the hand pointing, not to the thing pointed at. (ii) Where natural signs alone exist, we are mainly at the mercy of external happenings; we have to wait until the natural event presents itself in order to be warned or advised of the possibility of some other event. (iii) Natural signs, not being originally intended to be signs, are cumbrous, bulky, inconvenient, unmanageable.

Natural objects are signs of other things and events. Clouds signal rain. A footprint indicates game or an enemy. A rock jutting out of the ground indicates minerals below the surface. But natural signs have major limitations. (i) The direct physical sensation tends to distract attention from what the sign means or indicates.²⁷ Almost everyone can recall pointing out food to a kitten or puppy. Instead of looking at the food, the animal pays attention to the pointing hand. (ii) When only natural signs are available, we are mainly at the mercy of external events. We must wait for a natural event to occur before it warns or informs us of another possible event. (iii) Natural signs were not originally intended as signs, so they are bulky, awkward, inconvenient, and hard to manage.

It is therefore indispensable for any high development of thought that there should be also intentional signs. Speech supplies the requirement. Gestures, sounds, written or printed forms, are strictly physical existences, but their native value is intentionally subordinated to the value they acquire as representative of meanings. (i) The direct and sensible value of faint sounds and minute written or printed marks is very slight. Accordingly, attention is not distracted from their representative function. (ii) Their production is under our direct control so that they may be produced when needed. When we can make the word rain, we do not have to wait for some physical forerunner of rain to call our thoughts in that direction. We cannot make the cloud; we can make the sound, and as a token of meaning the sound serves the purpose as well as the cloud. (iii) Arbitrary linguistic signs are convenient and easy to manage. They are compact, portable, and delicate. As long as we live we breathe; and modifications by the muscles of throat and mouth of the volume and quality of the air are simple, easy, and indefinitely controllable. Bodily postures and gestures of the hand and arm are also employed as signs, but they are coarse and unmanageable compared with modifications of breath to produce sounds. No wonder that oral speech has been selected as the main stuff of intentional intellectual signs. Sounds, while subtle, refined, and easily modifiable, are transitory. This defect is met by the system of written and printed words, appealing to the eye. Litera scripta manet.

Therefore, highly developed thought requires intentional signs. Speech provides them. Gestures, sounds, and written or printed forms are physical things. But their inherent value is deliberately treated as less important than their value as representations of meaning. (i) Faint sounds and tiny written or printed marks have very little direct value to the senses. So attention is not distracted from their representative function. (ii) We can produce these signs directly, so we can make them when needed. When we can make the word rain, we do not have to wait for a physical sign that rain is coming to turn our thoughts toward it. We cannot make the cloud, but we can make the sound. As a sign of meaning, the sound serves the purpose as well as the cloud. (iii) Arbitrary linguistic signs are convenient and easy to manage. They are compact, portable, and delicate. As long as we live, we breathe. Using the muscles of the throat and mouth, we can change the volume and quality of the air. These changes are simple, easy, and controllable in countless ways. Body positions and gestures of the hand and arm are also used as signs. But they are crude and hard to manage compared with changes in breath that produce sounds. No wonder spoken language has been chosen as the main material for intentional signs used in thought. Sounds are subtle, refined, and easy to change, but they do not last. Written and printed words, which appeal to the eye, make up for this defect. Litera scripta manet.

Bearing in mind the intimate connection of meanings and signs (or language), we may note in more detail what language does (1) for specific meanings, and (2) for the organization of meanings.

Meanings and signs (or language) are closely connected. With this in mind, we can look more closely at what language does (1) for specific meanings and (2) for organizing meanings.

I. Individual Meanings. A verbal sign (a) selects, detaches, a meaning from what is otherwise a vague flux and blur (see p. 121); (b) it retains, registers, stores that meaning; and (c) applies it, when needed, to the comprehension of other things. Combining these various functions in a mixture of metaphors, we may say that a linguistic sign is a fence, a label, and a vehicle—all in one.

I. Individual Meanings. A verbal sign (a) picks out a meaning from what would otherwise be a vague blur (see p. 121). (b) It records and stores that meaning. (c) It applies the meaning, when needed, to help us understand other things. Combining these functions in a mixture of metaphors, we may say that a linguistic sign is a fence, a label, and a vehicle, all in one.

(a) Every one has experienced how learning an appropriate name for what was dim and vague cleared up and crystallized the whole matter. Some meaning seems almost within reach, but is elusive; it refuses to condense into definite form; the attaching of a word somehow (just how, it is almost impossible to say) puts limits around the meaning, draws it out from the void, makes it stand out as an entity on its own account. When Emerson said that he would almost rather know the true name, the poet's name, for a thing, than to know the thing itself, he presumably had this irradiating and illuminating function of language in mind. The delight that children take in demanding and learning the names of everything about them indicates that meanings are becoming concrete individuals to them, so that their commerce with things is passing from the physical to the intellectual plane. It is hardly surprising that savages attach a magic efficacy to words. To name anything is to give it a title; to dignify and honor it by raising it from a mere physical occurrence to a meaning that is distinct and permanent. To know the names of people and things and to be able to manipulate these names is, in savage lore, to be in possession of their dignity and worth, to master them.

(a) Everyone has experienced how finding the right name for something vague can clarify and crystallize the whole matter. A meaning may seem almost within reach, but remain elusive. It refuses to take definite form. Somehow, giving it a word sets limits around the meaning, draws it out of the void, and makes it stand out as something in its own right. Just how this happens is almost impossible to say. Emerson said he would almost rather know the true name, the poet's name, for a thing than know the thing itself. He presumably had this illuminating power of language in mind. Children delight in asking for and learning the names of everything around them. This shows that meanings are becoming distinct things to them, so that their dealings with things are moving from the physical to the intellectual plane. It is hardly surprising that people in societies Dewey calls savage attribute magical power to words. To name something is to give it a title. It is to dignify and honor the thing by raising it from a mere physical occurrence to a distinct and lasting meaning. In the beliefs of such societies, knowing the names of people and things and being able to use those names means possessing their dignity and worth, and mastering them.

(b) Things come and go; or we come and go, and either way things escape our notice. Our direct sensible relation to things is very limited. The suggestion of meanings by natural signs is limited to occasions of direct contact or vision. But a meaning fixed by a linguistic sign is conserved for future use. Even if the thing is not there to represent the meaning, the word may be produced so as to evoke the meaning. Since intellectual life depends on possession of a store of meanings, the importance of language as a tool of preserving meanings cannot be overstated. To be sure, the method of storage is not wholly aseptic; words often corrupt and modify the meanings they are supposed to keep intact, but liability to infection is a price paid by every living thing for the privilege of living.

(b) Things come and go, or we come and go. Either way, things escape our notice. Our direct sensory contact with things is very limited. Natural signs suggest meanings only when we are in direct contact with things or can see them. But a meaning attached to a word is preserved for future use. Even if the thing is not there to represent the meaning, we can use the word to bring the meaning to mind. Intellectual life depends on having a store of meanings. So we cannot overstate the importance of language as a tool for preserving them. Of course, this method of storage is not entirely sterile. Words often corrupt and change the meanings they are supposed to keep intact. But every living thing pays the price of being vulnerable to infection for the privilege of living.

(c) When a meaning is detached and fixed by a sign, it is possible to use that meaning in a new context and situation. This transfer and reapplication is the key to all judgment and inference. It would little profit a man to recognize that a given particular cloud was the premonitor of a given particular rainstorm if his recognition ended there, for he would then have to learn over and over again, since the next cloud and the next rain are different events. No cumulative growth of intelligence would occur; experience might form habits of physical adaptation but it would not teach anything, for we should not be able to use a prior experience consciously to anticipate and regulate a further experience. To be able to use the past to judge and infer the new and unknown implies that, although the past thing has gone, its meaning abides in such a way as to be applicable in determining the character of the new. Speech forms are our great carriers: the easy-running vehicles by which meanings are transported from experiences that no longer concern us to those that are as yet dark and dubious.

(c) When a sign separates and fixes a meaning, we can use that meaning in a new context or situation. This transfer and reuse is the key to all judgment and inference. It would do a person little good to recognize that a particular cloud foretold a particular rainstorm if that recognition ended there. The person would have to learn again and again, because the next cloud and the next rain are different events. Intelligence would not grow through accumulated experience. Experience might form habits of physical adaptation, but it would teach nothing. We could not consciously use an earlier experience to anticipate and guide a later one. To use the past to judge and draw conclusions about what is new and unknown, we need something more. Although the past event is gone, its meaning must remain available to help determine the character of the new experience. Language is our great carrier of meaning. It provides the easy means by which meanings travel from experiences that no longer concern us to those still unclear and uncertain.

II. Organization of Meanings. In emphasizing the importance of signs in relation to specific meanings, we have overlooked another aspect, equally valuable. Signs not only mark off specific or individual meanings, but they are also instruments of grouping meanings in relation to one another. Words are not only names or titles of single meanings; they also form sentences in which meanings are organized in relation to one another. When we say "That book is a dictionary," or "That blur of light in the heavens is Halley's comet," we express a logical connection—an act of classifying and defining that goes beyond the physical thing into the logical region of genera and species, things and attributes. Propositions, sentences, bear the same relation to judgments that distinct words, built up mainly by analyzing propositions in their various types, bear to meanings or conceptions; and just as words imply a sentence, so a sentence implies a larger whole of consecutive discourse into which it fits. As is often said, grammar expresses the unconscious logic of the popular mind. The chief intellectual classifications that constitute the working capital of thought have been built up for us by our mother tongue. Our very lack of explicit consciousness in using language that we are employing the intellectual systematizations of the race shows how thoroughly accustomed we have become to its logical distinctions and groupings.

II. Organization of Meanings. In emphasizing the importance of signs for specific meanings, we have overlooked another equally valuable aspect. Signs not only distinguish individual meanings, but also help group meanings in relation to one another. Words are not only names or labels for individual meanings. They also form sentences that organize meanings in relation to one another. When we say "That book is a dictionary," or "That blur of light in the heavens is Halley's comet," we express a logical connection. We classify and define something, moving beyond the physical thing into the logical realm of genera and species, things and attributes. Propositions, or sentences, relate to judgments just as individual words relate to meanings or concepts. These individual words are formed mainly by analyzing propositions of various types. And just as words imply a sentence, a sentence implies a larger, connected discourse into which it fits. As people often say, grammar expresses the unconscious logic of the popular mind. Our mother tongue has built up for us the chief intellectual classifications that serve as the working capital of thought. When we use language, we are not explicitly aware that we are using the intellectual systems developed by the human race. This lack of awareness shows how thoroughly accustomed we have become to its logical distinctions and groupings.

Taken literally, the maxim, "Teach things, not words," or "Teach things before words," would be the negation of education; it would reduce mental life to mere physical and sensible adjustments. Learning, in the proper sense, is not learning things, but the meanings of things, and this process involves the use of signs, or language in its generic sense. In like fashion, the warfare of some educational reformers against symbols, if pushed to extremes, involves the destruction of the intellectual life, since this lives, moves, and has its being in those processes of definition, abstraction, generalization, and classification that are made possible by symbols alone. Nevertheless, these contentions of educational reformers have been needed. The liability of a thing to abuse is in proportion to the value of its right use.

Taken literally, the maxim "Teach things, not words," or "Teach things before words," would be a rejection of education. It would reduce mental life to mere physical and sensory adjustments. Learning, properly understood, is not learning things, but learning the meanings of things. This process involves using signs, or language in the broadest sense. Similarly, some educational reformers wage a war against symbols. If taken to extremes, this war would destroy intellectual life. Intellectual life depends entirely on defining, abstracting, generalizing, and classifying, processes that only symbols make possible. Nevertheless, educational reformers have needed to make these arguments. The more valuable the proper use of something is, the more likely it is to be misused.

Symbols are themselves, as pointed out above, particular, physical, sensible existences, like any other things. They are symbols only by virtue of what they suggest and represent, i.e. meanings. (i) They stand for these meanings to any individual only when he has had experience of some situation to which these meanings are actually relevant. Words can detach and preserve a meaning only when the meaning has been first involved in our own direct intercourse with things. To attempt to give a meaning through a word alone without any dealings with a thing is to deprive the word of intelligible signification; against this attempt, a tendency only too prevalent in education, reformers have protested. Moreover, there is a tendency to assume that whenever there is a definite word or form of speech there is also a definite idea; while, as a matter of fact, adults and children alike are capable of using even precise verbal formulæ with only the vaguest and most confused sense of what they mean. Genuine ignorance is more profitable because likely to be accompanied by humility, curiosity, and open-mindedness; while ability to repeat catch-phrases, cant terms, familiar propositions, gives the conceit of learning and coats the mind with a varnish waterproof to new ideas.

As noted above, symbols are physical things that we can perceive, like any other things. They are symbols only because of what they suggest and represent, i.e. meanings. (i) Symbols represent these meanings to a person only if that person has experienced a situation in which the meanings actually matter. Words can separate and preserve a meaning only after we have encountered that meaning directly in dealing with things. Trying to convey a meaning through a word alone, without any dealings with a thing, leaves the word without an understandable meaning. Reformers have protested against this attempt, which is all too common in education. There is also a tendency to assume that a definite word or expression always comes with a definite idea. In fact, adults and children alike can use even precise verbal formulas with only the vaguest and most confused sense of their meaning. Genuine ignorance is more useful because it is likely to come with humility, curiosity, and an open mind. But the ability to repeat catchphrases, jargon, and familiar statements gives people a false sense of learning. It coats the mind with a varnish that keeps new ideas out.

(ii) Again, although new combinations of words without the intervention of physical things may supply new ideas, there are limits to this possibility. Lazy inertness causes individuals to accept ideas that have currency about them without personal inquiry and testing. A man uses thought, perhaps, to find out what others believe, and then stops. The ideas of others as embodied in language become substitutes for one's own ideas. The use of linguistic studies and methods to halt the human mind on the level of the attainments of the past, to prevent new inquiry and discovery, to put the authority of tradition in place of the authority of natural facts and laws, to reduce the individual to a parasite living on the secondhand experience of others—these things have been the source of the reformers' protest against the preëminence assigned to language in schools.

(ii) Also, new combinations of words may provide new ideas without the involvement of physical things. But there are limits to this possibility. Out of laziness, people accept ideas common around them without investigating and testing them for themselves. A person may use thought to find out what others believe, and then stop. The ideas of others, expressed in language, become substitutes for one's own ideas. Reformers have protested against the importance given to language in schools because linguistic studies and methods have been used to hold minds at the level of past achievements and prevent new inquiry and discovery. They have been used to put the authority of tradition in place of the authority of natural facts and laws. They have also been used to reduce individuals to parasites living on the secondhand experience of others.

Finally, words that originally stood for ideas come, with repeated use, to be mere counters; they become physical things to be manipulated according to certain rules, or reacted to by certain operations without consciousness of their meaning. Mr. Stout (who has called such terms "substitute signs")remarks that "algebraical and arithmetical signs are to a great extent used as mere substitute signs.... It is possible to use signs of this kind whenever fixed and definite rules of operation can be derived from the nature of the things symbolized, so as to be applied in manipulating the signs, without further reference to their signification. A word is an instrument for thinking about the meaning which it expresses; a substitute sign is a means of not thinking about the meaning which it symbolizes." The principle applies, however, to ordinary words, as well as to algebraic signs; they also enable us to use meanings so as to get results without thinking. In many respects, signs that are means of not thinking are of great advantage; standing for the familiar, they release attention for meanings that, being novel, require conscious interpretation. Nevertheless, the premium put in the schoolroom upon attainment of technical facility, upon skill in producing external results (ante, p. 51), often changes this advantage into a positive detriment. In manipulating symbols so as to recite well, to get and give correct answers, to follow prescribed formulæ of analysis, the pupil's attitude becomes mechanical, rather than thoughtful; verbal memorizing is substituted for inquiry into the meaning of things. This danger is perhaps the one uppermost in mind when verbal methods of education are attacked.

Finally, words that originally expressed ideas become mere counters through repeated use. They become physical things we manipulate according to rules or respond to with certain actions, without being aware of their meaning. Mr. Stout, who called such terms "substitute signs," remarks: "Algebraic and arithmetic signs are largely used as mere substitute signs.... Such signs can be used whenever the nature of the things symbolized provides fixed, definite rules of operation. These rules can then be applied to manipulate the signs without further reference to their meaning. A word is a tool for thinking about the meaning it expresses. A substitute sign is a means of not thinking about the meaning it symbolizes." This principle applies to ordinary words as well as algebraic signs. Words, too, allow us to use meanings to get results without thinking. In many ways, signs that allow us not to think are a great advantage. Because they stand for familiar things, they free our attention for new meanings that require conscious interpretation. Nevertheless, schools place great value on technical proficiency and skill in producing outward results (ante, p. 51). This emphasis often turns the advantage into a definite harm. Pupils manipulate symbols to recite well, give and get correct answers, and follow prescribed formulas for analysis. In doing so, they become mechanical rather than thoughtful. Memorizing words takes the place of investigating the meaning of things. This danger is perhaps foremost in mind when verbal methods of education are criticized.

Language stands in a twofold relation to the work of education. On the one hand, it is continually used in all studies as well as in all the social discipline of the school; on the other, it is a distinct object of study. We shall consider only the ordinary use of language, since its effects upon habits of thought are much deeper than those of conscious study.

Language has two roles in education. First, it is used constantly in all subjects and in all the social training of the school. Second, language is itself a subject of study. We will consider only the everyday use of language, because it affects habits of thought much more deeply than deliberate study of language does.

The common statement that "language is the expression of thought" conveys only a half-truth, and a half-truth that is likely to result in positive error. Language does express thought, but not primarily, nor, at first, even consciously. The primary motive for language is to influence (through the expression of desire, emotion, and thought) the activity of others; its secondary use is to enter into more intimate sociable relations with them; its employment as a conscious vehicle of thought and knowledge is a tertiary, and relatively late, formation. The contrast is well brought out by the statement of John Locke that words have a double use,—"civil" and "philosophical." "By their civil use, I mean such a communication of thoughts and ideas by words as may serve for the upholding of common conversation and commerce about the ordinary affairs and conveniences of civil life.... By the philosophical use of words, I mean such a use of them as may serve to convey the precise notions of things, and to express in general propositions certain and undoubted truths."

The common statement that "language expresses thought" is only half true. Worse, this half-truth is likely to lead to outright error. Language does express thought, but that is not its primary purpose. At first, language does not even express thought consciously. The primary purpose of language is to influence what others do, by expressing desires, emotions, and thoughts. Its secondary purpose is to form closer social relationships with others. Its use as a conscious means of expressing thought and knowledge comes third and develops relatively late. John Locke makes the contrast clear when he says that words have two uses, "civil" and "philosophical." "By their civil use, I mean communicating thoughts and ideas in words. This use supports everyday conversation and dealings about the ordinary affairs and needs of civil life.... By the philosophical use of words, I mean using them to convey precise ideas about things. This use also expresses certain and undisputed truths in general statements."

This distinction of the practical and social from the intellectual use of language throws much light on the problem of the school in respect to speech. That problem is to direct pupils' oral and written speech, used primarily for practical and social ends, so that gradually it shall become a conscious tool of conveying knowledge and assisting thought. How without checking the spontaneous, natural motives—motives to which language owes its vitality, force, vividness, and variety—are we to modify speech habits so as to render them accurate and flexible intellectual instruments? It is comparatively easy to encourage the original spontaneous flow and not make language over into a servant of reflective thought; it is comparatively easy to check and almost destroy (so far as the schoolroom is concerned) native aim and interest, and to set up artificial and formal modes of expression in some isolated and technical matters. The difficulty lies in making over habits that have to do with "ordinary affairs and conveniences" into habits concerned with "precise notions." The successful accomplishing of the transformation requires (i) enlargement of the pupil's vocabulary; (ii) rendering its terms more precise and accurate, and (iii) formation of habits of consecutive discourse.

The distinction between practical and social uses of language and intellectual uses sheds much light on the problem schools face in teaching speech. That problem is to guide pupils’ spoken and written language, used mainly for practical and social purposes, so that it gradually becomes a conscious tool for conveying knowledge and helping them think. How can we change pupils’ speech habits to make them accurate and flexible intellectual tools without holding back their spontaneous, natural motives? Language owes its vitality, force, vividness, and variety to those motives. It is relatively easy to encourage the original spontaneous flow without turning language into a tool for reflective thought. It is also relatively easy to suppress and almost destroy pupils’ natural aims and interests, at least in the classroom. In their place, schools can establish artificial and formal ways of expressing a few isolated, technical matters. The difficulty is turning habits concerned with "ordinary affairs and conveniences" into habits concerned with "precise notions." Success requires (i) expanding the pupil’s vocabulary, (ii) making its terms more precise and accurate, and (iii) developing habits of expressing ideas in a connected sequence.

(i) Enlargement of vocabulary. This takes place, of course, by wider intelligent contact with things and persons, and also vicariously, by gathering the meanings of words from the context in which they are heard or read. To grasp by either method a word in its meaning is to exercise intelligence, to perform an act of intelligent selection or analysis, and it is also to widen the fund of meanings or concepts readily available in further intellectual enterprises (ante, p. 126). It is usual to distinguish between one's active and one's passive vocabulary, the latter being composed of the words that are understood when they are heard or seen, the former of words that are used intelligently. The fact that the passive vocabulary is ordinarily much larger than the active indicates a certain amount of inert energy, of power not freely controlled by an individual. Failure to use meanings that are nevertheless understood reveals dependence upon external stimulus, and lack of intellectual initiative. This mental laziness is to some extent an artificial product of education. Small children usually attempt to put to use every new word they get hold of, but when they learn to read they are introduced to a large variety of terms that there is no ordinary opportunity to use. The result is a kind of mental suppression, if not smothering. Moreover, the meaning of words not actively used in building up and conveying ideas is never quite clear-cut or complete.

(i) Expanding vocabulary. This happens, of course, through broader, thoughtful contact with things and people. It also happens indirectly, by learning word meanings from their context in speech or writing. Grasping a word’s meaning in either way requires intelligence. It involves making an intelligent choice or analysis. It also increases the store of meanings or concepts readily available for further intellectual work (ante, p. 126). People usually distinguish between an active and a passive vocabulary. A passive vocabulary consists of words understood when heard or seen. An active vocabulary consists of words used intelligently. A person’s passive vocabulary is ordinarily much larger than their active vocabulary. This difference points to unused energy, a power the person cannot freely control. Failing to use meanings one nevertheless understands reveals a dependence on outside prompts and a lack of intellectual initiative. This mental laziness is to some extent an artificial product of education. Small children usually try to use every new word they learn. But when they learn to read, they encounter many terms they have no ordinary opportunity to use. The result is a kind of mental suppression, if not smothering. Moreover, the meanings of words not actively used to develop and express ideas are never quite clear or complete.

While a limited vocabulary may be due to a limited range of experience, to a sphere of contact with persons and things so narrow as not to suggest or require a full store of words, it is also due to carelessness and vagueness. A happy-go-lucky frame of mind makes the individual averse to clear discriminations, either in perception or in his own speech. Words are used loosely in an indeterminate kind of reference to things, and the mind approaches a condition where practically everything is just a thing-um-bob or a what-do-you-call-it. Paucity of vocabulary on the part of those with whom the child associates, triviality and meagerness in the child's reading matter (as frequently even in his school readers and text-books), tend to shut down the area of mental vision.

A limited vocabulary may result from limited experience. A person may have so little contact with people and things that there is little need or occasion for a wide range of words. But a limited vocabulary also results from carelessness and vagueness. A casual attitude makes a person reluctant to make clear distinctions, either in what they perceive or in what they say. Words are used loosely, with no clear reference to things. The mind comes close to a state where practically everything is just a thing-um-bob or a what-do-you-call-it. The limited vocabulary of people a child spends time with also tends to narrow the child's mental vision. So does reading matter that is trivial and meager. Even school readers and textbooks are often like this.

We must note also the great difference between flow of words and command of language. Volubility is not necessarily a sign of a large vocabulary; much talking or even ready speech is quite compatible with moving round and round in a circle of moderate radius. Most schoolrooms suffer from a lack of materials and appliances save perhaps books—and even these are "written down" to the supposed capacity, or incapacity, of children. Occasion and demand for an enriched vocabulary are accordingly restricted. The vocabulary of things studied in the schoolroom is very largely isolated; it does not link itself organically to the range of the ideas and words that are in vogue outside the school. Hence the enlargement that takes place is often nominal, adding to the inert, rather than to the active, fund of meanings and terms.

We must also note the great difference between a flow of words and command of language. Talking a lot does not necessarily mean having a large vocabulary. Someone may talk a great deal or speak easily while going round and round within a limited range. Most classrooms lack materials and equipment, except perhaps books. Even these are "written down" to match children's supposed ability, or inability, to understand them. As a result, children have limited opportunities and need to expand their vocabulary. The vocabulary of classroom subjects is largely isolated. It does not connect naturally with the ideas and words commonly used outside school. As a result, the growth in vocabulary is often only apparent. It adds to the store of meanings and terms that students know but do not use, rather than those they actively use.

(ii) Accuracy of vocabulary. One way in which the fund of words and concepts is increased is by discovering and naming shades of meaning—that is to say, by making the vocabulary more precise. Increase in definiteness is as important relatively as is the enlargement of the capital stock absolutely.

(ii) Accuracy of vocabulary. We can expand our store of words and concepts by recognizing and naming shades of meaning. In other words, we can make our vocabulary more precise. Greater precision is as important as increasing the number of words and concepts we know.

The first meanings of terms, since they are due to superficial acquaintance with things, are general in the sense of being vague. The little child calls all men papa; acquainted with a dog, he may call the first horse he sees a big dog. Differences of quantity and intensity are noted, but the fundamental meaning is so vague that it covers things that are far apart. To many persons trees are just trees, being discriminated only into deciduous trees and evergreens, with perhaps recognition of one or two kinds of each. Such vagueness tends to persist and to become a barrier to the advance of thinking. Terms that are miscellaneous in scope are clumsy tools at best; in addition they are frequently treacherous, for their ambiguous reference causes us to confuse things that should be distinguished.

Our first meanings for words come from a limited acquaintance with things, so they are broad and vague. A young child calls all men papa. Once familiar with a dog, the child may call the first horse he sees a big dog. The child notices differences in size and intensity. But the basic meaning is so vague that it covers things that are very different. To many people, trees are just trees. They distinguish only between deciduous trees and evergreens, and perhaps recognize one or two kinds of each. Such vagueness tends to persist and become a barrier to further thinking. Words that cover a miscellaneous range of things are clumsy tools at best. They are also often treacherous because their unclear meanings lead us to confuse things we should distinguish.

The growth of precise terms out of original vagueness takes place normally in two directions: toward words that stand for relationships and words that stand for highly individualized traits (compare what was said about the development of meanings, p. 122); the first being associated with abstract, the second with concrete, thinking. Some Australian tribes are said to have no words for animal or for plant, while they have specific names for every variety of plant and animal in their neighborhoods. This minuteness of vocabulary represents progress toward definiteness, but in a one-sided way. Specific properties are distinguished, but not relationships.²⁸ On the other hand, students of philosophy and of the general aspects of natural and social science are apt to acquire a store of terms that signify relations without balancing them up with terms that designate specific individuals and traits. The ordinary use of such terms as causation, law, society, individual, capital, illustrates this tendency.

Precise terms normally develop from initially vague ones in two directions. Some words come to express relationships, while others express highly individual traits. (Compare the discussion of how meanings develop, p. 122.) Words for relationships are associated with abstract thinking, while words for individual traits are associated with concrete thinking. Some Australian tribes are said to have no words for animal or plant. Yet they have specific names for every variety of plant and animal in their neighborhoods. This detailed vocabulary represents progress toward precision, but only in one direction. It distinguishes specific properties, but not relationships.²⁸ On the other hand, students of philosophy and of the general aspects of natural and social science tend to acquire many terms for relationships. They often do this without balancing them with terms for specific individuals and traits. The ordinary use of terms such as causation, law, society, individual, and capital illustrates this tendency.

In the history of language we find both aspects of the growth of vocabulary illustrated by changes in the sense of words: some words originally wide in their application are narrowed to denote shades of meaning; others originally specific are widened to express relationships. The term vernacular, now meaning mother speech, has been generalized from the word verna, meaning a slave born in the master's household. Publication has evolved its meaning of communication by means of print, through restricting an earlier meaning of any kind of communication—although the wider meaning is retained in legal procedure, as publishing a libel. The sense of the word average has been generalized from a use connected with dividing loss by shipwreck proportionately among various sharers in an enterprise.²⁹

The history of language shows two ways vocabulary grows through changes in word meanings. Some words that once applied broadly come to mean specific shades of meaning. Others that once had specific meanings broaden to express relationships. The term vernacular, now meaning one’s native language, has broadened from verna, meaning a slave born in the master’s household. Publication once meant any kind of communication, but its meaning has narrowed to communication in print. The broader meaning remains in legal usage, as in publishing a libel. The meaning of average has broadened from a use connected with dividing shipwreck losses proportionately among those sharing in an enterprise.²⁹

These historical changes assist the educator to appreciate the changes that occur with individuals together with advance in intellectual resources. In studying geometry, a pupil must learn both to narrow and to extend the meanings of such familiar words as line, surface, angle, square, circle; to narrow them to the precise meanings involved in demonstrations; to extend them to cover generic relations not expressed in ordinary usage. Qualities of color and size must be excluded; relations of direction, of variation in direction, of limit, must be definitely seized. A like transformation occurs, of course, in every subject of study. Just at this point lies the danger, alluded to above, of simply overlaying common meanings with new and isolated meanings instead of effecting a genuine working-over of popular and practical meanings into adequate logical tools.

These historical changes help educators understand how individuals change as their intellectual resources grow. In geometry, a pupil must learn to narrow and extend the meanings of familiar words such as line, surface, angle, square, and circle. The pupil must narrow these words to the precise meanings used in proofs. The pupil must also extend them to cover general relationships not expressed in everyday usage. Qualities such as color and size must be excluded. Relationships involving direction, changes in direction, and limits must be clearly understood. Of course, a similar transformation occurs in every subject of study. This is precisely where the danger mentioned earlier lies. New, isolated meanings may simply be placed on top of common meanings, rather than genuinely reshaping everyday, practical meanings into adequate tools for logical thought.

Terms used with intentional exactness so as to express a meaning, the whole meaning, and only the meaning, are called technical. For educational purposes, a technical term indicates something relative, not absolute; for a term is technical not because of its verbal form or its unusualness, but because it is employed to fix a meaning precisely. Ordinary words get a technical quality when used intentionally for this end. Whenever thought becomes more accurate, a (relatively) technical vocabulary grows up. Teachers are apt to oscillate between extremes in regard to technical terms. On the one hand, these are multiplied in every direction, seemingly on the assumption that learning a new piece of terminology, accompanied by verbal description or definition, is equivalent to grasping a new idea. When it is seen how largely the net outcome is the accumulation of an isolated set of words, a jargon or scholastic cant, and to what extent the natural power of judgment is clogged by this accumulation, there is a reaction to the opposite extreme. Technical terms are banished: "name words" exist but not nouns; "action words" but not verbs; pupils may "take away," but not subtract; they may tell what four fives are, but not what four times five are, and so on. A sound instinct underlies this reaction—aversion to words that give the pretense, but not the reality, of meaning. Yet the fundamental difficulty is not with the word, but with the idea. If the idea is not grasped, nothing is gained by using a more familiar word; if the idea is perceived, the use of the term that exactly names it may assist in fixing the idea. Terms denoting highly exact meanings should be introduced only sparingly, that is, a few at a time; they should be led up to gradually, and great pains should be taken to secure the circumstances that render precision of meaning significant.

Terms are called technical when they are used with deliberate precision to express a meaning fully and nothing else. For educational purposes, a technical term is a relative matter, not an absolute one. A term is technical not because of its form or because it is unusual, but because it fixes a precise meaning. Ordinary words take on a technical quality when they are deliberately used for this purpose. Whenever thought becomes more accurate, a (relatively) technical vocabulary develops. Teachers tend to swing between extremes in their use of technical terms. On the one hand, they multiply such terms in every direction. They seem to assume that learning a new term, along with a verbal description or definition, is equivalent to grasping a new idea. But then they see how often the main result is an accumulation of isolated words, a jargon or academic cant. They also see how much this accumulation clogs the natural power of judgment. As a result, they react by going to the opposite extreme. Technical terms are banished: there are "name words" but not nouns, "action words" but not verbs. Pupils may "take away," but not subtract. They may tell what four fives are, but not what four times five are, and so on. A sound instinct underlies this reaction: an aversion to words that pretend to convey meaning but do not. Yet the fundamental difficulty lies not in the word, but in the idea. If the idea is not grasped, nothing is gained by using a more familiar word. If the idea is grasped, the term that names it exactly may help fix the idea in mind. Terms with highly precise meanings should be introduced sparingly, only a few at a time. Teachers should lead up to them gradually. They should also take great care to create circumstances in which precision of meaning matters.

(iii) Consecutive discourse. As we saw, language connects and organizes meanings as well as selects and fixes them. As every meaning is set in the context of some situation, so every word in concrete use belongs to some sentence (it may itself represent a condensed sentence), and the sentence, in turn, belongs to some larger story, description, or reasoning process. It is unnecessary to repeat what has been said about the importance of continuity and ordering of meanings. We may, however, note some ways in which school practices tend to interrupt consecutiveness of language and thereby interfere harmfully with systematic reflection. (a) Teachers have a habit of monopolizing continued discourse. Many, if not most, instructors would be surprised if informed at the end of the day of the amount of time they have talked as compared with any pupil. Children's conversation is often confined to answering questions in brief phrases, or in single disconnected sentences. Expatiation and explanation are reserved for the teacher, who often admits any hint at an answer on the part of the pupil, and then amplifies what he supposes the child must have meant. The habits of sporadic and fragmentary discourse thus promoted have inevitably a disintegrating intellectual influence.

(iii) Connected speech. As we saw, language connects and organizes meanings, as well as selects and fixes them. Every meaning belongs to the context of a situation. Likewise, every word in actual use belongs to a sentence. The word may itself represent a condensed sentence. The sentence, in turn, belongs to a longer story, description, or line of reasoning. There is no need to repeat what has been said about the importance of continuity and order among meanings. We may, however, note some ways in which school practices interrupt connected speech. These interruptions harm systematic reflection. (a) Teachers tend to do most of the extended talking. Many, if not most, teachers would be surprised to learn how much they had talked during the day compared with any pupil. Children’s conversation is often limited to answering questions in brief phrases or single, disconnected sentences. The teacher does the elaborating and explaining. Often, the teacher accepts any hint of an answer from a pupil and then elaborates on what the teacher thinks the child must have meant. The resulting habits of scattered and fragmentary speech inevitably have a disruptive effect on thinking.

(b) Assignment of too short lessons when accompanied (as it usually is in order to pass the time of the recitation period) by minute "analytic" questioning has the same effect. This evil is usually at its height in such subjects as history and literature, where not infrequently the material is so minutely subdivided as to break up the unity of meaning belonging to a given portion of the matter, to destroy perspective, and in effect to reduce the whole topic to an accumulation of disconnected details all upon the same level. More often than the teacher is aware, his mind carries and supplies the background of unity of meaning against which pupils project isolated scraps.

(b) Assigning lessons that are too short has the same effect when paired with detailed "analytic" questioning. Such questioning is usually used to fill the recitation period. This problem is usually worst in subjects such as history and literature. In these subjects, the material is often divided into such tiny parts that a passage loses its unity of meaning. This destroys perspective and effectively reduces the whole topic to a collection of disconnected details, all on the same level. More often than the teacher realizes, his mind holds and supplies the unifying background of meaning against which pupils place isolated scraps.

(c) Insistence upon avoiding error instead of attaining power tends also to interruption of continuous discourse and thought. Children who begin with something to say and with intellectual eagerness to say it are sometimes made so conscious of minor errors in substance and form that the energy that should go into constructive thinking is diverted into anxiety not to make mistakes, and even, in extreme cases, into passive quiescence as the best method of minimizing error. This tendency is especially marked in connection with the writing of compositions, essays, and themes. It has even been gravely recommended that little children should always write on trivial subjects and in short sentences because in that way they are less likely to make mistakes, while the teaching of writing to high school and college students occasionally reduces itself to a technique for detecting and designating mistakes. The resulting self-consciousness and constraint are only part of the evil that comes from a negative ideal.

(c) Emphasizing the avoidance of error instead of developing ability also tends to interrupt the flow of speech and thought. Children often begin with something to say and an eagerness to say it. But sometimes they are made so aware of minor errors in content and form that their energy is diverted. Instead of thinking constructively, they worry about making mistakes. In extreme cases, they become passive and silent, seeing that as the best way to minimize errors. This tendency is especially noticeable when children write compositions, essays, and papers. Some have even seriously recommended that young children always write about trivial subjects in short sentences. They reason that children are less likely to make mistakes that way. Meanwhile, teaching writing to high school and college students sometimes becomes nothing more than a technique for finding and labeling mistakes. The resulting self-consciousness and restraint are only part of the harm caused by this negative ideal.