THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

LAUNCELOT GOBBO: ‘I speak my agitation of the matter.’

I AM one of those sentimental souls who dislike changes in familiar things. I go so far as to object to the playing of the classics in jazz rhythm. I like pictures that look like things I have seen in my waking hours. I even like punctuation in poetry. But above all I love words. I hate to see them ‘go modern,’ as I believe the phrase is. Especially do I like words to convey an idea.

With such a reactionary background I approach that holy of holies in the modern school and college — Education. And right here is a word that has turned traitor. It has somehow lost its old flavor of scholarship and culture, and has become what I am told is the name of a science. It must no longer be confused with learning, but instead means a kind of machinery. This machinery is supposed to concern itself with classroom instruction.

Now instruction used to mean conveying ideas, but in these modern times ideas are apparently unnecessary. The teacher of history does not, as the ignorant imagine, prepare himself by studying history. Instead, he takes courses in psychology (so as to be able ‘to sell his subject’) and in education (the science). In many states this is required by law. But I have yet to hear of a law requiring him to study history — except, of course, the history of education. The mathematician studies, not Einstein, but Cubberley (a professor of education).

Since I happen to be a teacher, concerned in my old-fashioned way with education (not the science), I have diligently inquired into the mysteries of the new theory. But something eludes me. The professors of this new science have done something to my beloved words — and to some for which I have no affection.

They sprinkle their discourses with expressions like ‘I. Q., concrete non-visual precept, activity analyses, psychographs, optimal methodology, quintile, and graphic representation.’ Like Tamburlaine, they ‘challenge the world in high astounding terms.’

Of course it is unfair to take words out of their context. Perhaps these pompous terms really carry some important message to which we less scientific teachers should listen. In the university courses labeled ‘Education’ there might be something that would help me to turn uncouth (or should I say ‘underprivileged’) youngsters into cultured gentlemen. There might be something that would help me to instill a love of beauty and respect for learning into potential teachers and realtors.

In the catalogue of a famous university I find ‘History of Education in the United States.’ Here may be some clue to our present confusion. I read on: ‘A practicum designed to meet the needs of candidates for the Master’s degree, and for those who are working towards the Ph.D. with a major in History of Education.’ Well, at least that is frank enough. Its aim would be perfectly intelligible to my sophomores who are taking English Literature to meet their degree requirements — not because of any love for literature.

Perhaps I could learn more from a course called ‘The Supervision and Improvement of Instruction.’ In the explanation I find that ‘the work of the supervisor is analyzed on a functional basis, and the specific techniques for each supervisory field carefully evaluated.’

In another course I find that ‘attention will be accorded the relationship of curriculum to the realization of educational aims, the historical bases conditioning present content, the evaluation of typical existing curricula, the formation of curricula objectives, and the practical technique of revision.’ This is more difficult than I thought. Perhaps if I could just get my students to ‘accord attention’ my problems would be solved.

I am somehow reminded of Goldsmith’s remark that Dr. Johnson could not have written a fable because he would have made ‘all the little fishes talk like whales.’

A clue to the reason for such language may exist in a communication — this thing is catching — a form letter from a Professor of Education at one of the largest American universities. He outlines what he calls ‘four major phases of current educational thinking,’ and applies them to the curriculum in English. After an opening sentence minus a verb, I find that ‘library reading in line with a vocational or avocational interest is at least equally valuable with protracted recitations based on the intensive study of heavy classical literature.’ By ‘heavy classical literature’ he seems to mean required high-school readings like The Lady of the Lake and The Merchant of Venice.

Further, I find that ‘English in all of its branches including belles-lettres, primarily a tool subject, must correlate with the social sciences and with other languages.’ It is suggested that it may be amalgamated ‘with character training in the middle grades’ and ‘with American idealism in the senior college.’ No mention is made of correct sentence structure.

Of course there have been other sciences with similar terms and phraseology — astrology and alchemy, for instance. Chaucer’s Canon’s Yeoman could discuss alchemy in language that makes a modern chemistry text seem like a primer. Sorcerers ever had bewildering vocabularies. But the nearest parallel I can find is the language of Wilkins Micawber.

ERNEST EARNEST