Thinking and learning to think

by Nathan Christ Schaeffer

Francis Galton.

Some persons run to mouth; others lack in this respect. To the former class belong those whose lips move in study; those who talk to themselves; and many whose paucity of ideas does not justify their superfluity of words. Let such a man be elected as a delegate to a synod or a convention, and the sessions will be prolonged beyond the usual time. As a rule, the energy of such men is exhausted in speech; they are not noted for getting things done. On the other hand, the men of great executive ability are oftentimes men of few words; their thought is translated into doing rather than talking. The man of deeds is always estimated above the man of words, the general above the orator, Cæsar the commander above Cæsar the orator. Sometimes the men of original turn of mind find that their thinking outstrips their power to express thought. Francis Galton says of himself, “It is a serious drawback to me in writing that I do not so easily think in words as otherwise. It often happens that after being hard at work and having arrived at results that are perfectly clear and satisfactory to myself, when I try to express them in language I feel that I must begin by putting myself on quite a different intellectual plane; I have to translate my thoughts into a language that does not run evenly with them. I therefore waste a great deal of time in seeking for appropriate words and phrases, and am conscious, when required to speak on a sudden, of being often obscure through mere verbal maladroitness, and not through want of clearness of perception. This is one of the small annoyances of my life. I may add that often while engaged in thinking out something I hatch an accompaniment of nonsense-words, just as notes of a song might accompany the thought. Also, that after I have made a mental step, the appropriate word frequently follows as an echo; as a rule, it does not accompany it.”

Knowing and telling.

This throws a new light upon one phase of school work. The boy who has a notion of the content of a lesson sometimes stops in the midst of a recitation and, without premeditation, exclaims, “I know it, but cannot say it.” The teacher retorts, “You do not know what you cannot express.” Both are right and both are wrong. There is, probably, a measure of truth in what each claims. If the pupil had mastered the text, he would not only have a clear idea of the lesson, but he would also have acquired from the book or from the teacher the words to express the idea. Nevertheless, if there is reason for thinking that the pupil has devoted reasonable time to the lesson, his linguistic powers should be developed by questions and other appropriate help. The good sense and native instincts of most teachers lead them to give this help. The teacher whose captious disposition issues in remarks calculated to repress a backward pupil’s powers of expression should find employment outside of the school-room.

Foreign-born children.

The child of foreigners may outstrip native children and astonish the school by unprecedented progress because, being already familiar with the ideas of the lesson, it is compelled simply to acquire the language by which the ideas are expressed. By reason of their inability at first to tell what they know, such children are often classified with those less mature, and the mastery of the new language in their case is not as difficult as the mastery of new ideas for which brain-growth may be the essential condition. To ignore the fact that such children often know more than they can tell is pedagogic folly in the highest degree.

Language clarifies thought.

Literary societies.

Courses of study are sometimes mapped out so as to cause inequality in the pace with which ideas are accumulated and language is developed. Undue stress on grammar, rhetoric, and belles-lettres may cause abnormal development in the direction of flowery language, a verbose style, an ornate diction. It is a fault difficult to correct. To insist that such a student shall have something to say, to force him into studies that will bring him face to face with great questions as yet unsettled, to beget in him a state of mind in which he is troubled with ideas, to compel him to work over and over what he writes until his sentences are as clear as crystals, seems necessary to counteract the one-sided development of such students. The curriculum of study may err on the other side. The graduates in the various courses of engineering (civil, electrical, mechanical, and mining) sometimes develop technical, to the neglect of linguistic, skill. In the presence of a body of capitalists they are made deeply conscious of the difference between the ability to think and the ability to express thought.[14] In one large school of technology the graduates established prizes in English composition and endowed chairs of the English language and literature, so that future students might acquire the power to state in clear and intelligible language the results of their work as specialists. In no long time it was discovered that for this purpose they also needed training in an art similar to that of the teacher,—namely, the art of developing the ideas and thoughts which underlie and condition the engineering project under consideration. For him who would be a leader among men, the ability to express thought is quite as important as the ability to think. Moreover, there is a vast difference between ability to express thought on one’s feet in the presence of an audience and ability to express it on paper in the privacy of the home. J. J. Rousseau and Washington Irving could write well, but neither of them could make a speech. Patrick Henry’s eloquence before an audience was unsurpassed; he never could write a satisfactory report. Power in both directions may be acquired in a college course through the exercises of a good debating society. The student who, during four years, carefully writes out his thoughts, then discards his manuscript while speaking, and studies how he can best convince his hearers and how he can prune himself of the defects pointed out by the merciless criticism of his fellows, can feel sure of ultimate success. President Barnard says of one of our largest institutions that half its glory departed when its literary societies were killed through the influence of the Greek letter fraternities. A public speaker who is a slave to his manuscript is deserving of pity. College authorities may well exercise their ingenuity in finding a substitute for the drill and practice which the literary societies of by-gone days afforded in learning to think and to express thought in the face of opposition, criticism, and other unfavorable conditions.

Influence of language upon thinking.