What do people in the outside world do when they want to learn something? They go to somebody who knows about it, and ask him. They do not go tosomebodywho is supposed to know about everything —except, when they are very young, to their parents: and they speedily become dissatisfied with that variety of knowledge. They go to somebody who might reasonably expected to know about the particular thing they are interested in. When a man buys a motor-car, he does not say to himself: "Where can I find somebody who can teach me how to run a motor car?" He does not look in the telephone directory under T. He just gets an experienced driver to teach him. He just pays attention and asks questions and tries to do the thing himself, until he learns.
But this case, of course, assumes an interest of the pupil in the subject, a willingness and even a desire to learn about it, a feeling that the matter is of some importance to himself. And come to think of it, these motives are generally present in the learning that goes on in the outside world. It is only in school that the pupil is expected to be unwilling to learn.
When you were a child, and passed the door of the village blacksmith(铁匠) shop, and looked in, day after day, you admired his skill, and stood in awe of his strength; and if he had offered to let you blow the bellows for him and shown you how to make a red-hot penny, that would have been a proud moment. It would also have been an educational one. But suppose there had been anew shopset up in the town, and when you looked in at the open door you saw a man at work painting a picture; and suppose a bell rang just then, and the man stopped painting right in the middle of a brush-stroke, and started to read aloud “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix"; and suppose when he was halfway through, the bell rang again, and he said, "We will go on with that tomorrow," and started to chisel the surface of a piece of marble; and then, after a little, somewhat exhaustedly, started in to play "The Rock of Ages" on a flute, interrupting the tune to order you to stand up straight and not whisper to the little boy beside you. There's no doubt what you would think of him; you would know perfectly well that he was crazy; people don't do things in that way anywhere in the world, except in school.
And even if he had assured you that what were taught were later in your life going to be matters of the deepest importance and interest, and that you should start in now with the determination of becoming proficient in them, it would not have helped much. Not very much. It's nonsense that children do not want to learn. Everybody wants to learn. And everybody wants to teach. And the process is going on all the time. All that is necessary is to put a person who knows something —really knows it—within the curiosity-range of someone who doesn't know it: the process begins at once. It is almost irresistible.
If there were no teachers—no hastily and superficially trained Vestals who were supposed to know everything—but just ordinary human beings who knew passionately and thoroughly one thing and who had the patience to show little boys and girls how to do that thing—we might get along with our learning pretty well, Of course, we'd have to pay them more, because they could get other jobs out in the larger world; and besides, you couldn't expect to get somebody who knows how to do something, for the price you are accustomed to pay those who only know how to teach everything.
