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should not be subjected to them. Such a view assumes that their object is only to measure the minimum of attainment, not the degree of excellence; and thereby fails to appreciate their use in stimulating the superior pupils. Boys and youths, who are more freshly aware than their elders of the motives influencing their conduct, naturally organize their sports on a competitive basis, and admire those who prevail therein. If playgrounds had no tests save a minimum athletic requirement they would be as deserted as gymnasia for the physically defective.

Examinations for admission to college- now conducted almost wholly by the College Entrance Examination Board, composed both of school-teachers and college instructors - have been have been increasingly directed to the single object of measuring the proficiency of the candidates. When the colleges received their students mainly from a small number of distinctly preparatory schools the examiners felt that one of their functions was to set a standard for that preparatory teaching; but the situation has changed since a large proportion of college students have come from schools only a small fraction of whose graduates have any intention of going to college. To direct by entrance examinations the general course of instruction in schools of that kind is clearly impossible, and the attempt to do so has been necessarily and properly abandoned. The examinations are used by the colleges that retain them to discover whether the candidates are, or are not, qualified to pursue college studies; in fact to measure their attainment in subjects deemed to make a good foundation for college work.

In an article in the Atlantic for July 1925, Mr. Morgan Barnes complains of college entrance examinations on the ground that they divert the aim of the teacher from the instruction of his

pupils to preparing them for passing the examination. When there is a difference of opinion between the school and the Board about the kind of knowledge desired in any subject, this is no doubt true. If, for example, the Board is of opinion that the most important thing in algebra is the solution or fractioning of highly complex equations, while the teacher believes that the expression in algebraic form of comparatively simple facts is more valuable; or if the Board conceives that, in the study of a foreign language, grammar, syntax, or Greek accents is above all needful, and the teacher cares for little but intelligent and fluent reading; or if in English composition one or the other lays great stress on punctuation punctuation then the teacher must give to his pupils who are preparing for the examination a training which differs from that of the other boys and is, in his opinion, inferior. Such a divergence concerns the object of the study. It is a difference of opinion on an educational question that ought in most cases to be settled by discussion and agreement among the members of the teaching profession.

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When no difference of opinion exists on the aim in studying a subject, there seems to be no reason why a teacher should change his methods because of a prospect of examination. If he is teaching his pupils to translate Latin he ought neither to object to their being examined in translating the language nor to change his teaching in consequence. If the examination does not seem to him a fair test of the proficiency of his pupils, either his teaching or the examination is defective. Perhaps neither of them is perfect, for both teacher and examiner are in danger of giving peculiar weight to those aspects of a subject that appear to them most interesting and important, and of magnifying errors that strike

them as vital, instead of looking on the matter from the broader standpoint of a general comprehension of the subject.

The writer recalls the case of a teacher of a high-school class in the Constitution of the United States who was misled by a catchword; and on the other hand he was told many years ago of an absurd marking of an examination paper in French. There occurred the words vieille fille. One candidate translated this 'old maid,' which was of course right; another translated it 'old girl,' which showed a failure to understand the idiom but was also considered right; while a third, who rendered it 'old maiden lady,' was marked wrong because there was nothing to indicate that she was a lady. Such a reader was obviously unfit to be an examiner.

Examinations designed principally to measure proficiency are, no doubt, exposed to dangers. One hears of the same book marked quite differently by two readers, because their estimates vary, or because one of them has some crotchet to which he attaches exaggerated importance. In such a case the standard of one or both of the examiners is wrong; and where such a divergence is possible the examination cannot be regarded as an accurate measure. To command confidence the mark should be very closely the same whoever reads the book; and this means that the examiners should have a uniform standard uniformly applied. In other words they should know the art and use it with precision. A divergence in marking shows inexperience, and its existence proves the art in its infancy.

Another danger lies in the nature of the questions. If they are such that of two persons examined, equally proficient, one may happen to know the answer to a question and the other

not, there is an element of chance which lessens the accuracy of the test. This is true where the questions deal with details not in themselves significantif, for example, they call, in an elementary subject, for small facts, for the identification of a list of somewhat obscure historical characters or unfamiliar quotations. In reading the papers of the College Entrance Examination Board one is struck by the fact that this is not the case; that in general the questions demand a comprehension and comment on facts with which every diligent schoolboy offering the subject must be familiar. Curiously enough, experience has shown that lists of names give the crammer his greatest opportunity, for their number is not very large and by coaching his pupil on a score or more of them he is almost certain to strike several of those that will appear on the paper. This article, however, is not concerned with the shortcomings of teachers or examiners, but with the proper objects and use of examinations.

Until recent years the examinations in college have also been in the main tests of knowledge on the part of the students. It is hard to avoid this where they are given for single courses, each including not more than a quarter of the whole work of the student for a year or half-year. Such a course cannot cover a large subject thoroughly, and the instructor, who must select those parts of it which he deems most important for his purpose, must confine his examination to what he has covered. Questions set by an outsider more or less unfamiliar with the course would obviously be unfair; and if the practice of outside examiners in single courses were general the instructor would be too much of a coach for an examination set by someone else. In this respect college courses are quite different from those taught in school,

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for the latter are simple, elementary, and comparatively well defined in scope; whereas college courses are far more elaborate, go much more into detail, and, with some exceptions in the earlier years, deal as a rule with parts of large subjects, which are capable of being treated in various ways. Examination by an outsider presents, therefore, in the case of single courses in college, difficulties that arise much less in the elementary subjects of a school curriculum. No system of outside examiners in single courses has, however, been attempted; and the primary object of the examinations set by the instructors is to ascertain whether the work has been faithfully and intelligently done or not, and how great has been the proficiency attained. Rarely is it the only means of measuring these things, but, save in research courses, it is essential. Not infrequently a student thinks he is doing well until an examination reveals to him how much he is below what he had supposed; and an inexperienced instructor is sometimes shocked, on reading his examination books, to find how little his class has been learning. We hear much, no doubt, of the evils of studying for marks instead of knowledge, but every faculty is aware that if an instructor has the reputation of setting easy papers and marking them leniently, many students in his courses will not do serious work, however good and inspiring his teaching may be.

The question of studying for marks rather than for knowledge, and the kindred matter of cramming for examinations, are not uninteresting and are often misunderstood. The popular impression of studying for marks is that a student whose primary object is a high grade devotes himself assiduously to memorizing small, and comparative ly unimportant, points in a course, and thereby makes a better showing than

a classmate with greater natural ability and perhaps a larger real command of the subject. The criticism is especially leveled at the so-called 'grind,' who is very diligent but not very intelligent. As the questions are often made out and marked this result may, and does, occur. But if all examinations were so conducted as to be an accurate and complete measure of the education the course is intended to give, if the questions were so framed that mere diligence without a high degree of capacity would not earn the highest grade, then there would be no reason why the student should not work for marks, and good reason why he should. To chide a tennis-player for training himself with a view to winning a match, instead of acquiring skill in the game, would be absurd, because the two things are the same. The match is the best test of his skill; and if it were not it would lose its interest. If, on the contrary, marks in examination do not measure accurately comprehension of the subject as taught in the course and the power to handle it, the instructor is at fault, for his examination does not measure what it should. However well adapted as a test of minimum diligence, it fails to measure excellence. The word 'fault' is, perhaps, too strong; because the art of examination is not only still imperfect but is also exceedingly difficult. We had better say that, if marks are not an adequate measure of what the course is intended to impart, then the examination is defective. If examinations were perfect the results would command universal respect, and high grades would be a more general object of ambition.

Of cramming, less need be said. Since a thorough grasp of the subjectmatter of a course must be the result of serious and prolonged study, which cannot be done in a night or even in a few days, the better the examination

the less will cramming be useful in passing it. Reviewing is, of course, essential, and is of great value in bringing out the relation between the things learned. The need of review is, in fact, one of the educational benefits of examination. But the questions should not be susceptible of answer by merely committing to memory facts and formulæ. Yet it must not be assumed that the capacity to cram is altogether without value. A lawyer crams his case before going into court; so does an orator the facts to be presented in his speech; and this quality, like others, can be improved by practice.

A more serious evil of examinations set by the instructor, as those in single courses must be, is the tendency to give back to him what he has given, to absorb his ideas and repeat them rather than to think about them. All good university professors like independent thought on the part of their students; but undergraduates rarely appreciate this, and the path of least resistance is to repeat rather than reflect. The way to counteract such a tendency is to set questions that require thought more than memory; and this brings us to the second object of examinations, their use as a means of education.

II

Although examinations in single courses, whether in college or in school, have as their primary object to measure the progress of pupils, this is far from being their only object. They can and should be used also as a distinct element in the educational process, and as such can be made highly effective. Even if the sole aim of education at any stage were the knowledge of facts, the formal effort to recall those facts to mind unexpectedly, to exert pressure upon the memory and bring to consciousness things half-hidden there,

is of great value by serving to make that faculty readily responsive to a call.

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When the writer was a professor teaching a large freshman course he often told the class, before the midyear or final paper, that the art of passing examinations was one most useful to acquire. This was a surprise, and provoked a laugh; but it was explained that a lawyer trying a case in court was often confronted by an unexpected question of evidence and must at once try to recall any decisions bearing on the point he had ever come across, and that this was passing an examination; that a physician suddenly called to a suffering patient was in a similar position at the bedside he also passes an examination. Throughout our lives we are constantly forced to muster all we can of our previous knowledge, and the habit of doing so can be cultivated by practice. How often when the occasion has passed do we ask ourselves, as a student does after an examination, why we did not remember some essential fact. The art of recalling quickly, fully, and accurately is certainly a valuable part of mental training. It is a special art, not the same thing as a rich store of knowledge. Some men have all the knowledge they possess ready for use on demand; some require a certain time for reflection before they can produce it; and some can make use of it only in the solitude of their studies. The late Francis A. Walker said that every man had his personal equation, and that his own was two minutes. More than to scholars and writers is the value to men of affairs of recalling rapidly the knowledge that they need.

But a knowledge of facts is a small part of education. We hear much today of teaching by problems; and rightly, because bare facts are of little value unless one knows how to use

them. The important thing is to understand their relation to one another; to be able to correlate them, as the current expression goes; not merely to grasp and retain the relations one has been taught, but to perceive new relations, for no teacher can cover more than a minute fraction of the combinations actually met in the pursuit of any subject. The pupil must learn to apply principles to new and unexpected conditions, and the extent to which he can do so will largely determine the degree of his future effectiveness. Teaching by problems is peculiarly needed to day because of the change in school methods that came a generation or more ago. Formerly schoolboys were set tasks to work out by themselves; then they recited. But now the teacher, instead of merely hearing the recitation, correcting mistakes, and helping to explain difficulties, takes a more direct part in instruction, thereby saving the pupil much labor, but also some of the benefit of personal effort. In a recent address at the California Institute of Technology, Professor William B. Munro remarked that when he began to teach in a small New England college he tried the experiment of giving his students a list of books which they were expected to read and study for themselves. This was an unheard-of innovation, far from popular; and one of his students said to him very frankly: 'We don't think you are playing fair. As we understand it you are paid by the college to read these books and tell us what is in them. Instead of that you tell us to go read them for ourselves.' That young man had a common but wholly false idea of the relation of teacher and pupil and of the business in which they are engaged. His conception has been called the perambulator method of education. All real education is, in the ultimate analysis, selfeducation. The teacher can impart

facts and principles, can point out the way, can interest and stimulate, but only the pupil can train his own mind. Without effort on his part the instruction will be as stale, flat, and unprofitable as lectures on swimming to a class that never enters the water. Moreover, to reach a high grade of intellectual activity the student must be something of an explorer. He must not only be critical of the ideas presented to him, but he must seek variations of them, or applications of them, new to him. That is the meaning of teaching by problems. They force the pupil to make a personal effort at their solution; and, with manifold differences in form, they are applicable to all subjects above the lowest elementary stage.

Problems may be used in a variety of ways; they may be given out to be solved in class or to be taken away and solved out of class. The theses required in college courses are really of that nature; and all these things are admirable for their appropriate uses, but none of them, save the larger kind of thesis, fills quite the purpose of a final examination. Problems to be worked in class or outside must relate to the part of the subject under consideration at the time, but the final examination comes at the end of a period of study and the problems can therefore be more comprehensive, involving the use of all that has been learned. It can also be of greater length than the classroom hour, and hence the problems can be more complex and searching. In short, it is a higher type of intellectual operation, for it can compel the student to reflect upon all that the course has covered, and give him a better conception than he would otherwise have of its scope and meaning. Someone may object that, as the final examination comes at the end, little good will be done to

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