The ninth and last of the essential principles is, in reality, more than a mere principle of language-study, it is even more than a principle of study, it is almost a philosophy in itself. It seems to be a special application of a doctrine which, to many, constitutes a line of conduct, an attitude, towards most of the problems and interests of our daily existence. This attitude is fairly well designated by the term eclectic; this, however, is not an ideal term, seeing that, like so many others, it possesses a double connotation. Its first sense is distinctly pejorative; it suggests unoriginality, a lack of coherent system, a patchwork of other people’s opinions. In its second and broader sense, so far from being a term of disparagement or reproach it implies the deliberate choice of all things which are good, a judicious and reasoned selection of all the diverse factors the sum of which may constitute a complete and homogeneous system. If, therefore, we speak here of the doctrine or attitude of eclecticism, we are obviously using the term in its second and broader connotation; used in this way it stands as the antithesis of prejudice, of faddiness, of crankiness, and of fixed ideas. Many of those who practise eclecticism call it the ‘philosophy of the complete life’; whether this is or is not a philosophy in the true sense of the term, we will leave to philosophers to discuss; we will content ourselves by quoting a few maxims or aphorisms which will serve to make clear the attitude in question.

All is good which tends towards good.

The recognition and appreciation of any particular good thing does not necessarily invalidate those things which do not resemble it, nor even cause us to disparage or deprecate things which are seemingly in conflict with it.

Let us neglect nothing except futilities and things which we have proved to our satisfaction to be in themselves bad and harmful.

Two or more opposing principles, ideas, likes, operations, interests, in short any two or more conflicting tendencies, may be combined, and this combination can be effected by other means than the expedient of compromising. Lobster salad and fruit salad may be attractive to the gourmet, but no compromise between the two would be palatable.

It is not always the height of wisdom and expediency to kill too many birds with one stone.

This attitude towards life in general does indeed solve many problems and vexed questions. It constitutes a method of conciliating inconsistencies, both real and apparent. It explains how it is that one can appreciate both classical and popular music, classical and light literature, how idealism may exist side by side with a keen interest in material things. The real and the ideal, scientific precision and unscientific emotion, patriotism and internationalism, are not incompatible with each other in the ‘philosophy of the complete life.’

And what has all this to do with language-study? What bearing have these fanciful or fantastical philosophical considerations on the problem of teaching or learning a language rapidly and well? The connexion is clearer than one might imagine at first sight, for each of the aphorisms quoted above may serve, if not as a definition of the ninth principle, at least as a strong suggestion of what the principle implies.

Those who have followed us, point by point, in our enumeration and analysis of the eight preceding principles may be in perfect agreement with our conclusions, but may, nevertheless, be sorely troubled as to how they are to be carried out in practice. On many points there appear to be conflicts and inconsistencies; in many cases it would appear to be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to observe two or more of these principles simultaneously. How is habit-forming consistent with interest? How can we combine a study of phonetics with a study of orthography? How can we combine the development of our spontaneous capacities with that of our studial capacities? How can we observe the principle of accuracy and combine it with other principles which are seemingly in conflict with it—such as the inhibition of our powers of analysis and synthesis? How are we to foster a keen appreciation of the classical or literary style of composition, and yet concentrate on the colloquial and trivial? The principles of gradation and of order of progression seem to reveal inconsistencies when they are compared with each other; there is more than a seeming inconsistency between the process of unconscious assimilation and the principle of concreteness. Translation is destructive, or is often considered so, of the power of ‘thinking in the foreign language,’ and yet it is suggested that the student should do translation work and at the same time train himself to think in the foreign language.

These and many other problems or difficulties suggested by the careful study of the foregoing eight principles can only be solved by the thorough understanding of the spirit of eclecticism underlying this ninth principle. We have alluded to the philosophy of the complete life in order that we may better realize the significance of what we may term the complete method.

This complete method, mark you, is not a compromise between two or more antagonistic schools; it boldly incorporates what is valuable in any system or method of teaching and refuses to recognize any conflict, except the conflict between the good and the inherently bad. The complete method will embody every type of teaching except bad teaching, and every process of learning except defective learning.

The complete method (of which the multiple line of approach is the expression) is the antithesis of the special or patent method. Patent or proprietary methods very often, but not always, resemble patent medicines. We know what they are. A patent language method, like a patent medicine, claims to prevent or to cure all possible ills (linguistic or physical, as the case may be) by repeated applications of one special device or drug; both of them claim to kill innumerable birds with one stone. One is always inclined to doubt the efficiency of an instrument which is designed to perform too many distinct functions; a tool designed to serve both as a hairbrush and as a hammer is not likely either to brush or to hammer very efficiently, and our imagination refuses to picture what one vehicle could possibly afford us all the advantages of a bicycle, a motor-car, a wheelbarrow, and an express train, not to mention those of a boat or balloon. One dish, however nutritive, succulent, and satisfying, will not constitute a complete banquet.

Let us apply the principle of the multiple line of approach to the solving of a number of vexed questions, well known to all those who have read or participated in discussions and controversies on the subject of language-teaching.

Shall reading be intensive or extensive? That is to say, shall we take a text, study it line by line, referring at every moment to our dictionary and our grammar, comparing, analysing, translating, and retaining every expression that it contains? Or shall we take a large number of texts and read them rapidly and carelessly, trusting that quantity will make up for the lack of quality in our attention and the lack of intensity?

Shall we translate? We can learn much from translation; it affords us many types of interesting and valuable exercises. Or shall we ban translation? For we know that under certain conditions translation may foster and encourage more than one vicious tendency.

Shall we memorize sentences or shall we learn to construct them, both synthetically and by the substitution process?[5] Either plan seems to have its advantages and its disadvantages.

Which is better: drill-work or free work? The principle of accuracy inclines us towards the former; the principle of interest and our instinctive striving for naturalness incline us towards the latter.

Are we to study with conscious attention or with effortless attention? In the average lesson or language-course, the former alone is considered, but the young child, or the adult assimilating a language under ideal conditions, knows no other than the latter.

Shall we assimilate our language-material by reading or by listening to people? Many claim to have mastered a language rapidly and successfully by the one method, while many others ascribe their success to the fact that they have learnt exclusively by the other.

Which is the best method of retaining language-material: by repeating it aloud or by writing it? There again, we find many who are staunch adherents of either method (and consequently opponents of the other).

Active or passive work? Do we gain and retain our impressions by speaking and writing, or do we in reality acquire proficiency in the use of language by the processes of reading and listening?

Without the principle of the multiple line of approach there are only two ways of settling these and all similar questions. One is to adopt one alternative, rejecting the second; the other is to effect a working compromise between the two. Shall we read intensively or extensively? “Read intensively,” says one; “No, read extensively,” says another; and the compromiser comes along and says, “Read neither very intensively nor very extensively.” Shall we translate or shall we banish translation? “Translate by all means,” says one; “Banish translation,” says another; and the compromiser says, “Translate a little occasionally, but do not let the translation be particularly good.” Drill-work or free work? The compromiser suggests something between the two, mechanical enough to destroy naturalness, and free enough to encourage inaccuracy. Shall we memorize sentences, or shall we construct them? The compromiser suggests that we should aid our memory by doses of mental synthesis, in fact just enough to prevent the laws of memorizing from operating.

The principle of the multiple line of approach suggests a third and better procedure. Instead of accepting the one and rejecting the other, instead of adopting the middle course which frequently militates against the success of either extreme, this principle says, “Adopt them both concurrently, but not in one and the same operation. At times read intensively; at others read extensively. At appropriate moments, and for specific purposes, make the fullest use of all sorts of translation work; at other moments, and for other specific purposes, banish translation entirely. At times, more especially during the early stages, let there be an abundance of drill-work; later, but not before the student is perfectly ripe for it, let us introduce free work; and then let the two types alternate. At certain moments, more especially during the early stages, let the memorizing of sentences be carried out on a most extensive scale; at other moments, as a distinctly separate operation, let us cause the student to perform exercises in constructing correct sentences himself.”

We have had occasion to note that this principle suggests the inadvisability of killing too many birds with one stone. The principle goes farther and adds to the figure of speech just quoted the two following corollaries, viz.: “Find the right stone to kill the right bird,” and “It is often advisable to kill one bird with more than one stone.” There are many different ways of teaching a difficult sound, there are many different ways of teaching a difficult point in grammar, a curious form of construction, or of causing the student to discriminate between two things which ought not to be confused. In these and in all similar cases, there is no reason why several methods should not be used concurrently; they need not be strictly co-ordinated. The cumulative effect of approaching the difficulty from different and independent angles will certainly secure the desired result. Superficial and rapid work on most points plus intensive and thorough work on certain essential specific points will generally ensure a well-assimilated whole. Either of these methods will tend to correct any disadvantages attached to the other and will be complementary to the other. The high degree of accuracy which results from intensive work will tend to spread by contagion to that portion of the work which must necessarily be done in a more summary fashion.

This principle, which underlies all others, leaves the door open for new devices, new methods, and improvements on the old ones. It leaves us free to welcome and to adopt all sorts of innovations, provided such innovations are likely to prove of value.

We will quote one example of what may happen when we do not sufficiently realize the importance or the scope of the ninth principle.

The teacher of French may consider that a certain amount of theory is useful and helpful; he may consider it necessary to explain all manner of things to students—how certain sounds are formed, how certain verbs are conjugated, why certain constructions must be used; he may consider it his duty to give information on hundreds of doubtful or difficult points. And he is often perfectly justified in doing so; explanations of the right sort and given at the right moment are indeed valuable.

This same teacher considers also that many opportunities should be given of hearing French spoken, in order to train his student’s powers of observation and of semantic association. This also is good and reasonable; passive audition, unconscious or semi-conscious assimilation, immediate understanding and expression, are processes the value of which we have always insisted upon.

But this teacher, too anxious to kill two birds with one stone, combines the two forms of work; he says, “I have a number of difficult things to explain, and I will explain them in French; the student will therefore have a double gain.” The student, however, unless already very considerably advanced, is not a gainer but a loser; he fails to understand the explanation, and in his efforts to do so he fails to adopt the proper receptive attitude towards the actual language material. After all, we do not learn how to write shorthand from books written exclusively in shorthand, and the book which teaches us how to use the Morse code is not printed exclusively in the Morse code. To use the foreign language for the purposes of a vehicular language under the pretext that the more the student hears of the foreign language the better he will learn, is a method which stands fully condemned when we properly realize the nature and scope of the principle we are now examining.

We may sum up this principle of the multiple line of approach fairly concisely in the following terms: Let us approach the language, or any specific point in the language, simultaneously from several distinct points of departure, by several distinct but gradually converging avenues. The observing of this principle will alone enable us to observe consistently and successfully the eight other vital principles which it has been the object of this book to set forth.