To answer this question we must return to Aristotle’s definition of prudence itself, borrow from Charlotte Mason’s “way of the will,” and consider educational activities that align appropriately with the nature of practical wisdom. These three pieces will enable us to develop a pedagogy of prudence, through which, with God’s help and the student’s voluntary learning, we can pass on prudence to the young. 

The Defining Traits of Prudence

In his Nicomachean Ethics book VI Aristotle’s main goal is to illuminate the nature of phronesis or practical wisdom. In fact, he addresses the other four intellectual virtues (artistry, intuition, scientific knowledge, and philosophic wisdom) mainly in order to define more precisely what prudence is by comparison with other species of the overarching category or genus, intellectual virtue. This makes sense given the fact that it is a treatise on ethics, and so intended to clarify how we are to live in the world. Prudence itself involves the deliberate choices that would lead to a good life.

In one place, Aristotle defines practical wisdom as “a state involving true reason, a practical one, concerned with what is good or bad for a human being” (Reeve, Aristotle on Practical Wisdom, 56; VI.5 translation). It is not simply having good habits but involves the reasoning faculty of a human being, directed particularly at things that are good or bad for us as human beings. Practical wisdom is therefore not concerned, strictly speaking, with what objectively happened in the past or with what might happen in the future or elsewhere, but which has no immediate relevance to us. “Nothing that happened in the past, however, is deliberately chosen–for example, nobody deliberately chooses to have sacked Troy” (Reeve, 50; VI.2). It is concerned with those things that might benefit or harm us as human beings.

In this way, practical wisdom differs from scientific or theoretical knowledge, which makes truth claims about the world regardless of their relationship to us. Nevertheless, there is an analogy between them. As Aristotle explains, “What assertion and denial are in the case of thought–that, in the case of desire, is precisely what pursuit and avoidance are” (Reeve, 48; VI.2). Prudence causes us to pursue or avoid things, whereas knowledge simply asserts or denies. This is precisely what makes practical reasoning practical in Aristotle’s thinking; it is the type of thinking that we engage in as doers, actors in the world. Therefore, our desires and our deliberate choices are involved in the experience of practical wisdom. 

The Way of the Will

These two companions (desire and deliberate choice) might be said to make practical wisdom what it is. But they are uneasy companions even in the best of times. And that is because our desires are often in conflict with one another and with reason. As the apostle James says, “What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you? Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you? You desire and do not have, so you murder. You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel” (4:1-2a ESV). This is why, for Aristotle, the moral virtues are a necessary precursor to practical wisdom, because if a person’s desires are entirely corrupt, he is not able to reason correctly about what is good for himself. His vision is so blurry, so obscured we might say by the log in his own eye, that he cannot see with any clarity what would in fact be good, either for himself or anyone else. 

Charlotte Mason, a British Christian educator from the turn of the last century, offers the “way of the will” as a guide to moral “self-management.” Being aware of our conflicting desires and able to manage them through deliberate choice is part and parcel of what prudence consists of. She explains this explicit instruction that children should be given in order to fortify their wills in vol. 6 Towards a Philosophy of Education:

Children should be taught (a) to distinguish between ‘I want’ and ‘I will.’ (b) That the way to will effectively is to turn our thoughts away from that which we desire but do not will. (c) That the best way to turn our thoughts is to think of, or do some quite different thing, entertaining or interesting. (d) That after a little rest in this way, the will returns to its work with new vigour. (ch. 8)

We might add on to Mason’s categories here by helping our students understand that they often want not one thing but many different things, and that part of becoming wise is not listening to only one of those voices, those competing desires, at any one time. We are prudent if we hear them each out in turn, think through the options rationally to discern what is best for us, and then choose with our will. And at the same time, as we will to follow one particular desire, we stop our ears to the others through tactics like diversion. (I have discussed this tactic and another like it, pre-committment) at some length in a two-part series entitled “Educating for Self-Control”: 1) A Lost Christian Virtue, 2) The Link Between Attention and Willpower.)

Among the moral virtues that are a necessary prerequisite to Aristotle’s course on prudence he names specifically temperance (sophrosune in Greek), noting that it is called this because it saves or preserves (sozousan) the person’s practical wisdom (ten phronesin; see Reeve, 58; VI.5). The temperate and wise man has a strong will, in Mason’s terminology, to be able to resist the suggestions of wayward desires. Of course, our ultimate goal is that a person would desire the right things in the right way and to the right degree. The moral virtues help set the desires straight on things that are actually good for you as a human being and at a degree that is appropriate. But in this life, we know as Christians, we will still struggle against the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and the pride of life. And so, we must strive for temperance and prudence, baptized by charity, at one and the same time.

But what is the central work of prudence itself? What does it take to will correctly with regard to human good? For Aristotle, the mental act of deliberation is highlighted as the key activity of a prudent person:

Practical wisdom, however, is concerned with human affairs and what can be deliberated about; for of a practically wise man we say that this most of all is the function, to deliberate well, and nobody deliberates about what cannot be otherwise or about the sorts of things that do not lead to some specific end, where this is something good, doable in action. The unconditionally good deliberator, however, is the one capable of aiming, in accord with calculation, at the best, for a human being, of things doable in action. (Reeve, 64; VI.7)

Deliberation then is the golden key that unlocks the door of a prudent life. A wise person must be able to think through options, calculate the respective values of different human goods, and accurately choose the best course of action. 

Training the Powers of Deliberative Reasoning

For Aristotle this deliberation or consultation will take the form of what we might call deliberative or practical syllogisms. They will know fundamental or categorical principles of what is good for human beings (the universal or major premise), and then they will also know the particular facts of this or that situation (particular or minor premise), leading them to reason: 

• Heavy water is bad to drink.
• This water is heavy.
• Therefore, I should not drink it. (see VI.8)

The practically wise person will be able to reason quickly and correctly about the new situations he faces in order to decide optimally about how to act in any doubtful situation (see the end of VI.9). 

From this follows the primary method of our pedagogy of prudence: students should be trained in logic, rhetoric, and ethics. It may seem at first glance that this is a curricular, rather than a pedagogical claim, until we recognize the role of logic and rhetoric as productive arts. When understood correctly, dialectic or logic, as well as rhetoric, are tools for the process of inquiry or deliberation. The process of inquiry and deliberation involves the student in seeking the truth through discovering arguments and reasons. It follows that a student who has a practiced ability to perceive reasons for and against a course of action will be able to deliberate well. If the student has studied ethics, he should have the major premises necessary for his practical syllogisms. Of course, he must also have enough experience of the world, so that he is not at a loss for discerning the particulars of his situation. 

Training in dialectic, rhetoric, and ethics, then, are not merely courses that must be added on in the high school or college years, but are instead a set of pedagogical practices that should be embedded in a student’s study from their earliest encounters with the “humanities,” those subjects that are concerned with instructing the conscience with the hard-won wisdom of mankind. This is why the Narration-Trivium lesson capitalizes on and expands Charlotte Mason’s narration-based lesson structure to explicitly name dialectic and rhetoric as proper responses to a rich text. To be clear, dialectic and rhetoric can face in two directions, as it were. They can be turned toward theoretical knowledge, on the one hand, establishing through reasoning some truth that has no direct bearing on my life or choices. Or else, they can face ethics and practical affairs and engage in the practical thinking of deliberation, where options are weighed about what is best for a human being. 

For this reason, and not simply for their own rhetorical training, should students be asked to deliberate about the best course of action for a character in a novel or a figure from history. By living vicariously through the decision-points of many people who have come before them, students gain facility with externalizing the thought-process of deliberation. While this is not the same thing as their own deliberate choices, it is an incredibly effective way to engage the faculty students will use in their own lives. This process of deliberation can be put on display in the classroom in any number of ways, whether it be through set speeches or essays, where a student endeavors to persuade others of the right course of action in a fictional or historical situation, or through harkness table discussions and socratic seminars, where the teacher poses some ethical dilemma. The important thing is that teachers regularly discuss, and get the students to discuss, human values and choices, using biblical moral categories. How else are students to grow in prudence if they never deliberate? 

A helpful tool in this regard is the pro and con chart, where students list out the positives and negatives of a possible choice in terms of its effects on self and others. The discipline of pausing long enough to think through all the ramifications not only develops a student’s analytical thinking, it also improves their invention, or ability to think of reasons or arguments. Traditionally, listed as one of the canons of rhetoric, invention will benefit from a student’s frequent use of common topics, like the more and the less, the better and the worse, the greater and the lesser, etc. (see Aristotle’s Topics).

In addition to vicarious exercises in deliberation, parents, teachers and mentors should utilize every opportunity that arises to assist a young person in their own deliberation process. We will be able to do this by acting as counselor rather than decision-maker. The college and career guidance counselling process is perhaps the prime example, because often in our culture this is a decision that parents hand over to their teenage children, even if some constraints are imposed. Parents and mentors should be asking questions, providing students with an awareness of the experiences of other students, and raising categories of what might be valuable or desirable in a college or career choice. It is not a matter of doing the thinking and deciding for these older students, but of helping them engage in a genuine process of decision-making that is not short-circuited by one or two considerations. These big decisions of early life will make a deep impression on students and act as guides for their process of making all the other important decisions of their life.

In the next article, we will see how this training in deliberative reasoning not only prepares our students for a wise personal life, but also enables them to lead in their homes, communities and churches.

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Of course, Polonius interprets this as a depressive comment on the meaninglessness of reading, with a unique philosophical twist. But perhaps it can represent for us an important claim regarding the purpose of education in language and the humanities: words are meant to be played with, not merely learned.

In the previous installment of my “Flow of Thought” series, we took a stroll down the liberal arts lane, stopping for a moment to contemplate grammar among the Trivium arts of language, before hopping over to the Quadrivium arts of science and math, especially under the modern lens of STEM. Our goal was to counter the utilitarian focus of the educational establishment. The theme was the joy of thought and invention, and not merely its utility, as we develop arguments for classical education from an unlikely source, the famous positive psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.

Hamlet’s witty banter, in spite of his seemingly depressive state, seems to serve as a good example of the flow of thought uniquely attainable through the “play of words.” Hamlet’s one-liners and verbal antics are some of the funniest and most enjoyable moments of the play. Perhaps they are even what keeps Hamlet relatively sane as long as possible, even if they are a part of his excuse to stall and wait for certainty.

Our psychologist issues a clarion call for the value of such witty repartee in his book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience:

“Utilitarian ideologies in the past two centuries or so have convinced us that the main purpose of talking is to convey useful information. Thus we now value terse communication that conveys practical knowledge, and consider anything else a frivolous waste of time. As a result, people have become almost unable to talk to each other outside of narrow topics of immediate interest and specialization.” (129)

Such a comment could equally be a tribute to the glories of an Oscar Wilde play or the narrator of a Jane Austen novel, which turns even the drab and dull dialogue of the most boorish characters into a source of endless amusement… But not just amusement, also of manners, in the broader sense of human morality and conduct… And apparently of learning something human and crucial enough that we would put Jane Austen novels in the curriculum.

There’s something about the play of words that is liberating, enriching and deepening, even if it is also enjoyable and exciting. And so, in this article we will discuss another lost art or tool of learning: what our psychologist calls “the lost art of conversation” (129). He quotes Caliph Ali Ben Ali, saying, “A subtle conversation, that is the Garden of Eden” (129). If so, then let’s try and map out the territory of Eden a bit.

The Play of Words as Dialectic

First to note is its connection with the liberal art of dialectic. Socrates’ method of “teaching” (if we should call it that, since by his own admission, he knew nothing…) was really all about having a conversation. True, he would often announce some problem to be solved near the beginning, and he would chase down various possible solutions through elaborate trains of reasoning and question-and-answer with his dialogue partner or partners. But it was fundamentally a conversation nonetheless.

He could be very persistent in his questioning, but he also seems not to have been afraid of talking too much, if that seemed the best way to advance the discussion. Dialectic, as opposed to rhetoric, was Socrates’ proposed method of discourse, because the back and forth of conversation was to him more real and genuine, than the prolonged persuasion of one speaker (see Plato’s dialogues of Gorgias or The Apology).

Skilled orators could spin a speech of impressive length and strategy. But if you pinned them down and questioned them about each of the points in turn, much of it came up wanting, in Socrates’ experience. Dialectic allows for the discussion of different words, the distinctions between them and the careful parsing out of what is actually meant by them. This requires a certain playfulness in looking at the words themselves, trying them on for size and seeing if they fit the whole body of reality.

St. Augustine’s De Dialectica, for instance, begins with a discussion of types of words, both simple and complex, in a way that we would be inclined to classify as grammar, rather than simply logic. But grammar was first about the skill of reading and interpreting. Parts of speech, however, are as distinguishable in “speech,” as in writing, if you have mastered the art of a subtle conversation. In fact, we might even say that it is more natural to think out distinctions in speech.

But the fact that Socrates was almost annoyingly focused on discovering the truth—or at least displaying the ignorance of his conversation partner—didn’t prevent Socrates and his students from having a time of it. Plato’s dialogues, at least, are full of witty banter and the play of words. You get the impression that Socrates was enjoying himself. The flow of conversation gathered quite a following among the youth because Socrates’ dialectical method was fun, unlike some types of logic textbooks and exercises today.

Small Talk and the Play of Words

But so much of the experience of normal conversation consists in small talk and pleasantries. High-minded people are inclined to despise these small beginnings. At least, I can recall comments of my own in disparagement of the endless chatter about the weather or sports at parties. But the art of face-to-face small talk may be something our children are missing out on, with all their mediated communication through texting and social media. And we should reckon on the necessity of a prelude into the profundities of an extended conversation.

Because of his expertise our psychologist is able to note some of the overlooked value of small beginnings in the dialectical art from a psychological perspective:

“When I say to an acquaintance whom I meet in the morning, ‘Nice day,’ I do not convey primarily meteorological information—which would be redundant anyway, since he has the same data as I do—but achieve a great variety of other unvoiced goals. For instance, by addressing him I recognize his existence, and express my willingness to be friendly. Second, I reaffirm one of the basic rules for interaction in our culture, which holds that talking about the weather is a safe way to establish contact between people. Finally, by emphasizing that the weather is ‘nice’ I imply the shared value that ‘niceness’ is a desirable attribute.” (129-130)

Modern communication theorists have called this phatic communication and connected it with the exordium of classical rhetoric. In the opening of a dialogue or a speech there needs to be a connection of persons, a development of trust or ethos, and this is established through following some simple social rules for interactions.

Such reflections raise legitimate questions over whether, in abandoning training in politeness and the proprieties of social interaction for our children, we are crippling them from stepping into the longer walks of conversation. After all, a conversation or connection must begin somewhere, and why not with a few clichés?

Philologists, those pedantic lovers of words (like myself), may object, but they would do better to laugh and continue playing the game themselves. This reminds me of the opening scene from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, where Gandalf humorously nitpicks Bilbo Baggins’ pleasantries:

“Good morning!” said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, and the grass was very green. But Gandalf looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once,” said Bilbo. “And a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco out of doors, into the bargain. If you have a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine! There’s no hurry, we have all the day before us!” Then Bilbo sat down on a seat by his door, crossed his legs, and blew out a beautiful grey ring of smoke that sailed up into the air without breaking and floated away over The Hill.

It’s not that we should view Gandalf’s playful questioning of the convention as out of bounds. In fact, it’s part and parcel of a Socratic dialectic. But we could all use more of Bilbo’s cheery openness to conversation. He is here the paragon of hospitality, and it is his very politeness that opens him up to adventure. The first step out your door and into the adventure of a true conversation can be the most important.

Journeying on in the Play of Words

The art of conversation must begin somewhere and mastering the basics of cultural conventions is a suitable training for even the very young. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a danger represented by hiding under the conventions of politeness. As our psychologist states,

“The pity is that so many conversations end right there. Yet when words are well chosen, well arranged, they generate gratifying experiences for the listener. It is not for utilitarian reasons alone that breadth of vocabulary and verbal fluency are among the most important qualifications for success as a business executive. Talking well enriches every interaction, and it is a skill that can be learned by everyone.” (130)

The move of turning conversation into a learnable skill puts it back in the realm of education, where it ought to have stayed. Of course, it is useful in preparing the future “business executive,” but it also simply enriches life to be able to carry on a deep conversation with a few friends. In fact, even if it had no utility in the workplace, such a skill would be invaluable to the one who attained it, a veritable Garden of Eden.

As a matter of course, though, conversations with other people are an endless source of learning throughout life. The British educator Charlotte Mason tells the story of how Sir Walter Scott found himself sitting on the coach with a man, whom he could not get talking for anything. After “a score of openings” that were unsuccessful, he finally hit upon “bent leather,” and “then the talk went merrily for the man was a saddler” (vol. 6 Toward a Philosophy of Education p. 261). Everyone has something interesting and useful to share, if you know how to ask the right questions.

Each conversation can be an adventure, when we view it as a quest in search of what the other has to share. If we are open and hospitable like Bilbo, we never know where the road of conversation will lead.

But how do we train our children in the dialectical art of conversation?

Training Children in the Play of Words

Conversation skills don’t often appear on the lists of educational standards. At least, I’ve never seen it there. And it must be admitted that it’s hard to test objectively whether a student has sufficiently mastered a verbal sense of humor to pass grade level.

But classical educators and home educators can embrace such qualitative goals, even without penalizing students who are naturally more obtuse. It’s worth asking whether, just because an educational goal is not easily testable, and may be nearly impossible for some students to ‘master’, it should be abandoned as a legitimate pursuit. The play of words is one of those legitimate pursuits of the humanities that deserves a place on our radar screens, if not our standards lists.

The first way to train students in the play of words is the class discussion. Home educators will probably have to play Socrates a little more. But teachers can simply open up discussion between students and give them lots of practice discussing in a variety of subjects and contexts. How this will differ from the conventional class discussion can be left to the imagination and skillfulness of both teacher and students. The main shift is in viewing the goal as not simply the “mastery of content” but the development of sub-skills in the subtle art of conversation. Listening well to others, interacting with previous comments, disagreeing confidently yet respectfully, and covering over it all with a playfulness in language and thought that makes the conversation sparkle—these are all ideals that can be sown and sub-skills that can be practiced.

The second way is more akin to the teacher playing the role of Socrates, or Gandalf, if you prefer. Having practiced this one religiously since my youth, and not only in my teaching, I was tickled to see Csikszentmihalyi endorse it publicly in his book. For some years I have called it deliberate misunderstanding. Here is how he describes it:

“One way to teach children the potential of words is by starting to expose them to wordplay quite early. Puns and double meanings may be the lowest form of humor for sophisticated adults, but they provide children with a good training ground in the control of language. All one has to do is pay attention during a conversation with a child, and as soon as the opportunity presents itself—that is, whenever an innocent word or expression can be interpreted in an alternative way—one switches frames, and pretends to understand the word in that different sense.” (130)

One of the assumptions I must contend with in the paragraph above is the assumption that “puns and double meanings” are “the lowest form of humor for sophisticated adults.” My high school English and Latin teacher taught me quite the opposite, that puns were the very finest form of humor. And if one thinks for a moment of the other types of humor that are common in conversation, my high school teacher has a leg up on our psychologist or whomever he got such disparagement from. But we digress….

The pretense of misunderstanding creates the shock factor for the listener that alerts them to the possibilities and ambiguities of their words and expressions. There is no easier or more natural way to “teach” the play of words, than to play with a child’s own words in her very presence. Its power lies in shocking them out of the complacency of conventional communication:

“In fact, breaking the ordered expectations about the meaning of words can be mildly traumatic at first, but in no time at all children catch on and give as good as they are getting, learning to twist conversation into pretzels. By dong so they learn how to enjoy controlling words; as adults, they might help revive the lost art of conversation.” (130)

This need not wait until some supposed “logic phase”; young children love a good pun, riddle or dad joke. But it does reach new levels of sophistication with witty older students. Some of my most enjoyable teaching experiences are in the witty banter of a group of high school students, discussing a great book, at least ostensibly, but also playing with words and the thoughts and ideas that they represent. What students are really doing with some (at least) of their side comments and rabbit trails is connecting the experiences of the difficult texts we are reading with their own thoughts and experiences as budding young adults.

At least that is what I tell myself when we take a trip down digression lane….

One of the ways we have institutionalized the art of conversation or skill of dialectic at the school where I work is through a monthly practice we have called a colloquium (from the Latin word for a conversation or discussion). Our whole high school gathers together for an entire humanities class focused on a single conversation around a perennial question, like “What is truth?” or “Why is there so much pain and suffering in the world?” or “What is the best form of government?”

Like Socrates’ dialogues, there is no set text or “curriculum”; the discussion is the curriculum, and the leader’s goal is the make sure the inquiry is genuine through putting up road blocks, countering sloppy thinking and in every way making things as hard as possible for the students. There are ground rules, but the colloquium includes much witty banter alongside the genuine inquiry. Sustaining an hour and a half to two hour long discussion on a single topic is an educational experience in itself. It’s also a highlight for many of our students.

Previous articles in this series, The Flow of Thought:

Part 1: Training the Attention for Happiness’ Sake; Part 2: The Joy of Memory; Part 3: Narration as Flow; Part 4: The Seven Liberal Arts as Mental Games

Future installments: Part 6: Becoming Amateur Historians; Part 7: Rediscovering Science as the Love of Wisdom; Part 8, Restoring the School of Philosophers, Part 9, The Lifelong Love of Learning.

What other ideas do you have for cultivating the lost art of conversation in our students? Share them in the comments!

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In The Liberal Arts Tradition Kevin Clark and Ravi Jain endeavor to set the record straight about what made up the course of study in the classical tradition of education. As two longtime friends and colleagues at the Geneva School–one of the early and well-developed classical Christian schools located outside of Orlando, FL–they combined their talents in rhetoric/philosophy (Kevin) and math/science (Ravi) and their mutual love of theology and the tradition to broaden the focus of the conversation about classical education.

The Liberal Arts Tradition participates in the recovery movement that goes back to Douglas Wilson’s discovery of Dorothy Sayer’s 1947 Oxford address, “The Lost Tools of Learning.”  Their central argument is that, while the first stage of their movement focused on the Trivium or language arts of Grammar, Logic and Rhetoric, which Dorothy Sayers called the lost tools of learning, the paradigm of the liberal arts tradition was actually much broader. Before them, Robert Littlejohn and Charles Evans, in their 2006 book Wisdom and Eloquence, had argued for the inclusion of the Quadrivium or mathematical arts from students’ earliest years, and against the idea of stages of learning following the Trivium as historically accurate. They claimed that Dorothy Sayers had invented the paradigm of students progressing through a Grammar, Logic and Rhetoric stage, and instead they argued for the presence of all the liberal arts from the earliest grades, emphasizing that a PK-12 curriculum should be planned from top-down with a focus on necessary linguistic and mathematical skills (their “tools of learning”) established intentionally along the way. Building on this conversation, Kevin and Ravi paint a broader picture of the liberal arts tradition, including piety, gymnastic and music as a fundamental approach to early education, and the disciplines of philosophy (natural, moral and divine/metaphysical) and theology as the crowning point. One of their main emphases is on the holistic nature of this broader paradigm, training students in heart, soul, mind and body, rather than just the mind.

The book walks the reader systematically through each aspect of this paradigm, providing academic style references for high points in the tradition and secondary sources to support their characterizations of its philosophy and emphases. They keep up a running polemic with modernism and its claims to objectivity, its scorning of the tradition and of Christianity, and its focus on the disembodied mind to the neglect of a more formative approach. The book’s main accomplishment is to take the movement’s discourse about the classical tradition of education to the next level of complexity by undergirding their claims with academic research. Their descriptions of piety, gymnastic and music provide a much needed counter-balance to some of the tendencies of a Sayers-Wilson grammar school approach. While they are to be commended for how they have traced the trajectory of each classical “discipline,” often making innovative connections–say, with the scientific revolution’s reliance on Greek thought and Christian principles–at times they seem to have bitten off more than they can chew. Given the size of their work, they are prevented from being able to treat various disciplines in anything more than broad brush strokes, and a certain stylistic unevenness and argumentative meandering are the unfortunate result. Also, their focus on captain figures and the historical development of the cutting edge of each discipline overshadows the practical application of the philosophy to PK-12 education today; while it’s wonderful to hear about Kepler and Newton, Aquinas and Cicero, and other leading thinkers, and the book is not without paragraphs focused on important courses, subjects or methods, the writers fall short of unpacking fully the implications of how, for instance, the tradition of philosophy or the liberal arts would inform a pedagogy for teaching those ‘subjects’.

Without a doubt, Clark and Jain’s The Liberal Arts Tradition is a must-read for any educator in the classical Christian school movement, and will function as a starting place for further detailing, clarification and application of their compelling and suggestive paradigm.

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Of course, we’ve heard Dorothy Sayers call the liberal arts the lost tools of learning, and we’ve tried to apply her insights about how the trivium arts can map on practically to the different stages of a child’s development, and that therefore the arts aren’t exactly subjects in themselves but more like a way of approaching each subject. But in the classical tradition the difference between an ‘art’ and a ‘science’ was a little bit more subtle. A ‘science’ is simple enough because it comes from the Latin word ‘scientia’ meaning knowledge. A science is therefore a body of knowledge that a person might master. The way to master a science is simply to learn or discover all the truth that one can about that area and integrate it so far as possible with everything else one knows. An ‘art’ however is not a body of knowledge but an ability to create or produce something. So, for instance, a person who has mastered the art of architecture, will have the ability to design sound and esthetically pleasing buildings. The person skilled in the art of underwater basket-weaving will be able to weave baskets while submerged under water. An art is about the ability to make something; it is not primarily about knowing truths.

This distinction goes all the way back to Aristotle, when he defined the intellectual virtue of ‘art’ as a “state of capacity to make [something], involving a true course of reasoning” (1140^a.31), whereas ‘knowledge’ or ‘science’ is a “state of capacity to demonstrate” (1130^b.10). In other words, someone who is skilled in the art of basket-weaving has the ability to weave a basket correctly, based on prior experience and practice and according to the actual nature of the materials and the needs of a basket (“a true course of reasoning”); on the other hand, someone who has knowledge, or has learned a particular subject or ‘science’, is able to show or demonstrate that knowledge, whether through inductive or deductive reasoning. As the late Victorian British educator Charlotte Mason also said, “Whatever a child can tell, that we may be sure he knows, and what he cannot tell, he does not know.” Now Aristotle’s distinction between the intellectual virtues of ‘art’ and ‘science’ became a crucial touchpoint for the classical tradition of the liberal arts and sciences. However, our modern classical revival movement has not always been so clear about this distinction.

In its clearest articulation, then, the seven liberal arts were not ‘subjects’ or bodies of demonstrable knowledge, but instead were highly complex skills that students needed to be trained in over a course of years. Of course, under the general heading of philosophy there was a science for every one of these areas, like the science of grammar, since there was in the tradition a whole body of discovered truth about the grammar of various languages, or about logical reasoning, or about the nature of the rhetorical task. There is a science for every subject. But that was viewed as distinct from training in the art.

Naturally, students of the liberal arts would gain knowledge of all kinds along the way, especially concerning the liberal art they were studying, just as someone learning the art of basket-weaving would learn many things about baskets and how they are woven. However, a student’s ability to demonstrate their knowledge of basket-weaving is a completely different thing from their ability to weave a basket correctly. On the other hand, the liberal arts are a unique case, because the ‘products’ of grammar, dialectic and rhetoric are themselves the communicated products of knowledge, namely reading and interpretation (grammar), discussion and reasoning (dialectic or logic), and spoken or written persuasion (rhetoric). But the distinction still holds between the ability to make and pure knowledge.

How has the classical school movement grown in its understanding of this distinction? If we go back to Dorothy Sayers’s essay on the lost tools of learning, it’s easy to see that this distinction between arts and sciences was important for her. She claims that an important difference between modern and medieval education was the emphasis on ‘subjects’ versus “forging and learning to handle the tools of learning,” by which she means the trivium arts of grammar, logic and rhetoric. As she wrote, “Although we often succeed in teaching our pupils ‘subjects,’ we fail lamentably on the whole in teaching them how to think; they learn everything, except the art of learning.” Doug Wilson, in recovering and applying her essay, has emphasized particularly her mapping of the trivium onto stages of a child’s development, so that the grammar of each subject is emphasized for young students, then the logic or reasoning for older, and eloquent expression of truth about a subject for the oldest.

Then back in 2006 Robert Littlejohn and Chuck Evans wrote Wisdom and Eloquence, in which they argued against a strong emphasis on the trivium as stages of development, based on their analysis of the historical facts of the tradition. They also argued that the tools of learning are not the liberal arts themselves, but are skills like phonetic decoding, reading comprehension, critical thinking, research, public speaking, etc. The liberal arts, both trivium and quadrivium are subjects, not these discrete skills, claimed Littlejohn and Evans.

Now it’s important for us to concede their first point. The classical tradition has taught the trivium in many ways, but before Dorothy Sayers it’s almost impossible to find the idea that the trivium represents stages a child goes through in their development. In the Roman period students went to a grammaticus to learn how to read and write in Greek and their own language Latin. Quintilian, the famous Roman orator and educator, discussed how the equivalent Latin word for the Greek ‘grammatiké’ was ‘litteratura,’ literature, or I might say, literacy, and how among other things the student would learn to read literature and poetry, scan the meter, analyze the meanings of words, read it aloud properly with attention to proper phrasing and accent, and interpret it through all the necessary background information, whether historical, geographical or scientific (see Book 1.4 of Institutes of Oratory). That was training in grammar. After that a student would be sent to a rhetorical teacher like Quintilian to learn to speak publicly in every possible situation that might be needed to bring leadership to the public square. After that, education was done, unless a student wanted to go to Athens and study with the philosophers. That’s a very different picture of trivium education than what we might be used to; it’s not the grammar-logic-rhetoric as stages of development paradigm.

But to answer Robert Littlejohn and Chuck Evan’s last point about the liberal arts being ‘subjects’, we should go on to a more recent book by Kevin Clark and Ravi Jain, The Liberal Arts Tradition. In their chapter on the liberal arts they use Thomas Aquinas, who held Aristotle’s distinction close to his heart, in order to explain that the liberal arts are the “tools by which knowledge is fashioned” (33). “An art could be attained from an extensive foundation in action and imitation forming cultivated habits,” say Kevin Clark and Ravi Jain, whereas “a science can be in the mind alone and does not require any practice or the production of anything.” Based on this distinction, from Aristotle to Aquinas and into our own recovery movement, it seems to make most sense to think of the trivium arts as something different than modern ‘subjects’. They are well-worn paths, they are complex imitative habits, they are the tools of learning, they are the skills needed to discover and justify knowledge.

Obviously, if this little review of our movement’s growing understanding of the trivium as arts is true, then it changes how we should view the trivium. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we should throw out our grammar, logic and rhetoric textbooks. But it should radically reorient us on what we think we’re doing when we’re teaching grammar. If ‘grammatiké’ is the ability to read and interpret texts, with all the sub-skills attached to it, like phonetic decoding, background knowledge, reading comprehension, etc., well then, what students need to master grammar in this sense is lots and lots of coached practice; they don’t necessarily need another lecture. They need to read harder and harder texts in all sorts of subject areas. And they need to be actively coached by their teachers in how to do this well, in what needs to be known and understood, in order to interpret this text correctly. And over time with practice, students will become more and more literate, they will become grammarians, skilled readers and interpreters. The same can be said for logic or, I prefer, dialectic, the art of reasoning and discussion. In order to master this art, students need to do lots and lots of discussing, being forced to think carefully about what they have read. They need to learn to argue with one another respectfully, anticipate others’ trains of thought, call out faulty reasoning in themselves and others. Most of all they need accountable practice in discussing important matters at a higher and higher level. Mastering rhetoric, lastly, comes in the ability to speak or write persuasively and knowledgeably about all manner of subjects. It is not the same as learning about the subject of rhetoric, the types, the proper divisions, rhetorical devices and flourishes that can be used, though these are all things it would be great for them to know. But a student could learn the science of rhetoric, be ready to spew forth the definitions of every term, yet be the least persuasive speaker or writer in the world.

Well, this leads me to propose a twofold understanding of grammar, dialectic and rhetoric. Each is both an art and a science, both a complex skill of communication and a traditional body of knowledge about that area. So everyone is right, Sayers, Wilson, Littlejohn and Evans, as well as Clark and Jain. This is perhaps easiest to see if I use my absurd outside example: basket-weaving. Imagine two different people who claim to be wise in the art of basket-weaving. One of them knows the whole history of basket-weaving, can name all the important figures, describe key changes in different cultures’ application of basket-weaving, and he himself even has his own particular theories about why basket-weaving developed as it did, but unfortunately, he has never actually woven a basket for himself. The other has never heard of any different way to weave a basket than the way that she was taught by her mother growing up, and yet she weaves baskets daily, that only get better and better, sometimes departing from tradition with bold and innovative designs. The first person is wise in the science of basket-weaving; the second is actually a trained basket-weaver, an artist in her own right. Of course, many artists also know some of the science, and many scientists have a rudimentary practice of the art.

The same can be said of grammar, dialectic and rhetoric. There are bodies of knowledge about these arts that one can master. One can become a grammarian, one can study the philosophy of logic, or one can take courses in rhetorical studies at a university. Some amount of study in these sciences can help one to master the arts, just as knowledge of the history and various techniques of basket-weaving is useful to the artist. But someone could be a powerful public speaker without any study of the history of rhetoric, because of a combination of natural talent, imitation and coached practice.

This changes things for us as classical educators because it forces us to ask the question: “Which are we aiming for here?” If you look at many of our textbooks in grammar, logic or rhetoric, you have to admit that the method of the textbook seems to assume that the goal is primarily to teach our students knowledge about these ‘subjects,’ as if that were enough. This is to treat the liberal arts as if they were sciences. Now don’t get me wrong here, a science is a very good thing, and can be helpful, especially if it is fused with appropriate practice. However, the sciences of grammar, logic and rhetoric can be deadening if they are learned in the absence of training in the arts. There’s a reason in the tradition that the liberal arts preceded the sciences. And perhaps I should mention that it’s a particular flaw of the Enlightenment and Modernism that the sciences and being scientific are preferred to anything else. This may be one of the ways that we as classical educators have implicitly fallen prey to modern assumptions about education.

At the same time, we’re not the first classical educators to have fallen prey to this error. For instance, John Locke, the British philosopher, in his work on education, wrote:

“For I have seldom or never observed anyone to get the skill of reasoning well or speaking handsomely by studying those rules which pretend to teach it; and therefore I would have a young gentleman take a view of them in the shortest systems that could be found without dwelling long on the contemplation and study of those formalities.” (Some Thoughts Concerning Education, p. 140)

Locke claims that learning rules won’t make you either an eloquent speaker or a brilliant conversationalist, nor will logical systems of analyzing mode and figure, predicates and predicables, teach a young gentleman to reason well. That requires, he goes on, the imitation of great authors or thinkers and practice reasoning to the truth or speaking publicly. He recommends that young children be asked to narrate stories they have read, from Aesop’s fables say, and to read great orators. It seems that even in Locke’s day the classical practices of the trivium had gotten crystalized into a deadening form, where students learned the science, but not the art. They memorized rules for logic and rhetoric, but couldn’t reason to the truth, let alone speak fluently. As he explains later on,

“There can scarce be a greater defect in a gentleman than not to express himself well either in writing or speaking. But yet, I think, I may ask my reader whether he does not know a great many who live upon their estates and so, with the name, should have the qualities of gentlemen, who cannot so much as tell a story as they should, much less speak clearly and persuasively in any business. This I think not to be so much their fault as the fault of their education.” (141-2)

This is a haunting warning that we should heed well in our movement, in order to be sure that our schools don’t fall prey to this same fault. We might be training young ladies and gentlemen, who can spout off the right answers but do not in fact have the ability to think, speak and write, who have not, in fact, as Dorothy Sayers would say, learned the arts of learning.

Resources

Barnes, Jonathan, ed. The Complete Works of Aristotle. The Revised Oxford Translation,Volume Two. Princeton, 1984.

Clark, Kevin and Ravi Jain. The Liberal Arts Tradition: A Philosophy of Christian Classical Education. Classical Academic Press, 2013.

Littlejohn, Robert and Charles Evans. Wisdom and Eloquence: A Christian Paradigm for Classical Learning. Crossway, 2006.

Locke, John. Some Thoughts Concerning Education (first published 1693) and Of the Conduct of the Understanding. Hackett, 1996.

Quintilian. Institutes of Oratory. Translated by John Selby Watson (1856), revised and edited by Lee Honeycutt (2007) and Curtis Dozier. Creative Commons, 2015.

Sayers, Dorothy. “The Lost Tools of Learning.” First delivered at Oxford, 1947. Accessed at http://www.gbt.org/text/sayers.html, June 2018.

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