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Common misconceptions of critical thinking
SHARON BAILIN, ROLAND CASE,
JERROLD R. COOMBS and LEROI B. DANIELS
In this paper, the ® rst of two, we analyse three widely-held
conceptions of critical
thinking: as one or more skills, as mental processes, and as sets
of procedures. Each
view is, we contend, wrong-headed, misleading or, at best,
unhelpful. Some who write
about critical thinking seem to muddle all three views in an
unenlightening meÂ lange.
Apart from the errors or inadequacies of the conceptions
themselves, they promote or
abet misconceived practices for teaching critical thinking.
Together, they have led to
the view that critical thinking is best taught by practising it. We
o� er alternative
proposals for the teaching of critical thinking.
Critical thinking is a subject of considerable current interest,
both in terms
of theory and pedagogy. A great deal is written about critical
thinking,
conferences on the subject abound, and educational initiatives
aimed at
fostering critical thinking proliferate.1 It is our view that much
of the

theoretical work and many of the pedagogical endeavours in this
area are
misdirected because they are based on faulty conceptions of
critical think-
ing. Critical thinking is frequently conceptualized in terms of
skills, pro-
cesses, procedures and practice. Much of the educational
literature either
refers to cognitive or thinking skills or equates critical thinking
with certain
mental processes or procedural moves that can be improved
through
practice. In this paper we attempt to explain the misconceptions
inherent
in such ways of conceptualizing critical thinking. It is important
to note
that much of the literature contains a pervasive miasma of
overlapping uses
of such terms as skill, process, procedure, behaviour, mental
operations,
j. curriculum studies, 1999, vol. 31, no. 3, 269± 283
S haron Bailin, a professor in the Faculty of Education, Simon
Fraser University, Burnaby,
British Columbia, Canada V5A 1S6, is interested in
philosophical inquiries into critical
thinking, creativity and aesthetic education. Her publications
include Reason and V alues:
New Essays in Philosophy of Education (Calgary, AB: Detselig,
1993), co-edited with John P.
Portelli.
Roland Case, an associate professor in the Faculty of Education,
Simon Fraser University,
conducts research in social studies and legal and global
education. His most recent book is

The Canadian Anthology of Social S tudies: Issues and S
trategies (Burnaby, BC: Faculty of
Education, Simon Fraser University), co-edited with Penney
Clark.
Jerrold R. Coombs, a professor in the Faculty of Education,
University of British Columbia,
has published extensively on ethical issues in education and the
development of competence
in practical reasoning. His publications include Applied Ethics:
A Reader (Oxford: Black-
well, 1993), co-edited with Earl R. Winkler.
L eRoi B. Daniels, a professor emeritus in the Faculty of
Education, University of British
Columbia, is interested in philosophy of mind and legal
education. He is currently editing
(with Roland Case) the `Critical Challenges Across the
Curriculum’ series (Burnaby, BC:
Faculty of Education, Simon Fraser University).
Journal of Curriculum S tudies ISSN 0022± 0272 print/ISSN
1366± 5839 online Ñ 1999 Taylor & Francis Ltd
http://www.tandf.co.uk/JNLS/cus.htm
http://www.taylorandfrancis.com/JNLS/cus.htm
etc. We thus ® nd similar kinds of error and confusion about
critical
thinking under super® cially di� erent ways of talking. We
have tried to
focus on plausibly distinct uses of skill, process and procedure
in our
critiques. Our arguments will lay the groundwork for o� ering a
new
conception based on di� erent foundational assumptions in the

following
paper on this theme.
Cr i ti c a l th i n ki n g a s s ki l l
Many educators and theorists appear to view the task of
teaching critical
thinking as primarily a matter of developing thinking skills.
Indeed, the
discourse on thinking is su� used with skill talk. Courses and
conferences
focus on the development of thinking skills and references to
skills appear
in much of the literature.2 Even leading theorists in the area of
critical
thinking conceptualize critical thinking largely in terms of skill.
Thus, for
example, Siegel (1988: 39, 41) writes of the critical thinker as
possessing à
certain character as well as certain skills’ , and makes reference
to `a wide
variety of reasoning skills’ . Similarly, Paul (1984: 5) refers to
critical
thinking skills and describes them as `a set of integrated macro-
logical
skills’ . The Delphi Report on critical thinking (Facione 1990),
which
purports to be based on expert consensus in the ® eld, views
critical thinking
in terms of cognitive skills in interpretation, analysis,
evaluation, inference,
explanation and self-regulation.
It is important to note that the term s̀kill’ can be used in a
variety of
senses and that, as a consequence, some of the discussion of

skills in critical
thinking is relatively unproblematic. In some instances s̀kill’ is
used to
indicate that an individual is pro® cient at the task in question.
It is used, in
this context, in an achievement sense. A skilled reasoner is one
who is able
to reason well and to meet the relevant criteria for good
reasoning. The use
of skill in this context focuses attention on students being
capable of
intelligent performance as opposed to merely having
propositional knowl-
edge about intelligent performance. Thus, someone who is
thinking criti-
cally can do more than cite a de® nition for ad hominem. He or
she will
notice inappropriate appeals to an arguer’ s character in
particular argu-
mentative contexts. Clearly, being a critical thinker involves,
among other
things, having a certain amount of `know-how’. Such thinkers
are skilled,
then, in the sense that they must be able to ful® ll relevant
standards of good
thinking. Conceptualizing critical thinking as involving skill in
this
achievement sense is relatively benign.
However, some of the discussion of skills in the context of
critical
thinking is more problematic. There is a strong tendency among
educators
to divide educational goals or objectives into three distinct
kinds: knowl-
edge, skills (i.e. abilities), and attitudes (i.e. values), and to

assign critical
thinking to the category of skills.3 Conceiving of critical
thinking as a skill
in this sense implies more than simply that an individual is a
competent or
pro® cient thinker. It is based on a conception of skill as an
identi® able
operation which is generic and discrete. There are di� culties
with both of
these notions. We will begin with the problems entailed in
viewing skills as
270 s. bailin ET A L .
generic, i.e. once learned, they can be applied in any ® eld of
endeavour; the
problems involved in viewing skills as discrete will be dealt
with later.
Skills as generic
The identi® cation of critical thinking with skill in the tripartite
division of
educational goals separates critical thinking from the
development of
knowledge, understanding and attitudes. Critical thinking is
seen to involve
generic operations that can be learned in themselves, apart from
any
particular knowledge domains, and then transferred to or
applied in
di� erent contexts. Thus, for example, Worsham and Stockton
(1986: 11,
12) claim that t̀here are some skills that are basic and common

to most
curriculum tasks (for example, gathering information, ® nding
the main
idea, determining meaning)’ . They further state that:
Most curriculum materials at the high school level require that
students
analyze, synthesize, and evaluate as well as to[sic] create new
`products’, such
as original oral and written pieces and artistic creations.
Students are
expected to apply the appropriate thinking skills to accomplish
these tasks.
In a similar vein, Beyer (1987: 163) makes reference to discrete
thinking
skills and claims that:
To be pro® cient in a thinking skill or strategy means to be able
to use that
operation e� ectively and e� ciently on one’s own in a variety
of appropriate
contexts.
The separation of knowledge and critical thinking is fraught
with
di� culties however. If the claim that critical thinking skills are
generic is
taken to mean that these skills can be applied in any context
regardless of
background knowledge, then the claim seems clearly false.
Background
knowledge in the particular area is a precondition for critical
thinking to
take place. A person cannot analyse a particular chemical
compound if he or

she does not know something about chemistry, and without an
under-
standing of certain historical events a person will be unable to
evaluate
competing theories regarding the causes of World War I.
Many theorists acknowledge the necessity of background
knowledge for
critical thinking but still maintain a separation between
knowledge and the
skill or skills of thinking critically. For example, Nickerson et
al. (1985: 49)
contend that:
recognizing the interdependence of thinking and knowledge
does not deny
the reality of the distinction. It is at least conceivable that
people possessing
the same knowledge might di� er signi® cantly in how
skillfully they apply
what they know.
We argue, however, that the distinction is itself untenable.
Skilled
performance at thinking tasks cannot be separated from
knowledge. The
kinds of acts, such as predicting and interpreting, which are put
forth as
generic skills will, in fact, vary greatly depending on the
context, and this
di� erence is connected with the di� erent kinds of knowledge
and under-
common misconceptions of critical thinking 271

standing necessary for successful completion of the particular
task. Inter-
preting a graph is a very di� erent sort of enterprise from
interpreting a
play. The former involves coming to an understanding of the
relationships
among the plotted entities based on understanding certain
geometric
conventions; the latter involves constructing a plausible
meaning for the
play based on textual evidence. Both of these di� er again from
the case of
interpreting someone’s motives, which involves imputing
certain beliefs or
attitudes to an individual based on reading verbal and bodily
cues as well as
on past knowledge of the person. Similarly, predicting how a
story will end
calls upon very di� erent understanding than does predicting
the weather. It
makes little sense, then, to think in terms of generic skills,
which are simply
applied or transferred to di� erent domains of knowledge.
Becoming pro® cient at critical thinking itself involves, among
other
things, the acquisition of certain sorts of knowledge. For
example, the
knowledge of certain critical concepts which enable one to
make distinc-
tions is central to critical thinking. Understanding the di�
erence between a
necessary and a su� cient condition is not just background
knowledge but is
very much a part of what is involved in thinking critically.

Similarly, pro® ciency in critical thinking involves an
understanding of
the various principles which govern good thinking in particular
areas, and
many of these are domain speci® c, as McPeck (1981) has
pointed out.
Barrow (1991: 12) makes the point in this way:
What is clear, what is contradictory, what is logical, and so
forth, depends
upon the particular context. . . . To be logical in discussion
about art is not a
matter of combining logical ability with information about art.
It is a matter
of understanding the logic of art, of being on the inside of
aesthetic concepts
and aesthetic theory. The capacity to be critical about art is
inextricably
intertwined with understanding aesthetic discourse.
Facione (1990: 10) sums up well this general point:
This domain-speci® c knowledge includes understanding
methodological
principles and competence to engage in norm-regulated
practices that are
at the core of reasonable judgements in those speci® c contexts.
. . . Too much
of value is lost if CT [critical thinking] is conceived of simply
as a list of
logical operations and domain-speci® c knowledge is conceived
of simply as
an aggregation of information.
An additional di� culty with the identi® cation of critical

thinking solely
with skills to the exclusion of knowledge and attitudes is that it
fails to
recognize the central role played by attitudes in thinking
critically. Critical
thinking involves more than the ability to engage in good
thinking. It also
involves the willingness or disposition to do so. Siegel (1988)
refers to this
aspect of critical thinking as the critical spirit and sees it as of
equal
importance to the reason-assessment component. Ennis (1987)
includes a
list of dispositions in his conception of critical thinking, and
dispositions,
and values and traits of character are central to Paul’ s (1982)
notion of a
s̀trong sense’ of critical thinking.
Skills as discrete
Another major di� culty with the equation of critical thinking
with skill is
that it assumes the existence of certain discrete processes,
procedures or
operations. It is assumed that acquiring a skill involves
becoming pro® cient
at these processes. Thus, Chuska (1986: 25) distinguishes
between the
`ways of thinking (the processes involved)’ and t̀hinking skills
(the pro® -
ciency a person demonstrates in using the processes)’. In some

cases these
processes are thought to involve certain mental processes or
operations, and
in others these processes are conceived of in terms of
procedures or steps.
The di� culties with both these conceptualizations are dealt
with below.
Cr i ti c a l th i n ki n g a s m e n ta l p r o c e s s e s
It is a common assumption in discourse about critical thinking
that being
good at critical thinking is basically a matter of being pro®
cient at certain
mental processes.4 These processes are generally thought to
include such
things as classifying, inferring, observing, evaluating,
synthesizing and
hypothesizing. Kirby and Kuykendall (1991: 7, 11), for
example, hold
that t̀hinking is a holistic process in which di� erent mental
operations
work in concert’ and allude to ìntellectual skills training’ . It is
our view
that a purely `processes’ conception of critical thinking is
logically mis-
leading and pedagogically mischievous.5
In medicine, talking about processes as outcomes makes some
sense. An
obstetrician may give a newborn infant an appropriately sound
smack to
start up certain vital processes. May we not suggest that
teachers should
seek to do something analogous? If we do, we are presumably
not suggest-

ing that they should seek the occurrence of physical processes
such as
synapse-® ring in the brain, but that they should seek the
occurrence of such
mental processes as analysing or translating. Should they not,
then, seek to
invoke mental processes?
Talk about mental processes has a logic very di� erent from the
logic of
talk about physical processes. Physical processes, such as
baking or
synapse-® ring, can, at least in principle, be observed and
identi® ed
independently of any product they may have. Mental processes
can be
identi® ed only via their products; observing them directly is a
logical
impossibility. For example, we suppose that a translating
`process’ has
occurred in some person only because the person has succeeded
in produ-
cing a translation.
Descriptions of translating and classifying `behaviours’ are not
descrip-
tions of behaviours at all, but descriptions of upshots or
accomplishments
such as converting poetry to prose. When someone succeeds in
such a
conversion there is no doubt that something must have gone on
ìn’ that
person which enabled him or her to succeed. To identify this
s̀omething’ as
a particular mental process is to assume that the same sort of
thing goes on

within a person in every case in which he or she translates
something.
There is no reason to suppose this is the case. The so-called
`processes’ are
hypothesized, and then rei® ed after the fact of these upshots.
Mental processes are di� erentiated from one another not by
observing
features of the processes, but by distinguishing among kinds of
upshots or
accomplishments. The number of di� erent kinds of processes
we identify
depends upon how we decide to di� erentiate upshots. For some
purposes
we may wish to lump them all together. For instance, we may
lump
together all of the upshots that represent successful application
of conven-
tional meaning rules and standards, and then we might talk of
t̀he process’
of translation that all have in common. We may, on the other
hand, want to
subdivide student successes on the basis of the di� erent kinds
of meaning
conventions they ful® l. In either case, we will be less inclined
to reify and
confound categories if we talk about enabling students to ful® l
the
conventions and standards rather than about their exercising
mysterious
processes presumed to lie behind such accomplishments. No
useful ped-

agogical aim is served by postulating such processes.
Regardless of the conceptual hazards, people interested in
critical
thinking, and in education in general, are prone to talk about
processesÐ
the thinking process, the reading process, the creative process.
What makes
this way of characterizing teaching and learning so attractive?
In part, the
attraction may arise from the ambiguity of the term `process’. In
part, it
may also occur because it seems to o� er a promising answer to
the question,
`Are critical thinking abilities transferable?’
Broadly speaking, a process may be any course of events that
has an
upshot or a result of some sort. However, there are at least three
distinct
ways that courses of events relate to their upshots. In the ® rst
instance, they
may relate as that course of events people now call `natural
selection’ relates
to its upshot, the evolution of a species. In the second, they may
relate as
running a race relates to ® nishing the race. In the third, they
may relate as
facing an object relates to noticing it. We may characterize
these, for the
sake of convenience, as: (1) process-product, (2) task-
achievement, and (3)
orient-reception relations. Process-product pairs are used to
pick out
situations in which a series of changes or a particular relation
produces

an identi® able upshot. Task-achievement pairs are used to talk
about what
people do to bring about upshots. Tasks di� er from other
`processes’ in that
tasks are things people do on purpose in an e� ort to succeed at
something.
There are doubtless thousands of task words in most natural
languages.
Words like l̀ook’, s̀earch’ , r̀ace’ and t̀each’ can all be used as
task words.
Their use in this way re¯ ects the fact that many things people
seek to
accomplish are di� cult to bring o� . They can try and fail.
Ambiguity in the term `process’ lends a spurious sort of
plausibility to
the processes conception of critical thinking because it makes it
plausible to
suppose that all upshots of human activity have the same
relation to the
activity as products of combustion have to the process of
combustion.
Because processes are routinely named after their products, it is
natural to
suppose that achievements and receptions must also have
corresponding
processes. The result, of course, is unwarranted rei® cationÐ
reading back
from outcomes to mysterious antecedent processes.
The process conception is also bolstered by the fact that the
same
happening may be spoken of as both a process and a task. When
one bakes a
loaf of bread the changes in the loaf may be seen either as a
natural function

of heating and of the chemistry of its constituents, or as what
the cook
doesÐ heating the oven to the proper temperature and so on.
The same
happenings are, thus, characterized di� erently. Baking, the
chemical pro-
cess, is a causal occurrence; baking, the task, is a procedure (or
an art)
intended to bring about the chemical process in proper degree,
so that the
result is not pasty, or charred, or leaden. Because such words as
`baking’
may be ambiguous, it is easy to neglect the di� erence between
the process
and the task.
Such reception verbs, as s̀ee’, `notice’ and r̀ealize’ refer to
upshots of a
special kind. First, they involve either (or both) our literal
perception
apparatuses (eyes, ears, etc.) or our mental abilities. Secondly,
although
there are tasks we can carry out to position ourselves to see
(e.g. sit where
we can watch the horizon) or prepare ourselves conceptually
(e.g. acquire
the concepts of truth and validity), these tasks cannot guarantee
that we will
have the desired upshot. As White (1967: 69) puts it:
We can ask someone how he [sic] `would’ discover or cure, but

not how he
`would’ notice, although it is as legitimate to ask how he `did’
notice as it is to
ask how he `did’ discover or cure. For the former `how’
question asks for the
method, but the latter for the opportunity. Although appropriate
schooling
and practice can put us in a condition to notice what we used to
miss, people
cannot be taught nor can they learn how to notice, as they can
be taught or
can learn how to detect. Noticing, unlike solving, is not the
exercise of a skill.
For those interested in teaching students to become better at
critical
thinking, the moral is clear. We cannot teach students the
process of
noticing fallacies, for we have no grounds for believing there is
such a
process. The most we can do is orient them, and this, it seems,
we do in at
least three ways.
� We teach the person certain conceptsÐ for instance, the
concept of
a valid argument. This enables them to notice fallacies they
would
otherwise have overlookedÐ but does not, of course, guarantee
they will notice them.
� We motivate the person to care that arguments are valid and
to be
on the lookout for invalid arguments.
� We teach procedures that enable the person to orient himself

or
herself where certain kinds of reception are sought.
The second reason why people become advocates of critical
thinking
processes is that they want schools to provide curricula such
that students
learn to do certain things across the curriculumÐ and into their
non-school
livesÐ abstract, analyse, classify, evaluate, sequence,
synthesize, translate,
etc. These `processes’ are believed to be common to all critical
thinking
situations and to a range of activities beyond. To educators this
means that
in teaching them they can economize on instruction because
there will be
transfer of training. Someone who learns the forehand smash in
tennis is
likely to learn the forehand smash in squash with less di� culty
than a
person novice to both. Are we then to suggest that someone who
learns, for
example, to abstract in the writing of a preÂ cis will be able,
because of that
prior learning, to abstract in depicting a house, or that one who
is able to
evaluate cars will thereby be able to evaluate hypotheses? What
else can we
make of talk of processes as general abilities? Critical thinking
situations

may well have common features, but speaking of processes is of
no value; it
is, indeed, either otiose or misleading, and we almost certainly
risk losing
more than we gain. We risk falling into a monochromatic and
wholly
misleading view of the teaching of critical thinking.
Cr i ti c a l th i n ki n g a s p r o c e d u r e s
Another common misconception of critical thinking sees it as
basically a
matter of following a general procedure, described usually in
terms of a set
of steps, stages or phases. We contend that developing students’
compe-
tence in thinking is not, at heart, dependent on teaching them
steps or
procedures to follow. We begin by clarifying what we believe is
implied by
those who characterize critical thinking as following step-by-
step pro-
cedures. Next, we compare this view with an account of
thinking as the
exercise of judgement.
Thinking as procedure
Although there is no consensus about the general procedures
that constitute
thinking, the three most frequently discussed are inquiry (i.e.
t̀he scienti® c
method’), problem solving, and decision making (Wright 1993).
Some
writers refer to critical thinking and creative thinking as
separate pro-

cedures (Marzano et al. 1988: 32, Overgaard 1989: 9). By some
accounts,
there are as many as eight general thinking procedures: concept
formation,
principle formation, comprehension, problem solving, decision
making,
research, composition, and oral discourse (Marzano et al. 1988:
32± 33).
Each of these is distinguished by the type of conclusion or
result produced
(e.g. clari® cation of a concept, a decision about what course of
action to
take). Proponents of thinking as procedure, by de® nition,
believe that
procedures are at the heart of promoting thinking.
An important variable in this view of thinking is the formality
of the
sequence of steps involved in these general procedures. There is
a range of
opinion on this matter, spanning what we will call the
algorithmic and the
heuristic views of thinking as procedure. According to
Nickerson et al.
(1985: 74), algorithms and heuristics are two types of
procedures: an
algorithm is a step-by-step prescription that is guaranteed to
accomplish
a particular goal; an heuristic is a procedure that is merely
reasonably likely
to yield a solution. Proponents of an algorithmic view of
thinking as
procedure hold that: (1) there is a manageable number of highly
reliable
procedures that, taken as a whole, can address the range of
situations that

students need to resolve, (2) the steps in these procedures form
a ® xed
order, and (3) mastery of these steps is the central challenge in
learning to
think. Supporters of the heuristic view hold a less stringent set
of assump-
tions: (1) there is a potentially large number of procedures
helpful across
the range of situations that students need to resolve, (2) the
order of the
steps in these is not ® xed, and (3) mastery of these steps is a
pre-eminent,
but not necessarily the only, challenge in learning to think.
Although it is di� cult to ® nd much support for the algorithmic
view of
critical thinking, many academics, particularly psychologists,
appear to
accept the heuristic view. Thus, after reviewing a representative
range of
programmes to promote thinking, Glaser (1984: 96) notes that
`most of
these programs place emphasis on the teaching of general
processes, general
heuristics and rules for reasoning and problem solving, that
might be
acquired as transferable habits of thinking’ . Marzano et al.
(1988: 34)
suggest that the procedures should not be taught as `prescribed
procedures’
but rather as r̀epertoires or arrays of alternatives’ that are s̀emi-

ordered’ or
are `working hypotheses about the best way to accomplish a
goal, general
procedures to be used ¯ exibly by teachers and adapted by
students’ . For
others, however, the sequence of steps to be followed is more
signi® cant
(e.g. Beach 1987: 146± 147).
It is intuitively appealing to describe critical thinking in terms
of how
an individual is to go about it. The procedure approach, by
reducing
critical thinking to steps, seeks to provide operational or task
descriptions
of the building blocks of such thinking. Consider the following
exampleÐ
the `Decide Model’ by E. Daniel Eckberg.6 This conception
holds or
assumes that critical thinking comprises a set of steps
characterized as
follows:
D. De® ne the dilemma
What’s the problem?
Why does it concern me?
What’s the basic issue?
E. Examine electives
What are all sorts of possible ways of solving the problem?
What choices do we have?
What are our alternative courses of action?
What hypothesis can we make?
C. Consider consequences
What happens if we try each choice?

If we do this, then what?
How will things change if I choose this one?
What data can I collect and consider in considering these con-
sequences?
I. Investigate importance
What principles are important to me here?
What things do I most value?
How will these values in¯ uence my choice?
What am I assuming to be true?
What are my preferences and biases?
D. Decide direction
In the light of the data, what’ s my choice?
Which choice should now be chosen?
Which hypothesis seems to be the best?
Based on the evidence, what course of action should I take?
E. Evaluate ends
How can I test my hypothesis?
Was my course of action correct?
What are the consequences of my choice?
Has a tentative hypothesis been proven or disproved?
What are my conclusions?
As one can see, the model attempts to characterize critical
thinking as a set
of procedures to be carried out. None of the steps directly raises
the
underlying normative questions. Even in asking, `Was my
course of action
correct?’, the schema refers to what has been completedÐ a re¯

ection back.
Thus, the fundamentally normative and ongoing nature of
critical thinking
is ignored or masked. Critical thinking is not simply a
retrospective
undertaking.
It might be suggested that a more appropriate description of the
`decide
direction’ step is `make an informed, fair-minded decision’ . We
agree, but
this no longer describes a procedure to be performed, rather it
identi® es
norms to be ful® lled. As such, it is not characteristic of the
procedure view.
Although some educators may use the term s̀tep’ to refer to
achievement of
standards, the focus is overwhelmingly on strategies and
heuristics. We do
not wish to quibble over conceptual territory; rather we draw
attention to
the dominant (possibly, paradigmatic) use of the term s̀tep’ so
as to expose
the inadequacies of this view of critical thinking as following
general
procedures.
Concerns with t̀hinking as general procedures’
Although we believe that heuristics serve a useful role in
learning to think
critically, we do not regard them as the central feature of good
thinking:
there are two basic reasons why the general procedures view is
an
inadequate way of conceiving of critical thinking. We believe it

misrepre-
sents the major obstacle to good thinking, and grossly
understates the
signi® cance of contextual factors in deciding how to proceed
in any
particular case of critical thinking
On the general procedures view, the performance of certain
tasks is seen
to be a highly reliable means of achieving the desired results of
thinking.
The educational challenge is, therefore, to equip students with
repertoires
of procedures they can employ across the range of thinking
situations. In
our view, the mere performance of certain procedures identi®
ed in
descriptive terms is insu� cient to ensure that what has
happened counts
as critical thinking.
The performance of tasks such as thinking of reasons for and
against a
position, or of brainstorming alternatives, does not guarantee
that an
individual is thinking critically. The pro and con reasons that
the individual
comes up with may address only the most trivial aspects of the
issue; so,
too, the brainstorming of alternatives may miss the most
sensible alter-
natives. Learning to engage in such activities has little
educational merit
unless these things are done in such a way as to ful® l relevant
standards of

adequacy. Students have, after all, performed these sorts of
tasks for
much of their lives. The educational goal must be to teach them
to
do such tasks well by increasing their capacity and inclination
to
make judgements by reference to criteria and standards that
distinguish
thoughtful evaluations from sloppy ones, fruitful classi® cation
schemes
from trivial ones, and so on. A general procedures approach that
does
not teach standards of good thinking is unlikely to sharpen
students’
critical judgement. It is for this reason we have suggested that
critical
thinking should be characterized not in terms of procedures to
be carried
out, but in terms of the standards a performance must ful® l to
count as
successful.
Critical thinking is a polymorphous or multi-form enterprise;
there
are numerous activities that may be helpful in solving a problem
or
reaching a decision. What steps are appropriate is determined
both by
the nature of the problem and its context. They are context-
bound. For
example, in deciding whether any particular government should
support international military intervention in `civil’ wars, it is

hard to
imagine how one set of steps, or any limited set of procedures,
could
be appropriate for all such circumstances. Nor could the same
sequence
of problem-solving steps usefully be applied both to ® xing a
failing
relationship and to ® xing a civil war. Identifying both these
situations
as `problems’ masks the very di� erent factors that need to be
considered
in deciding what should be done in each case.7 Given the
diversity
of problems and problem contexts, we believe that any account
of
the steps involved in problem solving or decision making will
either be
so vague as to be largely unhelpful, or they will be so speci® c
that they
will have little generalizability beyond a speci® c class of
problems or
decisions.
To a considerable extent, what we should do in solving a
problem is
determined by the standards that must be met for the solution in
the
particular case to be successful. In the case of a failing
relationship, it may
be lack of honesty with oneself that is the problem. In deciding
whether a
government should participate in an international intervention
may involve
honesty, but it often involves considering the e� ect on the
lives of many
innocentsÐ and very large economic e� ects. Following the

decision-making
model listed above may simply be an occasion to rationalize the
self-
deception that gave rise to the personal problem in the ® rst
placeÐ or the
international problem in the ® rst place. Nurturing open-
mindedness may
be the only s̀tep’ needed to repair this situation
We are not claiming that teaching about general procedures is a
com-
pletely inappropriate way to promote critical thinking. Rather,
we empha-
size that the e� ectiveness of any procedure depends on its e�
cacy in
helping students meet the relevant standards for good thinking:
there are
no inherent or highly reliable connections between learning to
think well
and performing particular operations. Put another way, what
drives
increased competence in thinking is greater mastery of the
standards for
judging an appropriate tack to take in a particular context, not
learning pre-
programmed, supposedly generalizable, procedures.
Cr i ti c a l th i n ki n g a n d th e p e d a g o g y o f p r a c ti c e
We have reviewed three conceptions of critical thinking: skills,
processes,
and procedures. All three have been used to promote the idea

that
competence in thinking critically is gained primarily through
practice.
Thus, although we will focus in this section on the skills-
conception as a
source of the pedagogy of practice, we could just as well focus
on either the
process or the procedures view. Nickerson et al. (1985) discuss
learning
thinking skills as analogous to two ways of learning physical
skillsÐ one
when a person practises a particular skill to strengthen it; the
other where,
by appropriately directing intellectual energy, teachers replace
the novice’ s
ine� cient movements with more e� cient ones. Practice is seen
as exercis-
ing the skills of critical thinking so that improvement will take
place.
Students may, for example, be given frequent opportunities to
make
comparisons in a variety of domains so that the s̀kill of
comparing’ will
be exercised, and this aspect of critical thinking improved. We
contend,
however, that critical thinking is not promoted simply through
the repeti-
tion of s̀kills’ of thinking, but rather by developing the relevant
knowledge,
commitments and strategies and, above all, by coming to
understand what
criteria and standards are relevant. Repetition does indeed have
some role
to play, but only if it takes place in the context of the
development of such
knowledge, criteria, commitments and strategies.

The main assumption underpinning the practice view is that
critical
thinking consists of a variety of discrete skills that can be
improved through
repetition. On this view critical thinking skills are analogous to
skills in an
athletic endeavour such as soccer, where it is possible to
practise kicking,
heading the ball, passing, etc., and to develop skill at each of
these
constituent activities independently of ever playing a football
game. One
repeats the skill until it has become routinized and one no
longer needs to
apply conscious attention to its execution.
However, this is not an appropriate model for what is involved
in
becoming better at critical thinking. Unlike athletic skill, skill
in critical
thinking cannot be separated from understanding the nature and
purpose of
the task one is attempting to accomplish.8 Becoming better at
comparing,
for example, involves learning to make comparisons according
to relevant
criteria, making comparisons which are appropriate to the
particular
circumstances, comparing with a view to the reason the
comparison is
being made, and so on.
We argued earlier that critical thinking cannot be characterized
in terms
of speci® c mental processes, and that there are no good

grounds for
supposing that terms like comparing, classifying and inferring
denote
generic mental processes which one can improve through
repetition.
Here, we emphasize that all aspects of critical thinking centrally
involve
judgement, and judgement cannot be made routine. Scheƒ er
(1965: 103)
makes this point with reference to chess:
critical skills call for strategic judgement and cannot be
rendered automatic.
To construe the learning of chess as a matter of drill would thus
be quite
wrong-headed in suggesting that the same game be played over
and over
again, or intimating that going through the motions of playing
repeatedly
somehow improves one’s game. What is rather supposed, at
least in the case
of chess, is that improvement comes about through development
of strategic
judgement, which requires that such judgement be allowed
opportunity to
guide choices in a wide variety of games, with maximal
opportunity for
evaluating relevant outcomes and re¯ ecting upon alternative
principles and
strategy in the light of such evaluation.

An examination of those areas where practice is helpfulÐ for
example
artistic performanceÐ makes evident that useful practice
involves far more
than mere repetition. Practising the piano is not simply a matter
of
continually repeating a piece in the same manner, but rather of
being
alert to and attempting to correct errors and continually striving
for
improvement according to the standards of quality performance.
Dewey
(1964: 201) makes the point that simply sawing a bow across
violin strings
will not make a violinist.
It is a certain quality of practice, not mere practice, which
produces the
expert and the artist. Unless the practice is based upon rational
principles,
upon insights into facts and their meaning, èxperience’ simply
® xes incorrect
acts into wrong habits.
Howard (1982: 161, 162) also maintains that practice is not
mere repetition,
but claims that it is, rather, repetition which is g̀ uided by
speci® c aims
such as solving various kinds of problems’ or ìmproving
acquired skills’ ,
and ìn accord with some . . . criteria of performance’ which
enable one to
judge the level of mastery of the activity. Thus, he states:
Rather than mechanically duplicating a passage, one strives for
particular

goals, say, of ¯ uency, contrast, or balance. Successive repeats
re¯ ect a drive
toward such goals rather than passive absorption of a sequence
of motor acts.
The question arises at this point as to how critical thinking can
best be
developed and what role practice plays in this development. We
have
argued that what characterizes thinking which is critical is the
quality of the
reasoning. Thus, in order to become a (more) critical thinker
one must
understand what constitutes quality reasoning, and have the
commitments
relevant to employing and seeking quality reasoning. The
knowledge
necessary for such understanding includes background
knowledge relevant
to the context in question, knowledge of the principles and
standards of
argumentation and inquiry, both in general and in specialized
areas,
knowledge of critical concepts, and knowledge of relevant
strategies and
heuristics. The kinds of habits of mind, commitments or
sensitivities
necessary for being a critical thinker include such things as
open-mind-
edness, fair-mindedness, the desire for truth, an inquiring
attitude and a
respect for high-quality products and performances. Thus,
fostering criti-
cal thinking would involve the development of such knowledge
and
commitments.

A variety of means may be employed to promote such
development,
including direct instruction, teacher modelling, creation of an
educational
environment where critical inquiry is valued and nurtured, and
provision
for students of frequent opportunities to think critically about
meaningful
challenges with appropriate feedback. Practice may also have a
role to play,
but it must be understood that it is not practice in the sense of a
simple
repetition of a skill, process or procedure. Rather such practice
presupposes
the kind of knowledge outlined above, and involves the
development of
critical judgement through applying this knowledge in a variety
of contexts.
It also involves attempts on the part of the learner to improve
according to
speci® c criteria of performance, and frequent feedback and
evaluation with
respect to the quality of thinking demonstrated.
N o te s
1. See, for example, Presseisen (1986).
2. Some examples are Worsham and Stockton (1986) and Beyer
(1991).
3. One fairly recent example of the use of this tripartite division

of goals is to be found in
British Columbia Ministry of Education (1991a, b).
4. It is, of course, a category mistake to talk about `doing’
processes; processes happen;
people do not do them.
5. One which comes close to this is found in a document
produced by a Canadian Ministry
of Education (British Columbia Ministry of Education 1991b:
15) which refers to
t̀hirteen thinking operations: observation, comparing,
classifying, making hypotheses,
imagining . . . ’ .
6. The `Decide Model’ is used in an introductory text on
economic reasoning (described in
Mackey 1977: 410).
7. According to Mackey (1977: 408) problem solving is t̀he
application of an organized
method of reasoning to a di� cult, perplexing or bewildering
situation’.
8. This is not to deny that many activities, such as football,
deeply involveÐ in addition to
skillsÐ critical thinking.
R e fe r e n c e s
BARROW, R. (1991) The generic fallacy. Educational
Philosophy and Theory, 23 (1), 7± 17.
BEACH, R. (1987) Strategic teaching in literature. In B. F.
Jones, A. S. Palincsar, D. S. Ogle

and E. G. Carr (eds), S trategic Teaching and L earning:
Cognitive Instruction in the
Content Areas (Alexandria, VA: Association for Supervision
and Curriculum
Development), 135± 159.
BEYER, B. K. (1987) Practical S trategies for the Teaching of
Thinking (Boston: Allyn &
Bacon).
BEYER, B. K. (1991) Teaching Thinking Skills: A Handbook
for Elementary S chool Teachers
(Boston: Allyn & Bacon).
BRITISH COLUMBIA MINISTRY OF EDUCATION (1991a)
Thinking in the Classroom (Resources for
Teachers), V olume One: The Context for Thoughtful L earning
(Victoria, BC:
Assessment, Examinations, and Reporting Branch, Ministry of
Education and
Ministry Responsible for Multiculturalism and Human Rights).
BRITISH COLUMBIA MINISTRY OF EDUCATION (1991b)
Thinking in the Classroom (Resources
for Teachers), V olume Two: Experiences that Enhance
Thoughtful L earning (Victoria,
BC: Assessment, Examinations, and Reporting Branch, Ministry
of Education and
Ministry Responsible for Multiculturalism and Human Rights).
CHUSKA, K. R. (1986) Teaching the Process of Thinking, K-
12, Fastback 244 (Bloomington,
IN: Phi Delta Kappa Educational Foundation).
DEWEY, J. (1964) What psychology can do for the teacher. In
R. D. Archambault (ed.), John

Dewey on Education: Selected Writings (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press), 195±
211.
ENNIS, R. H. (1987) A taxonomy of critical thinking
dispositions and abilities. In J. B. Baron
and R. J. Sternberg (eds), Teaching Thinking S kills: Theory
and Practice (New York:
Freeman), 9± 26.
FACIONE, P. A. (1990) Critical thinking: A statement of expert
consensus for purposes of
educational assessment and instruction: Research ® ndings and
recommendations (The
Delphi Report). Prepared for the Committee on Pre-College
Philosophy of the
American Philosophical Association. ERIC ED 315 423.
GLASER, R. (1984) Education and thinking: the role of
knowledge. American Psychologist, 39
(2), 93± 104.
HOWARD, V. A. (1982) Artistry: The Work of Artists
(Indianapolis, IN: Hackett).
KIRBY, D. and KUYKENDALL, C., 1991, Mind Matters:
Teaching for Thinking (Portsmouth,
NH: Boynton/Cook).
MACKEY, J. (1977) Three problem-solving models for the
elementary classroom. S ocial
Education, 41 (5), 408± 410.

MARZANO, R. J., BRANDT, R. S., HUGHES, C. S., JONES, B.
F., PRESSEISEN, B. Z., RANKIN,
C. S. and SUHOR, C. (1988) Dimensions of Thinking: A
Framework for Curriculum and
Instruction (Alexandria, VA: Association for Supervision and
Curriculum
Development).
MCPECK, J. E. (1981) Critical Thinking and Education
(Oxford: Martin Robertson).
NICKERSON, R. S., PERKINS, D. N. and SMITH, E. E., 1985,
The Teaching of Thinking
(Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum).
OVERGAARD, V. (1989) Focus on thinking: Towards
developing a common understanding. In
R. W. Marx (ed.), Curriculum: Towards Developing a Common
Understanding: A
Report to the British Columbia Ministry of Education
(Vancouver, BC: Vancouver
School District), 5± 34.
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sense: a focus on self-deception,
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4 (2), 2± 7.
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for a free society. Educational
L eadership, 42 (1), 4± 14.
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Skills: S tate-of-the-Art De® nitions
and Practice in Public S chools (Philadelphia: Research for

Better Schools).
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Education (Glenview, IL: Scott, Foresman).
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Thinking, and Education (New
York: Routledge).
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making in elementary social studies
methods textbooks. Journal of S ocial Studies Research, 16± 17
(1), 26± 32.
A Portrait of the Teacher as Friend
and Artist: The example of
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Hunter McEwan
College of Education, University of Hawaii
Abstract

The following is a reflection on the possibility of teaching by
example, and especially as the idea
of teaching by example is developed in the work of Jean-
Jacques Rousseau. My thesis is that
Rousseau created a literary version of himself in his writings as
an embodiment of his philosophy,
rather in the same way and with the same purpose that Plato
created a version of Socrates.This
figure of Rousseau—a sort of philosophical portrait of the man
of nature—is represented as an
example for us to follow.This would appear to have been
dangerous and destabilizing work, given
the mental distress that it caused Rousseau in striving to live up
to his fictional self. Rousseau’s
own ideas on the nature of teaching by example are presented in
a discussion of the section in
‘Emile’ which Rousseau takes from an incident in his own
life—the story of his meeting with a
young Savoyard priest who befriended him and influenced him
through the power of his
example.
Keywords: philosophical portraiture, Rousseau, teaching
1. Introduction
Jean-Jacques Rousseau is one of a select group of philosophers
who, in addition to giving
us a philosophy, present us with a portrait of a person who is
the embodiment of that
philosophy—the person in whom the principles and values of
the philosophy are made
to come to life. It is the figure of Rousseau himself in whom
Rousseau makes his
philosophy manifest; or to be more exact, a representation of
Rousseau—a hypothetical

Jean-Jacques who is tutor to the imaginary Emile. ‘I have hence
chosen’, proclaims
Rousseau in Book I of Emile,1 ‘to give myself an imaginary
pupil, to hypothesize that I
have the age, health, kinds of knowledge, and all the talent
suitable for working at his
education’ (E. 50). Rousseau is one of the most
autobiographical of philosophers, and
the figure of Jean-Jacques is prominent in many of his other
writings such as The
Confessions, the Dialogues, and Reveries of a Solitary Walker.
Rousseau’s idealization of
himself as an incarnation of the man of nature—an image that
he, somewhat naively,
hoped to project of himself—was one that his published works
and letters often sought
desperately to defend. In Emile, he offers a description of this
version of himself as
Educational Philosophy and Theory,Vol. 43, No. 5, 2011
doi: 10.1111/j.1469-5812.2010.00640.x
© 2010 The Author
Educational Philosophy and Theory © 2010 Philosophy of
Education Society of Australasia
Published by Blackwell Publishing, 9600 Garsington Road,
Oxford, OX4 2DQ, UK and
350 Main Street, Malden, MA 02148, USA
‘neither a scholar, nor a philosopher, but a simple man, a friend
of truth, without party,
without system; a solitary who living little among men, has less
occasion to contract their

prejudices and more time to reflect on what strikes him when he
has commerce with
them’ (E. 110). Rousseau aimed to establish a reputation as a
person uniquely suited to
be ‘humanity’s teacher’ (Grimsley, 1969, p. 260)—that by
striving to follow nature in his
own life, he could project himself as a model, as a man who was
‘certified’ to teach others
without the debasing effects that would normally attend an
education at the hands
of man.
In creating a portrait of Jean-Jacques as the embodiment of his
philosophy, Rousseau
is following a tradition of philosophical portraiture that has its
origins in Plato’s portrayal
of Socrates as the exemplary practitioner of Platonic idealism,
particularly as it is
represented in the middle dialogues, which deal with the theory
of forms, recollection,
and the immortality of the soul (Vlastos, 1991). George Steiner
(2003) refers to the
figure of Socrates in these dialogues as a ‘poetic-philosophic
construct’, and Plato as a
poet-dramatist (p. 22). Like Plato’s Socrates, Rousseau’s Jean-
Jacques can also be viewed
as a ‘poetic-philosophic construct’—a figure designed to teach
us how to lead our lives
with reference to one representative and heroic example.They
are ‘practitioners of the art
of living’, to use Alexander Nehamas’ (1998) apt phrase. And
though their philosophies
present quite different, almost opposing conceptions of the
relationship of human beings
to the world, Plato and Rousseau are kindred spirits in seeking
to teach us through the

forceful example of one, exemplary, life. But, as I hope to
show, these portraits offer more
than mere examples of how to live; they also teach us something
about how to teach.
Thus, to adapt Nehamas’ phrase, Socrates and Jean-Jacques can
also be understood as
‘practitioners of the art of teaching.’
2. What Does It Mean to Teach by Example?
Can we teach by example? We undoubtedly learn from the
example of others, but this
is not the same thing as teaching by example, unless we
consider teaching by example
in the achievement sense in which it is attributed retrospectively
to someone’s actions
in spite of their intentions (Ryle, 1949, p. 149). Learning from
example is a pervasive
phenomenon—a fact of our social world. This is the sense that
Locke (1989) gives to
the power of example in his advice to parents: ‘Having under
consideration how
great the influence of company is, and how prone we are all,
especially children, to
imitation ... you must do nothing before him, which you would
not have him imitate’
(p. 133). Good and bad examples—of people, actions, and
behaviour—abound. But
what we learn from these examples is not simply a matter of
mimicry but a complex
drama that engages the learner and exemplar in interactive
processes of thought, action,
and relationship.
Obviously, teaching by example is a much less commonplace
phenomenon than

learning from example. But just as obviously there are cases in
which a person makes a
deliberate effort to teach by example. Many instances exist in
practice: the officer who
wants to set an example of courage to the soldiers in his
command, the boss who wants
her employees to adopt her good work practices, the teacher
who wants to model inquiry
to her students. How can this be done properly rather than
poorly? Proclaiming oneself
A Portrait of the Teacher as Friend and Artist 509
© 2010 The Author
as an example to be followed, or requiring others to ‘do as I
do’, is unlikely to be a
convincing tactic. A better approach would be to make a
deliberate effort to enhance the
conditions and contexts that promote learning from example by
establishing, say, an
appropriate connection with the student.
What do we exemplify when we teach by example? Sometimes
we offer examples of
how to perform some kind of action—operating a lathe,
pronouncing a word correctly,
or swinging a golf club. At other times we set examples that
involve more than just
showing someone how to do something. Namely, we offer our
whole selves as the
example. In this second case, teaching by example embraces

aspects of character, skill,
manner, and style—of showing someone how to be a certain
kind of person (Moran,
1997). This can be made clearer by distinguishing between
teaching by using examples
drawn from one’s own practice and teaching by setting an
example. A difference of scale
is apparent between example giving and example setting. In the
former sense, human
actions are taken singly, as models to be imitated or reproduced;
in the latter sense, as
representations of a type of life.
Teaching someone to be something is the paradigm case of
teaching by example. It is
devoted to the large gesture, the business of showing others how
to be a good practitioner
or a good person. Teaching by using examples from our own
practice, however, may be
a part of teaching by example, though the reverse is not the
case. We may teach others by
our example to be a good employee, a skilful painter, or a
certain kind of philosopher or
person. Example setting requires that we possess essential
virtues, dispositions, and
attitudes, as well as particular skills, and that others are
inclined to follow the model we
set, though they need not follow our example exactly in order to
learn from our example.
What is the relationship between these two forms of example
setting? Let’s suppose
that I am an exemplary plumber. In what does this consist?
Surely, it lies in more than
the sum of my plumbing skills, but in certain dispositions of
work—my high standards of

professionalism, my willingness to work long hours, my
honesty, and so on. An appren-
tice can learn how to perform individual skills by imitating my
example, but the total
package is something that involves more than can be merely
copied. There are matters
here of style as well a substance, of manner as well as matter.
Fenstermacher (1999)
suggests a difference in the ways that we learn from manner as
opposed to matter.
Manner is not subject to method—it is caught rather than
taught. It is learned by
imitation and not by the application of any conscious pedagogy.
The manner of one who possesses these traits of character is
learned by
modeling, by being around persons who are like this, and by
being encouraged
to imitate these persons and adapt your actions to the demands
of these traits.
(p. 47)
I want to argue that there is a good deal more to teaching by
setting an example and
learning from that example than Fenstermacher suggests. First, I
wish to challenge the
idea that we learn from example by simple imitation. Secondly,
I wish to show that
teaching by example involves a degree of pedagogic artifice.
And finally, I wish to show
that this process is deeply connected with the development of a
special bond or rela-
tionship between the teacher and pupil.
510 Hunter McEwan

© 2010 The Author
More than Mere Imitation
Teaching by setting an example is concerned with the moral
aspects of teaching, with
passing on what is good and bad in the conduct of life or a way
of life. Of course, setting
oneself or someone else up as an example is not a guaranteed
method of achieving ones
ends, and to take an extreme case, we often learn from
someone’s example exactly the
opposite of what they intended to teach. The relationship
between teaching and learning
by example and learning from example is a contingent one.
Take the case of the punctual
father who wishes to teach his children the virtue of being on
time. Unfortunately, his
attention to the details of his own timekeeping become so
oppressive to his children that
they learn to hate punctuality and associate it with obsessive
behaviour and rigidity of
mind. No matter how eager a student is to imitate the teacher, a
possibility always exists
that what they learn from the teacher’s example is quite
different from what the teacher
intended. Student teachers often observe that they have learned
how not to teach from
the bad example that a teacher has set. And even when we strive
to learn from someone’s
example, we are not required to follow it in every respect.
Gandhi’s example is not one

that we are all inclined to follow exactly. Nevertheless, his
moral example is one that has
had an immense impact on how we think about how to live in
peace with each other.
Intention and Teaching by Example
Teaching by example can be a very powerful way to teach. But
what is involved in
teaching by example? What does it demand of the teacher and
from the learner? Gabriel
Moran (1997) views teaching by example as confuting the idea
promoted by many
analytic philosophers that teaching can be defined as the
intention to bring about
learning. He calls it a great paradox of human life that ‘not only
is intention not the
essence of teaching, but some of the most important teaching
can only occur when it is
not intended’ (p. 51). Moran’s point is that by claiming we have
been taught by example
is really another way of saying that we have learned from
someone’s example, whether it
was intended by the teacher or not. Most role models don’t
think about being role
models, they just get on with their jobs. Nor do they give much
thought to what we might
call pedagogic technique. If they are taken as someone’s model,
then so be it. In Moran’s
words: ‘The wise, talented, disciplined, accomplished person is
aware that others will be
inspired by his or her life. What any individual on any occasion
may be inspired to do is
not up to the teacher to determine’ (p. 51).
This observation is, I think, correct; but only up to a point. We

often deplore the huge,
disproportionately negative influence that rock stars, movie
stars, and other celebrities
have on young people; many of whom, though not all, are
noticeably indifferent to the
impact they do have. There’s usually not much pedagogy in the
business of being a role
model. It appears one is chosen for the task by one’s admirers
rather than by appointing
oneself to the role. However, the idea of teaching by example
has a more extensive range
and history than Moran suggests. Some people do make a
deliberate effort to teach by
example. In addition, literary portraits are often created as
examples with a definite
didactic intent. Novels, plays, biographies, and movies are full
of examples of model
teachers. Perhaps the most exalted examples are the great
originators of the world’s
religions Buddha, Confucius, Mohammed, and Jesus—those
‘paradigmatic individuals’,
© 2010 The Author
as Karl Jaspers (1962) refers to them, whose lives are models of
their influential teach-
ings. What teaching by example achieves in such special cases
is more than just a
message, but that the lives of these individuals, too, are to be
taken as illustrative of how

to lead one’s life. Thus, they set an example of living life
heroically in ways that are
consistent with the principles they teach.
Model teachers need not be perfect. Literature offers many
glorious instances in which
a life is presented to us as exemplary, yet made more human by
the addition of a few flaws
and human failings. Why else do we read autobiographies,
biographies, memoirs, histo-
ries, profiles, confessions, diaries, and other life stories? Not
just to learn from others’
example but to learn more about the human condition. ‘I would
prefer to begin the study
of the human heart with the reading of the lives of individuals’,
says Rousseau, who, like
Montaigne, chooses Plutarch’s Lives for the lessons its
examples teach and for the
insights they offer into what makes us and moves us.The
universe of teaching by example
is laden with celebrated models of the powerful, good, wise,
decent, and true. On the
opposite scale examples of the good are balanced by many
examples to be avoided. The
latter often make more gripping reading, and in their way offer
lessons that are just as
edifying. A pupil ‘must use what he can get, take what a man
has to sell and see that
nothing goes wasted: even other people’s stupidity and
weakness serve to instruct him’,
observes Montaigne (1987). ‘By noting each man’s endowments
and habits, there will be
engendered in him a desire for the good ones and a contempt for
the bad’ (p. 175).
Somewhere in between the two extremes of good and bad
models, we find the example

of ordinary people, flawed, perhaps, but dealing honestly with
their weaknesses and
openly with their errors. As Herbert Kohl (1967) writes: ‘It is
the teacher’s struggle to be
moral that excites his pupils; it is his honesty, not rightness,
that moves children’ (p. 26).
Teaching by example and learning from example occur within
the context of specific
communities—as Aristotle discusses in the Ethics, we learn to
be virtuous by growing up
in a virtuous community (1953, p. 56). If so, what are the
community processes that
come into play when someone teaches by setting an example
and someone else learns
from that example? Surely it involves a bit more than hoping
that something will rub off?
How one learns one’s moral lessons and what one learns may
depend largely on the
nature of the particular community in which one grows to
maturity. In some traditional
communities, the kinds of examples that one can set may be
strictly limited, and powerful
social forces will come into play that make it difficult to rebel
and encourage conformity
to norms of conduct. But whatever the community the idea of
teaching by example acts
as a powerful tool of socialization.
Thus, teaching by example and learning from example operate
routinely in a variety of
social contexts and cultural settings. By being brought up in a
certain culture, by being
guided in our actions by informed adults and older peers, by
learning to do what they do
by doing as they do, we become acculturated or socialized in

the ways of the group.
However, we would be missing an important aspect of learning
from example if we were
to associate it exclusively with processes of acculturation.
Those who teach by example
often challenge the accepted standards of their culture or social
group. Perhaps we
should distinguish teaching by example as a form of habituation
in which conformity to
the standards of the group are emphasized versus teaching by
example as a form of
dissent, as teaching that challenges the status quo. Socrates, for
example, is a notable
512 Hunter McEwan
© 2010 The Author
instance of the dissident sophist—the philosopher whose
example is one of defiance in
the face of the established order. He teaches us, by his example,
to question assumptions,
challenge ordinary thinking, and seek a better understanding of
ourselves.
How, then, does one consciously teach by example? One thing a
teacher can do is to
put students in the right frame of mind to learn from example.
In other words, they can
make the situation more encouraging, motivating, and open to
the promotion of learning
from the example of the teacher. St. Augustine reminds us that

preaching is insufficient
to create belief. To bring new converts into the fold, they must
first want to become
converts or at least, want to learn more. They must, he insists,
be willing to ‘knock at the
door’ (2002, p. 87). But the teacher need not be idle in the
matter. Teaching by example
is not exclusively a waiting game. There are things that can be
done by the teacher to
draw students in, to bring them closer to the door so that they
are more inclined to
knock. This in effect is what St. Augustine’s Confessions is
designed to do by relating the
story of his own conversion in a way that reveals his struggles
with periods of doubt, his
temptations, his final leap of faith.The progressive steps that
Augustine reveals in making
his own journey from paganism to Christian belief are a kind of
map of the journey set
out in detail for others to follow. He is our guide and shows us
the way and lures us with
the rewards. By presenting his life as a kind of ascent—a
journey from pagan to Christian
belief—Augustine is making what rhetoricians refer to as an
ethical appeal—an appeal
based on the admirable qualities of the speaker or writer.
Rousseau is another thinker who wishes to set an example to his
readers. He, too, is the
author of a work of the same title, The Confessions, as wells as
several other autobio-
graphical writings that present his life in terms that may be
taken as paradigmatic of
someone who is seeking to avoid the corrupting influence of
society in favor of leading
a life more closely attuned to nature. He writes in the Dialogues

(1990):
Where could the painter and apologist of nature, so disfigured
and calumnied
now, have found his model save from his own heart? He
described it as he
himself felt ... In short, a man had to portray himself to show us
primitive man
like this. (p. 214).
Ernst Cassirer (1963) explicitly rejects the claim that Rousseau
intended to be a model:
‘Rousseau categorically denies the educational power of
example’ (p. 124). But this
comment is in need of interpretation. Rousseau is undoubtedly
critical of the power of
social convention in shaping behaviour, values, and
perspectives. He writes that ‘every-
thing is good when it comes forth from God’s hands, everything
degenerates in man’s
hands’. It is the kind of example setting that we refer to as
‘socialization’ that Rousseau
abhors. The presence of others, usually of higher rank, arouses
our amour propre and
creates in us demands that continually outstrip our capacity to
satisfy them.To the extent
that these examples are frequently used to shape our conduct
through the power of amour
propre, they are to be avoided. But Rousseau sees his own
example, as somehow exempt
from this process, because he has learned to control his desires
and match them to his
needs. This is the persistent message of his autobiographical
writings: The Confessions,
Letters to Malesherbes, Dialogues, and Reveries. What he sets
out to achieve in these works

and in his own life is the presentation of a distinct persona—the
man of nature who has
discovered the means to resist the temptations of a corrupt
society and seek his renewal
© 2010 The Author
in a return to nature. In effect, Rousseau projects himself as a
man of nature as an
example of how to overcome the forces of socialization—our
tendency to allow amour
propre, our regard for the regard of others, to take hold of our
lives—a role that Rousseau
considered himself uniquely qualified to fulfil.
What, then, are the processes involved in teaching by example?
I’d like to explore
this question by looking at an example of teaching by setting an
example taken from
Rousseau’s Emile—the section in Book IV in which he
introduces the reader to a young
priest, a Savoyard vicar.
3. The Example of the Savoyard Vicar
In Book IV of Emile, Rousseau inserts his famous Profession of
Faith of a SavoyardVicar—a
work that many commentators have found difficulty in
reconciling with the rest of Emile.
Structurally, it appears to stand apart from the rest of the book,

and has been frequently
published as a separate work. We learn early on that it deals
with an event from
Rousseau’s own past and as such does not deal with the
education of Emile at all.
However, as I shall argue, it is very far from a digression, and
its introduction cleverly
illustrates how it is possible to teach by example. As such it can
be viewed in itself as an
example of how to teach by example, and corresponds to Jean-
Jacques’ own aspiration to
be a friend and example to Emile—just as Rousseau sought to
be to be a friend and
example to his readers (Reisert, 2003, p. 177).
Rousseau’s motive in including the Profession of Faith is quite
clearly stated: ‘I have
transcribed this writing not as a rule for the sentiments one
ought to follow in religious
matters, but as an example of the way one can reason with one’s
pupil in order not to
diverge from the method I have tried to establish’ (E. 313). In
other words, Rousseau is
using a memorable event in his own life to demonstrate how the
example of one person
can make a significant change in the life of another.
When we first encounter the narrative of the Savoyard vicar,
Emile has reached an
important turning point in his education and one that Rousseau
understands must be
treated with great delicacy. Emile is now old enough to reason.
This is also the point at
which Rousseau must undertake Emile’s moral education. This
means that Rousseau
must choose new methods for the instruction of his pupil: ‘It is

important here to take
a route opposed to the one we have followed until now and to
instruct the young man by
others’ experiences rather than his own’ (E. 236, my emphasis).
But this is a perilous stage
because it is now that Emile becomes aware of and sensitive to
the opinion of other
people. ‘Since my Emile has until now looked only at himself,
the first glance he casts on
his fellows leads him to compare himself with them’ (E. 235).
Rousseau must guard his
young pupil from the dangers of becoming bewitched by the
temptations of new desires
aroused by his awakening amour propre—in comparing himself
with others he might be
lured from the path of nature and learn to adopt the opinions
and vices of society—a
route that Rousseau has sought to protect him from.
Rousseau is now ready to begin Emile’s religious and moral
education. But how can
this be accomplished without sacrificing the natural self that
Rousseau has so carefully
cultivated to the overpowering influence of society? Normally,
a child learns religion and
morality from parental authority: ‘a child has to be raised in his
father’s religion’ (E. 260).
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One’s religious beliefs and the moral values that are attached to
them are determined by
the accident of birth. We are born into a given society, and the
values, norms and
opinions that attach to that society gradually become the ones
we adopt as personal
beliefs. Learning by example, plays an important role in the
process of socialization. This
occurs because of the authoritative influence of our parents, our
priests, our teachers—
what Rousseau calls ‘the education of citizens’ (E. 39). In
traditional communities, this
process is unavoidable and undemocratic, and it affords the
child no choice in the matter.
But how can a religious and moral education be conducted
without exposing Emile to
the harsh orthodoxy and suffocating weight of external
authority? ‘We who pretend to
shake off the yoke of opinion in everything, we who want to
grant nothing to authority,
we who want to teach nothing to our Emile which he could not
learn by himself in every
country, in what religion shall we raise him?’ (E. 260). Emile
should not be persuaded by
the weight of opinion nor by the imposition of external
authority; he should be ‘placed
in a position to choose the one to which the best use of his
reason ought to lead him’ (E.
260). First, Emile must be brought to a point at which he is
open to reason. He is to be
persuaded not simply by the plausibility of the accounts but also
by his admiration for
the person who offers the account. Thus parental authority is
replaced with a new
relationship—one that is more accommodating to reason and

fairness. Rousseau views
friendship or at least a friendship of a certain kind as the
appropriate substitute. In effect,
the Savoyard vicar establishes an educative relationship with
Jean-Jacques, not by the
imposition of rank or seniority, but by creating a respectful and
equal relationship
between the two. Rousseau wishes to replace the authority of
rank with the authority of
reason (E. 246). This is a very different way to teach than the
traditional method, which
Rousseau mocks as stupid and ineffective—‘If I had to depict
sorry stupidity, I would
depict a pedant teaching the catechism to children. If I wanted
to make the child go mad,
I would oblige him to explain what he says in saying his
catechism’ (E. 257). However,
Rousseau seems not to have considered the possibility that even
this more equal and
friendly relationship might introduce other impediments to free
rational choice in his
student. Peer pressure, for example, which is now recognized as
exerting a powerful
influence on conformity to group norms, or the subconscious
processes of ‘transference’
that often occur between a therapist and patient.
Rousseau begins his narrative by describing the state of
destitution in which he found
himself as a young man shortly after his youthful departure
from Switzerland. Having
escaped the tyranny of an apprenticeship in Calvinist Geneva
into Catholic Savoy, he
found it necessary to ‘change religion in order to have bread’
(E. 260). But this hardly
improved his condition. He became the victim of new tyrants

and subject to fresh abuses.
Rousseau depicts himself at this stage as a deeply conflicted
and angry young man—a
troubled teenager who is disillusioned with life and rebellious
in spirit. ‘He would have
been lost if it were not for a decent ecclesiastic who came to the
almshouse on some
business and whom he found the means to consult in secret’ (E.
262). This man helps
him to escape; but, left to his own devices, Rousseau finds
himself alone and unaided
once more and falls back into his earlier, indigent state. In
desperation, he returns to his
benefactor. Rousseau draws a picture that reveals the essential
interdependence between
beneficiary and benefactor. It is a natural and humane
connection, without any merce-
nary motivation on the part of the vicar. Rousseau needs help
and the vicar responds out
© 2010 The Author
of the goodness of his heart. In their second meeting, the vicar
is reminded of the good
deed done at the first meeting—‘the soul always rejoices in
such a memory’ (E. 262).
The vicar makes an assessment of his young charge and finds
him to be someone that
he can help, though ‘incredulity and poverty, stifling his nature

little by little, were
leading him rapidly to his destruction and heading him toward
the morals of a tramp and
the morality of an atheist’ (E. 263). He discovers that the young
man has had some
education, though his imagination is deadened from abuse. ‘The
ecclesiastic saw the
danger and the resources’ (E. 263). He recognizes Rousseau as
someone that he has the
power to save, and he proceeds to make long-range plans to do
so. What motivates
the vicar to do this work? He is moved by a genuine desire to do
good deeds. How does
he proceed? By avoiding the posture of authority—the
traditional method of instruction
in social rules and habits—‘by not selling him benedictions, by
not pestering him, by not
preaching to him, by always putting himself within his reach, by
making himself small in
order to be his proselyte’s equal’ (E. 263). The vicar is not
aloof. He speaks the language
of the young boy. He endeavours to create a more equal
relationship—more like that of
a friend than a confessor or a teacher. He listens closely,
without being judgmental, to the
boy’s confidences: ‘never did a tactless censure come to stop
the boy’s chatter and
contract his heart’ (E. 263). After closely observing the boy and
learning what he can of
his past and of his present condition, he begins to take more
positive steps in his reform
‘by awakening his amour propre and self esteem. He showed
him a happier future in the
good employment of his talents’ (E. 264). Next, he introduces
the boy to stories of the
noble deeds of others and awakens his desire to perform like

deeds. He does all this
without appearing ever to be instructing the boy. ‘In living with
him in the greatest
intimacy I learned to respect him more every day; and as so
much goodness had entirely
won my heart, I was waiting with agitated curiosity for the
moment when I would learn
the principle on which he founded the uniformity of so singular
a life’ (E. 265).
If we interpret this narrative as representative of how to teach
by example, we can see
that there is some art to it. It’s not simply a matter of putting
your example out there and
hoping that some student will chance by and commit to learn
from it. Teaching by
example requires a more subtle approach. The teacher who
teaches by example practices
the exacting art of the angler, luring the fish to the bait. It’s
much more than simply
dropping a line at random in the water and hoping for a bite. Or,
to use another analogy,
it is a form of seduction with the teacher in the role of lover—a
slow wooing of the pupil
to win trust, and, eventually, make friends. Thus, teaching by
example requires a studied
approach that involves choosing the time and place based on an
understanding of the
pupil, who should be lured with the right bait or won over rather
than dominated. This
is a matter of carefully setting up the appropriate social context
and encouraging the
appropriate forms of attachment so that the pupil is put in the
right frame of mind to
learn from the teacher’s example. Rousseau observes that there
is considerable art in

lifting his ‘young disciple’s heart above baseness without
appearing to think of instruc-
tion’ (E. 264).
How does the Savoyard vicar win over the young Rousseau?
First, the character and
natural qualities of the teacher are attractive to the pupil. ‘This
man was naturally
humane and compassionate.’ He approaches Rousseau’s ideal of
the man of nature in not
being the kind of person who will readily succumb to the
temptations of material society.
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‘He preferred poverty to dependence.’ Thus, his motivation in
helping the young Rous-
seau is pure and not sullied by carnality or selfishness. He acts
neither out of vanity nor
for any profit, nor out of a desire to have power over his pupil.
He is inclined by his
natural feelings to help Rousseau.
Secondly, the priest studies Rousseau closely to find out the
reasons for his sorry
condition. He finds him the victim of other men’s injustices and
the poverty that has
resulted from these misfortunes. He is able to see the good in
the boy and that his true
nature had been stifled by the abuses to which he had been

subjected. ‘The priest saw
clearly that although he was not ignorant for his age, he had
forgotten everything it was
important for him to know’ (E. 264). As a result of this close
observation, the young
priest is able to make an assessment of Rousseau’s conditions
and to conceive a plan for
his reform.
Thirdly, he puts Rousseau at his ease and makes him feel that he
is not being
judged—‘by making himself small in order to be his proselyte’s
equal’ (E. 263). This
helps to establish a relationship of parity between the two rather
than one of domination
and subordination. ‘It was a rather touching spectacle to see a
grave man become a
rascal’s comrade’ (E. 263). Thus, the vicar builds Rousseau’s
trust, which enables him to
unburden his feelings.
Fourthly, the priest builds the boy’s self esteem. ‘He showed
him a happier future in
the good employment of his talents’ (E. 264). Thus, by gradual
degrees, Rousseau comes
to respect the older man and this in turn opens his mind to the
teachings of the vicar and
to the lessons that he can learn from him. There is no hint here
of the vicar telling him
what to do. He does not preach.
The Savoyard vicar practices an art of subtle enticement, a form
of seduction in which
he gently woos Rousseau into a state in which he is more open
to reason. He does not
beseech him to change his ways, nor censure him for his sins.

But he does aim to produce
a change in Rousseau by following a number of steps that
prepare the boy for the lessons
that will restore him to a healthy and a more productive life. It
is the Savoyard vicar’s
essential goodness that wins over Rousseau: ‘I learned to
respect him more every day;
and as so much goodness had entirely won my heart, I was
waiting with agitated curiosity
for the moment when I would learn the principle on which he
founded the uniformity of
so singular a life’ (E. 265).
In sum, the young priest teaches Rousseau by befriending him
and bringing him to a
state of mind in which he is willing to learn from his teacher’s
example.Thus, the portrait
of the Savoy vicar presents a studied contrast to the type of
teacher who is concerned
with financial gain and who demands respect as a consequence
of rank.
4. The Most Sacred of All Contracts
Rousseau calls friendship ‘the most sacred of all contracts’ (E.
233n), but what justifies
him in viewing the relationship between teaching and learning
in this way? In Rous-
seau’s view, although friendship is the ‘first sentiment of which
a carefully raised young
man is capable’ (E. 220), it arises only when Emile has reached
an age at which his
reasoning powers are sufficiently developed. Thus, the
relationship between teacher and
learner is not always characterized by friendship, but only when
the student has

© 2010 The Author
reached the age at which he is capable of reasoning. It is at this
critical stage in Emile’s
education that Rousseau must change his manner and try out
new strategies to educate
his pupil. He can no longer win him over with ruses and
trickery, but must develop
other methods—by reasoning with him, by showing him
friendship, and by playing on
his sense of gratitude for all that his teacher has done for him.
‘He is still your disciple,
but he is no longer your pupil. He is your friend; he is a man.
From now on treat him
as such’ (E. 316).
What is difficult in Rousseau’s account of the relationship is to
actually reconcile this
account of friendship with the degree of control that Rousseau
still maintains over Emile.
Indeed, it is possible to draw the conclusion that Rousseau’s
appeals to friendship are
nothing more than a masquerade, another form of trickery, a
rhetorical stratagem
designed to maintain control over Emile. Rousseau refers on
several occasions to the
‘voice of friendship’ as the means of his hold over Emile.
Rousseau observes that Emile
is ‘subject to the laws of wisdom, and submissive to the voice

of friendship’ (E. 419). But
the voice of friendship is more than just a rhetorical device, it is
indicative of a deeper
sentiment of affiliation, because a friend ‘never speaks to us of
anything other than our
own interests’ (E. 234).
It is not immediately obvious why we should follow Rousseau
in comparing the
relationship between teacher and student with friendship.
Indeed, it almost appears
counterintuitive to think of teaching in this way; and in support
of this intuition there is
a long tradition of practical advice to teachers never to befriend
students. Even Rous-
seau’s definition of friendship makes it difficult to reconcile
with any conception of the
relationship between teacher and their students. ‘The word
friend’, he declares, ‘has no
correlative other than itself ’ (E. 233n). It is not easy to think of
teacher and learner as
correlative terms.
So, how do we make sense of Rousseau’s claim that teachers
should become friends to
their students? I think that we can make sense of it if we
understand that Rousseau’s idea
of friendship is closely tied to his idea of the virtuous person—
the man of nature
uncontaminated by the vices of society. ‘Remember’, he
counsels, ‘that before daring to
undertake the formation of a man, one must have made oneself a
man. One must find
within oneself the example the pupil ought to take for his own’
(E. 95). In this view the
authority of the teacher is not based on rank or seniority or

superior learning but on a
mutual esteem for virtue—precisely the same kind of esteem
upon which, in his view, a
friendship must be based. Rousseau’s account of friendship is
similar to the view of
higher friendship given by Aristotle—friendship based on the
pursuit of virtue—in
contrast to the lower forms of friendship based on pleasure and
utility.
In consequence, if the teacher must be virtuous in order to teach
the virtuous student,
the outcome of a successful education will inevitably result in
the kind of sacred compact
that Rousseau sees friendship to be. Reisert (2003) observes
that Rousseau styled himself
a ‘friend of virtue’, and it is exactly in this sense that teachers
and students, like Rousseau
and Emile, can be regarded as friends because they are both
‘friends of virtue.’
5. Conclusion
Why is it useful to examine the processes involved in teaching
by example?
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© 2010 The Author
I’d like to conclude with a few comments on how it is possible
to teach by example and

on Rousseau’s role in developing our understanding of this
concept. Not much appears
to have been written on the topic. Generally, the assumption is
that there is not much
pedagogy in it and that it is something that some people do well
and others do not. But
I think that Rousseau’s narrative highlights its importance as a
means of character
education—one that depends on the character of the teacher and
the ability to nurture
a special bond between teacher and student. This can be
supported by appeal to the
testimony of my student teachers when I have asked them about
teachers who have been
influential in their own lives. Their answers almost always refer
to a special relationship
or connection with one influential teacher—one that is spelled
out in terms that convey
a special rapport, common interests, and acquaintanceship. My
sense is that the rela-
tionship of friendship advocated by Rousseau is somewhat
similar to the one that
counsellors strive to create in establishing a relationship of trust
with their clients—one
that is based on confidentiality and trust.
The second reason is that the example of the Savoyard vicar
illustrates the importance,
or pivotal role, that Rousseau has in the development of our
conception of teaching.
Allan Bloom writes: ‘Emile is a truly great book, one that lays
out for the first time and
with the greatest clarity and vitality the modern way of posing
the problems of psychol-
ogy’ (p. 4). I believe that it is also an important turning point in
the development of the

modern conception of teaching—one that offers the idea of a
more democratic concep-
tion of teaching in which the relationship of teacher and pupil is
redefined in terms of
friendship rather than authority. Emile may be read as a work
that does for education
what Rousseau’s political writings did for our ideas of
government—to effect a revolution
in which the relationship between teacher and student, as that
between ruler and ruled,
is constructed on more egalitarian terms. In Emile, for example,
he offers the following
observation on how teachers should relate to their students:
I cannot prevent myself from mentioning the false dignity of
governors who, in
order stupidly to play wise men, run down their pupils, affect
always to treat
them as children, and always distinguish themselves from their
pupils in
everything they make them do. Far from thus disheartening your
pupils’
youthful courage, spare nothing to lift up their souls; make them
your equals
in order that they may become your equals; and if they cannot
yet raise
themselves up to you, descend to their level without shame,
without scruple.
(E. 246)
Finally, I’d like to point to the portrait of Jean-Jacques in
Rousseau’s Emile as a part of
a tradition of philosophical portraiture—a distinctive genre in
the work of philosophers
who, like Rousseau, aim to show us through the power of a
literary example how to lead

our lives. Not all exemplary teachers need be real people—
though several of these
fictions are based on real people. I mentioned Plato’s Socrates
as the prototype of this
kind of fictional teacher, but there are other prominent
examples of such philosophical
fictions. Augustine’s self-portrait in the Confessions is a
chronicle of the evolution of his
thought up to and beyond his conversion to Christianity. But it
also provides a picture of
his life as a teacher from his early days as a schoolteacher in
Tagaste, to his work as a
teacher of rhetoric in Milan, and, finally, to his role as Bishop
of Hippo as a teacher of
© 2010 The Author
Christianity. Nietzsche also provides a philosophical portrait of
a teacher in the figure of
Zarathustra—a particularly anti-Socratic example, especially in
his teachings, but less so
in his desire to influence his disciples and the ‘friends’ who
will come after him. Perhaps
there are other examples that fit the bill—religious figures like
Jesus, Confucius, Moham-
med, and Buddha—though my interests are directed to the
philosophical literature and
the use of philosophical portraiture as a method of teaching by
example.

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