look, look, look

Most unorthodox of all, and crucial as time would tell, was his [Louis Agassiz's] manner of teaching. He intended, he said, to teach students to see - to observe and compare - and he intended to put the burden of study on them. Probably he never said what he is best known for, "Study nature, not books," or not in those exact words. But such certainly was the essence of his creed, and for his students the idea was firmly implanted by what they would afterward refer to as "the incident of the fish."

His initial interview at an end, Agassiz would ask the student when he would like to begin. If the answer was now, the student was immediately presented with a dead fish, usually a very long dead, pickled, evil-smelling specimen - personally selected by "the master" from one of the wide-mouthed jars that lined his shelves. The fish was placed before the student in a tin pan. He was to look at the fish, the student was told, whereupon Agassiz would leave, not to return until later in the day, if at all.

Samuel Scudder, one of the many from the school who would go on to do important work of their own (his in entomology), described the experience as one of life's turning points.

In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in that fish.... Half an hour passed - an hour - another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around; looked it in the face - ghastly; from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at three-quarters view - just as ghastly. I was in despair.

I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fist it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows, until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck me - I would draw the fish, and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the creature.

When Agassiz returned later and listened to Scudder recount what he had observed, his only comment was that the young man must look again.

I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched fish! But now I set myself to my task with a will, and discovered one new thing after another... The afternoon passed quickly; and when, toward its close, the professor: "Do you see it yet?"

"No," I replied, "I am certain I do not, but I see how little I saw before."

The day following, having thought of the fish through most of the night, Scudder had a brainstorm. The fish, he announced to Agassiz, had symmetrical sides with paired organs.

"Of course, of course!" Agassiz replied, "Oh, look at your fish!"

In Scudder's case the lesson lasted a full three days. "Look, look, look." was the repeated injunction and the best lesson he ever had, Scudder recalled, "a legacy the professor has left to me, as he has left it to many others, of inestimable value, which we could not buy, with which we cannot part."

The way to all learning, "the backbone of education," was to know something well. "A smattering of everything is worth little," He would insist in the heavy French accent that he was never to lose. "Facts are stupid things, until brought into conjunction with some general law." It was a great and common fallacy to suppose that an encyclopedic mind is desirable. The mind was made strong not though much learning but by "the thorough possession of something." In other words, "Look at your fish."

David McCullough

Brave Companions: Portraits In History. Simon and Schuster, 1992. p. 25, 26