ON ATTENTION.
Pere Bourgeois, one of the missionaries to China, attempted to preach
a Chinese sermon to the Chinese. His own account of the business is
the best we can give.
"They told me _Chou_ signifies a book, so that I thought whenever the
word _Chou_ was pronounced, a book was the subject of discourse; not
at all. Chou, the next time I heard it, I found signified _a tree_.
Now I was to recollect Chou was a book, and a tree; but this amounted
to nothing. Chou I found also expressed _great heats_. Chou is _to
relate_. Chou is _the Aurora_. Chou means _to be accustomed_. Chou
expresses the _loss of a wager_, &c. I should never have done were I
to enumerate all its meanings******.
"I recited my sermon at least fifty times to my servant before I spoke
it in public; and yet I am told, though he continually corrected me,
that of the ten parts of the sermon (as the Chinese express
themselves) they hardly understood three. Fortunately the Chinese are
wonderfully patient."
Children are sometimes in the condition in which the Chinese found
themselves at this learned missionary's sermon, and their patience
deserves to be equally commended. The difficulty of understanding the
Chinese Chou, strikes us immediately, and we sympathise with Pere
Bourgeois's perplexity; yet, many words, which are in common use
amongst us, may perhaps be as puzzling to children. _Block_ (see
Johnson's Dictionary) signifies _a heavy piece of timber, a mass of
matter_. Block means _the wood on which hats are formed_. Block means
_the wood on which criminals are beheaded_. Block is _a sea-term for
pulley_. Block is _an obstruction, a stop_; and, finally, Block means
_a blockhead_.
There are in our language, ten meanings for _sweet_, ten for _open_,
twenty-two for _upon_, and sixty-three for _to fall_. Such are the
defects of language! But, whatever they may be, we cannot hope
immediately to see them reformed, because common consent, and
universal custom, must combine to establish a new vocabulary. None but
philosophers could invent, and none but philosophers would adopt, a
philosophical language. The new philosophical language of chemistry
was received at first with some reluctance, even by chemists,
notwithstanding its obvious utility and elegance. Butter of antimony,
and liver of sulphur, flowers of zinc, oil of vitriol, and spirit of
sulphur by the bell, powder of algaroth, and salt of alembroth, may
yet long retain their ancient titles amongst apothecaries. There does
not exist in the mineral kingdom either butter or oil, or yet flowers;
these treacherous names[13] are given to the most violent poisons, so
that there is no analogy to guide the understanding or the memory: but
Custom has a prescriptive right to talk nonsense. The barbarous
enigmatical jargon of the ancient adepts continued for above a century
to be the only chemical language of men of science, notwithstanding
the prodigious labour to the memory, and confusion to the
understanding, which it occasioned: they have but just now left off
calling one of their vessels for distilling, a death's head, and
another a helmet. Capricious analogy with difficulty yields to
rational arrangement. If such has been the slow progress of a
philosophical language amongst the learned, how can we expect to make
a general, or even a partial reformation amongst the ignorant? And it
may be asked, how can we in education attempt to teach in any but
customary terms? There is no occasion to make any sudden or violent
alteration in language; but a man who attempts to teach, will find it
necessary to select his terms with care, to define them with accuracy,
and to abide by them with steadiness; thus he will make a
philosophical vocabulary for himself. Persons who want to puzzle and
to deceive, always pursue a contrary practice; they use as great a
variety of unmeaning, or of ambiguous words, as they possibly can.[14]
That state juggler, Oliver Cromwell, excelled in this species of
eloquence; his speeches are models in their kind. Count Cagliostro,
and the Countess de la Motte, were not his superiors in the power of
baffling the understanding. The ancient oracles, and the old books of
judicial astrologers, and of alchymists, were contrived upon the same
principles; in all these we are confounded by a multiplicity of words
which convey a doubtful sense.
Children, who have not the habit of listening to words without
understanding them, yawn and writhe with manifest symptoms of disgust,
whenever they are compelled to hear sounds which convey no ideas to
their minds. All supernumerary words should be avoided in cultivating
the power of attention.
The common observation, that we can attend to but one thing at a time,
should never be forgotten by those who expect to succeed in the art of
teaching. In teaching new terms, or new ideas, we must not produce a
number at once. It is prudent to consider, that the actual progress
made in our business at one sitting is not of so much consequence, as
the desire left in the pupil's mind to sit again. Now a child will be
better pleased with himself, and with his tutor, if he acquire one
distinct idea from a lesson, than if he retained a confused notion of
twenty different things. Some people imagine, that as children appear
averse to repetition, variety will amuse them. Variety, to a certain
degree, certainly relieves the mind; but then the objects which are
varied must not all be entirely new. Novelty and variety, joined,
fatigue the mind. Either we remain passive at the show, or else we
fatigue ourselves with ineffectual activity.
A few years ago, a gentleman[15] brought two Eskimaux to London--he
wished to amuse, and at the same time to astonish, them with the great
magnificence of the metropolis. For this purpose, after having
equipped them like English gentlemen, he took them out one morning to
walk through the streets of London. They walked for several hours in
silence; they expressed neither pleasure nor admiration at any thing
which they saw. When their walk was ended, they appeared uncommonly
melancholy and stupified. As soon as they got home, they sat down with
their elbows upon their knees, and hid their faces between their
hands. The only words they could be brought to utter, were, "Too much
smoke--too much noise--too much houses--too much men--too much every
thing!"
Some people who attend public lectures upon natural philosophy, with
the expectation of being much amused and instructed, go home with
sensations similar to those of the poor Eskimaux; they feel that they
have had too much of every thing. The lecturer has not time to explain
his terms, or to repeat them till they are distinct in the memory of
his audience.[16] To children, every mode of instruction must be
hurtful which fatigues attention; therefore, a skilful preceptor will,
as much as possible, avoid the manner of teaching, to which the public
lecturer is in some degree compelled by his situation. A private
preceptor, who undertakes the instruction of several pupils in the
same family, will examine with care the different habits and tempers
of his pupils; and he will have full leisure to adapt his instructions
peculiarly to each.
There are some general observations which apply to all understandings;
these we shall first enumerate, and we may afterwards examine what
distinctions should be made for pupils of different tempers or
dispositions.
Besides distinctness and accuracy in the language which we use,
besides care to produce but few ideas or terms that are new in our
first lessons, we must exercise attention only during very short
periods. In the beginning of every science pupils have much laborious
work; we should therefore allow them time; we should repress our own
impatience when they appear to be slow in comprehending reasons, or in
seizing analogies. We often expect, that those whom we are teaching
should know some things intuitively, because these may have been so
long known to us that we forget how we learned them. We may from habit
learn to pass with extraordinary velocity from one idea to another.
"Some often repeated processes of reasoning or invention," says Mr.
Stewart, "may be carried on so quickly in the mind, that we may not be
conscious of them ourselves." Yet we easily convince ourselves that
this rapid facility of thought is purely the result of practice, by
observing the comparatively slow progress of our understandings in
subjects to which we have not been accustomed: the progress of the
mind is there so slow, that we can count every step.
We are disposed to think that those must be naturally slow and stupid,
who do not perceive the resemblances between objects which strike us,
we say, at the first glance. But what we call the first glance is
frequently the fiftieth: we have got the things completely by heart;
all the parts are known to us, and we are at leisure to compare and
judge. A reasonable preceptor will not expect from his pupils two
efforts of attention at the same instant; he will not require them at
once to learn terms by heart, and to compare the objects which those
terms represent; he will repeat his terms till they are thoroughly
fixed in the memory; he will repeat his reasoning till the chain of
ideas is completely formed.
Repetition makes all operations easy; even the fatigue of thinking
diminishes by habit. That we may not increase the labour of the mind
unseasonably, we should watch for the moment when habit has made one
lesson easy, and when we may go forward a new step. In teaching the
children at the House of Industry at Munich to spin, Count Rumford
wisely ordered that they should be made perfect in one motion before
any other was shown to them: at first they were allowed only to move
the wheel by the treadle with their feet; when, after sufficient
practice, the foot became perfect in its lesson, the hands were set to
work, and the children were allowed to begin to spin with coarse
materials. It is said that these children made remarkable good
spinners. Madame de Genlis applied the same principle in teaching
Adela to play upon the harp.[17]
In the first attempts to learn any new bodily exercise, as fencing or
dancing, persons are not certain what muscles they must use, and what
may be left at rest; they generally employ those of which they have
the most ready command, but these may not always be the muscles which
are really wanted in the new operation. The simplest thing appears
difficult, till, by practice, we have associated the various slight
motions which ought to be combined. We feel, that from want of use,
our motions are not obedient to our will, and to supply this defect,
we exert more strength and activity than is requisite. "It does not
require strength; you need not use so much force; you need not take so
much pains;" we frequently say to those who are making the first
painful awkward attempts at some simple operation. Can any thing
appear more easy than knitting, when we look at the dexterous, rapid
motions of an experienced practitioner? But let a gentleman take up a
lady's knitting needles, and knitting appears to him, and to all the
spectators, one of the most difficult and laborious operations
imaginable. A lady who is learning to work with a tambour needle, puts
her head down close to the tambour frame, the colour comes into her
face, she strains her eyes, all her faculties are exerted, and perhaps
she works at the rate of three links a minute. A week afterwards,
probably, practice has made the work perfectly easy; the same lady
goes rapidly on with her work; she can talk and laugh, and perhaps
even think, whilst she works. She has now discovered that a number of
the motions, and a great portion of that attention which she thought
necessary to this mighty operation, may be advantageously spared.
In a similar manner, in the exercise of our minds upon subjects that
are new to us, we generally exert more attention than is necessary or
serviceable, and we consequently soon fatigue ourselves without any
advantage. Children, to whom many subjects are new, are often fatigued
by these overstrained and misplaced efforts. In these circumstances, a
tutor should relieve the attention by introducing indifferent subjects
of conversation; he can, by showing no anxiety himself, either in his
manner or countenance, relieve his pupil from any apprehension of his
displeasure, or of his contempt; he can represent that the object
before them is not a matter of life and death; that if the child does
not succeed in the first trials, he will not be disgraced in the
opinion of any of his friends; that by perseverance he will certainly
conquer the difficulty; that it is of little consequence whether he
understands the thing in question to-day or to-morrow; these
considerations will calm the over-anxious pupil's agitation, and,
whether he succeed or not, he will not suffer such a degree of pain
as to disgust him in his first attempts.
Besides the command which we, by this prudent management, obtain over
the pupil's mind, we shall also prevent him from acquiring any of
those awkward gestures and involuntary motions which are sometimes
practised to relieve the pain of attention.
Dr. Darwin observes, that when we experience any disagreeable
sensations, we endeavour to procure ourselves temporary relief by
motions of those muscles and limbs which are most habitually obedient
to our will. This observation extends to mental as well as to bodily
pain; thus persons in violent grief wring their hands and convulse
their countenances; those who are subject to the petty, but acute
miseries of false shame, endeavour to relieve themselves by awkward
gestures and continual motions. A plough-boy, when he is brought into
the presence of those whom he thinks his superiors, endeavours to
relieve himself from the uneasy sensations of false shame, by twirling
his hat upon his fingers, and by various uncouth gestures. Men who
think a great deal, sometimes acquire habitual awkward gestures, to
relieve the pain of intense thought.
When attention first becomes irksome to children, they mitigate the
mental pain by wrinkling their brows, or they fidget and put
themselves into strange attitudes. These odd motions, which at first
are voluntary, after they have been frequently associated with certain
states of mind, constantly recur involuntarily with those feelings or
ideas with which they have been connected. For instance, a boy, who
has been used to buckle and unbuckle his shoe, when he repeats his
lesson by rote, cannot repeat his lesson without performing this
operation; it becomes a sort of artificial memory, which is necessary
to prompt his recollective faculty. When children have a _variety_ of
tricks of this sort, they are of little consequence; but when they
have acquired a few constant and habitual motions, whilst they think,
or repeat, or listen, these should be attended to, and the habits
should be broken, otherwise these young people will appear, when they
grow up, awkward and ridiculous in their manners; and, what is worse,
perhaps their thoughts and abilities will be too much in the power of
external circumstances. Addison represents, with much humour, the case
of a poor man who had the habit of twirling a bit of thread round his
finger; the thread was accidentally broken, and the orator stood mute.
We once saw a gentleman get up to speak in a public assembly, provided
with a paper of notes written in pencil: during the exordium of his
speech, he thumbed his notes with incessant agitation; when he looked
at the paper, he found that the words were totally obliterated; he was
obliged to apologize to his audience; and, after much hesitation, sat
down abashed. A father would be sorry to see his son in such a
predicament.
To prevent children from acquiring such awkward tricks whilst they are
thinking, we should in the first place take care not to make them
attend for too long a time together, then the pain of attention will
not be so violent as to compel them to use these strange modes of
relief. Bodily exercise should immediately follow that entire state of
rest, in which our pupils ought to keep themselves whilst they attend.
The first symptoms of any awkward trick should be watched; they are
easily prevented by early care from becoming habitual. If any such
tricks have been acquired, and if the pupil cannot exert his attention
in common, unless certain contortions are permitted, we should attempt
the cure either by sudden slight bodily pain, or by a total suspension
of all the employments with which these bad habits are associated. If
a boy could not read without swinging his head like a pendulum, we
should rather prohibit him from reading for some time, than suffer
him to grow up with this ridiculous habit. But in conversation,
whenever opportunities occur of telling him any thing in which he is
particularly interested, we should refuse to gratify his curiosity,
unless he keeps himself perfectly still. The excitement here would be
sufficient to conquer the habit.
Whatever is connected with pain or pleasure commands our attention;
but to make this general observation useful in education, we must
examine what degrees of stimulus are necessary for different pupils,
and in different circumstances. We have formerly observed,[18] that it
is not prudent early to use violent or continual stimulus, either of a
painful or a pleasurable nature, to excite children to application,
because we should by an intemperate use of these, weaken the mind, and
because we may with a little patience obtain all we wish without these
expedients. Besides these reasons, there is another potent argument
against using violent motives to excite attention; such motives
frequently disturb and dissipate the very attention which they attempt
to fix. If a child be threatened with severe punishment, or flattered
with the promise of some delicious reward, in order to induce his
performance of any particular task, he desires instantly to perform
the task; but this desire will not ensure his success: unless he has
previously acquired the habit of voluntary exertion, he will not be
able to turn his mind from his ardent wishes, even to the means of
accomplishing them. He will be in the situation of Alnaschar in the
Arabian tales, who, whilst he dreamt of his future grandeur, forgot
his immediate business. The greater his hope or fear, the greater the
difficulty of his employing himself.
To teach any new habit or art, we must not employ any alarming
excitements: small, certain, regularly recurring motives, which
interest, but which do not distract the mind, are evidently the best.
The ancient inhabitants of Minorca were said to be the best slingers
in the world; when they were children, every morning what they were to
eat was slightly suspended from high poles, and they were obliged to
throw down their breakfasts with their slings from the places where
they were suspended, before they could satisfy their hunger. The
motive seems to have been here well proportioned to the effect that
was required; it could not be any great misfortune to a boy to go
without his breakfast; but as this motive returned every morning, it
became sufficiently serious to the hungry slingers.
It is impossible to explain this subject so as to be of use, without
descending to minute particulars. When a mother says to her little
daughter, as she places on the table before her a bunch of ripe
cherries, "Tell me, my dear, how many cherries are there, and I will
give them to you?" The child's attention is fixed instantly; there is
a sufficient motive, not a motive which excites any violent passions,
but which raises just such a degree of hope as is necessary to produce
attention. The little girl, if she knows from experience that her
mother's promise will be kept, and that her own patience is likely to
succeed, counts the cherries carefully, has her reward, and upon the
next similar trial she will, from this success, be still more disposed
to exert her attention. The pleasure of eating cherries, associated
with the pleasure of success, will balance the pain of a few moments
prolonged application, and by degrees the cherries may be withdrawn,
the association of pleasure will remain. Objects or thoughts, that
have been associated with pleasure, retain the power of pleasing; as
the needle touched by the loadstone acquires polarity, and retains it
long after the loadstone is withdrawn.
Whenever attention is habitually raised by the power of association,
we should be careful to withdraw all the excitements that were
originally used, because these are now unnecessary; and, as we have
formerly observed, the steady rule, with respect to stimulus, should
be to give the least possible quantity that will produce the effect we
want. Success is a great pleasure; as soon as children become sensible
to this pleasure, that is to say, when they have tasted it two or
three times, they will exert their attention merely with the hope of
succeeding. We have seen a little boy of three years old, frowning
with attention for several minutes together, whilst he was trying to
clasp and unclasp a lady's bracelet; his whole soul was intent upon
the business; he neither saw nor heard any thing else that passed in
the room, though several people were talking, and some happened to be
looking at him. The pleasure of success, when he clasped the bracelet,
was quite sufficient; he looked for no praise, though he was perhaps
pleased with the sympathy that was shown in his success. Sympathy is a
better reward for young children in such circumstances than praise,
because it does not excite vanity, and it is connected with benevolent
feelings; besides, it is not so violent a stimulus as applause.
Instead of increasing excitements to produce attention, we may vary
them, which will have just the same effect. When sympathy fails, try
curiosity; when curiosity fails, try praise; when praise begins to
lose its effect, try blame; and when you go back again to sympathy,
you will find that, after this interval, it will have recovered all
its original power. Doctor Darwin, who has the happy art of
illustrating, from the most familiar circumstances in real life, the
abstract theories of philosophy, gives us the following picturesque
instance of the use of varying motives to prolong exertion.
"A little boy, who was tired of walking, begged of his papa to carry
him. "Here," says the reverend doctor, "ride upon my gold headed
cane;" and the pleased child, putting it between his legs, galloped
away with delight. Here the aid of another sensorial power, that of
pleasurable sensation, superadded power to exhausted volition, which
could otherwise only have been excited by additional pain, as by the
lash of slavery."[19]
Alexander the Great one day saw a poor man carrying upon his shoulders
a heavy load of silver for the royal camp: the man tottered under his
burden, and was ready to give up the point from fatigue. "Hold on,
friend, the rest of the way, and carry it to your own tent, for it is
yours," said Alexander.
There are some people, who have the power of exciting others to great
mental exertions, not by the promise of specific rewards, or by the
threats of any punishment, but by the ardent ambition which they
inspire, by the high value which is set upon their love and esteem.
When we have formed a high opinion of a friend, his approbation
becomes necessary to our own self-complacency, and we think no labour
too great to satisfy our attachment. Our exertions are not fatiguing,
because they are associated with all the pleasurable sensations of
affection, self-complacency, benevolence, and liberty. These feelings,
in youth, produce all the virtuous enthusiasm characteristic of great
minds; even childhood is capable of it in some degree, as those
parents well know, who have never enjoyed the attachment of a grateful
affectionate child. Those, who neglect to cultivate the affections of
their pupils, will never be able to excite them to "noble ends," by
"noble means." Theirs will be the dominion of fear, from which reason
will emancipate herself, and from which pride will yet more certainly
revolt.
If Henry the Fourth of France had been reduced, like Dionysius the
tyrant of Syracuse, to earn his bread as a schoolmaster, what a
different preceptor he would probably have made! Dionysius must have
been hated by his scholars as much as by his subjects, for it is said,
that "he[20] practised upon children that tyranny which he could no
longer exercise over men."
The ambassador, who found Henry the Fourth playing upon the carpet
with his children, would probably have trusted his own children, if he
had any, to the care of such an affectionate tutor.
Henry the Fourth would have attached his pupils whilst he instructed
them; they would have exerted themselves because they could not have
been happy without his esteem. Henry's courtiers, or rather his
friends, for though he was a king he had friends, sometimes expressed
surprise at their own disinterestedness: "This king pays us with
words," said they, "and yet we are satisfied!" Sully, when he was only
Baron de Rosny, and before he had any hopes of being a duke, was once
in a passion with the king his master, and half resolved to leave him:
"But I don't know how it was," says the honest minister, "with all his
faults, there is something about Henry which I found I could not
leave; and when I met him again, a few words made me forget all my
causes of discontent."
Children are more easily attached than courtiers, and full as easily
rewarded. When once this generous desire of affection and esteem is
raised in the mind, their exertions seem to be universal and
spontaneous: children are then no longer like machines, which require
to be wound up regularly to perform certain revolutions; they are
animated with a living principle, which directs all that it inspires.
We have endeavoured to point out the general excitements, and the
general precautions, to be used in cultivating the power of attention;
it may be expected, that we should more particularly apply these to
the characters of different pupils. We shall not here examine whether
there be any original difference of character or intellect, because
this would lead into a wide theoretical discussion; a difference in
the temper and talents of children early appears, and some practical
remarks may be of service to correct defects, or to improve abilities,
whether we suppose them to be natural or acquired. The first
differences which a preceptor observes between his pupils, when he
begins to teach them, are perhaps scarcely marked so strongly as to
strike the careless spectator; but in a few years these varieties are
apparent to every eye. This seems to prove, that during the interval
the power of education has operated strongly to increase the original
propensities. The quick and slow, the timid and presumptuous, should
be early instructed so as to correct as much as possible their several
defects.
The manner in which children are first instructed must tend either to
increase or diminish their timidity, or their confidence in
themselves, to encourage them to undertake great things, or to rest
content with limited acquirements. Young people, who have found from
experience, that they cannot remember or understand one half of what
is forced upon their attention, become extremely diffident of their
own capacity, and they will not undertake as much even as they are
able to perform. With timid tempers, we should therefore begin, by
expecting but little from each effort, but whatever is attempted,
should be certainly within their attainment; success will encourage
the most stupid humility. It should be carefully pointed out to
diffident children, that attentive patience can do as much as
quickness of intellect. If they perceive that time makes all the
difference between the quick and the slow, they will be induced to
persevere. The transition of attention from one subject to another is
difficult to some children, to others it is easy. If all be expected
to do the same things in an equal period of time, the slow will
absolutely give up the competition; but, on the contrary, if they are
allowed time, they will accomplish their purposes. We have been
confirmed in our belief of this doctrine by experiments. The same
problems have been frequently given to children of different degrees
of quickness, and though some succeeded much more quickly than others,
all the individuals in the family have persevered till they have
solved the questions; and the timid seem to have been more encouraged
by this practical demonstration of the infallibility of persevering
attention, than by any other methods which have been tried. When,
after a number of small successful trials, they have acquired some
share of confidence in themselves, when they are certain of the
possibility of their performing any given operations, we may then
press them a little as to velocity. When they are well acquainted with
any set of ideas, we may urge them to quick transition of attention
from one to another; but if we insist upon this rapidity of
transition, before they are thoroughly acquainted with each idea in
the assemblage, we shall only increase their timidity and hesitation;
we shall confound their understandings, and depress their ambition.
It is of consequence to distinguish between slow and sluggish
attention. Sometimes children appear stupid and heavy, when they are
absolutely exhausted by too great efforts of attention: at other
times, they have something like the same dulness of aspect, before
they have had any thing to fatigue them, merely from their not having
yet awakened themselves to business. We must be certain of our pupil's
state of mind before we proceed. If he be incapacitated from fatigue,
let him rest; if he be torpid, rouse him with a rattling peal of
thunder; but be sure that you have not, as it has been said of
Jupiter,[21] recourse to your thunder only when you are in the wrong.
Some preceptors scold when they cannot explain, and grow angry in
proportion to the fatigue they see expressed in the countenance of
their unhappy pupils. If a timid child foresees that an explanation
will probably end in a phillipic, he cannot fix his attention; he is
anticipating the evil of your anger, instead of listening to your
demonstrations; and he says, "Yes, yes, I see, I know, I understand,"
with trembling eagerness, whilst through the mist and confusion of his
fears, he can scarcely see or hear, much less understand, any thing.
If you mistake the confusion and fatigue of terror for inattention or
indolence, and press your pupil to further exertions, you will
confirm, instead of curing, his stupidity. You must diminish his fear
before you can increase his attention. With children who are thus,
from timid anxiety to please, disposed to exert their faculties too
much, it is obvious that no excitation should be used, but every
playful, every affectionate means should be employed to dissipate
their apprehensions.
It is more difficult to manage with those who have sluggish, than with
those who have timid, attention. Indolent children have not usually so
lively a taste for pleasure as others have; they do not seem to hear
or see so quickly; they are content with a little enjoyment; they have
scarcely any ambition; they seem to prefer ease to all sorts of glory;
they have little voluntary exertion; and the pain of attention is to
them so great, that they would preferably endure the pain of shame,
and of all the accumulated punishments which are commonly devised for
them by the vengeance of their exasperated tutors. Locke notices this
listless, lazy humour in children; he classes it under the head
"Sauntering;" and he divides saunterers into two species; those who
saunter only at their books and tasks; and those who saunter at play
and every thing. The book-saunterers have only an acute, the others
have a chronic disease; the one is easily cured, the other disease
will cost more time and pains.
If, by some unlucky management, a vivacious child acquires a dislike
to literary application, he may appear at his books with all the
stupid apathy of a dunce. In this state of literary dereliction, we
should not force books and tasks of any sort upon him; we should
rather watch him when he is eager at amusements of his own selection,
observe to what his attention turns, and cultivate his attention upon
that subject, whatever it may be. He may be led to think, and to
acquire knowledge upon a variety of subjects, without sitting down to
read; and thus he may form habits of attention and application, which
will be associated with pleasure. When he returns to books, he will
find that he understands a variety of things in them which before
appeared incomprehensible; they will "give him back the image of his
mind," and he will like them as he likes pictures.
As long as a child shows energy upon any occasion, there is hope. If
he "lend his little soul"[22] to whipping a top, there is no danger of
his being a dunce. When Alcibiades was a child, he was one day playing
at dice with other boys in the street; a loaded waggon came up just as
it was his turn to throw. At first he called to the driver to stop,
but the waggoner would not stop his horses; all the boys, except
Alcibiades, ran away, but Alcibiades threw himself upon his face,
directly before the horses, and stretching himself out, bid the
waggoner drive on if he pleased. Perhaps, at the time when he showed
this energy about a game at dice, Alcibiades might have been a
saunterer at his book, and a foolish schoolmaster might have made him
a dunce.
Locke advises that children, who are too much addicted to what is
called play, should be surfeited with it, that they may return to
business with a better appetite. But this advice supposes that play
has been previously interdicted, or that it is something pernicious:
we have endeavoured to show that play is nothing but a change of
employment, and that the attention may be exercised advantageously
upon a variety of subjects which are not called Tasks.[23]
With those who show chronic listlessness, Locke advises that we should
use every sort of stimulus; praise, amusement, fine clothes, eating;
any thing that will make them bestir themselves. He argues, that as
there appears a deficiency of vigour, we have no reason to fear excess
of appetite for any of these things: nay, further still, where none
of these will act, he advises compulsory bodily exercise. If we
cannot, he says, make sure of the invisible attention of the mind, we
may at least get something done, prevent the habit of total idleness,
and perhaps make the children desire to exchange labour of body for
labour of mind. These expedients will, we fear, be found rather
palliative than effectual; if, by forcing children to bodily exercise,
that becomes disagreeable, they may prefer labour of the mind; but, in
making this exchange, or bargain, they are sensible that they choose
the least of two evils. The evil of application is diminished only by
comparison in their estimation; they will avoid it whenever they are
at liberty. The love of eating, of fine clothes, &c. if they stimulate
a slothful child, must be the ultimate object of his exertions; he
will consider the performance of his task merely as a painful
condition on his part. Still the association of pain with literature
continues; it is then impossible that he should love it. There is no
active principle within him, no desire for knowledge excited; his
attention is forced, it ceases the moment the external force is
withdrawn. He drudges to earn his cream bowl duly set, but he will
stretch his lubbar length the moment his task is done.
There is another class of children opposed to saunterers, whom we may
denominate volatile geniuses. They show a vast deal of quickness and
vivacity; they understand almost before a tutor can put his ideas into
words; they observe a variety of objects, but they do not connect
their observations, and the very rapidity with which they seize an
explanation, prevents them from thoroughly comprehending it; they are
easily disturbed by external objects when they are thinking. As they
have great sensibility, their associations are strong and various;
their thoughts branch off into a thousand beautiful, but useless
ramifications. Whilst you are attempting to instruct them upon one
subject, they are inventing, perhaps, upon another; or they are
following a train of ideas suggested by something you have said, but
foreign to your business. They are more pleased with the discovery of
resemblances, than with discrimination of difference; the one costs
them more time and attention than the other: they are apt to say witty
things, and to strike out sparks of invention; but they have not
commonly the patience to form exact judgments, or to bring their first
inventions to perfection. When they begin the race, every body expects
that they should outstrip all competitors; but it is often seen that
slower rivals reach the goal before them. The predictions formed of
pupils of this temperament, vary much, according to the characters of
their tutors. A slow man is provoked by their dissipated vivacity,
and, unable to catch or fix their attention, prognosticates that they
will never have sufficient application to learn any thing. This
prophecy, under certain tuition, would probably be accomplished. The
want of sympathy between a slow tutor and a quick child, is a great
disadvantage to both; each insists upon going his own pace, and his
own way, and these ways are perhaps diametrically opposite. Even in
forming a judgment of the child's attention, the tutor, who is not
acquainted with the manner in which his pupil goes to work, is liable
to frequent mistakes. Children are sometimes suspected of not having
listened to what has been said to them, when they cannot exactly
repeat the words that they have heard; they often ask questions, and
make observations, which seem quite foreign to the present business;
but this is not always a proof that their minds are absent, or that
their attention is dissipated. Their answers often appear to be far
from the point, because they suppress their intermediate ideas, and
give only the result of their thoughts. This may be inconvenient to
those who teach them; but this habit sufficiently proves that these
children are not deficient in attention. To cure them of the fault
which they have, we should not accuse them falsely of another. But it
may be questioned whether this be a fault; it is absolutely necessary,
in many processes of the mind, to suppress a number of intermediate
ideas. Life, if this were not practised, would be too short for those
who think, and much too short for those who speak. When somebody asked
Pyrrhus which of two musicians he liked the best, he answered,
"Polysperchon is the best general." This would appear to be the absurd
answer of an absent person, or of a fool, if we did not consider the
ideas that are implied, as well as those which are expressed.
March 5th, 1796. To-day, at dinner, a lady observed that Nicholson,
Williamson, Jackson, &c. were names which originally meant the sons of
Nicholas, William, Jack, &c. A boy who was present, H----, added, with
a very grave face, as soon as she had finished speaking, "Yes, ma'am,
Tydides." His mother asked him what he could mean by this absent
speech? H---- calmly repeated, "Ma'am, yes; because I think it is like
Tydides." His brother S----eagerly interposed, to supply the
intermediate ideas; "Yes, indeed, mother," cried he, "H---- is not
absent, because _des_, in Greek, means _the son of_ (the race of.)
Tydides is the son of Tydeus, as Jackson is the son of Jack." In this
instance, H---- was not absent, though he did not make use of a
sufficient number of words to explain his ideas.
August, 1796. L----, when he returned home, after some months absence,
entertained his brothers and sisters with a new play, which he had
learned at Edinburgh. He told them, that when he struck the table with
his hand, every person present, was instantaneously to remain fixed in
the attitudes in which they should be when the blow was given. The
attitudes in which some of the little company were fixed, occasioned
much diversion; but in speaking of this new play afterwards, they had
no name for it. Whilst they were thinking of a name for it, H----
exclaimed, "The Gorgon!" It was immediately agreed that this was a
good name for the play, and H----, upon this occasion, was perfectly
intelligible, without expressing all the intermediate ideas.
Good judges, form an accurate estimate of the abilities of those who
converse with them, by what they omit, as well as by what they say. If
any one can show that he also has been in Arcadia, he is sure of being
well received, without producing minutes of his journey. In the same
manner we should judge of children; if they arrive at certain
conclusions in reasoning, we may be satisfied that they have taken all
the necessary previous steps. We need not question their attention
upon subjects where they give proofs of invention; they must have
remembered well, or they could not invent; they must have attended
well, or they could not have remembered. Nothing wearies a quick child
more than to be forced slowly to retrace his own thoughts, and to
repeat the words of a discourse to prove that he has listened to it. A
tutor, who is slow in understanding the ideas of his vivacious pupil,
gives him so much trouble and pain, that he grows silent, from finding
it not worth while to speak. It is for this reason, that children
appear stupid and silent, with some people, and sprightly and
talkative with others. Those who hope to talk to children with any
effect, must, as Rousseau observes, be able to hear as well as to
speak. M. de Segrais, who was deaf, was much in the right to decline
being preceptor to the Duke de Maine. A deaf preceptor would certainly
make a child dumb.
To win the attention of vivacious children, we must sometimes follow
them in their zigzag course, and even press them to the end of their
own train of thought. They will be content when they have obtained a
full hearing; then they will have leisure to discover that what they
were in such haste to utter, was not so well worth saying as they
imagined; that their bright ideas often, when steadily examined by
themselves, fade into absurdities.
"Where does this path lead to? Can't we get over this stile? May I
_only_ go into this wood?" exclaims an active child, when he is taken
out to walk. Every path appears more delightful than the straight
road; but let him try the paths, they will perhaps end in
disappointment, and then his imagination will be corrected. Let him
try his own experiments, then he will be ready to try yours; and if
yours succeed better than his own, you will secure his confidence.
After a child has talked on for some time, till he comes to the end of
his ideas, then he will perhaps listen to what you have to say; and if
he finds it better than what he has been saying himself, he will
voluntarily give you his attention the next time you begin to speak.
Vivacious children are peculiarly susceptible of blame and praise; we
have, therefore, great power over their attachment, if we manage these
excitements properly. These children should not be praised for their
_happy hits_, their first[24] glances should not be extolled; but, on
the contrary, they should be rewarded with universal approbation when
they give proofs of patient industry, when they bring any thing to
perfection. No one can bring any thing to perfection without long
continued attention; and industry and perseverance presuppose
attention. Proofs of any of these qualities may therefore satisfy us
as to the pupil's capacity and habits of attention; we need not stand
by to see the attention exercised, the things produced are sufficient
evidence. Buffon tells us that he wrote his Epoques de la Nature over
eighteen times before he could perfect it to his taste. The high
finish of his composition is sufficient evidence to intelligent
readers, that he exerted long continued attention upon the work; they
do not require to have the eighteen copies produced.
Bacon supposes, that for every disease of the mind, specific remedies
might be found in appropriate studies and exercises. Thus, for
"bird-witted" children he prescribes the study of mathematics,
because, in mathematical studies, the attention must be fixed; the
least intermission of thought breaks the whole chain of reasoning,
their labour is lost, and they must begin their demonstration again.
This principle is excellent; but to apply it advantageously, we should
choose moments when a mathematical demonstration is interesting to
children, else we have not sufficient motive to excite them to
commence the demonstration; they will perceive, that they loose all
their labour if their attention is interrupted; but how shall we make
them begin to attend? There are a variety of subjects which are
interesting to children, to which we may apply Bacon's principle; for
instance, a child is eager to hear a story which you are going to tell
him; you may exercise his attention by your manner of telling this
story; you may employ with advantage the beautiful figure of speech
called _suspension_: but you must take care, that the hope which is
long deferred be at last gratified. The young critics will look back
when your story is finished, and will examine whether their attention
has been wasted, or whether all the particulars to which it was
directed were essential. Though in amusing stories we recommend the
figure called suspension,[25] we do not recommend its use in
explanations. Our explanations should be put into as few words as
possible: the closer the connection of ideas, the better. When we say,
allow time to understand your explanations, we mean, allow time
between each idea, do not fill up the interval with words. Never, by
way of gaining time, pay in sixpences; this is the last resource of a
bankrupt.
We formerly observed that a preceptor, in his first lessons on any new
subject, must submit to the drudgery of repeating his terms and his
reasoning, until these are sufficiently familiar to his pupils. He
must, however, proportion the number of his repetitions to the temper
and habits of his pupils, else he will weary, instead of
strengthening, the attention. When a thing is clear, let him never try
to make it clearer; when a thing is understood, not a word more of
exemplification should be added. To mark precisely the moment when the
pupil understands what is said, the moment when he is master of the
necessary ideas, and, consequently, the moment when repetition should
cease, is, perhaps, the most difficult thing in the art of teaching.
The countenance, the eye, the voice, and manner of the pupil, mark
this instant to an observing preceptor; but a preceptor, who is
absorbed in his own ideas, will never think of looking in his pupil's
face; he will go on with his routine of explanation, whilst his once
lively, attentive pupil, exhibits opposite to him the picture of
stupified fatigue. Quick, intelligent children, who have frequently
found that lessons are reiterated by a patient but injudicious tutor,
will learn a careless mode of listening at intervals; they will say to
themselves, "Oh I shall hear this again!" And if any stray thought
comes across their minds, they will not scruple to amuse themselves,
and will afterwards ask for a repetition of the words or ideas which
they missed during this excursion of fancy. When they hear the warning
advertisement of "certainly for the last time this season," they will
deem it time enough to attend to the performance. To cure them of this
presumption in favour of our patience, and of their own superlative
quickness, we should press that quickness to its utmost speed.
Whenever we call for their attention, let it be on subjects highly
interesting or amusing, and let us give them but just sufficient time
with their fullest exertion to catch our words and ideas. As these
quick gentlemen are proud of their rapidity of apprehension, this
method will probably secure their attention, they will dread the
disgrace of not understanding what is said, and they will feel that
they cannot understand unless they exert prompt, vigorous, unremitted
attention.
The Duchess of Kingston used to complain that she could never acquire
any knowledge, because she never could meet with any body who could
teach her anything "in two words." Her Grace felt the same sort of
impatience which was expressed by the tyrant who expected to find a
royal road to Geometry.
Those who believe themselves endowed with genius, expect to find a
royal road in every science shorter, and less laborious, than the
beaten paths of industry. Their expectations are usually in proportion
to their ignorance; they see to the summit only of one hill, and they
do not suspect the Alps that will arise as they advance: but as
children become less presumptuous, as they acquire more knowledge, we
may bear with their juvenile impatience, whilst we take measures to
enlarge continually their sphere of information. We should not,
however, humour the attention of young people, by teaching them always
in the mode which we know suits their temper best. Vivacious pupils
should, from time to time, be accustomed to an exact enumeration of
particulars; and we should take opportunities to convince them, that
an orderly connection of proofs, and a minute observation of apparent
trifles, are requisite to produce the lively descriptions, great
discoveries, and happy inventions, which pupils of this disposition
are ever prone to admire with enthusiasm. They will learn not to pass
over _old_ things, when they perceive that these may lead to something
_new_; and they will even submit to sober attention, when they feel
that this is necessary even to the rapidity of genius. In the
"Curiosities of Literature," there has been judiciously preserved a
curious instance of literary patience; the rough draught of that
beautiful passage in Pope's translation of the Iliad which describes
the parting of Hector and Andromache. The lines are in Pope's
hand-writing, and his numerous corrections appear; the lines which
seem to the reader to have been struck off at a single happy stroke,
are proved to have been touched and retouched with the indefatigable
attention of a great writer. The fragment, with all its climax of
corrections, was shown to a young vivacious poet of nine years old, as
a practical lesson, to prove the necessity of patience to arrive at
perfection. Similar examples, from real life, should be produced to
young people at proper times; the testimony of men of acknowledged
abilities, of men whom they have admired for genius, will come with
peculiar force in favour of application. Parents, well acquainted with
literature, cannot be at a loss to find opposite illustrations. The
Life of Franklin is an excellent example of persevering industry; the
variations in different editions of Voltaire's dramatic poetry, and in
Pope's works, are worth examining. All Sir Joshua Reynolds's eloquent
academical discourses enforce the doctrine of patience; when he wants
to prove to painters the value of continual energetic attention, he
quotes from Livy the character of Philopoemen, one of the ablest
generals of antiquity. So certain it is, that the same principle
pervades all superior minds: whatever may be their pursuits, attention
is the avowed primary cause of their success. These examples from the
dead, should be well supported by examples from amongst the living. In
common life, occurrences can frequently be pointed out, in which
attention and application are amply rewarded with success.
It will encourage those who are interested in education, to observe,
that two of the most difficult exercises of the mind can, by
practice, be rendered familiar, even by persons whom we do not
consider as possessed of superior talents. Abstraction and
transition--abstraction, the power of withdrawing the attention from
all external objects, and concentrating it upon some particular set of
ideas, we admire as one of the most difficult exercises of the
philosopher. Abstraction was formerly considered as such a difficult
and painful operation, that it required perfect silence and solitude;
many ancient philosophers quarrelled with their senses, and shut
themselves up in caves, to secure their attention from the
distraction caused by external objects. But modern[26] philosophers
have discovered, that neither caves nor lamps are essential to the
full and successful exercise of their mental powers. Persons of
ordinary abilities, tradesmen and shop-keepers, in the midst of the
tumult of a public city, in the noise of rumbling carts and rattling
carriages, amidst the voices of a multitude of people talking upon
various subjects, amidst the provoking interruptions of continual
questions and answers, and in the broad glare of a hot sun, can
command and abstract their attention so far as to calculate yards,
ells, and nails, to cast up long sums in addition right to a farthing,
and to make out multifarious bills with quick and unerring precision.
In almost all the dining houses at Vienna, as a late traveller[27]
informs us "a bill of fare containing a vast collection of dishes is
written out, and the prices are affixed to each article. As the people
of Vienna are fond of variety, the calculation at the conclusion of a
repast would appear somewhat embarrassing; this, however, is done by
mechanical habit with great speed; the custom is for the party who has
dined to name the dishes, and the quantity of bread and wine. The
keller who attends on this occasion, follows every article you name
with the sum, which this adds to the calculation, and the whole is
performed, to whatever amount, without ink or paper. It is curious to
hear this ceremony, which is muttered with great gravity, yet
performed with accuracy and despatch."
We coolly observe, when we read these things, "Yes, this is all habit;
any body who had used himself to it might do the same things." Yet the
very same power of abstracting the attention, when employed upon
scientific and literary subjects, would excite our astonishment; and
we should, perhaps, immediately attribute it to superior original
genius. We may surely educate children to this habit of abstracting
the attention, which we allow depends entirely upon practice. When we
are very much interested upon any subject, we attend to it
exclusively, and, without any effort, we surmount all petty
interposing interruptions. When we are reading an interesting book,
twenty people may converse round about us, without our hearing one
word that they say; when we are in a crowded playhouse, the moment we
become interested in the play, the audience vanish from our sight, and
in the midst of various noises, we hear only the voices of the actors.
In the same manner, children, by their eager looks and their
unaffected absence to all external circumstances, show when they are
thoroughly interested by any story that is told with eloquence suited
to their age. When we would teach them to attend in the midst of noise
and interruptions, we should begin by talking to them about things
which we are sure will please them; by degrees we may speak on less
captivating subjects, when we perceive that their habit of beginning
to listen with an expectation of pleasure is formed. Whenever a child
happens to be intent upon any favourite amusement, or when he is
reading any very entertaining book, we may increase the busy hum
around him, we may make what bustle we please, he will probably
continue attentive; it is useful therefore to give him such amusements
and such books when there is a noise or bustle in the room, because
then he will learn to disregard all interruptions; and when this habit
is formed, he may even read less amusing books in the same company
without being interrupted by the usual noises.
The power of abstracting our attention is universally allowed to be
necessary to the successful labour of the understanding; but we may
further observe, that this abstraction is characteristic in some cases
of heroism as well as of genius. Charles the Twelfth and Archimedes
were very different men; yet both, in similar circumstances, gave
similar proofs of their uncommon power of abstracting their attention.
"What has the bomb to do with what you are writing to Sweden," said
the hero to his pale secretary when a bomb burst through the roof of
his apartment, and he continued to dictate his letter. Archimedes went
on with his demonstration in the midst of a siege, and when a brutal
soldier entered with a drawn sword, the philosopher only begged he
might solve his problem before he was put to death.
Presence of mind in danger, which is usually supposed to depend upon
our quick perception of all the present circumstances, frequently
demands a total abstraction of our thoughts. In danger, fear is the
motive which excites our exertions; but from all the ideas that fear
naturally suggests, we must abstract our attention, or we shall not
act with courage or prudence. In proportion to the violence of our
terror, our voluntary exertion must be great to withdraw our thoughts
from the present danger, and to recollect the means of escape. In some
cases, where the danger has been associated with the use of certain
methods of escape, we use these without deliberation, and consequently
without any effort of attention; as when we see any thing catch fire,
we instantly throw water upon the flames to extinguish them. But in
new situations, where we have no mechanical courage, we must exert
much voluntary, quick, abstract attention, to escape from danger.
When Lee, the poet, was confined in Bedlam, a friend went to visit
him; and finding that he could converse reasonably, or at least
reasonably for a poet, imagined that Lee was cured of his madness. The
poet offered to show him Bedlam. They went over this melancholy,
medical prison, Lee moralising philosophically enough all the time to
keep his companion perfectly at ease. At length they ascended together
to the top of the building; and, as they were both looking down from
the perilous height, Lee seized his friend by the arm, "Let us
immortalize ourselves!" he exclaimed; "let us take this leap. We'll
jump down together this instant." "Any man could jump down," said his
friend, coolly; "we should not immortalize ourselves by that leap; but
let us go down, and try if we can jump up again." The madman, struck
with the idea of a more astonishing leap than that which he had
himself proposed, yielded to this new impulse, and his friend rejoiced
to see him run down stairs full of a new project for securing
immortality.
Lee's friend, upon this occasion, showed rather absence than presence
of mind: before he could have invented the happy answer that saved his
life, he must have abstracted his mind from the passion of fear; he
must have rapidly turned his attention upon a variety of ideas
unconnected by any former associations with the exciting
motive--falling from a height--fractured skulls--certain
death--impossibility of reasoning or wrestling with a madman. This was
the train of thoughts which we might naturally expect to arise in such
a situation, but from all these the man of presence of mind turned
away his attention; he must have directed his thoughts in a contrary
line: first, he must have thought of the means of saving himself, of
some argument likely to persuade a madman, of some argument peculiarly
suited to Lee's imagination, and applicable to his situation; he must
at this moment have considered that alarming situation without
thinking of his fears; for the interval in which all these ideas
passed in his mind, must have been so short that he could not have had
leisure to combat fear; if any of the ideas associated with that
passion had interrupted his reasonings, he would not have invented his
answer in time to have saved his life.
We cannot foresee on what occasions presence of mind may be wanted,
but we may, by education, give that general command of abstract
attention, which is essential to its exercise in all circumstances.
Transition of thought, the power of turning attention quickly to
different subjects or employments, is another of those mental habits,
which in some cases we call genius, and which in others we perceive
depends entirely upon practice. A number of trials in one newspaper,
upon a variety of unconnected subjects, once struck our eye, and we
saw the name of a celebrated lawyer[28] as counsel in each cause. We
could not help feeling involuntary admiration at that versatility of
genius, which could pass from a fractional calculation about a London
chaldron of coals, to the Jamaica laws of insurance; from the bargains
of a citizen, to the divorce of a fine lady; from pathos to argument;
from arithmetic to wit; from cross examination to eloquence. For a
moment we forgot our sober principles, and ascribed all this
versatility of mind to natural genius; but upon reflection we recurred
to the belief, that this dexterity of intellect was not bestowed by
nature. We observe in men who have no pretensions to genius, similar
versatility of mind as to their usual employments. The daily
occupations of Mr. Elwes's huntsman were as various and incongruous,
and required as quick transitions of attention, as any that can well
be imagined.
"At[29] four o'clock he milked the cows; then got breakfast for Mr.
Elwes and friends; then slipping on a green coat, he hurried into the
stable, saddled the horses, got the hounds out of the kennel, and away
they went into the field. After the fatigues of hunting, he
_refreshed_ himself, by rubbing down two or three horses as quickly as
he could; then running into the house to lay the cloth, and wait at
dinner; then hurrying again into the stable to feed the horses,
diversified with an interlude of the cows again to milk, the dogs to
feed, and eight hunters to litter down for the night." Mr. Elwes used
to call this huntsman an idle dog, who wanted to be paid for doing
nothing!
We do not mean to require any such rapid daily transitions in the
exercise of attention from our pupils; but we think that much may be
done to improve versatility of mind, by a judicious arrangement of
their occupations. When we are tired of smelling a rose, we can smell
a carnation with pleasure; and when the sense of smell is fatigued,
yet we can look at the beautiful colours with delight. When we are
tired of thinking upon one subject, we can attend to another; when our
memory is fatigued, the exercise of the imagination entertains us; and
when we are weary of reasoning, we can amuse ourselves with wit and
humour. Men, who have attended much to the cultivation of their mind,
seem to have felt all this, and they have kept some subordinate taste
as a refreshment after their labours. Descartes went from the system
of the world to his flower-garden; Galileo used to read Ariosto; and
the metaphysical Dr. Clarke recovered himself from abstraction by
jumping over chairs and tables. The learned and indefatigable
chancellor d'Aguesseau declared, that change of employment was the
only recreation he ever knew. Even Montaigne, who found his recreation
in playing with his cat, educated himself better than those are
educated who go from intense study to complete idleness. It has been
very wisely recommended by Mr. Locke, that young people should early
be taught some mechanical employment, or some agreeable art, to which
they may recur for relief when they are tired by mental
application.[30]
Doctor Darwin supposes that "animal motions, or configurations of the
organs of sense, constitute our ideas.[31] The fatigue, he observes,
that follows a continued attention of the mind to one object, is
relieved by changing the subject of our thoughts, as the continued
movement of one limb is relieved by moving another in its stead." Dr.
Darwin has further suggested a tempting subject of experiment in his
theory of ocular spectra, to which we refer ingenious preceptors. Many
useful experiments in education might be tried upon the principles
which are there suggested. We dare not here trust ourselves to
speculate upon this subject, because we are not at present provided
with a sufficient number of facts to apply our theory to practice. If
we could exactly discover how to arrange mental employments so as to
induce actions in the antagonist faculties of the mind, we might
relieve it from fatigue in the same manner as the eye is relieved by
change of colour. By pursuing this idea, might we not hope to
cultivate the general power of attention to a degree of perfection
hitherto unknown?
We have endeavoured to show how, by different arrangements and proper
excitations, a preceptor may acquire that command over the attention
of his pupils, which is absolutely essential to successful
instruction; but we must recollect, that when the years commonly
devoted to education are over, when young people are no longer under
the care of a preceptor, they will continue to feel the advantages of
a command of attention, whenever they mix in the active business of
life, or whenever they apply to any profession, to literature, or
science. Their attention must now be entirely voluntary; they will
have no tutor to excite them to exertion, no nice habitual
arrangements to assist them in their daily occupations. It is of
consequence, therefore, that we should substitute the power of
voluntary, for the habit of associated, attention. With young children
we depend upon particular associations of place, time, and manner,
upon different sorts of excitement, to produce habits of employment:
but as our pupils advance in their education, all these temporary
excitements should be withdrawn. Some large, but distant object, some
pursuit which is not to be rewarded with immediate praise, but rather
with permanent advantage and esteem, should be held out to the
ambition of youth. All the arrangements should be left to the pupil
himself, all the difficulties should be surmounted by his own
industry, and the interest he takes in his own success and
improvement, will now probably be a sufficient stimulus; his
preceptor will now rather be his partner than his master, he should
rather share the labour than attempt to direct it: this species of
sympathy in study, diminishes the pain of attention, and gives an
agreeable interest even in the most tiresome researches. When a young
man perceives that his preceptor becomes in this manner the companion
of his exertions, he loses all suspicion that he is compelled to
mental labour; it is improper to say _loses_, for in a good education
this suspicion need not ever be created: he discovers, we should
rather say, that all the habits of attention which he has acquired,
are those which are useful to men as well as to children, and he feels
the advantage of his cultivated powers on every fresh occasion. He
will perceive, that young men who have been ill educated, cannot, by
any motive, command their vigorous attention, and he will feel the
cause of his own superiority, when he comes to any trial of skill with
inattentive _men of genius_.
One of the arguments which Bayle uses, to prove that fortune has a
greater influence than prudence in the affairs of men, is founded upon
the common observation, that men of the best abilities cannot
frequently recollect, in urgent circumstances, what they have said or
done; the things occur to them perhaps a moment after they are past.
The fact seems to be, that they could not, in the proper moment,
command their attention; but this we should attribute to the want of
prudence in their early education. Thus, Bayle's argument does not, in
this point of view, prove any thing in favour of fortune. Those who
can best command their attention, in the greatest variety of
circumstances, have the most useful abilities; without this command of
mind, men of genius, as they are called, are helpless beings; with it,
persons of inferior capacity become valuable. Addison trembled and
doubted, and doubted and trembled, when he was to write a common
official paper; and it is said, that he was absolutely obliged to
resign his place, because he could not decide in time whether he
should write a _that_ or a _which_. No business could have been
transacted by such an imbecile minister.
To substitute voluntary for associated attention, we may withdraw some
of the usually associated circumstances, and increase the excitement;
and we may afterwards accustom the pupil to act from the hope of
distant pleasures. Unless children can be actuated by the view of
future distant advantage, they cannot be capable of long continued
application. We shall endeavour to explain how the value of distant
pleasures can be increased, and made to act with sufficient force upon
the mind, when we hereafter speak of judgment and of imagination.
It has been observed, that persons of wit and judgment have perhaps
originally the same powers, and that the difference in their
characters arises from their habits of attention, and the different
class of objects to which they have turned their thoughts. The manner
in which we are first taught to observe, and to reason, must in the
first years of life decide these habits. There are two methods of
teaching; one which ascends from particular facts to general
principles, the other which descends from the general principles to
particular facts; one which builds up, another which takes to pieces;
the synthetic and the analytic method. The words analysis and
synthesis are frequently misapplied, and it is difficult to write or
to speak long about these methods without confounding them: in
learning or in teaching, we often use them alternately. We first
observe particulars; then form some general idea of classification;
then descend again to new particulars, to observe whether they
correspond with our principle.
Children acquire knowledge, and their attention alternates from
particular to general ideas, exactly in the same manner. It has been
remarked, that men who have begun by forming suppositions, are
inclined to adapt and to compress their consequent observations to
the measure of their theories; they have been negligent in collecting
facts, and have not condescended to try experiments. This disposition
of mind, during a long period of time, retarded improvement, and
knowledge was confined to a few peremptory maxims and exclusive
principles. The necessity of collecting facts, and of trying
experiments, was at length perceived; and in all the sciences this
mode has lately prevailed: consequently, we have now on many subjects
a treasure of accumulated facts. We are, in educating children, to put
them in possession of all this knowledge; and a judicious preceptor
will wish to know, not only how these facts can be crammed speedily
into his pupil's memory, but what order of presenting them will be
most advantageous to the understanding; he will desire to cultivate
his pupil's faculties, that he may acquire new facts, and make new
observations after all the old facts have been arranged in his mind.
By a judicious arrangement of past experiments, and by the rejection
of what are useless, an able instructer can show, in a small compass,
what it has cost the labour of ages to accumulate; he may teach in a
few hours what the most ingenious pupil, left to his own random
efforts, could not have learned in many years. It would take up as
much time to go over all the steps which have been made in any
science, as it originally cost the first discoverers. Simply to repeat
all the fruitless experiments which have been made in chemistry, for
instance, would probably employ the longest life that ever was devoted
to science; nor would the individual have got one step forwarder; he
would die, and with him his recapitulated knowledge; neither he nor
the world would be the better for it. It is our business to save
children all this useless labour, and all this waste of the power of
attention. A pupil, who is properly instructed, with the same quantity
of attention, learns, perhaps, a hundred times as much in the same
time, as he could acquire under the tuition of a learned preceptor
ignorant in the art of teaching.
The analytic and synthetic methods of instruction will both be found
useful when judiciously employed. Where the enumeration of particulars
fatigues the attention, we should, in teaching any science, begin by
stating the general principles, and afterwards produce only the facts
essential to their illustration and proof. But wherever we have not
accumulated a sufficient number of facts to be accurately certain of
any general principle, we must, however tedious the task, enumerate
all the facts that are known, and warn the pupil of the imperfect
state of the science. All the facts must, in this case, be stored up
with scrupulous accuracy; we cannot determine which are unimportant,
and which may prove essentially useful: this can be decided only by
future experiments. By thus stating honestly to our pupils the extent
of our ignorance, as well as the extent of our knowledge; by thus
directing attention to the imperfections of science, rather than to
the study of theories, we shall avoid the just reproaches which have
been thrown upon the dogmatic vanity of learned preceptors.
"For as knowledges are now," says Bacon, "there is a kind of contract
of errour between the deliverer and receiver; for he that delivereth
knowledge, desireth to deliver it in such a form as may be best
believed, and not as may be best examined; and he that receiveth
knowledge, desireth rather present satisfaction than expectant
inquiry; and so rather not to doubt, than not to err; glory making the
author not to lay open his weakness, and sloth making the disciple not
to know his strength."[32]
FOOTNOTES:
[13] V. Preface to Berthollet's Chemical Nomenclature.
[14] V. Condillac's "Art de Penser."
[15] Major Cartwright. See his Journal, &c.
[16] V. Chapter on Mechanics.
[17] V. Adela and Theodore.
[18] Chapter on Tasks.
[19] Zoonomia, vol. i. page 435.
[20] Cicero.
[21] Lucian.
[22] "And lends his little soul at every stroke." _Virg._
[23] V. Chapter II. on Tasks.
[24] Apercues.
[25] Deinology.
[26] V. Condillac Art de Penser.
[27] Mr. Owen.
[28] Mr. Erskine--The Star.
[29] V. Life of John Elwes, Esq. by T. Topham.
[30] V. Chapter on Toys.
[31] Zoonomia, vol. i. p. 21, 24.
[32] Bacon, vol. i. page 84.