Whoever treats of interest inevitably2 treats of attention, for to say that an object is interesting is only another way of saying that it excites attention. But in addition to the attention which any object already interesting or just becoming interesting claims — passive attention or spontaneous attention, we may call it — there is a more deliberate attention — voluntary attention or attention with effort, as it is called — which we can give to objects less interesting or uninteresting in themselves. The distinction between active and passive attention is made in all books on psychology3, and connects itself with the deeper aspects of the topic. From our present purely4 practical point of view, however, it is not necessary to be intricate; and passive attention to natively interesting material requires no further elucidation5 on this occasion. All that we need explicitly6 to note is that, the more the passive attention is relied on, by keeping the material interesting; and the less the kind of attention requiring effort is appealed to; the more smoothly7 and pleasantly the classroom work goes on. I must say a few more words, however, about this latter process of voluntary and deliberate attention.
One often hears it said that genius is nothing but a power of sustained attention, and the popular impression probably prevails that men of genius are remarkable8 for their voluntary powers in this direction. But a little introspective observation will show any one that voluntary attention cannot be continuously sustained — that it comes in beats. When we are studying an uninteresting subject, if our mind tends to wander, we have to bring back our attention every now and then by using distinct pulses of effort, which revivify the topic for a moment, the mind then running on for a certain number of seconds or minutes with spontaneous interest, until again some intercurrent idea captures it and takes it off. Then the processes of volitional9 recall must be repeated once more. Voluntary attention, in short, is only a momentary10 affair. The process, whatever it is, exhausts itself in the single act; and, unless the matter is then taken in hand by some trace of interest inherent in the subject, the mind fails to follow it at all. The sustained attention of the genius, sticking to his subject for hours together, is for the most part of the passive sort. The minds of geniuses are full of copious11 and original associations. The subject of thought, once started, develops all sorts of fascinating consequences. The attention is led along one of these to another in the most interesting manner, and the attention never once tends to stray away.
In a commonplace mind, on the other hand, a subject develops much less numerous associates: it dies out then quickly; and, if the man is to keep up thinking of it at all, he must bring his attention back to it by a violent wrench12. In him, therefore, the faculty13 of voluntary attention receives abundant opportunity for cultivation15 in daily life. It is your despised business man, your common man of affairs, (so looked down on by the literary awarders of fame) whose virtue16 in this regard is likely to be most developed; for he has to listen to the concerns of so many uninteresting people, and to transact17 so much drudging detail, that the faculty in question is always kept in training. A genius, on the contrary, is the man in whom you are least likely to find the power of attending to anything insipid18 or distasteful in itself. He breaks his engagements, leaves his letters unanswered, neglects his family duties incorrigibly19, because he is powerless to turn his attention down and back from those more interesting trains of imagery with which his genius constantly occupies his mind.
Voluntary attention is thus an essentially20 instantaneous affair. You can claim it, for your purposes in the schoolroom, by commanding it in loud, imperious tones; and you can easily get it in this way. But, unless the subject to which you thus recall their attention has inherent power to interest the pupils, you will have got it for only a brief moment; and their minds will soon be wandering again. To keep them where you have called them, you must make the subject too interesting for them to wander again. And for that there is one prescription21; but the prescription, like all our prescriptions22, is abstract, and, to get practical results from it, you must couple it with mother-wit.
The prescription is that the subject must be made to show new aspects of itself; to prompt new questions; in a word, to change. From an unchanging subject the attention inevitably wanders away. You can test this by the simplest possible case of sensorial attention. Try to attend steadfastly23 to a dot on the paper or on the wall. You presently find that one or the other of two things has happened: either your field of vision has become blurred24, so that you now see nothing distinct at all, or else you have involuntarily ceased to look at the dot in question, and are looking at something else. But, if you ask yourself successive questions about the dot — how big it is, how far, of what shape, what shade of color, etc.; in other words, if you turn it over, if you think of it in various ways, and along with various kinds of associates — you can keep your mind on it for a comparatively long time. This is what the genius does, in whose hands a given topic coruscates25 and grows. And this is what the teacher must do for every topic if he wishes to avoid too frequent appeals to voluntary attention of the coerced26 sort. In all respects, reliance upon such attention as this is a wasteful27 method, bringing bad temper and nervous wear and tear as well as imperfect results. The teacher who can get along by keeping spontaneous interest excited must be regarded as the teacher with the greatest skill.
There is, however, in all schoolroom work a large mass of material that must be dull and unexciting, and to which it is impossible in any continuous way to contribute an interest associatively derived28. There are, therefore, certain external methods, which every teacher knows, of voluntarily arousing the attention from time to time and keeping it upon the subject. Mr. Fitch has a lecture on the art of securing attention, and he briefly29 passes these methods in review; the posture30 must be changed; places can be changed. Questions, after being answered singly, may occasionally be answered in concert. Elliptical questions may be asked, the pupil supplying the missing word. The teacher must pounce31 upon the most listless child and wake him up. The habit of prompt and ready response must be kept up. Recapitulations, illustrations, examples, novelty of order, and ruptures32 of routine — all these are means for keeping the attention alive and contributing a little interest to a dull subject. Above all, the teacher must himself be alive and ready, and must use the contagion33 of his own example.
But, when all is said and done, the fact remains34 that some teachers have a naturally inspiring presence, and can make their exercises interesting, while others simply cannot. And psychology and general pedagogy here confess their failure, and hand things over to the deeper springs of human personality to conduct the task.
* * * * *
A brief reference to the physiological theory of the attentive35 process may serve still further to elucidate36 these practical remarks, and confirm them by showing them from a slightly different point of view.
What is the attentive process, psychologically considered? Attention to an object is what takes place whenever that object most completely occupies the mind. For simplicity’s sake suppose the object be an object of sensation — a figure approaching us at a distance on the road. It is far off, barely perceptible, and hardly moving: we do not know with certainty whether it is a man or not. Such an object as this, if carelessly looked at, may hardly catch our attention at all. The optical impression may affect solely37 the marginal consciousness, while the mental focus keeps engaged with rival things. We may indeed not ‘see’ it till some one points it out. But, if so, how does he point it out? By his finger, and by describing its appearance — by creating a premonitory image of where to look and of what to expect to see. This premonitory image is already an excitement of the same nerve-centres that are to be concerned with the impression. The impression comes, and excites them still further; and now the object enters the focus of the field, consciousness being sustained both by impression and by preliminary idea. But the maximum of attention to it is not yet reached. Although we see it, we may not care for it; it may suggest nothing important to us; and a rival stream of objects or of thoughts may quickly take our mind away. If, however, our companion defines it in a significant way, arouses in the mind a set of experiences to be apprehended39 from it — names it an enemy or as a messenger of important tidings — the residual40 and marginal ideas now aroused, so far from being its rivals, become its associates and allies. They shoot together into one system with it; they converge41 upon it; they keep it steadily42 in focus; the mind attends to it with maximum power.
The attentive process, therefore, at its maximum may be physiologically43 symbolized44 by a brain-cell played on in two ways, from without and from within. Incoming currents from the periphery45 arouse it, and collateral46 currents from the centres of memory and imagination re-enforce these.
In this process the incoming impression is the newer element; the ideas which re-enforce and sustain it are among the older possessions of the mind. And the maximum of attention may then be said to be found whenever we have a systematic47 harmony or unification between the novel and the old. It is an odd circumstance that neither the old nor the new, by itself, is interesting: the absolutely old is insipid; the absolutely new makes no appeal at all. The old in the new is what claims the attention — the old with a slightly new turn. No one wants to hear a lecture on a subject completely disconnected with his previous knowledge, but we all like lectures on subjects of which we know a little already, just as, in the fashions, every year must bring its slight modification48 of last year’s suit, but an abrupt49 jump from the fashion of one decade into another would be distasteful to the eye.
The genius of the interesting teacher consists in sympathetic divination50 of the sort of material with which the pupil’s mind is likely to be already spontaneously engaged, and in the ingenuity51 which discovers paths of connection from that material to the matters to be newly learned. The principle is easy to grasp, but the accomplishment52 is difficult in the extreme. And a knowledge of such psychology as this which I am recalling can no more make a good teacher than a knowledge of the laws of perspective can make a landscape painter of effective skill.
A certain doubt may now occur to some of you. A while ago, apropos53 of the pugnacious54 instinct, I spoke55 of our modern pedagogy as being possibly too ‘soft.’ You may perhaps here face me with my own words, and ask whether the exclusive effort on the teacher’s part to keep the pupil’s spontaneous interest going, and to avoid the more strenuous56 path of voluntary attention to repulsive57 work, does not savor58 also of sentimentalism. The greater part of schoolroom work, you say, must, in the nature of things, always be repulsive. To face uninteresting drudgery59 is a good part of life’s work. Why seek to eliminate it from the schoolroom or minimize the sterner law?
A word or two will obviate60 what might perhaps become a serious misunderstanding here.
It is certain that most schoolroom work, till it has become habitual61 and automatic, is repulsive, and cannot be done without voluntarily jerking back the attention to it every now and then. This is inevitable62, let the teacher do what he will.
It flows from the inherent nature of the subjects and of the learning mind. The repulsive processes of verbal memorizing, of discovering steps of mathematical identity, and the like, must borrow their interest at first from purely external sources, mainly from the personal interests with which success in mastering them is associated, such as gaining of rank, avoiding punishment, not being beaten by a difficulty and the like. Without such borrowed interest, the child could not attend to them at all. But in these processes what becomes interesting enough to be attended to is not thereby63 attended to without effort. Effort always has to go on, derived interest, for the most part, not awakening64 attention that is easy, however spontaneous it may now have to be called. The interest which the teacher, by his utmost skill, can lend to the subject, proves over and over again to be only an interest sufficient to let loose the effort. The teacher, therefore, need never concern himself about inventing occasions where effort must be called into play. Let him still awaken65 whatever sources of interest in the subject he can by stirring up connections between it and the pupil’s nature, whether in the line of theoretic curiosity, of personal interest, or of pugnacious impulse. The laws of mind will then bring enough pulses of effort into play to keep the pupil exercised in the direction of the subject. There is, in fact, no greater school of effort than the steady struggle to attend to immediately repulsive or difficult objects of thought which have grown to interest us through their association as means, with some remote ideal end.
The Herbartian doctrine66 of interest ought not, therefore, in principle to be reproached with making pedagogy soft. If it do so, it is because it is unintelligently carried on. Do not, then, for the mere67 sake of discipline, command attention from your pupils in thundering tones. Do not too often beg it from them as a favor, nor claim it as a right, nor try habitually68 to excite it by preaching the importance of the subject. Sometimes, indeed, you must do these things; but, the more you have to do them, the less skilful69 teacher you will show yourself to be. Elicit70 interest from within, by the warmth with which you care for the topic yourself, and by following the laws I have laid down.
If the topic be highly abstract, show its nature by concrete examples. If it be unfamiliar71, trace some point of analogy in it with the known. If it be inhuman72, make it figure as part of a story. If it be difficult, couple its acquisition with some prospect73 of personal gain. Above all things, make sure that it shall run through certain inner changes, since no unvarying object can possibly hold the mental field for long. Let your pupil wander from one aspect to another of your subject, if you do not wish him to wander from it altogether to something else, variety in unity14 being the secret of all interesting talk and thought. The relation of all these things to the native genius of the instructor74 is too obvious to need comment again.
One more point, and I am done with the subject of attention. There is unquestionably a great native variety among individuals in the type of their attention. Some of us are naturally scatterbrained, and others follow easily a train of connected thoughts without temptation to swerve75 aside to other subjects. This seems to depend on a difference between individuals in the type of their field of consciousness. In some persons this is highly focalized and concentrated, and the focal ideas predominate in determining association. In others we must suppose the margin38 to be brighter, and to be filled with something like meteoric76 showers of images, which strike into it at random77, displacing the focal ideas, and carrying association in their own direction. Persons of the latter type find their attention wandering every minute, and must bring it back by a voluntary pull. The others sink into a subject of meditation78 deeply, and, when interrupted, are ‘lost’ for a moment before they come back to the outer world.
The possession of such a steady faculty of attention is unquestionably a great boon79. Those who have it can work more rapidly, and with less nervous wear and tear. I am inclined to think that no one who is without it naturally can by any amount of drill or discipline attain80 it in a very high degree. Its amount is probably a fixed81 characteristic of the individual. But I wish to make a remark here which I shall have occasion to make again in other connections. It is that no one need deplore82 unduly83 the inferiority in himself of any one elementary faculty. This concentrated type of attention is an elementary faculty: it is one of the things that might be ascertained84 and measured by exercises in the laboratory. But, having ascertained it in a number of persons, we could never rank them in a scale of actual and practical mental efficiency based on its degrees. The total mental efficiency of a man is the resultant of the working together of all his faculties85. He is too complex a being for any one of them to have the casting vote. If any one of them do have the casting vote, it is more likely to be the strength of his desire and passion, the strength of the interest he takes in what is proposed. Concentration, memory, reasoning power, inventiveness, excellence86 of the senses — all are subsidiary to this. No matter how scatter-brained the type of a man’s successive fields of consciousness may be, if he really care for a subject, he will return to it incessantly88 from his incessant87 wanderings, and first and last do more with it, and get more results from it, than another person whose attention may be more continuous during a given interval89, but whose passion for the subject is of a more languid and less permanent sort. Some of the most efficient workers I know are of the ultra-scatterbrained type. One friend, who does a prodigious90 quantity of work, has in fact confessed to me that, if he wants to get ideas on any subject, he sits down to work at something else, his best results coming through his mind-wanderings. This is perhaps an epigrammatic exaggeration on his part; but I seriously think that no one of us need be too much distressed91 at his own shortcomings in this regard. Our mind may enjoy but little comfort, may be restless and feel confused; but it may be extremely efficient all the same.
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1
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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volitional
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| adj.意志的，凭意志的，有意志的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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incorrigibly
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| adv.无法矫正地；屡教不改地；无可救药地；不能矫正地 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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coruscates
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| v.闪光，闪烁( coruscate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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coerced
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| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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ruptures
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| n.（体内组织等的）断裂( rupture的名词复数 )；爆裂；疝气v.（使）破裂( rupture的第三人称单数 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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residual
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| adj.复播复映追加时间；存留下来的，剩余的 | |
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converge
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| vi.会合；聚集，集中；(思想、观点等)趋近 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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physiologically
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| ad.生理上，在生理学上 | |
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symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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periphery
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| n.(圆体的)外面；周围 | |
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collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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meteoric
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| adj.流星的，转瞬即逝的，突然的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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