Importance of Attention:
A DIALOGUE.
Charles sitting with his book in his hand; his mother at work.
Charles. Mother! is it almost school-time?
Mother. No; you have full half an hour.
Charles. Only half an hour? Will you hear me try to say this lesson again?
Mother. No, for I am sure you will say it no better than before.
Charles. Why, mother?
Mother. Because you have not been studying. I have been looking at you from time to time, and have scarcely seen your eyes fixed once on your book.
Charles. I was only watching Jerry, for fear he would weed up my young balsams.
Mother. I fancy Jerry knows what he is about.
Charles. Well; I will study now.
Mother. Do you generally whistle when you study, Charles?
Charles. Was I whistling?
Mother. Yes, and with your eyes fixed on my canary bird.
Charles. Well, mother, I can’t help it. This is the hardest and stupidest lesson that ever was.
Mother. And yet you told me your cousin Richard learned it, yesterday, in twenty minutes.
Charles. Then it is I that am stupid, I suppose.
Mother. I rather think not. I believe your memory is as good as Richard’s.
Charles. Oh, mother! he always learns his lessons quicker than I do.
Mother. And does that prove that his memory is better?
Charles. To be sure it does.
Mother. When you are at play, does he remember things better than you do?
Charles. Why, no, I believe not.
Mother. Did not you tell us as much about the lecture the other night, when you came home, as he did?
Charles. Yes, and more too; father said I did.
Mother. That required memory certainly. I do not think you have any right to lay blame on any natural defect.
Charles. Oh, I did not mean to say that; but all I know is that Richard gets his lessons quicker than I do; and what can the reason be? He is not three weeks older than I am, and don’t seem a bit cleverer than I am about other things.
Mother. Did you ever happen to sit near him, when he was studying?
Charles. Yes, that I have, and I would rather sit next any boy in school.
Mother. Why?
Charles. Oh, I don’t know; there’s no comfort in it. He is as dumpy and cross over his books as a dog with a bone. He won’t let anybody speak to him.
Mother. What, not to ask a reasonable question?
Charles. Oh! as to that, he helps me sometimes, when I get stuck; he is always good-natured enough about that; but what I mean is, if I ask him to look at anything funny, or want to talk to him about any of our plays, a minute, he says I disturb him, and take off his attention; and if I go on, just to fidget him a little, he takes up his books and marches off somewhere else.
Mother. He complains that you take off his attention, does he?
Charles. Yes, mother; is not that cross in him?
Mother. Richard has learned a very important secret, I see.
Charles. A secret? What? one that helps him get his lessons?
Mother. Yes.
Charles. I wish poor I could find it out.
Mother. I can tell it to you in one word which you used just now. It is as good as “Open Sesame” in the play of the Forty Thieves which you read the other day.
Charles. What can it be?
Mother. Attention—Charles—attention! that will open the door of your mind and let the lesson in.
Charles. Oh dear! I wish bawling the word out aloud would answer the purpose.
Mother. I cannot say that it will, so my comparison is not a good one; but I wished to fix your attention, so I referred to something that had amused you. But, in good earnest, Charles, the only reason why Richard learns quicker than you do is, that he never allows himself to think of anything else while he is getting his lesson. You speak of yourself as studying as long as you are holding the book in your hand, though in fact you are not studying one quarter of the time. What is studying, Charles?
Charles. Trying to fix something in my mind.
Mother. Very good; a better answer than I expected. Now, were you trying to fix your lesson in your mind while you were watching Jerry? or while you were scratching with your pencil on that window-seat? or whistling to my canary bird?
Charles. No, indeed.
Mother. Yet during the three quarters of an hour you have sat at the window, with a book in your hand, these have been your principal employments. Once or twice you began to read the lesson over to yourself, but something would draw off your attention in the midst; your thoughts were gone from it in an instant; the slight impression it had made was effaced; and when you returned to your task, you were just where you had been ten minutes before. Yet at nine o’clock you would jump up in dismay, exclaiming, “There, I have been studying this plaguy lesson more than an hour, and I can’t say it yet. Is it not enough to discourage a body, mother?”
Charles, (laughing.) That’s just my whine, mother; but the plain truth of the matter is, I do get discouraged. I don’t see any use in working so hard.
Mother. But you would not have to work so hard—or at least not near so long, if you would go to work in the right way.
Charles. But it is the working at all that I object to, mother. I don’t know but I might like study better if I could see any use in it; but as long as I can read and write, I shan’t look like a fool; and what is the use of cracking my brains about anything more?
Mother. I should be very sorry to have you crack your brains with study, Charles. Do you feel as if there were any danger of it?
Charles. Why no, not exactly. But why need I study?
Mother. You cannot conceive of any pleasure in acquiring knowledge, then?
Charles. Oh, yes; I like to know all I can by reading interesting books; I like to read some histories, and biographies, and travels. That all comes very easy; that is amusement.
Mother. Are you sure that while skimming books in this manner, for amusement, you are really laying up much knowledge that you can make useful? Do you ever stop to reflect upon it and arrange it?—or is it all jumbled together in your mind? Have you never made strange blunders in talking about the very books you had read?
Charles. Why, yes, I must own that I have; and I have got laughed at, sometimes.
Mother. That is only one of the evils to which you will be exposed by being superficial. My dear, you cannot get along even respectably in well-informed society without disciplining your mind to habits of attention and reflection; and one great advantage of youthful study is, that it does so discipline the mind.
Charles. Well, you and father talk about “habits of the mind,” and “disciplining the mind,” and tell me to leave off this habit of thinking, and that habit of not thinking, just as you tell me to cure myself of twirling this button on my jacket!
Mother. And don’t you understand what we mean?
Charles. Oh yes, I see the sense of it.
Mother. And do not you think that with perseverance you can accomplish what we wish? You do not mean to tell us that you cannot manage your own mind?
Charles. But it is so hard! And to go back to this matter of study, mother; when I talked to sister Ellen about it, yesterday, she said that if I did not study I never could be a lawyer, or a minister, or a doctor, or a merchant, or anything of the sort. Now why need I be either?
Mother. What would you like to be?
Charles. Just a gentleman.
Mother. An idle gentleman?
Charles. No, not an idle one. I should like to pass my time in reading and accomplishments.
Mother. What accomplishments do you mean?
Charles. Music and drawing; is not that what people mean by accomplishments?
Mother. But are you not aware that it requires study and close attention to master these little matters of music and drawing, particularly for those who have not an uncommon taste for them?
Charles. Does it? Well, then I would let the music and drawing alone. I dare say I should find some way of passing my time.
Mother. My son, I fear you would indeed, if we could cruelly permit you to enter on life devoid of some of its best resources against the temptations that beset the idle. A young man, in the situation which you have just described, would be almost certain to seek occupation and excitement from drinking and cards. The strongest religious principles might save him, but the conflict would be terrible,—the result doubtful; and I cannot think of the danger without tears.
Charles. Dear mother, you do not think I should ever be a wicked man, do you?
Mother. I cannot tell. I cannot bear to think of it. We will talk of another part of this subject; for it is very necessary that I should. All this while, you have said nothing of the way in which you are to be supported in the easy life you propose.
Charles. Supported? what am I to live on? On my fortune.
Mother. And where is it?
Charles. Ah, I have none now; but then there is father so rich, and only Ellen and I. Of course, he won’t leave his money to anybody else, will he?
Mother. How can you be sure that he will not leave it to an hospital? You know he has given much to public charities.
Charles. Ah, mother, you know he will not neglect us!
Mother. Stranger things have happened; but, however, I do not think it at all likely that you will lose your fortune in that way. But why should you so entirely forget the passage of scripture—“Riches take to themselves wings?” Ought you not to be prepared with some way of supporting yourself, supposing that text should be verified in your case?
Charles. But, somehow or other, I don’t believe it will be.
Mother. That is a blind, boyish belief to rest upon. How do you know that your father is now rich?
Charles. Why, all the boys in school say he is one of the richest men in the city. And then, mother, have we not always lived like rich people?
Mother. That may be a sign that we always have been rich, but not that we shall be—not that we are, Charles!
Charles. I don’t understand you, mother.
Mother. I must make you comprehend me, my dear boy. Your father told me I must talk with you to-day, and I intended to wait till you returned, at night; but this is a better opportunity. Have you not seen that your father has been more taken up with his business than usual, for some weeks past? Have you not observed that he was very thoughtful?
Charles. Yes, mother; at least, I did after Ellen mentioned it to me, for she observes more than I do. What is the matter?
Mother. Your father will fail to-morrow, Charles.
Charles. Fail! and what is failing, mother? I hear people talk about failing, and say “such a man has failed,” and I know it is something bad; but what is it?
Mother. It is when a man owes more money than he can pay, and gives up all his property to be divided among his creditors.
Charles. And is that what has happened to father? And will he give up everything he has in the world? That is very bad.
Mother. Certainly. He would not have any man lose a cent of money on his account. Would you wish that he should wrong those who trusted him?
Charles. Oh no! I should rather study from morning till night, if that would do any good.
Mother. You perceive, Charles, that it will be necessary for you to get your mind into right habits of attention; for you will have to support yourself, at least. It is even possible that your parents, in their old age, may require some assistance from you. Your father can hardly hope to acquire even a moderate fortune again, before he will be an old man.
Charles. Oh, mother! it almost makes my head ache to think of all this, for I don’t seem to understand yet that it is really so, though I try with all my might to—to—
Mother. Realize it?
Charles. Yes, that is the word I was after. And what did you do, when father told you about it, mother? Did you not cry?
Mother. I did, when I was alone, Charles; for I have lived in this house ever since I was married, and I love it; and I love the furniture, which my parents gave me;—but it must all be sold.
Charles. Why, where shall we live?
Mother. In a small house of mine at the south-end, where your nurse used to live. But I shed more tears at first about you and Ellen. We cannot afford to educate you as we intended.
Charles. And there was I complaining this very morning about having to study!
Mother. Your thoughtless words made my heart ache, Charles!
Charles. If I have to get my living, why cannot I be a lawyer?
Mother. Your father cannot send you to college; your studies must all be directed towards preparing to enter a counting-room as soon as possible. Your father’s mercantile friends respect him, for striving to pay all his debts, and they will help you. But, Charles, you will find it necessary to give your most earnest attention to your new pursuits.
Charles. That I will, mother! I will find out how cousin Richard manages his mind. Attention! yes, indeed I will. I shall think of nothing now but what I ought. I shall never waste my time again.
Mother. You promise confidently, Charles; and in truth I shall shed fewer tears, if I find this change in our situation may benefit my beloved son’s character. It was too plain that the expectation of a fortune from your father was injuring you. Wipe your eyes, Charles, and go to school. Your quarter will close next Saturday, and then we must take you from that expensive school. But wherever you go, I think you will find that study—real study—will make difficult things soon become easy; and there will be a pleasure in it you have never known, while holding your book indolently with a wandering mind.
