ART OF SECURING ATTENTION.
Closely allied to what we have called mechanical methods is the practice of recapitulation, by diligent and thorough interrogation, not only at the end of the whole lesson, but also at the end of each separate division of it. The best teachers are always those who, in addition to a knowledge of their subject, and the other qualifications which are necessary, possess also what may be called pictorial power. By this we mean the power of describing scenes and incidents, so that they shall appear to a child's imagination as if they were really present to him. The imagination is a very active faculty in a child. It is developed far earlier, in the life of all of us, than the judgment and those reasoning powers which we are generally so anxious to cultivate. Now, how many of us are there can tell a story well, or who can so describe a thing which we have seen that those who hear our description shall think they can almost see it too? Yet a man is never a perfect teacher till he can do this; and no appeals to the reason and the conscience, and the feelings of a child, will be so effective as they might be unless we can also appeal to his imagination. Need we remind you how constantly this is recognized in the word of God; how continually the Bible writers, and especially the great Teacher himself, condescended to the weakness of man in this respect, and addressed their teachings not to the understanding directly, but indirectly, through the medium of the senses and the imagination? What else is the meaning of our Lord's parables? What else are those glowing Eastern metaphors, sparkling like rich gems over the whole surface of the Bible, but helps to the comprehension of great truths, optical instruments, so to speak, through which our dim eyes might behold doctrines and principles, and deep lessons, which otherwise they could not have perceived? Consider, again, in regard to the lessons which lie hid in allegories and stories, that we often receive them far more effectively into our minds for the very reason that they are indirect, and do not at first seem to apply to ourselves. If we obtrude our moral teaching too early, or if we begin by telling the children that we hope they will learn a useful lesson from what we are going to say, children fancy that we are preaching, and are perhaps indisposed to listen. But if we take care that the religious truth, or the rule of conduct, which we wish to enforce, seems spontaneously to grow out of the lesson, and keeps its place as an inference to be gathered from the story we are telling, it is far more likely to be efficacious. When Nathan was commissioned to reprove David, you know that if he had gone at once, and taxed him with the offense, and said, "You have committed a great sin, and I am come to rebuke you," David would probably have been prepared with some answer. But, instead of this, the prophet began to tell him a narrative: "There were two men in one city, the one rich, and the other poor." He went on further and further, detailing the various incidents of his story, till "David's anger was greatly kindled against the man, and he exclaimed, "As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely die." Not till the solemn words, "Thou art the man!" had been uttered in his hearing, did the conviction come thoroughly home to his heart that he was really guilty. Now, why was it that Nathan's method was so effective? Because David had listened with interest to the story without supposing that it concerned him. And we may see the same thing illustrated in our Lord's parables constantly, that they not only chain the attention of the listener by their pictorial character, but they set him thinking for himself, and drawing inferences about truths of the highest value almost without being aware of it. The most effective lessons which enter the human heart are not those which take the form of lessons. It is when we are least conscious of the process by which we are impressed that we are impressed most deeply. And it is for this reason, if for no other, that the indirect teaching which is wrapped up in stories and metaphors often secures more attention than teaching of a more direct and didactic kind. Suppose we endeavor to remember carefully things which we have seen, and to describe them afterward. Suppose we practice ourselves a little more than we do in the art of telling a story. Suppose, when we have read of a circumstance, or met with one which has interested us, we sit down and try to reproduce it in our own language in writing. Suppose we watch carefully the sort of illustration and metaphor which excites our own attention, and then carefully husband it in our memories, with a view to making use of it in our classes. Suppose, when we are going to give a lesson on some Bible narrative, we study all its details and all its surrounding circumstances so well, that we can almost realize the picture of it to ourselves. Suppose, in short, we always keep in view the necessity of rendering our teaching more vivid, and are always on the watch for material by which it may be made more so; I believe that we shall make a step in the right direction at least. Any man whose heart is in his work may do all this, and may become a very interesting teacher without being a poet, and without possessing any peculiar natural gifts. If you go to the seaside, and hear the rolling of the waves, or if you stand on a hill in view of some fair landscape, which the summer sun lights up with unusual glory, try to retain your impressions, and see how far you are able to convey the picture of the scene to others. If you want to give a lesson on St. Paul's preaching at Athens, try to find out what it was that the apostle could see as he stood on Mars Hill, with the temples of Minerva and of Theseus near him; with an eager inquisitive crowd thronging round his feet; with the altar, and its mysterious inscription, "To the unknown God," just in sight; and with the blue waters of the Piræus spreading out beyond. And if you will do this; and if, meanwhile, you take care that your love of illustration never betrays you into levity or trifling; that you never tell stories for the sake of telling stories, but always for the sake of some valuable lesson which the story illustrates, there can be no doubt that, by God's blessing, you will become possessed, not only of one of the best instruments for keeping up the attention of little children, but also of a key which will unlock their hearts. Do not get into a stereotyped routine method of giving lessons. You will often, at conventions, hear a good model lesson; you will admire its style and its method; you will think it, perhaps, the best lesson you ever heard. But do not suppose that is a reason for imitating its method precisely next Sabbath, and for casting all your lessons in the same mold. Different subjects admit of and require great diversity of treatment.—S. S. Hand Book.