Gentle Child Training

Gentle Measures in the Management
and Training of the Young

By Jacob Abbott, 1871
 

The principles on which a firm parental authority may be established and maintained, without violence or anger, and the right development of the moral and mental capacities be promoted—by methods in harmony with the structure and the characteristics of the young mind.

 

Section 3

 

Chapter 12. Commendation and Encouragement.

We are very apt to imagine that the disposition to do right is, or ought to be, the natural and normal condition of childhood—and that doing wrong is something unnatural and exceptional with children. As a consequence, when they do right we think there is nothing to be said. We think that the child's doing right is, or ought to be, a matter of course. It is only when they do wrong that we notice their conduct—and then, of course, with censure and reproaches. Thus our discipline consists mainly, not in gently leading and encouraging them in the right way—but in deterring them, by fault-finding and punishment, from going wrong.

Now we ought not to forget that in respect to moral conduct, as well as to mental attainments, children know nothing when they come into the world—but have everything to learn, either from the instructions or from the example of those around them. We do not propose to enter at all into the consideration of the various theological and metaphysical theories held by different classes of philosophers in respect to the native constitution and original tendencies of the human soul—but to look at the phenomena of mental and moral action in a plain and practical way, as they present themselves to the observation of mothers in the every-day walks of life. And in order the better to avoid any complication with these theories, we will take first an extremely simple case, namely, the fault of making too much noise in opening and shutting the door in going in and out of a room.

Georgie and Charlie are two boys, both about five years old—and both prone to the same fault. We will suppose that their mothers take opposite methods to correct them; Georgie's mother depending upon the influence of commendation and encouragement when he does right—and Charlie's, upon the efficacy of reproaches and punishments when he does wrong.

'One Method'.

Georgie, eager to ask his mother some question, or to obtain some permission in respect to his play, bursts into her room some morning with great noise, opening and shutting the door violently—and making much disturbance. In a certain sense he is not to blame for this, for he is wholly unconscious of the disturbance he makes. The entire cognizant capacity of his mind is occupied with the object of his request. He not only had no intention of doing any harm—but has no idea of his having done any.

His mother takes no notice of the noise he made—but answers his question—and he goes away making almost as much noise in going out as he did in coming in.

The next time he comes in it happens—entirely by accident, we will suppose—that he makes a little less noise than before. This furnishes his mother with her opportunity.

"Georgie," she says, "I see you are improving."

"Improving?" repeats Georgie, not knowing to what his mother refers.

"Yes," said his mother; "you are improving, in coming into the room without making a noise by opening and shutting the door. You did not make nearly as much noise this time as you did before when you came in. Some boys, whenever they come into a room, make so much noise in opening and shutting the door, that it is very disagreeable. If you go on improving as you have begun, you will soon come in as still as any gentleman."

The next time that Georgie comes in, he takes the utmost pains to open and shut the door as silently as possible.

He makes his request. His mother shows herself unusually ready to grant it.

"You opened and shut the door like a gentleman," she says. "I ought to do everything for you that I can, when you take so much pains not to disturb or trouble me."

'Another Method'.

Charlie's mother, on the other hand, acts on a different principle. Charlie comes in sometimes, we will suppose, in a quiet and proper manner. His mother takes no notice of this. She considers it a matter of course. By-and-by, however, under the influence of some special eagerness, he makes a great noise. Then his mother interposes. She breaks out upon him with, "Charlie, what a loud noise you make! Don't you know better than to slam the door in that way when you come in? If you can't learn to make less noise in going in and out—I shall not let you go in and out at all."

Charlie knows very well that this is an empty threat. Still, the utterance of it—and the scolding that accompanies it, irritate him a little—and the only possible good effect that can be expected to result from it is to make him try, the next time he comes in, to see how small an abatement of the noise he usually makes will do, as a kind of make-believe obedience to his mother's command. He might, indeed, honestly answer his mother's angry question by saying that he does 'not' know better than to make such a noise. He does not know why the noise of the door should be disagreeable to his mother. It is not disagreeable to 'him'. On the contrary, it is agreeable. Children always like noise, especially if they make it themselves. And although Charlie has often been told that he must not make any noise, the reason for this—namely, that though noise is a source of pleasure, generally, to children, especially when they make it themselves, it is almost always a source of annoyance and pain to grown people—has never really entered his mind so as to be actually comprehended us a practical reality. His ideas in respect to the philosophy of the transaction are, of course, exceedingly vague; but so far as he forms any idea, it is that his mother's words are the expression of some mysterious but unreasonable sensitiveness on her part, which awakens in her a spirit of fault-finding and angry-mood that vents itself upon him in blaming him for nothing at all; or, as he would express it more tersely, if not so elegantly, that she is "very cross." In other words, the impression made by the transaction upon his moral sense is that of wrong-doing on his 'mother's part'—and not at all on his own.

It is evident, when we thus look into the secret workings of this method of curing children of their faults, that even when it is successful in restraining certain kinds of outward misconduct—and is thus the means of effecting some small amount of good— the injury which it does by its reaction on the spirit of the child may be vastly greater, through the irritation and vexation which it occasions—and the impairing of his confidence in the justice and goodness of his mother.

Before leaving this illustration, it must be carefully observed that in the first-mentioned case—namely, that of Georgie—the work of curing the fault in question is not to be at all considered as 'effected' by the step taken by his mother which has been already described. That was only a beginning—a 'right' beginning, it is true—but still only a beginning. It produced in him a cordial willingness to do right, in one instance. That is a great thing—but it is, after all, only one single step. The work is not complete until a 'habit' of doing right is formed, which is another thing altogether—and requires special and continual measures directed to this particular end. Children have to be 'trained' in the way they should go—not merely shown the way—and induced to make a beginning of entering it. We will now try to show how the influence of commendation and encouragement may be brought into action in this more essential part of the process.

'Habit to be Formed'.

Having taken the first step already described, Georgie's mother finds some proper opportunity, when she can have the undisturbed and undivided attention of her boy—perhaps at night, after he has gone to his his trundle-bed—and just before she leaves him; or, perhaps, at some time while she is at work—and he is sitting by her side, with his mind calm, quiet—and unoccupied.

"Georgie," she says, "I have a plan to propose to you."

Georgie is eager to know what it is.

"You know how pleased I was when you came in so quietly today."

Georgie remembers it very well.

"It is very curious," continued his mother, "that there is a great difference between grown people and children about noise. Children 'like' almost all kinds of noises very much, especially, if they make the noises themselves; but grown people dislike them even more, I think, than children like them. If there were a number of boys in the house—and I would tell them that they might run back and forth through the rooms—and rattle and slam all the doors as they went as loud as they could, they would like it very much. They would think it excellent fun."

"Yes," says Georgie, "indeed, they would. I wish you would let us do it some day."

"But grown people," continues his mother, "would not like such an amusement at all. On the contrary, such a racket would be excessively disagreeable to them, whether they made it themselves or whether somebody else made it. So, when children come into a room where grown people are sitting—and make a noise in opening and shutting the door, it is very disagreeable. Of course, grown people always like those children the best, who come into a room quietly—and in a gentlemanly and lady-like manner."

As this explanation comes in connection with Georgia's having done right—and with the commendation which he has received for it, his mind and heart are open to receive it, instead of being disposed to resist and exclude it—as he would have been if the same things exactly had been said to him in connection with censure and reproaches for having acted in violation of the principle.

"Yes, mother," says he, "and I mean always to open and shut the door as still as I can."

"Yes, I know you 'mean' to do so," rejoined his mother, "but you will forget, unless you have some plan to make you remember it until the 'habit is formed'. Now I have a plan to propose to help you form the habit. When you get the habit once formed there will be no more difficulty.

"The plan is this: whenever you come into a room making a noise, I will simply say, 'Noise!' Then you will step back again softly and shut the door—and then come in again in a quiet and proper way. You will not go back as a punishment, for you would not have made the noise on purpose—and so would not deserve any punishment. It is only to help you remember—and so to form the habit of coming into a room in a quiet and gentlemanly manner."

Now Georgie, especially if all his mother's management of him is conducted in this spirit, will enter into this plan with great cordiality.

"I would not propose this plan," continued his mother, "if I thought that when I say 'Noise!'—and you have to go out and come in again, it would put you out of sorts—and make you cross or sullen. I am sure you will be good-natured about it—and even if you consider it a kind of punishment, that you will go out willingly—and take the punishment like a man; and when you come in again you will come in still—and look pleased and happy to find that you are carrying out the plan honorably."

Then if, on the first occasion when he is sent back, he 'does' take it good-naturedly, this must be noticed and commended.

Now, unless we are entirely wrong in all our ideas of the nature and tendencies of the childish mind, it is as certain that a course of procedure like this will be successful in curing the fault which is the subject of treatment, as that water will extinguish fire. It cures it, too, without occasioning any irritation, annoyance, or bad-mood in the mind either of mother or child. On the contrary, it is a source of real satisfaction and pleasure to them both—and increases and strengthens the bond of sympathy by which their hearts are united to each other.

'The Principle involved'.

It must be understood distinctly that this case is given only as an illustration of a principle, which is applicable to all cases. The act of opening and shutting a door in a noisy manner is altogether too insignificant a fault to deserve this long discussion of the method of curing it, were it not that methods founded on the same principles, and conducted in the same spirit—are applicable universally in all that pertains to the domestic management of children. And it is a method, too, directly the opposite of that which is often—I will not say generally—but certainly very often pursued.

The child tells the truth many times—and in some cases, perhaps, when the inducement was very strong to tell an untruth. We take no notice of these cases, considering it a matter of course that he should tell the truth. We reserve our action altogether for the first case when, overcome by a sudden temptation, he tells a lie—and then interpose with reproaches and punishment.

Perhaps nineteen times he gives up what belongs to his little brother or sister of his own accord, perhaps after a severe internal struggle. The twentieth time the result of the struggle goes the wrong way—and he attempts to retain by violence what does not belong to him. We take no notice of the nineteen cases when the little fellow did right—but come and box his ears in the one case when he does wrong.

'Origin of the Error'.

The idea on which this improper mode of treatment is founded—namely, that it is a 'matter of course' that children will do right, so that when they do right there is nothing to be said—and that doing wrong is the abnormal condition and exceptional action which alone requires the parent to interfere—is, to a great extent, a mistake. Indeed, the 'matter of course' is all the other way. As a 'matter of course' that children will do wrong! A babe will seize the plaything of another babe without the least compunction, long after it is keenly alive to the injustice and wrongfulness of having its own playthings taken by any other child. So in regard to truth.

The first impulse of all children, when they have just acquired the use of language, is to use it in such a way as to effect their object for the time being, without any sense of the sacred obligation of making the words always correspond truly with the facts. The principles of doing justice to the rights of others—to one's own damage; and of speaking the truth—when falsehood would serve the present purpose better; are principles that are developed or acquired by slow degrees—and at a later period. I say developed 'or' acquired—for different classes of metaphysicians and theologians entertain different theories in respect to the way by which the ideas of right and of duty enter into the human mind. But all will agree in this—that whatever may be the origin of the moral sense in man, it does not appear as a 'practical element of control for the conduct' until some time after the physical appetites and passions have begun to exercise their power.

Whether we regard this sense as arising from a development within of a latent principle of the soul, or as an essential element of the inherited and native constitution of man, though remaining for a time embryonic and inert, or as a habit acquired under the influence of instruction and example—all will admit that the period of its appearance as a perceptible motive of action is so delayed—and the time required for its attaining sufficient strength to exercise any real and effectual control over the conduct extends over so many of the earlier years of life, that no very material help in governing the appetites and passions and impulses can be reasonably expected from it at a very early period. Indeed, conscience, so far as its existence is manifested at all in childhood, seems to show itself chiefly in the form of the simple 'fear of detection' in what there is reason to suppose will lead, if discovered, to reproaches or punishment.

At any rate, the moral sense in childhood, whatever may be our philosophy in respect to the origin and the nature of it, cannot be regarded as a strong and settled principle on which we can throw the responsibility of regulating the conduct—and holding it sternly to its obligations. The moral sense in childhood is, on the contrary, a very tender plant, slowly coming forward to the development of its beauty and its power—and requiring the most gentle fostering and care on the part of those entrusted with the training of the infant mind; and the influence of commendation and encouragement when the youthful monitor succeeds in its incipient and feeble efforts—will be far more effectual in promoting its development, than that of censure and punishment when it fails.

'Important Caution'.

For every good thing there seems to be something in its form and semblance that is spurious and bad. The principle brought to view in this chapter has its counterfeit, in the indiscriminate praise and flattery of children by their parents, which only makes them self-conceited and vain, without at all promoting any good end. The distinction between the two might be easily pointed out, if time and space permitted; but the intelligent parent, who has rightly comprehended the method of management here described—and the spirit in which the process of applying it is to be made, will be in no danger of confounding one with the other.

This principle of noticing and commending, within proper limits and restrictions, what is right; rather than finding fault with what is wrong, will be found to be as important in the work of instruction—as in the regulation of conduct. We have, in fact, a very good opportunity of comparing the two systems, as it is a curious fact that in certain things it is almost the universal custom to adopt one method—and in certain others, the other.

'The two Methods exemplified'.

There are, for example, two arts which children have to learn, in the process of their mental and physical development, in which their faults, errors, and deficiencies are never pointed out—but in the dealings of their parents with them, all is commendation and encouragement. They are the arts of walking and talking.

The first time that a child attempts to walk alone, what a feeble, staggering—and awkward exhibition it makes. And yet its mother shows, by the excitement of her countenance—and the delight expressed by her exclamations, how pleased she is with the performance; and she, perhaps, even calls in people from the next room to see how well the baby can walk! Not a word about imperfections and failings, not a word about the tottering, the awkward reaching out of arms to preserve the balance, the crookedness of the way, the anxious expression of the countenance, or any other faults. These are left to correct themselves by the continued practice which encouragement is sure to lead to.

It is true that words would not be available in such a case for fault-finding; for a child when learning to walk would be too young to understand them. But the parent's sense of the imperfections of the performance might be expressed in looks and gestures which the child would understand; but he sees, on the contrary, nothing but indications of satisfaction and pleasure—and it is very manifest how much he is encouraged by them. Seeing the pleasure which his efforts give to the spectators, he is made proud and happy by his success—and thus he goes on making efforts to improve with alacrity and delight.

It is the same with learning to talk. The mistakes, deficiencies and errors of the first crude attempts are seldom noticed—and still more seldom pointed out by the parent. On the contrary, the child takes the impression, from the readiness with which its words are understood and the delight it evidently gives its mother to hear them, that it is going on triumphantly in its work of learning to talk, instead of feeling that its attempts are only tolerated because they are made by such a little child—and that they require a vast amount of correction, alteration and improvement, before they will be at all satisfactory. Indeed, so far from criticizing and pointing out the errors and faults, the mother very frequently meets the child half way in its progress, by actually adopting the faults and errors herself in her replies. So that when the little beginner in the use of language, as he wakes up in his crib—and stretching out his hands to his mother says, "I want to get up" she comes to take him—and replies, her face beaming with delight, "My little darling! you shall 'get up';" thus filling his mind with happiness at the idea that his mother is not only pleased that he attempts to speak—but is fully satisfied—and more than satisfied, with his success.

The result is, that in learning to walk and to talk, children always go forward with alacrity and ardor. They practice continually and spontaneously, requiring no promises of reward to allure them to effort—and no threats of punishment to overcome repugnance or aversion. It might be too much to say that the rapidity of their progress and the pleasure which they experience in making it, are owing wholly to the commendation and encouragement they receive—for other causes may cooperate with these. But it is certain that these influences contribute very essentially to the result. There can be no doubt at all that if it were possible for a mother to stop her child in its efforts to learn to walk and to talk, and explain to it—no matter how kindly—all its shortcomings, failures and mistakes—and were to make this her daily and habitual practice, the consequence would be, not only a great diminution of the ardor and animation of the little pupil, in pressing forward in its work—but also a great retardation in its progress!

'Example of the other Method'.

Let us now, for the more full understanding of the subject, go to the other extreme—and consider a case in which the management is as far as possible removed from that above referred to. We cannot have a better example than the method often adopted in schools and seminaries for teaching composition; in other words, the art of expressing one's thoughts in written language—an art which one would suppose to be so analogous to that of learning to talk—that is, to express one's thoughts in 'oral' language—that the method which was found so eminently successful in the one would be naturally resorted to in the other. Instead of that, the method often pursued is exactly the reverse. The pupil having with infinite difficulty—and with many forebodings and anxious fears, made his first attempt, brings it to his teacher. The teacher, if he is a kind-hearted and considerate man, perhaps briefly commends the effort with some such dubious and equivocal praise as it is "Very well for a beginner," or "As good a composition as could be expected at the first attempt," and then proceeds to go over the exercise in a cool and deliberate manner, with a view of revealing and bringing out clearly and conspicuously to the view, not only in front of the little author himself—but often of all his classmates and friends—every imperfection, failure, mistake, omission, or other fault which a rigid scrutiny can detect in the performance. However kindly he may do this—and however gentle the tones of his voice, still the work is criticism and fault-finding from beginning to end. The boy sits on thorns and nettles while submitting to the operation—and when he takes his marked and corrected manuscript to his seat, he feels mortified and ashamed—and is often hopelessly discouraged.

'How Faults are to be Corrected'.

Someone may, perhaps, say that pointing out the errors and faults of pupils is absolutely essential to their progress, inasmuch as, unless they are made to see what their faults are, they cannot be expected to correct them. I admit that this is true to a certain extent—but by no means to so great an extent as is often supposed. There are a great many ways of teaching pupils to do better what they are going to do, besides showing them the faults in what they have already done.

Thus, without pointing out the errors and faults which he observes, the teacher may only refer to and commend what is right, while he at the same time observes and remembers the prevailing faults, with a view of adapting his future instructions to the removal of them. These instructions, when given, will take the form, of course, of general information on the art of expressing one's thoughts in writing—and on the faults and errors to be avoided, perhaps without any, or, at least, very little allusion to those which the pupils themselves had committed. Instruction thus given, while it will have at least an equal tendency with the other mode to form the pupils to habits of correctness and accuracy, will not have the effect upon their mind of disparagement of what they have already done—but rather of aid and encouragement for them in regard to what they are next to do. In following the instructions thus given them, the pupils will, as it were, leave the faults previously committed behind them, being even, in many instances, unconscious, perhaps, of their having themselves ever committed them.

The ingenious mother will find various modes analogous to this, of leading her children forward into what is right, without at all disturbing their minds by censure of what is wrong—a course which it is perfectly safe to pursue in the case of all errors and faults which result from inadvertence or immaturity.

There is, doubtless, another class of faults—those of willful carelessness or neglect—which must be specially pointed out to the attention of the delinquents—and a degree of discredit attached to the commission of them—and perhaps, in special cases, some kind of punishment imposed, as the most proper corrective of the evil. And yet, even in cases of carelessness and neglect of duty, it will generally be found much more easy to awaken ambition, and a desire to improve, in a child—by discovering, if possible, something good in his work—and commending that, as an encouragement to him to make greater exertion the next time, than to attempt to cure him of his negligence by calling his attention to the faults which he has committed, as subjects of censure, however obvious the faults may be—and however deserving of blame.

The advice, however, made in this chapter, to employ commendation and encouragement to a great extent, rather than criticism and fault-finding, in the management and instruction of children, must, like all other general counsels of the kind, be held subject to all proper limitations and restrictions. Some mother may, perhaps, object to what is here advanced, saying, "If I am always indiscriminately praising my child's doings, he will become self-conceited and vain—and he will cease to make progress, being satisfied with what he has already attained." Of course he will—and therefore you must take care not to be always and indiscriminately praising him. You must exercise tact and good judgment, or at any rate, common sense, in properly proportioning your criticism and your praise. There are no principles of management, however sound—which may not be so exaggerated, or followed with so blind a disregard of attendant circumstances, as to produce more harm than good.

It must be especially borne in mind that the counsels here given in relation to curing the faults of children by dealing more with what is good in them than what is bad—are intended to apply to faults of ignorance, inadvertence, or habit only—and not to acts of known and willful wrong. When we come to cases of deliberate and intentional disobedience to a parent's commands, or open resistance to his authority, something different, or at least something more, is required.

'The Principle of Universal Application.'

In conclusion, it is proper to add that the principle of influencing human character and action, by noticing and commending what is right, rather than finding fault with what is wrong—is of universal application, with the mature as well as with the young. The susceptibility to this influence is in full operation in the minds of all men everywhere—and acting upon it will lead to the same results in all the relations of society. The way to awaken a stingy man to the performance of generous deeds, is not by remonstrating with him, however kindly, on his stinginess—but by watching his conduct till we find some act which bears some semblance of liberality—and commending him for that. If you have a neighbor who is surly and troublesome—tell him that he is so—and you make him worse than ever! But watch for some occasion in which he shows you some little kindness—and thank him cordially for such a good neighborly act—and he will feel a strong desire to repeat it. If mankind universally understood this principle—and would generally act upon it in their dealings with others—of course, with such limitations and restrictions as good sense and sound judgment would impose—the world would not only go on much more smoothly and harmoniously than it does now—but the progress of improvement would, I think, in all respects be infinitely more rapid.

Chapter 13. Faults of Immaturity.

A great portion of the errors and mistakes—and of what we call the follies, of children, arise from simple ignorance. Principles of philosophy, whether pertaining to external nature or to mental action, are involved which have never come home to their minds. They may have been presented—but they have not been understood and appreciated. It requires some tact—and sometimes delicate observation, on the part of the mother—to determine whether an action which she sees ought to be corrected, results from childish ignorance and inexperience, or from willful wrong-doing. Whatever may be the proper treatment in the latter case, it is evident that in the former what is required is not censure—but instruction.

'Boasting'.

A mother came into the room one day and found Johnny disputing earnestly with his cousin Jane on the question of who was the tallest—Johnny very strenuously maintaining that he was the tallest, 'because he was a boy'. His older brother, James, who was present at the time, measured them—and found that Johnny in reality was the tallest.

Now there was nothing wrong in his feeling a pride and pleasure in the thought that he was physically superior to his cousin—and though it was foolish for him to insist himself on this superiority in a boasting way, it was the foolishness of ignorance only. He had not learned the principle—which half of mankind do not seem ever to learn during the whole course of their lives—that it is far wiser and better to let our good qualities appear naturally of themselves, than to claim credit for them by boasting. It would have been much wiser for Johnny to have admitted at the outset that Jane might possibly be taller than he—and then to have awaited quietly the result of the measuring.

But we cannot blame him much for not having learned this particular wisdom at five years of age, when so many full-grown men and women never learn it at all.

Nor was there anything blameworthy in him in respect to the false logic involved in his argument, that his being a boy made him necessarily taller than his cousin, a girl of the same age. There was a 'semblance' of proof in that fact—what the logicians term a presumption. But the reasoning powers are very slowly developed in childhood. They are very seldom aided by any instruction really adapted to the improvement of them; and we ought not to expect that such children can at all clearly distinguish a semblance from a reality in ideas so extremely abstruse, as those relating to the logical connection between the premises and the conclusion in a process of rationalization.

In this case as in the other we expect them to understand at once, without instruction, what we find it extremely difficult to learn ourselves; for a large portion of mankind prove themselves utterly unable ever to discriminate between sound arguments and those which are utterly inconsequent and absurd.

In a word, what Johnny requires in such a case as this is, not ridicule to shame him out of his false reasoning, nor censure or punishment to cure him of his boasting—but simply instruction.

And this instruction, it is much better to give 'not' in direct connection with the occurrence which indicated the need of it. If you attempt to explain to your boy the folly of boasting in immediate connection with some act of boasting of his own, he feels that you are really finding fault with him; his mind instinctively puts itself into a position of defense—and the truth which you wish to impart to it finds a much less easy admission.

If, for example, in this case Johnny's mother attempts on the spot to explain to him the folly of boasting—and to show how much wiser it is for us to let our good qualities, if we have any, speak for themselves, without any direct agency of ours in claiming the merit of them, he listens reluctantly and nervously as to a scolding in disguise. If he is a well-managed boy, he waits, perhaps, to hear what his mother has to say—but it makes no impression. If he is badly trained, he will probably interrupt his mother in the midst of what she is saying, or break away from her to go on with his play.

'A right Mode of Treatment.'

If now, instead of this, the mother waits until the dispute and the transaction of measuring have passed by and been forgotten—and then takes some favorable opportunity to give the required 'instruction', the result will be far more favorable. At some time, when tired of his play, he comes to stand by her to observe her at her work, or perhaps to ask her for a story; or, after she has put him to bed and is about to leave him for the night, she says to him as follows:

"I'll tell you a story about two boys, Jack and Henry—and you shall tell me which of them came off best. They both went to the same school and were in the same class—and there was nobody else in the class but those two. Henry, who was the most diligent scholar, was at the head of the class—and Jack was below him—and, of course, as there were only two, he was at the foot.

"One day there was company at the house—and one of the ladies asked the boys how they got along at school. Jack immediately said, 'Very well. I'm next to the head of my class!' The lady then praised him—and said that he must be a very good scholar to be so high in his class. Then she asked Henry how high he was in his class. He said he was 'next to the foot.'

"The lady was somewhat surprised, for she, as well as the others present, supposed that Henry was the best scholar; they were all a little puzzled too, for Henry looked a little sportive and sly when he said it. But just then the teacher came in—and she explained the case; for she said that the boys were in the same class—and they were all that were in it; so that Henry, who was really at the head, was next one to the foot; while Jack, who was at the foot, was next but one to the head. On having this explanation made to the company, Jack felt very much confused and ashamed, while Henry, though he said nothing, could not help feeling pleased.

"And now," asks the mother, in conclusion, "which of these boys do you think came off the best?"

Johnny answers that Henry came out best.

"Yes," adds his mother, "and it is always better that people's merits, if they have any, should come out in other ways than by their own boasting of them."

It is true that this case of Henry and Jack does not correspond exactly—not even nearly, in fact—with that of Johnny and his cousin. Nor is it necessary that the instruction given in these ways should logically conform to the incident which calls them forth. It is sufficient that there should be such a degree of analogy between them, that the interest and turn of thought produced by the incident may prepare the mind for appreciating and receiving the lesson. But the mother may bring the lesson nearer if she pleases.

"I will tell you another story," she says. "There were two men at a fair. Their names were Thomas and Philip.

"Thomas was boasting of his strength. He said he was a great deal stronger than Philip. 'Perhaps you are,' said Philip. Then Thomas pointed to a big stone which was lying upon the ground—and dared Philip to try which could throw it the farthest. 'Very well,' said Philip, 'I will try—but I think it very likely you will beat me, for I know you are very strong.' So they tried—and it proved that Philip could throw it a great deal farther than Thomas could. Then Thomas went away looking very much incensed and very much ashamed, while Philip's triumph was altogether greater for his not having boasted."

The mother may, if she pleases, come still nearer than this, if she wishes to suit Johnny's individual case, without exciting any resistance in his heart to the reception of her lesson. She may bring his exact case into consideration, provided she changes the names of the actors, so that Johnny's mind may be relieved from the uneasy sensitiveness which it is so natural for a child to feel when his own conduct is directly the object of unfavorable comment. It is surprising how slight a change in the mere outward incidents of an affair will suffice to divert the thoughts of the child from himself in such a case—and enable him to look at the lesson to be imparted without personal feeling—and so to receive it more readily.

Johnny's mother may say, "There might be a story in a book about two boys that were disputing a little about which was the tallest. What do you think would be good names for the boys, if you were making up such a story?"

When Johnny has proposed the names, his mother could go on and give an almost exact narrative of what took place between Johnny and his cousin, offering just such instructions and such advice as she would like to offer; and she will find, if she manages the conversation with ordinary tact and discretion, that the lessons which she desires to impart will find a ready admission to the mind of her child, simply from the fact that, by divesting them of all direct personal application, she has eliminated from them the element of covert censure which they would otherwise have contained. Very slight disguises will, in all such cases, be found to be sufficient to veil the personal applicability of the instruction, so far as to divest it of all that is painful or disagreeable to the child. He may have a vague feeling that you mean him—but the feeling will not produce any effect of irritation or repellence.

Now, the object of these illustrations is to show that those errors and faults which, when we look at their real and intrinsic character, we see to be results of ignorance and inexperience—and not instances of willful and intentional wrong-doing, are not to be dealt with harshly—and made occasions of censure and punishment. The child does not deserve censure or punishment in such cases; what he requires is instruction. It is the bringing in of light to illuminate the path that is before him which he has yet to tread—and not the infliction of pain, to impress upon him the evil of the missteps he made, in consequence of the obscurity, in the path behind him.

Indeed, in such cases as this, it is the influence of pleasure rather than pain—that the parent will find the most efficient means of aiding him; that is, in these cases, the more pleasant and agreeable the modes by which he can impart the needed knowledge to the child—in other words, the more attractive he can make the paths by which he can lead his little charge onward in its progress towards maturity—the more successful he will be.

'Ignorance of Material Properties and Laws.'

In the example already given, the mental immaturity consisted in imperfect acquaintance with the qualities and the action of the mind—and the principles of sound reasoning. But a far larger portion of the mistakes and failures into which children fall—and for which they incur undeserved censure, are due to their ignorance of the laws of external nature—and of the properties and qualities of material objects.

A boy, for example, seven or eight years old, receives from his father a present of a knife, with a special injunction to be careful of it. He is, accordingly, very careful of it in respect to such dangers as he understands—but in attempting to bore a hole with it in a piece of wood, out of which he is trying to make a windmill, he breaks the small blade. The accident, in such a case, is not to be attributed to any censurable carelessness—but to lack of instruction in respect to the strength of such a material as steel—and the nature and effects of the degree of tempering given to knife-blades. The boy had seen his father bore holes with a gimlet—and the knife-blade was larger—in one direction at least, that is, in breadth—than the gimlet—and it was very natural for him to suppose that it was stronger. What a boy needs in such a case, therefore, is not a scolding, or punishment—but simply information.

'The Intention good'.

A girl of about the same age—a farmer's daughter, we will suppose—under the influence of a dutiful desire to aid her mother in preparing the table for breakfast, attempts to carry across the room a pitcher of milk which is too full—and she spills a portion of it upon the floor.

The mother, forgetting the good intention which prompted the act—and thinking only of the inconvenience which it occasions her, administers at once a sharp rebuke. The cause of the trouble was, simply, that the child was not old enough to understand the laws of momentum and of oscillation which affect the condition of a fluid when subjected to movements more or less irregular. She has had no theoretical instruction on the subject—and is too young to have acquired the necessary knowledge practically, by experience or observation.

It is so with a very large portion of the accidents which befall children. They arise not from any evil design, nor even anything that can properly be called carelessness, on their part—but simply from the immaturity of their knowledge in respect to the properties and qualities of the material objects with which they have to deal.

It is true that children may be—and often, doubtless, are, in fault for these accidents. The boy may have been warned by his father not to attempt to bore with his knife-blade, or the girl forbidden to attempt to carry the milk-pitcher. The fault, however, would be, even in these cases, in the disobedience—and not in the damage that accidentally resulted from it. And it would be far more reasonable and proper to reprove and punish the fault when no evil followed, than when a damage was the result; for in the latter case the damage itself acts, ordinarily, as a more than sufficient punishment.

'Misfortunes befalling Men'.

These cases are exactly analogous to a large class of accidents and calamities which happen among men. A ship-master sails from port at a time when there are causes existing in the condition of the atmosphere—and in the agencies in readiness to act upon it, that must certainly, in a few hours, result in a violent storm. He is consequently caught in the gale—and his topmasts and upper rigging are carried away. The owners do not censure him for the loss which they incur, if they are only assured that the meteorological knowledge at the captain's command at the time of leaving port was not such as to give him warning of the danger; and provided, also, that his knowledge was as advanced as could reasonably be expected from the opportunities which he had enjoyed. But we are very much inclined to hold children responsible for as much knowledge of the sources of danger around them as we ourselves, with all our experience, have been able to acquire—and are accustomed to condemn and sometimes even to punish them, for lack of this knowledge.

Indeed, in many cases, both with children and with men, the means of knowledge in respect to the danger may be fully within reach—and yet the situation may be so novel—and the combination of circumstances so peculiar—that the connection between the causes and the possible evil effects does not occur to the minds of the people engaged. An accident which has just occurred at the time of this present writing will illustrate this. A company of workmen constructing a tunnel for a railway, when they had reached the distance of some miles from the entrance, prepared a number of charges for blasting the rock—and accidentally laid the wires connected with the powder, in too close proximity to the temporary railway-track already laid in the tunnel. The charges were intended to be fired from an electric battery provided for the purpose; but a thunder-cloud came up—and the electric force from it was conveyed by the rails into the tunnel and exploded the charges—and several men were killed. No one was inclined to censure the unfortunate men for carelessness in not guarding against a contingency so utterly unforeseen by them, though it is plain that, as is often said to children in precisely analogous cases, they 'might have known'.

'Children's Studies'.—'Spelling'.

There is, perhaps, no department of the management of children in which they incur more undeserved censure—and even punishment—and are treated with so little consideration for faults arising solely from the immaturity of their minds, than in the direction of what may be called school studies. Few people have any proper appreciation of the enormous difficulties which a child has to encounter in learning to read and spell. How many parents become discouraged—and manifest their discouragement and dissatisfaction to the child in reproving and complaints, at what they consider his slow progress in learning to spell—forgetting that in the English language there are in common, every-day use eight or ten thousand words, almost all of which are to be learned separately, by a bare and cheerless toil of committing to memory, with comparatively little definite help from the sound. We have ourselves become so accustomed to seeing the word 'bear', for example, when denoting the animal, spelled 'b e a r', that we are very prone to imagine that there is something naturally appropriate in those letters and in that collocation of them, to represent that sound when used to denote that idea. But what is there in the nature and power of the letters to aid the child in perceiving—or, when told, in remembering—whether, when referring to the animal, he is to write 'bear', or 'bare', or 'bair', or 'bayr', or 'bere', as in 'where'. So with the word 'you.' It seems to us the most natural thing in the world to spell it 'y o u'. And when the little pupil, judging by the sound, writes it 'y u', we mortify him by our ridicule, as if he had done something in itself absurd. But how is he to know, except by the hardest, most meaningless—and distasteful toil of the memory, whether he is to write 'you', or 'yu', or 'yoo,' or 'ewe', or 'yew', or 'yue', as in 'flue', or even 'yo' as in 'do'—and to determine when and in what cases respectively he is to use those different forms?

The truth is, that each elementary sound that enters into the composition of words is represented in our language by so many different combinations of letters, in different cases, that the child has very little clue from the sound of a syllable, to guide him in the spelling of it. We ourselves, from long habit, have become so accustomed to what we call the right spelling—which, of course, means nothing more than the customary one—that we are apt to imagine, as has already been said, that there is some natural fitness in it; and a mode of representing the same sound, which in one case seems natural and proper, in another appears ludicrous and absurd. We smile to see 'laugh' spelled 'larf,' just as we should to see 'scarf' spelled 'scaugh', or 'scalf', as in 'half'; and we forget that this perception of apparent incongruity is entirely the result of long habit in us—and has no natural foundation—and that children cannot be sensible of it, or have any idea of it whatever. They learn, in learning to talk—what sound serves as the name by which the drops of water that they find upon the grass in the morning is denoted—but they can have no clue whatever to guide them in determining which of the various modes by which precisely that sound is represented in different words, as 'dew, do, due, du, doo' and 'dou', is to be employed in this case—and they become involved in hopeless perplexity if they attempt to imagine "'how it ought to be spelled';" and we think them stupid because they cannot extricate themselves from the difficulty on our calling upon them to "think!"

No doubt there is a reason for the particular mode of spelling each particular word in the language—but that reason is hidden in the past history of the word and in facts connected with its origin and derivation from some barbarous or dead language—and is as utterly beyond the reach of each generation of spellers—as if there were no such reasons in existence. There cannot be the slightest help in any way from the exercise of the thinking or the reasoning powers.

It is true that the variety of the modes by which a given sound may be represented is not so great in all words as it is in these examples, though with respect to a vast number of the words in common use the above are fair specimens. They were not specially selected—but were taken almost at random. And there are very few words in the language, the sound of which might not be represented by several different modes.

Take, for example, the three last words of the last sentence, which, as the words were written without any thought of using them for this purpose, may be considered, perhaps, as a fair specimen of words taken actually at random. The sound of the word 'several' might be expressed in perfect accordance with the usage of English spelling, as 'ceveral, severul, sevaral, cevural'—and in many other different modes. The combinations 'dipherant, diferunt, dyfferent, diffurunt'—and many others, would as well represent the sound of the second word as the usual mode. And so with 'modes', which, according to the analogy of the language, might as well be expressed by 'moads, mowdes, moades, mohdes', or even 'mhodes', as in 'Rhodes'.

An exceptionally precise speaker might doubtless make some slight difference in the sounds indicated by the different modes of representing the same syllable as given above; but to the ordinary appreciation of childhood, the distinction in sound between such combinations, for example, as 'a n t' in 'constant' and 'e n t' in 'different' would not be perceptible.

Now, when we consider the obvious fact that the child has to learn mechanically, without any principles whatever to guide him in discovering which, out of the many different forms, equally probable, judging simply from analogy, by which the sound of the word is to be expressed, is the right one; and considering how small a portion of his time each day is or can be devoted to this work—and that the number of words in common use, all of which he is expected to know how to spell correctly by the time that he is twelve or fifteen years of age, is probably ten or twelve thousand (there are in Webster's dictionary, considerably over a hundred thousand); when we take these considerations into account, it would seem that a parent, on finding that a letter written by his daughter, twelve or fourteen years of age, has all but three or four words spelled right, ought to be pleased and satisfied—and to express his satisfaction for the encouragement of the learner, instead of appearing to think only of the few words that are wrong—and disheartening and discouraging the child by attempts to make her ashamed of her spelling.

The case is substantially the same with the enormous difficulties to be encountered in learning to read and to write. The names of the letters, as the child pronounces them individually, give very little clue to the sound that is to be given to the word formed by them. Thus, the letters 'h i t', as the child pronounces them individually—'aitch,' 'eye,' 'tee'—would naturally spell to him some such word as 'achite', not 'hit' at all.

And as for the labor and difficulty of writing, a mother who is impatient at the slow progress of her children in the attainment of the art would be aided very much in obtaining a just idea of the difficulties which they experience by sitting upon a chair and at a table both much too high for her—and trying to copy Chinese characters by means of a hair-pencil—and with her left hand—the work to be closely inspected every day by a stern Chinaman of whom she stands in dread—and all the minutest deviations from the copy pointed out to her attention with an air of dissatisfaction and reproval!

'Effect of Ridicule'.

There is, perhaps, no one cause which exerts a greater influence in chilling the interest which children naturally feel in the acquisition of knowledge, than the depression and discouragement which result from having their mistakes and errors—for a large portion of which they are in no sense to blame—made subjects of censure or ridicule. The effect is still more decided in the case of girls than in that of boys, the gentler gender being naturally so much more sensitive. I have found in many cases, especially in respect to girls who are far enough advanced to have had a tolerably full experience of the usual influences of schools, that the fear of making mistakes—and of being "thought stupid," has had more effect in hindering and retarding progress, by repressing the natural ardor of the pupil—and destroying all alacrity and courage in the efforts to advance, than all other causes combined.

'Stupidity'.

How unkind—and even cruel—it is to reproach or ridicule a child for stupidity, is evident when we reflect that any supposed inferiority in his mental organization cannot, by any possibility, be 'his' fault. The question what degree of natural intelligence he shall be endowed with, in comparison with other children, is determined, not by himself—but by his Creator—and depends, probably, upon conditions of organization in his cerebral system as much beyond his control as anything abnormal in the features of his face, or blindness, or deafness, or any other physical disadvantage. The child who shows any indications of inferiority in any of these respects—should be the object of his parent's or his teacher's special tenderness and care. If he is near-sighted, give him, at school, a seat as convenient as possible to the blackboard. If he is hard of hearing, place him near the teacher; and for reasons precisely analogous, if you suspect him to be of inferior mental capacity, help him gently and tenderly in every possible way. Do everything in your power to encourage him—and to conceal his deficiencies both from others and from himself, so far as these objects can be attained consistently with the general good of the family or of the school.

And, at all events, let those who have in any way the charge of children, keep the distinction well defined in their minds—between the faults which result from evil intentions, or deliberate and willful neglect of known duty—and those which, whatever the inconvenience they may occasion, are in part or in whole the results of mental or physical immaturity. In all our dealings, whether with plants, or animals, or with the human soul, we ought, in our training, to act very gently in respect to all that pertains to the natural condition.

 

Chapter 14. The Activity of Children.

In order rightly to understand the true nature of that extraordinary energy and activity, which is so noticeable in all children who are in a state of health, so as to be able to deal with it on the right principles and in a proper manner—it is necessary to turn our attention somewhat carefully to certain scientific truths in respect to the nature and action of force in general, which are now abundantly established, and which throws great light on the true character of that peculiar form of it, which is so characteristic of childhood—and is, indeed, so abundantly developed by the vital functions of almost all young animals. One of the fundamental principles of this system of scientific truth is that which is called the persistence of force.

'The Persistence of Force'.

By the persistence of force, is meant the principle—that in the ordinary course of nature, no force is either ever originated or ever destroyed—but only changed in form. In other words, that all existing forces are but the continuation or prolongation of other forces preceding them, either of the same or other forms—but precisely equivalent in amount; and that no force can terminate its action in any other way, than by being transmuted into some other force, either of the same or of some other form; but still, again, precisely equivalent in amount.

It was formerly believed that a force might under certain circumstances be 'originated'—created, as it were—and hence the attempts to contrive machines for perpetual motion—that is, machines for the 'production' of force. This idea is now wholly renounced by all well-informed men as utterly impossible in the nature of things. All that human mechanism can do is to provide modes for using advantageously a force previously existing, without the possibility of either increasing or diminishing it. No existing force can be destroyed. The only changes possible are changes of direction, changes in the relation of intensity to quantity—and changes of form.

The cases in which a force is apparently increased or diminished, as well as those in which it seems to disappear, are all found, on examination, to be illusive. For example, the apparent increase of a man's power by the use of a lever is really no increase at all. It is true that, by pressing upon the outer arm with his own weight, he can cause the much greater weight of the stone to rise; but then it will rise only a very little way in comparison with the distance through which his own weight descends. His own weight must, in fact, descend through a distance as much greater than that by which the stone ascends, as the weight of the stone is greater than his weight. In other words, so far as the balance of the forces is concerned, the whole amount of the 'downward motion' consists of the smaller weight descending through a greater distance, which will be equal to the whole amount of that of the larger one ascending through a smaller distance; and, to produce a preponderance, the whole amount of the downward force must be somewhat greater. Thus the lever only 'gathers' or 'concentrates' force, as it were—but does not at all increase it.

It is so with all the other contrivances for managing force for the accomplishment of particular purposes. None of them increase the force—but only alter its form and character, with a view to its better adaptation to the purpose in view.

Nor can any force be extinguished. When a bullet strikes against a solid wall, the force of its movement, which seems to disappear, is not lost; it is converted into heat—the temperature of both the bullet and of that part of the wall on which it impinges being raised by the concussion. And it is found that the amount of the heat which is thus produced is always in exact proportion to the quantity of mechanical motion which is stopped; this quantity depending on the weight of the bullet—and on the velocity with which it was moving. And it has been ascertained, moreover, by the most careful, patient and many times repeated experiments and calculations—that the quantity of this heat is exactly the same with that which, through the medium of steam, or by any other mode of applying it, may be made to produce the same quantity of mechanical motion that was extinguished in the bullet. Thus the force was not destroyed—but only converted into another form.

'The Arrest and temporary Reservation of Force'.

Now, although it is thus impossible that any force should be destroyed, or in any way cease to exist in one form without setting in action a precisely equal amount in some other form—it may, as it were, pass into a condition of 'restraint'—and remain thus suspended and latent for an indefinite period—ready, however, to break into action again the moment that the restraint is removed. Thus a perfectly elastic spring may be bent by a certain force—and retained in the bent position a long time. But the moment that it is released it will unbend itself, exercising in so doing precisely the degree of force expended in bending it. In the same manner, air may be compressed in an air-gun—and held thus, with the force, as it were, imprisoned, for any length of time, until at last, when the detent is released by the trigger, the elastic force comes into action, exercising in its action a power precisely the same as that with which it was compressed.

Force or power may be thus, as it were, stored up in a countless variety of ways—and reserved for future action; and, when finally released, the whole amount may be set free at once, so as to expend itself in a single impulse, as in case of the arrow or the bullet; or it may be partially restrained, so as to expend itself gradually, as in the case of a clock or watch. In either case the total amount expended will be precisely the same—namely, the exact equivalent of that which was placed in store.

'Practical Applications of these Principles'.

If we watch a bird for a little while hopping along upon the ground—and up and down between the ground and the branches of a tree, we shall at first be surprised at his incessant activity—and next, if we reflect a little, at the utter aimlessness and uselessness of it. He runs a little way along the path; then he hops up upon a twig, then down again upon the ground; then "makes believe" peck at something which he imagines or pretends that he sees in the grass; then, tipping his head to one side and upward, the branch of a tree there happens to strike his eye, upon which he at once flies up to it. Perching himself upon it for the moment, he utters a burst of joyous song—and then, instantly afterwards, down he comes upon the ground again, runs along, stops, runs along a little farther, stops again, looks around for a moment, as if wondering what to do next—and then flies off out of our field of view. If we could follow—and had patience to watch him so long, we would find him continuing this incessantly changing but never-ceasing activity all the day long.

We sometimes imagine that the bird's movements are to be explained by supposing that he is engaged in the search for food in these evolutions. But when we reflect how small a quantity of food his little crop will contain, we shall be at once convinced that a large proportion of his apparent pecking for food is only make-believe—and that he moves thus incessantly not so much on account of the end he seeks to attain by it, as on account of the very pleasure of the motion. He hops about and pecks, not for the love of anything he expects to find—but just for the love of hopping and pecking.

The real explanation is that the food which he has taken is delivering up, within his system, the force stored in it that was received originally from the beams of the sun, while the plant which produced it was growing. This force must have an outlet—and it finds this outlet in the incessant activity of the bird's muscles and brain. The various objects which attract his attention, 'invite' the force to expend itself in 'certain special directions'; but the impelling cause is within—and not without; and were there nothing without to serve as objects for its action, the necessity of its action would be none the less imperious.

The lion, when imprisoned in his cage, walks to and fro continuously, if there is room for him to take two steps and turn; and if there is not room for this, he moves his head incessantly from side to side. The force within him, which his vital organs are setting at liberty from its imprisonment in his food—must in some way find outlet.

Mothers do not often stop to speculate upon—and may even, perhaps, seldom observe the restless and incessant activity of birds—but that restless and incessant activity of their children forces itself upon their attention by its effects in disturbing their own quiet avocations and pleasures; and they often wonder what can be the inducement which leads to such a perpetual succession of movements made apparently without motive or end. And, not perceiving any possible inducement to account for it, they are apt to consider this restless activity so causeless and unreasonable as to make it a fault for which the child is to be censured or punished, or which they are to attempt to cure by means of artificial restraints. They would not attempt such repressions as this, if they were aware that all this muscular and mental energy of action in the child is only the outward manifestation of an inward force developed in a manner wholly independent of its will—a force, too, which must spend itself in some way or other—and that, if not allowed to do this in its own way, by impelling the limbs and members to outward action, it will do so by destroying the delicate mechanism within. We see this in the case of men who are doomed for long periods to solitary confinement. The force derived from their food—and released within their systems by the vital processes, being cut off by the silence and solitude of the dungeon from all usual and natural outlets, begins to work mischief within, by disorganizing the cerebral and other vital organs—and producing insanity and death.

'Common Mistake'.

We make a great mistake when we imagine that children are influenced in their activity, mainly by a desire for the objects which they attain by it. It is not the ends attained—but the pleasurable feeling which the action of the internal force, issuing by its natural channels, affords them—and the sense of power which accompanies the action. An end which presents itself to be attained invites this force to act in one direction rather than another—but it is the action—and not the end, in which the charm resides.

Give a child a bow and arrow—and send him out into the yard to try it—and if he does not happen to see anything to shoot at, he will shoot at random into the air. But if there is any object which will serve as a mark in sight, it seems to have the effect of drawing his aim towards it. He shoots at the vane on the barn, at an apple on a tree, a knot in a fence—anything which will serve the purpose of a mark. This is not because he has any end to accomplish in hitting the vane, the apple, or the knot—but only because there is an impulse within him leading him to shoot—and if there happens to be anything to shoot at, it gives that impulse a direction.

It is precisely the same with the incessant muscular activity of a child. He comes into a room and sits down in the first seat that he sees. Then he jumps up and runs to another, then to another, until he has tried all the seats in the room. This is not because he particularly wishes to try the seats. He wishes to 'move'—and the seats happen to be at hand—and they simply give direction to the impulse. If he were out of doors, the same office would be fulfilled by a fence which he might climb over, instead of going through an open gate close by; or a wall that he could walk upon with difficulty, instead of going, without difficulty, along a path at the foot of it; or a pole which he could try to climb, when there was no motive for climbing it but a desire to make muscular exertion; or a steep bank where he can scramble up, when there is nothing that he wishes for on the top of it.

In other words, the things that children do, are not done for the sake of the things—but for the sake of the 'doing'.

Parents very often do not understand this—and are accordingly continually asking such foolish questions as, "George, what do you wish to climb over that fence for, when there is a gate all open close by?" "James, what good do you expect to get by climbing up that tree, when you know there is nothing on it, not even a bird's nest?" and, "Lucy, what makes you keep jumping up all the time and running about to different places? Why can't you, when you get a good seat, sit still in it?"

The children, if they understood the philosophy of the case, might answer, "We don't climb over the fence at all because we wish to be on the other side of it; or scramble up the bank for the sake of anything that is on the top of it; or run about to different places because we wish to be in the places particularly. It is the internal force that is in us working itself off—and it works itself off in the ways that come most readily to hand."

'Various Modes in which the Reserved Force reappears'.

The force thus stored in the food and liberated within the system by the vital processes, finds scope for action in several different ways, prominent among which are,

First, in the production of animal heat.

Secondly, in muscular contractions and the motions of the limbs and members resulting from them.

Thirdly, in mental phenomena connected with the action of the brain and the nerves.

This last branch of the subject is yet enveloped in great mystery; but the proof seems to be decisive that the nervous system of man comprises organs which are actively exercised in the performance of mental operations—and that in this exercise they consume important portions of the vital force. If, for example, a child is actually engaged at play—and we direct him to take a seat and sit still, he will find it very difficult to do so. The inward force will soon begin to struggle within him to find an outlet. But if, while he is so sitting, we begin to relate to him some very surprising or exciting story, to occupy his 'mind', he will become motionless—and very likely remain so until the story is ended. It is supposed that in such cases the force is drawn off, so to speak, through the cerebral organs which it is employed in keeping in play, as the instruments by which the emotions and ideas which the story awakens in the mind are evolved. This part of the subject, as has already been remarked, is full of mystery; but the general fact that a portion of the force derived from the food is expended in actions of the brain and nervous system, seems well established.

Indeed, the whole subject of the reception and the storing up of force from the sun by the processes of vegetable and animal life—and the subsequent liberation of it in the fulfillment of the various functions of the animal system, is full of difficulties and mysteries. It is only a very simple view of the 'general principle' which is presented in these articles. In nature, the operations are not simple at all. They are involved in endless complications which are yet only to a very limited extent unravelled. The general principle is, however, well established; and if understood, even as a general principle, by parents and teachers, it will greatly modify their reaction in dealing with the incessant restlessness and activity of the young. It will teach them, among other things, the following practical rules.

'Practical Rules'.

1. Never find fault with children for their incapacity to keep still. You may stop the supply of force, if you will, by refusing to give them food; but if you continue the supply, you must not complain of its manifesting itself in action. After giving your boy his breakfast, to find fault with him for being incessantly in motion when his system has absorbed it, is simply to find fault with him for being healthy and happy. To give children food and then to restrain the resulting activity, is conduct very analogous to that of the engineer who should lock the action of his engine, turn off all the stop-cocks—and shut down the safety-valve, while he still went on all the time putting in coal under the boiler. The least that he could expect would be a great hissing and fizzling at all the joints of his machine; and it would be only by means of such a degree of looseness in the joints as would allow of the escape of the imprisoned force in this way that could prevent the repression ending in a frightful catastrophe.

Now, nine-tenths of the whispering and playing of children in school—and of the noise, the crudeness—and the petty mischief of children at home, is just this hissing and fizzling of an imprisoned power—and nothing more!

In a word, we must favor and promote, by every means in our power, the activity of children—not censure and repress it. We may endeavor to turn it aside from wrong channels—that is, to prevent its manifesting itself in ways injurious to them or annoying to others. We must not, however, attempt to divert it from these channels by damming it up—but by opening other channels that will draw it away in better directions.

2. In encouraging the activity of children—and in guiding the direction of it in their hours of play, we must not expect to make it available for useful results, other than that of promoting their own physical development and health. At least, we can do this only in a very limited degree. Almost all useful results require for their attainment a long continuance of efforts of the same kind—that is, expenditure of the vital force by the continued action of the same organs. Now, it is a principle of nature, that while the organs of an animal system are in process of formation and growth, they can exercise their power only for a very brief period at a time without exhaustion. This necessitates on the part of all young animals incessant changes of action, or alternations of action and repose. A farmer of forty years of age, whose organs are well developed and mature, will chop wood all day without excessive fatigue. Then, when he comes home at night, he will sit for three hours in the evening upon the settle by his fireside, 'thinking'—his mind occupied, perhaps, upon the details of the management of his farm, or upon his plans for the following day. The vital force thus expends itself for many successive hours through his muscles—and then, while his muscles are at rest, it finds its outlet for several other hours through the brain. But in the 'child' the mode of action must change every few minutes. He is made tired with five minutes' labor. He is satisfied with five minutes' rest. He will ride his rocking-horse, if alone, a short time—and then he comes to you to ask you to tell him a story. While listening to the story, his muscles are resting—and the force is spending its strength in working the mechanism of the brain. If you make your story too long, the brain, in turn, becomes fatigued—and he feels instinctively impelled to divert the vital force again into muscular action.

If, instead of being alone with his rocking-horse, he has company there, he will 'seem' to continue his bodily effort a long time; but he does not really do so, for he stops continually, to talk with his companion, thus allowing his muscles to rest for a brief period, during which the vital force expends its strength in carrying on trains of thought and emotion through the brain.

He is not to be blamed for this seeming capriciousness. These frequent changes in the mode of action are a necessity—and this necessity evidently unfits him for any kind of monotonous or continued exertion—the only kind which, in ordinary cases, can be made conducive to any useful results.

3. Parents at home and teachers at school must recognize these physiological laws, relating to the action of the young—and make their plans and arrangements conform to them. The periods of confinement to any one mode of action in the very young—and especially mental action, must be short; and they must alternate frequently with other modes. That rapid succession of bodily movements and of mental ideas—and the emotions mingling and alternating with them, which constitutes what children call play, must be regarded not simply as an indulgence—but as a necessity for them. The play must be considered as essential as the study—and that not merely for the very young, but for all, up to the age of maturity. For older pupils, in the best institutions of the country, some suitable provision is made for this need; but the mothers of young children at home are often at a loss by what means to effect this purpose—and many are very imperfectly aware of the desirableness—and even the necessity, of doing this.

As for the means of accomplishing the object—that is, providing channels for the complete expenditure of this force in the safest and most agreeable manner for the child—and the least inconvenient and troublesome for others, much must depend upon the tact, the ingenuity and the discretion of the mother. It will, however, be a great point gained for her when she once fully comprehends that the 'tendency' to incessant activity—and even to turbulence and noise, on the part of her child, only shows that he is all right in his vital machinery—and that this exuberance of energy is something to be pleased with and directed—not denounced and restrained!

 

Chapter 15. The IMAGINATION in Children.

The reader may, perhaps, recollect that in the last chapter there was an intimation that a portion of the force which was produced, or rather liberated and brought into action, by the consumption of food in the vital system, expended itself in the development of thoughts, emotions—and other forms of mental action, through the organization of the brain and of the nerves.

'Expenditure of Force through the Brain.'

The whole subject of the expenditure of material force in maintaining those forms of mental action which are carried on through the medium of bodily organs, it must be admitted, is involved in great obscurity; for it is only a glimmering of light, which science has yet been able to throw into this field. It is, however, becoming the settled opinion, among all well-informed people, that the soul, during the time of its connection with a material system in this life, performs many of those functions which we class as mental, through the medium, or instrumentality, in some mysterious way, of material organs; just as we all know is the case with the sensations—that is, the impressions made through the organs of sense; and that the maintaining of these mental organs, so to speak, in action, involves a certain expenditure of some form of physical force, the source of this force being in the food that is consumed in the nourishment of the body.

'Phenomena explained by this Principle'.

This truth, if it be indeed a truth, throws great light on what would be otherwise quite inexplicable in the playful activity of the mental faculties of children. The curious fantasies, imaginings and make-believes—the pleasure of listening to marvelous and impossible tales—and of hearing odd and unpronounceable words or combination of words—the love of acting, and of disguises—of the impersonation of inanimate objects—of seeing things as they are not—and of creating and giving reality to what has no existence except in their own minds—are all the gambollings and frolics, so to speak, of the youthful mental faculties just becoming conscious of their existence—and affording, like the muscles of motion, so many different outlets for the internal force derived from the food.

Thus the action of the mind of a child—in holding an imaginary conversation with a doll, or in inventing or in relating an impossible fairy story, or in converting a switch on which he pretends to be riding into a prancing horse—is precisely analogous to that of the muscles of the lamb, or the calf, or any other young animal in its gambols—that is—it is the result of the force which the vital functions are continually developing within the system—and which flows and must flow continually out through whatever channels are open to it; and in thus flowing, sets all the various systems of machinery into play, each in its own appropriate manner.

In any other view of the subject than this, many of the phenomena of childhood would be still more bewildering and inexplicable, than they are. One would have supposed, for example, that the imagination—being, as is commonly thought, one of the most exalted and refined of the mental faculties of man—would be one of the last, in the order of time, to manifest itself in the development of the mind; instead of which it is, in fact, one of the earliest. Children live, in a great measure, from the earliest age in an imaginary world—their pains and their pleasures, their joys and their fears being, to a vast extent, the concomitants of phantasms and illusions having often the slightest bond of connection with the realities around them. The realities themselves, moreover, often have far greater influence over them by what they suggest, than by what they really are.

Indeed, the younger the child is, within reasonable limits, the more susceptible he seems to be to the power of the imagination—and the more easily his mind and heart are reached and influenced through this avenue. At a very early period, the realities of actual existence and the phantasms of the mind seem inseparably mingled—and it is only after much experience and a considerable development of his powers, that the line of distinction between them becomes defined. The power of investing an elongated bag of stuffing (that is, a doll) with the attributes and qualities of a thinking being, so as to make it an object of solicitude and affection, which would seem to imply a high exercise of one of the most refined and exalted of the human faculties, does not come, as we might have expected, at the end of a long period of progress and development—but springs into existence, as it were, at once, in the very earliest years. The progress and development are required to enable the child to perceive that the crude and shapeless doll, is 'not' a living and lovable thing. This mingling of the real and imaginary worlds shows itself to the close observer in a thousand curious ways.

The true explanation of the phenomenon seems to be that the various youthful faculties are brought into action by the vital force at first in a very irregular, intermingled—and capricious manner, just as the muscles are in the endless and objectless play of the limbs and members. They develop themselves and grow by this very action—and we ought not only to indulge—but to nourish the action in all its beautiful manifestations by every means in our power. These mental organs, so to speak—that is, the organs of the brain, through which, while its connection with the body continues, the mind performs its mental functions—grow and thrive, as the muscles do—by being reasonably kept in exercise.

It is evident, from these facts, that the parent should be pleased with—and should encourage the exercise of these youthful powers in his children; and both father and mother may be greatly aided in their efforts to devise means for reaching and influencing their hearts by means of them—and especially through the action of the imagination, which will be found, when properly employed, to be capable of exercising an almost magical power of imparting great attractiveness, and giving great effect to lessons of instruction which, in their simple form, would be dull, tiresome and ineffective. Precisely what is meant by this will be shown more clearly by some examples.

'Methods exemplified'.

One of the simplest and easiest modes by which a mother can avail herself of the vivid imagination of the child in amusing and entertaining him, is by holding conversations with representations of people, or even of animals, in the pictures which she shows him. Thus, in the case, for example, of a picture which she is showing to her child sitting in her lap—the picture containing, we will suppose, a representation of a little girl with books under her arm—she may say, "My little girl, where are you going?" "I am going" (speaking now in a somewhat altered voice, to represent the voice of the little girl) "to school." "Ah! you are going to school. You don't look quite old enough to go to school. Who sits next to you at school?" "George Williams." "George Williams? Is he a good boy?" "Yes, he's a very good boy." "I am glad you have a good boy—and one that is kind to you, to sit by you. That must be very pleasant." And so on, as long as the child is interested in listening.

Or, "What is your name, my little girl?" "My name is Lucy." "That's a pretty name! And where do you live?" "I live in that house under the trees." "Ah! I see the house. And where is your room in that house?" "My room is the one where you see the window open." "I see it. What have you got in your room?" "I have a bed—and a table by the window; and I keep my doll there. I have got a cradle for my doll—and a little trunk to keep her clothes in. And I have got . . ." The mother may go on in this way—and describe a great number and variety of objects in the room, such as are calculated to interest and please the little listener.

It is the pleasurable exercise of some dawning faculty or faculties acting through youthful organs of the brain, by which the mind can picture to itself, more or less vividly, unreal scenes, which is the source of the enjoyment in such cases as this.

A child may be still more interested, perhaps, by imaginary conversations of this kind with pictures of animals—and by varying the form of them in such a way as to call a new set of mental faculties into play; as, for example—Here is a picture of a rabbit. I'll ask him where he lives. "Bunny! bunny! stop a minute; I want to speak to you. I want you to tell me where you live." "I live in my hole." "Where is your hole?" "It is under that big log that you see back in the woods." "Yes" (speaking now to the child), I see the log. Do you see it? Touch it with your finger. Yes, that must be it. But I don't see any hole." "Bunny' (assuming now the tone of speaking again to the rabbit), "I don't see your hole." "No, I did not mean that anybody should see it. I made it in a hidden place in the ground, so as to have it out of sight." "I wish I could see it—and I wish more that I could look down into it and see what is there. What is there 'in' your hole, bunny?" "My nest is there—and my little bunnies." "How many little bunnies have you got?" And so on, to any extent that you desire.

It is obvious that conversations of this kind may be made the means of conveying, indirectly, a great deal of instruction to young children on a great variety of subjects; and lessons of morals and duty may be inculcated thus in a very effective manner—and by a method which is at the same time easy and agreeable for the mother—and extremely attractive to the child.

This may seem a very simple thing—and it is really very simple; but any mother who has never resorted to this method of amusing and instructing her child, will be surprised to find what an easy and inexhaustible resource for her it may become. Children are always coming to ask for stories—and the mother often has no story at hand—and her mind is too much preoccupied to invent one. Here is a ready resort in every such emergency.

"Very well," replies the mother to such a request, "I'll tell you a story; but I must have a picture to my story. Find me a picture in some book."

The child brings a picture, it does not matter what the picture is. There is no possible picture that will not suggest to a person possessed of ordinary ingenuity, an endless number of talks to interest and amuse the child. To take an extreme case, suppose the picture is a crude pencil drawing of a post—and nothing besides. You can imagine a boy hidden behind the post—and you can call to him—and finally obtain an answer from him—and have a long talk with him about his play and who he is hiding from—and what other ways he has of playing with his friend. Or you can talk with the post directly. Ask him where he came from, who put him in the ground—and what he was put in the ground for—and what kind of a tree he was when he was a part of a tree growing in the woods; and, following the subject out, the conversation may be the means of not only amusing the child for the moment—but also of gratifying his curiosity—and imparting a great amount of useful information to him which will materially aid in the development of his powers.

Or you may ask the post whether he has any relatives—and he may reply that he has a great many cousins. He has some cousins that live in the city—and they are called lamp-posts—and their business is to hold lamps to light people along the streets; and he has some other cousins who stand in a long row and hold up the telegraph-wire to carry messages from one part of the world to another; and so on, without end. If all this may done by means of a crude representation of a simple post, it may easily be seen that no picture which the child can possibly bring, can fail to serve as a subject for such conversations.

Some mothers may, perhaps, think it must require a great deal of ingenuity and skill to carry out these ideas effectively in practice—and that is true; or rather, it is true that there is in it scope for the exercise of a great deal of ingenuity and skill—and even of genius, for those who possess these qualities; but the degree of ingenuity required for a commencement in this method is very small—and that necessary for complete success in it is very easily acquired.

'Personification of Inanimate Objects'.

It will at once occur to the mother that any inanimate object may be personified in this way and addressed as a living and intelligent being. Your child is sick, I will suppose—and is somewhat feverish and fretful. In adjusting his dress you prick him a little with a pin—and the pain and annoyance acting on his morbid sensibilities bring out expressions of irritation and bad mood. Now you may, if you please, tell him that he must not be so impatient, that you did not mean to hurt him, that he must not mind a little prick—and the like; and you will meet with the ordinary success that attends such admonitions. Or, in the spirit of the foregoing suggestions, you may say, "Did the pin prick you? I'll catch the little rogue—and hear what he has to say for himself. Ah, here he is—I've caught him! I'll hold him fast. Lie still in my lap—and we will hear what he has to say.

"'Look up here, my little prickler—and tell me what your name is." "My name is pin." "Ah, your name is pin, is it? How bright you are! How did you come to be so bright?" "Oh, they brightened me when they made me." "Indeed! And how did they make you?" "They made me in a machine." "In a machine? That's very curious! How did they make you in the machine? Tell us all about it!" "They made me out of wire. First the machine cut off a piece of the wire long enough to make me—and then I was carried around to different parts of the machine to have different things done to me. I went first to one part to get straightened. Don't you see how straight I am?" "Yes, you are very straight indeed." "Then I went to another part of the machine and had my head put on; and then I went to another part and had my point sharpened; and then I was polished—and covered all over with a beautiful silvering, to make me bright and white."

And so on indefinitely. The mother may continue the talk as long as the child is interested, by letting the pin give an account of the various adventures that happened to it in the course of its life—and finally call it to account for pricking a poor little sick child.

Any mother can judge whether such a mode of treating the case, or the more usual one of gravely exhorting the child to patience and good mood, when sick, is likely to be most effectual in soothing the nervous irritation of the little patient—and restoring its mind to a condition of calmness and repose.

The mother who reads these suggestions in a cursory manner—and contents herself with saying that they are very good—but makes no resolute and persevering effort to acquire for herself the ability to avail herself of them, will have no idea of the immense practical value of them as a means of aiding her in her work—and in promoting the happiness of her children. But if she will make the attempt, she will most certainly find enough encouragement in her first effort to induce her to persevere.

She must, moreover, not only originate, herself, modes of amusing the imagination of her children—but must fall in with and aid those which 'they' originate. If your little daughter is playing with her doll, look up from your work and say a few words to the doll or the child in a grave and serious manner, assuming that the doll is a living and sentient being. If your boy is playing horsie in the garden while you are there attending to your flowers, ask him with all gravity what he values his horse at—and whether he wishes to sell him. Ask him whether he ever bites, or breaks out of his pasture; and give him some advice about not driving him too fast up hill—and not giving him oats when he is warm. He will at once enter into such a conversation in the most serious manner—and the pleasure of his play will be greatly increased by your joining with him in maintaining the illusion.

There is a still more important advantage than the temporary increase to your children's happiness by acting on this principle. By thus joining with them, even for a few moments, in their play, you establish a closer bond of sympathy between your own heart and theirs—and attach them to you more strongly than you can do by any other means. Indeed, in many cases the most important moral lessons can be conveyed in connection with these illusions of children—and in a way not only more agreeable, but far more effective than by any other method.

'Influence without Claim to Authority'.

Acting through the imagination of children—if the art of doing so is once understood—will prove at once an invaluable and an inexhaustible resource for all those classes of people who are placed in situations requiring them to exercise an influence over children without having any proper authority over them; such, for example, as uncles and aunts, older brothers and sisters—and even visitors residing more or less permanently in a family—and desirous, from a wish to do good, of promoting the welfare and the improvement of the younger members of it. It often happens that such a visitor, without any actual right of authority, acquires a greater influence over the minds of the children than the parents themselves; and many a mother, who, with all her threatenings and scoldings—and even punishments, cannot make herself obeyed—is surprised at the absolute ascendency which some visitor residing in the family acquires over them by means so silent, gentle—and unpretending, that they seem mysterious and almost magical. "What is the secret of it?" asks the mother sometimes in such a case. "You never punish the children—and you never scold them—and yet they obey you a great deal more readily and certainly than they do me."

There are a great many different means which may be employed in combination with each other for acquiring this kind of ascendency—and among them the use which may be made of the power of the imagination in the young, is one of the most important.

'The Intermediation of the Dolls again'.

A young teacher, for example, in returning from school some day, finds the children of the family in which she resides, who have been playing with their dolls in the yard, engaged in some angry dispute. The first impulse with many people in such a case might be to sit down with the children upon the seat where they were playing—and remonstrate with them, though in a very kind and gentle manner, on the wrongfulness and folly of such disputings, to show them that the thing in question is not worth disputing about, that angry feelings are uncomfortable and unhappy feelings—and that it is, consequently, not only a sin—but a folly to indulge in them.

Now such a remonstrance, if given in a kind and gentle manner, will undoubtedly do good. The children will be somewhat less likely to become involved in such a dispute immediately after it than before—and in process of time—and through many repetitions of such counsels, the fault may be gradually cured. Still, at the time, it will make the children uncomfortable, by producing in their minds a certain degree of irritation. They will be very apt to listen in silence—and with a morose and sullen air; and if they do not call the admonition a scolding, on account of the kind and gentle tones in which it is delivered, they will be very apt to consider it much in that light.

Suppose, however, that, instead of dealing with the case in this matter-of-fact and naked way, the teacher calls the imagination of the children to her aid—and administers her admonition and reproof indirectly, through the dolls. She takes the dolls in her hand, asks their names—and inquires which of the two girls is the mother of each. The dolls' names are Bella and Araminta—and the mothers' are Lucy and Mary.

"But I might have asked Araminta herself," she adds; and, so saying, she holds the doll before her—and enters into a long imaginary conversation with her, more or less spirited and original, according to the talent and ingenuity of the young lady—but, in any conceivable case, enough so to completely absorb the attention of the children and fully to occupy their minds. She asks each of them her name—and inquires of each which of the girls is her mother—and makes first one of them—and then the other, point to her mother in giving her answer. By this time the illusion is completely established in the children's minds of regarding their dolls as living beings, responsible to mothers for their conduct and behavior; and the young lady can go on and give her admonitions and instructions in respect to the sin and folly of quarreling to them—the children listening. And it will be found that by this management the impression upon the minds of the children will be far greater and more effective than if the counsels were addressed directly to them; while, at the same time, though they may even take the form of very severe reproof, they will produce no sullenness or vexation in the minds of those for whom they are really intended. Indeed, the very reason why the admonition thus given will be so much more effective is the fact that it does 'not' tend in any degree to awaken resentment and vexation—but associates the lesson which the teacher wishes to convey with amusement and pleasure.

"You are very pretty"—she says, we will suppose, addressing the dolls—"and you look very amiable. I suppose you 'are' very amiable."

Then, turning to the children, she asks, in a confidential undertone, "Do they ever get into disputes and quarrels?"

"Sometimes," says one of the children, entering at once into the idea of the teacher.

"Ah!" the teacher exclaims, turning again to the dolls. "I hear that you dispute and quarrel sometimes—and I am very sorry for that. That is very foolish. It is only silly little children that we expect will dispute and quarrel. I should not have supposed it possible in the case of such young ladies as you. It is a great deal better to be yielding and kind. If one of you says something that the other thinks is not true, let it pass without contradiction; as it is foolish to quarrel about it. And so if one has anything that the other wants, it is generally much better to wait for it, than to quarrel. It is hateful to quarrel. Besides, it spoils your beauty. When children are quarreling they look like little furies."

The teacher may go on in this way—and give a long moral lecture to the dolls in a tone of mock gravity—and the children will listen to it with the most profound attention; and it will have a far greater influence upon them, than the same admonitions addressed directly to 'them'.

So effectually, in fact, will this element of play in the transaction, open their hearts to the reception of good counsel, that even direct admonitions to 'them' will be admitted with it, if the same guise is maintained; for the teacher may add, in conclusion, addressing now the children themselves with the same mock solemnity:

"That is a very bad fault of your children—very bad, indeed. And it is one that you will find very hard to correct. You must give them a great deal of good counsel on the subject—and, above all, you must be careful to set them a good example yourselves. Children always imitate what they see in their mothers, whether it is good or bad. If you are always amiable and kind to one another—they will be so too."

The thoughtful mother, in following out the suggestions here given, will see at once how the interest which the children take in their dolls—and the sense of reality which they feel in respect to all their dealings with them, opens before her a boundless field in respect to modes of reaching and influencing their minds and hearts.

'The Ball itself made to teach Carefulness'.

There is literally no end to the modes by which people having the charge of young children can avail themselves, of their vivid imaginative powers in inculcating moral lessons or influencing their conduct. A boy, we will suppose, has a new ball. Just as he is going out to play with it his father takes it from him to examine it—and, after turning it round and looking at it attentively on every side, holds it up to his ear. The boy asks what his father is doing. "I am listening to hear what he says." "And what does he say, father?" "He says that you won't have him to play with long." "Why not?" "I will ask him, why not?" (holding the ball again to his ear). "What does he say, father?" "He says he is going to run away from you and hide. He says you will go to play near some building—and he means, when you throw him or knock him, to fly against the windows and break the glass—and then people will take your ball away from you." "But I won't play near any windows." "He says, at any rate you will play near some building—and when you knock him he means to fly up to the roof and get behind a chimney, or roll down into the gutter where you can't get him." "But, father, I am not going to play near any building at all." "Then you will play in some place where there are holes in the ground, or thickets of bushes near, where he can hide." "No, father, I mean to look well over the ground—and not play in any place where there is any danger at all." "Well, we shall see; but the little rogue is determined to hide somewhere." The boy takes his ball and goes out to play with it, far more effectually cautioned than he could have been by any direct admonition.

'The Teacher and the Tough Logs'

A teacher who was engaged in a district school in the country, where the arrangement was for the older boys to saw and split the wood for the fire, on coming one day to see how the work was going on, found that the boys had laid one rather hard-looking log aside. "They could not split that log," they said.

"Yes," said the teacher, looking at the log, "I don't wonder. I know that log. I saw him before. His name is Old Gnarly. He says he has no idea of coming open for a parcel of boys, even if they 'have' got axe and wedges. It takes a man, he says, to split 'him'."

The boys stood looking at the log with a very grave expression of countenance as they heard these words.

"Is that what he says?" asked one of them. "Let's try him again, Joe."

"It will do no good," said the teacher, "for he won't come open, if he can possibly help it. And there's another fellow (pointing). His name is Slivertwist. If you get a crack in him, you will find him full of twisted splinters that he holds himself together with. The only way is to cut them through with a sharp axe. But he holds on so tight with them that I don't believe you can get him open. He says he never gives up to boys."

So saying, the teacher went away. It is scarcely necessary to say to anyone who knows boys, that the teacher was called out not long afterwards, to see that Old Gnarly and Old Slivertwist were both split up fine—the boys standing around the heaps of well-prepared fire-wood which they had afforded—and regarding them with an air of exultation and triumph.

'Muscles reinvigorated through the Action of the Mind'.

An older sister has been taking a walk with little Johnny, four years old, as her companion. On their return, when within half a mile of home, Johnny, tired of gathering flowers and chasing butterflies, comes to his sister, with a fatigued and languid air—and says he cannot walk any farther—and wants to be carried.

"I can't carry you very well," she says, "but I will tell you what we will do; we will stop at the first inn we come to and rest. Do you see that large flat stone out there at the turn of the road? That is the inn—and you shall be my courier. A courier is a man that goes forward as fast as he can on his horse—and tells the inn-keeper that the traveler is coming—and orders supper. So you may gallop on as fast as you can go—and, when you get to the inn, tell the inn-keeper that the princess is coming—I am the princess—and that he must get ready an excellent supper."

The boy will gallop on and wait at the stone. When his sister arrives she may sit and rest with him a moment, entertaining him by imagining conversations with the inn-keeper—and then resume their walk.

"Now," she may say, "I must send my courier to the post-office with a letter. Do you see that fence far away? That fence is the post-office. We will play that one of the cracks between the boards is the letter-box. Take this letter (handing him any little scrap of paper which she has taken from her pocket and folded to represent a letter) and put it in the letter-box—and speak to the postmaster through the crack—and tell him to send the letter as soon as he can."

Under such management as this, unless the child's exhaustion is very great, his sense of it will disappear—and he will accomplish the walk not only without any more complaining—but with a great feeling of pleasure. The nature of the action in such a case, seems to be that the vital force, when, in its direct and ordinary passage to the muscles through the nerves, it has exhausted the resources of that mode of transmission, receives in some mysterious way a reinforcement to its strength in passing round, by a new channel, through the organs of intelligence and imagination.

These trivial instances are only given as examples to show how infinitely varied are the applications which may be made of this principle of appealing to the imagination of children—and what a variety of effects may be produced through its instrumentality by a parent or teacher who once takes pains to make himself possessed of it. But each one must make himself possessed of it by his own practice and experience. No general instructions can do anything more than to offer the suggestion—and to show how a beginning is to be made.

 

Chapter 16. Truth and Falsehood.

The duty of telling the truth seems to us, until we have devoted special consideration to the subject, the most simple thing in the world, both to understand and to perform; and when we find young children disregarding it, we are surprised and shocked—and often imagine that it indicates something peculiar and abnormal in the moral sense of the offender. A little reflection, however, will show us how very different the state of the case really is. What do we mean by the obligation resting upon us to tell the truth? It is simply, in general terms—that it is our duty to make our statements correspond with the realities which they purpose to express. This is, no doubt, our duty, as a general rule—but there are so many exceptions to this rule—and the principles on which the admissibility of the exceptions depend are so complicated and so abstruse, that it is amazing that children learn to make the necessary distinctions as soon as they do.

'Natural Guidance to the Duty of telling the Truth'.

The child, when he first acquires the art of using and understanding language, is filled with wonder and pleasure to find that he can represent external objects that he observes—and also ideas passing through his mind, by means of sounds formed by his organs of speech. Such sounds, he finds, have both these powers—that is, they can represent realities, or imaginary things. Thus, when he utters the sounds 'I see a bird', they may denote either a mere conception in his mind, or an outward actuality. How is he possibly to know, by any instinct, or intuition, or moral sense when it is right for him to use them as representations of a mere idea—and when it is wrong for him to use them, unless they correspond with some actual reality?

The fact that vivid images or conceptions may be awakened in his mind by the mere hearing of certain sounds made by himself or another is something strange and wonderful to him; and though he comes to his consciousness of this susceptibility by degrees, it is still, while he is acquiring it—and extending the scope and range of it, a source of continual pleasure to him. The necessity of any correspondence of these words—and of the images which they excite, with actual realities, is a necessity which arises from the relations of man to man in the social state—and he has no means whatever of knowing anything about it except by instruction.

There is not only no ground for expecting that children should perceive any such necessity either by any kind of instinct, or intuition, or youthful moral sense, or by any reasoning process of which his incipient powers are capable; but even if he should by either of these means be inclined to entertain such an idea, his mind would soon be utterly confused in regard to it by what he observes constantly taking place around him in respect to the use of language by others whose conduct, much more than their precepts, he is accustomed to follow as his guide.

'A very nice Distinction'.

A mother, for example, takes her little son, four or five years old, into her lap to amuse him with a story. She begins: "When I was a little boy I lived by myself. All the bread and cheese I got, I laid upon the shelf," and so on to the end. The mother's object is accomplished. The boy is amused. He is greatly interested and pleased by the astonishing phenomenon taking place within him of curious images awakened in his mind by means of sounds entering his ear—images of a little boy living alone, of his reaching up to put bread and cheese upon a shelf—and finally