ON SYMPATHY AND SENSIBILITY.
The artless expressions of sympathy and sensibility in children, are
peculiarly pleasing; people who, in their commerce with the world,
have been disgusted and deceived by falsehood and affectation, listen
with delight to the genuine language of nature. Those who have any
interest in the education of children, have yet a higher sense of
pleasure in observing symptoms of their sensibility; they anticipate
the future virtues which early sensibility seems certainly to promise;
the future happiness which these virtues will diffuse. Nor are they
unsupported by philosophy in these sanguine hopes. No theory was ever
developed with more ingenious elegance, than that which deduces all
our moral sentiments from sympathy. The direct influence of sympathy
upon all social beings, is sufficiently obvious, and we immediately
perceive its necessary connection with compassion, friendship, and
benevolence; but the subject becomes more intricate when we are to
analyse our sense of propriety and justice; of merit and demerit; of
gratitude and resentment; self-complacency or remorse; ambition and
shame.[78]
We allow, without hesitation, that a being destitute of sympathy,
could never have any of these feelings, and must, consequently, be
incapable of all intercourse with society; yet we must at the same
time perceive, that a being endowed with the most exquisite sympathy,
must, without the assistance and education of reason, be, if not
equally incapable of social intercourse, far more dangerous to the
happiness of society. A person governed by sympathy alone, must be
influenced by the bad as well as by the good passions of others; he
must feel resentment with the angry man; hatred with the malevolent;
jealousy with the jealous; and avarice with the miser: the more lively
his sympathy with these painful feelings, the greater must be his
misery; the more forcibly he is impelled to action by this sympathetic
influence, the greater, probably, must be his imprudence and his
guilt. Let us even suppose a being capable of sympathy only with the
best feelings of his fellow-creatures, still, without the direction of
reason, he would be a nuisance in the world; his pity would stop the
hand, and overturn the balance of justice; his love would be as
dangerous as his pity; his gratitude would exalt his benefactor at the
expense of the whole human race; his sympathy with the rich, the
prosperous, the great, and the fortunate, would be so sudden, and so
violent, as to leave him no time for reflection upon the consequences
of tyranny, or the miseries occasioned by monopoly. No time for
reflection, did we say? We forgot that we were speaking of a being
destitute of the reasoning faculty! Such a being, no matter what his
virtuous sympathies might be, must act either like a madman or a fool.
On sympathy we cannot depend, either for the correctness of a man's
moral sentiments, or for the steadiness of his moral conduct. It is
very common to talk of the excellence of a person's heart, of the
natural goodness of his disposition; when these expressions distinctly
mean any thing, they must refer to natural sympathy, or a superior
degree of sensibility. Experience, however, does not teach us, that
sensibility and virtue have any certain connection with each other. No
one can read the works of Sterne, or of Rousseau, without believing
these men to have been endowed with extraordinary sensibility; yet,
who would propose their conduct in life as a model for imitation? That
quickness of sympathy with present objects of distress, which
constitutes compassion, is usually thought a virtue, but it is a
virtue frequently found in persons of an abandoned character.
Mandeville, in his essay upon Charity Schools, puts this in a strong
light.
"Should any one of us," says he, "be locked up in a ground room,
where, in a yard joining to it, there was a thriving good humoured
child at play, of two or three years old, so near us, that through the
grates of the window we could almost touch it with our hands; and if,
whilst we took delight in the harmless diversion, and imperfect
prattle, of the innocent babe, a nasty overgrown sow should come in
upon the child, set it a screaming, and frighten it out of its wits;
it is natural to think that this would make us uneasy, and that with
crying out, and making all the menacing noise we could, we should
endeavour to drive the sow away--But if this should happen to be an
half-starved creature, that, mad with hunger, went roaming about in
quest of food, and we should behold the ravenous brute, in spite of
our cries, and all the threatening gestures we could think of,
actually lay hold of the helpless infant, destroy, and devour it;--to
see her widely open her destructive jaws, and the poor lamb beat down
with greedy haste; to look on the defenceless posture of tender limbs
first trampled upon, then torn asunder; to see the filthy snout
digging in the yet living entrails, suck up the smoking blood, and now
and then to hear the crackling of the bones, and the cruel animal
grunt with savage pleasure over the horrid banquet; to hear and see
all this, what torture would it give the soul beyond expression!******
Not only a man of humanity, of good morals, and commiseration, but
likewise an highwayman, an house-breaker, or a murderer, could feel
anxieties on such an occasion."
Amongst those monsters, who are pointed out by the historian to the
just detestation of all mankind, we meet with instances of casual
sympathy and sensibility; even their vices frequently prove to us,
that they never became utterly indifferent to the opinion and feelings
of their fellow-creatures. The dissimulation, jealousy, suspicion,
and cruelty of Tiberius, originated, perhaps, more in his anxiety
about the opinions which were formed of his character, than in his
fears of any conspiracies against his life. The _"judge within," the
habit of viewing his own conduct in the light in which it was beheld
by the impartial spectator_, prompted him to new crimes; and thus his
unextinguished sympathy, and his exasperated sensibility, drove him to
excesses, from which a more torpid temperament might have preserved
him.[79] When, upon his presenting the sons of Germanicus to the
senate, Tiberius beheld the tenderness with which these young men were
received, he was moved to such an agony of jealousy, as instantly to
beseech the senate that he might resign the empire. We cannot
attribute either to policy or fear, this strong emotion, because we
know that the senate was at this time absolutely at the disposal of
Tiberius, and the lives of the sons of Germanicus depended upon his
pleasure.
The desire to excel, according to "Smith's Theory of Moral
Sentiments," is to be resolved principally into our love of the
sympathy of our fellow-creatures. We wish for their sympathy, either
in our success, or in the pleasure we feel in superiority. The desire
for this refined modification of sympathy, may be the motive of good
and great actions; but it cannot be trusted as a moral principle.
Nero's love of sympathy, made him anxious to be applauded on the stage
as a fiddler and a buffoon. Tiberius banished one of his philosophic
courtiers, and persecuted him till the unfortunate man laid violent
hands upon himself, merely because he had discovered that the emperour
read books in the morning to prepare himself with questions for his
literary society at night. Dionysius, the tyrant of Syracuse, sued in
the most abject manner for an Olympic crown, and sent a critic to the
galleys for finding fault with his verses. Had not these men a
sufficient degree of sensibility to praise, and more than a
sufficient desire for the sympathy of their fellow-creatures?
It is not from any perverse love of sophistry, that the word
sensibility has been used in these instances instead of
_irritability_, which seems better to characterize the temper of a
Dionysius, or a Tiberius; but, in fact, irritability, in common
language, merely denotes an excessive or ill governed degree of
sensibility. The point of excess must be marked: sympathy must be
regulated by education, and consequently the methods of directing
sensibility to useful and amiable purposes, must be anxiously studied
by all who wish either for the happiness or virtue of their pupils.
Long before children can understand reasoning, they can feel sympathy;
during this early period of their education, example and habit, slight
external circumstances, and the propensity to imitation, govern their
thoughts and actions. Imitation is the involuntary effect of sympathy
in children; hence those who have the most sympathy, are most liable
to be improved or injured by early examples. Examples of the
malevolent passions, should therefore be most carefully excluded from
the sight of those who have yet no choice in their sympathy;
expressions of kindness and affection in the countenance, the voice,
the actions, of all who approach, and of all who have the care of
infants, are not only immediately and evidently agreeable to the
children, but ought also to be used as the best possible means of
exciting benevolent sympathies in their mind. Children, who habitually
meet with kindness, habitually feel complacency; that species of
instinctive, or rather of associated affection, which always rises in
the mind from the recollection of past pleasures, is immediately
excited in such children by the sight of their parents. By an easy
transition of ideas, they expect the same benevolence, even from
strangers, which they have experienced from their friends, and their
sympathy naturally prepares them to wish for society; this wish is
often improperly indulged.
At the age when children begin to unfold their ideas, and to express
their thoughts in words, they are such interesting and entertaining
companions, that they attract a large portion of our daily attention:
we listen eagerly to their simple observations; we enter into their
young astonishment at every new object; we are delighted to watch all
their emotions; we help them with words to express their ideas; we
anxiously endeavour to understand their imperfect reasonings, and are
pleased to find, or put them in the right. This season of universal
smiles and courtesy, is delightful to children whilst it lasts, but it
soon passes away; they soon speak without exciting any astonishment,
and instead of meeting with admiration for every attempt to express an
idea, they are soon repulsed for troublesome volubility; even when
they talk sense, they are suffered to talk unheard, or else they are
checked for unbecoming presumption. Children feel this change in
public opinion and manners most severely; they are not sensible of any
change in themselves, except, perhaps, they are conscious of having
improved both in sense and language. This unmerited loss of their late
gratuitous allowance of sympathy, usually operates unfavourably upon
the temper of the sufferers; they become shy and silent, and reserved,
if not sullen; they withdraw from our capricious society, and they
endeavour to console themselves with other pleasures. It is difficult
to them to feel contented with their own little occupations and
amusements, for want of the spectators and the audience which used to
be at their command. Children of a timid temper, or of an indolent
disposition, are quite dispirited and bereft of all energy in these
circumstances; others, with greater vivacity, and more voluntary
exertion, endeavour to supply the loss of universal sympathy, by the
invention of independent occupations; but they feel anger and
indignation, when they are not rewarded with any smiles or any praise
for their "virtuous toil." They naturally seek for new companions,
either amongst children of their own age, or amongst complaisant
servants. Immediately all the business of education is at a stand; for
neither these servants, nor these playfellows, are capable of becoming
their instructers; nor can tutors hope to succeed, who have
transferred their power over the pleasures, and consequently over the
affections of their pupils. Sympathy now becomes the declared enemy of
all the constituted authorities. What chance is there of obedience or
of happiness, under such a government?
Would it not be more prudent to prevent, than to complain of these
evils? Sympathy is our first, best friend, in education, and by
judicious management, might long continue our faithful ally.
Instead of lavishing our smiles and our attention upon young children
for a short period, just at that age when they are amusing playthings,
should we not do more wisely if we reserved some portion of our
kindness a few years longer? By a proper _economy_, our sympathy may
last for many years, and may continually contribute to the most useful
purposes. Instead of accustoming our pupils early to such a degree of
our attention as cannot be supported long on our parts, we should
rather suffer them to feel a little ennui, at that age when they can
have but few independent or useful occupations. We should employ
ourselves in our usual manner, and converse, without allowing children
to interrupt us with frivolous prattle; but whenever they ask sensible
questions, make just observations, or show a disposition to acquire
knowledge, we should assist and encourage them with praise and
affection; gradually as they become capable of taking any part in
conversation, they should be admitted into society, and they will
learn of themselves, or we may teach them, that useful and agreeable
qualities are those by which they must secure the pleasures of
sympathy. Esteem, being associated with sympathy, will increase its
value, and this connection should be made as soon, and kept as sacred,
in the mind as possible.
With respect to the sympathy which children feel for each other, it
must be carefully managed, or it will counteract, instead of assisting
us, in education. It is natural, that those who are placed nearly in
the same circumstances, should feel alike, and sympathize with one
another; but children feel only for the present; they have few ideas
of the future; and consequently all that they can desire, either for
themselves, or for their companions, is what will _immediately_
please. Education looks to the future, and frequently we must ensure
future advantage, even at the expense of present pain or restraint.
The companion and the tutor then, supposing each to be equally good
and equally kind, must command, in a very different degree, the
sympathy of the child. It may, notwithstanding, be questioned, whether
those who are constant companions in their idle hours, when they are
_very_ young, are likely to be either as fond of one another when they
grow up, or even as happy whilst they are children, as those are who
spend less time together. Whenever the humours, interests, and
passions of others cross our own, there is an end of sympathy, and
this happens almost every hour in the day with children; it is
generally supposed, that they learn to live in friendship with each
other, and to bear with one another's little faults habitually; that
they even reciprocally cure these faults, and learn, by experience,
those principles of honour and justice on which society depends. We
may be deceived in this reasoning by a false analogy.
We call the society of children, _society in miniature_; the
proportions of the miniature are so much altered, that it is by no
means an accurate resemblance of that which exists in the _civilized_
world. Amongst children of different ages, strength, and talents,
there must always be tyranny, injustice, and that worst species of
inequality, which arises from superior force on the one side, and
abject timidity on the other. Of this, the spectators of juvenile
disputes and quarrels are sometimes sensible, and they hastily
interfere and endeavour to part the combatants, by pronouncing certain
moral sentences, such as, "Good boys never quarrel; brothers must
love and help one another." But these sentences seldom operate as a
charm upon the angry passions; the parties concerned, hearing it
asserted that they must love one another, at the very instant when
they happen to feel that they cannot, are still further exasperated,
and they stand at bay, sullen in hatred, or approach hypocritical in
reconciliation. It is more easy to prevent occasions of dispute, than
to remedy the bad consequences which petty altercations produce. Young
children should be kept asunder at all times, and in all situations,
in which it is necessary, or probable, that their appetites and
passions should be in direct competition. Two hungry children, with
their eager eyes fixed upon one and the same bason of bread and milk,
do not sympathize with each other, though they have the same
sensations; each perceives, that if the other eats the bread and milk,
he cannot eat it. Hunger is more powerful than sympathy; but satisfy
the hunger of one of the parties, and immediately he will begin to
feel for his companion, and will wish that _his_ hunger should also be
satisfied. Even Mr. Barnet, the epicure, who is so well described in
Moore's excellent novel,[80] _after_ he has crammed himself to the
throat, asks his wife to "try to eat a bit." Intelligent preceptors
will apply the instance of the bason of bread and milk, in a variety
of apparently dissimilar circumstances.
We may observe, that the more quickly children reason, the sooner they
discover how far their interests are any ways incompatible with the
interests of their companions. The more readily a boy calculates, the
sooner he will perceive, that if he were to share his bason of bread
and milk equally with a dozen of his companions, his own portion must
be small. The accuracy of his mental division would prevent him from
offering to part with that share which, perhaps, a more ignorant
accountant would be ready to surrender at once, without being on that
account more generous. Children, who are accurate observers of the
countenance, and who have a superior degree of penetration, discover
very early the symptoms of displeasure, or of affection, in their
friends; they also perceive quickly the dangers of rivalship from
their companions. If experience convinces them, that they must lose in
proportion as their companions gain, either in fame or in favour, they
will necessarily dislike them as rivals; their hatred will be as
vehement, as their love of praise and affection is ardent. Thus
children, who have the most lively sympathy, are, unless they be
judiciously educated, the most in danger of feeling early the
malevolent passions of jealousy and envy. It is inhuman, and in every
point of view unjustifiable in us, to excite these painful feelings in
children, as we too often do, by the careless or partial distribution
of affection and applause. Exact justice will best prevent jealousy;
each individual submits to justice, because each, in turn, feels the
benefit of its protection. Some preceptors, with benevolent
intentions, labour to preserve a perfect equality amongst their
pupils, and, from the fear of exciting envy in those who are inferior,
avoid uttering any encomiums upon superior talents and merit. This
management seldom succeeds; the truth cannot be concealed; those who
feel their own superiority, make painful reflections upon the
injustice done to them by the policy of their tutors; those who are
sensible of their own inferiority, are not comforted by the courtesy
and humiliating forbearance with which they are treated. It is,
therefore, best to speak the plain truth; to give to all their due
share of affection and applause: at the same time, we should avoid
blaming one child at the moment when we praise another: we should
never put our pupils in contrast with one another; nor yet should we
deceive them as to their respective excellences and defects. Our
comparison should rather be made between what the pupil _has been_,
and what he _is_, than between what he _is_, and what any body else
_is not_.[81] By this style of praise we may induce children to become
emulous of their former selves, instead of being envious of their
competitors. Without deceit or affectation, we may also take care to
associate general pleasure in a family with particular commendations:
thus, if one boy is remarkable for prudence, and another for
generosity, we should not praise the generosity of the one at the
expense of the prudence of the other, but we should give to each
virtue its just measure of applause. If one girl sings, and another
draws, remarkably well, we may show that we are pleased with both
agreeable accomplishments, without bringing them into comparison. Nor
is it necessary that we should be in a desperate hurry to balance the
separate degrees of praise which we distribute exactly at the same
moment, because if children are sure that the reward of their industry
and ingenuity is secured by our justice, they will trust to us, though
that reward may be for a few hours delayed. It is only where workmen
have no confidence in the integrity or punctuality of their masters,
that they are impatient of any accidental delay in the payment of
their wages.
With the precautions which have been mentioned, we may hope to see
children grow up in real friendship together. The whole sum of their
pleasure is much increased by mutual sympathy. This happy moral truth,
upon which so many of our virtues depend, should be impressed upon the
mind; it should be clearly demonstrated to the reason; it should not
be repeated as an a priori, sentimental assertion.
Those who have observed the sudden, violent, and surprising effects of
emulation in public schools, will regret the want of this _power_ in
the intellectual education of their pupils at home. Even the
acquisition of talents and knowledge ought, however, to be but a
secondary consideration, subordinate to the general happiness of our
pupils. If we _could_ have superior knowledge, upon condition that we
should have a malevolent disposition, and an irritable temper, should
we, setting every other moral consideration aside, be willing to make
the purchase at such a price? Let any person, desirous to see a
striking picture of the effects of scholastic competition upon the
moral character, look at the life of that wonder of his age, the
celebrated Abeillard. As the taste and manners of the present times
are so different from those of the age in which he lived, we see,
without any species of deception, the real value of the learning in
which he excelled, and we can judge both of his acquirements, and of
his character, without prejudice. We see him goaded on by rivalship,
and literary ambition, to astonishing exertions at one time; at
another, torpid in monkish indolence: at one time, we see him
intoxicated with adulation; at another, listless, desponding, abject,
incapable of maintaining his own self-approbation without the
suffrages of those whom he despised. If his biographer[82] does him
justice, a more selfish, irritable, contemptible, miserable being,
than the learned Abeillard, could scarcely exist.
A philosopher,[83] who, if we might judge of him by the benignity of
his writings, was surely of a most amiable and happy temper, has yet
left us a melancholy and discouraging history of the unsociable
condition of men of superior knowledge and abilities. He supposes that
those who have devoted much time to the cultivation of their
understandings, have habitually less sympathy, or less exercise for
their sympathy, than those who live less abstracted from the world;
that, consequently, "all their social, and all their public
affections, lose their natural warmth and vigour," whilst their
selfish passions are cherished and strengthened, being kept in
constant play by literary rivalship. It is to be hoped, that there
are men of the most extensive learning and genius, now living, who
could, from their own experience, assure us that those are obsolete
observations, no longer applicable to modern human nature. At all
events, we, who refer so much to education, are hopefully of opinion,
that education can prevent these evils, in common with _almost_ all
the other evils of life. It would be an errour, fatal to all
improvement, to believe that the cultivation of the understanding,
impedes the exercise of the social affections. Obviously, a man, who
secludes himself from the world, and whose whole life is occupied with
abstract studies, cannot enjoy any pleasure from his social
affections; his admiration of the dead, is so constant, that he has no
time to feel any sympathy with the living. An individual, of this
ruminating species, is humorously delineated in Mrs. D'Arblay's
Camilla. Men, who are compelled to unrelenting labour, whether by
avarice, or by literary ambition, are equally to be pitied. They are
not models for imitation; they sacrifice their happiness to some
strong passion or interest. Without this ascetic abstinence from the
domestic and social pleasures of life, surely persons may cultivate
their understandings, and acquire, even by mixing with their
fellow-creatures, a variety of useful knowledge.
An ingenious theory[84] supposes the exercise of any of our faculties,
is always attended with pleasure, which lasts as long as that exercise
can be continued without fatigue. This pleasure, arising from the due
exercise of our mental powers, the author of this theory maintains to
be the foundation of our most agreeable sentiments. If there be any
truth in these ideas, of how many agreeable sentiments must a man of
sense be capable! The pleasures of society must to him increase in an
almost incalculable proportion; because, in conversation, his
faculties can never want subjects on which they may be amply
exercised. The dearth of conversation, which every body may have felt
in certain company, is always attended with mournful countenances, and
every symptom of ennui. Indeed, without the pleasures of conversation,
society is reduced to meetings of people, who assemble to eat and
drink, to show their fine clothes, to weary and to hate one another.
The sympathy of bon vivants is, it must be acknowleged, very lively
and sincere towards each other; but this can last only during the hour
of dinner, unless they revive, and prolong, by the powers of
imagination, the memory of the feast. Some foreign traveller[85] tells
us, that "every year, at Naples, an officer of the police goes through
the city, attended by a trumpeter, who proclaims in all the squares
and cross-ways, how many thousand oxen, calves, lambs, hogs, &c. the
Neapolitans have had the honour of eating in the course of the year."
The people all listen with extreme attention to this proclamation, and
are immoderately delighted at the huge amount.
A degree, and scarcely one degree, above the brute sympathy of good
eaters, is that gregarious propensity which is sometimes honoured with
the name of sociability. The current sympathy, or appearance of
sympathy, which is to be found amongst the idle and frivolous in
fashionable life, is wholly unconnected with even the idea of esteem.
It is therefore pernicious to all who partake of it; it excites to no
great exertions; it rewards neither useful nor amiable qualities: on
the contrary, it is to be obtained by vice, rather than by virtue; by
folly much more readily than by wisdom. It is the mere follower of
fashion, and of dissipation, and it keeps those in humour and
countenance, who ought to hear the voice of public reproach, and who
might be roused by the fear of disgrace, or the feelings of shame, to
exertions which should justly entitle them to the approbation and
affection of honourable friends.
Young people, who are early in life content with this _convivial_
sympathy, may, in the common phrase, become _very good, pleasant
companions_; but there is little chance that they should ever become
any thing more, and there is great danger that they may be led into
any degree of folly, extravagance, or vice, to which fashion and the
voice of numbers invite. It sometimes happens, that men of superior
abilities, have such an indiscriminate love of applause and sympathy,
that they reduce themselves to the standard of all their casual
companions, and vary their objects of ambition with the opinion of the
silly people with whom they chance to associate. In public life, party
spirit becomes the ruling principle of men of this character; in
private life, they are addicted to clubs, and associations of all
sorts, in which the contagion of sympathy has a power which the sober
influence of reason seldom ventures to correct. The waste of talents,
and the total loss of principle, to which this indiscriminate love of
sympathy leads, should warn us to guard against its influence by early
education. The gregarious propensity in childhood, should not be
indulged without precautions: unless their companions are well
educated, we can never be reasonably secure of the conduct or
happiness of our pupils: from sympathy, they catch all the wishes,
tastes, and ideas of those with whom they associate; and what is still
worse, they acquire the dangerous habits of resting upon the support,
and of wanting the stimulus of numbers. It is, surely, far more
prudent to let children feel a little ennui, from the want of
occupation and of company, than to purchase for them the juvenile
pleasures of society at the expense of their future happiness.
Childhood, as a part of our existence, ought to have as great a share
of happiness as it can enjoy compatibly with the advantage of the
other seasons of life. By this principle, we should be guided in all
which we allow, and in all which we refuse, to children; by this rule,
we may avoid unnecessary severity, and pernicious indulgence.
As young people gradually acquire knowledge, they will learn to
_converse_, and when they have the habits of conversing rationally,
they will not desire companions who can only chatter. They will prefer
the company of friends, who can sympathize in their occupations, to
the presence of ignorant idlers, who can fill up the void of ideas
with nonsense and noise. Some people have a notion that the
understanding and the _heart_ are not to be educated at the same time;
but the very reverse of this is, perhaps, true; neither can be brought
to any perfection, unless both are cultivated together.
We should not, therefore, expect premature virtues. During childhood,
there occur but few opportunities of exerting the virtues which are
recommended in books, such as humanity and generosity.
The _humanity_ of children cannot, perhaps, properly be said to be
exercised upon animals; they are frequently extremely fond of animals,
but they are not always equable in their fondness; they sometimes
treat their favourites with that caprice which favourites are doomed
to experience; this caprice degenerates into cruelty, if it is
resented by the sufferer. We must not depend merely upon the natural
feelings of compassion, as preservatives against cruelty; the
_instinctive_ feelings of compassion, are strong amongst uneducated
people; yet these do not restrain them from acts of cruelty. They take
delight, it has been often observed, in all tragical, sanguinary
spectacles, because these excite emotion, and relieve them from the
listless state in which their days usually pass. It is the same with
all persons, in all ranks of life, whose minds are uncultivated.[86]
Until young people have fixed _habits_ of benevolence, and a taste for
occupation, perhaps it is not prudent to trust them with the care or
protection of animals. Even when they are enthusiastically fond of
them, they cannot, by their utmost ingenuity, make the animal so happy
in a state of captivity, as they would be in a state of liberty. They
are apt to insist upon doing animals good against their will, and
they are often unjust in the defence of their favourites. A boy of
seven years old, once knocked down his sister, to prevent her crushing
his caterpillar.[87]
Children should not be taught to confine their benevolence to those
animals which are thought beautiful; the fear and disgust which we
express at the sight of certain unfortunate animals, whom we are
pleased to call ugly and shocking, are observed by children, and these
associations lead to cruelty. If we do not prejudice our pupils by
foolish exclamations; if they do not, from sympathy, catch our absurd
antipathies, their benevolence towards the animal world, will not be
illiberally confined to favourite lap-dogs and singing-birds. From
association, most people think that frogs are ugly animals. L----, a
boy between five and six years old, once begged his mother to come out
to look at a _beautiful_ animal which he had just found; she was
rather surprised to find that this beautiful creature was a frog.
If children never see others torment animals, they will not think that
cruelty can be an amusement; but they may be provoked to revenge the
pain which is inflicted upon them; and therefore we should take care
not to put children in situations where they are liable to be hurt or
terrified by animals. Could we possibly expect, that Gulliver should
love the Brobdignagian wasp that buzzed round his cake, and prevented
him from eating his breakfast? Could we expect that Gulliver should be
ever reconciled to the rat against whom he was obliged to draw his
sword? Many animals are, to children, what the wasp and the rat were
to Gulliver. Put bodily fear out of the case, it required all uncle
Toby's benevolence to bear the buzzing of a gnat while he was eating
his dinner. Children, even when they have no cause to be afraid of
animals, are sometimes in situations to be provoked by them; and the
nice casuist will find it difficult to do strict justice upon the
offended and the offenders.
October 2, 1796. S----, nine years old, took care of his brother
H----'s hot-bed for some time, when H---- was absent from home. He was
extremely anxious about his charge; he took one of his sisters to look
at the hot-bed, showed her a hole where the mice came in, and
expressed great hatred against the whole race. He the same day asked
his mother for a bait for the mouse-trap; his mother refused to give
him one, telling him that she did not wish he should learn to kill
animals. How good nature sometimes leads to the opposite feeling!
S----'s love for his brother's cucumbers made him _imagine_ and
compass the death of the mice. Children should be protected against
animals, which we do not wish that they should hate; if cats scratch
them, and dogs bite them, and mice devour the fruits of their
industry, children must consider these animals as enemies; they cannot
love them, and they may learn the habit of revenge, from being exposed
to their insults and depredations. Pythagoras himself would have
insisted upon his exclusive right to the vegetables on which he was to
subsist, especially if he had raised them by his own care and
industry. Buffon,[88] notwithstanding all his benevolent philosophy,
can scarcely speak with patience of his enemies the field mice; who,
when he was trying experiments upon the culture of forest trees,
tormented him perpetually by their insatiable love of acorns. "_I was
terrified_," says he, "at the discovery of half a bushel, and often a
whole bushel, of acorns in each of the holes inhabited by these little
animals; they had collected these acorns for their winter provision."
The philosopher gave orders immediately for the erection of a great
number of traps, and snares baited with broiled nuts; in less than
three weeks nearly three hundred field mice were killed _or taken
prisoners_. Mankind are obliged to carry on a defensive war with the
animal world. "Eat or be eaten," says Dr. Darwin, is the great law of
nature. It is fortunate for us that there are butchers by profession
in the world, and rat-catchers, and cats, otherwise our habits of
benevolence and sympathy would be utterly destroyed. Children, though
they must perceive the necessity for destroying certain animals need
not be themselves executioners; they should not conquer the natural
repugnance to the sight of the struggles of pain, and the convulsions
of death; their aversion of being the cause of pain should be
preserved, both by principle and habit. Those who have not been
habituated to the bloody form of cruelty, can never fix their eye upon
her without shuddering; even those to whom she may have, in some
instances, been early familiarized, recoil from her appearance in any
shape to which they have not been accustomed. At one of the
magnificent shows with which Pompey[89] entertained the Roman people
for five days successively, the populace enjoyed the death of wild
beasts; five hundred lions were killed; but, on the last day, when
twenty elephants were put to death, the people, unused to the sight,
and moved by the lamentable howlings of these animals, were seized
with sudden compassion; they execrated Pompey himself for being the
author of so much cruelty.
Charity for the poor, is often inculcated in books for children; but
how is this virtue to be actually brought into practice in childhood?
Without proper objects of charity are selected by the parents,
children have no opportunities of discovering them; they have not
sufficient knowledge of the world to distinguish truth from falsehood
in the complaints of the distressed: nor have they sufficiently
enlarged views to discern the best means of doing good to their
fellow-creatures. They may give away money to the poor, but they do
not always feel the value of what they give: they give counters:
supplied with all the necessaries and luxuries of life, they have no
use for money; they feel no privation; they make no sacrifice in
giving money away, or at least, none worthy to be extolled as heroic.
When children grow up, they learn the value of money; their generosity
will then cost them rather more effort, and yet can be rewarded only
with the same expressions of gratitude, with the same blessings from
the beggar, or the same applause from the spectator.
Let us put charity out of the question, and suppose that the
generosity of children is displayed in making presents to their
companions, still there are difficulties. These presents are usually
baubles, which at the best can encourage only a frivolous taste. But
we must further consider, that even generous children are apt to
expect generosity equal to their own from their companions; then come
tacit or explicit comparisons of the value or elegance of their
respective gifts; the difficult rules of exchange and barter are to be
learned; and nice calculations of _Tare and Tret_ are entered into by
the repentant borrowers and lenders. A sentimental, two often ends in
a commercial intercourse; and those who begin with the most munificent
dispositions, sometimes end with selfish discontent, low cunning, or
disgusting ostentation. Whoever has carefully attended to young makers
of presents, and makers of bargains, will not think this account of
them much exaggerated.
"Then what is to be done? How are the social affections to be
developed? How is the sensibility of children to be tried? How is the
young heart to display its most amiable feelings?" a sentimental
preceptress will impatiently inquire.
The amiable feelings of the heart need not be displayed; they may be
sufficiently exercised without the stimulus either of our eloquence or
our applause. In madame de Silleri's account of the education of the
children of the duke of Orleans, there appears rather too much
sentimental artifice and management. When the Duchess of Orleans was
ill, the children were instructed to write "charming notes" from day
to day, and from hour to hour, to inquire how she did. Once when a
servant was going from Saint Leu to Paris, madame de Silleri asked her
pupils if they had any commissions; the little duke de Chartres says
yes, and gave a message about a bird-cage, but he did not recollect to
write to his mother, till somebody whispered to him that he had
forgotten it. Madame de Silleri calls this childish forgetfulness a
"heinous offence;" but was not it very natural, that the boy should
think of his bird cage? and what mother would wish that her children
should have it put into their head, to inquire after her health in the
complimentary style? Another time, madame de Silleri is displeased
with her pupils, because they did not show sufficient sympathy and
concern for her when she had a headache or sore throat. The exact
number of messages which, consistently with the strict duties of
friendship, they ought to have sent, are upon another occasion
prescribed.
"I had yesterday afternoon a violent attack of the colic, and you
discovered the greatest sensibility. By the journal of M. le Brun, I
find it was the duke de Montpensier who thought this morning of
writing to inquire how I did. You left me yesterday in a very calm
state, and there was no reason for anxiety; but, consistently with the
strict duties of friendship, you ought to have given orders before you
went to bed, for inquiries to be made at eight o'clock in the morning,
to know whether I had had any return of my complaint during the night;
and you should again have sent at ten, to learn from myself, the
instant I awoke, the exact state of my health. Such are the benevolent
and tender cares which a lively and sincere friendship dictates. You
must accustom yourselves to the observance of them, if you wish to be
beloved."
Another day madame de Silleri told the duke de Chartres, that he had a
very idiotic appearance, because, when he went to see his mother, his
attention was taken up by two paroquets which happened to be in the
room. All these reproaches and documents could not, we should
apprehend, tend to increase the real sensibility and affection of
children. Gratitude is one of the most certain, but one of the latest,
rewards, which preceptors and parents should expect from their pupils.
Those who are too impatient to wait for the gradual development of the
affections, will obtain from their children, instead of warm, genuine,
enlightened gratitude, nothing but the expression of cold,
constrained, stupid hypocrisy. During the process of education, a
child cannot perceive its ultimate end; how can he judge whether the
means employed by his parents, are well adapted to effect their
purposes? Moments of restraint and of privation, or, perhaps, of
positive pain, must be endured by children under the mildest system of
education: they must, therefore, perceive, that their parents are the
immediate cause of some evils to them; the remote good is beyond their
view. And can we expect from an infant the systematic resignation of
an optimist? Belief upon trust, is very different from that which
arises from experience; and no one, who understands the human heart,
will expect incompatible feelings: in the mind of a child, the feeling
of present pain is incompatible with gratitude. Mrs. Macaulay mentions
a striking instance of extorted gratitude. A poor child, who had been
taught to return thanks for every thing, had a bitter medicine given
to her; when she had drank it, she curtesied, and said, "Thank you for
my good stuff." There was a mistake in the medicine, and the child
died the next morning.
Children who are not sentimentally educated, often offend by their
simplicity, and frequently disgust people of impatient feelings, by
their apparent indifference to things which are expected to touch
their sensibility. Let us be content with nature, or rather let us
never exchange simplicity for affectation. Nothing hurts young people
more than to be watched continually about their feelings, to have
their countenances scrutinized, and the degrees of their sensibility
measured by the surveying eye of the unmerciful spectator. Under the
constraint of such examinations, they can think of nothing, but that
they are looked at, and feel nothing but shame or apprehension: they
are afraid to lay their minds open, lest they should be convicted of
some deficiency of feeling. On the contrary, children who are not in
dread of this sentimental inquisition, speak their minds, the truth,
and the whole truth, without effort or disguise: they lay open their
hearts, and tell their thoughts as they arise, with simplicity that
would not fear to enter even "The palace of Truth."[90]
A little girl, Ho----, who was not quite four years old, asked her
mother to give her a plaything: one of her sisters had just before
asked for the same thing. "I cannot give it to you both," said the
mother.
_Ho----._ No, but I wish you to give it to me, and not to E----.
_Mother._ Don't you wish your sister to have what she wants?
_Ho----._ Mother, if I say that I _don't_ wish so, will you give it to
me?
Perhaps this _naivete_ might have displeased some scrupulous admirers
of politeness, who could not discover in it symptoms of that
independent simplicity of character, for which the child who made this
speech was distinguished.
"Do you _always_ love me?" said a mother to her son, who was about
four years old.
"Always," said the child, "except when I am asleep."
_Mother._ "And why do you not love me when you are asleep?"
_Son._ "Because I do not think of you then."
This sensible answer showed, that the boy reflected accurately upon
his own feelings, and a judicious parent must consequently have a
sober certainty of his affection. The thoughtless caresses of
children who are never accustomed to reason, are lavished alike upon
strangers and friends, and their fondness of to-day may, without any
reasonable cause, become aversion by to-morrow.
Children are often asked to tell which of their friends they love the
best, but they are seldom required to assign any reason for their
choice. It is not prudent to question them frequently about their own
feelings; but whenever they express any decided preference, we should
endeavour to _lead_, not to _drive_ them to reflect upon the reasons
for their affection. They will probably at first mention some
particular instance of kindness, which they have lately received from
the person whom they prefer. "I like such a person because he mended
my top." "I like such another because he took me out to walk with him
and let me gather flowers." By degrees we may teach children to
generalize their ideas, and to perceive that they like people for
being either useful or agreeable.
The desire to return kindness by kindness, arises very early in the
mind; and the hope of conciliating the good will of the powerful
beings by whom they are surrounded, is one of the first wishes that
appears in the minds of intelligent and affectionate children. From
this sense of mutual dependence, the first principles of social
intercourse are deduced, and we may render our pupils either mean
sycophants, or useful and honourable members of society, by the
methods which we use to direct their first efforts to please. It
should be our object to convince them, that the exchange of mutual
good offices contributes to happiness; and whilst we connect the
desire to assist others with the perception of the beneficial
consequences that eventually arise to themselves, we may be certain
that children will never become blindly selfish, or idly sentimental.
We cannot help admiring the simplicity, strength of mind, and good
sense, of a little girl of four years old, who, when she was put into
a stage coach with a number of strangers, looked round upon them all,
and, after a few minutes silence, addressed them, with the imperfect
articulation of infancy, in the following words:
"If you'll be good to me, I'll be good to you."
Whilst we were writing upon sympathy and sensibility, we met with the
following apposite passage:
"In 1765, I was," says M. de St. Pierre, "at Dresden, at a play acted
at court; it was the Pere de Famille. The electoress came in with one
of her daughters, who might be about five or six years old. An officer
of the Saxon guards, who came with me to the play, whispered, 'That
child will interest you as much as the play.' As soon as she was
seated, she placed both her hands on the front of the box, fixed her
eyes upon the stage, and continued with her mouth open, all attention
to the motions of the actors. It was truly touching to see their
different passions painted on her face as in a glass. There appeared
in her countenance successively, anxiety, surprise, melancholy, and
grief; at length the interest increasing in every scene, tears began
to flow, which soon ran in abundance down her little cheeks; then came
agitation, sighs, and loud sobs; at last they were obliged to carry
her out of the box, lest she should choke herself with crying. My next
neighbour told me, that every time that this young princess came to a
pathetic play, she was obliged to leave the house before the
catastrophe."
"I have seen," continues M. de St. Pierre, "instances of sensibility
still more touching amongst the children of the common people, because
the emotion was not here produced by any theatrical effect. As I was
walking some years ago in the Pre St. Gervais, at the beginning of
winter, I saw a poor woman lying on the ground, busied in weeding a
bed of sorrel; near her was a little girl of six years old at the
utmost, standing motionless, and all purple with cold. I addressed
myself to this woman, who appeared to be ill, and I asked her what was
the matter with her. Sir, said she, for these three months I have
suffered terribly from the rheumatism, but my illness troubles me less
than this child, she never will leave me; if I say to her, Thou art
quite frozen, go and warm thyself in the house, she answers me, Alas!
mamma, if I leave you, you'll certainly fall ill again!"
"Another time, being at Marly, I went to see, in the groves of that
magnificent park, that charming group of children who are feeding with
vine leaves and grapes a goat who seems to be playing with them. Near
this spot is an open summer house, where Louis XV. on fine days, used
sometimes to take refreshment. As it was showery weather, I went to
take shelter for a few minutes. I found there three children, who were
much more interesting than children of marble. They were two little
girls, very pretty, and very busily employed in picking up all round
the summer house dry sticks, which they put into a sort of wallet
which was lying upon the king's table, whilst a little ill clothed
thin boy was devouring a bit of bread in one corner of the room. I
asked the tallest of the children, who appeared to be between eight
and nine years old, what she meant to do with the wood which she was
gathering together with so much eagerness. She answered, 'Sir, you see
that little boy, he is very unhappy. He has a mother-in-law' (Why
always _a mother-in-law_?) 'He has a mother-in-law, who sends him all
day long to look for wood; when he does not bring any home, he is
beaten; when he has got any, the Swiss who stands at the entrance of
the park takes it all away from him, and keeps it for himself. The boy
is almost starved with hunger, and we have given him our breakfast.'
After having said these words, she and her companion finished filling
the little wallet, they packed it upon the boy's shoulders, and they
ran before their unfortunate friend to see that he might pass in
safety."
We have read these three anecdotes to several children, and have found
that the _active_ friends of the little wood-cutter were the most
admired. It is probable, that amongst children who have been much
praised for expressions of sensibility, the young lady who wept so
bitterly at the play-house, would be preferred; affectionate children
will like the little girl who stood purple with cold beside her sick
mother; but if they have been well educated, they will probably
express some surprise at her motionless attitude; they will ask why
she did not try to help her mother to weed the bed of sorrel.
It requires much skill and delicacy in our conduct towards children,
to preserve a proper medium between the indulging and the repressing
of their sensibility. We are cruel towards them when we suspect their
genuine expressions of affection; nothing hurts the temper of a
generous child more than this species of injustice. Receive his
expressions of kindness and gratitude with cold reserve, or a look
that implies a doubt of his truth, and you give him so much pain, that
you not only repress, but destroy his affectionate feelings. On the
contrary, if you appear touched and delighted by his caresses, from
the hope of pleasing, he will be naturally inclined to repeat such
demonstrations of sensibility: this repetition should be gently
discouraged, lest it should lead to affectation. At the same time,
though we take this precaution, we should consider, that children are
not early sensible that affectation is either ridiculous or
disgusting; they are not conscious of doing any thing wrong by
repeating what they have once perceived to be agreeable in their own,
or in the manners of others. They frequently imitate, without any idea
that imitation is displeasing; their object, as Locke observes, is to
please by affectation; they only mistake the means: we should rectify
this mistake without treating it as a crime.
A little girl of five years old stood beside her mother, observing the
distribution of a dish of strawberries, the first strawberries of the
year; and seeing a number of people busily helping, and being helped
to cream and sugar, said in a low voice, not meant to attract
attention, "I like to see people helping one another." Had the child,
at this instant, been praised for this natural expression of sympathy,
the pleasure of praise would have been immediately substituted in her
mind, instead of the feeling of benevolence, which was in itself
sufficiently agreeable; and, perhaps, from a desire to please, she
would, upon the next favourable occasion, have repeated the same
sentiment; this we should immediately call affectation; but how could
the child foresee, that the repetition of what we formerly liked,
would be offensive? We should not first extol sympathy, and then
disdain affectation; our encomiums frequently produce the faults by
which we are disgusted. Sensibility and sympathy, when they have
proper objects, and full employment, do not look for applause; they
are sufficiently happy in their own enjoyments. Those who have
attempted to teach children, must have observed, that sympathy is
immediately connected with all the imitative arts; the nature of this
connection, more especially in poetry and painting, has been pointed
out with ingenuity and eloquence by those[91] whose excellence in
these arts entitle their theories to our prudent attention. We shall
not attempt to repeat; we refer to their observations. Sufficient
occupation for sympathy, may be found by cultivating the talents of
young people.
Without repeating here what has been said in many other places, it may
be necessary to remind all who are concerned in _female_ education,
that peculiar caution is necessary to manage female sensibility: to
make, what is called the heart, a source of permanent pleasure, we
must cultivate the reasoning powers at the same time that we repress
the enthusiasm of _fine feeling_. Women, from their situation and
duties in society, are called upon rather for the daily exercise of
quiet domestic virtues, than for those splendid acts of generosity,
or those exaggerated expressions of tenderness, which are the
characteristics of heroines in romance. Sentimental authors, who paint
with enchanting colours all the graces and all the virtues in happy
union, teach us to expect that this union should be indissoluble.
Afterwards, from the natural influence of association, we expect in
real life to meet with virtue when we see grace, and we are
disappointed, almost disgusted, when we find virtue unadorned. This
false association has a double effect upon the conduct of women; it
prepares them to be pleased, and it excites them to endeavour to
please by adventitious charms, rather than by those qualities which
merit esteem. Women, who have been much addicted to common
novel-reading, are always acting in imitation of some Jemima, or
Almeria, who never existed, and they perpetually mistake plain William
and Thomas for "_My Beverly!_" They have another peculiar misfortune;
they require continual great emotions to keep them in tolerable humour
with themselves; they must have tears in their eyes, or they are
apprehensive that their hearts are growing hard. They have accustomed
themselves to such violent stimulus, that they cannot endure the
languor to which they are subject in the intervals of delirium. Pink
appears pale to the eye that is used to scarlet; and common food is
insipid to the taste which has been vitiated by the high seasonings of
art.
A celebrated French actress, in the wane of her charms, and who, for
that reason, began to feel weary of the world, exclaimed, whilst she
was recounting what she had suffered from a faithless lover, "Ah!
c'etoit le bon temps, j'etois bien malheureuse!"[92]
The happy age in which women can, with any grace or effect, be
romantically wretched, is, even with the beautiful, but a short season
of felicity. The sentimental sorrows of any female mourner, of more
than thirty years standing, command but little sympathy, and less
admiration; and what other consolations are suited to sentimental
sorrows?
Women, who cultivate their reasoning powers, and who acquire tastes
for science and literature, find sufficient variety in life, and do
not require the _stimulus_ of dissipation, or of romance. Their
sympathy and sensibility are engrossed by proper objects, and
connected with habits of useful exertion: they usually feel the
affection which others profess, and actually enjoy the happiness which
others describe.
FOOTNOTES:
[78] Adam Smith.
[79] See Smith.
[80] Edward.
[81] V. Rousseau and Williams.
[82] Berington. See his Life of Abeillard.
[83] Dr. John Gregory. Comparative View of the State and Faculties of
Man with those of the Animal World. See vol. ii. of Works, from page
100 to 114.
[84] Vernet's Theorie des Sentiments Agreables.
[85] V. Varieties of Literature, vol. i.
[86] Can it be true, that an English nobleman, in the 18th century,
won a bet by procuring a man to eat a cat alive?
[87] See Moore's Edward for the boy and larks, an excellent story for
children.
[88] Mem. de l'Acad. R. for the year 1742, p. 332.
[89] V. Middleton's Life of Cicero, vol. i. page 474.
[90] V. Le Palais de la Verite.--Madame de Genlis Veillees du Chateau.
[91] Sir Joshua Reynolds's Discourses. Dr. Darwin's Critical
Interludes in the Botanic Garden, and his chapter on Sympathy and
Imitation in Zoonomia.
[92] D'Alembert.