THERE MUST BE AUTHORITY.
The first duty which devolves upon the mother in the training of her child
is the establishment of her _authority_ over him--that is, the forming in
him the habit of immediate, implicit, and unquestioning obedience to all
her commands. And the first step to be taken, or, rather, perhaps the first
essential condition required for the performance of this duty, is the
fixing of the conviction in her own mind that it _is_ a duty.
Unfortunately, however, there are not only vast numbers of mothers who do
not in any degree perform this duty, but a large proportion of them have
not even a theoretical idea of the obligation of it.
_An Objection_.
"I wish my child to be governed by reason and reflection," says one. "I
wish him to see the _necessity_ and _propriety_ of what I require of him,
so that he may render a ready and willing compliance with my wishes,
instead of being obliged blindly to submit to arbitrary and despotic
power."
She forgets that the faculties of reason and reflection, and the power
of appreciating "the necessity and propriety of things," and of bringing
considerations of future, remote, and perhaps contingent good and evil to
restrain and subdue the impetuousness of appetites and passions eager for
present pleasure, are qualities that appear late, and are very slowly
developed, in the infantile mind; that no real reliance whatever can be
placed upon them in the early years of life; and that, moreover, one of the
chief and expressly intended objects of the establishment of the parental
relation is to provide, in the mature reason and reflection of the father
and mother, the means of guidance which the embryo reason and reflection of
the child could not afford during the period of his immaturity.
_The two great Elements of Parental Obligation_.
Indeed, the chief end and aim of the parental relation, as designed by the
Author of nature, may be considered as comprised, it would seem, in these
two objects, namely: first, the _support_ of the child by the _strength_
of his parents during the period necessary for the development of _his_
strength, and, secondly, his guidance and direction by their _reason_
during the development of his reason. The second of these obligations is no
less imperious than the first. To expect him to provide the means of his
support from the resources of his own embryo strength, would imply no
greater misapprehension on the part of his father and mother than to look
for the exercise of any really controlling influence over his conduct by
his embryo reason. The expectation in the two cases would be equally vain.
The only difference would be that, in the failure which would inevitably
result from the trial, it would be in the one case the body that would
suffer, and in the other the soul.
_The Judgment more slowly developed than the Strength_.
Indeed, the necessity that the conduct of the child should be controlled by
the reason of the parents is in one point of view greater, or at least more
protracted, than that his wants should be supplied by their power; for
the development of the thinking and reasoning powers is late and slow in
comparison with the advancement toward maturity of the physical powers. It
is considered that a boy attains, in this country, to a sufficient degree
of strength at the age of from _seven to ten_ years to earn his living; but
his reason is not sufficiently mature to make it safe to intrust him with
the care of himself and of his affairs, in the judgment of the law, till he
is of more than twice that age. The parents can actually thus sooner
look to the _strength_ of the child for his support than they can to his
_reason_ for his guidance.
_What Parents have to do in Respect to the Reasoning Powers of Children_.
To aid in the development and cultivation of the thinking and reasoning
powers is doubtless a very important part of a parent's duty. But to
cultivate these faculties is one thing, while to make any control which may
be procured for them over the mind of the child the basis of government, is
another. To explain the reasons of our commands is excellent, if it is
done in the right time and manner. The wrong time is when the question of
obedience is pending, and the wrong manner is when they are offered as
inducements to obey. We may offer reasons for _recommendations_, when
we leave the child to judge of their force, and to act according to our
recommendations or not, as his judgment shall dictate. But reasons should
never be given as inducements to obey a command. The more completely the
obedience to a command rests on the principle of simple submission to
authority, the easier and better it will be both for parent and child.
_Manner of exercising Authority_.
Let no reader fall into the error of supposing that the mother's making
her authority the basis of her government renders it necessary for her to
assume a stern and severe aspect towards her children, in her intercourse
with them; or to issue her commands in a harsh, abrupt, and imperious
manner; or always to refrain from explaining, at the time, the reasons for
a command or a prohibition. The more gentle the manner, and the more kind
and courteous the tones in which the mother's wishes are expressed, the
better, provided only that the wishes, however expressed, are really the
mandates of an authority which is to be yielded to at once without question
or delay. She may say, "Mary, will you please to leave your doll and take
this letter for me into the library to your father?" or, "Johnny, in five
minutes it will be time for you to put your blocks away to go to bed; I
will tell you when the time is out;" or, "James, look at the clock"--to
call his attention to the fact that the time is arrived for him to go to
school. No matter, in a word, under how mild and gentle a form the mother's
commands are given, provided only that the children are trained to
understand that they are at once to be obeyed.
_A second Objection_.
Another large class of mothers are deterred from making any efficient
effort to establish their authority over their children for fear of thereby
alienating their affections. "I wish my child to love me," says a mother of
this class. "That is the supreme and never-ceasing wish of my heart; and if
I am continually thwarting and constraining her by my authority, she will
soon learn to consider me an obstacle to her happiness, and I shall become
an object of her aversion and dislike."
There is some truth, no doubt, in this statement thus expressed, but it is
not applicable to the case, for the reason that there is no need whatever
for a mother's "continually thwarting and constraining" her children in her
efforts to establish her authority over them. The love which they will
feel for her will depend in a great measure upon the degree in which
she sympathizes and takes part with them in their occupations, their
enjoyments, their disappointments, and their sorrows, and in which she
indulges their child-like desires. The love, however, awakened by these
means will be not weakened nor endangered, but immensely strengthened and
confirmed, by the exercise on her part of a just and equable, but firm
and absolute, authority. This must always be true so long as a feeling of
respect for the object of affection tends to strengthen, and not to weaken,
the sentiment of love. The mother who does not govern her children is
bringing them up not to love her, but to despise her.
_Effect of Authority._
If, besides being their playmate, their companion, and friend, indulgent
in respect to all their harmless fancies, and patient and forbearing
with their childish faults and foolishness, she also exercises in cases
requiring it an authority over them which, though just and gentle, is yet
absolute and supreme, she rises to a very exalted position in their view.
Their affection for her has infused into it an element which greatly
aggrandizes and ennobles it--an element somewhat analogous to that
sentiment of lofty devotion which a loyal subject feels for his queen.
_Effect of the Want of Authority._
On the other hand, if she is inconsiderate enough to attempt to win a
place in her children's hearts by the sacrifice of her maternal authority,
she will never succeed in securing a place there that is worth possessing.
The children will all, girls and boys alike, see and understand her
weakness, and they will soon learn to look down upon her, instead of
looking up to her, as they ought. As they grow older they will all become
more and more unmanageable. The insubordination of the girls must generally
be endured, but that of the boys will in time grow to be intolerable, and
it will become necessary to send them away to school, or to adopt some
other plan for ridding the house of their turbulence, and relieving the
poor mother's heart of the insupportable burden she has to bear in finding
herself contemned and trampled upon by her own children. In the earlier
years of life the feeling entertained for their mother in such a case by
the children is simply that of contempt; for the sentiment of gratitude
which will modify it in time is very late to be developed, and has not yet
begun to act. In later years, however, when the boys have become young men,
this sentiment of gratitude begins to come in, but it only changes the
contempt into pity. And when years have passed away, and the mother is
perhaps in her grave, her sons think of her with a mingled feeling excited
by the conjoined remembrance of her helpless imbecility and of her true
maternal love, and say to each other, with a smile, "Poor dear mother! what
a time she had of it trying to govern us boys!"
If a mother is willing to have her children thus regard her with contempt
pure and simple while they are children, and with contempt transformed
into pity by the infusion of a tardy sentiment of gratitude, when they
are grown, she may try the plan of endeavoring to secure their love by
_indulging_ them without _governing_ them. But if she sets her heart on
being the object through life of their respectful love, she may indulge
them as much as she pleases; but she _must govern_ them.
_Indulgence_.
A great deal is said sometimes about the evils of indulgence in the
management of children; and so far as the condemnation refers only to
indulgence in what is injurious or evil, it is doubtless very just. But
the harm is not in the indulgence itself--that is, in the act of affording
gratification to the child--but in the injurious or dangerous nature of the
things indulged in. It seems to me that children are not generally indulged
enough. They are thwarted and restrained in respect to the gratification of
their harmless wishes a great deal too much. Indeed, as a general rule, the
more that children are gratified in respect to their childish fancies
and impulses, and even their caprices, when no evil or danger is to be
apprehended, the better.
When, therefore, a child asks, "May I do this?" or, "May I do that?" the
question for the mother to consider is not whether the thing proposed is a
wise or a foolish thing to do--that is, whether it would be wise or foolish
for _her_, if she, with her ideas and feelings, were in the place of the
child--but only whether there is any harm or danger in it; and if not, she
should give her ready and cordial consent.
_Antagonism between Free Indulgence and Absolute Control_.
There is no necessary antagonism, nor even any inconsistency, between the
freest indulgence of children and the maintenance of the most absolute
authority over them. Indeed, the authority can be most easily established
in connection with great liberality of indulgence. At any rate, it will be
very evident, on reflection, that the two principles do not stand at all
in opposition to each other, as is often vaguely supposed. Children may be
greatly indulged, and yet perfectly governed. On the other hand, they may
be continually checked and thwarted, and their lives made miserable by a
continued succession of vexations, restrictions, and refusals, and yet not
be governed at all. An example will, however, best illustrate this.
_Mode of Management with Louisa_.
A mother, going to the village by a path across the fields, proposed to her
little daughter Louisa to go with her for a walk.
Louisa asked if she might invite her Cousin Mary to go too. "Yes," said
her mother; "I _think_ she is not at home; but you can go and see, if you
like."
Louisa went to see, and returned in a few minutes, saying that Mary was
_not_ at home.
"Never mind," replied her mother; "it was polite in you to wish to invite
her."
They set out upon the walk. Louisa runs hither and thither over the grass,
returning continually to her mother to bring her flowers and curiosities.
Her mother looks at them all, seems to approve of, and to sympathize in,
Louisa's wonder and delight, and even points out new charms in the objects
which she brings to her, that Louisa had not observed.
At length Louisa spied a butterfly.
"Mother," said she, "here's a butterfly. May I run and catch him?"
"You may try," said her mother.
Louisa ran till she was tired, and then came back to her mother, looking a
little disappointed.
"I could not catch him, mother."
"Never mind," said her mother, "you had a good time trying, at any rate.
Perhaps you will see another by-and-by. You may possibly see a bird, and
you can try and see if you can catch _him_."
So Louisa ran off to play again, satisfied and happy.
A little farther on a pretty tree was growing, not far from the path on one
side. A short, half-decayed log lay at the foot of the tree, overtopped and
nearly concealed by a growth of raspberry-bushes, grass, and wild flowers.
"Louisa," said the mother, "do you see that tree with the pretty flowers at
the foot of it?"
"Yes, mother."
"I would rather not have you go near that tree. Come over to this side of
the path, and keep on this side till you get by."
Louisa began immediately to obey, but as she was crossing the path she
looked up to her mother and asked why she must not go near the tree.
"I am glad you would like to know why," replied her mother, "and I will
tell you the reason as soon as we get past."
Louisa kept on the other side of the path until the tree was left well
behind, and then came back to her mother to ask for the promised reason.
"It was because I heard that there was a wasp's nest under that tree," said
her mother.
"A wasp's nest!" repeated Louisa, with a look of alarm.
"Yes," rejoined her mother, "and I was afraid that the wasps might sting
you."
Louisa paused a moment, and then, looking back towards the tree, said,
"I am glad I did not go near it."
"And I am glad that you obeyed me so readily," said her mother. "I knew you
would obey me at once, without my giving any reason. I did not wish to tell
you the reason, for fear of frightening you while you were passing by the
tree. But I knew that you would obey me without any reason. You always do,
and that is why I always like to have you go with me when I take a walk."
[Illustration: INDULGENCE.]
Louisa is much gratified by this commendation, and the effect of it, and
of the whole incident, in confirming and strengthening the principle of
obedience in her heart, is very much greater than rebukes or punishments
for any overt act of disobedience could possibly be.
"But, mother," asked Louisa, "how did you know that there was a wasp's nest
under that tree?"
"One of the boys told me so," replied her mother.
"And do you really think there is one there?" asked Louisa.
"No," replied her mother, "I do not really think there is. Boys are very
apt to imagine such things."
"Then why would you not let me go there?" asked Louisa.
"Because there _might be_ one there, and so I thought it safer for you not
to go near."
Louisa now left her mother's side and resumed her excursions, running this
way and that, in every direction, over the fields, until at length, her
strength beginning to fail, she came back to her mother, out of breath, and
with a languid air, saying that she was too tired to go any farther.
"I am tired, too," said her mother; "we had better find a place to sit down
to rest."
"Where shall we find one?" asked Louisa.
"I see a large stone out there before us a little way," said her mother.
"How will that do?"
"I mean to go and try it," said Louisa; and, having seemingly recovered
her breath, she ran forward to try the stone. By the time that her mother
reached the spot she was ready to go on.
These and similar incidents marked the whole progress of the walk.
We see that in such a case as this firm government and free indulgence are
conjoined; and that, far from there being any antagonism between them, they
may work together in perfect harmony.
_Mode of Management with Hannah_.
On the other hand, there may be an extreme limitation in respect to a
mother's indulgence of her children, while yet she has no government over
them at all. We shall see how this might be by the case of little Hannah.
Hannah was asked by her mother to go with her across the fields to the
village under circumstances similar to those of Louisa's invitation, except
that the real motive of Hannah's mother, in proposing that Hannah should
accompany her, was to have the child's help in bringing home her parcels.
"Yes, mother," said Hannah, in reply to her mother's invitation, "I should
like to go; and I will go and ask Cousin Sarah to go too."
"Oh no," rejoined her mother, "why do you wish Sarah to go? She will only
be a trouble to us."
"She won't be any trouble at all, mother, and I mean to go and ask her,"
said Hannah; and, putting on her bonnet, she set off towards the gate.
"No, Hannah," insisted her mother, "you _must not_ go. I don't wish to have
Sarah go with us to-day."
Hannah paid no attention to this prohibition, but ran off to find Sarah.
After a few minutes she returned, saying that Sarah was not at home.
"I am glad of it," said her mother; "I told you not to go to ask her, and
you did very wrong to disobey me. I have a great mind not to let you go
yourself."
Hannah ran off in the direction of the path, not caring for the censure or
for the threat, knowing well that they would result in nothing.
Her mother followed. When they reached the pastures Hannah began running
here and there over the grass.
"Hannah!" said her mother, speaking in a stern and reproachful tone; "what
do you keep running about so for all the time, Hannah? You'll get tired out
before we get to the village, and then you'll be teasing me to let you stop
and rest. Come and walk along quietly with me."
But Hannah paid no attention whatever to this injunction. She ran to and
fro among the rocks and clumps of bushes, and once or twice she brought to
her mother flowers or other curious things that she found.
"Those things are not good for any thing, child," said her mother. "They
are nothing but common weeds and trash. Besides, I told you not to run
about so much. Why can't you come and walk quietly along the path, like a
sensible person?"
Hannah paid no attention to this reiteration of her mother's command, but
continued to run about as before.
"Hannah," repeated her mother, "come back into the path. I have told you
again and again that you must come and walk with me, and you don't pay the
least heed to what I say. By-and-by you will fall into some hole, or tear
your clothes against the bushes, or get pricked with the briers. You must
not, at any rate, go a step farther from the path than you are now."
Hannah walked on, looking for flowers and curiosities, and receding farther
and farther from the path, for a time, and then returning towards it again,
according to her own fancy or caprice, without paying any regard to her
mother's directions.
"Hannah," said her mother, "you _must not_ go so far away from the path.
Then, besides, you are coming to a tree where there is a wasps' nest. You
must not go near that tree; if you do, you will get stung."
Hannah went on, looking for flowers, and gradually drawing nearer to the
tree.
"Hannah!" exclaimed her mother, "I tell you that you must not go near that
tree. You will _certainly_ get stung."
Hannah went on--somewhat hesitatingly and cautiously, it is true--towards
the foot of the tree, and, seeing no signs of wasps there, she began
gathering the flowers that grew at the foot of it.
"Hannah! Hannah!" exclaimed her mother; "I told you not to go near that
tree! Get your flowers quick, if you must get them, and come away."
Hannah went on gathering the flowers at her leisure.
"You will _certainly_ get stung," said her mother.
"I don't believe there is any hornets' nest here," replied Hannah.
"Wasps' nest," said her mother; "it was a wasps' nest."
"Or wasps' nest either," said Hannah.
"Yes," rejoined her mother, "the boys said there was."
"That's nothing," said Hannah; "the boys think there are wasps' nests in a
great many places where there are not any."
After a time Hannah, having gathered all the flowers she wished for, came
back at her leisure towards her mother.
"I told you not to go to that tree," said her mother, reproachfully.
"You told me I should certainly get stung if I went there," rejoined
Hannah, "and I didn't."
"Well, you _might_ have got stung," said her mother, and so walked on.
Pretty soon after this Hannah said that she was tired of walking so far,
and wished to stop and rest.
"No," replied her mother, "I told you that you would get tired if you ran
about so much; but you would do it, and so now I shall not stop for you at
all."
Hannah said that _she_ should stop, at any rate; so she sat down upon a log
by the way-side. Her mother said that _she_ should go on and leave her.
So her mother walked on, looking back now and then, and calling Hannah to
come. But finding that Hannah did not come, she finally found a place to
sit down herself and wait for her.
_The Principle illustrated by this Case_.
Many a mother will see the image of her own management of her children
reflected without exaggeration or distortion in this glass; and, as the
former story shows how the freest indulgence is compatible with the
maintenance of the most absolute authority, this enables us to see how a
perpetual resistance to the impulses and desires of children may co-exist
with no government over them at all.
Let no mother fear, then, that the measures necessary to establish for her
the most absolute authority over her children will at all curtail her power
to promote their happiness. The maintenance of the best possible government
over them will not in any way prevent her yielding to them all the harmless
gratifications they may desire. She may indulge them in all their childish
impulses, fancies, and even caprices, to their heart's content, without
at all weakening her authority over them. Indeed, she may make these very
indulgences the means of strengthening her authority. But without the
authority she can never develop in the hearts of her children the only kind
of love that is worth possessing--namely, that in which the feeling of
affection is dignified and ennobled by the sentiment of respect.
_One more Consideration_.
There is one consideration which, if properly appreciated, would have an
overpowering influence on the mind of every mother in inducing her to
establish and maintain a firm authority over her child during the early
years of his life, and that is the possibility that he may not live to
reach maturity. Should the terrible calamity befall her of being compelled
to follow her boy, yet young, to his grave, the character of her grief, and
the degree of distress and anguish which it will occasion her, will depend
very much upon the memories which his life and his relations to her have
left in her soul. When she returns to her home, bowed down by the terrible
burden of her bereavement, and wanders over the now desolated rooms which
were the scenes of his infantile occupations and joys, and sees the now
useless playthings and books, and the various objects of curiosity and
interest with which he was so often and so busily engaged, there can, of
course, be nothing which can really assuage her overwhelming grief; but it
will make a vital difference in the character of this grief, whether the
image of her boy, as it takes its fixed and final position in her memory
and in her heart, is associated with recollections of docility, respectful
regard for his mother's wishes, and of ready and unquestioning submission
to her authority and obedience to her commands; or whether, on the other
hand, the picture of his past life, which is to remain forever in her
heart, is to be distorted and marred by memories of outbreaks, acts of
ungovernable impulse and insubordination, habitual disregard of all
authority, and disrespectful, if not contemptuous, treatment of his mother.
There is a sweetness as well as a bitterness of grief; and something like
a feeling of joy and gladness will spring up in the mother's heart, and
mingle with and soothe her sorrow, if she can think of her boy, when he
is gone, as always docile, tractable, submissive to her authority, and
obedient to her commands. Such recollections, it is true, can not avail to
remove her grief--perhaps not even to diminish its intensity; but they will
greatly assuage the bitterness of it, and wholly take away its _sting_.