GRATITUDE IN CHILDREN.
Mothers are very often pained at what seems to them the ingratitude of
their children. They long, above all things, for their love. They do every
thing in their power--I mean, of course, that some mothers do--to win it.
They make every sacrifice, and give every possible evidence of affection;
but they seem to fail entirely of bringing out any of those evidences of
gratitude and affection in return which, if they could only witness them,
would fill their hearts with gladness and joy. But the only feeling which
their children manifest towards them seems to be a selfish one. They come
to them when in trouble, they even fly to them eagerly when in danger, and
they consider their parents the chief resource for procuring nearly all
their means of gratification. But they think little, as it often seems, of
the mother's comfort and enjoyment in return, and seldom or never do any
thing voluntarily to give her pleasure.
It would be a great exaggeration to say that this is always the feeling of
the mother in respect to her children. I only mean that this is sometimes,
and I might probably say very often, the case.
_Two Forms of Love._
Now there are two distinct forms which the feeling of love may assume in
the mature mind, both of which are gratifying to the object of it, though
they are very different, and indeed in some sense exactly the opposite of
each other. There is the _receiving_ and the _bestowing_ love. It is true
that the two forms are often conjoined, or rather they often exist in
intimate combination with each other; but in their nature they are
essentially distinct. A young lady, for example, may feel a strong
attachment for the gentleman to whom she is engaged--or a wife for her
husband--in the sense of liking to receive kindness and attention from him
more than from any other man. She may be specially pleased when he invites
her to ride with him, or makes her presents, or shows in any way that he
thinks of her and seeks her happiness--more so than she would be to receive
the same attentions from any other person. This is love. It may be very
genuine love; but it is love in the form of taking special pleasure in the
kindness and favor bestowed by the object of it. Yet it is none the less
true, as most persons have had occasion to learn from their own experience,
that this kind of love may be very strong without being accompanied by
any corresponding desire on the part of the person manifesting it to make
sacrifices of her own ease and comfort in order to give happiness to the
object of her love in return.
In the same manner a gentleman may feel a strong sentiment of love for a
lady, which shall take the form of enjoying her society, of being happy
when he is near her, and greatly pleased at her making sacrifices for his
sake, or manifesting in any way a strong attachment for him. There _may be_
also united with this the other form of love--namely, that which would lead
him to deny himself and make sacrifices _for her_. But the two, though
they may often--perhaps generally--exist together, are in their nature so
essentially different that they may be entirely separated, and we may have
one in its full strength while there is very little of the other. You
may love a person in the sense of taking greater pleasure in receiving
attentions and favors from him than from all the world beside, while yet
you seldom think of making efforts to promote his comfort and happiness in
any thing in which you are not yourself personally concerned. On the other
hand, you may love him with the kind of affection which renders it the
greatest pleasure of your life to make sacrifices and endure self-denial to
promote his welfare in any way.
In some cases these two forms are in fact entirely separated, and one or
the other can exist entirely distinct from the other--as in the case of the
kind feelings of a good man towards the poor and miserable. It is quite
possible to feel a very strong interest in such objects, and to be willing
to put ourselves to considerable inconvenience to make them comfortable and
happy, and to take great pleasure in learning that our efforts have been
effectual, without feeling any love for them at all in the other form--that
is, any desire to have them with us, to receive attentions and kindness
from them, and to enjoy their society.
On the other hand, in the love of a young child for his mother the case is
reversed. The love of the child consists chiefly in liking to be with his
mother, in going to her rather than to any one else for relief from pain
or for comfort in sorrow, and is accompanied with very few and very faint
desires to make efforts, or to submit to privations, or to make sacrifices,
for the promotion of her good.
_Order of their Development_.
Now the qualities and characteristics of the soul on which the capacity for
these two forms of love depend seem to be very different, and they advance
in development and come to maturity at different periods of life; so that
the mother, in feeling dejected and sad because she can not awaken in the
mind of her child the gratitude and the consideration for her comfort and
happiness which she desires, is simply looking for a certain kind of fruit
at the wrong time. You have one of the forms of love for you on the part of
the child now while he is young. In due time, when he arrives at maturity,
if you will wait patiently, you will assuredly have the other. Now he runs
to you in every emergency. He asks you for every thing that he wants. He
can find comfort nowhere else but in your arms, when he is in distress or
in suffering from pain, disappointment, or sorrow. But he will not make any
effort to be still when you are sick, or to avoid interrupting you when
you are busy; and insists, perhaps, on your carrying him when he is tired,
without seeming to think or care whether you may not be tired too. But in
due time all this will be changed. Twenty years hence he will conceal all
his troubles from you instead of coming with them to you for comfort. He
will be off in the world engaged in his pursuits, no longer bound closely
to your side. But he will think all the time of your comfort and happiness.
He will bring you presents, and pay you innumerable attentions to cheer
your heart in your declining years. He will not run to you when he has hurt
himself; but if any thing happens to _you_, he will leave every thing to
hasten to your relief, and bring with him all the comforts and means of
enjoyment for you that his resources can command. The time will thus come
when you will have his love to your heart's content, in the second form.
You must be satisfied, while he is so young, with the first form of it,
which is all that his powers and faculties in their present stage are
capable of developing.
The truth of the case seems to be that the faculties of the human mind--or
I should perhaps rather say, the susceptibilities of the soul--like the
instincts of animals, are developed in the order in which they are required
for the good of the subject of them.
Indeed, it is very interesting and curious to observe how striking the
analogy in the order of development, in respect to the nature of the bond
of attachment which binds the offspring to the parent, runs through all
those ranks of the animal creation in which the young for a time depend
upon the mother for food or for protection. The chickens in any moment
of alarm run to the hen; and the lamb, the calf, and the colt to their
respective mothers; but none of them would feel the least inclination to
come to the rescue of the parent if the parent was in danger. With the
mother herself it is exactly the reverse. Her heart--if we can speak of the
seat of the maternal affections of such creatures as a heart--is filled
with desires to bestow good upon her offspring, without a desire, or even a
thought, of receiving any good from them in return.
There is this difference, however, between the race of man and those of
the inferior animals--namely, that in his case the instinct, or at least
a natural desire which is in some respects analogous to an instinct,
prompting him to repay to his parents the benefits which he received from
them in youth, comes in due time; while in that of the lower animals it
seems never to come at all. The little birds, after opening their mouths
so wide every time the mother comes to the nest during all the weeks while
their wings are growing, fly away when they are grown, without the least
care or concern for the anxiety and distress of the mother occasioned by
their imprudent flights; and once away and free, never come back, so far
as we know, to make any return to their mother for watching over them,
sheltering them with her body, and working so indefatigably to provide them
with food during the helpless period of their infancy--and still less to
seek and protect and feed her in her old age. But the boy, reckless as he
sometimes seems in his boyhood, insensible apparently to his obligations
to his mother, and little mindful of her wishes or of her feelings--his
affection for her showing itself mainly in his readiness to go to her with
all his wants, and in all his troubles and sorrows--will begin, when he has
arrived at maturity and no longer needs her aid, to remember with gratitude
the past aid that she has rendered him. The current of affection in his
heart will turn and flow the other way. Instead of wishing to receive, he
will now only wish to give. If she is in want, he will do all he can to
supply her. If she is in sorrow, he will be happy if he can do any thing to
comfort her. He will send her memorials of his gratitude, and objects of
comfort and embellishment for her home, and will watch with solicitude and
sincere affection over her declining years.
And all this change, if not the result of a new instinct which reaches its
development only when the period of maturity arrives, is the unfolding of a
sentiment of the heart belonging essentially to the nature of the
subject of it as man. It is true that this capacity may, under certain
circumstances, be very feebly developed. In some cases, indeed, it would
seem that it was scarcely developed at all; but there is a provision for
it in the nature of man, while there is no provision for it at all in the
sentient principles of the lower animals.
_Advancing the Development of the Sentiment of Gratitude._
Now, although parents must not be impatient at the slow appearance of this
feeling in their children, and must not be troubled in its not appearing
before its time, they can do much by proper efforts to cultivate its
growth, and give it an earlier and a more powerful influence over them than
it would otherwise manifest. The mode of doing this is the same as in all
other cases of the cultivation of moral sentiments in children, and that is
by the influence over them of sympathy with those they love. Just as the
way to cultivate in the minds of children a feeling of pity for those who
are in distress is not to preach it as a duty, but to make them love you,
and then show such pity yourself; and the way to make them angry and
revengeful in character--if we can conceive of your being actuated by so
unnatural a desire--would be often to express violent resentment yourself,
with scowling looks and fierce denunciations against those who have
offended you; so, to awaken them to sentiments of gratitude for the favors
they receive, you must gently lead them to sympathize with you in the
gratitude which _you_ feel for the favors that _you_ receive.
When a child shows some special unwillingness to comply with her mother's
desires, her mother may address to her a kind but direct and plain
expostulation on the obligations of children to their parents, and the duty
incumbent on them of being grateful for their kindness, and to be willing
to do what they can in return. Such an address would probably do no good at
all. The child would receive it simply as a scolding, no matter how mildly
and gently the reproof might be expressed, and would shut her heart against
it. It is something which she must stand still and endure, and that is all.
But let the mother say the same things precisely when the child has shown a
willingness to make some little sacrifice to aid or to gratify her mother,
so that the sentiment expressed may enter her mind in the form of approval
and not of condemnation, and the effect will be very different. The
sentiments will, at any rate, now not be rejected from the mind, but the
way will be open for them to enter, and the conversation will have a good
effect, so far as didactic teaching can have effect in such a case.
But now to bring in the element of sympathy as a means of reaching and
influencing the mind of the child: The mother, we will suppose, standing at
the door some morning before breakfast in spring, with her little daughter,
seven or eight years old, by her side, hears a bird singing on a tree near
by. She points to the tree, and says, in a half-whisper, "Hark!"
When the sound ceases, she looks to the child with an expression of
pleasure upon her countenance, and says,
"Suppose we give that bird some crumbs because he has been singing us such
a pretty song."
"Well!" says the child.
"Would you?" asks the mother.
"Yes, mother, I should like to give him some very much. Do you suppose he
sang the song for us?"
"I don't _know_ that he did," replies the mother. "We don't know exactly
what the birds mean by all their singing. They take some pleasure in seeing
us, I think, or else they would not come so much around our house; and I
don't know but that this bird's song may come from some kind of joy or
gladness he felt in seeing us come to the door. At any rate, it will be a
pleasure to us to give him some crumbs to pay him for his song."
The child will think so too, and will run off joyfully to bring a piece of
bread to form crumbs to be scattered upon the path.
And the whole transaction will have the effect of awakening and cherishing
the sentiment of gratitude in her heart. The effect will not be great, it
is true, but it will be of the right kind. It will be a drop of water upon
the unfolding cotyledons of a seed just peeping up out of the ground, which
will percolate below after you have gone away, and give the little roots
a new impulse of growth. For when you have left the child seated upon the
door-step, occupied in throwing out the crumbs to the bird, her heart will
be occupied with the thoughts you have put into it, and the sentiment of
gratitude for kindness received will commence its course of development, if
it had not commenced it before.
_The Case of older Children_.
Of course the employment of such an occasion as this of the singing of a
little bird and such a conversation in respect to it for cultivating the
sentiment of gratitude in the heart, is adapted only to the case of quite
a young child. For older children, while the principle is the same, the
circumstances and the manner of treating the case must be adapted to a
maturer age. Robert, for example--twelve years of age--had been sick, and
during his convalescence his sister Mary, two years older than himself, had
been very assiduous in her attendance upon him. She had waited upon him
at his meals, and brought him books and playthings, from time to time, to
amuse him. After he had fully recovered his health, he was sitting in the
garden, one sunny morning in the spring, with his mother, and she said,
"How kind Mary was to you while you were sick!"
"Yes," said Robert, "she was very kind indeed."
"If you would like to do something for her in return," continued his
mother, "I'll tell you what would be a good plan."
Robert, who, perhaps, without this conversation would not have thought
particularly of making any return, said he should like to do something for
her very much.
"Then," said his mother, "you might make her a garden. I can mark off a
place for a bed for her large enough to hold a number of kinds of flowers,
and then you can dig it up, and rake it over, and lay it off into little
beds, and sow the seeds. I'll buy the seeds for you. I should like to do
something towards making the garden for her, for she helped me a great
deal, as well as you, in the care she took of you."
"Well," said Robert, "I'll do it."
"You are well and strong now, so you can do it pretty easily," added the
mother; "but still, unless you would like to do it yourself for her sake, I
can get the man to do it. But if you would like to do it yourself, I think
it would please her very much as an expression of your gratitude and love
for her."
"Yes," said Robert, "I should a great deal rather do it myself, and I will
begin this very day."
And yet, if his mother had not made the suggestion, he would probably not
have thought of making any such return, or even any return at all, for his
sister's devoted kindness to him when he was sick. In other words, the
sentiment of gratitude was in his heart, or, rather, the capacity for it
was there, but it needed a little fostering care to bring it out into
action. And the thing to be observed is, that by this fostering care it was
not only brought out at the time, but, by being thus brought out and drawn
into action, it was strengthened and made-to grow, so as to be ready to
come out itself without being called, on the next occasion.-It was like a
little plant just coming out of the ground under influences not altogether
favorable. It needs a little help and encouragement; and the aid that is
given by a few drops of water at the right time will bring it forward and
help it to attain soon such a degree of strength and vigor as will make it
independent of all external aid.
But there must be consideration, tact, a proper regard to circumstances,
and, above all, there must be no secret and selfish ends concealed, on the
part of the mother in such cases. You may deluge and destroy your little
plant by throwing on the water roughly or rudely; or, in the case of a boy
upon whose mind you seem to be endeavoring to produce some moral result,
you may really have in view some object of your own--your interest in the
moral result being only a pretense.
For instance, Egbert, under circumstances similar to those recited
above--in respect to the sickness of the boy, and the kind attentions of
his sister--came to his mother one afternoon for permission to go a-fishing
with some other boys who had called for him. He was full of excitement and
enthusiasm at the idea. But his mother was not willing to allow him to go.
The weather was lowering. She thought that he had not yet fully recovered
his health; and she was afraid of other dangers. Instead of saying calmly,
after a moment's reflection, to show that her answer was a deliberate one,
that he could not go, and then quietly and firmly, but without assigning
any reasons, adhering to her decision--a course which, though it could not
have saved the boy from emotions of disappointment, would be the best for
making those feelings as light and as brief in duration as possible--began
to argue the case thus;
"Oh no, Egbert, I would not go a-fishing this afternoon, if I were you. I
think it is going to rain. Besides, it is a nice cool day to work in the
garden, and Lucy would like to have her garden made very much. You know
that she was very kind to you when you were sick--how many things she did
for you; and preparing her garden for her would be such a nice way of
making her a return. I am sure you would not wish to show yourself
ungrateful for so much kindness."
Then follows a discussion of some minutes, in which Egbert, in a fretful
and teasing tone, persists in urging his desire to go a-fishing. He can
make the garden, he says, some other day. His mother finally yields, though
with great unwillingness, doing all she can to extract all graciousness and
sweetness from her consent, and to spoil the pleasure of the excursion to
the boy, by saying as he goes away, that she is sure he ought not to go,
and that she shall be uneasy about him all the time that he is gone.
Now it is plain that such management as this, though it takes ostensibly
the form of a plea on the part of the mother in favor of a sentiment of
gratitude in the heart of the boy, can have no effect in cherishing and
bringing forward into life any such sentiment, even if it should be already
existent there in a nascent state; but can only tend to make the object of
it more selfish and heartless than ever.
Thus the art of cultivating the sentiment of gratitude, as is the case in
all other departments of moral training, can not be taught by definite
lessons or learned by rote. It demands tact and skill, and, above all, an
honest and guileless sincerity. The mother must really look to, and aim
for the actual moral effect in the heart of the child, and not merely make
formal efforts ostensibly for this end, but really to accomplish some
temporary object of her own. Children easily see through all covert
intentions of any kind. They sometimes play the hypocrite themselves, but
they are always great detectors of hypocrisy in others.
But gentle and cautious efforts of the right kind--such as require no high
attainments on the part of the mother, but only the right spirit--will in
time work wonderful effects; and the mother who perseveres in them, and who
does not expect the fruits too soon, will watch with great interest for the
time to arrive when her boy will spontaneously, from the promptings of his
own heart, take some real trouble, or submit to some real privation or
self-denial, to give pleasure to her. She will then enjoy the double
gratification, first, of receiving the pleasure, whatever it may be, that
her boy has procured for her, and also the joy of finding that the tender
plant which she has watched and watered so long, and which for a time
seemed so frail that she almost despaired of its ever coming to any good,
is really advanced to the stage of beginning to bear fruit, and giving her
an earnest of the abundant fruits which she may confidently expect from it
in future years.