boy who is well acquainted with the story of the Israelites in Egypt
has invoked its aid. He is not overburdened with a sense of moral
responsibility. One day, when he was dawdling over his task of changing
his shoes and stockings, it was suggested that his father be an
Egyptian and he be an Israelitish slave. He joyfully acquiesced. His
father took the tip of a bamboo fishing-rod as badge of authority and
stood by. In a few moments the boy was dawdling. A slight rap over the
shins recalled him to his duty. There was no complaint; for he knew it
was the business of the overseer to keep the slave at his task. His
shoes and stockings were changed in a very much shorter time than was
customary; and he contemplated his finished work with satisfaction. A
few days later, when he had a similar task to perform, he proposed of
his own accord a repetition of the performance; and carried out his
part with spirit. When we adults remember how much we rely upon some
outside stimulus to keep us at our work--the need of money, the esteem
of our neighbors, the fear of disease, the mandate of the law--we
ought to be able to understand the reason why such an appeal to the
imagination as this acted as a reinforcement of the boy's will, and
therefore, by very reason of its disciplinary character, was actually
welcomed.
Two other boys similarly acquainted with the experiences of Israel in
Egypt contrived an application of one of those experiences to their
own case. They had several times been thrilled by the account of the
exciting race between the Israelites and the Egyptians to the Red Sea,
and had repeatedly found relief in the safe arrival of the Israelites
on the other side and the literally overwhelming defeat of the cruel
army of Pharaoh. One evening their mother was engaged in washing
the supper dishes, and they were engaged, as usual, in helping her
by wiping the silver. On several occasions they had been so little
intent on their work that their mother had finished all the washing
and had wiped the china and glassware before they had wiped and put
away the silver. This evening one of them suddenly became seized with
a fancy. His mother was the Egyptian army and he and his comrade were
the host of Israel. When the last fork had rattled into its place and
the silver-drawer was shut, what a shout of joy arose! The Egyptians
had been outdistanced; the Israelites were safe. After that, when there
were signs of inattention, the warning cry, "The Egyptians are coming!"
would rouse them into instant and happy action. Now those children
usually do this work rapidly. They have formed in themselves a valuable
habit.
That was not a device. It was the exemplification of a principle. A
habit, I suppose, can be beaten into a child; but it is more lasting
as well as more wholesome if it has been created, in part at least, by
the child's own will; and it is the imagination, charged as it is with
feeling, which can most surely summon the will into activity.
The difference between ignoring this principle and recognizing it may
be illustrated by contrasting two concrete instances. In the one case
the mother appears at the nursery door.
"Look at this room!" she exclaims; "it is very untidy." She thus puts
the brand of disapproval upon disorder. "All the blocks and toys must
be put away and you must be all washed for supper by six o'clock; and
you have so much to do, you must begin at once."
"But I want to build this house."
"No; you must begin now." This is for the purpose, the mother explains
to herself, of preparing the child to meet the harsh demands of an
unfeeling world.
She notes that the child begins listlessly to pick up some of the
scattered blocks, one by one, and drop them into the box where they
are kept. After an absence of several minutes she returns. She sees
but little change, although the child is hastily putting some toys
away. She is aware, however, that this activity started only when her
footfall sounded in the hall.
"If those things are not all in their places on time, I shall have to
punish you."
The mother is vexed, the child is unhappy and rebellious. A daily
experience of this sort may result finally in some kind of habit in
the child; but only at great cost of effort to the mother, and at the
sacrifice of much of the normal relationship between the two.
Another mother appears at the door of the nursery.
"In five minutes it will be time to begin to put away the blocks
and toys," she announces, thus giving some time for the builder to
complete operations. Then she asks, "What are you going to be this
evening?"
"I think I'll be Michael bringing the wood to the wood-box for the
fire."
In five minutes she calls: "Michael, I want all the wood put into the
wood-box."
The builder is now transformed for the time being into Michael. He has
seen the lusty Irishman carry great armfuls of wood, and his own frail
arms assume new dignity. He gathers the blocks by the dozen, and as he
lets them fall, kerplunk, into the box, he sees great logs falling into
place. In a few moments his mother reappears.
"You have been working hard, Michael, haven't you? I think you will
have the wood in its place in plenty of time. How much better the room
looks without those logs of wood lying all about! You can carry a good
many logs at once, can't you?"
Repeated every day, this process will inevitably develop into a habit
of orderliness. The regularity of the process is not in the least
impaired by the fact that one evening it assumes the form of stacking
up firewood, another evening of bringing in bags of coal to the cellar,
another evening of loading merchandise on to a vessel. It is the same
will that directs Michael, and the coal man, and the stevedore, and it
is the same brain that receives the repeated impression of promptness
and good order. In each case, whether it is Michael, or the coal man,
or the stevedore, the workman is doing his task under orders; he is
subject to authority. And if Michael, or the coal man, or the stevedore
fails to do his duty, it is not inappropriate that he should suffer
a penalty. Of course it will be more effective if the penalty can be
made suitable to the character. Whether it is made suitable or not
will depend largely upon the imagination of the person in authority.
As a rule, however, the spirit of such a process as that which I have
illustrated is less that of discipline than of instruction, or perhaps
more accurately, the spirit of discipline through instruction. It
is, in fact, just because instruction plays so large a part in the
government of children that those in authority need to have constant
recourse to their imagination.
Deficiency in imagination is exhibited by parents not merely in their
relation to their children, but quite as frequently in the relation
between husband and wife. Criticism of the one by the other in the
presence of the children can be accounted for, as a rule, only by a
defective imagination. If the critic could be put for a moment in
the place of the child who has heard the reproof, he would be amazed
at discovering how he had weakened not only the mother's authority,
but also his own. In a certain household, let us say, the mother is
strongly of the opinion that it is injurious for the children to eat
anything between meals; the father, however, scouts the idea, and
actually keeps, in his pocket, sweetmeats for which he invites the
children to search. If he had imagination enough to look into his
own children's minds, he would be mortified at what he would see.
Parents at cross-purposes are simply exhibiting their own stupidity.
Without imagination, therefore, there can be only the most ineffective
government in the family.
It is surprising, on the other hand, how the exercise of the
imagination will clear away many perplexing difficulties in discipline;
for in the light of the imagination many of these difficulties are seen
to be problems in moral instruction. Let me illustrate.
The boys whom I have already described as militiamen were left by their
parents, for a day, in charge of a competent nurse. When they were
called upon to report in the customary military fashion concerning
their behavior, they all confessed to certain offenses involving the
marring of property.
"Would you have done that if mamma or I had been there?" their father
asked.
"No," was the reply.
"Then you sneaked on us."
That word "sneaked" was apparently new to them; it upset their gravity.
The entire company, including the commander, was soon convulsed. What
could be done? The case could not be allowed to end thus. Finally,
after some degree of order was restored, the commander proposed that
they all take turns in sneaking on one another. The plan which was
accepted with enthusiasm was this: Two of the boys were to leave the
room; then the third, in their absence, was to find some precious
possession of each of the two and destroy it. No sooner, however,
were the victims in another room than they raised a vigorous protest.
As this was to be not a punishment but an experiment, the protest
was heeded. The tables were turned; one of the victims was appointed
executioner, and the executioner took the place of victim. After
several trials it was proved that nobody wished to have his property
destroyed. They thus learned that, however much fun it was to sneak
on some one else, they did not wish any one else to sneak on them.
Although they agreed, too, that if each had a turn there would be
nothing unfair, they were all unwilling to lose precious possessions
even for the fun of playing an underhand trick. By this time one of the
boys had decided that all sneaking "was bad." It was then proposed to
the other two that their father go out, and that they should sneak on
him. This seemed to be a solution. They would have the fun and suffer
none of the loss. When they had committed themselves to this opinion,
their father called their attention to the fact that he had already
had his turn at being victim, and that now it was only fair that he
should have his turn at being executioner. There was no escape. At the
very moment when they were looking for all the gain and none of the
loss, they were confronted with the prospect of suffering, perfectly
justly, all of the loss and having none of the gain. By that time the
word "sneak" conveyed an idea that was quite the opposite of humorous,
and they were in position to appreciate their father's repudiation of
any intention to act as a sneak. It was necessary for them to travel
a long and roundabout way before they reached the point at which they
could genuinely disapprove what they themselves had done. In the frame
of mind in which at first they had been, punishment would have been
meaningless; it would have signified nothing more than that an older
person was vexed at something, and that they had to bear the ill
effects of the vexation. What they needed primarily was not discipline
but instruction. Incidentally, it may be added, they had a good deal
of discipline in the process.
We are likely to forget that moral distinctions are not instinctive,
but are the product of experience. The capacity to distinguish between
the good and the evil is, we may all agree, inherent; but ability in
deciding what acts belong in the category of the good and what in
the category of the evil is acquired. There is no magic voice within
a little child informing him what a lie is and warning him that it
is evil. It is not enough, moreover, to tell a child over and over
again that lying is wrong; it is equally necessary to instruct him
so that he will recognize a lie when he encounters it. The knack of
recognizing the difference between truth and falsehood is like the
knack of recognizing the difference between edible and poisonous
mushrooms. It comes only after careful instruction and long practice,
and it is not as easy as it seems. Is "Alice in Wonderland" falsehood?
Are the statements in Stevenson's "Child's Garden of Verses" true? I
believe I could set an examination in the subject, asking for reasons
for the answers, which a good many parents could not satisfactorily
pass. A child who habitually lies may be consciously doing wrong; but
it is also possible that he has been simply ill-taught, or is not old
enough to be taught at all in this subject. In order to reach a child's
mind for the purpose of enabling him to see the difference between a
lie and the truth, we must have imagination enough to put ourselves
in the child's place sufficiently to find out what his conception of
the truth is. It is easy to assume that a child is lying when he is
merely experimenting with language, or is desiring to please, or is
playing with his fancies. If we want children to understand us, we
must exercise enough imagination to understand them. After we have
established some basis of mutual understanding, we can feel free to
proceed with rigorous discipline.
I hope I shall not be misunderstood. It is not necessary that a child
should understand the reason for a command before he obeys. Obedience
first and reasons afterwards is a good rule, and one that may even
prevent disasters. It is necessary, however, that a child should
understand what it is he is commanded to do or not to do. It requires
some imagination to ascertain whether the child understands this or not.
Instruction in manners, like instruction in morals, requires the use of
the imagination. The adult who is receiving his first lesson in golf
ought to be able to understand why a child has difficulty in properly
holding his spoon; the difference between a niblick and a stymie is not
nearly so hard to learn as the difference between "Please" and "Thank
you." Manners are more arbitrary than the technical terms of a game
or a calling. Why it should be wrong but not naughty to eat with your
knife or to sing at the table, children do not readily see.
As with regard to morals and manners, so with regard to all that a
child has to learn, instruction is best coupled with imagination. A
generation ago my grandfather wrote a book. Its tide seems to attach it
to a long bygone age. It is called "Gentle Measures in the Management
and Training of the Young."[2] I know of no book which in spirit or in
principles is more modern. I do not think its substance will ever be
antiquated. It was through no fault or merit of mine that the author of
this book was my grandfather; so I can see no reason why I should not
be as free as any one else might be in expressing the wish that every
parent who has some interest in the training of children might not only
possess a copy, but also read it studiously. His words, with their
touch of quaintness, concerning the use of imagination in the teaching
of children were but the transcript of the principles which he had
established by use and found practicable.
Are the children restive or boisterous? Do they talk incessantly
and nonsensically? A little imagination will suggest what should be
done with them. They are steam engines under full head of steam. If
you do not wish to starve them into lassitude, set their activity to
work in some direction that will not be troublesome. Has one of the
children pinched his hand in the door or bumped his head? Summon up
your imagination. He is a man who has met with an accident; call the
ambulance, which comes in the form of a two-legged creature, to carry
him to the hospital, which to grown-up eyes looks amazingly like the
couch in the sewing-room; give him some medicine out of a bottle,
which has the appearance of a shoe-horn. Is there an altercation in
the nursery? Let there be a court established, and the issue heard and
decided in due form. No retinue of servants can work such wonders as a
moderately alert imagination.
If we parents have allowed our own imaginations to become atrophied
through disuse, so that we are incapacitated from sharing in the
most vivid part of our children's world, there is at least one thing
we can do; we can restrain our natural impulse to interfere with
our children's imagination. For a generous portion of every day we
can leave our children alone. We are, of course, useful to them in
emergencies, but ordinarily we prosy folk are in their way. What a
nuisance we are when we impose upon an imaginative child that horror
known as a mechanical toy! The nodding mandarin is so insistently a
mandarin that no child with a healthy imagination can respect it.
Off with its head! it then can conceivably be the pillar of a house,
or a chimney for a steamboat. Large flat wooden dolls that come in a
game-set have been known to serve admirably as roofs for block houses.
Shall we allow the children to abuse their toys in this wise? exclaims
the prosaic adult. The children might well reply, Must we be forced
to lose our real world and to live in a commonplace, unreal world like
yours? Elaborate dolls, complicated mechanisms, elegant playthings,
may gratify the vanity of an adult, and even whet the curiosity of
the growing boy and girl, but will not take the place of real toys
like blocks of wood and spools and marbles. If we must nag him at
other times, at least in his play let us leave the child alone with
his imagination and the materials which his imagination can best use.
If we are nonplussed by the enjoyment which a child finds in such
simple things, it is because we have not the imagination to perceive
that these very same simple things are the most capable of varied
transformation.
Like those complicated toys which are made merely because the adults,
who have the money, buy them, some kindergartens are engines of
destruction. The play instinct, which psychologists kindly explain is
simply the instinct for self-directed activity, is in mortal peril from
people who are always for supervising children's games. Controlling
the play of children is really attempting the impossible. As soon as
it is controlled from the outside, play ceases to be play. If some one
else directs the child, he ceases to be self-directed. Play is not
mere recreation; it is sometimes very serious business. What makes
it play is that it is not done under orders. And real play requires
imagination. We parents can spoil our children by confining them to
the artificial things we enjoy in lieu of our own minds. If we wish
to amuse ourselves, we can do so for a time by spoiling our children.
But if we wish them to enjoy life, as well as to grow strong in body
and mind and character, we will not tempt them by the spices, the
mechanisms, the artifices of our world, but will leave them as much
as possible to wander and play and work unmolested in the world of
simple things. Simple food, simple occupations, simple toys, simple
surroundings--at least such we call them; in fact, there are no riches
like them to the child--or the adult for that matter--who has not
been robbed of his imagination. If we have lost ours, and must go
about our task of instruction and discipline in the unreal way of the
dry-as-dust, we can at least leave the child his. That is possible for
the dullest of us.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] By Jacob Abbott. (Harper and Brothers.)
IV
PEACE AT A PRICE
Advice to wives usually begins with this sort of exhortation: When your
husband returns from the office, greet him smilingly; exile from your
face the traitorous lines of care, imprison in the silences of your
mind the petty vexing trials of the day, dismiss to their own quarters
the evidences of housework. Your husband's home is his castle; when
he takes refuge there in flight from his enemies, the cares of his
vocation, do not confront him with your own. We are all familiar with
this strain. It sounds well. But, after all, the lord's castle is his
lady's battlefield. If she is a very fine lady indeed, she may not have
engaged in any personal encounters. If her resources and disposition
permit, she may hire mercenaries to do her fighting for her. In that
case her battles have been sham battles, and she has no relic of
carnage to hide. If, however, she is not one of those who regard one
child as a nuisance and two as an intolerable burden, and therefore
prefers to conduct the campaign of their training herself, she can
hardly be sure of turning nightly the battlefield of that home into the
semblance of an impregnable castle. The fact is, any woman who regards
motherhood as a vocation quite as worthy of respect as yelling on the
Stock Exchange (and that I believe is a very, very respectable vocation
indeed) will find it a serious drain on her physical and nervous
resources.
However much a woman may court martyrdom, I never heard of one who
deliberately invited vexation of spirit. She may find a genuine
happiness in the weariness she has incurred for the sake of some great
object; but she finds no happiness in the annoyances she encounters
purposelessly. Now, it is just these vexations, these annoyances,
which it is a part of her vocation to avoid. So far from being an
incident of motherhood, they are an impediment.
Most of these annoyances, these vexations, with which a mother has
to contend, come from a maladjustment between her children and their
environment. Quarrels among themselves, irritability and disobedience
toward her, impositions upon the servants, pertness with their elders,
insubordination toward their teachers, altercations with their
playmates, and friction with the neighbors--it is affairs of these
sorts that fray a woman's nerves and wrack her mind. No woman can
long endure these things. There are not many courses open to her. She
can die, or she can rid herself of her children by consigning them to
servants who are paid for accepting her responsibility. In either case
she no longer concerns us. Let us suppose, however, that she remains a
mother. Then the only course that she can pursue is to attempt some
mode of adjustment.
There are two ways in which she can act. She can undertake either
to adjust her children to their environment, or to adjust their
environment to them. Almost every mother adopts either one way or the
other within the first two months of her first baby's life. The young
lord of creation puts the problem squarely before her: Am I to begin my
reign now--and I warn you it will be a case of whimsical autocracy--or
must I take my place in the order of this household? If his mother
is a washerwoman, he gets no answer; she goes about her washing and
he finds his place without much remonstrance. The children of the
poor are blessed with mothers who have this problem settled for them
by the gaunt hand of necessity. If, however, this lordling has been
born in the purple, even of very light shade, he has a good chance of
seizing the sceptre at the very first grasp. He certainly will seize
it and wield it relentlessly, if his mother decides to do the easiest
thing. At the beginning and for some time it is easier to conform the
household to the baby than the baby to the household. It is easier
because strictly at the beginning it is necessary. Even the household
of the washerwoman is swerved for a few days out of its regular course;
but when the wash comes in again, the household is swerved back. The
trouble comes in those families where the mother's will has to take the
place of somebody else's wash. Of course there are cases which cannot
be considered normal. The newcomer is puny and needs the constant
attention that every invalid requires; or the mother's strength has
been sapped, and she must, for everybody's sake, do the easiest thing.
In such cases there is no choice. Ordinarily, however, the issue is not
long postponed. The trained nurse, if there is one, can have a good
deal to do in deciding it. Probably it will be most distinctly raised
over a question of feeding. The foundation of absolute monarchy within
many a plain American home has been laid by allowing the diminutive
heir apparent to engage in midnight feasting when every consideration
of orderliness commanded sleep. It is on such an occasion that a man,
if he has any chivalry in him, will sustain his wife's good resolution.
If he chooses to be anything more to his household than a purveyor, he
will not have to wait long to make good his determination.
The difference between a household adjusted to a child and a child
adjusted to a household is the difference between unstable and stable
equilibrium. Quietness, peace, and an aspect of repose may be found in
both cases; but in the one case every new movement threatens an upset.