instant interference. Two small boys were in an altercation. The older
had a ball. The younger wanted that ball with a consuming hunger. The
nearest weapon at hand was the discarded shaft of a golf club. Seizing
it, he began his attack with reckless fury. The sound of a blow upon a
piece of furniture followed by an outcry of fear brought their father
to the room. His thought was not for anybody's manners or morals,
nor for the disturbance, nor for a just settlement of the contest;
it was for the defenseless boy's head. There was but one possible
measure: immediate and forcible confiscation of the club. This was
frankly not punishment--which would have involved a moral judgment--but
simply humane intervention. The announcement that the club was to
remain confiscated for a week merely emphasized the extent of the
intervention, not the severity of a punishment. The incident might have
served as an occasion for a lecture upon the danger of the wanton use
of weapons; as a matter of fact, I believe, it was, of a sort; but--
"Oh, daddy, it was my ball!"
"No, daddy, really it wasn't!"
All such discussion as to the merits of the dispute was quashed.
Likewise was stifled all inclination on the part of the intervening
parent to deliver a lesson on the evils of an ungovernable temper. That
might not have been confusing, if it could have been made distinct from
the act of intervention; but it was not necessary. The fault was not
an excess of temper so much as a thoughtless or ignorant use of power.
At least, that was the judgment on which this father acted. Whether he
was right or wrong is not to the point; what is to the point is that he
formed his judgment, acted upon it, and did not obscure the issue by
confusing the consequences--or possible consequences--of a deed with
its moral character.
Just as the physical consequence of a quarrel may be more important
than its moral aspects, so may be its significance as an exhibition of
manners. When their elders hopelessly intermingle precepts as to the
amenities with deliverances upon ethics, children can hardly be blamed
if they come to regard murder as in the same category with the wearing
of tan boots to the accompaniment of a frock coat. An altercation
marked by vulgarity, or even by nothing more than delinquencies in
courtesy, may be more distasteful to grown-ups than one involving
meanness or deceit. In such a case we may give interference the form
of an expression of disgust, and keep the issue clear. If, however,
we allow it to take the form of punishment, we might as well admit
to ourselves that we are engaged not in disciplining children but in
relieving our own feelings, and be grateful that we have at hand such
an outlet for our emotions.
Occasionally there arises a quarrel which supplies a text for a moral
lesson. A quarrel of this sort arose one day between a small boy of
five or six and his sister a year or two older. The mother of these
two had issued a command to the younger that he take off his wet
shoes. In a few minutes she heard the sound of struggle. It called for
investigation. There on the nursery floor was the lad, tearful and
angry; near at hand his sister, reproachful and indignant. It appeared
that his neglect of the order had aroused her to action. He resented
her assumption of authority; she resented his resentment. The case was
not as simple as it appeared to be. Punishment of the small boy without
explanation would have seemed to him like punishment for disobedience
toward a sister who was without authority. On the other hand, a rebuke
of the sister for unwarranted assumption of authority would have seemed
to her like a rebuke for loyalty to her mother. It was a case, not
primarily for punishment or even for rebuke, but for moral instruction,
or, if you prefer, explanation.
As an occasion for the doing of justice, a quarrel among children often
presents great perplexities. It is hard for a mother to be a just judge
between her children. This is partly because she is so practiced in
partiality for her children that she revolts at the apparent hardness
of impersonal fairness; partly because she frequently cannot ascertain
the facts. A mother who loves justice while she loves her children
will not be quick to ascend the bench. Sometimes, however, she must.
There was once called, for instance, the case of Ronald _vs._ Dan.
After a statement of the case made in turn by the two litigants,
and confirmed or corrected by the visiting playmate Davy, the facts
seemed to be as follows: The boys were cutting advertising pictures
out of newspapers. Each of the boys had his own pile of newspapers
which was his property. Dan had on one of his papers a picture which
he did not care for, but which Ronald cared for very much. No sooner
had Ronald expressed his desire for this picture than Dan crumpled the
paper up in his hand and threw it into the waste-basket. Hence the
complaint. The act was undeniably one of meanness; it was done with
the intent to exasperate; but it transgressed no rights. The paper
was Dan's property, to be disposed of as he pleased. Ronald had not
the slightest claim upon it. This was clearly understood. While the
trial was in progress, Davy, the witness, fished the paper out of the
waste-basket, where it had become the personal property of nobody,
cut out the picture, smoothed its wrinkles, and presented it to the
grateful Ronald. Justice to Dan had compelled the recognition of his
right to do with his own as he pleased. Judgment rendered for the
defendant. Could any mother be satisfied with that outcome? So far as
determining whether punishment was to be measured out, that ended the
case. Strictly observing as between herself and her children their
property rights, that judge could not refuse to enforce those rights as
among themselves. This case, however, raised another question than that
of justice.
This was the question of future amity. The generous action of Davy, the
witness, made it possible to use the incident for furthering not only
just but also happy relations among the children. It made the defendant
somewhat ashamed of himself, although of course it did not in the
least obscure to his mind the consciousness that the judge had dealt
with him justly. It moreover restored the sun to the complainant's
cloudy face. Thus at the same time it impressed on the mind of the
guilty a sense of his own meanness and effaced the memory of that
meanness from the mind of the aggrieved. It is not always that a judge
has a Davy at hand. It will not, however, necessarily confuse matters
if she act the part of Davy herself. It is sometimes possible thus to
give a practical demonstration of the fact that the spoils of justice
are not always satisfying.
As in walking, so in living with our fellows, some friction is
necessary. To deprive a child of friction with other children is to
keep him in slippery places. Unless we wish to teach him how to elude
his kind, we shall not begrudge him his wholesome contests of skill, of
wit, of strength, of temper. We shall only take care that he does his
fighting fairly and not on too slight a provocation, that he knows how
to yield to the weakness of another, that he does not learn to whine or
snivel, that he does not become a tale-bearer, that he can take defeat
or rebuke without callousness and without a whimper, that he becomes
capable of forgetting his resentments and his personal triumphs over
others, and that of all his victories, he learns to value most those
which he wins over himself.
VI
THE BEGINNING OF WISDOM
The master of the house had returned from a visit to the country home.
"Whom do you suppose I saw to-day?"
The children could not imagine.
"Old Robert. And what do you think he said?"
The guesses flew wide.
"No; you're all wrong. What he said was, 'How are the little men?'"
Then up rose Deacon, as the old colored man had dubbed him, the
youngest, blandest, tricksiest of the trio; and he laughed in derisive
resentment.
"I think old Robert is funny. He calls us little men. I don't think
people will like old Robert if he calls 'em names."
Names! Will children never cease to shock us by their points of view?
Old Robert, like a well-baked pie, had put all the richness of his
highly flavored feeling for the lads into that one phrase. He made it
serve him as a message of loyalty, respect, affection, comradeship.
Old Robert had probably never heard of James Mill; and if he had,
he would not have cited him as an authority; for old Robert did not
act according to the logic of his phrase. James Mill, however, did
just that; he proceeded on the theory that it is wholesome to treat
children as if they were miniature men and women. He began with his
first-born by fitting to him an intellectual frock coat and tall hat.
Why he waited till the youngster was three years old no one, so far as
I know, has ever explained. Without much further delay he also gave
him a religious outfit. This, though decidedly less conventional than
his intellectual wardrobe, had the same adult cut. It was not the
Benthamite fashion of his religious garb, but its mature lines, that
gave John Stuart Mill his air of fascinating priggishness and suave
conceit.
Our taste, unlike James Mill's, may be for orthodoxy. We need not on
that account despair of imbuing our children with religious precocity
and self-assurance. Before he was ten years old, John Stuart Mill had
learned that Christianity was immoral, and that there was no personal
God. There is no reason why any child at the same age may not know
all the mysteries of predestinarianism, and be old in the experiences
of sanctification. All we need is the diligence, the courage, the
determination of James Mill.
In these qualities some of our forbears had the advantage of us. They
knew very definitely what they wished their children to do and to
believe. Among them was an American contemporary of James Mill, the
Rev. Carlton Hurd. There are people still living who gratefully recall
the ministration of this kindly, stalwart New England divine. He so
ran as not uncertainly; so fought he, not as one that beateth the air.
And his certitude did not forsake him in the training of his little
daughter. It may seem almost grotesque to couple the English author and
employee of the East India Company with the Orthodox American parson.
The one held beliefs antipodal to those of the other. James Mill,
moreover, not being able to believe in a God so stern as to create this
evil world, made up what was lacking in the cosmos by cultivating in
himself an iron sternness toward his son; on the other hand, Parson
Hurd, as he is still affectionately called, being fully persuaded of
the existence of a God capable of infinite wrath, seemed to cherish in
himself, as sort of compensation, a most touching solicitude for his
daughter. In only one respect did Parson Hurd resemble James Mill,--in
having and holding to a body of convictions which were, to his mind,
not only indisputable, but also, in substance at least, essential to
the proper adornment of the mind of a child. The letter in which he
tells the story of Marion Lyle Hurd is the narrative of a complete and
orderly religious experience.
Marion died at the age of four years. When she was eight months old,
her parents read to her from leaflets for Sabbath Schools. They
explained to her, when she was a year and a half old, in answer to
questions from her, the origin and use of the Bible. They noted that
when she had reached the age of two "her mind was seriously exercised
with religious things." At that time she would sometimes kneel down and
would say:--
"Mother, I am going to pray. What shall I say to God?"
"Ask God to make you good and give you a new heart."
"What is a new heart, Mother?"
"This was familiarly explained," writes her father, "and at the same
time she was particularly informed of the way of salvation by Jesus
Christ, and the steps God had taken to save sinners. We endeavored to
impress upon her mind that she was a sinner and needed forgiveness;
and God would forgive her sins, and give her a new heart through Jesus
Christ." That from this time "she chiefly devoted her few remaining
days to the acquisition of religious knowledge" her father finds to
be "a consoling reflection." He adds, with conscientious caution, "If
she was truly converted, we cannot tell when the change took place."
Her parents hoped, however, after she had died two years later, that
she had "entered 'the city of our God.'" Though they had no means of
perceiving the approach of the disease of the brain which occasioned
her death, they realized that the sensitiveness and activity of her
mind warned them "to lead Marion with the gentlest hand; to make her
way as quiet and even as possible." In this third year the books
which were read to her included Parley's "Geography" and "Astronomy,"
Gallaudet's "Child's Book on the Soul," and "Daily Food for
Christians." In her fourth year her books, which she read to herself,
were, besides the Bible, "Child's Book on Repentance," "Life of Moses,"
"Family Hymns," "Union Hymns," "Daily Food," "Lessons for Sabbath
Schools," "Henry Milnor," Watts's "Divine Songs," "Memoir of John
Mooney Mead," "Nathan W. Dickerman," Todd's "Lectures to Children," and
"Pilgrim's Progress." As these titles indicate, she was "particularly
fond of reading the biography of good little children." Of all her
books, however, Bunyan's masterpiece seems to have been the most
instructive. Her knowledge of the allegory was tested by questions.
She knew why Christian went through the river while Ignorance was
ferried over. She knew what was meant by the Slough of Despond and the
losing of the Burden. "When we come to Christ," said she, "we" (not
Christians, or people, or you, but we) "lose our sins." And she sought
from her father a certificate to enter the City. "We cannot doubt,"
comments her father, "Marion understood much of what was intended to
be taught in that book, which Phillip says, in his life of John Bunyan,
contains the essence of all theology. Certainly, she was familiar with
every step of the pathway of holiness trod by Christian, from the city
of Destruction through the river of death to the 'Celestial City.'" And
later he adds that she evinced "a familiar acquaintance with all parts
of that allegory and its doctrine." Though he makes clear in his letter
that "it is not the piety of the full grown and mature christian, that
we are to look for in a child," he makes equally clear that in all
essential particulars her piety was complete. It included even a regard
for the significance of eternal reward and penalty. From Doddridge's
"Expositor," both by examining the pictures and reading "the sacred
text" under the direction of her father, she derived many ideas of the
crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, and the general resurrection
at the end of the world. "Marion," continues the narrative, "after
closely inspecting the countenances given in those pictures, both to
the just and unjust, in the resurrection, would say,
"'Oh! how the wicked look, when they rise from the dead!' adding in a
serious and solemn manner,
"'"There is a dreadful hell,
And everlasting pains,
Where sinners must with devils dwell,
In darkness, fire, and chains."'"
Indeed, from the earlier months, life after death, "the happiness of
the good, and the misery of the wicked," were topics of "frequent and
delightful conversation with her parents."
In her last hours she expressed her assurance that she would be saved,
and her last audible words were, "I am not afraid to die." Thus ended
this brief life of four years and twenty-six days.
An example of such training would be hard to find among parents of the
present day. This is not because there are no parents who have Parson
Hurd's convictions; neither is it because there are none who have his
confidence in the capacity of children. It is because there are lacking
parents who have both the convictions and the confidence. The reason
why many parents fail where James Mill and Parson Hurd succeeded is
that they try to make compromise between two contradictory theories.
Although they wish to give their children a full complement of
doctrines, they either do not possess the full complement themselves,
or do not believe that their children are mature enough to receive it.
The spectacle of adults attempting to instruct a primary class in the
Logos Doctrine by the kindergarten method is thoroughly modern.
If the way of Parson Hurd and James Mill seems to us either too hard or
unreal, there is another way that may be found. That is the studious
exclusion of religion from the life--even from the knowledge--of our
children. It was this way that J. S. Mill supposed his father set him
traveling. Of course he was mistaken when he said in his autobiography
that he never had religious belief. He was embowered in religious,
though not in Christian, or even in theistic, belief. The way that he
walked was erroneously marked on his map; that was all. This is worth
noting because it indicates how easily even a logician may miss this
obscure way of no religion. Those who would lead their children by this
route must avoid the very shadow of religion as they would that of
the upas. Indeed, against even the air that has passed the shadow of
religion they must quarantine their children. Religion is infectious.
It can be conveyed by the subtlest means. To it children are perilously
liable. Against it there seems to be no trustworthy antitoxin. Children
are surrounded by infected people. A chance word may deposit the germ.
One child out of the brood may thus fall a victim to a particularly
virulent species of religion simply because he never had it in a
mild form. Nevertheless, it is possible to establish a quarantine
that may chance to remain effective for years. By this means children
may be kept from a knowledge of religion just as many are safely,
or dangerously, kept from a knowledge of what most people regard as
advanced physiology. One family, I am told, has taken this way. How
successful it has proved, I cannot say. All I have heard is that one
member of the family is now enlisted in the ministry. This does not
necessarily betoken failure. The theory was simply that each child
was to be kept immune until he was old enough to decide for himself
whether or not he would take the infection. This way is not the way of
indifference. It cannot be followed by any one who is not profoundly
affected by religion, whether hostile or friendly to it. It may require
less routine diligence than the other way, but it requires more anxious
circumspection.
Different from either of these is that third way blazed by the
developing traits of our children. Those who take it cannot regard
religion as a form of doctrines or practices to be handed over to their
child ready-made; neither can they regard it as a superfluity, which
they are to withdraw from their child until he can choose to avoid it
as a danger or accept it as a luxury. They can regard it only as a mode
of life and therefore a mode of growth. They conceive it to be quite as
perfect when it is genuinely manifested in the immaturities of the boy
or girl as when it is shown in the riper forms of old age.
Not that they undervalue doctrines. They know that there never was a
religion that did not formulate itself. They look, however, for the
doctrines to follow the religion, not the religion the doctrines.
They are not surprised when they find their children constructing a
philosophy of religion for themselves. Once upon a time a little girl
was heard to address her dolls: "There's us, and Bridget, and Jews.
We're all made of the same material; and we all have the same Father;
I guess the difference is that some are more refined than others."
No grown-up could have given her in the same number of words a more
thoroughly typical example of theology: a union of anthropology,
biology, and metaphysics, with a quasi-ethical conclusion. No
ecumenical creed could have been more valid for the generation that
produced it than could this brief philosophy be for her.
Those who would take this third way well know, too, that there are some
phases of religion from which it may be well, if possible, to save
children for a time. It is no more necessary to feed them on Dante's
"Inferno" than on Welsh rabbit. This, however, is very different from
enforcing abstinence from all religious food.
Conceding as much as this, then, to dogma and to caution, those who do
not object to seeing a child grow will--let him grow. They will not be
surprised if he looks out on the world with wonder. Neither will they
be surprised if his wonder is slow in reaching satiety. It is sometimes
very leisurely.
Davy, aged six, asked one day at table: "Mamma, what's above the
clouds?"
"Air."
After a moment of thought: "What's above the air?"
"Ether."
Another moment of thought; then, "What's above the ether?"
"More ether. Ether is everywhere."
Throughout this colloquy, Davy's brother Donald, two years younger,
seemed no more attentive than usual; which means he was quite
inattentive. A few weeks later, Davy had occasion to tell some one the
story of the Tower of Babel, and added his usual formula, "I think they
were foolish to try to get up to God, for God is everywhere." Donald's
mind seemed busily engaged about some other matter. A few months
passed, and Donald, now turned five, Donald the inattentive, suddenly
thrust at his mother this question:--
"Is God ether?"
"No," said his mother, with a little hesitating inflection; she was
trying to prepare herself for the unknown but inevitable sequence. It
came promptly:--
"Is God the universe?"
Not willing to commit herself to pantheism, she answered again, "No;"
and this time her inflection was more hesitant and inquiring than
before.
"How can God be everywhere?"
For all those months that wonder had been nestling in that small mind
until it grew brave enough to become vocal. Ether everywhere; God
everywhere; God is ether. Why not? And if not, how can both be true?
"Grandfather is in the library; perhaps he can tell you."
A sound on the stairway like the roll of a drum and Donald was down in
the library.
"Grandfather, how can God be everywhere?"
Grandfather touched Donald's hand: "Is Donald here, or," touching his
shoulders, "is he here, or," touching his chest, "is he here, or,"
touching his knee, "is he here?"
Donald did not hesitate; touching each spot in turn, he answered:
"Donald is here, _and_ here, _and_ here, _and_ here."
"So it is with God," said his grandfather; "he is in New York and
England and China and the sun and the moon and the stars."
With a smile that broke like the dawn, and that meant both
understanding and gratitude, Donald stood thoughtfully still a moment,
and then skipped off to his blocks.
Wonder. That seems to be the first phase of religious experience,
and it grows silently unless it is thrust out by some grown-up
body's system, or is atrophied by studious neglect. Miracles? Santa
Claus? Need we trouble ourselves about these when our children are
sun-worshipers, polytheists, pagans?
Wonder is only one part of religion. The natural response to wonder
is ritual. And children, whether we like it or not, are natively
ritualistic. The little son of a well-known writer went with his mother
for the first time in his life to service in the Church of England. As
they entered, the people were singing; as the music ended, the people
knelt.
"What are they going to do now, Mamma?"
"They are going to kneel and say their prayers."
"What! with all their clothes on?"
Untrained in ecclesiasticism, that small boy had developed a ritual of
his own. Night-clothes, to his mind, were essential to the proprieties
of religion. What does it matter to the ritualist whether or not he
understands all the words he says? The ritual itself is his reaction to
the spirit of reverence.