In spite of the fact that Solomon advised whipping the child, I question
the benefits of giving pain. I never struck my boy but once, and that was
when he was a child in kilts. God forgive me, I was angry at the time.
We were out in the fields gathering dandelions for greens, and the lad
persisted in throwing clods into the vessel in which the dandelions were.
I told him several times to desist, but he laughed in childish glee and
did it again and again. He did not intend to be bad. It was a child’s
estimation of fun—to have somebody scolding. I do not know what ailed me
that morning, but I soon became so angry that I broke off an elder sprout
and struck the child a cruel blow across his little back. One blow—that
was all, and then my heart smote me. When I felt the little form writhing
in pain, as I held him by one arm, it dawned on me that I was a brute.
I can shut my eyes still and see that little child sitting on a bank of
coarse grass and weeping bitter tears. How I despised myself! I would
have taken him in my arms and begged his forgiveness, but I felt sure the
child would not think my remorse sincere, and might think me a hypocrite.
No, I thought it best to let the child think me a brute, rather than
believe me a hypocrite. He must have faith in my honesty, even though I
was an honest brute.
I resolved right then and there that I never would strike my child again.
My paternal heart told me that Solomon was wrong—that if he had but one
boy he would try love, and not the lash. Solomon had so many children and
so many wives, that he couldn’t love any of them truly and sincerely. I
would not take advice from any man who made women slaves to his animal
passion, and who encouraged the brutal act of inflicting pain on the
tender flesh of a helpless child. The child that is beaten must surely
grow hard of heart, as well as calloused of back, where the rod leaves
welts and scars.
I asked my boy only the other day—he is fourteen now—whether he still
remembered the cruel blow I struck him, and when he replied that he did,
my head fell and my heart felt a peculiar pain. Oh, to recall that one
brutal blow, or have it forgotten by the boy who was once that quivering,
sobbing child!
I am certain that the boy is just as obedient as any other boy in the
neighborhood, and would be just the same if never struck that one blow. I
still tell him how sorry I am that I once lost my head and beat a child.
I want him to feel and know that love is a better ruler than the rod. And
after I am gone, and the boy recalls my face, I want him to think kindly
of me and realize how that one blow has pained me all through life, and
made one shadow of paternal shame.
Not long ago I heard a mother boasting of how she conquered her
thirteen-year-old daughter. For some trivial disobedience she struck
the child with a rod, which stung the child to anger, and roused her
rebellious spirit. She refused to beg her mother’s pardon until deep red
scars and seams lined her back, through which the red blood was seeping,
and then pain forced her to break down and ask pardon. But was the girl
sincere? Was she conquered, subdued? Was her spirit broken?
I hope not. A child with a broken spirit is a pitiable object. Her pride
is forever injured. And the child that fears her mother can never love
her in the true sense of filial affection. And if she was not sincere in
begging her mother’s pardon, if it was only to escape the awful pain,
then the first seeds of hypocrisy have been sown, and the child will
never be truthful again.
I know a father who imagines that it is his paternal prerogative to
punish his child whenever required, and he is to be the judge and jury
to decide when the child needs punishment, and the extent of that
punishment. He quotes Solomon to prove his position.
Not long ago his boy of five years refused to repeat a word dictated by
his father, and for this disobedience the boy was made to stand on the
floor erect, until conquered. The father didn’t try moral suasion or
coaxing or petting. He was not in favor of arbitration between father
and child. It was war to the finish. The boy’s rebellious spirit must be
broken, at any cost. It was the father’s duty to conquer the child. The
big strong man must triumph, because might is right. Solomon advised this.
It was 7 P. M. when the boy was first stood up on the floor. The father
demanded obedience of the child when anger filled the child’s heart. It
aroused the rebellious spirit—the boy would not be conquered. It was
the courage and will that is to make the man a doer and a worker when
childhood is gone, but the father didn’t realize it. At 10 o’clock the
child fell over in a faint—unconquered and unsubdued—and was critically
ill for many days.
That father may be right, but I do not believe it. I would give much to
recall the one cruel blow I struck when my boy was a helpless child.