CARE OF THE POWERS: PATIENCE--INFIRMITY.
Though the great majority of children born into the world have five
senses and four limbs, a full-formed brain, and a well-formed frame,
there are many thousands in every civilised country that have not: and
so many more thousands are interested in their lot, that it is, or ought
to be, a subject of wide and deep concern how their case should be
treated, for their own sake, and that of all connected with them. It is
a matter of great and increasing surprise, when elections of objects for
Blind and Deaf and Dumb Institutions, or a special census for the
purpose occurs, how very numerous are the Blind and Deaf and Dumb: and
much greater still is the proportion of persons who, through ill health
or accident, lose a limb, or grow up deformed. And I believe the cases
of total or partial idiotcy are more numerous even than these. The
number of persons thus interested in the subject of bodily infirmity is
very large indeed; and it would be a great omission in treating of
Household Education, not to speak of what concerns so many homes.
The first impulse of a parental heart, on becoming aware of the
infirmity of a child, is to lavish on the sufferer all its tenderness,
and thus to strive to compensate to it for what it must forego and
suffer from its peculiarity. The impulse, being natural and unselfish,
is right; but it is not enough. It is very far indeed from being all
that is due to a creature whose helplessness gives it a sacred claim
upon its whole race for whatever aid can be afforded it. If it were good
that a mother should nurse an infirm child through the day, and guard it
all the night:--that she should devote all her time and all her love,
and sacrifice all her pleasures to it, and minister to its wishes every
hour of its life;--if it were good that she should do all this, it would
not be enough. It is not good, and it is not enough.
The true claim of an infirm child, as of every other child, is to be
made the most of. And no human being was ever yet made the most of by
lavish and unchastened indulgence. Every human being,--not excepting
even the idiot,--has a world of its own, wherein to act and enjoy: and
the parent's charge is to enable it to act and enjoy in its own world in
the fullest and freest manner possible.
Let us take the worst case first:--that of the idiot.
It is never the case that a human being has no faculties at all. A child
whose brain did not act at all, could not live. It could not move, nor
swallow or digest food, nor see, nor hear, nor breathe. And it seldom or
never happens that it has not many faculties, though the want, in an
idiot, of what we call Sense makes us too careless in observing what
powers he has, and in making what we can of them. From the deficiency of
some faculties, and the consequent want of co-operation and balance
among his powers, the idiot lacks sense, and must therefore be taken
care of all his days, like an infant: but it does not follow that he can
never do and enjoy more than an infant. On the contrary, we see, oftener
than not, that an idiot has some strong faculties. One may be shockingly
gluttonous and sensual: another is desperately orderly: another is
always singing: another is wonderful in arithmetic, though nobody can
conceive how he learned: another draws every thing he sees: another
imitates everything he hears: another is always building clay houses, or
cutting wood or paper into shapes: another can always tell the time--day
or night--even where there is no clock in the house or within hearing.
One will share everything he has to eat with the dog, or the cat, or the
bird: another caresses his mother, or brothers and sisters, and follows
them about wherever they go; while another gives no heed to anybody, but
stands out of doors for hours listening to the wind or the birds, and
sits a whole winter evening watching the blazing fire. One will not be
ruled, and fights everybody who tries to control him, while another is
in a transport or an agony, according as his mother looks pleased or
displeased with him. All these tendencies show that some part or other
of the brain is alive and active: and it is the parent's business, with
this child as with the rest, to make the most that can be made of his
brain.
As reason cannot be used in his case, there must be all the more
diligence in the use of Habit: and as he has no reason of his own, that
of his family must be made available to him to the utmost. He must be
made the family charge; and every member of the household must be
admitted into the council held in his behalf. There is hardly a child so
young but that it can understand the main points of the special training
required, and the reasons for them. There is hardly a child so young but
that it can understand that John does not know, as other people do, when
to leave off eating; and that this is why the proper quantity is set
before him, and no more is given: and there are not a few little ones
who will refrain from asking for more of a good thing at table because
John is to be trained not to ask for more. If the object is to make John
clean and tidy, the youngest will bear cold water, and the trouble of
dressing cheerfully, that John may see what other people do, and perhaps
learn to imitate them. If John ever sings, some little one will begin to
sing when John looks dull; and the family will learn as many tunes as
they can to give him a variety. If he is fond of arranging things, they
will lead him to the cupboard or the play-room, when it wants putting in
order. When he mopes, they will bring him the scissors and paper, or the
slate and pencil, or they will empty the box of bricks on the floor,
that the pleasant rattle may tempt him to come and build. If, happily,
the time should arrive when John may learn to do something useful, every
one takes pride in it. At worst, he may perhaps be trained to work the
mangle, or to turn the wheel at the rope-walk. His faculty of order may
be turned to account by letting him set the dinner and tea-table, and
clear away. By a faculty of constructiveness, he may become a fair
basket-maker. By his power of imitation, he may learn to dig in the
field, or to saw wood, or blow glass, or do other such mechanical work.
If the whole family not only love their poor brother, but take his
interests fairly to heart, his case may be made something of in one way
or another. At worst he will probably be saved from being offensive or
annoying to those about him;--a thing almost always practicable in cases
of idiotcy from birth: and it is very likely that he will be enabled to
pass through life, not only harmless, but busy, and, to some extent,
useful, and as happy as his deficient nature permits.
This is not a case in which patience can be spoken of as a solace to the
individual. He may be saved from the misery of impatience by wise
training,--by the formation of habits of quietness, under the rule of
steady, gentle authority. This may often be done: but the noble and
sweet solace of patience under his restrictions is not for him: for he
is unconscious, and does not need it. It remains for those who do need
it--for those who suffer for him and by him--for the father who sighs
that his son can never enjoy the honour and privilege of toil, or the
blessing of a home;--for the mother whose pillow is wet with the tears
she sheds over her child's privations;--for the children whose
occupations and play are disturbed by the poor brother who wants their
playthings, and hides or spoils their books or work. They all have need
of much patience; and, under good training, they obtain patience
according to their need. From what I have seen, I know that the training
of such a being may become a cheerful and hopeful object to his parents,
and one which strengthens them to repress his whims and deny his animal
appetites, and inflict the pain of their displeasure upon him, in the
patient hope of giving him some degree of the privilege of
self-government. From what I have seen, I know that the most self-willed
and irritable child of such a family may learn never to be angry with
John, however passionate at times with others. Toys broken by John are
not to be cried for;--work spoiled by John is to be cheerfully done over
again: and everybody is to help to train John not to do such mischief
again.
Poor John knows nothing of life and its uses. He goes through his share
of it, like one walking in a dream, and then passes away without
leave-taking. He passes away early; for people in his state rarely live
very long. Brain is the great condition of life; and an imperfect brain
usually brings early death. It is when he has passed away that the
importance of poor John's life becomes felt and understood. Neighbours
may and do reasonably call his departure a blessing; and the parents and
brethren may and do reasonably feel it an unspeakable relief from
anxiety and restraint. But they mourn him with a degree of sorrow
surprising to themselves. When the parents mark the habits of
self-government, and the temper of cheerful patience, generated in their
remaining children, they feel as if under deep obligations to their dead
son, as the instrument of this. And the youngest of the tribe looks
round wistfully for John, and daily wishes that he was here, to do what
he was fond of doing, and enjoy the little pleasures which were looked
upon as particularly his own.
If the worst case of infirmity may issue thus, we may turn cheerfully to
some which are light in comparison, however sad when looked at by
themselves--the cases of blind and deaf children. What is to be made of
these?
The case of the deaf is unquestionably the worst of the two, when the
deficiency is from birth. The subsequent loss of either sense is quite a
different matter. Then, blindness is the severest privation of the two,
from its compulsory idleness, and total exclusion from the objects of
the lost sense, while the deaf can always be busy in mind and hands, and
retain the most important part of the world of sound in written and
printed speech. It is the privation of language which makes the case of
those born deaf worse than that of the born blind. Those born deaf are
dumb; and they are rendered incapable of any high degree of intellectual
and moral cultivation, by being cut off from all adequate knowledge of
the meaning of language, and from the full reception of most abstract
ideas. This is not the place for discussion on this subject. It is
enough to say here, that every one who has tried knows that though it is
easy to teach a deaf and dumb child what is meant by the words "dog,"
"sheep," "spoon," "tree," "table," &c., it is found beyond measure
difficult to teach it the meaning of "Monday," "Tuesday," "Wednesday,"
&c., and of "love," "truth," "hatred," "wisdom," and the names of unseen
things in general. There is every reason to believe that the most highly
educated deaf and dumb persons, who use language readily and prettily,
have yet very narrow and superficial minds--from language not being to
them natural speech, incessantly bringing them into communication with
other minds, but a lesson taught as we teach blind children about
colours, which they may speak about without making mistakes, but can
never understand.
It is necessary for the parents of the deaf and dumb to be aware of
these things, if they are to look their child's lot steadily in the
face, and learn what is the best that can be made of it. They must apply
themselves chiefly to give it what it is least likely to obtain from
others--not so much ideas of sight, touch, smell, and taste, as of
unseen things. They must ever bear in mind that the great purpose of the
human ear and of speech is not so much to convey ideas of sound--sweet
and profitable as is all the natural music of the universe--as of unseen
things--of the whole world of the spirit, from which their child is
naturally shut out by its infirmity. After all that they can do, there
will be a sad deficiency; but they must lessen it as much as they can.
There is no fear but that the child will, much as others, enjoy the
sights which are laid open to it, and be quick and ready in action,
according to its ideas. They must arouse in it the pleasure of using its
mental faculties; and more carefully still, the satisfaction of moral
energy. They must be even more careful with it than with the rest to
lead it on to the exercise of self-denial, and a habit of thoughtful
conscientiousness, that it may learn from its own moral experience much
that it is debarred from learning as others do of the rich kingdom which
lies within us all. In this case, above all others, is the moral example
of the parents important to the child. Other children hear everyday the
spoken testimony of their parents in favour of what is good in morals
and manners. They hear it in church, and in every house they enter. The
deaf child judges by what it sees, and guides itself accordingly. If it
sees bad temper and manners, how is it to know of anything better? If it
sees at home only love and kindness, just and gentle, has it not an
infinitely better chance of becoming loving and gentle itself?
The parents must keep a careful guard on their own pity for their
defective child. A deaf child has scarcely any notion, as a blind one
has, of what it loses; and nothing is more certain than that deaf
children are apt to be proud and vain, and to take advantage of the pity
which everybody feels for them. Knowing little of their own loss, they
misunderstand this pity, and are apt to take to themselves the credit of
all the notice it brings them, and to grasp at all they can get. A
watchful parent knows from her heart that there is no blame in this; but
she sees that there is great danger. The child cannot help the
liability; but it may be rescued from it. She must not be lavish of
indulgence which may be misunderstood. She should let it be as happy as
it can in its own way--and the deaf and dumb are usually very brisk and
cheerful. What she has to do for it is not to attempt to console it for
a privation which it does not feel, but to open to it a higher and
better happiness in a humble, occupied, and serene state of mind. She
should set before it its own state of privation, notwithstanding any
mortification that the disclosure may cause: and when that mortification
is painful, she should soothe it by giving, gently and cheerfully, the
sweet remedies of humility and patience.
In the case of the blind child, the training must be very different.
Every day, and almost every hour, reminds the blind child of its
privation; and its discipline is so severe, that almost any degree of
indulgence in the parent would be excusable, if it were not clearly the
first duty to consider the ultimate welfare of the child. It is natural
to the sighing mother to watch over its safety with a nervous anxiety,
to go before it to clear its way, to have it always at her knee, and to
make everybody and everything give way to it. But she must remember that
her child is not destitute, and for ever helpless, because it has one
sense less than other people. It has the wide world of the other four
senses to live in, and a vaster mental and moral world than it will ever
learn fully to use: and she must let it try what it can make of its
possessions. She will find that it learns like others that fire burns
and that bruises are disagreeable, and that it can save itself from
burns and bruises by using its senses of touch and hearing. She will
encourage it in the cheerful work of shifting for itself, and doing, as
far as possible, what other people do. The wise and benevolent Dr. Howe
tells us of the children who come to the Blind School at Boston, that
for the first two or three days they are timid and forlorn--having been
accustomed to too much care from their mothers, who will not let them
cross the floor without being sure that there is nothing in the way. But
they presently enter into the free and cheerful spirit of the house, use
their faculties, feel their way boldly, and run, climb, swing, and play
as merrily as any other children. That school is a little world of
people with four senses--not so happy a one as if they had five, but a
very good one, nevertheless; sufficiently busy, safe, and cheerful for
those who use heartily such powers as they have.
This is the way in which the lot of the blind should be viewed by their
parents. And even then the deprivation is quite sad enough to require
great efforts of patience on every hand. The parents have need of a deep
and settled patience when they see that their child has powers which, if
he had but eyes, would make him able and happy in some function from
which he is now for ever cut off: and the whole family have need of
patience for their infirm member when they are gaining knowledge, or
drinking in enjoyment through the eye, while he sits dark, and
unconscious or mortified. As for him, in his darkness and mortification,
there can be no question of his need of patience. How to aid him and
supply this need, I shall consider in my next chapter, when treating of
the other infirmities which some children have to learn to bear.