Finally, it should teach "voluntary obedience, the last lesson in
life, the choral song which rises from all elements and all angels,"
and, as the object of true discipline is the formation of character,
it should produce a human being master of his impulses, his passions,
and his will.
The journey's end being fixed, one must next decide what route will
reach it, and will be short, safe, economical, and desirable; and the
roads to the presumably ideal discipline are many and well-traveled.
Some of them, it is true, lead you into a swamp, some to the edge of
a precipice; some will hurl you down a mountain-side with terrific
rapidity; others stop half-way, bringing you face to face with a blank
wall; and others again will lose you entirely on a bleak and trackless
plain. But no matter which route you select, you will have the wise
company of a great many teachers, parents, and guardians, and an
innumerable throng of fair and lovely children will journey by your
side.
The road of threat and fear, of arbitrary and over-severe punishment,
has been much traveled in all times, though perhaps it is a little
grass-grown now.
The child who obeys you merely because he fears punishment is a slave
who cowers under the lash of the despot. Undue severity makes him a
liar and a coward. He hates his master, he hates the thing he is made
to do; there is a bitter sense of injustice, a seething passion of
revenge, forever within him; and were he strong enough he would rise
and destroy the power that has crushed him. He has done right because
he was forced to do so, not because he desired it; and since the
right-doing, the obedience, was neither the fruit of his reason nor
his love, it cannot be permanent.
The feeling of justice is strong in the child's mind, and you have
constantly wounded that feeling. You have destroyed the sense of cause
and effect by your arbitrary punishments. You have corrected him for
disobedience, for carelessness, for unkindness, for untruthfulness,
for noisiness, and for slowness in learning his lessons.
How is he to know which of these offenses is the greatest, if all have
received the same punishment? Why should giving him a good thrashing
teach him to be kind to his little sister? Why should he learn the
multiplication table with greater rapidity because you ferule him
soundly? Have you ever found pain an assistance to the memory?
If he has little intellectual perception of the difference between
truth and falsehood, why should you suppose that smart strokes on any
portion of the body would quicken that perception?
Is it not clear as the sun at noonday that, since he observes the
punishment to have no necessary relation to the offense, and since he
observes it to be light or severe according to your pleasure,--is it
not clear that he will suppose you to be using your superior strength
in order to treat him unfairly, and will not the supposition sow seeds
of hatred and rebellion in his heart?
Another road to discipline is that of bribery.
To endeavor to secure goodness in a child by means of bribery, to
promise him a reward in case he obeys you, is manifestly an absurdity.
You are destroying the very traits in his character you are presumably
endeavoring to build up. You are educating a human being who knows
good from evil, and who should be taught deliberately to choose the
right for the right's sake, who should do his duty because he knows
it to be his duty, not for any extraneous reward connected with it.
A spiritual reward will follow, nevertheless, in the feeling of
happiness engendered, and the child may early be led to find his
satisfaction in this, and in the approval of those he loves.
There are, of course, certain simple rewards which can be used with
safety, and which the child easily sees to be the natural results of
good conduct. If his treatment of the household pussy has been kind
and gentle, he may well be trusted with a pet of his own; if he puts
his toys away carefully when asked to do so, father will notice the
neat room when he comes home; if he learns his lessons well and
quickly, he will have the more time to work in the garden; and the
suggestion of these natural consequences is legitimate and of good
effect.
It is always safer, no doubt, to appeal to a love of pleasure in
children than to a fear of pain, yet bribes and extraneous rewards
inevitably breed selfishness and corruption, and lead the child
to expect conditions in life which will never be realized. Though
retribution of one kind or another follows quickly on the heels of
wrong-doing, yet virtue is commonly its own reward, and it is as well
that the child should learn this at the beginning of life. Froebel
says: "Does a simple, natural child, when acting rightly, think of
any other reward which he might receive for his action than this
consciousness, though that reward be only praise?...
"How we degrade and lower the human nature which we should raise, how
we weaken those whom we should strengthen, when we hold up to them an
inducement to act virtuously!"
Emulation is often harnessed into service to further intellectual
progress and the formation of right habits of conduct, and this
inevitably breeds serious evils.
It is well to set before the child an ideal on which he may form
himself as far as possible; but when this ideal sits across the aisle,
plays in a neighboring back yard, or, worse still, is another child
in the same family, he is hated and despised. His virtues become
obnoxious, and the unfortunate evildoer prefers to be vicious, that
he may not resemble a creature whose praises have so continually been
sung that his very name is odious.
If the child grows accustomed to the comparison of himself with others
and the endeavor to excel them, he becomes selfish, envious, and
either vain of his virtue and attainments, or else thoroughly
disheartened at his small success, while he grudges that of his
neighbor. George Macdonald says: "No work noble or lastingly good can
come of emulation, any more than of greed. I think the motives are
spiritually the same."
To what can we appeal, then, in children, as motives to goodness, as
aids in the formation of right habits of thought and action? Ah! the
child's heart is a harp of many strings, and touched by the hand of a
master a fine, clear tone will sound from every one of them, while the
resultant strain will be a triumphant burst of glorious harmony.
Touch delicately the string of love of approval, and listen to the
answer.
The child delights to work for you, to please you if he can, to do
his tasks well enough to win your favorable notice, and the breath of
praise is sweet to his nostrils. It is right and justifiable that
he should have this praise, and it will be an aid to his spiritual
development, if bestowed with discrimination. Only Titanic strength of
character can endure constant discouragement and failure, and yet work
steadily onward, and the weak, undeveloped human being needs a word of
approval now and then to show him that he is on the right track, and
that his efforts are appreciated. Of course the kind and the frequency
of the praise bestowed depend entirely upon the nature of the child.
One timid, self-distrustful temperament needs frequently to bask in
the sunshine of your approval, while another, somewhat predisposed to
vanity and self-consciousness, feeds a more bracing moral climate.
There is no question that cleanliness and fresh air may be considered
as minor aids to goodness, and a dangerous outbreak of insubordination
may sometimes be averted by hastily suggesting to the little rebel a
run in the garden, prefaced by a thorough application of cool water
to the flushed face and little clenched hands; while self-respect may
often be restored by the donning of a clean apron.
Beauty of surroundings is another incentive to harmony of action. It
is easier for the child to be naughty in a poor, gloomy room, scanty
of furniture, than in a garden gay with flowers, shaded by full-leafed
trees, and made musical by the voice of running water.
Dr. William T. Harris says: "Beauty cannot create a new heart, but it
can greatly change the disposition," and this seems unquestionable,
especially with regard to the glory of God's handiwork, which makes
goodness seem "the natural way of living." Yet we would not wish our
children to be sybarites, and we must endeavor to cultivate in their
breasts a hardy plant of virtue which will live, if need be, on Alpine
heights and feed on scanty fare.
It is a truism that interesting occupation prevents dissension, and
that idle fingers are the Devil's tools.
A child who is good and happy during school time, with its regular
hours and alternated work and play, often becomes, in vacation,
fretful, sulky, discontented, and in arms against the entire world.
The discipline of work, if of a proper kind, of a kind in which
success is not too long delayed, is sure and efficacious. Success, if
the fruit of one's own efforts, is so sweet that one longs for more of
the work which produced it.
The reverse of the medal may be seen here also. The knotted thread
which breaks if pulled too impatiently; the dropped stitches that make
rough, uneven places in the pattern; the sail which was wrongly placed
and will not propel the boat; the pile of withered leaves which was
not removed, and which the wind scattered over the garden,--are
not all these concrete moral lessons in patience, accuracy, and
carefulness?
We may safely appeal to public opinion, sometimes, in dealing with
children. The chief object in doing this "is to create a constantly
advancing ideal toward which the child is attracted, and thereby
to gain a constantly increasing effort on his part to realize this
ideal." There comes a time in the child's development when he begins
to realize his own individuality, and longs to see it recognized by
others. The views of life, the sentiments of the people about him,
are clearly noted, and he desires to so shape his conduct as to be
in harmony with them. If he sees that tale-bearing and cowardice are
looked upon with disgust by his comrades, he will be a very Spartan in
his laconicism and courage; if his father and older brothers can bear
pain without wincing, then he will not cry when he hurts himself.
Oftentimes he is obdurate when reproved in private for a fault, but
when brought to the tribunal of the disapproval of other children, he
is chagrined, repents, and makes atonement. He is uneasy under the
adverse verdict of a large company, but the condemnation of one person
did not weigh with him. It is usually not wise, however, to appeal to
public opinion in this way, save on an abstract question, as the child
loses his self-respect, and becomes degraded in his own eyes, if his
fault is trumpeted abroad.
Stories of brave deeds, poems of heroism, self-sacrifice, and loyalty,
have their places in creating a sentiment of ideality in the child's
breast,--a sentiment which remains fixed sometimes, even though it be
not in harmony with the feeling of the majority.
Now and then some noble soul is born, some hero so thrilled with the
ideal that he rises far above the public sentiment of his day; but
usually we count him great who overtops his fellows by an inch or two,
and he who falls much below the level of ordinary feeling is esteemed
as almost beyond hope.
To seek for the approval of others, even though they embody our
highest ideals, is truly not the loftiest form of aspiration; but it
is one round in the ladder which leads to that higher feeling, the
desire for the benediction of the spirit-principle within us.
Although discipline by means of fear, as the word is commonly used,
cannot be too strongly condemned, yet there is a "godly fear" of which
the Bible speaks, which certainly has its place among incentives in
will-training. The child has not attained as yet, and it is doubtful
whether we ourselves have done so, to that supreme excellence of love
which absolutely casteth out fear.
A writer of great moral insight says: "Has not the law of seed and
flower, cause and effect, the law of continuity which binds the
universe together, a tone of severity? It has surely, like all
righteous law, and carries with it a legitimate and wholesome fear. If
we are to reap what we have sown, some, perhaps most of us, may dread
the harvest."
The child shrinks from the disapproval of the loved parent or teacher.
By so much the more as he reverences and respects those "in authority
over him" does he dread to do that which he knows they would condemn.
If he has been led to expect natural retributions, he will have a
wholesome fear of putting his hand in the fire, since he knows the
inevitable consequences. He understands that it is folly to expect
that wrong can be done with impunity, and shrinks in terror from
committing a sin whose consequences it is impossible that he should
escape. He knows well that there are other punishments save those of
the body, and he has felt the anguish which follows self-condemnation.
"There is nothing degrading in such fear, but a heart-searching
reverence and awe in the sincere and humble conviction that God's law
is everywhere."
Such are some of the false and some of the true motives which can be
appealed to in will-training, but there are various points in their
practical application which may well be considered.
May we not question whether we are not frequently too exacting with
children,--too much given to fault-finding? Were it not that the
business of play is so engrossing to them, and life so fascinating a
matter on the whole,--were it not for these qualifying circumstances,
we should harass many of them into dark cynicism and misanthropy at
a very early age. I marvel at the scrupulous exactness in regard to
truth, the fine sense of distinction between right and wrong, which we
require of an unfledged human being who would be puzzled to explain
to us the difference between a "hawk and a handsaw," who lives in the
realm of the imagination, and whose view of the world is that of a
great play-house furnished for his benefit. If we were one half as
punctilious and as hypercritical in our judgment of ourselves, we
should be found guilty in short order, and sentenced to hard labor on
a vast number of counts.
There are many comparatively small faults in children which it is wise
not to see at all. They are mere temporary failings, tiny drops which
will evaporate if quietly left in the sunshine, but which, if opposed,
will gather strength for a formidable current. If we would sometimes
apply Tolstoi's doctrine of non-resistance to children, if we would
overlook the small transgression and quietly supply another vent for
the troublesome activity, there would be less clashing of wills, and
less raising of an evil spirit, which gains wonderful strength while
in action.
Do we not often use an arbitrary and a threatening manner in our
commands to children, when a calm, gentle request, in a tone of
expectant confidence, would gain obedience far more quickly and
pleasantly?
Some natures are antagonized by the shadow of a threat, even if it
accompanies a reasonable order; and if we acknowledge that the oil of
courtesy is a valuable lubricator in our dealings with grown people,
it seems proper to suppose that it would not be entirely useless
with children. We cannot expect to get from them what we do not give
ourselves, and it is idle to imagine that we can address them as we
would a disobedient dog, and be answered in tones of dulcet harmony.
Again, what possible harm can there be in sometimes giving reasons for
commands, when they are such as the child would appreciate? We do not
desire to bring him up under martial rule; and if he feels the
wisdom of the order issued, he will be much more likely to obey it
pleasantly. Cases may frequently occur in which reasons either could
not properly be given, or would be beyond the child's power of
comprehension; but if our treatment of him has been uniformly frank
and affectionate, he will cheerfully obey, believing that, as our
commands have been reasonable heretofore, there is good cause to
suppose they may still be so.
Educational opinion tends, more and more every day, to the absolute
conviction that the natural punishment, the effect which follows the
cause, is the only one which can safely be used with children.
This is the method of Nature, severe and unrelenting it may be, but
calm, firm, and purely just. He who sows the wind must reap the
whirlwind, and he who sows thistles may be well assured that he will
never gather figs as his harvest. The feeling of continuity, of
sequence, is naturally strong in the child; and if we would lead him
to appreciate that the law is as absolute in the moral as in the
physical world, we shall find the ground already prepared for our
purpose.
Much transgression of moral law in later years is due to the fatal
hope in the evil-doer's mind that he will be able to escape the
consequences of his sin. Could we make it clear from the beginning of
life that there is no such escape, that the mills of the gods will
grind at last, though the hopper stand empty for many a year,--could
we make this an absolute conviction of the mind, I am assured that it
would greatly tend to lessen crime.
And this is one of the defects of arbitrary punishment, that it is
sometimes withheld when the heart of the judge melts over the sinner,
leading him to expect other possible exemptions in the future. Is it
not sometimes given in anger, also, when the culprit clearly sees it
to be disproportionate to the crime?
Here appears the advantage of the natural punishment,--it is never
withheld in weak affection, it is never given in anger, it is entirely
disassociated from personal feeling. No poisoned arrow of injustice
remains rankling in the child's breast; no rebellious feeling that the
parent has taken advantage of his superior strength to inflict the
punishment: it is perceived to be absolutely _fair_, and, being fair,
it must be, although painful, yet satisfactory to that sense of
justice which is a passion of childhood.
Our American children are as precocious in will-power as they are
keen-witted, and they need a special discipline. The courage,
activity, and pioneer spirit of the fathers, exercised in hewing their
way through virgin forests, hunting wild beasts in mountain solitudes,
opening up undeveloped lands, prospecting for metals through trackless
plains, choosing their own vocations, helping to govern their
country,--all these things have reacted upon the children, and they
are thoroughly independent, feeling the need of caring for themselves
when hardly able to toddle.
Entrust this precocious bundle of nerves and individuality to a person
of weak will or feeble intelligence, and the child promptly becomes
his ruler. The power of strong volition becomes caprice, he does not
learn the habit of obedience, and thus valuable directive power is
lost to the world.
"The lowest classes of society," says Dr. Harris, "are the lowest,
not because there is any organized conspiracy to keep them down, but
because they are lacking in directive power." The jails, the prisons,
the reformatories, are filled with men who are there because they were
weak, more than because they were evil. If the right discipline in
home and school had been given them, they would never have become the
charge of the nation. Thus we waste force constantly, force of mind
and of spirit sufficient to move mountains, because we do not insist
that every child shall exercise his "inherited right," which is, "that
he be taught to obey."
It is a grave subject, this of will-training, the gravest perhaps that
we can consider, and its deepest waters lie far below the sounding of
my plummet. Some of the principles, however, on which it rests are as
firmly fixed as the bed of the ocean, which remains changeless though
the waves continually shift above:--
1. If we can but cultivate the _habit_ of doing right, we enlist in
our service one of the strongest of human agencies. Its momentum is so
great that it may propel the child into the course of duty before he
has time to discuss the question, or to parley with his conscience
concerning it.
2. We must remember that "force of character is cumulative, and all
the foregone days of virtue work their health into this." The task
need not be begun afresh each morning; yesterday's strokes are still
there, and to-day's efforts will make the carving deeper and bolder.
3. We may compel the body to carry out an order, the fingers to
perform a task; but this is mere slavish compliance. True obedience
can never be enforced; it is the fruit of the reason and the will, the
free, glad offering of the spirit.
4. Though many motives have their place in early will-training,--love
of approval, deference to public opinion, the influence of beauty,
hopeful occupation, respect and rev for those in authority,--yet these
are all preparatory, the preliminary exercises, which must be well
practiced before the soul can spread her wings into the blue.
5. There is but one true and final motive to good conduct, and that
is a hunger in the soul of man for the blessing of the spirit, a
ceaseless longing to be in perfect harmony with the principles of
everlasting and eternal right.