CONCLUDING CHAPTER.
It has been jestingly said, that ‘they who have no children, always know how to manage them well;’ and the assertion is sustained by the fact that nearly all books on education have been written by those who never were parents. This was the case with Locke, Edgeworth, Hamilton, and Barbauld. If their wise words are less valuable on this account, what plea can I urge for my own imperfect suggestions? Childless myself, I can only plead my strong love for children, and my habitual observation of all that concerns them. I offer this little book in all humility, happy in the conviction that it inculcates no evil, if it does not attain to the highest truths.
It was published fourteen years ago, and is now republished at the request of a few friends. Were I to write it now, it would not be precisely as it is; but on comparing this stereotyped record with my present views, I find that I have notchanged, I have onlygrown.
On one subject, this growth has sufficiently modified my opinions, to make some recantation necessary; I mean on the subject of punishment. I have, throughout the work, alluded to whipping as sometimes, and to a moderate degree, necessary. I now believe otherwise. Such measures may, of course, secure a more prompt obedience, by exciting fear; but I believe this can never be done without injury to the child.
I have a very judicious friend, the mother of a finefamily. With her first two children, she acted upon the commonly received idea that it was sometimes necessary to slap them, when they were naughty. She observed, however, that this never failed to excite some degree of resentment, and more or less diverted their attention from the wrong they had done, to the injury they suffered. With her younger children, she discontinued whipping, and substituted milder forms of punishment, such as shutting them up in a room by themselves, making them go to bed supperless, &c. This excited their evil feelings less; but, in some degree, this likewise turned their attention from their own fault to the punishment inflicted. The accusation, which should have fallen with its whole weight on themselves, was partially bestowed on the parent. Something of resistance and rebellion was always roused, though its outward manifestation might be restrained by the fear of additional punishment. My friend was a wise woman, and she knew that it was far better to avoid contests with her children, than to come off victorious in them. The less the combative principle is roused into activity, before reason and conscience are mature enough to regulate it, the better. Habits of the mind, whether good or bad, are strengthened in this way, as the muscles of a gold-beater’s arm grow stout by constant use. If a child is of an obstinate temper, it is therefore better to treat any little matter of difference lightly, than to rouse his besetting sin by compulsory efforts to subdue him. It is better to keep his obstinacy as quiescent as possible, till he is old enough to be reasoned with, and thus taught to employ his perseverance for worthy and noble ends.
Acting upon this principle of not arousing evil feelings, if possible to avoid it, my friend resolved to try, with her youngest girl, the effect of sorrow instead of penalty. She was very volatile, and her mother had many doubts whether the experiment would prove successful. The first time she tried it was on the occasion of visiting a relative. The child was extremely desirous to accompany her parents, but was told that it was unsuitable for her to be out so late as they intended to stay. Habitual firmness had taught her that teasing was of no avail; and she soon gave up the effort. At parting, her mother bade her be a good girl, and go quietly to bed at eight o’clock, and in the morning she should hear all about the visit. At ten o’clock, her parents returned, and seated themselves at the parlor fire, chatting over the events of the evening. Presently, they heard a timid, half-suppressed giggle; and, looking round, they saw little Mary peeping from under the table. ‘My daughter, how is it that you are not in bed?’ said her mother, calmly. The little rogue stole forth from her hiding-place, and looked very sheepish, as she answered, ‘Why, mother, I wanted to sit up till you came back.’ ‘But I told you to go to bed at eight. My little daughter knows she has done very wrong.’ The culprit stood a while in perplexity. She expected to be ordered instantly to bed, or at least to be reproved. But her parents went on talking with each other, as if she were not in the room; and at last, she hesitatingly drew up her little stool, and seated herself at her mother’s side. After a while, she plucked up courage to ask about the visit. Who was there? Did anybody say anythingabout me? &c. Her mother answered all her questions, very kindly, though somewhat sadly. At length, she said, ‘Mother, I think it is time for me to go to bed.’ ‘Well, Mary. Let me unpin your clothes. It is bright moonlight, and you will need no lamp. Do not waken Elizabeth.’
The child lingered and hesitated, and at last said, ‘May I kiss you and father?’ They drew her toward them, imprinted a kiss on her lips, and bade her an affectionate good night.
After she had gone, they queried with each other whether this mode of treatment would make her think lightly of her fault, and more prone to be disobedient in future. She was such a frolicksome, thoughtless child, that they were not without fears that it might be so. They were even doubtful whether she noticed the sadness of their tones, when they kissed her and bade her good night; for she went away smiling, and tripped lightly up stairs. But when her mother retired for the night, she had scarcely placed her head on the pillow, before she heard little bare feet padding across the entry floor; and a moment after, a little curly head was on her bosom, sobbing out, ‘Oh, mother dear, I can’t go to sleep. Forgive me. I know I did very wrong.’ Sweet moments of reconciliation passed between parents and child in the still moonlight; and then the little one went to her pillow, and slept as the lambs sleep.
The perfect kindness with which she had been treated, while she felt that her parents were grieved by her conduct, left no work for her heart to do, but to accuse herself;and only by confession and repentance could she be at peace.
Whether such a course would always produce similar results, I will not venture to say; but every day of my life I become more and more convinced of the omnipotence of love in subduing all evil. It is indeed absolutely necessary that gentleness should be united with uncompromising firmness. Children should never be allowed to gain their point, in opposition to any rule that has been established for them. To be at once gentle and unyielding, requires a strong effort. Hence, many people, who dislike severity, fall into the opposite extreme of injudicious indulgence; and their example is often quoted in favor of the old-fashioned rigidity of discipline.
Whipping is, however, coming more and more into disrepute; and before long, no wise parent will practise it, or allow his child to attend a school where it is practised. To attain the difficult habit of being both mild and firm, of studying in all things the permanent good of the child, rather than present convenience to self, requires a humble and self-denying spirit. The moral atmosphere which emanates from a parent’s habitual state of mind greatly affects the children. If they are quiet, gentle, and refined, it will be reflected in the habits and manners of the family. If they are rough, impatient, or noisy, the children will be little bedlamites, however much good advice they may give, in opposition to their own example.
It is impossible to exaggerate the importance of the spiritual atmosphere of home; of the thousand littlethings done and said without calculation of results; of the daily and hourly emanations from our own characters. It has been beautifully said,
‘Education does not commence with the alphabet. It begins with a mother’s look—with a father’s nod of approbation, or a sigh of reproof—with a sister’s gentle pressure of the hand, or a brother’s noble act of forbearance—with handfuls of flowers in green and daisy meadows—with birds’ nests admired but not touched—with creeping ants and almost imperceptible emmets—with humming bees and glass bee-hives—with pleasant walks in shady lanes—and with thoughts directed, in sweet and kindly words, to nature, to beauty, to acts of benevolence, to deeds of all virtue, and to the source of all good, to God himself.’
Is not our Heavenly Father kind to entrust to our care these little innocent souls, that we ourselves may enter his kingdom, by the prayerful effort to keep them forever near their guardian angels?