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                          PARENTS AND CHILDREN


                              A SEQUEL TO

                            “HOME EDUCATION”




                                   BY

                           CHARLOTTE M. MASON




                                 LONDON
                 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO. Lᵀᴰ
                 PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD
                                  1897




     _The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._




                 _Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
                       _At the Ballantyne Press_




                           TO THE MEMBERS OF

                THE PARENTS’ NATIONAL EDUCATIONAL UNION

                             _THIS VOLUME_

                       IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR
                 AS AN EXPRESSION OF THE AFFECTION AND
                       REVERENCE WITH WHICH THEIR
                          EFFORTS INSPIRE HER




  AMBLESIDE,
    _November 1896_.




                                PREFACE


The following essays have appeared in the _Parents’ Review_, and were
addressed, from time to time, to a body of parents who are making a
practical study of the principles of education--the “Parents’ National
Educational Union.” The present volume is a sequel to _Home Education_
(Kegan Paul & Co.), a work which was the means of originating this
Union of Parents. It is not too much to say that the Parents’ Union
exists to advance, with more or less method and with more or less
steadfastness, a definite school of educational thought of which the
two main principles are--the recognition of the physical basis of
habit, _i.e._ of the material side of education; and of the inspiring
and formative power of the Idea, _i.e._ of the immaterial, or
spiritual, side of education. These two guiding principles, covering
as they do the whole field of human nature, should enable us to deal
rationally with all the complex problems of education; and the object
of the following essays is, not to give an exhaustive application of
these principles--the British Museum itself would hardly contain all
the volumes needful for such an undertaking--but to give an example or
a suggestion, here and there, as to how such and such an habit may be
formed, such and such a formative idea be implanted and fostered. The
intention of the volume will account to the reader for what may seem a
want of connected and exhaustive treatment of the subject, and for the
iteration of the same principles in various connections. The author
ventures to hope that the following hints and suggestions will not
prove the less practically useful to busy parents, because they rest on
profound educational principles.




                               CONTENTS


                                BOOK I

                               _THEORY_

                              CHAPTER I
                                                          PAGE
        THE FAMILY                                           3


                              CHAPTER II

        PARENTS AS RULERS                                   12


                             CHAPTER III

        PARENTS AS INSPIRERS (PART I)                       20


                              CHAPTER IV

        PARENTS AS INSPIRERS (PART II)                      29


                              CHAPTER V

        PARENTS AS INSPIRERS (PART III)                     39


                              CHAPTER VI

        PARENTS AS INSPIRERS (PART IV)                      48


                             CHAPTER VII

        THE PARENT AS SCHOOLMASTER                          58


                             CHAPTER VIII

        THE CULTURE OF CHARACTER (PART I)                   66


                              CHAPTER IX

        THE CULTURE OF CHARACTER (PART II)                  79


                              CHAPTER X

        BIBLE LESSONS                                       88


                              CHAPTER XI

        FAITH AND DUTY (PART I)                             96


                             CHAPTER XII

        FAITH AND DUTY (PART II)                           111


                             CHAPTER XIII

        FAITH AND DUTY (PART III)                          122


                             CHAPTER XIV

        THE HEROIC IMPULSE                                 134


                              CHAPTER XV

        IS IT POSSIBLE?                                    143


                             CHAPTER XVI

        DISCIPLINE                                         160


                             CHAPTER XVII

        SENSATIONS AND FEELINGS (PART I)                   169


                            CHAPTER XVIII

        SENSATIONS AND FEELINGS (PART II)                  181


                             CHAPTER XIX

        “WHAT IS TRUTH?”                                   192


                              CHAPTER XX

        SHOW CAUSE WHY                                     201

                             CHAPTER XXI

        HERBARTIAN PEDAGOGICS                              211


                             CHAPTER XXII

        THE TEACHING OF THE “PARENTS’ NATIONAL EDUCATIONAL
           UNION” (PART I)                                 220


                            CHAPTER XXIII

        THE TEACHING OF THE “PARENTS’ NATIONAL EDUCATIONAL
           UNION” (PART II)                                228


                             CHAPTER XXIV

        WHENCE AND WHITHER (PART I)                        242


                             CHAPTER XXV

        WHENCE AND WHITHER (PART II)                       250


                             CHAPTER XXVI

        THE GREAT RECOGNITION                              260


                            CHAPTER XXVII

        THE ETERNAL CHILD                                  271


                                BOOK II

        _ESSAYS IN PRACTICAL EDUCATION_


                               CHAPTER I

        THE PHILOSOPHER AT HOME                            283


                              CHAPTER II

        “ATTENTION”                                        303


                             CHAPTER III

        AN EDUCATIONAL EXPERIMENT                          312


                              CHAPTER IV

        DOROTHY ELMORE’S ACHIEVEMENT: A FORECAST           320


                              CHAPTER V

        CONSEQUENCES                                       346


                              CHAPTER VI

        MRS. SEDLEY’S TALE                                 355


                              CHAPTER VII

        ABILITY                                            367


                             CHAPTER VIII

        POOR MRS. JUMEAU!                                  376


                              CHAPTER IX

        “A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!”                        386


                              CHAPTER X

        PARENTS IN COUNCIL (PART I)                        395


                              CHAPTER XI

        PARENTS IN COUNCIL (PART II)                       405


                              CHAPTER XII

        A HUNDRED YEARS AFTER                              413


        NOTE                                               429




                                 BOOK I

                                _THEORY_




                          PARENTS AND CHILDREN


                               CHAPTER I

                              _THE FAMILY_

        “The family is the unit of the nation.”--F. D. MAURICE.


It is probable that no other educational thinker has succeeded in
affecting parents so profoundly as did Rousseau. _Emile_ is little
read now, but how many current theories of the regimen proper for
children have there their unsuspected source? Everybody knows--and his
contemporaries knew it better than we--that Jean Jacques Rousseau had
not enough sterling character to warrant him to pose as an authority
on any subject, least of all on that of education. He sets himself
down a poor thing, and we see no cause to reject the evidence of his
_Confessions_. We are not carried away by the charm of his style; his
“forcible feebleness” does not dazzle us. No man can _say_ beyond that
which he _is_, and there is a want of grit in his philosophic theories
that removes most of them from the category of available thought.

But Rousseau had the insight to perceive one of those patent truths
which, somehow, it takes a genius to discover; and, because truth is
indeed prized above rubies, the perception of that truth gave him rank
as a great teacher. “Is _Jean Jacques_ also among the prophets?” people
asked, and ask still; and that he had thousands of fervent disciples
amongst the educated parents of Europe, together with the fact that
his teaching has filtered into many a secluded home of our own day,
is answer enough. Indeed, no other educationalist has had a tithe of
the influence exercised by Rousseau. Under the spell of his teaching,
people in the fashionable world, like that Russian Princess Galitzin,
forsook society, and went off with their children to some quiet corner
where they could devote every hour of the day, and every power they
had, to the fulfilment of the duties which devolve upon parents.
Courtly mothers retired from the world, sometimes even left their
husbands, to work hard at the classics, mathematics, sciences, that
they might with their own lips instruct their children. “What else am
I for?” they asked; and the feeling spread that the bringing up of the
children was the one work of primary importance for men and women.

Whatever extravagance he had seen fit to advance, Rousseau would still
have found a following, because he had chanced to touch a spring
that opened many hearts. He was one of the few educationalists who
made his appeal to the parental instincts. He did not say, “We have
no hope of the parents, let us work for the children!” Such are the
faint-hearted and pessimistic things we say to-day. What he said was,
in effect, “Fathers and mothers, this is your work, and you only can do
it. It rests with you, parents of young children, to be the saviours
of society unto a thousand generations. Nothing else matters. The
avocations about which people weary themselves are as foolish child’s
play compared with this one serious business of bringing up our
children in advance of ourselves.”

People listened, as we have seen; the response to his teaching was
such a letting out of the waters of parental enthusiasm as has never
been known before nor since. And Rousseau, weak and little worthy, was
a preacher of righteousness in this, that he turned the hearts of the
fathers to the children, and so far made ready a people prepared for
the Lord. But alas! having secured the foundation, he had little better
than wood, hay, and stubble to offer to the builders.

Rousseau succeeded, as he deserved to succeed, in awaking many parents
to the binding character, the vast range, the profound seriousness of
parental obligations. He failed, and deserved to fail, as he offered
his own crude conceits by way of an educational code. But his success
is very cheering. He perceived that God placed the training of every
child in the hands of two, a father and a mother; and the response to
his teaching proved that, as the waters answer to the drawing of the
moon, so do the hearts of parents rise to the idea of the great work
committed to them.

Though it is true, no doubt, that every parent is conscious of
unwritten laws, more or less definite and noble according to his own
status, yet an attempt, however slight, to codify these laws may be
interesting to parents.

“The family is the unit of the nation.” This pregnant saying suggests
some aspects of the parents’ calling. From time to time, in all ages of
the world, communistic societies have arisen, sometimes for the sake of
co-operation in a great work, social or religious, more recently by way
of protest against inequalities of condition; but, in every case, the
fundamental rule of such societies is, that the members shall have all
things in common. We are apt to think, in our careless way, that such
attempts at communistic association are foredoomed to failure. But that
is not the case. In the United States, perhaps because hired labour
is less easy to obtain than it is with us, they appear to have found
a congenial soil, and there many well-regulated communistic bodies
flourish. There are failures, too, many and disastrous, and it appears
that these may usually be traced to one cause, a government enfeebled
by the attempt to combine democratic and communistic principles, to
dwell together in a common life, while each does what is right in his
own eyes. A communistic body can thrive only under a vigorous and
absolute rule.

A favourite dream of socialism is--or was until the idea of
collectivism obtained--that each State of Europe should be divided into
an infinite number of small self-contained communes. Now, it sometimes
happens that the thing we desire is already realised, had we eyes to
see. The family is, practically, a commune. In the family the undivided
property is enjoyed by all the members in common, and, in the family
there is equality of social condition, with diversity of duties. In
lands where patriarchal practices still obtain, the family merges into
the tribe, and the head of the family is the chief of the tribe--a very
absolute sovereign indeed. In our own country, families are usually
small, parents and their immediate offspring, with the attendants and
belongings which naturally gather to a household, and, let it not be
forgotten, _form part of the family_. The smallness of the family tends
to obscure its character, and we see no force in the phrase at the head
of this chapter; we do not perceive that, if the unit of the nation
is the natural commune, the family, then is the family the social
microcosm, pledged to carry on within itself all the functions of the
State, with the delicacy, precision, and fulness of detail proper to
work done on a small scale.

It by no means follows from this communistic view of the family that
the domestic policy should be a policy of isolation; on the contrary,
it is not too much to say, that a nation is civilised in proportion
as it is able to establish close and friendly relations with other
nations, and that, not with one or two, but with many; and, conversely,
that a nation is barbarous in proportion to its isolation; and does not
a family decline in intelligence and virtue when from generation to
generation it “keeps itself to itself”?

Again, it is probable that a nation is healthy in proportion as it
has its own proper outlets, its colonies and dependencies, which it
is ever solicitous to include in the national life. So of the nation
in miniature, the family; the struggling families at ‘the back,’ the
orphanage, the mission, the necessitous of our acquaintance, are they
not for the sustenance of the family in the higher life?

But it is not enough that the family commune maintain neighbourly
relations with other such communes, and towards the stranger within
the gates. The family is the unit of the nation; and the nation is
an organic whole, a living body, built up, like the natural body, of
an infinite number of living organisms. It is only as it contributes
its quota towards the national life that the life of the family is
complete. Public interests must be shared, public work taken up, the
public welfare cherished--in a word, its integrity with the nation
must be preserved, or the family ceases to be part of a living whole,
and becomes positively injurious, as decayed tissue in the animal
organism.

Nor are the interests of the family limited to those of the nation.
As it is the part of the nation to maintain wider relations, to be in
touch with all the world, to be ever in advance in the great march of
human progress, so is this the attitude which is incumbent on each unit
of the nation, each family, as an integral part of the whole. Here is
the simple and natural realisation of the noble dream of _Fraternity_:
each individual attached to a family by ties of love where not of
blood; the families united in a federal bond to form the nation; the
nations confederate in love and emulous in virtue, and all, nations
and their families, playing their several parts as little children
about the feet and under the smile of the Almighty Father. Here is the
divine order which every family is called upon to fulfil; a little
leaven leaveneth the whole lump, and, therefore, it matters infinitely
that every family should realise the nature and the obligations of the
family bond. As water cannot rise above its source, neither can we live
at a higher level than that of the conception we form of our place
and use in life. Let us ask the question--has this, of regarding all
education and all civil and social relations from the standpoint of
the _family_, any practical outcome? So much so, that perhaps there is
hardly a problem of life for which it does not contain the solution.
For example:--What shall we teach our children? Is there one subject
that claims our attention more than another? Yes, there is a subject
or class of subjects which has an imperative _moral_ claim upon us. It
is the duty of the nation to maintain relations of brotherly kindness
with other nations; therefore, it is the duty of every family, as
an integral part of the nation, to be able to hold brotherly speech
with the families of other nations as opportunities arise; therefore,
to acquire the speech of neighbouring nations is not only to secure
an inlet of knowledge and a means of culture, but is a duty of that
higher morality (the morality of the family) which aims at universal
brotherhood; therefore, every family would do well to cultivate two
languages besides the mother tongue, even in the nursery.

Again; a fair young Englishwoman was staying with her mother at a
German _Kurhaus_. They were the only English people present, and
probably forgot that the Germans are better linguists than we.
The young lady sat through the long meals with her book, hardly
interrupting her reading to eat, and addressing no more than one or
two remarks to her mother, as--“I wonder what that mess is!” or, “How
much longer shall we have to sit with these tiresome people?” Had she
remembered that no family can live to itself, that she and her mother
represented England, _were_ England for that little German community,
she would have imitated the courteous greetings which the German ladies
bestowed on their neighbours.

But we must leave further consideration of this great subject, and
conclude with a striking passage from Mr. Morley’s ‘Appreciation’ of
_Emile_. “Education slowly came to be thought of in connection with
the family. The improvement of ideas upon education was only one phase
of the great general movement towards the restoration of the family,
which was so striking a spectacle in France after the middle of the
century. Education now came to comprehend the whole system of the
relations between parents and their children, from earliest infancy to
maturity. The direction of such wider feeling about these relations
tended strongly towards an increased closeness in them, more intimacy,
and a more continuous suffusion of tenderness and long attachment.”
His labours in this great cause, “the restoration of the family,” give
Rousseau a claim upon the gratitude and respect of mankind. It has
proved a lasting, solid work. To this day, family relations in France
are more gracious, more tender, more close and more inclusive, than
they are with us. They are more expansive too, leading to generally
benign and friendly behaviour; and so strong and satisfying is the
family bond, that the young people find little necessity to ‘fall in
love.’ The mother lays herself out for the friendship of her young
daughters, who respond with entire loyalty and devotion; and, Zola
notwithstanding, French maidens are wonderfully pure, simple, and
sweet, because their affections are abundantly satisfied.

Possibly “the restoration of the family” is a labour that invites us
here in England, each within the radius of our own hearth; for there
is little doubt that the family bond is more lax amongst us than it
was two or three generations ago. Perhaps nowhere is family life of
more idyllic loveliness than where we see it at its best in English
homes. But the wise ever find some new thing to learn. Though a nation,
as an individual, must act on the lines of its own character, and we
are, on the whole, well content with our English homes, yet we might
learn something from the inclusiveness of the French family, where
mother-in-law and father-in-law, aunt and cousins, widow and spinster,
are cherished, and a hundred small offices devised for dependants who
would be in the way in an English home. The result is that the children
have a wider range for the practice of the thousand sweet attentions
and self-restraints which make home life lovely. No doubt the medal has
its obverse; there is probably much in French home life which we should
shrink from; nevertheless, it offers object lessons which we should do
well to study. Again, where family life is most beauteous with us, is
not the family a little apt to become self-centred and self-sufficient,
rather than to cultivate that expansiveness towards other families
which is part of the family code of our neighbours?




                               CHAPTER II

                          _PARENTS AS RULERS_


Let us continue our consideration of the family as the nation in
miniature, with the responsibilities, the rights, and the requirements
of the nation. The parents represent the “Government”; but, here, the
government is ever an absolute Monarchy, conditioned very loosely by
the law of the land, but very closely by that law more or less of which
every parent bears engraved on his conscience. Some attain the levels
of high thinking, and come down from the Mount with beaming countenance
and the tables of the law intact; others fail to reach the difficult
heights, and are content with such fragments of the broken tables as
they pick up below. But be his knowledge of the law little or much, no
parent escapes the call to rule.

Now, the first thing we ask for in a ruler is, “Is he able to rule?
Does he know how to maintain his authority?” A ruler who fails to
govern is like an unjust judge, an impious priest, an ignorant
teacher, that is, he fails in the essential attribute of his office.
This is even more true in the family than in the State; the king may
rule by deputy; but, here we see the exigeant nature of the parent’s
functions; he can have no deputy. Helpers he may have, but the moment
he makes over his functions and authority to another, the rights of
parenthood belong to that other, and not to him. Who does not know of
the heart-burnings that arise when Anglo-Indian parents come home, to
find their children’s affections given to others, their duty owing to
others; and they, the parents, sources of pleasure like the godmother
of the fairy tale, but having no authority over their children? And all
this, nobody’s fault, for the guardians at home have done their best to
keep the children loyal to the parents abroad.

Here is indicated a rock upon which the heads of families sometimes
make shipwreck. They regard parental authority as inherent in them, a
property which may lie dormant, but is not to be separated from the
state of parenthood. They may allow their children from infancy upwards
to do what is right in their own eyes; and then, Lear turns and makes
his plaint to the winds, and cries--

          “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
    To have a thankless child!”

But Lear has been all the time divesting himself of the honour and
authority that belong to him, and giving his rights to the children.
Here he tells us why; the biting anguish is the “_thankless_” child. He
has been laying himself out for the thanks of his children. That they
should think him a fond father, has been more to him than the duty he
owes them; and in proportion as he omits his duty are they oblivious of
theirs. Possibly the unregulated love of approbation in devoted parents
has more share in the undoing of families than any other single cause.
A writer of to-day represents a mother as saying--

“But you are not afraid of me, Bessie?”

“No indeed; who could be afraid of a dear, sweet, soft, little mother
like you?”

And such praise is sweet in the ears of many a fond mother hungering
for the love and liking of her children, and not perceiving that words
like these in the mouth of a child are as treasonable as words of
defiance.

Authority is laid down at other shrines than that of popularity.
Prospero describes himself as,

                          “all dedicate
    To study, and the bettering of my mind.”

And, meantime, the exercise of authority devolves upon Antonio; is it
any wonder that the habit of authority fits the usurper like a glove,
and that Prospero finds himself ousted from the office he failed to
fill? Even so, the busy parent, occupied with many cares, awakes to
find the authority he has failed to wield has dropped out of his hands;
perhaps has been picked up by others less fit, and a daughter is given
over to the charge of a neighbouring family, while father and mother
hunt for rare prints.

In other cases, the love of an easy life tempts parents to let things
take their course; the children are good children, and won’t go far
wrong, we are told; and very likely it is true. But however good the
children be, the parents owe it to society to make them better than
they are, and to bless the world with people, not merely good-natured
and well-disposed, but good of set purpose and endeavour.

The love of ease, the love of favour, the claims of other work,
are only some of the causes which lead to a result disastrous to
society--the _abdication of parents_. When we come to consider the
nature and uses of the parents’ authority, we shall see that such
abdication is as immoral as it is mischievous. Meantime, it is well
worth while to notice that the causes which lead parents to resign the
position of domestic rulers are resolvable into one--the office is too
troublesome, too laborious. The temptation which assails parents is the
same which has led many a crowned head to seek ease in the cloister--

              “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,”

if it be the natural crown of parenthood.

The Apostolic counsel of “diligence” in ruling throws light upon the
nature and aim of authority: it is no longer a matter of personal
honour and dignity; authority is for use and service, and the honour
that goes with it is only for the better service of those under
authority. The arbitrary parent, the exacting parent, who claims this
and that of deference and duty because he is a parent, all for his own
honour and glory, is more hopelessly in the wrong than the parent who
practically abdicates; the majesty of parenthood is hedged round with
observances only because it is good for the children to “faithfully
serve, honour, and humbly obey” their natural rulers. Only at home can
children be trained in the chivalrous temper of “proud submission and
dignified obedience;” and if the parents do not inspire and foster
deference, reverence, and loyalty, how shall these crowning graces of
character thrive in a hard and emulous world?

It is perhaps a little difficult to maintain an attitude of authority
in these democratic days, when even educationalists counsel that
children be treated on equal terms from the very beginning; but the
children themselves come to our aid; the sweet humility and dependence
natural to them fosters the gentle dignity, the _soupçon_ of reserve,
which is becoming in parents. It is not open to parents either to lay
aside or to sink under the burden of the honour laid upon them; and,
no doubt, we have all seen the fullest, freest flow of confidence,
sympathy, and love between parent and child, where the mother sits as a
queen among her children and the father is honoured as a crowned head.
The fact that there are two parents, each to lend honour to the other,
yet free from restraint in each other’s presence, makes it the easier
to maintain the impalpable “state” of parenthood. And the presence of
the slight, sweet, undefined feeling of dignity in the household is the
very first condition for the bringing up of loyal, honourable men and
women, capable of reverence and apt to win respect.

The foundation of parental authority lies in the fact that parents
hold office as deputies; and that, in a twofold sense. In the first
place, they are the immediate and personally appointed deputies of the
Almighty King, the sole Ruler of men; they have not only to fulfil
His counsels regarding the children, but to represent His Person; his
parents are as God to the little child, and, yet more constraining
thought, _God is to him what his parents are_; he has no power to
conceive a greater and lovelier personality than that of the royal
heads of his own home; he makes his first approach to the Infinite
through them; they are his measure for the highest; if the measure be
easily within his small compass, how shall he grow up with the reverent
temper which is the condition of spiritual growth?

More; parents hold their children in trust for society. “My own child”
can only be true in a limited sense; the children are held as a public
trust to be trained as is best for the welfare of the community; and
in this sense, also, the parents are persons in authority, with the
dignity of their office to support, and are even liable to deposition.
The one State whose name has passed into a proverb, standing for a
group of virtues which we have no other word to describe, is a State
which practically deprived parents of the functions which they failed
to fulfil to the furtherance of public virtue. No doubt the State
reserves to itself virtually the power to bring up its own children
in its own way, with the least possible co-operation of parents.
Even to-day, a neighbouring nation has elected to charge itself with
the training of its infants. So soon as they can crawl, or sooner,
before ever they run or speak, they are to be brought to the “Maternal
School,” and carefully nurtured, as with mother’s milk, in the virtues
proper for a citizen. The scheme is as yet but in the experimental
stage, but will doubtless be carried through, because the nation in
question has long ago discovered--and acted consistently upon the
discovery--that what you would have the man become, that you must train
the child to be.

Perhaps such public deposition of parents is the last calamity that
can befall a nation. These poor little ones are to grow up in a world
where the name of God is not to be named; to grow up, too, without the
training in filial duty and brotherly love and neighbourly kindness
which falls to the children of all but the few unnatural parents. They
may be returned to their parents at certain hours or after certain
years; but once alienation has been set up, once the strongest and
sweetest tie has been loosened and the parents have been publicly
delivered from their duty, the desecration of the home is complete;
and we shall have the spectacle of a people growing up orphaned
almost from their birth. This is a new thing in the world’s history,
for even Lycurgus left the children to their parents for the first
half-dozen years of life. Certain newspapers commend the example for
our imitation, but God forbid that we should ever lose faith in the
blessedness of family life. Parents who hold their children as, at
the same time, a public trust and a divine trust, and who recognise
the authority they hold as _deputed_ authority, not to be trifled
with, laid aside, or abused--such parents preserve for the nation the
immunities of home, and safeguard the privileges of their order.

Having seen that it does not rest with the parents to use, or to forego
the use of, the authority they hold, let us examine the limitations and
the scope of this authority. In the first place, it is to be maintained
and exercised solely for the advantage of the children, whether in
mind, body, or estate. And here is room for the nice discrimination,
the delicate intuitions, with which parents are blessed. The mother,
who makes her growing-up daughter take the out-of-door exercise she
needs, is acting within her powers. The father of quiet habits,
who discourages society for his young people, is considering his
own tastes, and not their needs, and is making unlawful use of his
authority.

Again, the authority of parents, though the deference it begets remain
to grace the relations of parents and child, is itself a provisional
function, and is only successful as it encourages the _autonomy_, if
we may call it so, of the child. A single decision made by the parents
which the child is, or should be, capable of making for itself, is an
encroachment on the rights of the child, and a transgression on the
part of the parents.

Once more, the authority of parents rests on a secure foundation only
as they keep well before the children that it is deputed authority; the
child who knows that he is being brought up for the service of the
nation, that his parents are acting under a Divine commission, will not
turn out a rebellious son.

Further, though the emancipation of the children is gradual, they
acquiring day by day more of the art and science of self-government,
yet there comes a day when the parents’ right to rule is over; there
is nothing left for the parents but to abdicate gracefully, and leave
their grown-up sons and daughters absolutely free agents, even though
these still live at home; and although, in the eyes of their parents,
they are not fit to be trusted with the ordering of themselves: if
they fail in such self-ordering, whether as regards time, occupations,
money, friends, most likely their parents are to blame for not having
introduced them by degrees to the full liberty which is their right as
men and women. Anyway, it is too late now to keep them in training; fit
or unfit, they must hold the rudder for themselves.

As for the employment of authority, the highest art lies in ruling
without seeming to do so. The law is a terror to evil-doers, but for
the praise of them that do well; and in the family, as in the State,
the best government is that in which peace and happiness, truth and
justice, religion and piety, are maintained without the intervention of
the law. Happy is the household that has few rules, and where “Mother
does not like this,” and “Father wishes that,” are all-constraining.




                              CHAPTER III

                         _PARENTS AS INSPIRERS_

                                 PART I


M. Adolf Monod claims that the child must owe to his mother a second
birth--the first into the natural, the second into the spiritual life
of the intelligence and moral sense. Had he not been writing of women
and for women, no doubt he would have affirmed that the long travail
of this second birth must be undergone equally by both parents. Do we
ask how he arrives at this rather startling theory? He observes that
great men have great mothers; mothers, that is, blest with an infinite
capacity for taking pains with their work of bringing up children.
He likens this labour to a second bearing which launches the child
into a higher life; and as this higher life is a more blessed life,
he contends that every child has a right to this birth into completer
being _at the hands of his parents_. Did his conclusions rest solely
upon the deductive methods he pursues, we might afford to let them
pass, and trouble ourselves very little about this second birth, which
parents may, and ofttimes do, withhold from their natural offspring.
We, too, could bring forward our contrary instances of good parents
with bad sons, and indifferent parents with earnest children; and,
pat to our lips, would come the _Cui bono?_ which absolves us from
endeavour.

Be a good mother to your son because great men have good mothers, is
inspiring, stimulating; but is not to be received as the final word.
For an appeal of irresistible urgency, we look to natural science with
her inductive methods; though we are still waiting her last word,
what she has already said is law and gospel for the believing parent.
The parable of Pandora’s box is true to-day; and a woman may in her
heedlessness let fly upon her offspring a thousand ills. But is there
not also “a glass of blessings standing by,” into which parents may
dip, and bring forth for their children health and vigour, justice and
mercy, truth and beauty?

“Surely,” it may be objected, “every good and perfect gift comes
from God above, and the human parent sins presumptuously who thinks
to bestow gifts divine.” Now this lingering superstition has no part
nor lot with true religion, but, on the contrary, brings upon it the
scandal of many an ill-ordered home and ill-regulated family. When
we perceive that God uses men and women, parents above all others,
as vehicles for the transmission of His gifts, and that it is in the
keeping of His law He is honoured--more than in the attitude of the
courtier waiting for exceptional favours--then we shall take the
trouble to comprehend the law, written not only upon tables of stone
and rolls of parchment, but upon the fleshly tablets of the living
organisms of the children; and, understanding the law, we shall see
with thanksgiving and enlargement of heart in what _natural_ ways God
does indeed show mercy unto thousands of them that love Him and keep
His commandments.

But His commandment is exceeding broad; becomes broader year by year
with every revelation of science; and we had need gird up the loins
of our mind to keep pace with this current revelation. We shall be at
pains, too, to keep ourselves in that attitude of expectant attention
wherein we shall be enabled to perceive the unity and continuity of
this revelation with that of the written Word of God. For perhaps it
is only as we are able to receive the two, and harmonise the two in a
willing and obedient heart, that we shall enter on the heritage of glad
and holy living which is the will of God for us.

Let us, for example, consider, in the light of current scientific
thought, the processes and the methods of this second birth, which,
according to M. Monod, the child claims at the hands of his parents.
“Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he
will not depart from it,” is not only a pledge, but is a statement
of a result arrived at by deductive processes. The writer had great
opportunities for collecting data; he had watched many children
grow up, and his experience taught him to divide them into two
classes--the well-brought up, who turned out well; and the ill-brought
up, who turned out ill. No doubt, then, as now, there were startling
exceptions, and--the exception proves the rule.

But, here as elsewhere, the promises and threatenings of the Bible
will bear the searching light of inductive processes. We may ask, Why
should this be so? and not content ourselves with a general answer,
that this is natural and right: we may search until we discover that
this result is inevitable, and no other result conceivable (except for
alien influences), and our obedience will be in exact proportion to our
perception of the inevitableness of the law.

The vast sum of what we understand by heredity is not to be taken
into account in the consideration of this second birth; by the first
natural birth it is, that “his father and mother, his grandfather and
grandmother, are latent or declare themselves in the child; and it is
on the lines thus laid down in his nature that his development will
proceed. It is not by virtue of education so much as by virtue of
inheritance that he is brave or timid, generous or selfish, prudent
or reckless, boastful or modest, quick or placid in temper; the
ground tone of his character is original in him, and it colours all
the subsequently formed emotions and their sympathetic ideas.... The
influence of systematic culture upon any one is no doubt great, but
that which determines the limit, and even in some degree the nature of
the effects of culture, that which forms the foundations upon which all
the modifications of art must rest, is the inherited nature.”

If heredity means so much, if, as would seem at the first glance,
the child comes into the world with his character ready-made, what
remains for the parents to do but to enable him to work out his own
salvation without let or hindrance of their making, upon the lines of
his individuality? The strong naturalism, shall we call it, of our
day, inclines us to take this view of the objects and limitations of
education; and without doubt it is a gospel; it is the truth; but it
is not the whole truth. The child brings with him into the world, not
character, but disposition. He has tendencies which may need only to
be strengthened, or, again, to be diverted, or even repressed. His
character--the efflorescence of the man wherein the fruit of his life
is a-preparing--character is original disposition, modified, directed,
expanded by education, by circumstances, later, by self-control and
self-culture, above all, by the supreme agency of the Holy Ghost, even
where that agency is little suspected, and as little solicited.

How is this great work of character-making--the single effectual labour
possible to human beings--to be carried on? We shall rest our inquiries
on a physiological basis; the lowest, doubtless, but therefore the
foundation of the rest. The first-floor chambers of the psychologist
are pleasant places, but who would begin to build with the first
floor? What would he rear it upon? Surely the arbitrary distinction
between the grey matter of the brain and the “mind” (or thoughts or
feelings) which plays upon it, even as the song upon the vocal chords
of the singer, is more truly materialistic than is the recognition of
the pregnant truth that the brain is the mere organ of the spiritual
part, registering and effecting every movement of thought and feeling,
whether conscious or unconscious, by appreciable molecular movement,
and sustaining the infinite activities of mind by corresponding
enormous activity and enormous waste; that it is the organ of mind,
which, under present conditions, is absolutely inseparable from, and
indispensable to, the quickening spirit. Once we recognise that in the
thinking of a thought there is as distinct motion set up in some tract
of the brain as there is in the muscles of the hand employed in writing
a sentence, we shall see that the behaviour of the grey nerve-substance
of the cerebrum should afford the one possible key to certitude and
system in our attempts at education, using the word in the most worthy
sense--as its concern is the formation of character.

Having heard Dr. Maudsley on the subject of heredity, let us hear him
again on this other subject, which practically enables us to define the
possibilities of education.

“That which has existed with any completeness in consciousness leaves
behind it, after its disappearance therefrom, in the mind or brain,
a functional disposition to its reproduction or reappearance in
consciousness at some future time. Of no mental act can we say that it
is ‘writ in water;’ something remains from it, whereby its recurrence
is facilitated. Every impression of sense upon the brain, every current
of molecular activity from one to another part of the brain, every
cerebral action which passes into muscular movement, leaves behind it
some modification of the nerve elements concerned in its function, some
after-effect, or, so to speak, memory of itself in them which renders
its reproduction an easier matter, the more easy the more often it has
been repeated, and makes it impossible to say that, however trivial, it
shall not under some circumstances recur. Let the excitation take place
in one of two nerve cells lying side by side, and between which there
was not any original specific difference, there will be ever afterwards
a difference between them. This physiological process, whatever be its
nature, is the physical basis of memory, and it is the foundation of
the development of all our mental functions.

“That modification which persists, or is retained, in structure after
functions, has been differently described as a residuum, or relic,
or trace, or disposition, or vestige; or again as potential, latent,
or dormant idea. Not only definite ideas, but all affections of the
nervous system, feelings of pleasure and pain, desire, and even its
outward reactions, thus leave behind them their structural effects, and
lay the foundation of modes of thought, feeling, and action. Particular
talents are sometimes formed quite, or almost quite, involuntarily;
and complex actions, which were first consciously performed by dint
of great application, become automatic by repetition; ideas which were
at first consciously associated, ultimately coalesce and call one
another up without any consciousness, as we see in the quick perception
or intuition of the man of large worldly experience; and feelings,
once active, leave behind them their large unconscious residua, thus
affecting the generation of the character, so that, apart from the
original or inborn nature of the individual, contentment, melancholy,
cowardice, bravery, and even moral feeling are generated as the results
of particular life-experiences.”

Here we have sketched out a magnificent educational charter. It is as
well, perhaps, that we do not realise the extent of our liberties; if
we did, it may be, such a fervour of educational enthusiasm would seize
us, that we should behave as did those early Christians who every day
expected the coming of the Lord. How should a man have patience to buy
and sell and get gain had it been revealed to him that he was able to
paint the greatest picture ever painted? And we, with the enthralling
vision of what our little child might become under our hands, how
should we have patience for common toils? That science should have
revealed the _rationale_ of education in our day is possibly the Divine
recognition that we have become more fit for the task, because we have
come to an increasing sense of moral responsibility. What would it be
for an immoral people to discern fully the possibilities of education?
But how slow we are! how--

   “Custom lies upon us with a weight,
    Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!”

It is now more than five-and-twenty years since these words of Dr.
Maudsley, and many of like force by other physiologists, were
published to the world. We have purposely chosen words that have stood
the test of time; for to-day a hundred eminent scientific men, at home
and abroad, are proclaiming the same truths. Every scientist believes
them! And we? We go on after our use and wont, as if nothing had been
said; dropping, hour by hour, out of careless hands, seeds of corn and
hemlock, of bramble and rose.

Let us run over the charter of our liberties, as Dr. Maudsley sums them
up.

We may lay the physical basis of memory: while the wide-eyed babe
stretches his little person with aimless kickings on his rug, he is
receiving unconsciously those first impressions which form his earliest
memories; and we can order those memories for him: we can see that the
earliest sights he sees are sights of order, neatness, beauty; that
the sounds his ear drinks in are musical and soft, tender and joyous;
that the baby nostrils sniff only delicate purity and sweetness. These
memories remain through life, engraved on the unthinking brain. As we
shall see later, memories have a certain power of accretion--where
there are some others of a like kind gather, and all the life is
ordered on the lines of these first pure and tender memories.

We may lay the foundation of the development of all the mental
functions. Are there children who do not wonder, or revere, or care for
fairy tales, or think wise child-thoughts? Perhaps there are not; but
if there are, it is because the fertilising pollen grain has never been
conveyed to the ovule waiting for it in the child’s soul.

These are some of the things that--according to the citations we have
given from Dr. Maudsley’s _Physiology of Mind_--his parents may settle
for the future man, even in his early childhood:--

  His definite ideas upon particular subjects, as, for example, his
     relations with other people.

  His habits, of neatness or disorder, of punctuality, of moderation.

  His general modes of thought, as affected by altruism or egoism.

  His consequent modes of feeling and action.

  His objects of thought--the small affairs of daily life, the
     natural world, the operations or the productions of the human
     mind, the ways of God with men.

  His distinguishing talent--music, eloquence, invention.

  His disposition or tone of character, as it shows itself in and
     affects his family and other close relations in life--reserved
     or frank, morose or genial, melancholy or cheerful, cowardly or
     brave.




                               CHAPTER IV

                         _PARENTS AS INSPIRERS_

                                PART II

     “Sow an act, reap a habit; sow a habit, reap a character;
      sow a character, reap a destiny.”--THACKERAY.


The last chapter closed with an imperfect summary of what we may call
the educational functions of parents. We found that it rests with the
parents of the child to settle for the future man his ways of thinking,
behaving, feeling, acting; his disposition, his particular talent;
the manner of things upon which his thoughts shall run. Who shall fix
limitations to the power of parents? The destiny of the child is ruled
by his parents, because they have the virgin soil all to themselves.
The first sowing must be at their hands, or at the hands of such as
they choose to depute.

What do they sow? _Ideas._ We cannot too soon recognise what is the
sole educational instrument we have to work with, and how this one
instrument is to be handled. But how radically wrong is all our thought
upon education! We cannot use the fit words because we do not think
the right thing. For example, an _idea_ is not an “instrument,” but
an agent; is not to be “handled,” but, shall we say, set in motion?
We have perhaps got over the educational misconception of the _tabula
rasa_. No one now looks on the child’s white soul as a tablet prepared
for the exercise of the educator’s supreme art. But the conception
which has succeeded this time-honoured heresy rests on the same false
bases of the august office and the infallible wisdom of the educator.
Here it is in its cruder form: “Pestalozzi aimed more at harmoniously
developing the faculties than at making use of them for the acquirement
of knowledge; he sought to prepare the vase rather than to fill it.”
In the hands of Froebel the figure gains in boldness and beauty; it
is no longer a mere vase to be shaped under the potter’s fingers; but
a flower, say, a perfect rose, to be delicately and consciously and
methodically moulded, petal by petal, curve and curl; for the perfume
and living glory of the flower, why these will come; do you your part
and mould the several petals; wait, too, upon sunshine and shower,
give space and place for your blossom to expand. And so we go to work
with a touch to “imagination” here, and to “judgment” there; now, to
the “perceptive faculties,” now, to the “conceptive;” in this, aiming
at the moral, and in this, at the intellectual nature of the child;
touching into being, petal by petal, the flower of a perfect life under
the genial influences of sunny looks and happy moods. This reading
of the meaning of education and of the work of the educator is very
fascinating, and it calls forth singular zeal and self-devotion on the
part of those gardeners whose plants are the children. Perhaps, indeed,
this of the Kindergarten is the one vital conception of education we
have had hitherto.

But in these days of revolutionary thought, when all along the line--in
geology and anthropology, chemistry, philology, and biology--science
is changing front, it is necessary that we should reconsider our
conception of Education. We are taught, for example, that “heredity” is
by no means the simple and direct transmission, from parent, or remote
ancestor, to child of power and proclivity, virtue and defect; and we
breathe freer, because we had begun to suspect that if this were so,
it would mean to most of us an inheritance of exaggerated defects:
imbecility, insanity, congenital disease--are they utterly removed from
any one of us? So of education, we begin to ask, Is its work so purely
formative as we thought? Is it directly formative at all? How much is
there in this pleasing and easy doctrine, that the drawing forth and
strengthening and directing of the several “faculties” is education?
Parents are very jealous over the individuality of their children;
they mistrust the tendency to develop all on the same plan; and this
instinctive jealousy is right; for, supposing that education really
did consist in systematised efforts to draw out every power that is in
us, why, we should all develop on the same lines, be as like as “two
peas,” and (should we not?) die of weariness of one another! Some of
us have an uneasy sense that things are tending towards this deadly
sameness. But, indeed, the fear is groundless. We may believe that the
personality, the individuality, of each of us, is too dear to God,
and too necessary to a complete humanity, to be left at the mercy of
empirics. We are absolutely safe, and the tenderest child is fortified
against a battering-ram of educational forces.

The problem of education is more complex than it seems at first sight,
and well for us and the world that it is so. “Education is a life;” you
may stunt and starve and kill, or you may cherish and sustain; but the
beating of the heart, the movement of the lungs, and the development
of the faculties (are there any “faculties”?) are only indirectly our
care. The poverty of our thought on the subject of education is shown
by the fact that we have no word which at all implies the sustaining
of a _life_: education (_e_, out, and _ducere_, to lead, to draw) is
very inadequate; it covers no more than those occasional gymnastics of
the mind which correspond with those by which the limbs are trained:
training (_trahere_) is almost synonymous, and upon these two words
rests the misconception that the development and the exercise of the
“faculties” is the object of education (we must needs use the word for
want of a better). Our homely Saxon “bringing up” is nearer the truth,
perhaps because of its very vagueness; any way, “up” implies an _aim_,
and “bringing” an _effort_.

The happy phrase of Mr. Matthew Arnold--“Education is an atmosphere,
a discipline, a life”--is perhaps the most complete and adequate
definition of education we possess. It is a great thing to have said
it; and our wiser posterity may see in that “profound and exquisite
remark” the fruition of a lifetime of critical effort. Observe how
it covers the question from the three conceivable points of view.
Subjectively, in the child, education is a life; objectively, as
affecting the child, education is a discipline; relatively, if we
may introduce a third term, as regards the environment of the child,
education is an atmosphere.

We shall examine each of these postulates later; at present we shall
attempt no more than to clear the ground a little, with a view to the
subject of this paper, “Parents as Inspirers”--not “modellers,” but
“inspirers.”

It is only as we recognise our limitations that our work becomes
effective: when we see definitely what we are to do, what we can do,
and what we cannot do, we set to work with confidence and courage; we
have an end in view, and we make our way intelligently towards that
end, and a _way to an end_ is _method_. It rests with parents not only
to give their children birth into the life of intelligence and moral
power, but to sustain the higher life which they have borne. Now that
life, which we call education, receives only one kind of sustenance; it
grows upon _ideas_. You may go through years of so-called “education”
without getting a single vital idea; and that is why many a well-fed
body carries about a feeble, starved intelligence; and no society for
the prevention of cruelty to children cries shame on the parents. Only
the other day we heard of a girl of fifteen who had spent two years
at a school without taking part in a single lesson, and this by the
express desire of her mother, who wished all her time and all her pains
to be given to “fancy needlework.” This, no doubt, is a survival (not
of the fittest), but it is possible to pass even the Universities’
Local Examinations with credit, without ever having experienced that
vital stir which marks the inception of an idea; and, if we have
succeeded in escaping this disturbing influence, why we have “finished
our education” when we leave school; we shut up our books and our
minds, and remain pigmies in the dark forest of our own dim world of
thought and feeling.

What is an idea? A live thing of the mind, according to the older
philosophers, from Plato to Bacon, from Bacon to Coleridge. We say of
an idea that it strikes us, impresses us, seizes us, takes possession
of us, rules us; and our common speech is, as usual, truer to fact
than the conscious thought which it expresses. We do not in the least
exaggerate in ascribing this sort of action and power to an idea. We
form an _ideal_--a, so to speak, embodied idea--and our ideal exercises
the very strongest formative influence upon us. Why do you devote
yourself to this pursuit, that cause? “Because twenty years ago such
and such an idea _struck_ me,” is the sort of history which might be
given of every purposeful life--every life devoted to the working out
of an idea. Now is it not marvellous that, recognising as we do the
potency of an idea, both the word and the conception it covers enter so
little into our thought of education?

Coleridge brings the conception of an “idea” within the sphere of the
scientific thought of to-day; not as that thought is expressed in
_Psychology_--a term which he himself launched upon the world with an
apology for it as an _insolens verbum_,[1] but in that science of the
correlation and interaction of mind and brain, which is at present
rather clumsily expressed in such terms as “mental physiology” and
“psycho-physiology.”

In his method he gives us the following illustration of the rise and
progress of an idea:--

“We can recall no incident of human history that impresses the
imagination more deeply than the moment when Columbus, on an unknown
ocean, first perceived that startling fact, the change of the magnetic
needle. How many such instances occur in history, when the ideas
of nature (presented to chosen minds by a Higher Power than Nature
herself) suddenly unfold, as it were, in prophetic succession,
systematic views destined to produce the most important revolutions in
the state of man! The clear spirit of Columbus was doubtless eminently
_methodical_. He saw distinctly that great leading _idea_ which
authorised the poor pilot to become a ‘promiser of kingdoms.’”

Notice the genesis of such ideas--“presented to chosen minds by a
Higher Power than Nature;” notice how accurately this history of an
idea fits in with what we know of the history of great inventions
and discoveries, with that of the _ideas_ which rule our own lives;
and how well does it correspond with that key to the origin of
“practical” ideas which we find elsewhere:--

“Doth the plowman plow continually to ... open and break the clods
of his ground? When he hath made plain the face thereof, doth he not
cast abroad the fitches, and scatter the cummin, and put in the wheat
in rows, and the barley in the appointed place, and the spelt in the
border thereof? For his God doth instruct him aright, and doth teach
him....

“Bread corn is ground; for he will not ever be threshing it.... This
also cometh forth from the Lord of hosts, which is wonderful in counsel
and excellent in wisdom.”[2]

Ideas may invest as an atmosphere, rather than strike as a weapon. “The
idea may exist in a clear, distinct definite form, as that of a circle
in the mind of a geometrician; or it may be a mere instinct, a vague
appetency towards something, ... like the impulse which fills the young
poet’s eyes with tears, he knows not why.” To excite this “appetency
towards something”--towards things lovely, honest, and of good report,
is the earliest and most important ministry of the educator. How shall
these indefinite ideas which manifest themselves in appetency be
imparted? They are not to be given of set purpose, nor taken at set
times. They are held in that thought-environment which surrounds the
child as an atmosphere, which he breathes as his breath of life; and
this atmosphere in which the child inspires his unconscious ideas of
right living emanates from his parents. Every look of gentleness and
tone of reverence, every word of kindness and act of help, passes into
the thought-environment, the very atmosphere which the child breathes;
he does not think of these things, may never think of them, but all
his life long they excite that “vague appetency towards something” out
of which most of his actions spring. Oh! the wonderful and dreadful
presence of the little child in the midst.

That he should take direction and inspiration from all the casual life
about him, should make our poor words and ways the starting-point from
which, and in the direction of which, he develops--this is a thought
which makes the most of us hold our breath. There is no way of escape
for parents; they must needs be as “inspirers” to their children,
because about them hangs, as its atmosphere about a planet, the
thought-environment of the child, from which he derives those enduring
ideas which express themselves as a life-long “appetency” towards
things sordid or things lovely, things earthly or divine.

Let us now hear Coleridge on the subject of those _definite_ ideas
which are not inhaled as air, but conveyed as meat to the mind:--[3]

“From the first, or initiative idea, as from a seed, successive ideas
germinate.”

“Events and images, the lively and spirit-stirring machinery of the
external world, are like light, and air, and moisture to the seed of
the mind, which would else rot and perish.”

“The paths in which we may pursue a methodical course are manifold, and
at the head of each stands its peculiar and guiding idea.”

“Those ideas are as regularly subordinate in dignity as the paths to
which they point are various and eccentric in direction. The world has
suffered much, in modern times, from a subversion of the natural and
necessary order of Science ... from summoning reason and faith to the
bar of that limited physical experience to which, by the true laws of
method, they owe no obedience.”

“Progress follows the path of the idea from which it sets out;
requiring, however, a constant wakefulness of mind to keep it within
the due limits of its course. Hence the orbits of thought, so to speak,
must differ among themselves as the initiative ideas differ.”

Have we not here the corollary to, and the explanation of, that law of
unconscious cerebration which results in our “ways of thinking,” which
shapes our character, rules our destiny? Thoughtful minds consider
that the new light which biology is throwing upon the laws of mind is
bringing to the front once more the Platonic doctrine, that “An idea is
a distinguishable power, self-affirmed, and seen in its unity with the
Eternal Essence.”

The whole subject is profound, but as practical as it is profound. We
absolutely must disabuse our minds of the theory that the functions
of education are, in the main, gymnastic. In the early years of the
child’s life it makes, perhaps, little apparent difference whether his
parents start with the notion that to educate is to fill a receptacle,
inscribe a tablet, mould plastic matter, or nourish a life; but in the
end we shall find that only those _ideas_ which have fed his life are
taken into the being of the child; all the rest is thrown away, or
worse, is like sawdust in the system, an impediment and an injury to
the vital processes.

This is, perhaps, how the educational formula should run: Education is
a life; that life is sustained on ideas; ideas are of spiritual origin;
but,

                         “God has made us so,”

that we get them chiefly as we convey them to one another. The duty of
parents is to sustain a child’s inner life with ideas as they sustain
his body with food. The child is an eclectic; he may choose this or
that; therefore, in the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening
withhold not thy hand, for thou knowest not which shall prosper,
whether this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good.

The child has affinities with evil as well as with good; therefore,
hedge him about from any chance lodgment of evil suggestion.

The initial idea begets subsequent ideas; therefore, take care that
children get right primary ideas on the great relations and duties of
life.

Every study, every line of thought, has its “guiding idea;” therefore
the study of a child makes for living education, as it is quickened by
the guiding idea “which stands at the head.”

In a word, our much boasted “infallible reason”--is it not the
involuntary thought which follows the initial idea upon necessary
logical lines? Given, the starting idea, and the conclusion may be
predicated almost to a certainty. We get into the _way_ of thinking
such and such manner of thoughts, and of coming to such and such
conclusions, ever further and further removed from the starting-point,
but on the same lines. There is structural adaptation in the brain
tissue to the manner of thoughts we think--a plan and a way for them to
run in. Thus we see how the destiny of a life is shaped in the nursery,
by the reverent naming of the Divine Name; by the light scoff at holy
things; by the thought of duty the little child gets who is made to
finish conscientiously his little task; by the hardness of heart that
comes to the child who hears the faults or sorrows of others spoken of
lightly.


FOOTNOTES:

     [1] “We beg pardon for the use of this _insolens verbum_,
          but it is one of which our language stands in great
          need.”--S. T. COLERIDGE.

     [2] Isaiah xxviii.

     [3] _Method_--S. T. COLERIDGE.




                               CHAPTER V

                         _PARENTS AS INSPIRERS_

                                PART III


It is probable that parents as a class feel more than ever before the
responsibility of their prophetic office. It is as revealers of God to
their children that parents touch their highest limitations; perhaps it
is only as they succeed in this part of their work that they fulfil the
Divine intention in giving them children to bring up--in the nurture
and admonition of the Lord.

How to fortify the children against the doubts of which the air is
full, is an anxious question. Three courses are open--to teach as we of
an older generation have been taught, and to let them bide their time
and their chance; to attempt to deal with the doubts and difficulties
which have turned up, or are likely to turn up; or, to give children
such hold upon vital truth, and, at the same time, such an outlook
upon current thought, that they shall be landed on the safe side of
the controversies of their day, open to truth, in however new a light
presented, and safeguarded against mortal error.

The first course is unfair to the young: when the attack comes, they
find themselves at a disadvantage; they have nothing to reply; their
pride is in arms; they jump to the conclusion that there is no defence
possible of that which they have received as truth; had there been,
would they not have been instructed to make it? They resent being made
out in the wrong, being on the weaker side--so it seems to them,--being
behind their times; and they go over without a struggle to the side of
the most aggressive thinkers of their day.

Let us suppose that, on the other hand, they have been fortified
with “Christian Evidences,” defended by bulwarks of sound dogmatic
teaching. Religion without definite dogmatic teaching degenerates into
sentiment, but dogma, as dogma, offers no defence against the assaults
of unbelief. As for “evidences,” the _rôle_ of the Christian apologist
is open to the imputation conveyed in the keen proverb, _qui s’excuse,
s’accuse_; the truth by which we live must needs be self-evidenced,
admitting of neither proof nor disproof. Children should be taught
Bible history with every elucidation which modern research makes
possible. But they should not be taught to think of the inscriptions on
the Assyrian monuments, for example, as _proofs_ of the truth of the
Bible records, but rather as illustrations, though they are, and cannot
but be subsidiary proofs.

Let us look at the third course; and first, as regards the outlook
upon current thought. Contemporary opinion is the fetish of the young
mind. Young people are eager to know what to think on all the serious
questions of religion and life. They ask what is the opinion of this
and that leading thinker of their day. They by no means confine
themselves to such leaders of thought as their parents have elected
to follow; on the contrary, the “other side” of every question is the
attractive side for them, and they do not choose to be behind the
foremost in the race of thought.

Now, that their young people should thus take to the water need not
come upon parents as a surprise. The whole training from babyhood
upward should be in view of this plunge. When the time comes, there is
nothing to be done; openly, it may be, secretly if the home rule is
rigid, the young folk think their own thoughts; that is, they follow
the leader they have elected; for they are truly modest and humble at
heart, and do not yet venture to think for themselves; only they have
transferred their allegiance. Nor is this transfer of allegiance to be
resented by parents; we all claim this kind of “suffrage” in our turn
when we feel ourselves included in larger interests than those of the
family.

But there is much to be done beforehand, though nothing when the time
comes. The notion that any contemporary authority is infallible may
be steadily undermined from infancy onwards, though at some sacrifice
of ease and glory to the parents. “I don’t know” must take the place
of the vague wise-sounding answer, the random shot which children’s
pertinacious questionings too often provoke. And “I don’t know” should
be followed by the effort to know, the research necessary to find
out. Even then, the possibility of error in a “printed book” must
occasionally be faced. The results of this kind of training in the way
of mental balance and repose are invaluable.

Another safeguard is in the attitude of reservation, shall we say?
which it may be well to preserve towards “Science.” It is well that
the enthusiasm of children should be kindled, that they should see how
glorious it is to devote a lifetime to patient research, how great to
find out a single secret of nature, a key to many riddles. The heroes
of science should be their heroes; the great names, especially of those
who are amongst us, should be household words. But here, again, nice
discrimination should be exercised; two points should be kept well to
the front--the absolute silence of the oracle on all ultimate questions
of origin and life, and the fact that, all along the line, scientific
truth comes in like the tide, with steady advance, but with ebb and
flow of every wavelet of truth; so much so, that, at the present
moment, the teaching of the last twenty years is discredited in at
least half a dozen departments of science. Indeed, it would seem to be
the part of wisdom to wait half a century before fitting the discovery
of to-day into the general scheme of things. And this, not because the
latest discovery is not absolutely true, but because we are not yet
able so to adjust it--according to the “science of the proportion of
things”--that it shall be relatively true.

But all this is surely beyond children? By no means; every walk should
quicken their enthusiasm for the things of nature, and their reverence
for the priests of that temple; but occasion should be taken to mark
the progressive advances of science, and the fact that the teaching
of to-day may be the error of to-morrow, because new light may lead
to new conclusions even from the facts already known. “Until quite
lately, geologists thought ... they now think ... but they may find
reason to think otherwise in the future.” To perceive that knowledge is
_progressive_, and that the next “find” may always alter the bearings
of what went before; that we are waiting, and may have very long to
wait, for the last word; that science also is “revelation,” though we
are not yet able fully to interpret what we know; and that ‘science’
herself contains the promise of great impetus to the spiritual life--to
perceive these things is to be able to rejoice in all truth and to wait
for final certainty.

In another way we may endeavour to secure for the children that
stability of mind which comes of self-knowledge. It is well that they
should know so early, that they will seem to themselves always to have
known, some of the laws of thought which govern their own minds. Let
them know that, once an idea takes possession of them, it will pursue,
so to speak, its own course, will establish its own place in the very
substance of the brain, will draw its own train of ideas after it. One
of the most fertile sources of youthful infidelity is the fact that
thoughtful boys and girls are infinitely surprised when they come to
notice the course of their own thoughts. They read a book or listen to
talk with a tendency to what is to them “free-thought.” And then, the
“fearful joy” of finding that their own thoughts begin with the thought
they have heard, and go on and on to new and startling conclusions on
the same lines! The mental stir of all this gives a delightful sense of
power, and a sense of inevitableness and certainty too; for they do not
intend or try to think this or that. It comes of itself; their reason,
they believe, is acting independently of them, and how can they help
assuming that what comes to them of itself, with an air of absolute
certainty, must of necessity be right?

But what if from childhood they had been warned, “Take care of your
thoughts, and the rest will take care of itself; let a thought in, and
it will stay; will come again to-morrow and the next day, will make a
place for itself in your brain, and will bring many other thoughts like
itself. Your business is to look at the thoughts as they come, to keep
out the wrong thoughts, and let in the right. See that ye _enter not_
into temptation.” This sort of teaching is not so hard to understand
as the rules for the English nominative, and is of infinitively more
profit in the conduct of life. It is a great safeguard to know that
your “reason” is capable of proving any theory you allow yourself to
entertain.

We have touched here only on the negative side of the parent’s work as
prophet, inspirer. There are perhaps few parents to whom the innocence
of the babe in its mother’s arms does not appeal with pathetic force.
“Open me the gates of righteousness, that I may go in unto them,” is
the voice of the little unworldly child; and a wish, anyway, that he
may be kept unspotted from the world is breathed in every kiss of
his mother, in the light of his father’s eyes. But how ready we are
to conclude that children cannot be expected to understand spiritual
things. Our own grasp of the things of the Spirit is all too lax, and
how can we expect that the child’s feeble intelligence can apprehend
the highest mysteries of our being? But here we are altogether wrong.
It is with the advance of years that a materialistic temper settles
upon us. But the children live in the light of the morning-land. The
spirit-world has no mysteries for them; that parable and travesty of
the spirit-world, the fairy-world, where all things are possible, is
it not their favourite dwelling-place? And fairy tales are so dear
to children because their spirits fret against the hard and narrow
limitations of time and place and substance; they cannot breathe
freely in a material world. Think what the vision of God should be
to the little child already peering wistfully through the bars of
his prison-house. Not a far-off God, a cold abstraction, but a warm,
breathing, spiritual Presence about his path and about his bed--a
Presence in which he recognises protection and tenderness in darkness
and danger, towards which he rushes as the timid child to hide his
face in his mother’s skirts.

A friend tells me the following story of her girlhood. It so happened
that extra lessons detained her at school until dark every day during
the winter. She was extremely timid, but, with the unconscious reserve
of youth, never thought of mentioning her fear of “something.” Her way
home lay by a river-side, a solitary path under trees--big trees, with
masses of shadow. The black shadows, in which “something” might lie
hid--the _swsh-sh, swsh-sh_ of the river, which might be whisperings or
the rustle of garments--filled her night by night with unabated terror.
She fled along that river-side path with beating heart; but, quick as
flying steps and beating heart, these words beat in her brain, over,
and over, and over, the whole length of the way, evening by evening,
winter after winter: “Thou art my hiding-place; Thou shalt preserve me
from trouble; Thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.”
Years after, when the woman might be supposed to have outgrown girlish
terrors, she found herself again walking alone in the early darkness of
a winter’s evening under trees by the _swsh-sh_ of another river. The
old terror returned, and with it the old words came to her, and kept
time the whole length of the way with her hasty steps. Such a place to
hide him in should be the thought of God to every child.

Their keen sensitiveness to spiritual influences is not due to
ignorance on the part of the children. It is we, not they, who are in
error. The whole tendency of modern biological thought is to confirm
the teaching of the Bible: the ideas which quicken come from above; the
mind of the little child is an open field, surely “good ground,” where,
morning by morning, the sower goes forth to sow, and the seed is the
Word. All our teaching of children should be given reverently, with the
humble sense that we are invited in this matter to co-operate with the
Holy Spirit; but it should be given dutifully and diligently, with the
awful sense that our co-operation would appear to be made a condition
of the Divine action; that the Saviour of the world pleads with us to
“Suffer the little children to come unto Me,” as if we had the power to
hinder, as we know that we have.

This thought of the Saviour of the world implies another conception
which we sometimes leave out of sight in dealing with children. Young
faces are not always sunny and lovely; even the brightest children in
the happiest circumstances have their clouded hours. We rightly put the
cloud down to some little disorder, or to the weather, but these are
the secondary causes which reveal a deep-seated discontent. Children
have a sense of sin acute in proportion to their sensitiveness. We are
in danger of trusting too much to a rose-water treatment; we do not
take children seriously enough; brought face to face with a child,
we find he is a very real person, but in our educational theories we
take him as “something between a wax doll and an angel.” He sins; he
is guilty of greediness, falsehood, malice, cruelty, a hundred faults
that would be hateful in a grown-up person; we say he will know better
by-and-by. He will never know better; he is keenly aware of his own
odiousness. How many of us would say about our childhood, if we told
the whole truth, “Oh, I was an odious little thing!” and that, not
because we recollect our faults, but because we recollect our childish
estimate of ourselves. Many a bright and merry child is odious in his
own eyes; and the “peace, peace, where there is no peace,” of fond
parents and friends is little comfort. It is well that we “ask for the
old paths, where is the good way;” it is not well that, in the name of
the old paths, we lead our children into blind alleys, nor that we let
them follow the new into bewildering mazes.




                               CHAPTER VI

                         _PARENTS AS INSPIRERS_

                                PART IV


     “One of the little boys gazing upon the terrible desolation
      of the scene, so unlike in its savage and inhuman aspects
      anything he had ever seen at home, nestled close to his
      mother, and asked with bated breath, ‘Mither, is there a
      God here?’”--JOHN BURROUGHS.


The last chapter introduced the thought of parents in their highest
function--as revealers of God to their children. To bring the human
race, family by family, child by child, out of the savage and inhuman
desolation where He is not, into the light and warmth and comfort of
the presence of God, is, no doubt, the chief thing we have to do in
the world. And this individual work with each child, being the most
momentous work in the world, is put into the hands of the wisest, most
loving, disciplined, and divinely instructed of human beings. Be ye
perfect _as your Father_ is perfect, is the perfection of parenthood,
perhaps to be attained only in its fulness through parenthood. There
are mistaken parents, ignorant parents, a few indifferent parents,
even, as one in a thousand, callous parents; but the good that is done
upon the earth is done, under God, by parents, whether directly or
indirectly.

Parents, who recognise that their great work is to be done by the
instrumentality of the ideas they are able to introduce into the minds
of their children, will take anxious thought as to those ideas of God
which are most fitting for children, and as to how those ideas may best
be conveyed. Let us consider an idea which is just now causing some
stir in people’s thoughts.

“We read some of the Old Testament history as ‘history of the Jews,’
and Job and Isaiah and the Psalms as poetry--and I am glad to say he
is very fond of them; and parts of the Gospels in Greek, as the life
and character of a hero. It is the greatest mistake to impose them upon
children as authoritative and divine all at once. It at once diminishes
their interest: we ought to work slowly up through the human side.”[4]

Here is a theory which commends itself to many persons because it is
“so reasonable.” But it goes upon the assumption that we are ruled by
Reason, an infallible entity, which is certain, give it fair play, to
bring us to just conclusions. Now the exercise of that function of
the mind which we call reasoning--we must decline to speak of “the
Reason”--does indeed bring us to inevitable conclusions; the process
is definite, the result convincing; but whether that result be right
or wrong depends altogether upon the initial idea which, when we wish
to discredit it, we call a prejudice; when we wish to exalt, we call
an intuition, even an inspiration. It would be idle to illustrate
this position; the whole history of Error is the history of the
logical outcome of what we happily call misconceptions. The history of
Persecution is the tale of how the inevitable conclusions arrived at
by reasoning pass themselves off for truth. The Event of Calvary was
due to no hasty mad outburst of popular feeling. It was a triumph of
reasoning: the inevitable issue of more than one logical sequence;
the Crucifixion was not criminal, but altogether laudable, _if_ that
is right which is reasonable. And this is why the hearts of religious
Jews were hardened and their understanding darkened; they were truly
doing what was _right_ in their own eyes. It is a marvellous thing to
perceive the thoughts within us driving us forward to an inevitable
conclusion, even against our will. How can that conclusion which
presents itself to us in spite of ourselves fail to be right?

Let us place ourselves for one instant in the position of the logical
and conscientious Jew. “‘Jehovah’ is a name of awe, unapproachable
in thought or act except in ways Himself has specified. To attempt
unlawful approach is to blaspheme. As Jehovah is infinitely great,
presumptuous offence is infinitely heinous, is criminal, is the last
crime as committed against Him who is the First. The blasphemer
is worthy of death. This man makes himself equal with God, the
unapproachable. He is a blasphemer, arrogant as Beelzebub. He is doubly
worthy of death. To the people of the Jews is committed in trust the
honoured Name; upon them it is incumbent to exterminate the blasphemer.
The man must die.” Here is the secret of the virulent hatred which
dogged the steps of the blameless Life. These men were following the
dictates of reason, and _knew_, so they would say, that they were doing
right. Here we have the invincible ignorance which the Light of the
world failed to illumine; and He,

            “Who knows us as we are,
    Yet loves us better than He knows,”

offers for them the true plea, “They know not what they do.” The steps
of the argument are incontrovertible; the error lies in the initial
idea,--such conception of Jehovah as made the conception of Christ
inadmissible, impossible. Thus reasoned the Jew upon whom his religion
had the first claim. The patriotic Jew, to whom religion itself was
subservient to the hopes of his nation, arrived by quite another chain
of _spontaneous_ arguments at the same inevitable conclusion:--“The
Jews are the chosen people. The first duty of a Jew is towards his
nation. These are critical times. A great hope is before us, but we are
in the grip of the Romans; they may crush out the national life before
our hope is realised. Nothing must be done to alarm their suspicions.
This Man? By all accounts He is harmless, perhaps righteous. But He
stirs up the people. It is rumoured that they call Him King of the
Jews. He must not be permitted to ruin the hopes of the nation. He
must die. It is expedient that one man die for the people, and that
the whole nation perish not.” Thus the consummate crime that has been
done upon the earth was done probably without any consciousness of
criminality; on the contrary, with the acquittal of that spurious moral
sense which supports with its approval all _reasonable_ action. The
Crucifixion was the logical and necessary outcome of ideas imbibed from
their cradles by the persecuting Jews. So of every persecution; none
is born of the occasion and the hour, but comes out of the habit of
thought of a lifetime.

It is the primal impulse to these habits of thought which children must
owe to their parents; and, as a man’s thought and action Godward is--

                    “The very pulse of the machine,”

the introduction of such primal ideas as shall impel the soul to God
is the first duty and the highest privilege of parents. Whatever sin of
unbelief a man is guilty of, are his parents wholly without blame? Let
us consider what is commonly done in the nursery in this respect. No
sooner can the little being lisp than he is taught to kneel up in his
mother’s lap, and say “God bless ...” and then follows a list of the
near and dear, and “God bless ... and make him a good boy, for Jesus’
sake. Amen.” It is very touching and beautiful. I once peeped in at an
open cottage door in a moorland village, and saw a little child in its
nightgown kneeling in its mother’s lap and saying its evening prayer.
The spot has ever since remained to me a sort of shrine. There is no
sight more touching and tender. By-and-by, so soon as he can speak the
words,

                     “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,”

is added to the little one’s prayer, and later, “Our Father.” Nothing
could be more suitable and more beautiful than these morning and
evening approaches to God, the little children brought to Him by their
mothers. And most of us can “think back” to the hallowing influence of
these early prayers. But might not more be done? How many times a day
does a mother lift up her heart to God as she goes in and out amongst
her children, and they never know! “To-day I talked to them” (a boy
and girl of four and five) “about Rebekah at the well. They were very
much interested, especially about Eliezer praying in his heart and the
answer coming at once. They said, ‘How did he pray?’ I said, ‘I often
pray in my heart when you know nothing about it. Sometimes you begin
to show a naughty spirit, and I pray for you in my heart, and almost
directly I find the good Spirit comes, and your faces show my prayer
is answered.’ O. stroked my hand and said, ‘Dear mother, I shall think
of that!’ Boy looked thoughtful, but didn’t speak; but when they were
in bed I knelt down to pray for them before leaving them, and when I
got up, Boy said, ‘Mother, God filled my heart with goodness while you
prayed for us; and, mother, I _will_ try to-morrow.’” Is it possible
that the mother could, when alone with her children, occasionally hold
this communing out loud, so that the children might grow up in the
sense of the presence of God? It would probably be difficult for many
mothers to break down the barrier of spiritual reserve in the presence
of even their own children. But could it be done, would it not lead to
glad and natural living in the recognised presence of God?

A mother who remembered a little penny scent-bottle as an early joy of
her own, took three such small bottles home to her three little girls.
They got them next morning at the family breakfast and enjoyed them
all through the meal. Before it ended the mother was called away, and
little M. was sitting rather solitary with her scent-bottle and the
remains of her breakfast. And out of the pure well of the little girl’s
heart came this, intended for nobody’s ear, “Dear mother, you are _too_
good!” Think of the joy of the mother who should overhear her little
child murmuring over the first primrose of the year, “Dear God, you are
_too_ good!” Children are so imitative, that if they hear their parents
speak out continually their joys and fears, their thanks and wishes,
they too will have many things to say.

Another point in this connection: the little German child hears and
speaks many times a day of _der liebe Gott_; to be sure he addresses
Him as “_Du_,” but _du_ is part of his everyday speech; the circle of
the very dear and intimate is hedged in by the magic _du_. So with the
little French child, whose thought and word are ever of _le bon Dieu_;
he also says _Tu_, but that is how he speaks to those most endeared
to him. But the little English child is thrust out in the cold by an
archaic mode of address, reverent in the ears of us older people,
but forbidding, we may be sure, to the child. Then, for the Lord’s
Prayer, what a boon would be a truly reverent translation of it into
the English of to-day. To us, who have learned to spell it out, the
present form is dear, almost sacred; but we must not forget that it is
after all only a translation; and is, perhaps, the most archaic piece
of English in modern use: “which art,”[5] commonly rendered “chart,”
means nothing for a child. “Hallowed” is the speech of a strange tongue
to him--not much more to us; “trespasses” is a semi-legal term, never
likely to come into his everyday talk, and no explanations will make
“Thy” have the same force for him as “your.” To make a child utter
his prayers in a strange speech is to put up a barrier between him
and his “Almighty Lover.” Again, might we not venture to teach our
children to say “dear God”? A parent, surely, can believe that no
austerely reverential style can be so sweet in the Divine Father’s ears
as the appeal to “dear God” for sympathy in joy and help in trouble,
which flows naturally from the little child who is “used to God.”
Let children grow up aware of the constant, immediate, joy-giving,
joy-taking Presence in the midst of them, and you may laugh at all
assaults of “infidelity,” which is foolishness to him who knows his God
as--only far better than--he knows father or mother, wife or child.

Let them grow up, too, with the shout of a King in their midst. There
are, in this poor stuff we call human nature, founts of loyalty,
worship, passionate devotion, glad service, which have, alas! to be
unsealed in the earth-laden older heart, but only ask place to flow
from the child’s. There is no safeguard and no joy like that of being
under orders, being possessed, controlled, continually in the service
of One whom it is gladness to obey.

We lose sight of the fact in our modern civilisation, but a king, a
leader, implies warfare, a foe, victory--possible defeat and disgrace.
And this is the conception of life which cannot too soon be brought
before children.

“After thinking the matter over with some care, I resolved that I
cannot do better than give you my view of what it was that the average
boy carried away from our Rugby of half-a-century ago which stood
him in the best stead--was of the highest value to him--in after
life.... I have been in some doubt as to what to put first, and am by
no means sure that the few who are left of my old schoolfellows would
agree with me; but, speaking for myself, I think this was our most
marked characteristic, the feeling that in school and close we were
in training for a big fight--were, in fact, already engaged in it--a
fight which would last all our lives, and try all our powers, physical,
intellectual, and moral, to the utmost. I need not say that this fight
was the world-old one of good with evil, of light and truth against
darkness and sin, of Christ against the devil.”

So said the author of “Tom Brown” in an address to Rugby School
delivered on a recent Quinquagesima Sunday. This is plain speaking;
education is only worthy of the name as it teaches this lesson; and it
is a lesson which should be learnt in the home or ever the child sets
foot in any other school of life. It is an insult to children to say
they are too young to understand this for which we are sent into the
world. A boy of five, a great-grandson of Dr. Arnold, was sitting at
the piano with his mother, choosing his Sunday hymn; he chose “Thy will
be done,” and, as his special favourite, the verse beginning, “Renew
my will from day to day.” The choice of hymn and verse rather puzzled
his mother, who had a further glimpse into the world of child-thought
when the little fellow said wistfully, “Oh, dear, it’s very hard to do
God’s work!” The difference between doing and bearing was not plain to
him, but the battle and struggle and strain of life already pressed
on the spirit of the “careless, happy child.” That an evil spiritual
personality can get at their thoughts, and incite them to “be naughty,”
children learn all too soon, and understand, perhaps, better than we
do. Then, they are cross, “naughty,” separate, sinful, needing to be
healed as truly as the hoary sinner, and much more aware of their need,
because the tender soul of the child, like an infant’s skin, is fretted
by spiritual soreness. “It’s very kind of God to forgive me so often;
I’ve been naughty so many times to-day,” said a sad little sinner of
six, not at all because any one else had been at the pains to convince
her of naughtiness. Even “Pet Marjorie’s” buoyancy is not proof against
this sad sense of shortcoming:--

“Yesterday I behaved extremely ill in God’s most holy church, for I
would never attend myself nor let Isabella attend, ... and it was the
very same _Devil_ that tempted Job that tempted me, I am sure; but he
resisted Satan, though he had boils and many other misfortunes which I
have escaped.”--(At six!)

We must needs smile at the little “crimes,” but we must not smile too
much, and let children be depressed with much “naughtiness” when they
should live in the instant healing, in the dear Name, of the Saviour of
the world.


FOOTNOTES:

     [4] “Memoirs of Arthur Hamilton.” Messrs. Kegan Paul & Co.

     [5] Catholics say “who art.”




                              CHAPTER VII

                      _THE PARENT AS SCHOOLMASTER_


“The schoolmaster will make him sit up!” “Sit up,” that is, “come when
he’s called,” apparently, for the remark concerned a young person who
went on spinning his top with nonchalance, ignoring an intermittent
stream of objurgations from his mother, whose view was that bedtime
had arrived. Circumstances alter cases, but is it unheard of in higher
ranks of life to trust to the schoolmaster to make a child “sit up,”
after a good deal of mental and moral sprawling about at home?

“Oh, he’s a little fellow yet; he will know better by-and-by.”

“My view is, let children have a delightful childhood. Time enough for
restraint and contradiction when they go to school.”

“We do not hold with punishing children; love your children, and let
them alone, is our principle.”

“They will meet with hardness enough in the world. Childhood shall have
no harsh memories for them.”

“School will break them in. Let them grow like young colts till the
time comes to break them. All young things should be free to kick
about.”

“What’s bred in the bone must come out in the flesh. I do not care much
for all this clipping and shaping of children. Destroys individuality.”

“When he’s older, he will know better. Time cures many faults.”

And so on; we might fill pages with the wise things people say,
who, for one excellent reason or another, prefer to leave it to the
schoolmaster to make a child “sit up.” And does the schoolmaster live
up to his reputation? how far does he succeed with the child who
comes to him with no self-management? His real and proud successes
are with the children who have been trained to “sit up” at home. His
pleasure in such children is unbounded; the pains he takes with them
unlimited; the successful careers he is able to launch them upon exceed
the ambition of those most wildly ambitious of human beings (dare we
say it?)--parents, quiet, sensible, matter-of-fact parents. But the
schoolmaster takes little credit to himself for these happy results.
Schoolmasters and schoolmistresses are modest people, though they are
not always credited with their virtues.

“You can do anything with So-and-so; his parents have turned him out so
well.” Observe, the master takes little credit to himself (by no means
so much as he deserves); and why? Experience makes fools wise; and what
then of those who add experience to wisdom? “People send us their cubs
to lick into shape, and what can we do?” Now the answer to this query
concerns parents rather closely: what and how much can the schoolmaster
do to make the boy “sit up” who has not been to the manner bred?

No suasion will make you “sit up” if you are an oyster; no, nor even if
you are a cod. You must have a backbone, and your backbone must have
learned its work before sitting up is possible to you. No doubt the
human oyster may grow a backbone, and the human cod may get into the
way of sitting up, and some day, perhaps, we shall know of the heroic
endeavours made by schoolmaster and mistress to prop up, and haul up,
and draw up, and anyhow keep alert and sitting up, creatures whose way
it is to sprawl. Sometimes the result is surprising; they sit up in a
row with the rest and look all right; even when the props are removed
they keep to the trick of sitting up for awhile. The schoolmaster
begins to rub his hands, and the parents say, “I told you so. Didn’t I
always say Jack would come right in the end?” Wait a bit. The end is
not yet. The habits of school, as of military life, are more or less
mechanical. The early habits are vital; reversion to these takes place,
and Jack sprawls as a man just as he sprawled as a child, only more so.
Various social props keep him up; he has the wit to seem to “sit up”;
he is lovable and his life is respectable; and no one suspects that
this easy-going Mr. John Brown is a failure; a man who had the elements
of greatness in him, and might have been of use in the world had he
been put under discipline from his infancy.

Sprawling is an ugly word, but the attitude we are thinking of is by no
means always inelegant. Scott gives a delightful illustration of one
kind of mental sprawling in “Waverley”:--

“Edward Waverley’s powers of apprehension were so quick as almost to
resemble intuition, and the chief care of his preceptor was to prevent
him, as a sportsman would phrase it, from overrunning his game; that
is, from acquiring his knowledge in a slight, flimsy, and inadequate
manner. And here the instructor had to combat another propensity too
often united with brilliancy of fancy and vivacity of talent--the
indolence, namely, which can only be stirred by some strong motive
of gratification, and which renounces study as soon as curiosity is
gratified, the pleasure of conquering the first difficulties exhausted,
and the novelty of pursuit at an end.” And the story goes on to show,
without laborious pointing of the moral, how _Waverley_ by name was
_wavering_ by nature, was ever the sport of circumstances because he
had not learned in youth to direct his course. He blunders into many
(most interesting) misadventures because he had failed to get, through
his studies, the alertness of mind and the self-restraint which should
make a man of him. Many pleasant things befall him, but not one of
them, unless we except Rose Bradwardine’s love--and when did woman
study justice in the bestowal of her favours?--not one did he earn
by his own wit or prowess; each advantage and success which came to
him was the earnings of another man. The elder Waverley had not only
fortune but force of character to make friends, so we are not made sad
for the amiable young man for whom we must needs feel affection; he
does nothing to carve out a way for himself, and he does everything to
his own hindrance out of pure want of the power of self-direction, but
his uncle has fortune and friends, and all ends well. For the sake, no
doubt, of young persons less happily situated, and of parents who are
not able to play the part of bountiful Providence to sons and daughters
whom they have failed to fit for the conduct of their own lives, the
great novelist takes care to point out that Edward Waverley’s personal
failure in life was the fault of his education. His abilities were even
brilliant, but “I ought” had waited upon “I like” from his earliest
days, and he had never learned to make himself do the thing he would.

Now it is this sort of “bringing under” that parents are apt to leave
to the schoolmaster. They do not give their children the discipline
which results in self-compelling power, and by-and-by, when they
make over the task to another, the time for training in the art of
self-mastery has gone by, and a fine character is spoiled through
indolence and wilfulness.

But why will it not do to leave it to the schoolmaster to make a
child “sit up”? It is natural for a child to be left free as a bird
in matters of no moral significance. We would not let him tell lies,
but if he hate his lessons, that may be Nature’s way of showing he had
better let them alone.

We must face the facts. We are not meant to grow up in a state of
nature. There is something simple, conclusive, even idyllic, in the
statement that so-and-so is “natural.” What more would you have? Jean
Jacques Rousseau preached the doctrine of natural education, and no
reformer has had a greater following. “It’s human nature,” we say, when
stormy Harry snatches his drum from Jack; when baby Marjorie, who is
not two, screams for Susie’s doll. So it is, and for that very reason
it must be dealt with early. Even Marjorie must be taught better. “I
always finish teaching my children obedience before they are one year
old,” said a wise mother; and any who know the nature of children, and
the possibilities open to the educator, will say, Why not? Obedience
in the first year, and all the virtues of the good life as the years
go on; every year with its own definite work to show in the training
of character. Is Edward a selfish child when his fifth birthday comes?
The fact is noted in his parents’ year-book, with the resolve that by
his sixth birthday he shall, please God, be a generous child. Here, the
reader who has not realised that to exercise discipline is one of the
chief functions of parenthood, smiles and talks about “human nature”
with all the air of an unanswerable argument.

But we live in a redeemed world, and one of the meanings which that
unfathomable phrase bears is, that it is the duty of those who have the
care of childhood to eradicate each vulgar and hateful trait, to plant
and foster the precious fruits of that kingdom in the children who have
been delivered from the kingdom of nature into the kingdom of grace;
that is to say, all children born into this redeemed world. The parent
who believes that the possibilities of virtuous training are unlimited
will set to work with cheerful confidence, will forego the twaddle
about “Nature,” whether as lovely in itself or as an irresistible
force, and will perceive that the first function of the parent is
that function of _discipline_ which is so cheerfully made over to the
schoolmaster.

Now, to begin with, discipline does not mean a birch-rod, nor a corner,
nor a slipper, nor bed, nor any such last resort of the feeble. The
sooner we cease to believe in merely penal suffering as part of the
Divine plan, the sooner will a spasmodic resort to the birch-rod die
out in families. We do not say the rod is never useful; we do say it
should never be necessary. The fact is, many of us do not believe in
education, except as it means the acquirement of a certain amount of
knowledge; but education which shall deal curatively and methodically
with every flaw in character does not enter into our scheme of things
possible. Now, no less than this is what we mean when we say, Education
is a Discipline. Where parents fail, the poor soul has one further
chance in the discipline of life; but we must remember that, while it
is the nature of the child to submit to discipline, it is the nature
of the undisciplined man to run his head in passionate wilfulness
against the circumstances that are for his training; so that the parent
who wilfully chooses to leave his child to be “broken in” by the
schoolmaster or by life leaves him to a fight in which all the odds are
against him. The physique, the temper, the disposition, the career,
the affections, the aspirations of a man are all, more or less, the
outcome of the discipline his parents have brought him under, or of the
lawlessness they have allowed. What is discipline? Look at the word;
there is no hint of punishment in it. A disciple is a follower, and
discipline is the state of the follower, the learner, imitator. Mothers
and fathers do not well to forget that their children are, by the very
order of Nature, their disciples. Now no man sets himself up for a
following of disciples who does not wish to indoctrinate these with
certain principles, maxims, rules of life. So should the parent have at
heart notions of life and duty which he labours without pause to instil
into his children.

He who would draw disciples does not trust to force, but to these three
things--to the attraction of his doctrine, to the persuasion of his
presentation, to the enthusiasm of his disciples; so the parent has
teachings of the perfect life which he knows how to present continually
with winning force until the children are quickened with such zeal for
virtue and holiness as carries them forward with leaps and bounds.
Again, the teacher does not indoctrinate his pupils all at once, but
here a little and there a little, steady progress on a careful plan;
so the parent who would have his child a partaker of the Divine nature
has a scheme, an ascending scale of virtues, in which he is diligent
to practise his young disciple. He adds to the faith with which the
child is so richly dowered virtue, and to virtue, knowledge, and to
knowledge, self-control. Having practised his child in self-control,
he trains him in patience, and to patience he adds godliness, and to
godliness, kindness, and to kindness, love. These, and such as these,
wise parents cultivate as systematically and with as definite results
as if they were teaching the “three R’s.”

But how? The answer covers so wide a field that we must leave it for
another chapter. Only this here--every quality has its defect, every
defect has its quality. Examine your child; he has qualities, he is
generous; see to it that the lovable little fellow, who would give
away his soul, is not also rash, impetuous, self-willed, passionate,
“nobody’s enemy but his own.” It rests with parents to make low the
high places and exalt the valleys, to make straight paths for the feet
of their little son.




                              CHAPTER VIII

                       _THE CULTURE OF CHARACTER_

                                 PART I


                  “What get I from my father?
                     Lusty life and vigorous will;
                   What from my gentle mother?
                     Cheerful days and poet’s skill,”[6]


says Goethe; for poets, like the rest of us, are born, not made, and
get the most of what they are from their parents. But it did not
take poet or modern scientist to discover this; people have known
it time out of mind. Like father, like child, they said, and were
satisfied; for it was not the way in earlier days to thresh out the
great facts of life. Not so now; we talk about it and about it; call
it _heredity_, and take it into count in our notions, at any rate, if
not in our practice. Nobody writes a biography now without attempting
to produce progenitors and early surroundings that shall account for
his man or his woman. This fact of heredity is very much before the
public, and by-and-by will have its bearing on the loose notions
people hold about education. In this sort of way--“Harold is a bright
little boy, but he hasn’t the least power of attention.”

“Oh, I know he hasn’t; but then, poor child, he can’t help it! ‘What’s
bred in the bone,’ you know; and we are feather-brained on both sides
of the house.”

Now the practical educational question of our day is just this, Can he
help it? or, Can his parents help it? or, Must the child sit down for
life with whatever twist he has inherited? The fact is, many of us,
professional teachers, have been taking aim rather beside the mark;
we talk as if the development of certain faculties were the chief
object of education; and we point to our results, intellectual, moral,
æsthetic, physical, with a--“See there, what culture can effect!” But
we forget that the child has inborn cravings after all we have given
him. Just as the healthy child must have his dinner and his bed, so
too does he crave for knowledge, perfection, beauty, power, society;
and all he wants is opportunity. Give him opportunities of loving and
learning, and he will love and learn, for “’tis his nature to.” Whoever
has taken note of the sweet reasonableness, the quick intelligence, the
bright imaginings of a child, will think the fuss we make about the
right studies for developing these is like asking, How shall we get a
hungry man to eat his dinner?

Many a man got his turn for natural science because, as a boy, he
lived in the country, and had a chance to observe living things and
their ways. Nobody took pains to develop his faculty; all he had was
opportunity. If the boy’s mind is crammed with other matters, he
has no opportunity, and you may meet men of culture who have lived
most of their lives in the country, and don’t know a thrush from a
blackbird. I know of a woman who has developed both a metaphysical
and a literary turn, because, as a girl of ten, she was allowed to
browse on old volumes of the _Spectator_, the most telling part of her
education, she thinks. Again, I watched quite lately an extraordinary
educational result of opportunity. A friend, interested in a Working
Boys’ Club, undertook to teach a class to model in clay. There was no
selection made; the boys were mill-boys, taken as they came in, with
no qualifications, except that, as their teacher said, they had not
been spoilt--that is, they had not been taught to draw in the ordinary
way. She gave them clay, a model, one or two modelling tools, and
also, being an artist, the _feeling_ of the object to be copied. After
half-a-dozen lessons, the things they produced cannot be called less
than works of art; and delightful it was to see the vigour and spirit
they worked with, the artistic instinct which caught the sentiment
of the object, as the creases made by a little foot which make a
child’s shoe a thing to kiss. This lady maintains that she only _let
out_ what was in the boys; but she did more, her own art enthusiasm
forced out artistic effort. Even taking into account the enthusiasm
of the teacher--I wish we might always count on that factor--this
remains a fair case to prove our point, which is, give them opportunity
and direction, and children will do the greater part of their own
education, intellectual, æsthetic, even moral, by reason of the
wonderfully balanced desires, powers, and affections which go to make
up human nature.

A cheerful doctrine this, which should help to swell the ranks of
the unemployed. Outlets for their energies, a little direction, a
little control, and then we may sit by with folded hands and see them
do it. But, in fact, there are two things to be done: “powers to be
developed--where a little of our help goes a long way; and character
to be formed”--and here children are as clay in the hands of the
potter, absolutely dependent on their parents. Disposition, intellect,
genius, come pretty much by nature; but character is an achievement,
the one practical achievement possible to us for ourselves and for
our children; and all real advance in family or individual is along
the lines of character. Our great people are great simply by reason
of their force of character. For this, more than for their literary
successes, Carlyle and Johnson are great. Boswell’s “Life” is, and
perhaps deserves to be, more of a literary success than anything of his
master’s; but what figure does he make after all?

Greatness and littleness belong to character, and life would be dull
were we all cast in one mould; but how come we to differ? Surely by
reason of our inherited qualities. It is hereditary tendencies which
result in character. The man who is generous, obstinate, hot-tempered,
devout, is so, on the whole, because that strain of character runs in
his family. Some progenitor got a bent from his circumstances towards
fault or virtue, and that bent will go on repeating itself to the end
of the chapter. To save that single quality from the exaggeration
which would destroy the balance of qualities we call sanity, two
counter-forces are provided: marriage into alien families, and
_education_.

We come round now to the point we started from. If the development of
character rather than of faculty is the main work of education, and
if people are born, so to speak, ready-made, with all the elements of
their after-character in them, certain to be developed by time and
circumstances, what is left for education to do?

Very commonly, the vote is, do nothing; though there are three or four
ways of arriving at that conclusion.

As, What’s the good? The fathers have eaten sour grapes; the children’s
teeth _must_ be set on edge. Tommy is obstinate as a little mule--but
what would you have? So is his father. So have been all the Joneses,
time out of mind; and Tommy’s obstinacy is taken as a fact, not to be
helped nor hindered.

Or, Mary is a butterfly of a child, never constant for five minutes
to anything she has in hand. “That child is just like me!” says her
mother; “but time will steady her.” Fanny, again, sings herself to
sleep with the Sicilian Vesper Hymn (her nurse’s lullaby) before she is
able to speak. “It’s strange how an ear for music runs in our family!”
is the comment, but no particular pains are taken to develop the talent.

Another child asks odd questions, is inclined to make little jokes
about sacred things, to call his father “Tom,” and, generally, to show
a want of reverence. His parents are earnest-minded people--think with
pain of the loose opinions of Uncle Harry, and decide on a policy
of repression. “Do as you’re bid, and make no remarks,” becomes the
child’s rule of life, until he finds outlets little suspected at home.

In another case, common thought is much more on a level with the
science of the day; there is a tendency to lung-trouble: the doctors
undertake to deal with the tendency so long as the _habit_ of delicacy
is not set up. The necessary precautions are taken, and there is no
reason why the child should not die at a good old age.

Once more;--there are parents who are aware of the advance science has
made in education, but doubt the lawfulness of looking to science for
aid in the making of character. They see hereditary defects in their
children, but set them down as of “the natural fault and corruption of
the nature of every man which naturally is engendered of the offspring
of Adam.” This, they believe, it is not their part to remedy; that is,
unless the boy’s fault be of a disturbing kind--a violent temper, for
example--when the mother thinks no harm to whip the offending Adam out
of him. But so surely as we believe the laws of the spiritual life to
have been revealed to us, so, not less, surely, though without the
same sanctity, have been revealed the laws by which body, mind, and
moral nature flourish or decay. These it behoves us to make ourselves
acquainted with; and the Christian parent who is shy of science, and
prefers to bring up his children by the light of Nature when that of
authoritative revelation fails, does so to his children’s irreparable
loss.

If the race is advancing, it is along the lines of character, for each
new generation inherits and adds to the best that has gone before
it. We should have to-day the very flower and fruit that has been
a-preparing through long lines of progenitors. Children have always
been lovely, so far back as that day when a little child in the streets
of Jerusalem was picked up and set in the midst to show of what sort
are the princes in the Kingdom to come:--

   “In the Kingdom are the children--
      You may read it in their eyes;
    All the freedom of the Kingdom
      In their careless humour lies.”

And what mother has not bowed before the princely heart of innocence in
her own little child? But apart from this, of their glad living in the
sunshine of the Divine Countenance, surely our children are “more so”
than those of earlier days. Never before was a “Jackanapes” written,
or the “Story of a Short Life.” Shakespeare never made a child, nor
Scott, hardly Dickens, often as he tried; either we are waking up to
what is in them, or the children are indeed advancing in the van of the
times, holding in light grasp the gains of the past, the possibilities
of the future. It is the age of child-worship; and very lovely are the
well-brought-up children of Christian and cultured parents. But, alas!
how many of us degrade the thing we love! Think of the multitude of the
innocents to be launched on the world, already mutilated, spiritually
and morally, at the hands of doting parents.

The duteous father and mother, on the contrary, who discern any lovely
family trait in one of their children, set themselves to nourish and
cherish it as a gardener the peaches he means to show. We know how
“that kiss made me a painter,” that is, warmed into life whatever
art faculty the child had. The choicer the plant, the gardener tells
us, the greater the pains must he take with the rearing of it:
and here is the secret of the loss and waste of some of the most
beauteous and lovable natures the world has seen; they have not had
the pains taken with their rearing that their delicate, sensitive
organisations demanded. Think how Shelley was left to himself! We
live in embarrassing days. It is well to cry, “Give us light--more
light and fuller;” but what if the new light discover to us a maze of
obligations, intricate and tedious?

It is, at first sight, bewildering to perceive that for whatever
distinctive quality, moral or intellectual, we discern in the children,
special culture is demanded; but, after all, our obligation towards
each such quality resolves itself into providing for it these four
things: nourishment, exercise, change, and rest.

A child has a great turn for languages (his grandfather was the master
of nine); the little fellow “lisps in Latin,” learns his “_mensa_” from
his nurse, knows his declensions before he is five. What line is open
to the mother who sees such an endowment in her child? First, let him
use it; let him learn his declensions, and whatever else he takes to
without the least sign of effort. Probably the Latin case-endings come
as easily and pleasantly to his ear as does “See-saw, Margery Daw,” to
the ordinary child, though no doubt “Margery Daw” is the wholesomer
kind of thing. Let him do just so much as he takes to of his own
accord; but never urge, never applaud, never show him off. Next, let
words convey ideas as he is able to bear them. Buttercup, primrose,
dandelion, magpie, each tells its own tale; daisy is day’s-eye, opening
with the sun, and closing when he sets--

   “That well by reason it men callen may
    The daïsie, or else the eye of day.”

Let him feel that the common words we use without a thought are
beautiful, full of story and interest. It is a great thing that the
child should get the _ideas_ proper to the qualities inherent in him.
An idea fitly put is taken in without effort, and, once in, ideas
behave like living creatures--they feed, grow, and multiply. Next,
provide him with some one delightful change of thought, that is, with
work and ideas altogether apart from his bent for languages. Let him
know, with friendly intimacy, every out-of-door object that comes in
his way--the red-start, the rose-chaffer, the ways of the caddis-worm,
forest trees, field flowers--all natural objects, common and curious,
near his home. No other knowledge is so delightful; not natural
science, but common acquaintance with natural objects.

Or, again, some one remarks that all our great inventors have in their
youth handled material--clay, wood, iron, brass, pigments. Let him work
in material. To provide a child with delightful resources on lines
opposed to his natural bent is the one way of keeping a quite sane mind
in the presence of an absorbing pursuit.

At the same time, change of occupation is not rest: if a man ply a
machine, now with his foot, and now with his hand, the foot or the
hand rests, but the man does not. A game of romps (better, so far as
mere rest goes, than games with laws and competitions), nonsense talk,
a fairy tale, or to lie on his back in the sunshine, should rest the
child, and of such as these he should have his fill.

This, speaking broadly, is the _rationale_ of the matter:--just as
actually as we sew or write through the instrumentality of the hand, so
the child learns, thinks, feels, by means of a material organ--the very
delicate nervous tissue of the cerebrum. Now this tissue is constantly
and rapidly wearing away. The more it is used, whether in the way of
mental effort or emotional excitement, the more it wears away. Happily,
rapid new growth replaces the waste, wherefore, work and consequent
waste of tissue are necessary. But let the waste get ahead of the
gain, and lasting mischief happens. Therefore never let the child’s
brain-work exceed his chances of reparation, whether such work come in
the way of too hard lessons, or of the excitement attending childish
dissipations. Another plea for abundant rest:--one thing at a time, and
that done well, appears to be Nature’s rule; and his hours of rest and
play are the hours of the child’s physical growth--witness the stunted
appearance of children who are allowed to live in a whirl of small
excitements.

A word more as to the necessity of _change of thought_ for the child
who has a distinct bent. The brain tissue not only wastes with work,
but, so to speak, wastes locally. We all know how done up we are
after giving our minds for a few hours or days to any one subject,
whether anxious or joyous: we are glad at last to escape from the
engrossing thought, and find it a weariness when it returns upon
us. It would appear that, set up the continuous working of certain
ideas, and a certain tract of the brain substance is, as it were, worn
out and weakened with the constant traffic in these ideas. And this
is of more consequence when the ideas are moral than when they are
merely intellectual. Hamlet’s thoughts play continuously round a few
distressing facts; he becomes morbid, not entirely sane; in a word, he
is _eccentric_. Now, possibly, eccentricity is a danger against which
the parents of well-descended children must be on the watch. These are
born with strong tendencies to certain qualities and ways of thinking.
Their bringing up tends to accentuate their qualities; the balance
between these and other qualities is lost, and they become eccentric
persons. Mr. Matthew Arnold writes down the life and the work of a
great poet as _ineffectual_; and this is, often enough, the verdict
passed upon the eccentric. Whatever force of genius and of character,
whatever lovely moral traits they may have, the world will not take
them as guides for good, unless they do as others do in things lawful
and expedient; and truly there is a broad margin for originality
in declining to hunt with the hounds in things neither lawful nor
expedient.

Now, practically, what is the mother’s course who notices in her most
promising child little traits of oddity? He does not care much for
games, does not get on well with the rest, has some little den of his
own where he ruminates. Poor little fellow! he wants a confidante
badly; most likely he has tried nurse and brothers and sisters, to
no purpose. If this go on, he will grow up with the idea that nobody
wants him, nobody understands him, will take his slice of life and
eat it (with a snarl) all by himself. But if his mother have tact
enough to get at him, she will preserve for the world one of its
saving characters. Depend upon it there is something at work in the
child--genius, humanity, poetry, ambition, pride of family. It is
that he wants outlet and exercise for an inherited trait almost too
big for his childish soul. Rosa Bonheur was observed to be a restless
child whose little shoes of life were a misfit: lessons did not please
her, and play did not please her; and her _artist_ father hit on the
notion of soothing the child’s divine discontent by--apprenticing
her to a needlewoman! Happily she broke her bonds, and we have her
pictures. In the case of pride of birth, it is well that the child
should be brought face to face and heart to heart with the “great
humility” of our Pattern. But that being done, this sense of family
distinction is a wonderful lever to raise the little world of the
child’s nature. _Noblesse oblige._ He must needs add honour and not
dishonour to a distinguished family. I know of a little boy who bears
two distinguished family names--Browning-Newton, let us say. He goes
to a preparatory school, where it is the custom to put the names of
defaulters on the blackboard. By-and-by, his little brother went to
school too, and the bigger boy’s exordium was:--“We’ll _never_ let two
such names as ours be stuck up on the blackboard!”

Amongst the immediate causes of eccentricity is the dreariness of daily
living, the sense of which falls upon us all at times, and often with
deadly weight upon the more finely strung and highly gifted. “Oh, dear!
I wish I was in Jupiter!” sighed a small urchin who had already used
up this planet. It rests with the parents to see that the dreariness
of a motiveless life does not settle, sooner or later, on any one of
their children. We are made with a yearning for the “fearful joy” of
passion; and if this do not come to us in lawful ways, we look for it
in eccentric, or worse, in illegitimate courses. The mother, to whom
her child is as an open book, must find a vent for the restless working
of his nature--the more apt to be troubled by--

      “The burden of the mystery,
    The heavy and the weary weight
    Of all this unintelligible world”--

the more finely he is himself organised. Fill him with the enthusiasm
of humanity. Whatever gifts he has, let them be cultivated as “gifts
for men.” “The thing best worth living for is _to be of use_,” was well
said lately by a thinker who has left us. The child into whose notion
of life that idea is fitted will not grow up to find time heavy on
his hands. The life blessed with an enthusiasm will not be dull; but
a weight must go into the opposite scale to balance even the noblest
enthusiasm. As we have said, open for him some door of natural science,
some way of mechanical skill; in a word, give the child an absorbing
pursuit and a fascinating hobby, and you need not fear eccentric or
unworthy developments. It seems well to dwell at length on this
subject of eccentricity, because the world loses a great deal by its
splendid failures, the beautiful human beings who through one sort of
eccentricity or another become ineffectual for the raising of the rest
of us.


FOOTNOTES:

     [6]             “Vom Vater hab’ ich die Statur,
                        Des Lebens ernstes Führen;
                      Vom Mütterchen die Frohnatur,
                        Und Lust zu fabuliren.”




                               CHAPTER IX

                       _THE CULTURE OF CHARACTER_

                                PART II


Suppose the parent see that the formation of character is the ultimate
object of education; see, too, that character is, in the rough, the
inherited tendencies of the child, modified by his surroundings, but
that character may be debased or ennobled by education; that it is
the parents’ part to distinguish the first faint budding of family
traits--to greet every fine trait as the highest sort of family
possession to be nourished and tended with care; to keep up at the
same time the balance of qualities by bringing forward that which is
of little account--the more so when they must deliver their child from
eccentricity, pitfall to the original and forceful nature;--suppose
they have taken all this into the _rôle_ of their duties, there yet
remains much for parents to do.

We are open to what the French call the defects of our qualities; and
as ill weeds grow apace, the defects of a fine character may well choke
out the graces. A little maiden loves with the passion and devotion of
a woman, but she is exacting of return, and jealous of intrusion, even
with her mother. A boy is ambitious; he will be leader in the nursery,
and his lead is wholesome for the rest; but there is the pugnacious
little brother who will not “follow my leader,” and the two can hardly
live in the same rooms. The able boy is a tyrant when his will is
crossed. There is the timid, affectionate little maid who will even
tell a fib to shield her sister; and there is the high-spirited girl
who never lies, but who does, now and then, bully; and so on, without
end. What is the parents’ part here? To magnify the quality; make the
child feel that he or she has a virtue to guard--a _family_ possession,
and, at the same time, a gift from above. A little simple reasonable
teaching may help. But let us beware of much talk. “Have you _quite_
finished, mother?” said a bright little girl of five in the most polite
way in the world. She had listened long to her mother’s sermonising,
and had many things on hand. A wise word here and there may be of use,
but much more may be done by carefully hindering each “defect of its
quality” from coming into play. Give the ill weeds no room to grow.
Then, again, the defect may often be reclaimed and turned back to feed
the quality itself. The ambitious boy’s love of power may be worked
into a desire to win by love his restive little brother. The passion of
the loving girl may be made to include all whom her mother loves.

There is another aspect of the subject of heredity and the duties it
entails. As the child of long lineage may well inherit much of what
was best in his ancestors--fine physique, clear intellect, high moral
worth--so also he has his risks. As some one puts it, not all the women
have been brave, nor all the men chaste. We know how the tendency to
certain forms of disease runs in families. Temper and temperament,
moral and physical nature alike, may come down with a taint. An unhappy
child may, by some odd freak of nature, appear to have left out the
good and taken into him only the unworthy. What can the parents do
in such a case? They may not _re_form him--perhaps that is beyond
human skill and care, once he has become all that is possible to his
nature--but _transform_ him, so that the being he was calculated to
become never develops at all; but another being comes to light blest
with every grace of which he had only the defect. This brings us to a
beneficent law of nature, which underlies the whole subject of early
training, and especially so this case of the child whose mother must
bring him forth a second time into a life of beauty and harmony. To put
it in an old form of words--the words of Thomas à Kempis--what seems
to me the fundamental law of education is no more than this: “Habit
is driven out by habit.” People have always known that “Use is second
nature,” but the reason why, and the scope of the saying, these are
discoveries of recent days.

A child has an odious custom, so constant, that it is his quality, will
be his _character_ if you let him alone; he is spiteful, he is sly,
he is sullen. No one is to blame for it; it was born in him. What are
you to do with such inveterate habit of nature? Just this; treat it as
a bad _habit_, and set up the opposite good habit. Henry is more than
mischievous; he is a malicious little boy. There are always tears in
the nursery, because, with “pinches, nips, and bobs,” he is making some
child wretched. Even his pets are not safe; he has done his canary to
death by poking at it with a stick through the bars of its cage; howls
from his dog, screeches from his cat, betray him in some vicious trick.
He makes fearful faces at his timid little sister; sets traps with
string for the housemaid with her water-cans to fall over; there is no
end to the malicious tricks, beyond the mere savagery of untrained
boyhood, which come to his mother’s ear. What is to be done? “Oh, he
will grow out of it!” say the more hopeful who pin their faith to time.
But many an experienced mother will say, “You can’t cure him; what is
in will out, and he will be a pest to society all his life.” Yet the
child may be cured in a month if the mother will set herself to the
task with both hands and set purpose; at any rate, the cure may be well
begun, and that is half done.

Let the month of treatment be a deliciously happy month to him, he
living all the time in the sunshine of his mother’s smile. Let him not
be left to himself to meditate or carry out ugly pranks. Let him feel
himself always under a watchful, loving, and _approving eye_. Keep him
happily occupied, well amused. All this, to break the old custom which
is assuredly broken when a certain length of time goes by without its
repetition. But one habit drives out another. Lay new lines in the old
place. Open avenues of kindness for him. Let him enjoy, daily, hourly,
the pleasure of pleasing. Get him into the way of making little plots
for the pleasure of the rest--a plaything of his contriving, a dish of
strawberries of his gathering, shadow rabbits to amuse the baby; take
him on kind errands to poor neighbours, carrying and giving of his own.
For a whole month the child’s whole heart is flowing out in deeds and
schemes and thoughts of loving-kindness, and the ingenuity which spent
itself in malicious tricks becomes an acquisition to his family when
his devices are benevolent. Yes; but where is his mother to get time in
these encroaching days to put Henry under special treatment? She has
other children and other duties, and simply cannot give herself up for
a month or a week to one child. If the boy were ill, in danger, would
she find time for him then? Would not other duties go to the wall, and
leave her little son, for the time, her chief object in life? Now here
is a point all parents are not enough awake to--that mental and moral
ailments require prompt, purposeful, curative treatment, to which the
parents must devote themselves for a short time, just as they would
to a sick child. Neither punishing him nor letting him alone--the two
lines of treatment most in favour--ever cured a child of any moral
evil. If parents recognised the efficacy and the immediate effect of
treatment, they would never allow the spread of ill weeds. For let this
be borne in mind, whatever ugly quality disfigures the child, he is
but as a garden overgrown with weeds, the more prolific the weeds, the
more fertile the soil; he has within him every possibility of beauty of
life and character. Get rid of the weeds and foster the flowers. It is
hardly too much to say that most of the failures in life or character
made by man or woman are due to the happy-go-lucky philosophy of the
parents. They say, “The child is so young; he does not know any better;
but all that will come right as he grows up.” Now, a fault of character
left to itself can do no other than strengthen.

An objection may be raised to this counsel of short and determined
curative treatment. The good results do not last, it is said; a week
or two of neglect, and you lose the ground gained: Henry is as likely
as ever to grow up of the “tiger” order, a Steerforth or a Grandcourt.
Here science comes to help us to cheerful certainty.

There is no more interesting subject of inquiry open just now than
that of the interaction between the thoughts of the mind and the
configuration of the brain. The fair conclusion appears to be that
each is greatly the cause of the other; that the character of the
persistent thoughts actually shapes the cerebrum, while on the
configuration of this organ depends in turn the manner of thoughts we
think. Now, thought is, for the most part, automatic. We think, without
intention or effort, as we have been accustomed to think, just as we
walk or write without any conscious arrangement of muscles. Mozart
could write an overture, laughing all the time at the little jokes his
wife made to keep him awake; to be sure he had thought it out before,
and there it was, ready to be written; but he did not consciously
try for these musical thoughts, they simply came to him in proper
succession. Coleridge thought “Kubla Khan” in his sleep, and wrote it
when he awoke; and, indeed, he might as well have been asleep all the
time for all he had to do with the production of most of his thoughts.

    “Over the buttons she falls asleep,
       And stitches them on in a dream,”--

is very possible and likely. For one thing which we consciously set
ourselves to think about, a thousand words and acts come from us every
day of their own accord; we don’t think of them at all. But all the
same, only a poet or a musician could thus give forth poetry or music,
and it is the words and acts which come from us without _conscious_
thought which afford the true measure of what we are. Perhaps this is
why such serious weight is attached to our every “idle word”--words
spoken without intention or volition.

We are getting, by degrees, to Henry and his bad habits. Somehow or
other, the nervous tissue of the cerebrum “grows to” the thoughts that
are allowed free course in the mind. _How_, Science hardly ventures to
guess as yet; but, for the sake of illustration, let us imagine that
certain thoughts of the mind run to and fro in the nervous substance of
the cerebrum until they have made a way there: busy traffic in the same
order of thoughts will always be kept up, for there is the easy way for
them to run in. Now, take the child with an inherited tendency to a
resentful temper: he has begun to think resentful thoughts: finds them
easy and gratifying; he goes on; evermore the ugly traffic becomes more
easy and natural, and resentfulness is rapidly becoming _himself_, that
trait in his character which people couple with his name.

But one custom overcomes another. The watchful mother sets up new
tracks in other directions; and she sees to it, that while she is
leading new thoughts through the new way, the old, deeply worn “_way_
of thinking” is quite disused. Now, the cerebrum is in a state of
rapid waste and rapid growth. The new growth takes shape from the
new thoughts: the old is lost in the steady waste, and the child is
_re_formed, physically as well as morally and mentally. That the
nervous tissue of the cerebrum should be thus the _instrument_ of the
mind need not surprise us when we think how the muscles and joints
of the tumbler, the vocal organs of the singer, the finger-ends of
the watchmaker, the palate of the tea-taster, grow to the uses they
are steadily put to; and, much more, both in the case of brain and of
bodily organs, grow to the uses they are _earliest_ put to.

This meets in a wonderful way the case of the parent who sets himself
to cure a moral failing. He sets up the course of new thoughts,
and hinders those of the past, until the _new_ thoughts shall have
become automatic and run of their own accord. All the time a sort of
disintegration is going on in the place that held the disused thoughts;
and here is the parent’s advantage. If the boy return (as, from
inherited tendency, he still may do) to his old habits of thought,
behold there is no more place for them in his physical being; to make a
new place is a work of time, and in this work the parent can overtake
and hinder him without much effort.

Here, indeed, more than anywhere, “Except the Lord build the house,
they labour but in vain that build it;” but surely intelligent
co-operation in this divine work is our bounden duty and service. The
training of the will, the instruction of the conscience, and, so far
as it lies with us, the development of the divine life in the child,
are carried on simultaneously with this training in the habits of a
good life; and these last will carry the child safely over the season
of infirm will, immature conscience, until he is able to take, under
direction from above, the conduct of his life, the moulding of his
character into his own hands. It is a comfort to believe that there is
even a material register of our educational labours being made in the
very substance of the child’s brain; and, certainly, here we have a
note of warning as to the danger of letting ill ways alone in the hope
that all will come right by-and-by.

Some parents may consider all this as heavy hearing; that even to
“think on these things” is enough to take the joy and spontaneousness
out of their sweet relationship; and that, after all, parents’ love and
the grace of God should be sufficient for the bringing up of children.
No one can feel on this subject more sincere humility than those who
have not the honour to be parents; the insight and love with which
parents--mothers most so--are blest, is a divine gift which fills
lookers-on with reverence, even in many a cottage home; but we have
only to observe how many fond parents make foolish children to be
assured that something more is wanted. There are appointed ways, not
always the old paths, but new ones, opened up step by step as we go.
The labour of the mother who sets herself to understand her work is not
increased, but infinitely lightened; and as for life being made heavy
with the thought of these things, once make them our own, and we act
upon them as naturally as upon such knowledge--scientific also--as,
loose your hold of a cup--and it falls. A little painstaking thought
and effort in the first place, and all comes easy.




                               CHAPTER X

                            _BIBLE LESSONS_


     “The history of England is now reduced to a game at cards,--the
      problems of mathematics to puzzles and riddles.... There wants
      but one step further, and the Creed and Ten Commandments may
      be taught in the same manner, without the necessity of the
      grave face, deliberate tone of recital, and devout attention
      hitherto exacted from the well-governed childhood of this
      realm.”--_Waverley._


That parents should make over the religious education of their children
to a Sunday-school is, no doubt, as indefensible as if they sent them
for their meals to a table maintained by the public bounty. We “at
home” plead “not guilty” to this particular count. Our Sunday-schools
are used by those toil-worn and little-learned parents who are willing
to accept at the hands of the more leisured classes this service of the
religious teaching of their children. That is, the Sunday-school is,
at present, a necessary evil, an acknowledgment that there are parents
so hard pressed that they are unable for their first duty. Here we
have the theory of the Sunday-school--the parents who can, teach their
children at home on Sunday, and substitutes step in to act for those
who can not. It is upon this delightful theory of the Sunday-school
that a clergyman[7] at the Antipodes has taken action. Never does
it appear to occur to him that the members of the upper and middle
classes do not need to be definitely and regularly instructed in
religion--“from a child.” His contention is, only, that such children
should not be taught at Sunday-school, but at home, and by their
parents; and the main object of his parochial “Parents’ Union” is to
help parents in this work. These are some of the rules:--

1. The object of the Union shall be to unite, strengthen, and assist
fathers and mothers in the discharge of their parental duties.

2. Members shall be pledged, by the fact of their joining, to supervise
the education of their own children, and to urge the responsibility of
the parental relationship upon other parents.

3. Lesson sketches shall be furnished monthly to each family in
connection with the Union.

4. Members shall bring their children to the monthly catechising, and
sit with them, &c., &c.

Probably the “lesson-sketches” are to secure that the children do just
such Bible-lessons at home with their parents on Sunday as they have
hitherto done at the Sunday-school with teachers.

It seems to be contemplated that parents of every class will undertake
their proper duties in this matter, and that the Sunday-school may be
allowed to drop, the clergyman undertaking instead to ascertain, by
means of catechising, that certain work is done month by month.

The scheme seems full of promise. Nothing should do more to strengthen
the bonds of family life than that the children should learn religion
at the lips of their parents; and, to grow up in a church which takes
constant heed of you from baptism or infancy, until, we will not say
confirmation, but through manhood and womanhood, until the end, should
give the right tone to corporate life.

No doubt we have parishes, and even whole denominations, in which the
young people are taken hold of from first to last; but then it is by
clergy, teachers, class leaders, and so on; and all parents do not
regard it as an unmixed blessing that the most serious part of their
children’s training should be undertaken by outsiders. The thing that
seems most worthy of imitation in this Australian movement is, that
parents themselves are recognised as the fit instructors of their
children in the best things, and that they are led to acknowledge some
responsibility to the Church with regard to the instruction they give.

But do we manage these things so well “at home” that we have no
occasion to look about us for hints? It may be in the memories of
some of us, that in May 1889, a Committee of the House of Laymen
for the Province of Canterbury was appointed to examine into the
religious education of the upper and middle classes.[8] The committee
considered that they might obtain a good basis for their investigations
by examining into the religious knowledge of boys entering school.
They sent a paper of inquiries to sixty-two head-masters, most of
whom sent replies; and from these replies the committee were led to
conclude that, “for the most part, the standard of religious education
attained by boys before going to school is far below what might be
hoped or expected; and that even this standard, thus ascertained to
be far too low, is deteriorating; and further, that the chief cause
of deterioration is considered to be the want of home-teaching and
religion.”

Here is matter of grave consideration for us all--for, though the
investigation was conducted by Churchmen, it naturally covered
boys of various denominations attending public and middle-class
schools; the distinctive character of the religious education was
the subject of separate inquiry. No doubt there are many beautiful
exceptions--families brought up in quiet homes in the nurture and
admonition of the Lord; but if it is, as some of us fear, a fact that
there is a tendency among parents of the middle and upper classes to
let the religious education of their children take care of itself, it
is worth while to ask, What is the reason? and, What is the remedy?
Many reasons are assigned for this alleged failure in parental
duty--social claims, the restive temper of the young people and their
impatience of religious teaching, and much else. But these reasons
are inadequate. Parents are, on the whole, very much alive to their
responsibilities; perhaps there has never been a generation more
earnest and conscientious than the young parents of these days. All the
same, these thoughtful young parents do not lay themselves out to teach
their children religion, before all things.

The fact is, our religious life has suffered, and by-and-by our
national character will suffer, for the discredit thrown upon the
Bible by adverse critics. We rightly regard the Bible as the entire
collection of our Sacred Books. We have absolutely nothing to teach
but what we find written therein. But we no longer go to the Bible
with the old confidence: our religion is fading into a sentiment, not
easy to impart; we wait until the young people shall conceive it for
themselves. Meantime, we give them such æsthetic culture as should
tend to develop those needs of the soul that find their satisfaction
in worship. The whole superstructure of “liberal” religious thought is
miserably shaky, and no wonder there is some shrinking from exposing
it to the Ithuriel’s spear of the definite and searching young mind.
For we love this flimsy habitation we have builded. It bears a shadowy
resemblance to the old home of our souls, and we cling to it with a
tender sentiment which the younger generation might not understand.

Are we then unhoused? Undoubtedly we are upon one assumption--that
assumption which it takes a brilliant novelist to put forth in its
naked asperity--“Miracles do not happen.” The educated mind is more
essentially logical than we are apt to suppose. Remove the keystone
of miracle and the arch tumbles about our ears. The ostentatious
veneration for the Person of Christ, as separated from the “mythical”
miraculous element, is, alas! no more than a spurious sentiment toward
a self-evolved conception. Eliminate the “miraculous” and the whole
fabric of Christianity disappears; and not only so, what have we to
do with that older revelation of “the Lord, the Lord, a God full of
compassion and gracious”? Do we say, Nay, we keep this; here is no
miracle; and, of Christ, have we not the inimitable Sermon on the
Mount--sufficient claim on our allegiance? No, we have not; therein
are we taught to pray, to consider the lilies of the field and the
fowls of the air, and to remember that the very hairs of our head are
all numbered. Here we have the doctrine of the personal dealing, the
particular providence of God, which is of the very essence of miracle.
If “miracles do not happen,” it is folly and presumption to expect
in providence and invite in prayer the faintest disturbance of that
course of events which is fixed by inevitable law. The educated mind
is severely logical, though an effort of the will may keep us from
following out our conclusions to the bitter end. What have we left? A
God who, of necessity, can have no personal dealings with you or me,
for such dealings would be of the nature of a miracle: a God, prayer to
whom, in the face of such certainty, becomes blasphemous. How dare we
approach the Highest with requests which, in the nature of things (as
we conceive), it is impossible He should grant?

We cannot pray, and we cannot trust, may be; yet we are not utterly
godless; we can admire, adore, worship, in uttermost humility. But
how? What shall we adore? The Divine Being can be known to us only
through His attributes; He is a God of love and a God of justice; full
of compassion and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy.
But these are attributes which can only be conceived of as in action,
from Person to person. How be gracious and merciful unless to a being
in need of grace and mercy? Grant that grace and mercy may modify the
slightest circumstance in a man’s existence, spiritual or temporal,
and you grant the whole question of “miracles”--that is, that it is
possible to God to act otherwise than through such inevitable laws as
we are able to recognise. Refuse to concede “the miraculous element,”
and the Shepherd of Israel has departed from our midst; we are left
orphaned in a world undone.

Such and so great are the issues of that question of “miracle” with
which we are fond of dallying, with a smile here and a shrug there, and
a special sneer for that story of the swine that ran violently down
a steep place, because we know so much about the dim thoughts of the
brute creation--living under our eyes, indeed, but curiously out of
our ken. Grant the possibility of miracles, that is, of the voluntary
action of a Personal God, and who will venture to assign limits of less
or more?

How long halt we betwixt two opinions?--to the law and to the
testimony. Let us boldly accept the alternative which Hume proposes,
however superciliously. Let it be, that, “no testimony is sufficient
to establish a miracle unless the testimony be of such a kind that its
falsehood would be more miraculous than the fact which it endeavours
to establish.” Even so. We believe that Christ rose again the third
day and ascended into heaven; or we credit the far more miraculous
hypothesis that “there is no God”; or, anyway, the God of revelation,
in His adorable Personality, has ceased to be for us. There is no
middle way. Natural law, as we understand it, has nothing to do with
these issues; not that the Supreme abrogates His laws, but that our
knowledge of “natural law” is so agonisingly limited and superficial,
that we are incompetent to decide whether a break in the narrow circle,
within which our knowledge is hemmed, is or is not an opening into a
wider circle, where what appears to us as an extraordinary exception
does but exemplify the general rule.

We would not undervalue the solid fruits of Biblical criticism,
even the most adverse. This should be a great gain in the spiritual
life--that, henceforth, a miracle is accredited, not merely by the fact
that it is recorded in the sacred history, but by its essential fitness
with the Divine Character; just as, if we may reverently compare human
things with divine, we say of a friend, “Oh, he would never do that!”
or, “That is just like him.” Tried by this test, how unostentatious,
simple, meekly serviceable are the miracles of Christ; how utterly
divine it is

    “To have all power, and be as having none!”

The mind which is saturated with the Gospel story in all its sweet
reasonableness, which has absorbed the more confused and broken
rays wherein the Light of the World is manifested in Old Testament
story, will perhaps be the least tempted to the disloyalty of
“honest doubt;”--for disloyalty to the most close and sacred of all
relationships it is, though we must freely concede that such doubt is
the infirmity of noble minds. Believing that faith comes by hearing,
and hearing by the Word of God, that the man is established in the
Christian faith according as the child has been instructed, the
question of questions for us is, how to secure that the children shall
be well grounded in the Scriptures by their parents, and shall pursue
the study with intelligence, reverence, and delight.


FOOTNOTES:

     [7] The Rev. E. Jackson, sometime of Sydney.

     [8] See “Report of the Committee of the House of Laymen
         for the Province of Canterbury on the Duty of the
         Church with regard to the Religious Education of the
         Upper and Middle Classes.”--_Nat. Soc. Depository,
         Westminster_.




                               CHAPTER XI

                            _FAITH AND DUTY_

                                REVIEWS

                                   I


Education, properly understood, is the science of life, and every
attempt to formulate this science is to be hailed with interest, and
with a measure of gratitude in proportion to its success. Thinking
minds everywhere are engaged in furnishing their quota towards this
great work, in one or another of its aspects, physical, social,
religious. We see at once the importance of every attempt to solve
social problems or problems of faith, as helping us to understand those
“laws of nature” and “ways of men,” the love, and dutiful attitude of
the will towards which Mr. Huxley considers to be the sole practical
outcome of education. We have before us three important works[9] on
these lines. One deals with the problems of “secular” morality from an
American point of view; the second with the whole problem of national
education from a French and “scientific” standpoint. The third is
not professedly an educational work. It deals with “the ways of men,”
but with the ways of men as they are concerned with the ways and will
of God. That is, it deals with the deep-seated springs out of which
are the issues of life. As the true educationalist works from within
outwards, he will probably find much aid in a work whose outlook on
life is from the standpoint of “faith.”

Mr. Felix Adler, in “The Moral Instruction of Children,” undertakes
a by no means easy task in setting himself to solve the problem of
unsectarian moral instruction. He brings unusual qualifications to the
work--a wide outlook, philosophic training, and that catholic love of
literature and knowledge of books which is essential to the teacher of
morals. The work before us is one which should find a place on every
educated parent’s bookshelves, not perhaps to be swallowed whole as a
“complete guide,” but to be studied with careful attention and some
freedom of choice as to which counsel of perfection is worthy to be
acted upon, and which other counsel may be rejected as not fitting in
with that scheme of educational thought which the parent has already
made for himself. Mr. Adler is most seriously handicapped at the
outset. He writes for American schools, in which the first condition of
moral instruction is that it must be unsectarian. This he, rightly or
wrongly, interprets, to exclude all theistic teaching whatever; that
is to say, the child he writes for has no sanctions beyond those he
finds in his own breast. For example: “It is the business of the moral
instructor in the school to deliver to his pupils the subject-matter
of morality, but not to deal with the sanctions of it. He says to the
pupil, ‘Thou shalt not lie.’ He takes it for granted that the pupil
feels the force of this commandment, and acknowledges that he ought
to yield obedience to it. For my part, I should suspect of quibbling
and dishonest intention any boy or girl who would ask me, Why ought I
not to lie? I should hold up before such a child the _ought_ in all
its awful majesty. The right to reason about these matters cannot be
conceded until after the mind has attained a certain maturity.”

Where does the _ought_ get its awful majesty? That there is in the
human breast an infallible sense of “ought” is an error prolific of
much evil. It is a popular idea to-day that it is right to do that
which the doer holds to be right; or, as it is popularly expressed, a
man does all that can be expected of him when he acts according to his
“lights.” Now, a very slight acquaintance with history demonstrates
that every persecution and most outrages, from the Inquisition to
Thuggee, are the outcome of that same majesty of “ought,” as it makes
its voice heard in the breast of an individual or of a community.
To attempt to treat of morals without dealing with the sanctions of
morality is to work from the circumference instead of from the centre.

_Moses, Moses und immer Moses!_ says a German pedagogue of the modern
school, who writes in hot disdain of the old school system, in which
ten or twelve, and, in some of the German States, fifteen or sixteen
hours a week were devoted to Bible-teaching. We in England, and they in
America, also rebel against the Bible as a class-book. Educationalists
say there is so much else to be learned, that this prolonged study
of sacred literature is a grievous waste of time; and many religious
persons, on the other hand, object on the ground that it is not good
to make the Bible common as a class-book. But it is singular that so
few educationalists recognise that the Bible is not a single book,
but a classic literature of wonderful beauty and interest; that,
apart from its Divine sanctions and religious teaching, from all that
we understand by “Revelation,” the Bible, as a mere instrument of
education, is, at the very least as valuable as the classics of Greece
or Rome. Here is poetry, the rhythm of which soothes even the jaded
brain past taking pleasure in any other. Here is history, based on
such broad, clear lines, such dealing of slow and sure and even-handed
justice to the nations, such stories of national sins and national
repentances, that the student realises, as from no other history,
the solidarity of the race, the brotherhood--and, if we may call it
so--the individuality of the nations. Here is philosophy which, of
all the philosophies which have been propounded, is alone adequate
to the interpretation of human life. We say not a word here of that
which is the _raison d’être_ of the Bible--its teaching of religion,
its revelation of God to man; but, to say only one word more, all the
literatures of the world put together utterly fail to give us a system
of ethics, in precept and example, motive and sanction, complete as
that to which we have been born as our common inheritance in the Bible.

For 1700 years, roughly speaking, the Bible has been the school-book of
modern Europe; its teaching, conveyed directly or indirectly, more or
less pure, has been the basis upon which the whole superstructure of
not only religious but ethical and, to some extent, literary training
rested. Now, the Bible as a lesson-book is tabooed; and educationalists
are called upon to produce what shall take its place in the origination
of ideas and the formation of character. This is the task to which Mr.
Adler sets himself; and that he is at all successful is obviously due
to the fact that his own mind is impregnated with the Bible-lore and
the sacred law which he does not feel himself at liberty to propound
to his students. But this prepossession of the author’s makes his work
very helpful and suggestive to parents who desire to take the Bible as
the groundwork and the sanction of that moral teaching which they are
glad to supplement from other sources.

May we recommend the following suggestion to parents:--

“Parents and teachers should endeavour to answer such questions as
these: When do the first stirrings of the moral sense appear in the
child? How do they manifest themselves? What are the emotional and the
intellectual equipments of the child at different periods, and how do
these correspond with its moral outfit? At what time does conscience
enter on the scene? To what acts or omissions does the child apply the
terms right or wrong? If observations of this kind were made with care
and duly recorded, the science of education would have at its disposal
a considerable quantity of material, from which, no doubt, valuable
generalisations might be deduced. Every mother, especially, should
keep a diary in which to note the successive phases of her child’s
physical, mental, and moral growth, with particular attention to the
moral; so that parents may be enabled to make a timely forecast of
their children’s character, to foster in them every germ of good, and
by prompt precautions to suppress, or at least restrain, what is bad.”

We are glad to find that Mr. Adler reinstates fairy tales. He says,
justly, that much of the selfishness of the world is due, not to actual
hard-heartedness, but to a lack of imaginative power; and adds, “I
hold that something, nay, much, has been gained if a child has learned
to take the wishes out of its heart, as it were, and to project them on
the screen of fancy.” The German _Märchen_ hold the first place in his
regards. He says: “They represent the childhood of mankind, and it is
for this reason that they never cease to appeal to children.”

“But how shall we handle these _Märchen_? and what method shall we
employ in putting them to account for our special purpose? My first
counsel is, Tell the story. Do not give it to the child to read. The
child, as it listens to the _Märchen_, looks up with wide-opened eyes
to the face of the person who tells the story, and thrills responsive
to the touch of the earlier life of the race, which thus falls upon its
own.” That is, our author feels, and rightly so, that traditions should
be orally delivered. This is well worth noting. His second counsel is
equally important. “Do not,” he says, “take the moral plum out of the
fairy tale pudding, but let the child enjoy it as a whole.... Treat the
moral element as an incident, emphasise it indeed, but incidentally.
Pluck it as a wayside flower.”

Mr. Felix Adler’s third counsel is, to eliminate from the stories
whatever is merely superstitious, merely a relic of ancient animism,
and, again, whatever is objectionable on moral grounds. In this
connection he discusses the vexed question of how far we should
acquaint children with the existence of evil in the world. His
conclusion is one with which we shall probably be inclined to agree.

“My own view,” he says, “is that we should speak in the child’s hearing
only of those lesser forms of evil, physical or moral, with which it is
already acquainted.” On this ground he would rule out all the cruel
step-mother stories, the unnatural father stories, and so on; though,
probably, most of us would make an exception in favour of Cinderella,
and its charming German rendering _Aschenbrödel_.

_Fables_, according to our author, should form the basis of moral
instruction at the second stage; probably when children emerge from the
nursery. We have all grown up on “Æsop’s Fables,” and “The Dog in the
Manger,” “King Log,” “The Frog and the Stork,” have passed into the
current coinage of our thought. But it is interesting to be reminded
that the so-called Æsop’s fables are infinitely older than the famous
Greek story-teller, and are, for the most part, of Asiatic origin. We
are reminded that it is important to keep the origin of this fable
before us, and exercise discrimination in our choice of those which
we use to convey moral ideas to our children. Such fables as “The Oak
and the Reed,” “The Brazen and the Earthen Pot,” “The Kite and the
Wolf,” Mr. Adler would reject, as breathing of Eastern subserviency
and fear. But possibly for the very reason that the British backbone
is little disposed to bow before man or circumstances, the lessons of
life culled by peoples of other habits and other thoughts may be quite
specially useful to the English child. Anyway, we should lose some of
the most charming fables if we cut out all that savours of the wisdom
of the East. The fables Mr. Felix Adler specially commends are those
which hold up virtue for our praise or evil for our censure; such as
_Cowardice_, the fable of the “Stag and the Fawn;” _Vanity_, “The
Peacock and the Crane;” _Greediness_, “The Dog and the Shadow.”

“In the third part of our primary course, we shall use selected
stories from the classical literature of the Hebrews, and later on from
that of Greece, particularly the ‘Odyssey’ and the ‘Iliad.’”

Here we begin to be at issue with our author. We should not present
Bible stories as carrying only the same moral sanction as the myths of
ancient Greece; neither should we defer their introduction until the
child has gone through a moral course of fairy tales and a moral course
of fables. He should not be able to recall a time before the sweet
stories of old filled his imagination; he should have heard the voice
of the Lord God in the garden in the cool of the evening; should have
been an awed spectator where the angels ascended and descended upon
Jacob’s stony pillow; should have followed Christ through the cornfield
on the Sabbath-day, and sat in the rows of the hungry multitudes--so
long ago that the sacred scenes form the unconscious background of his
thoughts. All things are possible to the little child, and the touch
of the spiritual upon our material world, the difficult problems, the
hard sayings, which are an offence--in the Bible sense of the word--to
his elders, present no difficulties to the child’s all-embracing faith.
We would not say--far otherwise--that every Bible story is fit for
children, because it is a Bible story; neither would we analyse too
carefully, nor draw hard and fast lines to distinguish what we would
call history from that of which it may be said, “Without a parable
spake He not unto them.”

The child is not an exegetical student. The moral teaching, the
spiritual revelations, the lovely imagery of the Bible, are the things
with which he is concerned, and of these he cannot have too much. As
Mr. Adler says, “The narrative of the Bible is saturated with the
moral spirit, the moral issues are everywhere to the forefront. Duty,
guilt and its punishment, the conflict of conscience with inclination,
are the leading themes. The Hebrew people seem to have been endowed
with what may be called a moral genius, and especially did they
emphasise the filial and fraternal duties. Now, it is precisely these
duties that must be impressed on young children.”

Let us see how Mr. Adler would use the Bible narratives. We have
only space for a fragmentary sentence here and there: “Once upon
a time there were two children, Adam and Eve. Adam was a fine and
noble-looking lad.”... “It was so warm that the children never needed
to go indoors.”... “And the snake kept on whispering, ‘Just take one
bite of it; nobody sees you.’”... “You, Adam, must learn to labour, and
you, Eve, to be patient and self-denying for others,” &c.

We leave it to our readers to decide whether “treatment” improves the
Bible narrative, or whether this is the sort of thing to lay hold of a
child’s imagination.

Mr. Ruskin tells us that his incomparable style is due entirely to his
early familiarity with the Bible classics. It is a mistake to translate
Bible stories into slipshod English, even when the narrator keeps close
to the facts of the narrative. The rhythm and cadence of Biblical
phraseology is as charming to a child as to his elders, if not more so.
Read your Bible story to the child, bit by bit; get him to tell you in
his own words (keeping as close as he can to the Bible words) what you
have read, and then, if you like, talk about it; but not much. Above
all, do not let us attempt a “practical commentary on every verse in
Genesis,” to quote the title of a work lately published.

Two points it seems worth while to dwell upon here. Is it advisable
to tell the children the stories of the Bible miracles in an age when
the possibility of miracles is so hotly discussed? In the first place,
all that the most advanced scientists have to urge against “miracles”
is that precisely such phenomena have not come under their personal
notice; but they, before all people, are open to admit that nothing
is impossible and that no experience is final. In the second place,
as for the moral and spiritual instruction which the story of the
miracle affords, it is immaterial whether, in the particular case in
question, a historical fact is recorded, or whether, in this case also,
it is true that “without a parable spake He not unto them.” It is the
vital, not the historical, truth of the story which matters to the
child. As for the latter, he is a bold critic, and well in advance of
the scientific knowledge of the day, who ventures to say, “_This_ is
possible, _that other_ is impossible.”

The second point worthy of our attention in regard to Bible-teaching
is, Is the Bible to be taken whole and undivided, or to be dealt out
to children as they are able to bear it? There are recitals in the
Bible which we certainly should not put into the hands of children
in any other book. We should do well to ask ourselves gravely, if we
have any warrant for supposing that our children will be shielded from
the suggestions of evil which we deliberately lay before them; or if
there is any Divine law requiring that the whole Bible--which is not
only the Word of God, but is also a collection of the legal, literary,
historical, poetical, philosophical, ethical, and polemical writings
of a nation--should be placed altogether and all at once in the hands
of a curious child, as soon as he is able to read? When will our
superstitious reverence for the mere _letter_ of the Scriptures allow
us to break the Bible up, to be read, as all other literature is, in
separate books; and, for the children anyway, those passages “expunged”
which are not fit for their reading; and even those which are perfectly
uninteresting, as, for example, long genealogies? How delightful it
would be that each birthday should bring with it a gift of a new book
of the Bible, progressing in difficulty from year to year, beautifully
bound and illustrated, and printed in clear, inviting type and on good
paper. One can imagine the Christian child collecting his library of
sacred books with great joy and interest, and making a diligent and
delighted study of the volume for the year in its appointed time.
The next best thing, perhaps, is to read bit by bit to the children,
as beautifully as may be, requiring them to tell the story, after
listening, as nearly in the Bible words as they can.

But to return to Mr. Adler. Here is a valuable suggestion: “Children
should be taught to observe moral pictures before any attempt is made
to deduce moral principles. But certain simple _rules_ should be given
to the very young--must, indeed, be given them--for their guidance.
Now, in the legislation ascribed to Moses, we find a number of rules
fit for children, and a collection of these rules might be made for
the use of schools, such as: Ye shall not lie; ye shall not deceive
one another; ye shall take no bribe; thou shalt not go about as a
tale-bearer among thy fellows,” and so on--a very useful collection of
sixteen rules by way of specimen.

Farther on we read, “The story of David’s life is replete with dramatic
interest. It may be arranged in a series of pictures. First picture,
David and Goliath--_i.e._, skill pitted against brute strength, or
the deserved punishment of a bully.” Conceive the barren, common,
self-complete and self-complacent product of “moral” teaching on this
level!

In his treatment of the “Odyssey” and the “Iliad,” Mr. Adler makes some
good points: “My father, anxious that I should become a good man, made
me learn all the poems of Homer,” Xenophon makes one of his characters
say: and here we have suggestive lines as to how the great epics may be
used for example of life and instruction in manners.

What so inspiring as the story of Ulysses to the boy in search of
adventures? and what greater stimulus to courage, prudence, presence
of mind, than in the escapes of the hero? “Ulysses is the type of
sagacity as well as of bravery; his mind teems with inventions.” The
ethical elements of the “Odyssey” are said to be conjugal affection,
filial conduct (Telemachus), presence of mind, and veneration shown
to grand-parents (Laertes). Friendly relations with dependents might
have been added, as illustrated by the lovely story of the nurse
Eurycleia recognising Ulysses when his wife sat by with stony face.
Friendship, again, in the story of Achilles’ grief for Patroclus. Mr.
Adler treats the Homeric stories with more grace and sympathy, and with
less ruthless violation, than he metes out to those of the Bible, but
here again we trace the initial weakness of “secular” morality. The
“Odyssey” and the “Iliad” are religious poems or they are nothing. The
whole motive is religious, every incident is supernaturally directed.
The heroic inspiration is entirely wanting, if we fail to bear in
mind that the characters do and suffer with superlative courage and
fortitude, only because they willed to do and suffer, in all things,
the will of the gods. The acquiescence of the will with that which they
guessed, however darkly, of the divine will, is the truly inspiring
quality of the Homeric heroes; and here, as much as in the teaching of
Bible morality, “secular” ethics are at fault.

The third section of Mr. Adler’s work consists of lessons on duty.
Here again we have excellent counsels and delightful illustrations.
“The teacher should always take the moral habit for granted. He should
never give his pupils to understand that he and they are about to
examine, whether, for instance, it is wrong or not wrong to lie. The
commandment against lying is assumed, and its obligation acknowledged
at the outset.” This we heartily agree with, and especially we like the
apparently inadvertent use of the word “commandment,” which concedes
the whole question at issue--that is, that the idea of duty is a
relative one, depending on an Authority supreme and intimate, which
embraces the thoughts of the heart and the issues of the life.

The story of Hillel, as illustrating the duty of acquiring knowledge,
is very charming, and is deeply interesting to the psychologist, as
illustrating that a naturally implanted desire for knowledge is one
of the springs of action in the human breast. The motives proposed
for seeking knowledge are poor and inadequate; to succeed in life, to
gain esteem, to satisfy yourself, and even to be able, possibly, to
benefit others, are by no means soul-compelling motives. The child who
is encouraged to learn, because to learn is his particular duty in
that state of life to which it has pleased God to call him, has the
strongest of conceivable motives, in the sense that he is rendering
that which is required of him by the Supreme Authority.

This one note of feebleness runs through the whole treatment of the
subject. The drowning man is supposed to counsel himself to “be brave,
because as a human being you are superior to the forces of Nature,
because there is something in you--your moral self--over which the
forces of Nature have no power, because what happens to you in your
private character is not important; but it is important that you assert
the dignity of humanity to the last breath.” This reads rather well;
but how much finer is the attitude of the man who struggles manfully to
save the life that _God has given him_!

The chapter on the influence of manual training is well worthy of
consideration. The concluding sentence runs: “It is a cheering and
encouraging thought that technical labour, which is the source of
our material aggrandisement, may also become, when employed in
the education of the young, the means of enlarging their manhood,
quickening their intellect, and strengthening their character.”

We have taken up Mr. Adler’s work so fully because it is one of the
most serious and successful attempts with which we are acquainted to
present a graduated course of ethics suitable for children of all ages.
Though we are at issue with the author on the all-important point of
moral sanctions, we very earnestly commend the work to the perusal of
parents. The Christian parent will assuredly present the thought of
Law in connection with a Law-giver, and will supplement the thousand
valuable suggestions he will find here with his own strong conviction
that “Ought” is of the Lord God. But even the Christian child suffers
from what may be called slipshod moral teaching. The failings of the
good are a source of sorrow and surprise to the moralist as well as to
the much-endeavouring and often-failing Christian soul. That temptation
and sin are inseparable from our present condition may be allowed; but
that an earnest and sincere Christian should be habitually guilty
of failing in candour, frankness, justice to the characters and
opinions of others, should be intemperate in censure, and--dare we say
it?--spiteful in criticism, is possibly to be traced, not to fallible
human nature, but to defective education.

The ethical idea has never been fairly and fully presented to the
mind on these vulnerable points. The man is unable to give due
weight to the opinions of another, because the child has not been
instructed in the duty of candour. There is little doubt that careful,
methodical, ethical instruction, with abundant illustration, and--we
need not add--inspired by the thought, “God wills it,” should, if
such instruction could be made general, have an appreciable effect in
elevating the national character. Therefore, let us repeat, we hail
with gratitude such a contribution to the practical ethics of the
nursery and schoolroom as Mr. Adler’s work on “The Moral Instruction of
Children.”


FOOTNOTES:

     [9] “The Moral Instruction of Children.” 6s. By Felix
          Adler. Published by Edward Arnold.

         “Education from a National Standpoint.” By Alfred Fouillée.
          Translated and edited by W. J. Greenstreet, M.A.
          Published by Edward Arnold.

         “Faith.” Eleven Sermons, with a Preface, by Rev. H. C.
          Beeching. Published by Percival & Co.




                              CHAPTER XII

                            _FAITH AND DUTY_

                                   II


Since Locke established a school of English educational thought, based
on English philosophy, our tendency has been exclusively towards
naturalism, if not materialism; to the exclusion of a vital element in
education--the force of the idea.

Madame de Staël has a remarkable passage concerning this tendency in
English philosophy which, though we may not be disposed to admit her
conclusions _en bloc_, should certainly give us pause, and lead us to
consider whether we should not wisely modify the tendencies of our
national thought by laying ourselves open to foreign influences:--

“Hobbes prit à la lettre la philosophie qui fait dériver toutes
nos idées des impressions des sens; il n’en craignit point les
conséquences, et il a dit hardiment _que l’âme était, soumise à la
nécessité comme la société au despotisme_. Le culte des tous les
sentiments élévés et purs est tellement consolidé en Angleterre par
les institutions politiques et religieuses, que les spéculations
de l’esprit tournent autour de ces imposantes colonnes sans jamais
les ébranler. Hobbes eut donc peu de partizans dans son pays; mais
l’influence de Locke fut plus universelle. Comme son caractère était
morale et religieuse, il ne se permit aucun des raisonnements
corrupteurs qui dérivaient nécessairement de sa métaphysique; et la
plupart de ses compatriotes, en l’adoptant, ont eu comme lui la noble
inconséquence de séparer les résultats des principes, tandis que Hume
et les philosophes français, après avoir admis le système, l’ont
appliqué d’une manière beaucoup plus logique.

“La métaphysique de Locke n’a eu d’autre effet sur les esprits, en
Angleterre, que de ternir un peu leur originalité naturelle; quand même
elle dessécherait la source des grandes pensées philosophiques, elle ne
saurait détruire le sentiment religieux, qui sait si bien y suppléer;
mais cette métaphysique reçue dans le reste de l’Europe, l’Allemagne
exceptée, a été l’une des principales causes de l’immoralité dont on
s’est fait une théorie pour en mieux assurer la pratique.”

It is well that we should recognise the continuity of English
educational thought, and perceive that we have in Spencer and Baine
the lineal descendants of the earlier philosophers. Probably the
chief source of weakness in our attempt to formulate a science of
education is that we do not perceive that education is the outcome
of philosophy. We deal with the issue and ignore the source. Hence
our efforts lack continuity and definite aim. We are content to pick
up a suggestion here, a practical hint there, without even troubling
ourselves to consider what is that scheme of life of which such hints
and suggestions are the output.

Mr. Greenstreet’s translation of M. Fouillée’s remarkable work[10]
should not be without its effect upon the burning questions of the
hour. As the translator well says in his preface: “The spirit of
reform is in the air; the question of the retention of Greek at the
Universities is but a ripple of the great wave that seems ready to
burst upon us and to obliterate the characteristic features of our
national system of education.... A glance at the various forms of the
educational systems obtaining in Europe and America is sufficient to
betray to the observant eye how near to the verge of chaos we are
standing.”

These are words of insight and wisdom, but let us not therefore despair
as though the end of all things were at hand. The truth is, we are in
the throes of an educational revolution; we are emerging from chaos
rather than about to plunge into it; we are beginning to recognise
that education is the applied science of life, and that we really have
existing material in the philosophy of the ages and the science of the
day to formulate an educational code whereby we may order the lives of
our children and regulate our own. We need not aspire to a complete and
exhaustive code of educational laws. This will come to us duly when
humanity has, so to speak, fulfilled itself. Meantime, we have enough
to go on with if we would believe it. What we have to do is to gather
together and order our resources; to put the first thing foremost and
all things in sequence, and to see that education is neither more nor
less than the practical application of our philosophy. Hence, if our
educational thought is to be sound and effectual, we must look to the
philosophy which underlies it, and must be in a condition to trace
every counsel of perfection for the bringing up of children to one or
other of the two schools of philosophy of which it must needs be the
outcome.

Is our system of education to be the issue of naturalism or of
idealism, or is there indeed a _media via_? This is practically the
question which M. Fouillée sets himself to answer in the spirit of a
philosophical educationalist. He examines his premisses and draws his
deductions with a candour, culture, and philosophic insight which carry
the confidence of the reader. No doubt he is of a mind with that umpire
in a cricket-match who lays down the dictum that one must be quite fair
to both sides with a _little_ leaning to one’s own. M. Fouillée takes
sides with classical as opposed to scientific culture. But he is not a
mere partisan; he has philosophic reasons for the faith that is in him,
and his examination of the question of national education is full of
instruction and inspiration for the thoughtful parent as well as for
the schoolmaster.

M. Fouillée gives in his preamble a key to his treatment of the
subject. He says:

“On this as on all great questions of practical philosophy Guyau
has left his mark.... He has treated the question from the highest
standpoint, and has treated it in a strictly scientific form. ‘Given
the hereditary merits and faults of a race, how far can we modify
existing heredity by means of education for a new heredity?’ For the
problem is nothing less than this. It is not merely a matter of the
instruction of individuals, but of the preservation and improvement
of the race. Education must therefore be based upon the physiological
and moral laws of the culture of races.... The ethnical is the true
point of view. By means of education we must create such hereditary
tendencies as will be useful to the race both physically and
intellectually.”

M. Fouillée begins at the beginning. He examines the principle of
selection, and shows that it is a working principle, not only in
animal, but in intellectual, æsthetic, and moral life. He demonstrates
that there is what may be called psychological selection, according to
whose laws those _ideas_ which are the fittest rule the world; and it
is in the light of this truth, of the natural selection of ideas and
of their enormous force, that he would examine into the vexed question
of the subjects and methods of education. M. Fouillée complains with
justice that no attempt has been made to harmonise or unify education
as a whole in any one civilised nation. Controversy rages round quite
secondary questions--whether education shall be literary or scientific?
and, again, whether the ancient or the modern languages shall be
taught? But science and literature do not exhaust the field. Our author
introduces a new candidate. He says:

“In this volume we shall inquire if the link between science and
literature is not to be found in the knowledge of man, of society, of
the great laws of the universe--_i.e._, in morals and social science
and æsthetics, in a word, in philosophy.”

Now this is the gist of the teaching which we have laboured to advance
in the _Parents’ Union_ and its various agencies.

“The proper study of mankind is man,” is one of those “thoughts
beyond their thought” which poets light upon; and I am able to add my
personal testimony to the fact that under no other study with which I
am acquainted is it possible to trace such almost visible expansion of
mind and soul in the young student as in this of philosophy.

A peculiarly interesting and original line of thought, worked out very
fully in this volume, is, that just as the child with an individual
bent should have that bent encouraged and “educated,” so of a nation:--

“If social science rejects every mystical interpretation of the
common spirit animating a nation, it by no means rejects the reflected
consciousness or spontaneous divination, possessed by every nation, of
the functions which have devolved upon it.”

Here is a most fruitful suggestion. Think of the fitness of a scheme of
physical, intellectual, and moral training, based upon our ideal of the
English character and of the destiny of the English nation.

The chapter on “_Power of Education and of Idea-Forces--Suggestions--
Heredity_” is very valuable, as utilising a floating nebulæ of
intuitions, which are coming upon us in connection with the hundred and
one hypnotic marvels of the day. M. Fouillée maintains that--

“The power of instruction and education, denied by some and exaggerated
by others, being nothing but the power of ideas and sentiments, it is
impossible to be too exact in determining at the outset the extent and
limits of this force. This psychological problem is the foundation of
pedagogy.”

In a word, M. Fouillée returns boldly to the Platonic philosophy;
the _idea_ is to him all in all, in philosophy and education. But
he returns empty-handed. The wave of naturalism, now perhaps on the
ebb, has left neither flotsam nor jetsam for him, save for stranded
fragments of the Darwinian theory. Now, we maintain that to this wave
of thought, naturalistic, materialistic--what you will--we owe the
discovery of the physiological basis of education.

While we believed that thought was purely volatile, incapable of
impact upon matter, or of being acted upon by matter, our theories of
education were necessarily vague. We could not catch our Ariel; how
then could we school him? But now, the physiologists have taught us
that our wilful sprite rests with the tips of his toes, at any rate,
upon solid ground; nay more, his foothold is none so slight but that it
leaves footmarks behind, an impress on that domain of the physical in
which we are somewhat at home. The impalpable thoughts that we think
leave their mark upon the quite palpable substance of the brain, set
up, so the physiologists tell us, connections between the nerve-cells
of which that organ is composed; in fact, to make a long story short,
the cerebrum “grows to the uses it is earliest and most constantly
put to.” This fact opens up a function of education upon which M.
Fouillée hardly touches, that most important function of the formation
of habits--physical, intellectual, moral. “Sow an act, reap a habit;
sow a habit, reap a character; sow a character, reap a destiny,” says
Thackeray. And a great function of the educator is to secure that acts
shall be so regularly, purposefully, and methodically sown that the
child shall reap the habits of the good life in thinking and doing,
with the minimum of conscious effort.

We are only now beginning to discover how beneficial are the laws which
govern our being. Educate the child in these habits and the man’s life
will run in them, without the constant wear and tear of the moral
effort of decision. Once, twice, three times in a day, he will still,
no doubt, have to choose between the highest and the less high, the
best and the less good course. But all the minor moralities of life
may be made habitual to him. He has been brought up to be courteous,
prompt, punctual, neat, considerate; and he practises these virtues
without conscious effort. It is much easier to behave in the way he
is used to, than to originate a new line of conduct. And this is so,
because it is graciously and mercifully ordered that there shall be
a physical record and adaptation as the result of our educational
efforts; and that the enormous strain of moral endeavour shall come
upon us only occasionally. “Sow a habit, reap a character;” that is,
the formation of habits is the chief means whereby we modify the
original hereditary disposition of the child until it becomes the
character of the man.

But even in this physiological work, the spiritual force of the idea
has its part to play. For a habit is set up by following out an initial
idea with a long sequence of corresponding acts. You tell a child that
the Great Duke slept in so narrow a bed that he could not turn over,
because, said he, “When you want to turn over it’s time to get up.” The
boy does not wish to get up in the morning; but he does wish to be like
the hero of Waterloo. You stimulate him to act upon this idea day after
day for a month or so, until the habit is formed, and it is just as
easy as not to get up in good time.

The functions of education may be roughly defined as twofold; (_a_)
the formation of habits; (_b_) the presentation of ideas. The first
depends far more largely than we recognise on physiological processes.
The second is purely spiritual in origin, method, and result. Is it not
possible that here we have the meeting-point of the two philosophies
which have divided mankind since men began to think about their
thoughts and ways? Both are right; both are necessary; both have their
full activity in the development of a human being at his best. The
_crux_ of modern thought, as indeed of all profound thought, is, Is
it conceivable that the spiritual should have any manner of impact
upon the material? Every problem, from the education of a little child
to the Divine Incarnation, turns upon this point. Conceive this
possibility and all is plain, from the marvels resulting from hypnotic
suggestion to the miracles of our faith. We can even believe what we
are told, that, by an effort of passionate concentration of thought
and feeling the devout may arrive at the figure of the stigmata upon
hands and feet. With this key nothing is impossible to our faith, all
we ask for is precedent. And after all, this inter-action of forces is
the most common and every-day of our experiences. What is it but the
impact of spirit upon matter which writes upon the face of flesh that
record of character and conduct which we call countenance. And not only
upon the face. He is a dull scholar in the lore of human nature, who
cannot read a man fairly well from a back view. The sculptor knows the
trick of it. There is a statue of the late Prince Consort in Edinburgh
in which representative groups pay homage to the Prince. Stand so as
to get the back view of any one of them and the shoulders of scholar,
soldier, peasant, artisan, tell unmistakably the tale of their several
lives. What is this but the impress of spirit upon matter!

Anyway we are on the horns of a dilemma. There is no middle course
open to us. The physiologists have made it absolutely plain that the
brain is concerned with thinking. Nay more, that thought may go on
without any volition on the part of the thinker. Further, that much of
our best work in art and literature is the result of what is called
unconscious cerebration. Now, we must admit one of two things. Either
thought is a process of the material brain, one more “mode of motion,”
as the materialists contend, or the material brain is the agent of the
spiritual thought, which acts upon it, let us say, as the fingers of
a player upon the keys of his instrument. Grant this and the whole
question is conceded. The impact of the spiritual upon the material is
an accepted fact.

As we have had occasion to say before, in this great work of education
parents and teachers are permitted to play only a subordinate part
after all. You may bring your horse to the water, but you can’t make
him drink; and you may present ideas of the fittest to the mind of the
child; but you do not know in the least which he will take, and which
he will reject. And very well for us it is that this safeguard to his
individuality is implanted in every child’s breast. Our part is to see
that his educational _plat_ is constantly replenished with fit and
inspiring ideas, and then we must needs leave it to the child’s own
appetite to take which he will have, and as much as he requires. Of one
thing we must beware. The least symptom of satiety, especially when the
ideas we present are moral and religious, should be taken as a serious
warning. Persistence on our part just then may end in the child’s never
willingly sitting down to that dish any more.

The very limitations we see to our own powers in this matter of
presenting ideas should make us the more anxiously careful as to the
nature of the ideas set before our children. We shall not be content
that they learn geography, history, Latin, what not,--we shall ask what
salient ideas are presented in each such study, and how will these
ideas affect the intellectual and moral development of the child.
We shall be in a mood, that is, to go calmly and earnestly into the
question of education as presented by M. Fouillée. We shall probably
differ from him in many matters of detail, but we shall most likely
be inclined to agree with his conclusion that, not some subject
of mere utility, but moral and social science conveyed by means of
history, literature, or otherwise, is the one subject which we are
not at liberty to leave out from the curriculum of “a being breathing
thoughtful breath.”

The tables of studies given in the appendix are of extreme value. Every
subject is treated from what may be called the ideal point of view.

“Two things are necessary. First, we must introduce into the study
of each science the philosophic spirit and method, general views,
the search for the most general principles and conclusions. We must
then reduce the different sciences to unity by a sound training in
philosophy, which will be as obligatory to students in science as to
students in literature.... Scientific truths, said Descartes, are
battles won; describe to the young the principal and most heroic of
these battles; you will thus interest them in the results of science,
and you will develop in them a scientific spirit by means of the
enthusiasm for the conquest of truth; you will make them see the power
of the reasoning which has led to discoveries in the past, and which
will do so again in the future. How interesting arithmetic and geometry
might be if we gave a short history of their principal theorems; if the
child were mentally present at the labours of a Pythagoras, a Plato,
a Euclid, or in modern times of a Viète, a Descartes, a Pascal, or
a Leibnitz. Great theories, instead of being lifeless and anonymous
abstractions, would become human, living truths, each with its own
history, like a statue by Michael Angelo, or like a painting by
Raphael.”


FOOTNOTES:

     [10] “Education from a National Standpoint.”




                              CHAPTER XIII

                            _FAITH AND DUTY_

                                  III


There is a little involuntary resistance in our minds to any teaching
which shall draw the deep things of our faith within the sphere of
the laws which govern our development as human beings. We prefer that
the commerce between God and the soul, in which is our life, should
be altogether “supernatural,” apart from the common laws of life,
arbitrary, inexplicable, opposed to reason. If we err in this, it is in
reverence we err. Our thought may be poor and crude, but all our desire
is to hallow the Divine Name, and we know no other way in which to set
it apart. But though we err in reverence, we _do_ err, and, in the
spiritual, as in the natural world, the motive does not atone for the
act. We lose through this misconception of our relations with God the
sense of unity in our lives. We become aware of an altogether unnatural
and irreligious classification into things sacred and things secular.
We are not in all things _at one_ with God. There are beautiful lives
in which there is no trace of this separation, whose aims are confined
to the things we call sacred. But many thoughtful earnest persons
feel sorely the need of a conception of the divine relation which
shall embrace the whole of human life, which shall make art, science,
politics, all those cares and thoughts of men which are not rebellious,
sacred also, as being all engaged in the great evolution, the evolution
of the Kingdom of God.

Our religious thought, as our educational thought, is, far more than we
imagine, the outcome of our philosophy. And do not let us imagine that
philosophy is not for the general run of men, but only for the few.
On the contrary, there is no living soul who does not develop his own
philosophy of life--that which he appropriates of the current thoughts
of his time, modified by his own experiences.

It would be interesting to trace the effect upon religious thought
of the two great schools of philosophy--the Idealistic and the
Naturalistic; but that is beyond our powers, and beyond our purpose
here; we must confine ourselves to what is immediately practical.
The present day _crux_ is, that naturalistic philosophy being in the
ascendant, and the things of our religion being altogether idealistic,
many noble natures are in revolt, feeling that they cannot honestly
accept as truth that which is opposed to human reason. Others, to whom
their religious faith is the first thing, but who are yet in touch
with the thought and discovery of the day, affect an only half-honest
compromise with themselves, and say that there are certain questions
which they will not examine; matters secular alone being open to
searching scrutiny. Now, it is not, as we so often hear, that the
times are out of joint, that Christianity is effete, that there is
any inherent antagonism between the facts of natural and the facts of
spiritual life. It is our own philosophy which needs to be adjusted.
We have somehow managed to get life out of focus; we have begun with
false initial ideas, and have taken the logical inferences from these
for essential truth. We have not perceived that the concern of the
reasoning powers is not with moral or spiritual truth, or even with
what we call facts, but is simply with the _logical_ inferences from
any premisses whatever accepted by the mind.

In our examination of M. Fouillée’s _Education from a National
Standpoint_, we made some attempt to show that the two schemes of
philosophy which have hitherto divided the world have done so because
both are right, and neither is exclusively right. Matter and spirit,
force and idea, work together in the evolution of character. The brain,
somehow, makes material record of those ideas which inspire the life.
But the brain does not originate those ideas. They are spiritual in
their nature, and are spiritually conveyed, whether by means of the
printed page, the glance of an eye, the touch of a hand, or in that
holy mystery of the inbreathing of the Divine Spirit, of which we
cannot tell whence it comes nor whither it goes. Once we recognise
that all thoughts that breathe and words that burn are of their nature
spiritual, and appeal to the spiritual within us--that, in fact, all
intercourse of thought and feeling belongs to the realm of ideas,
spiritually conveyed, the great mysteries of our religion cease to be
hedged off from our common experiences. If the friend who sits beside
us deals with us, spirit with spirit, by means of quick interchange of
ideas, is it hard to believe that just so is the intercourse between
the Spirit of God and the spirit of man? The more perfect the sympathy
between human souls, the less the need for spoken words. How easy to go
on from this to the thought of that most intimate and blissful of all
intercourse, the converse between the devout soul and its God. Nothing
can be more obvious, real, natural, necessary, than that the Father
of Spirits should graciously keep open such intimate access to, and
converse with, the spirits of men.

   “I would that one would grant me,
        O my Lord,
    To find Thee only.
           *       *       *       *       *
    That Thou alone wouldst speak to me, and I to Thee,
    As a lover talking to his loved one,
    A friend at table with his friend,”[11]

is ever the aspiration of the devout soul. This continuous aspiration
towards closest communion is, spoken or unspoken, the prayer of faith.
A vain and fond imagination, says the sceptic, begotten of the heart,
as when Narcissus became enamoured of his reflected image! What have
we to say in reply? Nothing. He who does not perceive that he loves in
his brother not the material form, but the spiritual being of which
this form is one expression, how can he understand that the Spirit of
God should draw with irresistible drawings the spirit of man, which is
indeed the whole man. For, after all, what is the body but the garment
which the spirit shapes to its uses?

To accept the outward seeming, to ignore the spiritual reality, is
the easier way. To say that prayer is flung, as a child flings his
kite, into the air, only to come down again; to say that men are the
creatures of circumstances, with no power to determine their own fate;
that this belief and that are equal verities, and that the worship of
Christ or of Buddha is a mere affair of climate and conditions; this
easy tolerance commends itself to many minds in these days.

“And to what does this easy and sceptical life lead a man?... To
what, we say, does this scepticism lead? It leads a man to shameful
loneliness and selfishness, the more shameful because it is so
good-humoured and conscienceless and serene. Conscience! What is
conscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or private faith?
Mythuses alike, enveloped in enormous tradition. If, seeing and
acknowledging the lies of the world, Arthur, as see them you can with
only too fatal a clearness, you submit to them without any protest
further than a laugh; if, plunged yourself in easy sensuality, you
allow the whole wretched world to go past groaning by you unmoved; if
the fight for the truth is taking place, and all men of honour are on
the ground armed on the one side or the other, and you alone are to lie
on your balcony and smoke your pipe out of the noise and the danger,
you had better have died, or never have been at all, than be such a
sensual coward.”[12]

Mr. Beeching’s _Eleven Sermons on Faith_ are in refreshing contrast
with this sort of modern Saduceeism. In his view, faith is not mystic,
supernatural, an exceptional development; it is the common basis of
our dealings with each other. Credit, trust, confidence--the framework
of society rests upon these. “I cannot trust you”--what worse thing
can we say to one another? The law recognises every man’s right to the
confidence of his fellow-men, and will have a man accounted innocent
until he is proved guilty. Our whole commercial and banking systems,
what are they, but enormous systems of _credit_, and only one in a
hundred, or one in a thousand, fails to sustain this credit. Family
and social life rest upon credit of another sort; let us call it moral
credit, and only one in a hundred or one in a thousand forfeits the
trust. If one here and there give occasion for jealousy, mistrust,
suspicion, why, the exception proves the rule. In his dealings with
men, man lives by credit; in his dealings with God, man lives by faith.
Let us use the same word in both cases, and say that man is a spiritual
being, and, in all his relations, Godward or manward, he lives by
faith. How simple and easy a thing faith becomes! How especially easy
to the children who trust everybody and offer a confiding hand to any
guide. Could we only rid ourselves of the materialistic notion that
spiritual things are not to be understood by us, and that to believe in
God is altogether a different thing from to trust a friend, how easy we
should find the questions which we allow to stagger our faith.

But the Kingdom of God is coming upon us with power. Let us only break
down this foolish barrier of the flesh; let us perceive that our
relations with each other are the relations of spirit with spirit, and
that spoken and written words are no more than the outward and visible
signs of ideas spiritually conveyed, and how inevitable, incessant,
all-encompassing becomes the presence of God about us. Faith is, then,
the simple trust of person in Person. We realise with fearful joy
that He is about our path, and about our bed, and spieth out all our
ways--not with the austere eye of a judge, but with the caressing,
if critical, glance of a parent. How easy, then, to understand the
never-ceasing, ever-inspiring intercourse of the Divine Spirit with
the spirit of man--how, morning by morning, He awakeneth _our_ ear,
also; how His inspiration and instruction come in the direction, and
in the degree, in which the man is capable of receiving them. It is no
longer a puzzle to us that the uninstructed savage shows sweet traits
of pity and generosity, “for His God doth instruct him and doth teach
him.” We are not confounded when we hear of a righteous man who lifts
up his face to Heaven, and says, “There is no God,” because we know,
He maketh His sun to shine upon the evil and upon the good, and that
just that measure of moral light and leading which a man lays himself
open to receive is freely given to him. He may shut his eyes and say,
“There is no sun,” but none the less is he warmed and fed and comforted
by the light he denies. This is the faith in which we would bring up
our children, this strong, passionate sense of the dear nearness of
our God; found in this conviction, the controversies of the day will
interest but not exercise us, for we are on the other side of all doubt
once we know Him in whom we have believed.

Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God. We advance in
this lore of the soul only in proportion as we make it our study; and
all of us who have the bringing up of children must needs be thankful
for every word of help and insight which shall open our eyes to the
realities which are spiritually discerned. In this view parents will
be glad to read and ponder the Sermons before us. Profound thought is
conveyed in language of very great simplicity and purity. The sermons
are written from the standpoint of present day thought, are not at all
emotional, nor even hortatory, but they are very strengthening and
refreshing. You read, and go on your way rejoicing in a strong sense
of the reality of things unseen. Perhaps this result is due to Mr.
Beeching’s presentation of the _naturalness_ of faith.

“It is noticeable that while our Lord is always demanding Faith, He
offers no definition of the Faith He requires; so that there is a
presumption that He meant by Faith just what men ordinarily mean by
it. And the presumption is increased when it is remembered that Faith
in our Lord began with being faith in human qualities before those
qualities were seen to be divine. The faith of the Apostles increased
under our Lord’s careful training, both in depth and breadth; but
between the first attraction that drew (say) Peter from his nets, and
the last declaration of his worship upon the shores of Gennesaret,
there was no breach of continuity. Indeed, as if to assure us that
the Apostle’s human faith had not after the Resurrection ‘changed
to something else,’ and become an indefinite theological virtue, we
find the word used to express it which, of all the words which labour
to express faith, is the one most deeply tinged with human feeling:
‘Simon, son of Jonas, _lovest_ thou Me more than these?’ We must ask,
therefore, what, as between man and man, is commonly meant by Faith,
and then we can examine whether our explanation fits the several groups
of passages in the Gospels.”

The above extract from the very thoughtful and instructive Preface
illustrates what we mean by the naturalness of faith, not that which
comes of itself and by itself, but that which is acceptable, fit, and
proper to our nature whenever and whencesoever it arrive. “For,” as Mr.
Beeching says, “as faith is itself no self-originated impulse, but the
springing up of a man’s heart in response to the encircling pressure of
the ‘Everlasting Arms,’ so its reward is to feel more deeply and ever
more deeply their divine support.”

The eleven sermons are upon “The Object of Faith,” “The Worship of
Faith,” “The Righteousness of Faith,” “The Food of Faith,” “National
Faith,” “The Eye of Faith,” “The Ear of Faith,” “The Activity of
Faith,” “The Gentleness of Faith,” “The Discipline of Faith,” “Faith in
Man.”

In his examination of “The Object of Faith,” Mr. Beeching asks: “What
then is He like; what kind of countenance is it that shines out upon
us from the Gospel pages? Let us turn to them and see.” And we read
the story of how Jesus, being moved with compassion, touched the eyes
of the two blind men by the wayside going out from Jericho. How Christ
had compassion on other things besides bodily sickness. “Christ has
compassion also on ignorance; on the aimless wandering of men after
their own desires, without a Master to follow; on the weariness of
spirit that such a life brings about.” Again, “Christ has compassion
not only on sickness and ignorance, but on sin--on the sinner who
repents.” And we read the story of the woman whose sins, which were
many, were forgiven, for she loved much. Again, we see the countenance
of Christ as it is turned upon that young man, of whom it is said,
“Then Jesus, looking upon him, loved him.” “Compassion, then, for
suffering and ignorance, and sin that repents, love for enthusiasm,
this we have seen in the face of Christ.” One more divine regard we
are invited to contemplate; how the Lord turned and looked upon Peter.
“Can you imagine with what a face our Lord looked upon Peter, who had
thrice denied Him, after confidently affirming that he would go with
Him to death? Would that that face would shine upon us with whatever
reproach when we in word or deed deny Him, that so we too may remember
and weep.” How the heart rises to such teaching as this--the simple
presentation of Christ as He walked among men. Well did our Lord say:
“I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me.” The pity of it is
that He, the altogether lovely, is so seldom lifted up to our adoring
gaze. Perhaps, when our teachers invite us to behold the face of
Christ, we shall learn the full interpretation of that profound word.
He will draw all men, because it is not possible for any human soul to
resist the divine loveliness once it is fairly and fully presented to
his vision.

The sermon on the “Worship of Faith,” sets forth that “to worship
Christ is to bow down with love and wonder and thankfulness, before
the most perfect goodness that the world has ever seen, and to believe
that that goodness was the express image of God the Father.” All
aims and all ideals, that are not the aims and ideals of Christ, are
distinctly opposed to such worship, and the man who entertains these
alien ideals may not call himself a Christian. After examining that
attitude of the spirit towards Christ which belongs to the worship of
faith, the rest of the sermon is very practical. “Work is Worship,” is
the keynote: one longs that a writer who knows so well how to touch the
secret springs had taken this opportunity to move us to that “heart’s
adoration,” which is dearer to God; but, indeed, the whole volume has
this tendency. It is well to be reminded that “the thorough and willing
performance of any duty, however humble or however exalted, is like the
offering of incense to Christ, well-pleasing and acceptable.”

The sermon on the “Righteousness of Faith,” is extremely important and
instructive. The writer dwells on the “deplorable cant” with which we
pronounce ourselves “miserable sinners,” combining the “sentiments of
the Pharisees in the parable with the expressions of the publican.”

“Christ’s language about man’s sinfulness is altogether free from
vagueness and hyperbole; when He blames He blames for definite faults
which we can appreciate, and He is so far from declaring that men can
do no good thing, that He assumes always that man in his proper state
of dependence upon God has the power to do righteousness. ‘Whosoever
shall do the will of My Father, which is in heaven, the same is My
brother, and sister, and mother.’... But the question remains, How,
considering our actual shortcomings, can any of us be spoken of by
Christ as righteous here and now? This is the question in answer to
which St. Paul wrote two of his greatest Epistles. His answer was,
that according to Christ, a man is accounted righteous, not from a
consideration of his works, but from a consideration of his faith
in God. Human righteousness is not a verdict upon the summing up of
a life, but it is reckoned to a man at any moment from a certain
disposition of his spirit to the Spirit of God; a disposition of trust,
love, reverence, the disposition of a dutiful son to a good father....
Righteousness, in the only sense in which it is possible for men, means
believing and trusting God.”

We have not space to take up in detail all the teaching of this
inspiring little volume. We commend it to parents. Who, as they, have
need to nourish the spiritual life in themselves? Who, as they, have
need to examine themselves as to with how firm a grasp they hold the
mysteries of our faith? Who, as they, need to have their ideas as to
the supreme relationship so clear that they can be translated into
baby speech? Besides, we have seen that it is the duty of the educator
to put the first thing foremost, and all things in sequence; only one
thing is needful--that we “have faith in God”; let us deliver our
thoughts from vagueness and our ways from variableness, if we would
help the children towards this higher life. To this end, we gladly
welcome teaching which is rather nourishing than stimulating, and which
should afford real help towards “sober walking in pure Gospel ways.”


FOOTNOTES:

     [11] “The Imitation of Christ” (Rhythmic translation).

     [12] _Pendennis._ Thackeray.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                        _THE HEROIC IMPULSE_[13]


“To set forth, as only art can, the beauty and the joy of living, the
beauty and the blessedness of death, the glory of battle and adventure,
the nobility of devotion--to a cause, an ideal, a passion even--the
dignity of resistance, the sacred quality of patriotism, that is my
ambition here,” says the editor of “Lyra Heroica” in his preface.
We all feel that some such expression of the “simpler sentiments,
more elemental emotions” should be freely used in the education of
children, that, in fact, heroic poetry contains such inspiration to
noble living as is hardly to be found elsewhere; and also we are aware
that it is only in the youth of peoples that these elemental emotions
find free expression in song. We look at our own ballad literature
and find plenty of the right material, but it is too occasional and
too little connected, and so though we would prefer that the children
should imbibe patriotism and heroism at the one fountain head, we think
it cannot be done. We have no truly English material, we say, for
education in this kind, and we fall back on the Homeric myths in one
or other of the graceful and spirited renderings which have been made
specially for children.

But what if it should turn out that we have our own Homer, our own
Ulysses? Mr. Stopford Brooke has made a great discovery for us who
look at all things from the child standpoint. Possibly he would not
be gratified to know that his “History of Early English Literature,”
invaluable addition as it is to the library of the student and the man
of letters, should be appropriated as food for babes. All the same,
here is what we have long wanted. The elemental emotions and heroic
adventures of the early English put into verse and tale, strange and
eerie as the wildest fairy tale, yet breathing in every line the
English temper and the English virtue that go to the making of heroes.
Not that Beowulf, the hero of the great poem, was precisely English,
but where the English came from, there dwelt he, and Beowulf was early
adopted as the national hero, whose achievements were sung in every
hall.

The poem, says Mr. Stopford Brooke, consisting of three thousand
one hundred and eighty-three lines, is divided into two parts by an
interval of fifty years; the first, containing Beowulf’s great deeds
against the monster Grendel and his dam; the second, Beowulf’s conquest
of the Fire-drake and his death and burial. We are told that we may
fairly claim the poem as English, that it is in our tongue and in our
country alone that it is preserved. The hero Beowulf comes of brave
and noble parents, and mildness and more than mortal daring meet in
him. When he comes to Hrothgar to conquer Grendel it is of his counsel
as much as of his strength that we hear. The queen begs him to be
friendly in council to her sons. Hrothgar says to him, “Thou holdest
thy faith with patience and thy might with prudence of mind. Thou shalt
be a comfort to thy people and a help to heroes.” None, it is said,
could order matters more wisely than he. When he is dying he looks
back on his life, and that which he thinks of the most is not his
great war deeds, but his patience, his prudence, his power of holding
his own well and of avoiding new enmities. “Each of us must await the
close of life,” says he; “let him who can, gain honour before he die.
That is best for a warrior when he is dead. But do thou throughout
this day have patience of thy woes; I look for that from thee.” Such
the philosophy of this hero, legendary or otherwise, of some early
century after Christ, before His religion had found its way among those
northern tribes. Gentle, like Nelson, he had Nelson’s iron resolution.
What he undertook to do he went through without a thought, save of
getting to the end of it. Fear is wholly unknown to him, and he seems,
like Nelson, to have inspired his captains with his own courage. “I
swore no false oaths,” he said when dying; so also he kept his honour
in faithfulness to his lord. On foot, alone, in front, while life
lasted, he was his king’s defence. He kept it in equal faithfulness
when his lord was dead, and that to his own loss, for when the kingdom
was offered to him he refused, and trained Heardreg, the king’s son, to
war and learning, guarded him kindly with honour, and avenged him when
he was slain. He kept it in generosity, for he gave away all the gifts
that he received; in courtesy, for he gave even to those who had been
rude to him; and he is always gentle and grave with women. Above all,
he kept it in war, for these things are said of him, “so shall a man do
when he thinks to gain praise that shall never end, and cares not for
his life in battle.” “Let us have fame or death,” he cries, and when
Wiglaf comes to help him against the dragon, and Beowulf is wrapped in
the flame, Wiglaf recalls to him the aim of his whole life:--

“Beowulf, beloved, bear thyself well. Thou wert wont to say in youth
that thou wouldst never let honour go. Now, strong in deeds, ward thy
life, firm-souled prince, with all thy might, I will be thy helper.”
“These,” adds Mr. Stopford Brooke, “are the qualities of the man and
the hero, and I have thought it worth while to dwell on them, because
they represent the ancient English ideal, the manhood which pleased the
English folk even before they came to Britain, and because in all our
histories since Beowulf’s time, for twelve hundred years or so, they
have been repeated in the lives of the English warriors by land and sea
whom we chiefly honour. But it is not only the idea of a hero which we
have in Beowulf, it is also the idea of a king, the just governor, the
wise politician, the builder of peace, the defender of his own folk
at the price of his life, ‘the good king, the folk king, the beloved
king, the war ward of his land, the winner of treasure for the need of
his people, the hero who thinks in death of those who sail the sea,
the gentle and terrible warrior, who is buried amid the tears of his
people.’”

We owe Mr. Stopford Brooke earnest gratitude for bringing this heroic
ideal of the youth of our nation within reach of the unlearned.
But what have we been about to let a thousand years and more go by
without ever drawing on the inspiration of this noble ideal in giving
impulse to our children’s lives. We have many English heroes, it may
be objected: we have no need of this resuscitated great one from a
long buried past. We have indeed heroes galore to be proud of, but
somehow they have not often been put into song in such wise as to
reach the hearts of the children and the unlearned. We have to thank
Tennyson for our Arthur, and Shakespeare for our Henry the Fifth, but
we imagine that parents will find their children’s souls more in touch
with Beowulf than with either of these, because, no doubt, the legends
of a nation’s youth are the pages of history which most easily reach
a child, and Beowulf belongs to a younger stage of civilisation than
even Arthur. We hope the author of “Early English Literature” will
sometime give us the whole of the poem translated with a special view
to children, and interspersed with his own luminous teaching as we have
it here. The quaintness of the metre employed gives a feeling of _eld_
which carries the reader back, very successfully, to the long ago of
the poem.

We have already quoted largely from this “History of Early English
Literature,” but perhaps a fuller extract will give a better idea of
the work and of its real helpfulness to parents. The cost of the two
rather expensive volumes should be well repaid if a single child were
to be fired with emulation of the heroic qualities therein sung:--

“The action of the poem now begins with the voyage of Beowulf to the
Danish coast. The hero has heard that Hrothgar, the chief of the
Danes, is tormented by Grendel, a man-devouring monster. If Hrothgar’s
warriors sleep in Heorot--the great hall he has built--they are seized,
torn to pieces, and devoured. ‘I will deliver the king,’ thought
Beowulf, when he heard the tale from the roving seamen. ‘Over the swan
road I will seek Hrothgar; he has need of men.’ His comrades urged him
to the adventure, and fifteen of them were willing to fight it out with
him. Among the rest was a sea-crafty man who knew the ocean-paths.
Their ship lay drawn up on the beach, under the high cliff. Then--


                    “There the well-geared heroes
    Stepped upon the stem, while the stream of ocean
    Whirled the sea against the sand. To the ship, to its breast.
    Bright and carved things of cost carried then the heroes
    And the armour well-arrayed. So the men outpushed,
    On desired adventure, their tight ocean wood.
    Swiftly went above the waves, with a wind well-fitted,
    Likest to a fowl, the Floater, foam around its neck,
    Till about the same time, on the second day,
    The up-curvéd prow had come on so far,
    That at last the seamen saw the land ahead;
    Shining sea-cliffs, soaring headlands,
    Broad sea-nesses. So the Sailor of the Sea
    Reached the sea-way’s end.”
                                              _Beowulf_ l. 211.

“This was the voyage, ending in a fiord with two high sea-capes at its
entrance. The same kind of scenery belongs to the land whence they
had set out. When Beowulf returns over the sea the boat groans as it
is pushed forth. It is heavily laden; the hollow, under the single
mast with the single sail, holds eight horses, swords and treasure and
rich armours. The sail is hoisted, the wind drives the foam-throated
bark over the waves, until they see the Geats’ Cliffs--the well-known
sea-nesses. The keel is pressed up by the wind on the sand, and the
‘harbour-guard, who had looked forth afar o’er the sea with longing
for their return’--one of the many human touches of the poem--‘fastens
the wide-bosomed ship with anchoring chains to the strand, lest the
violence of the waves should sweep away the winsome boat.’... At the
end of the bay into which Beowulf sails is a low shore, on which he
drives his ship, stem on. Planks are pushed out on either side of
the prow; the Weder-folk slipped down on the shore, tied up their
sea-wood; their battle-sarks clanged on them as they moved. Then they
thanked the gods that the war-paths had been easy to them.... On the
ridge of the hill above the landing-place the ward of the coast of the
Scyldings sat on his horse, and saw the strangers bear their bright
shields over the bulwarks of the ship to the shore. He rode down,
wondering, to the sea, and shook mightily in his hands his heavy spear,
and called to the men--”

   “Who are ye of men,   having arms in hand,
    Covered with your coats of mail.   Who your keel afoaming
    O’er the ocean street   thus have urged along.
    Hither on the high sea!”
           *       *       *       *       *
                          “Never saw I greater
    Earl upon this earth   than is one of you;
    Hero in his harness.   He is no home-stayer,
    ‘Less his looks belie him,   lovely with his weapons.
    Noble is his air!”
                                          _Beowulf_, ll. 237-247.

“Beowulf replies that he is Hrothgar’s friend, and comes to free
him from ‘Grendel, the secret foe on the dark nights.’ He pities
Hrothgar, old and good. Yet, as he speaks, the Teutonic sense of the
inevitable Wyrd passes by in his mind, and he knows not if Hrothgar
can ever escape sorrow. ‘If ever,’ he says, ‘sorrow should cease from
him, release ever come, and the welter of care become cooler.’ The
coast-guard shows them the path, and promises to watch over their ship.
The ground rises from the shore, and they pass on to the hilly ridge,
behind which lies Heorot.”

“The History of the Early English Literature” takes us into other
pleasant places. Here are two or three specimens of the riddles of
the old bards, and in riddle and saga we get most vivid pictures of
the life and thoughts, the ways and words of the forefathers whom we
are too ready to think of as ‘rude,’ but who are here portrayed to
us as gentle, mild, and large of soul; men and women whom we, their
posterity, may well delight to honour.


I. Here is Cynewulf’s Riddle of the Sword.

    “I’m a wondrous wight   for warstrife shapen;
    By my lord beloved,   lovelily adorned:
    Many coloured is my corslet,   and a clasping wire
    Glitters round the gem of death   which my wielder gave to me:
    He who whiles doth urge me,   wide-wanderer that I am,
    With him to conquest.
                            Then I carry treasure,
    Cold above the garths,   through the glittering day;
    I of smiths the handiwork!   Often do I quell
    Breathing men with battle edges!   Me bedecks a king
    With his hoard and silver;   honours me in hall,
    Doth withhold no word of praise!   Of my ways he boasts
    ‘Fore the many heroes,   where the mead they drink.
    In restraint he lulls me,   then he lets me loose again,
    Far and wide to rush along;   me the weary with wayfarings,
    Cursed of all weapons.”
                                            _Riddle_ xxi.


II. The helmet speaks:--

                            “Wretchedness I bear;
    Wheresoe’er he carries me,   he who clasps the spear!
    On me, still upstanding,   smite the streams (of rain);
    Hail, the hard grain (helms me),   and the hoar-frost covers me;
    And the (flying) snow (in flakes)   falls all over me.”
                                           _Riddle_, lxxix. 6-10.


III. The horn speaks:--

   “I a weaponed warrior was!   now in pride bedecks me
    A young serving man   all with silver and fine gold,
    With the work of waving gyres!   Warriors sometimes kiss me.
    Sometimes I to strife of battle,   summon with my calling
    Willing war-companions;   whiles, the horse doth carry
    Me the march-paths over,   or the ocean-stallion
    Fares the flood with me,   flashing in my jewels--
    Often times a bower maiden,   all bedecked with armlets,
    Filleth up my bosom;   whiles, bereft of covers,
    I must, hard and headless,   (in the houses) lie!
    Then, again, hang I,   with adornments fretted,
    Winsome on the wall   where the warriors drink.
    Sometimes the folk fighters,   as a fair thing on warfaring,
    On the back of horses bear me;   then bedecked with jewels
    Shall I puff with wind   from a warrior’s breast.
    Then, again, to glee feasts   I the guests invite
    Haughty heroes to the wine--   other whiles shall I
    With my shouting, save from foes   what is stolen away,
    Make the plundering scather flee.   Ask what is my name!”
                                                      _Riddle_ xv.

We do not say a word about the literary value and importance of Mr.
Stopford Brooke’s great work; that is duly appraised elsewhere. ‘There
is nothing like leather,’ and to us here all things present themselves
as they may tell on education. Here is a very treasure-trove.


FOOTNOTES:

     [13] “History of Early English Literature,” by Stopford A.
          Brooke, 2 vols. Macmillan & Co.




                               CHAPTER XV

                           _IS IT POSSIBLE?_


The economic aspects of the great philanthropic scheme[14] which
brought timely relief to the national conscience before the setting in
of the hard winter of 1891, are, perhaps, outside our province, but
there are educational aspects of it which, we are in some measure,
bound to discuss. In the first place, the children in many homes hear,
“I do not believe that”--it is possible for the leopard to change
his spots. ‘General’ Booth’s scheme brings this issue before us with
startling directness, and what the children hear said to-day at the
table and by the fireside will probably influence for all their lives
their attitude towards all philanthropic and all missionary endeavour.
Not only so, but we ourselves, who stand in some measure _in loco
parentis_ to the distressed in mind, body, or estate, are compelled to
examine our own position. How far do we give, and work, for the ease of
our own conscience, and how far do we believe in the possibility of the
instant and utter restoration of the morally degraded, are questions
which, to-day, force themselves upon us. We must be ready with a yea or
a nay; we must take sides, for or against such possibilities as should
exalt philanthropic effort into a burning passion. The fact is, this
great scheme forced a sort of moral crisis upon us.

Whether or no the scheme commends itself to us for its fitness,
seasonableness, and promise, one thing it has assuredly done: it has
revealed us to ourselves, and that in an agreeable light. It has been
discovered to us that we, too, love our brother; that we, too, yearn
over “the bruised” with something of the tenderness of Christ. The
brotherhood of man is no fancy bred in the brain, and we have loved our
brother all the time--the sick, the poor, the captive, and the sinner,
too; but the fearful, and unbelieving, and slothful amongst us--that
is, the most of us--have turned away our eyes from beholding evils for
which we saw no help. But now that a promise of deliverance offers,
more adequate, conceivably, than any heretofore proposed, why, the
solidarity of humanity asserts itself; our brother who is bruised is
not merely near and dear; he is our very self, and whoso will ease and
revive him is our deliverer too.

The first flush of enthusiasm subsides, and we ask, Are we not, after
all, led away by what Coleridge calls the “Idol of Size”? Wherein does
this scheme differ from ten thousand others, except in the colossal
scale on which the experiment is to be tried? And perhaps we should
concede at the outset that this hope of deliverance is “the same,
only more so,” as is being already worked out effectually in many an
otherwise sunless corner of the great vineyard. Indeed, the great
project has its great risks--risks which the quieter work escapes.
All the same, there are aspects in which the remedy, because of its
vastness and inclusiveness, is new.

Hitherto we have helped the wretched _in_ impossible circumstances, not
_out of_ them. Our help has been as a drop in the bucket, reaching to
hundreds or thousands only of the lost millions. Even so, we cannot
keep it up; we give to-day, and withhold to-morrow; worse than all,
our very giving is an injury, reducing the power and the inclination
for self-help. Or, do we start some small amateur industry by way of
making our people _independent_? This pet industry may sometimes be
a transparent mask for almsgiving, and an encroachment upon regular
industries and the rights of other workers.

Now and then is a gleam of hope, now and then a soul and body snatched
into safety; but the hardest workers are glad of the noise of the
wheels to keep the eternal _Cui bono?_ out of their ears. There is so
much to be done, and so little means of doing it. But this scheme--what
with the amplitude of its provisions, what with the organisation and
regimentation it promises, the strong and righteous government, the
moral compulsion to well-doing--considering these, and the enormous
staff of workers already prepared to carry it out, the dreariest
pessimist amongst us concedes that General Booth’s scheme _may_ be
worth trying. “But,” he says, “but----


                     DO WE BELIEVE IN CONVERSION?”

Everything turns on the condition the originator wisely puts first.
There is the _crux_. Given money enough, land enough, men enough, fully
equip and officer this teeming horde of incapables, and some sort
of mechanical drill may be got through somehow. But, “when a man’s
own character and defects constitute the reasons for his fall, that
character must be changed and that conduct altered if any permanent
beneficial results are to be obtained.” The drunkard must be made
sober; the criminal, honest; the impure, clean. Can this be done? is
the crucial question. Is it possible that a man can emerge altogether
out of his old self and become a new creature, with new aims, new
thoughts, even new habits? That such renovation is possible is the
old contention of Christianity. Here, and not on the ground of the
inspiration of the sacred text, must the battle be fought out. The
answer to the one urgent question of the age, What think ye of Christ?
depends upon the power of the idea of Christ to attract and compel
attention, and of the indwelling of Christ to vivify and elevate a
single debased and torpid human soul.

Many of us believe exultingly that the “All power” which is given
into the hands of our Master includes the power of upright standing,
strength, and beauty for every bruised human reed. That this is so, we
have evidence in plenty, beginning with ourselves. But many others of
us, and those not the less noble, consider with Robert Elsmere, that
“miracles do not happen.” The recorded miracles serve as pegs for the
discussion; the essential miracle is the utter and immediate renovation
of a human being. Upon this possibility the saving of the world must
hang, and this many cannot receive, not because they are stiff-necked
and perverse, but because it is dead against natural law as they know
it. Proofs? Cases without end? The whole history of the Christian
Church in evidence? Yes; but the history of the Church is a chequered
one; and, for individual cases, we do not doubt the veracity of the
details; only, nobody knows the whole truth; some preparation in the
past, some motive in the present inadvertently kept out of sight, may
alter the bearings of any such case.

This is, roughly, the position of the honest sceptic, who would, if he
could, believe heartily in General Booth’s scheme, and, by consequence,
in the convertibility of the entire human race. To improve the
circumstances, even of millions, is only a question of the magnitude of
the measures taken, the wisdom of the administration. But human nature
itself, depraved human nature, is, to him, the impossible quantity.
_Can_ the leopard change his spots?


                     THE LAW AGAINST US--HEREDITY.

Who are they whom General Booth cheerfully undertakes to re-fashion
and make amenable to the conditions of godly and righteous and sober
living? Let us hear the life history of many of them in his own words:--

“The rakings of the human cesspool.”

“Little ones, whose parents are habitually drunk.... Whose ideas
of merriment are gained from the familiar spectacle of the nightly
debauch.”

“The obscenity of the talk of many of the children of some of our
public schools could hardly be outdone, even in Sodom and Gomorrah.”

And the childhood--save the word!--of the children of to-day reproduces
the childhood of their parents, their grand-parents, who knows? their
great-grand-parents. These are, no doubt, the worst; but the worst
must be reckoned with first, for if these slip through the meshes of
the remedial net, the masses more inert than vicious slide out through
the breaks. In the first place, then, the scheme embraces the vicious
by inheritance; proposes to mix up with the rest a class whose sole
heritage is an inconceivable and incalculable accumulation of vicious
inclinations and propensities. And this, in the face of that conception
of heredity which is quietly taking possession of the public mind, and
causing many thoughtful parents to abstain from very active efforts to
mould the characters of their children.

Those of us whose attention has been fixed upon the working of the
law of heredity until it appears to us to run its course, unmodified
and unlimited by other laws, may well be pardoned for regarding with
doubtful eye a scheme which has, for its very first condition, the
regeneration of the vicious; of the vicious by inherited propensity.


                       THE LAW AGAINST US--HABIT.

Use is second nature, we say. Habit is ten natures; habit begins as a
cobweb, and ends as a cable. “Oh, you’ll get used to it,” whatever it
is. Dare we face the habits in which these people have their being? It
is not only the obscene speech, the unholy acts; that which signifies
is the manner of thoughts we think; speech, act, are the mere outcome;
it is the habitual thought of a man which shapes that which we call his
character. And these, can we reasonably doubt that every imagination of
their heart is only evil continually? We say, use is second nature, but
let us consider what we mean by the phrase; what is the philosophy of
habit so far as it has been discovered to us. The seat of habit is the
brain; the actual grey nervous matter of the cerebrum. And the history
of a habit is shortly this: “The cerebrum of man grows to those modes
of thought in which it is habitually exercised.” That ‘immaterial’
thought should mould the ‘material’ brain need not surprise nor
scandalise us, for do we not see with our eyes that immaterial thought
moulds the face, forms what we call countenance, lovely or loathsome
according to the manner of thought it registers. The _how_ of this
brain growth is not yet in evidence, nor is this the time and place
to discuss it; but, bearing in mind this structural adaptation to
confirmed habit, what chance, again, we say, has a scheme which has for
its first condition the regeneration of the vicious, vicious not only
by inherited propensity, but by unbroken inveterate habit?


              THE LAW AGAINST US--UNCONSCIOUS CEREBRATION.

Those who are accustomed to write know what it is to sit down and
“reel off” sheet after sheet of matter without plan or premeditation,
clear, coherent, ready for press, hardly needing revision. We are told
of a lawyer who wrote in his sleep a lucid opinion throwing light on
a most difficult case; of a mathematician who worked out in his sleep
a computation which baffled him when awake. We know that Coleridge
dreamed “Kubla Khan” in an after-dinner nap, line by line, and wrote
it down when he awoke. What do these cases and a thousand like them
point to? To no less than this: that, though the all important _ego_
must, no doubt, “assist” at the thinking of the initial thought on
a given subject, yet, after that first thought or two, ‘brain’ and
‘mind’ manage the matter between them, and the thoughts, so to speak,
think themselves; not after the fashion of a pendulum which moves to
and fro, to and fro, in the same interval of space, but in that of a
carriage rolling along the same road, but into ever new developments of
the landscape. An amazing thought--but have we not abundant internal
evidence of the fact? We all know that there are times when we cannot
get rid of the thoughts that _will think themselves_ within us, though
they drive away sleep and peace and joy. In the face of this law,
benign as it eases us of the labour of original thought and decision
about the everyday affairs of life, terrible when it gets beyond our
power of control and diversion, what hope for those in whose debauched
brain vile thoughts, involuntary, automatic, are for ever running with
frightful rapidity in the one well-worn track? Truly, the _in_-look
is appalling. What hope for these? And what of a scheme whose first
condition is the regeneration of the vicious--vicious, not only by
inherited propensity, and by unbroken inveterate habit, but reduced to
that state of, shall we say, inevitable viciousness--when “unconscious
cerebration,” with untiring activity, goes to the emanation of vicious
imaginations? All these things are against us.


              THE LAW FOR US--LIMITATIONS TO THE DOCTRINE
                              OF HEREDITY.

But the last word of Science, and she has more and better words in
store, is full of hope. The fathers have eaten sour grapes, but it
is not inevitable that the children’s teeth be set on edge. The soul
that sinneth _it_ shall die, said the prophet of old, and Science is
hurrying up with her, “Even so.” The necessary corollary to the latest
modification of the theory of evolution is--_acquired modifications
of structure are not transmitted_. All hail to the good news; to
realise it, is like waking up from a hideous nightmare. This is,
definitely, our gain; the man who by the continuous thinking of
criminal thoughts has modified the structure of his brain so as to
adapt it to the current of such thoughts, does not necessarily pass on
this modification to his child. There is no necessary adaptation in
the cerebrum of the new-born child to make place for evil thoughts.
In a word, the child of the vicious may be born as fit and able for
good living as the child of the righteous. Inherent modifications are,
it is true, transmitted, and the line between inherent and acquired
modifications may not be easy to define. But, anyway, there is hope to
go on with. The child of the wicked may have as good a start in life,
so far as his birthright goes, as the child of the just. The child’s
future depends not upon his lineage so much as upon his bringing up,
for education is stronger than nature, and no human being need be given
over to despair. We need not abate our hope of the regeneration of the
vicious for the bugbear of an inheritance of irresistible propensity to
evil.


                 THE LAW FOR US--“ONE CUSTOM OVERCOMETH
                               ANOTHER.”

But habit! It is bad enough to know that use is second nature, and that
man is a bundle of habits; but how much more hopeless to look into the
_rationale_ of habit, and perceive that the enormous strength of the
habit that binds us connotes a structural modification, a shaping of
the brain tissues to the thought of which the habit is the outward and
visible sign and expression. Once such growth has taken place, is not
the thing done, so that it can’t be undone--has not the man taken shape
for life when his ways of thinking are registered in the substance of
his brain?

Not so; because one habit has been formed and registered in the brain
is no reason at all why another and contrary habit should not be formed
and registered in its turn. To-day is the day of salvation, physically
speaking, because a habit is a thing of _now_; it may be begun in a
moment, formed in a month, confirmed in three months, become the
character, the very man, in a year. There is growth to the new thoughts
in a new tract of the brain, and “One custom overcometh another.” Here
is the _natural_ preparation for salvation. The words are very old, the
words of Thomas à Kempis, but the perception that they have a literal
physical meaning has been reserved for us to-day. Only one train of
ideas can be active at one time; the old cell connections are broken,
and benign nature is busy building up the waste places, even be they
the waste places of many generations. NO ROAD is set up in the track
where the unholy thoughts carried on their busy traffic. New tissue
is formed; the wound is healed, and, save, perhaps, for a scar, some
little tenderness, that place is whole and sound as the rest.

This is how one custom overcometh another: there is no conflict,
no contention, no persuasion. Secure for the new idea a weighty
introduction, and it will accomplish all the rest for itself. It will
feed and grow; it will increase and multiply; it will run its course
of its own accord; will issue in that current of automatic unconscious
involuntary thought of the man which shapes his character. Behold, a
new man! Ye must be born again, we are told; and we say, with a sense
of superior knowledge of the laws of nature, How can a man be born
again? Can he enter the second time into his mother’s womb and be born?
This would be a miracle, and we have satisfied ourselves that “miracles
do not happen.” And now, at last, the miracle of conversion is made
plain to our dull understanding. We perceive that conversion, however
sudden, is no miracle at all--using the word _miracle_ to describe that
which takes place in opposition to natural law. On the contrary, we
find that every man carries in his physical substance the gospel of
perpetual, or of always possible, renovation; and we find how, from
the beginning, Nature was prepared with her response to the demand of
Grace. Is conversion possible? we ask; and the answer is, that it is,
so to speak, a function for which there is latent provision in our
physical constitution, to be called forth by the touch of a potent
idea. Truly, His commandment is exceeding broad, and grows broader day
by day with each new revelation of Science.

A man may, most men do, undergo this process of renovation many times
in their lives; whenever an idea strong enough to divert his thoughts
(as we most correctly say) from all that went before is introduced, the
man becomes a new creature; when he is “in love,” for example; when
the fascinations of art or of nature take hold of him; an access of
responsibility may bring about a sudden and complete conversion:--

    The breath no sooner left his father’s body
    But that his wildness, mortified in him,
    Seem’d to die too; yea, at that very moment,
    Consideration, like an angel, came
    And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him;
    Leaving his body as a paradise
    To envelop and contain celestial spirits.

Here is a picture--psychologically true, anyway, Shakespeare makes
no mistakes in psychology--of an immediate absolute conversion. The
conversion may be to the worse, alas, and not to the better, and the
value of the conversion must depend upon the intrinsic worthiness
of the idea by whose instrumentality it is brought about. The point
worth securing is, that man carries in his physical structure the
conditions of renovation; conditions, so far as we can conceive,
always in working order, always ready to be put in force. Wherefore
“conversion” in the Biblical sense, in the sense in which the promoters
of this scheme depend upon its efficacy, though a miracle of divine
grace in so far as it is a sign and a marvel, is no miracle in the
popular sense of that which is outside of and opposed to the workings
of “natural law.” Conversion is entirely within the divine scheme of
things, even if we choose to limit our vision of that scheme to the
“few, faint, and feeble” flashes which Science is as yet able to throw
upon the mysteries of being. But is this all? Ah, no; this is no more
than the dim vestibule of nature to the temple of grace; we are not
concerned, however, to say one word here of how “great is the mystery
of godliness;” of the cherishing of the Father, the saving and the
indwelling of the Son, the sanctifying of the Spirit; neither need
we speak of “spiritual wickedness in high places.” The aim of this
slight essay is to examine the assertion that what we call conversion
is contrary to natural law; and we do this with a view, not to General
Booth’s scheme only, but to all efforts of help.

Hope shows an ever stronger case for the regeneration of the vicious.
Not only need we be no more oppressed by the fear of an inheritance of
invincible propensities to evil, but the strength of life-long habit
may be vanquished by the power of an idea, new habits of thought may be
set up on the instant, and these may be fostered and encouraged until
that habit which is ten natures is the habit of the _new_ life, and
the thoughts which, so to speak, think themselves all day long are
thoughts of purity and goodness.


                THE LAW FOR US--POTENCY OF AN IDEA.

     “Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions,
      senses, affections, passions?”

In effecting the renovation of a man the external agent is ever an
_idea_, of such potency as to be seized upon with avidity by the mind,
and, therefore, to make an impression upon the nervous substance of the
cerebrum. The potency of an idea depends upon the fact of its being
complementary to some desire or affection within the man. Man wants
knowledge, for example, and power, and esteem, and love, and company;
also, he has within him capacities for love, esteem, gratitude,
reverence, kindness. He has an unrecognised craving for an object on
which to spend the good that is in him.

The idea which makes a strong appeal to any one of his primal desires
and affections must needs meet with a response. Such idea and such
capacity are made for one another; apart, they are meaningless as ball
and socket; together, they are a _joint_, effective in a thousand ways.
But the man who is utterly depraved has no capacity for gratitude,
for example? Yes, he has; depravity is a disease, a morbid condition;
beneath is the man, capable of recovery. This is hardly the place to
consider them, but think for a moment of the fitness of the ideas
which are summed up in the thought of Christ to be presented to the
poor degraded soul: divine aid and compassion for his neglected body;
divine love for his loneliness; divine forgiveness in lieu of the shame
of his sin; divine esteem for his self-contempt; divine goodness and
beauty to call forth the passion of love and loyalty that is in him;
the Story of the Cross, the lifting up, which perhaps no human soul is
able to resist if it be fitly put. And the divine idea once received,
the divine life is imparted also, grows, is fostered and cherished by
the Holy Ghost. The man is a new creature, with other aims, and other
thoughts, and a life out of himself. The old things have passed away,
and all things have become new--the physical being embodying, so to
speak, the new life of the spirit.

We may well believe, indeed, that “conversion” is so proper to the
physical and spiritual constitution of man that it is inevitable to all
of us if only the ideas summed up in Christ be fitly introduced to the
soul.

The question then turns, not upon the possibility of converting the
most depraved, nor upon the potency of the ideas to be presented,
but altogether upon the power of putting these ideas so that a man
shall recognise and seize upon the fulness of Christ as the necessary
complement to the emptiness of which he is aware.


                      THE HABITS OF THE GOOD LIFE.

But, the man converted, the work is not done. These sinners exceedingly
are not only sinful, but diseased; morbid conditions of brain have
been set up, and every one of them needs individual treatment, like
any other sick man, for disease slow of cure. For a month, three
months, six months, it will not do to let one of them alone. Curative
_treatment_ is an absolute condition of success, and here is where
human co-operation is invited in what is primarily and ultimately
the work of God. There are diseased places in the brain, where ill
thoughts have of old run their course; and these sore places must have
time, blessed time, wherein to heal. That is to say, all traffic in the
old thoughts must be absolutely stopped, at whatever cost.

Think of the Army of Vigilance which must be ever on the alert to
turn away the eyes of the patients from beholding evil; for, a single
suggestion, of drink, of uncleanness, and, _presto_, the old thoughts
run riot, and the work of healing must be begun anew. And, how to
keep out the old, but by administering the thoughts of the new life
watchfully, one by one, as they are needed, and can be taken; offering
them with engaging freshness, with comforting fitness, until at last
the period of anxious nursing is over, the habits of the good life are
set up, and the patient is able to stand on his own feet and labour for
his own meat. This is no work to be undertaken wholesale. The spiritual
care of a multitude diseased, even physically diseased, of sin, is no
light thing. And if it be not undertaken systematically, and carried
out efficiently, the whole scheme must of necessity fall through. Who
is sufficient for these things? No one, perhaps; but a following of a
great corps of nurses trained to minister to minds diseased, and with
the experience and the method belonging to a professional calling, is
surely, a fitting qualification for the Herculean task.


                        THE EASE OF DISCIPLINE.

How readily we can understand how, in the days when monarchs were
more despotic than they are now, one and another would take refuge in
a convent for the ease of doing the will of another rather than his
own! Is not this the attraction of conventual life to-day, and is not
this why the idea of the Salvation Army is powerfully attractive to
some of us who know, all the same, that we (individually) should be
wrong to lay down our proper function of ordering and acting out our
own lives. But for these, strong of impulse and weak of will, who have
no power at all to do the good they vaguely and feebly desire, oh,
the ease of being taken up into a strong and beneficent organisation,
of having their comings and goings, their doings and havings, ordered
for them! Organisation, regimentation, we are reminded, make a hero
of Tommy Atkins. And these all have it in them to be heroes, because,
restlessness, rebellion, once subdued, they will rejoice more than any
others in the ease of simply doing as they are bidden. Here is a great
secret of power, to treat these, lapsed and restored, like children;
for what is the object of family discipline, of that obedience which
has been described as “the whole duty of a child”? Is it not to ease
the way of the child, while will is weak and conscience immature, by
setting it on the habits of the good life where it is as easy to go
right as for a locomotive to run on its lines? Just such present relief
from responsibility, such an interval for development, do these poor
children of larger growth demand for their needs; and any existing
possibility of ordering and disciplining this mixed multitude must
needs appear to us a surpassing adaptation of “supply” to “demand.”

The saving grace of work, and the healing power of the fresh air,
again, should do their part in the restoration of the “submerged.” But
it is not our part to examine the methods proposed by General Booth,
or to adumbrate his chances of success. Our concern is solely with the
children. No doubt this great social scheme has been discussed, more
or less, in every family, and the attitude of thought towards all good
work which the children will henceforth take may depend very much upon
how far the underlying principles are made clear to them in one such
typical instance. Whatever the agency, let the children be assured that
the work is the work of God, to be accomplished in the strength of God,
according to the laws of God; that it is our part to make ourselves
acquainted with the laws we would work out, and that, having done all,
we wait for the inspiration of the divine life, even as the diligent
farmer waits upon sunshine and shower.


FOOTNOTES:

     [14] Issue of _Darkest England_.




                              CHAPTER XVI

                              _DISCIPLINE_


What part does Discipline play in your system of education? We should
hail the query as manifesting a cheering degree of interest if we were
not quite sure that our interlocutor uses discipline as a euphuism
for punishment. That conviction puts one’s mind into the attitude
of protest. In the first place, we have no system of education. We
hold that great things, such as nature, life, education are “cabined,
cribbed, confined” in proportion as they are systematised. We have a
_method_ of education, it is true, but method is no more than a way to
an end and is free, yielding, adaptive as Nature herself. Method has
a few comprehensive laws according to which details shape themselves,
as one naturally shapes one’s behaviour to the acknowledged law that
fire burns. System, on the contrary, has an infinity of rules and
instructions as to what you are to do and how you are to do it. Method
in education follows Nature humbly, stands aside and gives her fair
play.

System leads Nature: assists, supplements, rushes in to undertake
those very tasks which Nature has made her own since the world was.
Does Nature endow every young thing, child or kitten, with a wonderful
capacity for inventive play? Nay, but, says System, I can help here; I
will invent games for the child and help his plays, and make more use
of this power of his than unaided Nature knows how. So Dame System
teaches the child to play, and he enjoys it; but, alas, there is no
play in him, no initiative, when he is left to himself; and so on all
along the lines. System is fussy and zealous and produces enormous
results--in the teacher! Method pursues a “wise passiveness.” You
watch the teacher and are hardly aware that he is doing anything. The
children take the initiative, but, somehow, the result here is in these
and not in the teacher. They develop, become daily more and more of
persons, with

   “The reason firm, the temperate will,
    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill.”

Such as these are the golden fruits which ripen under the eyes of the
parent who is wise to discriminate between the _rôle_ of nature and
that of the educator, who follows sympathetically and dutifully the
lead of the great mother.

“Oh, then you have no discipline. I thought not. I daresay it would
answer very well to leave children to themselves and make them happy.
Children are always good when they are happy, are they not?” Not so
fast, dear reader. He who would follow a great leader must needs
endeavour himself, _Ohne Hast ohne Rast_, and the divine lead which
we call Nature is infinitely blessed in the following, but steep to
tread and hard to find and by no means to be confounded with leisurely
strolling in ways of our own devising.

The parent who would educate his children, in any large sense of the
word, must lay himself out for high thinking and lowly living; the
highest thinking indeed possible to the human mind and the simplest,
directest living.

This thought of discipline, for example, is one of the large
comprehensive ideas which must inform and direct the life, rather
than be gathered up into a rule, easy to remember and easy to apply,
when, now and then, comes the occasion for it. If Tommy is naughty,
whip him and send him to bed--is a ready-reckoner kind of rule, handy
to have about one, and is the sort of thing which many people mean by
discipline. Now we would not say that punishment is never to be used,
very much otherwise. Neither would we say that physic is never to be
taken. But punishment, like physic, is a casualty only of occasional
occurrence at the worst, and punishment and physic alike are reduced
to a minimum in proportion as we secure healthy conditions of body and
mind. We are not anxious to lay down canons for punishment. Mr. Herbert
Spencer has not perhaps said the last word, but he has given us a
quite convenient rule to go on with. A child should be punished by the
natural consequences of his offence. To carry this suggestion out _au
pied de la lettre_ would often enough mean lasting, even fatal injury
to the child, bodily and mental. You cannot let the indolent child be
punished by ignorance, or the wilful and adventurous child break his
limb; but, so far as punishments have been allowed to become necessary,
the nature of the offence gives one a clue to a suitable punishment.
The child who does not eat his porridge goes without his plum. This is,
anyway, a punishment in kind, perhaps the nearest approach to natural
consequences which it is advisable to try.

But parents should face the fact that children rather enjoy
punishments. In these they find the opportunities, so frequent is
story-books, so rare in real life, for showing a fine pluck. The child
who is in punishment is very commonly enjoying himself immensely,
because he is respecting himself intensely. There is a bit of heroism
in the bearing of the penalty which is very apt to do away with any
sense of contrition for the offence, and the plucky little fellow, who
takes his punishment with an air, is by no means a bad and hardened
young offender, but is an economist of opportunities, making the
best of what comes to hand for his own real education. His mother’s
distress, his father’s disapproval, these are quite different matters,
and carry no compensating sense of hardihood. Reflections like these
lead one to spare the rod, not at all out of over sensibility to the
child’s physical suffering, for we would have him endure hardness if we
mean to make a man of him, but purely because it is not easy to find a
punishment that does not defeat its own end.

The light smart slap, with which the mother visits the little child
when he is naughty, is often both effective and educative. It changes
the current of baby’s thoughts, and he no longer wishes to pull his
sister’s hair. But should not the slap be a last resort when no other
way is left of changing his thoughts? With the older child a theory
of punishments rests less upon the necessity to change the culprit’s
thoughts than upon the hope of forming a new association of ideas, that
is, of certain pains and penalties inevitably attached to certain forms
of wrong-doing. This, we know too well, is a teaching of life, and is
not to be overlooked in education. The experience of each of us goes to
prove that every breach of law, in thought or deed, is attended by its
own penalties, immediate or remote, and the child who is not brought
up to know that “due follows deed in course,” is sent out to his first
campaign undrilled and untrained, a raw recruit.

Our contention is (_a_), that the need for punishment is mostly
preventable, and (_b_), that the fear of punishment is hardly ever
so strong a motive as the delight of the particular wrong-doing in
view. If punishment were necessarily reformative and able to cure us
all of those “sins we have a mind to,” why, the world would be a very
good world, for no manner of sin escapes its present punishment. The
fact is, not that punishment is unnecessary or that it is useless,
but that it is inadequate and barely touches our aim; which is, not
the visitation of the offence, but the correction of that fault of
character of which the offence is the outcome. Jemmy tells lies and
we punish him, and by so doing we mark our sense of the offence; but,
probably, no punishment could be invented drastic enough to cure Jemmy
of telling lies in the future, and this is the thing to be aimed at.
No, we must look deeper; we must find out what weak place in character,
what false habit of thinking, leads Jemmy to tell lies, and we must
deal with this false habit in the only possible way, by forming the
contrary habit of true thinking, which will make Jemmy grow up a true
man. “I think I have never told a lie since,” said a lady, describing
the single conversation in which her father cured her of lying by
setting up an altogether new train of thought.

Not mere spurts of occasional punishment, but the incessant
watchfulness and endeavour which go to the forming and preserving
of the habits of the good life, is what we mean by discipline, and
from this point of view never were there such disciplinarians as the
parents who labour on the lines we indicate. Every habit of courtesy,
consideration, order, neatness, punctuality, truthfulness, is itself a
schoolmaster, and orders life with the most unfailing diligence.

A habit is so easily formed, so strong to compel. There are few
parents who would not labour diligently if for every month’s labour
they were able to endow one of their children with £1000. But, in a
month, a parent may form a habit in his child of such infinite value
that your thousand pounds is a mere bagatelle by comparison. We have
often urged that the great discovery which modern science has brought
to the aid of the educator is, that every habit of the life sets up, as
it were, a material record in the brain tissues. We all know that we
think as we are used to think and act as we are used to act. Ever since
man began to notice the ways of his own mind this law of habit has been
matter of common knowledge, and has been more or less acted upon by
parents and other trainers of children. The well brought-up child has
always been a child carefully trained in good habits. But it is only
within our own day that it has been possible to lay down definite laws
for the formation of habits. Until now, the mother who wished to train
her children in such and such a good habit has found herself hindered
by a certain sense of casualty. “I am sure I am always telling her”--to
keep her drawers neat, or to hold up her head and speak nicely, or to
be quick and careful about an errand,--says the poor mother, with tears
in her eyes; and indeed this, of “always telling” him or her is a weary
process for the mother; dull, because hopeless. She goes on “telling”
to deliver her own soul, for she has long since ceased to expect any
result; and we know how dreary is work without hope. But, perhaps
even his mother does not know how unutterably dreary is this “always
telling,” which produces nothing, to the child. At first he is fretful
and impatient under the patter of idle words; then he puts up with
the inevitable, but comes at last hardly to be aware that the thing is
being said. As for any impression on his character, any habit really
formed, all this labour is without result; the child does the thing
when he cannot help it and evades as often as he can. And the poor
disappointed mother says, “I’m sure I’ve tried as much as any mother
to train my children in good habits, but I have failed.” She is not
altogether dispirited, however. The children have not the habits she
wished to train them in, but they grow up warm-hearted, good-natured,
bright young people, by no means children to be ashamed of. All the
same, the mother’s sense of failure is a monition to be trusted. Our
failures in life are, perhaps, due, for the most part, to the defects
of our qualities, and, therefore, it is not enough to send children
into the world with just the inheritance of character they get from
their parents.

Let us offer a few definite practical counsels to a parent who wishes
to deal seriously with a bad habit. _First._--Let us remember that this
bad habit has made its record in the brain. _Second._--There is one
way only of obliterating such record; the absolute cessation of the
habit for a considerable space of time, say, some six or eight weeks.
_Third._--During this interval new growth, new cell connections, are
somehow or other taking place, and the physical seat of the evil is
undergoing a natural healing. _Fourth._--But the only way to secure
this pause is to introduce some new habit as attractive to the child
as is the wrong habit you set yourself to cure. _Fifth._--As the bad
habit usually arises from the defect of some quality in the child it
should not be difficult for the parent who knows his child’s character
to introduce the contrary good habit. _Sixth._--Take a moment of happy
confidence between parent and child; introduce, by tale or example,
the stimulating idea; get the child’s will with you. _Seventh._--Do
not tell him to do the new thing, but quietly and cheerfully _see that
he does it_ on all possible occasions, for weeks if need be, all the
time stimulating the new idea, until it takes great hold of the child’s
imagination. _Eighth._--Watch most carefully against any recurrence of
the bad habit. _Ninth._--Should the old fault recur, do not condone it.
Let the punishment, chiefly the sense of your estrangement, be acutely
felt. Let the child feel the shame of not only having done wrong, but
of having done the wrong when it was perfectly easy to avoid the wrong
and do the right. Above all “watch unto prayer” and teach your child
dependence upon divine aid in this warfare of the spirit; but also, the
absolute necessity for his own efforts.

Susie is an inquisitive little girl. Her mother is surprised and
not always delighted to find that the little maid is constantly on
voyages of discovery, which the servants speak of to each other as
prying and poking. Is her mother engaged in talk with a visitor or
the nurse--behold, Susie is at her side, sprung from nobody knows
where. Is a confidential letter being read aloud--Susie is within
earshot. Does the mother think she has put away a certain book where
the children cannot find it--Susie volunteers to produce it. Does she
tell her husband that cook has asked for two days leave of absence--up
jumps Susie, with all the ins and outs of the case. “I really don’t
know what to do with the child. It is difficult to put down one’s foot
and say you ought not to know this or that or the other. Each thing
in itself is harmless enough, but it is a little distressing to have
a child who is always peering about for gossipy information.” Yes,
it is tiresome, but is not a case for despair, nor for thinking hard
things of Susie, certainly not for accepting the inevitable. Regarding
this tiresome curiosity as the defect of its quality, the mother casts
about for the quality, and, behold, Susie is reinstated. What ails the
child is an inordinate desire for knowledge, run to seed, and allowed
to spend itself on unworthy objects. When the right moment comes,
introduce Susie to some delightful study, of Nature, for example, which
will employ all her prying proclivities. Once the new idea has taken
possession of the little girl, a little talk should follow about the
unworthiness of filling one’s thoughts with trifling matters so that
nothing really interesting can get in. For weeks together see that
Susie’s mind is too full of large matters to entertain the small ones;
and, once the inquisitive habit has been checked, encourage the child’s
active mind to definite progressive work on things worth while. Susie’s
unworthy curiosity will soon cease to be a trial to her parents.




                              CHAPTER XVII

                       _SENSATIONS AND FEELINGS_

                                 PART I


Children whose parents have little theoretic knowledge of the values
of the various food-stuffs are often thoroughly nourished; their
parents rely on what they call common-sense; and the result is, on
the whole, better than if scientific consideration were given to the
family dietary. But this common-sense has usually scientific opinion
for its basis, though the fact may be forgotten, and when scientific
opinion has become the groundwork of habit it is of more value, and
works in a more simple way, than while it is still in the stage
of experiment. In the same way it is a good thing to have such an
acquaintance with the functions of human nature that we act on our
knowledge unconsciously, and do not even know that we possess it. But
if we have no such floating capital of cognisance we must study the
subject, even if we have to make experiments. Most people suppose that
the sensations, feelings, and emotions of a child are matters that
take care of themselves. Indeed, we are apt to use the three terms
indiscriminately, without attaching very clear ideas to them. But they
cover, collectively, a very important educational field; and though
common sense, that is to say judgments formed upon inherited knowledge,
often helps us to act wisely without knowing why, we shall probably
act more wisely if we act reasonably.

Let us consider, first, the subject of sensations. We speak of
sensations of cold, and sensations of heat, and sensations of pain, and
we are quite right. We also speak of sensations of fear and sensations
of pleasure, and we are commonly wrong. The sensations have their
origin in impressions received by the several organs of sense--eye,
tongue, nostrils, ear, the surface of the external skin--and are
conveyed by the sensory nerves, some to the spinal cord and some to
the lower region of the brain. Many sensations we know nothing about;
when we become aware of our sensations it is because communications are
sent by nerve fibres, acting as telegraph wires, from the sensorium to
the thinking brain, and this happens when we give our _attention_ to
any one of the multitudinous messages carried by the sensory nerves.
The physiology of the senses is too complicated a subject for us to
touch upon here, but it is deeply interesting, and perhaps no better
introduction exists than Professor Clifford’s little book, “Seeing
and Thinking” (Macmillan). Now the senses are “The Five Gateways of
Knowledge,” to quote the title of a little book which many of us have
used in early days; and an intelligent person should be aware of, and
capable of forming judgments upon, the sensations he receives.

We all recognise that the training of the senses is an important
part of education. One caution is necessary: from the very first a
child’s sensations should be treated as matters of objective and not
of subjective interest. Marmalade, for example, is interesting, not
because it is “nice”--a fact not to be dwelt upon at all--but because
one can discern in it different flavours and the modifying effect of
the oil secreted in the rind of the orange. We shall have occasion to
speak more of this subject later; but a useful piece of education is
this of centering a child’s interest in the objects which produce his
sensations and not in himself as the receiver of these sensations.

The purpose of so-called object lessons is, to assist a child, by
careful examination of a given object, to find out all he can about it
through the use of his several senses. General information about the
object is thrown in and lodges only because the child’s senses have
been exercised, and his interest aroused. Object lessons are a little
in disfavour, just now, for two reasons. In the first place, miserable
fragments are presented to the children which have little of the
character of the object _in situ_, and are apt to convey inadequate,
if not wrong, ideas. In the next place, object lessons are commonly
used as a means to introduce children to hard words, such as opaque and
translucent, which never become part of their living thought until they
pick them up for themselves incidentally as they have need of them. But
the abuse of this kind of teaching should not cause us to overlook its
use. No child can grow up without daily object teaching, whether casual
or of set purpose, and the more thorough this is the more intelligent
and observant will he become. It is singular how few people are capable
of developing an intelligent curiosity about the most attractive
objects, except as their interest is stimulated from without. The baby
is a wonderful teacher in this matter of object lessons. To be sure
his single pupil is his own small self, but his progress is amazing.
At first he does not see any difference between a picture of a cow and
the living animal; big and little, far and near, hard and soft, hot
and cold, are all alike to him; he wishes to hold the moon in his
pinafore, to sit on the pond, to poke his finger into the candle, not
because he is a foolish little person, but because he is profoundly
ignorant of the nature of the contents of this unintelligible world.
But how he works! he bangs his spoon to try if it produces sound; he
sucks it to try its flavour; he fumbles it all over and no doubt finds
out whether it is hard or soft, hot or cold, rough or smooth; he gazes
at it with the long gaze of infancy, so that he may learn the look of
it; it is an old friend and an object of desire when he sees it again,
for he has found out that there is much joy in a spoon. This goes on
with great diligence for a couple of years, at the end of which time
baby has acquired enough knowledge of the world to conduct himself in a
very dignified and rational way.

This is what happens under Nature’s teaching; and for the first five
or six years of his life everything, especially everything in action,
is an object of intelligent curiosity to the child--the street or the
field is a panorama of delight, the shepherd’s dog, the baker’s cart,
the man with the barrow, are full of vivid interest. He has a thousand
questions to ask, he wants to know about everything; he has, in fact,
an inordinate appetite for knowledge. We soon cure all that: we occupy
him with books instead of things; we evoke other desires in place of
the desire to know; and we succeed in bringing up the unobservant
man (and more unobservant woman), who discerns no difference between
an elm, a poplar and a lime tree, and misses very much of the joy of
living. By the way, why is it that the baby does not exercise with
purpose his organ of smell? He screws up a funny little nose when he
is taught to sniff at a flower, but this is a mere trick; he does not
naturally make experiments as to whether things are odorous, while each
of his other senses affords him keen joy. No doubt the little nose is
involuntarily very active, but can his inertness in this matter be an
hereditary failing? It may be that we all allow ourselves to go about
with obtuse nostrils. If so, this is a matter for the attention of
mothers, who should bring up their children not only to receive, which
is involuntary and vague, but to perceive odours from the first.

Two points call for our attention in this education of the senses; we
must assist the child to educate himself on Nature’s lines, and we must
take care not to supplant and crowd out Nature and her methods with
that which we call education. Object lessons should be incidental;
and this is where the family enjoys so great an advantage over the
school. It is almost impossible that the school should give any but
set lessons, but this sort of teaching in the family falls in with
the occurrence of the object. The child who finds that wonderful and
beautiful object, a “paper” wasp’s nest, attached to a larch-twig, has
his object lesson on the spot from father or mother. The grey colour,
the round symmetrical shape, the sort of cup and ball arrangement,
the papery texture, the comparative size, the comparative smoothness,
the odour or lack of odour, the extreme lightness, the fact that it
is not cold to the touch. These and fifty other particulars the child
finds out unaided, or with no more than a word, here and there, to
direct his observation. One does not every day find a wasp’s nest,
but much can be got out of every common object, and the commoner the
better, which falls naturally under the child’s observation, a piece of
bread, a lump of coal, a sponge. In the first place it is unnecessary
in the family to give an exhaustive examination to every object; one
quality might be discussed in this, another quality in that. We eat
our bread and milk and notice that bread is absorbent, and we overhaul
our experience to discover other things which we know to be absorbent
also, and we do what we can to compare these things as to whether they
are less absorbent or more absorbent than bread. This is exceedingly
important: the unobservant person states that an object is light and
considers that he has stated an ultimate fact: the observant person
makes the same statement, but has in his mind a relative scale, and
his judgment is of the more value because he compares it silently
with a series of substances to which this is relatively light. It is
important that children should learn to recognise that high, low,
sweet, bitter, long, short, agreeable, &c., &c., are comparative terms,
while square, round, black, white, are positive terms, the application
of which is not affected by comparison with other objects. Care in this
matter makes for higher moral, as well as intellectual development:
half the dissensions in the world arise from an indiscriminate use of
epithets. “Would you say your bread (at dinner) was light or heavy?”
The child would probably answer, “rather light.” “Yes, we can only say
that a thing is light by comparing it with others; what is bread light
compared with?” “A stone, a piece of coal, of cheese, of butter of the
same size.” “But it is heavy compared with?” “A piece of sponge cake,
a piece of sponge, of cork, of pumice,” and so on. “What do you think
it weighs?” “An ounce, an ounce and a half.” “We’ll try after dinner;
you had better have another piece and save it,” and the weighing after
dinner is a delightful operation. The power of judging of weight is
worth cultivating. We heard the other day of a gentleman who was
required at a bazaar to guess the weight of a monster cake; he said
it weighed twenty-eight pounds fourteen ounces, and it did, exactly.
_Cæteris paribus_, one has a greater respect for the man who made this
accurate judgment than for the well-intentioned but vague person, who
suggested that the cake might weigh ten pounds. Letters, book parcels,
an apple, an orange, a vegetable marrow, fifty things in the course of
the day give opportunities for this kind of object teaching, _i.e._,
the power of forming accurate judgments as to the relative and absolute
weight of objects by their resistance, which is perceived by our sense
of touch, though opposed to our muscular force. By degrees the children
are trained to perceive that the relative weights of objects depend
upon their relative density, and are introduced to the fact that we
have a standard of weight.

In the same way children should be taught to measure objects by
the eye. How high is that candlestick? How long and broad that
picture-frame? and so on--verifying their statements. What is the
circumference of that bowl? of the clock-face? of that flower-bed? How
tall is so-and-so, and so-and-so? How many hands high are the horses
of their acquaintance? Divide a slip of wood, a sheet of paper into
halves, thirds, quarters by the eye; lay a walking-stick at right
angles with another; detect when a picture, curtain, &c., hangs out of
the perpendicular. This sort of practice will secure for children what
is called a correct or true eye.

A quick and true ear is another possession that does not come by
Nature, or anyway, if it does, it is too often lost. How many sounds
can you distinguish in a sudden silence out of doors? Let these be
named in order from the less to the more acute. Let the notes of the
birds be distinguished, both call-notes and song-notes; the four or
five distinct sounds to be heard in the flow of a brook. Cultivate
accuracy in distinguishing footfalls and voices; in discerning, with
their eyes shut, the direction from which a sound proceeds, in which
footsteps are moving. Distinguish passing vehicles by their sounds;
as lorry, brougham, dog-cart. Music is, no doubt, the instrument _par
excellence_ for this kind of ear culture. Mrs. Curwen’s “Child Pianist”
puts carefully graduated means for this kind of culture into the hands
of parents; and, if a child never become a performer, to have acquired
a cultivated and correct ear is no small part of a musical education.

We do not attach enough importance to the discrimination of odours,
whether as a safeguard to health, or as a source of pleasure. Half the
people one knows have nostrils which register no difference between the
atmosphere of a large, and so-called “airy,” room, whose windows are
never opened, and that of a room in which a through current of air is
arranged for at frequent intervals: and yet health depends largely on
a delicate perception as to the purity of the atmosphere. The odours
which result in diphtheria or typhoid are perceptible, however faint,
and a nose trained to detect the faintest malodorous particles in food,
clothing, or dwelling, is a panoply against disease to the possessor.

Then, odours enter more readily than other sense perceptions into
those--

   “Sensations sweet,
    Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,”

which add so much to the sum of our happiness, because they unite
themselves so readily with our purely incorporeal joys by links of
association. “I never smell woodruff without being reminded----”
is the sort of thing we hear and say continually, but we do not
trouble ourselves to realise that we owe a double joy to the odour
of the woodruff (or it may be, alas! a reflected sorrow)--the joy of
the pleasant influences about us when we pluck the flower, and the
possibly more personal joy of that other time with which we associate
it. Every new odour perceived is a source, if not of warning, of
recurrent satisfaction or interest. We are acquainted with too few of
the odours which the spring-time offers. Only this spring the present
writer learned two peculiarly delightful odours quite new to her,
that of young larch twigs, which have much the same kind and degree
of fragrance as the flower of the syringa, and the pleasant musky
aroma of a box-hedge. Children should be trained, for example, to shut
their eyes when they come into the drawing-room and discover by their
nostrils what odorous flowers are present, should discriminate the
garden odours let loose by a shower of rain:--

   “Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
       perfumes,
    I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it.
           *       *       *       *       *
    The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation,
       it is odourless,
    It is for my mouth for ever, I am in love with it.
           *       *       *       *       *
    The sniff of green leaves, and dry leaves, and of the shore, and
       dark-coloured sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn.”

--The American poet has, perhaps, done more than any other to express
the pleasure to be found in odours. This is one direction in which
much remains to be done; we have not yet arrived even at a scale of
odours, as of sound and of colour.

Flavour, again, offers a wide range for delicate discrimination. At
first sight it would appear difficult to cultivate the sense of flavour
without making a child more or less of a gourmand, but the fact is,
that the strong flavours which titillate the palate destroy the power
of perception. The young child who lives upon milk-foods has, probably,
more pleasure in flavour than the diner-out who is _au fait_ with the
confections of a _cordon bleu_. At the same time, one would prefer to
make flavour a source of interest rather than of sensuous pleasure to
children: it is better that they should try to discern a flavour with
their eyes shut, for example, than that they should be allowed to think
or say that things are “nice” or “nasty.” This sort of fastidiousness
should be cried down. It is not well to make a child eat what he does
not like, as that would only make him dislike that particular dish
always; but to let him feel that he shows a want of self-control and
manliness when he expresses distaste for wholesome food is likely to
have a lasting effect.

We have barely touched on the sorts of object lessons, appealing now
to one sense and now to another, which should come incidentally every
day in the family. We are apt to regard an American Indian as a quite
uneducated person; he is, on the contrary, highly educated in so far
as that he is able to discriminate sensory impressions, and to take
action upon these in a way which is bewildering to the book-learned
European. It would be well for parents to educate a child, for the
first half-dozen years of his life at any rate, on “Red Indian”
lines. Besides the few points we have mentioned, he should be able
to discriminate colours and shades of colour; relative degrees of
heat in woollen, wood, iron, marble, ice; should learn the use of the
thermometer; should discriminate objects according to their degrees of
hardness; should have a cultivated eye and touch for texture; should,
in fact, be able to get as much information about an object from a
few minutes’ study, as to its form, colour, texture, size, weight,
qualities, parts, characteristics, as he could learn out of many pages
of a printed book. We approach the subject by the avenue of the child’s
senses rather than by that of the objects to be studied, because just
now we have in view the occasional test exercises, the purpose of which
is to give thorough culture to the several senses. An acquaintance with
nature and natural objects is another thing, and is to be approached
in a slightly different way. A boy who is observing a beetle does not
consciously apply his several senses to the beetle, but lets the beetle
take the initiative, which the boy reverently follows: but the boy who
is in the habit of doing daily sensory gymnastics will learn a great
deal more about the beetle than he who is not so trained.

Definite object lessons differ from these incidental exercises in that
an object is in a manner exhausted by each of the senses in turn and
every atom of information it will yield got out of it. A good plan is
to make this sort of a lesson a game, pass your object round--piece of
bread, for example--and let each child tell some fact that he discovers
by touch, another round by smell, again by taste, and again by sight.
Children are most ingenious in this kind of game, and it affords
opportunities to give them new words, as friable, elastic, when they
really ask to be helped to express some discovery they have made. The
children learn to think with exactitude too, to distinguish between
friable and brittle, for example, and any common information that is
offered to them in the course of these exercises becomes a possession
for ever. A good game in the nature of an object lesson, suitable for a
birthday party, is to have a hundred small objects arranged on a table,
unknown to the children, then lead the little party into the room,
allow them three minutes to walk round the table, and then, when they
have left the room, let them write, or tell in a corner, the names of
all the objects they recollect. Some children will easily get fifty or
sixty.

No doubt the best and happiest exercise of the senses springs out
of a loving familiarity with the world of nature, but the sorts of
gymnastics we have indicated render the perceptions more acute and
are greatly enjoyed by children. That the sensations should not be
permitted to minister unduly to the subjective consciousness of the
child is the great point to be borne in mind.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                       _SENSATIONS AND FEELINGS_

                                PART II

                    “These beauteous forms,
    Through a long absence, have not been to me
    As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye;
    But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din
    Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
    In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
    Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
    And passing even into my purer mind,
    With tranquil restoration:--feelings, too,
    Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
    As have no slight or trivial influence
    On that best portion of a good man’s life,
    His little, nameless, unremembered acts
    Of kindness and of love.”
                       --W. WORDSWORTH, _Tintern Abbey_.


Insight--the so to speak scientific grip of a great poet--is amongst
those “more things” in heaven and earth than our philosophy has dreamed
of. Wordsworth tells us that after the lapse of years, these beauteous
forms (of Tintern Abbey) gave him sensations. Now we are apt to think
that sensations can only be immediate, perceived on the instant that
the object is present to the senses; but the poet is, as usual,
absolutely right: we may have, so to speak, reflected sensations, as
well as those that are immediate, because a conscious sensation depends
upon the recognition of an impression in the sensory centres, and this
recognition may be evoked, not only by a repeated sensation, but by
an association which recalls the image once permanently impressed by
the original sensation. Wordsworth is exquisitely right when he speaks
of the repeated enjoyment of sensations sweet. “In lonely rooms and
’mid the din of towns and cities” some sudden touch of the cords of
association has brought to him the soothing joy of a picture--“Forms”
with every grace of symmetry, harmony, venerable antiquity, in the ever
fresh and gracious setting of a beautiful landscape. The eye of his
mind is infinitely gladdened; the ear of his mind, no longer conscious
of the din of cities, hears the chord struck by the Wye in its flow,
and the notes of the birds and the lowing of the cattle and the
acuter notes of the insect world. Again he perceives the odour of the
meadow-sweet, he touches the coolness of the grass, and all these are
as absolutely sensations as when they were for the first time conveyed
to his consciousness by the sensory organs.

We have in these few lines a volume of reasons why we should fill
the storehouse of memory for the children with many open-air images,
capable of giving them reflected sensations of extreme delight. Our
care all the time must be to secure that they do look, and listen,
touch, and smell, and the way to this is by sympathetic action on
our part: what we look at they will look at; the odours we perceive
they too will get. We heard, the other day, of a little girl who
travelled in Italy with her parents, in the days of dignified family
travelling-carriages. The child’s parents were conscientious, and
time was precious, not by any means to be wasted on the mere idleness
of travelling, so the governess and the little girl had the _coupé_
to themselves, and in it were packed all the paraphernalia of the
schoolroom, and she did her sums, learned her geography, probably the
counties of England, and all the rest of it, with the least possible
waste of time in idle curiosity as to what the “faire londes,” through
which she was passing, might be like. A story like this shows that
we are making advances, but we are still far from fully recognising
that our part in the education of children should be thoughtfully
subordinated to that played by Nature herself.

To continue our study of this amazingly accurate, as well as
exquisitely beautiful, psychological record:--the poet goes on to tell
us that these sensations sweet are “felt in the blood and felt along
the heart,” a statement curiously true to fact, for a pleasurable
sensation causes the relaxation of the infinitesimal nerve fibres
netted around the capillaries, the blood flows freely, the heart
beats quicker, the sense of well-being is increased; gaiety, gladness
supervene; and the gloom of the dull day, and the din of the busy city,
exist for us no more; that is to say, memories of delight are, as it
were, an elixir of life capable, when they present themselves, of
restoring us at any moment to a condition of physical well-being.

But even this is not the whole. Wordsworth speaks of these memories as
“passing into my purer mind with tranquil restoration”--purer because
less corporeal, less affected by physical conditions, but all the same
so intimately related to the physical brain, that the condition of the
one must rule the other. Mind and brain perhaps have been alike fagged
by the insistent recurrence of some one line of thought, when suddenly
there flashes into the “purer mind” the cognition of images of delight,
represented in consequence of a touch to some spring of association:
the current of thought is diverted into new and delightful channels,
and weariness and brain fag give place to “tranquil restoration.”

If mere sensations are capable of doing so much for our happiness, our
mental refreshment, and our physical well-being, both at the time of
their reception and for an indefinite number of times afterwards, it
follows that it is no small part of our work as educators to preserve
the acuteness of the children’s perceptions, and to store their
memories with images of delight.

The poet pursues the investigation and makes a pointed distinction;
he not only recovers “sensations sweet,” but “feelings, too, of
unremembered pleasure.” Very few persons are capable of discriminating
between the sensations and the feelings produced by an image recovered
by some train of association. Wordsworth’s psychology is not only
delicately nice, but very just, and the distinction he draws is
important to the educator. The truth is “the feelings” are out of
fashion at present; _The Man of Feeling_ is a person of no account;
if he still exists he keeps in the shade, being aware, through a
certain quickness of perception which belongs to him, that any little
efflorescence proper to his character would be promptly reduced to
pulp by the application of a sledge hammer. _The Man of Feeling_ has
himself to thank for this; he allowed his feelings to become fantastic;
his sweet sensibilities ran away with him; he meant pathos and talked
bathos; he became an exaggerated type, and in self-preservation Society
always cut off the offending limb, so _The Man of Feeling_ is no more.
Nor is this the only charge that “the feelings” have to sustain. So
long as the feelings remain objective they are, like the bloom to the
peach, the last perfection of a beautiful character; but when they
become subjective, when every feeling concerns itself with the _ego_,
we have, as in the case of sensations, morbid conditions set up; the
person begins by being “over sensitive,” hysteria supervenes, perhaps
melancholia, an utterly spoilt life. George Eliot has a fine figure
which aptly illustrates this subjective condition of the feelings. She
tells us that a philosophic friend had pointed out to her that whereas
the surface of a mirror or of a steel plate may be covered with minute
scratches going in every direction, if you hold a lighted candle to
the surface all these random scratches appear to arrange themselves
and radiate from the central flame: just so with the person whose
feelings have been permitted to minister to his egoistic consciousness:
all things in heaven and earth are “felt” as they affect his own
personality.

What are the feelings? Perhaps they are best expressed in Coleridge’s
phrase of “a vague appetency of the mind”; and we may do something to
clear our thoughts by a negative examination. The feelings are _not_
sensations, because they have no necessary connection with the senses;
they are to be distinguished from the two great affections (of love and
justice) because they are not actively exercised upon any objects; they
are distinct from the desires because they demand no gratification; and
they are distinguishable from the intellectual operations which we call
thought, because while thought proceeds from an idea, is active, and
arrives at a result, the feelings arise from perceptions, are passive,
and not definitely progressive.

Every feeling has its positive and its negative, and these in almost
infinitely varying degrees: pleasure, displeasure; appreciation,
depreciation; anticipation, foreboding; admiration, contempt;
assurance, hesitancy; diffidence, complacency; and so on through
many more delicate _nuances_ of feeling that are nameable, and yet
more so delicate that language is too rough an instrument for their
expression. It will be observed that all these feelings have certain
conditions in common; none are distinctly moral or immoral; they have
not arrived at the stage of definite thought; they exist vaguely in
what would appear to be a semi-conscious intellectual region. Why then
need we concern ourselves about this little known tract of that _terra
incognita_ which we call human nature? This “why” is the question
of the prose-philosopher--our poet sees deeper. In one of the most
exquisitely discriminating passages in the whole field of poetry,
he speaks of feelings of unremembered pleasure as having no slight
or trivial influence on a good man’s life, as the source of “little
nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love.” Even the feeling
of “_unremembered_ pleasure”--for it is possible to have the spring of
association touched so lightly that one recovers the feeling of former
pleasure without recovering the sensation, or the image which produced
the sensation, but merely just the vague feeling of the pleasure, as
when one hears the word ‘Lohengrin’ and does not wait, as it were,
to recover the sensation of musical delight, but just catches a waft
of the pleasure which the sensation brought--intangible, indefinite
as they are, produce that glow of the heart which warms a good man
to “acts of kindness and of love,” as little, as nameless, and as
unremembered as the feelings out of which they spring.

Nameless as they are, our poet does not hesitate to rank these trifling
acts as the “best portion of a good man’s life.” But it is only out
of the good man’s heart that these good issues come, because, as we
have said, the feelings are not in themselves moral, they act upon
that which is there, and the point brought before us is, that the
influence of the feelings is equally powerful and indirect. Why should
the recollection of Tintern Abbey cause a good man to do some little
kind thing? We can only give the ultimate answer that “God has made us
so,” that a feeling of even unremembered pleasure prompts the good man
to give forth out of the good treasure of his heart in kindness and in
love. We have but to think of the outcome of feelings at the negative
pole to convince us of the nice exactitude of the poet’s psychology. We
are not exactly displeased, but unpleased, dull, not quickened by any
feeling of pleasure: let us ask ourselves if, in this condition of our
feelings, we are prompted to any outpouring of love and kindness upon
our neighbours.

Here is another aspect of the feelings of very great importance to us
who have the education of children.

   “I do not like you, Doctor Fell,
    The reason why I cannot tell,”

is a feeling we all know well enough, and is, in fact, that intuitive
perception of character--one of our finest feelings and best guides
in life--which is too apt to be hammered out of us by the constant
effort to beat down our sensibilities to the explicit and definite.
One wonders why people complain of faithless friends, untrustworthy
servants, and disappointed affections. If the feelings were retained
in truth and simplicity, there is little doubt that they would afford
for each of us such a touchstone of character in the persons we come in
contact with, that we should be saved from making exigeant demands on
the one hand, and from suffering disappointment on the other.

The public orator plays, by preference, upon the gamut of the
feelings. He throws in arguments by the way; brightens his discourse
with graphic word-picture, metaphor, simile; but for his final effect
he relies upon the impression he has been able to make upon the
feelings of his audience, and the event proves him to be right.

Not only our little nameless acts but the great purposes of our lives
arise out of our feelings. Enthusiasm itself is not thought, though it
arises when we are

    “Stung with the rapture of a sudden thought;”

it is a glowing, malleable condition of the forces of our nature,
during which all things are possible to us, and we only wait for a
lead. Enthusiasm in its earliest stage is inconsequent, incoherent,
devoid of purpose, and yet is the state out of which all the great
purposes of life shape themselves. We feel, we think, we say, we do;
this is the genesis of most of our activities.

But our feelings, as our thoughts, depend upon what we are; we feel in
all things as “’tis our nature to,” and the point to be noticed is that
our feelings are educable, and that in educating the feelings we modify
the character. A pressing danger of our day is that the delicate task
of educating shall be exchanged for the much simpler one of blunting
the feelings. This is the almost inevitable result of a system where
training is given _en masse_; but not the necessary result, because the
tone of feeling of a head-master or mistress is almost with certainty
conveyed, more or less, to a whole school. Still, perhaps, the perfect
bloom of the feelings can only be preserved under quite judicious
individual culture, and, therefore, necessarily devolves upon parents.
The instrument to be employed in this culture is always the same--the
blessed sixth sense of Tact. It is possible to call up the feeling
one desires by a look, a gesture; to dissipate it entirely by the
rudeness of a spoken word. Our silence, our sympathy, our perception
give place and play to fit feelings, and equally discourage, and cause
to slink away ashamed the feeling which should not have place. But let
us beware of words; let us use our eyes and our imagination in dealing
with the young; let us see what they are feeling and help them by the
flow of our responsive feeling. But words, even words of praise and
tenderness, touch this delicate bloom of nature as with a hot finger,
and behold! it is gone. Let us consider carefully what feelings we wish
to stimulate, and what feelings we wish to repress in our children,
and then, having made up our minds, let us say nothing. We all know
the shrinking, as of a sore place, with which children receive some
well-meant word from a tactless friend.

The sense of spiritual touch is our only guide in this region of the
feelings, but with this alone we may tune the spirits of the children
to great issues, believing that they are capable of all things great.
We wish them to revere. Now reverence is a feeling before it becomes a
thought or an act, and it is a communicable feeling, but communicable
like the light of a torch only by contact. The sentiment of reverence
fills our own souls when we see a bird on its nest, an old man at his
cottage door, a church in which have centred the aspirations of a
village for many an age; we feel and the children feel our feeling,
and they feel too: a feeling is communicated by sympathy, but perhaps
in no other way. The ignoble habit of depreciation is in the first
place a feeling. It is quite easy to put the children into that
other attitude of feeling called forth by the fitness and goodness of
the thing regarded, and we all know that it is easy to appreciate or
depreciate the same thing. These two feelings alone illustrate the
importance of the delicate culture we have in view, for among the
minor notes of character none tend more to differentiate persons than
this of perceiving cause of satisfaction in an object or a person, or
of perceiving cause of dissatisfaction in the same object or person.
An appreciative habit of feeling is a cause of tranquil joy to its
possessor, and of ease and contentment to the people connected with
him. A depreciative habit, on the contrary, though it affords a little
pleasurable excitement because it ministers to the vanity of the _ego_
(I dislike this person or this thing, therefore I know better or am
better than others), disturbs tranquillity and puts the person out of
harmony with himself and with his surroundings; no stable joy comes
of depreciation. But even in dealing with feelings of this class we
must remember that tact, sympathy and communicable feeling are our
only implements; the feelings are not thoughts to be reasoned down;
they are neither moral nor immoral to challenge our praise or our
blame; we cannot be too reticent in our dealings with them in children,
nor too watchfully aware that the least inadvertence may bruise some
tender blossom of feeling. This is the risk which attends the habit of
persiflage and banter in family talk; a little is thoroughly good and
wholesome, but this kind of play should be used with very great tact,
especially by the elders. Children understand each other so well that
there is far less risk of hurt feelings from the tormenting schoolboy
than from the more considerate elder.

There is only one case in which the feelings may not have free play,
and that is when they reflect the consciousness of the _ego_. What
are commonly called sensitive feelings--that is, susceptibility for
oneself and about oneself, readiness to perceive neglect or slight,
condemnation or approbation--though belonging to a fine and delicate
character, are in themselves of less worthy order, and require very
careful direction lest morbid conditions should be set up. To ignore
wisely is an art, and the girl who craves to know what you thought of
her when she said this or did the other, need not be told brutally
that you did not think of her at all; it is quite enough for her to
perceive that your regard is fixed upon something impersonal both
to her and you; she takes the hint and looks away from herself, and
nothing is said to cause her pain. It appears to be an immutable law
that our feelings, as our sensations, must find their occupation in
things without; the moment they are turned in upon themselves harm is
done. The task of dealing with the susceptibilities of young people is
one of the most delicate that falls to us elders, whether we be parents
or friends. Undiscriminating sympathy is very perilous, and bluntness
of perception is very damaging; we are between Scylla and Charybdis,
and must needs walk humbly and warily in this delicate work of dealing
with the feelings of children and young people. Our only safeguard is
to cherish in ourselves “the soft, meek, tender soul,” sensitive to
the touch of God, and able to deal in soft, meek, tender ways with
children, beings of fine and delicate mould as they are.




                              CHAPTER XIX

                           “_WHAT IS TRUTH?_”


It is said that we English are no longer to be characterised as a
truth-speaking people. This is a distressing charge, and yet we cannot
put it away from us with a high hand. Possibly we are in a stage
of civilisation which does not tend to produce the fine courage of
absolute truthfulness. He who is without fear is commonly without
falsehood; and a nation brought up amid the chivalries of war dares
to be true. But we live in times of peace: we are no longer called
on to defend the truth of our word by the strength of our hand. We
speak with very little sense of responsibility, because no one calls
us to account; and, so far as we are truth-tellers, we are so out of
pure truth of heart and uprightness of life. That is, we may be, as a
nation, losing the habit of truth to which the nation’s childhood was
trained, in ways however rough and ready; but we are growing up, and
the truth that is among us is perhaps of a higher quality than the
more general truthfulness of earlier days. Now, truth is indeed the
white flower of a blameless life, and not the mere result of a fearless
habit. The work before us is to bring up our children to this higher
manner of truth. We no longer treat this or that particular lie or
bit of deceit as a local ailment, for which we have only to apply the
proper lotion or plaster; we treat it as symptomatic, as denoting a
radical defect of character which we set ourselves to correct.

Opinion without knowledge, says Darwin, has no value, and to treat
the tendency to untruthfulness that children often show, one should
have a good deal of knowledge of a special kind. To treat a child _de
novo_, place him under a moral microscope, record our observations,
and formulate opinions based upon that child, and as many more as we
can get into focus, is, no doubt, useful and important work. But it is
work for which we must qualify ourselves. The child is a human being,
immature, but yet, perhaps, a human being at his best. Who amongst
us has such gifts of seeing, knowing, comprehending, imagining, such
capacities for loving, giving, believing, as the little child in the
midst! We have no higher praise for our wisest and best than that they
are fresh and keen as little children in their interests and loves.

Now, we maintain that it is not sufficient to bring unaided common
sense and good intentions to this most delicate art of child-study. We
cannot afford to discard the wisdom of the past and begin anew with the
effort to collect and systematise, hoping to accomplish as much and
more in our short span than the centuries have brought us.

In this matter of lying, for example, unaided common sense is likely
to start upon one of two theses: either the child is born true, and
you must keep him so; or, the child is born false, and you must cure
him of it. Popular opinion leans strongly to the first theory in these
days; and, as we perceive only that which we believe, the tendency
is, perhaps, to take the absolute truthfulness and honour of children
a little too much for granted. If you would have children true, you
must, of course, treat them as if they were true, and believe them
to be true. But, all the same, wisdom may not play the ostrich. In
the last generation, people accepted their children as born false,
and, what more likely to make them so than this foregone conclusion?
Possibly some falling off in truthfulness in our day is traceable to
the dogmatic teaching upon which our forbears were brought up.

The wisdom of the ages--_i.e._, philosophy, and the science of the
present, especially physiology, and more particularly what we may call
psycho-physiology--show us that both these positions are wrong, and
that all theories founded upon either position, or upon any midway
point between the two, must needs be wrong too. A child is born neither
true nor false. He is absolutely without either virtue or vice when
he comes into the world. He has tendencies, indeed, but these are no
more either virtuous or vicious than is the colour of his eyes. Even
the child of a liar is not necessarily born a liar, because, we are
assured, acquired tendencies are not transmitted. But there is this
to be said. The child born of a family which has from generation to
generation been in a subject position may have less predisposition
to truthfulness than the child of a family which has belonged for
generations to the ruling class. As in the natural world all substances
must be reduced to their elements before they can be chemically dealt
with, so in the moral world, if we wish to treat an offence, it is best
to trace it to that elemental property of human nature of which it is
the probable outcome. Now, lying, even in its worst forms, is by no
means elemental. Ambition is elemental, avarice, vanity, gratitude,
love and hate. But lying arises from secondary causes. The treatment is
all the more difficult. It is no longer a case of--the child has lied,
punish him; but, where is the weak place in his character, or what is
the defect in his education, which has induced this lying habit, if it
be a habit? How shall we, not punish the lie, but treat the failing
of which it is symptomatic. From this point of view let us consider
the extremely interesting classification of lies presented to us by an
American educationalist.[15]

I. _Pseudophobia._ Janet _thinks_ she _may_ have glanced at Mary’s
slate, and seen the answer to her sum. A comparison of the two slates
shows that she has not done so, and that Janet, in the effort to
save herself from a lie, has actually told one. This sort of morbid
conscientiousness is Argus-eyed for other forms of sin. We knew a
sick girl of fourteen, who was terribly unhappy because she was not
able to kneel up in bed when she said her prayers. Was this the
“unpardonable sin”? she asked, in unaffected terror. We agree with
the writer in question, as to the frequent occurrence of this form
of distress, and also in tracing it, not to moral, but to physical
causes. We should say, too, it is more common in girls than in boys,
and in the home-taught than in the school-taught child. Healthy
interests, out-of-door life, engrossing and delightful handiworks,
general occupation with things rather than with thoughts, and avoidance
of any word or hint that may lead to self-consciousness or the habit
of introspection, will probably do much to carry the young sufferer
through a difficult stage of life.

II. _The Lie Heroic._ The lie heroic is, _par excellence_, the
schoolboy’s lie, and has its rise, not in any love for lying, but in a
want of moral balance; that is to say, the boy has been left to form
his own code of ethics.

Who spilled the ink? little Tom Brown is asked. “I did,” he says;
because Jack Spender, the real culprit, is his particular hero at the
moment. Faithfulness to a friend is a far higher virtue in Tom’s eyes
than mere barren truthfulness. And how is Tom to know, if he has not
been taught, that it is unlawful to cherish one virtue at the expense
of another. Considering how little clear, definite, authoritative
teaching children receive on ethical questions, the wonder is that most
persons do elaborate some kind of moral code, or code of honour, for
themselves.

III. _Truth for friends, lies for enemies._ A lie under this head
differs from the lie heroic chiefly in that it need not bring any risk
to the speaker. This class of lies again points to the moral ignorance
which we are slow to recognise in children because we confound
innocence with virtue. It is quite natural for a child to believe that
truth is relative, and not absolute, and that whether a lie is a lie
or not depends on whom you are speaking to. The children are in the
position of “jesting Pilate.” What is truth? they unconsciously ask.

IV. _Lies inspired by selfishness._ This is a form of lying for which
superficial treatment is quite idle. The lie and the vice of which it
is the instrument are so allied that those two cannot be put asunder.
Professor Stanley Hall well points out that school is a fertile field
for this kind of lying. But it is the selfishness and not the lying
that must be dealt with. Cure the first, and the second disappears,
having no further _raison d’être_. How? This is a hard question.
Nothing but a strong impulse to the heroism of unselfishness,
initiated and sustained by the grace of God, will deliver boy or girl
from the vice of selfishness of which lying is the ready handmaid. But
let us not despair; _every_ boy and girl is open to such impulse, is
capable of heroic effort. Prayer and patience, and watchfulness for
opportunities to convey the stimulating suggestion--these will not be
in vain. _Every_ boy and girl is a hero _in posse_. There is no worse
infidelity than that which gives up the hope of mending any flaw of
character, however bad, in a young creature. All the same, happy those
parents who have not allowed selfishness and virtue (whether in the
form of truthfulness, or under some other name), to come to hand to
hand conflict. It is easy to give direction to the tendencies of a
child; it is agonisingly difficult to alter the set of character in a
man.

V. _The Deception of imagination and play._ I passed little Muriel in
the park one day; the child was not looking; her companion was unknown
to me. I was engaged with my companion, and believed that Muriel had
not noticed me. The little girl went home and told her mother that I
had kissed her and asked various questions about the family health.
What could be the child’s motive? She had none. Her active imagination
rehearsed the little dialogue which most naturally would have taken
place; and this was so real to her that it obscured the fact. The
reality, the truth, to Muriel, was what she imagined had taken place.
She had probably no recollection whatever of the actual facts. This
sort of failure in verbal truthfulness is excessively common in
imaginative children, and calls for prompt attention and treatment;
but not on the lines a hasty and righteous parent might be inclined
to adopt. Here is no call for moral indignation. The parents and not
the child are in fault. The probability is that the child’s ravenous
imagination is not duly and daily supplied with its proper meat, of
fairy tale in early days, of romance, later. Let us believe of the
children that “trailing clouds of glory do they come” from the place
where all things are possible, where any delightful thing may happen.
Let us believe that our miserable limitations of time and space and
the laws of matter irk them inconceivably, imprison the free soul as
a wild bird in a cage. If we refuse to give the child outlets into
the realms of fancy, where everything is possible, the delicate Ariel
of his imagination will still work within our narrow limits upon our
poor tasks, and every bit of our narrow living is played over with a
thousand variations, apt to be more vivid and interesting than the poor
facts, and, therefore, more likely to remain with the child as the
facts which he will produce when required to speak the truth. What is
the cure? Give the child free entrance into, abundant joyous living in,
the kingdom of make-believe. Let him people every glen with fairies,
every island with Crusoes. Let him gift every bird and beast with human
interests, which he will share when the dear fairy godmother arrives
with an introduction. Let us be glad and rejoice that all things are
possible to the children, recognising in this condition of theirs their
fitness to receive and believe and understand, as, alas! we cannot do,
the things of the Kingdom of God. The age of faith is a great sowing
time, doubtless designed, in the Divine scheme of things, especially
that parents may make their children at home in the things of the
Spirit before contact with the world shall have materialised them.

At the same time the more imaginative the child, the more essential is
it that the boundaries of the kingdom of make-believe should be clearly
defined, and exact truthfulness insisted upon in all that concerns
the narrower world where the grown-ups live. It is simply a matter
of careful education; daily lessons in exact statement, without any
horror or righteous indignation about misstatements, but warm, loving
encouragement to the child who gives a long message quite accurately,
who tells you just what Miss Brown said and no more, just what happened
at Harry’s party, without any garnish. Every day affords scope for a
dozen little lessons at least, and, gradually, the more severe beauty
of truth will dawn upon the child whose soul is already possessed by
the grace of fiction.

VI. _Pseudomania._ We have little to say on this score, except to
counsel parents to keep watch at the place of the letting out of
waters. No doubt the condition is pathological, and calls for curative
treatment rather than punishment. But we believe it is a condition
which never need be set up. The girl who has been able to win esteem
for what she really is and really does, is not tempted to “pose,”
and the boy who has found full outlet for his energies, physical and
mental, has no part of himself left to spend upon “humbugging.” This
is one of the cases which show how important it is for parents to
acquaint themselves with that delicate borderland of human nature which
touches the material and the spiritual. How spiritual thought and
material brain interact; how brain and nerves are inter-dependent; how
fresh air and wholesome food affect the condition of the blood which
nourishes the nerves; how the nerves again may bear tyrannous sway over
all that we include under “bodily health;” these are matters that the
parent should know who would avoid the possibility of the degradation
described as Pseudomania from being set up in any one of his children.

It is as well that those who have to do with young people should
be familiar with one or two marked signs of this mentally diseased
condition; as, the furtive glance from under half-closed lids, shot up
to see how you are taking it all; the flowing recital, accompanied by a
slightly absent pre-occupied look, which denotes that the speaker is in
the act of inventing the facts he relates.

We have not space to enlarge upon _palliatives_, _lies of terror_,
or one or two more classes of lies, which seem to us of frequent
occurrence, as _lies of display_ (boasting), _lies of carelessness_
(inaccuracy), and, worst of all, _lies of malice_ (false witness).

We would only commend the subject to the attention of parents;
for, though one child may have more aptitude than another, neither
truthfulness nor the multiplication table come by nature. The child who
appears to be perfectly truthful is so because he has been carefully
trained to truthfulness, however indirectly and unconsciously. It is
more important to cultivate the habit of truth than to deal with the
accident of lying.

Moral teaching must be as simple, direct and definite as the teaching
which appeals to the intellect; presented with religious sanctions,
quickened by religious impulses, but not limited to the prohibitions of
the law nor to the penalties which overtake the transgressor.


FOOTNOTES:

     [15] Professor G. Stanley Hall, in an article which
          appeared in the _American Journal of Psychology_, Jan.
          1891.




                               CHAPTER XX

                            _SHOW CAUSE WHY_


We have been asking, WHY? like Mr. Ward Fowler’s Wagtail, for a long
time. We asked, Why? about linen underclothing, and behold it is
discarded. We asked Why? about numberless petticoats, and they are
going. We are asking Why? about carpets and easy chairs, and all
manner of luxurious living; and probably the year 1900 will see of
these things only the survivals. It is well we should go about with
this practical Why? rather than with the “Why does a wagtail wag its
tail?” manner of problem. The latter issues in vain guesses, and the
pseudo-knowledge which puffeth up. But if, Why? leads us to--“Because
we should not; then, let us do the thing we should.”--This manner of
Why? is like a poker to a dying fire.

Why is Tom Jones sent to school? That he may be educated, of course,
say his parents. And Tom is dismissed with the fervent hope that he may
take a good place. But never a word about the delights of learning, or
of the glorious worlds of nature and of thought to which his school
studies will presumably prove an open sesame. “Mind you be a good
boy and get a good place in your class,” is Tom’s valediction; and
his little soul quickens with purpose. He won’t disappoint father,
and mother shall be proud of him. He’ll be the top boy in his class.
Why, he’ll be the top boy in the whole school, and get prizes and
things, and won’t that be jolly! Tommy says nothing of this, but his
mother sees it in his eyes and blesses the manly little fellow. So
Tommy goes to school, happy boy, freighted with his father’s hopes and
his mother’s blessings. By-and-by comes a report, the main delight
of which is, that Tommy has gained six places; more places gained,
prizes, removes--by-and-by scholarships. Before he is twelve, Tommy is
able to earn the whole of his future schooling by his skill in that
industry of the young popularly known as _Exams_. Now he aims at larger
game; “exams” still, but “exams” big with possibilities, “exams” which
will carry him through his University career. His success is pretty
certain, because you get into the trick of “exams” as of other crafts.
His parents are congratulated, Tom is more or less of a hero in his
own eyes and in those of his compeers. Examinations for ever! Hip,
hip! Never was a more facile way for a youth to distinguish himself,
that is, if his parents have sent him into the world blessed with any
inheritance of brains. For the boy not so blessed--why, he may go to
the Colonies and that will make a man of him.

The girls come in a close second. The “Junior,” the “Senior,” the
“Higher,” the “Intermediate,” the “B.A.,” and what else you will, mark
the epochs in most girls’ lives. Better, say you, than having no epochs
at all. Unquestionably, yes. But the fact that a successful examination
of one sort or another is the goal towards which most of our young
people are labouring, with feverish haste and with undue anxiety, is
one which possibly calls for the scrutiny of the investigating Why?

In the first place, people rarely accomplish beyond their own aims.
The aim is a pass, not knowledge, “they cram to pass and not to know;
they do pass and they don’t know,” says Mr. Ruskin; and most of us
who know the “candidate” will admit that there is some truth in the
epigram. There are, doubtless, people who pass and who also know, but,
even so, it is open to question, whether passing is the most direct,
simple, natural and efficacious way of securing knowledge, or whether
the persons who pass _and_ know are not those keen and original minds
which would get blood out of stone,--anyway, sap out of sawdust.
Again--except for the fine power of resistance possessed by the human
mind, which secures that most persons who go through examination grind
come out as they went in, absolutely unbiassed towards any intellectual
pursuits whatever--except for this, the tendency of the grind is to
imperil that individuality which is the one incomparably precious
birthright of each of us. The very fact of a public examination compels
that all who go in for it must study on the same lines.

It will be urged that there is no necessary limitation to studies
outside the examination syllabus, nor any restrictions whatever as to
the direction of study even upon the syllabus; but this is a mistake.
Whatever public examinations a given school takes, the whole momentum
of pupils and staff urges towards the great issue. As to the manner of
study, this is ruled by the style of questions set in a given subject;
and Dry-as-dust wins the day because it is easier and fairer to give
marks upon definite facts than upon mere ebullitions of fancy or
genius. So it comes to pass that there is absolutely no choice as to
the matter or manner of their studies for most boys and girls who go to
school, nor, for many of those who work at home. For, so great is the
convenience of a set syllabus that parents and teachers are glad to
avail themselves of it.

It appears then that the boy is in bondage to the schoolmaster, and
the schoolmaster to the examiner, and the parents do no more than
acquiesce. Would parents be astounded if they found themselves in this
matter a little like the man who had talked prose all his life without
knowing it? The tyranny of the competitive examination is supported
for the most part by parents. We do not say altogether. Teachers do
their part manfully; but, in the first place, teachers unsupported by
parents have no power at all in the matter; not a single candidate
could they present beyond their own sons and daughters; in the next
place, we do not hesitate to say that the whole system is forced upon
teachers (though, perhaps, by no means against their will) by certain
ugly qualities of human nature as manifested in parents. Ignorance,
idleness, vanity, avarice, do not carry a pleasant sound; and if we,
who believe in parents, have the temerity to suggest such shadows to
the father basking in the sunshine of his boy’s success, we would add
that the rest of us who are not parents are still more to blame; that
it is terribly hard to run counter to the current of the hour; and
that, “harm is wrought through want of thought.”

Ignorance is excusable, but wilful ignorance is culpable, and the
time has come for the thoughtful parent to examine himself and see
whether or no it be his duty to make a stand against the competitive
examination system. Observe, the evil lies in the competition, not
in the examination. If the old axiom be true, that the mind can know
nothing but what it can produce in the form of an answer to a question
put by the mind itself, it is relatively true that knowledge conveyed
from without must needs be tested from without. Probably, work on a
given syllabus tested by a final examination is _the_ condition of
definite knowledge and steady progress. All we contend for is that
the examination shall not be competitive. It will be urged that it
is unfair to rank such public examinations as the Universities’
Local--which have done infinitely much to raise the standard of
middle-class education, especially amongst girls, and upon which
neither prize nor place depends--as competitive examinations. They
are rarely competitive, it is true, in the sense of any extraneous
reward to the fortunate candidate; but, happily, we are not so far gone
from original righteousness but that Distinction is its own reward.
The pupil is willing to labour, and rightly so, for the honour of a
pass which distinguishes him among the _élite_ of his school. The
schools themselves compete (_con_ + _petere_ = to seek with) as to
which shall send in the greatest number of candidates and come out
with the greatest number of Honours, Scholarships, and what not. These
distinctions are well advertised, and the parent who is on the look-out
for a school for his boy is all too ready to send him where the chances
of distinction are greatest. Examinations which include the whole
school, and where every boy has his place on the list, higher or lower,
are another thing; though these also appeal to the emulous principle,
they do not do so in excess, the point to be noted.

But, why should so useful an incentive to work as a competitive
examination be called in question? There are certain facts which may be
predicated of every human being who is not, as the country folk say,
“wanting.” Every one wants to get on; whatever place we occupy we aim
at the next above it. Every one wants to get rich, or, anyway, richer;
whether the wealth he chooses to acquire be money or autographs. Every
one wants the society of his fellows; if he does not, we call him a
misanthrope and say, to use another popular and telling phrase, “He’s
not quite right.” We all want to excel, to do better than the rest,
whether in a tennis-match or an examination. We all want to know,
though some of us are content to know our neighbours’ affairs, while
others would fain know about the stars in their courses. We all, from
the sergeant in his stripes to the much decorated commanding officer,
want people to think well of us. Now these several desires, of power,
of wealth, of society, of excelling, of knowledge, of esteem, are
primary springs of action in every human being. Touch any one of them,
in savage or in _savant_, and you cannot fail of a response. The
Russian Moujik besieges a passing traveller with questions about the
lands he has seen, because he _wants to know_. The small boy gambles
with his marbles because he _wants to get_. The dairymaid dons a new
bow because she _wants to be admired_, the only form of esteem to which
she is awake. Tom drives when the children play horses because he
_wants to rule_. Maud works herself into a fever for her examination
because she _wants to excel_, and “to pass” is the hallmark of
excellence, that is, of those who excel.

Now these primary desires are neither virtuous nor vicious. They are
common to us all and necessary to us all, and appear to play the same
part towards our spiritual being that the appetites do to our material
existence; that is, they stimulate us to the constant effort which
is the condition of progress, and at the same time the condition of
health. We know how that soul stagnates which thinks nothing worth an
effort. He is a poor thing who is content to be beaten on all hands.
We do not quarrel with the principle of emulation, any more than we do
with that of respiration. The one is as natural and as necessary as the
other, and as little to be brought before a moral tribunal. But it is
the part of the educator to recognise that a child does not come into
the world a harp with one string; and that the perpetual play upon this
one chord through all the years of adolescence is an evil, not because
emulation is a vicious principle, but because the balance of character
is destroyed by the constant stimulation of this one desire at the
expense of the rest.

Equally strong, equally natural, equally sure of awakening a responsive
stir in the young soul, is the divinely implanted principle of
curiosity. The child _wants to know_: wants to know incessantly,
desperately; asks all manner of questions about everything he comes
across, plagues his elders and betters, and is told not to bother, and
to be a good boy and not ask questions. But this only sometimes. For
the most part we lay ourselves out to answer Tommy’s questions so far
as we are able, and are sadly ashamed that we are so soon floored by
his insatiable curiosity about natural objects and phenomena. Tommy has
his reward. The most surprising educational feat accomplished amongst
us is the amount of knowledge, about everything within his range, which
Tommy has acquired by the end of his sixth year. “Why, he knows as much
as I do, about”--this, and that, and the other, says his astonished
and admiring father. Take him to the seaside, and in a week he will
tell you all about trawling and mackerel fishing; the ways of the
fisher-folk, and all that his inquisitive mind can find out unaided.
He would tell all about sand, and shells, and tides, and waves, only,
poor little boy, he must have help towards this manner of knowledge,
and there is no one to give it to him. However, he finds out all that
he can about all that he sees and hears, and does amass a surprising
amount of exact knowledge about things and their properties.

When Tommy goes to school, his parents find themselves relieved of the
inconvenience of his incessant Why? They are probably so well pleased
to be let off that it does not occur to them to ask themselves Why
Tommy no longer wonders Why? Up to this period nature has been active.
She has been allowed to stimulate that one of his desires most proper
to minister to his mental growth, just as, if let alone, she would give
him that hearty appetite which should promote his physical growth.
She has it all her own way. The desire of knowledge is that spring of
action most operative in Tommy’s childhood. But he goes to school.
Knowledge is a pure delight to Tommy. Let his lessons approach him on
the lines of his nature--not on the lines proper for certain subjects
of instruction--and the little boy has no choice. He cannot help
learning and loving to learn, “‘cos ’tis his nature to.”

This, of presenting knowledge to Tommy on the lines of his nature, is,
however, a difficult and delicate task. Not every schoolmaster, any
more than every parent, is keen to give Tommy what he wants in this
matter of needful knowledge. So, once upon a time, let us suppose,
there arose a pedagogue to whom was discovered a new and easier way.
The morning had seen the poor man badly baffled by the queries of
boys who _wanted to know_. How was a man, who had pretty well done
with fresh studies for his own part, to keep up with these eager
intelligences. In a vision of the night it is disclosed to Cognitus
that there is another and an easier way. The desire of knowledge is not
the only desire active in the young bosom. Just as much as he wants to
know, he wants to excel, to do better than the rest. “Every soul of
them wants to be first in one way or another--first in games, if not
in class.” Now, Cognitus was a philosopher; he knew that, as a rule,
but one desire is supremely active at one time in the breast of boy
or man. Kindle their emulation, and all must needs do the same thing
in the same way to see who can do it best. The boys will no longer
_want to know_; they will get their due share of learning in regular
ways, and really get on better than if they were moved by the restless
spirit of inquiry. _Eureka!_ A discovery; honour and renown for master
and boys,--no need for cane or imposition, for emulation is the best
of all disciplinarians,--and steady-going, quiet work, without any
of the fatiguing excursions into new fields to which the craving for
knowledge leads. “How pleased the parents will be, too,” says Cognitus,
for he knows that paternal love, now and then, looks for a little
sustenance from paternal vanity, that the child who does well is dear.
Nay, who knows but the far-seeing Cognitus beheld, as in a vision, the
scholarships and money awards which should help to fill the pocket of
Paternus, or should, any way, lessen the drain thereupon. Here, indeed,
is a better way, upon which Paternus and Cognitus may well consent to
walk together. Every one is happy, every one content, nobody worried,
a great deal of learning got in. What would you have more? Just one
thing, honoured Cognitus, that keen desire for knowledge, that same
incessant Why? with which Tommy went to school, and which should
have kept him inquisitive about all things good and great and wise
throughout the years given to him wherein to lay the groundwork of
character, the years of his youth.

We cannot put our finger upon Cognitus, and are pretty sure that he
arrived by a consensus of opinion, and through considerable urgency
on the part of parents. No one is to blame for a condition of things
which is an enormous advance upon much of what went before. Only,
knowledge is advancing, and it is full time that we reconsider our
educational principles and recast our methods. We absolutely must get
rid of the competitive examination system if we would not be reduced to
the appalling mediocrity which we see in China, for example, to have
befallen an examination-ridden empire. Probably the world has never
seen a finer body of educationalists than those who at the present
moment man our schools, both Boys’ and Girls’. But the originality,
the fine initiative, of these most able men and women is practically
lost. The schools are examination-ridden, and the heads can strike out
no important new lines. Let us begin our efforts by believing in one
another, parents in teachers and teachers in parents. Both parents and
teachers have the one desire, the advance of the child along the lines
of character. Both groan equally under the limitations of the present
system. Let us have courage, and united and concerted action will
overthrow this Juggernaut that we have made.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                        _HERBARTIAN PEDAGOGICS_


We in England require, every now and then, to pull ourselves
together, and to ask what they are doing on the continent in the way
of education. We still hark back to the older German educational
reformers. We may not know much of Comenius, Basedow, Ratich; we
do know something of the reformers next in descent, Pestalozzi and
Froebel; but how much do we know of the thought of Johann Friedrich
Herbart, the lineal successor of these, who has largely displaced his
predecessors in the field of Pedagogics.

How entirely German educators work upon Herbart, and Herbart only, is
proved by the existence of a Herbartian educational literature greatly
more extensive than the whole of our English educational literature put
together.

A little volume on the “Outlines of Pedagogics,”[16] by Professor W.
Rein, of the University of Jena, is offered to us by the translators,
C. C. and Ida J. Van Liew, as a brief introduction to the study of
Herbart and his school, the author making due allowance for the
advances that have been made in the fifty years that have elapsed since
Herbart’s death.

As Herbart and his interpreters represent the most advanced school of
educational thought on the continent, it will, perhaps, be interesting
to our readers to make a slight comparison between what we call
_P.N.E.U. Philosophy_ and the school of thought which exercises such
immense influence in Germany.

One of the most characteristic features of Herbart’s thinking, and
that feature of it which constitutes a new school of educational
thought, is, that he rejects the notion of separate mental faculties.
The earlier reformers, notably Pestalozzi and Froebel, divide the
faculties up with something of the precision of a phrenologist, and
a chief business of education is, according to them, “to develop the
faculties.” There is a certain pleasing neatness in this idea which
is very attractive. We want to know, definitely, what we have to do.
Why develop the perceptive faculties here, the conceptive there, the
judgment in this lesson, the affections in the other, until you have
covered the whole ground, giving each so-called faculty its due share
of developmental exercise! But, says Herbart, we have changed all that.
The mind, like Wordsworth’s cloud, moves altogether when it moves at
all.

Now this appears to be but a slight fundamental difference, but it
is one upon the recognition of which education changes front. The
whole system of beautifully organised lessons, whose object is to
develop this or that, is called into question. For the _raison d’être_
of specialised intellectual gymnastics is gone when we no longer
recognise particular “muscles” of the mind to be developed. The aim
of education must be something quite other, and, if the aim is other,
the methods must be altered, for what is method but _a way to an
end_. So far we are entirely with Herbart; we do not believe in the
“faculties;” therefore we do not believe in the “development of the
faculties;” therefore we do not regard lessons as instruments for this
“development”: in fact, our whole method of procedure is altered.

Again, we are with the philosopher in his recognition of the force of
an idea, and especially of those ideas which are, as we phrase it,
in the air at any given moment. “Both the circle of the family and
that of social intercourse are subjected to forces that are active in
the entire social body, and that penetrate the entire atmosphere of
human life in invisible channels. No one knows whence these currents,
these ideas arise; but they are there. They influence the moods, the
aspirations, and the inclinations of humanity, and no one however
powerful can withdraw himself from their effects; no sovereign’s
command makes its way into their depths. They are often born of a
genius to be seized upon by the multitude that soon forgets their
author; then the power of the thought that has thus become active
in the masses again impels the individual to energetic resolutions:
in this manner it is constantly describing a remarkable circle.
Originating with those that are highly gifted, these thoughts permeate
all society, reaching, in fact, not only its adult members, but also
through these its youth, and appearing again in other highly gifted
individuals in whom they will perhaps have been elevated to a definite
form.

“Whether the power of these dominant ideas is greater in the
individual, or in the body of individuals as a whole, is a matter
of indifference here. Be that as it may, it cannot be denied that
their effect upon the one is manifested in a reciprocal action upon
the other, and that their influence upon the younger generation is
indisputable.”

We entirely agree that no one can escape the influence of this
Zeitgeist, and that the Zeitgeist is, in fact, one of the most
powerful of the occult educational influences, and one which parents
and all who have the training of children will do well to reckon with
in the adjustment of their work.

Nature, family, social intercourse, this Zeitgeist, the Church and
the State, thus Professor Rein, as interpreting Herbart, sums up the
schoolmasters under whose influences every child grows up; a suggestive
enumeration we should do well to consider. “_Erziehung ist Sache
der Familien; von da geht sie aus und dahin kehrt sie grössenteils
zurück_,” says Herbart. He considers, as do we, that by far the most
valuable part of education is carried on in the family, because of the
union of all the members under a common parentage, of the feeling of
dependence upon a head, of the very intimate knowledge to be gained of
the younger members.

“The members of the family look confidently to the head; and this
sense of dependence favours, at the same time, the proper reception
of that which is dearest to mankind, namely, the religious feeling.
If the life of the family is permeated by a noble piety, a sincere
religious faith will take root in the hearts of the children. Faithful
devotion to the guide of the youth also calls forth faithful devotion
to Him who controls human destinies--a thought which Herbart expresses
so beautifully in the words--‘To the child, the family should be the
symbol of the order in the world; from the parents one should derive by
idealisation the characteristics of the deity.’”

This idea of all education springing from and resting upon our relation
to Almighty God is one which we of the P.N.E.U. have ever laboured to
enforce. We take a very distinct stand upon this point. We do not
merely give a _religious_ education, because that would seem to imply
the possibility of some other education, a secular education, for
example. But we hold that all education is divine, that every good
gift of knowledge and insight comes from above, that the Lord the Holy
Spirit is the supreme educator of mankind, and that the culmination
of all education (which may, at the same time, be reached by a little
child) is that personal knowledge of and intimacy with the Supreme,
in which our being finds its fullest perfection. We hold, in fact,
that noble conception of education held by the mediæval church, as
pictured upon the walls of the Spanish chapel in Florence. Here we have
represented the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the Twelve, and directly
under them, fully under the illuminating rays, are the noble figures
of the seven liberal arts, Grammar, Rhetoric, Logic, Music, Astronomy,
Geometry, Arithmetic, and under these again the men who received
and expressed, so far as we know, the initial idea in each of these
subjects; such men as Pythagoras, Zoroaster, Euclid, whom we might call
pagans, but whom the earlier Church recognised as divinely taught and
illuminated.

Here follows a passage which we do more than endorse, for it contains
the very _raison d’être_ of our society. “The education of the children
will always remain the holiest and highest of all family duties. The
welfare, civilisation, and culture of a people depend essentially
upon the degree of success that attends the education in the homes.
The family principle is the point at which both the religious and
educational life of a people centres, and about which it revolves. It
is a force in comparison with which every sovereign’s command appears
powerless.”

By the way, we are inclined to think that Dr. Rein’s mention of
Rousseau is a little misleading. It is true that in “Emil” the parents
are supplanted, but, notwithstanding that fact, perhaps no other
educationalist has done so much to awaken parents to their great work
as educators. After investigating the conditions of home training,
Dr. Rein proceeds to a discussion of schools (_a_) as they exist in
Germany--(_b_) as they exist in his own ideal, a discussion which
should be most interesting to parents.

Teleology, _i.e._, the theory of the purpose of education, falls next
under discussion in an extremely instructive chapter. It is well we
should know the vast uncertainty which exists on this fundamental
point. As a matter of fact, few of us know definitely what we propose
to ourselves in the education of our children. We do not know what it
is possible to effect, and, as a man does not usually compass more
than he aims at, the results of our education are very inadequate and
unsatisfactory.

“Shall the educator follow Rousseau and educate a man of nature in the
midst of civilised men? In so doing, as Herbart has shown, we should
simply repeat from the beginning the entire series of evils that have
already been surmounted. Or shall we turn to Locke and prepare the
pupil for the world which is customarily in league with worldlings? We
should then arrive at the standpoint of Basedow, and aim to educate the
pupil so that he would become a truly useful member of human society.
Of course we should always be harassed with the secret doubt as to
whether this is the ideal purpose after all, and whether we are not at
times directly enjoined to place the pupil at variance with the usage
and customary dealings of the world. If we reflect that an endless
career is open to man for his improvement, we realise that only that
education, whose aims are always the highest, can hope to reach the
lofty goals that mark this career.

“Therefore an ideal aim must be present in the mind of the educator.
Possibly he can obtain information and help from Pestalozzi, whose
nature evinced such ideal tendencies. Pestalozzi wished the welfare of
mankind to be sought in the harmonious cultivation of _all_ powers.
If one only knew what is to be understood by a multiplicity of mental
powers, and what is meant by the _harmony_ of various powers. These
phrases sound very attractive, but give little satisfaction. The purely
_formal_ aims of education will appeal just as little to the educator:
‘Educate the pupil to independence;’ or, ‘educate the pupil to be his
own educator;’ or, ‘educate the pupil so that it will become better
than its educator.’ (Hermann and Dorothea, Hector and Astyanax in the
Iliad). Such and similar attempts to fix the purpose of education are
abundant in the history of pedagogy; but they do not bring us nearer
the goal. In their formal character they do not say, for example, of
what kind the independence shall be, what content it shall have, what
aims it shall have in view, or in what directions its course shall lie.
For the pupil that has become independent can use his freedom rightly
for good just as well as misuse it for evil.”

Herbart’s own theory of education, so far as we may venture to
formulate it, is strictly ethical as opposed to intellectual, that
is, the development and sustenance of the intellect is of secondary
importance to the educator for two reasons: character building is the
matter of first importance to human beings; and this because, (_a_)
train character and intellectual “development” largely takes care
of itself, and (_b_) the lessons designed for intellectual culture
have high ethical value, whether stimulating or disciplinary. This is
familiar ground to us: we too have taught, in season and out of season,
that the formation of character is the aim of the educator. So far,
we are at one with the philosopher; but, may we venture to say it, we
have arrived, through the study of Physiology, at the definiteness of
aim which he desires but does not reach. We must appeal, he says, to
Psychology, but then, he adds, “of course we cannot expect a concordant
answer from all psychologists; and in view of the obscurity which still
prevails in this sphere, the different views as to the nature of the
human soul and the extraordinary difficulty with which the empirical
method of investigation meets, an absolutely indubitable explanation
can hardly be expected.”

This is doubtless true of Psychology alone, but of Psychology
illuminated by Physiology we have another tale to tell. It is the study
of that border-land betwixt mind and matter, the brain, which yields
the richest results to the educator. For the brain is the seat of
habit: the culture of habit is, to a certain extent, physical culture:
the discipline of habit is at least a third part of the great whole
which we call education, and here we feel that the physical science of
to-day has placed us far in advance of the great philosopher of fifty
years ago. We hold with him entirely as to the importance of great
formative ideas in the education of children, but, we add to our ideas,
habits, and we labour to form habits upon a physical basis. Character
is the result not merely of the great ideas which are given to us, but
of the habits which we labour to form _upon those ideas_. We recognise
both principles and the result is a wide range of possibilities
in education, practical methods, and a definite aim. We labour to
produce a human being at his best physically, mentally, morally, and
spiritually, with the enthusiasms of religion, the good life, of
nature, of knowledge, of art and of manual work; and we do _not_ labour
in the dark.


FOOTNOTES:

     [16] Sonnenschein & Co., 3s.




                              CHAPTER XXII

                _THE TEACHING OF THE “PARENTS’ NATIONAL
                          EDUCATIONAL UNION”_

                                 PART I


One of Mr. Matthew Arnold’s discriminating utterances may help us in
the effort to define anew the scope and the methods of education. In
“A French Eton” (page 61) he says:--“The education of each class in
society has, or ought to have, its ideal, determined by the wants of
that class, and by its destination. Society may be imagined so uniform
that one education shall be suitable for all its members; we have not
a society of that kind, nor has any European country.... Looking at
English society at this moment, one may say that the ideal for the
education of each of its classes to follow, the aim which the education
of each should particularly endeavour to reach, is different.”

This remark helps us to define our position. We lay no claim to
original ideas or methods. We cannot choose but profit by the work of
the great educators. Such men as Locke and Rousseau, Pestalozzi, and
Froebel, have left us an inheritance of educational thought which we
must needs enter upon.

Our work is selective, but not merely so. We are progressive. We take
what former thinkers have left us, and go on from there.

For example, in this matter of class differentiation, we believe we
have scientific grounds for a line of our own. The Fathers (why should
we not have Fathers in education as well as in theology?) worked out,
for the most part, their educational thought with an immediate view to
the children of the poor. Because the children that he had to deal with
had a limited vocabulary, and untrained observing powers, Pestalozzi
taught them to see and then to say: “I see a hole in the carpet. I see
a small hole in the carpet. I see a small round hole in the carpet. I
see a small round hole with a black edge in the carpet,” and so on;
and it is very easy to see how good such training would be for such
children. But what is the case with the children we have to deal with?
We believe to-day on scientific grounds in the doctrine of heredity,
and certainly in this matter experience supports our faith.

_Punch_ has hit off the state of the case: “Come and see the puff-puff,
dear.” “Do you mean the _locomotive_, grandmamma?” As a matter of
fact, the child of four and five has a wider, more exact vocabulary
in everyday use, than that employed by his elders and betters, and
is constantly adding to this vocabulary with surprising quickness;
_ergo_, to give a child of this class a vocabulary is no part of direct
education. Again, we know that nothing escapes the keen scrutiny of the
little people. It is not their perceptive powers we have to train, but
the habit of methodical observation and accurate record.

Generations of physical toil do not tend to foster imagination. How
good, then, for the children of the working classes to have games
initiated for them, to be carried through little dramatic plays until,
perhaps, in the end they will be able to invent such little dramas for
themselves!

But the children of the cultured classes--why, surely their danger
is rather to live too much in realms of fancy. A single sentence in
lesson or talk, the slightest sketch of an historical character, and
they will play at it for a week, inventing endless incidents. Like
Tennyson, when he was a child, they will carry on the story of the
siege and defence of a castle (represented by a mound, with sticks for
its garrison) for weeks together, and a child engrossed with these
larger interests feels a sensible loss of dignity when he flaps his
wings as a pigeon or skips about as a lamb, though, no doubt, he will
do these things with pleasure for the teacher he loves. Imagination is
ravenous for food, not pining for culture, in the children of educated
parents, and education need not concern herself directly, for them,
with the development of the conceptive powers. Then with regard to the
cultivated child’s reasoning powers, most parents have had experiences
of this kind--Tommy is five. His mother had occasion to talk to
him about the Atlantic Cable, and said she did not know how it was
insulated; Tommy remarked next morning that he had been thinking about
it, and perhaps the water itself was an insulator. So far from needing
to develop their children’s reasoning powers, most parents say--“Oh,
wad the gods the giftie gie us”--to answer the everlasting ‘why’ of the
intelligent child.

In a word, to develop the child’s so-called faculties is the main work
of education when _ignorant_ or otherwise _deficient_ children are
concerned; but the children of educated people are never _ignorant_
in this sense. They awake to the world all agog for knowledge, and
with keen-edged faculties; therefore the principle of heredity causes
us to recast our idea of the office of education, and to recognise
that the child of intelligent parents is born with an inheritance of
self-developing faculties.

Thus education naturally divides itself into education for the
children of _lettered_, and education for the children of _unlettered_
parents. In fact, this class question, which we are all anxious to
evade in common life, comes practically into force in education. It is
absolutely necessary to individualise and say, this part of education
is the most important for _this_ child, or _this_ class, but may be
relegated into a lower place for another child or another class.

If science limits our range of work as regards the development of
so-called faculties, it extends it in equal measure with regard to
habit. Here we have no new doctrine to proclaim. “One custom overcometh
another,” said Thomas à Kempis, and that is all we have to say; only
physiologists have made clear to us the _rationale_ of this law of
habit. We know that to form in his child right habits of thinking and
behaving is a parent’s chief duty, and that this can be done for every
child definitely and within given limits of time. But this question has
been already dealt with, and we need do no more than remind parents of
what they already know.

To nourish a child daily with loving, right, and noble ideas we believe
to be the parent’s next duty. The child having once received the Idea
will assimilate it in his own way, and work it into the fabric of
his life; and a single sentence from his mother’s lips may give him
a bent that will make him, or may tend to make him, painter or poet,
statesman or philanthropist. The object of lessons should be in the
main twofold: to train a child in certain mental habits, as attention,
accuracy, promptness, &c., and to nourish him with ideas which may bear
fruit in his life.

There are other educational principles which we bear in mind and
work out, but for the moment it is worth while for us to concentrate
our thought upon the fact that one of our objects is to accentuate
the importance of education under the two heads of the _formation
of habits_ and the _presentation of ideas_, and as a corollary to
recognise that the _development_ of _faculties_ is not a supreme object
with the cultivated classes, because this is work which has been done
for their children in a former generation.

But how does all this work? Is it practical? Is it the question of
to-day? It must needs be practical because it gives the fullest
recognition to the two principles of human nature, the _material_, and
the _spiritual_. We are ready to concede all that the most advanced
biologist would ask of us. Does he say, “Thought is only a mode of
motion?” if so, we are not dismayed. We know that ninety-nine out of
a hundred thoughts that pass through our minds are involuntary, the
inevitable result of those modifications of the brain tissue which
habit has set up. The mean man thinks mean thoughts, the magnanimous
man great thoughts, because we all think as we are accustomed to
think, and Physiology shows us why. On the other hand, we recognise
that greater is the spirit within us than the matter which it governs.
Every habit has its beginning. The beginning is the _idea_ which comes
with a stir and takes possession of us. The _idea_ is the motive power
of life, and it is because we recognise the spiritual potency of the
_idea_ that we are able to bow reverently before the fact that God the
Holy Spirit is Himself the Supreme Educator, dealing with each of us
severally in the things we call sacred and those we call secular. We
lay ourselves open to the spiritual impact of ideas whether these be
conveyed by the printed page, the human voice, or whether they reach us
without visible sign.

But ideas may be evil or may be good; and to choose between the ideas
that present themselves is, as we have been taught, the one responsible
work of a human being. It is the power of choice that we would give our
children. We ask ourselves “Is there any fruitful idea underlying this
or that study that the children are engaged in?” We divest ourselves
of the notion that to develop the faculties is the chief thing, and
a “subject” which does not rise out of some great thought of life we
usually reject as not nourishing, not fruitful; while we usually, but
not invariably, retain those studies which give exercise in habits of
clear and orderly thinking. We have some gymnastics of the mind whose
object is to exercise what we call faculties as well as to train in the
habit of clear and ordered thinking. Mathematics, grammar, logic, &c.,
are not purely disciplinary; they do develop, if a bull may be allowed
us, intellectual muscle. We by no means reject the familiar staples of
education, in the school sense, but we prize them even more for the
record of intellectual habits they leave in the brain tissue than for
their distinct value in developing certain “faculties.” Thus our first
thought with regard to Nature-knowledge is that the child should have
a living personal acquaintance with the things he sees. It concerns
us more that he should know bistort from persicaria, hawkweed from
dandelion, and where to find this and that, and how it looks, living
and growing, than that he should talk learnedly about _epigynous_ and
_hypogynous_. All this is well in its place, but should come quite
late, after the child has seen and studied the living growing thing _in
situ_, and has copied colour and gesture as best he can.

So of object lessons, we are not anxious to develop his observing
powers on little bits of everything which he shall describe as opaque,
brittle, malleable, and so on. We would prefer not to take the edge
off his curiosity in this way; we should rather leave him receptive
and respectful for one of those opportunities for asking questions and
engaging in talk with his parents about the lock in the river, the
mowing machine, the ploughed field, which offer real seed to the mind
of a child, and never make him a priggish little person able to tell
all about it.

Once more, we know that there is a storehouse of thought wherein we may
find all the great ideas that have moved the world. We are above all
things anxious to give the child the key to this storehouse.

The education of the day, it is said, does not produce _reading_
people. We are determined that the children shall love books, therefore
we do not interpose ourselves between the book and the child. We read
him his Tanglewood Tales, and when he is a little older his Plutarch,
not trying too much to break up or water down, but leaving the child’s
mind to deal with the matter as it can. We endeavour that all our
teaching and treatment of children shall be on the lines of nature,
_their_ nature and ours, for we do not recognise what is called
“Child-nature.” We believe that children are human beings at their
best and sweetest but also at their weakest and least wise. We are
careful not to water down life for them but to present such portions
to them in such quantities as they can readily receive. In a word we
are very tenacious of the dignity and individuality of our children.
We recognise steady, regular growth with no _transition_ stage. This
teaching is up to date, but it is as old as common sense. Our claim
is that our common sense rests on a basis of Physiology, that we show
a reason for all that we do, and that we recognise “the science of
the proportion of things,” put the first thing foremost, do not take
too much upon ourselves, but leave time and scope for the workings of
nature and of a higher Power than nature herself.




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                 _THE TEACHING OF THE PARENTS’ NATIONAL
                           EDUCATIONAL UNION_

                                PART II


As the philosophy which underlies any educational or social scheme is
really the vital part of that scheme, it may be well to set forth,
however meagrely, some fragments of P.N.E.U. Philosophy.

We believe--

That disposition, intellect, genius, come pretty much by nature.

That _character_ is an achievement, the one practical achievement
possible to us for ourselves and for our children.

That all real advance, in family or individual, or nation, is along the
lines of character.

That, therefore, to direct and assist the evolution of character is the
chief office of education.

But perhaps we shall clear the ground better by throwing a little of
the teaching of the Union into categorical form:--

What is character?

The resultant or residuum of conduct.

That is to say, a man is what he has made himself by the thoughts in
which he has allowed himself, the words he has spoken, the deeds he has
done.

How does conduct itself originate?

Commonly, in our habitual modes of thought. We think as we are
accustomed to think, and, therefore, act as we are accustomed to act.

What, again, is the origin of these habits of thought and act?

Commonly, inherited disposition. The man who is generous, obstinate,
hot-tempered, devout, is so, on the whole, because that strain of
character runs in his family.

Are there any means of modifying inherited dispositions?

Yes; marriage, for the race; education, for the individual.

How may a bad habit which has its rise in an inherited disposition be
corrected?

By the contrary good habit: as Thomas à Kempis has said, “One custom
overcometh another.”

Trace the genesis of a habit.

Every act proceeds from a thought. Every thought modifies somewhat the
material structure of the brain. That is, the nerve substance of the
brain forms itself to the manner of thoughts we think. The habit of act
arises from the habit of thought. The person who thinks, “Oh, it will
do;” “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” forms a habit of negligent and imperfect
work.

How may such habit be corrected?

By introducing the contrary line of thought, which will lead to
contrary action. “This _must_ be done well, because----”

Is it enough to think such thought once?

No; the stimulus of the new idea must be applied until it is, so to
speak, at home in the brain, and arises involuntarily.

What do you mean by involuntary thought?

The brain is at work unceasingly, is always thinking, or rather is
always being acted upon by thought, as the keys of an instrument by the
fingers of a player.

Is the person aware of all the thoughts that the brain elaborates?

No; only of those which are new and “striking.” The old familiar “way
of thinking” beats in the brain without the consciousness of the
thinker.

What name is given to this unconscious thought?

Unconscious (or involuntary) cerebration.

Why is it important to the educator?

Because most of our actions spring from thoughts of which we are not
conscious, or, anyway, which are involuntary.

Is there any means of altering the trend of unconscious cerebration?

Yes; by diverting it into a new channel.

The “unconscious cerebration” of the greedy child runs upon cakes and
sweetmeats: how may this be corrected?

By introducing a new idea--the pleasure of giving pleasure with these
good things, for example.

Is the greedy child capable of receiving such new idea?

Most certainly; because benevolence, the desire of benefiting others,
is one of those springs of action in every human being that need only
to be touched to make them act.

Give an example of this fact.

Mungo Park, dying of thirst, hunger, and weariness in an African
desert, found himself in the vicinity of a cannibal tribe. He gave
himself up for lost, but a woman of the tribe found him, took
compassion on him, brought him milk, hid him, and nourished him until
he was restored and could take care of himself.

Are there any other springs of action which may be touched with effect
in every human being?

Yes, such as the desire of knowledge, of society, of distinction,
of wealth; friendship, gratitude, and many more. Indeed, it is not
possible to incite a human being to any sort of good and noble conduct
but you touch a responsive spring.

How, then, can human beings do amiss?

Because the good feelings have their opposite bad feelings, springs
which also await a touch. Malevolence is opposed to benevolence. It is
easy to imagine that the unstable savage woman might have been amongst
the first to devour the man she cherished, had one of her tribe given
an impulse to the springs of hatred within her.

In view of these internal impulses, what is the duty of the educator?

To make himself acquainted with the springs of action in a human being,
and to touch them with such wisdom, tenderness and moderation that the
child is insensibly led into the habits of the good life.

Name some of these habits.

Diligence, reverence, gentleness, truthfulness, promptness, neatness,
courtesy; in fact, the virtues and graces which belong to persons who
have been “well brought up.”

Is it enough to stimulate a spring of action--say, curiosity, or the
desire of knowledge, once in order to secure a habit?

No; the stimulus must be repeated, and action upon it secured over and
over many times before a habit is formed.

What common error do people make about the formation of habits?

They allow lapses; they train a child to “shut the door after him”
twenty times, and allow him to leave it open the twenty-first.

With what result?

That the work has to be done over again, because the growth of brain
tissue to the new habit (the forming of cell-connections) has been
disturbed. The result would appear to be much the same as when the
flesh-forming process which knits up a wound is disturbed.

Then the educator should “time” himself in forming habits? How long may
it take to cure a bad habit, and form the contrary good one?

Perhaps a month or six weeks of careful incessant treatment may be
enough.

But such treatment requires an impossible amount of care and
watchfulness on the part of the educator?

Yes; but not more than is given to the cure of any bodily
disease--measles, or scarlet fever, for example.

Then the thoughts and actions of a human being may be regulated
mechanically, so to speak, by setting up the right nerve currents in
the brain?

This is true only so far as it is true to say that the keys of a piano
produce music.

But the thoughts, which may be represented by the fingers of the
player, do they not also run their course without the consciousness of
the thinker?

They do; not merely vague, inconsequent musings, but thoughts which
follow each other with more or less logical sequence, according to the
previous training of the thinker.

Would you illustrate this?

Mathematicians have been known to think out abstruse problems in their
sleep; the bard improvises, authors “reel off” without premeditation,
without any deliberate intention to write such and such things.
The thoughts follow each other according to the habit of thinking
previously set up in the brain of the thinker.

Is it that the thoughts go round and round a subject like a horse in a
mill?

No; the horse is rather drawing a carriage along the same high road,
but into ever new developments of the landscape.

In this light, the important thing is how you _begin_ to think on any
subject?

Precisely so; the initial thought or suggestion touches as it were the
spring which sets in motion a possibly endless succession or train of
ideas; thoughts which are, so to speak, elaborated in the brain almost
without the consciousness of the thinker.

Are these thoughts, or successive ideas, random, or do they make for
any conclusion?

They make for the logical conclusion which should follow the initial
idea.

Then the reasoning power may be set to work involuntarily?

Yes; the sole concern of this power is, apparently, to work out the
rational conclusion from any idea presented to it.

But surely this power of arriving at logical rational conclusions
almost unconsciously is the result of education, most likely of
generations of culture?

It exists in greater or less degree according as it is disciplined and
exercised; but it is by no means the result of education as the word is
commonly understood: witness the following anecdote:[17]

“When Captain Head was travelling across the Pampas of South America,
his guide one day suddenly stopped him, and, pointing high into the
air, cried out, ‘A lion!’ Surprised at such an exclamation, accompanied
with such an act, he turned up his eyes, and with difficulty perceived,
at an immeasurable height, a flight of condors soaring in circles in
a particular spot. Beneath this spot, far out of sight of himself or
guide, lay the carcass of a horse, and over this carcass stood, as the
guide well knew, a lion, whom the condors were eyeing with envy from
their airy height. The sight of the birds was to him what the sight of
the lion alone would have been to the traveller, a full assurance of
its existence. Here was an act of thought which cost the thinker no
trouble, which was as easy to him as to cast his eyes upward, yet which
from us, unaccustomed to the subject, would require many steps and some
labour.”

Then is what is called “the reason” innate in human beings?

Yes, it is innate, and is exercised without volition by all, but gains
in power and precision, according as it is cultivated.

If the reason, especially the trained reason, arrives at the right
conclusion without any effort of volition on the part of the thinker,
it is practically an infallible guide to conduct?

On the contrary, the reason is pledged to pursue a suggestion to its
logical conclusion only. Much of the history of religious persecutions
and of family and international feuds turns on the confusion which
exists in most minds between that which is logically inevitable and
that which is morally right.

But according to this doctrine any theory whatever may be shown to be
logically inevitable?

Exactly so; the initial idea once received, the difficulty is, not to
prove that it is tenable, but to restrain the mind from proving that it
is so.

Can you illustrate this point?

The child who lets himself be jealous of his brother is almost startled
by the flood of convincing proofs that he does well to be angry, which
rush in upon him. Beginning with a mere flash of suspicion in the
morning, the little Cain finds himself in the evening possessed of
irrefragable proofs that his brother is unjustly preferred to him: and

   “All seems infected that the infected spy
    As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.”

But supposing it is true that the child has cause for jealousy?

Given, the starting idea, and his reason is equally capable of proving
a logical certainty, whether it is true or whether it is not true.

Is there any historical proof of this startling theory?

Perhaps every failure in conduct, in individuals, and in nations, is
due to the confusion which exists as to that which is logically right,
as established by the reason, and that which is morally right, as
established by external law.

Is any such distinction recognised in the Bible?

Distinctly so; the _transgressors_ of the Bible are those who do that
which is _right_ in their own eyes--that is, that of which their reason
approves. Modern thought considers, on the contrary, that all men are
justified in doing that which is right in their own eyes, acting “up to
their lights,” “obeying the dictates of their reason.”

For example?

A mother whose cruel usage had caused the death of her child was
morally exonerated lately in a court of justice because she acted
“from a mistaken sense of duty.”

But it is not possible to err from a mistaken sense of duty?

Not only possible, but inevitable, if a man accept his “own reason” as
his lawgiver and judge. Take a test case, the case of the superlative
crime that has been done upon the earth. There can be no doubt that
the persons who caused the death of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ
acted under a mistaken sense of duty. “It is expedient that one man
die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not,” said, most
reasonably, those patriotic leaders of the Jews; and they relentlessly
hunted to death this Man whose ascendency over the common people and
whose whispered claims to kingship were full of elements of danger to
the subject race. “They know not what they do,” He said, Who is the
Truth.

All this may be of importance to philosophers; but what has it to do
with the bringing up of children?

It is time we reverted to the teaching of Socrates. “Know thyself,”
exhorted the wise man, in season and out of season; and it will be well
with us when we understand that to acquaint a child with himself--what
he is as a human being--is a great part of education.

It is difficult to see why; surely much harm comes of morbid
introspection?

Introspection is morbid or diseased when the person imagines that
all which he finds within him is peculiar to him as an individual.
To know what is common to all men is a sound cure for unhealthy
self-contemplation.

How does it work?

To recognise the limitations of the reason is a safeguard in all
the duties and relations of life. The man who knows that loyalty is
his first duty in every relation, and that if he admit doubting,
grudging, unlovely thoughts, he cannot possibly be loyal, because such
thoughts once admitted will prove themselves to be right and fill the
whole field of thought, why, he is on his guard, and writes up “no
admittance” to every manner of mistrustful fancy.

That rule of life should affect the Supreme relationship?

Truly, yes; if a man will admit no beginning of mistrustful surmise
concerning his father and mother, his child and his wife, shall he do
so of Him who is more than they, and more than all, the “Lord of his
heart”? “Loyalty forbids” is the answer to every questioning of His
truth that would intrude.

But when others, whom you must needs revere, question and tell you of
their “honest doubt”?

You know the history of their doubt, and can take it for what it is
worth--its origin in the suggestion, which, once admitted, must needs
reach a logical conclusion even to the bitter end. “Take heed that ye
_enter_ not into temptation,” He said, Who needed not that any should
tell Him, for He knew what was in men.

If man is the creature of those habits he forms with care or allows in
negligence, if his very thoughts are involuntary and his conclusions
inevitable, he ceases to be a free agent. One might as well concede at
once that “thought is a mode of motion,” and cease to regard man as a
spiritual being capable of self-regulation!

It is hardly possible to concede too wide a field to biological
research, if we keep well to the front the fact, that man is a
spiritual being whose material organs act in obedience to spiritual
suggestion; that, for example, as the hand writes, so the brain thinks,
in obedience to suggestions.

Is the suggestion self originated?

Probably not; it would appear that, as the material life is sustained
upon its appropriate food from without, so the immaterial life is
sustained upon _its_ food,--ideas or suggestions spiritually conveyed.

May the words “idea” and “suggestion” be used as synonymous terms?

Only in so far as that ideas convey suggestions to be effected in acts.

What part does the man himself play in the reception of this immaterial
food?

It is as though one stood on the threshold to admit or reject the
viands which should sustain the family.

Is this free-will in the reception or rejection of ideas the limit of
man’s responsibility in the conduct of his life?

Probably it is; for an idea once received must run its course, unless
it be superseded by another idea, in the reception of which volition is
again exercised.

How do ideas originate?

They appear to be spiritual emanations from spiritual beings; thus, one
man conveys to another the idea which is a very part of himself.

Is the intervention of a bodily presence necessary for the transmission
of an idea?

By no means; ideas may be conveyed through picture or printed
page; absent friends would appear to communicate ideas without the
intervention of means; natural objects convey ideas, but, perhaps, the
initial idea in this case may always be traced to another mind.

Then the spiritual sustenance of ideas is derived directly or
indirectly from other human beings?

No; and here is the great recognition which the educator is called
upon to make. God, the Holy Spirit, is Himself the supreme Educator of
mankind.

How?

He openeth man’s ear morning by morning, to hear so much of the best as
the man is able to bear.

Are the ideas suggested by the Holy Spirit confined to the sphere of
the religious life?

No; Coleridge, speaking of Columbus and the discovery of America,
ascribes the origin of great inventions and discoveries to the fact
that “certain ideas of the natural world are presented to minds,
already prepared to receive them, by a higher Power than Nature
herself.”

Is there any teaching in the Bible to support this view?

Yes; very much. Isaiah, for example, says that the ploughman knows how
to carry on the successive operations of husbandry, “for his God doth
instruct him and doth teach him.”

Are all ideas which have a purely spiritual origin ideas of good?

Unhappily, no; it is the sad experience of mankind that suggestions of
evil also are spiritually conveyed.

What is the part of the man?

To choose the good and refuse the evil.

Does this doctrine of ideas as the spiritual food needful to sustain
the immaterial life throw any light on the doctrines of the Christian
religion?

Yes; the Bread of Life, the Water of Life, the Word by which man lives,
the “meat to eat which ye know not of,” and much more, cease to be
figurative expressions, except that we must use the same words to name
the corporeal and the incorporeal sustenance of man. We understand,
moreover, how suggestions emanating from our Lord and Saviour, which
are of His essence, are the spiritual meat and drink of His believing
people. We find it no longer a “hard saying,” nor a dark saying, that
we must sustain our spiritual selves upon Him, even as our bodies upon
bread.

What practical bearing upon the educator has this doctrine of ideas?

He knows that it is his part to place before the child daily
nourishment of ideas; that he may give the child the right initial idea
in every study, and respecting each relation and duty of life; above
all, he recognises the divine co-operation in the direction, teaching,
and training of the child.

How would you summarise the functions of education?

Education is a discipline--that is, the discipline of the good habits
in which the child is trained. Education is a life, nourished upon
ideas; and education is an atmosphere--that is, the child breathes the
atmosphere emanating from his parents; that of the ideas which rule
their own lives.

What part do lessons and the general work of the schoolroom play in
education thus regarded?

They should afford opportunity for the discipline of many good habits,
and should convey to the child such initial ideas of interest in his
various studies as to make the pursuit of knowledge on those lines an
object in life and a delight to him.

What duty lies upon parents and others who regard education thus
seriously, as a lever by means of which character may be elevated,
almost indefinitely?

Perhaps it is incumbent upon them to make conscientious endeavours
to further all means used to spread the views they hold; believing
that there is such “progress in character and virtue” possible to the
redeemed human race as has not yet been realised, or even imagined.
“Education is an atmosphere, a discipline, a life.”[18]


FOOTNOTES:

     [17] From Archbishop Thompson’s _Laws of Thought_.

     [18] Matthew Arnold.




                              CHAPTER XXIV

                          _WHENCE AND WHITHER_

                                 PART I


“The P.N.E.U. goes on,” an observer writes, “without puff or fuss, by
its own inherent force;” and it is making singularly rapid progress.
At the present moment not less than ten thousand children of thinking,
educated parents, are being brought up, more or less consciously and
definitely, upon the line of the Union. Parents who read the _Parents’
Review_, or other literature of the Society, parents who belong to our
various branches, or our other agencies, parents who are influenced by
these parents, are becoming multitudinous; and all have one note in
common,--the ardour of persons working out inspiring ideas.

It is hardly possible to over-estimate the force of this league of
educated parents. When we think of the part that the children being
brought up under these influences will one day play in the leading
and ruling of the land, we are solemnised with the sense of a great
responsibility, and it behoves us to put to ourselves, once again, the
two searching queries by which every movement should, from time to
time, be adjudged,--Whence? and Whither?

_Whence?_ The man who is satisfied with his dwelling-place has no wish
to move, and the mere fact of a “movement” is a declaration that we
are not satisfied, and that we are definitely on our way to some other
ends than those commonly accepted. In one respect only we venture
boldly to hark back. Exceedingly fine men and women were brought up by
our grandfathers and grandmothers, even by our mothers and fathers, and
the wise and old amongst us, though they look on with great sympathy,
yet have an unexpressed feeling that men and women were made on the old
lines of a stamp which we shall find it hard to improve upon. This was
no mere chance result, nor did it come out of the spelling-book or the
Pinnock’s Catechisms which we have long ago consigned to the limbo they
deserve.

The teaching of the old days was as bad as it could be, the training
was haphazard work, reckless alike of physiology and psychology; but
our grandfathers and grandmothers had one saving principle, which,
for the last two or three decades, we have been, of set purpose,
labouring to lose. They, of the older generation, recognised children
as reasonable beings, persons of mind and conscience like themselves,
but needing their guidance and control, as having neither knowledge
nor experience. Witness the queer old children’s books which have come
down to us; before all things, these addressed children as reasonable,
intelligent and responsible (terribly responsible!) persons. This
fairly represents the note of home-life in the last generation. So
soon as the baby realised his surroundings, he found himself a morally
and intellectually responsible person. Now one of the secrets of
power in dealing with our fellow beings is, to understand that human
nature does that which it is expected to do and is that which it is
expected to be. We do not mean, _believed_ to do and to be, with the
fond and foolish faith which Mrs. Hardcastle bestowed on her dear Tony
Lumpkin. Expectation strikes another chord, the chord of “_I am, I can,
I ought_,” which must vibrate in every human breast, for, “’tis our
nature to.” The capable, dependable men and women whom we all know were
reared upon this principle.

But now? Now, many children in many homes are still brought up on the
old lines, but not with quite the unfaltering certitude of the old
times. Other thoughts are in the air. A baby is a huge oyster (says
one eminent psychologist) whose business is to feed, and to sleep,
and to grow. Even Professor Sully, in his most delightful book,[19]
is torn in two. The children have conquered him, have convinced him
beyond doubt that they are as ourselves, only more so. But then he is
an evolutionist, and feels himself pledged to accommodate the child to
the principles of evolution. Therefore, the little person is supposed
to go through a thousand stages of moral and intellectual development,
leading him from the condition of the savage or ape to that of
the intelligent and cultivated human being. If children will not
accommodate themselves pleasantly to this theory, why, that is their
fault, and Professor Sully is too true a child-lover not to give us the
children as they are, with little interludes of the theory upon which
they ought to evolve. Now we have absolutely no theory to advance,
and are, on scientific grounds, disposed to accept the theories of
the evolutionary psychologists. But facts are too strong for us. When
we consider the enormous intellectual labour the infant goes through
during his first year in accommodating himself to the conditions of a
new world, in learning to discern between far and near, solid and flat,
large and small, and a thousand other qualifications and limitations
of this perplexing world, why, we are not surprised that John Stuart
Mill should be well on in his Greek at five; that Arnold at three
should know all the Kings and Queens of England by their portraits; or
that a musical baby should have an extensive repertoire of the musical
classics.

We were once emphasising the fact that every child could learn to
speak two languages at once with equal facility, when a gentleman in
the audience stated that he had a son who was a missionary in Bagdad,
married to a German lady, and their little son of three expressed all
he had to say with equal fluency in three languages--German, English,
and Arabic, using each in speaking to those persons whose language it
was. “Nana, which does God love best, little girls or little boys?”
said a meditative little girl of four. “Oh, little girls, to be sure,”
said Nana, with a good-natured wish to please. “Then if God loves
little girls best, why was not God Himself a little girl?” Which of
us who have reached the later stages of evolution would have hit
upon a more conclusive argument? If the same little girl asked on
another occasion, watching the blackbirds at the cherries: “Nana, if
the bees make honey, do the birds make jam?” it was by no means an
inane question, and only proves that we older persons are dull and
inappreciative of such mysteries of nature as that bees should make
honey.

This is how we find children--with intelligence more acute, logic more
keen, observing powers more alert, moral sensibilities more quick, love
and faith and hope more abounding; in fact, in all points like as we
are, only much more so, but absolutely ignorant of the world and its
belongings, of us and our ways, and, above all, of how to control and
direct and manifest the infinite possibilities with which they are born.

Our conception of a child rules our relations towards him. _Pour
s’amuser_ is the rule of child-life proper for the “oyster” theory,
and most of our children’s books and many of our theories of
child-education are based upon this rule. “Oh! he’s so happy,” we say,
and are content, believing that if he is happy he will be good; and it
is so to a great extent; but in the older days the theory was, if you
are good you will be happy; and this is a principle which strikes the
keynote of endeavour, and holds good, not only through the childish
“stage of evolution,” but for the whole of life, here and hereafter.
The child who has learned to “endeavour himself” (as the Prayer Book
has it) has learned to live.

If our conception of _Whence?_ as regards the child, as of--

   “A Being, breathing thoughtful breath,
    A traveller betwixt life and death,”--

is old, that of our grandfathers; our conception of the aims and
methods of education, is new, only made possible within the very last
decades of the century; because it rests one foot upon the latest
advances in the science of Biology and the other upon the potent secret
of these latter days, that matter is the all-serviceable agent of
spirit, and that spirit forms, moulds, is absolute lord, over matter,
as capable of affecting the material convolutions of the brain as of
influencing what used to be called the heart.

Knowing that the brain is the physical seat of habit, and that
conduct and character, alike, are the outcome of the habits we allow:
knowing, too, that an inspiring idea initiates a new habit of thought,
and, hence, a new habit of life; we perceive that the great work of
education is to inspire children with vitalising ideas as to the
relations of life, departments of knowledge, subjects of thought: and
to give deliberate care to the formation of those habits of the good
life which are the outcome of vitalising ideas.

In this great work we seek and assuredly find the co-operation of the
Divine Spirit, whom we recognise, in a sense rather new to _modern_
thought, as the Supreme Educator of mankind in things that have been
called secular, fully as much as in those that have been called sacred.
We are free to give our whole force to these two great educational
labours, of the inspiration of ideas and the formation of habits,
because, except in the case of children somewhat mentally deficient,
we do not consider that the “development of faculties” is any part of
our work; seeing that the children’s so-called faculties are already
greatly more acute than our own.

We have, too, in our possession, a test for systems that are brought
under our notice, and can pronounce upon their educational value.
For example, a little while ago, the London Board Schools held an
exhibition of work; and great interest was excited by an exhibit which
came from New York representing a week’s work in a school. The children
worked for a week upon “an apple.” They modelled it in clay, they
painted it in brushwork, they stitched the outline on cardboard, they
pricked it, they laid it in sticks (the pentagonal form of the seed
vessel). Older boys and girls modelled an apple-tree and made a little
ladder on which to run up the apple-tree and gather the apples, and
a wheel-barrow to carry the apples away, and a great deal more of the
same kind. Everybody said, “How pretty, how ingenious, what a good
idea!” and went away with the notion that here, at last, was education.
But _we_ ask, “What was the informing idea?” The external shape, the
internal contents of an apple,--matters with which the children were
already exceedingly well acquainted. What mental habitudes were gained
by this week’s work? They certainly learned to look at the apple, but
think how many things they might have got familiar acquaintance with in
the time. Probably the children were not consciously bored, because the
impulse of the teachers enthusiasm carried them on. But, think of it--

   “Rabbits hot and rabbits cold,
    Rabbits young and rabbits old,
    Rabbits tender and rabbits tough,”--

no doubt those children had enough--of apples anyway. This “apple”
course is most instructive to us as emphasising the tendency in the
human mind to accept and rejoice in any neat system which will produce
immediate results, rather than to bring every such little course to the
test of whether it does or does not further either or both of our great
educational principles.

_Whither?_ Our “whence” opens to us a “whither” of infinitely
delightful possibilities. Seeing that each of us is labouring for
the advance of the human race through the individual child we are
educating, we consider carefully in what directions this advance is
due, and indicated, and we proceed of set purpose and, endeavour to
educate our children so that they shall advance with the tide. “Can ye
not discern the signs of the times?” A new Renaissance is coming upon
us, of unspeakably higher import than the last; and we are bringing
up our children to lead and guide, and, by every means help in the
progress--progress by leaps and bounds--which the world is about to
make. But “whither” is too large a question for the close of a chapter.


FOOTNOTES:

     [19] “Studies of Childhood,” by Professor Sully
          (_Longmans_, 10_s._ 6_d._).




                              CHAPTER XXV

                          _WHENCE AND WHITHER_

                                PART II


The morphologist, the biologist, leave many without hesitation in
following the great _bouleversement_ of thought, summed up in the term
_evolution_. They are no longer able to believe otherwise than that
man is the issue of processes, ages long in their development; and
what is more, and even more curious, that each individual child, from
the moment of his conception to that of his birth, appears in his own
person to mark an incredible number of the stages of this evolutionary
process. The realisation of this truth has made a great impression
on the minds of men. We feel ourselves to be part of a process, and
to be called upon, at the same time, to assist in the process, not
for ourselves exactly, but for any part of the world upon which our
influence bears; especially for the children who are so peculiarly
given over to us. But there comes, as we have seen, a point where we
must arise and make our protest. The physical evolution of man may
admit of no doubt; the psychical evolution, on the other hand, is not
only, _not proven_, but the whole weight of existing evidence appears
to go into the opposite scale.

The age of materialism has run its course: we recognise matter as
force, but as altogether subject force, and that it is the spirit
of a man which shapes and uses his material substance, in its own
ways to its own ends. Who can tell the way of the spirit? Perhaps
this is one of the ultimate questions upon which man has not yet
been able to speculate to any purpose; but when we consider the
almost unlimited powers of loving and of trusting, of discriminating
and of apprehending, of perceiving and of knowing, which a child
possesses, and compare these with the blunted sensibilities and slower
apprehension of the grown man or woman of the same calibre, we are
certainly not inclined to think that growth from less to more, and from
small to great, is the condition of the spiritual life: that is, of
that part of us which loves and worships, reasons and thinks, learns
and applies knowledge. Rather would it seem to be true of every child
in his degree, as of the divine and typical Child, that He giveth not
the Spirit by measure to him.

It is curious how the philosophy of the Bible is always well in advance
of our latest thought. “He grew in wisdom and in stature,” we are
told. Now what is wisdom--philosophy? Is it not the recognition of
_relations_? First, we have to understand relations of time and space
and matter, the natural philosophy which made up so much of the wisdom
of Solomon; then, by slow degrees, and more and more, we learn that
moral philosophy which determines our relations of love and justice
and duty to each other: later, perhaps, we investigate the profound
and puzzling subject of the inter-relations of our own most composite
being,--mental philosophy. And in all these and beyond all these we
apprehend slowly and feebly the highest relation of all, the relation
to God, which we call religion. In this science of the relations of
things consists what we call wisdom, and wisdom is not born in any
man,--apparently not even in the Son of man Himself. He grew in wisdom,
in the sweet gradual apprehension of all the relations of life: but the
power of apprehending, the strong, subtle, discerning spirit, whose
function it is to grasp and understand, appropriate and use, all the
relations which bind all things to all other things--this was not given
to Him by measure; nor, we may reverently believe, is it so given to us.

That there are differences in the measures of men, in their
intellectual and moral stature, is evident enough; but it is well
that we should realise the nature of these differences, that they
are differences in kind and not in degree; depending upon what we
glibly call the laws of heredity, which bring it to pass that man
in his various aspects shall make up that conceivably perfect whole
possible to mankind. This is a quite different thing from the notion
of a small and feeble measure of heart and intellect in the child, to
grow by degrees into the robust and noble spiritual development which,
according to the psychical evolutionist, should distinguish the adult
human being.

These are quite practical and simple considerations for every one
entrusted with the bringing up of a child, and are not to be set
aside as abstract principles, the discussion of which should serve
little purpose beyond that of sharpening the wits of the schoolmen.
As a matter of fact, we do not _realise_ children, we under-estimate
them; in the divine words, we “despise” them, with the best intentions
in the world, because we confound the immaturity of their frames,
and their absolute ignorance as to the relations of things, with
spiritual impotence: whereas the fact probably is, that never is
intellectual power so keen, the moral sense so strong, spiritual
perception so piercing, as in those days of childhood which we regard
with a supercilious, if kindly, smile. A child is a person in whom all
possibilities are present--present now at this very moment--not to be
educed after years and efforts manifold on the part of the educator:
but indeed it is a greater thing to direct and use this wealth of
spiritual power than to develop the so-called faculties of the child.
It cannot be too strongly urged that our education of children will
depend, _nolens volens_, upon the conception we form of them. If we
regard them as instruments fit and capable for the carrying out of
the Divine purpose in the progress of the world, we shall endeavour
to discern the signs of the times, perceive in what directions we are
being led, and prepare the children to carry forward the work of the
world, by giving them vitalising ideas concerning, at any rate, some
departments of that work.

Having settled it with ourselves that we and the children alike live
for the advancement of the race, that our work is immediately with
them, and, through them, mediately for all, and that they are perfectly
fitted to receive those ideas which are for the inspiration of life, we
must next settle it with ourselves in what directions we shall set up
spiritual activities in the children.

We have sought to establish our _whence_ in the potency of the child,
we will look for our _whither_ in the living thought of the day, which
probably indicates the directions in which the race is making progress.
We find that all men everywhere are keenly interested in science, that
the world waits and watches for great discoveries; we, too, wait and
watch, believing that, as Coleridge said long ago, great ideas of
Nature are imparted to minds already prepared to receive them by a
higher Power than Nature herself.

At a late meeting of the British Association, the President lamented
that the progress of science was greatly hindered by the fact that we
no longer have field naturalists--close observers of Nature as she
is. A literary journal made a lamentable remark thereupon. It is all
written in books, said this journal, so we have no longer any need
to go to Nature herself. Now the knowledge of Nature which we get
out of books is not real knowledge; the use of books is, to help the
young student to verify facts he has already seen for himself. We, of
the P.N.E.U., are before all things, Nature-lovers; we conceive that
intimate acquaintance with every natural object within his reach is the
first, and possibly, the best part of a child’s education. For himself,
all his life long, he will be soothed by--

   “The breathing balm,
    The silence and the calm,
    Of mute insensate things.”

And for science, he is in a position to do just the work which is most
needed; he will be a close loving observer of Nature at first hand,
storing facts, and free from all impatient greed for inferences.

Looking out on the realm of Art again, we think we discern the signs
of the times. Some of us begin to learn the lesson which a prophet has
been raised up to deliver to this generation. We begin to understand
that mere technique, however perfect--whether in the rendering of
flesh tints, or marbles, or of a musical composition of extreme
difficulty--is not necessarily high Art. It is beginning to dawn upon
us that Art is great only in proportion to the greatness of the idea
that it expresses; while, what we ask of the execution, the technique,
is that it shall be adequate to the inspiring idea. But surely these
high themes have nothing to do with the bringing up of children? Yes,
they have; everything. In the first place, we shall permit no _pseudo_
Art to live in the same house with our children; next, we shall bring
our own facile tastes and opinions to some such searching test as we
have indicated, knowing that the children imbibe the thoughts that
are in us, whether we will or no; and, lastly, we shall inspire our
children with those great ideas which shall create a demand, anyway,
for great Art.

In literature, we have definite ends in view, both for our own
children, and for the world through them. We wish the children to grow
up to find joy and refreshment in the taste, the flavour of a _book_.
We do not mean by a book any printed matter in a binding, but a work
possessing certain literary qualities able to bring that sensible
delight to the reader which belongs to a literary word fitly spoken.
It is a sad fact that we are losing our joy in literary form. We are
in such haste to be instructed by facts or titillated by theories,
that we have no leisure to linger over the mere putting of a thought.
But this is our error, for words are mighty both to delight and to
inspire. If we were not as blind as bats, we should long ago have
discovered a truth very fully indicated in the Bible--that that which
is once said with perfect fitness can never be said again, and becomes
ever thereafter a living power in the world. But in literature, as in
art, we require more than mere form. Great ideas are brooding over the
chaos of our thought; and it is he who shall say the things we are all
dumbly thinking, who shall be to us as a teacher sent from God.

For the children? They must grow up upon the best. There must never
be a period in their lives when they are allowed to read or listen
to twaddle or reading-made-easy. There is never a time when they are
unequal to worthy thoughts, well put; inspiring tales, well told. Let
Blake’s “Songs of Innocence” represent their standard in poetry; Defoe
and Stevenson, in prose; and we shall train a race of readers who will
demand _literature_, that is, the fit and beautiful expression of
inspiring ideas and pictures of life. Perhaps a printed form to the
effect that gifts of books to the children will not be welcome in such
and such a family, would greatly assist in this endeavour!

To instance one more point--there is a reaching out in all directions
after the conception expressed in the words “solidarity of the race.”
We have probably never before felt as now in absolute relation with
all men everywhere; everything human is precious to us, the past
belongs to us as the present, and we linger tenderly over evidences
of the personality of men and women who lived ages ago. An American
poet expresses this feeling with western intensity, but he does not
exaggerate when he tells us that _he_ is the soldier wounded in battle,
_he_ is the galley slave, and _he_ is the hero come to the rescue, that
every human pulse is _his_ pulse, every fall _his_ fall, and every
moral victory _his_ triumph. The present writer recollects the moment
when the conviction of the common sisterhood of women was brought home
to her in a way never to be forgotten. She was driving from station
to station in London, and saw a drunken woman carried on a door. She
knew by the shock of pain and the tears the sight brought that the
woman was not outside of her, but was in some mysterious way part of
her--her very self. This was a new perception to the girl, and one
never again to be lost sight of. Such shocks of recognition probably
come to most of us, and when they come to the Greathearts of the world
we get our Elizabeth Frys, our Wilberforces, our Florence Nightingales.
Deeds of pity have been done through all the Christian ages, and,
indeed, wherever the human heart has had free play, but to feel pity
for another and to be aware, however dimly, that that other is, part
and lot, indissolubly bound up with ourselves--these are two things.
We venture to believe that this is the stage which the education of
mankind, as divinely conducted, has reached in our day. In other days
men did good for the love of God, or to save their own souls; they
acted uprightly because it behoved themselves to be just in all their
dealings; but the motives which stir us in our relation to each other
now are more intimate, tender, indefinable, soul-compelling. What the
issues will be when we have learned to con understandingly this new
page in the Book of Life we cannot foretell, but we may hope that the
Kingdom of God is coming upon us.

Studying reverently _these_ signs of the times, what indications do
we find for our guidance in the bringing up of children? The tender
sympathy of the child must be allowed to flow in ways of help and
kindness towards all life that anyway touches his. I once knew a little
girl of five, who came in from her walk under an obvious cloud of
distress. “What is the matter, H----?” she was asked. A quick little
“Nothing,” with the reticence of her family, was all that could be
got out of her for some minutes; but a caress broke her down, and,
in a passion of pity, she sobbed out, “A poor man, no home, no food,
no bed to lie upon!” Young as she was, the revelation of the common
life in humanity had come upon her; she was one with the beggar and
suffered with him. Children must, of course, be shielded from such
intense suffering, but woe to mother or nurse who would shield, by
systematically hardening, the child’s heart. This little girl should
have had the relief of helping, and then the pain of sympathy would not
have been too much for her. Whatever our own opinion of the world and
of human nature, let us be careful how we breathe the word “impostor”
into the ear of a child, until he is old enough to understand that if
the man is an impostor that does but make him the object of a deeper
pity and a wiser help--a help whose object is not to relieve but to
reform.

Again, children are open to vanity as to all other evil dispositions
possible to human nature. They must be educated to give and to help
without any notion that to do so is goodness on their part. It is very
easy to keep them in the attitude of mind natural to a child, that
to serve is promotion to the person who serves, for indeed he has no
absolute claim to be in a position to pour benefits upon another.
The child’s range of sympathy must be widened, his love must go out
to far and near, rich and poor; distress abroad and distress at home
should appeal to him equally; and always he should give some manner
of help _at real cost to himself_. When he is old enough, the object
lessons of the newspapers should be brought before him. He should
know that atrocities in Armenia, for instance, are the cause of real
heart-trouble in English homes; that there are cases of abstract
right and wrong for nations as for individuals, which admit of no
considerations of expediency; that to succour our neighbour in mortal
distress is such an occasion, and that he who has fallen among thieves
is therefore our neighbour, whether as a nation or as an individual.
Do not let us bring up our children in glass houses, for fear of
the ravages of pity upon their tender hearts. Let them know of any
distress which would naturally come before them, and let them ease
their own pain by alleviating in some way the sufferings they sorrow
for. Children were not given to us with infinite possibilities of love
and pity that we might choke the springs of pity and train them into
hardness of heart. It is our part, on the contrary, to prepare these
little ministers of grace for the larger and fuller revelation of the
kingdom of heaven that is coming upon us.




                              CHAPTER XXVI

                        _THE GREAT RECOGNITION_


Mr. Ruskin has done a great service to modern thought in interpreting
for us the harmonious and ennobling scheme of education and philosophy
recorded upon one quarter of what he calls the “Vaulted Book,” that is,
the Spanish Chapel attached to the Church of Sta. Maria Novella, in
Florence.

Many of our readers have probably studied under Mr. Ruskin’s guidance
the illuminating teaching of the frescoes which cover roof and walls;
but all will like to be reminded of the lessons they have pondered
with reverence and wonder. “The descent of the Holy Ghost is on the
left hand (of the roof) as you enter. The Madonna and Disciples are
gathered in an upper chamber: underneath are the Parthians, Medes,
Elamites, &c., who hear them speak in their own tongues. Three dogs are
in the foreground--their mythic purpose, to mark the share of the lower
animals in the gentleness given by the outpouring of the Spirit of
Christ.... On this and the opposite side of the Chapel are represented
by Simon Memmi’s hand, the teaching power of the Spirit of God and
the saving power of the Christ of God in the world, according to the
understanding of Florence in his time.

“We will take the side of intellect first. Beneath the pouring forth
of the Holy Spirit in the point of the arch beneath are the three
Evangelical Virtues. Without these, says Florence, you can have no
science. Without Love, Faith, and Hope--no intelligence. Under these
are the four Cardinal Virtues ... Temperance, Prudence, Justice,
Fortitude. Under these are the great Prophets and Apostles.... Under
the line of Prophets, as powers summoned by their voices are the mythic
figures of the seven theological or spiritual and the seven geological
or natural sciences; and under the feet of each of them the figure of
its Captain-teacher to the world.”

We hope our readers will continue to study Mr. Ruskin’s exposition of
the “Vaulted Book” in _Mornings in Florence_: it is wonderfully full
of teaching and suggestion. Our immediate concern is with the seven
mythic figures representing the natural sciences, and with the figure
of the Captain-teacher of each. First we have Grammar, a gracious
figure teaching three Florentine children; and, beneath, Priscian.
Next, Rhetoric, strong, calm, and cool; and below, the figure of Cicero
with a quite beautiful face. Next, Logic, with perfect pose of figure
and lovely countenance; and beneath her, Aristotle--intense keenness
of search in his half-closed eyes. Next, Music, with head inclined
in intent listening to the sweet and solemn strains she is producing
from her antique instrument; and underneath, Tubal Cain, not Jubal,
as the inventor of harmony--perhaps the most marvellous record that
Art has produced of the impact of a great idea upon the soul of a
man but semi-civilised. Astronomy succeeds, with majestic brow and
upraised hand, and below her, Zoroaster, exceedingly beautiful--“the
delicate Persian head made softer still by the elaborately wreathed
silken hair.” Next, Geometry, looking down, considering some practical
problem, with her carpenter’s square in her hand, and below her,
Euclid. And lastly, Arithmetic, holding two fingers up in the act of
calculating, and under her, Pythagoras wrapped in the science of number.

  “The thoughts of God are broader than the measures of man’s mind.”

But here we have the breadth of minds so wide in the sweep of their
intelligence, so profound in their insight, that we are almost startled
with the perception that, pictured on these walls, we have indeed a
true measure of the thoughts of God. Let us glance for a moment at
our nineteenth century conception of education. In the first place,
we divide education into religious and secular. The more devout among
us insist upon religious education as well as secular. Many of us are
content to do without religious education altogether, and are satisfied
with what we not only _call_ secular but _make_ secular, in the sense
in which we understand the word, _i.e._, entirely limited to the uses
of this visible world. Many Christian people rise a little higher;
they conceive that even grammar and arithmetic may in some, not very
clear, way be used for God; but the Great Recognition, that God the
Holy Spirit is Himself, personally, the Imparter of knowledge, the
Instructor of youth, the Inspirer of genius, is a conception so far
lost to us that we should think it distinctly irreverent to conceive of
the divine teaching as co-operating with ours in a child’s arithmetic
lesson, for example. But the Florentine mind of the Middle Ages went
further than this: it believed, not only that the seven Liberal Arts
were fully under the direct outpouring of the Holy Ghost, but that
every fruitful idea, every original conception, whether in Euclid, or
grammar, or music, was a direct inspiration from the Holy Spirit,
without any thought at all as to whether the person so inspired named
himself by the name of God, or recognised whence his inspiration came.
All of these seven figures are those of persons whom we should roughly
class as Pagans, and whom we might be lightly inclined to consider as
outside the pale of the divine inspiration. It is truly difficult to
grasp the amazing boldness of this scheme of the education of the world
which Florence accepted in simple faith.

But we must not accept even an inspiring idea blindly. Were these
people of the Middle Ages right in this plan and conception of theirs?
Plato hints at some such thought in his contention that knowledge and
virtue are fundamentally identical, and that if virtue be divine in
its origin, so must knowledge be also. Ancient Egypt, too, was not in
the dark in this matter. “Pharaoh said unto his servants, can we find
such a one as this, a man in whom the Spirit of God is.” Practical
discernment and knowledge of every-day matters, and of how to deal
with emergencies, were not held by this king of Egypt to be teachings
unworthy of the Spirit of God. “The Spirit of God came upon him and he
prophesied among them,” we are told of Saul, and we may believe that
this is the history of every great invention and every great discovery
of the secrets of nature. “Then David gave to Solomon his son ... the
pattern of all that he had by the spirit, of the courts of the house of
the Lord.” We have here a suggestion of the source of every conception
of beauty to be expressed in forms of art. But it is not only with high
themes of science and art that the divine Spirit concerns Himself. It
sometimes occurs to one to wonder who invented, in the first place,
the way of using the most elemental necessaries of life. Who first
discovered the means of producing fire, of joining wood, of smelting
ores, of sowing seed, of grinding corn? We cannot think of ourselves
as living without knowing these things; and yet each one must have
been a great idea when it first made a stir in the mind of the man who
conceived it. Where did he get his first idea? Happily, we are told, in
a case so typical that it is a key to all the rest:--

“Doth the plowman plow all day to sow? Doth he open and break the
clods of his ground? When he hath made plain the face thereof, doth he
not cast abroad the fitches and scatter the cummin, and cast in the
principal wheat and the appointed barley and the rie in their place?
For his God doth instruct him to discretion, and doth teach him. For
the fitches are not threshed with a threshing instrument, neither is
a cart wheel turned about upon the cummin; but the fitches are beaten
out with a staff, and the cummin with a rod. Bread corn is bruised;
because he will not ever be threshing it, nor break it with the wheel
of his cart, nor bruise it with his horsemen. This also cometh forth
from the Lord of Hosts, which is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in
working.”--Isa. xxviii. 24, &c.

In the things of science, in the things of art, in the things of
practical every-day life, his God doth instruct him and doth teach him,
her God doth instruct her and doth teach her. Let this be the mother’s
key to the whole of the education of each boy and each girl; not of her
_children_; the divine Spirit does not work with nouns of multitude,
but with each single child. Because He is infinite, the whole world is
not too great a school for this indefatigable Teacher, and because He
is infinite, He is able to give the whole of His infinite attention
for the whole time to each one of His multitudinous pupils. We do not
sufficiently rejoice in the wealth that the infinite nature of our God
brings to each of us.

And what subjects are under the direction of this Divine Teacher?
The child’s faith and hope and charity--that we already knew; his
temperance, justice, prudence, and fortitude--that we might have
guessed; his grammar, rhetoric, logic, music, astronomy, geometry,
arithmetic--this we might have forgotten, if these Florentine teachers
had not reminded us; his practical skill in the use of tools and
instruments, from a knife and fork to a microscope, and in the sensible
management of all the affairs of life--these also come from the Lord,
which is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working. His God
doth instruct him and doth teach him. Let the mother visualise the
thought as an illuminated scroll about her new-born child, and let
her never contemplate any kind of instruction for her child, except
under the sense of the divine co-operation. But we must remember that
here as everywhere the infinite and almighty Spirit of God works
under limitations. Our co-operation appears to be the indispensable
condition of all the divine workings. We recognise this in what we call
spiritual things, meaning the things that have to do more especially
with our approaches to God; but the new thing to us is, that grammar,
for example, may be taught in such a way as to invite and obtain the
co-operation of the Divine Teacher, or in such a way as to exclude
His illuminating presence from the schoolroom. We do not mean that
spiritual virtues may be exhibited by the teacher and encouraged in the
child in the course of a grammar lesson; this is no doubt true, and
is a point to be remembered; but perhaps the immediate point is that
the teaching of grammar by its guiding ideas and simple principles,
the true, direct, and humble teaching of grammar, without pedantry and
without verbiage, is, we may venture to believe, accompanied by the
illuminating power of the Holy Spirit, of whom is all knowledge. The
contrary is equally true. Such teaching as enwraps a child’s mind in
folds of many words, which his thought is unable to penetrate, which
gives him rules, and definitions, and tables, in lieu of ideas--this is
teaching which excludes and renders impossible the divine co-operation.

This great recognition resolves that discord in our lives of which
most of us are, more or less, aware. The things of sense we are
willing to subordinate to the things of spirit; at any rate, we are
willing to endeavour ourselves in this direction. We mourn over our
failures and try again, and recognise that here lies the Armageddon
for every soul of man. But there is a debateable land. Is it not a
fact that the spiritual life is exigeant, demands our sole interest
and concentrated energies? Yet the claims of intellect--mind, of the
æsthetic sense--taste, press upon us urgently. We must think, we must
know, we must rejoice in and create the beautiful. And if all the
burning thoughts that stir in the minds of men, all the beautiful
conceptions they give birth to, are things apart from God, then we,
too, must have a separate life, a life apart from God, a division of
ourselves into secular and religious--discord and unrest. We believe
that this is the fertile source of the unfaith of the day, especially
in young and ardent minds. The claims of intellect are urgent; the
intellectual life is a necessity not to be foregone at any hazard. It
is impossible for these to recognise in themselves a dual nature;
a dual spirituality, so to speak; and, if there are claims which
definitely oppose themselves to the claims of intellect, these other
claims must go to the wall; and the young man or woman, full of promise
and power, becomes a free-thinker, an agnostic, what you will. But
once the intimate relation, the relation of Teacher and taught in all
things of the mind and spirit, be fully recognised, our feet are set in
a large room; there is space for free development in all directions;
and this free and joyous development, whether of intellect or heart,
is recognised as a Godward movement. Various activities, with unity
of aim, bring harmony and peace into our lives; more, this perception
of the intimate dealings of the divine Spirit with our spirit in the
things of the intellect, as well as in those of the moral nature, makes
us as keenly alive in the one case as in the other to the insidious
promptings of the spirit of evil; we become aware of the possibility
of intellectual sin as of moral sin; we perceive that in the region
of pure reason, also, it behoves us to see that we enter not into
temptation. We rejoice in the expansion of intellect and the expansion
of heart and the ease and freedom of him who is always in touch with
the inspiring Teacher, with Whom are infinite stores of learning,
wisdom, and virtue, graciously placed at our disposal.

Such a recognition of the work of the Holy Spirit as the Educator
of mankind, in things intellectual as well as in things moral and
spiritual, gives us “new thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven,” a
sense of harmony in our efforts and of acceptance of all that we are.
What stands between us and the realisation of this more blessed life?
This; that we do not realise ourselves as spiritual beings invested
with bodies,--living, emotional, a snare to us and a joy to us,--but
which are, after all, the mere organs and interpreters of our spiritual
intention. Once we see that we are dealing spirit with spirit with the
friend at whose side we are sitting, with the people who attend to
our needs, we shall be able to realise how incessant is the commerce
between the divine Spirit and our human spirit. It will be to us as
when one stops one’s talk and one’s thoughts in the spring-time, to
find the world full of bird-music unheard the instant before. In like
manner, we shall learn to make pause in our thoughts, and shall hear
in our intellectual perplexities, as well as in our moral, the clear,
sweet, cheering and inspiring tones of our spiritual Guide. We are not
speaking here of what is commonly called the religious life, or of
our definite approaches to God in prayer and praise; these things all
Christian people comprehend more or less fully; we are speaking only of
the intellectual life, the development of which in children is the aim
of our subjects and methods of instruction.

Supposing we are willing to make this great recognition, to engage
ourselves to accept and invite the daily, hourly, incessant
co-operation of the divine Spirit, in, to put it definitely and
plainly, the schoolroom work of our children, how must we shape our
own conduct to make this co-operation active, or even possible? We are
told that the Spirit is life; therefore, that which is dead, dry as
dust, mere bare bones, can have no affinity with Him, can do no other
than smother and deaden His vitalising influences. A first condition
of this vitalising teaching is that all the thought we offer to our
children shall be _living_ thought; no mere dry summaries of facts will
do; given, the vitalising idea, children will readily hang the mere
facts upon the idea as upon a peg capable of sustaining all that it is
needful to retain. We begin by believing in the children as spiritual
beings of unmeasured powers--intellectual, moral, spiritual--capable
of receiving and constantly enjoying intuitions from, the intimate
converse of, the divine Spirit. With this thought of a child to begin
with, we shall perceive that whatever is stale and flat and dull to us
must needs be stale and flat and dull to him, and also that there is
no subject which has not a fresh and living way of approach. Are we
teaching geography? The child discovers with the explorer, journeys
with the traveller, receives impressions new and vivid from some other
mind which is immediately receiving these impressions; not after they
have been made stale and dull by a process of filtering through many
intermediate minds, and, have found at last their way into a little
text-book. Is he learning history? his concern is not with strings of
names and of dates, nor with nice little reading-made-easy stories,
brought down, as we mistakenly say, to the level of his comprehension;
we recognise that his comprehension is at least equal to our own, and
that it is only his ignorance of the attendant circumstances we have to
deal with as luminously as we can. We recognise that history for him
is, to live in the lives of those strong personalities which at any
given time impress themselves most upon their age and country. This is
not the sort of thing to be got out of nice little history books for
children, whether “Little Arthur’s,” or somebody’s “Outlines.” We take
the child to the living sources of history--a child of seven is fully
able to comprehend Plutarch, in Plutarch’s own words (translated),
without any diluting and with little explanation. Give him living
thought in this kind, and you make possible the co-operation of the
living Teacher. The child’s progress is by leaps and bounds, and
you wonder why. In teaching music, again, let him once perceive the
beautiful laws of harmony, the personality, so to speak, of Music,
looking out upon him from among the queer little black notes, and the
piano lesson has ceased to be drudgery.

It is unnecessary to go further into details; every subject has its
living way, with what Coleridge calls “its guiding idea” at the head,
and it is only as we discover this living way in each case that a
subject of instruction makes for the education of a child. No neat
system is of any use; it is the very nature of a system to grow stale
in the using; every subject, every division of a subject, every lesson,
in fact, must be brought up for examination before it is offered to
the child as to whether it is living, vital, of a nature to invite
the living Intellect of the universe. One more thing is of vital
importance; children must have books, living books; the best are not
too good for them; anything less than the best is not good enough; and
if it is needful to exercise economy, let go everything that belongs to
soft and luxurious living before letting go the duty of supplying the
books, and the frequent changes of books, which are necessary for the
constant stimulation of the child’s intellectual life. We need not say
one word about the necessity for living thought in the teacher; it is
only so far as he is intellectually alive that he can be effective in
the wonderful process which we glibly call “education.”




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                          _THE ETERNAL CHILD_

                            “The Waits!
    Slowly they play, poor careful souls,
    With wistful thoughts of Christmas cheer,
    Unwitting how their music rolls
    Away the burden of the year.
    And with the charm, the homely rune,
    Our thoughts like childhood’s thoughts are given,
    When all our pulses beat in tune
    With all the stars of heaven.”
                                   --JOHN DAVIDSON.


In these levelling days we like to think that everybody has quite equal
opportunities in some direction; but Christmas joy, for example, is not
for every one in like measure. It is not only that those who are in
need, sorrow, or any other adversity do not sit down to the Christmas
feast of joy and thanksgiving; for, indeed, a Benjamin’s portion is
often served to the sorrowful. But it takes the presence of children
to help us to realise the idea of the Eternal Child. The Dayspring is
with the children, and we think their thoughts and are glad in their
joy; and every mother knows out of her own heart’s fulness what the
Birth at Bethlehem means. Those of us who have not children catch
echoes. We hear the wondrous story read in church, the waits chant the
tale, the church-bells echo it, and the years that are no more come
back to us, and our hearts are meek and mild, glad and gay, loving and
tender, as those of little children; but, alas, only for the little
while occupied by the passing thought. Too soon the dreariness of daily
living settles down upon us again, and we become a little impatient, do
we not, of the Christmas demand of joyousness.

But it is not so where there are children. The old, old story has all
its first freshness as we tell it to the eager listeners; as we listen
to it ourselves with their vivid interest it becomes as real and fresh
to us as it is to them. Hard thoughts drop away like scales from our
eyes; we are young once more with the children’s young life, which, we
are mysteriously made aware, is the life eternal. What a mystery it
is! Does not every mother, made wise unto salvation, who holds a babe
in her arms, feel with tremulous awe that that deep saying is true for
her also, “The same is my mother!” For the little child is the true St.
Christopher, in him is the light and life of Christ; and every birth
is a message of salvation, and a reminder that we, too, must humble
ourselves and become as little children. This is, perhaps, the real
secret of the world’s progress--that every babe comes into the world
with an evangel, which witnesses of necessity to his parents’ hearts.
That we, too, are children, the children of God, that He would have us
be as children, is the message that the new-born child never fails to
bear, however little we heed, or however soon we forget. It is well
that parents should ponder these things, for the child’s estate is a
holy one, and it is given to his parents to safeguard the little heir
of blessedness.

It is not possible to enter fully into so large a subject, but it
may be worth while to characterise two or three of the landmarks of
this child’s estate; for how shall we safeguard that which we do not
recognise, and how recognise that to which we have failed to give
deliberate attention. The note of childhood is, before all things,
humility. What we call innocence is probably resolvable into this
grace--repellent to the nature of man until he shall embrace it, and
then disclosing itself to him as divine. An old and saintly writer has
a luminous thought on this subject of humility. “There never was, nor
ever will be, but one humility in the whole world, and that is the
one humility of Christ, which never any man, since the fall of Adam,
had the least degree of but from Christ. Humility is one, in the same
sense and truth as Christ is one, the Mediator is one, Redemption is
one. There are not two Lambs of God that take away the sins of the
world. But if there was any humility besides that of Christ, there
would be something else besides Him that could take away the sins of
the world.”[20] Now, if there be but one humility in the whole world,
and that humility be the humility of Christ, and if our Lord pronounces
the little child also to be humble, is it not because of the indwelling
divinity, the glory in the child, which we call innocence?

Our common notion of humility is inaccurate. We regard it as a relative
quality. We humble ourselves to this one and that, bow to the prince
and lord it over the peasant. This is why the grace of humility does
not commend itself to us even in our most sincere moods. We feel that
this relative humility is hardly consistent with self-respect and due
independence of character. We have been taught to recognise humility
as a Christian grace, and therefore do not utter our protest; but
this misconception confuses our thought on an important subject. For
humility is absolute, not relative. It is by no means a taking of our
place among our fellows according to a given scale, some being above us
by many grades and others as far below. There is no reference to above
or below in the humble soul, which is equally humble before an infant,
a primrose, a worm, a beggar, a prince.

This, if we think of it, is the state natural to children. Every person
and thing commands their interest; but the person or thing in action
is deeply interesting. “May I go and make mud-pies with the boy in the
gutter?” prays the little prince, discerning no difference at all; and
the little boy in the gutter would meet him with equal frankness. What
is the secret of this absolute humility, humble alike towards higher or
lower, and unaware of distinctions? Our notion of a humble person is
one who thinks rather slightingly of himself, who says, deprecatingly,
“Oh, I can’t do this or that, you know, I’m not clever;” “I’m not cut
out for public work of any sort, I’ve no power or influence;” “Ah!
well, I hope he’ll be a better man than his father, I don’t think much
of myself anyway;” “Your children have great advantages, I wish mine
had such a mother, but I’m not a bit wise.” Such things are often said,
in all sincerity, without the least _soupçon_ of the “Uriah Heap”
sentiment. The thing we quarrel with is, that the speakers are apt to
feel that they have, anyway, the saving grace of humility. It is worth
while to reflect that there are no such deprecatory utterances ascribed
to the Example of that “great humility” which we are bound to follow;
and if there is not the slightest evidence of humility in this kind in
the divine life, which was all humility, we must re-cast our notions.
Children, too, never make deprecatory remarks; that is because they are
humble, and with the divine Example before us, and the example of our
children, we may receive it that humility does not consist in thinking
little of ourselves. It is a higher principle, a blessed state,
only now and then attained by us elders, but in which the children
perpetually dwell, and in which it is the will of God that we should
keep them.

Humility does not think much or little of itself; it does not think
of itself at all. It is a negative rather than a positive quality,
being an absence of self-consciousness rather than the presence of any
distinctive virtue. The person who is unaware of himself is capable of
all lowly service, of all suffering for others, of bright cheerfulness
under all the small crosses and worries of everyday life. This is the
quality that makes heroes, and this is the quality that makes saints.
We are able to pray, but we are hardly able to worship or to praise,
to say, “_My_ soul doth magnify the Lord,” so long as in the innermost
chamber of our hearts we are self-occupied.

The Christian religion is, in its very nature, objective. It offers
for our worship, reverence, service, adoration and delight, a Divine
Person, the Desire of the world. Simplicity, happiness and expansion
come from the outpouring of a human heart upon that which is altogether
worthy. But we mistake our own needs, are occupied with our own falls
and our own repentances, our manifold states of consciousness. Our
religion is subjective first, and after that, so far as we are able,
objective. The order should rather be objective first, and after that,
so far as we have any time or care to think about ourselves, subjective.

Now the tendency of children is to be altogether objective, not at
all subjective, and perhaps that is why they are said to be first
in the kingdom of heaven. This philosophic distinction is not one
which we can put aside as having no bearing on everyday life. It
strikes the keynote for the training of children. In proportion as our
training tends to develop the subjective principle, it tends to place
our children on a lower level of purpose, character, and usefulness
throughout their lives: while so far as we develop the objective
principle, with which the children are born, we make them capable of
love, service, heroism, worship.

It is curious to observe how every function of our most complex nature
may have its subjective or its objective development. The child may
eat and drink and rest with the most absolute disregard of what he is
about, his parents taking care that these things are happily arranged
for him, but taking equal care that his attention shall not be turned
to the pleasures of appetite. But this is a point that we hardly need
to dwell upon, as thoughtful parents are agreed that children’s meals
should be so regularly pleasant and various that the child naturally
eats with satisfaction and thinks little or nothing of what he is
eating; that is, parents are careful that, in the matter of food,
children shall not be self-regardful.

Perhaps parents are less fully awake to the importance of regulating a
child’s sensations. We still kiss the place to make it well, make an
_obvious_ fuss if a string is uncomfortable or a crumpled rose-leaf
is irritating the child’s tender skin. We have forgotten the seven
Christian virtues and the seven deadly sins of earlier ages, and do
not much consider in the bringing up of our children whether the grace
of fortitude is developing under our training. Now fortitude has its
higher and its lower offices. It concerns itself with things of the
mind and with things of the body, and, perhaps, it is safe to argue
that fortitude on the higher plane is only possible when it has become
the habit of the nature on the lower plane. A baby may be trained in
fortitude, and is much the happier for such training. A child should be
taught that it is beneath him to take any notice of cold or heat, pain
or discomfort. We do not perceive the sensations to which we do not
attend, and it is quite possible to forget even a bad toothache in some
new and vivid interest. Health and happiness depend largely upon the
disregard of sensations, and the child who is encouraged to say, “I’m
so cold,” “I’m so tired,” “My vest pricks me,” and so on, is likely to
develop into the hysterical girl or the hypochondriac man; for it is an
immutable law that, as with our appetites, so with our sensations, in
proportion as we attend to them will they dominate us, until a single
sensation of slight pain or discomfort may occupy our whole field of
vision, making us unaware that there is any joy in living, any beauty
in the earth.

But these are the least of the reasons why a child should be trained
to put up with little discomforts and take no notice. The child, who
has been allowed to become self-regardful in the matter of sensations,
as of appetites, has lost his child’s estate, he is no longer humble;
he is in the condition of thinking about himself, instead of that
infinitely blessed condition of not being aware of himself at all. Nor
must we permit ourselves to make an exception to this rule in the case
of the poor little invalid. For him, far more than for the healthy
child, it is important that he should be trained to take no account of
his sensations; and many a brave little hero suffers anguish without
conscious thought, and therefore, of course, suffers infinitely less
than if he had been induced to dwell upon his pains. We say, induced,
because though a child may cry with sudden distress, he does not really
think about his aches and pains unless his thoughts be turned to his
ailments by those about him.

We are not advising any Spartan regimen. It is not permitted to us to
inflict hardness in order that the children may learn to endure. Our
care is simply to direct their consciousness from their own sensations.
The well-known anecdote of the man, who, before the days of chloroform,
had his leg cut off without any conscious sensations of pain, because
he determinately kept his mind occupied with other things, is an
extreme but instructive instance of what may be done in this direction.
At the same time, though the child himself be taught to disregard them,
his sensations should be carefully watched by his elders, for they
must consider and act upon the danger signals which the child himself
must be taught to disregard. But it is usually possible to attend to a
child’s sensations without letting him know they have been observed.

This, of the sensations, is only one example of the altruistic or
egoistic direction which the various operations of a child’s complex
nature may receive. His affections, again, are capable of receiving a
subjective or objective direction, according to the suggestions which
reach him from without. Every child comes into the world richly endowed
with a well of love, a fountain of justice; but whether the stream of
love shall flow to the right or the left, whether it shall be egoistic
or altruistic, depends on the child’s earliest training. A child who
is taught from the first the delights of giving and sharing, of loving
and bearing, will always spend himself freely on others, will love
and serve, seeking for nothing again; but the child who recognises
that he is the object of constant attention, consideration, love and
service, becomes self-regardful, self-seeking, selfish, almost without
his fault, so strongly is he influenced by the direction his thoughts
receive from those about him. So, too, of that other fountain, of
justice, with which every child is born. There again, the stream may
flow forth in either, but not in both, of the channels, the egoistic or
the altruistic. The child’s demand for justice may be all for himself,
or, from the very first, the rights of others may be kept before his
eyes. He may be taught to occupy himself with _his own rights and
other people’s duties_, and, if he is, his state of mind is easily
discernible by the catch-words often on his lips, “It’s a shame!” “It’s
not fair!” or he may, on the other hand, be so filled with the notion
of _his own duties and other people’s rights_, that the claims of
self slip quietly into the background. This kind cometh forth only by
prayer, but it is well to clear our thoughts and know definitely what
we desire for our children, because only so can we work intelligently
towards the fulfilment of our desire. It is sad to pray, and frustrate
the answer by our own action; but this is, alas, too possible.

During each coming festival of the Eternal Child, may parents ponder
how best to keep their own children in the blessed child-estate,
recollecting that the humility which Christ commends in the children
is what may be described, philosophically, as the objective principle
as opposed to the subjective, and that, in proportion as a child
becomes self-regardful in any function of his being, he loses the grace
of humility. This is the broad principle; the practical application
will need constant watchfulness, and constant efforts, especially
in holiday seasons, to keep friends and visitors from showing
their love for the children in any way that shall tend to develop
self-consciousness.

This, of humility, is not only a counsel of perfection, but is,
perhaps, the highest counsel of perfection; and when we put it to
parents, we offer it to those for whom no endeavour is too difficult,
no aim too lofty; to those who are doing the most to advance the
Kingdom of Christ.


FOOTNOTES:

     [20] William Law.




                                BOOK II

                    _ESSAYS IN PRACTICAL EDUCATION_




                               CHAPTER I

                       _THE PHILOSOPHER AT HOME_


“He has _such_ a temper, ma’am!”

And there, hot, flurried, and, generally at her wits’ end, stood the
poor nurse at the door of her mistress’s room. The terrific bellowing
which filled the house was enough to account for the maid’s distress.
Mrs. Belmont looked worried. She went up wearily to what she well
knew was a weary task. A quarter of an hour ago life had looked very
bright--the sun shining, sparrows chirping, lilac and laburnum making
a gay show in the suburban gardens about; she thought of her three
nestlings in the nursery, and her heart was like a singing-bird giving
out chirps of thanks and praise. But that was all changed. The outside
world was as bright as ever, but she was under a cloud. She knew too
well how those screams from the nursery would spoil her day.

There the boy lay, beating the ground with fists and feet; emitting one
prodigious roar after another, features convulsed, eyes protruding, in
the unrestrained rage of a wild creature, so transfigured by passion
that even his mother doubted if the noble countenance and lovely smile
of her son had any existence beyond her fond imagination. He eyed his
mother askance through his tumbled, yellow hair, but her presence
seemed only to aggravate the demon in possession. The screams were more
violent; the beating of the ground more than ever like a maniac’s rage.

“Get up, Guy.”

Renewed screams; more violent action of the limbs!

“Did you hear me, Guy?” in tones of enforced calmness.

The uproar subsided a little, but when Mrs. Belmont laid her hand
on his shoulder to raise him, the boy sprang to his feet, ran into
her, head-foremost, like a young bull, kicked her, beat her with his
fists, tore her dress with his teeth, and would no doubt have ended
by overthrowing his delicate mother, but that Mr. Belmont, no longer
able to endure the disturbance, came up in time to disengage the raging
child and carry him off to his mother’s room. Once in, the key was
turned upon him, and Guy was left to “subside at his leisure,” said his
father.

Breakfast was not a cheerful meal, either upstairs or down. Nurse was
put out; snapped up little Flo, shook baby for being tiresome, until
she had them both in tears. In the dining-room, Mr. Belmont read the
_Times_ with a frown which last night’s debate did not warrant; sharp
words were at his tongue’s end, but, in turning the paper, he caught
sight of his wife’s pale face and untasted breakfast. He said nothing,
but she knew and suffered under his thoughts fully as much as if they
had been uttered. Meantime, two closed doors and the wide space between
the rooms hardly served to dull the ear-torturing sounds that came from
the prisoner.

All at once there was a lull, a sudden and complete cessation of sound.
Was the child in a fit?

“Excuse me a minute, Edward;” and Mrs. Belmont flew upstairs,
followed shortly by her husband. What was her surprise to see Guy
with composed features contemplating himself in the glass! He held in
his hand a proof of his own photograph which had just come from the
photographer’s. The boy had been greatly interested in the process; and
here was the picture arrived, and Guy was solemnly comparing it with
that image of himself which the looking-glass presented.

Nothing more was said on the subject; Mr. Belmont went to the City, and
his wife went about her household affairs with a lighter heart than
she had expected to carry that day. Guy was released, and allowed to
return to the nursery for his breakfast, which his mother found him
eating in much content and with the sweetest face in the world; no more
trace of passion than a June day bears when the sun comes out after
a thunderstorm. Guy was, indeed, delicious; attentive and obedient
to Harriet, full of charming play to amuse the two little ones, and
very docile and sweet with his mother, saying from time to time the
quaintest things. You would have thought he had been trying to make
up for the morning’s fracas, had he not looked quite unconscious of
wrong-doing.

This sort of thing had gone on since the child’s infancy. Now, a
frantic outburst of passion, to be so instantly followed by a sweet
April-day face and a sunshiny temper that the resolutions his parents
made about punishing or endeavouring to reform him passed away like
hoar-frost before the child’s genial mood.

A sunshiny day followed this stormy morning; the next day passed in
peace and gladness, but, the next, some hair astray, some crumpled
rose-leaf under him, brought on another of Guy’s furious outbursts.
Once again the same dreary routine was gone through; and, once again,
the tempestuous morning was forgotten in the sunshine of the child’s
day.

Not by the father, though: at last, Mr. Belmont was roused to give
his full attention to the mischief which had been going on under his
eyes for nearly the five years of Guy’s short life. It dawned upon
him--other people had seen it for years--that his wife’s nervous
headaches and general want of tone might well be due to this constantly
recurring distress. He was a man of reading and intelligence, in touch
with the scientific thought of the day, and especially interested in
what may be called the physical basis of character,--the interaction
which is ever taking place between the material brain and the
immaterial thought and feeling of which it is the organ. He had even
made little observations and experiments, declared to be valuable by
his friend and ally, Dr. Steinbach, the head physician of the county
hospital.

For a whole month he spread crumbs on the window-sill every morning at
five minutes to eight; the birds gathered as punctually, and by eight
o’clock the “table” was cleared and not a crumb remained. So far, the
experiment was a great delight to the children, Guy and Flo, who were
all agog to know how the birds knew the time.

After a month of free breakfasts: “You shall see now whether or no the
birds come because they see the crumbs.” The prospect was delightful,
but, alas! this stage of the experiment was very much otherwise to the
pitiful childish hearts.

“Oh, father, _please_ let us put out crumbs for the poor little birds,
they are so hungry!” a prayer seconded by Mrs. Belmont, met with very
ready acceptance. The best of us have our moments of weakness.

“Very interesting,” said the two savants. “Nothing could show more
clearly the readiness with which a habit is formed in even the less
intelligent of the creatures.”

“Yes, and more than that, it shows the automatic nature of the action
once the habit is formed. Observe, the birds came punctually and
regularly when there were no longer crumbs for them. They did not come,
look for their breakfast, and take sudden flight when it was not there,
but they settled as before, stayed as long as before, and then flew off
without any sign of disappointment. That is, they came, as we set one
foot before another in walking, just out of habit, without any looking
for crumbs, or conscious intention of any sort, a mere automatic or
machine-like action with which conscious thought has nothing to do.”

Of another little experiment Mr. Belmont was especially proud, because
it brought down, as it were, two quarries at a stroke; touched heredity
and automatic action in one little series of observations. Rover, the
family dog, appeared in the first place as a miserable puppy saved from
drowning. He was of no breed to speak of, but care and good living
agreed with him. He developed a handsome shaggy white coat, a quiet,
well-featured face, and betrayed his low origin only by one inveterate
habit; carts he took no notice of, but never a carriage, small or
great, appeared in sight but he ran yelping at the heels of the horses
in an intolerable way, contriving at the same time to dodge the whip
like any street Arab. Oddly enough, it came out through the milkman
that Rover came of a mother who met with her death through this very
peccadillo.

Here was an opportunity. The point was, to prove not only that the
barking was automatic, but that the most inveterate habit, even an
inherited habit, is open to cure.

Mr. Belmont devoted himself to the experiment: he gave orders that,
for a month, Rover should go out with no one but himself. Two pairs of
ears were on the alert for wheels; two, distinguished between carriage
and cart. Now Rover was the master of an accomplishment of which he
and the family were proud: he could carry a newspaper in his mouth.
Wheels in the distance, then, “Hi! Rover!” and Rover trotted along, the
proud bearer of the _Times_. This went on daily for a month, until at
last the association between wheels and newspaper was established, and
a distant rumble would bring him up--a demand in his eyes. Rover was
cured. By-and-by the paper was unnecessary, and “To heel! good dog!”
was enough when an ominous falling of the jaw threatened a return of
the old habit.

It is extraordinary how wide is the gap between theory and practice
in most of our lives. “The man who knows the power of habit has a key
wherewith to regulate his own life and the lives of his household, down
to that of the cat sitting at his hearth.” (_Applause._) Thus, Mr.
Belmont at a scientific gathering. But only this morning did it dawn
upon him that, with this key between his fingers, he was letting his
wife’s health, his child’s life, be ruined by a habit fatal alike to
present peace, and to the hope of manly self-possession in the future.
Poor man! he had a bad half-hour that morning on his way Citywards. He
was not given to introspection, but, when it was forced upon him, he
dealt honestly.

“I must see Steinbach to-night, and talk the whole thing out with him.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Ah, so; the dear Guy! And how long is it, do you say, since the boy
has thus out-broken?”

“All his life, for anything I know--certainly it began in his infancy.”

“And do you think, my good friend”--here the Doctor laid a hand on
his friend’s arm, and peered at him with twinkling eyes and gravely
set mouth--“do you think it possible that he has--a--_inherited_ this
little weakness? A grandfather, perhaps?”

“You mean me, I know; yes, it’s a fact. And I got it from my father,
and he, from his. We’re not a good stock. I know I’m an irascible
fellow, and it has stood in my way all through life.”

“Fair and softly, my dear fellow! go not so fast. I cannot let you
say bad things of my best friend. But this I allow; there are thorns,
bristles all over; and they come out at a touch. How much better for
you and for Science had the father cured all that!”

“As I must for Guy! Yes, and how much happier for wife, children, and
servants; how much pleasanter for friends. Well, Guy is the question
now. What do you advise?”

The two sat far into the night discussing a problem on the solution of
which depended the future of a noble boy, the happiness of a family.
No wonder they found the subject so profoundly interesting that _two_
by the church clock startled them into a hasty separation. Both ladies
resented this dereliction on the part of their several lords. They
would have been meeker than Sarah herself had they known that, not
science, not politics, but the bringing up of the children, was the
engrossing topic.

       _Breakfast-time three days later. Scene, the dining-room._
             NURSE _in presence of_ MASTER _and_ MISTRESS.

“You have been a faithful servant and good friend, both to us and the
children, Harriet, but we blame you a little for Guy’s passionate
outbreaks. Do not be offended, we blame ourselves more. Your share
of blame is that you have worshipped him from his babyhood, and have
allowed him to have his own way in everything. Now, your part of the
cure is, to do exactly as we desire. At present, I shall only ask you
to remember that, Prevention is better than cure. The thing for all of
us is to take precautions against even one more of these outbreaks.

“Keep your eye upon Guy; if you notice--no matter what the
cause--flushed cheeks, pouting lips, flashing eye, frowning forehead,
with two little upright lines between the eyebrows, limbs held stiffly,
hands, perhaps, closed, head thrown slightly back; if you notice any or
all of these signs, the boy is on the verge of an outbreak. Do not stop
to ask questions, or soothe him, or make peace, or threaten. Change his
thoughts. That is the one hope. Say quite naturally and pleasantly, as
if you saw nothing, ‘Your father wants you to garden with him,’ or,
‘for a game of dominoes;’ or, ‘your mother wants you to help her in the
store-room,’ or, ‘to tidy her work-box.’ Be ruled by the time of the
day, and how you know we are employed. And be quite sure we _do_ want
the boy.”

“But, sir, please excuse me, is it any good to save him from breaking
out when the passion is there in his heart?”

“Yes, Harriet, all the good in the world. Your master thinks that Guy’s
passions have become a habit, and that the way to cure him is to keep
him a long time, a month or two, without a single outbreak; if we can
manage that, the trouble will be over. As for the passion in his heart,
that comes with the outer signs, and both will be cured together. Do,
Harriet, like a good woman, help us in this matter, and your master and
I will always be grateful to you!”

“I’m sure, ma’am,” with a sob (Harriet was a soft-hearted woman, and
was very much touched to be taken thus into the confidence of her
master and mistress). “I’m sure I’ll do my best, especially as I’ve had
a hand in it; but I’m sure I never meant to, and, if I forget, I hope
you’ll kindly forgive me.”

“No, Harriet, you must not forget, any more than you’d forget to snatch
a sharp knife from the baby. This is almost a matter of life and death.”

“Very well, sir; I’ll remember, and thank you for telling me.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Breakfast-time was unlucky; the very morning after the above talk,
Nurse had her opportunity. Flo, for some inscrutable reason, preferred
to eat her porridge with her brother’s spoon. Behold, quick as a flash,
flushed cheeks, puckered brow, rigid frame!

“Master Guy, dear,” in a quite easy, friendly tone (Harriet had
mastered her lesson), “run down to your father; he wants you to help
him in the garden.”

Instantly the flash in the eye became a sparkle of delight, the rigid
limbs were all active and eager; out of his chair, out of the room,
downstairs, by his father’s side in less time than it takes to tell.
And the face--joyous, sparkling, full of eager expectation--surely
Nurse had been mistaken this time? But no; both parents knew how
quickly Guy emerged from the shadow of a cloud, and they trusted
Harriet’s discretion.

“Well, boy, so you’ve come to help me garden? But I’ve not done
breakfast. Have you finished yours?”

“No, father,” with a dropping lip.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. You run up and eat your porridge and come
down as soon as you’re ready; I shall make haste, too, and we shall get
a good half-hour in the garden before I go out.”

Up again went Guy with hasty, willing feet.

“Nurse” (breathless hurry and importance), “I must make haste with my
porridge. Father wants me _directly_ to help him in the garden.”

Nurse winked hard at the fact that the porridge was gobbled. The happy
little boy trotted off to one of the greatest treats he knew, and that
day passed without calamity.

       *       *       *       *       *

“I can see it will answer, and life will be another thing without
Guy’s passions; but do you think, Edward, it’s _right_ to give the
child pleasures when he’s naughty--in fact, to put a premium upon
naughtiness, for it amounts to that?”

“You’re not quite right there. The child does not know he is naughty;
the emotions of ‘naughtiness’ are there; he is in a physical tumult,
but wilfulness has not set in; he does not yet _mean_ to be naughty,
and all is gained if we avert the set of the will towards wrong doing.
He has not had time to recognise that he is naughty, and his thoughts
are changed so suddenly that he is not in the least aware of what was
going on in him before. The new thing comes to him as naturally and
graciously as do all the joys of the childish day. The question of
desert does not occur.”

       *       *       *       *       *

For a week all went well. Nurse was on the alert, was quick to note the
ruddy storm-signal in the fair little face; never failed to despatch
him instantly, and with a quiet unconscious manner, on some errand to
father or mother; nay, she improved on her instructions; when father
and mother were out of the way, she herself invented some pleasant
errand to cook about the pudding for dinner; to get fresh water for
Dickie, or to see if Rover had had his breakfast. Nurse was really
clever in inventing expedients, in hitting instantly on something to
be done novel and amusing enough to fill the child’s fancy. A mistake
in this direction would, experience told her, be fatal; propose what
was stale, and not only would Guy decline to give up the immediate
gratification of a passionate outbreak--for it _is_ a gratification,
that must be borne in mind--but he would begin to look suspiciously
on the “something else” which so often came in the way of this
gratification.

Security has its own risks. A morning came when Nurse was not on the
alert. Baby was teething and fractious, Nurse was overdone, and the
nursery was not a cheerful place. Guy, very sensitive to the moral
atmosphere about him, got, in Nurse’s phrase, out of sorts. He relieved
himself by drumming on the table with a couple of ninepins, just as
Nurse was getting baby off after a wakeful night.

“Stop that noise this minute, you naughty boy! Don’t you see your poor
little brother is going to sleep?” in a loud whisper. The noise was
redoubled, and assisted by kicks on chair-rungs and table-legs. Sleep
vanished and baby broke into a piteous wail. This was too much; the
Nurse laid down the child, seized the young culprit, chair and all,
carried him to the furthest corner, and, desiring him not to move till
she gave him leave, set him down with a vigorous shaking. There were
days when Guy would stand this style of treatment cheerfully, but
this was not one. Before Harriet had even noted the danger signals,
the storm had broken out. For half-an-hour the nursery was a scene of
frantic uproar, baby assisting, and even little Flo. Half-an-hour is
nothing to speak of; in pleasant chat, over an amusing book, the thirty
minutes fly like five; but half-an-hour in struggle with a raging child
is a day and a night in length. Mr. and Mrs. Belmont were out, so
Harriet had it all to herself, and it was contrary to orders that she
should attempt to place the child in confinement; solitude and locked
doors involved risks that the parents would, rightly, allow no one but
themselves to run. At last the tempest subsided, spent, apparently, by
its own force.

A child cannot bear estrangement, disapproval; he must needs live in
the light of a countenance smiling upon him. His passion over, Guy set
himself laboriously to be good, keeping watch out of the corner of
his eye to see how Nurse took it. She was too much vexed to respond
in any way, even by a smile. But her heart was touched; and though,
by-and-by, when Mrs. Belmont came in, she did say--“Master Guy has been
in one of his worst tempers again, ma’am: screaming for better than
half-an-hour”--yet she did not tell her tale with the _empressement_
necessary to show what a very bad half-hour they had had. His mother
looked with grave reproof at the delinquent, but she was not proof
against his coaxing ways.

After dinner she remarked to her husband, “You will be sorry to hear
that Guy has had one of his worst bouts again. Nurse said he screamed
steadily for more than half-an-hour.”

“What did you do?”

“I was out at the time, doing some shopping. But when I came back,
after letting him know how grieved I was, I did as you say, changed his
thoughts and did my best to give him a happy day.”

“How did you let him know you were grieved?”

“I looked at him in a way he quite understood, and you should have seen
the deliciously coaxing, half-ashamed look he shot up at me. What eyes
he has!”

“Yes, the little monkey! and no doubt he measured their effect on his
mother; you must allow me to say that my theory certainly is not to
give him a happy day after an outbreak of this sort.”

“Why, I thought your whole plan was to change his thoughts, to keep him
so well occupied with pleasant things that he does not dwell on what
agitated him.”

“Yes, but did you not tell me the passion was over when you found him?”

“Quite over, he was as good as gold.”

“Well, the thing we settled on was to _avert_ a threatened outbreak
by a pleasant change of thought; and to do so in order that, at last,
the _habit_ of these outbreaks may be broken. Don’t you see, that is a
very different thing from pampering him with a pleasant day when he has
already pampered himself with the full indulgence of his passion?”

“Pampered himself! Why, you surely don’t think those terrible scenes
give the poor child any pleasure. I always thought he was a deal more
to be pitied than we.”

“Indeed I do. Pleasure is perhaps hardly the word; but that the display
of temper is a form of self indulgence, there is no doubt at all. You,
my dear, are too amiable to know what a relief it is to us irritable
people to have a good storm and clear the air.”

“Nonsense, Edward! But what should I have done? What is the best course
_after_ the child has given way?”

“I think we must, as you suggested before, consider how we ourselves
are governed. Estrangement, isolation, are the immediate consequences
of sin, even of what may seem a small sin of harshness and selfishness.”

“Oh, but don’t you think that is our delusion? that God is loving us
all the time, and it is _we_ who estrange ourselves?”

“Without doubt; and we are aware of the love all the time, but, also,
we are aware of a cloud between us and it; we know we are out of
favour. We know, too, there is only one way back, through the fire.
It is common to speak of repentance as a light thing, rather pleasant
than otherwise; but it is searching and bitter: so much so, that the
Christian soul dreads to sin, even the sin of coldness, from an almost
cowardly dread of the anguish of repentance, purging fire though it is.”

Mrs. Belmont could not clear her throat to answer for a minute. She
had never before had such a glimpse into her husband’s soul. Here were
deeper things in the spiritual life than any of which she yet knew.

“Well then, dear, about Guy; must he feel this estrangement, go through
this fire?”

“I think so, in his small degree; but he must never doubt our love.
He must see and feel that it is always there, though under a cloud of
sorrow which he only can break through.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Guy’s lapse prepared the way for further lapses. Not two days passed
before he was again _hors de combat_. The boy, his outbreak over, was
ready at once to emerge into the sunshine. Not so his mother. His most
bewitching arts met only with sad looks and silence.

He told his small scraps of nursery news, looking in vain for the
customary answering smile and merry words. He sidled up to his mother,
and stroked her cheek; that did not do, so he stroked her hand;
then her gown; no answering touch, no smile, no word; nothing but
sorrowful eyes when he ventured to raise his own. Poor little fellow!
The iron was beginning to enter; he moved a step or two away from his
mother, and raised to hers eyes full of piteous doubt and pleading.
He saw love, which could not reach him, and sorrow, which he was just
beginning to comprehend. But his mother could bear it no longer: she
got up hastily and left the room. Then the little boy, keeping close
to the wall, as if even that were something to interpose between him
and this new sense of desolation, edged off to the furthest corner of
the room, and sinking on the floor with a sad, new quietness, sobbed
out lonely sobs; Nurse had had her lesson, and although she, too, was
crying for her boy, nobody went near him but Flo. A little arm was
passed round his neck; a hot little cheek pressed against his curls:

“Don’t cry, Guy!” two or three times, and when the sobs came all the
thicker, there was nothing for it but that Flo must cry too; poor
little outcasts!

At last bedtime came, and his mother; but her face had still that sad,
far-away look, and Guy could see she had been crying. How he longed to
spring up and hug her and kiss her as he would have done yesterday. But
somehow he dared not; and she never smiled nor spoke, and yet never
before had Guy known how his mother loved him.

She sat in her accustomed chair by the little white bed, and beckoned
the little boy in his nightgown to come and say his prayers. He knelt
at his mother’s knee as usual, and then she laid her hands upon him.

“‘Our Father’--oh, mother, mo--o--ther, mother!” and a torrent of tears
drowned the rest, and Guy was again in his mother’s arms, and she was
raining kisses upon him, and crying softly with him.

Next morning his father received him with open arms.

“So my poor little boy had a bad day yesterday!”

Guy hung his head and said nothing.

“Would you like me to tell you how you may help ever having quite such
another bad day?”

“Oh yes, please, father; I thought I couldn’t help.”

“Can you tell when the ‘Cross-man’ is coming?”

Guy hesitated. “Sometimes, I think. I get all hot.”

“Well, the minute you find he’s coming, even if you have begun to cry,
say, ‘Please excuse me, Nurse,’ and run downstairs, and then four times
round the garden as fast as you can, without stopping to take breath!”

“What a good way! Shall I try it now?”

“Why, the ‘Cross-man’ isn’t there now. But I’ll tell you a secret: he
always goes away if you begin to do something else as hard as you can;
and if you can remember to run away from him round the garden, you’ll
find he won’t run after you; at the very worst, he won’t run after you
more than _once_ round!”

“Oh, father, I’ll try! What fun! See if I don’t beat him! Won’t I just
give Mr. ‘Cross-man’ a race! He shall be quite out of breath before we
get round the fourth time.”

The vivid imagination of the boy personified the foe, and the father
jumped with his humour. Guy was eager for the fray; the parents had
found an ally in their boy; the final victory was surely within
appreciable distance.

       *       *       *       *       *

“This is glorious, Edward; and it’s as interesting as painting a
picture or writing a book! What a capital device the race with Mr.
‘Cross-man’ is! It’s like ‘Sintram.’ He’ll be so much on the _qui vive_
for ‘Cross-man’ that he’ll forget to be cross. The only danger I see is
that of many false alarms. He’ll try the race, in all good faith, when
there is no foe in pursuit.”

“That’s very likely; but it will do no harm. He is getting the habit of
running away from the evil, and may for that be the more ready to run
when ’tis at his heels; this, of running away from temptation, is the
right principle, and may be useful to him in a thousand ways.”

“Indeed, it may be a safeguard to him through life. How did you get the
idea?”

“Do you remember how Rover was cured of barking after carriages? There
were two stages to the cure; the habit of barking was stopped, and a
new habit was put in its place; I worked upon the recognised law of
association of ideas, and got Rover to associate the rumble of wheels
with a newspaper in his mouth. I tried at the time to explain how it
was possible to act thus on the ‘mind’ of a dog.”

“I recollect quite well, you said that the stuff--nervous tissue, you
called it--of which the brain is made is shaped in the same sort of
way--at least so I understood--by the thoughts that are in it, as the
cover of a tart is shaped by the plums below. And then, when there’s
a place ready for them in the brain, the same sort of thoughts always
come to fill it.”

“I did not intend to say precisely that,” said Mr. Belmont, laughing,
“especially the plum part. However, it will do. Pray go on with your
metaphor. It is decided that plums are not wholesome eating. You put in
your thumb, and pick out a plum; and that the place may be filled, and
well filled, you pop in a--a--figures fail me--a peach!”

“I see! I see! Guy’s screaming fits are the unwholesome plum which
we are picking out, and the running away from Cross-man the peach
to be got in instead. (I don’t see why it should be a peach though,
unpractical man!) His brain is to grow to the shape of the peach, and
behold, the place is filled. No more room for the plum.”[21]

“You have it; you have put, in a light way, a most interesting law,
and I take much blame to myself that I never thought, until now, of
applying it to Guy’s case. But now I think we are making way; we have
made provision for dislodging the old habit and setting a new one in
its place.”

“Don’t you think the child will be a hero in a very small way, when he
makes himself run away from his temper?”

“Not in a small way at all; the child will be a hero. But we cannot
be heroes all the time. In sudden gusts of temptation, God grant him
grace to play the hero, if only through hasty flight; but in what are
called besetting sins, there is nothing safe but the contrary besetting
good habit. And here is where parents have such infinite power over the
future of their children.”

“Don’t think me superstitious and stupid; but somehow this scientific
training, good as I see it is, seems to me to undervalue the help we
get from above in times of difficulty and temptation.”

“Let me say that it is you who undervalue the virtue, and limit the
scope of the Divine action. Whose are the laws Science labours to
reveal? Whose are the works, body or brain, or what you like, upon
which these laws act?”

“How foolish of me! How one gets into a way of thinking that God
cares only for what we call spiritual things. Let me ask you one more
question. I do see that all this watchful training is necessary, and do
not wish to be idle or cowardly about it. But don’t you think Guy would
grow out of these violent tempers naturally, as he gets older?”

“Well, he would not, as youth or man, fling himself on the ground and
roar; but no doubt he would grow up touchy, fiery, open at any minute
to a sudden storm of rage. The man who has too much self-respect for
an open exhibition may, as you know well enough, poor wife, indulge
in continual irritability, suffer himself to be annoyed by trifling
matters. No, there is nothing for it but to look upon an irate habit as
one to be displaced by a contrary habit. Who knows what cheerful days
we may yet have, and whether in curing Guy I may not cure myself? The
thing can be done; only one is so lazy about one’s own habits. Suppose
you take me in hand?”

“Oh, I couldn’t! and yet it’s your only fault, dear.”

“Only fault! well, we’ll see. In the meantime there’s another thing I
wish we could do for Guy--stop him in the midst of an outbreak. Do you
remember the morning we found him admiring himself in the glass?”

“Yes, with the photograph in his hand.”

“That was it; perhaps the Cross-man race will answer even in the middle
of a tempest. If not, we must try something else.”

“It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Guy will have no more rages; how then can he be stopped in
mid-tempest?”

“Most hopeful of women! But don’t deceive yourself. Our work is only
well begun, but that, let us hope, is half done.”

       *       *       *       *       *

His father was right. Opportunities to check him in mid-career
occurred; and Guy answered to the rein. Mr. Cross-man worked wonders.
A record of outbreaks was kept; now a month intervened; two months; a
year; two years; and at last his parents forgot their early troubles
with their sweet-tempered, frank-natured boy.


FOOTNOTES:

     [21] To state the case more accurately, certain cell
          connections appear to be established by habitual
          traffic in certain thoughts; but there is so much
          danger of over-stating or of localising mental
          operations, that perhaps it is safe to convey the
          practical outcome of this line of research in a
          more or less figurative way--as, the wearing of a
          field-path; the making of a bridge; a railway, &c.




                               CHAPTER II

                              _ATTENTION._


“But now for the real object of this letter (does it take your breath
away to get four sheets?) We want you to help us about Kitty. My
husband and I are at our wits’ end, and should most thankfully take
your wise head and kind heart into counsel. I fear we have been laying
up trouble for ourselves and for our little girl. The ways of nature
are, there is no denying it, very attractive in all young creatures,
and it is so delightful to see a child do as ‘’tis its nature to,’ that
you forget that Nature, left to herself, produces a waste, be it never
so lovely. Our little Kitty’s might so easily become a wasted life.

“But not to prose any more, let me tell you the history of Kitty’s
yesterday--one of her days is like the rest, and you will be able to
see where we want your help.

“Figure to yourself the three little heads bent over ‘copy-books’ in
our cheery schoolroom. Before a line is done, up starts Kitty.

“‘Oh, mother, may I write the next copy--shell? “Shell” is so
much nicer than--know, and I’m so tired of it.’

“‘How much have you done?’

“‘I have written it three whole times, mother, and I really _can’t_ do
it any more! I think I could do--shell. “Shell” is so pretty!’

“By-and-by we read; but Kitty cannot read--can’t even spell the words
(don’t scold us, we know it is quite wrong to spell in a reading
lesson), because all the time her eyes are on a smutty sparrow on the
topmost twig of the poplar; so she reads, ‘With, birdie!’ We
do sums; a short line of addition is to poor Kitty a hopeless and an
endless task. ‘Five and three make--nineteen,’ is her last effort,
though she knows quite well how to add up figures. Half a scale on the
piano, and then--eyes and ears for everybody’s business but her own.
Three stitches of hemming, and idle fingers plait up the hem or fold
the duster in a dozen shapes. I am in the midst of a thrilling history
talk: ‘So the Black Prince----’ ‘Oh, mother, do you think we shall go
to the sea this year? My pail is quite ready, all but the handle, but I
can’t find my spade _anywhere_!’

“And thus we go on, pulling Kitty through her lessons somehow; but
it is a weariness to herself and all of us, and I doubt if the child
learns anything except by bright flashes. But you have no notion
how quick the little monkey is. After idling through a lesson she
will overtake us at a bound at the last moment, and thus escape the
wholesome shame of being shown up as the dunce of our little party.

“Kitty’s dawdling ways, her restless desire for change of occupation,
her always wandering thoughts, lead to a good deal of friction, and
spoil our schoolroom party, which is a pity, for I want the children to
enjoy their lessons from the very first. What do you think the child
said to me yesterday in the most coaxing pretty way? ‘There are so many
things nicer than lessons! Don’t you think so, mother?’ Yes, dear aunt,
I see you put your finger on those unlucky words ‘coaxing, pretty way,’
and you look, if you do not say, that awful sentence of yours about
sin being bred of allowance. Isn’t that it? It is quite true; we are in
fault. Those butterfly ways of Kitty’s were delicious to behold until
we thought it time to set her to work, and then we found that we should
have been training her from her babyhood. Well,

   ‘If you break your plaything yourself, dear,
      Don’t you cry for it all the same?
    I don’t think it is such a comfort
      To have only oneself to blame.’

“So, like a dear, kind aunt, don’t scold us, but help us to do better.
Is Kitty constant to anything? you ask. Does she stick to any of the
‘_many_ things so much nicer than lessons’? I am afraid that here,
too, our little girl is ‘unstable as water.’ And the worst of it is,
she is all agog to be at a thing, and then, when you think her settled
to half-an-hour’s pleasant play, off she is like any butterfly. She
says her, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ dutifully, but when I tell
her she is not a bit like a busy bee, but rather like a foolish,
flitting butterfly, I’m afraid she rather likes it, and makes up to
the butterflies as if they were akin to her, and were having just the
good time she would prefer. But you must come and see the child to
understand how volatile she is.

“‘Oh, mother, _please_ let me have a good doll’s wash this afternoon;
I’m quite unhappy about poor Peggy! I really think she _likes_ to be
dirty!’

“Great preparations follow in the way of little tub, and soap, and big
apron; the little laundress sits down, greatly pleased with herself,
to undress her dirty Peggy; but hardly is the second arm out of its
sleeve, than, _presto!_ a new idea; off goes Kitty to clean out her
doll’s-house, deaf to all nurse’s remonstrances about ‘nice hot water,’
and ‘poor dirty Peggy.’

“I’m afraid the child is no more constant to her loves than to her
play; she is a loving little soul, as you know, and is always adoring
somebody. Now it’s her father, now Juno, now me, now Hugh; and the
rain of warm kisses, the soft clasping arms, the nestling head, are
delicious, whether to dog or man. But, alas! Kitty’s blandishments are
a whistle you must pay for; to-morrow it is somebody else’s turn, and
the bad part is that she has only room for one at a time. If we could
get a little visit from you, now, Kitty would be in your pocket all day
long; and we, even Peggy, would be left out in the cold. But do not
flatter yourself it would last; I think none of Kitty’s attachments has
been known to last longer than two days.

“If the chief business of parents is to train _character_ in their
children, we have done nothing for Kitty; at six years old the child
has no more power of application, no more habit of attention, is no
more able to make herself do the thing she ought to do, indeed, has
no more desire to do the right thing, than she had at six months old.
We are getting very unhappy about it. My husband feels strongly that
parents should labour at character as the Hindoo gold-beater labours
at his vase; that _character_ is the one thing we are called upon to
effect. And what have we done for Kitty? We have turned out a ‘fine
animal,’ and are glad and thankful for that; but that is all; the child
is as wayward, as unsteady, as a young colt. Do help us, dear aunt.
Think our little girl’s case over; if you can, get at the source of the
mischief, and send us a few hints for our guidance, and we shall be
yours gratefully evermore.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“And now for my poor little great-niece! Her mother piles up charges
against her, but how interesting and amusing and like the free world of
fairy-land it would all be were it not for the _tendencies_ which, in
these days, we talk much about and watch little against. We bring up
our children in the easiest, happy-go-lucky way, and all the time talk
solemnly in big words about the momentous importance of every influence
brought to bear upon them. But it is true; these naughty, winsome ways
of Kitty’s will end in her growing up like half the ‘girls’--that
is, young women--one meets. They talk glibly on many subjects; but
test them, and they know nothing of any; they are ready to undertake
anything, but they carry nothing through. This week, So-and-so is their
most particular friend, next week such another; even their amusements,
their one real interest, fail and flag; but then, there is some useful
thing to be learnt--how to set tiles or play the banjo! And, all the
time, there is no denying, as you say, that this very fickleness has a
charm, so long as the glamour of youth lasts, and the wayward girl has
bright smiles and winning, graceful ways to disarm you with. But youth
does not last; and the poor girl, who began as a butterfly, ends as a
grub, tied to the earth by the duties she never learnt how to fulfil;
that is, supposing she is a girl with a conscience; wanting that, she
dances through life whatever befalls; children, husband, home, must
take their chance. ‘What a giddy old grandmother the Peterfields have!’
remarked a pert young man of my acquaintance. But, indeed, the ‘giddy
old grandmother’ is not an unknown quantity.

“Are you saying to yourself, a prosy old ‘great-aunt’ is as bad as a
‘giddy old grandmother’? I really have prosed abominably, but Kitty has
been on my mind all the time, and it is quite true, you must take her
in hand.

“First, as to her lessons: you _must_ help her to gain the power of
attention; that should have been done long ago, but better late than
never, and an aunt who has given her mind to these matters takes blame
to herself for not having seen the want sooner. ‘But,’ I fancy you are
saying, ‘if the child has no faculty of attention, how can we give it
to her? It’s just a natural defect.’ Not a bit of it! Attention is
not a faculty at all, though I believe it is worth more than all the
so-called faculties put together; this, at any rate, is true, that no
talent, no genius, is worth much without the power of attention; and
this is the power which makes men or women successful in life.

“Attention is no more than this--the power of giving your mind to what
you are about--the bigger the better so far as the mind goes, and great
minds do great things; but have you never known a person with a great
mind, ‘real genius,’ his friends say, who goes through life without
accomplishing anything? It is just because he wants the power to ‘turn
on,’ so to speak, the whole of his great mind; he is unable to bring
the whole of his power to bear on the subject in hand. ‘But Kitty?’
Yes, Kitty must get this power of ‘turning on.’ She must be taught to
give her mind to sums and reading, and even to dusters. Go slowly; a
little to-day and a little more to-morrow. In the first place, her
lessons must be made _interesting_. Do not let her scramble through a
page of ‘reading,’ for instance, spelling every third word and then
waiting to be told what it spells, but see that every day she learns
a certain number of new words--six, twelve, twenty, as she is able to
hear them; not ‘spellings’--terrible invention!--but words that occur
in a few lines of some book of stories or rhymes; and these she should
know, not by spelling, but by _sight_. It does not matter whether the
new words be long or short, in one syllable or in four, but let them
be _interesting_ words. For instance, suppose her task for to-day be
‘Little Jack Horner,’ she should learn to know, _by sight_, thumb,
plum, Christmas, corner, &c., before she begins to read the rhyme; make
‘plum’ with her loose letters, print it on her slate, let her find it
elsewhere in her book, any device you can think of, so that ‘plum’ is
brought before her eyes half-a-dozen times, and each time recognised
and named. Then, when it comes in the reading lesson, it is an old
friend, read off with delight. Let every day bring the complete mastery
of a few new words, as well as the keeping up of the old ones. At the
rate of only six a day she will learn, say, fifteen hundred in a year;
in other words, she will have learned to read! And if it do not prove
to be reading without tears and reading with _attention_, I shall
not presume to make another suggestion about the dear little girl’s
education.

“But do not let the lesson last more than ten minutes, and insist, with
brisk, bright determination, on the child’s full concentrated attention
of eye and mind for the whole ten minutes. Do not allow a moment’s
dawdling at lessons.

“I would not give her rows of figures to add yet; use dominoes or
the domino cards prepared for the purpose, the point being to add or
subtract the dots on the two halves in a twinkling. You will find that
the three can work together at this as at the reading, and the children
will find it as exciting and delightful as ‘old soldier.’ Kitty will be
all alive here, and will take her share of work merrily; and this is a
point gained. Do not, if you can help it, single the little maid out
from the rest and throw her on her own responsibility. ’Tis a ‘heavy
and a weary weight’ for the bravest of us, and the little back will
get a trick of bending under life if you do not train her to carry it
lightly, as an Eastern woman her pitcher.

“Then, vary the lessons; now head, and now hands; now tripping feet and
tuneful tongue; but in every lesson let Kitty and the other two carry
away the joyous sense of--

                 ‘Something attempted, something done.’

“Allow of no droning wearily over the old stale work,--which must be
kept up all the time, it is true, but rather by way of an exciting game
than as the lesson of the day, which should always be a distinct _step_
that the children can recognise.

“You have no notion, until you try, how the ‘now-or-never’ feeling
about a lesson quickens the attention of even the most volatile child;
what you can drone through all day, you will; what _must_ be done,
is done. Then, there is a by-the-way gain besides that of quickened
attention. I once heard a wise man say that, if he must choose between
the two, he would rather his child should learn the meaning of ‘must’
than inherit a fortune. And here you will be able to bring moral force
to bear on wayward Kitty. Every lesson must have its own time, and no
other time in this world is there for it. The sense of the preciousness
of time, of the irreparable loss when a ten minutes’ lesson is thrown
away, must be brought home.

“Let your own unaffected distress at the loss of ‘golden minutes’ be
felt by the children, and also be visited upon them by the loss of some
small childish pleasure which the day should have held. It is a sad
thing to let a child dawdle through a day and be let off scot-free. You
see, I am talking of the children, and not of Kitty alone, because it
is so much easier to be good in company; and what is good for her will
be good for the trio.

“But there are other charges: poor Kitty is neither steady in play nor
steadfast in love! May not the _habit_ of attending to her lessons
help her to stick to her play? Then, encourage her. ‘What! The doll’s
tea-party over! That’s not the way grown-up ladies have tea; they sit
and talk for a long time. See if you can make your tea-party last
twenty minutes by my watch!’ This failing of Kitty’s is just a case
where a little gentle ridicule might do a great deal of good. It is a
weapon to be handled warily, for one child may resent, and another take
pleasure in being laughed at; but managed with tact I do believe it’s
good for children and grown-ups to see the comic side of their doings.

“I think we err in not enough holding up certain virtues for our
children’s admiration. Put a premium of praise on every finished thing,
if it is only a house of cards. Steadiness in work is a step on the
way towards steadfastness in love. Here, too, the praise of constancy
might very well go with good-humoured family ‘chaff,’ not about the
new loves, which are lawful, whether of kitten or playmate, but about
the discarded old loves. Let Kitty and all of them grow up to glory in
their constancy to every friend.

“There, I am sending you a notable preachment instead of the few
delicate hints I meant to offer; but never mount a woman on her
hobby--who knows when she will get off again?”




                              CHAPTER III

                      _AN EDUCATIONAL EXPERIMENT_


You wish me to tell you the story of my little girl? Well, to begin at
the beginning. In looking back through the pages of my journal I find
many scattered notices of Agnes, and I always write of her, I find,
as “poor Agnes.” Now, I wonder why? The child is certainly neither
unhealthy nor unhappy--at least, not with any reason; but again and
again I find this sort of entry:--

“Agnes displeased with her porridge; says nothing, but looks black all
day.”

“Harry upset his sister’s work-basket, by accident, I truly believe,
but she can’t get over it; speaks to no one, and looks as if under a
cloud.”

I need not go on; the fact is, the child is sensible of many injuries
heaped upon her; I think there is no ground for the feeling, for she is
really very sweet when she has not, as the children say, the black dog
on her back.

It is quite plain to me, and to others also, I think, that we have let
this sort of thing go on too long without dealing with it. We must take
the matter in hand.

Please God, our little Agnes must not grow up in this sullen habit,
for all our sakes, but chiefly for her own, poor child; I felt that in
this matter I might be of more use than Edward, who simply does not
understand a temper less sunny and open than his own. I pondered and
pondered, and, at last, some light broke in upon me. I thought I should
get hold of one principle at a time, work that out thoroughly, and then
take up the next, and so on, until all the springs of sullenness were
exhausted, and all supplies from without stopped. I was beginning to
suspect that the laws of habit worked here as elsewhere, and that, if
I could get our dear child to pass, say, six weeks without a “fallen
countenance,” she might lose this distressing failing for life.

I meant to take most of the trouble of this experiment upon myself, but
somehow I never can do anything without consulting my husband. I think
men have clearer heads than we women; that is, they can see _both_
sides of a question and are not carried off their feet by the one side
presented to them.

“Well, Edward, our little Agnes does not get over her sulky fits; in
fact, they last longer, and are harder to get out of than ever!”

“Poor little girl! It is unhappy for her and for all of us. But don’t
you think it is a sort of childish _malaise_ she will soon grow out of?”

“Now, have you not said, again and again, that a childish fault, left
to itself, can do no other than strengthen?”

“True; I suppose the fact is I am slow to realise the fault. But you
are right. From the point of view of _habit_ we are pledged to deal
with it. Have you made any plans?”

“Yes; I have been trying to work the thing out on your lines. We must
watch the rise of the sullen cloud, and change her thoughts before she
has time to realise that the black fit is coming.”

“You are right; if we can keep the child for only a week without this
settling of the cloud, the mere habit would be somewhat broken.”

We had not to wait for our opportunity. At breakfast next day--whether
Harry’s porridge looked more inviting than her own, or whether he
should not have been helped first, or whether the child had a little
pain of which she was hardly aware--suddenly, her eyes fell, brows
dropped, lips pouted, the whole face became slightly paler than before,
the figure limp, limbs lax, hands nerveless--and our gentle child was
transformed, become entirely unlovable. So far, her feelings were in
the emotional stage; her injury, whatever it was, had not yet taken
shape in her thoughts; she could not have told you what was the matter,
because she did not know; but very soon the thinking brain would come
to the aid of the quick emotions, and then she would be sulky of fixed
purpose. Her father saw the symptoms rise and knew what that would lead
to, and, with the promptness which has often saved us, he cried out--

“Agnes, come here, and hold up your pinafore!” and Agnes trotted up to
his side, her pinafore held up very much to receive the morning dole
of crumbs for the birds; presently, she came back radiant with the joy
of having given the birds a good breakfast, and we had no more sulky
fits that day. This went on for a fortnight or so, with fair but not
perfect success. Whenever her father or I was present, we caught the
emotion before the child was conscious of it, and succeeded in turning
her thoughts into some pleasant channel. But poor nurse has had bad
hours with Agnes; there would sit the child, pale and silent, for hours
together, doing nothing because she liked to do it, but only because
she was made. And, once the fit had settled down, thick and steady as
a London fog, neither her father nor I could help in the least. Oh, the
inconceivable settled cloudiness and irresponsiveness of that sweet
child face!

Our tactics were at fault. No doubt they helped so far as they went.
We managed to secure bright days that might otherwise have been cloudy
when we happened to be present at the first rise of the sullen mood.
But it seemed impossible to bring about so long an abstinence from
sullen fits as would eradicate the _habit_. We pictured to ourselves
the dreary life that lay before our pretty little girl; the sort of
insulation, the distrust of her sweetness, to which even one such
sullen fit would give rise; worse, the isolation which accompanies this
sort of temper, and the anguish of repentance to follow. And then, I
know, madness is often bred of this strong sense of injured personality.

It is not a pleasant thing to look an evil in the face. Whether or no
“a little knowledge is a dangerous,” certainly, it is a trying thing.
If we could only have contented ourselves with, “Oh, she’ll grow out of
it by-and-by,” we could have put up with even a daily cloud. But these
forecasts of our little girl’s future made the saving of the child at
_any_ cost our most anxious care.

“I’ll tell you what, Mary; we must strike out a new line. In a general
way, I do believe it’s best to deal with a child’s faults without
making him aware that he has them. It fills the little beings with a
ridiculous sense of importance to have anything belonging to _them_,
even a fault. But in this case, I think, we shall have to strike home
and deal with _the cause_ at least as much as with _the effects_, and
that, chiefly, because we have not effects entirely under our control.”

“But, Edward, what if there is no cure? What if this odious temper were
_hereditary_--our precious child’s inheritance from those who should
have brought her only good?”

“Poor little wife! so this is how it looks to you. You women are
sensitive creatures. Why, do you know, it never occurred to me that it
might be all _my_ fault. Well, I will not laugh at the fancy. Let us
take it seriously, even if, as it seems to me, a little morbid. Let
us suppose that this sad sullenness of which I hear so much and see
so little, is, indeed, Agnes’s inheritance from her mother--may she
only inherit all the rest, and happy the man whose life she blesses!
The question is not ‘How has it come?’ but ‘How are we to deal with
it?’--equally, you and I. Poor things! It’s but a very half-and-half
kind of matrimony if each is to pick out his or her own particular
bundle of failings, and deal with it single-handed. This poor man finds
the prospect too much for him! As a matter of fact, though, I believe
that every failing of mind, body, temper, and what not, is a matter of
inheritance, and that each parent’s particular business in life is to
pass his family forward freed from that particular vicious tendency
which has been his own bane--or hers, if you prefer it.”

“Well, dear, do as you will; I feel that you know best. What it would
be in these days of greater insight to be married to a man who would
say, ‘There, that boy may thank his mother’ for this or the other
failure. Of course, the thing is done now, but more often than not as a
random guess.”

“To return to Agnes. I think we shall have to show her to herself in
this matter, to rake up the ugly feeling, however involuntary, and let
her see how hateful it is. Yes, I do not wonder you shrink from this.
So do I. It will destroy the child’s unconsciousness.”

“Oh, Edward, how I dread to poke into the poor little wounded heart,
and bring up worse things to startle her!”

“I am sorry for you, dear, but I think it must be done; and don’t
you think you are the person to do it? While they have a mother I
don’t think I could presume to poke too much into the secrets of the
children’s hearts.”

“I’ll try; but if I get into a mess you must help me through.”

The opportunity came soon enough. It was pears this time. Harry would
never have known whether he had the biggest or the least. But we had
told nurse to be especially careful in this matter. “Each of the
children must have the biggest or best as often as one another, but
there must be no fuss, no taking turns, about such trifles. Therefore,
very rightly, you gave Harry the bigger and Agnes the smaller pear.”

Agnes’s pear was not touched; there the child sat, without word or sob,
but all gathered into herself, like a sea anemone whose tentacles have
been touched. The stillness, whiteness, and brooding sullenness of the
face, the limp figure and desolate attitude, would have made me take
the little being to my heart if I had not too often failed to reach
her in this way. This went on all day, all of us suffering; and in the
evening, when I went to hear the children’s prayers before bed, I meant
to have it out.

We were both frozen up with sadness, and the weary little one was ready
to creep into her mother’s heart again. But I must not let her yet.

“So my poor Agnes has had a very sad day?”

“Yes, mother,” with a little quivering sob.

“And do you know we have all had a very sad day,--father, mother, your
little brother, nurse--every one of us has felt as if a black curtain
had been hung up to shut out the sunshine?”

The child was sympathetic, and shivered at the sight of the black
curtain and the warm sunshine shut out.

“And do you know who has put us all out in the dark and the cold? Our
little girl drew the curtain, because she would not speak to any of
us, or be kind to any of us, or love any of us all the day long; so we
could not get into the sunshine, and have been shivering and sad in the
cold.”

“Mother, mother!” with gasping sobs; “_not_ you and father?”

“Ah! I thought my little girl would be sorry. Now let us try to find
out how it all happened. Is it possible that Agnes noticed that her
brother’s pear was larger than her own?”

“Oh, mother, how could I?” And the poor little face was hidden in
her mother’s breast, and the outbreak of sobs that followed was too
painful. I feared it might mean actual illness for the sensitive little
soul. I think it was the right thing to do; but I had barely courage
enough to leave the results in more loving hands.

“Never mind; don’t cry any more, darling, and we will ask our Father
above to forgive and forget all about it. Mother knows that her dear
little Agnes will try not to love herself best any more. And then the
black curtain will never fall, and we shall never again be a whole long
day standing sadly out in the cold. Good-night from mother, and another
sweet good-night from father.”

The treatment seems to answer. On the slightest return of the old
sullen symptoms we show our little girl what they mean. But the grief
that follows is so painful that I’m afraid we could not go on with it
for the sake of the child’s health. But, happily, we very rarely see a
sulky face now; and when we do we turn and look upon our child, and the
look melts her, until she is all gentleness, penitence, and love.




                               CHAPTER IV

               _DOROTHY ELMORE’S ACHIEVEMENT: A FORECAST_


                                 PART I

I know of no happier moment for parents than that when their eldest
daughter returns from school to take her place finally by her mother’s
side. It was two years that very day since we had seen Dorothy when her
father set out for Lausanne to bring her home; and how the children
and I got through the few days of his absence, I don’t know. The last
touches had been put, many times over, to her rooms--not the plain
little room she had left, but a dainty bower for our young maiden, a
little sitting-room opening into a pure nest of a bedroom. Our eyes
met, her father’s and mine, and moistened as we conjured up I don’t
know what visions of pure young life to be lived there, the virginal
prayers to be offered at the little prayer table, the gaiety of heart
that should, from this nook, bubble over the house, and, who knows,
by-and-by, the dreams of young love which should come to glorify the
two little rooms.

Two or three times already had the children put fresh flowers into
everything that would hold a flower. Pretty frocks and sweet faces,
bright hair and bright eyes, had been ready this long time to meet
sister Dorothy.

At last, a telegram from Dover--“Home by five”--and our restlessness
subsided into a hush of expectation.

The sound of wheels on the gravel, and we flew to the hall door and
stood in two files, children and maids, Rover and Floss, waiting to
welcome the child of the house. Then, a lovely face, glad to tears,
looking out of a nest of furs; then, a light leap, almost before the
carriage drew up, and I had her in my arms, my Dorothy, the child of
my heart! The order of the day was “high tea,” to which every one,
down to baby May, sat up. We two, her father and I, gave her up to the
children, only exchanging notes by the species of telegraphy married
folk understand.

“Indubitably lovely!” said her father’s eyes; “And what grace--what
an elegant girl she is!” answered mine; “And do but see what tact she
shows with the little ones;” “And notice the way she has with us, as
if her heart were brimming with reverence and affection.” Thus, we two
with our eyes. For a week or more we could not settle down. As it was
the Christmas holidays, we had not Miss Grimshaw to keep us in order,
and so it happened that wherever Dorothy ran,--no, she went with a
quick noiseless step, but never ran,--about the house to find out the
old dear nooks, we all followed; a troop of children with their mother
in the rear; their father too, if he happened to be in. Truly we were
a ridiculous family, and did our best to turn the child’s head. Every
much has its more-so. Dorothy’s two special partisans were Elsie,
our fifteen years old girl, fast treading in her sister’s steps, and
Herbert, our eldest son, soon to go to college. Elsie would come to my
room and discourse by the hour, her text being ever, “Dorothy says.”
And as for Herbs, it was pleasant to see his budding manhood express
itself in all sorts of little attentions to his lovely sister.

For lovely she was; there could not be two opinions on that point. A
lilymaid, tall and graceful, without a trace of awkwardness or self
consciousness; the exquisite complexion of the Elmores (they are a
Devonshire family), warm, lovely rose on pearly white, no hint of
brunette colouring; a smile which meant spring and love and other good
things; and deep blue eyes reflecting the light of her smile.

Never, not even during the raptures of early married life, have I known
a month of such joyous exhilaration as that which followed Dorothy’s
return, and I think her father would own as much.

What a month it was! There was the pleasant earthly joy of going to
town to get frocks for Dorothy; then the bewilderment of not being able
to find out what suited her best.

“Anything becomes her!” exclaims Mdme. la Modiste; “that figure, that
complexion, may wear anything.”

And then, the pleasure of entering a room--all eyes bent upon us in
kindliness; our dear old friends hurrying forward to make much of
the child; the deference and gentleness of her manner to these, and
the warmth with which she was received by her compeers, both maidens
and men; her grace in the dance; her simplicity in conversation; the
perfection of her manner, which was not manner at all, but her own
nature, in every situation. After all, she liked best to be at home;
was more amiable and lovely with father and mother, brothers and
sisters, than with the most fascinating strangers. Our good child! We
had grown a little shy of speaking to her about the best things, but we
knew she said her prayers: how else this outflow of sweet maiden life
upon us all?

I can imagine these ramblings of mine falling into the hands of a
young pair whose life is in each other:--“Oh, only the outpourings of
a doting mother!” and they toss the pages aside. But never believe,
young people, that yours are the only ecstatic moments, yours the only
experiences worth recording; wait and see.


                                PART II

These happy days had lasted for a month or more, when, one bright day
in February, I remember it well, a little cloud arose. This is how
it was: Dorothy had promised Elsie that she would drive her in the
pony-carriage to Banford to choose a doll for May’s birthday. Now, it
happened that I wanted the little carriage to take to my “Mothers” at
Ditchling the clothing I had bought in London with their club money. My
errand could not be deferred; it must be done that day or a week later.
But I did not see why the children’s commission would not do as well
to-morrow; and so I said, in good faith, as I was stepping into the
carriage, hardly noticing the silence with which my remark was received.

I came home tired, after a long afternoon, looking forward to the
welcome of the girls. The two seniors were sitting in the firelight,
bright enough just then to show me Dorothy sitting limp and pale in
a low chair, and Elsie watching her with a perplexed and anxious
expression. Dorothy did look up to say, “Are you tired, mother?” but
only her eyes looked, there was nothing behind them.

“_You_ look tired and cold enough, my dear; what has been the matter?”

“Oh, I’m very well, thank you; but I am tired, I think I’ll go to
bed.” And she held up a cold cheek for the mother’s kiss for which she
offered no return.

Elsie and I gazed at one another in consternation; our fairy princess,
our idol (was it indeed so?) What had come to her?

“What is the matter with Dorothy? Has she a headache?”

“Oh, mother, I don’t know,” said the poor child, on the verge of tears.
“She has been like this ever since you went, saying ‘Yes,’ and ‘No,’
and ‘No, thank you,’ quite kindly, but never saying a word of herself.
Has any one been grieving our Dorothy, or is she going to be ill? Oh,
mother, mother!”

“Nay, child, don’t cry. Dorothy is overdone; you know she has been out
twice this week, and three times last, and late hours don’t suit her.
We must take better care of her, that’s all.”

Elsie was comforted, but not so her mother. I believed every word I had
said to the child; but all the time there was a stir in my heart like
the rustling of a snake in the grass. But I put it from me.

It was with a hidden fear that I came down to breakfast. Dorothy was in
the room already doing the little duties of the breakfast table. But
she was pale and still; her hands moved, her figure hung, in the limp
way I had noticed the night before. Her cheek, a cold “Good-morning,
mother,” and a smile on her lips that brought no light to her eyes,
was all the morning salutation I got. Breakfast was an uncomfortable,
constrained meal. The children wondered what was the matter, and nobody
knew. Her father got on best with Dorothy for he knew nothing of the
evening’s history, so he petted her as usual, making all the more of
her for her pale looks.

For a whole week this went on, and never once was I allowed to meet
Dorothy eye to eye. The children were hardly better served, for they,
too, had noticed something amiss; only her father could win any of the
old friendliness, because he treated her as the Dorothy who had come
home to us, only a little done up.

“We must have the doctor for that child, wife. Don’t you see how she is
losing flesh, and how the roses she brought home are fading? She has no
appetite and no spirits. But, why, you surely don’t think our dainty
moth has burned her wings already? There’s nobody here, unless it’s
young Gardiner, and she would never waste herself on a gawky lad like
that!”

This was a new idea, and I stopped a moment to consider, for I knew of
at least half-a-dozen young men who had been attentive to Dorothy, all
to be preferred to this hobbledehoy young Gardiner. But, no! I could
trace the change from the moment of my return from Ditchling. But I
jumped at the notion of the doctor; it would, at any rate, take her out
of herself, and--we should see.

The doctor came; said she wanted tone; advised, not physic, but fresh
air, exercise, and early hours. So we all laid ourselves out to obey
his directions that day, but with no success to speak of.

But the next was one of those glorious February days when every twig
is holding itself stiffly in the pride of coming leafage, and the
snowdrops in the garden beds lift dainty heads out of the brown earth.
The joy of the spring did it. We found her in the breakfast-room,
snowdrops at her throat, rosy, beaming, joyous; a greeting, sweet
and tender, for each, and never had we known her talk so sparkling,
her air so full of dainty freshness. There was no relapse after this
sudden cure. Our good friend Dr. Evans called again, to find her in
such flourishing health that ten minutes’ raillery of “my poor patient”
was the only attention he thought necessary. But, “H’m! Mighty sudden
cure!” as he was going out, showed that he too found something odd in
this sudden change.

In a day or two we had forgotten all about our bad week. All went well
for awhile. At the end of five weeks, however, we were again pulled
up--another attack of sudden indisposition, so outsiders thought. What
did I think? Well, my thoughts were not enviable.

“Father, I wish you would call at Walker’s and choose me some flowers
for this evening.” It was the evening of the Brisbanes’ dance, and
I had half an idea that Arthur Brisbane had made some impression on
Dorothy. His state of mind was evident enough. But, without thinking
twice, I interrupted with--

“Don’t you think what we have in the ‘house’ will do, dear? What could
make up better than stephanotis and maidenhair?”

Dorothy made no answer, and her father, thinking all was right, went
off at once; he was already rather late. We thought no more of the
matter for a minute or two, when, at the same moment, Elsie and I
found our eyes fixed upon Dorothy. The former symptoms followed--days
of pallor and indisposition, which were, at the same time, days of
estrangement from us all. Again we had in Dr. Evans, “just to look
at her,” and this time I noticed--not without a foolish mother’s
resentment--that his greeting was other than cordial, “Well, young
lady, and what’s gone amiss this time?” he said, knitting his bushy
brows, and gazing steadily at her out of the eyes which could be keen
as well as kind. Dorothy flushed and fidgeted under his gaze, but gave
only the cold unsatisfactory replies we had been favoured with. The
prescription was as before; but again the recovery was sudden, and
without apparent cause.


                                PART III

To make a long story short, this sort of thing went on, at longer or
shorter intervals, through all that winter and summer and winter again.
My husband, in the simplicity of his nature, could see nothing but--

“The child is out of sorts; we must take her abroad for a month or two;
she wants change of air and scene.”

The children were quicker-eyed; children are always quick to resent
unevenness of temper in those about them. A single angry outbreak,
harsh word, and you may lay yourself out to please them for months
before they will believe in you again. Georgie was the first to let the
cat out of the bag.

“Dorothy is in a sulky fit again, mother; I wish she wouldn’t!”

Elsie, who has her father’s quick temper, was in the room.

“You naughty ungrateful little boy, you! How can you say such a thing
of Dorothy? Didn’t she sit all yesterday morning making sails for your
boat?”

Georgie, a little mollified, “Yes, but why need she be sulky to-day?
We all loved her yesterday, and I’m sure I want to to-day!”

Now that the mask was fallen and even the children could see what was
amiss, I felt that the task before me must not be put off. I had had
great misgivings since the first exhibition of Dorothy’s sullen temper;
now I saw what must be done, and braced myself for a heavy task. But
I could not act alone; I must take my husband into my confidence, and
that was the worst of it.

“George, how do you account for Dorothy’s fits of wretchedness?”

“Why, my dear, haven’t I told you? The child is out of sorts, and must
have change. We’ll have a little trip up the Rhine, and perhaps into
Switzerland, so soon as the weather is fit. It will be worth something
to see her face light up at some things I mean to show her!”

“I doubt if there is anything the matter with her health; remember how
perfectly well and happy she is between these fits of depression.”

“What is it, then? You don’t think she’s in love, do you?”

“Not a bit of it; her heart is untouched, and her dearest loves are
home loves.”

My husband blew his nose, with a “Bless the little girl! I could find
it in my heart to wish it might always be so with her. But what is your
notion? I can see you have got to the bottom of the little mystery.
Trust you women for seeing through a stone wall.”

“Each attack of what we have called ‘poorliness’ has been a fit of
sullenness, lasting sometimes for days, sometimes for more than a week,
and passing off as suddenly as it came.”

My dear husband’s face clouded with serious displeasure; never before
had it worn such an expression for me. I had a sense of separation from
him, as if we two, who had so long been one, were two once more.

“This is an extraordinary charge for a mother to bring against her
child. How have you come to this conclusion?”

Already was my husband become my judge. He did not see that I was ill,
agitated, still standing, and hardly able to keep my feet. And there
was worse to come: how was I to go through with it?

“What causes for resentment can Dorothy conceivably have?” he repeated,
in the same cold judicial tone.

“It is possible to feel resentment, it is possible to nurse resentment,
to let it hang as a heavy cloud-curtain between you and all you love
the best, without any adequate cause, without any cause that you can
see yourself when the fit is over!”

My voice sounded strange and distant in my own ears: I held by the back
of a chair to steady myself: but I was not fainting: I was acutely
alive to all that was passing in my husband’s mind. He looked at me
curiously, inquisitively, but not as if I belonged to him, and were
part and parcel of his life.

“You seem to be curiously familiar with a state of feeling which I
should have judged to be the last a Christian lady would know anything
about.”

“Oh, my husband, don’t you see? You are killing me. I am not going
through this anguish for nothing. I _do_ know what it is. And if
Dorothy, my poor child, suffers, it is all my fault! There is nothing
bad in her but what she has got from me.”

George was moved; he put his arm round me in time to save me. But I
was not surprised, a few days later, to find my first grey hairs. If
that hour were to be repeated, I think I could not bear it.

“Poor wife! I see; it is to yourself you have been savagely cruel, and
not to our little girl. Forgive me, dear, that I did not understand at
once; but we men are slow and dull. I suppose you are putting yourself
(and me too) to all this pain because there is something to be gained
by it. You see some way out of the difficulty, if there is one!”

“Don’t say ‘if there is one.’ How could I go through all this pain if I
did not think some way of helping our darling would come out of it?”

“Ah! appearances were against you, but I knew you loved the child all
the time. Clumsy wretch that I am, how could I doubt it? But, to my
mind, there are two difficulties: First, I cannot believe that you ever
cherished a thought of resentment; and next, who could associate such a
feeling with our child’s angelic countenance? No, my dear; believe me,
you are suffering under a morbid fancy. ’Tis you, and not Dorothy, who
need entire change of scene and thought.”

How should I convince him? And how again run the risk of his even
momentary aversion? But if Dorothy were to be saved, the thing must be
done. And, oh, how could he for a moment suppose that I should deal
unlovingly with my firstborn? “Be patient with me, George. I want to
tell you everything from the beginning.

“Do you remember when you wooed me in the shady paths of our old
rectory garden, how I tried hard to show you that I was not the loved
and lovely home-daughter you pictured? I told you how I was cross about
this and that; how little things put me out for days, so that I was
under a cloud, and really _couldn’t_ speak to, or care about anybody;
how, not I, but (forgive the word) my plain sister Helen, was the
beloved child of the house, adored by the children, by my parents, by
all the folk of the village, who must in one way or other have dealings
with the parson’s daughters. Do you recollect any of this?”

“Yes, but what of it? I have never for a moment rued my choice, nor
wished that it had fallen on our good Helen, kindest of friends to us
and ours.”

“And you, dear heart, put all I said down to generosity and humility;
every effort I made to show you the truth was put down to the count of
some beautiful virtue, until at last I gave it up; you _would_ only
think the more of me, and think the less kindly of my dear home people,
because, indeed, they didn’t ‘appreciate’ me. How I hated the word. I’m
not sure I was sorry to give up the effort to show you myself as I was.
The fact is, your love made me all it believed me to be, and I thought
the old things had passed away.”

“Well, dear, and wasn’t I right? Have we had a single cloud upon our
married life?”

“Ah, dear man, little you know what the first two years of married
life were to me. If you read your newspaper, I resented it; if you
spent half-an-hour in your smoking den, or an hour with a friend, if
you admired another woman, I resented each and all, kept sulky silence
for days, even for weeks. And you, all the time, thought no evil, but
were sorry for your poor ‘little wife,’ made much of her, and loved her
all the more, the more sullen and resentful she became. She was ‘out
of sorts,’ you said, and planned a little foreign tour, as you are now
doing for Dorothy. I do believe you loved me out of it at last. The
time came when I felt myself hunted down by these sullen rages. I ran
away, took immense walks, read voraciously, but could not help myself
till our first child came; God’s gift, our little Dorothy. Her baby
fingers healed me as not even your love could do. But, oh, George,
don’t you see?”

“My poor Mary! Yes, I see; your healing was bought at the little
child’s expense, and the plague you felt within you was passed on to
her. This, I see, is your idea; but I still believe it is a morbid
fancy, and I still think my little trip will cure both mother and
daughter.”

“You say well, mother and daughter. The proverb should run, not a burnt
child dreads the fire, but a burnt child will soonest catch fire! I
feel that all my old misery will come back upon me if I am to see the
same thing repeated in Dorothy.” George sat musing for a minute or two,
but my fear of him was gone; his face was full of tenderness for both
of us.

“Do you know, Mary, I doubt if I’m right to treat this effort of yours
with a high hand, and prescribe for evils I don’t understand. Should
you mind very much our calling our old friend, Dr. Evans, into council?
I believe, after all, it will turn out to be an affair for him rather
than for me.”

This was worse than all. Were the miseries of this day to know no end?
Should we, my Dorothy and her mother, end our days in a madhouse? I
turned my eyes on my husband, and he understood.

“Nonsense, wife, not that! Now you really are absurd, and must allow
me the relief of laughing at you. There, I feel better now, but I
understand; a few years ago a doctor was never consulted about this
kind of thing unless it was supposed to denote insanity. But we have
changed all that, and you’re as mad as a hatter to get the notion.
You’ve no idea how interesting it is to hear Evans talk of the mutual
relations between thought and brain, and on the other hand, between
thought and character. Homely an air as he has, he is up to all that’s
going on. You know he went through a course of study at Leipsic, where
they know more than we about the brain and its behaviour, and then, he
runs across every year to keep himself abreast with the times. It isn’t
every country town that is blessed with such a man.”

I thought I was being let down gently to the everyday level, and
answered as we answer remarks about the weather, until George said--

“Well, when shall we send for Evans? The sooner we get more light on
this matter, the better for all of us.”

“Very well, send for him to-morrow; tell him all I have told you, and,
if you like, I shall be here to answer further questions.”


                                PART IV

“Mrs. Elmore is quite right; this is no morbid fancy of hers. I have
observed your pretty Miss Dorothy, and had my own speculations. Now,
the whole thing lies in a nutshell.”

“Can you deal with our trouble, doctor?” I cried out.

“Deal with it, my dear madam? Of course I can. Your Dorothy is a good
girl, and will yield herself to treatment. As to that, you don’t want
me. The doctor is only useful on the principle that lookers on see most
of the game. Once understand the thing, and it is with you the cure
must lie.”

“Please explain; you will find me very obedient.”

“I’m not so sure of that; you know the whole of my mental property has
not been gathered in this right little, tight little island. You ladies
look very meek; but directly one begins to air one’s theories--which
are not theories, by the way, but fixed principles of belief and
conduct--you scent all manner of heterodoxy, and because a valuable
line of scientific thought and discovery is new to you, you take up
arms, with the notion that it flies in the face of the Bible. When, as
a matter of fact, every new advance in science is a further revelation,
growing out, naturally, from that we already have.”

“Try me, doctor; your ’doxy shall be my ’doxy if you will only take us
in hand, and I shall be ready enough to believe that your science is by
revelation.”

“Well, here goes. In for a penny, in for a pound. In the first place,
I want to do away with the sense of moral responsibility, both for
yourself and Dorothy, which is wearing you out. Or, rather, I want
to circumscribe its area and intensify its force. Dorothy has,
perhaps, and conceivably her mother has also, inherited her peculiar
temperament; but you are not immediately responsible for that.
She, again, has fostered this inherited trait, but neither is she
immediately responsible for the fact.”

“How do you mean, doctor? That we can’t help it, and must take our
nature as we find it? But that is worse than ever. No; I cannot believe
it. Certainly my husband has done a great deal to cure me.”

“No doubt he has. And how he has done it, without intention, I dare
say, I hope by-and-by to show you. Perhaps you now and then remark,
What creatures of habit we are!”

“And what of that? No one can help being struck now and then with the
fact; especially, no mother.”

“Well, and what does this force of habit amount to? and how do you
account for it?”

“Why, I suppose it amounts to this, that you can do almost anything
once you get into the way of it. Why, I don’t know; I suppose it’s the
natural constitution of the mind.”

“The ‘natural constitution of the mind’ is a conversational counter
with whose value I am not acquainted. That you can get into the way of
doing almost anything, is simple fact; but you must add, of thinking
anything, of feeling anything, before you begin to limit the force of
habit.”

“I think I begin to see what you mean. We, my child and I, are not so
much to blame now for our sullen and resentful feelings, because we
have got the habit of them. But surely habits may be cured?”

“Ah, once we begin to see that, we are to blame for them. We must ask,
How are we to set about the cure? What’s to be _done_? What hopeless
idiots we are, the best of us, not to see that the very existence of an
evil is a demand for its cure, and that, in the moral world, there’s a
dock for every nettle!”

“And then, surely, the sins of the fathers visited upon the children,
is a bitter law. How could Dorothy help what she inherited?”

“Dorothy could not help it, but you could; and what have you two
excellent parents been about to defer until the child is budding into
womanhood this cure which should have been achieved in her infancy?
Surely, seventeen years ago at least, you must have seen indications
of the failing which must needs be shown up now, to the poor girl’s
discredit.”

I grew hot all over under this home thrust, while George looked half
dubious, half repentant, not being quite sure where his offence lay.

“It is doubly my fault, doctor, I see it all now. When Dorothy was a
child I _would_ not face the fact. It was too awful to think my child
would be as I still was. So we had many little fictions that both nurse
and mother saw through: the child was poorly, was teething still, was
overdone. The same thing, only more so, went on during her schoolroom
life. Dorothy was delicate, wanted stamina, must have a tonic. And
this, though we had a governess who tried to convince me that it
was temper and not delicacy that ailed my little girl. The worst of
deceiving yourself is that you get to believe the lie. I saw much less
of the schoolroom than of the nursery party, and firmly believed in
Dorothy’s frequent attacks of indisposition.”

“But, supposing you had faced the truth, what would you have done?”

“There is my excuse; I had no idea that anything could be done.”

“Now, please, don’t write me down a pagan if I try to show you what
might have been done, and may yet be done.”

“Doctor Evans!”

“Oh, yes, ’tis a fact; you good women are convinced that the setting
of a broken limb is a work for human skill, but that the cure of a
fault of disposition is for Providence alone to effect, and you say
your prayers and do nothing, looking down from great heights upon us
who believe that skill and knowledge come in here too, and are meant to
do so in the divine scheme of things. It’s startling when you come to
think of it, that every pair of parents have the absolute _making_ of
their child!”

“But what of _inherited_ failings--such cases as this of ours?”

“Precisely a case in point. Don’t you see, such a case is just a
problem set before parents with a, ‘See, how will you work out this so
as to pass your family on free from taint?’”

“That’s a noble thought of yours, Evans. It gives every parent a
share in working out the salvation of the world, even to thousands
of generations. Come, Mary, we’re on our promotion! To pass on our
children free from the blemishes they get from us is a thing worth
living for.”

“Indeed it is. But don’t think me narrow-minded, doctor, nor that I
should presume to think hard things of you men of science, if I confess
that I still think the ills of the flesh fall within the province of
man, but the evils of the spirit within the province of God.”

“I’m not sure but that I’m of your mind; where we differ is as to
the boundary line between flesh and spirit. Now, every fault of
disposition and temper, though it may have begun in error of the spirit
in ourselves or in some ancestor, by the time it becomes a fault of
character is _a failing of the flesh_, and is to be dealt with as
such--that is, by appropriate treatment. Observe, I am not speaking of
occasional and sudden temptations and falls, or of as sudden impulses
towards good, and the reaching of heights undreamed of before. These
things are of the spiritual world, and are to be spiritually discerned.
But the failing or the virtue which has become habitual to us is flesh
of our flesh, and must be treated on that basis whether it is to be
uprooted or fostered.”

“I confess I don’t follow: this line of argument should make the work
of redemption gratuitous. Every parent can save his child, and every
man can save himself.”

“No, my dear; there you’re wrong. I agree with Evans. ’Tis we who lose
the efficacy of the great Redemption by failing to see what it _has_
accomplished. That we have still to engage in a spiritual warfare,
enabled by spiritual aids, Dr. Evans allows. His point is, as I
understand it, why embarrass ourselves with these less material ills of
the flesh which are open to treatment on the same lines, barring the
drugs, as a broken limb or a disordered stomach. Don’t you see how it
works? We fall, and fret, and repent, and fall again; and are so over
busy with our own internal affairs, that we have no time to get that
knowledge of the Eternal which is the life of the living soul?”

“All this is beyond me. I confess it is neither the creed nor the
practice in which I was brought up. Meantime, how is it to affect
Dorothy? That is the practical question.”

Dr. Evans threw a smiling “I told you so” glance at my husband, which
was a little annoying; however, he went on:--

“To be sure; that is the point. Poor Dorothy is just now the occasional
victim of a troop of sullen, resentful thoughts and feelings, which
wear her out, shut out the sunshine, and are as a curtain between her
and all she loves. Does she want these thoughts? No; she hates and
deplores them on her knees, we need not doubt; resolves against them;
goes through much spiritual conflict. She is a good girl, and we may
be sure of all this. Now we must bring physical science to her aid.
How those thoughts began we need not ask, but there they are; they
go patter, patter, to and fro, to and fro, in the nervous tissue of
the brain, until--here is the curious point of contact between the
material and the immaterial, we see by results that there is such
point of contact, but how or why it is so we have not even a guess
to offer--until the nervous tissue is modified under the continued
traffic in the same order of thoughts. Now, these thoughts become
automatic; they come of themselves, and spread and flow as a river
makes and enlarges its bed. Such habit of thought is set up, and
must go on indefinitely, in spite of struggles, unless--and here is
the word of hope--a contrary habit is set up, diverting the thoughts
into some quite new channel. Keep the thoughts running briskly in the
new channel, and, behold, the old connections are broken while a new
growth of brain substance is perpetually taking place. The old thoughts
return, and there is no place for them, and Dorothy has time to make
herself think of other things before they can establish again the old
links. There is, shortly, the philosophy of ordering our thoughts--the
first duty of us all.”

“That is very wonderful, and should help us. Thank you very much; I
had no idea that our _thoughts_ were part and parcel, as it were, of
any substance. But I am not sure yet how this is to apply to Dorothy.
It seems to me that it will be very difficult for her, poor child,
to bring all this to bear on herself. It will be like being put into
trigonometry before you are out of subtraction.”

“You are right, Mrs. Elmore, it will be a difficult piece of work, to
which she will have to give herself up for two or three months. If I
am not mistaken in my estimate of her, by that time we shall have a
cure. But if you had done the work in her childhood, a month would have
effected it, and the child herself would have been unconscious of
effort.”

“How sorry I am. Do tell me what I should have done.”

“The tendency was there, we will allow; but you should never have
allowed the _habit_ of this sort of feeling to be set up. You should
have been on the watch for the outward signs--the same then as now,
some degree of pallor, with general limpness of attitude, and more or
less dropping of the lips and eyes. The moment one such sign appeared,
you should have been at hand to seize the child out of the cloud she
was entering, and to let her bask for an hour or two in love and light,
forcing her to meet you eye to eye, to find only love and joy in yours.
Every sullen attack averted is so much against setting up the habit;
and habit, as you know, is a chief factor in character.”

“And can we do nothing for her now?”

“Certainly you can. Ignore the sullen humours, let gay life go on as
if she was not there, only drawing her into it now and then by an
appeal for her opinion, or for her laugh at a joke. Above all, when
good manners compel her to look up, let her meet unclouded eyes, full
of pleasure in her; for, believe, whatever cause of offence she gives
to you, she is far more deeply offensive to herself. And you should do
this all the more because, poor girl, the brunt of the battle will fall
upon her.”

“I see you are right; all along, her sullenness has given way before
her father’s delight in her, and indeed it is in this way that my
husband has so far cured me. I suppose you would say he had broken the
habit. But won’t you see her and talk to her? I know you can help her
most.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was going to ask you if I might; her
sensitive nature must be gently handled; and, just because she has
no such love for me as for her parents, I run less risk of wounding
her. Besides, I have a secret to tell which should help her in the
management of herself.”

“Thank you, Evans; we are more grateful than I can say. Will you strike
while the iron’s hot? Shall we go away and send her to you, letting her
suppose it is a mere medical call?”


                                 PART V

“Good-morning, Miss Dorothy; do you know I think it’s quite time this
state of things should come to an end. We are both tired of the humbug
of treating you for want of health when you are quite strong and well.”

Dorothy looked up with flushed face (I had it all later from both Dr.
Evans and Dorothy herself), and eyes half relieved, half doubtful, but
not resentful, and stood quietly waiting.

“All the same, I think you are in a bad way, and are in great need of
help. Will you bear with me while I tell you what is the matter, and
how you may be cured?”

Dorothy was past speaking, and gave a silent assent.

“Don’t be frightened, poor child, I don’t speak to hurt you, but to
help. A considerable part of a life which should be all innocent gaiety
of heart, is spent in gloom and miserable isolation. Some one fails to
dot his i’s, and you resent it, not in words or manner, being too well
brought up; but the light within you is darkened by a flight of black
thoughts. ‘He (or she) shouldn’t have done it! It’s too bad! They
don’t care how they hurt me! I should never have done so to her!’--and
so on without end. Presently you find yourself swathed in a sort of
invisible shroud; you cannot reach out a living hand to anybody, nor
speak in living tones, nor meet your dear ones eye to eye with a living
and loving glance. There you sit, like a dead man at the feast. By this
time you have forgotten the first offence, and would give the world to
get out of this death-in-life. You cry, you say your prayers, beg to
be forgiven and restored, but your eyes are fixed upon yourself as a
hateful person, and you are still wrapped in the cloud; until, suddenly
(no doubt in answer to your prayers), a hug from little May, the first
primrose of the year, a lark, filling the world with his gladness, and,
presto! the key is turned, the enchanted princess liberated, glad as
the lark, sweet as the flower, and gay as the bright child!”

No answer: Dorothy’s arms laid on the table, and her face hidden upon
them. At last, in a choked voice--“Please go on, doctor!”

“All this may be helped,” a start: “may, within two or three months, be
completely cured, become a horrid memory and nothing more!” A gasp, and
streaming eyes raised, where the light of hope was struggling with fear
and shame.

“This is very trying for you, dear child! But I must get on with my
task, and when I have done, it’s my belief you’ll forget the pain for
joy. In the first place, you are not a very wicked girl because these
ugly thoughts master you; I don’t say, mind you, that you will be
without offence once you get the key between your fingers; but as it
is, you need not sit in judgment on yourself any more.”

Then Dr. Evans went on to make clear to Dorothy what he had already
made clear to us of the interaction of thought and brain; how that
Thought, Brain, & Co., were such close allies that nobody could tell
which of the two did what: that they even ran a business of their own,
independently of _Ego_, who was supposed to be the active head of the
firm, and so on.

Dorothy listened with absorbed intentness, as if every word were
saving; but the light of hope died slowly out.

“I think I see what you mean; these black thoughts come and rampage
even against the desire of the _Ego_, I, myself: but, oh doctor, don’t
you see, that’s all the worse for me?”

“Stop a bit, stop a bit, my dear young lady, I have not done yet. _Ego_
sees things are going wrong and asserts himself; sets up new thoughts
in a new course, and stops the old traffic, and in course of time, and
a very short time too, the old nerve connections are broken, and the
old way under tillage; no more opening for traffic there. Have you got
it?”

“I think so. I’m to think of something else, and soon there will be no
room in the brain for the ugly thoughts which distress me. But that’s
just the thing I can’t do!”

“But that is exactly the only thing you have power to do! Have you any
idea what the will is, and what are its functions?”

“I don’t know much about it. I suppose your will should make you able
to do the right thing when you feel you can’t! You should say, I
will, and go and do it. But you don’t know how weak I am. It makes no
difference to me to say, I will!”

“Well, now, to own up honestly, I don’t think it ever made much
difference to anybody outside of the story-books. All the same, Will is
a mighty fellow in his own way, but he goes with a sling and a stone,
and not with the sword of Goliath. He attacks the giant with what seems
a child’s plaything, and the giant is slain. This is how it works.
When ill thoughts _begin_ to molest you, turn away your mind with a
vigorous turn, and _think of something else_. I don’t mean think good
forgiving thoughts, perhaps you are not ready for that yet; but think
of something interesting and pleasant; the new dress you must plan, the
friend you like best, the book you are reading; best of all, fill heart
and mind suddenly with some capital plan for giving pleasure to some
poor body whose days are dull. The more exciting the thing you think
of, the safer you are. Never mind about fighting the evil thought. This
is the one thing you have to do; for this is, perhaps, the sole power
the will has. It enables you to change your thoughts; to turn yourself
round from gloomy thoughts to cheerful ones. Then you will find that
your prayers will be answered, for you will know what to ask for, and
will not turn your back on the answer when it comes. There, child, I
have told you the best secret of an old man’s life, and have put into
your hands the key of self-government and a happy life. Now you know
how to be better than he that taketh a city.”

“Thank you a thousand times for your precious secret. You have lifted
my feet out of the slough. I _will_ change my thoughts (may I say
that?). You shall find that your key does not rust for want of use. I
trust I may be helped from above never to enter that cloud again.”

And she did not. It is five years since she had that talk in the
library with Dr. Evans (he died within the year, to our exceeding
regret). What battles she fought we never heard; never again was
the subject alluded to. For two years she was our constantly loving
and joyous home daughter; for three, she has been Arthur Brisbane’s
happy-hearted wife; and her little sunbeam of an Elsie--no fear that
she will ever enter the cloud in which mother and grandmother were so
nearly lost.




                               CHAPTER V

                             _CONSEQUENCES_


Have you ever played at “Consequences,” dear reader? This is how it
goes. He said to her, “It’s a cold day.” She said to him, “I like
chocolates.” The consequence was, they were both put to death, and the
world said, “It serves them right.”

Just so exquisitely inconsequent is the game of “consequences” in
real life--at which many a child is an unwilling player, and just so
arbitrary their distribution. We are all born heirs to all the Russias
if a certain aptness at autocratic government can be construed into a
title. Watch the children in the street play at keeping school; how
the schoolmistress lavishes “handers,” how she corners and canes her
scholars! And the make-believe scholars enter into the game. They would
do the same if they had the chance, and their turn will come.

How does it work in real life, this turn for autocracy, which, you may
observe, gives zest to most of the children’s games?

Little Nancy is inclined to be fretful; her nurse happens to be
particularly busy that morning looking out the children’s summer
clothing. She is a kind-hearted woman, and fond of Nancy, but, “Why
does the child whine so?” And a hasty box on the little ear emphasises
the indignant query. There is mischief already, which is the cause of
the whining; and, by that concussion, Nancy is “put to death,” like
the people in the game; not for a year or two, though, and nobody
associates nurse with the family sorrow; and she, for her part, never
thinks again of that hasty blow. But, you object, nurse is ignorant,
though kind; with the child’s parents, it is otherwise. Yes, but not
entirely otherwise. Mr. Lindsay, who is a book-lover, goes into his
den to find his little boy of four, making “card-houses,” with some
choice new volumes he has clambered after; down they go bump, and the
corners are turned, and the books unsightly objects evermore. “What
are you doing here, child? Go to the nursery, and don’t let me see you
here again!” Ah, me! Does he know how deep it cuts? Does he know that
the ten minutes romp with “father” in his room is the supreme joy of
the day for little Dick? And does he know that everything is for ever
and ever to a little child, whose experience has not yet taught him
the trick of hoping when things look dark? But, “It is for the child’s
good;” is it? Dick does not yet know what is wrong. “Never touch books
which are not given you to play with,” would have instructed him, and
hindered similar mischief in the future.

How is it that devoted nurse and affectionate father cause injurious
“concussions,” moral and physical, to a child’s tender nature? A good
deal is to be set down to ignorance or thoughtlessness; they do not
know, or they do not consider, how this and that must affect a child.
But the curious thing is that grown-up people nearly always err on the
same lines. The arbitrary exercise of authority on the part of parent,
nurse, governess, whoever is set in authority over him, is the real
stone of stumbling and rock of offence in the way of many a child. Nor
is there room for the tender indulgent mother to congratulate herself
and say, “I always thought Mrs. Naybor was too hard on her children,”
for the most ruinous exercise of arbitrary authority is when the mother
makes herself a law unto her child, with power to excuse him from his
duties, and to grant him (more than papal) indulgences. This sort of
tender parent is most tenacious of her authority, no one is permitted
to interfere with her rule--for rule it is, though her children are
notably unruly. She answers all suggestions and expostulation with
one formula: My children shall never have it to say that their mother
refused them anything it was in her power to give.

“In her power.” This mother errs in believing that her children are
hers--in her power, body and soul. Can she not do what she likes with
her own?

It is worth while to look to the springs of conduct in human nature for
the source of this common cause of the mismanagement of children. There
must be some unsuspected reason for the fact that persons of weak and
of strong nature should err in the same direction.

In every human being there are implanted, as we know, certain so-called
primary or natural desires, which are among the springs or principles
out of which his action or conduct flows. These desires are neither
virtuous nor vicious in themselves: they are quite involuntary: they
have place equally in the savage and savant: he who makes his appeal
to any one of those primary desires is certain of a hearing. Thus,
every man has an innate desire of companionship: every man wants to
_know_, however little worthy the objects of his curiosity: we all want
to stand well with our neighbours, however fatuously we lay ourselves
out for esteem: we would, each of us, fain be the best at some one
thing, if it be only a game of chance which excites our emulation; and
we would all have rule, have authority, even if our ambition has no
greater scope than the rule of a dog or a child affords. These desires
being primary or natural, the absence of any one of them in a human
being makes that person so far unnatural. The man who hates society
is a misanthrope; he who has no curiosity is a clod. But, seeing that
a man may make shipwreck of his character and his destiny by the
excessive indulgence of any one of these desires, the regulation,
balancing, and due ordering of these springs of action is an important
part of that wise self-government which is the duty of every man,
especially of every Christian man.

It is not that the primary desires are the only springs of action; we
all know that the affections, the appetites, the emotions, play their
part, and that reason and conscience are the appointed regulators of
machinery which may be set in motion by a hundred impulses. But the
subject for our consideration is the punishments inflicted on children;
and we shall not arrive at any safe conclusion unless we regard these
punishments from the point of view of the punisher as well as from that
of the punished.

Now every one of the primary desires, as well as of the affections and
appetites, has a tendency to run riot if its object be well within
its grasp. The desire of society undirected and unregulated may lead
to endless gadding about and herding together. The fine principle
of curiosity may issue in an inordinate love of gossip, and of poor
disconnected morsels of knowledge served up in scraps, which are of the
nature of gossip. Ambition, the desire of power, comes into play when
we have a live thing to order, and we rule child and servant, horse and
dog. And it is well that we should. The person who is (comparatively)
without ambition has no capacity to rule. Have you a nurse who
“manages” children well? She is an ambitious woman, and her ambition
finds delightful scope in the government of the nursery. At the same
time, the love of power, unless it be duly and carefully regulated
and controlled, leads to arbitrary behaviour--that is, to lawless,
injurious behaviour--towards those under our rule. Nay, we may be so
carried away, intoxicated, by a fierce lust of power that we do some
terrible irrevocable deed of cruelty to a tender child-body or soul,
and wake up to never-ending remorse. We meant no harm; we meant to
teach obedience, and, good God! we have killed a child.

Within the last few years tales have been told in the newspapers of
the savage abuse of power, free for the time being from external
control; tales, which, be they true or not, should make us all commune
with our hearts and be still. For, we may believe it, they who have
done these things are no worse than we could be. They had opportunity
to do ill deeds, and they did them. We have not been so far left to
ourselves. But let us look ourselves in the face; let us recognise
that the principle which has betrayed others into the madness of crime
is inherent in us also, and that whether it shall lead us to heights
of noble living or to criminal cruelty is not a matter to be left to
the chapter of accidents. We have need of the divine grace to prevent
and follow us, and we have need to consciously seek and diligently use
this grace to keep us who are in authority in the spirit of meekness,
remembering always that the One who is entrusted with the rod of iron
is meek and lowly of heart.

In proportion as we keep ourselves fully alive to our tendency in
this matter of authority may we trust ourselves to administer the law
to creatures so tender in body and soul as are the little children.
We shall remember that a word may wound, that a look may strike as a
blow. It may indeed be necessary to wound in order to heal, but we
shall examine ourselves well before we use the knife. There will be
no hasty dealing out of reproof and punishment, reward and praise,
according to the manner of mood we are in. We shall not only be aware
that our own authority is deputed, and to be used with the meekness
of wisdom; but we shall be infinitely careful in our choice of the
persons in whose charge we place our children. It is not enough that
they be good Christian people. We all know good Christian persons
of an arbitrary turn who venture to wield that rod of iron which is
safe in the hands of One alone. Let them be good Christian persons of
culture and self-knowledge, not the morbid self-knowledge that comes
of introspection, but that far wider, humbler cognisance of self that
comes of a study of the guiding principles and springs of action common
to us all as human beings, and which brings with it the certainty
that--“I am just such an one as the rest, might even be as the worst,
were it not for the grace of God and careful walking.”

It is no doubt much easier to lay down our authority and let the
children follow their own lead, or be kept in order by another, than to
exercise constant watchfulness in the exercise of our calling. But this
is not in our option; we must _rule_ with diligence. It is necessary
for the children that we should; but we must keep ourselves continually
in check, and see that our innate love of power finds lawful outlet in
the building up of a child’s character, and not in the rude rebuff, the
jibe and sneer, the short answer and hasty slap which none of us older
people could conceivably endure ourselves, and yet practise freely on
the children “for their good.”

“To this day,” says an American author,[22] “the old tingling pain
burns my cheeks as I recall certain rude and contemptuous words which
were said to me when I was very young, and stamped on my memory for
ever. I was once called ‘a stupid child’ in the presence of strangers.
I had brought the wrong book from my father’s study. Nothing could be
said to me to-day which would give me a tenth part of the hopeless
sense of degradation which came from those words. Another time, on
the arrival of an unexpected guest to dinner, I was sent, in a great
hurry, away from the table to make room, with the remark that ‘it was
not of the least consequence about the child; she could just as well
have her dinner afterward.’ ‘The child’ would have been only too happy
to help in the hospitality of the sudden emergency if the thing had
been differently put; but the sting of having it put that way I never
forgot. Yet, in both these instances, the rudeness was so small in
comparison with what we habitually see that it would be too trivial to
mention, except for the bearing of the fact that the pain it gave has
lasted until now.”

“What, is it severity in these maudlin days to call a child ‘stupid’? A
pretty idiot he’ll make of himself when the world comes to bandy names
with him if he’s to be brought up on nothing but the butter and honey
of soft speeches.” This is a discordant protest, not at all in harmony
with the notions of perfect child-living with which we are amusing
ourselves in these days; but we cannot afford to turn a deaf ear to it.
“Don’t make a fool of the child,” was the warning young mothers used
to get from their elders. But we have changed all that, and a child’s
paradise must be prepared for the little feet to walk in. “He’s so
happy at school,” we are told, and we ask no more. We have reversed the
old order; it used to be, “If he’s good, he will be happy;” now we say,
“If he’s happy, he will be good.” Goodness and happiness are regarded
as convertible terms, only we like best to put “happy” as the cause,
and “good” as the consequent. And the child brought up on these lines
is both happy and good without much moral effort of self-compelling
on his own part, while our care is to surround him with happy-making
circumstances until he has got into the trick, as it were, of being
good.

But there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark. Once upon a time
there was a young mother who conceived that every mother might be
the means of gracing her offspring with fine teeth: “For,” said she,
“it stands to reason that for every year of wear and grind you save
the child’s teeth, the man will have a fine set a year the longer.”
“Nonsense, my dear madam,” said the doctor, “you are ruining the
child’s teeth with all this pappy food; they’ll be no stronger than
egg-shells. Give him plenty of hard crusts to crunch, a bone to gnaw;
he must have something to harden his teeth upon.” Just so of the moral
“teeth” by means of which the child must carve out a place for himself
in this full world. He must endure hardness if you would make a man of
him. Blame as well as praise, tears as well as smiles, are of human
nature’s daily food; pungent speech is a ‘tool of the tongue’ not
to be altogether eschewed in the building of character; let us call
a spade a spade, and the child who brings the wrong book “stupid,”
whether before strangers or behind them. Much better this than a
chamber-conference with “Mother” about every trifle, which latter is
apt to lead to a habit of morbid self-introspection.

We are, in truth, between Scylla and Charybdis: on this side, the
six-headed, many-toothed monster of our own unbridled love of power;
on that, the whirlpool of emasculating softness which would engulf
the manly virtues of our poor little Ulysses. If you must choose, let
it be Scylla rather than Charybdis, counsels our Circe; better lose
something through the monster with the teeth, than lose yourself in the
whirlpool. But is there not a better way?

    Weigh his estate and thine; accustom’d, he,
    To all sweet courtly usage that obtains
    Where dwells the King. How, with thy utmost pains,
    Canst thou produce what shall full worthy be?
    One, “greatest in the kingdom,” is with thee,
    Whose spirit yet beholds the Father’s face,
    And, thence replenish’d, glows with constant grace;
    Take fearful heed lest he despiséd be!
    Order thy goings softly, as before
    A Prince; nor let thee out unmannerly
    In thy rude moods and irritable: more,
    Beware lest round him wind of words rave free.
    Refrain thee; see thy speech be sweet and rare:
    Thy ways, consider’d; and thine aspect, fair.


FOOTNOTES:

     [22] “Bits of Talk about Home Matters,” by Helen Hunt
          Jackson.




                               CHAPTER VI

                          _MRS. SEDLEY’S TALE_


It is very strange how a moral weakness in her child gives a mother the
same sense of yearning pity that she has for a bad bodily infirmity. I
wonder if that is how God feels for us when we go on year by year doing
the thing we hate? I think a mother gets to understand many things
about the dealings of God that are not plain to others. For instance,
how it helps me to say, “I believe in the forgiveness of sins,” when I
think of my poor little Fanny’s ugly fault. Though there is some return
of it nearly every day, what could I do but forgive?

But forgiveness that does not heal is like the wretched ointments with
which poor people dress their wounds. In one thing I know I have not
done well; I have hardly said a word to John about the poor little
girlie’s failing, though it has troubled me constantly for nearly a
year. But I think he suspects there is something wrong; we never talk
quite freely about our shy pretty Fanny. Perhaps that is one reason for
it. She is such a nervous timid little being, and looks so bewitching
when the long lashes droop, the tender mouth quivers, and the colour
comes and goes in the soft cheek, that we are shy of exposing, even
to each other, the faults we see in our graceful fragile little girl.
Perhaps neither of us quite trusts the other to deal with Fanny, and to
use the knife sparingly.

But this state of things must not go on: it is a miserable thing to
write down, but I cannot believe a word the child says! And the evil
is increasing. Only now and then used Fanny to be detected in what we
called a fib, but now the terrible doubt lest that little mouth may be
at any moment uttering lies takes the delight out of life, and accounts
for the pale looks which give my kind husband so much concern.

For example, only within the last day or two I have noticed the
following and other such examples:--

“Fanny, did you remember to give my message to cook?”

“Yes, mother.”

“And what did she say?”

“That she wouldn’t be able to make any jam to-day because the fruit had
not come.”

I went into the kitchen shortly after, and found cook stirring the
contents of a brass pan, and, sad to say, I asked no questions. It was
one of Fanny’s circumstantial statements of the kind I have had most
reason to doubt. Did she lie because she was afraid to own that she
had forgotten? Hardly so: knowing the child’s sensitive nature, we
have always been careful not to visit her small misdemeanours with any
punishment whenever she “owned up.” And then, cowardice would hardly
cause her to invent so reasonable an answer for cook. Again:

“Did you meet Mrs. Fleming’s children?”

“Oh, yes, mother! and Berty was so rude! He pushed Dotty off the
curb-stone!”

Nurse, who was sitting by the fire with baby, raised her eyebrows in
surprise, and I saw the whole thing was an invention. Another more
extraordinary instance:

“Mother, when we were in the park we met Miss Butler, just by the
fountain, you know; and she kissed me, and asked me how my mother
is”--said _à-propos_ of nothing, in the most quiet, easy way.

I met Miss Butler this morning, and thanked her for the kind inquiries
she had been making through my little girl; and--“Do you think Fanny
grown?”

Miss Butler looked perplexed; Fanny was a great favourite of hers,
perhaps because of the loveliness of which her parents could not
pretend to be unaware.

“It is more than a month since I have seen the little maid, but I shall
look in soon, and gladden her mother’s heart with all the praises my
sweet Fan deserves!”

Little she knew that shame, and not pride, dyed my cheek; but I could
not disclose my Fanny’s sad secret to even so near a friend.

But to talk it out with John is a different matter. He ought to know.
And, certainly, men have more power than women to see into the reasons
and the bearings of things. There had I been thinking for months in a
desultory kind of way as to the why and wherefore of this ingrained
want of truthfulness in the child, and yet I was no nearer the solution.

A new departure in the way of lying made me at last break the ice with
John; indeed, this was the only subject about which we had ever had
reserves.

“Mother, Hugh was so naughty at lessons this morning! He went close up
to Miss Clare while she was writing, nudged her elbow on purpose, and
made her spill the ink all over the table-cloth.”

I chanced to meet Miss Clare in the hall, and remarked that I heard she
had found Hugh troublesome this morning.

“Troublesome? Not at all; he was quite industrious and obedient.”

I said nothing about the ink, but went straight to the schoolroom to
find the table neat as Miss Clare always leaves it, and no sign of
even a fresh inkspot. What possessed the child? This inveterate and
inventive untruthfulness was like a form of madness. I sat in dismay
for an hour or more, not thinking, but stunned by this new idea--that
the child was not responsible for her words; and yet, could it be so?
None of our children were so merry at play, so intelligent at lessons.
Well, I would talk it over with John without the loss of another day.

       *       *       *       *       *

“John, I am miserable about Fanny. Do you know the child tells fibs
constantly?”

“Call them lies; an ugly thing deserves an ugly name. What sort of
lies? What tempts her to lie?”

John did not seem surprised. Perhaps he knew more of this misery than I
supposed.

“That’s the thing! Her fi--lies are so uncalled-for, so unreasonable,
that I do not know how to trust her.”

“Unreasonable? You mean her tales don’t hang together; that’s a
common case with liars. You know the saying--‘Liars should have good
memories’?”

“Don’t call the poor child a liar, John; I believe she is more to be
pitied than blamed. What I mean is, you can’t find rhyme or reason for
the lies she tells.” And I gave my husband a few instances like those I
have written above.

“Very extraordinary! There’s a hint of malice in the Hugh and the
ink-bottle tale, and a hint of cowardice in that about the jam; but for
the rest, they are inventions pure and simple, with neither rhyme nor
reason, as you say.”

“I don’t believe a bit in the malice. I was going to correct her for
telling an unkind tale about Hugh, but you know how she hangs on
her brother, and she told her tale with the most innocent face. I am
convinced there was no thought of harming him.”

“Are you equally sure that she never says what is false to cover a
fault; in fact, out of cowardice?”

“No; I think I have found her out more than once in ingenious
subterfuges. You know what a painfully nervous child she is. For
instance, I found the other day a blue cup off that cabinet, with
handle gone, hidden behind the woodwork. Fanny happened to come in at
the moment, and I asked her if she knew who had broken it.

“‘No, mother, I don’t know, but I think it was Mary, when she was
dusting the cabinet; indeed, I’m nearly sure I heard a crash.’

“But the child could not meet my eye, and there was a sort of blenching
as of fear about her.”

“But, as a rule, you do not notice these symptoms?”

“As a rule, poor Fanny’s tarradiddles come out in the most quiet, easy
way, with all the boldness of innocence; and even when she is found
out, and the lie brought home to her, she looks bewildered rather than
convicted.”

“My dear, I wish you would banish the whole tribe of foolish and
harmful expressions whose tendency is to make light of sin. Call a
spade a spade. A ‘tarradiddle’ is a thing to make merry over; a fib you
smile and wink at; but a _lie_--why, the soul is very far gone from
original righteousness that can endure the name, even while guilty of
the thing.”

“That’s just it; I cannot endure to apply so black a name to the
failings of our child; for, do you know, I begin to suspect that poor
little Fanny does it unawares--does not know in the least that she has
departed from the fact. I have had a horrible dread upon me from time
to time that her defect is a mental, and not a moral one. That she has
not the clear perception of true and false with which the most of us
are blessed.”

“Whe--ew!” from John; but his surprise was feigned. I could see now
that he had known what was going on all the time, and had said nothing,
because he had nothing to say; in his heart he agreed with me about
our lovely child. The defect arose from a clouded intelligence, which
showed itself in this way only, now; but how dare we look forward? Now
I saw why poor John was so anxious to have the offence called by the
blackest moral name. He wished to save us from the suspicion of an
evil--worse because less open to cure. We looked blankly at each other,
John trying to carry it all off with a light air, but his attempt was a
conspicuous failure.

I forgot to say that my sister Emma was staying with us, the ‘clever
woman of the family,’ who was “going in” for all sorts of things, to
come out, we believed, at the top of her profession as a lady doctor.
She had taken no part in the talk about Fanny--rather tiresome of her,
as I wanted to know what she thought; but now, while we were vainly
trying to hide from each other our dismay, she broke out into a long
low laugh, which, to say the least of it, seemed a little unfeeling.

“Oh, you absurd parents! You are too good and earnest, and altogether
too droll! Why in the world, instead of sitting there with blank
eyes--conjuring up bogeys to frighten each other--why don’t you look
the thing in the face, and find out by the light of modern thought what
really ails Fan? Poor pet! ‘Save me from my parents!’ is a rendering
which might be forgiven her.”

“Then you don’t think there’s any mental trouble?” we cried in a
breath, feeling already as if a burden were lifted, and we could
straighten our backs and walk abroad.

“‘Mental trouble?’ What nonsense! But there, I believe all you parents
are alike. Each pair thinks their own experiences entirely new; their
own children the first of the kind born into the world. Now, a mind
that had had any scientific training would see at once that poor
Fanny’s lies--if I must use John’s terrible bad word--inventions, I
should have called them, are symptomatic, as you rightly guessed,
Annie, of certain brain conditions; but of brain disease--oh, no! Why,
foolish people, don’t you see you are entertaining an angel unawares?
This vice of ‘lying’ you are mourning over is the very quality that
goes to the making of poets!”

“Poets and angels are well in their places,” said John, rather crossly,
“but my child must speak the truth. What she states for a fact, I must
know to be a fact, according to the poor common-sense view of benighted
parents.”

“And there is your work as parents. Teach her truth, as you would teach
her French or sums--a little to-day, a little more to-morrow, and every
day a lesson. Only as you teach her the nature of truth will the gift
she has be effectual. But I really should like to know what is your
notion about truth--are we born with it, or educated up to it?”

“I am not sure that we care to be experimented upon, and held up to
the world as blundering parents,” said I; “perhaps we had better keep
our crude notions to ourselves.” I spoke rather tartly, I know, for I
was more vexed for John than for myself. That he should be held up to
ridicule in his own house--by a sister of mine, too!

“Now I have vexed you both. How horrid I am! And all the time, as I
watch you with the children, I don’t feel good enough to tie your
shoes. Don’t I say to myself twenty times a day, ‘After all, the
insight and love parents get from above is worth a thousandfold more
than science has to teach’?”

“Nay, Emma, ’tis we who have to apologise for being jealous of
science--that’s the fact--and quick to take offence. Make it up,
there’s a good girl! and let Annie and me have the benefit of your
advice about our little girl, for truly we are in a fog.”

“Well, I think you were both right in considering that her failing had
two sources: moral cowardice the first; she does something wrong, or
wrong in her eyes, and does not tell--why?”

“Aye, there’s the difficulty; why is she afraid to tell the truth? I
may say that we have never punished her, or ever looked coldly on her
for any fault but this of prevarication. The child is so timid that we
feared severe measures might make the truth the more difficult.”

“There I think you are right. And we have our fingers on one of the
weak places: Fanny tells lies out of sheer fear--moral weakness;
causeless it may be, but there it is. And I’m not so sure that it is
causeless; she is always in favour for good behaviour, gentleness,
obedience, and that kind of thing; indeed, this want of veracity seems
to me her one fault. Now, don’t you think the fear of having her
parents look coldly on her and think less well of her may be, to such a
timid, clinging child, a great temptation to hide a fault?”

“Very likely; but one does not see how to act. Would you pass over her
faults altogether without inquiry or notice?”

“I’m afraid you must use the knife there boldly, for that is the
tenderest way in the end. Show little Fan the depth of your love--that
there is _no_ fault you cannot forgive in her, but that the one fault
which hurts you most is, not to hear the exact truth.”

“I see. Suppose she has broken a valuable vase and hides the fact, I am
to unearth her secret--not, as I am very much inclined to do, let it
lie buried for fear of involving her in worse falsehood, but show her
the vase and tax her with hiding it.”

“And her immediate impulse will be to say, ‘I didn’t.’ No; make sure
of your ground, then show her the pieces; say the vase was precious,
but you do not mind about that; the thing that hurts you is that she
could not trust her mother. I can imagine one of the lovely scenes you
mothers have with your children too good for outsiders to look in upon.”

The tears came into my eyes, for I could imagine the scene too. I could
see the way to draw my child closer and closer by _always_ forgiving,
always comprehending and loving her, and always protesting against the
falsehood which _would_ rise between us. I was lost in a delicious
reverie--how I might sometime come to show her that her mother’s
ever-ready forgiveness was but a faint picture of what some one calls
the “all-forgiving gentleness of God,” when I heard John break in:--

“Yes, I can see that if we both make a point of free and tender
forgiveness of every fault, on condition that she owns up, we may in
time cure her of lying out of sheer fear. But I don’t see that she gets
the principle of truth any more. The purely inventive lies go on as
before, and the child is not to be trusted.”

“‘Purely inventive,’ there you have it. Don’t you see? The child is
full of imagination, and figures to herself endless scenes, evolved
like the German student’s camel. The thousand and one things which
_might_ happen are so real to her that the child is, as you said,
bewildered; hardly able to distinguish the one which has happened. Now,
it’s perfect nonsense to lament over this as a moral failing--it is a
want of mental balance; not that any quality is deficient, but that
her conceptive power runs away with her perceptive; she sees the many
things that might be more readily than the thing that is. Doesn’t she
delight in fairy tales?”

“Well, to tell the truth, we have thought them likely to foster her
failing, and have kept her a good deal on a diet of facts.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you are wrong there. An imperious imagination
like Fanny’s demands its proper nourishment. Let her have her
daily meal: ‘The Babes in the Wood,’ ‘The Little Match-Girl,’ ‘The
Snow-Maiden,’ tales and legends half-historic, above all, the lovely
stories of the Bible; whatever she can figure to herself and live over
and over; but _not_ twaddling tales of the daily doings of children
like herself, whether funny or serious. The child wants an opening into
the larger world where all things are possible and where beautiful
things are always happening. Give her in some form this necessary food,
and her mind will be so full of delicious imaginings, that she will be
under no temptation to invent about the commonplaces of every-day life.”

My husband laughed: “My dear Emma, you must let us do our best with the
disease; the cure is too wild! ‘Behold, this dreamer cometh!’--think of
sending the child through life with this label.”

“Your quotation is unfortunate, and you have not heard me out. I do
believe that to starve her imagination would be to do real wrong to
the child. But, at the same time, you must diligently cultivate the
knowledge and the love of the truth. Now, the truth is no more than the
fact as it is; and ’tis my belief that Fanny’s falsehoods come entirely
from want of perception of the fact through pre-occupation of mind.”

“Well, what must we do?”

“Why, give her daily, or half-a-dozen times a day, lessons in truth.
Send her to the window: ‘Look out, Fanny, and tell me what you see.’
She comes back, having seen a cow where there is a horse. She looks
again and brings a true report, and you teach her that it is not true
to say the thing which is not. You send a long message to the cook,
requiring the latter to write it down as she receives it and send you
up the slate; if it is all right, the kiss Fanny gets is for speaking
the truth: gradually, she comes to revere truth, and distinguishes
between the facts of life where truth is all in all, and the wide
realms of make-believe, where fancy may have free play.”

“I do believe you are right, Emma; most of Fanny’s falsehoods seem to
be told in such pure innocence, I should not wonder if they do come
out of the kingdom of make-believe. At any rate, we’ll try Emma’s
specific--shall we, John?”

“Indeed, yes; and carefully, too. It seems to me to be reasonable, the
more so, as we don’t find any trace of malice in Fanny’s misleading
statements.”

“Oh, if there were, the treatment would be less simple; first, you
should deal with the malice, and then _teach_ the love of truth in
daily lessons. That is the mistake so many people make. They think
their children are capable of loving and understanding _truth_ by
nature, which they are not. The best parents have to be on the watch to
hinder all opportunities of misstatement.”

“And now, that you may see how much we owe you, let me tell you of
the painful example always before our eyes, which has done more than
anything to make me dread Fanny’s failing. It is an open secret, I
fear, but do not let it go further out of this house. You know Mrs.
Casterton, our friend’s wife? It is a miserable thing to say, but you
cannot trust a word she utters. She tells you, Miss So-and-So has a bad
kind of scarlet fever, and even while she is speaking you know it is
false; husband, children, servants, neighbours, none can be blind to
the distressing fact, and she has acquired the sort of simpering manner
a woman gets when she loses respect and self-respect. What if Fanny had
grown up like her?”

“Poor woman! and this shame might have been spared her, had her parents
been alive to their duty.”




                              CHAPTER VII

                               _ABILITY_


“Be _sure_ you call at Mrs. Milner’s, Fred, for the address of her
laundress.”

“All right, mother!” And Fred was half-way down the path before his
mother had time to add a second injunction. A second? Nay, a seventh,
for this was already the sixth time of asking; and Mrs. Bruce’s
half-troubled expression showed she placed little faith in her son’s
“All right.”

“I don’t know what to do with Fred, doctor; I am not in the least sure
he will do my message. Indeed, to speak honestly, I am sure he will
not. This is a trifling matter; but when the same thing happens twenty
times a day--when his rule is to forget everything he is desired to
remember--it makes us anxious about the boy’s future.”

Dr. Maclehose drummed meditatively on the table, and put his lips
into form for a whistle. This remark of Mrs. Bruce’s was “nuts” to
him. He had assisted, professionally, at the appearance of the nine
young Bruces, and the family had no more esteemed friend and general
confidant. For his part, he liked the Bruces. Who could help it? The
parents intelligent and genial, the young folk well looking, well
grown, and open-hearted, they were just the family to make friends.
All the same, the doctor found in the Bruces occasion to mount his pet
hobby:--“My Utopia is the land where the family doctor has leave to
play schoolmaster to the parents. To think of a fine brood like the
young Bruces running to waste in half-a-dozen different ways through
the invincible ignorance of father and mother! Nice people, too!”

For seventeen years Dr. Maclehose had been deep in the family counsels,
yet never till now had he seen the way to put in his oar anent any
question of bringing up the children. Wherefore he drummed on the
table, and pondered:--“Fair and softly, my good fellow; fair and
softly! Make a mess of it now, and it’s my last chance; hit the nail on
the head, and, who knows?”

“Does the same sort of thing go on about his school work?”

“Precisely; he is always in arrears. He has forgotten to take a book,
or to write an exercise, or learn a lesson; in fact, his school life is
a record of forgets and penalties.”

“Worse than that Dean of Canterbury, whose wife _would_ make him
keep account of his expenditure; and thus stood the entries for one
week:--‘Gloves, 5s.; Forgets, £4, 15s.’ His writing was none too
legible, so his wife, looking over his shoulder, cried, ‘Faggots!
Faggots! What in the world! Have you been buying wood?’ ‘No, my dear;
those are _forgets_;’--his wife gave it up.”

“A capital story; but what is amusing in a Dean won’t help a boy to get
through the world, and we are both uneasy about Fred.”

“He is one of the ‘Boys’ Eleven,’ isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, and is wild about it: and there, I grant you, he never
forgets. It’s, ‘Mother, get cook to give us an early dinner: we must
be on the field by two!’ ‘Don’t forget to have my flannels clean for
Friday, will you mumsy?’ he knows when to coax. ‘Subscription is due
on Thursday, mother!’ and this, every day till he gets the money.”

“I congratulate you, my dear friend, there’s nothing seriously amiss
with the boy’s brain.”

“Good heavens, doctor! Whoever thought there was? You take my breath
away!”

“Well, well, I didn’t mean to frighten you, but, don’t you see, it
comes to this: either it’s a case of chronic disease, open only to
medical treatment, if to any; or it is just a case of defective
education, a piece of mischief bred of allowance which his parents
cannot too soon set themselves to cure.”

Mrs. Bruce was the least in the world nettled at this serious view of
the case. It was one thing for her to write down hard things of her
eldest boy, the pride of her heart, but a different matter for another
to take her _au sérieux_.

“But, my dear doctor, are you not taking a common fault of youth too
seriously? It’s tiresome that he should forget so, but give him a
year or two, and he will grow out of it, you’ll see. Time will steady
him. It’s just the volatility of youth, and for my part I don’t like
to see a boy with a man’s head on his shoulders.” The doctor resumed
his drumming on the table. He had put his foot in it already, and
confounded his own foolhardiness.

“Well, I daresay you are right in allowing something on the score of
youthful volatility; but we old doctors, whose business it is to study
the close connection between mind and matter, see our way to only one
conclusion, that any failing of mind or body, left to itself, can do no
other than strengthen.”

“Have another cup of tea, doctor? I am not sure that I understand.
I know nothing about science. You mean that Fred will become more
forgetful and less dependable the older he gets?”

“I don’t know that I should have ventured to put it so baldly, but
that’s about the fact. But, of course, circumstances may give him a
bent in the other direction, and Fred may develop into such a careful
old sobersides that his mother will be ashamed of him.”

“Don’t laugh at me, doctor; you make the whole thing too serious
for a laughing matter.” To which there was no answer, and there was
silence in the room for the space of fully three minutes, while the two
pondered.

“You say,” in an imperious tone, “that ‘a fault left to itself must
strengthen.’ What are we to do? His father and I wish, at any rate, to
do our duty.” Her ruffled maternal plumage notwithstanding, Mrs. Bruce
was in earnest, all her wits on the alert. “Come, I’ve scored one!”
thought the doctor; and then, with respectful gravity, which should
soothe any woman’s _amour propre_,

“You ask a question not quite easy to answer. But allow me, first, to
try and make the principle plain to you: that done, the question of
what to do settles itself. Fred never forgets his cricket or other
pleasure engagements? No? And why not? Because his interest is excited;
therefore his whole attention is fixed on the fact to be remembered.
Now, as a matter of fact, what you have regarded with full attention,
it is next to impossible to forget. First get Fred to fix his attention
on the matter in hand, and you may be sure he won’t forget it.”

“That may be very true; but how can I make a message to Mrs. Milner as
interesting to him as the affairs of his club?”

“Ah! There you have me. Had you begun with Fred at a year old the thing
would have settled itself. The _habit_ would have been formed.”

To the rescue, Mrs. Bruce’s woman’s wit:--“I see; he must have the
_habit_ of paying attention, so that he will naturally take heed to
what he is told, whether he cares about the matter or not.”

“My dear madam, you’ve hit it; all except the word ‘naturally.’ At
present Fred is in a delightful state of nature in this and a few other
respects. But the educational use of _habit_ is to correct nature.
If parents would only see this fact, the world would become a huge
reformatory, and the next generation, or, at any rate, the third, would
dwell in the kingdom of heaven as a regular thing, and not by fits and
starts, and here and there, which is the best that happens to us.”

“I’m not sure I see what you mean; but,” said this persistent woman,
“to return to this habit of attention which is to reform my Fred--do
try and tell me what to do. You gentlemen are so fond of going off
into general principles, while we poor women can grasp no more than a
practical hint or two to go on with. My boy would be cut up to know how
little his fast friend, the doctor, thinks of him!”

“‘Poor women,’ truly! and already you have thrown me with two
staggering buffets. My theories have no practical outcome, and, I
think little of Fred, who has been my choice chum ever since he left
off draperies! It remains for the vanquished to ‘behave pretty.’ Pray,
ma’am, what would you like me to say next?”

“To ‘habit,’ doctor, to ‘habit’; and don’t talk nonsense while the
precious time is going. We’ll suppose that Fred is just twelve months
old to-day. Now, if you please, tell me how I’m to make him begin to
pay attention. And, by the way, why in the world didn’t you talk to me
about it when the child really was young?”

“I don’t remember that you asked me; and who would be pert enough to
think of schooling a young mother? Not I, at any rate. Don’t I know
that every mother of a first child is infallible, and knows more about
children than all the old doctors in creation? But, supposing you had
asked me, I should have said--Get him each day to occupy himself a
little longer with one plaything than he did the day before. He plucks
a daisy, gurgles over it with glee, and then in an instant it drops
from the nerveless grasp. Then you take it up, and with the sweet
coaxings you mothers know how to employ, get him to examine it, in his
infant fashion, for a minute, two minutes, three whole minutes at a
time.”

“I see; fix his thoughts on one thing at a time, and for as long as
you can, whether on what he sees or what he hears. You think if you
go on with that sort of thing with a child from his infancy he gets
accustomed to pay attention?”

“Not a doubt of it; and you may rely on it that what is called
_ability_--a different thing from genius, mind you, or even
talent--ability is simply the power of fixing the attention steadily
on the matter in hand, and success in life turns upon this cultivated
power far more than on any natural faculty. Lay a case before a
successful barrister, an able man of business, notice how he absorbs
all you say; tell your tale as ill as you like, he keeps the thread,
straightens the tangle, and by the time you have finished, has the
whole matter spread out in order under his mind’s eye. Now comes in
talent, or genius, or what you will, to deal with the facts he has
taken in. But attention is the attribute of the trained intellect,
without which genius makes shots in the dark.”

“But, don’t you think attention itself is a natural faculty, or talent,
or whatever we should call it?”

“Not a bit of it; it is entirely the result of training. A man may be
born with some faculty or talent for figures, or drawing, or music, but
attention is not a faculty at all; it is simply the power of bending
such faculties as one has to the work in hand; it is a key to success
within the reach of every one, but the power to turn it comes of
training. Circumstances may compel a man to train himself, but he does
so at the cost of great effort, and the chances are ten to one against
his making the effort. For the child, on the other hand, who has been
trained by his parents to fix his thoughts, all is plain sailing. He
will succeed, not a doubt of it.”

“But I thought school-work, Latin and mathematics, and those sorts of
things, should give this kind of intellectual training?”

“They should; but it’s the merest chance whether the right spring is
touched, and from what you say of Fred’s school-work, I should say it
was not touched in his case. ’Tis incredible how much solid learning
a boy will contrive to let slip by him instead of into him! No; I’m
afraid you must tackle the difficulty yourself. It would be a thousand
pities to let a fine fellow like Fred run to waste.”

“What can I do?”

“Well, we must begin where we are; Fred _can_ attend, and therefore
remember: and he remembers what interests him. Now, to return to your
question, How are you to make a message to Mrs. Milner as interesting
to him as the affairs of his cricket club? There is no interest in the
thing itself; you must put interest into it from without. There are a
hundred ways of doing this: try one, and when that is used up, turn to
another. Only, with a boy of Fred’s age, you cannot form the habit of
attention as you could with a child. You can only aid and abet; give
the impulse; the training he must do for himself.”

“Make it a little plainer, doctor; I have not yet reduced your remarks
to the practical level of something I can do.”

“No? Well, Fred must train himself, and you must feed him with motives.
Run over with him what we have been saying about attention. Let him
know how the land lies; that you cannot help him, but that if he wants
to make a man of himself he must _make_ himself attend and remember.
Tell him it will be a stand-up fight, for this habit is contrary to
nature. He will like that; ’tis boy nature to show fight, and the
bigger and blacker you make the other side, the more will he like
to pitch in. When I was a boy I had to fight this very battle for
myself, and I’ll tell you what I did. I stuck up a card every week,
divided down the middle. One side was for ‘Remembers’; the other side
for ‘Forgets.’ I took myself to task every night--the very effort was
a help--and put a stroke for every ‘Remember’ and ‘Forget’ of the
day. _I_ scored for every ‘Remember,’ and ‘t’other fellow’ for every
‘Forget.’ You don’t know how exciting it got. If by Thursday I had
thirty-three ‘Remembers’ and he thirty-six ‘Forgets’ it behoved me to
look alive; it was not only that ‘Forget’ might win the game, which was
up on Saturday night, but unless ‘Remember’ scored ten in advance, the
game was ‘drawn’--hardly a remove from lost.”

“That’s delicious! But, I wish, doctor, you would speak to Fred
yourself. A word from you would go a long way.”

“I’ll look out for a chance, but an outsider cannot do much; everything
rests with the boy himself, and his parents.”




                              CHAPTER VIII

                          _POOR MRS. JUMEAU!_


“Now, young people, when I go out, let there be no noise in the house;
your mother is ill, so let her little folk be thoughtful for her!”

“Oh, is mother sick again?” said little Ned with falling countenance.

“Poor Neddie! he doesn’t like mother to be ill. We all have to be so
quiet, and, then, there’s nowhere to be! It isn’t like home when mother
isn’t about.”

“Mary is right,” chimed in Charlie, the eldest of the family; “if I
were big enough, I should run away and go to sea, mother’s so often
bad! But, father, isn’t it funny? Yesterday she was quite well, and
doing all sorts of horrid things, helping the maids to clear out
cupboards; and now, I dare say, she is too ill to move or speak, and
to-morrow, perhaps, she’ll be our jolly mother again, able to go
shrimping with us, or anything else.”

“That’s because your dear mother has no self, Charlie, boy; no sooner
does she feel a bit better than she does more than she can for us
all, and then she is knocked up again. I wish we could teach her to
be selfish, for our sakes as well as hers, for to have her with us is
better than anything she can do for us; eh, Charlie?”

“Indeed, yes! We’d take lots of care of her if she’d let us. But her
illness must be queer. You know when we had scarlet fever, father?
Well, for weeks and weeks, after the fever was gone, I had no more
strength than a tom-tit; and you know I could not go about and do
things, however unselfish I was (but I’m not, though). That’s what is
so queer. Do you think Dr. Prideau understands about mother?”

“Much better than you do, depend upon it, Charlie; but I confess your
mother’s illness is puzzling to all of us. There, children, off with
you! I must write a letter or two before I go out.”

Mr. Jumeau forgot to write his letters, and sat long, with his head
between his hands, pondering the nature of his wife’s ailments. What
Charlie had put with a boy’s rude bluntness had already occurred to
him in a dim way. Mrs. Jumeau’s illness certainly did not deprive her
of bodily vigour; the attacks came on suddenly, left her as suddenly,
and left her apparently in perfect health and gay spirits. And this was
the more surprising, because, while an “attack” lasted, the extreme
prostration, pallid countenance, and blue lips of the sufferer were
painful to behold. Besides, his wife was so absolutely truthful by
nature, so unselfish and devoted to her husband and family, that it was
as likely she should be guilty of flagrant crime as that she should
simulate illness. This sort of thing had gone on for several years.
Mr. Jumeau had spent his substance on many physicians, and with little
result. “No organic disease.” “Overdone.” “Give her rest, nourishing
food, frequent change of scene and thought; no excitement; Nature will
work the cure in time--_in time_, my good sir. We must be patient.”
This sort of thing he had heard again and again; doctors did _not_
differ, if that were any consolation.

He went up to have a last look at the sufferer. There she lay,
stretched out with limbs composed, and a rigidity of muscle terribly
like death. A tear fell on the cold cheek of his wife as Mr. Jumeau
kissed it, and he went out aching with a nameless dread, which, if put
into words, would run--some day, and she will wake no more out of this
death-like stillness.

And she? She felt the tear, heard the sigh, noted the dejected
footfalls of her husband, and her weak pulse stirred with a movement
of--was it joy? But the “attack” was not over; for hours she lay there
rigid, speechless, with closed eyes, taking no notice of the gentle
opening of the door now and then when one or another came to see how
she was. Were not her family afraid to leave her alone? No; we get used
to anything, and the Jumeaus, servants and children, were well used to
these “attacks” in the mistress of the house. Dr. Prideau came, sent
by her husband, and used even violent measures to restore her, but to
no effect; she was aware of these efforts, but was not aware that she
resisted them effectually.

Business engagements were pressing, and it was late before Mr. Jumeau,
anxious as he was, was able to return to his wife. It was one of those
lovely warm evenings we sometimes get late in May, when even London
windows are opened to let in the breath of the spring. Nearly at the
end of the street he heard familiar strains from _Parsifal_, played
with the vigour Wagner demands. His wife? It could be no one else. As
he drew nearer, her exquisite touch was unmistakable. The attack was
over, then? Strange to say, his delight was not unmixed. What were
these mysterious attacks, and how were they brought on?

The evening was delightful. Mrs. Jumeau was in the gayest spirits:
full of tenderness towards her husband, of motherly thought for her
children, now fast asleep; ready to talk brightly on any subject except
the attack of the morning; any allusion to this she would laugh off as
a matter of too little consequence to be dwelt upon. The next morning
she was down bright and early, having made up her mind to a _giro_
with the children. They did not go a-shrimping, according to Charlie’s
forecast, but Kew was decided upon as “just the thing,” and a long day
in the gardens failed to tire mother or children.

“I must get to the bottom of this,” thought Mr. Jumeau.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Your question is embarrassing; if I say, Mrs. Jumeau is suffering from
_hysteria_, you will most likely get a wrong notion and discredit my
words.”

Mr. Jumeau’s countenance darkened. “I should still be inclined to trust
the evidence of my senses, and believe that my wife is unfeignedly ill.”

“Exactly as I expected: simulated ailments and hysteria are hopelessly
confounded; but no wonder; hysteria is a misnomer, used in the vaguest
way, not even confined to women. Why, I knew a man, a clergyman in the
North, who suffered from ‘clergyman’s sore throat’; he was a popular
evangelical preacher, and there was no end to the sympathy his case
evoked; he couldn’t preach, so his devoted congregation sent him, now
to the South of France, now to Algiers, now to Madeira. After each
delightful sojourn he returned, looking plump and well, but unable to
raise his voice above a hardly audible whisper. This went on for three
years or so. Then his Bishop interfered; he must provide a curate in
permanent charge, with nearly the full emoluments of the living. The
following Sunday he preached, nor did he again lose his voice. And this
was an earnest and honest man, who would rather any day be at his work
than wandering idly about the world. Plainly, too, in the etymological
sense of the word, his complaint was not hysteria. But this is not
an exceptional case: keep any man in his dressing-gown for a week or
two--a bad cold, say--and he will lay himself out to be pitied and
petted, will have half the ailments under the sun, and be at death’s
door with each. And this is your active man; a man of sedentary habits,
notwithstanding his stronger frame, is nearly as open as a woman to the
advances of this stealthy foe. Why, for that matter, I’ve seen it in a
dog! Did you never see a dog limp pathetically on his three legs that
he might be made much of for his lameness, until his master’s whistle
calls him off at a canter on all fours?”

“I get no nearer; what have these illustrations to do with my wife?”

“Wait a bit, and I’ll try to show you. The throat would seem to be
a common seat of the affection. I knew a lady--nice woman she was,
too--who went about for years speaking in a painful whisper, whilst
everybody said, ‘Poor Mrs. Marjoribanks!’ But one evening she managed
to set her bed-curtains alight, when she rushed to the door, screaming,
‘Ann! Ann! the house is on fire! Come at once!’ The dear woman believed
ever after, that ‘something burst’ in her throat, and described the
sensation minutely; her friends believed, and her doctor did not
contradict. By the way, no remedy has proved more often effectual than
a house on fire, only you will see the difficulties. I knew of a case,
however, where the ‘house-afire’ prescription was applied with great
effect. ’Twas in a London hospital for ladies; a most baffling case;
patient had been for months unable to move a limb--was lifted in and
out of bed like a log, fed as you would pour into a bottle. A clever
young house-surgeon laid a plot with the nurses. In the middle of the
night her room was filled with fumes, lurid light, &c. She tried to
cry out, but the smoke was suffocating; she jumped out of bed and made
for the door--more choking smoke--threw up the sash--fireman, rope,
ladder--she scrambled down, and was safe. The whole was a hoax, but
it cured her, and the nature of the cure was mercifully kept secret.
Another example: A friend of mine determined to put a young woman under
‘massage’ in her own home; he got a trained operator, forbade any of
her family to see her, and waited for results. The girl did not mend;
‘very odd! some reason for this,’ he muttered; and it came out that
every night the mother had crept in to wish her child good-night; the
tender visits were put a stop to, and the girl recovered.”

“Your examples are interesting enough, but I fail to see how they
bear; in each case, you have a person of weak or disordered intellect
simulating a disease with no rational object in view. Now the
beggars who know how to manufacture sores on their persons have the
advantage--they do it for gain.”

“I have told my tale badly; these were not persons of weak or
disordered intellect; some of them very much otherwise; neither did
they consciously simulate disease; not one believed it possible to make
the effort he or she was surprised into. The whole question belongs to
the mysterious borderland of physical and psychological science--not
pathological, observe; the subject of disease and its treatment is
hardly for the lay mind.”

“I am trying to understand.”

“It is worth your while; if every man took the pains to understand the
little that is yet to be known on this interesting subject he might
secure his own household, at any rate, from much misery and waste of
vital powers; and not only his household, but perhaps himself--for, as
I have tried to show, this that is called ‘hysteria’ is not necessarily
an affair of sex.”

“Go on; I am not yet within appreciable distance of anything bearing on
my wife’s case.”

“Ah, the thing is a million-headed monster! hardly to be recognised
by the same features in any two cases. To get at the _rationale_ of
it, we must take up human nature by the roots. We talk glibly in these
days of what we get from our forefathers, what comes to us through our
environment, and consider that in these two we have the sum of human
nature. Not a bit of it; we have only accounted for some peculiarities
in the individual; independently of these, we come equipped with stock
for the business of life of which too little account is taken. The
subject is wide, so I shall confine myself to an item or two.

“We all come into the world--since we are beings of imperfect
nature--subject to the uneasy stirring of some few primary desires.
Thus, the gutter child and the infant prince are alike open to the
workings of the desire for esteem, the desire for society, for power,
&c. One child has this, and another that, desire more active and
uneasy. Women, through the very modesty and dependence of their nature,
are greatly moved by the desire for esteem. They must be thought of,
made much of, at any price. A man desires esteem, and he has meetings
in the marketplace, the chief-room at the feast; the _pétroleuse_,
the city outcast, must have notoriety--the esteem of the bad--at any
price, and we have a city in flames, and Whitechapel murders. Each
falls back on his experience and considers what will bring him that
esteem, a gnawing craving after which is one of his earliest immaterial
cognitions. But the good woman has comparatively few outlets. The
esteem that comes to her is all within the sphere of her affections.
Esteem she must have; it is a necessity of her nature.

          “‘_Praise_, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles,’

are truly to her, ‘human nature’s daily food.’”

“Now, experience comes to her aid. When she is ill, she is the centre
of attraction, the object of attention, to all who are dear to her; she
will be ill.”

“You contradict yourself, man! don’t you see? You are painting, not a
good woman, but one who will premeditate, and act a lie!”

“Not so fast! I am painting a good woman. Here comes in a condition
which hardly any one takes into account. Mrs. Jumeau will lie with
stiffened limbs and blue pale face for hours at a time. Is she
simulating illness? you might as well say that a man could simulate
a gunshot wound. But the thing people forget is, the intimate
relation and co-operation of body and mind; that the body lends
itself _involuntarily_ to carry out the conceptions of the thinking
brain. Mrs. Jumeau does not _think_ herself into pallor, but every
infinitesimal nerve fibre, which entwines each equally infinitesimal
capillary which brings colour to the cheek, is intimately connected
with the thinking brain, in obedience to whose mandates it relaxes
or contracts. Its relaxation brings colour and vigour with the free
flow of the blood, its contraction, pallor, and stagnation; and the
feeling as well as the look of being sealed in a death-like trance. The
whole mystery depends on this co-operation of thought and substance of
which few women are aware. The diagnosis is simply this, the sufferer
has the craving for outward tokens of the esteem which is essential
to her nature; she recalls how such tokens accompany her seasons of
illness, the sympathetic body perceives the situation, and she is ill;
by-and-by, the tokens of esteem cease to come with the attacks of
illness, but the habit has been set up, and she goes on having ‘attacks
’ which bring real suffering to herself, and of the slightest agency in
which she is utterly unconscious.”

Conviction slowly forced itself on Mr. Jumeau; now that his wife was
shown entirely blameless, he could concede the rest. More, he began to
suspect something rotten in the State of Denmark, or women like his
wife would never have been compelled to make so abnormal a vent for a
craving proper to human nature.

“I begin to see; what must I do?”

“In Mrs. Jumeau’s case, I may venture to recommend a course which would
not answer with one in a thousand. Tell her all I have told you. Make
her mistress of the situation.--I need not say, save her as much as you
can from the anguish of self-contempt. Trust her, she will come to the
rescue, and devise means to save herself; and, all the time, she will
want help from you, wise as well as tender. For the rest, those who
have in less measure--

                “‘The reason firm, the temp’rate will’--

‘massage,’ and other devices for annulling the extraordinary physical
sensibility to mental conditions, and, at the same time, excluding the
patient from the possibility of the affectionate notice she craves,
may do a great deal. But this mischief which, in one shape or other,
blights the lives of, say, forty per cent. of our best and most highly
organised women, is one more instance of how lives are ruined by an
education which is not only imperfect, but proceeds on wrong lines.”

“How could education help in this?”

“Why, let them know the facts, possess them of even so slight an
outline as we have had to-night, and the best women will take measures
for self-preservation. Put them on their guard, that is all. It is not
enough to give them accomplishments and all sorts of higher learning;
these gratify the desire of esteem only in a very temporary way. But
something more than a danger-signal is wanted. The woman, as well
as the man, must have her share of the world’s work, whose reward
is the world’s esteem. She must, even the cherished wife and mother
of a family, be in touch with the world’s needs, and must minister
of the gifts she has; and that, because it is no dream that we are
all brethren, and must therefore suffer from any seclusion from the
_common_ life.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Jumeau’s life was not “spoilt.” It turned out as the doctor
predicted; for days after his revelations she was ashamed to look her
husband in the face; but then, she called up her forces, fought her own
fight and came off victorious.




                               CHAPTER IX

                     “_A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!_”


The Christmas holidays! Boys and girls at school are counting off the
days till the home-coming. Young men and maidens, who have put away
childish things, do not reckon with date-stones, but consult their
Bradshaws. The little ones at home are storing up surprises. The father
says genially, “We shall soon have our young folk at home again.”
The mother? Nobody, not the youngest of the schoolgirls, is so glad
as she. She thinks of setting out for church on Christmas Day with,
let us hope, the whole of her scattered flock about her. Already she
pictures to herself how each has altered and grown, and yet how every
one is just as of old. She knows how Lucy will return prettier and more
lovable than ever; Willie, more amusing; Harry, kinder; and how the
elders will rejoice in baby May!

And yet, there is a shade of anxiety in the mother’s face as she
plans for the holidays. The brunt of domestic difficulties falls,
necessarily, upon her. It is not quite easy to arrange a household
for a sudden incursion of new inmates whose stay is not measured by
days. Servants must be considered, and may be tiresome. Amusements,
interests, must be thought of, and then---- Does the mother stop short
and avoid putting into shape the “and then,” which belongs to the
holiday weeks after Christmas Day is over?

“Let us have a happy Christmas, any way,” she says; “we must leave the
rest.”

What is it? Pretty Lucy’s face clouds into sullenness. Kind Harry
is quick to take offence, and his outbursts spoil people’s comfort.
Willie, with all his nonsense, has fits of positive moroseness. Tom
argues--is always in the right. Alice--is the child always quite
straightforward? There is reason enough for the strain of anxiety that
mingles with the mother’s joy. It is not easy to keep eight or nine
young people at their best for weeks together, without their usual
employments, when you consider that, wanting their elders’ modicum of
self-control, they may have their father’s failings, and their mother’s
failings, and ugly traits besides hardly to be accounted for. Is it a
counsel of perfection that mothers should have “Quiet Days” of rest for
body and mind, and for such spiritual refreshment as may be, to prepare
them for the exhausting (however delightful) strain of the holidays?

Much arrears of work must fall to the heads of the house in the young
folk’s holidays. They will want to estimate, as they get opportunity,
the new thought that is leavening their children’s minds; to modify,
without appearing to do so, the opinions the young people are
forming. They must keep a clear line of demarcation between duties
and pastimes, even in the holidays; and they must resume the work of
character-training, relinquished to some extent while the children are
away at school. But, after all, the holiday problem is much easier than
it looks, as many a light-hearted mother knows.

There is a way of it, a certain “Open sesame,” which mothers know,
or, if they do not, all the worse for the happiness of Holiday House.
Occupation? Many interests? Occupation, of course; we know what
befalls idle hands; but “interests” are only successful in conjunction
with the password; without it, the more excitingly interesting the
interests the more apt are they to disturb the domestic atmosphere and
make one sulky, and another domineering, and a third selfish, and each
“naughty” in that particular way in which “’tis his nature to.”

Every mother knows the secret, but some may have forgotten the magic
of it. Paradoxical as the statement may sound, there is no one thing
of which it is harder to convince young people than that their parents
love them. They do not talk about the matter, but supposing they did,
this would be the avowal of nine children out of ten:

“Oh, of course, mother loves me in a way, but not as she loves X.”

“How ‘in a way’?”

“You know what I mean. She _is_ mother, so of course she cares about
things for me and all that.”

“But how does she love X.?”

“Oh, I can’t explain; she’s fond of her, likes to look at her, and
touch her, and--now don’t go and think I’m saying things about mother.
She’s quite fair and treats us all _just_ alike; but who could help
liking X. best? I’m so horrid! Nobody cares for me.”

Put most of the children (including X.) of good and loving parents into
the Palace of Truth, children of all ages, from six, say, to twenty,
and this is the sort of thing you would get. Boys would, as a rule,
credit “mother,” and girls, “father,” with the more love; but that is
only by comparison; the one parent is only “nicer” than the other. As
for appropriating or recognising the fulness of love lavished on them,
they simply do not do it.

And why? Our little friend has told us; mother and father are quite
fair, there is no fault to be found in them, but “I’m so horrid, nobody
cares for me.” There you have the secret of “naughtiness.” There is
nothing more pathetic than the sort of dual life of which the young
are dimly conscious. On the one hand there are premonitions of full
and perfect being, the budding wings of which their thoughts are full,
and for which their strong sense of justice demands credit. Mother
and father ought to know how great and good and beautiful they are
in possibility, in prospective. They must have the comprehension,
appreciation, which, if they cannot get in the drawing-room, they will
seek in the kitchen or the stable-yard. Alnaschar visions? If so, it is
not young Alnaschar, but his parents, who kick over the basket of eggs.

If the young folk are pugnacious about their “rights,” and are
over-ready with their “It’s not fair!” “It’s a shame!” it is because
they reckon their claims by the great possible self, while, alas! they
measure what they get by the actual self, of which they think small
things. There is no word for it but “horrid;” bring them to book, and
the scornful, or vain, or bumptious young persons we may know are alike
in this--every one of them is “horrid” in his or her own eyes.

Now, if you know yourself to be horrid, you know that, of course,
people do not love you; how can they? They are kind to you and all
that, but that is because it’s their business, or their nature, or
their duty to be kind. It has really nothing to do with you personally.
What you want is some one who will find you out, and be kind to you,
and love you just for your own sake and nothing else. So do we reason
when we are young. It is the old story. The good that I would I do not,
but the evil that I would not, that I do. Only we feel things more
acutely when we are young, and take sides alternately with ourselves
and against ourselves; small is the wonder that their elders find young
people “difficult;” that is just what they find themselves.

“Fudge!” says the reader, who satisfies himself with the surface,
and recalls the fun and frolic and gaiety of heart, the laughter and
nonsense and bright looks of scores of young people he knows: of course
they are gay, _because_ they are young; but we should have many books
about the sadness of youth if people in their “teens” might have the
making of them. Glad and sad are not a whole octave apart.

How soon does this trouble of youth begin? That very delightful little
person, the Baby, is quite exempted. So, too, are the three, four,
and five-year-old darlings of the nursery. They gather on your knee,
and take possession of you, and make no doubt at all of your love or
their deserts. But a child cannot always get out of the nursery before
this doubt with two faces is upon him. I know a boy of four, a healthy
intelligent child, full of glee and frolic and sense, who yet has many
sad moments because one and another do not love him, and other very
joyful, grateful moments because some little gift or attention assures
him of love. His mother, with the delicate tact mothers have, perceives
that the child needs to be continually reinstated in his own esteem.
She calls him her “only boy,” treats him half as her little lover, and
so evens him with the two bright little sisters whom, somehow, and
without any telling, poor Georgie feels to be sweeter in temper and
more lovable than he. An exceedingly instructive little memorial of a
child who died young came under our notice some time ago. His parents
kept their children always in an atmosphere of love and gladness; and
it was curious to notice that this boy, a merry, bright little fellow,
was quite incapable of realising his parents’ love. That they should
love his sister was natural, but how _could_ they love him?

The little ones in the nursery revel in love, but how is it with even
the nursery elders? Are they not soon taught to give place to the
little ones and look for small show of love, because they are “big
boys” and “big girls”? The rather sad aloofness and self-containedness
of these little folk in some families is worth thinking about. Even
the nursery is a microcosm, suffering from the world’s ailment,
love-hunger, a sickness which drives little children and grown-up
people into naughty thoughts and wicked ways.

I knew a girl whose parents devoted themselves entirely to training
her; they surrounded her with care and sufficient tenderness; they
did not make much of her openly, because they held old-fashioned
notions about not fostering a child’s self-importance and vanity.
They were so successful in suppressing the girl’s self-esteem that it
never occurred to her that all their cares meant love until she was
woman-grown, and could discern character, and, alas! had her parents
no more to give them back love for love. The girl herself must have
been unloving? In one sense, all young beings are unloving; in another,
they are as vessels filled, brimming over with love seeking an outlet.
This girl would watch her mother about a room, walk behind her in the
streets--adoringly. Such intense worship of their parents is more
common in children than we imagine. A boy of five years was asked
what he thought the most beautiful thing in the world. “Velvet,” he
replied, with dreamy eyes, evidently thinking of his mother in a velvet
gown. His parents are the greatest and wisest, the most powerful, and
the best people within the narrow range of the child’s world. They are
royal personages--his kings and queens. Is it any wonder he worships,
even when he rebels?

But is it not more common, now-a-days, for children to caress and
patronise their parents, and make all too sure of their love?
It may be; but only where parents have lost that indescribable
attribute--dignity? authority?--which is their title to their
children’s love and worship; and the affection which is lavished too
creaturely-wise on children fails to meet the craving of their nature.
What is it they want, those young things so gaily happy with doll or
bat or racquet? They want to be reinstated; they labour, some poor
children almost from infancy, under a sad sense of demerit. They find
themselves so little loveworthy, that no sign short of absolute telling
with lip and eye and touch will convince them they are beloved.

But if one whom they trust and honour, one who _knows_, will, seeing
how faulty they are, yet love them, regarding the hateful faults as
alien things to be got rid of, and holding them, in spite of the
faults, in close measureless love and confidence, why, then, the young
lives expand like flowers in sunny weather, and where parents know this
secret of loving there are no morose boys nor sullen girls.

Actions do not speak louder than words to a young heart; he must
feel it in your touch, see it in your eye, hear it in your tones, or
you will never convince child or boy that you love him, though you
labour day and night for his good and his pleasure. Perhaps this is
the special lesson of Christmas-tide for parents. The Son came--for
what else we need not inquire now--to reinstate men by _compelling_
them to believe that they--the poorest shrinking and ashamèd souls of
them--that they live enfolded in infinite personal love, desiring with
desire the response of love for love. And who, like the parent, can
help forward this “wonderful redemption”? The boy who knows that his
father and his mother love him with measureless patience in his faults,
and love him out of them, is not slow to perceive, and receive, and
understand the dealings of the higher Love.

But why should good parents, more than the rest of us, be expected to
exhibit so divine a love? Perhaps because they are better than most of
us; anyway, that appears to be their vocation. And that it is possible
to fulfil even so high a calling we all know, because we know good
mothers and good fathers.

Parents, love your children, is, probably, an unnecessary counsel to
any who read this paper; at any rate, it is a presuming one. But let
us say to reserved undemonstrative parents who follow the example of
righteous Abraham and _rule_ their households,--Rule none the less, but
let your children feel and see and be quite sure that you love them.

We do not suggest endearments in public, which the young folk cannot
always abide. But, dear mother, take your big schoolgirl in your arms
just once in the holidays, and let her have a good talk, all to your
two selves; it will be to her like a meal to a hungry man. For the
youths and maidens--remember, they would sell their souls for love;
they do it too, and that is the reason of many of the ruined lives we
sigh over. Who will break down the partition between supply and demand
in many a home where there are hungry hearts on either side of the
wall?




                               CHAPTER X

                          _PARENTS IN COUNCIL_


                                 PART I

“Now, let us address ourselves to the serious business of the evening.
Here we are:

     ‘Six precious (pairs), and all agog,
      To dash through thick and thin!’

_Imprimis_--our desire is for reform! Not reform by Act of Parliament,
if you please; but, will the world believe?--we veritably desire to _be
reformed_! And that, as a vicarious effort for the coming race. Why, to
have conceived the notion entitles us to sit by for our term of years
and see how the others do it!”

“Don’t be absurd, Ned, as if it were all a joke! We’re dreadfully in
earnest, and can’t bear to have the time wasted. A pretty President you
are.”

“Why, my dear, that’s the joke; how can a man preside over a few
friends who have done him the honour to dine at his table?”

“Mrs. Clough is quite right. It’s ‘Up boys, and at it!’ we want to be;
so, my dear fellow, don’t let any graceful scruples on your part hinder
work.”

“Then, Henderson, as the most rabid of us all, you must begin.”

“I do not know that what I have to say should come first in order; but
to save time I’ll begin. What I complain of is the crass ignorance
of us--of myself, I mean. You know what a magnificent spectacle the
heavens have offered these last few frosty nights. Well, one of our
youngsters has, I think, some turn for astronomy. ‘Look, father, what a
great star! It’s big enough to make the night light without the moon.
It isn’t always there; what’s its name, and where does it go?’ The boy
was in the receptive ‘How I wonder what you are’ mood; anything and
everything I could have told him would have been his--a possession for
life.

“‘That’s not a star, it’s a planet, Tom,’ with a little twaddle about
how planets are like our earth, more or less, was all I had for his
hungry wonder. As for how one planet differs from another in glory, his
sifting questions got nothing out of me; what nothing has, can nothing
give. Again, he has, all of his own wit, singled out groups of stars
and, like Hugh Miller, wasn’t it?--pricked them into paper with a pin.
‘Have they names? What is this, and this?’ ‘Those three stars are the
belt of Orion’--the sum of my acquaintance with the constellations, if
you will believe it! He bombarded me with questions all to the point. I
tried bits of book knowledge which he did not want. It was a ‘bowing’
acquaintance, if no more, with the glorious objects before him that
the child coveted, and he cornered me till his mother interfered with,
‘That will do, Tom: don’t tease father with your questions.’ A trifling
incident, perhaps, but do you know I didn’t sleep a wink that night,
or rather, I did sleep, and dreamt, and woke for good. I dreamt the
child was crying for hunger and I had not a crust to give him. You
know how vivid some dreams are. The moral flashed on me. The child had
been crying to me with the hunger of the mind. He had asked for bread
and got a stone. A thing like that stirs you. From that moment I had
a new conception of a parent’s vocation and of my unfitness for it.
I determined that night to find some way to help ourselves and the
thousands of parents in the same ignorant case.”

“Well, but, Henderson, you don’t mean to say that every parent should
be an astronomer? Why, how can a man with other work tackle the study
of a lifetime?”

“No, but I do think our veneration for science frightens us off open
ground. Huxley somewhere draws a line between science and what he calls
‘common information,’ and this I take to mean an acquaintance with the
facts about us, whether of Nature or of society. It’s a shameful thing
to be unable to answer such questions as Tom’s. Every one should know
something about such facts of Nature as the child is likely to come
across. But how to get at this knowledge! Books? Well, I don’t say but
you may get to know _about_ most things from books, but as for knowing
the thing itself, let me be introduced by him that knew it before me!”

“I see what you mean; we want the help of the naturalist, an enthusiast
who will not only teach but fire us with the desire to know.”

“But don’t you find, Morris, that even your enthusiast, if he’s a
man of science, is slow to recognise the neutral ground of common
information?”

“That may be; but, as for getting what we want--pooh! it’s a question
of demand and supply. If you don’t mind my talking about ourselves
I should like just to tell you what we did last summer. Perhaps you
may know that I dabble a little in geology--only dabble--but every
tyro must have noticed how the features of a landscape depend on its
geological formation, and not only the look of the landscape, but the
occupations of the people. Well, it occurred to me that if, instead of
the hideous ‘resources’--save the word!--of a watering-place, what if
we were to study the ‘scape’ of a single formation? The children would
have that, at any rate, in visible presentation, and would hold a key
to much besides.

“My wife and I love the South Downs, perhaps for auld sake’s sake, so
we put up at a farmhouse in one of the lovely ‘Lavants’ near Goodwood.
Chalk and a blackboard were inseparably associated; and a _hill_ of
chalk was as surprising to the children as if all the trees were bread
and cheese. Here was _wonder_ to start with, wonder and desire to
know. Truly, a man hath joy in the answer of his mouth! The delight,
the deliciousness of pouring out answers to their eager questions!
and the illimitable receptivity of the children! This was the sort of
thing--after scrawling on a flint with a fragment of chalk:--

“‘What is that white line on the flint, Bob?’--‘Chalk, father,’
with surprise at my dulness; and then the unfolding of the tale of
wonder--thousands of lovely infinitely small shells in that scrawl of
chalk; each had, ages and ages ago, its little inmate, and so on. Wide
eyes and open mouths, until sceptical Dick--‘Well, but, father, how did
they get here? How could they crawl or swim to the dry land when they
were dead?’ More wonders, and a snub for that small boy. ‘Why, this
hillside we are sitting on is a bit of that old sea-bottom!’ And still
the marvel grew, until, trust me, there is not a feature of the chalk
that is not written down in _le journal intime_ of each child’s soul.
They know the soft roll of the hills, the smooth dip of the valleys,
the delights of travellers’ joy, queer old yews, and black-berrying in
the sudden ‘bottoms’ of the chalk. The endless singing of a solitary
lark--nothing but larks--the trailing of cloud-shadows over the hills,
the blue skies of Sussex, blue as those of Naples--these things are
theirs to have and to hold, and are all associated with the chalk; they
have the sense of the earth-mother, of the connection of things, which
makes for poetry.

“Then their mother has rather a happy way of getting pictures printed
on the ‘sensitive plate’ of each. She hits on a view, of narrow range
generally, and makes the children look at it well and then describe it
with closed eyes. One never-to-be forgotten view was seized in this
way. ‘First grass, the hill-slopes below us, with sheep feeding about:
and then a great field of red poppies--there’s corn, but we can’t see
it; then fields and fields of corn, quite yellow and ripe, reaching out
a long way; next, the sea, very blue, and three rather little boats
with white sails; a lark a long way up in the sky singing as loud as a
band of music; and _such_ a shining sun!’ No doubt our little maid will
have all that to her dying day; and isn’t it a picture worth having?”

“Mr. Morris’s hint admits of endless expansion; why, you could cover
the surface formations of England in the course of the summer holidays
of a boy’s schooldays, and thus give him a key to the landscape, fauna,
and flora of much of the earth’s surface. It’s admirable.”

“What a salvage! The long holidays, which are apt to hang on hand,
would be more fully and usefully employed than schooldays, and in ways
full of out-of-door delights. I see how it would work. Think of the
dales of Yorkshire, where the vivid green of the mountain limestone
forms a distinct line of junction with the dim tints of the heather on
the millstone grit of the moors, of the innumerable rocky nests where
the ferns of the limestone--hartstongue, limestone polypody, beech
fern, and the rest--grow delicately green and perfect as if conserved
under glass. Think of the endless ferns and mosses and the picturesque
outlines of the slate, both in the Lake Country and in Wales. What
collections the children might form, always having the geological
formation of the district as the leading idea.”

“You are getting excited, Mrs. Tremlow. For my part, I cannot rise to
the occasion. It is dull to have ‘delicious!’ ‘delightful!’ ‘lovely!’
hailing about one’s ears, and to be out of it. Pray, do not turn me out
for the admission, but my own feeling is strongly against this sort of
dabbling in science. In this bird’s-eye view of geology, for instance,
why in the world did you begin with the chalk? At least you might have
started with, say, Cornwall.”

“That is just one of the points where the line is to be drawn; you
specialists do one thing thoroughly--begin at the beginning, if a
beginning there is, and go on to the end, if life is long enough. Now,
we contend that the specialist’s work should be laid on a wide basis of
common information, which differs from science in this amongst other
things--you take it as it occurs. A fact comes under your notice; you
want to know why it is, and what it is; but its relations to other
facts must settle themselves as time goes on, and the other facts turn
up. For instance, a child of mine should know the ‘blackcap’ by its
rich note and black upstanding headgear, and take his chance of ever
knowing even the name of the family to which his friend belongs.”

“And surely, Mr. Morris, you would teach history in the same way; while
you are doing a county, or a ‘formation’--isn’t it?--you get fine
opportunities for making history a real thing. For instance, supposing
you are doing the--what is it?--of Dorsetshire? You come across Corfe
Castle standing in a dip of the hills, like the trough between two
waves, and how real you can make the story of the bleeding prince
dragged over the downs at the heels of his horse.”

“Yes, and speaking of the downs, do you happen to know, Mrs. Tremlow,
the glorious downs behind Lewes, and the Abbey and the Castle below,
all concerned in the story of the great battle; and the ridge of Mount
Harry across which De Montfort and his men marched while the royal
party were holding orgies in the Abbey, and where, in the grey of the
early morning, each man vowed his life to the cause of liberty, face
downwards to the cool grass, and arms outstretched in the form of a
cross? Once you have made a study on the spot of one of those historic
sites, why, the place and the scene is a part of you. You couldn’t
forget it if you would.”

“That is interesting, and it touches on a point to which I want to
call your attention; have you noticed that in certain districts you
come across, not only the spots associated with critical events, but
monuments of the leading idea of centuries? Such as these are the
ruined abbeys which still dominate every lovely dale in Yorkshire; the
twelfth-century churches, four or five of which--in certain English
counties--you come across in the course of a single day’s tramp, and of
which there is hardly a secluded out-of-the-way nook in some counties
that has not its example to show; such, again, are the endless castles
on the Welsh border, the Roman camps on the downs, each bearing witness
to the dominant thought, during a long period, whether of war, or, of
a time when men had some leisure from fighting.”

“And not only so. Think of how the better half of English literature
has a local colouring; think of the thousand spots round which there
lingers an aroma of poetry and of character, which seems to get into
your brain somehow, and leave there an image of the man, a _feeling_
of his work, which you cannot arrive at elsewhere. The Quantocks,
Grasmere, Haworth Moors, the Selborne ‘Hanger,’ the Lincolnshire
levels--it is needless to multiply examples of spots where you may see
the raw material of poetry, and compare it with the finished work.”

“All this is an inspiring glimpse of the possible; but surely,
gentlemen, you do not suppose that a family party, the children, say,
from fifteen downwards, can get in touch with such wide interests in
the course of a six weeks’ holiday? I doubt if, even amongst ourselves,
any but you, Mr. Meredith, and Mr. Clough, have this sort of grasp of
historical and personal associations.”

“We must leave that an open question, Mrs. Henderson; but what I
do contend for is, that children have illimitable capacity for all
knowledge which reaches them in some sort through the vehicle of the
senses: what they _see_ and delight in you may pin endless facts,
innumerable associations, upon, and children have capacity for them
all: nor will they ever treat you to lack-lustre eye and vacant
countenance. Believe me ‘’tis their nature to’ hunger after knowledge
as a labouring man hungers for his dinner; only, the _thing_ must come
in the first, the words which interpret it in the second place.”

“You mean that everything they see is to lead to a sort of object
lesson?”

“Indeed I do not! Object lesson! talkee, talkee, about a miserable
cut-and-dried scrap, hardly to be recognised by one who knows the
thing. I should not wonder if it were better for a child to go without
information than to get it in this unnatural way. No, let him see
the thing big and living before him, behaving according to its wont.
Specimens are of infinite use to the scientist whose business it is to
generalise, but are misleading to the child who has yet to learn his
individuals. I don’t doubt for a minute that an intelligent family out
for a holiday might well cover all the ground we have sketched out, and
more; but who in the world is to teach them? A child’s third question
about the fowls of the air or the flowers of the field would probably
floor most of us.”

“That’s coming to the point. I wondered if we ever meant to touch our
subject again to-night. To skim over all creation in an easy, airy way
is exciting, but, from an educational standpoint, ’tis comic to the
father with a young swarm at home who care for none of these things.”

“Of course they don’t, Withers, if they have never been put in the
way of it; but try ’em, that’s all. Now, listen to my idea; I shall
be too glad if any one strikes out a better, but we must come to a
point, and pull up the next who wanders off on his own hobby. Each of
us wishes to cover all, or more, or some of, the ground suggested in
our desultory talk. Difficulty, we can’t teach because we don’t know.
We are in a corner with but one way out. _We must learn_ what we should
teach. How? Well, let us form ourselves into a college, or club, or
what you like. Now, it’s simply the A B C of many things we wish to
learn. Once organised, we shall see our way to the next step. Even in
the small party here to-night, some know something of geology, some are
at home in the byways of history; what we cannot evolve from our midst
we must get from outside, and either amateur recruits or professional
folk must be pressed into service; recruits would be much the best,
for they would learn as well as teach. Then, when we are organised, we
may consider whether our desire is to exhaust a single district in the
way suggested, or to follow some other plan. Only, please, if it be a
district, let it be a wide one, so that our intercourse be confined to
‘speaking’ in passing, like ships at sea. Don’t, for pity’s sake, let
it be a social thing, with tennis, talk, and tea!”

“Suppose we do enrol ourselves, how frequent do you think should be our
meetings?”

“We’ll leave that question; in the meantime, those in favour of
Mr. Morris’s motion that we form ourselves into a society for the
consideration of matters affecting the education of children--the
parents’ part of the work, that is--will signify the same in the usual
way.”

“Carried unanimously!”[23]


FOOTNOTES:

     [23] Ancient history now; a forecast fulfilled in the
          formation of the Parents’ National Educational Union.




                               CHAPTER XI

                          _PARENTS IN COUNCIL_


                                PART II

“We have listened to you, gentlemen, with great deference. We have
profited much, and perceive a great field of work before us. I hope we
may get a little outside help. I heard the other day of a young lady
learned in mosses who is in the habit of taking the children she knows
on ‘mossing’ expeditions. But what I wish to say is, education, like
charity, begins at home, and you have chosen to lead us far afield at
the very outset!”

“Truly, we did go off at a canter! But don’t you think ’tis a matter
for curtain discipline? If your son Tom had not ‘wondered what you are’
we might have begun quite at the beginning, if there is one; or, most
likely, should have been till this moment wondering where to begin. We
are grateful to you, Henderson, for starting us anywhere; and more so
to Mrs. Henderson for her axiom, Education begins at home.”

“I daresay experienced people get to know all about it,” said Mrs.
Clough; “but the mother of even two or three little ones has a sense
of being at sea without rudder or compass. We know so little about
children, or, indeed, about human beings at all! Parents before our
time had something to go upon; and the young mother could ask counsel
of her elders on all matters from ‘cinder tea’ to the choice of a
school. But now science is abroad; many of the old wise saws turn out,
not only mischievous, but ridiculous. We can’t keep hold of the old, we
can’t get hold of the new, and there we are, like Mahomet’s coffin.”

“You have described our quandary exactly, Mrs. Clough! And what you
say accounts for many things. The older people complain that the
children of these days are growing up lax, self-pleasing, disobedient,
irreverent. Now, I think myself there is a great deal that’s fine in
our children. They are much more of _persons_ than we were at their
age; but that they do pretty much what is right in their own eyes, are
neither obedient nor reverent, nor even respectful, is, I am afraid, a
true bill. But don’t you see how it is? We are afraid of them. We feel
as a navvy might, turned in to dust the drawing-room ornaments! The
mere touch of his clumsy great fingers may be the ruin of some precious
thing. We parents, no doubt, get tenderness and insight from above to
enable us for our delicate work; so I suppose it is our own fault that
the children are beyond us.”

“How do you mean, Mrs. Meredith? And if you, mothers, don’t know what
to do with the children, who does? The enlightened father lays himself
out for a snub if he sets up for an authority at home.”

“Oh, yes! you men make ludicrous blunders about children. But that’s
no help. A young mother gets a tender human creature into her keeping,
full of possibilities. Her first concern is, not only to keep it in
health, but, so to speak, to fill it with reserves of health to last
a lifetime. At once her perplexities begin. I shall not even ask to
be excused for venturing upon details; the affairs of a young human
being are important enough to engage the attention of Queen, Lords,
and Commons, did they but know it. Well, a mother I know wished her
child to be clothed delicately, as befits a first-born. She sent
to Ireland for a delicious baby trousseau of lace and cambric. You
gentlemen don’t understand. Hardly had the dear little garments gone
through their first wash, when somebody tells her that ’oo’ a’ ’oo’
is the only wear for babies and grown ups. I doubt if to this day she
knows why, but there was a _soupçon_ of science in the suggestion, so
the sweet cambrics were discarded and fine woollens took their place.
By-and-by, when the child came to feed like other mortals, there was
a hail of pseudo-science about her ears. ‘Grape-sugar,’ ‘farinaceous
foods,’ ‘saliva,’ and what not; but this was less simple than the wool
question. She could make nothing of it, so asked her doctor how to feed
the child. Further complications arose: ‘the child sees everything;’
‘the child knows everything;’ ‘what you make him now he will be through
life;’ ‘the period of infancy is the most important in his life.’ My
poor friend grew bewildered, with the result that, in her ignorant
anxiety to do right, she is for ever changing the child’s diet, nurse,
sleeping hours, airing hours, according to the last lights of the most
scientific of her acquaintance; and ’tis my belief the little one would
be a deal better off brought up like its mother before it.”

“Then, Mrs. Meredith, you would walk in the old paths?”

“Not a bit of it! Only I want to see where I’m going. I think we live
in an age of great opportunities. But my contention is, that you cannot
bring up children on hearsay in these days; there is some principle
involved in the most everyday matter, and we must go to school to
learn the common laws of healthy living and well-being.”

“Mrs. Meredith is right: here is serious work sketched out for us, and
of a kind as useful for ourselves as for our children. We _must_ learn
the first principles of human physiology.”

“Would not it do to learn what is called Hygiene? I have a notion that
is physiology made easy; that is, you are just taught what to do,
without going _fully_ into the cause why.”

“No, we must stick to physiology: I don’t believe a bit in learning
_what_ to do, unless founded upon a methodical, not scrappy, knowledge
of _why_ we do it. You see, all parts of the animal economy are so
inter-dependent, that you cannot touch this without affecting that.
What we want to get at is, the laws for the well-being of every part,
the due performance of every function.”

“Why, man, you would have every one of us qualify to write M.D. to his
name.”

“Not so; we shall not interfere with the doctors; we leave sickness
to them; but the preservation of health, the increase in bodily
vigour, must be our care. In this way, we acquaint ourselves fully
with the structure of the skin, for example, with its functions,
and the inter-dependence between these and the functions of certain
internal organs. Now, secure vigorous action of the skin, and you gain
exhilaration of spirits, absolute joy for the time, followed by a rise
in the sense of general well-being, _i.e._, happiness. You remember
how a popular American poet sits on a gate in the sun after his bath,
using his flesh-brushes for hours, until he is the colour of a boiled
lobster, and ‘more so.’ He might be more seemly employed, but his _joy_
is greater than if daily telegrams brought him word of new editions
of his poems. Well, if due action of the skin is a means to a joyous
life, to health and a genial temper, what mother is there who would
not secure these for her child? But the thing is not so simple as it
looks. It is not merely a case of bath and flesh-brush: diet, clothes,
sleep, bedroom, sunshine, happy surroundings, exercise, bright talk, a
thousand things must work together to bring about this ‘happy-making’
condition. What is true of the skin is true all round, and we cannot go
to work with a view to any single organ or function; all work together:
and we must aim at a thorough grip of the subject. Is it, then, decided
‘without one if or but,’ that we get ourselves instructed in the
science of living?”

“The ‘science of living’--yes, but that covers much beyond the range of
physiology. Think of the child’s mind, his moral nature, his spiritual
being. It seems to me that we already make too much of the body.
Our young people are encouraged to sacrifice everything to physical
training; and there is a sensuousness well hit-off in George Eliot’s
‘Gwendoline,’ in the importance given to every detail of the bath and
the toilet. One is weary of the endless magnification of the body and
its belongings. And, what is more, I believe we are defeating our own
ends. ‘Groom’ the skin, develop the muscles, by all means; but there
is more to be thought of, and I doubt if to live to the flesh, even in
these ways, is permissible.”

“Right, Mrs. Meredith! But don’t think for a moment that physiology
lends itself to the cult of muscle. Here is a youth whose _biceps_
are his better part: like most of us, he gets what he aims at--some
local renown as an athlete. But what does he pay for the whistle? His
violent ‘sports’ do not materially increase the measure of blood which
sustains him: if the muscles get more than their share, their gain
implies loss elsewhere, to the brain, commonly, and, indeed, to all
the vital organs. By-and-by, the sports of youth over, your brawny,
broad-chested young fellow collapses; is the victim of _ennui_, and
liver, lungs, or stomach send in their requisition for arrears of
nourishment fraudulently made away with.”

“But, surely, Mr. Meredith, you do not think lightly of physical
development? Why, I thought it one of the first duties of parents to
send their offspring into the world as ‘fine animals.’”

“So it is; but here, as elsewhere, there is a ‘science of the
proportion of things,’ and the young people who go in violently and
without moderation for muscular feats are a delusion and a snare: in
the end they do not prove ‘fine animals;’ they have little ‘staying’
power.”

“But a child is more than an animal; we want to know how mind and moral
feelings are to be developed?”

“Even then, Mrs. Tremlow, we should find much help in the study
of physiology--mental physiology, if you like to call it so. The
border-line where flesh and spirit meet seems to me the new field, an
Eldorado, I do believe, opened to parents and to all of us concerned
with the culture of character. I mean, the habits a child grows up with
appear to leave some sort of register in his material brain, and thus
to become part of himself in even a physical sense. Thus it rests with
parents to ease the way of their child by giving him the habits of
the good life in thought, feeling, and action, and even in spiritual
things. We cannot make a child ‘good,’ but, in this way; we can lay
paths for the good life and the moral life in the very substance of
his brain. We cannot make him hear the voice of God; but, again, we
can make paths where the Lord God may walk in the cool of the evening.
We cannot make the child clever; but we can see that his brain is
nourished with pure blood, his mind with fruitful ideas.”

“I suppose all this would be encouraging if one were up to it. But I
feel as if a great map of an unknown country were spread before me,
where the few points one wants to make for are unmarked. How, for
instance, to make a child obedient, kind, and true?”

“Your question, Mrs. Tremlow, suggests further ground we must cover: a
few set rules will be of little service; we must know how much there is
in ‘human nature,’ and how to play upon it as a musician on the keys
of his instrument. We must add to our physiology, psychology, and, to
psychology, moral science. Complex, yet most simple, manifold, yet one,
human nature is not to be ticked off in a lecture or two as a subject
we have exhausted; but there is no conceivable study which yields such
splendid increase for our pains.”

“And the spiritual life of the child? Does either of these ‘ologies’
embrace the higher life, or is it not susceptible of culture?”

“Ah, there we have new conditions--the impact of the Divine upon the
human, which generates _life_, ‘without which there is no living.’ The
life is there, imparted and sustained from above; but we have something
to do here also. Spirit, like body, thrives upon daily bread and daily
labour, and it is our part to set before the child those ‘new thoughts
of God, new hopes of Heaven,’ which should be his spiritual diet;
and to practise him in the spiritual labours of prayer, praise, and
endeavour. How?--is another question for our Society to work out.”




                              CHAPTER XII

                        _A HUNDRED YEARS AFTER_

            (AT THE CLOUGHS’ DINNER-TABLE, SEPT. 10, 1990.)


“It’s a capital idea! the thing ought to be commemorated. At any rate,
we can give a little dinner in honour of it. Whom shall we have?”

“Dr. and Mrs. Oldcastle, and Harry’s form-master, young Mr. Hilyard,
and his wife, will represent school-work; _we_ shall stand for parents
in general; and with Dr. and Mrs. Brenton for our medical advisers, and
the Dean and Mrs. Priestly to witness for things spiritual, we shall be
quite a ‘representative gathering.’ Will my list do?”

“Famously! Couldn’t be better. We all know the subject and each other.
I shouldn’t wonder if we have some good things said.”

Mr. Clough was a City merchant, as had been his fathers before him for
four or five generations; he was reputed wealthy, and was a rich man,
but one who held his wealth as a public trust, reserving for personal
uses only what should keep his family in refined and comfortable
living. Not that there was much virtue in this, for he, and others like
him, held in aversion luxurious living, and whatever savoured of the
“barbarous opulence” of earlier days. Dr. Oldcastle was the head-master
of an old-established foundation school; for the remaining guests they
have been sufficiently introduced by Mrs. Clough.

During the dinner there was the usual gay talk, and some light handling
of graver subjects until the ladies retired. Then--

“I wonder, gentlemen, has it occurred to you why my wife and I have
been so pertinacious in trying to get you here to-night?”

Every one’s countenance showed that he was struck by an interesting
recollection.

“A little circumstance connected with this room, and a certain date
that I fear I may have mentioned more than once or twice?”

“Oh, to be sure,” said the Dean; “haven’t I said a dozen times to my
wife, ‘There’s but one thing that Clough plumes himself on--that the
Fathers’ and Mothers’ Club was born in his dining-room!’”

“But why to-night more than any other night?”

“Why, to-night is the hundredth anniversary of that great event!”
A good-humoured smile passed round. “Yes, gentlemen, I know I’m
house-proud, and give you leave to laugh. But would not you cherish an
old-fashioned house in a by-street, when it’s the one thing that links
you to history?”

“But, my dear fellow, why in the world should this Club with the
stuttering initials (how I hate initials!) be glorified? It does not
get in my way, as a head-master, it’s true; but, mind you, a man
can’t play up to his Busby in the face of it! There was a man for his
calling! How he’d walk over your ‘F. M. C.’s.’ Fumble! aye, that’s the
word. Knew ‘F. M. C.’ reminded me of something.”

“I’m slow to see how our Club links us with history, certainly,”
murmured Dr. Brenton reflectively.

“Why, in this way: if the Club did not initiate, it certainly marked
a stage in the progress of the great educational revolution in which
we have been moving for the last hundred years. Wait for two or three
centuries, and you will find this revolution of ours written down as
the ‘New Education’ just as some one gave the happy name of the ‘New
Learning’ to the revival of letters in the Dark Ages.”

“Sorry to disoblige you, but I’m afraid none of us sees his way to more
than a century of waiting, though it be to verify the statements of his
best friend. But go on, old fellow, I’m with you! Make the ‘revolution’
plain sailing for us.”

“Thanks, Hilyard; your sanction emboldens me. But which am I to ‘go on’
with, the word or the thing?”

“A distinction _with_ a difference. If I say ‘the thing,’ off we go to
the Dark Ages themselves; and shall come out to find the ladies cloaked
and hooded in the hall!”

“A thing endurable to us elder Benedicts.”

“Now, Doctor! As if you weren’t tied to Mrs. Oldcastle’s apron-string
every minute you’re not in school. Fanny and I follow you for
encouragement when we feel our bond growing slack.”

“To order, gentlemen, to order! or we shall get neither word nor thing.
We shall all want to put in an oar anent ‘my wife and I.’”

“Brenton’s right. Seer, take up thy parable, and go ahead!”

“Who would contemn a behest of the Church?” (with a bow which
threatened a candle-shade, deftly saved by Hilyard.) “I go ahead;
I’m not to talk about the thing, but the name. Why I call this,
which has been working itself out in the last hundred years or more,
an educational _revolution_. In the first place, what was called
‘Education’ a century since and what we call Education are essentially
different things.”

“Come, come! Isn’t that rather strong? We go in for the classics and
mathematics; and so did the schools of a hundred, or, for the matter
of that, five hundred years ago. ’Tis true we have to work much more
with modern languages, natural science, and other subjects of which we
can give but a smattering, to the confusion alike of boys and masters.
Give me a classical education, or, in default, a mathematical; ’tis
training! And, for my part, I vote for the pre-Revolutionists, if
that’s what you choose to call them,”--with a subdued snort, which
epitomised much that was not civil to the reform party.

“How much clearing of the decks must take place for even a friendly
discussion! Tell us, gentlemen both, what you mean by education?”

“Mean by education, Doctor? I should not have thought our united
wisdoms need be called on to answer that! A boy is educated when he
knows what every gentleman should know, and when he is trained to take
his place in the world.”

“Dr. Oldcastle’s definition suits me as well as another. Putting aside
the polite acquirements, the question turns on the training--how much
it includes, and how it is to be given.”

“There you have it, Clough,” put in Dr. Brenton; “and my contention
is, that you owe the incalculable advance in _character_ which has
taken place in the period we are considering entirely to us doctors.
Wasn’t it we who found out for you that you were all blundering in
the dark; that you hadn’t even set your feet on the scientific basis
of education; that all your doings were tentative? About a hundred
years ago, men spent a third of a lifetime on mathematics. Cambridge
made men Senior Wranglers in those days, and perhaps the distinction
was worth the work. But the world said, in that weighty way in which
the world likes to talk: ‘Mathematics afford a mental discipline, a
fortifying of character, which no other study gives.’ Now I’m not
denying the worth of mathematics as a factor in education; but look
at your mathematician; do you find him more to the fore, more his own
master, than other men? Often enough he is irritable, obstinate, all
the more wrongheaded the more he’s in the right. But now we (observe
the we--royalty itself couldn’t make more of it) find you fumbling
about blindly, snatching up now this tool, now that, natural science,
languages, or what not, in order to work upon material you knew nothing
about, was it mind, or morals, or what? To effect issues you had not
determined on--intellectual power? Force of character? In the slough we
found you--parent, schoolmaster, parson--all whose business is, more or
less, the bringing up of the young; and what have we done for you? Why,
we’ve discovered to you the nature of the material you have to work
upon, the laws according to which it must be wrought. We have even put
it into your hands as clay in the hands of a potter, and we’ve shown
you what is the one possible achievement before you; that is, _the
elevation of character_. Education which fails to effect this, effects
nothing. There, that’s what _we_’ve done. Every man to his trade, say
I; and there’s nothing like leather!”

“Well, but, but,--all this is very fine talk; but what demonstration
can you give? And where in the world have I been while all this was
going on? Pshaw! You delude yourselves, my dear friends. This airy talk
makes flighty brains; but do you suppose I’ve been a schoolmaster
these forty years while all this has been going on, and yet know
nothing of it?”

“That comes of fumbling over our F. M. C., instead of holding us up
with both hands. But, honour bright, Dr. Oldcastle, do you see in these
days any change in the manner of boy that comes to your hands fresh
from his home?”

“Yes, yes! a thousand times, yes!”

“If Mr. Hilyard’s courtesy had permitted me to answer for myself,
I, also, should have said ‘yes.’ I see a most remarkable change,
upon which society is to be congratulated. But what would you have?
Civilisation and education must of necessity produce results,
appreciable even within a single lifetime.”

“Don’t you think, Doctor, you might have made a trilogy of it, and
promoted Christianity?” interposed the ever suave and gentle tones of
the Dean. “I myself feel with Dr. Brenton, ‘every man for his master,’
and would fain lay every advance at the feet of mine.”

“I must beg the Dean to look over a little assumed pugnacity. That we
all agree with him, he may rest assured. And for this reason. Every
other avenue towards perfection leads you, after weeks or months or
years of delightful going, to a blank wall. You see nothing beyond;
all that remains is to retrace your steps, and retrogression is always
bitter. You try through Christ, and find yourself in the way of endless
progress cheered by perennial hope. But the talk is growing serious.
We of the ‘New Education’ party take to ourselves the credit of the
advances Dr. Oldcastle perceives, and as testimony from an alien is
very valuable, perhaps he would not mind telling us in detail what
differences he perceives between the young boys of to-day and their
kind of forty years ago?”

“Let me consider a moment; your question is not easy to answer in a
breath.... Well, in the first place, they are more apt to learn: I
conceive that there has been an extraordinary advance in intelligence
during the last half-century. The work we would grind over for hours in
my day, these youngsters have at their finger-ends in half-an-hour, and
are on the alert for more. I do believe they have a real appetite for
knowledge--a weakness of which not more than one or two in a hundred
was guilty when I was a boy.”

“Will you let me, as a parent, give you our explanation of these facts?
For, with deference to Dr. Brenton, who justly claims so much for his
craft, I think we parents deserve a pat, too. You may bring a horse
to the well, but you can’t make him drink. The advance, I think, is
not in intelligence, but in power of attention. This, the Fathers’ and
Mothers’ Club and its agencies recognise as the practical power of man;
that which makes all the difference between the able and successful
man and the poor lag-last. And yet it is not a faculty, but is the
power and habit of concentrating every faculty on the thing in hand.
Now this habit of attention parents, mothers especially, are taught
to encourage and cultivate in their children from early infancy. What
you regard with full attention, if only for a minute, you know, and
remember always. Think of the few scenes and conversations we all have
so vividly fixed that we cannot possibly forget them. Why? Because
at the moment our attention was powerfully excited. You reap some
benefit from this early training directly the boy goes to school. The
psychologists--not your craft, this time, Doctor--tell us that enormous
curiosity, a ravenous appetite for knowledge, is as natural to
children as bread-and-milk hunger. Put the two together; the boy has an
eager desire to know--has the power of fixing his whole mind on the new
thoughts set before him, and it’s as easy as A B C; of course he learns
with magical quickness. The field has been ploughed by the parents, and
you have only to sow your seed.”

“H’m! it sounds rational; I must think it over. Anyway, the results are
pleasant enough. Four hours a day instead of six or seven--and much
more work done, mind you--is good for both masters and boys. Then, most
of them have resources and are on nobody’s hands. You’d be astonished
to hear how much these fellows know, and each has his speciality.
One little chap has butterflies, for instance. Ah, that reminds me!
Don’t tell, or I might be invited to resign; but I don’t to this day
know the difference between a moth and a butterfly. It’s the sort of
thing one ought to know, so I set up a classification of my own, no
doubt correct, because it was mine! Well, this befell me. ‘What have
you there?’ I asked a little chap, who had evidently netted a prize.
‘A moth, sir, the ----,’ scientific name, pat. ‘A moth, boy! That
beautiful creature is no moth. Moths live in houses.’ You should have
seen the fellow suppress his grin! I couldn’t ask, so don’t know now;
but make a point of not meeting that little chap’s eye. A friend of
mine, a Fellow of his College, was worse. ‘I say, Oldcastle, the poets
make a mighty pother about the song of the lark. Now, do tell me--do
you know it when you hear it?’ But as for the boys that enter now,
there’s not the natural object that they don’t both recognise and know
all about. Their collections are of scientific worth--at least, so that
fellow Hilyard thinks, so we are going in for a museum of local natural
history!”

“Why, Dr. Oldcastle, you’re like the man in the play, who talked prose
all his life, and at last found it out! You’re our warmest friend,
though you decline the connection. This, again, is the work of mothers
following the lines of the ‘New Education.’ We make a great point of
developing intelligent curiosity in the children about all that lives
and grows within their ken. For instance, I should think most of
‘our’ mothers would feel disgraced if her child of six were not able
to recognise any ordinary British tree from a twig with _leaf-buds_
only. It’s Nature’s lore, and the children take to it like ducks to
the water. The first seven or eight years of their lives are spent out
of doors--in possible weather--learning this sort of thing, instead of
pottering over picture-books and A B C. But do fill the witness-box
a minute longer. All this is delicious. An outsider who speaks with
authority is worth a score of partisans.”

“I bow my thanks, Clough, for the handsome things you are good enough
to say. Of course my impartial witness would be quite as valuable if it
told on the other side. Why, Hilyard, you’re nowhere! ’Tis I am the man
of the day. But no; he’s the go-ahead fellow, and I’m the drag; yet a
drag has its uses.”

“Granted, if you go down hill. But out of thine own mouth art thou
convicted, most learned Master! What hast thou talked all this night
but progress? But one thing more: tell us, do you find these Admirable
Crichtons of yours the least in the world priggish? Or are they
namby-pamby youths, who do as they’re bid, and haven’t much taste for
unlawful adventure?”

“Taste for adventure! Why, little fellows of nine come, able to swim,
row, ride, do everything man or boy needs do, and how are fellows of
that sort to be kept out of adventures? But they do as they’re bid,
I grant you, and the way they do it shows fifty times the spirit of
the fellows who shirked. Mind, I’m speaking of the boys who have been
brought up at home, not of those who have ‘growed.’ But don’t run away
with the notion that the best of them are perfect. We must be _at it_
all the time, or the ground gained is gone from under our feet.”

“Look, look! do look at Brenton: something will happen if he doesn’t
get an innings.”

“Gentlemen, you must, you really must, hear me on this matter! You must
let me show Dr. Oldcastle the ‘reason why’ of what he observes.”

“Hear, hear! Let’s have it, Doctor. Don’t spare a word.”

“Well, to begin at the beginning (no! not with Adam, nor even with the
Dark Ages); some five-and-twenty or so, years before Clough’s EVENT,
men of science began to grope for a clue to the understanding of this
queer riddle of human nature. That action (including speech) depends on
thought, and that action--repeated action--forms character, had long
ago been got at by inductive processes. Now, these meddling scientific
fellows were not content with, It is, because it is! they must needs
come poking round with their everlasting--‘Why?’ This particular ‘Why’
proved a most hard nut to crack; indeed, it is only within living
memory that their guesses at truth have become entirely demonstrable;
but, as early as I said, they had thus much ground under their
feet--analogy and probability were altogether on their side, and it
was impossible to prove, or even to show a fair case for, the contrary
view. These scientists perceived that they were undermining the
methods, the aims, the very idea of education as popularly held. They
indicated new lines, suggested new principles. But their discoveries
were to be like that corn of wheat--first they must fall into the
ground and die. Years passed before educationalists woke up to what
had been done. At last it dawned upon them that it was now possible
to formulate a _science of education_; to propose laws which should
work out definite ends with mathematical certainty. The days of casual
bringing-up were numbered. A basis, and that a physical basis, was
found. The principle which underlies the possibility of all education
was discovered to them as it is to us to-day. They were taught that the
human frame, brain as well as muscle, _grows to the uses it is earliest
put to_. In a hundred years, we have advanced no further in principle,
but we have applied the principle in many directions. It is, indeed,
hardly possible to get beyond the ground covered by this so simple
sounding axiom: that is, it is hardly within our power to overstate the
possibilities of education. _Anything_ may be made of a child by those
who first get him into their hands. No doubt, propagandism becomes the
immediate duty of any who have perceived a saving principle for the
race. And efforts were made in many directions to bring before parents
of all classes the notion that the formation of habits is among the
chief aims of education. Our host’s EVENT is one of these efforts,
and the Parents’ Club spread like wildfire; every one was ready for
it, because people were beginning to feel the wretched uncertainty of
the casual method. How is it, they asked, that, bring up two boys in
the same way, and one turns out a villain, the other, a credit to his
family? Now, the ‘New Education’ deals entirely with individuals; not
with children, but with the child; the faulty habit is supplanted,
observe the word, the desirable habit produced, within a definite
period, say a month or so, and then the parents’ easy work is to keep
the child upon the lines of habit thus produced.”

“Now, stop a minute, Doctor, stop a minute! I’m afraid I’m about to
lose my easily won laurels. You, who are a classical scholar, must know
how familiar to the mind both of Roman and Greek was this doctrine of
habit. Again, a poet of our own, an eighteenth-century man--wasn’t he
Dryden?--expresses capitally the time-out-of-mind English feeling on
this subject--

  “‘Children, like tender osiers, take the bow,
    And, as they first are fashion’d, always grow;
    For what we learn in youth, to that alone
    In age we are by second nature prone.’”

“Most happy; but don’t you see, Dr. Oldcastle, I began by admitting
that people have always had a notion that they must bring up their
children in good habits, and suppress faulty ones. But now, they
have something more than a notion; they have scientific certainty.
And, instead of dawdling through the whole period of childhood with
spasmodic efforts to get a boy to tie his shoe-strings fast, they take
it in hand once and for all, keep incessant watch for the week or two
it will take to form the habit, and then the thing is done with for
a lifetime. The new habit once formed, the parent’s part is no more
than to watch against chance returns to the old ways until the habit
is ingrained in the stuff of the child’s character. Now, don’t you see
that this is a very different thing from the desultory way in which a
child was allowed to try off and on for a habit all his days, and never
got it?”

“I admit there’s a difference; it tallies, too, with what I notice in
the young boys who enter with us. You mean that their mothers have
definitely set themselves for a month or two, say, to form a habit--now
obedience, now truthfulness, now attention, and so on--and that is why
the boys come to me with _character_, not mere disposition?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean; and it’s on these lines we have been
advancing for a whole century. In another direction, too, education has
been going forward; but, here, we have only analogy to guide us, not
yet certainty. It cannot be predicated as yet, whether we are simple or
complex beings, whether in each of us is bound up one life or several.
It is not impossible, for instance, that, just as our physical life is
sustained because multitudinous organisms come to life, feed, grow,
multiply, and die, perpetually in our substance, so, perhaps what we
may call our immaterial life is sustained by multitudinous lives such
as our philosophy has never dreamed of. An idea, for instance, what
is it? We don’t know yet; but this we know, that every idea we get is
quick within us as a living being, that it feeds, grows, multiplies,
and then, behold it is no more! There are bodies natural and there
are bodies spiritual. Perhaps this sort of thing is too immature to
be pressed into service. But of other parts of us, to which names and
ideas of something like personality are attached--conscience, will,
our spiritual being--this it is quite safe to assert: they thrive upon
their appropriate meat and work, they perish of inanition and idleness.
This, too, we take into our scheme of education, and with great
results.”

The Dean got up:--

“I, for one, must heartily thank Dr. Brenton for his most suggestive
lecture. No, don’t look ‘castigated’ Doctor; ’tis a lecture for weight
and worth, but of commendable brevity. Speaking for the ‘cloth’ I
should like to say how much we owe to this educational revolution. A
century ago, our Church was supposed to show some signs of decadence;
to-day she is _quick_ to her remotest extremities. And why? simply
because she has gone with the times in following up the advances of
the ‘New Education.’ She, with the rest of you, perceives that the
world has ever one great thing to do--to bring up the young in advance
of the generation before them; that the sole valuable inheritance the
present has to leave behind is--exalted national character. Wherefore,
she has laboured assiduously on the two lines Dr. Brenton emphasises
to-night--‘that Habit is _ten_ natures’; and, that the spiritual life
must flourish or decay as it is duly fed and exercised, or allowed to
lie idle and unfed. Therefore, is every clergyman instructed, above
all, to minister to the young of his parish--of all classes. The
growing soul cannot thrive upon husks--therefore must the truth be
divested of the husks of the past, and clothed upon with the living
thought of the present. The young soul must be taught its work, the
spiritual exercises of prayer and praise, the bodily exercise of
service; and as no man can teach what he does not know, the minister to
the young must be qualified and ever active in these. Seeing these and
kindred truths, our clergy are raising up about them a body of ardent
young spirits to whom self-sacrifice is a law; labour in spiritual
uplands a necessity. And for much of this progress, I say, we are
indebted to the labours of the ‘New Educationists,’ whom we therefore
gladly hold up with both hands.”

“This is very gratifying hearing; we have all along been very sensible
of the cordiality and helpfulness of the clergy, who so commonly throw
in their lot with us. But that we should be doing them some service all
the time--this is news indeed. May I imitate the Dean, and say a word
professionally. We doctors have reaped where we sowed--and abundantly.
In the old days, families had each ‘their doctor,’ who was called in
now and then to do battle with disease which had already made headway.
But now, people are beginning to see that low vitality, poor physique,
and even organic disease--hereditary or other--are very commonly the
results of faulty education, or bringing up, if that is the better way
of putting it. What is the consequence? Why, the doctor is retained,
like husband or wife, for sickness and health; he is the medical
adviser by the year, or usually by the lifetime. He thrives not on
sickness, but upon health. Drops in on his clients unawares, finds one
girl doubled up over a book, another standing on one foot, notes the
hectic flush and bright eye of this child, the tendency to drowsiness
in that--the flabby arms and quick intelligence of the little town-bred
family, the stolid dulness of the farmer’s boy--for rich and poor come
in course to him. He does not wait for disease to be set up, but averts
the _tendency_; and though he has found no elixir of life, nor means
of averting death--this, he may almost venture to promise his clients,
that so long as they live, they shall live with eye not waxed dim, nor
natural force abated. And all this because he knows that the body, too,
must have its education, its careful regulation, and that bone and
muscle and vital organs alike grow to the _habits_ you set up in them.”

Mr. Hilyard had been using his pencil for the last few minutes, and
was evidently preparing to show on what lines the schools, too, had
been advancing during this age of many revolutions, when--“’Tis eleven
o’clock, and the ladies!” brought the discussion to an end.




                                  NOTE

                     (_To Page 111, Translation._)


Hobbes followed, to the letter, the philosophy which derives ideas
from sense impressions; he did not fear the consequences, and said
boldly that the soul was as subservient to necessity as is society to
despotism. The cultivation of noble and pure aspirations is so firmly
established in England, by political and religious institutions, that
speculation moves round these mighty pillars without ever shaking
them. Hobbes had few supporters in his country, but Locke’s influence
was everywhere felt. He was moral and religious in character, and he
never admitted any of the dangerous arguments which naturally follow in
the train of his theories; the majority of his fellow-countrymen, in
accepting his theories, were inconsistent enough to separate cause from
effect, whilst Hume and the French philosophers, admiring his system,
have applied it in a much more logical way.

Locke’s system of metaphysics had but one effect on the minds of
Englishmen; it dulled their intuitive originality. Even when it
parched the sources of philosophical thought, it could not destroy
the deeply rooted religious sentiment of the nation. But this system
of metaphysics, which was received by all Europe, Germany excepted,
has been one of the chief causes of the spread of immorality; in
the philosophy of the materialist men found the precepts which give
sanction to every immoral practice.




                _Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
                        _Edinburgh and London_




Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have
been left unchanged unless indicated below. Dialect, obsolete and
alternative spellings were left unchanged.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside
down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected.
Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were
added. Spaces were added between run together words. Accents were
adjusted where needed.

The following were changed:

  delighful to delightful, line 2754
  benefical to beneficial, line 3582
  Thackery to Thackeray, Footnote [12]
  carollary to corollary, line 4531
  precedure to procedure, line 6267
  titilated to titillated, line 7550
  De Foe to Defoe, line 7565
  hypocondriac to hypochondriac, line 8140
  incalulable to incalculable, line 12262