10. Sympathy—the Child with the Parent
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(What Abbott means by the power of sympathy in the mind of a child, is its tendency to imbibe the opinions or sentiments, of those whom he loves and respects.)
'The Child with the Parent.'
The subject of sympathy between children and parents is to be considered in two aspects: first, that of the child with the parent; and secondly, that of the parent with the child. That is to say, an emotion may be awakened in the child by its existence and manifestation in the parent—and secondly, it may be awakened in the parent by its existence in the child.
We are all ready to acknowledge in words, the great power and influence of sympathy—but very few are aware how very vast this power is—and how inconceivably great is the function which this principle fulfills in the formation of the human character—and in regulating the conduct of men.
'Mysterious Action of the Principle of Sympathy'.
There is a great mystery in the nature of it—and in the manner of its action. This we see very clearly in the simplest and most striking material form of it—the act of gaping. Why and how does the witnessing of the act of gaping in one person, or even the thought of it, produce a tendency to the same action in the nerves and muscles of another person? When we attempt to trace the chain of connection through the eye, the brain—and the thoughts—through which line of agencies the chain of cause and effect must necessarily run—we are lost and bewildered.
Other states and conditions in which the mental element is more apparent are communicated from one to another in the same or, at least, in some analogous way. Being simply in the presence of one who is amused, or happy, or sad—causes us to feel amused, or happy, or sad ourselves—or, at least, has that tendency—even if we do not know from what cause the emotion which is communicated to us, proceeds. A person of a joyous and happy disposition often brightens up at once any little circle into which he enters, while a morose and melancholy man carries gloom with him wherever he goes. Eloquence, which, if we were to hear it addressed to us personally and individually, in private conversation, would move us very little, will excite us to a pitch of the highest enthusiasm if we hear it in the midst of a vast audience; even though the words—and the gestures—and the inflections of the voice—and the force with which it reaches our ears, were to be precisely the same in the two cases. And so a joke, which would produce only a quiet smile if we read it by ourselves at the fireside alone, will evoke convulsions of laughter when heard in a crowded theater, where the hilarity is shared by thousands.
A new element, indeed, seems to come into action in these last two cases; for the mental condition of one mind is not only communicated to another—but it appears to be increased and intensified by the communication. Each does not feel 'merely' the enthusiasm or the mirth which would naturally be felt by the other—but the general emotion is vastly heightened by its being so largely shared. It is like the case of the live coal, which does not merely set the dead coal on fire by being placed in contact with it—but the two together, when together, burn far more brightly than when apart.
'Wonderful Power of Sympathy'.
So much for the reality of this principle; and it is almost impossible to exaggerate the extent and the magnitude of the influence it exerts in forming the character and shaping the ideas and opinions of people—and in regulating all their ordinary habits of thought and feeling. People's opinions are not generally formed or controlled by arguments or reasonings—as they might fondly suppose. They are imbibed by sympathy from those whom they like or love—and who are, or have been, their associates. Thus people, when they arrive at maturity, adhere in the main to the associations, both in religion and in politics, in which they have been brought up, from the influence of sympathy with those whom they love. They believe in this or that doctrine or system—not because they have been convinced by proof—but chiefly because those whom they love believe in them.
On religious questions, the arguments are presented to them, it is true, while they are young, in catechisms and in other forms of religious instruction—and in politics by the conversations which they overhear; but it is a mistake to suppose that arguments thus offered have any material effect as processes of reasoning, in producing any logical conviction upon their minds. An English boy is Whig or Tory because his father—and his brothers—and his uncles are Whigs or Tories. He may, indeed, have many arguments at his command with which to maintain his opinions—but it is not the force of the arguments that has convinced him, nor do they have any force as a means of convincing the other boys to whom he offers them. 'They' are controlled by their sympathies, as he is by his. But if he is a popular boy—and makes himself a favorite among his companions, the very fact that he is of this or that party will have more effect upon the other boys, than the most logical and conclusive trains of reasoning that can be conceived.
So it is with the religious and political differences in this and in every other country. Everyone's opinions—or rather the opinion of people in general, for of course there are many individual exceptions—are formed from sympathy with those with whom in mind and heart they have been in friendly communication during their years of childhood and youth. And even in those cases where people change their religious opinions in adult age, the explanation of the mystery is generally to be found, not in seeking for the 'argument which convinced them'—but for the 'person who led them', in the accomplishment of the change. For such changes can very often—and perhaps generally, be traced to some person or people whose influence over them, if carefully scrutinized, would be found to consist really not in the force of the arguments they offered—but in the magic power of a silent and perhaps unconscious sympathy. The way, therefore, to convert people to our ideas and opinions is to make them like us or love us—and then to avoid arguing with them—but simply let them perceive what our ideas and opinions are.
The well-known proverb, "Example is better than precept," is only another form of expressing the predominating power of sympathy; for example can have little influence except so far as a sympathetic feeling in the observer leads him to imitate it. So that, example is better than precept—means only that sympathy has more influence in the human heart than reasoning.
'The Power of Sympathy in Childhood'.
This principle, so powerful at every period of life, is at its maximum in childhood. It is the origin, in a very great degree, of the spirit of imitation which forms so remarkable a characteristic of the first years of life. The child's thoughts and feelings being spontaneously drawn into harmony with the thoughts and feelings of those around him whom he loves—leads, of course, to a reproduction of their actions—and the prevalence and universality of the effect, shows how constant and how powerful is the cause. So the great secret of success for a mother, in the formation of the character of her children, is to make her children respect and love her—and then simply to 'be' herself what she wishes them to be.
And to make them respect and love her, is to control them by a firm government where control is required—and to indulge them almost without limit, where indulgence will do no harm.
'Special Application of the Principle'.
But besides this general effect of the principle of sympathy in aiding parents in forming the minds and hearts of their children, there are a great many cases in which a father or mother who understands the secret of its wonderful and almost magic power, can avail themselves of it to produce special effects. One or two examples will show more clearly what I mean.
William's aunt Maria came to pay his mother a visit in the village where they lived. On the same day she went to take a walk with William—who is about nine years old—to see the village. As they went along together upon the sidewalk, they came to two small boys who were trying to fly a kite. One of the boys was standing upon the sidewalk, embarrassed a little by some entanglement of the string.
"Hey, fellow!" said William, as he and his aunt approached the spot, "get out of the way with your kite—and let us go by."
The boy hurried out of the way—and, in so doing, got his kite-string more entangled in the branches of a tree which grew at the margin of the sidewalk.
Now William's aunt might have taken the occasion, as she and her nephew walked along, to give him some kind and friendly instruction or counsel about the duty of being kind to everybody in any difficulty, trouble, or perplexity, whether they are young or old; showing him how we increase the general sum of happiness in so doing—and how we feel happier ourselves when we have done good to anyone, than when we have increased in any way, or even slighted or disregarded, their troubles. How William would receive such a lecture, would depend a great deal upon his disposition and state of mind. But in most cases such counsels, given at such a time, involving, as they would, some covert though very gentle censure, would cause the heart of the boy to close itself in a greater or less degree against them, like the leaves of a sensitive-plant shrinking from the touch. The reply would very probably be, "Well, he had no business to be on the sidewalk, right in our way."
William and his aunt walked on a few steps. His aunt then stopped, hesitatingly—and said, "How would it do to go back and help that boy disentangle his kite-string? He's a little fellow—and does not know as much about kites and kite-strings as you do."
Here the suggestion of giving help to perplexity and distress, came associated with a compliment instead of what implied censure—and the leaves of the sensitive-plant expanded at once—and widely, to the congenial influence.
"Yes!" said William; "let's go!"
So his aunt turned and went back a step or two—and then said, "You can go and do it without me. I'll wait here till you come back. I don't suppose you want any help from me. If you do, I'll come."
"No," aid William, "I can do it alone."
So William ran on with great alacrity to help the boys clear the string—and then came back with a beaming face to his aunt—and they walked on.
William's aunt made no further allusion to the affair until the end of the walk—and then, on entering the gate, she said, "We have had a very pleasant walk—and you have taken very good care of me. And I am glad we helped those boys out of their trouble with the kite."
"So am I!" said William.
'Analysis of the Incident'.
Now it is possible that some one may say that William was wrong in his harsh treatment of the boys, or at least in his lack of consideration for their perplexity; and that his aunt, by her mode of treating the case, covered up the wrong, when it ought to have been brought distinctly to view and openly amended. But when we come to analyze the case, we shall find that it is not at all certain that there was anything wrong on William's part in the transaction, so far as the state of his heart, in a moral point of view, is concerned. All such incidents are very complicated in their nature—and in their bearings and relations. They present many aspects which vary according to the point of view from which they are regarded. Even grown people do not always see all the different aspects of an affair in respect to which they are called upon to act or to form an opinion—and children, perhaps, never; and in judging their conduct, we must always consider the aspect in which the action is presented to their minds. In this case, William was thinking only of his aunt. He wished to make her walk convenient and agreeable to her. The boy disentangling his string on the sidewalk was to him, at that time, simply an obstacle in his aunt's way—and he dealt with it as such, sending the boy off as an act of kindness and attention to his aunt solely. The idea of a sentient being suffering distress which he might either increase by harshness or relieve by help, was not present in his mind at all. We may say that he ought to have thought of this. But a youthful mind, still imperfect in its development, cannot be expected to take cognizance at once of all the aspects of a transaction which tends in different directions to different results. It is true, that he ought to have thought of the distress of the boys, if we mean that he ought to be taught or trained to think of such distress when he witnessed it; and that was exactly what his aunt was endeavoring to do. We ourselves have learned, by long experience of life, to perceive at once the many different aspects which an affair may present—and the many different results which may flow in various directions from the same action; and we often inconsiderately blame children, simply because their minds are yet so imperfectly developed that they cannot take simultaneous cognizance of more than one or two of them. This is the true understanding of most of what is called heedlessness in children—and for which, poor things, they receive so many harsh reprimands and so much punishment.
A little girl, for example, undertakes to water her sister's plants. In her praiseworthy desire to do her work well and thoroughly, she fills the mug too full—and spills the water upon some books that are lying upon the table. The explanation of the misfortune is simply that her mind was filled, completely filled, with the thoughts of helping her sister. The thought of the possibility of spilling the water, did not come into her mind at all. There was no room for it while the other thought, so engrossing, was there; and to say that she 'ought' to have thought of both the results which might follow her action, is only to say that she ought to be older.
'Sympathy as the Origin of childish Fears'.
The 'power of sympathy' in the mind of a child—that is, its tendency to imbibe the opinions or sentiments manifested by others in their presence—may be made very effectual, not only in inculcating principles of right and wrong—but in relation to every other idea or emotion! Children are afraid of thunder and lightning, or of robbers at night, or of ghosts—because they perceive that their parents, or older brothers or sisters, are afraid of them. Where the parents do not believe in ghosts, the children are not afraid of them; unless, indeed, there are domestics in the house, or playmates at school, or other companions from whom they take the contagion. So, what they see that their parents value—they prize themselves. They imbibe from their playmates at school a very large proportion of their tastes, their opinions, and their ideas—not through arguments or reasoning—but from sympathy! And most of the wrong or foolish notions of any kind that they have acquired have not been established in their minds by false reasoning—but have been taken by sympathy, as a disease is communicated by infection; and the remedy is in most cases, not reasoning—but a countervailing sympathy.
'Afraid of a Kitten'.
Little Jane was very much afraid of a kitten which her brother brought home—the first that she had known. She had, however, seen a picture of a tiger or some other feline animal devouring a man in a forest—and had been frightened by it; and she had heard too, perhaps, of children being scratched by cats or kittens. So, when the kitten was brought in and put down on the floor, she ran to her sister in great terror—and began to cry.
Now her sister might have attempted to reason with her by explaining the difference between the kitten and the wild animals of the same class in the woods—and by assuring her that thousands of children have kittens to play with and are never scratched by them so long as they treat them kindly—and all without producing any sensible effect. But, instead of this, she adopted a different plan. She took the child up into her lap—and after quieting her fears, began to talk to the kitten.
"Poor little pussy," said she, "I am glad you have come. You never scratch anybody, I am sure, if they are kind to you. Jennie will give you some milk some day—and she and I will like to see you lap it up with your pretty little tongue. And we will give you a ball to play with some day upon the carpet. See, Jennie, see! She is going to lie down upon the rug. She is glad that she has come to such a nice home. Now she is putting her head down—but she has not any pillow to lay it upon. Wouldn't you like a pillow, kitty? Jennie will make you a pillow some day, I am sure, if you would like one. Jennie is beginning to learn to sew—and she could make you a nice pillow—and stuff it with cotton wool. Then we can see you lying down upon the rug, with the pillow under your head that Jennie will have made for you—all comfortable."
Such a talk as this, though it could not be expected entirely and at once to dispel Jennie's unfounded fears, would be far more effectual towards beginning the desired change than any arguments or reasoning could possibly be.
Any mother who will reflect upon the principle here explained will at once recall to mind many examples and illustrations of its power over the hearts and minds of children which her own experience has afforded. And if she begins practically and systematically to appeal to it, she will find herself in possession of a new element of power—new, at least, to her realization—the exercise of which will be as easy and agreeable to herself as it will be effective in its influence over her children.
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