11. Sympathy—the Parent with the Child
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I think there can be no doubt that the most effectual way of securing the confidence and love of children—and of acquiring an ascendancy over them—is by sympathizing with them in their child-like hopes and fears—and joys and sorrows—in their ideas, their fancies—and even in their caprices—in all cases where duty is not concerned. Indeed, the more child-like, that is, the more peculiar to the children themselves, the feelings are that we enter into with them, the closer is the bond of kindness and affection that is formed.
'An Example'.
If a gentleman coming to reside in a new town concludes that it is desirable that he should be on good terms with the boys in the streets, there are various ways by which he can seek to accomplish the end. Fortunately for him, the simplest and easiest mode is the most effectual. On going into the village one day, we will suppose he sees two small boys playing horse. One boy is horse—and the other driver. He stops to look at them with a pleased expression of countenance—and then says, addressing the driver, with a face of much seriousness, "That's a first-rate horse of yours. Would you like to sell him? He seems to be very spirited." The horse immediately begins to prance and caper. "You must have paid a high price for him. You must take good care of him. Give him plenty of oats—and don't drive him hard when it is hot weather. And if ever you conclude to sell him, I wish you would let me know."
So saying, the gentleman walks on—and the horse, followed by his driver, goes galloping forward in high glee.
Now, by simply manifesting thus a fellow-feeling with the boys in their childish play, the stranger not only gives a fresh impulse to their enjoyment at the time—but establishes a friendly relationship between them and him which, without his doing anything to strengthen or perpetuate it, will of itself endure for a long time. If he does not speak to the boys again for months, every time they meet him they will be ready to greet him with a smile.
The incident will go much farther towards establishing friendly relations between him and them than any presents that he could make them—except so far as his presents were of such a kind—and were given in such a way, as to be expressions of kindly feeling towards them—that is to say, such as to constitute of themselves a manifestation of sympathy.
The uncle who gives his nephews and nieces presents, let them be ever so costly or beautiful—and takes no interest in their affairs, never inspires them with any feeling of personal affection. They like him as they like the apple-tree which bears them sweet and juicy apples, or the cow that gives them milk—which is on their part a very different sentiment from that which they feel for the kitten that plays with them and shares their joys—or even for their dolls, which are only pictured in their imagination as sharing them.
'Sophronia and Aurelia'.
Miss Sophronia calls at a house to make a visit. A child of seven or eight years of age is playing upon the floor. After a little time, at a pause in the conversation, she calls the child—addressing her as "My little girl"—to come to her. The child—a shade being cast over her mind by being thus unnecessarily reminded of her littleness—hesitates to come. The mother says, "Come and shake hands with the lady, my dear!" The child comes reluctantly. Miss Sophronia asks what her name is, how old she is, whether she goes to school, what she studies there—and whether she likes to go to school—and at length releases her. The child, only too glad to be free from such a tiresome visitor, goes back to her play—and afterwards the only ideas she has associated with the person of her visitor are those relating to her school and her lessons, which may or may not be of an agreeable character.
Presently, after Miss Sophronia has gone, Miss Aurelia comes in. After some conversation with the mother, she goes to see what the child is building with her blocks. After looking on for a moment with an expression of interest in her countenance, she asks her if she has a doll. The child says she has four. Miss Aurelia then asks which she likes best—and expresses a desire to see that one. The child, much pleased, runs away to bring it—and presently comes back with all four. Miss Aurelia takes them in her hands, examines them, talks about them—and talks to them; and when at last the child goes back to her play, she goes with the feeling in her heart that she has found a new friend.
Thus, to bring ourselves near to the hearts of children, we must go to them by entering into 'their world'. They cannot come to us by entering ours. They have no experience of it—and cannot understand it. But we have had experience of theirs—and can enter it if we choose; and in that way we bring ourselves very near to them.
'Sympathy must be Sincere'.
But the sympathy which we thus express with children, in order to be effectual, must be sincere and genuine—and not pretended. We must renew our own childish ideas and imaginations—and become for the moment, in feeling, one with them, so that the interest which we express in what they are saying or doing may be real—and not merely pretended. They seem to have a natural instinct to distinguish between an honest and actual sharing of their thoughts and emotions—and all mere condescension and pretense, however adroitly it may be disguised.
'Lack of Time'.
Some mothers may perhaps say that they have not time thus to enter into the ideas and occupations of their children. They are engrossed with the serious cares of life, or busy with its various occupations. But it does not require time. It is not a question of time—but of manner. The farmer's wife, for example, is busy ironing, or sewing, or preparing breakfast for her husband and sons, who are expected every moment to come in hungry from their work. Her little daughter, ten years old, comes to show her a shawl she has been making from a piece of calico for her doll. The busy mother thinks she must say, "Yes; but run away now, Mary; I am very busy!"—because that is the easiest and quickest thing to say; but it is just as easy and just as quick to say, "What a pretty shawl! Play now that you are going to take Minette out for a walk in it!" The one mode sends the child away repulsed and a little disappointed; the other pleases her and makes her happy—and tends, moreover, to form a new bond of union and sympathy between her mother's heart and her own.
A merchant, engrossed all day in his business, comes home to his house at dinner-time—and meets his boy of fifteen on the steps returning from his school. "Well, James," he says, as they walk together up stairs, "I hope you have been a good boy at school today." James, not knowing what to say, makes some inaudible or unmeaning reply. His father then goes on to say that he hopes his boy will be diligent and attentive to his studies—and improve his time well, as his future success in life will depend upon the use which he makes of his advantages while he is young; and then leaves him at the head of the stairs, each to go to his room.
All this is very well. Advice given under such circumstances and in such a way produces, undoubtedly, a certain good effect—but it does not tend at all to bring the father and son together. But if, instead of giving this common-place advice, the father asks—supposing it to be winter at the time—"Which kind of skates are the most popular among the boys nowadays, James?" Then, after hearing his reply, he asks him what 'his' opinion is—and whether any great improvement has been made within a short time—and whether any of the patent inventions are of much consequence. The tendency of such a conversation as this, equally brief with the other, will be to draw the father and son more together. Even in a moral point of view, the influence would be, indirectly, very beneficial; for although no moral counsel or instruction was given at the time, the effect of such a participation in the thoughts with which the boy's mind is occupied is to strengthen the bond of union between the heart of the boy and that of his father—and thus to make the boy far more ready to receive and be guided by the advice or admonitions of his father on other occasions.
Let no one suppose, from these illustrations, that they are intended to inculcate the idea that a father is to lay aside the parental counsels and instructions that he has been accustomed to give to his children—and replace them by talks about skates! They are only intended to show one aspect of the difference of effect produced by the two kinds of conversation—and that the father, if he wishes to gain and retain an influence over the hearts of his boys, must descend sometimes into the world in which they live—and with which their thoughts are occupied—and must enter it, not merely as a spectator, or a fault-finder, or a counselor—but as a sharer, to some extent, in the ideas and feelings which are appropriate to it.
'Ascendancy over the Minds of Children'.
Sympathizing with children in their own pleasures and enjoyments, however childish they may seem to us when we do not regard them, as it were, with children's eyes—is, perhaps, the most powerful of all the means at our command for gaining a powerful ascendancy over them. This will lead us not to interfere with their own plans and ideas—but to be willing that they should be happy in their own way. In respect to their duties, those connected, for example, with their studies, their serious employments—and their compliance with directions of any kind emanating from superior authority, of course their will must be under absolute subjection to the will of those who are older and wiser than they. In all such things they must bring their thoughts and actions into accord with ours. In these things they must come to us, not we to them. But in everything that relates to their child-like pleasures and joys, their modes of recreation and amusement, their playful explorations of the mysteries of things—and the various novelties around them in the strange world into which they find themselves ushered—in all these things we must not attempt to bring them to us—but we must go to them. In this, their own sphere, the more perfectly they are at liberty, the better; and if we join them in it at all, we must do so by bringing our ideas and wishes into accord with theirs.
'Foolish Fears'.
The effect of our sympathy with children in winning their confidence and love, is all the more powerful when it is exercised in cases where they are naturally inclined not to expect sympathy—that is, in relation to feelings which they would suppose that older people would be inclined to condemn. Perhaps the most striking example of this is in what is commonly called foolish fears. Now a fear is foolish or otherwise, not according to the absolute facts involving the supposed danger—but according to the means which the person in question has of knowing the facts. A lady, for example, in passing along the sidewalk of a great city comes to a place where workmen are raising an immense and ponderous iron safe, which, slowly rising, hangs suspended twenty feet above the walk. She is afraid to pass under it. The foreman, however, who is engaged in directing the operation, passing freely to and fro under the impending weight, as he has occasion—and without the least concern, smiles, perhaps, at the lady's "foolish fears." But the fears which might, perhaps, be foolish in him, are not so in her, since he 'knows' the nature and the strength of the machinery and securities above—and she does not. She only knows that accidents do sometimes happen from lack of due precaution in raising heavy weights—and she does not know—and has no means of knowing, whether or not the due precautions have been taken in this case. So she manifests good sense—and not folly, in going out of her way to avoid all possibility of danger.
This is really the proper explanation of a large class of what are usually termed foolish fears. Viewed in the light of the individual's knowledge of the facts in the case, they are sensible fears—and not foolish ones at all.
A girl of twelve, from the city, spending the summer in the country, wishes to go down to the river to join her brothers there—but is stopped by observing a cow in a field which she has to cross. She comes back to the house—and is there laughed at for her foolishness in being "afraid of a cow!"
But why should she not be afraid of a cow? She has heard stories of people being gored by bulls—and sometimes by cows—and she has no means whatever of estimating the reality or the extent of the danger in any particular case. The farmer's daughters, however, who laugh at her, know the cow in question perfectly well. They have milked her—and fed her—and tied her up to her manger a hundred times; so, while it would be a very foolish thing for them to be afraid to cross a field where the cow was feeding, it is a very sensible thing for the stranger-girl from the city to be so.
Nor would it certainly change the case much for the child, if the farmer's girls were to assure her that the cow was perfectly peaceable—and that there was no danger; for she does not know the girls any better than she does the cow—and cannot judge how far their statements or opinions are to be relied upon. It may possibly not be the cow they think it is. They are very positive, it is true; but very positive people are often mistaken. Besides, the cow may be peaceable with them—and yet be disposed to attack a stranger. What a child requires in such a case is sympathy and help, not ridicule.
She does meet with sympathy in the form of the farmer's son, a young man browned in face and plain in attire, who comes along while she stands loitering at the fence looking at the cow—and not daring after all, notwithstanding the assurances she has received at the house—to cross the field. His name is Joseph—and he is a natural gentleman—a class of people of whom a much larger number is found in this humble guise—and a much smaller number in proportion among the fashionables in elegant life, than is often supposed. "Yes," says Joseph, after hearing the child's statement of the case, "you are right. Cows are sometimes vicious, I know; and you are perfectly right to be on your guard against such as you do not know when you meet them in the country. This one, as it happens, is very kind; but still, I will go through the field with you."
So he goes with her through the field, stopping on the way to talk a little to the cow—and to feed her with an apple which he has in his pocket.
It is in this spirit that the fears—and antipathies—and false imaginations of children are generally to be dealt with; though, of course, there may be many exceptions to the general rule.
'When Children are in the Wrong'.
There is a certain sense in which we should feel a sympathy with children in the wrong that they do. It would seem paradoxical to say that in any sense there should be sympathy with sin—and yet there is a sense in which this is true, though perhaps, strictly speaking—it is sympathy with the trial and temptation which led to the sin, rather than with the act of transgression itself.
In whatever light a nice metaphysical analysis would lead us to regard it, it is certain that the most successful efforts that have been made by philanthropists for reaching the hearts and reforming the conduct of criminals and malefactors, have been prompted by a feeling of compassion for them, not merely for the sorrows and sufferings which they have brought upon themselves by their wrongdoing—but for the mental conflicts which they endured, the fierce impulses of appetite and passion, more or less connected with and dependent upon the material condition of the bodily organs, under the onset of which their feeble moral sense, never really brought into a condition of health and vigor, was over-borne. These merciful views of the diseased condition and action of the soul in the commission of crime are not only in themselves right views for man to take of the crimes and sins of his fellow-man—but they lie at the foundation of all effort that can afford any serious hope of promoting reformation.
This principle is eminently true in its application to children. They need the influence of a kind and considerate sympathy when they have done wrong—more, perhaps, than at any other time. And the effects of the proper manifestation of this sympathy on the part of the mother will, perhaps, be greater and more beneficial in this case than in any other. Of course the sympathy must be of the right kind—and must be expressed in the right way, so as not to allow the tenderness or compassion for the wrong-doer, to be mistaken for approval or justification of the wrong.
'Case supposed'.
A boy, for instance, comes home from school in a state of great distress—and perhaps of indignation and resentment, on account of having been punished. Mothers sometimes say at once, in such a case, "I don't pity you at all. I have no doubt you deserved it." This only increases the tumult of commotion in the boy's mind, without at all tending to help him to feel a sense of his guilt. His mind, still imperfectly developed, cannot take cognizance simultaneously of all the parts and all the aspects of a complicated transaction. The sense of his wrong-doing, which forms in his teacher's and in his mother's mind so essential a part of the transaction, is not present in his conceptions at all. There is no room for it, so totally engrossed are all his faculties with the stinging recollections of suffering, the tumultuous emotions of anger and resentment—and now with the additional thought that even his mother has taken part against him. The mother's conception of the transaction is equally limited and imperfect, though in a different way. She thinks only that if she were to treat the child with kindness and sympathy, she would be taking the part of a bad boy against his teacher; whereas, in reality, she might do it in such a way as only to be taking the part of a suffering boy against his pain.
It would seem that the true and proper course for a mother to take with a child in such a case, would be to soothe and calm his agitation—and to listen, if need be, to his account of the affair, without questioning or controverting it at all, however plainly she may see that, under the blinding and distorting influence of his excitement, he is misrepresenting the facts. Let him tell his story. Listen to it patiently to the end. It is not necessary to express or even to form an opinion on the merits of it. The ready and willing hearing of one side of a case does not commit the tribunal to a decision in favor of that side. On the other hand, it is the only way to give weight and a sense of impartiality to a decision against it.
Thus the mother may sympathize with her boy in his troubles, appreciate fully the force of the circumstances which led him into the wrong—and help to soothe and calm his agitation—and thus take his part—and place herself closely to him in respect to his suffering, without committing herself at all in regard to the original cause of it; and then, at a subsequent time, when the tumult of his soul has subsided, she can, if she thinks best, far more easily and effectually lead him to see wherein he was wrong.
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