12. Commendation and Encouragement
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We are very apt to imagine that the disposition to do right is, or ought to be, the natural and normal condition of childhood—and that doing wrong is something unnatural and exceptional with children. As a consequence, when they do right we think there is nothing to be said. We think that the child's doing right is, or ought to be, a matter of course. It is only when they do wrong that we notice their conduct—and then, of course, with censure and reproaches. Thus our discipline consists mainly, not in gently leading and encouraging them in the right way—but in deterring them, by fault-finding and punishment, from going wrong.
Now we ought not to forget that in respect to moral conduct, as well as to mental attainments, children know nothing when they come into the world—but have everything to learn, either from the instructions or from the example of those around them. We do not propose to enter at all into the consideration of the various theological and metaphysical theories held by different classes of philosophers in respect to the native constitution and original tendencies of the human soul—but to look at the phenomena of mental and moral action in a plain and practical way, as they present themselves to the observation of mothers in the every-day walks of life. And in order the better to avoid any complication with these theories, we will take first an extremely simple case, namely, the fault of making too much noise in opening and shutting the door in going in and out of a room.
Georgie and Charlie are two boys, both about five years old—and both prone to the same fault. We will suppose that their mothers take opposite methods to correct them; Georgie's mother depending upon the influence of commendation and encouragement when he does right—and Charlie's, upon the efficacy of reproaches and punishments when he does wrong.
'One Method'.
Georgie, eager to ask his mother some question, or to obtain some permission in respect to his play, bursts into her room some morning with great noise, opening and shutting the door violently—and making much disturbance. In a certain sense he is not to blame for this, for he is wholly unconscious of the disturbance he makes. The entire cognizant capacity of his mind is occupied with the object of his request. He not only had no intention of doing any harm—but has no idea of his having done any.
His mother takes no notice of the noise he made—but answers his question—and he goes away making almost as much noise in going out as he did in coming in.
The next time he comes in it happens—entirely by accident, we will suppose—that he makes a little less noise than before. This furnishes his mother with her opportunity.
"Georgie," she says, "I see you are improving."
"Improving?" repeats Georgie, not knowing to what his mother refers.
"Yes," said his mother; "you are improving, in coming into the room without making a noise by opening and shutting the door. You did not make nearly as much noise this time as you did before when you came in. Some boys, whenever they come into a room, make so much noise in opening and shutting the door, that it is very disagreeable. If you go on improving as you have begun, you will soon come in as still as any gentleman."
The next time that Georgie comes in, he takes the utmost pains to open and shut the door as silently as possible.
He makes his request. His mother shows herself unusually ready to grant it.
"You opened and shut the door like a gentleman," she says. "I ought to do everything for you that I can, when you take so much pains not to disturb or trouble me."
'Another Method'.
Charlie's mother, on the other hand, acts on a different principle. Charlie comes in sometimes, we will suppose, in a quiet and proper manner. His mother takes no notice of this. She considers it a matter of course. By-and-by, however, under the influence of some special eagerness, he makes a great noise. Then his mother interposes. She breaks out upon him with, "Charlie, what a loud noise you make! Don't you know better than to slam the door in that way when you come in? If you can't learn to make less noise in going in and out—I shall not let you go in and out at all."
Charlie knows very well that this is an empty threat. Still, the utterance of it—and the scolding that accompanies it, irritate him a little—and the only possible good effect that can be expected to result from it is to make him try, the next time he comes in, to see how small an abatement of the noise he usually makes will do, as a kind of make-believe obedience to his mother's command. He might, indeed, honestly answer his mother's angry question by saying that he does 'not' know better than to make such a noise. He does not know why the noise of the door should be disagreeable to his mother. It is not disagreeable to 'him'. On the contrary, it is agreeable. Children always like noise, especially if they make it themselves. And although Charlie has often been told that he must not make any noise, the reason for this—namely, that though noise is a source of pleasure, generally, to children, especially when they make it themselves, it is almost always a source of annoyance and pain to grown people—has never really entered his mind so as to be actually comprehended us a practical reality. His ideas in respect to the philosophy of the transaction are, of course, exceedingly vague; but so far as he forms any idea, it is that his mother's words are the expression of some mysterious but unreasonable sensitiveness on her part, which awakens in her a spirit of fault-finding and angry-mood that vents itself upon him in blaming him for nothing at all; or, as he would express it more tersely, if not so elegantly, that she is "very cross." In other words, the impression made by the transaction upon his moral sense is that of wrong-doing on his 'mother's part'—and not at all on his own.
It is evident, when we thus look into the secret workings of this method of curing children of their faults, that even when it is successful in restraining certain kinds of outward misconduct—and is thus the means of effecting some small amount of good— the injury which it does by its reaction on the spirit of the child may be vastly greater, through the irritation and vexation which it occasions—and the impairing of his confidence in the justice and goodness of his mother.
Before leaving this illustration, it must be carefully observed that in the first-mentioned case—namely, that of Georgie—the work of curing the fault in question is not to be at all considered as 'effected' by the step taken by his mother which has been already described. That was only a beginning—a 'right' beginning, it is true—but still only a beginning. It produced in him a cordial willingness to do right, in one instance. That is a great thing—but it is, after all, only one single step. The work is not complete until a 'habit' of doing right is formed, which is another thing altogether—and requires special and continual measures directed to this particular end. Children have to be 'trained' in the way they should go—not merely shown the way—and induced to make a beginning of entering it. We will now try to show how the influence of commendation and encouragement may be brought into action in this more essential part of the process.
'Habit to be Formed'.
Having taken the first step already described, Georgie's mother finds some proper opportunity, when she can have the undisturbed and undivided attention of her boy—perhaps at night, after he has gone to his his trundle-bed—and just before she leaves him; or, perhaps, at some time while she is at work—and he is sitting by her side, with his mind calm, quiet—and unoccupied.
"Georgie," she says, "I have a plan to propose to you."
Georgie is eager to know what it is.
"You know how pleased I was when you came in so quietly today."
Georgie remembers it very well.
"It is very curious," continued his mother, "that there is a great difference between grown people and children about noise. Children 'like' almost all kinds of noises very much, especially, if they make the noises themselves; but grown people dislike them even more, I think, than children like them. If there were a number of boys in the house—and I would tell them that they might run back and forth through the rooms—and rattle and slam all the doors as they went as loud as they could, they would like it very much. They would think it excellent fun."
"Yes," says Georgie, "indeed, they would. I wish you would let us do it some day."
"But grown people," continues his mother, "would not like such an amusement at all. On the contrary, such a racket would be excessively disagreeable to them, whether they made it themselves or whether somebody else made it. So, when children come into a room where grown people are sitting—and make a noise in opening and shutting the door, it is very disagreeable. Of course, grown people always like those children the best, who come into a room quietly—and in a gentlemanly and lady-like manner."
As this explanation comes in connection with Georgia's having done right—and with the commendation which he has received for it, his mind and heart are open to receive it, instead of being disposed to resist and exclude it—as he would have been if the same things exactly had been said to him in connection with censure and reproaches for having acted in violation of the principle.
"Yes, mother," says he, "and I mean always to open and shut the door as still as I can."
"Yes, I know you 'mean' to do so," rejoined his mother, "but you will forget, unless you have some plan to make you remember it until the 'habit is formed'. Now I have a plan to propose to help you form the habit. When you get the habit once formed there will be no more difficulty.
"The plan is this: whenever you come into a room making a noise, I will simply say, 'Noise!' Then you will step back again softly and shut the door—and then come in again in a quiet and proper way. You will not go back as a punishment, for you would not have made the noise on purpose—and so would not deserve any punishment. It is only to help you remember—and so to form the habit of coming into a room in a quiet and gentlemanly manner."
Now Georgie, especially if all his mother's management of him is conducted in this spirit, will enter into this plan with great cordiality.
"I would not propose this plan," continued his mother, "if I thought that when I say 'Noise!'—and you have to go out and come in again, it would put you out of sorts—and make you cross or sullen. I am sure you will be good-natured about it—and even if you consider it a kind of punishment, that you will go out willingly—and take the punishment like a man; and when you come in again you will come in still—and look pleased and happy to find that you are carrying out the plan honorably."
Then if, on the first occasion when he is sent back, he 'does' take it good-naturedly, this must be noticed and commended.
Now, unless we are entirely wrong in all our ideas of the nature and tendencies of the childish mind, it is as certain that a course of procedure like this will be successful in curing the fault which is the subject of treatment, as that water will extinguish fire. It cures it, too, without occasioning any irritation, annoyance, or bad-mood in the mind either of mother or child. On the contrary, it is a source of real satisfaction and pleasure to them both—and increases and strengthens the bond of sympathy by which their hearts are united to each other.
'The Principle involved'.
It must be understood distinctly that this case is given only as an illustration of a principle, which is applicable to all cases. The act of opening and shutting a door in a noisy manner is altogether too insignificant a fault to deserve this long discussion of the method of curing it, were it not that methods founded on the same principles, and conducted in the same spirit—are applicable universally in all that pertains to the domestic management of children. And it is a method, too, directly the opposite of that which is often—I will not say generally—but certainly very often pursued.
The child tells the truth many times—and in some cases, perhaps, when the inducement was very strong to tell an untruth. We take no notice of these cases, considering it a matter of course that he should tell the truth. We reserve our action altogether for the first case when, overcome by a sudden temptation, he tells a lie—and then interpose with reproaches and punishment.
Perhaps nineteen times he gives up what belongs to his little brother or sister of his own accord, perhaps after a severe internal struggle. The twentieth time the result of the struggle goes the wrong way—and he attempts to retain by violence what does not belong to him. We take no notice of the nineteen cases when the little fellow did right—but come and box his ears in the one case when he does wrong.
'Origin of the Error'.
The idea on which this improper mode of treatment is founded—namely, that it is a 'matter of course' that children will do right, so that when they do right there is nothing to be said—and that doing wrong is the abnormal condition and exceptional action which alone requires the parent to interfere—is, to a great extent, a mistake. Indeed, the 'matter of course' is all the other way. As a 'matter of course' that children will do wrong! A babe will seize the plaything of another babe without the least compunction, long after it is keenly alive to the injustice and wrongfulness of having its own playthings taken by any other child. So in regard to truth.
The first impulse of all children, when they have just acquired the use of language, is to use it in such a way as to effect their object for the time being, without any sense of the sacred obligation of making the words always correspond truly with the facts. The principles of doing justice to the rights of others—to one's own damage; and of speaking the truth—when falsehood would serve the present purpose better; are principles that are developed or acquired by slow degrees—and at a later period. I say developed 'or' acquired—for different classes of metaphysicians and theologians entertain different theories in respect to the way by which the ideas of right and of duty enter into the human mind. But all will agree in this—that whatever may be the origin of the moral sense in man, it does not appear as a 'practical element of control for the conduct' until some time after the physical appetites and passions have begun to exercise their power.
Whether we regard this sense as arising from a development within of a latent principle of the soul, or as an essential element of the inherited and native constitution of man, though remaining for a time embryonic and inert, or as a habit acquired under the influence of instruction and example—all will admit that the period of its appearance as a perceptible motive of action is so delayed—and the time required for its attaining sufficient strength to exercise any real and effectual control over the conduct extends over so many of the earlier years of life, that no very material help in governing the appetites and passions and impulses can be reasonably expected from it at a very early period. Indeed, conscience, so far as its existence is manifested at all in childhood, seems to show itself chiefly in the form of the simple 'fear of detection' in what there is reason to suppose will lead, if discovered, to reproaches or punishment.
At any rate, the moral sense in childhood, whatever may be our philosophy in respect to the origin and the nature of it, cannot be regarded as a strong and settled principle on which we can throw the responsibility of regulating the conduct—and holding it sternly to its obligations. The moral sense in childhood is, on the contrary, a very tender plant, slowly coming forward to the development of its beauty and its power—and requiring the most gentle fostering and care on the part of those entrusted with the training of the infant mind; and the influence of commendation and encouragement when the youthful monitor succeeds in its incipient and feeble efforts—will be far more effectual in promoting its development, than that of censure and punishment when it fails.
'Important Caution'.
For every good thing there seems to be something in its form and semblance that is spurious and bad. The principle brought to view in this chapter has its counterfeit, in theindiscriminate praise and flattery of children by their parents, which only makes them self-conceited and vain, without at all promoting any good end. The distinction between the two might be easily pointed out, if time and space permitted; but the intelligent parent, who has rightly comprehended the method of management here described—and the spirit in which the process of applying it is to be made, will be in no danger of confounding one with the other.
This principle of noticing and commending, within proper limits and restrictions, what is right; rather than finding fault with what is wrong, will be found to be as important in the work of instruction—as in the regulation of conduct. We have, in fact, a very good opportunity of comparing the two systems, as it is a curious fact that in certain things it is almost the universal custom to adopt one method—and in certain others, the other.
'The two Methods exemplified'.
There are, for example, two arts which children have to learn, in the process of their mental and physical development, in which their faults, errors, and deficiencies are never pointed out—but in the dealings of their parents with them, all is commendation and encouragement. They are the arts of walking and talking.
The first time that a child attempts to walk alone, what a feeble, staggering—and awkward exhibition it makes. And yet its mother shows, by the excitement of her countenance—and the delight expressed by her exclamations, how pleased she is with the performance; and she, perhaps, even calls in people from the next room to see how well the baby can walk! Not a word about imperfections and failings, not a word about the tottering, the awkward reaching out of arms to preserve the balance, the crookedness of the way, the anxious expression of the countenance, or any other faults. These are left to correct themselves by the continued practice which encouragement is sure to lead to.
It is true that words would not be available in such a case for fault-finding; for a child when learning to walk would be too young to understand them. But the parent's sense of the imperfections of the performance might be expressed in looks and gestures which the child would understand; but he sees, on the contrary, nothing but indications of satisfaction and pleasure—and it is very manifest how much he is encouraged by them. Seeing the pleasure which his efforts give to the spectators, he is made proud and happy by his success—and thus he goes on making efforts to improve with alacrity and delight.
It is the same with learning to talk. The mistakes, deficiencies and errors of the first crude attempts are seldom noticed—and still more seldom pointed out by the parent. On the contrary, the child takes the impression, from the readiness with which its words are understood and the delight it evidently gives its mother to hear them, that it is going on triumphantly in its work of learning to talk, instead of feeling that its attempts are only tolerated because they are made by such a little child—and that they require a vast amount of correction, alteration and improvement, before they will be at all satisfactory. Indeed, so far from criticizing and pointing out the errors and faults, the mother very frequently meets the child half way in its progress, by actually adopting the faults and errors herself in her replies. So that when the little beginner in the use of language, as he wakes up in his crib—and stretching out his hands to his mother says, "I want to get up" she comes to take him—and replies, her face beaming with delight, "My little darling! you shall 'get up';" thus filling his mind with happiness at the idea that his mother is not only pleased that he attempts to speak—but is fully satisfied—and more than satisfied, with his success.
The result is, that in learning to walk and to talk, children always go forward with alacrity and ardor. They practice continually and spontaneously, requiring no promises of reward to allure them to effort—and no threats of punishment to overcome repugnance or aversion. It might be too much to say that the rapidity of their progress and the pleasure which they experience in making it, are owing wholly to the commendation and encouragement they receive—for other causes may cooperate with these. But it is certain that these influences contribute very essentially to the result. There can be no doubt at all that if it were possible for a mother to stop her child in its efforts to learn to walk and to talk, and explain to it—no matter how kindly—all its shortcomings, failures and mistakes—and were to make this her daily and habitual practice, the consequence would be, not only a great diminution of the ardor and animation of the little pupil, in pressing forward in its work—but also a great retardation in its progress!
'Example of the other Method'.
Let us now, for the more full understanding of the subject, go to the other extreme—and consider a case in which the management is as far as possible removed from that above referred to. We cannot have a better example than the method often adopted in schools and seminaries for teaching composition; in other words, the art of expressing one's thoughts in written language—an art which one would suppose to be so analogous to that of learning to talk—that is, to express one's thoughts in 'oral' language—that the method which was found so eminently successful in the one would be naturally resorted to in the other. Instead of that, the method often pursued is exactly the reverse. The pupil having with infinite difficulty—and with many forebodings and anxious fears, made his first attempt, brings it to his teacher. The teacher, if he is a kind-hearted and considerate man, perhaps briefly commends the effort with some such dubious and equivocal praise as it is "Very well for a beginner," or "As good a composition as could be expected at the first attempt," and then proceeds to go over the exercise in a cool and deliberate manner, with a view of revealing and bringing out clearly and conspicuously to the view, not only in front of the little author himself—but often of all his classmates and friends—every imperfection, failure, mistake, omission, or other fault which a rigid scrutiny can detect in the performance. However kindly he may do this—and however gentle the tones of his voice, still the work is criticism and fault-finding from beginning to end. The boy sits on thorns and nettles while submitting to the operation—and when he takes his marked and corrected manuscript to his seat, he feels mortified and ashamed—and is often hopelessly discouraged.
'How Faults are to be Corrected'.
Someone may, perhaps, say that pointing out the errors and faults of pupils is absolutely essential to their progress, inasmuch as, unless they are made to see what their faults are, they cannot be expected to correct them. I admit that this is true to a certain extent—but by no means to so great an extent as is often supposed. There are a great many ways of teaching pupils to do better what they are going to do, besides showing them the faults in what they have already done.
Thus, without pointing out the errors and faults which he observes, the teacher may only refer to and commend what is right, while he at the same time observes and remembers the prevailing faults, with a view of adapting his future instructions to the removal of them. These instructions, when given, will take the form, of course, of general information on the art of expressing one's thoughts in writing—and on the faults and errors to be avoided, perhaps without any, or, at least, very little allusion to those which the pupils themselves had committed. Instruction thus given, while it will have at least an equal tendency with the other mode to form the pupils to habits of correctness and accuracy, will not have the effect upon their mind of disparagement of what they have already done—but rather of aid and encouragement for them in regard to what they are next to do. In following the instructions thus given them, the pupils will, as it were, leave the faults previously committed behind them, being even, in many instances, unconscious, perhaps, of their having themselves ever committed them.
The ingenious mother will find various modes analogous to this, of leading her children forward into what is right, without at all disturbing their minds by censure of what is wrong—a course which it is perfectly safe to pursue in the case of all errors and faults which result from inadvertence or immaturity.
There is, doubtless, another class of faults—those of willful carelessness or neglect—which must be specially pointed out to the attention of the delinquents—and a degree of discredit attached to the commission of them—and perhaps, in special cases, some kind of punishment imposed, as the most proper corrective of the evil. And yet, even in cases of carelessness and neglect of duty, it will generally be found much more easy to awaken ambition, and a desire to improve, in a child—by discovering, if possible, something good in his work—and commending that, as an encouragement to him to make greater exertion the next time, than to attempt to cure him of his negligence by calling his attention to the faults which he has committed, as subjects of censure, however obvious the faults may be—and however deserving of blame.
The advice, however, made in this chapter, to employ commendation and encouragement to a great extent, rather than criticism and fault-finding, in the management and instruction of children, must, like all other general counsels of the kind, be held subject to all proper limitations and restrictions. Some mother may, perhaps, object to what is here advanced, saying, "If I am always indiscriminately praising my child's doings, he will become self-conceited and vain—and he will cease to make progress, being satisfied with what he has already attained." Of course he will—and therefore you must take care not to be always and indiscriminately praising him. You must exercise tact and good judgment, or at any rate, common sense, in properly proportioning your criticism and your praise. There are no principles of management, however sound—which may not be so exaggerated, or followed with so blind a disregard of attendant circumstances, as to produce more harm than good.
It must be especially borne in mind that the counsels here given in relation to curing the faults of children by dealing more with what is good in them than what is bad—are intended to apply to faults of ignorance, inadvertence, or habit only—and not to acts of known and willful wrong. When we come to cases of deliberate and intentional disobedience to a parent's commands, or open resistance to his authority, something different, or at least something more, is required.
'The Principle of Universal Application.'
In conclusion, it is proper to add that the principle of influencing human character and action, by noticing and commending what is right, rather than finding fault with what is wrong—is of universal application, with the mature as well as with the young. The susceptibility to this influence is in full operation in the minds of all men everywhere—and acting upon it will lead to the same results in all the relations of society. The way to awaken a stingy man to the performance of generous deeds, is not by remonstrating with him, however kindly, on his stinginess—but by watching his conduct till we find some act which bears some semblance of liberality—and commending him for that. If you have a neighbor who is surly and troublesome—tell him that he is so—and you make him worse than ever! But watch for some occasion in which he shows you some little kindness—and thank him cordially for such a good neighborly act—and he will feel a strong desire to repeat it. If mankind universally understood this principle—and would generally act upon it in their dealings with others—of course, with such limitations and restrictions as good sense and sound judgment would impose—the world would not only go on much more smoothly and harmoniously than it does now—but the progress of improvement would, I think, in all respects be infinitely more rapid.
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