14. The Activity of Children
Back to Gentle Child Training
In order rightly to understand the true nature of that extraordinary energy and activity, which is so noticeable in all children who are in a state of health, so as to be able to deal with it on the right principles and in a proper manner—it is necessary to turn our attention somewhat carefully to certain scientific truths in respect to the nature and action of force in general, which are now abundantly established, and which throws great light on the true character of that peculiar form of it, which is so characteristic of childhood—and is, indeed, so abundantly developed by the vital functions of almost all young animals. One of the fundamental principles of this system of scientific truth is that which is called the persistence of force.
'The Persistence of Force'.
By the persistence of force, is meant the principle—that in the ordinary course of nature, no force is either ever originated or ever destroyed—but only changed in form. In other words, that all existing forces are but the continuation or prolongation of other forces preceding them, either of the same or other forms—but precisely equivalent in amount; and that no force can terminate its action in any other way, than by being transmuted into some other force, either of the same or of some other form; but still, again, precisely equivalent in amount.
It was formerly believed that a force might under certain circumstances be 'originated'—created, as it were—and hence the attempts to contrive machines for perpetual motion—that is, machines for the 'production' of force. This idea is now wholly renounced by all well-informed men as utterly impossible in the nature of things. All that human mechanism can do is to provide modes for using advantageously a force previously existing, without the possibility of either increasing or diminishing it. No existing force can be destroyed. The only changes possible are changes of direction, changes in the relation of intensity to quantity—and changes of form.
The cases in which a force is apparently increased or diminished, as well as those in which it seems to disappear, are all found, on examination, to be illusive. For example, the apparent increase of a man's power by the use of a lever is really no increase at all. It is true that, by pressing upon the outer arm with his own weight, he can cause the much greater weight of the stone to rise; but then it will rise only a very little way in comparison with the distance through which his own weight descends. His own weight must, in fact, descend through a distance as much greater than that by which the stone ascends, as the weight of the stone is greater than his weight. In other words, so far as the balance of the forces is concerned, the whole amount of the 'downward motion' consists of the smaller weight descending through a greater distance, which will be equal to the whole amount of that of the larger one ascending through a smaller distance; and, to produce a preponderance, the whole amount of the downward force must be somewhat greater. Thus the lever only 'gathers' or 'concentrates' force, as it were—but does not at all increase it.
It is so with all the other contrivances for managing force for the accomplishment of particular purposes. None of them increase the force—but only alter its form and character, with a view to its better adaptation to the purpose in view.
Nor can any force be extinguished. When a bullet strikes against a solid wall, the force of its movement, which seems to disappear, is not lost; it is converted into heat—the temperature of both the bullet and of that part of the wall on which it impinges being raised by the concussion. And it is found that the amount of the heat which is thus produced is always in exact proportion to the quantity of mechanical motion which is stopped; this quantity depending on the weight of the bullet—and on the velocity with which it was moving. And it has been ascertained, moreover, by the most careful, patient and many times repeated experiments and calculations—that the quantity of this heat is exactly the same with that which, through the medium of steam, or by any other mode of applying it, may be made to produce the same quantity of mechanical motion that was extinguished in the bullet. Thus the force was not destroyed—but only converted into another form.
'The Arrest and temporary Reservation of Force'.
Now, although it is thus impossible that any force should be destroyed, or in any way cease to exist in one form without setting in action a precisely equal amount in some other form—it may, as it were, pass into a condition of 'restraint'—and remain thus suspended and latent for an indefinite period—ready, however, to break into action again the moment that the restraint is removed. Thus a perfectly elastic spring may be bent by a certain force—and retained in the bent position a long time. But the moment that it is released it will unbend itself, exercising in so doing precisely the degree of force expended in bending it. In the same manner, air may be compressed in an air-gun—and held thus, with the force, as it were, imprisoned, for any length of time, until at last, when the detent is released by the trigger, the elastic force comes into action, exercising in its action a power precisely the same as that with which it was compressed.
Force or power may be thus, as it were, stored up in a countless variety of ways—and reserved for future action; and, when finally released, the whole amount may be set free at once, so as to expend itself in a single impulse, as in case of the arrow or the bullet; or it may be partially restrained, so as to expend itself gradually, as in the case of a clock or watch. In either case the total amount expended will be precisely the same—namely, the exact equivalent of that which was placed in store.
'Practical Applications of these Principles'.
If we watch a bird for a little while hopping along upon the ground—and up and down between the ground and the branches of a tree, we shall at first be surprised at his incessant activity—and next, if we reflect a little, at the utter aimlessness and uselessness of it. He runs a little way along the path; then he hops up upon a twig, then down again upon the ground; then "makes believe" peck at something which he imagines or pretends that he sees in the grass; then, tipping his head to one side and upward, the branch of a tree there happens to strike his eye, upon which he at once flies up to it. Perching himself upon it for the moment, he utters a burst of joyous song—and then, instantly afterwards, down he comes upon the ground again, runs along, stops, runs along a little farther, stops again, looks around for a moment, as if wondering what to do next—and then flies off out of our field of view. If we could follow—and had patience to watch him so long, we would find him continuing this incessantly changing but never-ceasing activity all the day long.
We sometimes imagine that the bird's movements are to be explained by supposing that he is engaged in the search for food in these evolutions. But when we reflect how small a quantity of food his little crop will contain, we shall be at once convinced that a large proportion of his apparent pecking for food is only make-believe—and that he moves thus incessantly not so much on account of the end he seeks to attain by it, as on account of the very pleasure of the motion. He hops about and pecks, not for the love of anything he expects to find—but just for the love of hopping and pecking.
The real explanation is that the food which he has taken is delivering up, within his system, the force stored in it that was received originally from the beams of the sun, while the plant which produced it was growing. This force must have an outlet—and it finds this outlet in the incessant activity of the bird's muscles and brain. The various objects which attract his attention, 'invite' the force to expend itself in 'certain special directions'; but the impelling cause is within—and not without; and were there nothing without to serve as objects for its action, the necessity of its action would be none the less imperious.
The lion, when imprisoned in his cage, walks to and fro continuously, if there is room for him to take two steps and turn; and if there is not room for this, he moves his head incessantly from side to side. The force within him, which his vital organs are setting at liberty from its imprisonment in his food—must in some way find outlet.
Mothers do not often stop to speculate upon—and may even, perhaps, seldom observe the restless and incessant activity of birds—but that restless and incessant activity of their children forces itself upon their attention by its effects in disturbing their own quiet avocations and pleasures; and they often wonder what can be the inducement which leads to such a perpetual succession of movements made apparently without motive or end. And, not perceiving any possible inducement to account for it, they are apt to consider this restless activity so causeless and unreasonable as to make it a fault for which the child is to be censured or punished, or which they are to attempt to cure by means of artificial restraints. They would not attempt such repressions as this, if they were aware that all this muscular and mental energy of action in the child is only the outward manifestation of an inward force developed in a manner wholly independent of its will—a force, too, which must spend itself in some way or other—and that, if not allowed to do this in its own way, by impelling the limbs and members to outward action, it will do so by destroying the delicate mechanism within. We see this in the case of men who are doomed for long periods to solitary confinement. The force derived from their food—and released within their systems by the vital processes, being cut off by the silence and solitude of the dungeon from all usual and natural outlets, begins to work mischief within, by disorganizing the cerebral and other vital organs—and producing insanity and death.
'Common Mistake'.
We make a great mistake when we imagine that children are influenced in their activity, mainly by a desire for the objects which they attain by it. It is not the ends attained—but the pleasurable feeling which the action of the internal force, issuing by its natural channels, affords them—and the sense of power which accompanies the action. An end which presents itself to be attained invites this force to act in one direction rather than another—but it is the action—and not the end, in which the charm resides.
Give a child a bow and arrow—and send him out into the yard to try it—and if he does not happen to see anything to shoot at, he will shoot at random into the air. But if there is any object which will serve as a mark in sight, it seems to have the effect of drawing his aim towards it. He shoots at the vane on the barn, at an apple on a tree, a knot in a fence—anything which will serve the purpose of a mark. This is not because he has any end to accomplish in hitting the vane, the apple, or the knot—but only because there is an impulse within him leading him to shoot—and if there happens to be anything to shoot at, it gives that impulse a direction.
It is precisely the same with the incessant muscular activity of a child. He comes into a room and sits down in the first seat that he sees. Then he jumps up and runs to another, then to another, until he has tried all the seats in the room. This is not because he particularly wishes to try the seats. He wishes to 'move'—and the seats happen to be at hand—and they simply give direction to the impulse. If he were out of doors, the same office would be fulfilled by a fence which he might climb over, instead of going through an open gate close by; or a wall that he could walk upon with difficulty, instead of going, without difficulty, along a path at the foot of it; or a pole which he could try to climb, when there was no motive for climbing it but a desire to make muscular exertion; or a steep bank where he can scramble up, when there is nothing that he wishes for on the top of it.
In other words, the things that children do, are not done for the sake of the things—but for the sake of the 'doing'.
Parents very often do not understand this—and are accordingly continually asking such foolish questions as, "George, what do you wish to climb over that fence for, when there is a gate all open close by?" "James, what good do you expect to get by climbing up that tree, when you know there is nothing on it, not even a bird's nest?" and, "Lucy, what makes you keep jumping up all the time and running about to different places? Why can't you, when you get a good seat, sit still in it?"
The children, if they understood the philosophy of the case, might answer, "We don't climb over the fence at all because we wish to be on the other side of it; or scramble up the bank for the sake of anything that is on the top of it; or run about to different places because we wish to be in the places particularly. It is the internal force that is in us working itself off—and it works itself off in the ways that come most readily to hand."
'Various Modes in which the Reserved Force reappears'.
The force thus stored in the food and liberated within the system by the vital processes, finds scope for action in several different ways, prominent among which are,
First, in the production of animal heat.
Secondly, in muscular contractions and the motions of the limbs and members resulting from them.
Thirdly, in mental phenomena connected with the action of the brain and the nerves.
This last branch of the subject is yet enveloped in great mystery; but the proof seems to be decisive that the nervous system of man comprises organs which are actively exercised in the performance of mental operations—and that in this exercise they consume important portions of the vital force. If, for example, a child is actually engaged at play—and we direct him to take a seat and sit still, he will find it very difficult to do so. The inward force will soon begin to struggle within him to find an outlet. But if, while he is so sitting, we begin to relate to him some very surprising or exciting story, to occupy his 'mind', he will become motionless—and very likely remain so until the story is ended. It is supposed that in such cases the force is drawn off, so to speak, through the cerebral organs which it is employed in keeping in play, as the instruments by which the emotions and ideas which the story awakens in the mind are evolved. This part of the subject, as has already been remarked, is full of mystery; but the general fact that a portion of the force derived from the food is expended in actions of the brain and nervous system, seems well established.
Indeed, the whole subject of the reception and the storing up of force from the sun by the processes of vegetable and animal life—and the subsequent liberation of it in the fulfillment of the various functions of the animal system, is full of difficulties and mysteries. It is only a very simple view of the 'general principle' which is presented in these articles. In nature, the operations are not simple at all. They are involved in endless complications which are yet only to a very limited extent unravelled. The general principle is, however, well established; and if understood, even as a general principle, by parents and teachers, it will greatly modify their reaction in dealing with the incessant restlessness and activity of the young. It will teach them, among other things, the following practical rules.
'Practical Rules'.
1. Never find fault with children for their incapacity to keep still. You may stop the supply of force, if you will, by refusing to give them food; but if you continue the supply, you must not complain of its manifesting itself in action. After giving your boy his breakfast, to find fault with him for being incessantly in motion when his system has absorbed it, is simply to find fault with him for being healthy and happy. To give children food and then to restrain the resulting activity, is conduct very analogous to that of the engineer who should lock the action of his engine, turn off all the stop-cocks—and shut down the safety-valve, while he still went on all the time putting in coal under the boiler. The least that he could expect would be a great hissing and fizzling at all the joints of his machine; and it would be only by means of such a degree of looseness in the joints as would allow of the escape of the imprisoned force in this way that could prevent the repression ending in a frightful catastrophe.
Now, nine-tenths of the whispering and playing of children in school—and of the noise, the crudeness—and the petty mischief of children at home, is just this hissing and fizzling of an imprisoned power—and nothing more!
In a word, we must favor and promote, by every means in our power, the activity of children—not censure and repress it. We may endeavor to turn it aside from wrong channels—that is, to prevent its manifesting itself in ways injurious to them or annoying to others. We must not, however, attempt to divert it from these channels by damming it up—but by opening other channels that will draw it away in better directions.
2. In encouraging the activity of children—and in guiding the direction of it in their hours of play, we must not expect to make it available for useful results, other than that of promoting their own physical development and health. At least, we can do this only in a very limited degree. Almost all useful results require for their attainment a long continuance of efforts of the same kind—that is, expenditure of the vital force by the continued action of the same organs. Now, it is a principle of nature, that while the organs of an animal system are in process of formation and growth, they can exercise their power only for a very brief period at a time without exhaustion. This necessitates on the part of all young animals incessant changes of action, or alternations of action and repose. A farmer of forty years of age, whose organs are well developed and mature, will chop wood all day without excessive fatigue. Then, when he comes home at night, he will sit for three hours in the evening upon the settle by his fireside, 'thinking'—his mind occupied, perhaps, upon the details of the management of his farm, or upon his plans for the following day. The vital force thus expends itself for many successive hours through his muscles—and then, while his muscles are at rest, it finds its outlet for several other hours through the brain. But in the 'child' the mode of action must change every few minutes. He is made tired with five minutes' labor. He is satisfied with five minutes' rest. He will ride his rocking-horse, if alone, a short time—and then he comes to you to ask you to tell him a story. While listening to the story, his muscles are resting—and the force is spending its strength in working the mechanism of the brain. If you make your story too long, the brain, in turn, becomes fatigued—and he feels instinctively impelled to divert the vital force again into muscular action.
If, instead of being alone with his rocking-horse, he has company there, he will 'seem' to continue his bodily effort a long time; but he does not really do so, for he stops continually, to talk with his companion, thus allowing his muscles to rest for a brief period, during which the vital force expends its strength in carrying on trains of thought and emotion through the brain.
He is not to be blamed for this seeming capriciousness. These frequent changes in the mode of action are a necessity—and this necessity evidently unfits him for any kind of monotonous or continued exertion—the only kind which, in ordinary cases, can be made conducive to any useful results.
3. Parents at home and teachers at school must recognize these physiological laws, relating to the action of the young—and make their plans and arrangements conform to them. The periods of confinement to any one mode of action in the very young—and especially mental action, must be short; and they must alternate frequently with other modes. That rapid succession of bodily movements and of mental ideas—and the emotions mingling and alternating with them, which constitutes what children call play, must be regarded not simply as an indulgence—but as a necessity for them. The play must be considered as essential as the study—and that not merely for the very young, but for all, up to the age of maturity. For older pupils, in the best institutions of the country, some suitable provision is made for this need; but the mothers of young children at home are often at a loss by what means to effect this purpose—and many are very imperfectly aware of the desirableness—and even the necessity, of doing this.
As for the means of accomplishing the object—that is, providing channels for the complete expenditure of this force in the safest and most agreeable manner for the child—and the least inconvenient and troublesome for others, much must depend upon the tact, the ingenuity and the discretion of the mother. It will, however, be a great point gained for her when she once fully comprehends that the 'tendency' to incessant activity—and even to turbulence and noise, on the part of her child, only shows that he is all right in his vital machinery—and that this exuberance of energy is something to be pleased with and directed—not denounced and restrained!
Back to Gentle Child Training