22. Gratitude in Children
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Mothers are very often pained at what seems to them the ingratitude of their children. They long, above all things, for their love. They do everything in their power to win it. They make every sacrifice—and give every possible evidence of affection; but they seem to fail entirely of bringing out any of those evidences of gratitude and affection in return which, if they could only witness them, would fill their hearts with gladness and joy. But the only feeling which their children manifest towards them seems to be a selfish one. They come to them when in trouble, they even fly to them eagerly when in danger—and they consider their parents the chief resource for procuring nearly all their means of gratification. But they think little, as it often seems, of the mother's comfort and enjoyment in return—and seldom or never do anything voluntarily to give her pleasure.
It would be a great exaggeration to say that this is always the feeling of the mother in respect to her children. I only mean that this is sometimes—and I might probably say very often, the case.
'Two Forms of Love.'
Now there are two distinct forms which the feeling of love may assume in the mature mind, both of which are gratifying to the object of it, though they are very different—and indeed in some sense exactly the opposite of each other. There is the 'receiving' and the 'bestowing' love. It is true that the two forms are often conjoined, or rather they often exist in intimate combination with each other; but in their nature they are essentially distinct. A young lady, for example, may feel a strong attachment for the gentleman to whom she is engaged—or a wife for her husband—in the sense of liking to receive kindness and attention from him, more than from any other man. She may be specially pleased when he invites her to ride with him, or makes her presents, or shows in any way that he thinks of her and seeks her happiness—more so than she would be to receive the same attentions from any other person. This is love. It may be very genuine love; but it is love in the form of taking special pleasure in the kindness and favor bestowed by the object of it. Yet it is none the less true, as most people have had occasion to learn from their own experience, that this kind of love may be very strong without being accompanied by any corresponding desire on the part of the person manifesting it, to make sacrifices of her own ease and comfort in order to give happiness to the object of her love in return.
In the same manner a gentleman may feel a strong sentiment of love for a lady, which shall take the form of enjoying her society, of being happy when he is near her—and greatly pleased at her making sacrifices for his sake, or manifesting in any way a strong attachment for him. There 'may be' also united with this the other form of love—namely, that which would lead him to deny himself and make sacrifices 'for her'. But the two, though they may often—perhaps generally—exist together, are in their nature so essentially different that they may be entirely separated—and we may have one in its full strength, while there is very little of the other. You may love a person in the sense of taking greater pleasure in receiving attentions and favors from him than from all the world beside, while yet you seldom think of making efforts to promote his comfort and happiness in anything in which you are not yourself personally concerned. On the other hand, you may love him with the kind of affection which renders it the greatest pleasure of your life, to make sacrifices and endure self-denial to promote his welfare in any way.
In some cases these two forms are in fact entirely separated—and one or the other can exist entirely distinct from the other—as in the case of the kind feelings of a good man towards the poor and miserable. It is quite possible to feel a very strong interest in such objects—and to be willing to put ourselves to considerable inconvenience to make them comfortable and happy—and to take great pleasure in learning that our efforts have been effectual, without feeling any love for them at all in the other form—that is, any desire to have them with us, to receive attentions and kindness from them—and to enjoy their society.
On the other hand, in the love of a young child for his mother the case is reversed. The love of the child consists chiefly in liking to be with his mother, in going to her rather than to anyone else for relief from pain or for comfort in sorrow—and is accompanied with very few and very faint desires to make efforts, or to submit to privations, or to make sacrifices, for the promotion of her good.
'Order of their Development'.
Now the qualities and characteristics of the soul on which the capacity for these two forms of love depend, seem to be very different—and they advance in development and come to maturity at different periods of life; so that the mother, in feeling dejected and sad because she cannot awaken in the mind of her child the gratitude and the consideration for her comfort and happiness which she desires—is simply looking for a certain kind of fruit at the wrong time. You have one of the forms of love for you on the part of the child now while he is young. In due time, when he arrives at maturity, if you will wait patiently—you will assuredly have the other. Now he runs to you in every emergency. He asks you for everything that he needs. He can find comfort nowhere else but in your arms, when he is in distress or in suffering from pain, disappointment, or sorrow. But he will not make any effort to be still when you are sick, or to avoid interrupting you when you are busy; and insists, perhaps, on your carrying him when he is tired, without seeming to think or care whether you may not be tired too. But in due time all this will be changed. Twenty years hence, he will conceal all his troubles from you, instead of coming with them to you for comfort. He will be off in the world engaged in his pursuits, no longer bound closely to your side. But he will think all the time of your comfort and happiness. He will bring you presents—and pay you innumerable attentions to cheer your heart in your declining years. He will not run to you when he has hurt himself; but if anything happens to 'you', he will leave everything to hasten to your relief—and bring with him all the comforts and means of enjoyment for you that his resources can command. The time will thus come, when you will have his love to your heart's content—in the second form. You must be satisfied, while he is so young, with the first form of it, which is all that his powers and faculties in their present stage are capable of developing.
The truth of the case seems to be that the faculties of the human mind—or I should perhaps rather say, the susceptibilities of the soul—like the instincts of animals, are developed in the order in which they are required for the good of the subject of them.
Indeed, it is very interesting and curious to observe how striking the analogy in the order of development, in respect to the nature of the bond of attachment which binds the children to the parent, runs through all those ranks of the animal creation—in which the young for a time depend upon the mother for food or for protection. The chicks in any moment of alarm, run to the hen; and the lamb, the calf and the colt to their respective mothers; but none of them would feel the least inclination to come to the rescue of the parent if the parent was in danger. With the mother herself it is exactly the reverse. Her heart—if we can speak of the seat of the maternal affections of such creatures as a heart—is filled with desires to bestow good upon her children, without a desire, or even a thought, of receiving any good from them in return.
There is this difference, however, between the race of man and those of the inferior animals—namely, that in his case the instinct, or at least a natural desire which is in some respects analogous to an instinct, prompting him to repay to his parents the benefits which he received from them in youth—comes in due time; while in that of the lower animals—it seems never to come at all. The little birds, after opening their mouths so wide every time the mother comes to the nest during all the weeks while their wings are growing, fly away when they are grown, without the least care or concern for the anxiety and distress of the mother occasioned by their imprudent flights; and once away and free, never come back, so far as we know, to make any return to their mother for watching over them, sheltering them with her body and working so indefatigably to provide them with food during the helpless period of their infancy. They still less to seek and protect and feed her in her old age. But the boy, reckless as he sometimes seems in his boyhood, insensible apparently to his obligations to his mother—and little mindful of her wishes or of her feelings—his affection for her showing itself mainly in his readiness to go to her with all his needs, and in all his troubles and sorrows—will begin, when he has arrived at maturity and no longer needs her aid, to remember with gratitude the past aid that she has rendered him. The current of affection in his heart will turn and flow the other way. Instead of wishing to receive—he will now only wish to give. If she is in need—he will do all he can to supply her. If she is in sorrow—he will be happy if he can do anything to comfort her. He will send her memorials of his gratitude—and objects of comfort and embellishment for her home—and will watch with solicitude and sincere affection over her declining years.
And all this change, if not the result of a new instinct which reaches its development only when the period of maturity arrives—is the unfolding of a sentiment of the heart, belonging essentially to the nature of the subject of it as man. It is true that this capacity may, under certain circumstances, be very feebly developed. In some cases, indeed, it would seem that it was scarcely developed at all; but there is a provision for it in the nature of man, while there is no provision for it at all in the sentient principles of the lower animals.
'Advancing the Development of the Sentiment of Gratitude.'
Now, although parents must not be impatient at the slow appearance of this feeling in their children—and must not be troubled in its not appearing before its time—they can do much by proper efforts to cultivate its growth—and give it an earlier and a more powerful influence over them, than it would otherwise manifest. The mode of doing this is the same as in all other cases of the cultivation of moral sentiments in children—and that is by the influence over them of sympathy with those they love. Just as the way to cultivate in the minds of children a feeling of pity for those who are in distress is not to preach it as a duty—but to make them love you—and then show such pity yourself; and the way to make them angry and revengeful in character—if we can conceive of your being actuated by so wicked a desire—would be often to express violent resentment yourself, with scowling looks and fierce denunciations against those who have offended you. Just so, to awaken them to sentiments of gratitude for the favors they receive, you must gently lead them to sympathize with you in the gratitude which 'you' feel for the favors that 'you' receive.
When a child shows some special unwillingness to comply with her mother's desires, her mother may address to her a kind but direct and plain expostulation on the obligations of children to their parents—and the duty incumbent on them of being grateful for their kindness—and to be willing to do what they can in return. Such an address would probably do no good at all. The child would receive it simply as a scolding, no matter how mildly and gently the reproof might be expressed—and would shut her heart against it. It is something which she must stand still and endure—and that is all.
But let the mother say the same things precisely when the child has shown a willingness to make some little sacrifice to aid or to gratify her mother, so that the sentiment expressed may enter her mind in the form of approval and not of condemnation—and the effect will be very different. The sentiments will, at any rate, now not be rejected from the mind—but the way will be open for them to enter—and the conversation will have a good effect, so far as didactic teaching can have effect in such a case.
But now to bring in the element of sympathy as a means of reaching and influencing the mind of the child. The mother, we will suppose, standing at the door some morning before breakfast in spring, with her little daughter, seven or eight years old, by her side, hears a bird singing on a tree near by. She points to the tree—and says, in a half-whisper, "Listen!"
When the sound ceases, she looks to the child with an expression of pleasure upon her countenance—and says, "Suppose we give that bird some crumbs because he has been singing us such a pretty song."
"Well!" says the child.
"Would you?" asks the mother.
"Yes, mother, I should like to give him some very much. Do you suppose he sang the song for us?"
"I don't 'know' that he did," replies the mother. "We don't know exactly what the birds mean by all their singing. They take some pleasure in seeing us, I think, or else they would not come so much around our house; and I don't know but that this bird's song may come from some kind of joy or gladness he felt in seeing us come to the door. At any rate, it will be a pleasure to us to give him some crumbs to pay him for his song."
The child will think so too—and will run off joyfully to bring a piece of bread to form crumbs to be scattered upon the path.
And the whole transaction will have the effect of awakening and nourishing the sentiment of gratitude in her heart. The effect will not be great, it is true—but it will be of the right kind. It will be a drop of water upon the unfolding leafs of a seed just peeping up out of the ground, which will gain vigor below, after you have gone away—and give the little roots a new impulse of growth. For when you have left the child seated upon the door-step, occupied in throwing out the crumbs to the bird, her heart will be occupied with the thoughts you have put into it—and the sentiment of gratitude for kindness received will commence its course of development, if it had not commenced it before.
'The Case of older Children'.
Of course the employment of such an occasion as this of the singing of a little bird, and such a conversation in respect to it for cultivating the sentiment of gratitude in the heart, is adapted only to the case of quite a young child. For older children, while the principle is the same, the circumstances and the manner of treating the case must be adapted to a maturer age. Robert, for example—twelve years of age—had been sick—and during his convalescence his sister Mary, two years older than himself, had been very assiduous in her attendance upon him. She had waited upon him at his meals—and brought him books and playthings, from time to time, to amuse him. After he had fully recovered his health, he was sitting in the garden, one sunny morning in the spring, with his mother—and she said, "How kind Mary was to you while you were sick!"
"Yes," said Robert, "she was very kind indeed."
"If you would like to do something for her in return," continued his mother, "I'll tell you what would be a good plan."
Robert, who, perhaps, without this conversation would not have thought particularly of making any return, said he would like to do something for her very much.
"Then," said his mother, "you might make her a garden. I can mark off a place for a bed for her, large enough to hold a number of kinds of flowers—and then you can dig it up—and rake it over—and lay it off into little beds—and sow the seeds. I'll buy the seeds for you. I would like to do something towards making the garden for her, for she helped me a great deal, as well as you, in the care she took of you."
"Well," said Robert, "I'll do it."
"You are well and strong now, so you can do it pretty easily," added the mother; "I think it would please her very much as an expression of your gratitude and love for her."
"Yes," said Robert, "I would like to do it myself—and I will begin this very day."
And yet, if his mother had not made the suggestion, he would probably not have thought of making any such return, or even any return at all, for his sister's devoted kindness to him when he was sick. In other words, the sentiment of gratitude was in his heart, or, rather, the capacity for it was there—but it needed a little fostering care to bring it out into action. And the thing to be observed is, that by this fostering care, it was not only brought out at the time—but, by being thus brought out and drawn into action, it was strengthened and made to grow, so as to be ready to come out itself without being called, on the next occasion. It was like a little plant just coming out of the ground under influences not altogether favorable. It needs a little help and encouragement; and the aid that is given by a few drops of water at the right time, will bring it forward and help it to attain soon such a degree of strength and vigor as will make it independent of all external aid.
But there must be consideration, tact, a proper regard to circumstances, and, above all, there must be no secret and selfish ends concealed, on the part of the mother in such cases. You may deluge and destroy your little plant by throwing on the water roughly or crudely! Or, in the case of a boy upon whose mind you seem to be endeavoring to produce some moral result, you may really have in view some object of your own—your interest in the moral result, being only a pretense.
For instance, Egbert, under circumstances similar to those recited above—in respect to the sickness of the boy—and the kind attentions of his sister—came to his mother one afternoon for permission to go a-fishing with some other boys who had called for him. He was full of excitement and enthusiasm at the idea. But his mother was not willing to allow him to go. The weather was lowering. She thought that he had not yet fully recovered his health; and she was afraid of other dangers. Instead of saying calmly, after a moment's reflection, to show that her answer was a deliberate one, that he could not go—and then quietly and firmly—but without assigning any reasons, adhering to her decision—a course which, though it could not have saved the boy from emotions of disappointment, would be the best for making those feelings as light and as brief in duration as possible—began to argue the case thus; "Oh no, Egbert, I would not go a-fishing this afternoon, if I were you. I think it is going to rain. Besides, it is a nice cool day to work in the garden—and Lucy would like very much, to have her garden made. You know that she was very kind to you when you were sick—how many things she did for you; and preparing a garden for her, would be such a nice way of making her a return. I am sure you would not wish to show yourself ungrateful for so much kindness."
Then follows a discussion of some minutes, in which Egbert, in a fretful and pestering tone, persists in urging his desire to go a-fishing. He can make the garden, he says—some other day. His mother finally yields, though with great unwillingness, doing all she can to extract all graciousness and sweetness from her consent—and to spoil the pleasure of the excursion to the boy, by saying as he goes away, that she is sure he ought not to go—and that she shall be uneasy about him all the time that he is gone.
Now it is plain that such management as this, though it takes ostensibly the form of a plea on the part of the mother in favor of a sentiment of gratitude in the heart of the boy, can have no effect in nourishing and bringing forward into life any such sentiment of gratitude, even if it should be already existent there in a nascent state; but can only tend to make the object of it more selfish and heartless than ever.
Thus the art of cultivating the sentiment of gratitude, as is the case in all other departments of moral training, cannot be taught by definite lessons or learned by rote. It demands tact and skill—and, above all, an honest and full sincerity. The mother must really look to—and aim for the actual moral effect in the heart of the child—and not merely make formal efforts ostensibly for this end—but really to accomplish some temporary object of her own. Children easily see through all covert intentions of any kind. They sometimes play the hypocrite themselves—but they are always great detectors of hypocrisy in others!
But gentle and cautious efforts of the right kind—such as require no high attainments on the part of the mother—but only the right spirit—will in time work wonderful effects. And the mother who perseveres in them—and who does not expect the fruits too soon—will watch with great interest for the time to arrive, when her boy will spontaneously, from the promptings of his own heart, take some real trouble, or submit to some real privation or self-denial, to give pleasure to her. She will then enjoy the double gratification— first, of receiving the pleasure, whatever it may be, that her boy has procured for her; and also the joy of finding that the tender plant which she has watched and watered so long—and which for a time seemed so frail that she almost despaired of its ever coming to any good—is really advanced to the stage of beginning to bear fruit—and giving her a pledge of the abundant fruits which she may confidently expect from it in future years.
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