5. The Philosophy of Punishment
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It is very desirable that every parent and teacher should have a distinct and clear conception of the true nature of punishment—and of the precise manner in which it is designed to act in repressing offenses. This is necessary in order that the punitive measures which he may employ, may accomplish the desired good—and avoid the evils which so often follow in their train.
'Nature and Design of Punishment'.
The first question which is to be considered in determining upon the principles to be adopted and the course to be pursued with children in respect to punishment, is—which of the two views in respect to the nature and design of punishment which prevail in the minds of men we will adopt in shaping our system. For,
1. Punishment may be considered in the light of a vindictive retribution for sin—a penalty demanded by the eternal principles of justice, as the natural and proper sequel and complement of the past act of transgression, with or without regard to any beneficial effects which may result from it in respect to future acts. Or,
2. It may be considered as a remedial measure, adopted solely with reference to its influence as a means of deterring the subject of it, or others, from transgression in time to come.
According to the first view, punishment is a 'penalty' which 'justice' demands as a satisfaction for the past. According to the other it is a 'remedy' which 'goodness' devises for the benefit of the future.
Theologians have lost themselves in endless speculations on the question how far, in the government of God, punishment is to be considered as possessing one or the other of these two characters, or both combined. There seems to be also some uncertainty in the minds of men, in relation to the precise light in which the penalties of violated law are to be regarded by civil governments—and the spirit in which they are to be administered—they being apparently, as prescribed and employed by most governments, in some respects—and to some extent, retributive and vindictive—and in other respects remedial and curative.
It would seem, however, that in respect to school and family government, there could be no question on this point. The punishment of a child by a parent, or of a pupil by a teacher, ought certainly, one would think, to exclude the element of vindictive retribution altogether—and to be employed solely with reference to the beneficial influences that may be expected from it in time to come. If the injunction "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay it, says the Lord" is to be recognized at all, it certainly ought to be acknowledged here.
This principle, once fully and cordially admitted, simplifies the subject of punishment, as administered by parents and teachers, very much. One extremely important and very striking result of it will appear from a moment's reflection. It is this, namely:
It excludes completely and effectually all manifestations of irritation or annoyance in the infliction of punishment—all harsh tones of voice, all scowling or angry looks, all violent or threatening gesticulations—and every other mode, in fact, of expressing indignation or passion. Such indications as these are wholly out of place in punishment considered as the 'application of a remedy' devised beneficently with the sole view of accomplishing a future good. They comport only with punishment considered as vengeance, or a vindictive retribution for the past sin.
This idea is fundamental. The mother who is made angry by the misconduct of her children—and punishes them in a passion—acts under the influence of a brute instinct. Her family government is in principle the same as that of the lower animals over their young. It is, however, at any rate, a 'government'; and such government is certainly better than none. But human parents, in the training of their children, ought surely to aim at something higher and nobler. They who do so, who possess themselves fully with the idea that punishment, as they are to administer it, is wholly remedial in its character—that is to say, is to be considered solely with reference to the future good to be attained by it—will have established in their minds a principle that will surely guide them into right ways—and bring them out successfully in the end. They will soon acquire the habit of never threatening, of never punishing in anger—and of calmly considering, in the case of the faults which they observe in their children, what course of procedure will be most effectual in correcting them.
Parents seem sometimes to have an idea that a manifestation of something like anger—or, at least, very serious displeasure on their part—is necessary in order to make a proper impression in respect to its fault on the mind of the child. This, however, I think, is a mistake. The impression is made by what we 'do'—and not by the indications of irritation or displeasure which we manifest in doing it. To illustrate this, I will state a case, narrating all its essential points just as it occurred.
'Mary's Walk'.
"Mary," said Mary's aunt, Jane, who had come to make a visit at Mary's mother's in the country, "I am going to the village this afternoon—and if you would like you may go with me."
Mary was, of course, much pleased with this invitation.
"A part of the way," continued her aunt, "is by a path across the fields. While we are there you must keep in the path all the time, for it rained a little this morning—and I am afraid that the grass may not be quite dry."
"Yes, Aunt Jane; I'll keep in the path," said Mary.
So they set out on the walk together. When they came to the gate which led to the path across the fields, Aunt Jane said, "Remember, Mary, you must keep in the path."
Mary said nothing—but ran forward. Pretty soon she began to walk a little on the margin of the grass—and, before long, observing a place where the grass was short and where the sun shone, she ran out boldly upon it—and then, looking down at her shoes, she observed that they were not wet. She held up one of her feet to her aunt as she came opposite to the place, saying, "See, aunt, the grass is not wet at all."
"I see it is not," said her aunt. "I thought it would not be wet; though I was not sure but that it might be. But come," she added, holding out her hand, "I have concluded not to go to the village, after all. We are going back home."
"Oh, Aunt Jane!" said Mary, following her aunt as she began retracing her steps along the path. "What is that for?"
"I have altered my mind," said her aunt.
"What makes you alter your mind?"
By this time Aunt Jane had taken hold of Mary's hand—and they were walking together along the path towards home.
"Because you don't obey me," she said.
"Why, auntie," said Mary, "the grass was not wet at all where I went."
"No," said her aunt, "it was perfectly dry."
"But it did not do any harm at all for me to walk upon it," said Mary.
"Not a bit of harm," said her aunt.
"Then why are you going home?" asked Mary.
"Because you don't obey me," replied her aunt.
"You see," said her aunt, "there is one thing about this that you don't understand, because you are such a little girl. You will understand it by-and-by, when you grow older; and I don't blame you for not knowing it now, because you are so young."
"What is it that I don't know?" asked Mary.
"I am afraid you would not understand it very well, if I were to explain it," replied her aunt.
"Try me," said Mary.
"Well, you see," replied her aunt, "I don't feel safe with any child that does not obey me. This time no harm was done, because the grass happened to be dry; but farther on there was a brook. I might have told you not to go near the brink of the brook for fear of your falling in. Then you might have gone, notwithstanding, if you thought there was no danger, just as you went out upon the grass because you thought it was not wet, notwithstanding my saying that you must keep in the path. So you see I never feel safe in taking walks in places where there is any danger with children that I cannot always depend upon to do exactly what I say."
Mary was, of course, now ready to make profuse promises that she would obey her aunt in future on all occasions, and began to beg that she would continue her walk to the village.
"No," said her aunt, "I don't think it would be quite safe for me to trust to your promises, though I have no doubt you honestly mean to keep them. But you remember you promised me that you would keep in the path when we planned this walk; and yet when the time of temptation came, you could not keep the promise; but you will learn. When I am going on some perfectly safe walk I will take you with me again; and if I stay here some time you will learn to obey me so perfectly, that I can take you with me to any place, no matter how dangerous it may be."
Aunt Jane thus gently—but firmly, persisted in abandoning the walk to the village—and returning home. But she immediately turned the conversation away from the subject of Mary's fault—and amused her with stories and aided her in gathering flowers, just as if nothing had happened; and when she arrived at home she said nothing to anyone of Mary's disobedience. Here now was punishment calculated to make a very strong impression—but still without scolding, without anger, almost, in fact, without even any manifestations of displeasure. And yet how long can any reasonable person suppose it would be before Mary would learn, if her aunt acted invariably on the same principles, to submit implicitly to her will?
'A Different Management'.
Compare the probable result of this mode of management with the scolding and threatening policy. Suppose Aunt Jane had called to Mary angrily, "Mary! Mary! come directly back into the path. I told you not to go out of the path—and you are a very naughty child to disobey me. The next time you disobey me, I will send you directly home!"
Mary would have been vexed and irritated, perhaps—and would have said to herself, "How cross Aunt Jane is today!" but the "next time" she would have been as disobedient as ever.
If mothers, instead of scowling, scolding and threatening—and putting off doing the thing that ought to be done to the "next time," would do that thing at once—and give up the scowling, scolding and threatening altogether, they would find all parties immensely benefited by the change.
It is evident, moreover, that by this mode of management the punishment is employed not in the way of retribution—but as a remedy. Mary loses her walk, not on the ground that she deserved to lose it—but because it was not safe to continue it.
'An Objection'.
Some mother may perhaps say, in reference to the case of Mary and her aunt, that it may be all very well in theory—but that practically mothers have not the leisure and the means for adopting such moderate measures. We cannot stop, she may say, every time we are going to the village, on important business perhaps—and turn back and lose the afternoon on account of the waywardness of a disobedient child.
My answer is that it will not have to be done continually—but only very seldom. The effect of acting once or twice on this principle, with the certainty on the part of the child that the mother or the aunt will always act consistently, when the occasion calls for it, very soon puts an end to all necessity for such action. Indeed, if Mary, in the instance above given, had been managed in this way from infancy—she would not have thought of leaving the path when forbidden to do so. It is only in some such case as that of an aunt who knows how to manage right, coming as a visitor into the family of a mother who manages wrong—that such an incident as this could occur.
Still it must be admitted that the gentle methods of discipline, which reason and common sense indicate as the true ones for permanently influencing the minds of children and forming their characters, do, in each individual case, require more time and care than the cuffs and slaps dictated by angry passion. A cuff on the ear, such as a cat gives to a rebellious kitten, is certainly the 'quickest' application that can be made. The measures which are calculated to reach and affect the heart, cannot vie with blows and scoldings—in respect to the promptness of their action. Still, the parent or the teacher who will begin to act on the principles here recommended with children while they are young, will find that such methods are far more prompt in their action and more effectual in immediate results than they would suppose—and that they will be the means of establishing the only kind of authority which is really worthy of the name, more rapidly than any other.
The special point, however, with a view to which these illustrations are introduced, is, as has been already remarked, that penalties of this nature—and imposed in this spirit, are notvindictive—but simply remedial and reformatory. They are not intended to satisfy the sense of justice for what is past—but only to secure greater safety and happiness in time to come.
'The Element of Invariableness'.
Punishments may be very light and gentle in their character, provided they are certain to follow the offense. It is in their 'certainty'—and not in their 'severity', that the efficiency of them lies. Very few children are ever severely burnt by putting their fingers into the flame of a candle. They are effectually taught not to put them in by very slight burnings, on account of the 'absolute invariableness' of the result produced by the contact.
Mothers often do not understand this. They attempt to cure some habitual fault by scoldings and threats, and declarations of what they will certainly do "next time," and perhaps by occasional acts of real severity in cases of peculiar aggravation. Instead, a quiet, gentle and comparatively trifling infliction in 'every instance' of the fault, which would be altogether more effectual.
A child, for example, has acquired the habit of leaving the door open. Now occasionally scolding him, when it is specially cold—will never cure him of the fault. But if there were an 'automaton' standing by the side of the door, to say to him 'every time' that he came through without shutting it, 'Door!' which call should be a signal to him to go back and shut the door—and then sit down in a chair near by and count ten; and if this slight penalty was 'invariably' enforced, he would be most effectually cured of the fault in a very short time.
Now, the mother cannot be exactly this automaton, for she cannot always be there; but she can recognize the principle—and carry it into effect as far as possible—that is, 'invariably, when she is there'. And though she will not thus cure the boy of the fault so soon as the automaton would do it, she will still do it very soon.
'Irritation and Anger'.
Avoid, as much as possible, everything of an irritating character in the punishments inflicted, for to irritate frequently the mind of a child tends, of course, to form within him an irritable and unamiable temper. It is true, perhaps, that it is not possible absolutely to avoid this effect of punishment in all cases; but a great deal may be done to diminish the evil, by the exercise of a little tact and ingenuity on the part of the mother whose attention is once particularly directed to the subject.
The first and most important measure of precaution on this point is the absolute exclusion of everything like angry looks and words—as accompaniments of punishment. If you find that any wrong which your child commits awakens irritation or anger in your mind, suspend your judgment of the case and postpone all action until the irritation and anger have subsided—and you can consider calmly and deliberately what to do, with a view, not of satisfying your own resentment—but of doing good to the child. Then, when you have decided what to do, carry your decision into effect in a good-natured manner—firmly and inflexibly—but still without any bitterness, or even harshness of manner.
'Cooperation of the Offender'.
There are many cases in which, by the exercise of a little tact and ingenuity, the parent can actually secure the 'cooperation' of the child in the infliction of the punishment prescribed for incurring of a fault. There are many advantages in this, when it can be done. It gives the child an interest in curing himself of the fault; it makes the punishment more effectual; and it removes almost all possibility of its producing any irritation or resentment in his mind. To illustrate this we will give a case. It is of no consequence, for the purpose of this article, whether it is a real or an imaginary one.
Little Egbert, seven years old, had formed the habit so common among children of wasting a great deal of time in dressing himself, so as not to be ready for breakfast when the second bell rang. His mother offered him a reward if he would himself devise any plan that would cure him of the fault.
"I don't know what to do, exactly, to cure you," she said; "but if you will think of any plan that will really succeed, I will give you an excursion in a carriage."
"How far?" asked Egbert.
"Ten miles," said his mother. "I will take you in a carriage on an excursion anywhere you say, for ten miles, if you will find out some way to cure yourself of this fault."
"I think you ought to punish me," said Egbert, speaking in rather a timid tone.
"That's just it," said his mother, "It is for you to think of some kind of punishment that won't be too disagreeable for me to inflict—and which will yet be successful in curing you of the fault. I will allow you two weeks to get cured. If you are not cured in two weeks I shall think the punishment is not enough, or that it is not of a good kind; but if it works so well as to cure you in two weeks, then you shall have the ride."
Egbert wished to know whether he must think of the punishment himself, or whether his sister Mary might help him. His mother gave him permission to ask anybody to help him that he pleased. Mary, after some reflection, recommended that, whenever he was not dressed in time, he was to have only one lump of sugar, instead of four, in his tumbler of water for breakfast.
His usual drink at breakfast was a tumbler of water, with four lumps of sugar in it. The first bell was rung at half-past six—and breakfast was at half-past seven. His sister recommended that, as half an hour was ample time for the work of dressing, Egbert should go down every morning and report himself ready before the clock struck seven. If he failed of this, he was to have only one lump of sugar, instead of four, in his glass of water.
There was some question about the necessity of requiring him to be ready before seven; Egbert being inclined to argue that if he was ready by breakfast-time, that would be enough. But Mary said no. "To allow you a full hour to dress," she said, "when half an hour is enough, may answer very well in respect to having you ready for breakfast—but it is no way to cure you of the fault. That would enable you to play half of the time while you are dressing, without incurring the punishment; but the way to cure you is to make it sure that you will have the punishment to bear if you play at all."
So it was decided to allow only half an hour for the dressing-time.
Egbert's mother said she was a little afraid about the one lump of sugar that was left to him when he failed.
"The plan may succeed," she said; "I am very willing that you should try it; but I am afraid that when you are tempted to stop and play in the midst of your dressing, you will say, I shall have 'one' lump of sugar, at any rate—and so will yield to the temptation. So perhaps it would be safer for you to make the rule that you are not to have 'any' sugar at all when you fail. Still, perhaps your plan will succeed. You can try it and see. I would wish to have the punishment as slight as possible, to produce the effect."
By such management as this, it is plain that Egbert is brought into actual cooperation with his mother in the infliction of a punishment to cure him of a fault. It is true, that making such an arrangement as this—and then leaving it to its own working, would lead to no result. As in the case of all other plans and methods, it must be strictly, firmly—and perseveringly followed up, by the watchful efficiency of the mother. We cannot 'substitute' the action of the child for that of the parent in the work of early training—but we can often derive very great advantage by securing his cooperation.
'Playful Punishments'.
So true is it that the efficacy of any mode of punishment consists in the 'certainty of its infliction', that even playful punishments are in many cases sufficient to accomplish the cure of a fault. George, for example, was in the habit of continually getting into disputes and mild quarrels with his sister Amelia, a year or two younger than himself. "I know it is very foolish," he said to his mother, when she was talking with him on the subject one evening after he had gone to bed—and she had been telling him a story—and his mind was in a calm and tranquil state. "It is very foolish—but somehow I can't help it. I forget."
"Then you must have some punishment to make you remember," said his mother.
"But sometimes 'she' is the one to blame," said George, "and then she must have the punishment."
"No," replied his mother. "When a lady and a gentleman become involved in a dispute in polite society, it is always the gentleman that must be considered to be to blame."
"But Amelia and I are not polite society," said George.
"You ought to be," said his mother. "At any rate, when you, an older brother, get into disputes with your sister, it is because you have not sense enough to manage so as to avoid them. If you were a little older and wiser you would have sense enough."
"Well, mother, what shall the punishment be?" said George.
"Would you really like to have a punishment, so as to cure yourself of the fault?" asked his mother.
George said that he 'would' like one.
"Then," said his mother, "I propose that every time you get into a dispute with Amelia, you turn your jacket wrong side out—and wear it so a little while as a symbol of folly."
George laughed heartily at this idea—and said he would like such a punishment as that very much. It would only be fun, he said. His mother explained to him that it would be fun, perhaps, two or three times—but after that it would only be a trouble; but still, if they decided upon that as a punishment, he must submit to it in every case. Every time he found himself getting into any dispute or difficulty with his sister, he must stop at once and turn his jacket inside out; and if he did not himself think to do this, she herself, if she was within hearing, would simply say, "Jacket!" and then he must do it.
"No matter which of us is most to blame?" asked George.
"You will always be the one that is most to blame," replied his mother, "or, at least, almost always. When a boy is playing with a sister younger than himself, 'he' is the one that is most to blame for the quarreling. His sister may be to blame by doing something wrong in the first instance; but he is the one to blame for allowing it to lead to a quarrel. If it is a little thing, he ought to yield to her—and not to mind it; and if it is a great thing, he ought to go away and leave her, rather than to stop and quarrel about it. So you see you will be the one to blame for the quarrel in almost all cases. There may possibly be some cases where you will not be to blame at all—and then you will have to be punished when you don't deserve it—and you must bear it like a man. This is a liability that happens under all systems."
"We will try the plan for two weeks," she continued. "So now remember, every single time that I hear you disputing or quarreling with Amelia, you must take off your jacket and put it on again—wrong side out—no matter whether you think you were to blame or not—and wear it so a few minutes. You can wear it so for a longer or shorter time, just as you think is best to make the punishment effectual in curing you of the fault. By the end of the two weeks we shall be able to see whether the plan is working well and doing any good."
"So now," continued his mother, "shut up your eyes and go to sleep. You are a good boy to wish to cure yourself of such faults—and to be willing to help me in contriving ways to do it. And I have no doubt that you will submit to this punishment good-naturedly every time—and not make any trouble about it."
Let it be remembered, now, that the efficacy of such management as this, consists not in the devising of it, nor in holding such a conversation as the above with the boy—beneficial as this might be—but in the 'faithfulness and strictness with which it is followed up' during the two weeks of trial.
In the case in question, the progress which George made in diminishing his tendency to get into disputes with his sister was so great, that his mother told him, at the end of the first two weeks, that their plan had succeeded "admirably"—so much so, she said, that she thought the punishment of taking off his jacket and turning it inside out would be for the future unnecessarily severe—and she proposed to substitute for it taking off his cap—and putting it on upside down.
The reader will, of course, understand that the object of such an illustration as this is not to recommend the particular measure here described for adoption in other cases—but to illustrate the spirit and temper of mind in which all measures adopted by the mother in the training of her children should be carried into effect. Measures that involve no threats, no scolding, no angry manifestations of displeasure—but are even playful in their character, may be very efficient in action—if they are firmly and perseveringly maintained.
'Punishments that are the Natural Consequence of the Offense'.
There is great advantage in adapting the character of the punishment, to that of the fault—making it, as far as possible, the natural and proper consequence of it. For instance, if the boys of a school do not come in promptly at the close of the twenty minutes' recess—but waste five minutes by their dilatoriness in obeying the summons of the bell—and the teacher keeps them for 'five minutes beyond the usual hour of dismissal', to make up for the lost time, the punishment may be felt by them to be deserved—and it may have a good effect in diminishing the evil it is intended to remedy. But it will probably excite a considerable degree of mental irritation, if not of resentment, on the part of the children, which will diminish the good effect, or is, at any rate, an evil which is to be avoided if possible.
If now, on the other hand, he assigns precisely the same penalty in another form, the whole of the good effect may be secured without the evil. Suppose he addresses the boys just before they are to go out at the next recess, as follows:
"I think, boys, that twenty minutes is about the right length of time for the recess, all told—that is, from the time you go out to the time when you are 'all' back in your seats again, quiet and ready to resume your studies. I found yesterday that it took five minutes for you all to come in—that is, that it was five minutes from the time the bell was rung before all were in their seats; and today I shall ring the bell after 'fifteen' minutes, so as to give you time to come in. If I find today that it takes ten minutes, then I will give you more time to come in tomorrow, by ringing the bell after you have been out 'ten' minutes."
"I am sorry to have you lose so much of your recess—and if you can make the time for coming in shorter, then, of course, your recess can be longer. I would not wonder if, after a few trials, you should find that you could all come in and get into your places in 'one' minute; and if so, I shall be very glad, for then you can have an uninterrupted recess of 'nineteen' minutes, which will be a great gain."
Everyone who has had any considerable experience in the management of boys will readily understand how different the effect of this measure will be from that of the other, while yet the penalty is in both cases precisely the same—namely, the loss, for the boys, of five minutes of their play.
'The Little Runaway'.
In the same manner, where a child three or four years old was in the habit, when allowed to go out by himself in the yard to play, of running off into the street, a very appropriate punishment would be to require him, for the remainder of the day, to stay in the house and keep in sight of his mother, on the ground that it was not safe to trust him by himself in the yard. This would be much better than sending him to bed an hour earlier, or subjecting him to any other inconvenience or privation having no obvious connection with the fault. For it is of the greatest importance to avoid, by every means, the exciting of feelings of irritation and resentment in the mind of the child, so far as it is possible to do this without impairing the efficiency of the punishment. It is not always possible to do this. The efficiency of the punishment is, of course, the essential thing. But parents and teachers who turn their attention to the point, will find that it is much less difficult than one would suppose to secure this end completely without producing the too frequent accompaniments of punishment—anger, ill-temper, and ill-will.
In the case, for example, of the child not allowed to go out into the yard—but required to remain in the house in sight of his mother, the mother should not try to make the punishment 'more heavy' by speaking again and again of his fault—and evincing her displeasure by trying to make the confinement as irksome to the child as possible; but, on the other hand, should do all in her power to alleviate it. "I am very sorry," she might say, "to have to keep you in the house. It would be much pleasanter for you to go out and play in the yard—if it was only safe. I don't blame you very much for running away. It is what foolish little children, as little as you, very often do. I suppose you thought it would be good fun to run out a little way in the street. And it is good fun; but it is not safe. By-and-by, when you grow a little older, you won't be so foolish—and then I can trust you in the yard at any time without having to watch you at all. And now what can I get for you to amuse you while you stay in the house with me?"
Punishment coming in this way—and administered in this spirit, will irritate the mind and injure the temper comparatively little; and, instead of being less; will be much more effective in accomplishing the 'right kind' of cure for the fault, than any stern, severe and vindictive retribution can possibly be.
'The Question of Physical Punishment'.
The question of resorting to physical punishment in the training of the young has been much, very much, argued and discussed on both sides by writers on education; but it seems to me to be mainly a question of competency and skill. If the parent or teacher has tact or skill enough—and practical knowledge enough of the workings of the youthful mind, he can gain all the necessary ascendency over it—without resort to the violent infliction of bodily pain in any form. If he has not these qualities, then he must turn to the next best means at his disposal; for it is better that a child should be trained and governed by the rod—than not trained and governed at all. I do not suppose that savages could possibly control their children without blows.
On the other hand, Maria Edgeworth would have brought under complete submission to her will, a family of the most ardent and impulsive juveniles, perhaps without even a harsh word or a frown. If a mother begins with children at the beginning, is just and true in all her dealings with them, gentle in manner—but inflexibly firm in act—and looks constantly for Divine guidance and aid in her conscientious efforts to do her duty—I feel quite confident that it will never be necessary for her to strike them. The necessity may, however, sooner or later come—in the case of those who act on the contrary principle. Under such management, the rod may come to be the only alternative to absolute unmanageableness and anarchy.
There will be occasion, however, to refer to this subject more fully in a future chapter.
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