mother! what a time she had of it trying to govern us boys!"
If a mother is willing to have her children thus regard her with contempt pure and simple while they are children, and with contempt transformed into pity by the infusion of a tardy sentiment of gratitude, when they are grown, she may try the plan of endeavoring to secure their love by indulging them without governing them. But if she sets her heart on being the object through life of their respectful love, she may indulge them as much as she pleases; but she must govern them.
A great deal is said sometimes about the evils of indulgence in the management of children; and so far as the condemnation refers only to indulgence in what is injurious or evil, it is doubtless very just. But the harm is not in the indulgence itself—that is, in the act of affording gratification to the child—but in the injurious or dangerous nature of the things indulged in. It seems to me that children are not generally indulged enough. They are thwarted and restrained in respect to the gratification of their harmless wishes a great deal too much. Indeed, as a general rule, the more that children are gratified in respect to their childish fancies and impulses, and even their caprices, when no evil or danger is to be apprehended, the better.
When, therefore, a child asks, "May I do this?" or, "May I do that?" the question for the mother to consider is not whether the thing proposed is a wise or a foolish thing to do—that is, whether it would be wise or foolish for her, if she, with her ideas and feelings, were in the place of the child—but only whether there is any harm or danger in it; and if not, she should give her ready and cordial consent.
There is no necessary antagonism, nor even any inconsistency, between the freest indulgence of children and the maintenance of the most absolute authority over them. Indeed, the authority can be most easily established in connection with great liberality of indulgence. At any rate, it will be very evident, on reflection, that the two principles do not stand at all in opposition to each other, as is often vaguely supposed. Children may be greatly indulged, and yet perfectly governed. On the other hand, they may be continually checked and thwarted, and their lives made miserable by a continued succession of vexations, restrictions, and refusals, and yet not be governed at all. An example will, however, best illustrate this.
A mother, going to the village by a path across the fields, proposed to her little daughter Louisa to go with her for a walk.
Louisa asked if she might invite her Cousin Mary to go too. "Yes," said her mother; "I think she is not at home; but you can go and see, if you like."
Louisa went to see, and returned in a few minutes, saying that Mary was not at home.
"Never mind," replied her mother; "it was polite in you to wish to invite her."
They set out upon the walk. Louisa runs hither and thither over the grass, returning continually to her mother to bring her flowers and curiosities. Her mother looks at them all, seems to approve of, and to sympathize in, Louisa's wonder and delight, and even points out new charms in the objects which she brings to her, that Louisa had not observed.
At length Louisa spied a butterfly.
"Mother," said she, "here's a butterfly. May I run and catch him?"
"You may try," said her mother.
Louisa ran till she was tired, and then came back to her mother, looking a little disappointed.
"I could not catch him, mother."
"Never mind," said her mother, "you had a good time trying, at any rate. Perhaps you will see another by-and-by. You may possibly see a bird, and you can try and see if you can catch him."
So Louisa ran off to play again, satisfied and happy.
A little farther on a pretty tree was growing, not far from the path on one side. A short, half-decayed log lay at the foot of the tree, overtopped and nearly concealed by a growth of raspberry-bushes, grass, and wild flowers.
"Louisa," said the mother, "do you see that tree with the pretty flowers at the foot of it?"
"Yes, mother."
"I would rather not have you go near that tree. Come over to this side of the path, and keep on this side till you get by."
Louisa began immediately to obey, but as she was crossing the path she looked up to her mother and asked why she must not go near the tree.
"I am glad you would like to know why," replied her mother, "and I will tell you the reason as soon as we get past."
Louisa kept on the other side of the path until the tree was left well behind, and then came back to her mother to ask for the promised reason.
"It was because I heard that there was a wasp's nest under that tree," said her mother.
"A wasp's nest!" repeated Louisa, with a look of alarm.
"Yes," rejoined her mother, "and I was afraid that the wasps might sting you."
Louisa paused a moment, and then, looking back towards the tree, said,
"I am glad I did not go near it."
"And I am glad that you obeyed me so readily," said her mother. "I knew you would obey me at once, without my giving any reason. I did not wish to tell you the reason, for fear of frightening you while you were passing by the tree. But I knew that you would obey me without any reason. You always do, and that is why I always like to have you go with me when I take a walk."
Louisa is much gratified by this commendation, and the effect of it, and of the whole incident, in confirming and strengthening the principle of obedience in her heart, is very much greater than rebukes or punishments for any overt act of disobedience could possibly be.
"But, mother," asked Louisa, "how did you know that there was a wasp's nest under that tree?"
"One of the boys told me so," replied her mother.
"And do you really think there is one there?" asked Louisa.
"No," replied her mother, "I do not really think there is. Boys are very apt to imagine such things."
"Then why would you not let me go there?" asked Louisa.
"Because there might be one there, and so I thought it safer for you not to go near."
Louisa now left her mother's side and resumed her excursions, running this way and that, in every direction, over the fields, until at length, her strength beginning to fail, she came back to her mother, out of breath, and with a languid air, saying that she was too tired to go any farther.
"I am tired, too," said her mother; "we had better find a place to sit down to rest."
"Where shall we find one?" asked Louisa.
"I see a large stone out there before us a little way," said her mother.
"How will that do?"
"I mean to go and try it," said Louisa; and, having seemingly recovered her breath, she ran forward to try the stone. By the time that her mother reached the spot she was ready to go on.
These and similar incidents marked the whole progress of the walk.
We see that in such a case as
