Chapter XIII

The Constituent Parts of the Family

III. The Child in the Family

A thousand and a thousand silken leaves

The tufted beech unfolds in early spring:

• All clad in tenderest green,
• All of the self-same shape.

A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet,

Each year sends forth, yet every mother views

• Her last not least beloved,
• Like its dear self alone.

—Sara Coleridge

The prodigality of babydom when we stumble over it swarming in the streets, or inspect its ordered myriads in the elementary schools, or study its advancing tides translated into statistics, is a thing to baffle the imagination and the heart. Babies by the thousand! by the hundred thousand! How is it possible even to think of them with equanimity. A baby, as we know it, is a thing which in its waking hours at least makes the most exorbitant claims upon the attention and watchfulness of those who are responsible for its welfare; it is essentially a unit, number one, in whatever company it may find itself; and to think of it in hundreds and thousands seems a contradiction in terms. And rightly considered it is a contradiction in terms. Babies have no corporate existence; there is no proper purpose for which they can be removed from their seclusion in the life of the Family; and it is only by an effort of abstraction that we can think of them as massed together and away from their natural setting.

It is, of course, a perfectly legitimate application of statistics to count the babies, so long as we remember that it is an abstraction, and do not allow ourselves to be seized with panic at our totals. "All these babies to provide for," the alarmists cry; "all to be fed and clothed and nursed and tended; and then to compete with us in our work and professions." And they forget that in real life they come one by one, and that they come only when there are two adult people who have been expecting them for months and have made themselves responsible for their entertainment. Babies are born into Families, to be born again after prolonged nurture into citizenship, and it is only when we leave the Family out of our reckoning that the problem of handling them presents serious difficulties.

So far as the baby is concerned, its position in the Family can never have been materially different from what it is now, and it is difficult to see how it can change much in the future. In one important respect it has certainly improved amongst civilised races, in so far as infanticide is no longer a recognised mode of regulating the population. In another respect it would seem to have deteriorated, in so far as considerable numbers are deprived of their natural food, and have to make shift with quasi-scientific substitutes. Otherwise its position remains essentially unaltered, for whether it is born of wealthy or of poor parents, and in whatever conditions and surroundings, it continues to be the one absolutely dependent member of the Family, and it continues also to rule by virtue of its helplessness.

Why exactly this helplessness should endow the baby with such power it is not easy to explain. It is not a quality which appeals to most of us when manifested in the adult, or even in children of a riper age. Perhaps it is because we know that in the baby the appeal is wholly unconscious, that there is no arrière pensée in it, no premeditated assault upon our sympathies, that we are so ready to yield to it. We feel in a much deeper way, as we do when we approach a nest of fledglings and all the yellow beaks gape wide. The open mouth is irresistible, when it is a simple expression of need with no suspicion about it of design. Our resentment against the older people, capable of filling their own mouths, who pursue the same method of evoking our sympathies, is a measure of our readiness to respond to the genuine appeal. There is no question of the baby's needs being assumed; they are obvious and inevitable, and amongst ordinary human beings the obvious and inevitable must always prevail.

And so the baby, for the time being, and until the next baby comes, occupies a unique position in the household. Then he is dethroned, and takes his place amongst the rank and file of the other ex-babies. If, indeed, he happens to be an "eldest son" he may preserve another kind of prerogative, but that is incidental to a peculiar type of Family.

But so long as he remains within the Family the child never entirely loses the uniqueness which attached to him as a baby; he is never just one amongst the others as he is at school for the purposes of the teacher, or in still later life as he is one amongst the others for the purposes of the census-enumerator and tax-collector. The concentration of tenderness and attention upon the first few months of his helplessness continues, though in a less degree, as he becomes gradually more independent of it, and to the mother at least he is always "like his dear self alone." And there can, I think, be no doubt that this differentiation by affection within the Family group is a most important factor in emphasising and developing the individuality of the child. "Institution" children are notably slower to develop than children who are brought up with their parents, and there is a tendency amongst them for the somewhat troublesome qualities of initiative, enterprise and individuality to be ruled out by the only less valuable qualities which are conformable to discipline and routine. It is for this reason that social schemes, which would dispense with the Family, and would have the child born straight into the State without its intermediate shelter, seem foredoomed to failure. The State can deal only with classes, not with individuals, and the child which is not dealt with as an individual from the first seems likely never to become one in the fullest sense.

Perhaps one way of bringing out the essential features of the relation between the child and the Family will be to contrast it with the quite different relation between the child and the school. There is an increasing tendency to-day to regard the school as a substitute for the home, and thus to a large extent to stultify the work of both. An eminent writer has recently declared that "schools are designed to curb and replace the evil influences of home," and this is only an extreme way of stating the prevalent view that the school should be responsible, not only for the intellectual development of the children, but for their morals and manners, their character, also. Another writer, an American describing New York, makes the statement that the home is passing away, and that in future the school must be the world of the child, whether working, learning, or playing. And it is notable that this view obtains for rich and poor alike; among the rich, who tacitly disclaim responsibility by sending their children to boarding schools at the earliest possible age, and allowing the holidays to be a time of complete license, and for the poor, to whom the elementary schools are now offering to feed, clothe, nurse, and doctor their children, as well as teach them. It is worth considering, then, what are the essential differences between home and school life which may be worth preserving for the sake of the child.

In the first place, I think it is fair to say that, generally speaking, the child is valued in the home for what he is, while in the school he is valued in the main for what he is to be (I disregard of course his grant earning value). In the school the child is being prepared for his future life only; all that he does has its meaning with reference to the future. His course of instruction, his exercise, his games—all are planned for and justified by their effect upon his development. His sums, his exercises, his copy-books, the long hours of work which he and his master spend together, are primarily justified only by the fact that they are more or less necessary steps in the creation of a man.

In a good home this point of view will, of course, not be absent, but there the child is valued also for what he is, sometimes, indeed, too exclusively. We all know the fond mother who cannot bear that her babies should become boys and girls, and dreads the time when her boys and girls will pass into men and women. But who can question the incalculable benefit to a child, as indeed to all of us, however old, of feeling that his mere presence gives pleasure to some one, that some one really cares to know all his little secrets and fancies and troubles, and that there is some one with whom he lives in an equality of affection where differences of age and intellect are merged? It is this which forms the real link between the generations, and makes of child life not merely a preparation but something infinitely valuable in itself.

The next difference I would note is, that the relation of the child to the home has in it far more of mutual service and reciprocity than is possible in the school. Children are naturally eager to share in the occupations and work of their elders, to do the things which "grown up" people do, and in any well-regulated Family care is taken that this natural impulse of the child receives satisfaction and guidance. Little duties about the house, little services to other members of the Family, are possible from a very early age, and contribute far more than any direct teaching can do to make the child realise how social life depends upon mutual helpfulness. In school the relation is inevitably far more one-sided; the whole thing exists for the sake of the child, and he is not, generally speaking, expected, nor indeed allowed, to have any share in carrying it on. He must of course exert himself if he is to benefit from the teaching, but the exertion will obviously be in his own interests, even though the immediate motive may be to please the teacher. In short, while home life involves give and take, school life is apt to be much take and very little give.

The contrast is deepened by the fact that the relation with the Family is, normally, a permanent one. Hence, though it begins in absolute dependence of the child upon its parents, it gradually develops—at any rate amongst the majority of the people—into one of mutual support and assistance. The child knows from very early years that the time is coming when he will be expected to take his share in the responsibilities of the Family; later on when he will himself be responsible for the maintenance of a Family; and, later still, when his parents will look to him for some return of the care and support which he received from them as a child. But in the school there is no such natural development of the relation; the child may grow up into the schoolmaster, but only in exceptional The relation is necessarily a temporary and, for the most part, a one-sided one.¹

Another difference between school and home emerges when we consider what are the qualities which we desire our children to have when they leave the shelter of childhood and come face to face with the larger life of the community.

To speak first quite generally, we want them to be at least as well equipped as those who will be their future companions, and to some extent their competitors; we want them to know as much, and to be prepared to take their place amongst them without being handicapped through ignorance, and for this we look largely to the schools to which we have entrusted them. This is true from the point of view of the nation no less than from the point of view of the individual parents; no nation desires either that there should be an incompetent class within itself, nor that its citizens shall be less competent than those of other nations.

But also we do not wish that our children should be turned out just like their companions. To every parent his own children are unique; they have their own characteristics in which he delights—partly, no doubt, because he thinks they come from him—and he does not want to see these obliterated. I suppose no parent, however indifferent, would like to be told that his children were just like any one else's. Now the education of family life, as I have already maintained, consists largely in the development—conscious and unconscious—of these special characteristics, family characteristics, and in turning them to good account; a very different matter from either letting them run wild or from trying to eliminate them. And I would urge again that this is all to the good from the point of view of the community also. It is only in this way that we can preserve that diversity of temperament and ability which adds so much to the richness of social life, and provides citizens suitable for every kind of function.

In the school the tendency is an opposite one. It is often said nowadays that the teacher must make a special study of every child under his care, and have a special scheme of development for each. To some extent, no doubt, this must be the case with a teacher who is good at his work; different children will respond differently to his teaching, and he must more or less adapt himself to their needs and natures. But if this view is pushed far, there is a danger of losing one of the most valuable elements in school life. One of the principal lessons which the child has to learn at school is that of conforming to universal laws; to feel that he has to play up to what is expected of a boy of his age, to overcome his own special difficulties or likings for the sake of promoting the work of the class. Now this discipline tends to disappear so soon as he has any suspicion that the master is playing down to him. I especially question the advisability of making lessons too easy, of trying to turn work into play; there can hardly be any quality we more desire for our children than the power to face a difficulty and overcome it, and it is a quality we cannot begin too soon to develop. But I am given to understand that the theory of making lessons easy and entertaining is now driven to such extremes that the whole burden of them falls upon the teacher, instead of being at least shared by the pupil. All difficulties are smoothed away by illustrations and explanations and devices of one sort and another, until the knowledge to be imparted has become like those patent pre-digested breakfast foods which America produces. Now, I cannot think that the digestion which has its work done for it is likely to be strong; and still less can I think that the intellect which is catered for in this way is likely to prove of much use when face to face with realities. An American who is strongly impressed with this mistake of the conscientious teacher writes: "This assumption of the entire burden upon themselves, and the extreme to which the discarding of textbooks is now carried, are among the agencies that are making our city children strangers to thoughtful books, readers at best of nothing but feeble or exaggerated fiction. Who can estimate the loss incurred by a generation growing up without this means of companionship with the master-minds of all the ages, this resource and consolation in many dreary and painful hours. It is equalled only by the misfortune to the State, which must accord the duties of citizenship to men unable to grasp the real meaning of what they read, and naturally more likely to hear the talk of fanatics and demagogues than of sound thinkers."

I should say, then, that for the teacher to take upon himself too much of the burden of education is to deprive the child of one of the greatest benefits as well as pleasures of school-days; since to have learned to overcome a difficulty instead of avoiding it is not only an important lesson for future strength and happiness, but also the source of one of the purest pleasures which life can afford. And it is a discipline which is less easy to give in home life, where the atmosphere is naturally one of helpfulness. A wise parent, it is true, will not respond too readily to every childish appeal for help; when no danger of permanent injury is involved he will let the children work their own way through their little difficulties even at the cost of some momentary trouble or distress. But the difficulties do not arise naturally and progressively in the same way in the home as they do at school.

I have dwelt upon the contrast between home and school in order to bring out how each tends to lose in its own peculiar efficiency when it attempts to usurp the functions of the other. There is one other point of a somewhat different nature, where the rivalry would almost seem to be inevitable, and where jealousy of the school has found very strong expression. Every generation, I suppose, has its complaint to make of the one which is to succeed it, and we must not attach too much weight to the grumblings of those who see a general falling off since the days when they were young. But there is one complaint which is almost universal, and which does seem to touch a somewhat unlovely characteristic of the present day. I refer to the accusation that there is among the children a prevailing and increasing want of respect towards their elders, more especially, perhaps, towards their parents. Nor are the complainants slow to attribute this tendency to the influence of the school, where, they think, the children are not taught to order themselves as they should towards their elders and betters.

In considering how far the accusation carries weight, we must distinguish between various elements in the change which has taken place. In the first place, there is no doubt that it is to a large extent merely a change of convention, for which the parents themselves are as much responsible as any one. Children are no longer taught to address their parents as Sir or Ma'am, or to observe the formalities proper to two or three generations ago. Again, they are now encouraged to take part in the conversation and interests of their elders instead of observing the old maxim of our nursery days, that children should be seen and not heard. Partly this is due to new views upon education, but partly also to the change we have already considered in the basis of the parents' authority in the home. There is nothing inconsistent between freedom of intercourse and the loyalty which is the essential spirit of the modern Family, and where we have the perfect love which casteth out fear, such freedom of intercourse is its spontaneous expression. So far no failure of real respect is involved. There may indeed have been more disrespect concealed under the old formalities, more rebellion under the old despotic authority than is implied in the familiarity of to-day. But to some extent the evil complained of is real, and is much to be deprecated in the interests of young and old alike; and it is also true, I think, that it is an evil which the spread of education has brought more or less naturally with it. I have already suggested the reason. In the old days, when the great majority of the people had little access to books, still less to schools, the only source of knowledge was the accumulated wisdom and experience of the older people, of the fathers and mothers of the community. When the young folks had to turn to them for guidance and information at every step, they felt their inferiority and behaved accordingly. Now the case is to a large extent reversed. At school the children find themselves in touch with sources of knowledge which may never have been open to their parents. The teacher is a mine of information, and if the young people want to know anything about past, present, or future, there is the whole literature of history and science to take the place of their grandfathers' recollections. In consequence the young are really apt to feel themselves very superior to the old, and this soon reflects itself in their bearing. Perhaps it is too much to expect that in school the children should be taught that book-learning is not the most important kind of knowledge. If so, the solution of the difficulty must rest with the parents themselves. If mere superiority of age will no longer enable them to maintain their prestige, then they must seek to excel in other respects also; we are setting a much higher standard for the children, and it will not be a bad thing if it reacts by forcing our own standard a little higher. There is perhaps too much tendency, as we reach the mature age of thirty or forty, to regard ourselves as finished products, and to let character and intellect lie dormant for the future. When this is so, we cannot much wonder if the children, from whom we demand such constant efforts to improve themselves, should become critical in their turn.

And this leads me to another aspect of the relation: from the importance of the Family for the Child, to the importance of the Child for the Family. Of course children are "troublesome," in the sense that they demand constant activity, both of mind and body, from those directly responsible for them. But activity is life; and it is perhaps not too much to say that the majority of mankind are saved from mental and physical stagnation by the claims of their children. No doubt there are some who think that they could have "made a career" if they had not been weighed down by the burden of a Family and the necessity of constant toil; but it is very easy to deceive ourselves as to what we might have done under different circumstances, and for one man whose higher life has been crushed by the needs of his Family, a hundred thousand have been stimulated to a higher level of industry and efficiency.

"They must hinder your work very much," I said the other day to a mother busy about the kitchen with two-year-old clinging to her skirt. "I'd never get through my work without them," was the instant rejoinder, and in it lay the answer to much of our sentimental commiseration of hard-worked mothers. It may be hard to carry on the drudgery of daily life with the little ones clamouring around; it is ten times harder without, for sheer lack of something to make it worth while. And how often they act as a restraint as well as an incentive perhaps only mothers know. "I am very glad this feeding of the children in the school did not come in while mine went to school," remarked one; and when asked for an explanation she replied that her husband was rather a drinking man, and if he had not had to bring something home for the children, of whom he was very fond, he would have been far worse than he was.

One of the most curious misdirections of sympathy has been that which dwells upon the monotony of the mother's life. One writer carries this view to the extreme by laying down that "home is the girl's prison and the woman's workhouse." Now if this had been said of the factory or workshop where child life is excluded, or if it had referred to the woman who earns her living in solitude, many would agree. But where there are children who are living a natural life, monotony is the one evil for which there is absolutely no room. No adult human being is capable of the infinite variety of the child, and a life with children is essentially a life where it is the unexpected which happens. It is when the children leave that monotony threatens; but fortunately in a well-ordered Family there is generally a new generation arriving before the last one has altogether ceased to be "troublesome."

Notes