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Gentle Measures in the Management and Training of the Young by Jacob Abbott

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[Illustration: AUTHORITY.]










Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.










































It is not impossible that in the minds of some persons the idea of
employing gentle measures in the management and training of children may
seem to imply the abandonment of the principle of _authority_, as the
basis of the parental government, and the substitution of some weak and
inefficient system of artifice and manoeuvring in its place. To suppose
that the object of this work is to aid in effecting such a substitution as
that, is entirely to mistake its nature and design. The only government
of the parent over the child that is worthy of the name is one of
authority--complete, absolute, unquestioned _authority_. The object of this
work is, accordingly, not to show how the gentle methods which will be
brought to view can be employed as a substitute for such authority, but how
they can be made to aid in establishing and maintaining it.

_Three Methods_.

There are three different modes of management customarily employed
by parents as means of inducing their children to comply with their
requirements. They are,

1. Government by Manoeuvring and Artifice.

2. By Reason and Affection.

3. By Authority.

_Manoeuvring and Artifice_.

1. Many mothers manage their children by means of tricks and contrivances,
more or less adroit, designed to avoid direct issues with them, and to
beguile them, as it were, into compliance with their wishes. As, for
example, where a mother, recovering from sickness, is going out to take
the air with her husband for the first time, and--as she is still
feeble--wishes for a very quiet drive, and so concludes not to take little
Mary with her, as she usually does on such occasions; but knowing that if
Mary sees the chaise at the door, and discovers that her father and mother
are going in it, she will be very eager to go too, she adopts a system of
manoeuvres to conceal her design. She brings down her bonnet and shawl by
stealth, and before the chaise comes to the door she sends Mary out into
the garden with her sister, under pretense of showing her a bird's nest
which is not there, trusting to her sister's skill in diverting the child's
mind, and amusing her with something else in the garden, until the chaise
has gone. And if, either from hearing the sound of the wheels, or from
any other cause, Mary's suspicions are awakened--and children habitually
managed on these principles soon learn to be extremely distrustful and
suspicious--and she insists on going into the house, and thus discovers the
stratagem, then, perhaps, her mother tells her that they are only going to
the doctor's, and that if Mary goes with them, the doctor will give her
some dreadful medicine, and compel her to take it, thinking thus to deter
her from insisting on going with them to ride.

As the chaise drives away, Mary stands bewildered and perplexed on the
door-step, her mind in a tumult of excitement, in which hatred of the
doctor, distrust and suspicion of her mother, disappointment, vexation, and
ill humor, surge and swell among those delicate organizations on which the
structure and development of the soul so closely depend--doing perhaps an
irreparable injury. The mother, as soon as the chaise is so far turned that
Mary can no longer watch the expression of her countenance, goes away from
the door with a smile of complacency and satisfaction upon her face at the
ingenuity and success of her little artifice.

In respect to her statement that she was going to the doctor's, it may,
or may not, have been true. Most likely not; for mothers who manage their
children on this system find the line of demarkation between deceit and
falsehood so vague and ill defined that they soon fall into the habit of
disregarding it altogether, and of saying, without hesitation, any thing
which will serve the purpose in view.

_Governing by Reason and Affection_.

2. The theory of many mothers is that they must govern their children by
the influence of reason and affection. Their method may be exemplified by
supposing that, under circumstances similar to those described under the
preceding head, the mother calls Mary to her side, and, smoothing her hair
caressingly with her hand while she speaks, says to her,

"Mary, your father and I are going out to ride this afternoon, and I am
going to explain it all to you why you can not go too. You see, I have been
sick, and am getting well, and I am going out to ride, so that I may get
well faster. You love mamma, I am sure, and wish to have her get well soon.
So you will be a good girl, I know, and not make any trouble, but will stay
at home contentedly--won't you? Then I shall love you, and your papa will
love you, and after I get well we will take you to ride with us some day."

The mother, in managing the case in this way, relies partly on convincing
the reason of the child, and partly on an appeal to her affection.

_Governing by Authority_.

3. By the third method the mother secures the compliance of the child by
a direct exercise of authority. She says to her--the circumstances of the
case being still supposed to be the same--

"Mary, your father and I are going out to ride this afternoon, and I am
sorry, for your sake, that we can not take you with us."

"Why can't you take me?" asks Mary.

"I can not tell you why, now," replies the mother, "but perhaps I will
explain it to you after I come home. I think there _is_ a good reason, and,
at any rate, I have decided that you are not to go. If you are a good girl,
and do not make any difficulty, you can have your little chair out upon
the front door-step, and can see the chaise come to the door, and see your
father and me get in and drive away; and you can wave your handkerchief to
us for a good-bye."

Then, if she observes any expression of discontent or insubmission in
Mary's countenance, the mother would add,

"If you should _not_ be a good girl, but should show signs of making us any
trouble, I shall have to send you out somewhere to the back part of the
house until we are gone."

But this last supposition is almost always unnecessary; for if Mary has
been habitually managed on this principle she will _not_ make any
trouble. She will perceive at once that the question is settled--settled
irrevocably--and especially that it is entirely beyond the power of any
demonstrations of insubmission or rebellion that she can make to change it.
She will acquiesce at once.[A] She may be sorry that she can not go, but
she will make no resistance. Those children only attempt to carry their
points by noisy and violent demonstrations who find, by experience, that
such measures are usually successful. A child, even, who has become once
accustomed to them, will soon drop them if she finds, owing to a change
in the system of management, that they now never succeed. And a child who
never, from the beginning, finds any efficiency in them, never learns to
employ them at all.


Of the three methods of managing children exemplified in this chapter,
the last is the only one which can be followed either with comfort to the
parent or safety to the child; and to show how this method can be brought
effectually into operation by gentle measures is the object of this book.
It is, indeed, true that the importance of tact and skill in the training
of the young, and of cultivating their reason, and securing their
affection, can not be overrated. But the influences secured by these means
form, at the best, but a sandy foundation for filial obedience to rest
upon. The child is not to be made to comply with the requirements of his
parents by being artfully inveigled into compliance, nor is his obedience
to rest on his love for father and mother, and his unwillingness
to displease them, nor on his conviction of the rightfulness and
reasonableness of their commands, but on simple _submission to
authority_--that absolute and almost unlimited authority which all parents
are commissioned by God and nature to exercise over their offspring during
the period while the offspring remain dependent upon their care.



It being thus distinctly understood that the gentle measures in the
training of children herein recommended are not to be resorted to as a
_substitute_ for parental authority, but as the easiest and most effectual
means of establishing and maintaining that authority in its most absolute
form, we have now to consider what the nature of these gentle measures is,
and by what characteristics they are distinguished, in their action and
influence, from such as may be considered more or less violent and harsh.

Gentle measures are those which tend to exert a calming, quieting, and
soothing influence on the mind, or to produce only such excitements as
are pleasurable in their character, as means of repressing wrong and
encouraging right action. Ungentle measures are those which tend to inflame
and irritate the mind, or to agitate it with _painful_ excitements.

_Three Degrees of Violence_.

There seem to be three grades or forms of violence to which a mother may
resort in controlling her children, or, perhaps, rather three classes of
measures which are more or less violent in their effects. To illustrate
these we will take an example.

_Case supposed_.

One day Louisa, four years old, asked her mother for an apple. "Have you
had any already?" asked her mother.

"Only one," replied Louisa. "Then Bridget may give you another," said the

What Louisa said was not true. She had already eaten two apples. Bridget
heard the falsehood, but she did not consider it her duty to betray the
child, so she said nothing. The mother, however, afterwards, in the course
of the day, accidentally ascertained the truth.

Now, as we have said, there are three grades in the kind and character of
the measures which may be considered violent that a mother may resort to in
a case like this.

_Bodily Punishment_.

1. First, there is the infliction of bodily pain. The child may be whipped,
or tied to the bed-post, and kept in a constrained and uncomfortable
position for a long time, or shut up in solitude and darkness, or punished
by the infliction of bodily suffering in other ways.

And there is no doubt that there is a tendency in such treatment to correct
or cure the fault. But measures like these, whether successful or not, are
certainly violent measures. They shock the whole nervous system, sometimes
with the excitement of pain and terror, and always, probably, with that
of resentment and anger. In some cases this excitement is extreme. The
excessively delicate organization of the brain, through which such
agitations reach the sensorium, and which, in children of an early age, is
in its most tender and sensitive state of development, is subjected to a
most intense and violent agitation.

_Evil Effects of Violence in this Form_.

The evil effects of this excessive cerebral action may _perhaps_ entirely
pass away in a few hours, and leave no trace of injury behind; but then,
on the other hand, there is certainly reason to fear that such commotions,
especially if often repeated, tend to impede the regular and healthful
development of the organs, and that they may become the origin of
derangements, or of actual disorganizations, resulting very seriously in
future years. It is impossible, perhaps, to know with certainty whether
permanent ill effects follow in such cases or not. At any rate, such a
remedy is a violent one.

_The Frightening System_.

2. There is a second grade of violence in the treatment of such a case,
which consists in exciting pain or terror, or other painful or disagreeable
emotions, through the imagination, by presenting to the fancy of the child
images of phantoms, hobgoblins, and other frightful monsters, whose ire, it
is pretended, is greatly excited by the misdeeds of children, and who come
in the night-time to take them away, or otherwise visit them with terrible
retribution. Domestic servants are very prone to adopt this mode of
discipline. Being forbidden to resort to personal violence as a means of
exciting pain and terror, they attempt to accomplish the same end by other
means, which, however, in many respects, are still more injurious in their

_Management of Nurses and Servants_.

Nurses and attendants upon children from certain nationalities in Europe
are peculiarly disposed to employ this method of governing children placed
under their care. One reason is that they are accustomed to this mode of
management at home; and another is that many of them are brought up under
an idea, which prevails extensively in some of those countries, that it
is right to tell falsehoods where the honest object is to accomplish a
charitable or useful end. Accordingly, inasmuch as the restraining of the
children from wrong is a good and useful object, they can declare the
existence of giants and hobgoblins, to carry away and devour bad girls and
boys, with an air of positiveness and seeming honesty, and with a calm and
persistent assurance, which aids them very much in producing on the minds
of the children a conviction of the truth of what they say; while, on the
other hand, those who, in theory at least, occupy the position that
the direct falsifying of one's word is _never_ justifiable, act at a
disadvantage in attempting this method. For although, in practice, they are
often inclined to make an exception to their principles in regard to truth
in the case of what is said to young children, they can not, after all,
tell children what they know to be not true with that bold and confident
air necessary to carry full conviction to the children's minds. They are
embarrassed by a kind of half guilty feeling, which, partially at least,
betrays them, and the children do not really and fully believe what they
say. They can not suppose that their mother would really tell them what
she knew was false, and yet they can not help perceiving that she does not
speak and look as if what she was saying was actually true.

_Monsieur and Madame Croquemitaine_.

In all countries there are many, among even the most refined and highly
cultivated classes, who are not at all embarrassed by any moral delicacy
of this kind. This is especially the case in those countries in Europe,
particularly on the Continent, where the idea above referred to, of the
allowableness of falsehood in certain cases as a means for the attainment
of a good end, is generally entertained. The French have two terrible
bugbears, under the names of Monsieur and Madame Croquemitaine, who are as
familiar to the imaginations of French children as Santa Claus is, in a
much more agreeable way, to the juvenile fancy at our firesides. Monsieur
and Madame Croquemitaine are frightful monsters, who come down the chimney,
or through the roof, at night, and carry off bad children. They learn from
their _little fingers_--which whisper in their ears when they hold them
near--who the bad children are, where they live, and what they have done.
The instinctive faith of young children in their mother's truthfulness is
so strong that no absurdity seems gross enough to overcome it.

_The Black Man and the Policeman_.

There are many mothers among us who--though not quite prepared to call
in the aid of ghosts, giants, and hobgoblins, or of Monsieur and Madame
Croquemitaine, in managing their children--still, sometimes, try to eke out
their failing authority by threatening them with the "black man," or the
"policeman," or some other less, supernatural terror. They seem to imagine
that inasmuch as, while there is no such thing in existence as a hobgoblin,
there really are policemen and prisons, they only half tell an untruth by
saying to the recalcitrant little one that a policeman is coming to carry
him off to jail.

_Injurious Effects_.

Although, by these various modes of exciting imaginary fears, there is no
direct and outward infliction of bodily suffering, the effect produced on
the delicate organization of the brain by such excitements is violent in
the extreme. The paroxysms of agitation and terror which they sometimes
excite, and which are often spontaneously renewed by darkness and solitude,
and by other exciting causes, are of the nature of temporary insanity.
Indeed, the extreme nervous excitability which they produce sometimes
becomes a real insanity, which, though it may, in many cases, be finally
outgrown, may probably in many others lead to lasting and most deplorable

_Harsh Reproofs and Threatenings_.

3. There is a third mode of treatment, more common, perhaps, among _us_
than either of the preceding, which, though much milder in its character
than they, we still class among the violent measures, on account of
its operation and effects. It consists of stern and harsh rebukes,
denunciations of the heinousness of the sin of falsehood, with solemn
premonitions of the awful consequences of it, in this life and in that to
come, intended to awaken feelings of alarm and distress in the mind of the
child, as a means of promoting repentance and reformation. These are
not violent measures, it is true, so far as outward physical action is
concerned; but the effects which they produce are sometimes of quite a
violent nature, in their operation on the delicate nervous and mental
susceptibilities which are excited and agitated by them. If the mother
is successful in making the impression which such a mode of treatment is
designed to produce, the child, especially if a girl, is agitated and
distressed. Her nervous system is greatly disturbed. If calmed for a time,
the paroxysm is very liable to return. She wakes in the night, perhaps,
with an indefinable feeling of anxiety and terror, and comes to her
mother's bedside, to seek, in her presence, and in the sense of protection
which it affords, a relief from her distress.

The conscientious mother, supremely anxious to secure the best interests
of her child, may say that, after all, it is better that she should endure
this temporary suffering than not be saved from the sin. This is true. But
if she can be saved just as effectually without it, it is better still.

_The Gentle Method of Treatment_.

4. We now come to the gentle measures which may be adopted in a case of
discipline like this. They are endlessly varied in form, but, to illustrate
the nature and operation of them, and the spirit and temper of mind with
which they should be enforced, with a view of communicating; to the mind of
the reader some general idea of the characteristics of that gentleness of
treatment which it is the object of this work to commend, we will describe
an actual case, substantially as it really occurred, where a child, whom
we will still call Louisa, told her mother a falsehood about the apple, as
already related.

_Choosing the Right Time_.

Her mother--though Louisa's manner, at the time of giving her answer, led
her to feel somewhat suspicious--did not express her suspicions, but gave
her the additional apple. Nor did she afterwards, when she ascertained the
facts, say any thing on the subject. The day passed away as if nothing
unusual had occurred. When bed-time came she undressed the child and laid
her in her bed, playing with her, and talking with her in an amusing manner
all the time, so as to bring her into a contented and happy frame of
mind, and to establish as close a connection as possible of affection and
sympathy between them. Then, finally, when the child's prayer had been
said, and she was about to be left for the night, her mother, sitting in
a chair at the head of her little bed, and putting her hand lovingly upon
her, said:

_The Story_.

"But first I must tell you one more little story.

"Once there was a boy, and his name was Ernest. He was a pretty large boy,
for he was five years old."

Louisa, it must be recollected, was only four.

"He was a very pretty boy. He had bright blue eyes and curling hair. He
was a very good boy, too. He did not like to do any thing wrong. He always
found that it made him feel uncomfortable and unhappy afterwards when he
did any thing wrong. A good many children, especially good children, find
that it makes them feel uncomfortable and unhappy when they do wrong.
Perhaps you do."

"Yes, mamma, I do," said Louisa.

"I am glad of that," replied her mother; "that is a good sign."

"Ernest went one day," added the mother, continuing her story, "with his
little cousin Anna to their uncle's, in hopes that he would give them
some apples. Their uncle had a beautiful garden, and in it there was an
apple-tree which bore most excellent apples. They were large, and rosy, and
mellow, and sweet. The children liked the apples from that tree very much,
and Ernest and Anna went that day in hopes that their uncle would give them
some of them. He said he would. He would give them three apiece. He told
them to go into the garden and wait there until he came. They must not take
any apples off the tree, he said, but if they found any _under_ the tree
they might take them, provided that there were not more than three apiece;
and when he came he would take enough off the tree, he said, to make up the
number to three.

"So the children went into the garden and looked under the tree. They found
_two_ apples there, and they took them up and ate them--one apiece. Then
they sat down and began to wait for their uncle to come. While they were
waiting Anna proposed that they should not tell their uncle that they had
found the two apples, and so he would give them three more, which he would
take from the tree; whereas, if he knew that they had already had one
apiece, then he would only give them two more. Ernest said that his uncle
would ask them about it. Anna said, 'No matter, we can tell him that we did
not find any.'

"Ernest seemed to be thinking about it for a moment, and then, shaking his
head, said, 'No, I think we had better not tell him a lie!'

"So when he saw their uncle coming he said, 'Come, Anna, let us go and tell
him about it, just how it was. So they ran together to meet their uncle,
and told him that they had found two apples under the tree, one apiece,
and had eaten them. Then he gave them two more apiece, according to his
promise, and they went home feeling contented and happy.

"They might have had one more apple apiece, probably, by combining together
to tell a falsehood; but in that case they would have gone home feeling
guilty and unhappy."

_The Effect_.

Louisa's mother paused a moment, after finishing her story, to give Louisa
time to think about it a little.

"I think," she added at length, after a suitable pause, "that it was a
great deal better for them to tell the truth, as they did."

"I think so too, mamma," said Louisa, at the same time casting down her
eyes and looking a little confused.

"But you know," added her mother, speaking in a very kind and gentle tone,
"that you did not tell me the truth to-day about the apple that Bridget
gave you."

Louisa paused a moment, looked in her mother's face, and then, reaching up
to put her arms around her mother's neck, she said,

"Mamma, I am determined never to tell you another wrong story as long as I

_Only a Single Lesson, after all_.

Now it is not at all probable that if the case had ended here, Louisa would
have kept her promise. This was one good lesson, it is true, but it was
only _one_. And the lesson was given by a method so gentle, that no
nervous, cerebral, or mental function was in any degree irritated or
morbidly excited by it. Moreover, no one who knows any thing of the
workings of the infantile mind can doubt that the impulse in the right
direction given by this conversation was not only better in character, but
was greater in amount, than could have been effected by either of the other
methods of management previously described.

_How Gentle Measures operate_.

By the gentle measures, then, which are to be here discussed and
recommended, are meant such as do not react in a violent and irritating
manner, in any way, upon the extremely delicate, and almost embryonic
condition of the cerebral and nervous organization, in which the gradual
development of the mental and moral faculties are so intimately involved.
They do not imply any, the least, relaxation of the force of parental
authority, or any lowering whatever of the standards of moral obligation,
but are, on the contrary, the most effectual, the surest and the safest way
of establishing the one and of enforcing the other.



The first duty which devolves upon the mother in the training of her child
is the establishment of her _authority_ over him--that is, the forming in
him the habit of immediate, implicit, and unquestioning obedience to all
her commands. And the first step to be taken, or, rather, perhaps the first
essential condition required for the performance of this duty, is the
fixing of the conviction in her own mind that it _is_ a duty.

Unfortunately, however, there are not only vast numbers of mothers who do
not in any degree perform this duty, but a large proportion of them have
not even a theoretical idea of the obligation of it.

_An Objection_.

"I wish my child to be governed by reason and reflection," says one. "I
wish him to see the _necessity_ and _propriety_ of what I require of him,
so that he may render a ready and willing compliance with my wishes,
instead of being obliged blindly to submit to arbitrary and despotic

She forgets that the faculties of reason and reflection, and the power
of appreciating "the necessity and propriety of things," and of bringing
considerations of future, remote, and perhaps contingent good and evil to
restrain and subdue the impetuousness of appetites and passions eager for
present pleasure, are qualities that appear late, and are very slowly
developed, in the infantile mind; that no real reliance whatever can be
placed upon them in the early years of life; and that, moreover, one of the
chief and expressly intended objects of the establishment of the parental
relation is to provide, in the mature reason and reflection of the father
and mother, the means of guidance which the embryo reason and reflection of
the child could not afford during the period of his immaturity.

_The two great Elements of Parental Obligation_.

Indeed, the chief end and aim of the parental relation, as designed by the
Author of nature, may be considered as comprised, it would seem, in these
two objects, namely: first, the _support_ of the child by the _strength_
of his parents during the period necessary for the development of _his_
strength, and, secondly, his guidance and direction by their _reason_
during the development of his reason. The second of these obligations is no
less imperious than the first. To expect him to provide the means of his
support from the resources of his own embryo strength, would imply no
greater misapprehension on the part of his father and mother than to look
for the exercise of any really controlling influence over his conduct by
his embryo reason. The expectation in the two cases would be equally vain.
The only difference would be that, in the failure which would inevitably
result from the trial, it would be in the one case the body that would
suffer, and in the other the soul.

_The Judgment more slowly developed than the Strength_.

Indeed, the necessity that the conduct of the child should be controlled by
the reason of the parents is in one point of view greater, or at least more
protracted, than that his wants should be supplied by their power; for
the development of the thinking and reasoning powers is late and slow in
comparison with the advancement toward maturity of the physical powers. It
is considered that a boy attains, in this country, to a sufficient degree
of strength at the age of from _seven to ten_ years to earn his living; but
his reason is not sufficiently mature to make it safe to intrust him with
the care of himself and of his affairs, in the judgment of the law, till he
is of more than twice that age. The parents can actually thus sooner
look to the _strength_ of the child for his support than they can to his
_reason_ for his guidance.

_What Parents have to do in Respect to the Reasoning Powers of Children_.

To aid in the development and cultivation of the thinking and reasoning
powers is doubtless a very important part of a parent's duty. But to
cultivate these faculties is one thing, while to make any control which may
be procured for them over the mind of the child the basis of government, is
another. To explain the reasons of our commands is excellent, if it is
done in the right time and manner. The wrong time is when the question of
obedience is pending, and the wrong manner is when they are offered as
inducements to obey. We may offer reasons for _recommendations_, when
we leave the child to judge of their force, and to act according to our
recommendations or not, as his judgment shall dictate. But reasons should
never be given as inducements to obey a command. The more completely the
obedience to a command rests on the principle of simple submission to
authority, the easier and better it will be both for parent and child.

_Manner of exercising Authority_.

Let no reader fall into the error of supposing that the mother's making
her authority the basis of her government renders it necessary for her to
assume a stern and severe aspect towards her children, in her intercourse
with them; or to issue her commands in a harsh, abrupt, and imperious
manner; or always to refrain from explaining, at the time, the reasons for
a command or a prohibition. The more gentle the manner, and the more kind
and courteous the tones in which the mother's wishes are expressed, the
better, provided only that the wishes, however expressed, are really the
mandates of an authority which is to be yielded to at once without question
or delay. She may say, "Mary, will you please to leave your doll and take
this letter for me into the library to your father?" or, "Johnny, in five
minutes it will be time for you to put your blocks away to go to bed; I
will tell you when the time is out;" or, "James, look at the clock"--to
call his attention to the fact that the time is arrived for him to go to
school. No matter, in a word, under how mild and gentle a form the mother's
commands are given, provided only that the children are trained to
understand that they are at once to be obeyed.

_A second Objection_.

Another large class of mothers are deterred from making any efficient
effort to establish their authority over their children for fear of thereby
alienating their affections. "I wish my child to love me," says a mother of
this class. "That is the supreme and never-ceasing wish of my heart; and if
I am continually thwarting and constraining her by my authority, she will
soon learn to consider me an obstacle to her happiness, and I shall become
an object of her aversion and dislike."

There is some truth, no doubt, in this statement thus expressed, but it is
not applicable to the case, for the reason that there is no need whatever
for a mother's "continually thwarting and constraining" her children in her
efforts to establish her authority over them. The love which they will
feel for her will depend in a great measure upon the degree in which
she sympathizes and takes part with them in their occupations, their
enjoyments, their disappointments, and their sorrows, and in which she
indulges their child-like desires. The love, however, awakened by these
means will be not weakened nor endangered, but immensely strengthened and
confirmed, by the exercise on her part of a just and equable, but firm
and absolute, authority. This must always be true so long as a feeling of
respect for the object of affection tends to strengthen, and not to weaken,
the sentiment of love. The mother who does not govern her children is
bringing them up not to love her, but to despise her.

_Effect of Authority._

If, besides being their playmate, their companion, and friend, indulgent
in respect to all their harmless fancies, and patient and forbearing
with their childish faults and foolishness, she also exercises in cases
requiring it an authority over them which, though just and gentle, is yet
absolute and supreme, she rises to a very exalted position in their view.
Their affection for her has infused into it an element which greatly
aggrandizes and ennobles it--an element somewhat analogous to that
sentiment of lofty devotion which a loyal subject feels for his queen.

_Effect of the Want of Authority._

On the other hand, if she is inconsiderate enough to attempt to win a
place in her children's hearts by the sacrifice of her maternal authority,
she will never succeed in securing a place there that is worth possessing.
The children will all, girls and boys alike, see and understand her
weakness, and they will soon learn to look down upon her, instead of
looking up to her, as they ought. As they grow older they will all become
more and more unmanageable. The insubordination of the girls must generally
be endured, but that of the boys will in time grow to be intolerable, and
it will become necessary to send them away to school, or to adopt some
other plan for ridding the house of their turbulence, and relieving the
poor mother's heart of the insupportable burden she has to bear in finding
herself contemned and trampled upon by her own children. In the earlier
years of life the feeling entertained for their mother in such a case by
the children is simply that of contempt; for the sentiment of gratitude
which will modify it in time is very late to be developed, and has not yet
begun to act. In later years, however, when the boys have become young men,
this sentiment of gratitude begins to come in, but it only changes the
contempt into pity. And when years have passed away, and the mother is
perhaps in her grave, her sons think of her with a mingled feeling excited
by the conjoined remembrance of her helpless imbecility and of her true
maternal love, and say to each other, with a smile, "Poor dear 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.

_Antagonism between Free Indulgence and Absolute Control_.

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.

_Mode of Management with Louisa_.

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

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

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

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."

[Illustration: INDULGENCE.]

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 this firm government and free indulgence are
conjoined; and that, far from there being any antagonism between them, they
may work together in perfect harmony.

_Mode of Management with Hannah_.

On the other hand, there may be an extreme limitation in respect to a
mother's indulgence of her children, while yet she has no government over
them at all. We shall see how this might be by the case of little Hannah.

Hannah was asked by her mother to go with her across the fields to the
village under circumstances similar to those of Louisa's invitation, except
that the real motive of Hannah's mother, in proposing that Hannah should
accompany her, was to have the child's help in bringing home her parcels.

"Yes, mother," said Hannah, in reply to her mother's invitation, "I should
like to go; and I will go and ask Cousin Sarah to go too."

"Oh no," rejoined her mother, "why do you wish Sarah to go? She will only
be a trouble to us."

"She won't be any trouble at all, mother, and I mean to go and ask her,"
said Hannah; and, putting on her bonnet, she set off towards the gate.

"No, Hannah," insisted her mother, "you _must not_ go. I don't wish to have
Sarah go with us to-day."

Hannah paid no attention to this prohibition, but ran off to find Sarah.
After a few minutes she returned, saying that Sarah was not at home.

"I am glad of it," said her mother; "I told you not to go to ask her, and
you did very wrong to disobey me. I have a great mind not to let you go

Hannah ran off in the direction of the path, not caring for the censure or
for the threat, knowing well that they would result in nothing.

Her mother followed. When they reached the pastures Hannah began running
here and there over the grass.

"Hannah!" said her mother, speaking in a stern and reproachful tone; "what
do you keep running about so for all the time, Hannah? You'll get tired out
before we get to the village, and then you'll be teasing me to let you stop
and rest. Come and walk along quietly with me."

But Hannah paid no attention whatever to this injunction. She ran to and
fro among the rocks and clumps of bushes, and once or twice she brought to
her mother flowers or other curious things that she found.

"Those things are not good for any thing, child," said her mother. "They
are nothing but common weeds and trash. Besides, I told you not to run
about so much. Why can't you come and walk quietly along the path, like a
sensible person?"

Hannah paid no attention to this reiteration of her mother's command, but
continued to run about as before.

"Hannah," repeated her mother, "come back into the path. I have told you
again and again that you must come and walk with me, and you don't pay the
least heed to what I say. By-and-by you will fall into some hole, or tear
your clothes against the bushes, or get pricked with the briers. You must
not, at any rate, go a step farther from the path than you are now."

Hannah walked on, looking for flowers and curiosities, and receding farther
and farther from the path, for a time, and then returning towards it again,
according to her own fancy or caprice, without paying any regard to her
mother's directions.

"Hannah," said her mother, "you _must not_ go so far away from the path.
Then, besides, you are coming to a tree where there is a wasps' nest. You
must not go near that tree; if you do, you will get stung."

Hannah went on, looking for flowers, and gradually drawing nearer to the

"Hannah!" exclaimed her mother, "I tell you that you must not go near that
tree. You will _certainly_ get stung."

Hannah went on--somewhat hesitatingly and cautiously, it is true--towards
the foot of the tree, and, seeing no signs of wasps there, she began
gathering the flowers that grew at the foot of it.

"Hannah! Hannah!" exclaimed her mother; "I told you not to go near that
tree! Get your flowers quick, if you must get them, and come away."

Hannah went on gathering the flowers at her leisure.

"You will _certainly_ get stung," said her mother.

"I don't believe there is any hornets' nest here," replied Hannah.

"Wasps' nest," said her mother; "it was a wasps' nest."

"Or wasps' nest either," said Hannah.

"Yes," rejoined her mother, "the boys said there was."

"That's nothing," said Hannah; "the boys think there are wasps' nests in a
great many places where there are not any."

After a time Hannah, having gathered all the flowers she wished for, came
back at her leisure towards her mother.

"I told you not to go to that tree," said her mother, reproachfully.

"You told me I should certainly get stung if I went there," rejoined
Hannah, "and I didn't."

"Well, you _might_ have got stung," said her mother, and so walked on.

Pretty soon after this Hannah said that she was tired of walking so far,
and wished to stop and rest.

"No," replied her mother, "I told you that you would get tired if you ran
about so much; but you would do it, and so now I shall not stop for you at

Hannah said that _she_ should stop, at any rate; so she sat down upon a log
by the way-side. Her mother said that _she_ should go on and leave her.
So her mother walked on, looking back now and then, and calling Hannah to
come. But finding that Hannah did not come, she finally found a place to
sit down herself and wait for her.

_The Principle illustrated by this Case_.

Many a mother will see the image of her own management of her children
reflected without exaggeration or distortion in this glass; and, as the
former story shows how the freest indulgence is compatible with the
maintenance of the most absolute authority, this enables us to see how a
perpetual resistance to the impulses and desires of children may co-exist
with no government over them at all.

Let no mother fear, then, that the measures necessary to establish for her
the most absolute authority over her children will at all curtail her power
to promote their happiness. The maintenance of the best possible government
over them will not in any way prevent her yielding to them all the harmless
gratifications they may desire. She may indulge them in all their childish
impulses, fancies, and even caprices, to their heart's content, without
at all weakening her authority over them. Indeed, she may make these very
indulgences the means of strengthening her authority. But without the
authority she can never develop in the hearts of her children the only kind
of love that is worth possessing--namely, that in which the feeling of
affection is dignified and ennobled by the sentiment of respect.

_One more Consideration_.

There is one consideration which, if properly appreciated, would have an
overpowering influence on the mind of every mother in inducing her to
establish and maintain a firm authority over her child during the early
years of his life, and that is the possibility that he may not live to
reach maturity. Should the terrible calamity befall her of being compelled
to follow her boy, yet young, to his grave, the character of her grief, and
the degree of distress and anguish which it will occasion her, will depend
very much upon the memories which his life and his relations to her have
left in her soul. When she returns to her home, bowed down by the terrible
burden of her bereavement, and wanders over the now desolated rooms which
were the scenes of his infantile occupations and joys, and sees the now
useless playthings and books, and the various objects of curiosity and
interest with which he was so often and so busily engaged, there can, of
course, be nothing which can really assuage her overwhelming grief; but it
will make a vital difference in the character of this grief, whether the
image of her boy, as it takes its fixed and final position in her memory
and in her heart, is associated with recollections of docility, respectful
regard for his mother's wishes, and of ready and unquestioning submission
to her authority and obedience to her commands; or whether, on the other
hand, the picture of his past life, which is to remain forever in her
heart, is to be distorted and marred by memories of outbreaks, acts of
ungovernable impulse and insubordination, habitual disregard of all
authority, and disrespectful, if not contemptuous, treatment of his mother.

There is a sweetness as well as a bitterness of grief; and something like
a feeling of joy and gladness will spring up in the mother's heart, and
mingle with and soothe her sorrow, if she can think of her boy, when he
is gone, as always docile, tractable, submissive to her authority, and
obedient to her commands. Such recollections, it is true, can not avail to
remove her grief--perhaps not even to diminish its intensity; but they will
greatly assuage the bitterness of it, and wholly take away its _sting_.



Children have no natural instinct of obedience to their parents, though
they have other instincts by means of which the habit of obedience, as an
acquisition, can easily be formed.

The true state of the case is well illustrated by what we observe among the
lower animals. The hen can call her chickens when she has food for them, or
when any danger threatens, and they come to her. They come, however, simply
under the impulse of a desire for food or fear of danger, not from any
instinctive desire to conform their action to their mother's will; or, in
other words, with no idea of submission to parental authority. It is so,
substantially, with many other animals whose habits in respect to the
relation between parents and offspring come under human observation. The
colt and the calf follow and keep near the mother, not from any instinct of
desire to conform their conduct to her will, but solely from love of
food, or fear of danger. These last are strictly instinctive. They act
spontaneously, and require no training of any sort to establish or to
maintain them.

The case is substantially the same with children. They run to their mother
by instinct, when want, fear, or pain impels them. They require no teaching
or training for this. But for them to come simply because their mother
wishes them to come--to be controlled, in other words, by her will, instead
of by their own impulses, is a different thing altogether. They have no
instinct for that. They have only a _capacity for its development_.

_Instincts and Capacities_.

It may, perhaps, be maintained that there is no real difference between
instincts and capacities, and it certainly is possible that they may pass
into each other by insensible gradations. Still, practically, and in
reference to our treatment of any intelligent nature which is in course of
gradual development under our influence, the difference is wide. The dog
has an instinct impelling him to attach himself to and follow his master;
but he has no instinct leading him to draw his master's cart. He requires
no teaching for the one. It comes, of course, from the connate impulses of
his nature. For the other he requires a skillful and careful training. If
we find a dog who evinces no disposition to seek the society of man, but
roams off into woods and solitudes alone, he is useless, and we attribute
the fault to his own wolfish nature. But if he will not fetch and carry at
command, or bring home a basket in his mouth from market, the fault, if
there be any fault, is in his master, in not having taken the proper time
and pains to train him, or in not knowing how to do it. He has an instinct
leading him to attach himself to a human master, and to follow his master
wherever he goes. But he has no instinct leading him to fetch and carry, or
to draw carts for any body. If he shows no affection for man, it is his own
fault--that is, the fault of his nature. But if he does not fetch and carry
well, or go out of the room when he is ordered out, or draw steadily in a
cart, it is his teacher's fault. He has not been properly trained.

_Who is Responsible?_

So with the child. If he does not seem to know how to take his food, or
shows no disposition to run to his mother when he is hurt or when he is
frightened, we have reason to suspect something wrong, or, at least,
something abnormal, in his mental or physical constitution. But if he does
not obey his mother's commands--no matter how insubordinate or unmanageable
he may be--the fault does not, certainly, indicate any thing at all wrong
in _him_. The fault is in his training. In witnessing his disobedience,
our reflection should be, not "What a bad boy!" but "What an unfaithful or
incompetent mother!"

I have dwelt the longer on this point because it is fundamental As long as
a mother imagines, as so many mothers seem to do, that obedience on the
part of the child is, or ought to be, a matter of course, she will never
properly undertake the work of training him. But when she thoroughly
understands and feels that her children are not to be expected to submit
their will to hers, _except so far as she forms in them the habit of doing
this by special training_, the battle is half won.

_Actual Instincts of Children_.

The natural instinct which impels her children to come at once to her for
refuge and protection in all their troubles and fears, is a great source of
happiness to every mother. This instinct shows itself in a thousand ways.
"A mother, one morning"--I quote the anecdote from a newspaper[B] which
came to hand while I was writing this chapter--"gave her two little ones
books and toys to amuse them, while she went to attend to some work in an
upper room. Half an hour passed quietly, and then a timid voice at the foot
of the stairs called out:

"'Mamma, are you there?'

"'Yes, darling.'

"'All right, then!' and the child went back to its play.

"By-and-by the little voice was heard again, repeating,

"'Mamma, are you there?'


"'All right, then;' and the little ones returned again, satisfied and
reassured, to their toys."

The sense of their mother's presence, or at least the certainty of her
being near at hand, was necessary to their security and contentment in
their plays. But this feeling was not the result of any teachings that they
had received from their mother, or upon her having inculcated upon their
minds in any way the necessity of their keeping always within reach of
maternal protection; nor had it been acquired by their own observation or
experience of dangers or difficulties which had befallen them when too far
away. It was a native instinct of the soul--the same that leads the lamb
and the calf to keep close to their mother's side, and causes the unweaned
babe to cling to its mother's bosom, and to shrink from being put away into
the crib or cradle alone.

_The Responsibility rests upon the Mother_.

The mother is thus to understand that the principle of obedience is not
to be expected to come by nature into the heart of her child, but to be
implanted by education. She must understand this so fully as to feel that
if she finds that her children are disobedient to her commands--leaving out
of view cases of peculiar and extraordinary temptation--it is _her_ fault,
not theirs. Perhaps I ought not to say her _fault_ exactly, for she may
have done as well as she knows how; but, at any rate, her failure. Instead,
therefore, of being angry with them, or fretting and complaining about the
trouble they give her, she should leave them, as it were, out of the case,
and turn her thoughts to herself, and to her own management, with a view to
the discovery and the correcting of her own derelictions and errors. In
a word, she must set regularly and systematically about the work of
_teaching_ her children to subject their will to hers.

_Three Methods_.

I shall give three principles of management, or rather three different
classes of measures, by means of which children may certainly be made
obedient. The most perfect success will be attained by employing them all.
But they require very different degrees of skill and tact on the part
of the mother. The first requires very little skill. It demands only
steadiness, calmness, and perseverance. The second draws much more upon
the mother's mental resources, and the last, most of all. Indeed, as will
presently be seen, there is no limit to the amount of tact and ingenuity,
not to say genius, which may be advantageously exercised in the last
method. The first is the most essential; and it will alone, if faithfully
carried out, accomplish the end. The second, if the mother has the tact
and skill to carry it into effect, will aid very much in accomplishing the
result, and in a manner altogether more agreeable to both parties. The
third will make the work of forming the habit of obedience on the part of
the mother, and of acquiring it on the part of the child, a source of the
highest enjoyment to both. But then, unfortunately, it requires more skill
and dexterity, more gentleness of touch, so to speak, and a more delicate
constitution of soul, than most mothers can be expected to possess.

But let us see what the three methods are.

_First Method_.

1. The first principle is that the mother should so regulate her management
of her child, that he should _never_ gain any desired end by any act of
insubmission, but _always_ incur some small trouble, inconvenience, or
privation, by disobeying or neglecting to obey his mother's command.
The important words in this statement of the principle are _never_ and
_always_. It is the absolute certainty that disobedience will hurt him, and
not help him, in which the whole efficacy of the rule consists.

It is very surprising how small a punishment will prove efficacious if it
is only _certain_ to follow the transgression. You may set apart a certain
place for a prison--a corner of the sofa, a certain ottoman, a chair, a
stool, any thing will answer; and the more entirely every thing like an
air of displeasure or severity is excluded, in the manner of making the
preliminary arrangements, the better. A mother without any tact, or any
proper understanding of the way in which the hearts and minds of young
children are influenced, will begin, very likely, with a scolding.

"Children, you are getting very disobedient. I have to speak three or four
times before you move to do what I say. Now, I am going to have a prison.
The prison is to be that dark closet, and I am going to shut you up in
it for half an hour every time you disobey. Now, remember! The very next

_Empty Threatening_.

Mothers who govern by threatening seldom do any thing but threaten.
Accordingly, the first time the children disobey her, after such an
announcement, she says nothing, if the case happens to be one in which the
disobedience occasions her no particular trouble. The next time, when the
transgression is a little more serious, she thinks, very rightly
perhaps, that to be shut up half an hour in a dark closet would be a
disproportionate punishment. Then, when at length some very willful and
grave act of insubordination occurs, she happens to be in particularly
good-humor, for some reason, and has not the heart to shut "the poor thing"
in the closet; or, perhaps, there is company present, and she does not wish
to make a scene. So the penalty announced with so much emphasis turns out
to be a dead letter, as the children knew it would from the beginning.

_How Discipline may be both Gentle and Efficient_.

With a little dexterity and tact on the mother's part, the case may be
managed very differently, and with a very different result. Let us suppose
that some day, while she is engaged with her sewing or her other household
duties, and her children are playing around her, she tells them that in
some great schools in Europe, when the boys are disobedient, or violate the
rules, they are shut up for punishment in a kind of prison; and perhaps she
entertains them with invented examples of boys that would not go to prison,
and had to be taken there by force, and kept there longer on account of
their contumacy; and also of other noble boys, tall and handsome, and the
best players on the grounds, who went readily when they had done wrong and
were ordered into confinement, and bore their punishment like men, and who
were accordingly set free all the sooner on that account. Then she proposes
to them the idea of adopting that plan herself, and asks them to look
all about the room and find a good seat which they can have for their
prison--one end of the sofa, perhaps, a stool in a corner, or a box used as
a house for a kitten. I once knew an instance where a step before a door
leading to a staircase served as penitentiary, and sitting upon it for
a minute or less was the severest punishment required to maintain most
perfect discipline in a family of young children for a long time.

When any one of the children violated any rule or direction which had been
enjoined upon them--as, for example, when they left the door open in coming
in or going out, in the winter; or interrupted their mother when she was
reading, instead of standing quietly by her side and waiting until she
looked up from her book and gave them leave to speak to her; or used any
violence towards each other, by pushing, or pulling, or struggling for a
plaything or a place; or did not come promptly to her when called; or
did not obey at once the first command in any case, the mother would say
simply, "Mary!" or "James! Prison!" She would pronounce this sentence
without any appearance of displeasure, and often with a smile, as if they
were only playing prison, and then, in a very few minutes after they had
taken the penitential seat, she would say _Free_! which word set them at
liberty again.

_Must begin at the Beginning_.

I have no doubt that some mothers, in reading this, will say that such
management as this is mere trifling and play; and that real and actual
children, with all their natural turbulence, insubordination, and
obstinacy, can never be really governed by any such means. I answer that
whether it proves on trial to be merely trifling and play or not depends
upon the firmness, steadiness, and decision with which the mother
carries it into execution. Every method of management requires firmness,
perseverance, and decision on the part of the mother to make it successful,
but, with these qualities duly exercised, it is astonishing what slight and
gentle penalties will suffice for the most complete establishment of her
authority. I knew a mother whose children were trained to habits of almost
perfect obedience, and whose only method of punishment, so far as I know,
was to require the offender to stand on one foot and count five, ten, or
twenty, according to the nature and aggravation of the offense. Such a
mother, of course, begins early with her children. She trains them from
their earliest years to this constant subjection of their will to hers.
Such penalties, moreover, owe their efficiency not to the degree of pain
or inconvenience that they impose upon the offender, but mainly upon their
_calling his attention, distinctly_, after every offense, to the fact that
he has done wrong. Slight as this is, it will prove to be sufficient if it
_always_ comes--if no case of disobedience or of willful wrong-doing of any
kind is allowed to pass unnoticed, or is not followed by the infliction of
the proper penalty. It is in all cases the certainty, and not the severity,
of punishment which constitutes its power.

_Suppose one is not at the Beginning_.

What has been said thus far relates obviously to cases where the mother is
at the commencement of her work of training. This is the way to _begin_;
but you can not begin unless you are at the beginning. If your children
are partly grown, and you find that they are not under your command,
the difficulty is much greater. The principles which should govern the
management are the same, but they can not be applied by means so gentle.
The prison, it may be, must now be somewhat more real, the terms of
imprisonment somewhat longer, and there may be cases of insubordination so
decided as to require the offender to be carried to it by force, on account
of his refusal to go of his own accord, and perhaps to be held there, or
even to be tied. Cases requiring treatment so decisive as this must be very
rare with children under ten years of age; and when they occur, the
mother has reason to feel great self-condemnation--or at least great
self-abasement--at finding that she has failed so entirely in the first
great moral duty of the mother, which is to train her children to complete
submission to her authority from the beginning.

_Children coming under New Control_.

Sometimes, however, it happens that children are transferred from one
charge to another, so that the one upon whom the duty of government
devolves, perhaps only for a time, finds that the child or children put
under his or her charge have been trained by previous mismanagement to
habits of utter insubordination. I say, trained to such habits, for the
practice of allowing children to gain their ends by any particular means is
really training them to the use of those means. Thus multitudes of
children are taught to disobey, and trained to habits of insubmission and
insubordination, by the means most effectually adapted to that end.


When under these circumstances the children come under a new charge,
whether permanently or temporarily, the task of re-form in or their
characters is more delicate and difficult than where one can begin at the
beginning; but the principles are the same, and the success is equally
certain. The difficulty is somewhat increased by the fact that the person
thus provisionally in charge has often no natural authority over the child,
and the circumstances may moreover be such as to make it necessary to
abstain carefully from any measures that would lead to difficulty or
collision, to cries, complaints to the mother, or any of those other forms
of commotion or annoyance, which ungoverned children know so well how to
employ in gaining their ends. The mother may be one of those weak-minded
women who can never see any thing unreasonable in the crying complaints
made by their children against other people. Or she may be sick, and it may
be very important to avoid every thing that could agitate or disturb her.

_George and Egbert_.

This last was the case of George, a young man of seventeen, who came to
spend some time at home after an absence of two years in the city. He found
his mother sick, and his little brother, Egbert, utterly insubordinate and

"The first thing I have to do," said George to himself, when he observed
how things were, "is to get command of Egbert;" and as the first lesson
which he gave his little brother illustrates well the principle of gentle
but efficient punishment, I will give it here.

Egbert was ten years of age. He was very fond of going a-fishing, but he
was not allowed to go alone. His mother, very weak and vacillating about
some things, was extremely decided about this. So Egbert had learned to
submit to this restriction, as he would have done to all others if his
mother had been equally decided in respect to all.

The first thing that Egbert thought of the next morning after his brother's
return was that George might go a-fishing with him.

"I don't know," replied George, in a hesitating and doubtful tone. "I don't
know whether it will do for me to go a-fishing with you. I don't know
whether I can depend upon your always obeying me and doing as I say."

Egbert made very positive promises, and so it was decided to go. George
took great interest in helping Egbert about his fishing-tackle, and did all
in his power in other ways to establish friendly relations with him, and
at length they set out. They walked a little distance down what was in the
winter a wood road, and then came to a place where two paths led into a
wood. Either of them led to the river. But there was a brook to cross, and
for one of these paths there was a bridge. There was none for the other.
George said that they would take the former. Egbert, however, paid no
regard to this direction, but saying simply "No, I'd rather go this way,"
walked off in the other path.

"I was afraid you would not obey me," said George, and then turned and
followed Egbert into the forbidden path, without making any further
objection. Egbert concluded at once that he should find George as easily to
be managed as he had found other people.

_The Disobedience_.

When they came in sight of the brook, George saw that there was a narrow
log across it, in guise of a bridge. He called out to Egbert, who had gone
on before him, not to go over the log until _he_ came. But Egbert called
back in reply that there was no danger, that he could go across alone, and
so went boldly over. George, on arriving at the brook, and finding that the
log was firm and strong, followed Egbert over it. "I told you I could go
across it," said Egbert. "Yes," replied George, "and you were right in
that. You did cross it. The log is very steady. I think it makes quite a
good bridge."

Egbert said he could hop across it on one foot, and George gave him leave
to try, while he, George, held his fishing-pole for him. George followed
him over the log, and then told him that he was very sorry to say it, but
that he found that they could not go a-fishing that day. Egbert wished to
know the reason. George said it was a private reason and he could not tell
him then, but that he would tell him that evening after he had gone to bed.
There was a story about it, too, he said, that he would tell him at the
same time.

Egbert was curious to know what the reason could be for changing the plan,
and also to hear the story. Still he was extremely disappointed in having
to lose his fishing, and very much disposed to be angry with George for
not going on. It was, however, difficult to get very angry without knowing
George's reason, and George, though he said that the reason was a good
one--that it was a serious difficulty in the way of going a-fishing that
day, which had only come to his knowledge since they left home, steadily
persisted in declining to explain what the difficulty was until the
evening, and began slowly to walk back toward the house.

_Egbert becomes Sullen_.

Egbert then declared that, at any rate, he would not go home. If he could
not go a-fishing he would stay there in the woods. George readily fell in
with this idea. "Here is a nice place for me to sit down on this flat rock
under the trees," said he, "and I have got a book in my pocket. You can
play about in the woods as long as you please. Perhaps you will see a
squirrel; if you do, tell me, and I will come and help you catch him." So
saying, he took out his book and sat down under the trees and began to
read. Egbert, after loitering about sullenly a few minutes, began to walk
up the path, and said that he was going home.

George, however, soon succeeded in putting him in good-humor again by
talking with him in a friendly manner, and without manifesting any signs of
displeasure, and also by playing with him on the way. He took care to keep
on friendly terms with him all the afternoon, aiding him in his various
undertakings, and contributing to his amusement in every way as much as he
could, while he made no complaint, and expressed no dissatisfaction with
him in any way whatever.

_Final Disposition of the Case_.

After Egbert had gone to bed, and before he went to sleep, George made him
a visit at his bedside, and, after a little playful frolic with him, to put
him in special good-humor, said he would make his explanation.

"The reason why I had to give up the fishing expedition," he said, "was, I
found that I could not depend upon your obeying me."

Egbert, after a moment's pause, said that he did not disobey him; and when
George reminded him of his taking the path that he was forbidden to take,
and of his crossing the log bridge against orders, he said that that path
led to the river by the shortest way, and that he knew that the log was
firm and steady, and that he could go over it without falling in. "And
so you thought you had good reasons for disobeying me," rejoined George.
"Yes," said Egbert, triumphantly. "That is just it," said George. "You
are willing to obey, except when you think you have good reasons for
disobeying, and then you disobey. That's the way a great many boys do, and
that reminds me of the story I was going to tell you. It is about some

George then told Egbert a long story about a colonel who sent a captain
with a company of men on a secret expedition with specific orders, and the
captain disobeyed the orders and crossed a stream with his force, when he
had been directed to remain on the hither side of it, thinking himself that
it would be better to cross, and in consequence of it he and all his force
were captured by the enemy, who were lying in ambush near by, as the
colonel knew, though the captain did not know it. George concluded his
story with some very forcible remarks, showing, in a manner adapted to
Egbert's state of mental development, how essential it was to the character
of a good soldier that he should obey implicitly all the commands of his
superior, without ever presuming to disregard them on the ground of his
seeing good reason for doing so.

He then went on to relate another story of an officer on whom the general
could rely for implicit and unhesitating obedience to all his commands, and
who was sent on an important expedition with orders, the reasons for which
he did not understand, but all of which he promptly obeyed, and thus
brought the expedition to a successful conclusion. He made the story
interesting to Egbert by narrating many details of a character adapted
to Egbert's comprehension, and at the end drew a moral from it for his

_The Moral_.

This moral was not, as some readers might perhaps anticipate, and as,
indeed, many persons of less tact might have made it, that Egbert ought
himself, as a boy, to obey those in authority over him. Instead of this he
closed by saying: "And I advise you, if you grow up to be a man and ever
become the general of an army, never to trust any captain or colonel with
the charge of an important enterprise, unless they are men that know how
to obey." Egbert answered very gravely that he was "determined that he

Soon after this George bade him good-night and went away. The next day he
told Egbert not to be discouraged at his not having yet learned to obey.
"There are a great many boys older than you," he said, "who have not
learned this lesson; but you will learn in time. I can't go a-fishing with
you, or undertake any other great expeditions, till I find I can trust you
entirely to do exactly as I say in cases where I have a right to decide;
but you will learn before long, and then we can do a great many things
together which we can not do now."

_The Principles Illustrated_.

Any one who has any proper understanding of the workings of the juvenile
mind will see that George, by managing Egbert on these principles, would in
a short time acquire complete ascendency over him, while the boy would
very probably remain, in relation to his mother, as disobedient and
insubordinate as ever. If the penalty annexed to the transgression is made
as much as possible the necessary and natural consequence of it, and is
insisted upon calmly, deliberately, and with inflexible decision, but
without irritation, without reproaches, almost without any indications even
of displeasure, but is, on the contrary, lightened as much as possible
by sympathy and kindness, and by taking the most indulgent views, and
admitting the most palliating considerations in respect to the nature
of the offense, the result will certainly be the establishment of the
authority of the parent or guardian on a firm and permanent basis.

There are a great many cases of this kind, where a child with confirmed
habits of insubordination comes under the charge of a person who is not
responsible for the formation of these habits. Even the mother herself
sometimes finds herself in substantially this position with her own
children; as, for example, when after some years of lax and inefficient
government she becomes convinced that her management has been wrong, and
that it threatens to bring forth bitter fruits unless it is reformed. In
these cases, although the work is somewhat more difficult, the principles
on which success depends are the same. Slight penalties, firmly,
decisively, and invariably enforced--without violence, without scolding,
without any manifestation of resentment or anger, and, except in extreme
cases, without even expressions of displeasure--constitute a system which,
if carried out calmly, but with firmness and decision, will assuredly

_The real Difficulty_.

The case would thus seem to be very simple, and success very easy. But,
alas! this is far from being the case. Nothing is required, it is true, but
firmness, steadiness, and decision; but, unfortunately, these are the very
requisites which, of all others, it seems most difficult for mothers to
command. They can not govern their children because they can not govern

Still, if the mother possess these qualities in any tolerable degree, or is
able to acquire them, this method of training her children to the habit of
submitting implicitly to her authority, by calmly and good-naturedly, but
firmly and invariably, affixing some slight privation or penalty to every
act of resistance to her will, is the easiest to practice, and will
certainly be successful. It requires no ingenuity, no skill, no
contrivance, no thought--nothing but steady persistence in a simple
routine. This was the first of the three modes of action enumerated at the
commencement of this discussion. There were two others named, which, though
requiring higher qualities in the mother than simple steadiness of purpose,
will make the work far more easy and agreeable, where these qualities are

Some further consideration of the subject of punishment, with special
reference to the light in which it is to be regarded in respect to its
nature and its true mode of action, will occupy the next chapter.



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 salutary effects that 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 salutary influences that may be
expected from it in time to come. If the injunction "Vengeance is mine, I
will repay it, saith 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
excitement 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 human offspring, 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. The case is
very analogous, in many particulars, to that of Egbert and George related
in the last chapter.

_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,

"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."

"And 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 can
not 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 any one 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 in that way 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 to-day!" but the "next time" she would
have been as disobedient as ever.

If mothers, instead of scowling, scolding, and threatening now, 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 can
not 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 _every time,_ 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 so 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

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 passion. A box on the ear, such as a cat gives to a rebellious
kitten, is certainly the _quickest_ application that can be made. The
measures that are calculated to reach and affect the heart can not 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 that 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 not vindictive, 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

_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

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 of 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, and now and then
shutting him up in a closet for half an hour, will never cure him of the
fault. But if there were an automaton figure 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 can not be exactly this automaton, for she can not 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, every thing 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 every thing 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 violence, or even harshness, of manner.

_Co-operation of the Offender_.

There are many cases in which, by the exercise of a little tact and
ingenuity, the parent can actually secure the _co-operation_ of the child
in the infliction of the punishment prescribed for the curing 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

"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

"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 a fortnight
to get cured. If you are not cured in a fortnight 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 a fortnight, 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 leave to
ask any body 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

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

So it was decided to allow only half an hour for the dressing-time.

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