Fears and Their Palliatives
I have probably illustrated the first fears of children at sufficient length. Without trying to exhaust the subject I have, I think, shown that fear of a well-marked and intense kind is a common feature of the first years of life, and that it assumes a Protean variety of shapes.
Much more will no doubt have to be done in the way of methodical observation, and more particularly statistical inquiry into the comparative frequency of the several fears, the age at which they commonly appear, and so forth, before we can build up a theory of the subject. One or two general observations may, however, be hazarded even at this stage.
The thing which strikes one most perhaps in these early fears is how little they have to do with any remembered experience of evil. The child is inexperienced, and if humanely treated knows little of the acuter forms of human suffering. It would seem at least as if he feared not because experience had made him apprehensive of evil, but because he was constitutionally and instinctively nervous, and possessed with a feeling of insecurity. This feeling of weakness and insecurity comes to the surface in presence of what is unknown in so far as this can be brought by the child’s mind into a relation to his welfare—as disturbing noises, and the movements of things, especially when they take on the form of approaches. The same thing is, as we have seen, illustrated in the fear of the dark. A like explanation seems to offer itself for other common forms of fear, especially those excited by others’ threats, as the dread of the policeman, and little George Sand’s horror at the idea of being shut up all night in the ‘crystal prison’ of a lamp. The fact that children’s fears are not the direct product of experience is expressed otherwise by saying that they are the offspring of the imagination. A child is apt to be afraid because he fancies things, and it will probably be demonstrated by statistical evidence that the most imaginative children (other things being equal) are the most subject to fear.
In certain of these characteristics, at least, children’s fears resemble those of animals. In both alike fear is much more an instinctive recoil from the unknown than an apprehension of known evil. The shying of a horse, the apparent fear of dogs at certain noises, probably too the fear of animals at the sight and sound of fire—so graphically described by Mr. Kipling in the case of the jungle beasts—illustrate this. Animals too seem to have a sense of the uncanny, when something apparently uncaused happens, as when Romanes excited fear in a dog by attaching a fine thread to a bone, and by surreptitiously drawing it from the animal, giving to the bone the look of self-movement. The same dog was frightened by soap-bubbles. According to Romanes, dogs are frightened by portraits. It is to be added, however, that in certain of animal fears the influence of heredity is clearly recognisable, whereas in children’s fears I have regarded it as doubtful. The fact that a child is not frightened at fire, which terrifies many animals, seems to illustrate this difference.155
Another instructive comparison is that of children’s fears with those of savages. Both have a like feeling of insecurity, and fall instinctively in presence of a big unknown into the attitude of dread. In the region of superstitious fear more particularly, we see how in both a gloomy fancy forestalls knowledge, investing the new and unexplored with alarming traits.
Lastly, children’s fears have some resemblance to certain abnormal mental conditions. Idiots, who are so near normal childhood in their degree of intelligence, show a marked fear of strangers. More interesting, however, in the present connexion, is the exaggeration of the childish fear of new objects which shows itself in certain mental aberrations. There is a characteristic dread of newness, neophobia, just as there is a dread of water.156
While, however, these are the dominant characteristics of children’s fears they are not the only ones. Experience begins to direct the instinctive fear-impulse from the very beginning. How much it does in the first months of life it is difficult to say. In the aversion of a baby to its medicine glass, or its cold bath, one sees, perhaps, more of the rude germ of passion or anger than of fear. Careful observations seem to me to be required on the point, at what definite date signs of fear arising from experience of pain begin to show themselves in the child. Some children, at least, have a surprising way of not minding even considerable amounts of physical pain: the misery of a fall, a blow, a cut, and so forth, being speedily forgotten. It seems doubtful, indeed, whether the venerable saw, ‘The burnt child dreads the fire,’ is invariably true. It appears, in many cases at least, to take a good amount of real agony to produce a genuine fear in a young child.157 This tendency to belittle pain is not unknown, I suspect, to the tutor of small boys. It may well be that a definite and precise recalling of the misery of a scratch, or even of a moderate burn, may not conduce to the development of a true fear, and that here, too, fear when it arises in all its characteristic masterfulness is at bottom fear of the unknown. This seems illustrated by the well-known fact that a child will be more terrified during a first experience of pain, especially if there be a visible hurt and bleeding, than by any subsequent prospect of a renewal of the catastrophe. Is not the same thing true, indeed, of older fears? Should we dread the wrench of a tooth-extraction if it were experienced very often, and we had a sufficiently photographic imagination to be able to estimate precisely the intensity and duration of the pain?
Much the same thing shows itself in the cases where fear can be clearly traced to experience and association. In some of these it is no doubt remembered experience of suffering which causes the fear. A child that has been seriously burned will unquestionably be frightened at a too close approach of a red-hot poker. But in many cases of this excitation of fear by association it is the primary experience of fear itself which seems to be the real object of the apprehension. Thus a child who has been frightened by a dog will betray signs of fear at the sight of a kennel, of a picture of a dog, and so forth. The little boy referred to above who was afraid of the toy elephant that shook its head showed signs of fear a fortnight afterwards on coming across a picture of an elephant in a picture-book. In such ways does fear propagate fear in the timid little breast.
One cannot part from the theme of children’s fears without a reference to a closely connected subject, the problem of their happiness. To ask whether childhood is a happy time, still more to ask whether it is the happiest, is to raise perhaps a foolish and insoluble question. Later reminiscences would seem in this case to be particularly untrustworthy. Children themselves no doubt may have very definite views on the subject. A child will tell you with the unmistakable marks of profound conviction that he is so unhappy. But paradoxical as it may seem, children really know very little about the matter. At the best they can only tell you how they feel at particular moments. To seek for a precise and satisfactory solution of the problem is thus futile. Only rough comparisons of childhood and later life are possible.
In any such comparison the fears of early years claim, no doubt, careful consideration. There seem to be people who have no idea what the agony of these early terrors amounts to. And since it is the unknown that excites this fear, and the unknown in childhood is almost everything, the possibilities of suffering from this source are great enough.
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy Sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright.
George Sand hardly exaggerates when she writes: “Fear is, I believe, the greatest moral suffering of children”. In the case of weakly, nervous and imaginative children, more especially, this susceptibility to terror may bring miserable days and yet more miserable nights.
Nevertheless, it is easy here to pass from one extreme of brutal indifference to another of sentimental exaggeration. Childish suffering is terrible while it lasts, but happily it has a way of not lasting. The cruel distorting fit of terror passes and leaves the little face with its old sunny out-look. It is to be remembered, too, that while children are pitiably fearful in their own way, they are, as we have seen in the case of the little Walter Scott, delightfully fearless also, as judged by our standards. How oddly fear and fearlessness go together is illustrated in a story sent me. A little boy fell into a brook. On his being fished out by his mother, his sister, aged four, asked him: ‘Did you see any crocodiles?’ ‘No,’ answered the boy, ‘I wasn’t in long enough.’ The absence of fear of the water itself was as characteristic as the presence of fear of the crocodile.
It is refreshing to find that in certain cases at least where older people have done their worst to excite terror, a child has escaped its suffering. Professor Barnes tells us that a Californian child’s belief in the supernatural takes on a happy tone, directing itself to images of heaven with trees, birds, and other pretty things, and giving but little heed to the horrors of hell.158 In less sunny climes than California children may not, perhaps, be such little optimists, and it is probable that graphic descriptions of hell-fire have sent many a creepy thrill of horror along a child’s tender nerves. Still it may be said that, owing to the fortunate circumstance of children having much less fear of fire than many animals, the misery in which eternal punishment is wont to be bodied forth does not work so powerfully as one might expect on a child’s imagination. The author of The Uninitiated illustrates a real child-trait when she makes her small heroine conceive of hell as a place that smelt nastily (from its brimstone).159 Then it is noticeable that children in general are but little affected by fear at the sight or the thought of death. The child C. had a passing dread of being buried, but his young hopeful heart refused to credit the fact of that far-off calamity. Other children, I find, dislike the idea of death as threatening to deprive them of their mother. Perhaps they can more readily suppose that somebody else will die than that they themselves will do so. This comparative immunity from the dread of death is no small deduction to be made from the burden of children’s fear.
Not only so, when fear is apt to be excited, Nature has provided the small timorous person with other instincts which tend to mitigate and even to neutralise it. It is a happy circumstance that the most prolific excitant of fear, the presentation of something new and uncanny, is also provocative of another feeling, that of curiosity, with its impulse to look and examine. Even animals are sometimes divided in the presence of something strange between fear and curiosity,160 and children’s curiosity is much more lively than theirs. A very tiny child, on first making acquaintance with some form of physical pain, as a bump on the head, will deliberately repeat the experience by knocking his head against something as if experimenting and watching the effect. A clearer case of curiosity overpowering fear is that of a child who, after pulling the tail of a cat in a bush and getting scratched, proceeded to dive into the bush again.161 Still more interesting here are the gradual transitions from actual fear before the new and strange to bold inspection. The child who was frightened by her Japanese doll insisted on seeing it every day. The behaviour of one of these small persons on the arrival at the house of a strange dog, of a dark foreigner, or some other startling novelty, is a pretty and amusing sight. The first overpowering timidity, the shrinking back to the mother’s breast, followed by curious peeps, then by bolder outstretchings of head and arms, mark the stages by which curiosity and interest gain on fear and finally leave it far behind. Very soon we know the small timorous creatures will grow into bold adventurers. They will make playthings of the alarming animals, and of the alarming shadows too.162 Later on still perhaps they will love nothing so much as to probe the awful mysteries of gunpowder.
One palliative of these early terrors remains to be touched on, the instinct of sheltering or refuge-taking. The first manifestations of what is called the social nature of children are little more than the reverse side of their timidity. A baby will cease crying at night on hearing the familiar voice of mother or nurse because a vague sense of human companionship does away with the misery of the black solitude. A frightened child probably knows an ecstasy of bliss when folded in the protective embrace of a mother’s arms. Even the most timid children never have the full experience of terror so long as there is within reach the secure base of all their reconnoitring excursions, the mother’s skirts. Happy those little ones who have ever near them loving arms within whose magic circle the oncoming of the cruel fit of terror is instantly checked, giving place to a delicious calm.
How unhappy those children must be who, being fearsome by nature, lack this refuge, who are left much alone to wrestle with their horrors as best they may, and are rudely repulsed when they bear their heart-quakings to others, I would not venture to say. Still less should I care to suggest what is suffered by those unfortunates who find in those about them not comfort, assurance, support in their fearsome moments, but the worst source of their terrors. To be brutal to these small sensitive organisms, to practise on their terrors, to take delight in exciting the wild stare and wilder shriek of terror, this is perhaps one of the strange things which make one believe in the old dogma that the devil can enter into men and women. For here we seem to have to do with a form of cruelty so exquisite, so contrary to the oldest of instincts, that it is dishonouring to the savage and to the lower animals to attempt to refer it to heredity.
To dwell on such things, however, would be to go back to a pessimistic view of childhood. It is undeniable that children are exposed to indescribable misery when they are delivered into the hands of a consummately cruel guardian. Yet one may hope that this sort of person is exceptional, something of which we can give no account save by saying that now and again in sport nature produces a monster, as if to show what she could do if she did not choose more wisely and benignly to work within the limitations of type.
Notes
126. Op. cit., Cap. 6 and 13.
127. This does not apply to older children. As Tolstoi’s book, Childhood, Boyhood and Youth, tells us, a boy of twelve may be much given to straining after feelings which he thinks he ought to experience.
128. Perez regards these as signs of fear, and points out that tremulous movements may occur in the fœtus (L’Education dès le berceau, p. 94).
129. For an account of this reflex, see Preyer, op. cit., Cap. 10, 176.
130. I know of no good account of the manifestations of childish fear. Mosso’s book, La Peur, chap. v. and following, will be found most useful here.
131. Mind, vol. ii., p. 288.
132. Op. cit., p. 131.
133. This seems to be the view of Perez: The First Three Years of Childhood (English translation), p. 64.
134. Observation of F. H. Champneys, Mind, vol. vi., p. 106.
135. See the quotations from Sir Ch. Bell, Perez, First Three Years of Childhood, p. 63.
136. Preyer seems to regard this as instinctive. Op. cit., p. 131.
137. M. Perez (op. cit., p. 65) calls in the evolution hypothesis here, suggesting that the child, unlike the young animal, is so organised as to be more on the alert for dangers which are near at hand (auditory impressions) than for those at a distance (visual impressions). I confess, however, that I find this ingenious writer not quite convincing here.
138. This true fear of strangers must be distinguished from the later shyness, which, though akin to it, is a more complex feeling.
139. Op. cit., p. 131.
140. Le Roman d’un Enfant.
141. Quoted by Tracy, op. cit., p. 29. But this observation seems to me to need confirmation.
142. See The Pedagogical Seminary, i., No. 2, p. 220.
143. Quoted by Preyer, op. cit., p. 127. The word he uses is “scheuen”.
144. Evolution intellectuelle et morale de l’Enfant, p. 102.
145. See pp. 26, 27.
146. See Preyer, op. cit., p. 130.
147. A mother sends me a curious observation bearing on this. One of her children when four months old was carried by her up-stairs in the dark. On reaching the light she found the child’s face black, her hands clenched, and her eyes protruding. As soon as she reached the light she heaved a sigh and resumed her usual appearance. This child was in general hardy and bold and never gave a second display of terror. This is certainly a curious observation, and it would be well to know whether similar cases of apparent fright at being carried in the dark have been noticed.
148. Mind, xi., p. 149.
149. Quoted by Compayré, op. cit., p. 100. Cf. Perez, L’Education dès le berceau, p. 103.
150. Thoughts on Education, sect. 138.
151. Emile, book ii.
152. See especially James Payn, Gleams of Memory, pp. 3, 4.
153. Op. cit., pp. 100, 101.
154. It is supposable too that disturbances of the retina giving rise to subjective luminous sensations, as the well-known small bright moving discs, might assist in the case of nervous children in suggesting glaring eyes.
155. See Perez, L’Education dès le berceau, pp. 96-99. On animal fears, see further Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 455 f.; Preyer, op. cit., p. 127 ff. and p. 135; Perez, First Three Years of Childhood, p. 64 ff.
156. See Compayré, op. cit., pp. 99, 100.
157. On this point there are some excellent observations made by Miss Shinn, who points out that physical pain when not too severe is apt to be lost sight of in the new feeling of personal consequence to which it gives rise (Notes on the Development of a Child, pt. ii., p. 144 ff.)
158. Pedagogical Review, ii., 3, p. 445.
159. p. 43.
160. Some examples are given by Preyer, op. cit., p. 135.
161. Miss Shinn, op. cit., p. 150.
162. Stevenson, the same who has described the terrors of moving shadows, illustrates how a child may make a sort of playfellow of his shadow (A Child’s Garden of Verses, xviii.).