Chapter XIV The Nervous Child and School
At the onset of puberty childhood comes to an end, and the period of adolescence begins. Into these further stages of development it is not proposed to enter, but it may be well to consider a question which is apt to present itself for answer at this period: “Should the boy, or girl, of nervous temperament, or whose development up to this point has been accompanied by symptoms of nervous disorder, be sent to a boarding-school?” So long as the child remains at home the home environment is the force which alone is concerned in moulding his character. We have seen how plastic the young child is, how imitative, how suggestible, how prone to form habits good or bad. The diversity of type shown by the homes is reflected in the diversity of character and conduct exhibited by the children. The home is the culture medium, and in no two homes is its composition the same. For each child home influence remains to a great extent unchanged, and in great part unchangeable. Its action upon the child is constant and long sustained. Hence, it is not surprising that the growth of his character and powers is commonly unequal. At one point we may find a good crop of virtues, at another a barren tract; and the home influences which have ripened the one and blighted the other are calculated by the lapse of time to increase the contrast rather than to diminish it.
I suppose it is for this reason that the custom of sending children to boarding-schools has so firm a hold among us. The boarding-school forms an environment selected to correct the inequalities which result from the special action upon the child of individual homes. The life of a boy in one of our large public schools is well calculated to act as a corrective in this way not only by reason of its ordered routine and discipline, but still more because it is affected, perhaps for the first time, by the strong force of public opinion. It is the strength of this public opinion which gives to our public schools their peculiar character and produces their peculiar effects. That which the schoolboy most despises is what he calls “Bad Form,” and he bows down and worships an idol he himself has set up, the name of which is “Good Form.” Public opinion forms the code of morals observed in the school. The standard set is commonly not so high as to be very difficult of attainment. It demands many good qualities. To lie, to sneak, to tell tales, to bully, to “put on side,” are bad form. In some respects the definition of what is virtuous may be a little hazy. Thus it may be wrong to cheat to gain a prize, but to copy from one’s neighbour only so much as will enable one to pass muster and escape condemnation is no great sin. In short, good form demands that a boy should have all the social virtues: that he should be a good fellow, easy to live with, and possessed of a high sense of public spirit—good qualities certainly, though perhaps not those which help to make the reformers or martyrs of this world.
The school life is the life of the herd, and to be successful in it the boy must mingle with the herd, not break from it or shun it. Good form—if we came to analyse the conception that underlies it—consists only in a close approximation to the standard pattern; bad form, in any deviation from it. It is this similarity of type and community of ideals which makes it so easy for most public-school boys to get on well with one another. When in after life they are thrown among a set of men who know nothing of their conception of good form, and whose training has been on completely different lines, there may be a corresponding difficulty.
Now what is true of public-school life is of course also true of the larger life after schooldays are over for which all education is a preparation. These qualities of sociability and good sportsmanship will stand a man in good stead throughout life. Even the most ardent and active spirit will benefit by being subjected for some years to this steady pressure of public opinion. The most part will learn from it good sense, consideration for others, and self-control. As they pass from the lower forms to the higher in the school they will learn too to support authority without doing injustice, and to bring the weight of public opinion to bear upon others. And to all this training many a man owes his happiness in after life—a happiness which he could not have secured if his character had been moulded only by the environment of his home, or by the home in combination with the less-powerful corrective of a day school. For the nervous child the passage from home to school life may involve considerable mental strain. He may be morbidly self-conscious and timid, or, unknown to himself—because he has as yet no power of self-analysis and has no opportunities of comparing himself with others—he may have developed certain eccentricities. In most cases the plunge into school life will be taken well enough; in a few the little vessel will not right itself, and proves permanently unseaworthy. No doubt as a rule a private school will have preceded the public school, and this gradation should make the entrance to the public school a lesser ordeal. But it often happens that it is just in the case of the nervous child that this intermediate stage has been omitted, and that his thirteenth birthday finds him still in the home circle.
If the boy’s father has first-hand knowledge of life in the lower forms of public schools, his experience may enable him to form some estimate of the effect of school life upon the nervous system of his son. It is when parents or guardians have no such experience of their own to guide them that mistakes are most liable to be made. I can myself remember the unhappy state of some solitary and eccentric schoolfellows of mine who aroused the resentment of “the Herd” by their behaviour or opinions. If it is clear that the boy has a peculiar temperament and is likely to suffer in this way, some via media must be found. The home has failed so that he must leave home and come under the influence of some one who understands the nature of the difficulty and can adapt the boy to school life. A change of environment of this sort as a preliminary to the public school is often all that is needed. If his age permits, every effort should be made in this way to obtain for the nervous child who has developed peculiarities or faults the benefits of a public-school education.
Some types of nervous children will show immediate improvement when they go to school. The boy who is passionate and disobedient, and whose parents cannot control him, is best at school. Boys who, from being much with grown-up people, have become too precocious and have acquired the habits and tastes of their elders, will dislike school at first, but it will do them good. Their fault shows that they are quick to learn and sensitive to the influences of others, and they will soon adapt themselves to their new surroundings. Boys who are dreamy and imaginative, who early adopt a “specialist” attitude towards life, who, however ignorant they may be of everything else, cultivate a reputation for omniscience in some particular subject, such as Egyptology, astronomy, or the construction of battleships, are usually nervous boys whose symptoms will disappear at school. Where undue timidity, phobia, or habit spasm is present, the question is more difficult to decide. Every individual case must be studied as a whole, and our object should be not unnecessarily to deprive the boy of the wholesome training of public-school life.
There are parents who from sheer ignorance add to the difficulties which the boy encounters in going to school. Failure to appreciate very small points may cause unnecessary suffering. To be the only boy in the school to wear combinations is not a distinction that any new boy craves, however strong his nerves may be. A friend of mine still relates with feeling how, twenty years ago, he arrived at school with shirts which buttoned at the neck! At night when every one else in the dormitory was asleep he sat for hours on his bed, miserable beyond words, removing the buttons and doing his best in the dark to bore buttonholes which would admit what every other boy in the school had—a collar stud.
With girls perhaps this question of fitness for school life does not arise in so urgent a way. Girls are usually older when they go to school, and girls’ schools are perhaps less terrifying and more like home. There is, however, one important point which should be borne in mind. The date of the onset of puberty varies much in both sexes. If the boy grows to a great hulking fellow at fourteen, and even displays a desire secretly to borrow his father’s razor, he is at no particular disadvantage as compared with his fellows. He is so much bigger and stronger than the others that he may thereby early enjoy the distinction of playing at “big side,” or of getting a place in the school Eleven. He is probably much envied by those of the same age who, with the aid of their youthful aspect, can still occasionally extract compensation by inducing the railway company to let them travel to school at half fare. But with girls it is different. Many at fourteen or fifteen are children still; some are grown up, with the tastes, feelings, and attraction of maturity. Those who have developed fastest are often, for that very reason, kept backward in school learning. Often they are nervously the least stable. Now that large schools for girls on the model of our public schools are become the fashion, such precociously developed and nervously unstable girls are apt to find themselves in the very uncongenial society of little girls of twelve or thirteen. The elder girls commonly hold aloof, while mistresses are apt to view this precocious development with disapproval, and to attempt to retard what cannot be retarded by insisting that the young woman has remained a child. I remember being called in consultation by a surgeon who had been asked to operate for appendicitis upon a girl of fourteen. I found a tall, well-grown girl, with an appearance and manner that made her look four years older. I could find no signs of appendicitis, but I learned from her that she had been for three months at a large girls’ school, and that in a few days’ time her second term was due to begin. As we became friends, she agreed that her appendicitis and her resolve not to return to school, where she was unhappy, were but different ways of saying the same thing. She was an only child who had travelled a great deal with her parents, had found her interests in their pursuits, and had grown backward in school work. The little girls with whom she was expected to associate seemed to her mere children. The elder girls did not want her friendship, and snubbed her. I prescribed a change to a small boarding-school with only a few girls, where age differences would not matter so much, and where she could make friends with girls older than herself, though not more mature.
Into their school life we need not follow the children. Happily the time is past when schoolmasters and schoolmistresses were incapable of understanding their charges, and confounded nervous exhaustion with stupidity or timidity with incapacity.
And so we come back to the point from which we started:
The nervous infant, restless, wriggling, and constantly crying! The nervous child, unstable, suggestible, passionate, and full of nameless fears! The nervous schoolboy or schoolgirl prone to self-analysis, subject-conscious, and easily exhausted! And how many and how various are the manifestations of this temperament! Refusal of food, refusal of sleep, negativism, irritability, and violent fits of temper, vomiting, diarrhœa, morbid flushing and blushing, habit spasms, phobias—all controlled not by reproof or by medicine, but by good management and a clear understanding of their nature.
The hygiene of the child’s mind is as important as the hygiene of his body, and both are studies proper for the doctor. Neuropathy and an unsound, nervous organisation are often enough legacies from the nervous disorders of childhood.