In this same connection it is found that pain as affecting others is often very slightly realised by children, and they seem to be unable to imagine suffering such as has not come within their own experience. It is for this reason that little children often inflict tortures on animals, especially on flies and other small creatures which are at their mercy. It is not from a love of cruelty as some people have said, but simply because their imagination falls short in this direction, and they do not realise the effects of their actions.
But, with certain exceptions, a child has invariably an immense capability for imagining. As has been stated, the most vivid fancies seem to spring up unbidden, but it is equally true that it is possible in a large degree to influence the kind of imagination. Happiness is an essential atmosphere for the upbringing of a child, and happiness is to a large extent dependent in childhood upon imagination. By supplying this atmosphere the best kind of imaginings can be ensured.
Parental Sympathy.
A child whose parents are occupied entirely with themselves and their own affairs and have no sympathy with childish fancies will shrink up into itself and have a stunted mental and spiritual growth: the terrified child will grow up amid horrible imaginings; it is only the child to whom gentleness and sympathy are as the very air it breathes who will imagine happy and beautiful things, and live to enjoy the fulfilment of them here and hereafter.
Poetic Imaginings.
This leads naturally to the poetic imaginings of many children who have outgrown their babyhood, but have not yet had their fancies blurred and obscured by the tasks and troubles of the world. They possess a gift which all may envy—the gift of endowing all manner of things, both those which are beautiful in themselves and those which are not, with a glory not their own. This gift comes from the power of connecting one thought with another, or perhaps of allowing one idea unconsciously to suggest another, which is the root of all imagination. It is a gift that has brought sunshine and happiness to thousands of children, and is preserved by some in after life. All our great poets and painters have kept hold of this power, and many persons share vicariously in its delights as they read the glorious thoughts or gaze on the exquisite pictures that have been thus inspired.
And yet there are some who scoff. They have forgotten their childhood’s gift, and are too self-satisfied to regret it. Not so the old poet Wordsworth. He felt the power leaving him. The brightness of his poetic imagination was on the wane, and he thus lamented it:—
There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,
The earth and every common sight,
To me did seem