Here is a question that can only be answered when we have more material. We know that among all childish offences lying is the one which is apt to be specially branded by theological sanctions. The physical torments with which the ‘lying tongue’ is threatened, may well beget terror in a timid child’s heart. I think it likely, too, that the awfulness of lying is thought of by children in its relation to the all-seeing God who, though he cannot be lied to, knows when we lie. The inaudible palliative words added to the lie may be an awkward child-device for putting the speaker straight with the all-hearing God.
Further inquiry is, however, needed here. Do children contract a horror of a lie when no religious terrors are introduced? Is there anything in the workings of a child’s own mind which would lead him to feel after his first lie as if the stable world were tumbling about his ears? Let parents supply us with facts here.
Meanwhile I will venture to put forth a conjecture, and will gladly withdraw it as soon as it is disproved.
So far as my inquiries have gone I do not find that children brought up at home and kept from the contagion of bad example do uniformly develop a lying propensity. Several mothers assure me that their children have never seriously propounded an untruth. I can say the same about two children who have been especially observed for the purpose.[[190]]
This being so, I distinctly challenge the assertion that lying is instinctive in the sense that a child, even when brought up among habitual truth tellers, shows an unlearned aptitude to say what he knows to be false. A child’s quick imitativeness will, of course, lead him to copy grown-up people’s untruths at a very early age.[[191]]
I will go further and suggest that where a child is brought up normally, that is, in a habitually truth-speaking community, he tends, quite apart from moral instruction, to acquire a respect for truth as what is customary. Consider for a moment how busily a child’s mind is occupied during the first years of linguistic performance in getting at the bottom of words, of fitting ideas to words when trying to understand others, and words to ideas when trying to express his own thoughts, and you will see that all this must serve to make truth, that is, the correspondence of statement with fact, to the child-mind something matter-of-course, something not to be questioned, a law wrought into the very usages of daily life which he never thinks of disobeying. We can see that children accustomed to truth-speaking show all the signs of a moral shock when they are confronted with assertions which, as they see, do not answer to fact. The child C. was highly indignant on hearing from his mother that people said what he considered false things about horses and other matters of interest: and he was even more indignant at meeting with any such falsity in one of his books for which he had all a child’s reverence. The idea of perpetrating a knowing untruth, so far as I can judge, is simply awful to a child who has been thoroughly habituated to the practice of truthful statement. May it, then, not well be that when a preternatural pressure of circumstances pushes the child over the boundary line of truth, he feels a shock, a horror, a giddy and aching sense of having violated law—law not wholly imposed by the mother’s command, but rooted in the very habits of social life? I think the conjecture is well worth considering.
Our inquiry has led us to recognise, in the case of cruelty and of lying alike, that children are by no means morally perfect, but have tendencies which, if not counteracted or held in check by others, will develop into true cruelty and true lying. On the other hand, our study has shown us that these impulses are not the only ones. A child has promptings of kindness, which alternate, often in a capricious-looking way, with those of inconsiderate teasing and tormenting; and he has, I hold, side by side with the imaginative and other tendencies which make for untruthful statement, the instinctive roots of a respect for truth. These tendencies have not the same relative strength and frequency of utterance in the case of all children, some showing, for example, more of the impulse which makes for truth, others more of the impulse which makes for untruth. Yet in all children probably both kinds of impulse are to be observed.
I have confined myself to two of the moral traits of childhood. If there were time to go into an examination of others, as childish vanity, something similar would, I think, be found. Children’s vanity, like that of the savage, has been the theme of more than one chapter, and it is undoubtedly vast to the point of absurdity. Yet, side by side with these impulses to deck oneself, to talk boastfully, there exists a delightful childish candour which, if not exactly what we call modesty, is possibly something better.
We may then, perhaps, draw the conclusion that child-nature is on its moral side wanting in consistency and unity. It is a field of half-formed growths, some of which tend to choke the others. Certain of these are favourable, others unfavourable to morality. It is for education to see to it that these isolated propensities be organised into a system in which those towards the good become supreme and regulative principles.