their knowledge and experience being so incomplete, is it not rather
the imitative faculty that makes a boy with a wooden gun act the hero
or hunter, and a girl with a rag doll, an affectionate though rather
capricious mother? On their Lilliput stage children imitate the
doings of adults, who are mainly interesting to them as furnishing
subjects for representation. They value the reproduction more highly
than the realities of life, on which they look callously, and will
parody a funeral, an execution, or a prayer-meeting with remarkable
cheerfulness. One of the writer’s schoolfellows, by way of appropriate
‘Sunday play,’ once raised an altar of books, placed lighted candles
thereon, and tried to persuade some of his companions to join him in
further mummeries, which, however, partook much less of levity than
earnestness on his part.
A famous American author, who makes some observations which are very
apposite, says: ‘During a walk from St Nicholas in the shadow of the
majestic Alps, we came across some little children amusing themselves
in what seemed at first a most odd and original way; but it wasn’t;
it was in simply a natural and characteristic way. They were roped
together with a string; they had mimic Alpenstocks and ice-axes; and
were climbing a meek and lowly manure-pile with a most blood-curdling
amount of care and caution. The “guide” at the head of the line cut
imaginary steps in a laborious and painstaking way, and not a monkey
budged till the step above him was vacated. If we had waited, we
should have witnessed an imaginary accident, no doubt, and we should
have heard the intrepid band hurrah! when they made the summit, and
looked around upon the magnificent view, and seen them throw themselves
down in exhausted attitudes for a rest in that commanding situation.’
The same writer says: ‘In Nevada, I used to see the children play at
silver-mining. Of course the great thing was an accident in a mine; and
there were two “star” parts—that of the man who fell down the mimic
shaft; and that of the daring hero who was lowered into the depths to
bring him up. I knew one small chap who always insisted on playing
both these parts—and he carried his point. He would tumble into the
shaft and die; and then come to the surface and go back after his own
remains.’
If half the accounts of American children are true, they must be
intolerable little precocities, hard to manage and difficult to please.
Japan appears to be the children’s paradise, from recent accounts. In
no other country, we are told, are the young people treated with such
consideration. The third day of the month is the girls’ festival. In
every family you will find dolls in large numbers arranged in one of
the rooms reserved for that purpose. The boys’ holiday is the fifth
day of the fifth month. After passing under the barber’s hands, the
boys, dressed in their best clothes, first go to the temple and offer a
prayer, after which the fun of the day begins.
The ways of children are, it seems, beginning to be studied from a
scientific standpoint. An American lady has elicited from two hundred
and twenty-seven Boston schoolboys particulars of their tastes in
collecting. Out of the entire number, only nineteen had abstained from
making collections. Stamps were the most popular objects; then marbles,
business cards, minerals, woods, leaves or flowers, autographs,
buttons, birds’ nests, and many other articles.
There is often a great contrast between the ways in which boys and
girls try to amuse themselves. Games which demand small exertions are
generally girls’ favourites, though the more active take kindly to
rounders, whiptop, and even cricket. But as a rule they are soon tired;
everything ‘isn’t fair,’ and they ‘won’t play.’ Boys’ games are more
successful. Boys stick much more to rules, and are less careful of
their clothes. Their games are often accompanied by loud threats and
fierce recriminations, threats which if executed would speedily make
the playground present the appearance of a battle-field.
It is the grown-up people who write the stories, and the children
carefully preserve the text. What boy has not had his Crusoe raft or
cave, or has not attempted to build a log-hut? The business, pleasures,
misfortunes, and adventures of life are all rehearsed by the romantic
little people. There is a story of Michael Angelo making a statue of
snow in a garden, the beauty and proportion of which delighted his
companions and gave promise of the genius he was afterwards to display.
Charles Dickens tells us of wandering through rooms when a child,
armed with a club, in the make-belief that he was an African traveller
expecting to be attacked at any moment by wild beasts or savages, and
therefore holding himself ready to sell his life as dearly as possible.
This innate tendency to mimicry is sometimes even displayed amongst
the melancholy surroundings of a hospital. It must, indeed, be sadly
dull for the poor little patients in a children’s hospital, but there
are rays of sunshine that gleam upon the scene. A kind-hearted visitor
to one of these institutions says: ‘Among the boys, I saw one merry
little fellow gravely putting out his tongue, while another felt his
pulse. Playing at doctors seemed a fit game for a children’s hospital,
and I could picture to myself how mock prescriptions were made up with
sham solemnity of manner, and how fanciful experiments with imaginary
stethoscopes were attempted by young actors, to beguile the weary time.
One little girl I spoke to seemed quite proud of her acquaintance with
the ailments of her neighbours, and seriously took me to a bed to see
a bad case of “broncheetus;” and to a cot contiguous, where what she
called “new-money-here” was waiting to be cured. To lisp out big words
like “toobercoolcrosus” appeared to give great pleasure to the solemn
little doctress, and I fancied the patients felt some pride in being
pointed out as victims of such fine-sounding complaints.’
Children who have few toys are thrown on their own resources for
amusement, and frequently develop great ingenuity and cleverness in
their play. We have examples in the young Brontës, busy at their
desks and playing at being editors, like the girls in _Little Women_
when producing their weekly paper _The Pickwick Portfolio_. But when
our little actors, in their eagerness to secure properties, develop
the bump of destructiveness, the results are not so amusing. Captain
Marryat remarks that children are a great blessing when they are kept
in the nursery; but they certainly do interfere with the papa who has
the misfortune to be an author. He little thought, when his youngest
girl brought him a whole string of paper dolls, hanging together by
the arms, that they had been cut off his memoranda. But so it was; and
when he had satisfactorily established the fact, and insisted upon an
_inquisition_ to recover his invaluables, he found that they had had an
_auto da fé_, and that the whole string of dolls, which contained on
their petticoats his whole string of bewitching ideas, had been burnt
like so many witches.
The monkey-like propensity for imitation which makes an infant try
to shave himself on getting hold of papa’s razors, when developed in
boyhood, takes the form of surreptitious smoking and swaggering, more
for the purpose of acting the man than for anything else. The same idea
of acting the woman is shown when little girls improvise a long train
out of a newspaper or shawl, and sweeping in a dignified way about the
room, exclaim, ‘I’m mamma!’
The importance of a child when lent any article of dress, a stick,
or an umbrella to play with, is very noticeable. ‘Little boy,’ said
a gentleman, ‘why do you hold that umbrella over your head? It’s not
raining.’ ‘No.’—‘And the sun is not shining.’ ‘No.’—‘Then why do you
carry it?’ ‘’Cause when it rains, father wants it; and when the sun
shines, mother wants it; and it’s only when it’s this sort of weather
that I can get to use it at all.’
Children possessed of mimetic qualities are happier without any
playthings than are their opposites, even when possessed of the
costliest scientific toys. Town boys are fond of imagining themselves
to be trains and horses, the noise of the former and motions of the
latter being often very amusingly represented. Mark Twain has given a
lively description of an American lad imitating a river steamer with
all proper accompaniments of bell-ringing, going ahead and astern, and
whirling one arm round for an imaginary forty-feet side-wheel coming
alongside the wharf. The same humorist’s description of some boys
camping out on an island, and covering their bare bodies with mud to
represent Indian war-paint, will probably occur to our readers.
Any one who has ever watched street boys at play, must have been struck
with the power of mimicry many of them possess. The writer was once
greatly amused by the antics of a London lad, who along the kerbstone
was ‘taking off’ the motions of a tight-rope performer, with most
ludicrous attempts at balancing, and a perfect burlesque of reality,
that elicited roars of laughter from his admiring companions, some
of whom whistled an appropriate accompaniment. Stage struggles and
combats, and the ways of heavy tragedians, clowns, nigger minstrels,
and acrobats, are often travestied by these youngsters in a way that
denotes remarkable cleverness and keen observation. A Volunteer
review which the writer witnessed in Cheshire was almost turned into
ridicule by the absurd antics of some scores of the street arab
genus. As a long line of riflemen advanced, firing, clouds of young
ragamuffins kept retreating at some distance in front, and at every
volley threw themselves on the ground into all kinds of grotesque
attitudes, representing the killed and wounded. Boys’ sham-fights
amongst themselves sometimes become rather serious, through the actors
waxing too earnest in their enthusiasm. It is not long since a boy was
wounded by a pistol-shot when enacting one of the Soudan battles with
his companions. Newspaper readers are familiar with accounts of the
lamentable results of children playing at hanging not wisely, but too
well.
AFTER AN EXPLOSION.
An opportunity was recently afforded us of exploring the workings of a
colliery in which, a day or two previously, an explosion had occurred.
Commonly, the results of these catastrophes are so widespread, and the
havoc they cause is so tremendous, that it is impossible to take a calm
survey of the separate effects of fire and concussion: all is mere
ruin and confusion. But in this particular instance the area affected
had been very limited; and so little damage had been done to the roofs
and roads, that it was safe and easy to investigate the way in which
the imprisoned forces had effected their deadly purpose; for nearly
half the men at work in the vein of coal had been killed, and, of the
rest, several narrowly escaped with their lives. And yet the mine had
always been considered a perfectly safe one; no death from fire-damp
had ever before happened; and, with the full approval of the government
inspectors, naked lights had always been used. All at once, without any
warning, the lightning-swift flame darted forth, none knew whence, and
many a miner’s home was filled with desolation and sorrow.
We were, of course, provided with safety-lamps before we reached the
branch road which leads to the workings where so lately such awful
scenes had been enacted. Even here, nearly two hundred yards away, we
were shown a hole which had been blown through eighteen inches of solid
masonry; and were told that two men who were at the _outside_ of this
wall had been severely burned, one of them, after lingering for a week,
having succumbed to the injuries received. Just round the corner, only
a few yards away, we saw the ghastliest sight of all that met our eyes
in this memorable round. A dark stain on one of the upright supports
of the roof marked the place where a man’s head had been crushed by a
loaded tram, which the concussion of air had lifted off the rails and
dashed against the hapless trammer. Nothing could give one a more vivid
conception of the terrific force of these gaseous explosions, and of
the enormous expansion of air which they occasion.
But we proceed along the level road through which so recently that
fiery blast rushed, and reach the door which opens into the actual
scene of the disaster. It was from this point that the gallant band of
rescuers—who in such emergencies are always ready to risk their lives
in helping others—carried on their operations. Outside this door, all
was safe after that one momentary onrush of flame was over. Inside lay
the deadly choke-damp, hardly less fatal than the fire itself. Yet,
for all that, one by one the injured colliers were carried hither and
placed in the freer air. Then the heroic searchers bore out also the
bodies of the dead; and not till then, yielded to the numbing, stifling
influence of the poisonous vapours, which left them aching and ill for
days.
What a contrast to all this was the quietude of these deserted workings
as we saw them! Save for such repairs as were needed to restore proper
ventilation, nothing had been touched; and, strewn on the ground,
as they had been taken off by their owners—since dead, or, it might
be, struggling for life—lay the coats and other garments discarded
as too cumbersome to work in; while from the roof hung the miners’
‘tommy-bags,’ containing their day’s food. One had fallen on to the
ground, and the mice had got at it. After biting a hole through the
covering, they had gnawed away all the crumb out of a huge hunch of
bread. Where, one wondered, could these tiny creatures have taken
refuge from fire and suffocation? Mysterious indeed! Not a singe, not
even the smell of fire, on these trivial things; and yet, hereabouts, a
man was found fearfully scorched, his clothes literally torn off him by
a tornado of flame!
Passing on to a heading where several men met their death, we noticed
one larch-post out of which the resin had been drawn by the intensity
of the heat; while everywhere, _one_ side of the props was coked over
by the rush of burning coal-dust, which had been driven furiously
along, now in one direction, now in another; and yet, among it all was
a pale-green shoot sprouting from an ash-pole in the roof, turning
upwards, as if some instinct taught it _that_ that way shone the
sunlight—even though a quarter of a mile of rock lay between!
Another example of the incomprehensible manner in which these fatal
forces act. A door which opened inwards, and so offered full resistance
to the concussion, was smashed into splinters; and yet, twenty yards
farther on, a miner was at work with a candle in his cap; and this was
not blown out, nor was the man at all hurt! This particular doorway,
the door being fortunately demolished, let in a quantity of pure air,
and so the lives of a number of men who were in that level were saved.
One specially touching incident occurred here. Two men and a boy
started to crawl to a place of safety, following, with their hands,
the rails as a guide in the darkness. The road they took is in the
shape of a Y. When they reached the fork, two of them took the right
turning, and escaped unscathed. The third man went to the left, and
wandered on till, in the very thickest of the afterdamp, he sank down
and died. There he was found, as soon as it was possible to penetrate
through the smoke and heavy fumes, with that placid look on his face
which all those wear who are suffocated by carbonic acid gas. One of
the explorers explained that, in this poisonous atmosphere, he felt
himself failing, and yet, though he knew perfectly what was in store
for him if he sank down, _could_ not resist the pleasant stupor that
was creeping over him. He was dragged away to pure air just in time.
Our guide tried, with his testing-lamp, all round the place for gas;
but only once, in a hole in the roof of the highest level, did a tiny
blue cap within the wire-gauze demonstrate the lingering presence
of that explosive vapour. This fact may to some extent explain the
unwillingness of the workmen to use safety-lamps. Such is the ignorant
prejudice which prevails among them, and so true is it of them, as
of all people engaged in hazardous occupations, that familiarity
breeds contempt for danger. They were perfectly ready to go down with
candles, but _not_ with lamps, to which they had never been accustomed.
But we owe too much to these toilers underground, to indulge in
harsh criticism of their conduct. As the poor fishwife described her
herrings, so we may call the coals which blaze upon our hearths, ‘the
lives of men.’
From this account of what, after all, was but a slight explosion, one
may perhaps more readily realise the awfulness of those more extensive
disasters, which, with equal suddenness and mystery, plunge whole
districts into bitterest grief and direst want. If any stimulus to
sympathy and practical charity were required, it would but be needful
to stand, as we did, among that eager crowd which, at the tidings of
evil, thronged round the pit top; and to see those agonised women who
were weeping for their sons or husbands, and ‘would not be comforted,
because they were not.’ But the hearts of Englishmen ever beat fast,
and their hands are always open, when they are asked to help the
ill-fated colliers’ widows and orphans—‘after an explosion.’
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
INTERESTING DISCOVERIES.
A report reaches us through a Greek paper of the accidental discovery,
in the island of Syros, of three graves, the structure and contents
of which would point to a very early prehistoric date. It was during
the digging for the foundations of a new building in the town of
Hermonopolis that these graves were brought to light. The vessels found
in them are in good preservation, and are, with one exception, of
wood or earthenware, and this exception is a vase of metal, in which
are the ashes of a dead man. The other graves also exhibit, without
any exception, unburned bones, thus showing a curious combined system
of ordinary burial and cremation, the bones in the vase having been
burned, and the others not so. Votive offerings were placed about the
skeletons in every case, those which were apparently of the greatest
value being found in the dead men’s hands. It is to be hoped that the
vessels may be secured for the Athens Museum, already so rich with
many such curious relics. This Museum has been lately enriched with
the remains of the pediment sculptures of the Temple of Athene Alea
at Tegea. These precious fragments, consisting of two heads of youths
and one head of a boar, are the only pieces of sculpture which can
be affirmed, with confidence, to be the work of Scopas; and it is a
satisfaction to know that archæologists and antiquaries who desire to
view the relics of highly refined art of past ages, may see them in
this Museum without the trouble of going to Tegea. It is also reported
that the missing half of one of the other heads lately discovered has
been found, and is now safe in the same Museum. Another exquisitely
beautiful head of a female, found some years ago at Lerna, has been
procured for the National Museum, thanks to the zeal and energy of the
Director, Dr Kabbadias. The head is life-size, of Parian marble, and
evidently, from the flat unworked state of the back, formed part of a
group in high relief, and dates probably from the third century before
Christ. The learned are in much doubt as to whom the head is intended
to represent, many inclining to the opinion that it is Demeter, from
its charming expression and pathetic beauty; but as no part of the
figure remains, this is, after all, mere speculation.
METROPOLITAN PUBLIC GARDENS’ ASSOCIATION.
North, south, east, and west, the growth of London proceeds rapidly.
Not only is the city’s area increased, but the brick and mortar
maze of which it consists tends to grow denser and denser, as the
nice arts of surveyor and architect combine to wrest from space its
fullest building possibilities. And hence springs a great evil. Fresh
air and light—necessary conditions of healthy life—are meted out to
the population with an ever-increasing meagreness. But, happily,
counteracting influences have now existed for some time. A notable one
is embodied in a philanthropic Association, which spends a considerable
income and great activity in obtaining for the people of London open
spaces, or gardens, and other machinery for recreation. Old churchyards
and other disused burial-grounds, inclosed squares, and vacant plots
of ground of all sorts, are the ‘prey’ of the Metropolitan Public
Gardens’ Association. Finding them, it at once agitates obstinately for
their consecration to public use. Parochial and ecclesiastical local
authorities, and in some cases private individuals, are appealed to,
to devote the land to the desired purpose—the Association offering to
lay out the inclosure at its own expense, and provide the necessary
implements, plants, mould, drains, seats, &c., or making such overtures
as the individual circumstances of the case may justify. Though
securing public recreation-grounds is the chief aim of the Association,
it adopts other means for promoting the health and physical well-being
of the people. Thus it agitates for the establishment of gymnasia in
elementary schools, and for the opening of school playgrounds during
all but scholastic hours to the children of the surrounding locality;
it plants trees and places seats in the wilder thoroughfares; it uses
its influence to obtain the erection of baths and washhouses; and,
collecting reliable information respecting all the poorer districts
of the metropolis, it directs public attention to overcrowding and
other social evils. Since the Association’s formation in 1882, it
has succeeded in eighty-three of its efforts to provide public
recreation-grounds, &c., disbursing in the work £8595, 15s. 5d. Lord
Brabazon is the chairman, Miss I. M. Gladstone, the honorary Secretary,
and Miss F. Wilkinson, the landscape gardener of the Association, the
address of which is 83 Lancaster Gate, London, W.
‘MISSING.’
’Twas after Talavera, on an evening dark and gray;
We had returned from the fight, after a bloody day;
And we called the muster over; but one answered not the call:
’Twas the youngest, and the noblest, and the bravest of us all.
He had dared the direst dangers of that dread and dear-bought day,
For he had been the foremost in the fury of the fray;
But a solemn silence answered when we called him on the roll,
And we knew that we had lost him—and that heaven had gained a soul.
The night was closing chill and dim, and stars were in the sky,
When forth we went to look for him—the battle-field was nigh;
The moon shone out to aid us in our grim and ghostly quest,
As we turned the brave men over that were lying there—at rest.
Where the fight had waxed the fiercest, on the margin of the field,
We found him, grasping hard the sword he never more might wield!
There was glory on his visage, like a rosy light, or flood,
Though his golden hair was dabbled with his swiftly-flowing blood.
Oh, rev’rently we lifted him, and wiped away the stain
That marred the bright young forehead, where a mother’s kiss had lain.
We loosed the things about his breast, but turned aside—for there
We saw a maiden’s picture, and a tender lock of hair!
He was not dead: he strove to smile; he lifted up his hands—
But Death had turned the hour-glass, and was counting out the sands!
We were rough and hardened soldiers, and we could not mourn, because
He was dying for his country—like the hero that he was.
We laid him on the litter; but he neither spoke nor moved;
And tenderly we bore him to the comrades that he loved.
He was dead long ere we laid him on the mossy patch of ground—
But we hoped he did not suffer—for he died without a sound!
We have bled in many a battle, we have fought in many a fray,
But that night at Talavera is as fresh as yesterday;
And _his_ name upon the muster-roll in fancy oft we call,
For we loved him, as the noblest and the bravest of us all.
NANNIE POWER O’DONOGHUE.
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