"WHAT IS THE USE OF A CHILD."
"A dreary place would be this earth
Were there no little people in it;
The song of life would lose its mirth
Were there no children to begin it.
"No babe within our arms to leap,
No little feet toward slumber tending;
No little knee in prayer to bend,
Our lips the sweet words lending.
"The sterner souls would grow more stern,
Unfeeling natures more inhuman,
And man to stoic coldness turn,
And woman would be less than woman.
"Life's song, indeed, would lose its charm,
Were there no babies to begin it;
A doleful place this world would be,
Were there no little people in it."--_John Greenleaf Whittier._
When Franklin made his discovery of the identity of lightning and
electricity, people asked, "Of what use is it?" The philosopher's retort
was: "What is the use of a child? It may become a man!" This
question--"What is the use of a child?" is not likely to be asked by our
young married friends in reference to the first miniature pledge who is
about to crown their wishes. They believe that one day he will become
"the guardian of the liberties of Europe, the bulwark and honour of his
aged parents." What a bond of union! What an incentive to tenderness!
That husband has an unfeeling disposition who does not find himself
irresistibly drawn by the new and tender tie that now exists.
I hope I appreciate the value of children. We should soon come to
nothing without them. What is a house without a baby? It may be
comparatively quiet, but it is very dull. A childless home misses its
discipline and loses its music.
Children are _not_ "certain sorrows and uncertain pleasures" when
properly managed. If some parents taste the stream bitter it is very
often they themselves who have poisoned the fountain. They treated their
children when very young merely as playthings, humouring every caprice,
and sacrificing to present fancies future welfare; then, when the charm
of infancy had passed, they commenced a system of restraint and
severity, and displayed displeasure and irritability at the very defects
of which they themselves laid the foundation.
"In an evening spent with Emerson," says one who knew him, "he made one
remark which left a memorable impression on my mind. Two children of the
gentleman at whose house we met were playing in the room, when their
father remarked, 'Just the interesting age.' 'And at what age,' asked
Mr. Emerson, 'are children _not_ interesting?'" He regarded them with
the eye of a philosopher and a poet, and saw the possibilities that
surround their very being with infinite interest. Each of his own
children was for him a harbinger of sunny hours, an angel sent from God
with tidings of hope.
Jeremy Taylor says, "No man can tell but he that loves his children how
many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty
conversation of those dear pledges; their childishness, their
stammering, their little angers, their innocence, their imperfections,
their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort to
him that delights in their persons and society." And what shall be said
of the man who does not love his children? That he, far more than the
unmusical man--
"Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted."
"Civic virtues, unless they have their origin and consecration in
private and domestic virtues, are but the virtues of the theatre. He who
has not a loving heart for his child, cannot pretend to have any true
love for humanity."
"I do not wonder," said Dr. Arnold, "that it was thought a great
misfortune to die childless in old times, when they had not fuller
light--it seems so completely wiping a man out of existence." "Write ye
this man child-less." Cuvier's four children died before him. In his
sixty-seventh year we find Moore writing, "The last of our five children
is now gone, and we are left desolate and alone. Not a single relative
have I left now in the world." How Hallam was successively bereaved of
sons so rich in promise is well known. There is a touching gravestone in
the cloisters of Westminster Abbey with the inscription, "Jane Lister,
deare child, died Oct. 7, 1688." These parents knew only too well the
value of a child.
A merchant in the city was accustomed to demand an excuse from his
clerks whenever they arrived late. The excuse given, he invariably
added, "Very well; but don't let it happen again." One morning a married
clerk, being behind time, was promptly interrogated as to the cause.
Slightly embarrassed, he replied, "The truth is, sir, I had an addition
to my family this morning, and it was not convenient to be here sooner."
"Very well," said the merchant, in his quick, nervous manner, "very
well; but don't let it happen again."
There are people who think one, or, at most, two children, very well,
but they don't wish it to happen again and again. So frequently do
additions happen at Salt Lake City that nine families can, it is said,
fill the theatre. One must love children very much to see the use of
possessing the ninth part of a theatre-ful. And yet a family that is too
small is almost as great an evil as one that is too large. It may be
called a "large little family." Often an only child gives as much
trouble as a large family. Dr. Smiles tells us that a lady who, with her
husband, had inspected most of the lunatic asylums of England and the
Continent, found the most numerous class of patients was almost always
composed of those who had been only children, and whose wills had
therefore rarely been thwarted or disciplined in early life.
What constitutes a large family? Upon this point there is much
difference of opinion. A poor woman was complaining one day that she did
not receive her proper share of charitable doles. Her neighbour Mrs.
Hawke, in the next court, came in for everything and "got more than ever
she was entitled to; for Mrs. Hawke had no family--not to speak of; only
nine." "Only nine! how many then have you?" was the natural rejoinder.
"Fourteen living," she replied. But even fourteen is not such a very
large number when one is used to it. Some one is said to have begun a
story of some trifling adventure which had befallen him with the words,
"As I was crossing Oxford Street the other day with fourteen of my
daughters"--Laughter followed, and the narrator never got beyond those
introductory words. We do not believe this anecdote, but if it were
true, was there not something heroic in the contented, matter-of-fact
way in which the man spoke of his belongings? "Fourteen of my
daughters!" An unsympathizing spectator might have said that any one
with such a following ought to have been crossing not Oxford Street, but
the Atlantic.
A nursery-maid was leading a little child up and down a garden. "Is't a
laddie or a lassie?" asked the gardener. "A laddie," said the maid.
"Weel," said he, "I'm glad o' that, for there's ower mony women in the
world." "Heck, man," was the reply, "did ye no ken there's aye maist
sown o' the best crap?" This rejoinder was more ready than correct, for
as a matter of fact more boys are born than girls. It is natural for
parents to desire offspring of both sexes. Both are required to complete
a family. Being brought up together the boys acquire something of their
sisters' delicacy and tact, while the girls learn something of their
brothers' self-reliance and independence.
"Desire not a multitude of unprofitable children, neither delight in
ungodly sons. Though they multiply, rejoice not in them, except the fear
of the Lord be with them. Trust not thou in their life, neither respect
their multitude: for one that is just is better than a thousand; and
better it is to die without children, than to have them that are
ungodly." In reference to children quality is far more to be desired
than quantity. Without accepting pessimism, we may deny that the mere
propagation of the human race is an object which presents itself as in
itself a good. The chief end of man is not simply to have "the hope and
the misfortune of being," but to glorify God and to serve humanity. What
is the use of a child who is likely to do neither?
If it be the will of God to withhold offspring from a young couple,
nothing should be said either by the husband or wife that could give the
other pain on the subject. To do so is more than reprehensible; it is
odious and contemptible. How unlike Elkanah, when, with sentiments at
once manly and tender, he thus addresses his weeping wife--"Hannah, why
weepest thou? and why eatest thou not? and why is thy heart grieved? am
not I better to thee than ten sons?"
"We, ignorant of ourselves,
Beg often our own harms which the wise powers
Deny us for our good; so find we profit
By losing of our prayers."
Writing on this subject a lady tells us that she had a relation who was
married some years without having a child. Her feelings partook not only
of grief, but of anguish: at length, a lovely boy was granted her.
"Spare, O God, the life of _my blessing_," was her constant prayer. Her
blessing _was_ spared: he grew to the years of manhood; squandered a
fine fortune; married a servant-maid; and broke his mother's heart!
Another intimate friend of the author's was inconsolable for not having
children. At length, the prospect of her becoming a mother was certain,
and her joy was extreme. The moment of trial arrived: for four days and
nights her sufferings and torture were not to be allayed by medical
skill or human aid. At length her cries ceased; and, at the same moment
that she gave birth to _two_ children, she herself had become a corpse.
"Give me children," said the impatient and weeping Rachel, "or else I
die" (Gen. XXX. 1). Her prayer was heard, and in giving birth to her boy
the mother expired.
Another impassioned mother, as she bent over the bed of her sick infant,
called out, "Oh, no; I _cannot_ resign him. It is impossible; I _cannot_
resign him." A person present, struck with her words, noted them down in
a daily journal which he kept. The boy recovered; and that day
one-and-twenty years he was hanged as a murderer!
How terrible it is when a much-desired child is born to a comparatively
useless existence by reason of some deficiency or deformity. Very
touching is the story of a lady who, though deaf and dumb, became the
wife of an earl through her beauty. In due course the king o' the world,
the baby, presented himself--a fine child, of course, and a future earl.
Soon after its birth, as the nurse sat watching the babe, she saw the
countess mother approach the cradle with a huge china vase, lift it
above the head of the sleeping child, and poise it to dash it down.
Petrified with horror, wondering at the strange look of the mother's
face, the nurse sat powerless and still; she dared not even cry out; she
was not near enough to throw herself between the victim and the blow.
The heavy mass was thrown down with a tremendous force and crash on the
floor beside the cradle, and the babe awoke terrified and screaming,
clung to his delighted mother, who had made the experiment to discover
whether her child had the precious gift of voice and hearing, or was
like herself, a mute.
In his "Bachelor's Complaint of the Behaviour of Married People,"
Charles Lamb speaks of "the airs which these creatures give themselves
when they come, as they generally do, to have children. When I consider
how little of a rarity children are--that every street and blind alley
swarms with them--that the poorest people commonly have them in most
abundance--that there are few marriages that are not blest with at least
one of these bargains--how often they turn out ill and defeat the fond
hopes of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty,
disgrace, the gallows, &c.--I cannot for my life tell what cause for
pride there can possibly be in having them. If they were young
phoenixes, indeed, that were born but one in a hundred years, there
might be a pretext. But when they are so common----"
It is, however, far better for married people to take pride in their
children than to be as indifferent to them as was a certain old lady who
had brought up a family of children near a river. A gentleman once said
to her, "I should think you would have lived in constant fear that some
of them would have got drowned." "Oh no," responded the old lady, "we
only lost three or four in that way."
What is the use of a child? Not very much unless its parents accept it,
not as a plaything, much less as a nuisance, but as a most sacred
trust--a talent to be put to the best account. It is neither to be
spoiled nor buried in the earth--how many careless mothers do this
literally!--but to be made the most of for God and for man. Perhaps
there was only One who perfectly understood the use of a child. "Suffer
the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is
the kingdom of God." In some lines to a child Longfellow has well
answered the question we have been considering.
"Enough! I will not play the Seer;
I will no longer strive to ope
The mystic volume, where appear
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear,
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope.
Thy destiny remains untold."
In the next chapter we shall point out how useful children are in
educating their parents.