child. “Does ever any man or woman remember the feeling of being
‘whipped’ as a child, the fierce anger, the insupportable ignominy, the
longing for revenge, which blotted out all thought of contrition for the
fault or rebellion against the punishment? With this recollection on
their own parts, I can hardly suppose any parents venturing to inflict
it, much less allowing its infliction by another under any circumstances
whatever. A nurse-maid or domestic of any sort, once discovered to have
lifted up her hand against a child, ought to meet instant severe rebuke,
and on a repetition of the offense instant dismissal.”
I have seen in the winter time a lazy nurse sit before the fire with a
child on her lap, rubbing his cold feet just before putting him to his
bed. Now this is not the way to warm his feet. The right method is to
let him romp and run either about the room, or the landing, or the
hall—this will effectually warm them; but, of course, it will entail a
little extra trouble on the nurse, as she will have to use a little
exertion to induce him to do so, and this extra trouble a lazy nurse
will not relish. Warming the feet before the fire will give the little
fellow chilblains, and will make him when he is in bed more chilly. The
only way for him to have a good romp before he goes to bed, is for the
mother to join in the game. She may rest assured, that if she does so,
her child will not be the only one to benefit by it. She herself will
find it of marvelous benefit to her own health; it will warm her own
feet, it will be almost sure to insure her a good night, and will make
her feel so light and buoyant as almost to fancy that she is a girl
again! Well, then, let every child, before he retire to bed, hold a high
court of revelry, let him have an hour—the Children’s Hour—devoted to
romp, to dance, to riot, and to play, and let him be the master of the
revels—
“Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupation,
Which is known as the Children’s Hour.”
Let a child be employed—take an interest in his employment, let him
fancy that he is useful—_and he is useful_, he is laying in a stock of
health. He is much more usefully employed than many other grown-up
children are!
A child should be happy; he must, in every way, be made happy;
everything ought to be done to conduce to his happiness, to give him
joy, gladness, and pleasure. Happy he should be, as happy as the day is
long. Kindness should be lavished upon him. Make a child understand that
you love him; prove it in your actions—these are better than words; look
after his little pleasures—join in his little sports; let him never hear
a morose word—it would rankle in his breast, take deep root, and in due
time bring forth bitter fruit. Love! let love be his polestar; let it be
the guide and the rule of all you do and all you say unto him. Let your
face, as well as your tongue, speak love. Let your hands be ever ready
to minister to his pleasures and to his play. “Blessed be the hand that
prepares a pleasure for a child, for there is no saying when and where
it may again bloom forth. Does not almost everybody remember some
kind-hearted man who showed him a kindness in the dulcet days of
childhood? The writer of this recollects himself, at this moment, a
bare-footed lad, standing at the wooden fence of a poor little garden in
his native village, while, with longing eyes, he gazed on the flowers
which were blooming there quietly in the brightness of the Sabbath
morning. The possessor came from his little cottage. He was a
wood-cutter by trade, and spent the whole week at work in the woods. He
had come into the garden to gather flowers to stick in his coat when he
went to church. He saw the boy, and breaking off the most beautiful of
his carnations (it was streaked with red and white), he gave it to him.
Neither the giver nor the receiver spoke a word, and with bounding steps
the boy ran home. And now, here, at a vast distance from that home,
after so many events of so many years, the feeling of gratitude which
agitated the breast of that boy, expressed itself on paper. The
carnation has long since faded, but it now bloometh afresh.”
The hearty ringing laugh of a child is sweet music to the ear. There are
three most joyous sounds in nature—the hum of a bee, the purr of a cat,
and the laugh of a child. They tell of peace, of happiness, and of
contentment, and make one for awhile forget that there is so much misery
in the world.
A man who dislikes children is unnatural; he has no “milk of human
kindness” in him; he should be shunned. Give me, for a friend, a man—
“Who takes the children on his knee,
And winds their curls about his hand.”
166. _If a child be peevish, and apparently in good health, have you any
plan to offer to allay his irritability?_
A child’s troubles are soon over—his tears are soon dried; “nothing
dries sooner than a tear”—if not prolonged by improper management:
“The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows,
Is like the dewdrop on the rose;
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush, the flower is dry.”
Never allow a child to be teased; it spoils his temper. If he be in a
cross humor take no notice of it, but divert his attention to some
pleasing object. This may be done without spoiling him. Do not combat
bad temper with bad temper—noise with noise. Be firm, be kind, be
gentle, be loving, speak quietly, smile tenderly, and embrace him
fondly, but _insist upon implicit obedience_, and you will have, with
God’s blessing, a happy child: “But we were gentle among you, even as a
woman cherisheth her children.”—I. Thess. ii. 7.
“When a little child is weak,
From fever passing by,
Or wearied out with restlessness,
Don’t scold him if he cry.
Tell him some pretty story—
Don’t read it from a book;
He likes to watch you while you speak,
And take in every look.
Or sometimes singing gently—
A little song may please,
With quiet and amusing words,
And tune that flows with ease.
Or if he is impatient,
Perhaps from time to time
A simple hymn may suit the best,
In short and easy rhyme.
The measured verses flowing
In accents clear and mild,
May blend into his troubled thought,
And soothe the little child,
But let the words be simple,
And suited to his mind,
And loving, that his weary heart
A resting-place may find.”
Speak _gently_ to a child; speak _gently_ to all; but more especially
speak _gently_ to a child. “A gentle voice is an excellent thing in
woman,” and is a jewel of great price, and is one of the concomitants of
a _perfect_ lady. Let the hinges of your disposition be well oiled. “‘I
have a dear friend. He was one of those well-oiled dispositions which
turn upon the hinges of the world without creaking.’ Would to heaven
there were more of them! How many there are who never turn upon the
hinges of this world without a grinding that sets the teeth of a whole
household on edge! And somehow or other it has been the evil fate of
many of the best spirits to be so circumstanced; both men and women, to
whom life is ‘sweet habitude of being,’ which has gone far to reconcile
them to solitude as far less intolerable! To these especially the
creakings of those said rough hinges of the world is one continued
torture, for they are all too finely strung; and the oft-recurring grind
jars the whole sentient frame, mars the beautiful lyre, and makes cruel
discord in a soul of music. How much of sadness there is in such
thoughts! Seems there not a Past in some lives to which it is impossible
ever to become reconciled?”
Pleasant words ought always to be spoken to a child! there must be
neither snarling, nor snapping, nor snubbing, nor loud contention toward
him. If there be it will ruin his temper and disposition, and will make
him hard and harsh, morose and disagreeable.
Do not be always telling your child how wicked he is; what a naughty boy
he is; that God will never love him, and all the rest of such twaddle.
Do not, in point of fact, bully him, as many poor little fellows are
bullied! It will ruin him if you do; it will make him in after-years
either a coward or a tyrant. Such conversations, like constant droppings
of water, will make an impression, and will cause him to feel that it is
of no use to try to be good—that he is hopelessly wicked! Instead of
such language, give him confidence in himself; rather find out his good
points and dwell upon them; praise him where and whenever you can; and
make him feel that, by perseverance and by God’s blessing, he will make
a good man. Speak truthfully to your child; if you once deceive him, he
will not believe you for the future. Not only so, but if you are
truthful yourself you are likely to make him truthful—like begets like.
There is something beautiful in truth! A lying child is an abomination!
Sir Walter Scott says “that he taught his son to ride, to shoot, and to
tell the truth.”
As soon as a child can speak, he should be made to lisp the noble words
of truth, and to love it, and to abhor a lie! What a beautiful character
he will then make! Blessed is that child who can say,—
“Parental cares watched o’er my growing youth,
And early stamped it with the love of truth.”
Have no favorites, show no partiality; for the young are very jealous,
sharp-sighted, and quick-witted, and take a dislike to the petted one.
Do not rouse the old Adam in them. Let children be taught to be “kindly
affectionate one to another, with brotherly love;” let them be
encouraged to share each other’s toys and playthings, and to banish
selfishness.
Attend to a child’s _little_ pleasures. It is the _little_ pleasures of
a child that constitute his happiness. Great pleasures to him and to us
all (as a favorite author remarks) come but seldom, and are the
exceptions, and not the rule.
Let a child be nurtured in love. “It will be seen that I hold this law
of kindness as the Alpha and Omega of education. I once asked one, in
his own house, a father in everything but the name, his authority
unquestioned, his least word held in reverence, his smallest wish
obeyed,—‘How did you ever manage to bring up these children?’ He said,
‘_By love!_’”
Let every word and action prove that you love your children. Enter into
all their little pursuits and pleasures. Join them in their play, and
“be a child again!” If they are curious, do not check their curiosity;
but rather encourage it; for they have a great deal—as we all have—to
learn, and how can they know if they are not taught? You can depend upon
it, the knowledge they obtain from observation is far superior to that
obtained from books. Let all you teach them, let all you do, and let all
you say, bear the stamp of love. “Endeavor, from first to last, in your
intercourse with your children, to let it bear the impress of _love_. It
is not enough that you _feel_ affection toward your children—that you
are devoted to their interests; you must show in your manner the
fondness of your hearts toward them. Young minds cannot appreciate great
sacrifices made for them; they judge their parents by the words and
deeds of everyday life. They are won by _little_ kindnesses, and
alienated by _little_ acts of neglect or impatience. One complaint
unnoticed, one appeal unheeded, one lawful request arbitrarily refused,
will be remembered by your little ones more than a thousand acts of the
most devoted affection.”
A placid, well-regulated temper is very conducive to health. A
disordered or an overloaded stomach is a frequent cause of peevishness.
Appropriate treatment in such a case will, of course, be necessary.
167. _My child stammers: can you tell me the cause, and can you suggest
a remedy?_
A child who stammers is generally “nervous,” quick, and impulsive. His
ideas flow too rapidly for speech. He is “nervous:” hence, when he is
alone, and with those he loves, he oftentimes speaks fluently and well;
he stammers more both when he is tired, and when he is out of
health—when the nerves are either weak or exhausted. He is emotional:
when he is either in a passion or in excitement, either of joy or of
grief, he can scarcely speak—“he stammers all over.” He is impulsive: he
often stammers in consequence. He is in too great a hurry to bring out
his words; they do not flow in a proper sequence; hence his words are
broken and disjointed.
Stammering, of course, might be owing either to some organic defect,
such as from defective palate, or from defective brain, then nothing
will cure him; or it might be owing to “nervous” causes—to “irregular
nervous action,” then a cure might, with care and perseverance, be
usually effected.
In all cases of stammering of a child, let both the palate of his mouth
and the bridle of his tongue be carefully examined, to see that neither
the palate be defective, nor the bridle of the tongue be too short—that
he be not tongue-tied.
_Now, with regard to treatment._ Make him speak slowly and deliberately;
let him form each word, without clipping or chopping; let him be made,
when you are alone with him, to exercise himself in elocution. If he
speak quickly, stop him in his mid-career, and make him, quietly and
deliberately, go through the sentence again and again, until he has
mastered the difficulty; teach him to collect his thoughts, and to weigh
each word ere he give it utterance; practice him in singing little hymns
and songs for children; this you will find a valuable help in the cure.
A stammerer seldom stutters when he sings. When he sings, he has a full
knowledge of the words, and is obliged to keep in time—to sing neither
too fast nor too slow. Besides, he sings in a different key to his
speaking voice. Many professors for the treatment of stammering cure
their patients by practicing lessons of a sing-song character.
Never jeer him for stammering, nor turn him to ridicule; if you do, it
will make him ten times worse; but be patient and gentle with him, and
endeavor to give him confidence, and encourage him to speak to you as
quietly, as gently, and deliberately as you speak to him; tell him not
to speak until he has arranged his thoughts and chosen his words; let
him do nothing in a hurry.
Demosthenes was said, in his youth, to have stammered fearfully, and to
have cured himself by his own prescription, namely, by putting a pebble
in his mouth, and declaiming, frequently, slowly, quietly, and
deliberately, on the sea-shore—the fishes alone being his
audience,—until, at length, he cured himself, and charmed the world with
his eloquence and with his elocution. He is held up, to this very day,
as the personification and as the model of an orator. His patience,
perseverance, and practice ought, by all who either are, or are
interested in a stammerer, to be borne in mind and followed.
168. _Do you approve of a carpet in a nursery?_
No; unless it be a small piece for the child to roll upon. A carpet
harbors dirt and dust, which dust is constantly floating about the
atmosphere, and thus making it impure for him to breathe. The truth of
this may easily be ascertained by entering a darkened room, where a ray
of sunshine is struggling through a crevice in the shutters. If the
floor of a nursery must be covered, let drugget be laid down; as this
every morning may be taken up and shaken. The less furniture a nursery
contains the better; for much furniture obstructs the free circulation
of the air, and, moreover, prevents a child from taking proper exercise
in the room.
169. _Supposing there is not a fire in the nursery grate, ought the
chimney to be stopped to prevent a draught in the room?_
Certainly not. I consider the use of a chimney to be twofold: first, to
carry off the smoke; and secondly (which is of quite as much
importance), to ventilate the room, by carrying off the impure air,
loaded as it is with carbonic acid gas, the refuse of respiration. The
chimney, therefore, should never, either winter or summer, be allowed
for one moment to be stopped. This is important advice, and requires the
strict supervision of every mother, as servants will, if they have the
chance, stop all chimneys that have no fires in the grates.
EXERCISE.
170. _Do you approve, during the summer months, of sending a child out_
BEFORE _breakfast_?
I do, when the weather will permit, and provided the wind be neither in
an easterly nor in a northeasterly direction: indeed, _he can scarcely
be too much in the open air_. He must not be allowed to stand about
draughts or about entries, and the only way to prevent him doing so is
for the mother herself to accompany the nurse. She will then kill two
birds with one stone, as she will, by doing so, benefit her own as well
as her child’s health.
171. _Ought a child to be early put on his feet to walk?_
No: let him learn to walk himself. He ought to be put upon a carpet; and
it will be found that when he is strong enough, he will hold by a chair,
and will stand alone: when he can do so, and attempts to walk, he should
then be supported. You must, on first putting him upon his feet, be
guided by his own wishes. He will, as soon as he is strong enough to
walk, have the inclination to do so. When he has the inclination and the
strength, it will be folly to restrain him; if he has neither the
inclination nor the strength, it will be absurd to urge him on. Rely,
therefore, to a certain extent, upon the inclination of the child
himself. Self-reliance cannot be too early taught him, and, indeed,
every one else. In the generality of instances, however, a child is put
on his feet too soon, and the bones at that tender age, being very
flexible, bend, causing bowed and bandy legs; and the knees, being weak,
approximate too closely together, and thus they become knock-kneed.
This advice of _not_ putting a child _early_ on his feet, I must
strongly insist on, as so many mothers are so ridiculously ambitious
that their young ones should walk early, that they should walk before
other children have attempted to do so, have frequently caused the above
lamentable deformities!
172. _Do you approve of perambulators?_
I do not, for two reasons: first, because when a child is strong enough,
he had better walk as much as he will; and, secondly, the motion is not
so good, and the muscles are not so much put in action, and consequently
cannot be so well developed, as when he is carried. A perambulator is
very apt to make a child stoop, and to make him both crooked and
round-shouldered. He is cramped by being so long in one position. It is
painful to notice a babe a few months old in one of these new-fangled
carriages. His little head is bobbing about, first on one side and then
on the other—at one moment it is dropping on his chest, the next it is
forcibly jolted behind: he looks, and doubtless feels, wretched and
uncomfortable. Again, these perambulators are dangerous in crowded
thoroughfares. They are a public nuisance, inasmuch as they are wheeled
against and between people’s legs, and are a fruitful source of the
breaking of shins, of the spraining of ankles, of the crushing of corns,
and of the ruffling of the tempers of the foot-passengers who
unfortunately come within their reach; while, in all probability, the
gaping nurses are staring another way, and every way indeed but the
right!
Besides, in very cold weather, or in a very young infant, the warmth of
the nurse’s body, while he is being carried, helps to keep him warm, he
himself being naturally cold. In point of fact, the child, while being
borne in the nurse’s arms, reposes on the nurse, warm and supported as
though he were in a nest! While, on the other hand, if he be in a
perambulator, he is cold and unsupported, looking the very picture of
misery, seeking everywhere for rest and comfort, and finding none!
A nurse’s arm, then, is the only proper carriage for a _young_ child to
take exercise on. She ought to change about, first carrying him on the
one arm, and then on the other. Nursing him on one arm only might give
his body a twist on one side, and thus might cause deformity.
When he is old enough to walk, and is able properly to support the
weight of his own neck and back, then there will be no objection,
provided it be not in a crowded thoroughfare, to his riding occasionally
in a perambulator; but when he is older still, and can sit either a
donkey or a pony, such exercise will be far more beneficial, and will
afford him much greater pleasure.
173. _Supposing it to be wet under foot, but dry above, do you then
approve of sending a child out?_
If the wind be neither in the east nor the northeast, and if the air be
not damp, let him be well wrapped up and be sent out. If he be laboring
under an inflammation of the lungs, however slight, or if he be just
recovering from one, it would, of course, be highly improper. In the
management of a child, we must take care neither to coddle nor to expose
him unnecessarily, as both are dangerous.
Never send a child out to walk in a fog; he will, if you do, be almost
sure to catch cold. It would be much safer to send him out in the rain
than in fog; though neither the one nor the other would be desirable.
174. _How many times a day, in fine weather, ought a child to be sent
out?_
Let him be sent out as often as it be possible. If a child lived more in
the open air than he is wont to do, he would neither be so susceptible
of disease, nor would he suffer so much from teething.
175. _Supposing the day to be wet, what exercise would you then
recommend?_
The child ought to run either about a large room or about the hall; and,
if it does not rain violently, you should put on his hat and throw up
the window, taking care while the window is open that he does not stand
still.
Do not on any account allow him to sit any length of time at a table,
amusing himself with books, etc.; let him be acting and stirring, that
his blood may freely circulate as it ought to do, and that his muscles
may be well developed. I would rather see him actively engaged in
mischief, than sitting still, doing nothing. He ought to be put on the
carpet, and should then be tumbled and rolled about, to make the blood
bound merrily through the vessels, to stir up the liver, to promote
digestion, and to open the bowels. The misfortune of it is, the present
race of nurses are so stuck out with crinoline, that they are not able
to stoop properly, and thus to have a good game at romps with their
little charges.
176. _Supposing it to be winter, and the weather to be very cold, would
you still send a child out?_
Decidedly, provided he be well wrapped up. The cold will brace and
strengthen him. Cold weather is the finest tonic in the world.
In frosty weather, the roads being slippery, when you send him out to
walk, put a pair of large, old woolen stockings _over_ his boots or
shoes. This will not only keep his feet and his legs warm, but it will
prevent him from falling down and hurting himself. While thus equipped,
he may even walk on a slide of ice without falling down.
A child, in the winter time, requires, to keep him warm, plenty of
flannel and plenty of food, plenty of fresh and genuine milk, and plenty
of water in his tub to wash him in a morning, plenty of exercise and
plenty of play, and then he may brave the frosty air. It is the coddled,
the half-washed, and the half-starved child (half-washed and
half-starved from either the mother’s ignorance or from the mother’s
timidity), that is the chilly starveling,—catching cold at every breath
of wind, and every time he either walks or is carried out,—a puny,
skinny, scraggy, scare-crow, more dead than alive, and more fit for his
grave than for the rough world he will have to struggle in!
AMUSEMENTS.
177. _Have you any remarks to make on the amusements of a child?_
Let the amusements of a child be as much as possible out of doors; let
him spend the greater part of every day in the open air; let him exert
himself as much as he pleases, his feelings will tell him when to rest
and when to begin again; let him be what nature intended him to be—a
happy, laughing, joyous child. Do not let him be always poring over
books.
“Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife,
Come, hear the woodland linnet!
How sweet his music! On my life
There’s more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,—
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless,—
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood,
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.”