envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. This fact I consider with
reference to the circumstances in which men are placed, and I plainly
conceive that where existence is only to be supported by an unceasing
struggle, and where self-love is so perpetually receiving injury, it
is needless to expect that men should be much better than they are. In
children, however, we see no possibility of any rivalship: they are
a harmless little people at _this_ moment, and we run no chance of
being jostled by them in our course of life, for many years to come.
There is, therefore, no reason for envy, hatred, or uncharitableness
with them. On the contrary, in our intercourse with children, our
self-love is undergoing a perpetual compliment. The appeal which they
are constantly making from their own silently-confessed weakness,
to our tacitly-acknowledged strength, soothes and delights us. A
fellow-creature lies unconsciously abandoned to our mercy—unconsciously
unable to resist. It asks for nothing, for it cannot; but it does not
expect harm. There is the charm. It imputes to us none of our original
sins of envy, hatred, and uncharitableness, but seems to take it for
granted that we are blanch and stainless like itself. It puts forth its
little arms to us, with a perfect confidence in our gentler and better
nature, and we feel it impossible to be evil when we are so sincerely
understood to be good. We give, then, the love and faith that are
demanded, and press the offenceless type of our original and perfect
nature, with all the hues and all the odours of paradise rife around
it, to our heart of hearts.
The whole external deportment of a child is delightful. Its
smile—always so ready when there is no distress, and so soon recurring
when that distress has passed away—is like an opening of the sky,
showing heaven beyond. Tales are told of murderers, who, after
revelling in the blood of many adults, were at length arrested by the
smile of a child, and suddenly became innocent, because they were
supposed to be so. The grasp of its little hand around one of our
fingers—its mighty little crow when excited by the playfulness of its
nurse—its manful spring upon the little woolpack legs that refuse to
bear its weight—are all traits of more or less pleasantness. Then,
the eye of a child—who can look unmoved into that “well undefiled,”
in which heaven itself seems to be reflected? Whether the gem be of
sweet pellucid blue, or of the mysterious and unsearchable black,
what meanings unexpressed, unintelligible, reside within! the germ
of a whole life of feelings and ideas. Human nature is familiar in
all its bearings to most men; yet how novel does every symptom of
it appear, as first shown forth by a child! Every little imperfect
function—every step in the attainment of physical power—every new trait
of intelligence, as they one by one arise in the infantine intellect,
like the glory of night, starting star by star into the sky, is hailed
with a heart-burst of rapture and surprise, as if we had never known
any thing so clever or so captivating before. The point thus gained
is never lost. The darling child is reminded perpetually of the idea
he lately seemed to comprehend, or of the word he seemed nearly able
to pronounce, or of the little action he attempted to perform; and
thus the whole of his little stock of accomplishments is carefully
kept together, liable to a constant increase. Hosannas of affection
celebrate every step of his progress towards maturity, and fresh
blessings are showered upon his holy and harmless head, for every
manifestation of the presence of the godlike mind. Nor is this interest
in his advance confined to those whose daily joy it is to fold him to
the beatings of a kindred heart. Almost every one who has occasion to
observe the march of infant intellect feels an instinctive satisfaction
in the contemplation. It seems, indeed, to be part of the grand and
wise design, that all the mature of the human race should be concerned
respecting the progress of the young: it is the silent working of
nature towards the general good. Without a principle of this kind
constantly at work—and it _is_ always at work, in the attentions of the
reflecting and grave, as well as in the apparently senseless prattle of
the nurse—the moral world would be in danger of standing still.
The love of parents for their children—so far as it is not a
sentiment arising from the contemplation of beauty, or innocence,
or helplessness—is a kind of self-love. Yet no one ever thinks of
imputing to a parent, as a fault, that he has a high appreciation of
his children. The truth is, though in one sense self-love, it is, in
another, the most generous and self-abandoning feeling in nature. The
world is also aware instinctively, that the fondness of parents for
their children is necessary for their protection and education; and,
therefore, if there were no other palliation of the passion, it would
at least be convenient. In virtue of these excuses, a parent can
indulge in all the pleasures of the most intense, devoted, devouring,
self-appreciation, and yet have none of the usual reproach attending
it. He can admire himself in his children, to a greater extent than
ever did Narcissus in the fountain, and yet there is no chance that he
changes into a daffodil. He can call himself every pretty name in the
nurse’s vocabulary, and yet no one will ever accuse him of flattering
his own person. He may fondle and hug himself till his miniature
counterpart loses both breath and patience; he may expend upon his
little self a thousand compliments and praises; and yet it will never
be insinuated that Mr —— is on uncommonly good terms with Mr ——. This,
it must be remarked, is one of the compensations allowed by Providence
for the anxiety and pains attendant upon the keeping of a child.
It is a very common impression among those who are practically
unacquainted with children, that there is an immense deal of trouble
incurred in their management. There is, no doubt, much trouble, but
there is also much to alleviate it. Women, to whom, as mothers or as
nurses, this trouble chiefly falls, are rarely heard to complain of it.
The labour is either kindly and agreeable in itself, or it is rewarded
by the generous pleasure of knowing that those are helped who cannot
help themselves. There are few duties, it may be said, by which women
appear to feel less oppressed, than the labour of managing children.
What is very strange, it seems equally lightsome to the hired attendant
as to the mother herself. There appears to be a general feeling among
women that the neglect of, or the least cruelty, to a child, is the
most monstrous offence in nature: it is the high treason of the sex.
In the more refined circles of society, where it is convenient to
employ deputies, this certain kindness of every female heart towards
a child is very fortunate: in the lower circles it is still more so.
_There_ many mothers are compelled to depend much upon the good-will
of neighbours for the attentions necessary to their families. The
infant is, indeed, in some measure the protegé of a little vicinity,
rather than of any individual. It is handed about from one hand to
another, and kept for a little by each, so as to enable the mother to
attend to other duties that are still more indispensable—such as the
preparation of her family meals, or, perhaps, the work necessary for
obtaining them. There is in this no danger for the child, and not much
obligation for the parents. The poor are in the constant practice of
performing acts of kindness to each other: they are their own best
friends; and their condition would be quite insupportable if it were
otherwise. The attentions, therefore, which one neighbour bestows upon
another’s child, are felt as a very slight burden by the particular
party obliging, while the aggregate of many such little favours forms
an immense relief to the mother. Then, every one knows that if the
case were her own, as it perhaps may be, the individual whom she now
obliges would be ready and glad to oblige her in turn. If the trouble
of managing children had in it any thing really disagreeable, this
universal system of mutual serviceableness could never obtain among the
poor.
It is surprising how much children tend to humanise and soften the
stern scene of general life. The man who is so fortunate as to possess
one or more children, finds it less easy to be wicked than if he had
none; and, however evilly disposed any man may be, he will hardly give
way to his wicked tendencies in the presence of his children. There is
something holy in a child. Its innocence puts it in association with
all gentle and devout feelings; and scarcely any parent will venture
deliberately to contaminate the bright image of heavenly purity, which
the Father of heaven has himself placed under his charge. Even the
infidel can never form the wish that his child should be the same; he
may dare many things, upon the peril of his own soul, but he cannot
dare to hazard the soul of his child. His own mind may be torn by the
demons of doubt and error, but he will keep his child steadfast if he
can, melting nightly at the infantine prayer, which he cannot offer
up himself. If a parent has been imprudent, and now suffers the bitter
effects of his folly, in misfortunes which have exposed him to the
contempt of mankind, here still is a resource. He can steal by night
to the couch of his children, and, beside the unconscious babes, whose
fate hangs all upon his, and who yet reprove not, in their silent
innocence, the guilt which has exposed them to misery, weep himself
into good resolutions, and into comfort.
One of the chief sources of a parent’s pleasure in contemplating
children, lies in the prospects which it is impossible to avoid
forming regarding their future lives. No parent ever contemplates an
unhappy fate for his child: all the look-forward is sunny as its own
sweet eyes—stainless as its uncorrupted heart. There is even hardly
any parent who rests content with hoping that his children will be as
fortunate and as happy as himself. They must be much more so: they
must reach heights of distinction far above any he had ever presumed
to expect for himself. To the parent who has occasion to lament his
unhappy circumstances in life, what treasured consolation there is
in these fond imaginings! The father, as he broods moodily over
enterprises blighted, and a spirit confined for immediate bread to
some narrow scene of action unworthy of its energies—one casual glance
alights upon the fair brow of his child, the bitter present gives
way to the glorious future, and all his own griefs are repaid by the
prospective happiness of his offspring. The mother who looks back to
the comforts of an early home, unhappily exchanged for a scene of care
and woe, feels, as she bends over her unconscious infant, her former
happiness arise in the prospects of that endeared being, and is for the
time consoled. It is this habit of forming flattering anticipations
respecting the fates of our children, that renders the loss of them in
infancy so very severe a calamity. In reality, the life of a child is
of little value: it has as yet cost little, either in care or expense;
and, unless in particular circumstances, it holds but an unimportant
place in society. Yet it is in this very want of all probation of its
value that the poignancy of the loss chiefly lies. We lament it, not
at all for what it was at the time of its death, but for what it might
have been, if it had been spared. We often find that the loss of an
infant is lamented with a more violent and unappeasable grief than that
of an adult; and this is simply because, in the one case, the damage
is ascertained, and forms but one distinct idea; while in the other it
is arbitrary, vast, beyond imagination. A child is, in one sense, a
dangerous possession: it is apt to warp itself into the vitals of our
very soul; so that, when God rends it away, the whole mental fabric is
shattered. It should always, then, be borne in mind, that life is the
more uncertain the nearer its commencement, and that the beings we are
disposed to appreciate most are just those whom we are most apt to lose.
The feelings of a parent, regarding a child in dangerous sickness, are
beautifully expressed in the following poem, which will surprise many
readers into tears:—[5]
“Send down thy winged angel, God!
Amidst this night so wild,
And bid him come, where now we watch,
And breathe upon our child.
She lies upon her pillow, pale,
And moans within her sleep,
Or wakeneth with a patient smile,
And striveth _not_ to weep!
How gentle and how good a child
She is, we know too well;
And dearer to her parents’ hearts
Than our weak words can tell.
We love—we watch throughout the night,
To aid, when need may be;
We hope—and have despair’d at times,
But _now_ we turn to Thee!
Send down thy sweet-soul’d angel, God!
Amidst the darkness wild,
And bid him soothe our souls to-night,
And heal our gentle child!”
When a scene like this is closed by death, what an extinction of
hopes! No parent, it may be remarked, ever thinks he can _spare a
child_. Whatever be the number of his family, he is almost sure to be
afflicted to exactly a certain degree by the loss of any individual
infant; for simply this reason, that every one has established its own
claim to his affections, by some peculiar trait of its appearance or
character. It is a lovely and admirable trait of human nature, that
the parent is rather apt to appreciate the lost child above all the
rest. The impossibility of a realization of his hopes regarding that
infant, just makes all those hopes the brighter, so that the twilight
of the child’s _dead existence_ is more splendid than the broad day of
its living life. The surviving babes are all more or less connected
with the common-place of this world—the homeliness of nature; but that
fair-haired innocent, which went to its place in the blush and dawn
of its faculties, what might it not have been? Then, the stirring
grief of parting with that face that was our own—that more than
friend, though but an infant—to break off all the delightful ties of
prattling tenderness, that had bound us, even in a few months, to that
gentle form for ever! A sorrow like this is long in being altogether
quenched; it comes in soft gushes into the heart for many future
years, and subdues us in the midst of stronger and sterner feelings.
The image lives always before us in unchanging infancy, and beauty,
and innocence; it ever seems to be walking in our eyes, as of yore,
with its bright curling hair, and its lightsome carol; and we long for
heaven, that we may enjoy that no small portion of its pleasures—a
restoration to the company of that mortal angel which has been reft
away.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] This exquisite little hymn is extracted from a volume of excellent,
but, we fear, neglected poetry, published under the title of “English
Songs, and other Small Poems, by Barry Cornwall.” The real name of the
author, we understand, is Proctor, and in him much of the old pure
spirit of poetry has revived—the poetry of nature and of the affections.
TEA-DRINKING.
There is a certain class of people who take every opportunity of
sneering at their neighbours for indulging in the “folly” of drinking
tea, which they tell you is poisonous, and for the use of which
the Chinese, as they say, make a point of laughing at us. I have
generally remarked, that those who in this manner condemn the use of
tea are themselves addicted to the drinking of intoxicating liquids
of some kind or other, and that, in most instances, they are not a
bit more healthful or more innocent than the unhappy tea-drinkers
whom they affect to pity. In the way that tea is usually made, with
a large mixture of sugar and cream, both which ingredients are
highly nutritious, it is fully more salutary, and a great deal more
refreshing, than any other light liquid that could be poured into
the stomach. With all due deference to Cobbett, milk, even entirely
divested of its creamy particles, is _heavy_; and though it may be
used with advantage as a meal, when work is done in the open air, it
can never suit the appetites of the great mass of the people, who
are confined by sedentary employments. Milk is the food of men in a
rude state, or in childhood; but tea or well-made coffee is their
beverage in a state of civilisation. It would seem that the civilised
human being must use a large quantity of liquid food. Perhaps solid
meat is more nutritious; but there are cases in which a small degree
of nutriment is quite sufficient. A lady or a gentleman of sedentary
habits does not require to feed like a ploughman, or a fancy man
training for a pedestrian excursion. They can subsist in a healthful
state with a small quantity of solid food, but they do not do well
unless with a large quantity of liquids, and these of a light quality.
Good beer has been recommended as a substitute for tea; but beer is at
the best a cold ungenial drink, except to robust people who have much
exercise. Beer may certainly be made almost as light as water itself,
but in that case it is filled with gaseous matter or confined air, and
it cannot be drunk with comfort as a simple refreshment.
It will always be remembered that there are different kinds of tea, and
that some are more salutary than others. Green tea ought by all means
to be avoided by persons of weak nerves. Black tea is the preferable
for general use, and, if properly made, will prove anti-spasmodic,
and relieve pains or cramps in the bowels. In some instances tea does
not suit the particular state of the stomach, and it should then be
abandoned, the taste naturally pointing out when it should be taken.
But no species of prepared fluid seems so suitable to the palates and
the stomachs of the people of this country. No kind of drink is so
refreshing after a journey or fatigue as tea. It restores the drooping
spirits, and invigorates the frame for renewed exertion. No other
kind of liquid with which we are acquainted has the same remarkable
influence morally and physically. Fermented or distilled liquors,
taken under the same circumstances, either induce intoxication or
sleep. It is preposterous to say that tea is poisonous. As there is an
astringency in its properties, I believe it would be most injurious
were we to live upon nothing else, or drink it as a tincture. But who
does either? As it happens to be prepared and used, it answers merely
as a refreshing and pleasing drink, either to the solid bread and
butter taken along with it, or after a recent dinner of substantial
viands. How idle it is to say that this harmless beverage is ruining
the constitutions of the people of this country! The very reverse can
be demonstrated. The inhabitants of Britain use nearly twenty-seven
millions of pounds weight of tea annually, which is about one pound
nine ounces on an average for every individual. From thirty to forty
years ago they used a great deal less than the half of this quantity,
yet the average length of human life has been greatly extended since
that period. The English and Scotch now use more tea than all the rest
of Europe put together, and yet they are the healthiest nation on the
face of the earth. The North Americans are also great tea-drinkers,
and human life among them is of nearly an equal value. Who would for
a moment compare the thin wretched wines of France and Germany, or
the sour krout of Russia, to the “comfortable” tea of Great Britain,
and who would lose time in calculating the different effects of these
liquids on the constitution?
Tea has other excellent properties. At this present moment it is
putting down the pernicious practice of dram-drinking, and evidently
limiting the extent of after-dinner potations. It seems to be
impossible that a regular drinker of tea can be a lover of ardent
spirits; and it is generally observed, that, as a man (or woman either)
slides into the vice of tippling, he simultaneously withdraws from the
tea-table; so true it is that the brutalised feelings of the drunkard
are incompatible with the refined sentiments produced by
“The cup which cheers, but not inebriates.”
It is hence to be wished that tea, or some other equally simple
prepared fluid, should be still more brought into use. Do not let it
be urged as an objection, that tea is expensive; for even under its
excessive dearth, compared with its original cost, it is the cheapest
beverage in use. With respect to price, it should not be placed against
water or milk. It comes in place of some other indulgence—intoxicating
liquors for instance—respecting the price of which we never heard any
complaints from the lower walks of life. Tea is thus not entirely a
superfluity. The clamours as to its fostering habits of evil and light
speaking, are so antiquated as hardly to deserve notice. Formerly, when
tea was exclusively a luxury among women, the tea-table was perhaps the
scene where scandal was chiefly discussed. But while I suspect that the
same amount of scandal would have been discussed if there had been no
tea-tables whatever, I must observe, that tea is now partaken of under
greatly different circumstances. From being the favourite indulgence
only of women, it is now an ordinary domestic meal, and there is no
more disposition to draw forth the failings of our neighbours over
tea than over roast beef or punch, at seven o’clock any more than at
five. In the upper classes of society, what with late dinners, routs,
and frivolities of every description, tea-drinking may be put aside
as a vulgarism; but as being, in point of fact, a powerful agent in
humanising the harsh feelings of our nature, and cultivating the
domestic affections, I trust it will long hold a place in the dietetics
of the respectable middle and lower classes of Great Britain.
HUSBANDS AND WIVES.
We meet with numerous rules for the conduct of young newly-married
women of all ranks; and if the world is not filled with good wives,
it certainly is not because there is any want of matronly counsel for
their guidance. But though the happiness of the conjugal state depends
at least as much upon the behaviour of the husband as on that of the
wife, there has not, as far as we are aware, been hitherto promulgated
any code of instructions for the use of the former. Our literature
abounds with narrations which exhibit the dutifulness and affection
of women to husbands unworthy of them, who repaid tenderness with
brutality, nor relented till those whose every amiable feeling they
ought to have cherished and rewarded with their love, either sank
broken-hearted, or, grown desperate, became even more abandoned and
profligate than themselves. The man is to blame in nine cases out of
ten where an alliance proves unhappy. In the lower ranks, especially,
it is too often a want of prudence on his part that renders so many
families wretched. _Of the multitudes of those who have wasted
character, health, and means, in intemperance, there is but a small
proportion who might not have preserved respectability by listening
to the admonitions of their wives._ Yet, with these numerous and
undeniable facts before the world, no writer thinks of preventing
such evils by pointing out and enforcing the duties of the party from
whose misconduct they chiefly spring. A small portion of our columns,
therefore, will not be unprofitably bestowed on a subject of so much
importance.
In order to secure the felicity of the married state, a husband must,
in the first place, endeavour to secure the perfect confidence of his
wife. He must banish every thing repulsive from his manner towards her,
and live with her on such easy and friendly terms that she may never
be discouraged from communicating with and consulting him on every
affair, whether it be in the lesser or the greater concerns of life.
If a wife do not find at home sympathy with her afflictions, cares,
and anxieties, she will seek it abroad—she will detail her griefs
to some acquaintance, to whom she will go for advice in matters of
difficulty, and, perhaps, in matters of delicacy, which cannot properly
be appreciated by a stranger, and therefore ought not to be entrusted
to the ear of one. The happiness of the family will thus be made to
depend in a great measure on a person not a member of it, who, whatever
be her prudence, is not intimately interested in the preservation of
its peace, and who is more likely to take a side and encourage feelings
of animosity than to inculcate the duty of mutual forbearance.