CARE OF THE HABITS.--PERSONAL HABITS.
It requires some little consideration to feel sufficiently that it is as
necessary to be explicit and earnest about the personal habits of
children as about their principles, temper, and intellectual state. Our
personal habits have become so completely a second nature to us, that it
requires some effort to be aware how far otherwise it is with the
young,--how they have every thing to learn; and what a serious thing it
is to everybody at some time of his life to learn to wash his own face
and button his own jacket. The conviction comes across one very
powerfully in great houses, where little lords and ladies are seen to
need teaching in the commonest particulars of manners and habits, as
much as any young creatures about a cottage door. Every one knows this
as a matter of fact; but still, there is something odd in seeing
children in velvet tunics and lace frocks, and silk stockings and satin
shoes, holding up their little noses,--or _not_ holding them up--to the
maternal pocket-handkerchief; or dropping fruit-stones and raisin-stalks
into papa's coat-collar, by climbing up behind his chair. To see this
natural rudeness in those to whom consummate elegance is hereafter to
appear no less natural, makes one thoughtful for the sake of such as are
to remain comparatively rude through life; and also because it reminds
one that there is nothing in regard to all personal habits, that
children have not to learn.
It is so very serious a matter to them,--the attainment of good personal
habits,--that they ought to be aided to the utmost by parental
consideration. This consideration is shown first in the actual help
given to the child by its mother's hands; and afterwards by making all
the arrangements of the household as favourable as possible to good
habits in each individual.
The tender mother makes the times of washing and dressing gay and
pleasant to her little infant by the play and caresses which she loves
to lavish even more than the child delights to receive. She can hardly
overvalue the influence of these seasons on the child's future personal
habits. Hurry, rough handling, silence, or fretfulness may make the
child hate the idea of washing and dressing, for long years afterwards;
while the associations of a season of play and lovingness may help on
the little creature a long way in the great work of taking care of its
own person. When the time comes,--the proud time,--when it may stand by
itself to wash, the pride and novelty help it on; and it is rather
offended if help interferes, to prevent its being exposed too long to
the cold. All this is very well; but there comes a time afterwards when
the irksomeness of washing and dressing, and cleaning teeth, and
brushing hair, becomes a positive affliction to some children, such as
no parents that I have known seem to have any idea of. We grown people
can scarcely remember the time when these operations were not to us so
purely mechanical as that our minds are entertained by ideas all the
time, as much as if we were about any other business. But children are
not so dexterous, in the first place; in the next, all labour of which
they know the extent is very oppressive to them: and again, any
incessant repetition of what they in any degree dislike is really
afflictive to them. We must remember these things, or we shall not
understand the feebleness of will which makes a boy neglect some part of
his morning washing, and a girl the due hair-brushing in the evening,
though both are aware that they suffer more in conscience as it is, than
they could from the trouble, if they could rouse themselves to do the
business properly. I have known one child sick of life because she must,
in any circumstances, clean her teeth every day;--every day for perhaps
seventy years. I have known of a little boy in white frocks who sat
mournfully alone, one autumn day, laying the gay fallen vine-leaves in a
circle, and thinking how tired he was of life,--how dreadfully long it
was, and full of care. Its machinery overpowered him. I knew a girl, old
enough to be reproached for the badness of her handwriting,--(and she
was injudiciously reproached, without being helped to mend it)--who
suffered intensely from this, and even more from another grief;--she had
hair which required a good deal of care, and she was too indolent to
keep it properly. These were the two miseries of her life; and they did
make her life miserable. She did not think she could mend her
handwriting; but she knew that she might have beautiful hair by brushing
it for ten minutes longer every night: yet she could not do it. At last,
she prayed fervently for the removal of these two griefs,--though she
knew the fable of the Waggoner and Hercules. Now,--in cases like these,
help is wanted. Remonstrance, disgrace, will not do, in many cases where
a little sympathy and management will. Cannot these times be made
cheerful, and the habit of painful irresolution broken, by putting the
sinner into the company of some older member of the family, or by
employing the thoughts in some pleasant way while the mechanical process
is going on?--I mean only while the difficulty lasts. When habits of
personal cleanliness have become fixed and mechanical, it is most
desirable (where it can by any means be managed) for each child to be
alone,--not only for the sake of decency, but for the benefit of the
solitude and silence, morning and night, which are morally advantageous
for everybody old enough to meditate.
I fear it is still necessary to teach and preach that nobody has a right
to health who does not wash all over every day. This is done with
infants; and the practice should never be discontinued. Every child of a
family should look upon this daily complete washing in cold water as a
thing as completely of course as getting its breakfast. There was a
time, within my remembrance, when even respectable people thought it
enough to wash their feet once a week; and their whole bodies when they
went to the coast for sea-bathing in August. In regard to popular
knowledge of the Laws of Health, our world _has_ got on: and, after the
expositions, widely published, of those who enable us to understand the
Laws of Health, we may hope that washing from head to foot is so regular
an affair with all decent people as to leave no doubt or irresolution in
children's minds about how much they shall wash, any day of the
year.--As for the care of the teeth,--parents ought to know that, in the
opinion of dentists, all decay of the teeth proceeds from the bone of
which the teeth are composed not being kept purely clean and bright.
This happens oftenest when teeth overlap, or grow so that every part
cannot be reached. Much of this may be remedied, if not all of it, by
early application to a dentist. But parents to whom this precaution is
impossible can do much to save their children from future misery from
toothache, and indigestion through loss of teeth, by seeing that the
tooth-scrubbing is properly performed. This is more important than the
polishing of knives and brass knockers.--As for the brushing of a girl's
long hair, it really is a very irksome business till it becomes
mechanical; and a mother may consider a little effort at amusement well
bestowed till the habit of doing it properly is securely formed, and the
mind is rich enough to entertain itself the while.
Readers begin to yawn or skip when they meet, in any book, with praises
of early rising. Yet how can I pass over this particular of personal
habits, when I think it of eminent importance?--I believe it is rare to
see such early rising as I happen to think desirable. I believe it is
rare to see families fairly at their daily work by eight o'clock,--after
having had out-door exercise and breakfast; and this, every morning in
the year. The variety of objects presented for the observation and
enjoyment of children (and of everybody else) in the early morning
hours, far surpasses that which can be seen at any other time of day.
Even town-bred children can see more pure sky, and quieter streets, and
the country seems to have come nearer. And in the country, there are
more animals abroad,--more squirrels, more field mice, more birds, than
at noon or in the evening. The rooks fly higher in the dawn than at any
other time; the magpies are bolder and droller; the singing birds in
the thickets beyond measure more gleeful; and one need not tell that
this is the hour for the lark. All except very young children can keep
themselves warm in the mid-winter mornings, and will enjoy the delight
of being out under the stars, and watching the last fragment of the
moon, hanging over the eastern horizon, clear and bright in the breaking
dawn. When these children come in, warm, rosy, and hungry, at seven
o'clock, or half-past, and sit down to their breakfast, they seem hardly
of the same order of creatures with such as come sauntering down from
their chambers, when their parents have half done their
meal;--sauntering because they are tired with dressing, or have had bad
dreams, and have not recovered their spirits. And what a difference it
makes in the houses of rich and poor whether the breakfast things are
standing about till nearly ten o'clock, or whether the family have by
that time been at work for nearly two of the brightest, and freshest,
and quietest, hours of the day!
In every industrious household there should be a bell. This is an
admonition which tries no tempers, and gives no personal offence. If the
father himself rings the family up in the mornings, it is a fine thing
for everybody. If he cannot,--if he is too weary with his day's work for
early rising, or if the mother is disturbed with her baby in the
night,--if neither parent can be early in the morning, then let it not
be insisted on that the children shall be so. It is a less evil that
they should forego all the advantages of early rising than that any
contest on the subject should take place between them and their parents.
I have seen cases where the parents could not, or did not, appear till
nine o'clock or later, but yet made it a point of conscience with the
children to be early;--with the most disastrous effect. The children
were conscientious, and they did try. When they now and then succeeded,
they were satisfied and triumphant, and thought they should never fail
again. But the indolence of the growing season of life was upon them:
and there was the languor of waiting for breakfast. In the summer
mornings, they were chilly and languid over their books; and in the
winter, the fire made them sleepy. They grew later and later; they were
rebuked, remonstrated with,--even warned against following the example
of their parents: but they sank deeper into indolence. At last, the
suffering of conscience became so great that it was thrown off by a most
audacious effort. I happened to be a witness to the incident; and I have
never lost the impression of it. The two girls were only half-dressed at
half-past eight. They heard their mother's door open, and looked at each
other. She came (herself only half-dressed) to say that she had been
defied long enough, and she _would_ be obeyed. She slapped them
heartily. As she shut the door, the younger sister, all horror and
dismay, stole a look at the elder. The elder laughed; and the younger
was evidently delighted to join. I saw, on the instant, that it was all
over with the mother's authority. The spirit of defiance had risen, and
burst the bonds of conscience. Late rising,--the very latest,--curse as
it is,--is better than this. What a struggle is saved in such
cases--what a cost of energy, and health, and conscience, by a complete
establishment of good habits, through the example of the parents! If the
father be but happy enough to be able to take out his little troop into
the fields, or merely for a stretch along the high road, in the
freshness of the morning, what a gain there is on every hand! He has the
best of their affections, if he can make himself their companion at this
most cheery hour of the day; and they will owe to him a habit which not
only enhances the enjoyment of life, but positively lengthens its
duration. Then, after their walk of a mile or two, they find mother and
breakfast awaiting them at home,--the house in order and already aired;
and everything ready for business when the morning meal is done. They
are in the heart of their work, whatever it be, when their neighbours
are opening their chamber doors. In London, I am aware, one meets with
the plea, in every case, that early rising is impossible, on account of
the lateness of the hours of everybody else. I only know that when I
lived in lodgings in London, I used to boil my coffee on the table at
seven o'clock,--giving no trouble to servants,--and that I used to think
it pleasant to have my pen in hand at half-past seven,--the windows open
to the fresh watered streets, and shaded with summer blinds, and the
flower-girls stationing themselves below,--their gay baskets of roses
still wet with dew. I think London streets pleasanter in the dawn than
at any other time. In country towns, I know that families can and do
keep early hours, without any real difficulty: and in the country,
everybody can do as he pleases. I need not say that growing children
must have their breakfast before they feel any exhaustion for want of
it. I do not understand the old-fashioned method of early
rising;--working hard for three or four hours before eating anything at
all. If adults can bear this, it is certain that children cannot. I may
mention here that a prime means of health for persons of all ages is to
drink abundance of cold water on rising, and during the vigorous
exercise of the early morning. This morning regimen, if universally
adopted, would save the doctors of our island half their work.
There is no part of the personal habits of children more important than
that which relates to their eating. We must remember how vivid the
pleasures of the senses are to children,--how strong their desire of
every kind of gratification,--and how small their store, as yet, of
those intellectual and moral resources which make grown people careless
of the pleasures of sense. If we look back to our own childhood, and
remember our intense pleasure in looking at brilliant colours, and at
hearing sweet sounds, unconnected with words and ideas,--such as the
chords of an Eolian harp,--and the thrill of pleasure we had at the
sight of a favourite dish upon the table, we shall be aware that,
however ridiculous such emotions appear to us now, they are realities
which must be taken into account in dealing with children.--The object
is so to feed children as to give them the greatest amount of relish
which consists with their health of body and mind. If their appetites
are not considered enough, they will suffer in body; if too much, they
will suffer infinitely more in mind. I have seen both extremes; and I
must say, I think the consequences so important as to deserve more
consideration than the subject usually meets with.
In one large family which I had for some time the opportunity of
observing, there was a pretty strict discipline kept up throughout, with
excellent effect on the whole; but in some respects it was carried too
far. Some of the children were delicate, particularly in stomach; and
the intention of the parents was that this should be got over, as better
for the children than yielding to it. Three or four of the children
throve well on the basin of bread and milk, which was the breakfast of
them all: but there was one little girl who never could digest milk
well; and the suffering of that child was evident enough. She did not
particularly dislike milk; and she never asked for any thing else. That
would have been, in her eyes, a piece of shocking audacity. She had a
great reverence for rules; and she seemed never to dream of any rule
being set aside for her sake, however hardly it might bear upon her. So
she went on for years having the feeling of a heavy lump in her throat
for the whole of every morning,--sometimes choking with it, and
sometimes stealing out into the yard to vomit; and, worse than the lump
in the throat, she had depression of spirits for the first half of every
day, which much injured the action of her mind at her lessons, and was
too much for her temper. She and her friends were astonished at the
difference in her when she went, at, I think, twelve years old, to stay
for a month in a house where she had tea-breakfasts. She did, to be
sure, cast very greedy looks at her cup of tea when it was coming; and
she did make rather a voracious breakfast; but this was wearing off
before the end of the month. She went home to her milk-breakfasts, her
lump in the throat, and her morning depression of spirits and
irritability. But at last the time came when she was tall enough to have
tea with the older ones; and in a little while, she showed no signs of
greediness, and thought no more about her breakfast than any body else.
I remember another case, where a similar mistake appeared more broadly
still in its bad effects. In a family where it was the custom to have a
great rice-pudding every Saturday, and sometimes also on the other
baking day,--Wednesday,--there was a little fellow who hated rice. This
was inconvenient. His mother neither liked to see him go without half
his dinner, nor to provide a dish for him; for the child was disposed to
be rather greedy, and troublesome with fancies about his eating. But in
the case of the rice, the disgust was real, and so strong that it would
have been better to let it alone. His mother, however, saw that it would
be a benefit to him if he could get over it: and she took advantage of a
strong desire he had for a book, to help him over his difficulty. The
little fellow saw at a shop-window a copy of the Seven Champions of
Christendom, with a gay picture of the dragon and St. George: and his
longing for this little book was of that raging sort which I suppose
only children ever feel. He was to have this book if he would eat
rice-pudding. He eagerly promised; feeling at the moment, I dare say,
when there was no rice within sight, as if he could live upon it all his
days, to get what he wanted. When Saturday came, I watched him. I saw
how his gorge rose at the sight of the pudding: but he fixed his eyes
upon the opposite wall, gulped down large spoonfuls, wiped his mouth
with disgust, and sighed when he had done, demanded his fee, ran for
the book, and alas! had finished it, and got almost tired of it, before
bedtime. The worst of it was,--he never again tasted rice. Here was the
moral injury. He was perfectly aware that his bargain was to eat
rice-pudding whenever it was upon table; and he meant to do it. But it
required more fortitude than he could command when the desire for the
book was gratified and gone: and his honour and conscience were hurt.
Another bad consequence of this mistake about two or three of his
dislikes was that he thought too much about eating and drinking; was
dainty in picking his meat, and selfish about asking for the last bit,
or the last but one, of any thing good. Of course, I do not speak in
censure, when I give such anecdotes. I blame nobody where nobody meant
any harm. On the one side there was a mistake; and it was followed by
its inevitable consequences on the other.
In such a case, where there is a large family, with a plain common
table, I should think the best way is for a child in ordinary health to
take his chance. If there is enough of meat, potatoes, and bread to make
a meal of, he may very well go without pudding, and should, on no
account, have one provided expressly for himself: but he should be
allowed to refuse it without remark. Where the mother can, without
expense and too much inconvenience, consider the likings and dislikes
of her children in a silent way, her kindness will induce her to do it:
but it must be in a quiet way, or she will lead them to think too much
about the thing; and to suppose that she thinks it an important matter.
This affair of the table is one worth a good deal of attention, as it
regards the temper and manners of the household, and the personal habits
of each. There is no reason why the father's likings as to food should
not be seen to be cared for. If he is a selfish eater, he will ensure
that the matter is duly attended to. If he is above such care for
himself,--if it is clear that his pleasure at his meals is in having his
family about him,--that is a case in which the mother need not conceal
her desire to provide what is liked best. The father, who never asks or
thinks about what is for dinner, is most likely to be the one to find
before him what he particularly relishes; a dish cooked, perhaps, by his
wife's or his little daughter's hands. And, again, if the little
daughters see that their mother never thinks about her own likings,
perhaps they will put in a word on market-day, or at such times, to
remind her that somebody cares for her tastes. Then, again, in
middle-class families, where the servants dine after the family, they
should always be openly considered. After the pudding has been helped
round once, and some quick eaters are ready for a second plateful, it
must be an understood thing that enough is to be left for the
servants.--On the ground of the danger of causing too much thought about
eating and drinking, it is desirable that, where the family take their
meals together, all should fare alike. If there is anything at table
which the younger children ought not to have, it is better that they
should, if possible, dine by themselves. This is the plan in great
houses, where the little ones dine at one o'clock, eating freely and
without controversy of what is on the table, because there is nothing
there that can hurt them. If the family dine together, and there are two
or more dishes of meat on the table at the same time, all must learn the
good manners of dividing their choice, so that the father may not have
to send a helping of goose to everybody, while none is left for himself,
but that the mother's boiled mutton may have left half the goose for the
choice of the parents. All this is clear enough: but, if a present
arrives of anything nice,--oysters, or salmon, or oranges, or such good
things as relations and friends often send to each other, it seems best
for all the household to enjoy the treat together, who are old enough to
relish it.
It can scarcely be necessary to mention that the earliest time is the
best for training children to proper behaviour at table, as every where
else. Every one of them has to be trained; for how are the little things
to know, unless they are taught, that they are not to put their fingers
in their plates, or to drain their mugs, or to make shapes with their
potato, or to crumble their bread, or to kick their chairs, or to run
away to the window before dinner is done? They will require but little
teaching, if they see everybody about them sitting and eating properly;
but it is hard upon children when they have been allowed to take
liberties and be rude at the nursery dinner, and then have everything to
learn, under painful constraint, as they are growing up.
I have been sometimes struck with the conviction that the bad manners I
have seen at the school-room table arise from a misconception as to what
dinner is. In one house, you see the busy father hurry from his work to
table, hardly stopping to wash his hands, turning over to his wife the
task of helping the children, or even pushing round the dish for them to
help themselves,--throwing his dinner down his throat, and after it his
solitary pint of porter; snatching his hat, and off again to business,
almost without saying "good bye" to any one. When he is gone, the others
think they have liberty to do as they please; and a pretty scene of
confusion there is,--one child scraping a dish, another kneeling on a
chair to reach over for something, a third at the window: and the mother
with baby on her arm, coming at last to carry off the dishes, saying
that she is sure dinner has been about quite long enough, while some of
the children are perhaps really wanting more.--Again: one sees in a
rich gentleman's family, ill-managed, a great mistake as to dinner. The
bell is rung at the nominal dinner-hour,--or probably a good deal after
it: for servants can hardly be punctual under such management. The soup
is on the table, and one or two of the family are in their seats,
waiting for the rest. One young lady has her fancy-work in her hand:
another has the newspaper. Papa comes in for luncheon. He will have a
plate of soup. The reader jumps up to help him; but the soup is cold. As
nobody seems to wish for any cold soup, it is sent away; but turned back
at the door by a hungry boy, who has only just learned that dinner is
ready, and is ravenous for the first thing he can get to eat. While the
joint is helped, one drops in from the stable,--another from the
music-lesson; a third from botanising in the wood; and the first comers
run away to look for something in the library, or to have a turn on the
gravel walk, saying that they do not care for pudding, and will come
back for cheese. Altogether, it is an hour and a half before the cloth
is removed, and the weary governess can get her charge in order for the
Italian master,--if indeed he be not come and gone in the interval. This
is an extreme, but not an impossible case: and in such a case, the plea
we shall hear is that it is a waste of time for a whole family to sit
doing nothing but eating their dinners in the middle of the day: and
that formality makes eating of too much importance. Such is the plea;
and here lies the mistake. The object of dinner is not only eating but
sociable rest. The dinner hour is a seasonable pause amidst the hurry of
the busy day; and the harder people have to work, the completer should
be the pause of the dinner hour. The arrangement is very important to
health; for the largest meal of the day is best digested when it is
eaten with regularity, at leisure, and in a cheerful mood of mind; and
when a space of cheerful leisure is left after it. And more important
still is the arrangement to the manners and tempers and dispositions of
the family. It is a great thing that every member of a household should
be habituated to meet the rest in the middle of the day, neatly dressed
and refreshed;--the boys' coats brushed, and the girls' frocks changed
or set straight; the hair smoothed, and face and hands just washed. It
is a great thing that they should take their chief nourishment of the
day in the midst of the most cheerful conversation, and at a time so set
apart as that nobody is hankering after doing anything else. When we
consider too that after dinner is the only time between Sunday and
Sunday that the working father has for play with his infants,--who are
in their beds, or too sleepy for fun, when he comes home in the
evening,--we shall own that there is no waste of time in the dinner
hour, even if nothing whatever is done but eating and talking. In fact,
it is this time which, from its importance, ought to be saved from all
encroachment. The washed faces, and the cloth on the table, and the hot
dinner should all be in readiness when the father appears. Not a minute
of his precious hour should be lost or spoiled by any one's
unpunctuality, or any body's ill-manners. All should go smoothly at his
table by every one's gentleness and cheerfulness and good-breeding. When
the meal is finished, all the clearing away should be quickly and
quietly done, that he may have yet a clear half-hour for rest, or for
play with the little ones. Where this hour is managed as it ought to
be,--(and nothing is easier under the care of a sensible mother) the
busy father goes forth to his work again with his mind even more
refreshed by his hour of cheerful rest than his body is strengthened by
food.
On the remaining topic of Personal Habits,--Modesty,--Decency--it cannot
be necessary to say much. The points of mistake which strike me the most
are two:--I think that in almost every part of the world, people herd
too much and too continually together:--and I think that few people are
aware how early it is right to respect the modesty of an infant.
As to the first point;--it is one of the heaviest misfortunes of our
country,--I speak advisedly,--that among whole classes of our people,
poverty or want of space from other causes, compels them to herd
together in crowds, night and day. No words are needed to show how
little hope of health there can be when people live in this way; and
even less hope of good morals. Among classes more favoured than these,
it appears that there is little thought of making the provision that
might easily be made for more privacy than people are yet accustomed to.
I fear it is the wish that is wanting: for "where there's a will there's
a way;" and I have been in many houses, both at home and abroad, where
the requisite privacy might have been had, if any wish for it had
existed. In the factory villages in the United States, I was painfully
struck by this. I saw good and pretty houses built from the savings of
the factory girls,--with their shady green blinds, and their charming
piazzas without; and places within for book-shelves, piano and pictures
and work-tables; but not a corner of any house was there where any young
woman of the household could sit by herself for ten minutes in a day, or
say her prayers, or wash. The beds were ranged in dormitories; or four
or six in a room: and there were not even washing-closets. Here, there
was no excuse of inability; and at home I too often see the same thing,
where there is no sufficient excuse of inability.
Where each child cannot possibly have a room, or the use of a
dressing-closet to itself, arrangements may easily be made, by having
folding screens, to secure absolute privacy to every member of a
household, for purposes of the mind, as well as the body. When I see how
indispensable it is to the anxious and hard-worked governess to have a
room to herself, and how earnestly she (very properly) insists upon it,
I am always sorry when I remember how many have to go without this
comfort,--which should be considered a necessity of life. When I think
of the school-boy, with his burden of school cares upon him, and the
young girl, thoughtful, anxious and irritable, as most people are, at
times, in entering upon the realities of life; and of the wearied
servant maid, and of the child in the first fervours of his
self-kindling piety, I pity them if they have no place which they can
call their own, for ever so short a time in the day, where they can be
free from the consciousness of eyes being upon them. The thing _may_ be
done. Mrs. Taylor of Ongar, the wife of a dissenting minister, and
mother of a large family, who from an early age worked for their
bread,--did contrive, by giving her mind to it, to manage separate
sleeping places for a wonderful number of her children; and, where this
could not possibly be accomplished for all, she so arranged closets and
hours as that every one could have his or her season of retirement,
secure from disturbance.
As for the case of the infant, to which I alluded above,--I believe it
to be this. The natural modesty of every human being may be left to
take care of itself; if only we are careful that it is really left
entirely free. It is the simplest matter in the world for the mother to
give this modesty its earliest direction during the first weeks, months,
and year or two of life. After that, it will not fail, if only it be
duly respected. That this respect should begin very early is desirable,
not because the innocent little creature has then any consciousness
which can be injured by anything it sees or is allowed to do; but
because as it grows up, it should be unable ever to remember the time
when every thing was not arranged with the same modesty and decorum as
at a later period. Again, in order to the preservation of true modesty,
the smallest possible amount of thought should be bestowed upon it. All
transactions, personal and domestic, should go on with the smoothness of
perfect regularity, propriety, and consequent freedom of mind and ease
of manners. And it conduces much to this that there should never have
been a time when the child was conscious of any particular change in its
management. It should never have seen much of any body's personal cares;
and the more gradually it slides into the care of its own person, with
its accompanying privacy, the better is the chance that it will not
dwell on such matters at all, but have its mind free for other subjects,
wearing its modesty as unconsciously as it carries the expression of the
eye, or utters the tones of its voice.