in relation to children’s balls and parties. I do not believe human
ingenuity ever invented any thing worse for the health, heart, or
happiness--any thing at once so poisonous to body and soul. I do
not, of course, refer to a social intercourse between the children
of different families--that should be encouraged. I mean regular
parties, in imitation of high-life--where children eat confectionary,
stay late, dress in finery, talk nonsense, and affect what they do
not feel--just as their elders in the fashionable world do. It is a
heart-sickening sight to see innocent creatures thus early trained to
vanity and affectation. In mercy to your children, trust not their
purity and peace in such a sickly and corrupting atmosphere. ‘Who was
your beau last night?’ said a girl of eight years old to another of
ten. ‘I danced twice with George Wells,’ was the reply. ‘Did you wear
your pink sash, or your blue one?’ I could have wept in very pity for
the guileless young creatures, into whose cup of life poison had been
so early poured! I speak the more earnestly on this subject, because
it has become so general a habit with all classes of people to indulge
children in balls and parties.
As for dancing, within and of itself, I see no objection to it. It is a
healthy, innocent, and graceful recreation. The vanity and dissipation,
of which it has usually been the accompaniment, have brought it into
disrepute with the conscientious. But if dancing be made to serve the
purpose, which all accomplishments should serve,--that of ministering
to the pleasure of father, mother, brothers, sisters and friends,--it
is certainly innocent and becoming. I do not mean to imply that it is
wrong to dance anywhere else but at home.--I simply mean that girls
should not learn an accomplishment for the _purpose_ of display among
strangers. Let them learn anything which your income allows (without
a diminution of comfort or benevolence)--but teach them to acquire it
as a means of future usefulness, as a pleasant resource, or for the
sake of making home agreeable--not with the hope of exciting admiration
abroad.
It is very important, and very difficult, to furnish young children
with sufficient employment. What we call a natural love of mischief,
is in fact nothing but activity. Children are restless for employment;
they must have something to do; and if they are not furnished with
what is useful or innocent, they will do mischief. No one who has not
lived with a family of children can conceive how very difficult it is
to keep a child of five or six years old employed. It is a good plan
to teach little girls to knit, to weave bobbin, watchguards, chains,
&c. Making patchwork is likewise a quiet amusement; and if a child
be taught to fit it herself, it may be made really useful. If the
corners are not fitted exactly, or the sewing done neatly, it should
be taken to pieces and fitted again; for it is by inattention to these
little things that habits of carelessness are formed. On no occasion
whatever should a child be excused from finishing what she has begun.
The custom of having half a dozen things on hand at once, should not
be tolerated. Everything should be finished, and well finished. It
ought to be considered a disgrace to give up anything, after it is
once undertaken. Habits of perseverance are of incalculable importance;
and a parent should earnestly improve the most trifling opportunities
of impressing this truth. Even in so small a thing as untying a knot,
a boy should be taught to think it unmanly to be either impatient or
discouraged.
Always encourage a child in fitting her own work, and arranging her
own playthings. Few things are more valuable, in this changing world,
than the power of taking care of ourselves. It is a useful thing for
children to make a little shirt exactly after the model of a large one,
fitting all the parts themselves, after you have furnished them with
a model of each part in paper. Knitting may be learned still earlier
than sewing. I am sorry to see this old fashioned accomplishment so
universally discarded. It is a great resource to the aged; and women,
in all situations of life, have so many lonely hours, that they cannot
provide themselves with too many resources in youth. For this reason
I would indulge girls in learning anything that did not interfere
with their duties, provided I could afford it as well as not; such
as all kinds of ornamental work, boxes, baskets, purses, &c. Every
new acquirement, however trifling, is an additional resource against
poverty and depression of spirits.
The disposition to help others should be cherished as much as possible.
Even very little children are happy when they think they are useful.
‘I can do _some_ good, can’t I, mother?’ is one of the first questions
asked. To encourage this spirit, indulge children in assisting you,
even when their exertions are full as much trouble as profit. Let them
go out with their little basket, to weed the garden, to pick peas for
dinner, to feed the chickens, &c. It is true they will at first need
constant overseeing, to prevent them from pulling up flowers as well as
weeds; but then it employs them innocently, and makes them happy; and
if dealt gently with, they soon learn to avoid mistakes. In the house,
various things may be found to employ children. They may dust the
chairs, and wipe the spoons, and teach a younger brother his lessons,
&c. As far as possible keep children always employed--either sewing,
or knitting, or reading, or playing, or studying, or walking. Do not
let them form habits of listlessness and lounging. If they endeavor to
assist you, and do mischief while they are really trying to do their
best, do not scold at them; merely explain to them how they should have
gone to work, and give them a lesson of carefulness in future.
As girls grow older, they should be taught to take the entire care of
their own clothes, and of all the light and easy work necessary in
their own apartments.
I have said less about boys, because it is not so difficult to find
employment for them as for girls. The same general rules apply to
both. Boys should be allowed to assist others, when they possibly can,
and should be encouraged in all sorts of ingenious experiments not
absolutely mischievous. In general it is a good rule to learn whatever
we can, without interfering with our duties. My grand-mother used to
say, ‘Lay by all scraps and fragments, and they will be sure to come
in use in seven years.’ I would make the same remark with regard to
scraps and fragments of knowledge. It is impossible for us to foresee
in youth, what will be the circumstances of our after life; the kind of
information, which at one period seems likely to be of very little use
to us, may become very important. If I happened to be thrown into the
society of those who excelled in any particular branch, I would gain
all the information I could, without being obtrusive. No matter whether
it be poetry, or puddings,--making shoes, or making music,--riding a
horse, or rearing a grape-vine;--it is well to learn whatever comes in
one’s way, provided it does not interfere with the regular discharge of
duty. It was a maxim with the great Sir William Jones, ‘never to lose
an opportunity of learning anything.’
CHAP. VI.
THE SABBATH.--RELIGION.
It is a great misfortune for people to imbibe, in the days of
childhood, a dislike of the Sabbath, or a want of reverence for its
sacred character. Some parents, from a conscientious wish to have
the Sabbath kept holy, restrain children in the most natural and
innocent expressions of gayety--if they laugh, or jump, or touch their
play-things, they are told that it is wicked to do so, because it
is Sunday.--The result of this excessive strictness is that the day
becomes hateful to them. They learn to consider it a period of gloom
and privation; and the Bible and the church become distasteful, because
they are associated with it. A little girl of my acquaintance, in the
innocence of her heart, once made an exclamation, which showed what
she really thought of Sunday. She had long been very anxious to go
to the theatre; and when she was about six or seven years old, her
wish was very injudiciously gratified. The after-piece happened to be
Der Freyschutz, a horrible German play, in which wizards, devils, and
flames are the principal agents. The child’s terror increased until
her loud sobs made it necessary to carry her home. ‘What is the matter
with my darling? asked her grandmother--Don’t she love to go to the
theatre?’ ‘Oh, grandmother!’ exclaimed the sobbing child, ‘it is a
great deal worse than going to meeting!’ My motive in mentioning this
anecdote will not, of course, be misunderstood. Nothing is farther from
my intentions than to throw ridicule upon any place of worship. It is
merely introduced to show that Sunday was so unpleasantly associated in
the child’s mind, as to make her involuntarily compare it with anything
disagreeable or painful; being restrained at home every moment of the
day, made the necessary restraint at church irksome to her; whereas
with proper management it might have been a pleasant variety.
Some parents, on the other hand, go to the opposite extreme; and from
the fear of making the Sabbath gloomy, they make no distinction between
that and other days. This is the more dangerous extreme of the two. A
reverence for the Sabbath, even if it be a mere matter of habit, and
felt to be a restraint, is very much better than no feeling at all
upon the subject. But it appears to me that a medium between the two
extremes is both easy and expedient. Children under five or six years
old cannot sit still and read all day; and being impossible, it should
not be required of them. They may be made to look on a book, but they
cannot be made to feel interested in it, hour after hour. Childhood is
so restless, so active, and so gay, that such requirements will be felt
and resisted as a state of bondage. Moreover, if a child is compelled
to keep his eyes on a book, when he does not want to read, it will
early give the impression that mere outward observances constitute
religion. It is so much easier to perform external ceremonies than
it is to drive away evil feelings from our hearts, that mankind in
all ages have been prone to trust in them. They who think they are
religious merely because they attend church regularly, and read a
chapter in the Bible periodically, labor precisely under the same
mistake as the Mahometan, who expects to save his soul, by travelling
barefoot to Mecca, or the East Indian Fakir, who hangs with his head
downward several hours each day, in order to prove his sanctity.
There is no real religion that does not come from the heart; outward
observances are worth nothing except they spring from inward feeling.
In all ages and countries we find men willing to endure every species
of privation and suffering, nay, even death itself, for the sake of
going to heaven; but very few are willing that the Lord should purify
their hearts from selfish feelings. Like the leper of old they are
willing to do some _great_ thing, but they will not obey the simple
injunction to ‘wash and be clean.’
This tendency to trust in what is outward is so strong in human nature
that great care should be taken not to strengthen it by education.
Children should always be taught to judge whether their actions are
right, by the _motives_ which induced the actions. Religion should
be made as pleasant as possible to their feelings, and all particular
rules and prohibitions should be avoided.
Quiet is the first idea which a young child can receive of the Sabbath;
therefore I would take no notice of his playing with his kitten, or
his blocks, so long as he kept still. If he grew noisy, I should then
say to him, ‘You must not make a noise to-day; for it is the Sabbath
day, and I wish to be quiet, and read good books. If you run about, it
disturbs me.’
I make these remarks with regard to very young children. As soon
as they are old enough to read and take an interest in religious
instruction, I would have playthings put away; but I would not compel
them to refrain from play, before I gave them something else to
interest their minds. I would make a _difference_ in their playthings.
The noisy rattle and the cart which have amused them during the week,
should give place to picture-books, the kitten, little blocks, or any
_quiet_ amusement.
If the heads of a family keep the Sabbath with sobriety and stillness,
the spirit of the day enters into the hearts of the children. I have
seen children of three and four years old, who were habitually more
quiet on Sunday than on any other day, merely from the soothing
influence of example.
A child should be accustomed to attend public worship as early as
possible; and the walk to and from church should be made pleasant,
by calling his attention to agreeable objects. When his little heart
is delighted with the lamb, or the dove, or the dog, or the flower,
you have pointed out to him, take that opportunity to tell him God
made all these things, and that he has provided everything for their
comfort, because he is very kind. We are too apt to forget God, except
in times of affliction, and to remind children of him only during
some awful manifestation of his power; such as thunder, lightning and
whirlwind. It certainly is proper to direct the infant thoughts to him
at such seasons; but not at such seasons only. A tempest produces a
natural feeling of awe, which should never be disturbed by jesting and
laughter; emotions of dependence and reverence are salutary to mortals.
But we should speak of God often in connexion with everything calm and
happy. We should lead the mind to dwell upon his infinite _goodness_;
that he may indeed be regarded as a Heavenly _Father_.
An early habit of prayer is a blessed thing. I would teach it to a
child as soon as he could lisp the words. At first, some simple form
must be used, like, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep;’ but as children grow
older, it is well to express themselves just as they feel. A little
daughter of one of my friends, when undressed to go to bed, knelt down
of her own accord, and said, ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, forgive me
for striking my little brother to-day, and help me not to strike him
again; for oh, if he should die, how sorry I should be that I struck
him!’ Another in her evening prayer thanked God for a little sugar dog,
that had been given her in the course of the day. Let it not be thought
for a moment that there is any irreverence in such prayers as these
coming from little innocent hearts. It has a blessed influence to look
to God as the source of all our enjoyments; and as the enjoyments of a
child must necessarily be childish, it is sincere and proper for them
to express gratitude in this way.
While I endeavored to make Sunday a very cheerful day, I would as far
as possible give a religious character to all its conversation and
employments. Very young children will become strongly interested in the
Bible, if it is read to them, or they are suffered to talk about it.
They will want to hear, for the hundredth time, about the little boy
who said to his father, ‘My head! My head!’ They will tell over to each
other with a great deal of delight, how he died, and was laid on his
little bed, and how the prophet lay down with him, and restored him to
life; and how the little boy sneezed seven times.
The story of Joseph, of Samuel, of David, of the meeting of Isaac and
Rebecca at the Well, are very attractive to children. It is the first
duty of a mother to make the Bible precious and delightful to her
family. In order to do this, she must choose such parts as are best
suited to their capacities; talk to them about it in a pleasant and
familiar style; and try to get their little minds interested in what
they read. If made to spell out a chapter in a cold, formal manner, and
then told to go and sit down and be still, they will take no interest
in the Bible; nor would they, by such means, take an interest in
anything.
At no period of life should people hear the Bible spoken lightly of, or
any passage quoted in jest; thoughtlessness in this respect does great
mischief to ourselves and others. There cannot be a worse practice
than that of making a child commit a chapter of the Scriptures as a
punishment for any offence. At some schools, the Bible (being the
heaviest book to be found) is held at arm’s length till the little
culprit gets so weary, that he would gladly throw the volume across the
room.--This is very injudicious. In no way whatever should the Bible be
associated with anything disagreeable.
A little hymn every Sabbath is a pleasant and profitable lesson; and if
it is simple enough to be understood, the child will amuse himself by
repeating it through the week. Some of the very strongest impressions
of childhood are made by the hymns learned at an early age: therefore,
parents should be careful what kind of ones are learned. They should
first read them themselves, and _think_ carefully what impressions of
God, religion, and death, they are likely to convey.
As children grow older, you may add to their interest in the Scriptures
by accounts of Palestine, and of the customs of the Jews. Helon’s
Pilgrimage to Jerusalem is a good book for this purpose. Maps, on which
the travels of our Saviour and the Apostles may be traced are excellent
for Sunday lessons. Such means as these give an interest to religious
instruction, and prevent it from becoming a task. Perhaps some parents
will be ready to say that their own education has not fitted them for
thus assisting their children; but surely books and maps are cheap,
and whoever has common sense, and the will to learn, cannot fail to
understand them. As for the expense, it is better to give your child
right feelings and enlightened ideas, than to give him dollars. You may
leave him a large sum of money, but he cannot buy happiness with it,
neither can he buy a good heart, or a strong mind; but if his feelings
are correct and his understanding cultivated, he will assuredly be
happy, and will be very likely to acquire a competency of the good
things of this world.
In order to relieve the tediousness of too much reading and studying,
it is a good plan for parents to walk with children on Sabbath
afternoon, for the purpose of drawing their attention to the works
of God, and explaining how his goodness extends over all things. The
structure of a bird’s nest may be made to convey religious instruction,
and inspire religious feeling, as well as a hymn. For this reason,
books which treat of the wonderful mechanism of the eye and the ear,
the provisions for the comfort of animals, and the preservation of
plants--in a word, all that leads the mind to dwell upon the goodness
and power of God,--are appropriate books for Sunday, and may be read,
or studied, to great advantage, when children are old enough to
understand them.
But after all, religion is not so much taught by _lessons_, as it is by
our examples, and habits of speaking, acting, and thinking. It should
not be a garment reserved only for Sunday wear; we should always be in
the habit of referring everything to our Father in heaven. If a child
is reminded of God at a moment of peculiar happiness, and is then told
to be grateful to Him for all his enjoyments, it will do him more good
than any words he can learn. To see the cherry-stone he has planted
becoming a tree, and to be told that God made it grow, will make a more
lively impression on his mind, than could be produced by any lesson
from a book. The Friends say every day should be Sunday; and certainly
no day should pass without using some of the opportunities, which are
always occurring, of leading the heart to God.
To catechisms in general I have an aversion. I think portions of the
Bible itself are the best things to be learned; and something may
be found there to interest all ages. Cummings’ Questions in the New
Testament appear to me better than anything of the kind; because the
answers are to be found in the Bible itself; but even in this I would
blot out all answers given by the writer--I would have children learn
nothing of men, but everything from God. It is important that Bible
lessons should be accompanied with familiar and serious conversation
with parents; it interests a child’s feelings, and enlightens his
understanding. Perhaps some will think I have pointed out very arduous
duties for the Sabbath, and that if so much is done for children,
parents will have no time left for their own reading and reflection.
But there can be no doubt that (interesting) lessons and conversations
with children are both pleasant and useful to parents; you cannot
dispose of a part of the day more satisfactorily to your heart or
your conscience. It is by no means necessary to devote the whole day
expressly to their instruction. Let your own pursuits be such as
imply a respect for the sanctity of the Sabbath, and _put them in the
way_ of employing themselves about what is good, as well as pleasant.
Young people should always be taught to respect the employments and
convenience of others; they should learn to wait patiently for their
elders to join in their studies or amusements. If you treat them with
perfect gentleness, and show a willingness to attend to them when it is
in your power, they will soon acquire the habit of waiting cheerfully.
But never explain anything to a child because he is impatient and
teases you, when it is really very inconvenient to you, and of no
immediate consequence to him. Let your constant practice in all things
show him, that you are less inclined to attend to him when he teases
you, than when he waits patiently; but, at the same time, never make
him wait when it is not necessary. There is no end to the wonders that
may be wrought by gentleness and firmness.
The religious knowledge conveyed in early childhood should be extremely
simple. It is enough to be told that God is their Father in heaven;
that every thing in the world is formed by his wisdom, and preserved by
his love; that he knows every thought of their hearts; that he loves
them when they do what is right; and that good children, when they
die, go to heaven, where God and the angels are. No opportunity should
be lost of impressing upon their minds that God _loves_ the creatures
he has made; even for the most common enjoyments of life they should
be taught to be thankful to him. When guilty of a falsehood, or any
other wrong action, they should be solemnly reminded that though nobody
in the world may know it, God sees it. This simple truth will make a
serious impression, even when they are quite small; and as they grow
older, they may be more deeply impressed, by adding that every time
we indulge any evil feeling, we remove ourselves farther from God and
good angels, and render ourselves unfit for heaven. It may seem like a
nice metaphysical distinction, but I do think it very important that
children should early, and constantly, receive the idea that the wicked
_remove themselves_ from God--that God never _withdraws from them_.
Divine influence is always shedding its holy beams upon the human soul,
to purify and bless. It is our own fault, if our souls are in such a
state that we cannot receive it.
In the whole course of education, we should never forget that we are
rearing beings for another world as well as for this; they should be
taught to consider this life as a preparation for a better. Human
policy is apt to look no farther than the honors and emoluments of this
world; but our present life is, at the longest, but an exceedingly
small part of our existence; and how unwise it is to prepare for time
and neglect eternity. Besides, the best way of fitting ourselves for
this world is to prepare for another. Human prudence is not willing to
perform every duty in earnestness and humility, and trust the rest to
Providence. Yet, after all, God will do much better for us than we can
do for ourselves. All our deep-laid schemes cannot make us so happy,
as we should be if we were simply good. I do not mean that the active
employments of life should be neglected; for I consider them as duties,
which may and ought to be performed in the true spirit of religion: I
mean that we should industriously cultivate and exert our abilities,
as a means of usefulness, without feeling anxious about wealth or
reputation. It is the doing things from a wrong motive, which produces
so much disorder and unhappiness in the world.
Religious education, in early life, should be addressed to the heart,
rather than to the mind. The affections should be filled with love and
gratitude to God, but no attempt should be made to introduce doctrinal
opinions into the understanding. Even if they could be understood,
it would not be well to teach them. It is better that the mind should
be left in perfect freedom to choose its creed; if the _feelings_
are religious, God will enlighten the _understanding_; he who really
_loves_ what is good, will _perceive_ what is true.
Miss Hamilton, in her excellent book on education, relates an anecdote
of a mother, who tried to explain the doctrine of atonement by telling
a child that God came down from heaven, and lived and died on earth,
for the sins of men. The little girl looked thoughtfully in the fire
for some time, and then eagerly exclaimed, ‘Oh, what a good time the
angels must have had, when God was gone away!’
This child, being subject to great restraint in the presence of her
parents, was probably in the habit of having a frolic when they were
gone; and she judged the angels by the same rule. She was not to blame
for judging by what she had seen and felt. It was the only standard she
could use. The error was in attempting to give her ideas altogether too
vast for her infant mind. This anecdote shows how necessary it is that
religious instruction should, at first, be extremely plain and simple.
There is nothing perhaps in which Christians act so inconsistently as
in surrounding death with associations of grief and terror. We profess
to believe that the good whom we have loved in this life, are still
alive in a better and happier world; yet we clothe ourselves in black,
toll the bell, shun the room where we saw them die, and weep when
they are mentioned. My own prejudices against wearing mourning are
very strong--nothing but the certainty of wounding the feelings of
some near and dear friend would ever induce me to follow the custom.
However, I have no right, nor have I any wish, to interfere with the
prejudices of others. I shall only speak of mourning in connexion with
other things, that tend to give children melancholy ideas of death.
For various reasons, we should treat the subject as cheerfully as
possible. We all must die; and if we _really_ believe that we shall
live hereafter, under the care of the same all-merciful God, who has
protected us here, why should we dread to die? Children should always
hear death spoken of as a blessed change; and if the selfishness of our
nature will wring some tears from us, when our friends die, they should
be such tears as we shed for a brief absence, not the heartrending
sobs of utter separation. When death occurs in the family, use the
opportunity to make a child familiar with it. Tell him the brother, or
sister, or parent he loved is gone to God; and that the good are far
happier with the holy angels, than they could have been on earth; and
that if we are good, we shall in a little while go to them in heaven.
Whenever he afterwards alludes to them, say they are as much alive
as they were on this earth; and far happier. Do not speak of it as a
thing to be regretted that they have gone early to heaven; but rather
as a privilege to be desired that we shall one day go to them. This
is the view which the Christian religion gives us; and it is the view
we should all have, did not a guilty conscience, or an injudicious
education inspire us with feelings of terror. The most pious people are
sometimes entirely unable to overcome the dread of death, which they
received in childhood; whereas, those whose first impressions on this
subject have been pleasant, find within themselves a strong support in
times of illness and affliction.
The following is extracted from Miss Hamilton’s work on Education:--
‘If we analyze the slavish fear of death, which constitutes no
trifling portion of human misery, we shall often find it impossible to
be accounted for on any other grounds than those of early association.
Frequently does this slavish fear operate in the bosoms of those who
know not the pangs of an accusing conscience, and whose spirits bear
them witness that they have reason to have hope and confidence towards
God. But in vain does reason and religion speak peace to the soul
of him whose first ideas of death have been accompanied with strong
impressions of terror. The association thus formed is too powerful to
be broken, and the only resource to which minds under its influence
generally resort, is to drive the subject from their thoughts as much
as possible. To this cause we may attribute the unwillingness which
many people evince towards making a settlement of their affairs; not
that they entertain the superstitious notion of accelerating the hour
of their death by making a will; but that the aversion to the subject
of death is so strong in their minds, that they feel a repugnance to
the consideration of whatever is even remotely connected with it.
‘How often the same association operates in deterring from the serious
contemplation of a future state, we must leave to the consciences of
individuals to determine. Its tendency to enfeeble the mind, and its
consequences in detracting from the happiness of life, are obvious
to common observation; but as every subject of this nature is best
elucidated by examples, I shall beg leave to introduce two from real
life, in which the importance of early association will, I trust, be
clearly illustrated.
‘The first instance I shall give of the abiding influence of strong
impressions received in infancy, is in the character of a lady who
is now no more; and who was too eminent for piety and virtue, to
leave any doubt of her being now exalted to the enjoyment of that
felicity which her enfeebled mind, during its abode on earth, never
dared to contemplate. The first view she had of death in infancy was
accompanied with peculiar circumstances of terror; and this powerful
impression was, by the injudicious language of the nursery, aggravated
and increased, till the idea of death became associated with all the
images of horror which the imagination could conceive. Although born
of a noble family, her education was strictly pious; but the piety
which she witnessed was tinctured with fanaticism, and had little
in it of that divine spirit of “love which casteth out fear.” Her
understanding was naturally excellent; or, in other words, what is
in our sex generally termed masculine; and it was improved by the
advantages of a very superior education. But not all the advantages
she derived from nature or cultivation, not all the strength of a
sound judgment, nor all the sagacity of a penetrating and cultivated
genius, could counteract the association which rendered the idea of
death a subject of perpetual terror to her mind. Exemplary in the
performance of every religious and every social duty, full of faith
and of good works, she never dared to dart a glance of hope beyond
the tomb. The gloomy shadows that hovered over the regions of death
made the heart recoil from the salutary meditation; and when sickness
brought the subject to her view, her whole soul was involved in a
tumult of horror and dismay. In every illness it became the business
of her family and friends to devise methods of concealing from her the
real danger. Every face was then dressed in forced smiles, and every
tongue employed in the repetition of flattering falsehoods. To mention
the death of any person in her presence became a sort of petit treason
in her family; and from the pains that were taken to conceal every
event of this kind from her knowledge, it was easy to conjecture how
much was to be dreaded from the direful effect such information would
infallibly produce. She might, indeed, be said
“To die a thousand deaths in fearing one.”
And had often suffered much more from the apprehension, than she could
have suffered from the most agonizing torture that ever attended the
hour of dissolution.
‘Here we have an instance of a noble mind subjected by means of early
association to the most cruel bondage. Let us now take a view of the
consequences of impressing the mind with more agreeable associations
on the same subject at the same early period.
‘A friend of mine, on expressing his admiration of the cheerfulness
and composure, which a lady of his acquaintance had invariably shown
on the threatened approach of death, was thus answered: “The fortitude
you so highly applaud, I indeed acknowledge as the first and greatest
of blessings; for to it I owe the enjoyment of all the mercies, which
a good Providence has graciously mingled in the cup of suffering. But
I take no merit to myself on its account. It is not, as you suppose,
the magnanimous effort of reason; and however it may be supported by
that religious principle which inspires hope, and teaches resignation,
while I see those who are my superiors in every Christian grace and
virtue appalled by the terrors of death, I cannot to religion alone
attribute my superior fortitude. For that fortitude I am, under God,
chiefly indebted to the judicious friend of my infancy, who made the
idea of death not only familiar but pleasant to my imagination. The
sudden death of an elderly lady to whom I was much attached, gave her
an opportunity, before I had attained my sixth year, of impressing
this subject on my mind in the most agreeable colors.
‘“To this judicious management do I attribute much of that serenity,
which, on the apprehended approach of death, has ever possessed my
mind. Had the idea been first impressed upon my imagination with its
usual gloomy accompaniments, it is probable that it would still have
been there invested in robes of terror; nor would all the efforts of
reason, nor all the arguments of religion, have been able in these
moments effectually to tranquillize my soul. Nor is it only in the
hour of real danger that I have experienced the good effects of
this freedom from the slavish fear of death; it has saved me from a
thousand petty alarms and foolish apprehensions, into which people
of stronger minds than I can boast, are frequently betrayed by the
involuntary impulse of terror. So much, my good friend, do we all owe
to early education.”’
To these remarks, I will add an anecdote, that came under the
observation of one of my friends. A little girl saw a beloved aunt die.
The child was very young,--she had no ideas at all about death,--it
was her first lesson on the subject. She was much affected, and wept
bitterly. Her mother led her to the bed, kissed the cheek of the
corpse, and observed how smiling and happy the countenance looked. ‘We
must not weep for dear aunt Betsy,’ said she; ‘she is living now with
the angels; and though she cannot come to see us, she loves us, and
will rejoice when we are good. If we are good, like her, we shall go
to heaven, where she is; and to go to heaven, is like going to a happy
_home_.’
This conversation soothed the child’s mind; she felt the cold hand,
kissed the cold cheek, and felt sure that her aunt was still alive and
loved her.
A year or two afterwards, this child was very ill, and they told her
the doctor said she would die. She looked up smiling in her mother’s
face, and said, with joyful simplicity, ‘I shall see dear aunt Betsy
before you do, mother.’ What a beautiful lesson!
So important do I consider cheerful associations with death, that
I wish to see our grave-yards laid out with walks, and trees, and
beautiful shrubs, as places of public promenade. We ought not to draw
such a line of separation between those who are living in this world,
and those who are alive in another. A cherished feeling of tenderness
for the dead is a beautiful trait in the Catholic religion. The prayers
that continue to be offered for the departed, the offering of flowers
upon the tomb, the little fragrant wreath held in the cold hand of
the dead infant,--all these things are beautiful and salutary. It may
be thought such customs are merely poetic; but I think they perform
a much higher use than merely pleasing the fancy; I believe they help
to give permanently cheerful impressions of our last great change.
It is difficult for the wisest of us to tell out of what trifles our
prejudices and opinions have been gradually composed.
A friend, who had resided some time in Brazil, told an anecdote, which
was extremely pleasing to me, on account of the distinct and animating
faith it implied. When walking on the beach, he overtook a negro woman,
carrying a large tray upon her head. Thinking she had fruit or flowers
to sell, he called to her to stop. On being asked what she had in her
tray, she lowered the burthen upon the sand, and gently uncovered
it. It was a dead negro babe, covered with a neat white robe, with a
garland around its head, and a bunch of flowers in the little hands,
that lay clasped upon its bosom. ‘Is this your child?’ asked my friend.
‘It _was_ mine a few day’s ago,’ she said; ‘but it is the Madonna’s
now. I am carrying it to the church to be buried. _It is a little angel
now._’ ‘How beautifully you have laid it out!’ said the traveller.
‘Ah,’ replied the negro, ‘that is nothing compared to the beautiful
bright wings with which it is flying through heaven!’
With regard to supernatural appearances, I think they should never
be spoken of as objects of terror, neither should the possibility be
treated as ridiculous. If we treat such subjects with contempt and
utter unbelief, we at once involve ourselves in contradiction; for we
tell our children they must believe the Bible; and in the Bible they
read of angels holding intercourse with men, and of the dead rising
from their graves.
Some say, keep children in utter ignorance of such subjects; but that
is not possible. They will find them mentioned in Scripture, and in
nine tenths of the books not expressly written for childhood. Our
utmost care cannot keep such ideas from entering their minds; and my
own opinion is, that it is not desirable we should. I believe that
children may be taught to think of supernatural appearances, not only
without terror, but with actual pleasure. It is a solemn and mysterious
subject, and should not be introduced uselessly; but if children asked
questions of their own accord, I should answer them according to what I
believed to be the truth. I should tell them I believed the dead were
living, speaking and thinking beings, just like ourselves; that they
were happy in heaven in proportion as they were good on earth; that
in ancient times, when men were innocent, angels used to come and see
them, and that they loved to see them; but that now men were so wicked
they could not see angels--the holy and beautiful privilege had been
lost by indulging in evil; that angels full of love watched over the
good, and rejoiced when they put away a wicked thought, or conquered
a wicked feeling; but that we cannot see them any more than the blind
man can see the sun when it is shining upon him. I would tell them that
the wicked, by indulging evil, go away from the influence of God and
angels, and that is the reason they are afraid; that men who have been
bad in this world are bad in another, and delight to see us indulge
in sin; but that God protects us always, and we need not be afraid of
anything that is evil, except the evil in our own hearts; that if we
try to be good, God and his angels will guard over us and teach us
what we ought to do; and that evil spirits can have no power to tempt
us, or to make us afraid, except the power we give them by indulging
our own evil passions.
I am aware that my views on this subject will differ from many of my
readers; but through the whole of this book I have endeavored to speak
what appeared to me to be the honest truth, without any reference to
what might be thought of it. I believe that a child would have no sort
of fear of subjects they heard thus familiarly and plainly dealt with.
In one or two instances, the experiment has been tried with perfect
success. The children to whom I allude never have an idea of _seeing_
spirits; but they think Abraham and Jacob, who used to see them, must
have been very happy. They are familiar with the idea that if they
indulge in evil, they put themselves under the influence of spirits
like themselves; but they have not the slightest fear of _seeing_ them.
They know that they have spiritual eyes, with which they see in their
dreams, and will see in heaven; and that they have bodily eyes, with
which they see the material things of this world; but they know very
well that spiritual forms cannot be seen by the natural organs of sight.
If my advice on this mysterious subject seems to you absurd, or
impracticable, reject it, in the same freedom that I have given it.
But let me ask you one question--Did you ever know fear upon these
subjects overcome by ridicule, or by arguments to prove there were no
such things as supernatural appearances? I once knew a strong-minded
man, who prided himself upon believing nothing which he could not see,
touch, and understand. (How he believed in the existence of his own
soul, I do not know.) His children, from some cause or other, had their
minds excited on the subject of visions. The father told them it was
all nonsense--that there was not a word of truth in anything of the
sort. ‘But Jesus Christ appeared to his disciples, after he was dead,’
said one of the boys. ‘Oh, that was a miracle,’ replied the father:
‘sit down, and I will tell you a beautiful ghost-story.’ Then he told
a long story of a man, who several times saw his deceased friend all
dressed in white, seated in his arm-chair, wearing exactly the same wig
he had always worn in his life-time. The story was wrought up with a
good deal of skill. The gloom of twilight, the melancholy smile of the
phantom, the terror of the spectator, were all eloquently described.
The children stared their eyes almost out of their heads. At last, the
end of the story came,--‘A servant entered with a light, and the old
man in the arm-chair proved to be--a great white dog!’
But what was the effect on the children? Did such a story calm or
satisfy their minds? No. It terrified them greatly. For months after,
they were afraid to go into the dark, lest they should see--a great
white dog.
* * * * *
While I represented the intercourse with angels as a _privilege_ that
belonged to purity and innocence, I would as much as possible keep
from the knowledge of children all those frightful stories to which
remorse and disease have given birth. Should any such come in their
way, I would represent them as the effects of a guilty conscience, or
disordered nerves, both of which produce a species of insanity; and
at the same time I would talk of the love and protection of their
heavenly Father, reminding them that every time they resisted what was
wrong, they put themselves more and more under the blessed influence of
God and his holy angels.
CHAPTER VII.
BOOKS.
The books chosen for young people should as far as possible combine
amusement with instruction; but it is very important that amusement
should not become a necessary inducement. I think a real love of
reading is the greatest blessing education can bestow, particularly
upon a woman. It cheers so many hours of illness and seclusion; it
gives the mind something to interest itself about, instead of the
concerns of one’s neighbors, and the changes of fashion; it enlarges
the heart, by giving extensive views of the world; it every day
increases the points of sympathy with an intelligent husband; and it
gives a mother materials for furnishing the minds of her children. Yet
I believe a real love of reading is not common among women. I know
that the new novels are very generally read; but this springs from the
same love of pleasing excitement, which leads people to the theatre;
it does not proceed from a thirst for information. For this reason,
it has a bad effect to encourage an early love for works of fiction;
particularly such as contain romantic incidents. To be sure, works of
this kind have of late years assumed so elevated a character, that
there is very much less danger from them than formerly. We now have
true pictures of life in all its forms, instead of the sentimental,
lovesick effusions, which turned the heads of girls, fifty years ago.
But even the best of novels should form the _recreation_ rather than
the _employment_ of the mind; they should only be read now and then.
They are a sort of literary confectionary; and, though they may be
very perfect and beautiful, if eaten too plentifully, they do tend
to destroy our appetite for more solid and nourishing food. The same
remarks apply, in a less degree, to children’s forming the habit of
reading nothing but _stories_, which are, in fact, _little novels_. To
prevent an exclusive and injurious taste for fiction, it is well to
encourage in them a love of History, Voyages, Travels, Biography, &c.
It may be done by hearing them read such books, or reading with them,
frequently talking about them, and seeming pleased if they remember
sufficiently well to give a good account of what they have read. Sir
William Jones, who had perhaps a greater passion for knowledge than
any other mortal, and who, of course, became extensively useful and
celebrated, says, that when he asked questions about anything, his
mother used to say to him, ‘Read your book, and you will know.’ Being
an intelligent and judicious woman, she took pains to procure such
volumes as would satisfy his inquiries; and in this way his love of
books became an intense passion; he resorted to them as the thirsty do
to a fountain. This anecdote furnishes a valuable hint. I am aware that
all cannot afford to buy books freely; but I believe there are very few
in this land of abundance, who do not spend in the superfluities of
dress and the table, more than enough to purchase a valuable library.
Besides, ample means of information are now furnished the public by
social libraries, juvenile libraries, lyceums, &c. I can hardly suppose
it possible that any person can really want a book, in this country,
without being able to obtain it. Such being the case, it certainly is
easy to follow the example of Sir William Jones’s mother. For instance,
a cold, stinging day in winter would naturally lead a child to say, ‘I
wonder how people can live near the poles; where my geography says they
have six months of night and winter.’ Here is a good opportunity for a
parent to reply, ‘I will get a book about Polar Regions, and you shall
read to me, after you have learned your lessons; if I am busy, and
cannot hear you, you must read by yourself, and tell me about it.’
It is by seizing hold of such incidents as these, that a real love of
knowledge may be instilled. The habit of having the different members
of a family take turns to read aloud, while the others are at work, is
extremely beneficial. It is likewise an excellent plan for young people
to give a familiar account, in writing, of what they have read, and
to make their own remarks upon the subject freely; but these juvenile
productions should never be shown out of the family, or praised in an
exaggerated manner, likely to excite vanity; and if one child is more
gifted than another, care should be taken to bestow the greatest share
of encouragement on the one that needs it most. I wish the habit of
reading the purest and best authors aloud was more frequent in our
schools. I know not how it is, girls learn an abundance of things, but
they do not acquire a _love_ of reading. I know very few young ladies,
among those esteemed thoroughly educated, to whom a book is really a
pleasanter resource than visiting, dress, and frivolous conversation.
Their _understanding_ may have been well drilled in certain sciences;
but knowledge has no place in their _affections_. The result is, that
what they have learned at school is gradually forgotten, instead
of being brought into constant use in after life. Like soldiers on
parade day, they go through a certain routine, and then throw by their
accoutrements as things useless for anything but _parade_. The fact
is, we should always begin with the affections. What we love to do, we
accomplish through all manner of obstacles; but what we do not love
to do is uphill work, and will not be performed if it can be avoided.
If a fondness for books be once imbibed, it is plain enough that the
understanding will soon be enlightened on all interesting subjects;
and a person who reads, as he drinks water when he is thirsty, is the
least likely of all men to be pedantic: in all things, affectation
is fond of making a greater show than reality. I once heard a woman
in mixed company say, ‘My dear Mrs. ----, how _can_ you play whist?
I cannot possibly give my attention to such trifling things; if I
attempt it, my mind is immediately abstracted.’ I at once set her
down for a fool and a pedant. I should not have been afraid to risk a
fortune that she had no _real_ love of knowledge. Nature and truth have
never learned to blow the trumpet, and never will. The lady whom she
addressed was really intelligent and well-informed; she did not love
to play whist, but she very good-naturedly consented to it, because
her hostess could not otherwise make up the number requisite for the
game; knowledge was the food of _her_ mind, not its decoration. Miss
Edgeworth has very beautifully remarked, ‘We are disgusted when we
see a woman’s mind overwhelmed with a _torrent_ of learning; that the
tide of literature has passed over it, should be betrayed only by its
_general fertility_.’ And this will be the result, if books are loved
as a resource, and a means of usefulness, not as affording opportunity
for display.
I have said that reading works of fiction too much, tends to destroy a
relish for anything more solid, and less exciting; but I would suggest
that the worst possible thing that can be done is to prohibit them
entirely, or to talk against them with undue severity. This always
produces a fidgetty desire to read them; and unless the principles
are very strong, they will be read by stealth. Direct prohibitions,
though unquestionably necessary at times, are not likely to do great
good, because they appeal to the understanding without being grounded
in the heart. The best way is to allow the occasional perusal of
novels, which are pure in spirit and in language. When a taste is
once formed for the best novels, silly, lackadaisical ones will have
no charm--they will not be read from choice. In this instance, as in
others of more importance, evil is prevented from entering, by finding
the mind occupied with good. Many readers, and writers too, think any
book is proper for young people, which has a good moral at the end; but
the fact is, some books, with a long excellent moral, have the worst
possible effect on a young mind.--The morality should be in the book,
not tacked upon the _end_ of it. Vices the juvenile reader never heard
of, are introduced, dressed up in alluring characters, which excite
their admiration, their love, their deepest pity; and then they are
told that these heroes and heroines were very naughty, and that in the
end they were certain to die despised and neglected.
What is the result? The generous bosom of youth pities the sinners,
and thinks the world was a cruel world to despise and neglect them.
Charlotte Temple has a nice good moral at the end, and I dare say was
written with the best intention, yet I believe few works do so much
harm to girls of fourteen or fifteen.
I doubt whether books which represent vice, in any way, are suitable
to be put into the hands of those, whose principles are not formed.
It is better to paint virtue to be imitated, than vice to be shunned.
Familiarity with evil is a disadvantage, even when pointed out as
an object of disgust. It is true that evil must come in the way of
the young; they will find it in books, and they will find plenty of
it in the world. It would be useless to attempt always to keep such
volumes out of the way; but I would, as far as possible, avoid them
when a child is young, and his mind is comparatively empty. After his
principles and taste are formed, he will view such descriptions as he
ought. I do not approve of stories about naughty children; they suggest
a thousand little tricks and deceptions, which would not otherwise
be thought of. A small book by a very excellent writer appears to me
liable to this objection; I refer to Adelaide, or Stories for Children,
by a Lady of Philadelphia.[2]
Children, especially girls, should not read anything without a mother’s
knowledge and sanction; this is particularly necessary between the
ages of twelve and sixteen, when the feelings are all fervent and
enthusiastic, and the understanding is not strengthened by experience
and observation. At this period, the mind and heart are very active,
and parents should take peculiar care to furnish them with plenty of
innocent employment.
I had almost forgotten to mention the prejudice which some people
have against all manner of fairy stories and fables, simply upon the
ground that they are not strictly true. The objection does not seem to
me a forcible one; because I do not believe children ever think they
are true. During my own childhood, I am very sure I regarded them as
just what they were,--as efforts of the imagination--dreams that had
a meaning to them. I do object to reading many of these things; for
they are the novels of infancy, and have a similar effect, though in
a less degree. All frightful and monstrous fairy stories are indeed
abominable; but I do not believe that Cinderella, or the Glass Slipper,
ever injured any child. With regard to fables, children do not believe
that dogs, foxes, and birds, talk to each other; nor do they think
that the writer _intended_ they should believe it; therefore it cannot
be injurious to their love of truth. No child, who reads those pretty
little verses beginning with,
‘Come up into my chamber,’ said the spider to the fly,--
‘’Tis the prettiest little chamber that ever you did spy!’
believes that the spider actually talked to the fly. Children
understand the moral it is intended to convey perfectly well; they know
that it means we should not allow the flattery or solicitations of
others to tempt us to what is improper and dangerous. Fables and fairy
stories, which contain a clear and simple moral, have, I think, a good
tendency; but care should be taken to ascertain whether the little
readers understand the moral, and to explain it clearly to them, if
they do not.
Imagination was bestowed upon us by the Great Giver of all things,
and unquestionably was intended to be cultivated in a fair proportion
to the other powers of the mind. Excess of imagination has, I know,
done incalculable mischief; but that is no argument against a moderate
cultivation of it; the _excess_ of all good things is mischievous.
A strong reason why we should indulge children in reading some of the
best fairy-stories and fables, and young people in reading some of the
best novels, is, that we cannot possibly help their getting hold of
some books of this description; and it is never wise to forbid what we
cannot prevent: besides, how much better it is that their choice should
be guided by a parent, than left to chance.
The extreme fondness for fairy legends indicates an origin deeply laid
in some law of our being. Probably, it is merely a grotesque form
of the universal consciousness that the earthly and the visible are
constantly and intimately connected with the spiritual and the unseen.
Whatever may be the cause, such a book as The Arabian Nights charms
all sorts of youthful readers, all the world over. Its extravagant
fancies are probably as harmless as are pictures of trees changing into
men, or rocks making up faces like monkeys. They are understood to be
extravagances, and are enjoyed as such.
The love of fiction is likewise founded in an universal instinct; and
all universal instincts of human nature should be wisely employed,
rather than forcibly repressed. They are like powerful waters, which,
if dammed up in one place, will surely overleap their barriers in
another. Our eager desire to obtain insight into another’s being, makes
autobiography intensely interesting to all classes of readers; and
novels derive their charm from the same source. That which biography
gives to us in outline, the novelist fills up, by the power of
imagination, guided by experience. We see ourselves reflected in the
characters that most interest us. Thus have we hoped and loved, sinned
and suffered. A mirror for the face has a bewitching attraction for all
nations; what wonder then that a mirror for the soul is so generally
fascinating? It is the business of a judicious parent to guide this
instinct aright, and thus make it productive of genuine culture, as
well as of amusement. The profligate and strongly-exciting works, with
which our circulating libraries are overrun, operate on the mind as
alcohol does on the body; but this intellectual intoxication produces
effects more difficult to cure, than its type in the physical system.
For this reason, the works of Byron, Bulwer, Eugene Sue, &c., ought
never to be read, till the principles and taste are thoroughly formed
on wiser and better models. Yet a peremptory prohibition of such works
seems to me injudicious and hazardous. In one of my last conversations
with the lamented Dr. Channing, he told me that he never deemed it wise
to forbid his children anything they were very eager to see or hear.
He said he would not put in their way books, the tendency of which he
disapproved; and if they came in their way, he would endeavor to set
them aside, if it could be done without stimulating curiosity. But if
he found his child eager on the subject, he would say, ‘My son, I do
not like this book; but since you desire to read it, let us read it
together, and see whether it makes a similar impression on your mind.’
In the course of the reading, this wise father would take frequent
opportunities for incidental commentaries, and free discussion. He
would remark upon what he considered immoral, irrational, unnatural,
or untrue. If the lad did not accept these observations as just, his
father would listen kindly and respectfully to all the reasons he had
to offer, and answer them with perfect candor. Thus were dangerous
books disarmed of their power to injure, while the bond between parent
and child was strengthened.
The wisest way to create a distaste for sickly works of fiction, is
early to form a taste for those which are pure and healthy. Highest in
this class stand the admirable writings of Frederika Bremer. She brings
before us human life, with all its simple enjoyments, its practical
difficulties, its unsatisfied aspirations, its every-day temptations;
and she leads us into it all, with the love and insight of an angel.
The coloring of all her sweet domestic pictures, is revealed in the
rich sunlight of a deep spirituality. The moral is not appended or
inlaid, but fused with the whole mass. In the daily actions of her
heroes and heroines, self-sacrifice and religious trust shine forth
with such unpretending beauty, that they win their way deeper into the
soul, than the utterance of the wisest oracles. It has been justly said
that ‘her powers of observation are most acute and rapid; she detects
at a glance the follies and oddities of the great world, and gives them
to us with good-humored and graceful satire; but her home is in the
soul--there, in the still chamber, to watch and describe the struggle
of purity against temptation, energy against indolence, aspiration
against despondency.’ The great charm of this popular writer is, that
she is deeply religious, without being theological.
Mary Howitt’s writings have similar attractions, arising from their
simplicity and naturalness, their child-like love of all things in
woods and fields, and their affectionate sympathy with the common wants
and woes of humanity; but though the religious sentiment is everywhere
present, there is not such deep spirituality, such close communion with
the interior of the soul, as in Frederika Bremer.
Miss Edgeworth’s books, so long and so universally known, can never be
otherwise than established favorites. They are admirably constructed
as stories, and are full of practical good sense, philosophic
discrimination, felicitous illustration, and pure morality; but the
sentiment of worship is absent. There is nothing in opposition to
religion; it simply is not there. It was once beautifully said, ‘Her
system of education has helped the deaf to hear, and the lame to walk.
If she had only said, “Arise in the name of Jesus,” the miracle would
have been complete.’
Catharine M. Sedgwick is another writer, whose name alone is a
sufficient guarantee that the book is safe for young people. Her pages
offer no sickly sentimentality, no unhealthy excitement, but quiet,
pleasant pictures of life, drawn by a wise and kind observer. The moral
teachings are excellent; everywhere pervaded by the genial spirit of
that true democracy, which rests on the Christian religion as its basis.
Walter Scott’s works are valuable to be read in connection with
history, presenting, as they do, a lively picture gallery of the
manners, costumes, and superstitions of the past. They aim at no high
spirituality, and should be accepted for what they are; fresh and
beautiful paintings of man’s outward life, in times of stirring and
romantic incident. The author’s social position induced a spirit of
conservatism, obvious on every page. When he would dignify any of the
commonality, he is prone to represent their virtues as the growth of
loyal adherence to their masters, rather than of fidelity to their own
souls. The attention of the youthful reader should be drawn to this,
simply as illustrative of the influences operating on the author’s
mind. Indeed, there never was a book printed, in the perusal of which
the young might not be greatly benefitted by the companionship of a
judicious parent, or some older friend, free as possible from sectarian
and political prejudices, and desirous to present the truth candidly.
There is one mistake in books, almost universal, against which the
young should be guarded by the experienced; and that is, the tendency
to represent goodness as generally rewarded by praise and success in
this world. It stimulates selfishness, and the experience of life is
sure to prove it a delusion. To this false expectation, and consequent
disappointment, may be traced the early weariness and discouragement
of many in benevolent efforts. The reward for disinterestedness
must be found in spiritual growth and inward peace, not in outward
prosperity, or lavish gratitude. ‘My kingdom,’ says Christ, ‘is _not_
of this world.’ The lure held out by books, under the name of ‘poetical
justice,’ may help to attract the youthful mind to some extra exertion
and self-sacrifice; but the reaction produced by experience deadens
the generous sympathies, which might have been kept alive by the
presentation of a purer motive. Never were truer words than the Spanish
proverb, ‘All lies, like chickens, come home to roost.’
To be an intelligent English reader, one should be well acquainted with
the ancients. Much of our floating literature might be profitably set
aside to give leisure for Plutarch’s Lives and Anarcharsis’ Travels.
But it seems to me that this class of reading peculiarly requires
guidance. The heroes of a past age are by no means models for this, and
to present them to the youthful mind as great men, without comment, has
always seemed to me unwise. Ulysses, for example, is presented to the
classical scholar as the wisest of the Greeks; as ‘wise as Ulysses’
has passed into proverbial speech; yet what a cunning, lying knave he
was! It is not easy to calculate the moral results of such incidental
teaching. Modern defalcation and repudiation may be more nearly
connected with it than we imagine. Unquestionably the young student
should be made acquainted with Ulysses; for every fact in the history
of man is significant and useful. But he should be looked at in the
light of Christianity, though not tried by its standard; for that would
be unjust to him. The parent should speak of Ulysses as he was, both in
his greatness and his defects; and sum up by remarking that such was
the product of the theology and government of those times, and such
their ideas of wisdom; for they had never heard the teachings of him
who said, ‘Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the
kingdom of heaven.’
Deeply impressed as I am with the rationality and holiness of perfect
forgiveness of injuries, I could not allow a child of mine to read
any history, or biographies of statesmen or warriors, without a
running commentary, made by the continual application of the Christian
standard. Violence and bloodshed will linger much longer on the earth,
for want of these precautions in education. Yet whosoever would do this
work wisely, must first have the principles of peace clearly defined
in his own mind. The education of a young immortal is indeed a fearful
responsibility.
This allusion to war reminds me of Dymond’s Principles of Morality; a
volume which seems to me to be indeed a ‘diamond in the desert.’ I know
of no other book of ethics that so consistently and uniformly applies
the Christian standard to all the relations of life. Caroline M.
Kirkland has done the public good service by abridging this excellent
work for the use of families and schools. I think it will indicate a
considerable step in human progress, when this book casts out Paley
from our seminaries of learning.
But it is not enough that we introduce pure and elevated books into
our families. If we would have them produce their full effect on our
children, we must be careful that our own daily habits and incidental
conversation are not at discord with them. To many families the
following remarks by Frederika Bremer are but too applicable:
‘The daughters of the house were taught that all pomp and pleasure
of this world was only vanity; that nothing was important and worth
striving after, but virtue and unblemished worth. Yet, for all this,
it so happened that the most lively interest and endeavors, and the
warmest wishes of the hearts of all, were directed to wealth, rank, and
worldly fortune of every kind. The daughters were taught that in all
things the will of God must direct them; yet in every instance they
were guided by the fear of man. They were taught that beauty was of
no value; yet they were often compelled to feel, and that painfully,
in the paternal house, that they were not handsome. They were allowed
to cultivate some talents, and acquire some knowledge, but God forbid
that they should ever become learned women; on which account, they
learned nothing thoroughly; though in many instances they pretended to
knowledge, without possessing anything of its spirit, its nourishing
strength, or its esteem-inspiring earnestness. But above all things,
they learned, and this only more and more profoundly the more their
years increased, that marriage was the goal of their being; and in
consequence thereof, (though this was never inculcated in _words_,) to
esteem the favor of man as the highest happiness; denying all the time
that they thought so.’
Few things have a greater tendency to produce refinement than
good poetry. It is therefore wise to cultivate a taste for it, by
encouraging children to commit to memory such verses as are at once
attractive in style, and healthy in their moral tone. Wordsworth and
Mary Howitt have written several that are peculiarly well adapted to
this purpose. American poets, too, have furnished many a gem for the
delight of childhood. If these things can be sung as well as said, it
adds another innocent delight to life, another attraction to home.
In the choice of tunes, care should be taken not to overstrain the
childish voice, and thus injure its future sweetness. Still more care
should be taken in the selection of songs. The early writings of
Thomas Moore ought to be avoided, like poison concealed in honey-dew;
especially at that romantic age when the young heart begins to swell
with undefined yearnings and aspirations, like the flower-bud bursting
from its calyx. Moore himself would gladly recall many of these
effusions, which have gone the wide world over, on the wings of music.
A friend once inquired at what time he began to regret the publication
of these voluptuous songs. ‘When I had a daughter old enough to read
them,’ was the reply.
It may perhaps assist some inexperienced parents to mention a few of
those books which appear to me most valuable for young people. The list
is, of course, very imperfect, because my limits make it necessary
that it should be brief. I doubtless omit very many that deserve
commendation; but I mention none which do not appear to me excellent of
their kind.
_For Children Four or Five Years Old._
MRS. BARBAULD’S LESSONS FOR CHILDREN. All unite in cordially approving
this lady’s writings. Good sense is clothed in very attractive
simplicity, and the thoughts are continually directed to God, as the
Giver of all that we enjoy.
MAMMA’S LESSONS. An uncommonly excellent little book.
ORIGINAL POEMS FOR INFANT MINDS. By JANE TAYLOR. The books of this
author are among the best. They are beautifully written, and a mild
spirit of religion pervades them all.
RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY. By the same author. This is very fascinating to
little children.
EARLY LESSONS. By MARIA EDGEWORTH.
ROLLO LEARNING TO TALK.
NURSERY SONGS. By ELIZA L. FOLLEN, author of Married Life.
_For Children Five or Six Years Old._
MRS. BARBAULD’S PROSE HYMNS. In this volume, religious sublimity is
clothed in child-like simplicity.
HARRY AND LUCY. FRANK. ROSAMOND. By MARIA EDGEWORTH. These books will
maintain their place in juvenile libraries as long as the language
lasts.
MRS. TRIMMER’S INTRODUCTION TO THE KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE. Mrs. Trimmer
is an excellent writer of juvenile books. Her influence is very pure.
STORIES FOR CHILDREN IN FAMILIAR VERSE. DITTIES FOR CHILDREN. By NANCY
SPROAT. The familiar, simple style of this writer is very attractive to
little folks. Parents who are strongly opposed to Calvinism, may here
and there find a verse to which they would object.
ROLLO LEARNING TO READ.
_For Children Seven or Eight Years Old._
FRANK, CONTINUED. HARRY AND LUCY, CONTINUED. By MARIA EDGEWORTH.
Pleasing Stories. STORIES FOR CHILDREN. AUNT MARY’S TALES FOR BOYS.
AUNT MARY’S TALES FOR GIRLS. By MRS. HUGHS.
ROLLO AT PLAY. ROLLO AT SCHOOL. ROLLO AT WORK.
BERQUIN’S CHILDREN’S FRIEND. A favorite of long standing.
ADVENTURES OF CONGO IN SEARCH OF HIS MASTER. This is very popular with
young readers.
THE ROBINS. By MRS. TRIMMER. A great favorite with children.
THE MIRROR. By MISS LESLIE. A pleasant, sensible book.
THE STORY WITHOUT AN END. A very poetic little volume, which leads the
young soul joyously forth into Nature, where he is spoken to with a
welcoming voice by all things.
SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY, IN VERSE. TALES IN VERSE. By MARY HOWITT.
ROBERT FOWLE. JAMES TALBOT. By MISS SAVAGE. Uncommonly good.
_For Children Nine or Ten Years Old._
THE PARENT’S ASSISTANT. By MARIA EDGEWORTH. This is composed of
admirable stories, such as Simple Susan, Forgive and Forget, &c.
EVENINGS AT HOME. By MRS. BARBAULD, AND HER BROTHER, DR. AIKEN. A work
of first rate merit.
MRS. LEICESTER’S SCHOOL. By CHARLES LAMB AND HIS SISTER. Mary Howitt
calls this ‘a charming book, written perfectly in the spirit of
childhood.’
THE GIRL’S OWN BOOK; by MRS. CHILD. THE AMERICAN GIRL’S BOOK; by MISS
LESLIE. These books are very acceptable to girls. They are full of
games, riddles, instructions for various kinds of work, play, &c.
BOY’S OWN BOOK. An encyclopedia of boyish sports and experiments.
ROLLO’S TRAVELS. ROLLO’S EXPERIMENTS. ROLLO’S MUSEUM. The _Rollo_
Books, by Jacob Abbott, have found universal favor, both with parents
and children. They relate, in very simple and familiar style, the
every-day trials and temptations of juvenile life. They are well
calculated to impart clear ideas of right and wrong, to encourage
habits of observation, and form characters of plain practical common
sense.
_For Children Eleven and Twelve Years Old._
MORAL TALES. By MARIA EDGEWORTH.
SEQUEL TO FRANK. SEQUEL TO HARRY AND LUCY. By the same.
SANDFORD AND MERTON. By MR. DAY. A great favorite with boys.
ELLEN THE TEACHER. By MRS. HOFLAND. An excellent book.
THE TWIN SISTERS. By MISS SANDHAM. A religious, good book.
BIRDS AND FLOWERS. By MARY HOWITT. The love of nature, and of all
simple, gentle things, taught by this charming volume, is well
calculated to keep the heart forever fresh and young. Except religion,
and the love of a happy home, there is no blessing to the human soul,
so great and so abiding, as delight in all common forms of beauty; a
joyful companionship with birds and squirrels, mosses, pebbles, and
ferns.
LIFE AND MAXIMS OF WILLIAM PENN. By MRS. HUGHS.
THE YOUNG EMIGRANTS. This book, understood to be written by Mrs.
Sedgwick, is extremely entertaining and instructive. In a lively
narrative of adventures at the West, it teaches the important lesson
that there is no education equal to the education of circumstances, and
no way to quicken the faculties, like bringing them into constant use.
THE TRAVELLERS. By CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK.
TALES OF A GRANDFATHER. By WALTER SCOTT.
ROBINSON CRUSOE. Abridged from Defoe. A book universally fascinating,
but not altogether a safe stimulus for a boy of a rambling and
adventurous spirit.
THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON. A sensible and popular book.
_For Young Persons of Thirteen and Fourteen._
POPULAR TALES. By MARIA EDGEWORTH.
DISPLAY. By JANE TAYLOR. An admirable book for girls of this age.
THE COTTAGERS OF GLENBURNIE. By MISS HAMILTON. Full of practical good
sense and religious benevolence.
HOME. ENDS AND MEANS. THE POOR RICH MAN. By CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK. Most
excellent and pleasant books.
STRIVE AND THRIVE. HOPE ON AND HOPE EVER. LITTLE COIN MUCH CARE. WORK
AND WAGES. By MARY HOWITT. Genial and healthy in morals, and very
attractive.
* * * * *
It is of very great importance that children should perfectly
understand what they read. They should be encouraged to give clear and
distinct accounts of what they have read; and when you are doubtful
whether they know the meaning of a word, be sure to ask them. If you
yourself do not know, do not hesitate to say so, and refer them to
the dictionary. Some people think it diminishes respect to acknowledge
ignorance; but the fear is unfounded. Good sense and good judgment
command respect, whether they are accompanied by great extent of
information, or not. No child ever respected a judicious parent less
for saying, ‘When I was young, I did not have such opportunities for
learning as you have; but I know how to value knowledge; and that makes
me so anxious you should learn.’
The habit, which I recommended in the third chapter, of directing the
attention of very little children to surrounding objects, lays an
excellent foundation for obtaining clear and accurate ideas of what is
read. The same habit of observation, that leads them to remark whether
a thing is round or square, likewise leads them to attend to the sense
of what they find in books.
I believe the multitude of little books generally put into the hands
of children are an injury, rather than a benefit. Juvenile ideas are
rapid and transient; and a repetition of the same thoughts makes them
familiar and distinct. Ideas produce such a transient impression upon
the mind of an infant, that he is never weary of hearing the same old
story, over and over again; it is always new to him, because he forgets
it as soon as it is repeated. The same remark is true, in different
degrees, of all the various stages of childhood. It is better to
read one book and understand it perfectly, than to read a dozen and
understand them imperfectly. It is astonishing how much pleasure and
information are lost by careless readers. An instructer once said to
me, ‘I heard a young lady read The Abbot, by Sir Walter Scott. When
she had finished, I tried to persuade her to tell me what she thought
of it, and what she remembered. “Why, after all,” she replied, “Scott
does not tell whether Queen Mary had sandy hair, or dark hair. I was in
hopes he would, for I always wanted to know.” This girl was naturally
bright and intelligent; but she had not been accustomed to attend to
anything, except what related to dress and personal appearance. The
descriptions of Scottish scenery, the workings of religious prejudice,
the intrigues of political faction, the faithful pictures of life and
manners, were all lost upon her. She did not _observe_ them, because
she had never formed the habit of observing. She read through these two
volumes, so full of historical interest, without feeling interested in
anything but the color of Queen Mary’s hair.’
Had she never read more than half a dozen books in her life, and been
called upon to give a faithful account of them, it would have been
impossible for her to be so entirely unobserving of the beauties of
that admirable work.
To conclude, I would suggest that it is better to have a few good
books than many middling ones. It is not well for young people to
have a great variety. If there are but few books in the house, and
those are interesting, they will be read over and over again, and
well remembered. A perpetual succession of new works induces a habit
of reading hastily and carelessly; and, of course, their contents are
either forgotten, or jumbled up in the memory in an indistinct and
useless form.
Franklin said wisely, ‘Any book that is worth reading once, is worth
reading twice;’ and there is much good sense in the Roman maxim, ‘Read
_much_, but do not read _many books_.’[3]
FOOTNOTES:
[2] In justice to one of the very best of American writers, I would
remark that the book in question has no other fault than being about
naughty children. It is very natural and entertaining.
CHAP. VIII.
POLITENESS.
In politeness, as in many other things connected with the formation
of character, people in general begin outside, when they should begin
inside; instead of beginning with the heart, and trusting that to
form the manners, they begin with the manners, and trust the heart to
chance influences. The _golden rule_ contains the very life and soul
of politeness. Children may be taught to make a graceful courtesy,
or a gentlemanly bow,--but, unless they have likewise been taught
to abhor what is selfish, and always prefer another’s comfort and
pleasure to their own, their politeness will be entirely artificial,
and used only when it is their interest to use it. On the other hand,
a truly benevolent, kind-hearted person will always be distinguished
for what is called native politeness, though entirely ignorant of the
conventional forms of society.
I by no means think graceful manners of small importance. They are the
outward form of refinement in the mind, and good affections in the
heart; and as such must be lovely. But when the form exists without the
vital principle within, it is as cold and lifeless as flowers carved in
marble.
Politeness, either of feeling or of manner, can never be taught by set
maxims. Every-day influence, so unconsciously exerted, is all important
in forming the characters of children: and in nothing more important
than in their manners. If you are habitually polite, your children
will become so, by the mere force of imitation, without any specific
directions on the subject. Your manners at home should always be such
as you wish your family to have in company. Politeness will then be
natural to them; they will possess it without thinking about it. But
when certain outward observances are urged in words, as important only
because they make us pleasing, they assume an undue importance, and the
unworthiness of the motive fosters selfishness. Besides, if our own
manners are not habitually consistent with the rules we give, they will
be of little avail; they will in all probability be misunderstood, and
will certainly be forgotten. I, at this moment, recollect an anecdote,
which plainly shows that politeness cannot be shuffled on at a moment’s
warning, like a garment long out of use. A worthy, but somewhat vulgar
woman, residing in a secluded village, expected a visit from strangers
of some distinction. On the spur of the occasion, she called her
children together, and said, ‘After I have dressed you up, you must sit
very still, till the company comes; and then you must be sure to get
up and make your bows and courtesies; and you must mind and say “Yes,
ma’am,” and “No, ma’am”--“Yes, sir,” and “No, sir”--“I thank you.”’
The visitors arrived--and the children, seated together like ‘four and
twenty little dogs all of a row,’ uprose at once, bobbed their bows and
courtesies, and jabbered over, ‘Yes, ma’am--no, ma’am--yes, sir--no,
sir--I thank you--There, mother now we’ve done it!’
Foreigners charge us with a want of courtesy to each other in our usual
intercourse; and I believe there is some truth in the accusation. On
all great occasions, the Americans are ready, heart and hand, to assist
each other; but how much more gracefully and happily the French manage
in the ten thousand petty occurrences of life! And, after all, life is
made up of small events. The golden chain of existence is composed of
innumerable little links; and if we rudely break them, we injure its
strength, as well as mar its beauty.
The happiest married couples I have ever known were those who were
scrupulous in paying to each other a thousand minute attentions,
generally thought too trifling to be of any importance; and yet on
these very trifles depended their continued love for each other. A
birth-day present, accompanied with a kind look or word--reserving
for each other the most luxurious fruit, or the most comfortable
chair--nay, even the habit of always saying, ‘Will you have the
goodness?’ and ‘Thank you’--all these seemingly trivial things have
a great effect on domestic felicity, and on the manners of children.
Early habits of preferring others to ourselves are very important. A
child should always be taught to give away the _largest_ slice of his
apple, or his cake, and to take his whistle immediately from his mouth,
if a sick little brother or sister is anxious for it. I believe the
easy and natural politeness of the French may in a great measure be
attributed to their remarkable care in forming such early habits of
self-denial.
I cordially approve of the good old fashion of never saying ‘Yes,’
or ‘No,’ to those older than ourselves. It appears to me peculiarly
proper and becoming for young persons always to rise when addressed
by those whose age or character demands respect. I am surprised to
see how seldom the young give an aged person the inner side of the
walk, when they meet in the street; and still more so when I see them
unceremoniously push by their elders, while entering or leaving a room.
It is a graceful habit for children to say to each other, ‘Will you
have the goodness?’--and ‘I thank you.’ I do not like to see prim,
artificial children; there are few things I dislike so much as a
miniature beau, or belle. But the habit of good manners by no means
implies affectation or restraint. It is quite as easy to say, ‘Please
to give me a piece of pie,’ as to say, ‘I want a piece of pie.’
The idea that constant politeness would render social life too stiff
and restrained, springs from a false estimate of politeness. True
politeness is perfect ease and freedom. It simply consists in treating
others just as you love to be treated yourself. A person who acts
from this principle will always be said to have ‘sweet pretty ways
with her.’ It is of some consequence that your daughter should know
how to enter and leave a room gracefully; but it is of prodigiously
more consequence that she should be in the habit of avoiding whatever
is disgusting or offensive to others, and of always preferring their
pleasure to her own. If she has the last, a very little intercourse
with the world will teach her the first.
I believe nothing tends to make people so awkward as too much anxiety
to please others. Nature is graceful; and affectation, with all her
art, can never produce any thing half so pleasing. The very perfection
of elegance is to imitate nature as closely as possible; and how
much better it is to have the reality than the imitation! I shall
probably be reminded that the best and most unaffected people are often
constrained and awkward in company to which they are unaccustomed. I
answer, the reason is, they do not act themselves--they are afraid they
shall not do right, and that very fear makes them do wrong. Anxiety
about the opinion of others fetters the freedom of nature. At home,
where they act from within themselves, they would appear a thousand
times better. All would appear well, if they never tried to assume what
they did not possess. Everybody is respectable and pleasing so long as
he is perfectly natural. I will make no exception--Nature is _always_
graceful. The most secluded and the most ignorant have some charm about
them, so long as they affect nothing--so long as they speak and act
from the impulses of their own honest hearts, without any anxiety as to
what others think of it.
Coarseness and vulgarity are the effects of education and habit; they
cannot be charged upon nature. True politeness may be cherished in the
hovel as well as in the palace; and the most tattered drapery cannot
conceal its winning charms.
As far as is consistent with your situation and duties, early accustom
your children to an intercourse with strangers. I have seen young
persons who were respectful and polite at home, seized with a most
painful and unbecoming bashfulness, as soon as a guest entered. To
avoid this evil, allow children to accompany you as often as possible,
when you make calls and social visits. Occasional interviews with
intelligent and cultivated individuals have a great influence on early
character and manners, particularly if parents evidently place a high
value upon acquaintances of that description. I have known the destiny
of a whole family changed for the better, by the friendship of one of
its members with a person of superior advantages and correct principles.
But it must be remembered that a call, or a social visit, may be made
almost as injurious as a party, if children are encouraged in showing
off, or constantly habituated to hearing themselves talked about. Much
as the failing has been observed and laughed at, it is still too common
for mothers to talk a great deal about their children. The weariness
with which strangers listen to such domestic accounts is a slight
evil compared with the mischief done to children, by inducing them to
think themselves of so much importance: they should never be taught to
consider themselves of any consequence, except at home in the bosom of
their own families.
Nothing tends to foster the genuine politeness which springs from
good feeling, so much as scrupulous attention to the aged. There is
something extremely delightful and salutary in the free and happy
intercourse of the old and young. The freshness and enthusiasm of youth
cheers the dreariness of age; and age can return the benefit a hundred
fold, by its mild maxims of experience and wisdom. In this country,
youth and age are too much separated; the young flock together, and
leave the old to themselves. We seem to act upon the principle that
there cannot be sympathy between these two extremes of life; whereas
there may be, in fact, a most charming sympathy--a sympathy more
productive of mutual benefit than any other in the world.
The aged, from the loneliness of their situation, the want of active
employment, and an enfeebled state of health, are apt to look upon the
world with a gloomy eye; and sometimes their gloom is not unmixed with
bitterness: hence arises the complaint of their harshness and asperity
towards the follies of youth. These evils, so naturally growing out
of their isolated situation, would seldom gain power over the old, if
they were accustomed to gentleness, attention, and deference from the
young; they would be softened by juvenile love, and cheered by juvenile
gaiety. Such intercourse sheds a quiet brightness on the decline
of life, like sunshine on a weather-beaten tree, or a moss-covered
dwelling. What is there on earth more beautiful than an aged person
full of content and benevolence!
In China, it is the custom for young people always to stand with head
uncovered in the presence of their seniors. Perhaps this is carrying
the outward forms of respect to an inconvenient excess; but the
_principle_ is true to nature and goodness. The mere circumstance of
being old should insure peculiar deference and attention even from
strangers. It is considered a sign of a good heart to love little
children; I think spontaneous kindness for the aged is a much better
proof. I have seen gentlemen, who, in mixed companies, always bestowed
the largest share of attention upon the old and neglected.--Had I a
beloved daughter, I would choose such a man for her husband.
The German custom of giving Christmas presents to parents, brothers,
and sisters, has a happy influence upon the affections, and of
course upon the manners. The enjoyment is entirely anti-selfish--it
consists in the experience, that ‘it is more blessed to _give_ than to
_receive_.’ What can be purer than the eager pleasure of a group of
children busy in preparing a gift for a parent, and anxious to keep
their little secret, in order to produce a joyful surprise? If their
offerings are of their own manufacture, a double good is produced;
both ingenuity and love are excited, and the motive that excites them
is holy. It has a good effect for parents to place a superior value
upon whatever children make themselves--such as all the varieties of
needle-books, pin-cushions, boxes, &c.
One very prevalent fault among children is a want of politeness to
domestics. Young people should not, from mere whim and caprice, be
allowed to make demands upon the time and patience of those who are
hired to attend upon the family. They should make no unnecessary
trouble in the kitchen; and when they ask for anything, they should
speak politely--saying, ‘Will you have the goodness?’ ‘I thank you,’
&c. Such conduct greatly tends to make domestics more respectful,
kind, and obliging. Miss Edgeworth, in her work on Education,
recommends that children should never be allowed to speak a single
word to a servant; and that they should be kept in a part of the house
entirely remote, for fear of contamination. Such a system cannot be
carried into effect in this country; and I am thankful it cannot. A
child cannot know the nature of such an injunction,--his inexperienced
mind cannot form an idea of the frightful and vulgar stories his mother
dreads his hearing in the kitchen. He is told not to talk with the
domestics, and he at once conceives an idea of superiority, and thinks
he is not bound to pay any regard to their feelings or happiness.
This principle is a bad one, under any form of government; but in our
country its application is peculiarly preposterous; for those who
are servants now may be mistresses next year; and those who _keep_
domestics now may _be_ domestics hereafter. Still, I think it is very
injurious to children to form a habit of staying in the kitchen; not on
account of any difference in station,--but because we change domestics
so frequently in this country, and must necessarily be often uncertain
as to their habits and principles. If I were sure that a girl was
conscientious, and never told vulgar or superstitious stories, I should
be perfectly willing to trust children of any age to her influence. And
even if she were a stranger to me, I would never _forbid_ a child’s
going into the kitchen, or _advise_ him not to talk with her. I should
rather he would run the risk of hearing a vulgar, or superstitious
story, than to infest his spirit with pride. But though I would never
give children any rules to this effect, I would by a _silent influence_
keep them with myself as much as possible. I would make the parlor
pleasant to them--I would supply them with interesting employment--I
would do everything to promote full confidence and companionship
between them and their parents--I would make the bond between brothers
and sisters strong, by fostering mutual love, by teaching them to speak
politely, to act kindly, to regard each other’s wants, and respect
each other’s property. By these means, the mind and the heart would
be so occupied, that children would have no temptation to spend their
evenings in the kitchen. But my motive for pursuing such a guarded
course, would be no idea of superiority (for I acknowledge none, but
degrees of goodness); I would withdraw them from the influence of
domestics merely because there is a chance that such influence will
be impure. If I were certain of the good principles and judicious
conversation of a girl, I should not deem precaution necessary. And
one thing is certain,--a domestic who is worthy of being kept in your
house, is worthy of being treated with kindness and perfect politeness;
and children should be early instructed never to speak rudely, or make
unnecessary demands upon her time and patience. I am aware that there
are peculiar difficulties attending this relation in our republican
country,--there is mutually too much jealousy of being encroached upon.
But it is one of the evils which grow out of a multitude of blessings;
and whether a domestic be ungrateful or not, it will be a satisfaction
that you have done your duty, and taught your children to do theirs.
In connexion with politeness, I would again allude to the great
importance of _habits of observation_. What is called native
politeness is entirely the result of kind feelings combined with
habits of attention. Everybody has observed that men of the world
have a wonderful facility in adapting themselves to all varieties of
character. Their faculty of pleasing everybody seems like instinct,
yet, in fact, it is merely the result of close observation. People who
have bad hearts can attain this power, and exert it when they choose,
from no other excitement but vanity, or self-interest. But this is no
reason why the same power should not be exerted to good purposes, and
with good motives.
A ready discrimination of character is attained by habits of
observation; and merely from a want of these habits, excellent
hearted people often make blunders painful to themselves and others.
We all know by our own feelings, that it is not pleasant to have the
attention of strangers called to any personal defect we may have;
yet well meaning people will sometimes strangely persist in such
conversation.--They will not only ask what produced a scar, but
they will insist upon knowing how long you have been troubled with
it, whether the distemper is hereditary in your family, and whether
you ever expect it will appear again. It is a chance if they do not
gratuitously add stories of half a dozen individuals, who died of the
same disorder, or bestowed it upon their children.
Some people are singularly perverse in praising such qualities as their
hearers do not possess, and perhaps have no means of possessing. For
instance, talking to the poor about the great power and influence of
wealth,--enlarging upon the prodigious advantages of intelligence and
learning to the uneducated--and flying into raptures about beauty
in presence of the ugly and deformed. Now, in all these instances, a
little _attention_ to the movements of our own minds would teach us at
once how to apply the golden rule.
In our intercourse with others, it should be our object to discover
what they wish to _hear_, not what we wish to _say_. Literary people
are often unpleasant companions in mixed society, because they
frequently have not the power of adapting themselves to others. They
have given their attention to books more than to characters; and they
talk on such subjects as please themselves, without thinking whether
they will please others. What is called affectation and pedantry, is
half the time mere heedlessness and want of observation.