From the realms of old-world story
There beckons a lily hand,
That calls up the sweetness, the glory,
The sounds of a magic land.
Ah, many a time in my dreaming
Through that blessed region I roam!
Then the morning sun comes with its beaming
And scatters it all like foam!
HEINE.
In the life of Madame Swetchine we read the following account of the
amusements of a clever child:--
"The occupation of a courtier did not prevent Monsieur Soymonof from
bestowing the most assiduous care on the education of a daughter, who
for six years was his only child. He was struck by the progress of her
young intellect. She showed an aptitude for languages, music, and
drawing, while she developed firmness of character,--a rare quality in
a child.
"She desired a watch with an ardour which transpired in all her
movements, and her father had promised her one. The watch came and was
worn with the keenest enjoyment; but suddenly a new thought seized
upon the little Sophia. She reflected that there was something better
than a watch. To relinquish it of her own accord, she hurried to her
father and restored to him the object of her passionate desires,
acknowledging the motive. Her father looked at her, took the watch,
shut it up in a bureau drawer, and said no more about it.
"M. Soymonof's rooms were adorned with bronzes, medals, and costly
marbles. Sophia was on terms of intimacy with these personages of
fable and history; but she felt an unconquerable repugnance to a
cabinet full of mummies. The poor child blushed for her weakness, and
one day, when alone, opened the terrible door, ran straight to the
nearest mummy, took it up, and embraced it till her strength and
courage gave away, and she fell down in a swoon. At the noise of her
fall, her father hastened in, raised her in his arms, and obtained
from her, not without difficulty, an avowal of the terrors which she
had hitherto concealed from him. But this supreme effort was as good
for her as a victory. From that day the mummies were to her only
common objects of interest and curiosity.
"Studious as was her education, M. Soymonof did not banish dolls. His
daughter loved them as friends and preserved this taste beyond her
childish years, but elevated it by the admixture of an intellectual
and often dramatic interest. Her dolls were generally of the largest
size. She gave them each a name and part to act, established connected
relations between the different individuals, and kept up animated
dialogues which occupied her imagination vividly, and became a means
of instruction. Playing dolls was for her an introduction to ethics
and a knowledge of the world.
"Catherine's court was a succession of continual _fêtes_. The fairy
pantomimes performed at the Hermitage were the first to strike the
imagination of the child, who as yet could not relish the tragedies of
Voltaire. She composed a _ballet_ which she called 'The Faithful
Shepherdess and the Fickle Shepherdess.' She writes in her sixtieth
year: 'One of the liveliest pleasures of my childhood was to compose
festive decorations which I loved to light up and arrange upon the
white marble chimney-piece of my schoolroom. The ardour which I threw
into designing, cutting out, and painting transparencies, and finding
emblems and mottoes for them was something incredible. My heart beat
high while the preparations were in progress but the moment my
illumination began to fade an ineffable devouring melancholy seized
me.'"
This extract is invaluable not only for its historic importance, but
for the keynote which it sounds to a child's nature. The noble little
Russian girl at the court of Catherine of Russia found only those
pleasures lasting which came from herself, and when she could invest
the fairy pantomime with her own personality.
A fairy pantomime is possible to the poorest child if some superior
intelligence, an older sister or aunt, will lend her help. The fairies
can all be of pasteboard, with strings as the motive power. There can
be no cheaper _corps de ballet_, nor any so amusing.
"You have done much for your child" is an expression we often hear.
"You have had a nurse, a nursery governess, a fine pony for your boy,
you take your children often to the play and give them dancing
parties, and yet they are not happy." It is the sincere regret of many
a mamma that she cannot make her children happy. Yet in a large town,
in a house shut up from our cold winter blasts, what can she do? A
good dog and a kind-hearted set of servants will solve the problem
better than all the intellect in the world. Grandmamma brings a doll
to the little girl, who looks it over and says: "The dolly cannot be
undressed, I do not want it." It is the dressing and the undressing
which are the delights of her heart.
A boy wants to make a noise, first of all things. Let him have a large
upper room, a drum, a tambourine, a ball, and there he should be
allowed to kick out the effervescence of early manhood. Do not follow
him with all manner of prohibitions. Constant nagging and
fault-finding is an offence against a child's paradise. Put him in a
room for certain hours of the day where no one need say, "Get down!
don't do that! don't make so much noise!" Let him roar, and shout, and
climb over chairs and tables, and tear his gown, and work off his
exuberance, and then he will be very glad to have his hands and face
washed and listen to a story, or come down to meet papa with a smiling
countenance.
Children should be allowed to have pet birds, kittens, dogs, and as
much live stock as the house will hold; it develops their sympathies.
When a bird dies, and the floodgates of the poor little heart are
opened, sympathize with it. It is cruel to laugh at childish woe.
Never refuse a child sympathy in joy or sorrow. This lack of sympathy
has made more criminals than anything else.
Children should never be deceived either in the taking of medicine or
the administration of knowledge. One witty writer a few years ago
spoke of the bad influence of good books. He declared that reading
"that Tommy was a good boy and kept his pinafore clean and rose to
affluence, while Harry flung stones and told fibs and was carried off
by robbers," developed his sympathies for Harry; and that although he
was naturally a good boy he went, for pure hatred of the virtuous
Tommy, to the river's brink and helped a bad boy to drown his aunt's
cat, and then went home and wrote a prize composition called "Frank
the Friendless, or Honesty is Best." All this was because the boy saw
that Tommy was a prig, that his virtue was of that kind mentioned in
Jane Eyre, in which the charity child was asked whether she would
rather learn a hymn or receive a cake; she said "Learn a hymn,"
whereupon she received "two cakes as a reward for her infant piety."
Children cannot be humbugged; they can be made into hypocrites,
however, by too many good books.
The best entertainment for children is to let them play at being
useful. Let the little girl get papa's slippers, brush his hat, even
if the wrong way, find his walking stick, hold the yarn for grandma's
knitting, or rock her brother's cradle, and she will be happy. Give
the boy a printing-press or some safe tools, let him make a garden,
feed his chickens, or clean out the cage of his pet robin, and he will
be happy. Try to make them think and decide for themselves. A little
girl says, "I don't know which dress to put on my dolly, Mamma, which
shall I?" The mamma will be wise if she says, "You must decide, you
know dolly best."
When a child is ill or nervous, the great hour of despair comes to the
mamma. A person without nerves, generally a good coloured mammy, is
the best playmate, and a dog is invaluable. It is touching to see the
smile come to the poor bloodless lips in a hospital ward, as a great,
big, kindly dog puts his cold nose out to reach a little feverish
hand. There is a sympathy in nature which intellect loses.
Madame Swetchine's fear of the mummies has another lesson in it.
Children are born with pet aversions, as well as with that terrible
fear which is so much bigger than they are. The first of their rights
to be respected is that they shall not be frightened, and shall not be
too seriously blamed for their aversions. Buffalo Bill, who knows more
about horses than most people, says that no horse is born bad; that he
is made a bucking horse, a skittish horse, or a stumbling horse by
being badly trained,--misunderstood when he was young. How true this
is of human nature! How many villains are developed by an unhappy
childhood! How many scoundrels does the boys' hall turn out! We must
try to find these skeletons in the closet, this imprisoned spectre
which haunts the imaginative child, and lay the ghost by sympathy and
by common-sense. Cultivating the imagination, not over-feeding it or
starving it, would seem to be the right way.
Perhaps there are no better ways of entertaining children than by a
juggler, the magic lantern, and simple scientific experiments. We use
the term advisedly. Jugglery was the oldest of the sciences. Aaron and
Moses tried it. One of the most valuable solaces for an invalid
child--one with a broken leg, or some complaint which necessitates bed
and quiet--is an experiment in natural magic.
One of these simple tricks is called "The Balanced Coin." Procure a
bottle, cork it, and in the cork place a needle. Take another cork,
and cut a slit in it, so that the edge of a dollar will fit into it;
then put two forks into the upper cork. Place the edge of the coin,
which holds the upper cork and forks, on the point of the needle, and
it will revolve without falling. This will amuse an imprisoned boy all
the afternoon.
The revolving image is a most amusing gentleman. Let poor Harry make
this himself. Cut a little man out of a thin bit of wood, making him
end in one leg, like a peg-top, instead of in two. Give him a pair of
long arms, shaped like oars. Then place him on the tip of your finger,
and blow; he will stand there and rotate, like an undecided
politician.
The Spanish dancer is another nice experiment. Cut a figure out of
pasteboard, and gum one foot on the inverted side of a watch-glass;
then place the watch-glass on a Japan waiter or a clean plate. Hold
the plate slanting, and they will slide down; but drop a little water
on the waiter or plate, and instead of the watch-glass sliding, it
will begin to revolve, and continue to revolve with increased velocity
as the experimentalist chooses. This is in consequence of the cohesion
of water to the two surfaces, by which a new force is introduced.
These experiments are endless, and will serve a variety of purposes,
the principal being that of entertaining.
To take children to the pantomime at Christmas is the universal law in
England. We have seldom the pantomime here. We have the circus, the
menagerie, and the play. A real play is better for children than a
burlesque, and it is astonishing to see how soon a child can
understand even Hamlet.
To allow children to play themselves in a fairy tale, such as
"Cinderella," is a doubtful practice. The exposure, the excitement,
the late hours, the rehearsals, are all bad for young nerves; but they
can play at home if it is in the daytime.
When boys and girls get old enough for dancing-parties, nothing can be
more amusing than the sight of the youthful followers of Terpsichore.
It is a healthy amusement, and if kept within proper hours, and
followed by a light supper only, is the most fitting of all
children's amusements. Do not, however, make little men and women of
them too soon. That is lamentable.
As for ruses and catch-games like "The Slave Despoiled," "The Pigeon
Flies," "The Sorcerer behind the Screen," "The Knight of the Whistle,"
"The Witch," "The Tombola," one should buy one of the cheap manuals of
games found at any bookstore, and a clever boy should read up, and put
himself in touch with this very easy way of passing an evening.
The games requiring wit and intelligence are many; as "The Bouquet,"
"The Fool's Discourse," which has a resemblance to "Cross Questions,"
"The Secretary," "The Culprit's Seat." All these need a good memory
and a ready wit. All mistakes are to be redeemed by forfeit.
Of the games to be played with pencil and paper, none is funnier than
"The Narrative," in which the leader decides on the title, and gives
it out to the company. It may be called "The Fortunate and Unfortunate
Adventures of Miss Palmer." The words to be used may be "history,"
"reading," "railway accident," "nourishment," "pleasures,"
"four-in-hand," etc. The paper has a line written, and is folded and
handed thus to the next,--each writer giving Miss Palmer whatever
adventures he pleases, only bringing in the desired word. The result
is incoherent, but amusing, and Miss Palmer becomes a heroine of
romance.
There are some children, as there are some grown people, who have a
natural talent for games. It is a great help in entertaining children
to get hold of a born leader.
The game called "The Language of Animals" is one for philosophers.
Each player takes his pencil and paper, and describes the feelings,
emotions, and passions of an animal as if he were one. As, for
instance, the dog would say: "I feel anger, like a human being. I am
sometimes vindictive, but generally forgiving. I suffer terribly from
jealousy. My envy leads me to eat more than I want, because I do not
wish Tray to get it. Gluttony is my easily besetting sin, but I never
got drunk in my life. I love my master better than any one; and if he
dies, I mourn him till death. My worst sorrow is being lost; but my
delights are never chilled by expectation, so I never lose the edge of
my enjoyments by over-raised hopes. I want to run twenty miles a day,
but I like to be with my master in the evening. I love children
dearly, and would die for any boy: I would save him from drowning. I
cannot wag my tongue, but I can wag my tail to express my emotion."
The cat says: "I am a natural diplomatist, and I carry on a great
secret service so that nobody knows anything about it. I do not care
for my master or mistress, but for the house and the hearth-rug. I am
very frugal, and have very little appetite. I kill mice because I
dislike them, not that I like them for food. Oh, no! give me the
cream-jug for that. I am always ready to do any mischief on the sly;
and so if any one else does anything, always say, 'It was the cat.' I
have no heart, by which I escape much misery. I have a great advantage
over the dog, as he lives but a few years and has but one life. I have
a long life, and nine of them; but why the number nine is always
connected with me, I do not know. Why 'cat-o-nine-tails?' Why 'A cat
has nine lives,' etc.?"
Thus, for children's entertaining we have the same necessities as for
grown people. Some one must begin; some one must suggest; some one
must tell how. All society needs a leader. It may be for that reason
our own grown-up society is a little chaotic.
Perhaps the story of Madame Swetchine and her watch conveys a needed
moral. Do not deluge children with costly gifts. Do not thus deprive
them of the pleasures of hope. Anticipation is the dearest part of a
child's life, and an overfed child, suffering from the pangs of
dyspepsia, is no more to be pitied than the poor little gorged,
overburdened child, who has more books than he can read and more toys
than he can ever play with. Remember, too, "Dr. Blimber's Young
Gentlemen," and their longing jealousy of the boy in the gutter.