Part 11 (1/2)
That husband has an unfeeling disposition who does not find himself irresistibly drawn by the new and tender tie that now exists.
I hope I appreciate the value of children. We should soon come to nothing without them. What is a house without a baby? It may be comparatively quiet, but it is very dull. A childless home misses its discipline and loses its music.
Children are _not_ ”certain sorrows and uncertain pleasures” when properly managed. If some parents taste the stream bitter it is very often they themselves who have poisoned the fountain. They treated their children when very young merely as playthings, humouring every caprice, and sacrificing to present fancies future welfare; then, when the charm of infancy had pa.s.sed, they commenced a system of restraint and severity, and displayed displeasure and irritability at the very defects of which they themselves laid the foundation.
”In an evening spent with Emerson,” says one who knew him, ”he made one remark which left a memorable impression on my mind. Two children of the gentleman at whose house we met were playing in the room, when their father remarked, 'Just the interesting age.' 'And at what age,' asked Mr. Emerson, 'are children _not_ interesting?'” He regarded them with the eye of a philosopher and a poet, and saw the possibilities that surround their very being with infinite interest. Each of his own children was for him a harbinger of sunny hours, an angel sent from G.o.d with tidings of hope.
Jeremy Taylor says, ”No man can tell but he that loves his children how many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges; their childishness, their stammering, their little angers, their innocence, their imperfections, their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort to him that delights in their persons and society.” And what shall be said of the man who does not love his children? That he, far more than the unmusical man--
”Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted.”
”Civic virtues, unless they have their origin and consecration in private and domestic virtues, are but the virtues of the theatre. He who has not a loving heart for his child, cannot pretend to have any true love for humanity.”
”I do not wonder,” said Dr. Arnold, ”that it was thought a great misfortune to die childless in old times, when they had not fuller light--it seems so completely wiping a man out of existence.” ”Write ye this man child-less.” Cuvier's four children died before him. In his sixty-seventh year we find Moore writing, ”The last of our five children is now gone, and we are left desolate and alone. Not a single relative have I left now in the world.” How Hallam was successively bereaved of sons so rich in promise is well known. There is a touching gravestone in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey with the inscription, ”Jane Lister, deare child, died Oct. 7, 1688.” These parents knew only too well the value of a child.
A merchant in the city was accustomed to demand an excuse from his clerks whenever they arrived late. The excuse given, he invariably added, ”Very well; but don't let it happen again.” One morning a married clerk, being behind time, was promptly interrogated as to the cause.
Slightly embarra.s.sed, he replied, ”The truth is, sir, I had an addition to my family this morning, and it was not convenient to be here sooner.”
”Very well,” said the merchant, in his quick, nervous manner, ”very well; but don't let it happen again.”
There are people who think one, or, at most, two children, very well, but they don't wish it to happen again and again. So frequently do additions happen at Salt Lake City that nine families can, it is said, fill the theatre. One must love children very much to see the use of possessing the ninth part of a theatre-ful. And yet a family that is too small is almost as great an evil as one that is too large. It may be called a ”large little family.” Often an only child gives as much trouble as a large family. Dr. Smiles tells us that a lady who, with her husband, had inspected most of the lunatic asylums of England and the Continent, found the most numerous cla.s.s of patients was almost always composed of those who had been only children, and whose wills had therefore rarely been thwarted or disciplined in early life.
What const.i.tutes a large family? Upon this point there is much difference of opinion. A poor woman was complaining one day that she did not receive her proper share of charitable doles. Her neighbour Mrs.
Hawke, in the next court, came in for everything and ”got more than ever she was ent.i.tled to; for Mrs. Hawke had no family--not to speak of; only nine.” ”Only nine! how many then have you?” was the natural rejoinder.
”Fourteen living,” she replied. But even fourteen is not such a very large number when one is used to it. Some one is said to have begun a story of some trifling adventure which had befallen him with the words, ”As I was crossing Oxford Street the other day with fourteen of my daughters”--Laughter followed, and the narrator never got beyond those introductory words. We do not believe this anecdote, but if it were true, was there not something heroic in the contented, matter-of-fact way in which the man spoke of his belongings? ”Fourteen of my daughters!” An unsympathizing spectator might have said that any one with such a following ought to have been crossing not Oxford Street, but the Atlantic.
A nursery-maid was leading a little child up and down a garden. ”Is't a laddie or a la.s.sie?” asked the gardener. ”A laddie,” said the maid.
”Weel,” said he, ”I'm glad o' that, for there's ower mony women in the world.” ”Heck, man,” was the reply, ”did ye no ken there's aye maist sown o' the best c.r.a.p?” This rejoinder was more ready than correct, for as a matter of fact more boys are born than girls. It is natural for parents to desire offspring of both s.e.xes. Both are required to complete a family. Being brought up together the boys acquire something of their sisters' delicacy and tact, while the girls learn something of their brothers' self-reliance and independence.
”Desire not a mult.i.tude of unprofitable children, neither delight in unG.o.dly sons. Though they multiply, rejoice not in them, except the fear of the Lord be with them. Trust not thou in their life, neither respect their mult.i.tude: for one that is just is better than a thousand; and better it is to die without children, than to have them that are unG.o.dly.” In reference to children quality is far more to be desired than quant.i.ty. Without accepting pessimism, we may deny that the mere propagation of the human race is an object which presents itself as in itself a good. The chief end of man is not simply to have ”the hope and the misfortune of being,” but to glorify G.o.d and to serve humanity. What is the use of a child who is likely to do neither?
If it be the will of G.o.d to withhold offspring from a young couple, nothing should be said either by the husband or wife that could give the other pain on the subject. To do so is more than reprehensible; it is odious and contemptible. How unlike Elkanah, when, with sentiments at once manly and tender, he thus addresses his weeping wife--”Hannah, why weepest thou? and why eatest thou not? and why is thy heart grieved? am not I better to thee than ten sons?”
”We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.”
Writing on this subject a lady tells us that she had a relation who was married some years without having a child. Her feelings partook not only of grief, but of anguish: at length, a lovely boy was granted her.
”Spare, O G.o.d, the life of _my blessing_,” was her constant prayer. Her blessing _was_ spared: he grew to the years of manhood; squandered a fine fortune; married a servant-maid; and broke his mother's heart!
Another intimate friend of the author's was inconsolable for not having children. At length, the prospect of her becoming a mother was certain, and her joy was extreme. The moment of trial arrived: for four days and nights her sufferings and torture were not to be allayed by medical skill or human aid. At length her cries ceased; and, at the same moment that she gave birth to _two_ children, she herself had become a corpse.
”Give me children,” said the impatient and weeping Rachel, ”or else I die” (Gen. x.x.x. 1). Her prayer was heard, and in giving birth to her boy the mother expired.
Another impa.s.sioned mother, as she bent over the bed of her sick infant, called out, ”Oh, no; I _cannot_ resign him. It is impossible; I _cannot_ resign him.” A person present, struck with her words, noted them down in a daily journal which he kept. The boy recovered; and that day one-and-twenty years he was hanged as a murderer!
How terrible it is when a much-desired child is born to a comparatively useless existence by reason of some deficiency or deformity. Very touching is the story of a lady who, though deaf and dumb, became the wife of an earl through her beauty. In due course the king o' the world, the baby, presented himself--a fine child, of course, and a future earl.
Soon after its birth, as the nurse sat watching the babe, she saw the countess mother approach the cradle with a huge china vase, lift it above the head of the sleeping child, and poise it to dash it down.
Petrified with horror, wondering at the strange look of the mother's face, the nurse sat powerless and still; she dared not even cry out; she was not near enough to throw herself between the victim and the blow.