The Mothers of England/Chapter VI
CHAPTER VI.
INDIVIDUAL AND SOCIAL HAPPINESS.
To a healthy child who has been well trained, nothing appears more easy than to be happy; to a child who has been badly trained, whose infant years have been neglected or motherless, nothing appears more difficult. There is often something in the bodily constitution, too, which stands in the way of individual happiness, without our being sensible of any actual disease; and the mother ought to watch carefully every symptom of this nature as indications of growing evil, which may frustrate much of the good she naturally looks forward to in the future experience of her child. She ought especially to observe, if, when the family group are loudest in their mirth, there is one who falls back from the cheerful circle, and who, instead of catching the natural infection of laughter and glee, sits moping alone, with cloudy brow, and drooping head, as if incapable of partaking in the general feeling. Such a tendency as this, is generally to be attributed to some bodily indisposition, of which perhaps the child is not aware; but it may also arise from a peculiarity of temperament, only to be accounted for upon the principle that there are diseases of mind, as well as body, the seeds of which are inherent in our nature.
If, in order to correct a melancholy tendency discoverable in infancy, the child is harshly treated, punished, scolded, and compelled to play, it is needless to foretell the utter ruin of its temper, and probably of its moral character altogether; for never yet was melancholy expelled except by the substitution of cheerfulness; and never yet was a child made cheerful by harshness and compulsion.
While thinking how much a kind and judicious mother can do toward correcting the melancholy temperament of her child, the heart aches for those who have no mother, who, in their moments of sadness and sorrow, are subjected to the ridicule of their companions, and who consequently bear about with them, in their intercourse with others, a wounded spirit, smarting at every touch. The premature and excessive suffering of such children when left to the injudicious treatment of their companions, or to persons who pay little regard to what they experience, generally renders them selfish in their feelings, and in their tempers bitter and revengeful. They are selfish, upon the natural principle of caring for nobody, because they think nobody cares for them; and bitter and revengeful, because, being wrapped up in self, and that self, as they imagine, deeply injured, they are perpetually tempted to pay back, in their treatment of others, some portion of the suffering they endure.
It must be granted, however, that this description applies only to extreme cases; but still there are many degrees of the same evil to be found existing in the world; and it is well for mothers to consider the extent to which their children are capable of suffering from want of attention rightly exercised, in order that they may form a higher estimate of the real benefits placed within their power to dispense.
It was the custom with many well-intentioned parents, some fifty years ago, to bring up children under a mistaken notion of rooting out evil, before good could be introduced; of breaking the natural will, crossing natural inclination, and subduing pride by constant mortification. Yet, notwithstanding the various modes of discipline adopted in carrying out this notion, people were just as self-willed, as determined to please themselves, and as proud, as they are now. It has by decrees become evident to persons of common sense, that such violent measures are not adapted to produce the desired effect. Indeed, some of us have gone so far as to believe, that pride is no more likely to be eradicated by constant mortification, than appetite is likely to be destroyed by a scanty supply of food. Inclination, too, whenever it is crossed for the mere sake of punishment, seems to grow and acquire force under the infliction; just as a delicate frame gains strength by the application of a tonic; or, if in a few instances harsh treatment does succeed in breaking what is called the natural will, it can only be by destroying the power to will, which is in reality to render the moral character contemptible and weak.
But why should the mother, in her moral training, allow weeds of evil growth to gain the ascendency, before she has planted flowers? Let her begin by keeping alive the wholesome glow of cheerfulness throughout the domestic atmosphere, and melancholy will not dare to spread her gloomy pall over a scene so radiant with joy, as that which is presented by a happy and well-regulated home.
After all, however, it is possible that we do not value cheerfulness as we ought. We look upon it as an ordinary something which belongs to common minds—the property of the milkmaid, the housewife, or the husbandman. Yet, granting all this, we must still acknowledge it to be something which kings can not purchase, though in all probability they often gladly would. And does not the fact of cheerfulness being generally considered as the reward of labor, teach us a pleasant and a useful lesson—that cheerfulness may be procured by industry—by always doing something, and by always having something to do?
It is in this manner, chiefly, that the cheerfulness of infancy is maintained. Childhood is full of activity, and rich in resources and therefore we make a great mistake when we lavish too much of the means of enjoyment upon young children. It is a little later in life that we begin to want the means of being happy; that the pulse of natural joy throbs languidly; and that we seek excitement, to warm us into life and feeling. Nor is it in childhood alone that we see the benefit of cheerfulness, for with plenty of resources, and a cheerful disposition, persons more advanced in life are placed almost beyond the reach of disappointment. It is the dull, the flat, and the unoccupied, who hang their happiness upon an evening party, and who are always dependant upon some extraordinary excitement for breaking the monotony of their fruitless lives. "No one," said Miss Hamilton, "under the necessity of earning their daily subsistence, is in any danger of dying either of grief or love." And certainly that constant occupation which promotes cheerfulness, is the surest protection against diseases of the mind, and especially against melancholy.
While seeking the happiness of children, however, we must not be so forgetful of their good, as to pay no regard to the kind of happiness which is to be the object of their desires. We must not forget that we are all in a state of progression, and that children especially are only commencing what time will mature. Why then should we seek for them a low kind of happiness, such as the indulgence of appetite, or the mere gratification of the senses in any other way; since no circumstances in after life, no development of character, and no cultivation of those senses, can render such happiness intense in proportion to our improved facilities for obtaining it. Thus a child who has imbibed the idea that eating and drinking constitute the highest enjoyment, stands in the unfortunate position of having nothing more to gain; because no cultivation of the sense of taste can enlarge to any considerable extent the pleasure it is calculated to afford.
It is not thus with the pleasures of the mind. Ever progressing, ever enlarging the sphere of its enjoyments, human nature is capable of advancing onward, until it attains an approximation to the Divine; and the higher the range of thought and feeling which it occupies, the purer is the enjoyment of which it participates.
In this intellectual progress, mothers have more to do than most women seem to be aware; because it is peculiarly their province to render the path of learning lovely and attractive, and thus to associate feelings of happiness with the acquisition of ideas, the prosecution of study, and the general improvement of the mental faculties. Mothers are apt to be startled at the idea of educating their children, as if education consisted in nothing but the routine of daily lessons, or as if the extreme of intellectual culture was dependant upon them. Happily, however, theirs is a labor of love, rather than of tasks, and it is simply by, and in, this love, that they are called upon to throw the whole weight of their influence, of their powers to charm, to amuse, and fix attention, into the scale of intellectual improvement; so that nothing shall be wanting on their part to render their children not only willing, but happy, to go on from step to step, until they learn to love intellectual pleasures for their own sake alone. That a mother may effectually do this by the exercise of good feeling and tact, without being herself fully instructed in every branch of learning and science, is evident from the experience of different families; for we do not want beautiful instances of simple-hearted, unpretending mothers, not highly-gifted by nature in any way, who send their children to school in such a state of mental preparation, as to render it a pleasure to conduct their education to its utmost limits.
"Many ladies," says Miss Edgeworth, "show in general conversation the powers of easy raillery joined to reasoning unencumbered with pedantry. If they would employ their talents in the education of their children, they would probably be as well repaid for their exertions, as they can possibly be by the polite but transient applause of the visiters to whom they usually devote their powers of entertaining. A little praise or blame—a smile from a mother or a frown—a moment's attention, or a look of cold neglect—have the happy or the fatal power of repressing or of exciting the energy of a child, of directing his understanding to useful or pernicious purposes. Scarcely a day passes in which children do not make some attempt to reason about the little events which interest them, and upon these occasions a mother who joins in conversation with her children, may instruct them in the art of reasoning without the parade of logical disquisitions."
It is not then extraordinary powers which are wanted for this purpose, but the. right exercise of those peculiar talents with which women are naturally endowed, combined with that earnest love on the part of the mother, which enables her to pursue unwearied the instruction of her children in all common things, and to watch every opportunity for blending information with enjoyment.
I would not, however, by any means neglect those auspicious occasions which occur in every family, of throwing off all restraint, and giving free vent to the overflow of affectionate and unbounded joy, The return of some member of the household, the arrival of beloved friends, birthdays and other seasons of festivity, afford ample scope for these outbursts of natural feeling, which ought to be encouraged as a means of keeping up the natural and healthy tone of youthful minds; for as an hour now and then of absolute romping does infinite good to the bodily health, so an hour now and then of unrestrained and absolute merriment does equal good to the spirits and characters of children.
In a rude and ill-regulated family, it is to be feared that such seasons would be marked by turbulence and disaster, beyond what could be rendered conducive to much enjoyment, especially on the part of the older members; but I am supposing the case of a well-regulated family, so trained by the mother, and so under the influence of delicate, affectionate, and generous feelings, that their wildest play would not be rude, nor their loudest mirth offensive.
It seems to me one of the peculiarities of English character not to know how to manage enjoyment; while our neighbors on the continent sometimes manage it a little too much. Those elaborate or costly presents by which they are so fond of creating a beautiful surprise, those birthday scenes got up with so much machinery of contrivance, and those periodical displays of generosity and affection, though admirably adapted to figure in a book, have a little too much make-believe about them, to be exactly suited to the reality of English habits. Besides which, there always hangs about an English heart a certain dread of failure, a horror of being committed in an act of folly, and a shrinking from ridicule, which greatly lessen the number of our enjoyments, and often cast a shadow over the gayety which might otherwise be both harmless and refreshing. There is also, it must be confessed, a some thing desperate and extreme about the English character when strongly excited and destitute of restraint, which seems to render greater restriction necessary in a social point of view, than is required by people ox some other countries; yet I can not but think that much of this, and much that we see and grieve over in the conduct of our countrypeople abroad, arises from the want of better regulation in private families, of higher aims in the union of taste with feeling; but chiefly from the absence of all care that the happiness of children should be encouraged to the utmost extent which good order will allow, but at the same time blended with a little more nicety as to the choice of means, a little more tact on the part of mothers, sisters, and mistresses of families, a little more taste—in short, a little more of the true poetry of life, so that the general tone of the mind, even in its joyous moments, shall be in strict harmony with good feeling.
Were this the case, I believe we should all live in less fear of youth overleaping the accustomed barrier of good manners, so as to run riot in its excess of merriment; and while by the same means we should learn to suffer less from the dread of being ridiculous, we should be more generally cheerful, and, upon the whole, more happy than we are.
And to whom are we to look for improving at once the manners and the morals of social life in this most delicate point, but to the mothers of England? Servants and nurses, in whose company so many children are allowed to play without restraint, and in no other; they are not fit for such a task. Fathers are seldom present, and when they are, they want the nicety and the tact to manage the minute affairs of domestic life, and especially those of individual feeling. It is to mothers then, alone, that we can look for the improvement so much needed here; ad with all woman's taste and tact, her quickness of feeling, play of fancy, minuteness of observation, and facility of adaptation to circumstances; with all a mother's love in addition to these, she wants only a higher sense of a mother's duty to convince her that the joyous moments—the holy days of mirth which her children are permitted to enjoy, are those which she, above all other human beings, has the privilege of sharing, and, at the same time, of converting into lasting good.
There is no reason why children should be either selfish or vulgar in their mirth; yet how many do we find who can be well-behaved in what is called company, and yet when let loose to play, are a disgrace to their parents; who, perhaps, from never associating themselves with their children's merriment, but having been accustomed to send them always into the nursery to play, and into the company of servants to run wild, having imposed upon them a sort of artificial restraint, which makes them decent and tolerable only while it lasts, but leaves them, whenever it is withdrawn, perfect monsters of rudeness, turbulence, and disorder.
It is not difficult to foresee that such children will grow up with a constant liability to commit themselves in after life, which, under the most favorable circumstances, will mark their habits with a want of ease and of true refinement; while, under unfavorable circumstances, it will not improbably be the means of leading them into egregious folly, gross excess, or fatal error.
I would not willingly be supposed to forget that religious principle alone is sufficient to preserve even such persons as are here described from the extremes alluded to; but I am also aware, that even in religious characters, there are sometimes strange anomalies, deviations from true taste, and even unconscious offences against good feeling, which do incalculable harm to the interests of religion; and I am therefore the more earnest in writing on this subject, that mothers should begin in time by laying the foundation of lovely, good, and happy characters, at once.
We sometimes find among truly excellent persons, a painful and unnatural kind of dread of being too cheerful; and where the pleasures of childhood have been wholly neglected, where buoyant spirits have been allowed to run and riot without a mother's care, there is unquestionably great danger of the barrier of propriety being broken through in after life by the indulgence of cheerfulness. But how deeply it is to be regretted, that that particular state of mind which is in reality the most truly happy, should be deterred by fear, from exhibiting itself before the world in its natural character of healthy cheerfulness, and thus give cause for an opinion, too frequently entertained, that religion is a gloomy thing! If by no other reason the pious mother can be convinced of the importance of her influence in this particular sphere of duty, surely it is sufficient, if by sharing with her children in their harmless mirth, and teaching them how to be happy without offence to God or man, she can beautify their characters in after life with more of those graces of mind and manners, which are at once attractive to the world, and honorable to the cause of religion.
As the first and surest means of promoting individual, as well as social happiness, I would propose the cultivation of a spirit of love. The more we love, the less our thoughts and interests are centred in self; and consequently the less we suffer from all those little personal slights, vexations, and disappointments, which so often imbitter the cup of life. The more we love, also, the more we forgive; and to whom much is forgiven, the same loveth much; so that nothing is more true, than that love begets love in return. Thus, then, our energies are drawn out into those kindred charities, which, whether given or received in the true spirit of generous affection, have power to lighten every burden we have to bear, and to sweeten every draught of which we have to drink. The more we love, the more we enjoy the inestimable privilege of being able to ask a blessing upon what we desire, and upon what we do; because we can neither lie down at night, nor rise to the duties of the day, without bearing in our hearts the remembrance of that sweet fellowship, which binds together the whole human race as one family, under the protection of our Father who is in heaven.
How little is understood of the real value and right exercise of love, by those morbid miserable beings, who fix their whole hopes of happiness upon one, or two, or many, and think they are loving, while they are only thirsting to be loved—only waiting in anxious and fretful expectation for evidence that they are so; or recoiling from the world with disappointment and spleen on every cause for suspicion that they are not. Such persons generally keep a strict account against society, of what they consider due to themselves, as well as of what they receive. Yet they forget to compare it with another account—with what is due from them, and what they actually give.
But there is no calculation, and there needs no account, on the part of those whose hearts have been imbued in early childhood with the true spirit of love. To such it becomes as the very breath of life, for without being able to love, they would pine and wither. If, in the interchange of kind offices they occasionally find themselves neglected, what is that to them? In their love they seek only the good and the happiness of others, and that is generally more or less in their power to promote. If the beings by whom they are surrounded, and perhaps even the nearest and the dearest, are not all they desire, it is the noblest exercise of love to forgive, and the next to endeavor to improve. If also, in the exercise of affection, they meet sometimes with but little or no return, they accept the rebuke as from a Father, who, in chastening those whom he loves, has appointed such means for leading them into closer self-examination, into stricter watchfulness, and more faithful endeavors, in order that no fault indulged, no opportunity neglected, and no faculty unemployed, may stand in the way of rendering the service he has enjoined, as a duty we owe one toward another, more acceptable in his sight.
Such then is the effect of an early and consistent exercise of the spirit of love, extending in the first place to all beneath the paternal roof, and afterward throughout the varied intercourse we hold with society—a spirit which, where it is rightly exercised has no tendency to blind us to the faults of others, or to lead us to undervalue those proofs of affection which are really directed to ourselves; but which creates around us a kind of genial atmosphere, too clear and bright for the weeds which grow around our path to remain undiscovered; yet, at the same time so pure, healthy, and invigorating, as to stimulate to eager cultivation of the flowers, secure in the confidence that they will abundantly repay our care.
Nor should we forget, in the contemplation of this subject especially, that beautiful harmony in the order of Providence, by which all that is best adapted to produce good to others, is in reality most conducive to our own happiness. Had we been created only to feel happy in the exercise of those passions which dissever families, and break asunder the bonds of society, how different would have been our situation on earth! But in the benign commandment of the Savior to his disciples that they should love one another, in making this love even the test of their fellowship with him, we recognise at once a principle, which, above all others, has power to bless and to bind on earth, while it constitutes a passport to the blessedness and the union of heaven.
Next in degree to the exercise of the afflictions, as a means of promoting individual as well as social happiness, is that of one of the faculties of the human mind, the cultivation of which is too little regarded in the training of youth. I mean the faculty of admiration, which, if properly directed, under the influence of religious feeling, has the effect of raising, by imperceptible degrees, the moral nature of man in his intellectual, as well as his spiritual enjoyments.
It is too much the tendency of the present day to confine the exercise of admiration to what is of man's invention, elaborate, costly, and artificial—to the arts and manufactures which belong to a high state of civilization, to the patent inventions of the day, to the newest fabrics, or the most expensive ornaments—in short, to all which may be regarded as characteristic of an "age of great cities;" rather than to a development of those principles of harmony and beauty, which pervade the universe at large. I presume not to say that these are not good—good in a certain manner, and to a certain extent; but good as the objects of our highest admiration, they certainly are not, and especially for this reason—because they are material, and only gratify the senses, without leaving any beneficial or indelible impression upon the soul.
The cultivation of a true taste necessarily belongs to this part of our subject, because it rests very much with parents to direct their children's admiration as they choose; and whatever they most admire, becomes naturally the standard of true taste to them. It may fairly be said, then, that the taste of the present day is for everything material. When young people now turn their attention to intellectual pursuits, it is to collect specimens, not ideas. Imagination in its higher walks is discarded, and even our works of fiction are only valued so far as they present a succession of active scenes, so exaggerated as to produce the effect of startling the senses. All this may be tolerated in the present generation, because we have yet among us the remains of a higher order of thought and feeling; but it will tell to a lamentable extent upon the next, when all enthusiasm for poetry and the fine arts will have become extinct. Already it may be said that poetry is banished from our world; and if painting still lingers on the stage of public observation, it is too much regarded as a scene—a show—a pageant of the moment, and no more. It is true that music has burst forth among the million, to assert its rights as a natural and almost necessary gratification; but it is to be feared that the machinery by which it is got up, the noise, and the exhibition, have more to do with this means of enjoyment, than the voice and the language which it offers to the music of the soul.
I am aware that I am venturing upon dangerous ground, presuming to oppose a mere straw or a feather, to the great tide of popular feeling, but when one has the means of speaking to the many, it becomes a sacred duty to say in what we really think mankind are regardless of their happiness and their good.
Now it must be evident to all who think seriously on this subject, that if we fix our ideas of the highest excellence, and consequently our admiration upon what is material, cosily, and elaborate, our happiness in this world must depend upon our pecuniary means, for without money there can be no possession of this material excellence. Hence, then, the strife, the turmoil, the dread, in which we live, lest adverse circumstances, the change of public fancy, the lowering of markets, or the failure of a bargain, should deprive us of that which is our chief, or only source of enjoyment. It is evident too, that there can be no refreshment to the mind, in the pursuit of this material excellence; because there is nothing in it which brings the thoughts into necessary and direct relation to the Supreme Being; and hence the weariness with which so many thousands pursue their unremitting avocations, not one half of the faculties, with which as immortal beings they are endowed, having found exercise in what constitutes the business of their lives.
For the remedy of this evil, I am not visionary enough to look to any alteration in our political economy, or to suppose that a new company will start up to protect the poetry of life; but I still think that much might be done by mothers to instil into the minds of children a higher taste, and at the same time one which would be productive of more lasting happiness. The season in all probability will come, when their children will have to mix with the many in a course of action which scarcely admits of time for the exercise of thought, beyond such mental calculations as are required in carrying on the business of the day; and since the dull routine of necessary occupation in the present times prevents in a great measure those stirring and intense emotions which fix impressions indelibly upon the mind, it becomes a more important duty on the part of mothers, to seek for their children those sources of enjoyment which the natural world affords—those sources of enjoyment of which a reverse of fortune will not be likely to deprive them; which require no strife or contention to obtain; which can be shared with the whole human race, and still enhanced by sharing; and which, while they expand and invigorate the mind, throw it open to clear and indelible impressions of the wisdom, the power, and the goodness of its Creator.
That natural joyousness of boyhood, which is the surest and the happiest medium for receiving impressions, is best cultivated in a country life. Where this can not be enjoyed altogether, it is the duty of parents to take their children into the country sometimes, and as often as they can; and if such seasons of relaxation be properly employed, the time and money bestowed upon them will not be found wasted.
It is worth some cost, and some effort, to give young people lasting and deep impressions of the beautiful and sublime in nature; nor need this be confined to nature alone; for, having imbibed such impressions, they will ever afterward be able to recognise the same principles in art. Yet how often, instead of roaming over hills, listening to waterfalls, and holding converse with the spirit of nature, are children taken in the summer to fashionable bathing-places, or other scenes of public resort, to wear their best clothes, walk out in tight shoes, and hear their mammas and aunts descant upon the elegance of the Dutchess of D—'s equipage! How often is the conversation, during their walks on the public promenades, filled up with what distinguished persons have arrived at the new hotel; what bonnet was worn by Lady B—: who danced with the young heiress; and to what places, but particularly to what shops, all the world resorts! And this is called going into the country! If such be going into the country, we may safely say it is taking the town along with us.
Oh, never let such an insult be offered to the trusting heart of youth, as to call that nature, which the "glass of fashion" offers to our view! If young people go to breathe the invigorating sea-breezes, let them, in justice to nature, see the great ocean as it really is, broad, bold, and deep, without the fringe of fashion on its shores. Let them listen to the roaring waves, and run before the sparkling foam, and watch the hollow breakers rise and curl, and dash themselves to rest. Or let them, on still evenings, see the moonlight on the water, her silver pathway over the great deep crossed at intervals by the fisherman's lonely bark, while his rugged form appears for a moment in dark relief, as if contrasting the corporeal with the spiritual. And then let music break the silence—music soft and sweet, and long remembered; for these are pictures graven on the mind; and the sounds then whispered to the soul, are like the language it was born with for the utterance of its secret joys.
Let parents sometimes take their children to the wild hills, where the foot of fashion has never trod. Let them pluck the forest flowers, and weave garlands of the purple heather, and spread their arms to catch the breeze, and look abroad from the bold height, on, far away—away into the distance, until they see the littleness of intervening things. Let them descend into the valley, go into the cottages of the poor, and talk with the shepherd of the phenomena of winds and clouds. Let them learn of him what observations he. has made in his lone watchings among the hills. Let them ask of the peasant about seed-time and harvest; let them taste of his household bread; let them listen to the legends of the place, the old wife's story, the history of the fairy-ring, or of the castle where the great lord dwelt in the ancient times. Let them trace the course of the mountain-stream from the far heights where it falls into a stony basin drop by drop, down the cataract steps by which it leaps into the plain; and then show them the same stream in the distance, a calm deep river winding its silvery way toward the sea.
Nor let them overlook the beautiful and no less wonderful minutiae of nature—the grasshopper in the rich meadow, the wild beet among the broom, or the trout in the sylvan stream. Teach them then to know the song of every warbler in the summer woods; point out to them the old rookery around the chimneys of the farm-house; and all the while describe to them the wonders of the vast realm of nature, with the habits and instincts of those innumerable tribes, scarcely heard of in our cities; so that they shall feel, and understand, and remember, by the strong impressions produced upon the spot, that there has been at work, in all this, some mighty and all-pervading Power, before whom the inventions of man are but as the honey and the comb of the little hive beneath the rays of a noonday sun.
If I were asked to point out the happiest situation on earth, I believe I should say—that in which children enjoy a free life in the country, shared with affectionate brothers and sisters, and watched over by kind and judicious parents. Yet how little pains are taken to procure this happiness for children! How much more intent are persons in general upon obtaining handsome drawing-rooms, and costly dresses—in short, upon keeping up that external appearance, which is a passport to what is called good society. And when the drawing-room is furnished, the dresses purchased, and the appearances unexceptionable, what is it all worth? Not one of the thousand aches of head and heart which the extreme of material excellence must under ordinary circumstances cost.
But I shall be accused of barbarism—of wishing to go back to a state of nature, and to live on forest-fruit, if I write in this strain; for it would require volumes to explain the subject fully, in all its bearings upon human happiness. Suffice it then to say, that it is only the excess of admiration bestowed upon material excellence of which I complain—the habit of admiring only what money can procure; and consequently of neglecting those sources of happiness which are offered freely to all, and the enjoyment of which is associated with activity and cheerfulness—with health, both of body and mind.
By confining our taste too much to what is at the same time material and artificial, we discard imagination from the sphere of our enjoyments, and consequently contract and vulgarize our means of gratification. There may be a play of fancy in the invention of a new pattern—there may be a display of elegance in the furnishing of a house—there may be an agreeable combination of colors in a fashionable costume, and all these are worthy of admiration, in their way; but such objects of admiration do not expand the feelings and elevate the soul; they merely dvelop in a familiar and practical form, those principles of order, harmony, and beauty, which ought previously to have been impressed upon the mind by the more striking phenomena of nature. In order properly to enjoy the works of art, these principles should previously have been recognised in their more distinct and intelligible characters. In order to be duly appreciated, beauty should some lime or other have burst, as it were, upon the eye and the mind of the child at once. It should have been constrained to admire it, and to admire it heartily; for it is important to our happiness that we should be able to admire with warmth, and even with enthusiasm; and pitiable indeed is that being, who, after spending a life in learning what ought to be admired, finds at last that the power is wanting. With regard to imagination, it is often spoken of as dangerous faculty, and treated as if given for man's misery, rather than his good; yet surely it must in justice be allowed, that if, in connexion with an ill-regulated mind, imagination is capable of rendering sorrow more intense, it is equally capable of enhancing, under more favorable circumstances, all our highest and most refined enjoyments.
Why, then, should we wish to discard the use of this faculty altogether? The fact is, we can not discard it. Imagination is ever at work, combining preconceived impressions into new and striking forms; and where no allowance is made for the exercise of this faculty—where it is pent up without any natural or appropriate outlet — it will burst forth like a smothered flame, and in all probability deface or consume, when it might have illuminated with a welcome and cheering light.
I was once in a dark parlor in the midst of a great city, where a little child, just able to lisp a few words, was busily employed in playing, that he gathered up the green of the carpet, which he called parsley, and pretended to lay in bandfuls upon a stool, which also boasted some corresponding green. "Don't say so, my dear; it is not parsley;" said the father several times, in serious concern for his little boy's veracity. Alas! poor child! the only notion it had ever formed of anything fresh and green, was of the parsley it had seen garnishing a dish; and this idea, with which its imagination was so busy, was to be utterly extinguished, because it was only an idea, and not a reality. The child, if it wished to amuse itself, would have to begin again with another set of ideas, with the faded worsted, and the little old stool it had played with so often before. It is needless to say, that with the extinction of its notion about the green parsley, its pleasant allusion was gone. It might strike, and pull, and lift, or act the mere animal in any other way, for under such circumstances there was little else to be done; but it might not use again the remembrance of a sprig of green parsley, so as to beautify with this image the little world in which it was pent up.
The father of this child was a talented and excellent man, himself an enthusiastic admirer of poetry, but he had probably never reflected upon the important place which imagination occupies in the minds of those who enjoy the purest happiness, as well as those to which the greatest influence over others belongs. He was not one, however, who could have failed to observe that the language of the Holy Scriptures is pre-eminent in its display of the exercise of imagination. In all the most impressive sermons, too, and in all those appeals to the human heart which produce the strongest conviction, and the deepest effect, imagination is the instrument chiefly made use of, although often unconsciously, by the speaker.
Since then we can not, if we would, destroy this faculty, and since, moreover, it is capable of elevating, at the same time that it enlarges, the sphere of our enjoyments, we should seek for it an appropriate and healthy exercise, even in the season of early youth. And here it is especially to be observed, that it is to the uninformed, the indolent, and the low-minded, that imagination is the most dangerous in its exercise. When the mind is well stored, as well as well regulated, the habits active and industrious, and the taste truly elevated and refined, works of imagination, and specimens of art, as a means of gratification, may be lowed to a much greater extent, than when the associations are vulgar, and the fancy consequently likely to be caught by what is least worthy of attention. An intense and absorbing admiration of what is excellent in poetry and art, will lead the mind which is imbued with a deep sense of beauty, over much that a coarse or vulgar mind would detect as objectionable, and which would in reality be so to it. We can not, therefore, be too careful how we introduce to characters of this stamp even those works of imagination which all the world has conceded the right to be considered as standards of excellence. There are many pleasures for the low-minded in their own way, and they ought to be content with these, rather than endeavor to lay hold of such as they are neither capable of appreciating, nor of turning to good account.
It is too common to call that modesty, which is only vulgar-mindedness; but on the other hand, it is the mother's delicate part so to watch over the impressions and associations of her children, as to guard them with the most scrupulous care, wherever delicacy of feeling is concerned; because if once destroyed, the purity of the mind will in all probability never be restored. There will be much in iheir future intercourse with the world to blunt the fine edge of feeling, and therefore it is better a thousand times to go forth into society a little too scrupulous, than too regardless of that nice boundary-line which marks out the imits of true delicacy of feeling.
Next to the study of nature, I believe that of the fine arts has much to do with refining the character, and raising it above those grovelling and vulgar interests which occupy too much of our time and thoughts. I forget what writer uses the expression, but it has been well said, that "the too great keenness of our uncharitable temper may almost always be softened by a taste for the picturesque, as well as the harmonious;" and certain it is, that a mind deeply impressed with a sense of the beautiful, conversant with the principles of taste, and enriched with the treasures of imagination, will be less likely than one whose admiration has never been attracted by subjects of this nature, to occupy itself with the little bickerings and jealousies which arise out of interests of a mere local and transitory nature. We should take care, then, that in the enjoyments of children, there is blended a reference to the principles of true taste; and, as in all things relating to the training of youth, we ought to act upon the plan of excluding what is objectionable, by filling up the space with what is good; so we ought to begin early to cultivate a just estimate of what is really worthy of admiration. How few persons think of this, who live in great cities, and take their children to see all the passing shows of the day, in preference to those objects of deep and lasting interest from which a true interest might be formed! How many, too, on taking their children for the first time to London, fly here and there in pursuit of sights which will be forgotten in a month, and never spare a quiet half hour for Westminster Abbey, or for any of those exhibitions of sculpture and painting, where they may both think and feel — where they may drink from the fountain of beauty, and be still.
I do not mean to say that children at a very early age would derive any benefit from such objects of attraction. It would be a waste of effort to attempt to introduce to their minds any conception of beauty, as an abstract idea. But there is a time when a sense of the beautiful, the harmonious, and the sublime, begins to dawn upon the soul; and the mother, if she has any poetry in her own nature, knows well how to discern the commencement of this new existence, for I can call it nothing less.
One of the symptoms of this change, is a habit of deep thought. I have thus far spoken of individual happiness chiefly in its character of cheerfulness and joy; but we all know that there is, beyond this, a happiness more profound, and that all deep happiness is still. Children vary much in their capability for this feeling. Some begin at a very early age to creep quietly to the mother's side, and to lead her out into converse upon deep and interesting themes; and it is then, above all other times, that the mother ought to bear upon her heart a sense of that higher, deeper, more absorbing happiness, which is derived from the contemplation of a Supreme Being, in connexion with his love for all the families of earth, his care of the helpless, and his merciful designs for the redemption and the eternal salvation of all Alas! how often is the idea of a Supreme Being brought first before the minds of children, when they are under chastisement for having done wrong! How many are told then, and then only, that there is an All-seeing eye upon them, detecting their falsehoods, and discovering their secret sins! while those sweet moments of familiar intercourse, when the dew of affection lies fresh upon the soul, and hope springs forth in the bright sunshine of happiness — how often are such moments neglected, or occupied only with mean and trivial things! Yet why, when we are so ready in the management of children, to bring to our aid the terrors of a God of justice — why are we not equally ready to make use of the attractiveness of a God of love?
I am aware that parents whose own minds are under the influence of religious feeling, in the course of their religious instruction, but especially when they explain to their children the scheme of man's redemption through the Savior's sacrifice of himself, dwell much upon the kindness and the mercy of Him who so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son to save sinners. But children generally receive many impressions with regard to the Supreme Being, long before they can be made to enter into this view of his character; and it is chiefly as relates to their earliest impressions — to those just views which are to fill and occupy the mind to the exclusion of all others, that I would urge upon mothers the importance of directing their attention to tnis subject.
I am convinced that nothing need be lost — nay, rather that much may be gained, by associating feelings of happiness with the first impressions which a child receives of a supreme and superintending power. I am convinced of this, because there is no faculty of the soul capable of producing enjoyment by its exercise upon the things of time, which is not also capable of enhancing that enjoyment a thousand-fold, by its exercise upon the things of eternity. When we speak of affection, it is something certainly to feel bound to those we love, even for the brief term of our existence upon earth; but it is nothing in comparison with that bond of unbroken and unending union which will hold together the one great family of the redeemed in heaven. When we speak of admiration, it is something to behold the shadowing forth of beauty upon earth, to feel the swelling of the heart in its comprehension of the sublime, or its repose in the deep sense of the harmony of nature; but of what value would be all this "enlargement of existence," if here it was to end? if the barrier of the grave was to put a stop to the spirit in its upward flight, and if death was to hide the beautiful for ever? No; we have learned a happier lesson than this; for we know, and we ought to feel, that as the exercise of love and admiration afford us the highest enjoyment here, there are, above all other faculties, those which, if rightly exercised, are capable of adding to our felicity when the shadows of time shall be lost in the light of eternity.