The mother's book

by Lydia Maria Child

FOOTNOTES:

[1] It is but justice to this boy to state; that he was prompt in confessing his fault, and eager to atone for it.

CHAP. V.
PLAYTHINGS.—AMUSEMENTS.—EMPLOYMENTS.

In infancy, the principal object is to find such toys as are at once attractive and safe. During the painful process of teething, a large ivory ring, or a dollar worn smooth, are good, on account of the ease they give the gums; they should be fastened to a string—but not a green one, or any other from which a babe can suck the colors. Some people think nothing so good for teething children as a large, round piece of India rubber, from which it is impossible to bite a piece. Painted toys are not wholesome at this age, when children are so prone to convey everything to the mouth. A bunch of keys is a favorite plaything with babies. Indeed anything they can move about, and cause to produce a noise, is pleasant to them. I have seen infants amuse themselves, for hours, with a string of very large wooden beads, or shining buttons; perhaps it is needless to say that no buttons but steel, wood, or ivory, are safe; if they have any portion of brass about them, they are injurious: another caution, perhaps equally unnecessary, is, that playthings small enough to be swallowed should be tied together with a very strong string, from which no color can be extracted. When children are a few months older, blocks of wood, which can be heaped up and knocked down at pleasure, become favorite playthings. A pack of old cards are perhaps liked still better, on account of their bright colors and pictured faces. Such toys are a great deal better than expensive ones. I do not think it a good plan to give children old almanacs, pamphlets, &c., to tear up. How can they distinguish between the value of one book and another? Children, who have been allowed to tear worthless books, may tear good ones, without the least idea that they are doing any harm.

As soon as it is possible to convey instruction by toys, it is well to choose such as will be useful. The letters of the alphabet on pieces of bone are excellent for this purpose. I have known a child of six years old teach a baby-brother to read quite well, merely by playing with his ivory letters. In all that relates to developing the intellect, very young children should not be hurried or made to attend unwillingly. When they are playing with their letters, and you are at leisure, take pains to tell them the name of each one, as often as they ask; but do not urge them. No matter if it takes them three weeks to learn one letter; they will not want their knowledge in a hurry. When the large letters are learned, give them the small ones. When both are mastered, place the letters together in some small word, such as CAT; point to the letters, name them, and pronounce cat distinctly. After a few lessons, the child will know what letters to place together in order to spell cat. Do not try to teach him a new word, until he is perfectly master of the old one; and do not try to force his attention to his letters, when he is weary, fretful and sleepy, or impatient to be doing something else. In this, as indeed in all other respects, an infant’s progress is abundantly more rapid, if taught by a brother, or sister, nearly of his own age. The reason is, their little minds are in much the same state as their pupil’s; they are therefore less liable than ourselves to miscalculate his strength, or force him beyond his speed. Among instructive toys may be ranked balls arranged together so as to be counted.

Every step of infantile progress should be encouraged by expressions of surprise and pleasure. When a child is able to spell a new word, or count a new number, kiss him, and show delight at his improvement. Sir Benjamin West relates that his mother kissed him eagerly, when he showed her a likeness he had sketched of his baby-sister; and he adds, ‘That kiss made me a painter!’

I have before shown that the same rule applies to the affections—that it is better to encourage what is right, than to punish what is wrong. Nothing strengthens a child in goodness, or enables him to overcome a fault, so much as seeing his efforts excite a sudden and earnest expression of love and joy.

For children of two or three years old, pictures are great sources of amusement and instruction. Engravings of animals on large cards are very good things. It is a great object to have proportion observed; if a child have a very small picture of an elephant, and a very large one of a mouse, it will lead him to the conclusion that a mouse is as large as an elephant. Children should be encouraged in talking about the engravings they look at; and the different parts should be pointed out and explained to them. Thus if a palm-tree is placed near the picture of an elephant, the attention should be drawn to it, and it should be explained to them that it is not the picture of any tree in this country, (that is, in New England,) but that in Asia and Africa, where elephants live, palm-trees are very common. If a child is old enough to understand it, some account of this useful tree may be given advantageously; he can be told that it yields palm-oil, palm-wine, that its leaves are manufactured into fans, &c. But if he is not old enough to feel interested in such an account, do not trouble him with it. The object of pointing out all the details of an engraving, and explaining them, when they differ from what he is accustomed to see, is merely to give habits of observation, and arouse a spirit of inquiry.

I think it is very important that disproportioned, badly drawn pictures should not be placed in the hands of children. No matter how coarse or common they are, but let them be correct imitations of nature; if they are graceful, as well as correct, so much the better. Good taste is of less consequence than good feelings, good principles, and good sense; but it certainly is of consequence, and should not uselessly be perverted or destroyed. I believe the sort of pictures children are accustomed to see have an important effect in forming their taste. The very beggar-boys of Italy will observe a defect in the proportions of a statue, or a picture; and the reason is, that fine sculpture and paintings are in their churches, and about their streets.

Playthings that children make for themselves are a great deal better than those which are bought for them. They employ them a much longer time, they exercise ingenuity, and they really please them more. A little girl had better fashion her cups and saucers of acorns, than to have a set of earthen ones supplied. A boy takes ten times more pleasure in a little wooden sled he has pegged together, than he would in a painted and gilded carriage brought from the toy-shop; and I do not believe any expensive rocking-horse ever gave so much satisfaction, as I have seen a child in the country take with a long-necked squash, which he had bridled and placed on four sticks. There is a peculiar satisfaction in inventing things for one’s self. No matter if the construction be clumsy and awkward; it employs time (which is a great object in childhood), and the pleasure the invention gives is the first impulse to ingenuity and skill. For this reason, the making of little boats, and mechanical toys, should not be discouraged; and when any difficulty occurs above the powers of a child, assistance should be cheerfully given. If the parents are able to explain the principles on which machines are constructed, the advantage will be tenfold.

Cutting figures in paper is a harmless and useful amusement for those who are old enough to be trusted with scissors; which, by the way, should always be blunt-pointed, when placed in the hands of a very young child. Any glaring disproportion in the figures should be explained to a child, and he should be encouraged to make his little imitations as much like nature as possible. There is at present a little boy in Boston, who at two years old took a great fancy to cutting figures in paper. In the course of six or eight years, he actually wore out five or six pairs of scissors in the service. He cuts with astonishing rapidity, and apparently without any thought; yet he will produce little landscapes, or groups, as beautiful and spirited as the best engravings. At first he began by copying things he had before him; but he afterward attained to so much skill, that he easily invented his own designs. This talent has enabled him to do a great deal for the support of his parents, who are not rich.

Drawing figures on a slate is a favorite amusement with children; and it may prove a very useful one, if pains are taken to point out errors, and induce them to make correct imitations. Young people should be taught that it is not well to be careless in doing even the most trifling things—that whatever is worthy of being done at all, is worthy of being well done.

Some distinguished writers on education have objected to dolls, as playthings which lead to a love of dress and finery. I do not consider them in this light. If a mother’s influence does not foster a love of finery, I think there is very little danger of its being produced by dressing dolls. I like these toys for various reasons. They afford a quiet amusement; they exercise ingenuity in cutting garments, and neatness in sewing; they can be played with in a prodigious variety of ways; and so far as they exercise the affections, their influence is innocent and pleasant. No doubt dolls sometimes excite very strong affection. Miss Hamilton tells of a little girl, who had a limb amputated at the hospital. She bore the operation with great fortitude, hugging her doll in her arms all the time. When it was completed, the surgeon playfully said, ‘Now let me cut off your doll’s leg.’ This speech produced a torrent of tears, and the little creature could hardly be pacified. She had borne her own sufferings patiently, but she could not endure that her doll should be hurt. I know that this tenderness for inanimate things is not the best employment for the affections; but so far as it goes, it is good. For the same reason, and in a similar degree, I think pet animals have a good effect; but care should be taken to choose such as are happy in a domesticated state. I cannot think it is right to keep creatures, that must be confined in cages and boxes; no pleasure can be good, which is so entirely selfish.

It is a benefit to children to have the care of feeding animals, such as lambs, chickens, &c. It answers two good purposes—it excites kindness, and a love of usefulness.

Amusements and employments which lead to exercise in the open air have greatly the advantage of all others. In this respect, I would make no difference between the management of boys and girls. Gardening, sliding, skating, and snow-balling, are all as good for girls as for boys. Are not health and cheerful spirits as necessary for one as the other? It is a universal remark that American women are less vigorous and rosy, than women of other climates; and that they are peculiarly subject to disorders of the chest and the spine. I believe the sole reason of this is, that our employments and amusements lead us so little into the open air.

I am aware that many people object to such plays as I have recommended to girls, from the idea that they will make them rude and noisy. I do not believe this would be the case if the influences within doors favored gentleness and politeness; and even if there were any danger of this sort, how much easier it is to acquire elegance in after life, than it is to regain health! When it is considered what a loss of usefulness, as well as comfort, is attendant upon ill health, I think all will agree that a vigorous constitution is the greatest of earthly blessings.

When I say that skating and sliding are proper amusements for girls, I do not, of course, mean that they should mix in a public crowd. Such sports, when girls unite in them, should be confined to the inmates of the house, and away from all possibility of contact with the rude and vicious. Under these circumstances, a girl’s manners cannot be injured by such wholesome recreations. To snow-ball, or slide, with well-behaved brothers every day, cannot, I am sure, tend to make a girl rude and boisterous. I know one very striking instance of the truth of what I assert; and no doubt the memory of my readers will supply similar proofs. Mrs. John Adams, wife of the second President of the United States, and mother of the sixth, was very remarkable for the elegance and dignity of her manners. Even amid the splendor of foreign courts, she was considered a distinguished ornament. Yet Mrs. Adams had not been brought up in petted indolence, or shut from the sun and air, for fear of injury to her beauty, or her gracefulness. She was a capable, active, and observing woman; and while she was the admiration of European courts, she knew how to make butter and cheese as well as any woman in Weymouth, which was her native place. In the latter part of her life, she was one day passing the home of her childhood, in company with an intimate friend; she paused, and looked at a long lane near the house, saying in an animated tone, ‘Oh, how many hours and hours I have driven hoop up and down that lane!’ As might be expected, Mrs. Adams enjoyed a hale and happy old age. Among the other good effects of her example, she has left a practical lesson to her country-women, that refined elegance is perfectly compatible with driving hoop in the open air.

I cannot pass over the subject of amusements, without saying something 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.

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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]