Another parent, still more highly commended, found something to erase in all her children’s books; and Miss Edgeworth describes with grave complacency this pathetic little library, scored, blotted, and mutilated, before being placed on the nursery shelves. The volumes were, she admits, hopelessly disfigured; “but shall the education of a family be sacrificed to the beauty of a page? Few books can safely be given to children without the previous use of the pen, the pencil, and the scissors. These, in their corrected state, have sometimes a few words erased, sometimes half a page. Sometimes many pages are cut out.”
Even now one feels a pang of pity for the little children who, more than a hundred years ago, were stopped midway in a story by the absence of half a dozen pages. Even now one wonders how much furtive curiosity was awakened by this process of elimination. To hover perpetually on the brink of the concealed and the forbidden does not seem a wholesome situation; and a careful perusal of that condemned classic, “Bluebeard,” might have awakened this excellent mother to the risks she ran. There can be no heavier handicap to any child than a superhumanly wise and watchful custodian, whether the custody be parental, or relegated to some phœnix of a tutor like Mr. Barlow, or that cock-sure experimentalist who mounts guard over “Émile,” teaching him with elaborate artifice the simplest things of life. We know how Tommy Merton fell from grace when separated from Mr. Barlow; but what would have become of Émile if “Jean Jacques” had providentially broken his neck? What would have become of little Caroline and Mary in Mary Wollstonecraft’s “Original Stories,” if Mrs. Mason—who is Mr. Barlow in petticoats—had ceased for a short time “regulating the affections and forming the minds” of her helpless charges? All these young people are so scrutinized, directed, and controlled, that their personal responsibility has been minimized to the danger point. In the name of nature, in the name of democracy, in the name of morality, they are pushed aside from the blessed fellowship of childhood, and from the beaten paths of life.
That Mary Wollstonecraft should have written the most priggish little book of her day is one of those pleasant ironies which relieves the tenseness of our pity for her fate. Its publication is the only incident of her life which permits the shadow of a smile; and even here our amusement is tempered by sympathy for the poor innocents who were compelled to read the “Original Stories,” and to whom even Blake’s charming illustrations must have brought scant relief. The plan of the work is one common to most juvenile fiction of the period. Caroline and Mary, being motherless, are placed under the care of Mrs. Mason, a lady of obtrusive wisdom and goodness, who shadows their infant lives, moralizes over every insignificant episode, and praises herself with honest assiduity. If Caroline is afraid of thunderstorms, Mrs. Mason explains that she fears no tempest, because “a mind is never truly great until the love of virtue overcomes the fear of death.” If Mary behaves rudely to a visitor, Mrs. Mason contrasts her pupil’s conduct with her own. “I have accustomed myself to think of others, and what they will suffer on all occasions,” she observes; “and this loathness to offend, or even to hurt the feelings of another, is an instantaneous spring which actuates my conduct, and makes me kindly affected to everything that breathes.... Perhaps the greatest pleasure I have ever received has arisen from the habitual exercise of charity in its various branches.”
The stories with which this monitress illustrates her precepts are drawn from the edifying annals of the neighbourhood, which is rich in examples of vice and virtue. On the one hand we have the pious Mrs. Trueman, the curate’s wife, who lives in a rose-covered cottage, furnished with books and musical instruments; and on the other, we have “the profligate Lord Sly,” and Miss Jane Fretful, who begins by kicking the furniture when she is in a temper, and ends by alienating all her friends (including her doctor), and dying unloved and unlamented. How far her mother should be held responsible for this excess of peevishness, when she rashly married a gentleman named Fretful, is not made clear; but all the characters in the book live nobly, or ignobly, up to their patronymics. When Mary neglects to wash her face—apparently that was all she ever washed—or brush her teeth in the mornings, Mrs. Mason for some time only hints her displeasure, “not wishing to burden her with precepts”; and waits for a “glaring example” to show the little girl the unloveliness of permanent dirt. This example is soon afforded by Mrs. Dowdy, who comes opportunely to visit them, and whose reluctance to perform even the simple ablutions common to the period is as resolute as Slovenly Peter’s.
In the matter of tuition, Mrs. Mason is comparatively lenient. Caroline and Mary, though warned that “idleness must always be intolerable, because it is only an irksome consciousness of existence” (words which happily have no meaning for childhood), are, on the whole, less saturated with knowledge than Miss Edgeworth’s Harry and Lucy; and Harry and Lucy lead rollicking lives by contrast with “Edwin and Henry,” or “Anna and Louisa,” or any other little pair of heroes and heroines. Edwin and Henry are particularly ill used, for they are supposed to be enjoying a holiday with their father, “the worthy Mr. Friendly,” who makes “every domestic incident, the vegetable world, sickness and death, a real source of instruction to his beloved offspring.” How glad those boys must have been to get back to school! Yet they court disaster by asking so many questions. All the children in our great-grandmothers’ story-books ask questions. All lay themselves open to attack. If they drink a cup of chocolate, they want to know what it is made of, and where cocoanuts grow. If they have a pudding for dinner, they are far more eager to learn about sago and the East Indies than to eat it. They put intelligent queries concerning the slave-trade, and make remarks that might be quoted in Parliament; yet they are as ignorant of the common things of life as though new-born into the world. In a book called “Summer Rambles, or Conversations Instructive and Amusing, for the Use of Children,” published in 1801, a little girl says to her mother: “Vegetables? I do not know what they are. Will you tell me?” And the mother graciously responds: “Yes, with a great deal of pleasure. Peas, beans, potatoes, carrots, turnips, and cabbages are vegetables.”
At least the good lady’s information was correct as far as it went, which was not always the case. The talented governess in “Little Truths” warns her pupils not to swallow young frogs out of bravado, lest perchance they should mistake and swallow a toad, which would poison them; and in a “History of Birds and Beasts,” intended for very young children, we find, underneath a woodcut of a porcupine, this unwarranted and irrelevant assertion:—
This creature shoots his pointed quills,
And beasts destroys, and men;
But more the ravenous lawyer kills
With his half-quill, the pen.