But, just as our sun goes down to the horizon, a moonlight reflection of pleasure, purer, calmer than the first, rises to give a sweet interest to the lives of all who are happy enough to have young creatures around them. The pleasures we can no longer taste for ourselves we taste in our children’s enjoyment. Their glee, their eagerness, their freshness of delight, stir our pulses with tenderness and sympathy. I do not know anything in the world which pulls one’s heartstrings so much as the sight of a little blue-eyed, golden-haired, white-frocked atom of humanity clapping its hands and crowing with ecstasy at the sight of a kite soaring up into the summer sky.
Are we to ask parents to deny themselves and their children in the stern old way, and turn their young lives into dreary rounds of duty and work, till they hate the very name of either one or the other? God forbid! Does God, the great Parent, Father and Mother of the World, lead us up to himself by any such harsh, stern tuition? Nay, but has he not made earth so beautiful, and planted flowers by every wayside, and gladdened our hearts by ten thousand delights of the intellect, the senses, the tastes, and the affections? Fear, my friends, to make your children unhappy, and to love them too little. But never fear to make them too happy or to love them too much! There is a great, deep saying, that we must all enter the kingdom of God as little children. Surely, the converse of it is true also; and we should prepare in our homes a kingdom of God,—of peace and love and tenderness and innocent pleasure,—whenever a little child is sent to us out of heaven to dwell in it.
We now come to speak of the duties of daughters. The ethical grounds of the duty of supreme benevolence toward our parents are clear. They are nearest to us of human beings. We owe them life and (nearly always also) endless cares and affection. In the case of a mother, her claims on her child—founded on the bodily agony she has borne on its behalf, and the ineffably sweet office of nursing (when she has performed it), her care in infancy, and love and sympathy in later years—make together such a cumulative title to gratitude and devotion that it is impossible to place on it any limitation.
This claim is, of course, happily usually admitted in the case of daughters who do not marry. It is understood that they are bound to do all they can for their mother’s and father’s comfort. But, may I ask, who absolved the daughters who marry from the same sacred obligation? In Catholic countries, young women often quit their aged parents, no matter how much they need them, to enter “religion,” as it is said; and we Protestants are very indignant with them for so doing. But, when it comes to our Protestant religion of matrimony, lo! we are extremely indulgent to the girl who deposits her filial obligations on what the Morning Post calls the “Hymeneal Altar!” The daughter practically says to her blind father or bed-ridden mother: “Corban! I am going off to India with Captain Algernon, who waltzes beautifully, and whom I met last night at a ball. It is a gift by whatsoever you might have been profited by me.”
Is this right or justifiable? Public opinion condones it; and the parent often consents out of the abundance of unselfish affection, thereby in a certain formal way releasing the daughter from her natural debt. But I do not think, if the parent really wants her services, that she can morally withdraw them, even with such consent, and certainly not without it.
We all see this remarkably clearly when the question is not of marriage, but of a girl of the higher class devoting herself to charity or art, or any kind of public work which requires her to quit her parents’ roof. Then, indeed, even if her parents be in the full vigor of life, and have half a dozen other daughters, we are pretty sure to hear the solemn condemnation of the adventurous damsel, “Angelina ought to attend to her father and mother, and not go here or there for this or that purpose.”
Surely there is a very obvious rule to cover all these cases. If either parent wants the daughter she ought not to leave him or her, either to marry or to go into a nunnery, or for any other purpose. If her parents do not want her, then, being of age to judge for herself, she is free either to undertake the duties of a wife, or any others for which she may feel a vocation.
This may sound very hard. It is undoubtedly the demand for a very high degree of virtue, where the sacrifice may be that of the happiness of a lifetime. But every duty may sometimes claim such sacrifices. Parental duty does so perpetually. How many thousands of mothers and fathers toil all their days and give up health and every enjoyment for their children’s interests! Why should not filial duties likewise exact equal sacrifice? The entire devotion to the parent when the parent really needs it, and the constant devotion of as much care as the parent requires,—this, and nothing short of this, seems to me to be the standard of filial duty.
A very difficult question arises in the case of the abnormal and scarcely sane development of selfishness which we sometimes sadly witness in old age. I think, in such deplorable cases, the child is called on to remember that, even in her filial relation, the moral welfare of the object of benevolence is before all other considerations, and that she is bound to pause in a course which obviously is tending to promote a great moral fault. Gently and with great care and deference, she ought to remind the parent of the needs of others.
The great difficulty in the lives of hundreds of daughters of the upper ranks just now lies in this: that they find themselves torn between two opposing impulses, and know not which they ought to follow. On one side are the habits of a child, and the assurance of everybody that the same habits of quiescence and submission ought to be maintained into womanhood. On the other hand there is the same instinct which we see in a baby’s limbs, to stir, to change its position, to climb, to run; to use, in short, the muscles and faculties it possesses. Every young bird flutters away from its nest, however soft; every little rabbit quits the comfortable hole in which it was born; and we take it as fit and right they should do so, even when there are hawks and weasels all around. Only when a young girl wants to do anything of the analogous kind, her instinct is treated as a sort of sin. She is asked, “Can not she be contented, having so nice a home and luxuries provided in abundance?” Keble’s fine but much-misused lines, about “room to deny ourselves” and the “common task” and “daily round” being all we ought to require, are sure to be quoted against her; and, in short, she feels herself a culprit, and probably at least once a week has a fit of penitence for her incorrigible “discontent.” I have known this kind of thing go on for years, and it is repeated in hundreds, in thousands, of families. I have known it where there were seven miserable, big, young women in one little house! It is supposed to be the most impossible thing in the world for a parent to give his son a stone for bread or a serpent for a fish. But scores of fathers, in the higher ranks, give their daughters diamonds when they crave for education, and twist round their necks the serpents of idle luxury and pleasure when they ask for wholesome employment.