What constitutes a large family? Upon this point there is much difference of opinion. A poor woman was complaining one day that she did not receive her proper share of charitable doles. Her neighbour Mrs. Hawke, in the next court, came in for everything and "got more than ever she was entitled to; for Mrs. Hawke had no family—not to speak of; only nine." "Only nine! how many then have you?" was the natural rejoinder. "Fourteen living," she replied. But even fourteen is not such a very large number when one is used to it. Some one is said to have begun a story of some trifling adventure which had befallen him with the words, "As I was crossing Oxford Street the other day with fourteen of my daughters"—Laughter followed, and the narrator never got beyond those introductory words. We do not believe this anecdote, but if it were true, was there not something heroic in the contented, matter-of-fact way in which the man spoke of his belongings? "Fourteen of my daughters!" An unsympathizing spectator might have said that any one with such a following ought to have been crossing not Oxford Street, but the Atlantic.
A nursery-maid was leading a little child up and down a garden. "Is't a laddie or a lassie?" asked the gardener. "A laddie," said the maid. "Weel," said he, "I'm glad o' that, for there's ower mony women in the world." "Heck, man," was the reply, "did ye no ken there's aye maist sown o' the best crap?" This rejoinder was more ready than correct, for as a matter of fact more boys are born than girls. It is natural for parents to desire offspring of both sexes. Both are required to complete a family. Being brought up together the boys acquire something of their sisters' delicacy and tact, while the girls learn something of their brothers' self-reliance and independence.
"Desire not a multitude of unprofitable children, neither delight in ungodly sons. Though they multiply, rejoice not in them, except the fear of the Lord be with them. Trust not thou in their life, neither respect their multitude: for one that is just is better than a thousand; and better it is to die without children, than to have them that are ungodly." In reference to children quality is far more to be desired than quantity. Without accepting pessimism, we may deny that the mere propagation of the human race is an object which presents itself as in itself a good. The chief end of man is not simply to have "the hope and the misfortune of being," but to glorify God and to serve humanity. What is the use of a child who is likely to do neither?
If it be the will of God to withhold offspring from a young couple, nothing should be said either by the husband or wife that could give the other pain on the subject. To do so is more than reprehensible; it is odious and contemptible. How unlike Elkanah, when, with sentiments at once manly and tender, he thus addresses his weeping wife—"Hannah, why weepest thou? and why eatest thou not? and why is thy heart grieved? am not I better to thee than ten sons?"
"We, ignorant of ourselves,
Beg often our own harms which the wise powers
Deny us for our good; so find we profit
By losing of our prayers."
Writing on this subject a lady tells us that she had a relation who was married some years without having a child. Her feelings partook not only of grief, but of anguish: at length, a lovely boy was granted her. "Spare, O God, the life of my blessing," was her constant prayer. Her blessing was spared: he grew to the years of manhood; squandered a fine fortune; married a servant-maid; and broke his mother's heart!
Another intimate friend of the author's was inconsolable for not having children. At length, the prospect of her becoming a mother was certain, and her joy was extreme. The moment of trial arrived: for four days and nights her sufferings and torture were not to be allayed by medical skill or human aid. At length her cries ceased; and, at the same moment that she gave birth to two children, she herself had become a corpse. "Give me children," said the impatient and weeping Rachel, "or else I die" (Gen. XXX. 1). Her prayer was heard, and in giving birth to her boy the mother expired.
Another impassioned mother, as she bent over the bed of her sick infant, called out, "Oh, no; I cannot resign him. It is impossible; I cannot resign him." A person present, struck with her words, noted them down in a daily journal which he kept. The boy recovered; and that day one-and-twenty years he was hanged as a murderer!
How terrible it is when a much-desired child is born to a comparatively useless existence by reason of some deficiency or deformity. Very touching is the story of a lady who, though deaf and dumb, became the wife of an earl through her beauty. In due course the king o' the world, the baby, presented himself—a fine child, of course, and a future earl. Soon after its birth, as the nurse sat watching the babe, she saw the countess mother approach the cradle with a huge china vase, lift it above the head of the sleeping child, and poise it to dash it down. Petrified with horror, wondering at the strange look of the mother's face, the nurse sat powerless and still; she dared not even cry out; she was not near enough to throw herself between the victim and the blow. The heavy mass was thrown down with a tremendous force and crash on the floor beside the cradle, and the babe awoke terrified and screaming, clung to his delighted mother, who had made the experiment to discover whether her child had the precious gift of voice and hearing, or was like herself, a mute.
In his "Bachelor's Complaint of the Behaviour of Married People," Charles Lamb speaks of "the airs which these creatures give themselves when they come, as they generally do, to have children. When I consider how little of a rarity children are—that every street and blind alley swarms with them—that the poorest people commonly have them in most abundance—that there are few marriages that are not blest with at least one of these bargains—how often they turn out ill and defeat the fond hopes of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty, disgrace, the gallows, &c.—I cannot for my life tell what cause for pride there can possibly be in having them. If they were young phoenixes, indeed, that were born but one in a hundred years, there might be a pretext. But when they are so common——"