From Kitchen to Garret: Hints for young householders

by J. E. Panton

To hear some people with a baby is really quite enough to make one forswear a nursery for ever; the talk, the abject drivel, that is poured out like incense before it, the foolish petting, and the silly humouring, all being as vexatious to listen to as it is bad for the child itself, the ‘pigeon English’ provided for its entertainment often resulting in the baby talk that makes the ordinary two-year-old a perfect terror to any one who entertains it with conversation; while the sense of super-importance given to it in its cradle makes it a tyrant for the rest of its young life, until it goes to school or mixes with other people, and is intensely miserable because then, and then only, is it taught its real worth in the world.

Therefore, on every ground, it is better to begin at the very beginning and continue as one means to go on, and so I strongly advise the berceaunette to be ready with the nursery, and that the first sleep be taken in that sheltered spot.

There are a variety of these articles, but to my mind only one to be recommended, and that is the delightful hammock berceaunette to be obtained of Mrs. S. B. Garrard, in Westbourne Grove, and these have such a world-wide reputation now that I suppose all the world knows of them, and therefore no description is necessary; but for fear there may be folks who have not seen them, I may mention that the bed portion is quilted and hung on four strong legs, exactly like a hammock is hung, and that curtains are arranged in such a way that the light can be excluded without at the same time unduly excluding a proper amount of fresh air.

There are innumerable ways of trimming and making these berceaunettes. I have seen the hammock portion of quilted satin and silk and sateens of all colours, covered with fine muslins and trimmed real lace; but, honestly, even if we could afford such vanities as these, I do not consider them suitable for a small baby, who should never have any garments that cannot be properly washed constantly, and should not have any belongings that cannot share the same fate; and I have discovered that nothing looks, wears, and washes so well as plain white or figured cambric, edged with torchon lace; the hammock part made of cambric too, washable by any good nurse; and curtains tied back with old-gold-coloured ribbons, bows of which can be used as decorations, whenever this may be considered necessary. Terra-cotta ribbons look nice too, but I prefer the old gold to anything else, and it is newer than the everlasting pink or blue, which was all our foremothers ever halted between; though a sweet arrangement of palest pink, palest blue, and butter colour looks very French and uncommon. The only objection I have ever had made to me about these hammock berceaunettes is that they are easily knocked over. Well, all I can say is that I have never known them to be knocked over, while I have seen a ‘good old-fashioned’ wicker-work cradle, with the deep hood and flowery chintz, daisy-fringed flounces, of our own infancy, prostrated by some one knocking against and displacing one of the chairs, on two of which it was always necessary to place it, and this catastrophe has occurred to my certain knowledge more than once. The basket, which is such a necessary addition to baby’s trousseau, should match the berceaunette; and these too can be purchased of the hammock kind, and fold flat in a box for travelling. But before we describe this and speak of the contents we must complete our sketch of the bed, which would be incomplete without just a word about the necessary bedding.

One light hair mattress goes into the hammock part with a nice piece of blanket, and then, instead of the universal mackintosh sheet, we always have a thick piece of what country people call ‘blanket sheeting’; it is not a blanket nor yet a sheet, but something between the two, and invaluable for nursery use, as it can be washed daily—of course three or four pieces should be in use—and is quite as useful as mackintosh without being in the least bit unhealthy. Small pillows, very soft, and shaped in to the neck, are sold with the berceaunettes, and these should be provided with very fine cotton pillow-cases, edged with a tiny cambric frill—linen is too cold—and the cotton, if fine enough, gives no chill, and yet does not scrub the tender skin; the sheet should be for appearance only at first, and should be simply a piece of cotton or longcloth frilled, and tacked on the blanket, and folded over to look nice, but only, as I said before, for appearance’ sake, for the warmth of the blankets is most important for the infant, and should be supplemented by a miniature eider-down quilt in a washing cover of figured cambric edged with torchon, and, if fancied, embellished in its turn with some pretty bows.

Another thing: though I would always have an infant kept as quiet as possible, utterly and strenuously forbidding long railway journeys, much changing of nurseries, much seeing of company, I yet do say that to some noises the baby must be early accustomed. I have been in young married people’s households where the magic words, ‘Oh, if you please, mum, nurse says baby is asleep, have brought about a state of things that reminds one of the Sleeping Beauty’s palace. The canary bird is hustled under an antimacassar, the piano is closed, and conversation is carried on in whispers, until a shrill cry sets us free from bondage and the spell is removed. In such a household Edwin’s song has been brought to an abrupt conclusion, his cheery whistle announcing his home-coming received with chill reprimand, and we have gone about the passages on tiptoe, echoing in our souls Edwin’s hasty but understandable mutter of ‘Confound baby!’ which is a sentiment which should be on no one’s lips for one moment, of course.

Now if, when the young person first arrives, he is taught his proper place in the economy of the household, we shall have none of this. Precious, perfect, and beautiful as no doubt he is, the world is full of others just exactly like him, and while we all of us, I hope, recognise and believe in the serious and solemn side of maternity, while we know and feel that here is an immortal soul committed to our charge to train in the best way possible—for time and for eternity too, if we can—I do maintain that the lives of the parents are to be considered too, and that Edwin and Angelina have no right to sink themselves and their identity in that terrible middle-class ‘pa’ and ‘ma’ which seems to swallow, like some all-devouring serpent, the prettinesses and good taste of so many of our young married people, and that causes more unhappiness, I venture to state, than almost anything else.

The cry of an infant is soon interpreted by his nurse, who easily discriminates between hunger and temper, and the shrieks of temper must be stopped at once, or else our lives will be made a burden to us. How often have the untamed shrieks of children embittered my existence! and I am sure hundreds of people have suffered as I do. Now, unless something really has happened, I go so far as to say children can fall and hurt themselves without announcing the fact to the neighbours. I always make my own children try and exercise self-control, and the small troubles that are the fate of all cease to be the terror of the household when little ones bear them manfully, and have their wounds dressed without roaring all the time, and the wounds cease to be terrible to the children themselves, and pain becomes bearable, if the sufferer sees that there is nothing so serious after all, and that nothing terrible results from it; but this training must begin at the very beginning—it cannot begin too early. Children must learn that they can help their elders, who have so much an their shoulders already, and babies must be taught to be decent members of society, so will their coming be a pleasure, and not the torment and upsetting it all too often is in a household.

With a first baby the danger of this is always immense, and Angelina requires almost superhuman courage to prevent it being otherwise. It is a temptation to her to give herself airs to her friends, and to snub her own and Edwin’s mothers, who, having brought up children, may be presumed to know something about the subject, and to make Edwin’s life a burden to him too; while some Edwins are worse than their wives, and insist on dragging the poor child out of its bed at all seasons of the day and night to exhibit it, being, of course, bitterly indignant when the infant resents such treatment, and becomes crabbed and puny and miserable in consequence.

Therefore I consider I can hardly say too much or repeat too often the axiom that both bed and nursery should be ready for the baby, and that from the first he should be accustomed to both in that perfect house which shall be built some day when my ship comes home, and I have time to learn to draw. The nurseries shall lead past dressing-room and bath-room from the mother’s bedroom itself—that is to say, that the bedroom shall have all this leading out of it, and that the night nursery shall be so close to the mother’s room that she can reach it at once should she desire to do so, while the children, when old enough, should run in and out when they like—a bolt being shot, of course, when dressing goes on—and shall feel that they and their parents are always within touch of each other.