In behalf of the infant tribe I enter a protest against this calumny. Well-bred, healthy, comfortable babies are never cross until they are rendered so, in spite of themselves, by mismanagement. If Mrs. So-and-so puts her Bobby to sleep where he is liable to be awakened by the ordinary noises of the household machinery, and, furthermore, when these, or some untoward accident has started him from the slumber that should have lasted two hours, before one-half of this time has elapsed, if she makes matters worse by taking him up, instead of quieting all external disturbance and lulling him again to rest before he knows where he is, or what has happened; if he is fed just when it suits Mrs. S.’s or Bridget’s convenience or Bobby’s whim, at intervals of varying lengths; the probability, I may say, the certainty is, that Bobby will become an unreasonable, discontented tyrant, a nuisance to himself and to all around him. And if Susy, and Jenny, and Dicky are all trained after the like manner, there is an equal certainty that Mrs. So-and-so will have, among her acquaintances, the deserved reputation of being the worn-out, irritable mother of a brood of cross, spoiled, “hateful” children. But, again I say, I don’t blame the babies! First of all, make the darlings welcome; that is half the battle! Then, make them comfortable. A celebrated medical man gives three capital rules for securing this desirable end: “Plenty of milk, plenty of sleep, and plenty of flannel.” I would add a cardinal principle, governing every other—begin from the outset—from the day of birth, if possible, a gentle, firm system of punctuality in feeding, dressing, and putting to sleep the wee things that lie, like breathing automata, upon the hands that foster them. Like their fellows of a larger growth, they are creatures of habit.
I wish—how fervently and how frequently, I dare not pretend to say—that method, a wise and just system of duty and recreation, could be made the chief earthly law of every household. Let there not only be “a place for every thing and every thing in its place,” but a time for every thing, and let every thing be done in its season. When I see the mistress of a family toiling and worried from morning until night, pulled a dozen different ways at once, by as many duties, all of apparently equal importance, driving herself and servants, wearying her husband by incessant complaints, and dragging, rather than bringing up her children, I wonder not that American women break down so early, but at the tenacity of life that enables them to endure their load for a single year. The clever writer of an article, entitled “A Spasm of Sense,” published not long since, in one of our most clever monthlies, finds the cause of the lamentable condition of so many a domestic establishment in the superabundance of olive-plants that crowd American nurseries. From my different standpoint, I am inclined to believe the trouble to be, not that there are too many babies, but that there are not more wise and capable mothers.
I know a lady who was, when she married, a delicate, beautiful girl, the petted favorite of a large circle of admiring friends. The seventh anniversary of her wedding-day saw her the mother of five children. Acquaintances, who only heard of this rapid increase of cares, shook mournful heads and drew pitying sighs, between contemptuous smiles. “What a change!”
It was a change, than which my eyes have rarely beheld a fairer. Her babies were not pattern, spiritless dolls, but hearty, roguish youngsters, who frolicked, and shouted, and disputed, as all sound, sprightly children will do, and as they should not be hindered from doing. But Mamma was at once the motive-power and centre of attraction of the system, wherein these lively planets revolved. She was more lovely, with a chastened, matronly beauty, than in her girlhood, and discontent had ploughed no furrows in her smooth brow. To each of the fast-coming troop she gave a motherly greeting, and, as by magic, brought it, with its wishes and needs, under the influence of the judicious law of order that extended over the rest of her band. She nourished them from her bosom; bathed, dressed, and undressed them, and herself laid them down for the nightly and midday slumber; made most of their clothing with her own hands; as they grew older, directed their studies—she “could not bear to send them from her to school!” Yet she was the ever-patient, ever-cheerful referee in their sports and quarrels; looked well to the other ways of her household; was a faithful mistress, a good housekeeper, and a kind neighbor, and, withal, managed to keep up with the best literature of the day; and when her husband’s business hours were over, became his companion, at home and abroad, with more ease and frequency than any other wife I ever saw.
This is no fancy sketch, nor have I done the original justice. It is not surprising that the offspring of such a woman should rise up and call her blessed; the marvel and disgrace are, that there are not hundreds and thousands like her, throughout the country. I do not ask that our daughters should be brought up in the belief that matrimony is the chief end of woman’s existence. I do hold, in consideration of the fact that an immense majority of our sex do marry and have the cares of a family laid upon them, that girls ought to receive a training which shall fit them, in some degree, for a position involving responsibilities so solemn and onerous.
I know the popular outcry against the slavishness of maternal duties.
“As well bury me alive after the first year of married life!” cries Mrs. A-la-mode. “I, with my education and accomplishments, may surely aspire to a higher position than that of nursery-maid! I consider that I serve my children more effectually by reserving my strength and cultivating my talents against such time as their maturer minds shall require my companionship.”
In other words, Mrs. A-la-mode leaves it to hired menials to work, irrigate, and plant the virgin soil, and expects, in the ripening of the harvest, to put in her patent sickle—latest style—and gather such grain as she shall then decree. I am acquainted with but one way in which a woman can conscientiously and surely evade the fulfilment of a mother’s obligations. In this day and country, there are no forced marriages. If Miss Faintheart and Miss Easy abhor the prospect of directing and fostering a young family, they can remain single; and, to be frank, I think the next generation will be the gainers by their celibacy.
Again, and strictly apropos to this division of my subject—Babies have a right to be heard.
“My dear children,” said a Sabbath-school lecturer; “when I say ‘boys’ I mean girls, and when I say ‘girls’ I mean boys.”