A RAMBLE ABOUT CHILDHOOD.

By Mrs. MOLESWORTH.

No true child-lover would maintain that all children are equally lovable, or indeed, in some—though, I think, rare instances—lovable at all.

But in this, speaking for myself, I detect no inconsistency, no falsity to one’s colours. For the qualities or deficiencies which make a child unlovable may be summed up in one word; they are such as make it unchildlike. And this, not necessarily, if at all, as regards a child’s mental qualities. It is the moral side of child-nature that attracts—the heart, the spirit. For painful as it is to meet with precocity of mind in some instances, especially the precocity of the kind forced upon the children of the poor not unfrequently, this, unchildlike as it is, is by no means incompatible with great sweetness and beauty of the moral character, great power of affection, delightful candour, even that most exquisite of childlike possessions—trustfulness.

Yes, the root of a child’s nature, the essential groundwork of it, to be lovely and lovable, must be childlike. But a literal meaning must be given to the pretty adjective. I would not even altogether eliminate from it certain qualities which might, strictly speaking, be perhaps more correctly described as childish, seeing that if we limited the word too narrowly, we should lose others of the great charms of children, their queer, delightful inconsistencies and exaggerations, their quaint originality, their grotesque imaginings, all of which, in more or less degree, a real child, even a dull or stupid one, possesses.

Take, for example, the unconscious egoism, almost amounting, logically speaking, to “arrogance,” of most children. The world, nay, the universe, is their own little life and surroundings; their house and family are the rules, the proper thing, all others exceptions. It is not, in most instances, till childhood is growing into a phase of the past, that the sense of comparison is really developed, or that the young creatures take in that other circumstances or conditions besides their own may be what should be, that they themselves do not hold a monopoly of the model existence.

There is something pretty as well as absurd in this—to my mind, at least, in certain directions, something almost sacred, which it would be desecration to touch with hasty or careless fingers; which, one almost grieves to know, must pass, like all illusions, however sweet and innocent, when its day is over.

To recall some recollections of my own childish beliefs—if the egotism may be pardoned, on the ground that one’s own experiences of this nature cannot but be the most trustworthy. I often smile to myself, with the smile “akin to tears,” when I look back to some of the faiths, the first principles, of my earliest years.

Foremost among these was the belief in the absolute perfection of my father and mother. I thought that they could not do wrong, that they knew everything. I remember feeling extremely surprised and perplexed on some occasions when, having involuntarily—for I, like most children, but seldom expressed or alluded to my deepest convictions—allowed this creed of mine to escape me, the subjects of it—though not without a smile—endeavoured tenderly to correct my estimate of them.

“There are many, many things I do not know about, my little girl,” my father would say, adding once, I remember—for this remark impressed me greatly—“I only know enough to begin to see that I am exceedingly ignorant.” And my mother was even more emphatic in her deprecation of our nursery fiat that “mamma was quite, quite good.”

Not that these protestations shook our faith. In my own case I know that the unconscious arrogance with regard to family conditions extended to ludicrous details. I thought that the Christian names of my parents were the only correct ones for papas and mammas; I believed that the order in which we children stood—there were six of us, boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl—was the appointed order of nature, that all deviation from these and other particulars of the kind was abnormal and incorrect, and I viewed with condescending pity the playmates whose brothers and sisters were wrongly arranged, or whose parents suffered under “not right” names.

Gradually, of course, these queer, childish “articles of belief” faded—melted away in the clearer vision of experience and developing intellect. But they left a something behind them which I should be sorry to be without; and they left too, I think, a certain faculty of penetration into infant inner life, which circumstances have shown themselves kindly in preserving and deepening. I have learnt to feel since that nearly all children have their own odd and original theories of things, though many forget, as life advances, to remember about their own childhood’s beliefs and imaginings. And this is not unnatural, when we take into account the rarity and difficulty of obtaining a child’s full confidence, for uncommunicated, unexpressed thoughts are apt to die away from want of word-clothing. One really learns more about children from the revelations of grown-up men and women who “remember,” and have cherished their remembrances, than from the children of the moment themselves.

Still, queer ideas crop out to others sometimes. Not often—if it happened oftener we should be less struck by their oddity, by their grotesque originality. A few which, in some instances, not without difficulty and the exertion of some amount of diplomacy, I have succeeded in extracting—no, that is not the right word for a matter of such fairylike delicacy—in drawing out, as the bee draws the honey from the tiny flowers—occur to me as I write, and may be worth mention.

A small boy of my acquaintance, after a fit of extreme penitence for some little offence against his grandmother, whom he was very fond of, added to his “so very sorry,” “never do it again, never, never,” the unintelligible assurance, “I will be always good to you, dear little granny, always; and when you have to go round all the houses, I’ll see that our cook gives you lots and lots of scraps—very nice ones—and nice old boots and shoes, and everything you want. I’ll even”—with a burst of enthusiastic devotion—“I’ll even go round with you my own self.”

Grandmother expressed her sense of the intended good offices, but gingerly, with my assistance, set to work to find out what the little fellow meant—what in the world he had got into his head; and it was no easy task, I can assure you. But at last we succeeded. It appeared that the confusion in the boy’s mind arose from the, in a sense, double meaning of the word “old.” He associated it, naturally enough, with the idea of poverty, material worthlessness, in conjunction with that of age and long-livedness. Every human being, he believed, had to descend, “when you gets very old,” to a state of beggardom; his dear granny, like everybody else, would have to wander from door to door with a piteous tale of want; but from his door she should never be repulsed; nay indeed, he himself would take her by the hand and lead her on the painful round. Nor did he murmur at this strange order of things; to him it was a “has-to-be,” accepted like the darkness that follows the day; like the gradual out-at-toe condition of his own little worn-out shoes; and I greatly doubt if our carefully-worded explanation of his mistake carried real conviction with it. I strongly suspect that he remained on the look-out for granny in her new rôle for a good many months, or even years, to come.

Some other curious childish beliefs recur to my memory. I knew a little girl who cherished as an undoubted article of faith a legend—how originated who can say?—perhaps suggested by some half poetical talk of her elders about the aging year, the year about to bid us farewell and so on, perhaps entirely evolved out of her own fantastic little brain—that on the 31st of December the “old year” took material human form and strolled about the world in the guise of an aged man, though unrecognised by the uninitiated crowd. She had the habit on this day of taking up her quarters in a corner of the deep, old-fashioned window-sill of her nursery, and there, in patient silence, gazing down into the street till Mr. Old-year should have passed by. Nor were her hopes disappointed. She always caught sight of him and nodded her own farewell, unexpectful of any response.

“He couldn’t say good-bye to everybody; he wouldn’t have time,” was her explanation to the little sister to whom she at last confided her odd fancy, and through whose indiscretion it leaked out to the rest of the nursery group.

“But how do you know him?” she was asked. “Is he always dressed the same?”

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “he sometimes wears a black coat and sometimes a brown; and one year he had a blue one with brass buttons. That was the first year I saw him, and I have never missed him since. He has always white hair, and he walks slowly, looking about him. I always know him, almost as well as you’d know Santa Claus if he came along the street, though, of course, he never does. He comes down chimneys, and I don’t think children ever do see him, for they’re always asleep.”

The little woman was, wisely I think, left undisturbed in her innocent fancy. How many more times she ensconced herself in her window on the 31st of December I cannot say. The belief in the poor Old-year’s lonely wandering interested her for the time and did her no harm, then gently faded, to be revived perhaps as a story of “When mother was a little girl,” when mother came to have little girls of her own to beg for her childish reminiscences.

This personification of abstract ideas is a peculiarity, a speciality of children, as it was no doubt of the children of the world’s history—our remote ancestors. And I have noticed that among abstract ideas that of time has a particular fascination for imaginative little people. Many years ago I happened to be staying in a country house when a group of children arrived from town to spend their summer holiday with the uncle and aunt to whom it belonged. Entering the room where these little sisters were quartered, early in the morning after their journey, I was surprised to find the trio wide awake, each sitting up in her cot, in absolute silence as if listening for something.

I too stood silent and still for a minute or two, till yielding to curiosity I turned to the nearest bed, which happened to be that of the youngest, a girl of five or six.

“What is it, Francie?” I inquired. “Are you trying to hear the church bells”—for it was Sunday morning—“or what?”

With perfect seriousness she turned to me as she replied—

“No, auntie dear. We are listening to time passing. We can always hear it when we first come to the country. In London there is too much noise. Meg”—her mature sister of ten—“taught us about it. So we always try to wake early the first morning on purpose to hear it.”

Another friend of mine, now an elderly, if not quite an old, woman, had a curious fancy when a very young child, in connection with which there is a pretty anecdote of the poet Wordsworth, which may make the story worth relating. This little girl believed that during the night before a birthday a miraculous amount of “growing” was done, and on the morning on which her elder brother attained the age of six, she, his junior by two years, flew into the nursery when he was being dressed, expecting to see a marvellous transformation. But—to her immense disappointment—there stood her dear Jack looking precisely as he had done when she bade him good-night the evening before. Maimie’s feelings were too much for her.

“Oh, Jack,” she cried, bursting into tears, “why haven’t you growed big? I thought you’d be kite a big boy this morning.”

Jack and nurse stared at her. I am afraid they called her a silly girl, but however that may have been, her disappointment was vivid enough for the remembrance of it to have lasted through well nigh half a century, and her tears flowed on. Just then came a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of the cook, a north countrywoman and a great favourite with the children. A glance at her showed Maimie that she was weeping, and when their old friend threw her arms around the little people, and kissed them, amidst her sobs Maimie felt certain that the source of her grief was the same as of her own.

“Is you crying ’cos Jack hasn’t growed for his birthday?” asked the little girl. But Hannah shook her head.

“I don’t know what you mean, my sweet one,” said the old woman. “I’m crying because I’ve got to leave you. This very morning I’m going, and I’ve come to say good-bye.”

This startling announcement checked Maimie’s tears, or if they flowed again it was from a different cause.

“Oh, dear Hannah,” the two exclaimed, “why must you go if it makes you so unhappy? Doesn’t mamma want you to stay?”

“Oh, yes, dearie,” was the reply, “but it’s my duty to go to my old mistress. She’s ill now and sad, and she thinks Hannah can nurse her better than anyone else.”

So with tender farewells to the children she was never to see again, poor Hannah went her way.

Her “old mistress” was Miss Dorothy Wordsworth. And though Jack and Maimie never saw the faithful servant any more, they heard from, or rather of, her before long. For only a few weeks had passed when one morning the postman brought a small parcel directed to themselves, and a letter to Jack, Hannah’s particular pet. The letter and the addresses were in a queer, somewhat shaky hand-writing, that of Mr. Wordsworth himself, now an aged man, for it was within a few years of his death; the parcel contained a tempting-looking volume, bound in red and gold—“Selections for the young”—of the laureate’s poems, with Jack’s name inscribed therein, and even more gratifying, from the kindly thoughtfulness it displayed, a little silk neckerchief in tartan—the children’s own tartan, for they belonged to a Scotch clan—for Maimie. And the letter, written to the old servant’s dictation, for she could not write herself, told of her consultation with her master as to the most appropriate presents to choose for her little favourites.

Almost more touching than the trustfulness of children is their extraordinary endurance—a quality often, I fear, carried to a painful and even dangerous point. It has its root, I suspect, in their innate trust, their belief that whatever their elders deem right must be so; also perhaps, in a certain almost fatalistic acceptance of things as they are. But on few subjects connected with childhood have I felt more strongly than on this. No parent is justified in “taking for granted” the moral qualifications, even the suitability of the persons in charge of their little boys and girls, however unexceptionable may be the references and recommendations they bring. It takes tact and gives trouble, but it is among the first of the duties of mothers especially to make sure on such points for themselves. For besides their trust in their elders and their natural resignation to the conditions about them, there is an extreme sense of loyalty in most children, a horror of “tell-taling,” such as are often far too slightly appreciated or taken into account.

As these remarks are professedly a “ramble” I may be forgiven for reverting to that beautiful trustfulness, by relating an incident which, though trivial in the extreme, has never faded from my memory. We were returning, late at night, or so at least it seemed to me, from some kind of juvenile entertainment at Christmas time. It was a stormy evening; I was a very little girl, and since infancy, high wind has always frightened me, and that night it was blowing fiercely. I was already trembling, when the carriage suddenly stopped. My father at once sprang out, for there was no second man on the box; there was nothing wrong, only the coachman’s hat had blown off! He got down and ran back for it, and my father replaced him and drove on slowly, for the wind had made the horse restless.

“Oh, mamma,” I exclaimed, “I am so frightened. The coachman has gone away.”

“Yes, darling,” said my mother, “but don’t you see papa is driving?”

I shall never forget the impression of absolute comfort and fearlessness that came over me at her words.

“Papa is driving,” I repeated to myself. “We are quite, quite safe.”

And all through the many years since that winter night, the impression has never faded; often and often it has returned to me as a suggestion of the essential beauty of trust, the germ of the “perfect love” towards which we strive.

Not a propos of the foregoing reminiscences, yet not, I hope, mal a propos in a roundabout paper, two anecdotes of a different kind, of children, recur to me, showing the odd directions that their cogitations sometimes take.

A little boy of my acquaintance, partly perhaps from nervousness, was subject to violent fits of crying, most irritating and perplexing to deal with. Once started—often by some absurdly trivial cause—there was literally no saying when Charley would leave off. One day, after an unusually long and exhausting attack, to his mother’s great relief, the floods gave signs of abating; she left the room to fetch him a glass of water. On her return the sobs had subsided.

“Oh, Charley,” she said, with natural but ill-advised expression of her feelings, “you have really worn me out. If ever you have children of your own, who cry like you, I hope you will remember your poor mother.”

Forthwith, to her dismay, the wails and tears burst out again, and it was not till some time had elapsed that the child would listen to her repeated inquiries as to what in the world he was crying for now. At last came the little looked-for reply.

“It wasn’t because of this morning,” (what had started the fit I do not remember) “I’d left off crying about that. It was you thinking I would bring up my children so badly.”

Anecdote No. 2 relates to a more exalted personage than Master Charley.

Several years ago I was gratified by hearing from a friend then resident in Italy and acquainted with the Court circle, that one of my earliest books for children, Carrots, had found great favour in the eyes of the young Crown Prince, then a mere boy. His exact sentiments on the subject were conveyed to me in a letter written at his request. The story had amused and interested him at a moment when he was specially in want of entertainment, for it was just at the date of the death of his grandfather, the great Victor Emanuel, and his little namesake had not been allowed to go out riding or driving as usual for several days. He did not know how he would have passed the time but for Carrots, he said. He wished Mrs. Molesworth to know this, and he also wished to make a request to her. Would she write another book as soon as possible—(not, as one might have expected, of further details of my little hero’s boyhood, but)—to tell how “Carrots” brought up his own children when he became a big man and was married!