Or, 'tis the sad mute playroom that we tread, There hangs upon the wall his sword and sash, Faded beneath a burning Indian sun. Poor boy, he bravely died; we had his captain's word For the young ensign's honour in the field. Poor boy, he was our last Upon my hands Hot tears, large as the drops of summer, fell, Stopping my speech. Alas! these were but dreams But in her woman's heart long time they dwelt, And the bright angels that before did climb, 65 THE PHILOSOPHY OF BABYDOM. WHAT a revolution takes place in the habits and feelings of people when little children begin to congregate around the family hearth! Then it is, and not until then, that they begin to take a great part in the great scheme; and that they feel they are not merely individuals "unattached" in this moving, breathing universe, but that they have done something towards maintaining that stream of life on which themselves are born along. What a crowd of new sympathies seem born also with a new birth. Never shall I forget how suddenly I found myself noticing the little children as they passed me in the streets, and taking an interest in chubby faces with large fixed eyes, such as in bachelorhood had been my aversion. It seemed as though the little human dormouse at home had lit up with a touch all the babies in the world. If such feelings mingle with the harder and more worldly projects of men, in women they are all-pervading. They live entirely in a baby world. The multitudes of promising infants they contrive to see and hear of, is quite astonishing. And when the infant proper is for a minute out of their hands, their concomitants immediately start up. Reader, if you be a family man, just try your wife by a walk through town, and see, if every ten minutes she does not make a dead stop before a babylinen shop. The love for babies in general is only ancillary, of course, to the love of babies in particular. I remember once seeing my wife kissing and "dear" ing one of her friends' little children; and, very innocently, I afterwards dwelt upon the child's beauty, wishing our own Tommy was just such another! Well, no matter what took place, but I never will make any invidious comparisons again! Mothers are always set on hair-triggers with respect to their children; and persons should be careful what they say about them-taking especial care of those who wish to know "your candid opinion.” F A young mother with whom I was on very friendly terms, once asked me what I really thought, without flattery, of her little first-born. Taken in by her air of sincerity, I ventured to say, very diplomatically as I thought, that a leetle less red in his hair (it was dead sandy) would make it her own charming auburn. She smiled blandly enough; but I afterwards overheard her complain to her husband that I was a very disagreeable person, and that I always came with dirty feet into her drawing-room. My good friends, depend upon it, your only chance with mothers is in what is vulgarly termed "going the whole hog." Qualify your compliments indeed! play with the string of a shower-bath in December. I have often thought that it would be well, by way of dispelling the mighty prejudice that mothers entertain with regard to their own children, that on certain occasions there should be a grand feast of babies-expositions at which it would be made. plain to the commonest understanding that all babies run pretty much upon the same pattern. And yet I fear, that the most convincing proofs would be lost upon maternal breasts. As it is, when two or three young mothers happen to know each other, they generally rush together at the first opportunity, babies in arms, and "darlings," "little sweets," and "preciouses," fly about in showers-all the time that they are secretly taking notes; and who ever heard of any one of them coming out of such a competition, in their hearts, other than vic torious? The most singular effect of children, however, is upon prim people. A young acquaintance of mine, who in his days of bachelorhood would brush a crumb off his knees with scrupulous carefulness, and guard his shirt-front as he would his honour, suddenly got married; and, as I watched him narrowly, it was quite curious to notice the change which took place in his habits. At first, he did battle stoutly against the invasion of tiny fingers; bit by bit, however, his defences were carried, and the enemy advanced, until at last his knees were unreservedly rendered up, and his very shirt-studs recognized as legitimate points of attack for the baby. "The baby,”—what a grinding domestic tyranny is exercised under that watchword! what a sword and buckler it is towards maintaining a mother's supremacy! Fathers, bend your foreheads to the dust at that dread name. Meekly submit to a despotism which is supported by the universal voice of womankind, and to infringe the slightest prerogative of which is to proclaim yourself “a brute.” It is singular the facility with which "the baby" can be made available for the purposes of either offence or defence. In the former capacity the darling is an overpowering weapon. Do you happen to come in rather late from a friend's house, how convenient it is to fly out against "disturbing the little pet at that time of night." Do you object to the expense of a brougham and driver in white Berlin gloves, that your wife may go a gossiping among her friends, you are asked, how you, as a parent, can bear to see "the baby" pining for the want of a little fresh air? The baby is, in fact, to the mother what the cat is to the housemaid—the universal scape-goat. If a man in a state of utter buttonlessness, with his sleeves flying, makes an irresistible appeal to his wife, he is always expected to be satisfied with the reply, that "it's all owing to 'the baby.' "The baby" it is that utterly dislocates your breakfast, makes your wife put on her cap the hind part before, and accounts for the neck of mutton not being jointed. In fact, such is the disturbing force of this small body, that there is no possible act of omission or commission that it will not account for. As long as "the baby" is about, a man had better make up his mind at once to give up all chance of comfort, and to buy that excellent little apparatus," a bachelor's companion," or kettle, egg-boiler, tea-pot, and toast-rack, all in one; for to be brought in contact with "the baby" is as good as being cast on an uninhabited island, and to be obliged, like Robinson Crusoe, to depend upon his own resources. I am not certain that, during the same period, it would not be as well for him to provide himself with a hare-skin, as the only bosom friend he is likely to have; for I am afraid there is some little truth in that line of Tennyson's,"Baby fingers-waxen touches-press me from the mother's breast; at least, we married men have a shrewd suspicion that in the division of the affections of the maternal heart "the baby" has much the best of it-every earthly consideration, in short, goes down before the full ripe bloom of babyhood, which so strongly moves a mother's heart. When this is wiped off-when strings give place to buttons, and corduroys commence-when spoonmeat is changed for grass-green apples, and the "darling baby" has shot up into "that tiresome John," then the husband begins perhaps to get his own again. Happy he, if "the baby" does not start up afresh when he least expects it-for the innocent, like the king, in some families, never dies-and assume all its ancient power. In such a case, the club is his only resource. I don't know, in fact, whether "the baby" was not the primal cause of those institutions, so railed at by the sex, and so loved of men— if so (pray, ladies, do not think me ungallant), it affords a singular instance of the certainty with which one tyranny begets another. MY ROOM IN THE COUNTRY. With aspect south, my little room And seem to speak of housewife cares. |