Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have known her better after so many years, and ought to have made myself enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When she gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw drop from the stone porch—it was a very frosty day—I felt so miserable and self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my fault, I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily.“No, Esther!” she returned. “It is your misfortune!”
Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have known her better after so many years, and ought to have made myself enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When she gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw drop from the stone porch—it was a very frosty day—I felt so miserable and self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my fault, I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily.
“No, Esther!” she returned. “It is your misfortune!”
Poor child, she cried afterward because Mrs. Rachael was not sorry to part with her.
What a different parting she had when leaving the Miss Donnys’ school, where for six years she had been a pupil, and for part of the time a teacher!
She received a letter informing her that she was to leave Greenleaf.
Oh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter caused in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much for me; it was so gracious in that Father who had not forgotten me, to have made my orphan way so smooth and easy, and to have inclined so many youthful natures toward me, that I could hardly bear it. Not that I would have had them less sorry—I am afraid not; but the pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble regret of it, were so blended, that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full of rapture.The letter gave me only five days’ notice of my removal. When every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in those five days; and when at last the morning came, and when they took me through all the rooms that I might see them for the last time; and when some one cried, “Esther, dear, say good-bye to me here, at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!” and when others asked me only to write their names, “With Esther’s love”; and when they allsurrounded me with their parting presents, and clung to me weeping, and cried, “What shall we do when dear, dear Esther’s gone!” and when I tried to tell them how forbearing and how good they had all been to me, and how I blessed and thanked them every one—what a heart I had!And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as the least among them; and when the maids said, “Bless you, miss, wherever you go!” and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums, and told me I had been the light of his eyes—indeed the old man said so!—what a heart I had then!
Oh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter caused in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much for me; it was so gracious in that Father who had not forgotten me, to have made my orphan way so smooth and easy, and to have inclined so many youthful natures toward me, that I could hardly bear it. Not that I would have had them less sorry—I am afraid not; but the pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble regret of it, were so blended, that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full of rapture.
The letter gave me only five days’ notice of my removal. When every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in those five days; and when at last the morning came, and when they took me through all the rooms that I might see them for the last time; and when some one cried, “Esther, dear, say good-bye to me here, at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!” and when others asked me only to write their names, “With Esther’s love”; and when they allsurrounded me with their parting presents, and clung to me weeping, and cried, “What shall we do when dear, dear Esther’s gone!” and when I tried to tell them how forbearing and how good they had all been to me, and how I blessed and thanked them every one—what a heart I had!
And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as the least among them; and when the maids said, “Bless you, miss, wherever you go!” and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums, and told me I had been the light of his eyes—indeed the old man said so!—what a heart I had then!
This was intended to show the results of her sympathy toward the pupils and everybody connected with the school.
Mrs. Jellyby is an immortal picture of the woman who neglects her family on account of her interest in Borrioboola Gha, or some other place for which her sympathy is aroused. Dickens held that a woman’s first duty is to her children. The wretched Mr. Jellyby, almost distracted by the poor meals, the disorder of his home, and the wild condition of his unfortunate family, said to his daughter, “Never have a mission, my dear.”
Caddy emphasized the thought Dickens had given in Dombey and Son through Alice Marwood when she said to Esther:
“Oh, don’t talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where’s ma’s duty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it’s much more their affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I shocked, too; so we are both shocked, and there’s an end of it!”
“Oh, don’t talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where’s ma’s duty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it’s much more their affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I shocked, too; so we are both shocked, and there’s an end of it!”
On another occasion, overcome by emotion at the thought of her mother’s neglect, she said to Esther:
“I wish I was dead. I wish we were all dead. It would be a great deal better for us.”In a moment afterward she kneeled on the ground atmy side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted her, and would have raised her, but she cried, No, no; she wanted to stay there!“You used to teach girls,” she said. “If you could only have taught me, I could have learned from you! I am so very miserable, and like you so much!”
“I wish I was dead. I wish we were all dead. It would be a great deal better for us.”
In a moment afterward she kneeled on the ground atmy side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted her, and would have raised her, but she cried, No, no; she wanted to stay there!
“You used to teach girls,” she said. “If you could only have taught me, I could have learned from you! I am so very miserable, and like you so much!”
How the Jellyby children loved and trusted Esther! How all children loved and trusted her for her true sympathy!
Poor Jo swept the steps at the graveyard where the friend who spoke kindly to him lay buried, and he always said of him, “He wos wery good to me, he wos.”
And Jo’s other friends, Mr. Snagsby, whose sympathy drew half crowns from his pocket, and Mr. George, and Doctor Woodcourt, and Mr. Jarndyce, and Esther, showed their kindly sympathy for the wretched boy so fully that the reading world loved them as real friends, and this loving admiration led the Christian world to think more clearly in regard to Christ’s teachings about the little ones.
No heart can resist the plea for sympathy for such as Jo in the description of his last illness and death. When the end was very near, as Allan Woodcourt was watching the heavy breathing of the sufferer,
After a short relapse into sleep or stupor he makes of a sudden a strong effort to get out of bed.“Stay, Jo! What now?”“It’s time for me to go to that there berryin’-ground, sir,” he returns with a wild look.“Lie down, and tell me. What burying-ground, Jo?”“Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed, he wos. It’s time fur me to go down to that there berryin’-ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ‘I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,’ he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him.”“By and bye, Jo. By and bye.”“Ah! P’raps they wouldn’t do it if I was to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?”“I will, indeed.”“Thank’ee, sir. Thank’ee, sir. They’ll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it’s allus locked. And there’s a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom.—It’s turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin’?”“It is coming fast, Jo.”Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end.“Jo, my poor fellow!”“I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I’m a-gropin’—a-gropin’—let me catch hold of your hand.”“Jo, can you say what I say?”“I’ll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it’s good.”“Our Father.”“Our Father!—yes, that’s wery good, sir.”“Which art in Heaven.”“Art in Heaven—is the light a-comin’, sir?”“It is close at hand.Hallowed be thy Name!”“Hallowed be—thy——”The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!Dead, your majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.
After a short relapse into sleep or stupor he makes of a sudden a strong effort to get out of bed.
“Stay, Jo! What now?”
“It’s time for me to go to that there berryin’-ground, sir,” he returns with a wild look.
“Lie down, and tell me. What burying-ground, Jo?”
“Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed, he wos. It’s time fur me to go down to that there berryin’-ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ‘I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,’ he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him.”
“By and bye, Jo. By and bye.”
“Ah! P’raps they wouldn’t do it if I was to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?”
“I will, indeed.”
“Thank’ee, sir. Thank’ee, sir. They’ll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it’s allus locked. And there’s a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom.—It’s turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin’?”
“It is coming fast, Jo.”
Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end.
“Jo, my poor fellow!”
“I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I’m a-gropin’—a-gropin’—let me catch hold of your hand.”
“Jo, can you say what I say?”
“I’ll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it’s good.”
“Our Father.”
“Our Father!—yes, that’s wery good, sir.”
“Which art in Heaven.”
“Art in Heaven—is the light a-comin’, sir?”
“It is close at hand.Hallowed be thy Name!”
“Hallowed be—thy——”
The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!
Dead, your majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.
One of the best of Dickens’s illustrations of gratitude for sympathy is the case of Phil Squod, Mr. George’s assistant in the shooting gallery. He was a mere child in everything but years of hard experiences, but he was devoted heart and soul to Mr. George for a kindly word of hearty sympathy. So devoted was he that he attached himself to Mr. George and became his faithful servant, and found his truest happiness in his service of love.
Phil recalled the story to Mr. George.
“It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see you, commander. You remember?”“I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.”“Crawling, guv’ner, again a wall——”“True, Phil—shouldering your way on——”“In a nightcap!” exclaims Phil, excited.“In a nightcap——”“And hobbling with a couple of sticks!” cries Phil, still more excited.“With a couple of sticks. When——”“When you stops, you know,” cries Phil, putting down his cup and saucer, and hastily removing his plate from his knees, “and says to me, ‘What, comrade! You have been in the wars!’ I didn’t say much to you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person so strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was like a glass of something hot: ‘What accident have you met with? You have been badly hurt. What’s amiss, old boy? Cheer up, and tell us about it!’ Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says as much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you says more to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!” cries Phil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. “If a mark’s wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers take aim at me. They can’t spoilmybeauty.I’mall right. Come on! If they want a man to box at, let ’em box at me. Let ’em knock me well about the head.Idon’t mind! if they want a light weight, to be throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let ’em throw me. They won’t hurtme. I have been throwed all sorts of styles all my life!”
“It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see you, commander. You remember?”
“I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.”
“Crawling, guv’ner, again a wall——”
“True, Phil—shouldering your way on——”
“In a nightcap!” exclaims Phil, excited.
“In a nightcap——”
“And hobbling with a couple of sticks!” cries Phil, still more excited.
“With a couple of sticks. When——”
“When you stops, you know,” cries Phil, putting down his cup and saucer, and hastily removing his plate from his knees, “and says to me, ‘What, comrade! You have been in the wars!’ I didn’t say much to you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person so strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was like a glass of something hot: ‘What accident have you met with? You have been badly hurt. What’s amiss, old boy? Cheer up, and tell us about it!’ Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says as much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you says more to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!” cries Phil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. “If a mark’s wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers take aim at me. They can’t spoilmybeauty.I’mall right. Come on! If they want a man to box at, let ’em box at me. Let ’em knock me well about the head.Idon’t mind! if they want a light weight, to be throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let ’em throw me. They won’t hurtme. I have been throwed all sorts of styles all my life!”
Pip said in Great Expectations:
It is not possible to know how far the influence of any amiable, honest-hearted, duty-doing man flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it has touched one’s self in going by, and I know right well that any good that intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came of plain contented Joe, and not of restless aspiring discontented me.
It is not possible to know how far the influence of any amiable, honest-hearted, duty-doing man flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it has touched one’s self in going by, and I know right well that any good that intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came of plain contented Joe, and not of restless aspiring discontented me.
Dear, simple-hearted Joe Gargery! When every one else was abusing Pip at the great dinner party, he showed his sympathy for him by putting some more gravy on his plate.
In Our Mutual Friend Lizzie Hexam, sympathizing with her father so much that she would not learn to read because he was bitterly prejudiced against education, but sympathizing so much with her brother Charley that she had him educated secretly so that he might become a teacher, is an illustration of nearly perfect sympathy.
The happiness of the little “minders” at old Betty Higden’s is in sharp contrast to the misery of the boarders of the respectable (?) establishment of Mrs. Pipchin. In the one case was abject poverty and loving sympathy, in the other plenty and cruel selfishness. When Mr. and Mrs. Boffin were adopting Johnnie from Betty Higden’s care, the brave old woman said:
“If I could have kept the dear child without the dread that’s always upon me of his coming to that fate I have spoken of, I could never have parted with him, even to you. For I love him, I love him, I love him! I love my husband long dead and gone, in him; I love my children dead and gone, in him; I love my young and hopeful days dead and gone, in him. I couldn’t sell that love, and look you in your bright kind face. It’s a free gift.”Betty was not a logically reasoning woman, but God is good, and hearts may count in heaven as high as heads.
“If I could have kept the dear child without the dread that’s always upon me of his coming to that fate I have spoken of, I could never have parted with him, even to you. For I love him, I love him, I love him! I love my husband long dead and gone, in him; I love my children dead and gone, in him; I love my young and hopeful days dead and gone, in him. I couldn’t sell that love, and look you in your bright kind face. It’s a free gift.”
Betty was not a logically reasoning woman, but God is good, and hearts may count in heaven as high as heads.
Dickens spoke with great enthusiasm in his American Notes of the practical sympathy of Doctor Howe with all afflicted children, especially with blind children, closing his sketch of the wonderful work he had done with the sentence: “There are not many persons, I hope and believe, who after reading these passages can ever hear that name with indifference.” He noted that Laura Bridgman had a special desire for sympathy.
She is fond of having other children noticed and caressed by the teachers, and those whom she respects; but this must not be carried too far, or she becomes jealous. She wants to have her share, which, if not the lion’s, is the greater part; and if she does not get it, she says, “My mother will love me.”
She is fond of having other children noticed and caressed by the teachers, and those whom she respects; but this must not be carried too far, or she becomes jealous. She wants to have her share, which, if not the lion’s, is the greater part; and if she does not get it, she says, “My mother will love me.”
Dickens’s types of sympathy with children grew more perfect as he grew older. In his later years his head beganto catch up with his heart. Major Jackman, Mrs. Lirriper, and Doctor Marigold are among his most wonderfully sympathetic characters.
What an ideal sending away to school Jemmy Lirriper had!
So the Major being gone out and Jemmy being at home, I got the child into my little room here and I stood him by my chair and I took his mother’s own curls in my hand and I spoke to him loving and serious. And when I had reminded the darling how that he was now in his tenth year, and when I had said to him about his getting on in life pretty much what I had said to the Major, I broke to him how that we must have this same parting, and there I was forced to stop, for there I saw of a sudden the well-remembered lip with its tremble, and it so brought back that time! But with the spirit that was in him he controlled it soon, and he says gravely, nodding through his tears: “I understand, Gran—I knew itmustbe, Gran—go on, Gran, don’t be afraid ofme.” And when I had said all that ever I could think of, he turned his bright steady face to mine, and he says just a little broken here and there: “You shall see, Gran, that I can be a man, and that I can do anything that is grateful and loving to you; and if I don’t grow up to be what you would like to have me—I hope it will be—because I shall die.” And with that he sat down by me, and I went on to tell him of the school, of which I had excellent recommendations, and where it was and how many scholars, and what games they played as I had heard, and what length of holidays, to all of which he listened bright and clear. And so it came that at last he says: “And now, dear Gran, let me kneel down here where I have been used to say my prayers, and let me fold my face for just a minute in your gown and let me cry, for you have been more than father—more than mother—more than brothers, sisters, friends—to me!” And so he did cry, and I too, and we were both much the better for it.
So the Major being gone out and Jemmy being at home, I got the child into my little room here and I stood him by my chair and I took his mother’s own curls in my hand and I spoke to him loving and serious. And when I had reminded the darling how that he was now in his tenth year, and when I had said to him about his getting on in life pretty much what I had said to the Major, I broke to him how that we must have this same parting, and there I was forced to stop, for there I saw of a sudden the well-remembered lip with its tremble, and it so brought back that time! But with the spirit that was in him he controlled it soon, and he says gravely, nodding through his tears: “I understand, Gran—I knew itmustbe, Gran—go on, Gran, don’t be afraid ofme.” And when I had said all that ever I could think of, he turned his bright steady face to mine, and he says just a little broken here and there: “You shall see, Gran, that I can be a man, and that I can do anything that is grateful and loving to you; and if I don’t grow up to be what you would like to have me—I hope it will be—because I shall die.” And with that he sat down by me, and I went on to tell him of the school, of which I had excellent recommendations, and where it was and how many scholars, and what games they played as I had heard, and what length of holidays, to all of which he listened bright and clear. And so it came that at last he says: “And now, dear Gran, let me kneel down here where I have been used to say my prayers, and let me fold my face for just a minute in your gown and let me cry, for you have been more than father—more than mother—more than brothers, sisters, friends—to me!” And so he did cry, and I too, and we were both much the better for it.
Dear old Doctor Marigold, the travelling auctioneer, in his tender sympathy for his little girl when her mother was so cruel to her, whispering comforting words in her ear as he was calling for bids on his wares while she was dying, and afterward loving the deaf-mute child whomhe adopted in memory of his own child whom he had lost, has made thousands more kindly sympathetic with children.
In the novel that he was writing when he died Dickens makes Canon Crisparkle say to Helena Landless: “You have the wisdom of Love, and it was the highest wisdom ever known upon this earth, remember.”
David Copperfield said, “I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.”
The effect of lack of true sympathy on the heart that should have felt and shown it is revealed in what Sydney Carton said to Mr. Lorry: “If you could say with truth to your own solitary heart to-night, ‘I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude and respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by,’ your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight curses; would they not?”
The contrast between the coldness and heartlessness of his parents or guardians and the encouraging sympathy of his teacher is one of the strongest features in the story of Barbox Brothers (Mugby Junction).
“You remember me, Young Jackson?”“What do I remember if not you? You are my first remembrance. It was you who told me that was my name. It was you who told me that on every 20th of December my life had a penitential anniversary in it called a birthday. I suppose the last communication was truer than the first!”“What am I like, Young Jackson?”“You are like a blight all through the year to me. You hard-lined, thin-lipped, repressive, changeless woman with a wax mask on! You are like the Devil to me—most of all when you teach me religious things, for you make me abhor them.”“You remember me, Mr. Young Jackson?” In another voice from another quarter:“Most gratefully, sir. You are the ray of hope and prospering ambition in my life. When I attended your course I believed that I should come to be a great healer,and I felt almost happy—even though I was still the one boarder in the house with that horrible mask, and ate and drank in silence and constraint with the mask before me every day. As I had done every, every, every day through my school time and from my earliest recollection.”“What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?”“You are like a Superior Being to me. You are like Nature beginning to reveal herself to me. I hear you again as one of the hushed crowd of young men kindling under the power of your presence and knowledge, and you bring into my eyes the only exultant tears that ever stood in them.”“You remember Me, Mr. Young Jackson?” In a grating voice from quite another quarter:“Too well. You made your ghostly appearance in my life one day, and announced that its course was to be suddenly and wholly changed. You showed me which was my wearisome seat in the Galley of Barbox Brothers. You told me what I was to do, and what to be paid; you told me afterward, at intervals of years, when I was to sign for the Firm, when I became a partner, when I became the Firm. I know no more of it, or of myself.”“What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?”“You are like my father, I sometimes think. You are hard enough and cold enough so to have brought up an acknowledged son. I see your scanty figure, your close brown suit, and your tight brown wig; but you, too, wear a wax mask to your death. You never by a chance remove it; it never by a chance falls off; and I know no more of you.”
“You remember me, Young Jackson?”
“What do I remember if not you? You are my first remembrance. It was you who told me that was my name. It was you who told me that on every 20th of December my life had a penitential anniversary in it called a birthday. I suppose the last communication was truer than the first!”
“What am I like, Young Jackson?”
“You are like a blight all through the year to me. You hard-lined, thin-lipped, repressive, changeless woman with a wax mask on! You are like the Devil to me—most of all when you teach me religious things, for you make me abhor them.”
“You remember me, Mr. Young Jackson?” In another voice from another quarter:
“Most gratefully, sir. You are the ray of hope and prospering ambition in my life. When I attended your course I believed that I should come to be a great healer,and I felt almost happy—even though I was still the one boarder in the house with that horrible mask, and ate and drank in silence and constraint with the mask before me every day. As I had done every, every, every day through my school time and from my earliest recollection.”
“What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?”
“You are like a Superior Being to me. You are like Nature beginning to reveal herself to me. I hear you again as one of the hushed crowd of young men kindling under the power of your presence and knowledge, and you bring into my eyes the only exultant tears that ever stood in them.”
“You remember Me, Mr. Young Jackson?” In a grating voice from quite another quarter:
“Too well. You made your ghostly appearance in my life one day, and announced that its course was to be suddenly and wholly changed. You showed me which was my wearisome seat in the Galley of Barbox Brothers. You told me what I was to do, and what to be paid; you told me afterward, at intervals of years, when I was to sign for the Firm, when I became a partner, when I became the Firm. I know no more of it, or of myself.”
“What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?”
“You are like my father, I sometimes think. You are hard enough and cold enough so to have brought up an acknowledged son. I see your scanty figure, your close brown suit, and your tight brown wig; but you, too, wear a wax mask to your death. You never by a chance remove it; it never by a chance falls off; and I know no more of you.”
CHILD STUDY AND CHILD NATURE.
Dickens was a profound student of children, and he revealed his consciousness of the need of a general study of childhood in all he wrote about the importance of a free childhood, individuality, the imagination, coercion, cramming, and wrong methods of training children.
He criticised the blindness of those who saw boys as a class or in a limited number of classes, distinguished by external and comparatively unimportant characteristics, in Mr. Grimwig, “who never saw any difference in boys, and only knew two sorts of boys, mealy boys and beef-faced boys.”
He exposed the ignorance—the wilful ignorance—of vast numbers of parents and teachers who indignantly resent the suggestion that they need to study children, in Jane Murdstone. When Jane was interfering in the management of David, and with her brother totally misunderstanding him and misrepresenting him, his timid mother ventured to say:
“I beg your pardon, my dear Jane, but are you quite sure—I am certain you’ll excuse me, my dear Jane—that you quite understand Davy?”“I should be somewhat ashamed of myself, Clara,” returned Miss Murdstone, “if I could not understand the boy, or any boy. I don’t profess to be profound, but I do lay claim to common sense.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear Jane, but are you quite sure—I am certain you’ll excuse me, my dear Jane—that you quite understand Davy?”
“I should be somewhat ashamed of myself, Clara,” returned Miss Murdstone, “if I could not understand the boy, or any boy. I don’t profess to be profound, but I do lay claim to common sense.”
Many Jane Murdstones still claim that it is not necessary to study so common a thing as a boy. Yet a child is the most wonderful thing in the world, and, whether the Jane Murdstones in the schools and homes like it or not,the wise peoplearestudying the child with a view to finding out what he should be guided to do in the accomplishment of his own training.
Richard Carstone had been eight years at school, and he was a miserable failure in life, although a man of good ability.
“It had never been anybody’s business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to him.” Esther wisely said: “I did doubt whether Richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his studying Latin verses so much.”
Dickens studied every subject about which he wrote with great care and discrimination. As an instance of this careful study it may be stated that medical authorities say that the description of Smike’s sickness and death is the best description of consumption ever written. Dickens had a wonderful imagination, but he never relied on his imagination for his facts or his philosophy. It is therefore reasonable to believe that as he wrote more about children than any other man or woman, he was the greatest and most reverent student of childhood that England has produced.
In addition to the revelations of his conclusions given in the evolution of his child characters, and in the many illustrations of good and of bad training, he continually makes direct statements in regard to child nature and how to deal with it in its varied manifestations.
His central motive was expressed by the old gentleman who found Little Nell astray in London: “I love these little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh from God, love us.”
His ideal of unperverted child nature was entirely different from that which had been taught by theology and psychology. He believed the child to be pure and good, and that even when heredity was bad, its baneful influences need not blight the divinity in his life, if he was wisely trained and had a free life of self-activity, a suitable environment, and truly sympathetic friends.
“It would be a curious speculation,” said I, after some restless turns across and across the room, “to imagine her in her future life, holding her solitary way among a crowd of wild, grotesque companions, the only pure, fresh, youthful object in the throng.”
“It would be a curious speculation,” said I, after some restless turns across and across the room, “to imagine her in her future life, holding her solitary way among a crowd of wild, grotesque companions, the only pure, fresh, youthful object in the throng.”
To keep children pure and fresh was the chief aim of his life work. He had no respect for those who treated children as if they were grown-up, reasonable beings; who judged children as they would judge adults, and therefore misjudged them. He always remembered that a child was a little stranger in a new world, and that his complex nature had to adjust itself to its environment. He had a perfect, reverent, considerate sympathy for the timid young soul venturing to look out upon its new conditions. One of the most pathetic things in the world to him was the fact that children are nearly universally misunderstood and misinterpreted. How he longed to tear down the barriers of formalism, and conventionality, and indifference, and misconception from the lives of parents and teachers, so that timid children might be true to their better natures in their presence.
When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr. Dombey stopped in his pacing up and down and looked toward her. Had he looked with greater interest and with a father’s eye, he might have read in her keen glance the impulses and fears that made her waver; the passionate desire to run clinging to him, crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, “Oh, father, try to love me! there’s no one else!” the dread of a repulse; the fear of being too bold, and of offending him; the pitiable need in which she stood of some assurance and encouragement; and how her overcharged young heart was wandering to find some natural resting place for its sorrow and affection.But he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irresolutely at the door and look toward him; and he saw no more.“Come in,” he said, “come in; what is the child afraid of?”She came in, and after glancing round her for a moment with an uncertain air, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the door.“Come here, Florence,” said her father coldly. “Do you know who I am?”“Yes, papa.”“Have you nothing to say to me?”The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face were frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again and put out her trembling hand.Mr. Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood looking down upon her for a moment, as if he knew as little as the child what to say or do.“There! Be a good girl,” he said, patting her on the head, and regarding her, as it were, by stealth with a disturbed and doubtful look. “Go to Richards. Go!”His little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she would have clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he might raise her in his arms and kiss her. She looked up in his face once more. He thought how like her expression was then to what it had been when she looked round at the doctor—that night—and instinctively dropped her hand and turned away.It was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at a great disadvantage in her father’s presence. It was not only a constraint upon the child’s mind, but even upon the natural grace and freedom of her actions.The child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so quiet and uncomplaining, was possessed of so much affection that no one seemed to care to have, and so much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to mind or think about the wounding of, that Polly’s heart was sore when she was left alone again.
When little Florence timidly presented herself, Mr. Dombey stopped in his pacing up and down and looked toward her. Had he looked with greater interest and with a father’s eye, he might have read in her keen glance the impulses and fears that made her waver; the passionate desire to run clinging to him, crying, as she hid her face in his embrace, “Oh, father, try to love me! there’s no one else!” the dread of a repulse; the fear of being too bold, and of offending him; the pitiable need in which she stood of some assurance and encouragement; and how her overcharged young heart was wandering to find some natural resting place for its sorrow and affection.
But he saw nothing of this. He saw her pause irresolutely at the door and look toward him; and he saw no more.
“Come in,” he said, “come in; what is the child afraid of?”
She came in, and after glancing round her for a moment with an uncertain air, stood pressing her small hands hard together, close within the door.
“Come here, Florence,” said her father coldly. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, papa.”
“Have you nothing to say to me?”
The tears that stood in her eyes as she raised them quickly to his face were frozen by the expression it wore. She looked down again and put out her trembling hand.
Mr. Dombey took it loosely in his own, and stood looking down upon her for a moment, as if he knew as little as the child what to say or do.
“There! Be a good girl,” he said, patting her on the head, and regarding her, as it were, by stealth with a disturbed and doubtful look. “Go to Richards. Go!”
His little daughter hesitated for another instant as though she would have clung about him still, or had some lingering hope that he might raise her in his arms and kiss her. She looked up in his face once more. He thought how like her expression was then to what it had been when she looked round at the doctor—that night—and instinctively dropped her hand and turned away.
It was not difficult to perceive that Florence was at a great disadvantage in her father’s presence. It was not only a constraint upon the child’s mind, but even upon the natural grace and freedom of her actions.
The child, in her grief and neglect, was so gentle, so quiet and uncomplaining, was possessed of so much affection that no one seemed to care to have, and so much sorrowful intelligence that no one seemed to mind or think about the wounding of, that Polly’s heart was sore when she was left alone again.
The same lesson was given to parents and teachers in Murdstone’s treatment of Davy. The sensitive, shy boy was regarded as sullen, and treated “like a dog” in consequence. Oh, what bitterness it puts into a child’s life to be misunderstood by its dearest friends! If there were no other reason for the co-operative study of children by parents and teachers, it would be a sufficient reason that they might be understood and appreciated. Many lives are made barren and wicked by the failure of parents and teachers to understand them.
It is so easy for children to get the impression that they are not liked by adults. When Walter started life in Mr. Dombey’s great warehouse, his uncle, old SolomonGills, with whom he lived, asked him on his return from work the first day:
“Has Mr. Dombey been there to-day?”“Oh, yes! In and out all day.”“He didn’t take any notice of you, I suppose?”“Yes, he did. He walked up to my seat—I wish he wasn’t so solemn and stiff, uncle—and said, ‘Oh! you are the son of Mr. Gills, the ships’ instrument maker.’ ‘Nephew, sir,’ I said. ‘I said nephew, boy,’ said he. But I could take my oath he said son, uncle.”“You’re mistaken, I dare say. It’s no matter.”“No, it’s no matter, but he needn’t have been so sharp, I thought. There was no harm in it, though he did say son. Then he told me that you had spoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in the house accordingly, and that I was expected to be attentive and punctual, and then he went away. I thought he didn’t seem to like me much.”“You mean, I suppose,” observed the instrument maker, “that you didn’t seem to like him much.”“Well, uncle,” returned the boy, laughing, “perhaps so; I never thought of that.”
“Has Mr. Dombey been there to-day?”
“Oh, yes! In and out all day.”
“He didn’t take any notice of you, I suppose?”
“Yes, he did. He walked up to my seat—I wish he wasn’t so solemn and stiff, uncle—and said, ‘Oh! you are the son of Mr. Gills, the ships’ instrument maker.’ ‘Nephew, sir,’ I said. ‘I said nephew, boy,’ said he. But I could take my oath he said son, uncle.”
“You’re mistaken, I dare say. It’s no matter.”
“No, it’s no matter, but he needn’t have been so sharp, I thought. There was no harm in it, though he did say son. Then he told me that you had spoken to him about me, and that he had found me employment in the house accordingly, and that I was expected to be attentive and punctual, and then he went away. I thought he didn’t seem to like me much.”
“You mean, I suppose,” observed the instrument maker, “that you didn’t seem to like him much.”
“Well, uncle,” returned the boy, laughing, “perhaps so; I never thought of that.”
This short selection reveals the disrespect for childhood which leads adulthood to flatly contradict what a child says, whether he is making a statement of fact or of opinion. This is most inconsiderate, and naturally leads to a corresponding disrespect for adulthood on the part of the child. The selection clearly intimates that childhood would be more happy, and like adulthood better, if adulthood was not so “solemn and stiff.” Parents and teachers should learn from Solomon’s philosophy that a child’s feelings toward an adult partly determine his impressions regarding the attitude of adulthood toward him.
The first thing necessary in training a child to be his real, best self is to win his affectionate regard and confidence. One has to be very true, very unconventional, and very joyous, to do this fully.
Dickens pitied the child because, even when he is understood, his wishes, plans, and decisions are not treated with respect. This is a gross injustice to the child’snature. As Pip so truly said: “It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter.”
Adulthood needs to learn no lesson more than that childhood lives a life of its own, that that life should not be tested by the scales and tape lines of adulthood, and that within its range of action its choice should be respected, and its opinions treated with reverent consideration.
Mrs. Lirriper said that when she used to read the Bible to Mrs. Edson, when that lady was dying, “though she took to all I read to her, I used to fancy that next to what was taught upon the Mount she took most of all to his gentle compassion for us poor women, and to his young life, and to how his mother was proud of him, and treasured his sayings in her heart.”
The divinity in any child will grow more rapidly if his mother “treasures his sayings in her heart.” We need more reverence for the child.
Dickens tried to make parents regard the child as a sacred thing, which should always be the richest joy of his parents.
Speaking of Mrs. Darnay, in The Tale of Two Cities, he says:
The time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and the shady house was sunny with a child’s laugh, and the divine Friend of children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in his arms, as he took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her.
The time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and the shady house was sunny with a child’s laugh, and the divine Friend of children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in his arms, as he took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her.
Dickens had profound faith in children whose true development had not been arrested.
Doctor Strong had a simple faith in him that might have touched the stone hearts of the very urns upon thewall.... He appealed in everything to the honour and good faith of the boys, and relied on their possession of those qualities unless they proved themselves unworthy.
Doctor Strong had a simple faith in him that might have touched the stone hearts of the very urns upon thewall.... He appealed in everything to the honour and good faith of the boys, and relied on their possession of those qualities unless they proved themselves unworthy.
Reliance begets reliance. Faith increases the qualities that merit faith.
David said the doctor’s reliance on the boys “worked wonders.” No wonder it worked wonders. We can help a boy to grow no higher than our faith in him can reach.
BAD TRAINING.
In addition to the bad training found in so many of his best-known schools, to show the evils of coercion in all forms, of the child depravity ideal, of the loss of a free, real, rich childhood, of the dwarfing of individuality, of the deadening of the imagination, and other similar evils, Dickens’s books, from Oliver Twist to Edwin Drood, contain many illustrations of utterly wrong methods of training children.
The mean and cruel way in which children used to be treated by the managers of institutions is described in Oliver Twist. Dickens said that when Oliver was born he cried lustily.
If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.“Bow to the board,” said Bumble, when he was brought before that august body. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that.“What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair.Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble; and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising his spirits and putting him quite at his ease.“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?”“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.“The boy is a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t you?”“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And, to be sure, it was very extraordinary. Whatcouldthe boy be crying for?“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a gruff voice, “and pray for the people who feed and take care of you—like a Christian.”“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have beenverylike a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian, too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care ofhim.
If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.
“Bow to the board,” said Bumble, when he was brought before that august body. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that.
“What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair.
Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble; and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising his spirits and putting him quite at his ease.
“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?”
“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.
“The boy is a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.
“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And, to be sure, it was very extraordinary. Whatcouldthe boy be crying for?
“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a gruff voice, “and pray for the people who feed and take care of you—like a Christian.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have beenverylike a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian, too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care ofhim.
The dreadful practices of first making children self-conscious and apparently dull by abuse and formalism, and then calling them “fools,” or “stupid,” or “dunces,” are happily not so common now.
In Barnaby Rudge he makes Edward Chester complain to his father about the way he had been educated.
From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large and my expectations almost without a limit. The idea of wealth has been familiarized to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon those means by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction as being beyond my breeding and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing.
From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large and my expectations almost without a limit. The idea of wealth has been familiarized to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon those means by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction as being beyond my breeding and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing.
Dickens was in terrible earnest to kill all the giants that preyed on the lifeblood of the joy, the hope, the freedom, the selfhood, and the imagination of childhood. He waged unceasing warfare against the system which he described as
The excellent and thoughtful old system, hallowed by long prescription, which has usually picked out from the rest of mankind the most dreary and uncomfortablepeople that could possibly be laid hold of, to act as instructors of youth.
The excellent and thoughtful old system, hallowed by long prescription, which has usually picked out from the rest of mankind the most dreary and uncomfortablepeople that could possibly be laid hold of, to act as instructors of youth.
The selfish and mercenary ideal and its consequences are dealt with in the training of Jonas Chuzzlewit:
The education of Mr. Jonas had been conducted from his cradle on the strictest principles of the main chance. The very first word he learned to spell was “gain,” and the second one (when he got into two syllables) “money.” But for two results, which were not clearly foreseen perhaps by his watchful parent in the beginning, his training may be said to have been unexceptionable. One of these flaws was, that having been long taught by his father to overreach everybody, he had imperceptibly acquired a love of overreaching that venerable monitor himself. The other, that from his early habits of considering everything as a question of property, he had gradually come to look with impatience on his parent as a certain amount of personal estate which had no right whatever to be going at large, but ought to be secured in that particular description of iron safe which is commonly called a coffin, and banked in the grave.
The education of Mr. Jonas had been conducted from his cradle on the strictest principles of the main chance. The very first word he learned to spell was “gain,” and the second one (when he got into two syllables) “money.” But for two results, which were not clearly foreseen perhaps by his watchful parent in the beginning, his training may be said to have been unexceptionable. One of these flaws was, that having been long taught by his father to overreach everybody, he had imperceptibly acquired a love of overreaching that venerable monitor himself. The other, that from his early habits of considering everything as a question of property, he had gradually come to look with impatience on his parent as a certain amount of personal estate which had no right whatever to be going at large, but ought to be secured in that particular description of iron safe which is commonly called a coffin, and banked in the grave.
When Charity Pecksniff reproved Jonas for speaking irreverently of her father, he said:
“Ecod, you may say what you like ofmyfather, then, and so I give you leave,” said Jonas. “I think it’s liquid aggravation that circulates through his veins, and not regular blood. How old should you think my father was, cousin?”“Old, no doubt,” replied Miss Charity; “but a fine old gentleman.”“A fine old gentleman!” repeated Jonas, giving the crown of his hat an angry knock. “Ah! It’s time he was thinking of being drawn out a little finer, too. Why, he’s eighty!”“Is he, indeed?” said the young lady.“And ecod,” cried Jonas, “now he’s gone so far without giving in, I don’t see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. Why, a man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone more. Where’s his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying in the face of the Bible like that? Threescore and ten’s themark; and no man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what’s expected of him, has any business to live longer.”
“Ecod, you may say what you like ofmyfather, then, and so I give you leave,” said Jonas. “I think it’s liquid aggravation that circulates through his veins, and not regular blood. How old should you think my father was, cousin?”
“Old, no doubt,” replied Miss Charity; “but a fine old gentleman.”
“A fine old gentleman!” repeated Jonas, giving the crown of his hat an angry knock. “Ah! It’s time he was thinking of being drawn out a little finer, too. Why, he’s eighty!”
“Is he, indeed?” said the young lady.
“And ecod,” cried Jonas, “now he’s gone so far without giving in, I don’t see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. Why, a man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone more. Where’s his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying in the face of the Bible like that? Threescore and ten’s themark; and no man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what’s expected of him, has any business to live longer.”
When Jonas was particularly brutal in the treatment of Chuffey, the old clerk, his father seemed to enjoy his son’s sharpness.
It was strange enough that Anthony Chuzzlewit, himself so old a man, should take a pleasure in these gibings of his estimable son at the expense of the poor shadow at their table; but he did, unquestionably, though not so much—to do him justice—with reference to their ancient clerk, as in exultation at the sharpness of Jonas. For the same reason, that young man’s coarse allusions, even to himself, filled him with a stealthy glee, causing him to rub his hands and chuckle covertly, as if he said in his sleeve, “Itaught him.Itrained him. This is the heir of my bringing up. Sly, cunning, and covetous, he’ll not squander my money. I worked for this; I hoped for this; it has been the great end and aim of my life.”What a noble end and aim it was to contemplate in the attainment, truly! But there be some who manufacture idols after the fashion of themselves, and fail to worship them when they are made; charging their deformity on outraged Nature. Anthony was better than these at any rate.
It was strange enough that Anthony Chuzzlewit, himself so old a man, should take a pleasure in these gibings of his estimable son at the expense of the poor shadow at their table; but he did, unquestionably, though not so much—to do him justice—with reference to their ancient clerk, as in exultation at the sharpness of Jonas. For the same reason, that young man’s coarse allusions, even to himself, filled him with a stealthy glee, causing him to rub his hands and chuckle covertly, as if he said in his sleeve, “Itaught him.Itrained him. This is the heir of my bringing up. Sly, cunning, and covetous, he’ll not squander my money. I worked for this; I hoped for this; it has been the great end and aim of my life.”
What a noble end and aim it was to contemplate in the attainment, truly! But there be some who manufacture idols after the fashion of themselves, and fail to worship them when they are made; charging their deformity on outraged Nature. Anthony was better than these at any rate.
Exaggerated! Slightly exaggerated, but terribly true to Nature. Centring the life of a child on one base materialistic aim is certain to make a degraded if not a dangerous character. Every noble energy that should have given spiritual strength and beauty is devoured by the material monster as he grows in the heart. Respect for age, even for parents, is lost with all other virtues, and humanity becomes not a brotherhood to be co-operated with for noble purposes, but a horde to be entrapped and cheated. Jonas delighted his father with his rule in business: “Here’s the rule for bargains—‘Do other men, for they would do you.’ That’s the true business precept. All others are counterfeits.”
Speaking of the conversation heard by Martin Chuzzlewit at the boarding house in New York, he said:
It was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part of it may be summed up in one word: Dollars. All their cares, hopes, joys, affections, virtues, and associations seemed to be melted down into dollars. Whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow cauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars. Men were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars; life was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its dollars. The next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having their attainment for its end. The more of that worthless ballast, honour and fair dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his good name and good intent, the more ample stowage room he had for dollars. Make commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. Deface the banner of the nation for an idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by stripe as from the arm of a degraded soldier. Do anything for dollars! What is a flag tothem!
It was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part of it may be summed up in one word: Dollars. All their cares, hopes, joys, affections, virtues, and associations seemed to be melted down into dollars. Whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow cauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars. Men were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars; life was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its dollars. The next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having their attainment for its end. The more of that worthless ballast, honour and fair dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his good name and good intent, the more ample stowage room he had for dollars. Make commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. Deface the banner of the nation for an idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by stripe as from the arm of a degraded soldier. Do anything for dollars! What is a flag tothem!
This was a solemn warning against the training of a race with such low ideals.
In the preface to Martin Chuzzlewit Dickens shows that he deliberately planned Jonas Chuzzlewit as a psychological study. He says:
I conceive that the sordid coarseness and brutality of Jonas would be unnatural, if there had been nothing in his early education, and in the precept and example always before him, to engender and develop the vices that make him odious. But, so born and so bred—admired for that which made him hateful, and justified from his cradle in cunning, treachery, and avarice—I claim him as the legitimate issue of the father upon whom those vices are seen to recoil. And I submit that their recoil upon that old man, in his unhonoured age, is not a mere piece of poetical justice, but is the extreme exposition of a direct truth.
I conceive that the sordid coarseness and brutality of Jonas would be unnatural, if there had been nothing in his early education, and in the precept and example always before him, to engender and develop the vices that make him odious. But, so born and so bred—admired for that which made him hateful, and justified from his cradle in cunning, treachery, and avarice—I claim him as the legitimate issue of the father upon whom those vices are seen to recoil. And I submit that their recoil upon that old man, in his unhonoured age, is not a mere piece of poetical justice, but is the extreme exposition of a direct truth.
Mrs. Pipchin was described as a child trainer of great respectability. She adopted the business of child training because her husband lost his money. Dickens did great service to the world by ridiculing the outrageous practice of sending children to be trained by women or taught by men whose only qualification for the mostsacred of all duties was the fact that they had lost their money, and were therefore likely to be bad tempered and severe. He had already introduced Squeers to the world, but he knew that many people who shuddered at Squeers would send their own children to such as Mrs. Pipchin, because she was respectable and poor. He wished to alarm such people; hence Mrs. Pipchin.
Mrs. Chick, Mr. Dombey’s sister, and Miss Tox called Mr. Dombey’s attention to Mrs. Pipchin’s establishment.
“Mrs. Pipchin, my dear Paul,” returned his sister, “is an elderly lady—Miss Tox knows her whole history—who has for some time devoted all the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to the study and treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well connected.”This celebrated Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous, ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, with a mottled face like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard gray eye that looked as if it might have been hammered at on an anvil without sustaining any injury. Forty years at least had elapsed since the Peruvian mines had been the death of Mr. Pipchin; but his relict still wore black bombazine, of such a lustreless, deep, dead, sombre shade that gas itself couldn’t light her up after dark, and her presence was a quencher to any number of candles. She was generally spoken of as “a great manager” of children; and the secret of her management was, to give them everything that they didn’t like and nothing that they did—which was found to sweeten their dispositions very much.
“Mrs. Pipchin, my dear Paul,” returned his sister, “is an elderly lady—Miss Tox knows her whole history—who has for some time devoted all the energies of her mind, with the greatest success, to the study and treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well connected.”
This celebrated Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous, ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, with a mottled face like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard gray eye that looked as if it might have been hammered at on an anvil without sustaining any injury. Forty years at least had elapsed since the Peruvian mines had been the death of Mr. Pipchin; but his relict still wore black bombazine, of such a lustreless, deep, dead, sombre shade that gas itself couldn’t light her up after dark, and her presence was a quencher to any number of candles. She was generally spoken of as “a great manager” of children; and the secret of her management was, to give them everything that they didn’t like and nothing that they did—which was found to sweeten their dispositions very much.
When Paul and Florence were taken to Mrs. Pipchin’s establishment, Mrs. Pipchin gave them an opportunity to study her disciplinary system as soon as Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox went away. “Master Bitherstone was divested of his collar at once, which he had worn on parade,” and Miss Pankey, the only other little boarder at present, was walked off to the castle dungeon (an empty apartment at the back, devoted to correctional purposes), for having sniffed thrice in the presence of visitors.
At one o’clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the farinaceous and vegetable kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild little blue-eyed morsel of a child, who wasshampooed every morning, and seemed in danger of being rubbed away altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to heaven. When this great truth had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was regaled with rice; and subsequently repeated the form of grace established in the castle, in which there was a special clause thanking Mrs. Pipchin for a good dinner. Mrs. Pipchin’s niece, Berinthia, took cold pork. Mrs. Pipchin, whose constitution required warm nourishment, made a special repast of mutton chops, which were brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelled very nice.As it rained after dinner and they couldn’t go out walking on the beach, and Mrs. Pipchin’s constitution required rest after chops, they went away with Berry (otherwise Berinthia) to the dungeon—an empty room looking out upon a chalk wall and a water butt, and made ghastly by a ragged fireplace without any stove in it. Enlivened by company, however, this was the best place after all; for Berry played with them there, and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they did; until Mrs. Pipchin knocking angrily at the wall, like the Cock Lane Ghost revived, they left off, and Berry told them stories in a whisper until twilight.For tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread and butter, with a little black teapot for Mrs. Pipchin and Berry, and buttered toast unlimited for Mrs. Pipchin, which was brought in, hot and hot, like the chops. Though Mrs. Pipchin got very greasy outside over this dish, it didn’t seem to lubricate her internally at all; for she was as fierce as ever, and the hard gray eye knew no softening.After tea, Berry brought out a little workbox, with the Royal Pavilion on the lid, and fell to working busily; while Mrs. Pipchin, having put on her spectacles and opened a great volume bound in green baize, began to nod. And whenever Mrs. Pipchin caught herself falling forward into the fire, and woke up, she filliped Master Bitherstone on the nose for nodding too.At last it was the children’s bedtime, and after prayers they went to bed. As little Miss Pankey was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark, Mrs. Pipchin always made a point of driving her upstairs herself, like a sheep; and it was cheerful to hear Miss Pankey moaning long afterward,in the least eligible chamber, and Mrs. Pipchin now and then going in to shake her. At about half-past nine o’clock the odour of a warm sweetbread (Mrs. Pipchin’s constitution wouldn’t go to sleep without sweetbread) diversified the prevailing fragrance of the house, which Mrs. Wickam said was “a smell of building,” and slumber fell upon the castle shortly after.The breakfast next morning was like the tea overnight, except that Mrs. Pipchin took her roll instead of toast, and seemed a little more irate when it was over. Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigree from Genesis (judiciously selected by Mrs. Pipchin), getting over the names with the ease and clearness of a person tumbling up the treadmill. That done, Miss Pankey was borne away to be shampooed, and Master Bitherstone to have something else done to him with salt water, from which he always returned very blue and dejected. Paul and Florence went out in the meantime on the beach with Wickam—who was constantly in tears—and at about noon Mrs. Pipchin presided over some Early Readings. It being a part of Mrs. Pipchin’s system not to encourage a child’s mind to develop and expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by force like an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usually of a violent and stunning character; the hero—a naughty boy—seldom, in the mildest catastrophe, being finished off by anything less than a lion or a bear.Sunday evening was the most melancholy evening in the week; for Mrs. Pipchin always made a point of being particularly cross on Sunday nights. Miss Pankey was generally brought back from an aunt’s at Rottingdean, in deep distress; and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives were all in India, and who was required to sit, between the services, in an erect position with his head against the parlour wall, neither moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his young spirits that he once asked Florence, on a Sunday night, if she could give him any idea of the way back to Bengal.But it was generally said that Mrs. Pipchin was a woman of system with children; and no doubt she was. Certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof.At this exemplary old lady Paul would sit staring in his little armchair by the fire for any length of time. He never seemed to know what weariness was when he waslooking fixedly at Mrs. Pipchin. He was not fond of her; he was not afraid of her; but in those old, old moods of his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him. There he would sit, looking at her, and warming his hands, and looking at her, until he sometimes quite confounded Mrs. Pipchin, ogress as she was. Once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about.“You,” said Paul, without the least reserve.“And what are you thinking about me?” asked Mrs. Pipchin.“I’m thinking how old you must be,” said Paul.“You mustn’t say such things as that, young gentleman,” returned the dame. “That’ll never do.”“Why not?” asked Paul.“Because it’s not polite,” said Mrs. Pipchin snappishly.“Not polite?” said Paul.“No.”“It’s not polite,” said Paul innocently, “to eat all the mutton chops and toast, Wickam says.”“Wickam,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin, colouring, “is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy.”“What’s that?” inquired Paul.“Never you mind, sir,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin. “Remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions.”“If the bull was mad,” said Paul, “how did he know that the boy had asked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don’t believe that story.”“You don’t believe it, sir?” repeated Mrs. Pipchin, amazed.“No,” said Paul.“Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little infidel?” said Mrs. Pipchin.“Berry’s very fond of you, ain’t she?” Paul once asked Mrs. Pipchin when they were sitting by the fire with the cat.“Yes,” said Mrs. Pipchin.“Why?” asked Paul.“Why?” returned the disconcerted old lady. “How can you ask such things, sir? Why are you fond of your sister Florence?”“Because she’s very good,” said Paul. “There’s nobody like Florence.”“Well!” retorted Mrs. Pipchin shortly, “and there’s nobody like me, I suppose.”“Ain’t there really, though?” asked Paul, leaning forward in his chair, and looking at her very hard.“No,” said the old lady.“I am glad of that,” observed Paul, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. “That’s a very good thing.”
At one o’clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the farinaceous and vegetable kind, when Miss Pankey (a mild little blue-eyed morsel of a child, who wasshampooed every morning, and seemed in danger of being rubbed away altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to heaven. When this great truth had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was regaled with rice; and subsequently repeated the form of grace established in the castle, in which there was a special clause thanking Mrs. Pipchin for a good dinner. Mrs. Pipchin’s niece, Berinthia, took cold pork. Mrs. Pipchin, whose constitution required warm nourishment, made a special repast of mutton chops, which were brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelled very nice.
As it rained after dinner and they couldn’t go out walking on the beach, and Mrs. Pipchin’s constitution required rest after chops, they went away with Berry (otherwise Berinthia) to the dungeon—an empty room looking out upon a chalk wall and a water butt, and made ghastly by a ragged fireplace without any stove in it. Enlivened by company, however, this was the best place after all; for Berry played with them there, and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they did; until Mrs. Pipchin knocking angrily at the wall, like the Cock Lane Ghost revived, they left off, and Berry told them stories in a whisper until twilight.
For tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread and butter, with a little black teapot for Mrs. Pipchin and Berry, and buttered toast unlimited for Mrs. Pipchin, which was brought in, hot and hot, like the chops. Though Mrs. Pipchin got very greasy outside over this dish, it didn’t seem to lubricate her internally at all; for she was as fierce as ever, and the hard gray eye knew no softening.
After tea, Berry brought out a little workbox, with the Royal Pavilion on the lid, and fell to working busily; while Mrs. Pipchin, having put on her spectacles and opened a great volume bound in green baize, began to nod. And whenever Mrs. Pipchin caught herself falling forward into the fire, and woke up, she filliped Master Bitherstone on the nose for nodding too.
At last it was the children’s bedtime, and after prayers they went to bed. As little Miss Pankey was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark, Mrs. Pipchin always made a point of driving her upstairs herself, like a sheep; and it was cheerful to hear Miss Pankey moaning long afterward,in the least eligible chamber, and Mrs. Pipchin now and then going in to shake her. At about half-past nine o’clock the odour of a warm sweetbread (Mrs. Pipchin’s constitution wouldn’t go to sleep without sweetbread) diversified the prevailing fragrance of the house, which Mrs. Wickam said was “a smell of building,” and slumber fell upon the castle shortly after.
The breakfast next morning was like the tea overnight, except that Mrs. Pipchin took her roll instead of toast, and seemed a little more irate when it was over. Master Bitherstone read aloud to the rest a pedigree from Genesis (judiciously selected by Mrs. Pipchin), getting over the names with the ease and clearness of a person tumbling up the treadmill. That done, Miss Pankey was borne away to be shampooed, and Master Bitherstone to have something else done to him with salt water, from which he always returned very blue and dejected. Paul and Florence went out in the meantime on the beach with Wickam—who was constantly in tears—and at about noon Mrs. Pipchin presided over some Early Readings. It being a part of Mrs. Pipchin’s system not to encourage a child’s mind to develop and expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by force like an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usually of a violent and stunning character; the hero—a naughty boy—seldom, in the mildest catastrophe, being finished off by anything less than a lion or a bear.
Sunday evening was the most melancholy evening in the week; for Mrs. Pipchin always made a point of being particularly cross on Sunday nights. Miss Pankey was generally brought back from an aunt’s at Rottingdean, in deep distress; and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives were all in India, and who was required to sit, between the services, in an erect position with his head against the parlour wall, neither moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his young spirits that he once asked Florence, on a Sunday night, if she could give him any idea of the way back to Bengal.
But it was generally said that Mrs. Pipchin was a woman of system with children; and no doubt she was. Certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof.
At this exemplary old lady Paul would sit staring in his little armchair by the fire for any length of time. He never seemed to know what weariness was when he waslooking fixedly at Mrs. Pipchin. He was not fond of her; he was not afraid of her; but in those old, old moods of his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him. There he would sit, looking at her, and warming his hands, and looking at her, until he sometimes quite confounded Mrs. Pipchin, ogress as she was. Once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about.
“You,” said Paul, without the least reserve.
“And what are you thinking about me?” asked Mrs. Pipchin.
“I’m thinking how old you must be,” said Paul.
“You mustn’t say such things as that, young gentleman,” returned the dame. “That’ll never do.”
“Why not?” asked Paul.
“Because it’s not polite,” said Mrs. Pipchin snappishly.
“Not polite?” said Paul.
“No.”
“It’s not polite,” said Paul innocently, “to eat all the mutton chops and toast, Wickam says.”
“Wickam,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin, colouring, “is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy.”
“What’s that?” inquired Paul.
“Never you mind, sir,” retorted Mrs. Pipchin. “Remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions.”
“If the bull was mad,” said Paul, “how did he know that the boy had asked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don’t believe that story.”
“You don’t believe it, sir?” repeated Mrs. Pipchin, amazed.
“No,” said Paul.
“Not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little infidel?” said Mrs. Pipchin.
“Berry’s very fond of you, ain’t she?” Paul once asked Mrs. Pipchin when they were sitting by the fire with the cat.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pipchin.
“Why?” asked Paul.
“Why?” returned the disconcerted old lady. “How can you ask such things, sir? Why are you fond of your sister Florence?”
“Because she’s very good,” said Paul. “There’s nobody like Florence.”
“Well!” retorted Mrs. Pipchin shortly, “and there’s nobody like me, I suppose.”
“Ain’t there really, though?” asked Paul, leaning forward in his chair, and looking at her very hard.
“No,” said the old lady.
“I am glad of that,” observed Paul, rubbing his hands thoughtfully. “That’s a very good thing.”
To which every one would say “Amen,” if they could believe Mrs. Pipchin’s statement to be actually true.
Mrs. Pipchin combined in her “system” many of the evils of child training.
She was not good-looking, and those who train children should be decidedly good-looking. They need not be handsome; they ought to be winsome. Her “mottled face like bad marble, and hard grey eye” meant danger to childhood.
She was gloomy in appearance, in manner, and in dress, all disqualifications for any position connected with child development.
She was “a bitter old lady,” and children should be surrounded with an atmosphere of sweetness and joyousness.
Her one diabolical rule was “to give children everything they didn’t like and nothing they did like.” This rule is the logical limit of the doctrine of child depravity.
She was generally spoken of as a “great manager,” simply because she compelled children to do her bidding by fear of punishment in the “dungeon,” or of being sent to bed, or robbed of their meals, or by some other mean form of contemptible coercion. These processes were praised as excellent till Dickens destroyed their respectability. His title “child-queller” is admirable, and full of philosophy. Many a man has been able to form a truer conception regarding child freedom through the influence of the word “child-queller.” Every teacher should ask himself every day, “Am I a child-queller?” It will be a blessed thing for the children when there shall be no more Pipchinny teachers.
The environment of the ogress was not attractive. The gardens grew only marigolds, snails were on the doors, andbad odours in the house. “In the winter time the air couldn’t be got out of the castle, and in the summer time it couldn’t be got in.” Dickens knew that the environment of children has a direct influence on their characters, and that ventilation is essential to good health. These lessons were needed fifty years ago.
Mrs. Pipchin made children dishonest by putting on collars for parade.
“The farinaceous and vegetable” diet, the “regaled with rice” criticisms show that Dickens anticipated by half a century the present interest in the study of nutrition as one of the most important educational subjects.
The combination of coercion and religion is ridiculed in the theological constraint of Mrs. Pipchin, when she told little Miss Pankey “that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to heaven.”
The outrageous selfishness of adulthood was exposed by the description of Mrs. Pipchin’s anger at the play of the children in the back room when it was raining and they could not go out.
The injustice of the “child-queller” was shown because she filliped Master Bitherstone on the nose for nodding in the evening, whenever she woke up from her own nodding.
The sacrilege of having prayers between two processes of cruelty is worthy of note. Religion should never be associated in the mind of a child with injustice, cruelty, or any meanness.
The dreadful practice of driving timid children to sleep in the dark was another of Mrs. Pipchin’s accomplishments. The retiring hour of childhood should be made the happiest and most nerve soothing of the day. Wise and sympathetic adulthood, especially motherhood, can then reach the central nature of the child most successfully.
The formal reading of a meaningless selection from the Bible by Bitherstone tended to prevent the development of a true interest in that most interesting of all books.
The Early Readings, with the bad boy in the story“being finished off generally by a lion or a bear,” were a fit accompaniment to a system in which no child’s mind was encouraged to expand like a flower naturally, but to be opened by force like an oyster.
Dickens began with Mrs. Pipchin his revelation of the great blunder of checking the questions of children. “Remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions,” she said to Paul. The same evil is pointed out in the training of Pip in Great Expectations.
Another common error is revealed by Mrs. Pipchin, when she called Paul “a little infidel,” because he did not accept her statement about the mad bull, although she knew it to be false herself. Even when children doubt the truth they should not be called “infidels,” unless, indeed, it is desired to make them definitely and consciously sceptical.
The Puritan Sabbath was a part of Mrs. Pipchin’s quelling system too.
It was little wonder, therefore, that the wild children went home tame enough after a few months in her awful institution.
Few men who have ever lived have studied the child and his training so thoroughly as to be able to condense into such brief space so many of the evils of bad training.
Mrs. Pipchin and Mr. Squeers have been made to do good work for childhood.
Biler was so badly treated at the grinders’ school that he played hookey, but that was not the worst feature of his education. They did not feel any responsibility for character development in the school of the Charitable Grinders.