CRUELTY TO CHILDREN. SEVERAL shocking cases of cruel personal chastisement inflicted upon children by their own parents, have recently been made the subject of investigation in our police courts, and occasioned considerable animadversion in the newspapers. Cases, such as these, however, which come to light, and obtain public exposure, bear an infinitely small proportion to those which are never heard of, except, perhaps, by immediate neighbours, who are occasionally horrified by the shrieks of maltreated children. We also hear, from time to time, of parents who lock up their children in back rooms, where they are half-starved, and beaten at frequent intervals. We believe that a monstrous amount of cruelty is inflicted upon children in this and in similar ways, of which people in general have no suspicion. But the parents, when brought to justice for misdemeanours of this kind, are never without their excuses: the children have been "incorrigible," "unruly," "wicked," "aggravating," and so on; and it is alleged that "nothing will mend them but blows," which, however, never do. There is surely a terrible want of heart as well as judgment in this ferocious manner of dealing with the shortcomings and faults of children. Parents seem to be absurd enough to suppose that their children can, at will, exercise the qualities of trained and cultivated beings. At their very entrance into life, with only the physical powers imperfectly developed, and while the animal will and instinct entirely preponderate over the moral and intellectual nature, which has scarcely yet germinated, they are expected to exhibit self-command, self-government, truthfulness, abstinence, uprightness, and those other moral fruits which usually blossom in adult years, and generally reach their full stature only in advanced life. And do those parents, who are so ready to treat the faults of their children with such violence, themselves display in their own character the qualities which they demand from their children? A child is cross, makes a noise, throws down a toy and breaks it, beats his younger brother, or sets up a shout of screaming when he is told to do something that he does not like; and, forthwith, his parent runs at him, smacks him on the side of the head, brings down the birch over his back, strips and thrashes him, or even knocks him down on the [PRICE 1d. spot! Is this the exhibition of patience, forbearance, temper, and sense, which is calculated to exemplify to the child the good conduct which his parent desires in him? Is it not rather the very worst possible example for the child, and calculated to make him more cross, more cruel, and more regardless in his future conduct? Parents should also consider that the faults of their children are, for the most part, but the continuation or copies of their own. They, themselves, in originating the bodies of their children, originated their minds, temperaments, and moral dispositions; and it would be quite as rational, in most cases, for the parents to flog and punish themselves, as to flog and punish their offspring because they display the imperfections of nature which they have inherited from those who gave them being. A child does not make its own temper, nor has any control, while a child, over its direction; but cruel and unthinking parents very often treat them as if this were the case. If the parent has conferred an irritable temperament upon the child, is it not rather a duty on his or her part, to exercise the greater self-control, forbearance, and patience, so that the powerful influence of daily example may, in course of time, correct and modify the defects of birth? Parents, we believe, are too apt to correct their children, while themselves under the influence of illtemper. They are irritated and provoked, and the despot, which sits in the dark corner of every man's heart, rises up and smites the unresisting child, who, in most cases, quite unthinkingly and undesignedly, has caused the provocation. The kindlier feeling of the parent begins to operate when his anger has had time to cool, and, in his lonely hours, the crying, piteous face of his poor child rises up before him; but the mischief is done, the child has been wronged, and, perhaps, a sense of injustice and rancorous bitterness excited in its heart. We can never think, without pity, of the parent who lost a noble and promising son by death, and was haunted through life after by the recollection of his parental severity. "My boy," he said to a friend, "was used to think me severe, and he had too much reason to do so; he did not know how I loved him at the bottom of my heart; and it is now too late." We believe that the government of men and children, by means of physical force, is very much on the decline among intelligent persons at this day; indeed, Mr. Cariyle seems to be the only writer who continues to lift The bravest and strongest men are those educated by love and not by fear. The Goths held that, to inflict blows upon a boy was to destroy his courage; and they carefully abstained from it. The Quakers among ourselves have long been in the practice of rearing tranquil and brave children-souls, without the aid of the cane; and we know of several schools, which have turned out the very finest specimens of youthful character, where the scourge has been entirely dispensed with. It speaks to reason, as we have seen, that it should be so. There may, however, be cases where a physical punishment is justifiable; but these, we believe, form the rare exceptions; and our remarks apply entirely to that indiscri minate use of physical punishment, which we hold to be so injurious to the moral characters of children. Another observation, with which we would conclude our article, is this:-that the practice of punishing chilWhen the parent relies chiefly upon Pain for the dren by blows teaches them cruelty to other living control of the child's Will, the child comes insensibly to objects which are in their power. As their sense of pain associate notions of duty and obedience with fear and has been disregarded, so do they acquire a disregard for terror. And when you have thus associated in the mind the pains of others. They come to take a pleasure in of the child the idea of command over the will of others inflicting pain upon their younger brothers and sisters, by means of pain, you have done all that you can to lay upon schoolfellows under their own age, and upon dumb, the foundation of the bad character, the bad son, the bad sentient creatures. When the elder boys at Eton once husband, the bad father, the bad neighbour, the bad proposed to abolish the system of Fagging, they were citizen. Parents may not think of this when they are strenuously opposed by the younger boys, though they flogging their children, and beating into them their own were then subject to all its tyranny! The expected faults; but it is so, nevertheless. There is no doubt, pleasure of tyrannizing, in their turn, over other boys whatever, that the command over the wills of others by younger than themselves, outweighed the pain of their means of pain, leads to all the several degrees of vexation, present slavery. The practice of corporeal punishment injustice, cruelty, oppression, and tyranny. "It is, in had thus educated them into a love of it as exercised truth," says Mill, "the grand source of all wickedness, upon others. And the fact is strikingly illustrative of of all the evil which man brings upon man." * The child the working of the system of physical coercion, as well soon learns its power in the same way. It cries for a as of its ultimate deleterious effects upon society at large. toy, and, by the annoyance which it causes to its nurse, There is also an enormous amount of cruelty practised succeeds in obtaining it. It thus learns to cry for all by little children upon dumb brutes, originating, we bethat it wants, and becomes a little tyrant before it can lieve, in the physical punishment practised upon themwalk; and then the child is said to be " spoilt." But selves in the family and in the school. You see it in a the parent or the nurse brings the same power of pain to lot of boys beating a poor ass upon a common, in another bear upon the child in turn; it is beaten because of some set tying a pan to a dog's tail for their diversion-in a fault or excess, and thus the lesson of tyranny is practi-private juvenile exhibition of the squelching of a frog, cally enforced and impressed upon the young mind. in spinning a cockchafer-in pulling the limbs from a fly, But many parents entertain the notion that it is ne- and in such like cruel diversions. In some cases, chilcessary to "break the will" of the perverse child. They dren may engage in such shameful pastime from thoughtdo not reflect that the strong will forms the foundation lessness, or perhaps through the example set to them by of the strong and decided character,-that, without elder boys; but in the large proportion of cases it has strength of will, there will be no strength of purpose,- its origin in the cruelty and pain inflicted upon the chilthat, when the will is thoroughly cowed and broken, man dren themselves, which educates them into a disregard of is reduced to the abject state of the crawling, crouching the pains of other creatures, and even causes them to slave. No fallacy is more dangerous than that to which take a pleasure in its infliction. Parents ought carefully we refer. What is necessary, is, not to break, which is to teach their children to have a tender feeling for every to destroy, but to educate the will; and this is not to be object that possesses life, and to abstain from the inflicdone through the agency of force or fear. The faculty tion of all unnecessary pain; and they cannot teach this of Will ought rather to be strengthened and developed, lesson more emphatically than by themselves abstaiuby being led out into proper directions. When the child ing from the infliction of all unnecessary pain upon their wills what is wrong, other faculties may be appealed to, children. and its attention diverted into other directions by memory, hope, or affection. Through the power of love and persistent gentleness, by denials when necessary, NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW WITH THE LATE and the careful education of the power of self-government, the child may gradually be brought into a habit of docility and loving subjection to others, without the necessity of at all appealing to its sense of pain. You cannot train the will by the fear of punishment. You may restrain, break, or dislocate it, but you cannot thus educate it. The strong-willed child feels that he has at least one property-himself and justice; he resists, and, sooner or later, his will, deformed and perverted, will probably start into desperate and unmanageable rebellion. Thus many men, who might have been the ornaments of their race, are converted, by the mismanagement of parents, into its curses. * Art. Education, in Encyclopædia Brittannica. -- CHARLES LAMB. "Converse with a master-spirit can never be forgotten: how it feeds, inspires, and elevates the mind!"-Stray Leaves. always interested and charmed us. They are, certainly, field. His abode was a small, neat, rural habitation, in not of the most elaborate character; not of the highest a quiet and almost sequestered neighbourhood, and prereach and power; still they rivet our attention, engage, senting a perfect contrast to the scenes of activity, noise, delight, and benefit our minds. They are perfectly and bustle, in the midst of which the greater part of his unique. They are exceedingly graphical and descriptive. previous life had been spent. The thought entered the They have beautiful touches of the tender and pathetic. mind, as we approached his residence-How can you, Elia, They have a fine vein of originality pervading them. be happy here, with your tastes and decided predilections There is a quiet pensiveness about them which we love. for the animation, variety, and energy of life in the meThere is a raciness, a facetiousness, a poignancy of hu-tropolis? On the occasion to which this paper refers, mour, which strikes us at once. There is a knowledge of we had a literary favour to request of him, which we character, an acquaintance with the antique, a sageness were well assured, from our knowledge of his kindness, and quickness of observation, which uniformly commands he would grant in the readiest manner: nor were we our attention, and awakens deep interest. We never read disappointed. The door was opened by his sister, who the "Essays of Elia" without being riveted and in- welcomed us in her usual polite and agreeable manner. structed. Some of them are incomparably beautiful. It She was a staid, respectable, domestic, and matronly kind has been observed, with perfect truth, that, "as an of person, without the slightest affectation or pretension, essayist, Charles Lamb will be remembered in years to and was very pleasant in her demeanour. You could feel come, with Rabelais and Montaigne, with Sir Thomas at home with her at once, and you loved her for her broBrowne, with Steele, and with Addison. He has wisdom ther's sake. We waited a few moments in a plain and and wit of the highest order. We know of no inquisi- neat front parlour, while she went to inform her brother, tion more curious, no speculation more lofty, than may and, on her return, we were introduced to Charles Lamb, be found in the essays of Charles Lamb." This eulogy in a little back room, plainly furnished, and evidently is not too unqualified. used as his study. There was a select, but by no means a large library; and we could not help observing the number of folios which it contained. He received us in his usual quiet and urbane manner, without any form, or peculiar warmth. This was characteristic of him. Many of his letters, also, are very beautiful and striking, abounding in terse and choice expressions, in fine and original sentiments, in graphic portraitures. How just and impressive are the following sentences, from a few of his epistolary communications : If presents be not the soul of friendship, undoubtedly they are the most spiritual part of the body of that intercourse. There is too much narrowness of thinking on this point. The punctilio of acceptance, methinks, is too confined and strait-laced. I could be content to receive money, or clothes, or a joint of meat from a friend. Why should he not send me a dinner as well as a dessert?" "Let him overcome me in bounty. In this strife, a generous nature loves to be overcome.' "I wish your friend would not drink. It's a blemish in the greatest characters." "Lord Nelson is quiet at last. His ghost only keeps a slight fluttering in odes and elegies, in newspapers and impromptus, which could not be got ready before the funeral." "Gather up the wretched reliques, my friend, as fast as you can, and come to your old home. I will rub my eyes and try to recognise you. We will shake withered hands together, and talk of old things." "I am a prisoner to the desk. I have been chained to that galley thirty years; a long shot. I have almost grown to the wood." "I sit, like Philomel, all day (but not singing) with my breast against this thorn of a desk, with the only hope that some pulmonary affliction may relieve me." "Trust not the public. You may hang, starve, drown yourself, for anything that worthy personage cares." As soon as we were seated we saw that we were in the presence of a superior man-a man of cultivated, powerful, and original mind. There was something about him which impressed us at once, and which we cannot adequately describe. He was stationed at a small table, and had before him an old folio-an ancient edition of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. His frame was slight and fragile, and his countenance was pensive and solemn. He was attired in clerk-like black, and presented a very grave and clerical appearance. We were always struck with his head, and never more than on this occasion. The form of that head was the most dignified, and its expression the most agreeable and sweet. His biographer, the accomplished Talfourd, sketches him to the very life. "His black hair curled crisply about an expanded forehead; his eyes, softly brown, twinkled with varying expression, though the prevalent feeling was sad; and the nose, slightly curved and delicately carved at the nostrils, with the lower outline of the face regularly oval, completed a head which was finely placed on the shoulders, and gave importance, and even dignity, to a diminutive and shadowy stem; who shall describe his countenance-catch its quivering sweetness and fix it for ever in words? deep thought, striving with humour; the lines of suffering wreathed into cordial mirth; and a smile of painful sweetness, present an image to the mind, it can as little describe as lose." This is a graphical, vivid delineation-a true portrait. "A splendid edition of "Bunyan's Pilgrim!" Why, After a little incidental remark or two, and gaining, the thought is enough to turn one's moral stomach. His without any difficulty the literary favour solicited, we cockle-hat and staff transformed to a smart cocked beaver proposed some questions on books and intellectual suband a jemmy cane; his amice grey to the last Regent-jects, and entered seriously into conversation. There was Street cut; and his painful Palmer's pace, to the modern nothing facetious-no punning-on this occasion. He swagger. Stop thy friend's sacrilegious hand. Nothing can be done for B. but to reprint the old cuts, in as homely, but good a style as possible." "I frankly own that, to pillarize a man's good feelings in his life-time, is not to my taste. Monuments to goodness, even after death, are equivocal. I turn away from Howard's, I scarce know why. Goodness blows no trumpet, nor desires to have it blown. We should be modest for a modest man, as he is for himself." These are only two or three gems from the "Letters of Elia;" they are almost innumerable. It was in the year 1831 when we had our last interview with Charles Lamb. He was then residing at En was very serious, and his talk was serious; and, as "You have caught me reading," said he, "Indeed I do," he at once exclaimed; "there is nothing like them: what solidity-what breadth-what printing-what margin-to me, what beauty! I can scarcely endure your octavos and duodecimos. I have been so accustomed to the fine old folio, that I find it almost difficult to read with comfort a book of small size; and, sure I am, I do not receive half the benefit. Here," said he, "is a favourite volume of mine," taking up a folio edition of Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy" and I have been so used to this form, that I could scarcely read it in the dimensions of a small octavo. There is another glorious book-Philip Sidney's Arcadia --but how could I read it if it were in the shape of a duodecimo? Let others have the octavos, but give me the quartos, and especially the folios." We asked him, if he read "Jeremy Taylor?" Yes," he replied, "and always with much delight. He was one of the greatest giants of the olden time. His profusion of illustration, his richness and variety of imagery, always astonish me; and his copiousness and magnificence of expression ever afford me interest and pleasure. I read last year a large portion of his Great Exemplar, and was charmed and enchained with very many passages." "Do you like Barrow?" "I cannot help it. He is dry, and often tedious, but what energy and felicity of language, what force of argument, what clearness and power of thought, what rich diversified illustration! I wish all would read Barrow." He then inquired, "and pray what are you reading? I like to know what are the meditations and inquiries of others." We at once told him that we had just finished again "Boswell's Life of Johnson." "Indeed," said he, "that is a volume I prize. It is most descriptive and powerful. It is a full-length of the great lexicographer. It is often prosy, garrulous, and small in its talk and details; still who would be without such a book-such a portraiture? You see Johnson's mind not in his poetry, in his Idler, or his Rambler, but in his Rasselas, and in his conversations, as Boswell narrates them. Yes, I much like Boswell; a vain, weak, in many respects, a little man; but how clever, how admirable in sketching the character, and detailing the conversations of Samuel Johnson!" We proceeded to inform him that we had perused, with much gratification, the "Life and Letters of Beattie, by Forbes." "Yes," remarked he, "it is a book, valuable not on account of what Forbes does, but on the ground of the letters of the poet. Many of those are most interesting and beautiful, written with marked elegance and ease, abounding in nice morsels of criticism, and rich in descriptive passages. I like Beattie's Letters," he added, "many of them are worthy of being compared with Cowper's." We asked him, if he had studied "Cudworth's Intellectual System!" He replied in the affirmative, and observed, "I am always struck with its amplitude and breadth of learning, and the true greatness of mind which it discovers." We told him that we examined lately, with care, the prose of Dryden. "I am glad of it. It is the prose of 'glorious John'-prose which few could write. It is full of energy and erudition, and I never read it without admiration." We then mentioned, that we had gone through Goldsmith again. "Ah, 'poor Goldy!' how I value him; what can be more simple, pure, touching, natural, than his prose-what can be more descriptive, graceful, original, or impressive than his poetry!" Having just read Lamb's "Benchers of the Temple," "The old Margate Hoy," "Witches and other Night Fears," " Mackery End, in Hertfordshire," and several more of his essays, it was mentioned how much we valued and admired them. He responded, "You are very polite and kind. The public has been very indulgent towards them. Whatever their faults, I endeavoured to write them with discrimination and care. The little Essays, by Elia, have not been despised." He seemed gratified, and a smile played on his pensive and intellectual countenance. When I am gone," he touchingly remarked, "I shall be remembered by a few choice and kindred spirits." "Not by a few," we ventured to add, "but by manyvery many." He bowed, and asked, "have you got 'John Woodville' in your library? It is a thing of no importance, but I should like you to have a copy." On informing him that we had not, he procured from an upper shelf a volume of this play; and, writing his name on the fly-leaf, and adding, "to his affectionate friend," put it into our hands. That little book we have prized ever since, and now that the hand and head of the writer have mouldered in the grave, we never take it up without pensive and solemn emotions being awakened. Previously to leaving, on the occasion to which this paper relates, Elia wrote for us a kind and generous notepenned in his neat and peculiar style; we have it before us now, and shall ever prize it as a little epistolary composition of the taciturn, the pensive, the grave, but gentle, true-hearted, kind-hearted Elia. This was our final interview with the late Charles Lamb, but we never open a volume of his writings without having his countenance and form before the mind's eye, as he appeared at the period respecting which we write. It is well known that Elia died in consequence of a trifling accident which occurred to him while taking one of his regular morning walks on the dusty London road, and he lies in Edmonton churchyard. He had marked the spot himself, a short time previously, while walking there with his sister, "as the place where he wished to be buried." "The spot," as has been observed, "is by no means romantic, though something of the kind might easily have been found among the mossy, mouldering, carved vaults and tombs, at remote corners, beneath old yewtrees, dense blackthorn hedges, or beside the venerable buttresses of the old church walls. Lamb, however, preferred to be located, not only where the place was pretty thick with companionable tombs, but where he could be nearer the walks of human life. His gravestone accordingly stands at a little distance, facing a foot-path which leads to the lanes and fields at the back of the church." The inscription on it is simply"To the memory of Charles Lamb. Died 27th Dec., 1834; aged 59." Just at the maturest stage of his mind, at the primest part of his days! There, in fixed peacefulness, among a crowd of familiar names-names known from infancy-we often see it stand with pallid smiles just after sun-set, while sparrows fly chirping from tomb to tomb, and ruminating sheep recline, with half-closed eyes, against the warm flat stone or grassy mound. How many a literary pilgrim, and fond admirer, has been almost ready to shed a tear, when looking at the quiet grave which contains the mortal relics of the pensive, gentle, and noble Elia! THERE'S NO USE IN WEEPING. There's no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part; There's such a thing as dwelling On the thought ourselves have nursed. We'll not let its follies grieve us, We'll just take them as they come; When we've left each friend and brother, We will think of one another As even better than we are. Every glorious sight above us, Every pleasant sight beneath, We'll connect with those that love us, In the evening, when we're sitting We can burst the bonds which chain us So there's no use in weeping, T. W. the waving boughs in their fresh summer dress, while a light breeze went rustling through the leaves, causing their shadows to dance, with a pleasant flicker, upon the sunlit grass beneath. We had a delightful row up the smooth river; the tiny ripples that we left in our wake sparkling in the sunshine like diamonds. When we arrived at our destination, we found that the servants, who had gone round in a shandrydan with the hampers of prog, had already laid the cloth for dinner, in a convenient place under the trees, and had spread various good things thereupon. I got into a snug corner with my old friend John Fox, and Jane and Sarah Dyson; and there we enjoyed ourselves in our own way, unconscious of any addition to our party, until my attention was attracted by a rich, melancholy voice behind me. I turned to look at the speaker; a swarthy, weather-beaten young man, of sailor-like appearance, was lounging upon a bank, with his eyes fixed upon me. He moved his head quickly aside, as if to avoid my observation, and as I continued to look curiously at him, he rose and walked away to a little distance. The person, like the voice, appeared familiar, and I was certain that I had made his acquaintance somewhere. I ascertained that his name was Westmorland, and that he had lately come into possession of a fine estate in the neighbourhood. This information did not at all clear up the mystery, and I was delighted when Mrs. Staniforth begged permission to introduce him to me, as I thought that in the course of conversation I might perhaps be able to solve it. But, though all that he said proved to me that my idea of a previous acquaintance was wellfounded, he carefully avoided entering into details, and I shall have to wait a little longer for the satisfaction of my curiosity. He is to call to-morrow morning, and then-we shall see. At any rate, I have had a most delightful day, instead of the monotony that I expected. Pic-nics are the pleasantest kind of parties, when people are inclined to make themselves agreeable. The poor Dysons! they were so jealous when my new friend handed me into the boat, and took his seat beside me. However, I could not help that, nor yet his conversing with me all the afternoon. I am thankful that I am no flirt; no one can say that of me with truth, whatever Sarah Dyson may choose to insinuate. Tuesday Evening.-Mystery upon mystery! He says that he has often spoken to me, and that I have wounded him severely. That the last time I did so he resolved never again to encounter my scorn; but that, when he encountered me yesterday at the pic-nic, so smiling and gracious, he resolved to make one more trial of me. He has been travelling for five years. Where can I have seen him? in a railway carriage or on a steam-boat? * * * * * A WEEK DOWN THE STREAM OF LIFE. MONDAY Morning.-Up early, and hoping to find something really to do to-day, for I feel that I lead a sad idle life. There is a great deal of talk about woman's mission; I wonder what is mine. Here I am, in possession of health and competence; my brothers and sisters all married and doing well; my mother too active about the house to leave any duties for me to fulfil; my father I was interrupted by Mrs. Staniforth, who begged me always shut up in his library. I have no fixed employ- to come into her house, for Mr. Westmorland and the ment; nothing whatever to do but call upon my friends, Tinkers had dropped in to supper, and she was tired of alter my dresses to the latest fashion, and read novels. I amusing them all, especially as Charley was rather poorly. wish I were of consequence to somebody. A lover would" Besides," said she, "I know that Mr. Westmorland be a pleasant diversion; even a small trial or a snug ill-admires you more than any young lady of my acquaintness would be a welcome change in this long monotony ance." of ease and comfort. Heigho! How tiresome it is to be a young lady? Ten o'Clock, p.m.-The day has turned out better than I expected. About eleven o'clock our neighbour, Mrs. Staniforth, bustled in, and begged me immediately to run up stairs, and prepare for a pic-nic party to Bertie Forest. So I put on my white dress and green mantelet, and my chip bonnet with blush roses, and set off with my friend to her house, where several of the party were already assembled. We were to go by water, and when we got to the riverside we found the boats all ready, and half-a-dozen more people awaiting us under the trees. It was a splendid morning; the sky looked intensely blue by contrast with I eagerly began to question her about him. Where did he come from? What had he been before he became our neighbour? "Why, my dear," she inquired, with an expression of amazement, "is it possible that you do not recognise him? But it is all for the best. I shall not enlighten you, for I know your aristocratic prejudices." In vain I entreated her to take pity on my ignorance; she resisted all my persuasions, and I arrived at her house, and walked up stairs to the drawing-room as densely mystified as ever. After supper we had a long and interesting conversation, in the course of which many new ideas were presented to my mind, which I feel that I shall be the |