beginning. I felt the words of my lesson slipping off, not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page. I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking. We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in, with an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book was added to the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time. And when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes he made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying. 66 Clara!" said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice. "I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think," said my mother. I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up the cane, "Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect firmness, the worry and torment that David has occasioned her to-day. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so much from her. David, you and I will go upstairs, boy." They went upstairs. David was beaten unmercifully, notwithstanding his piteous cries, and in his desperation he bit the hand of Murdstone. For this it seemed as if Murdstone would have beaten him to death but for the interference of the women. "Then he was gone, and the door locked outside; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor.' Oh! Blind, self-satisfied "child-quellers," who so ignorantly boast of your ability to conquer children! Dickens described Murdstone for you. Think of that awful picture of the beautiful boy, created in the image of God, lying on the floor, "fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, and raging," with every element of sweetness and strength in his life turned to darkness and fury, and next time you propose to conquer a child" who has been rendered partially insane, possibly by your treatment, and with whom you have unnecessarily forced a crisis, remember the Murdstone tragedy-a real tragedy, notwithstanding the fact that the boy's life was spared. Remember, too, that your very presence and manner may blight the young lives that you are supposed to develop. When Mr. Murdstone was sending David away to work he gave him his philosophy of coercion as his parting advice: "David," said Mr. Murdstone, "to the young, this is a world for action; not for moping and droning in." 66 'As you do," added his sister. "Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say, David, to the young, this is a world for action, and not for moping and droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of your disposition, which requires a great deal of correcting; and to which no greater service can be done than to force it to conform to the ways of the working world, and to bend it and break it." "For stubbornness won't do here," said his sister. "What it wants is to be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall be, too!" First he fills the boy as full as possible of self-depreciation, and then trains him to expect that his leading experiences in life will consist of being forced into submission, conforming to the plans of others, bending to authority, the breaking of his will, and the crushing of his interests and purposes. What a depressing outlook to give a child! John Willet, in Barnaby Rudge, is used as a means of convincing parents that they should respect the feelings and opinions of children. No two maxims relating to child training are more utterly wrong in principle, more devoid of the simplest elements of child sympathy and child reverence, than the time-honoured nonsense that "children should be seen and not heard," and "children should speak only when they are spoken to." Dickens exposes these maxims to deserved ridicule in John Willet's treatment of his son Joe. John kept the Maypole Inn. Joe was a fine, sturdy young man. but his father still ruled him with an unbending stubbornness that he believed to be a necessary exercise of authority. John was encouraged in his tyranny over his son by some of his old cronies, who were in the habit of sitting in the Maypole in the evenings and praising John for his firmness in training his son. One evening a stranger made a remark about a gentleman, to which Joe replied. 66 Silence, sir!" cried his father. "What a chap you are, Joe!" said Long Parkes. "Such a inconsiderate lad!" murmured Tom Cobb. 66 Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own father's face!" exclaimed the parish clerk metaphorically. "what do you "What have I done?" reasoned poor Joe. "Silence, sir!" returned his father; mean by talking, when you see people that are more than two or three times your age sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word? "Why that's the proper time for me to talk, isn't it?" said Joe rebelliously. 66 "The proper time, sir!" retorted his father, "the proper time's no time." 66 Ah, to be sure!" muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two who nodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was the point. 66 "The proper time's no time, sir," repeated John Willet; when I was your age I never talked, I never wanted to talk. I listened and improved myself, that's what I did." "It's all very fine talking," muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with divers uneasy gestures. "But if you mean to tell me that I'm never to open my lips 'Silence, sir!" roared his father. “No, you never are. When your opinion's wanted, you give it. When you're spoke to you speak. When your opinion's not wanted and you're not spoke to, don't give an opinion and don't you speak. The world's undergone a nice alteration since my time, certainly. My belief is that there an't any boys left -that there isn't such a thing as a boy-that there's nothing now between a male baby and a man-and that all the boys went out with his blessed majesty King George the Second." On another occasion Joe had been hit with a whip by a stranger, and he expressed his opinion to Mr. Varden about the character of the man who hit him. "Hold your tongue, sir," said his father. "I won't, father. It's all along of you that he ventured to do what he did. Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a fool, he plucks up a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he thinks-and may well think, too-hasn't a grain of spirit. But he's mistaken, as I'll show him, and as I'll show all of you before long." "Does the boy know what he's saying of!" cried the astonished John Willet. "Father," returned Joe, "I know what I say and mean, well-better than you do when you hear me. I can bear with you, but I can not bear the contempt that your treating me in the way you do brings upon me from others every day. Look at other young men of my age. Have they no liberty, no will, no right to speak? Are they obliged to sit mumchance, and to be ordered about till they are the laughingstock of young and old? I am a byword all over Chigwell, and I say-and it's fairer my saying so now, than waiting till you are dead, and I have got your money-I say, that before long I shall be driven to break such bounds, and that when I do, it won't be me that you'll have to blame, but your own self, and no other." John never trusted his son, never entered into his plans, and treated even the most sacred things of Joe's life with contempt. Joe was about to start to London on business for his father, and he was to ride a mare that was so slow that a young man could not enjoy the prospect of riding her. "Don't you ride hard," said his father. "I should be puzzled to do that, I think, father," Joe replied, casting a disconsolate look at the animal. 66 None of your impudence, sir, if you please," retorted old John. "What would you ride, sir? A wild ass or zebra would be too tame for you, wouldn't he, eh, sir? You'd like to ride a roaring lion, wouldn't you, sir, eh, sir? Hold your tongue, sir." When Mr. Willet, in his differences with his son, had exhausted all the questions that occurred to him, and Joe had said nothing at all in answer, he generally wound up by bidding him hold his tongue. "And what does the boy mean," added Mr. Willet, after he had stared at him for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, "by cocking his hat, to such an extent! Are you going to kill the wintner, sir?' "No," said Joe tartly; "I'm not. Now your mind's at ease, father." “With a military air, too!” said Mr. Willet, surveying him from top to toe; “with a swaggering, fire-eating, biling-water drinking sort of way with him! And what do you mean by pulling up the crocuses and snowdrops, eh, sir?" "It's only a little nosegay," said Joe, reddening. "There's no harm in that, I hope?" 66 "You're a boy of business, you are, sir!" said Mr. Willet disdainfully, to go supposing that wintners care for nosegays." "I don't suppose anything of the kind," returned Joe. "Let them keep their red noses for bottles and tankards. These are going to Mr. Varden's house." "And do you suppose he minds such things as crocuses?" demanded John. 66 "I don't know, and to say the truth, I don't care," said Joe. Come, father, give me the money, and in the name of patience let me go." "There it is, sir," replied John; "and take care of it; and mind you don't make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest. Do you mind?" 66 66 Ay, I mind," returned Joe. She'll need it, Heaven knows." 66 And don't you score up too much at the Black Lion," said John. "Mind that too." "Then why don't you let me have some money of my own?" retorted Joe sorrowfully; "why don't you, father? What do you send me into London for, giving me only the right to call for my dinner at the Black Lion, which you're to pay for next time you go, as if I was not to be trusted with a few shillings? Why do you use me like this? It's not right of you. You can't expect me to be quiet under it." Dickens in this interview condemns several mistakes often made by parents in restraining instead of sympathizing with their children in the natural unfolding of their young manhood or womanhood. It was wrong for |