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HERE is hardly a class in this country having the smallest title to the privilege (for it really is a privilege nowadays) of calling itself oppressed, but has found a champion to uphold its rights and proclaim its wrongs. The wrongs of women, the wrongs of negroes, the wrongs of Romanists, the wrongs of labour, the wrongs of the unenfranchised and unwashed, wrongs of intelligent artizans, of curates, farmers, brewers, paupers, lunatics, all these, and plenty more have had or are having their day. Each has in turn sat in the seat of the oppressed, to win the tears of a sympathetic public. There is another class, however, which has hardly as yet had its fair share of public sympathy; a class, in my opinion, far more interesting than any of the above-mentioned, not excepting even woman herself-I mean little children. I am a bachelor, and my experience of the opposite sex convinces me that I shall soon be what is called 'a confirmed bachelor;' but children are the joy of my heart and the light of mine eyes, bright and fresh as a posy of wild flowers, whereas ladies too often remind one of those halffaded violets that street-boys vend, all doctored with essence to increase their charms. Deem me not malicious, dear ladies: I know you are not all creations of art, but neither are you truly daughters of nature. Still, though I cannot love you in the Circassian bloom of maturity, I worship you in the rosy freshness of infancy. I cannot admire you in a peplum or a fichu, but I adore you in long-clothes. Yes, children I love with all my heart: they are sweeter than a garden of roses or a melody of Mozart; and children are, in my humble opinion, systematically oppressed, while their wrongs are not only for the most part unredressed, but are to a great extent ignored.

True, certain philanthropic societies take upon them to protect a select number of orphans, foundlings, and other such waifs and

strays; some even rescue an occasional victim from illegal oppression. Now and then a little patient having been whipped, or starved, or pumped upon once too often, causes a little awkwardness by succumbing under the treatment, and the Marquis of Townshend or the 'Society for the Protection of Women and Children' steps in, and brings the cruel stepmother, or inhuman uncle, or unnatural parent, as the case may be, to justice; but such things happen comparatively seldom, or rather-which indeed is not quite the same thing—are seldom heard of, and of course are no argument against the almost universally received belief that the happiness of the English child is supreme and unmitigated. Of these wrongs, therefore, it is not my purpose to complain. But there are wrongs and woes which are not to be redressed by interposition of the law, however vigorous, nor by generosity of Foundling Hospitals, however free and open-armed. I mean what are called with a sort of jocose pity the little griefs of childhood. Now, if we are to trust the common belief, these are in fact not griefs at all, and the majority of children have really no more cares or sorrows than cherubs have bodies. How a belief so remote from truth did first arise, it is hard to say. I incline to think it is in part a myth of the poets, especially confirmed by those of the present century, and in part is a fiction found useful for domestic discipline, seeing that it may be used with some effect in repressing the murmurs which arise against what the child mind sometimes considers a hard lot. People who find themselves on the downhill of life' are especially fond of talking about the pleasures of childhood; distance, perhaps, lending the proverbial enchantment to the view, and parents, I observe, take pains to impress upon their offspring the transcendent happiness of their youthful condition. For instance, being on a visit to my friend B——,

who is an excellent specimen of the British parent, I heard him discourse to his two sons, aged seven and nine, on this wise: Ah, Tom and Charley, lucky young dogs; no cares and troubles like your poor papa; just as happy as humming-tops from one month's end to another. I wish my boyish days would come over again.'

And then Mrs. B-, seconding, as in duty bound, the admonitions of her spouse: 'And you too, Minnie and Lucy. Were there ever two such happy girls as you? With the best and wisest papa that ever was, and the neatest and most particular nurse that ever was seen, and the prettiest dolls, and-dear me, I wish I had half as much happiness.'

And yet Tom and Charley seemed to have recollections which prevented them from realizing their privileges, and Minnie and Lucy pouted, and did anything but congratulate themselves on the blessings of infancy. I could not but ask myself, How is this? If B

and his wife be right, as they are certainly sincere, how is it that not only Tom and Charley, and Minnie and Lucy, but Dick, Jack, Harry, and hundreds more, being, as they are often reminded, the happiest beings in the world, fail to realize this singular blessedness? I put this question to Mrs. Bone day, after witnessing a paroxysm of grief and tears on the part of her Tommy, who had been condemned for some slight misdemeanour to lose his share of pudding, a very luscious and altogether desirable one. She replied, with that decisive and convincing logic for which her sex is so highly distinguished, that the idea of children brought up by decent parents being unhappy, was all stuff and nonsense.

'My little Tommy,' said Mrs. B-, 'is as happy as the day is long,' (traces of happiness on Tommy's face were at that moment very obscure). 'If he ever cries, it is not because he is unhappy, but because he is naughty. He never has any troubles, or, if he has, they pass away like an April shower' (Tommy's tears were developing into

quiet little sobs); and the fact is, children do not know when they are well off.'

'But, dear madam, you do not quite touch the point of my question. How is it that children do not know when they are well off? If they are happy, there is surely no reason why they should not know it. I grant you that the immature state of their intellect prevents them from taking a comprehensive view of their condition, and so renders them unconscious of a variety of circumstances tending to promote their happiness; but as regards the pleasures and pains, which reach them through the senses, and which are commonly understood by the joys and sorrows of childhood, I take it a child is a better judge of these in his own case than any other person can be for him; and I am much mistaken if the majority of children, even of those who seem to a casual observer happy, do not find the sorrows of childhood predominate over its joys.'

Leaving Mrs. Band her family, I ask the candid reader whether he or she really believes in the supreme happiness of childhood? Are those little tender creatures, whom it does every honest man's heart good to see about him, are they as happy as we can and ought to make them? Is the nursery system, as at present established in a large number of respectable families, calculated to promote either the external happiness or the moral welfare of those whom it embraces? An almost irresponsible autocrat, styled the head nurse, or 'nurse' par excellence, assisted perhaps by a couple of junior officials, is placed pretty nearly in loco parentis to the little folk of the family from the month' to perhaps the tenth year. Papa of course is busy, and rarely sees the children more than once a day, when in the pink of spruceness and good behaviour they come in with the oranges for dessert. Mamma pays such visits to the infant colony as the demands of society permit, but leaves the government of it in all the minor details to the despotic viceroy and her satellites. The condition of the

child under that government is, I am told, better now than it was in my infant days. It may be, but as far as my observation serves, I incline to think there is not much change for the better. Is, for example, the real genuine anguish of the morning wash mitigated, as it ought to be, in the modern nursery? My own recollections of it are extremely painful. To be forced to leave the cosy bed, to stand in Nature's garb,

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Impube corpus, quale posset impia
Mollire Thracum corda ;'

to watch the preparation for the torture, all this was hard. It was hard, too, to endure with fortitude the shock of the cold bath, though nurse invariably declared that she had took the chill off' expressly for me; but when it came to the soap, I confess I did not attempt to conceal my feelings. Bridget's plan of operations was to secure me firmly with one hand, and with the other to scour my face in a thorough and searching manner. The result was not merely disagreeable but painful in the extreme. The friction said to be absolutely necessary was annoying, but when the soap began to penetrate the eyes or the nose, and it generally did both, it produced acute suffering. If I opened my mouth to remonstrate, the soapof course by accident-popped in there also. But all this physical annoyance to use the mildest term -was as nothing compared with the outrage upon dignity and selfrespect which I, as a British boy, with the spirit of British independence strong within me, suffered at the hands of my nurse at washing times. I believe that the indignities above described are in most well-regulated nurseries daily inflicted upon the youth of the realm; and though it is certain that were such an outrage offered to the British parent it would be long ere the 'Times' and the public heard the last of it, the British child has no redress, and is forced to console himself with the reflection that 'cleanliness is next to godliness,' or, according to nursery interpretation, that a dirty boy can never go to heaven.'

I dwell upon this washing grievance because it is one that recurs frequently throughout the day, and is a safe instrument of cruelty by which nurses are wont to vent upon a helpless victim the spite they may happen to feel against the world in general, or against that child or his parents in particular. Recalling my own early experience, I should say that my washings averaged five or six per diem. If I set about to do a bit of gardening, to plant a row of beans, for instance, and chanced to pass my hand across my brow, all wet with honest sweat' after my labours, the result was fatal to my peace. 'Ho! Master 'Arry, what 'ave you been a doin' of?' was Bridget's indignant exclamation; and my blood froze as she concluded with the inevitable 'Come an' let me wash yer.'

And then at tea-time, that bread and jam, who does not know what a snare that is to tender youth? It is half-past four, the hour of tea; the olive-branches gather round the table, and are watered with weak tea, and otherwise discreetly nourished. A slice of bread and jam to each crowns the feast. Remark now the proceedings of Tommy, aged eight. How narrowly in the silence of expectation does he watch the spreading of the jam! With what eagerness, but half-suppressed, does he receive with both hands his portion! Yet with what anxious care to avoid the soiling of his snowy pinafore! A moment, to take the bearings of the slice, and the attack is begun; a breach is made where Nature points, in the middle. Ah, Tommy, luckless wight, that was a fatal bite; its ravishing sweetness renders you unwary; a semicircle of crimson jam closes round your chubby checks, and you emerge from that ring of crust moustachioed and tricked about with blood-red smears. The Philistines are upon thee, Tommy! Like the murderer taken stained with his victim's blood, thou art ordered for instant executionat the washing-stand. How will those lips splutter and that little nose wag to and fro beneath the application of the sponge!

One word about this washing grievance and I have done with it. Children must undoubtedly be kept clean, and to that end must be washed; but washing may be done in two ways. It may be performed as an official act, much as the turnkey may be supposed to perform it upon a refractory gaol-bird; or it may be done after a tender, motherly fashion, having regard to the feelings of the child as well as to its personal appearance. I trust we are agreed that the latter is the right method. But a very large number of children in 'well-regulated' families come under the former régime. Why? Just because materfamilias, admirable as her domestic arrangements doubtless are, does not select her nurses, for this above all qualifications, that they be tender-hearted. I do not desire to set up as a dispenser of 'Hints to Mothers.' I am a plain blunt man that love my friends, the young folk, and I only speak right on in their behalf; but this I will say, that were I a parent, and not, as I am, a bachelor, any nurse of mine who should practise the turnkey method of washing would receive a month's wages and dismissal on the spot.

To come to another head of nursery wrongs, the child stands aggrieved in the matter of punishments. The administration of justice in the nursery is, in general, altogether arbitrary and despotic. The infant colony is in a permanent state of martial law, rendered necessary, I suppose, by the highly dangerous character of the Brobdignagian inhabitants, who, in spite of that look of innocence upon their round and rosy faces, are, as I am informed by some worthy disciplinarians, often desperately wicked at heart.

The criminal of the nursery is frequently judged out of his own mouth. No time is allowed him to prepare his defence, or call his witnesses, and the trial, the condemnation, and the execution of sentence, are frequently merged into one process, and that the last of the three. The proceeding of the famous 'Old Woman who Lived in

a Shoe,' is a sort of reductio ad absurdum of the system of nursery justice. That good lady, as ΠΟ know, chastised the young folk all round in the good old English fashion, and 'sent 'em to bed,' for no other reason, so far as history showeth, than that 'she had so many children, she didn't know what to do.' I doubt whether any child, accustomed to the arbitrary administration of the nursery, would be at all struck by the injustice of the old woman's proceeding. It is so much in keeping with the ordinary tenor of the nursery dispensation. And this suggests the peculiar evil that results from such a dispensation, namely, an injury— sometimes considerable, sometimes, happily, slight-to the child's moral sense. If there be an idea which may be said to be inborn and clearly defined by Nature in the child's mind, it is the distinction between what is just and what is unjust. But in order to thoroughly jumble together these two notions in the youthful mind, and create an obliquity of the moral vision, which may develop into a permanent squint, no more effectual method could be devised than the nursery plan of exalting small breaches of discipline into heinous crimes, and punishing misdemeanour as if it were high treason. An anecdote from my personal experience will illustrate the sort of thing I mean.

At six years old I believe I was as good as the generality of boys of that age, perhaps rather better than most, but nemo mortalium '—and I was mortal. Horticulture of a somewhat rash and empirical character was my forte as I thought then, my foible as I think now, my besetting sin, as Bridget, with emphatic slaps, frequently impressed upon me. On one memorable occasion she found me engaged in some very novel and interesting experiments in the middle of an onion bed. My first notice of her approach was a tight clutch of my arm, followed by a prolonged shaking, during which I listened as well as the violent nodding of my head would permit to the following:

Oh, my goodness (jerk) gracious