

162 KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
traiture of a man, what is the pure and deep 
delight of the mother when it is tripping 
along by her side, holding her finger and 
pouring out its pretty babble! How exqui- 
site, to her eyes, is the dawn of mind, daily 
emerging, and developing itself in a thou- 
sand artless and importunate queries! And 
those who have not the happiness to be 
parents may imagine something of the feel- 
ing which glows through a father’s. bosom, 
when his child is standing between his 
knees, patting its tiny hands, shaking its 
ringlets, and lispmg out sundry delicious 
impertinences. 
At these moments, how fondly he glances 
from the mother to the child, and then, in 
prophetic visions, beholds the future career 
of his darling boy! Alas! those visions are 
not unclouded. 
Anguish must riot in that guileless breast ; 
many a tear must quiver down that cheek 
of purity, ere the boy shall ripen into the 
man. Still, the same viewless hand that 
has steered the father onward through life, 
may extend its guidance to the son. He 
may one day be a father, and, like himself, 
be musing on fis merry-eyed boy! Hope 
brightens away the gloom of fancy, and the 
translated feelings of his heart, at this 
moment, are— 
Hail to this teeming stage of life ; 
Hail, lovely miniature of life ! 
Lamb of the world’s extended fold ; 
Pilgrim of many cares untold! 
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears ; 
Sweet promise of ecstatic years ! 
How fondly could I bend the knee 
And turn idolator to thee! 
Did my reader ever seat an infant on his 
knee, and tell to its delighted ear some mar- 
vellous tale ? It is one of the loveliest sights 
in the world to mark the fixed attention of 
its eye, the drooping lip, and the pensive 
gravity of its manner; while the wondrous 
deeds of a giant-killer, or of some other 
tremendous personage that figures away in 
paint and print, are waking childish fancies 
into fears. By-the-bye, if mammas will 
condescend to take counsel in the flagellat- 
ing department, an engaging story, in stormy 
or sullen hours, may very beneficially be 
substituted for that manual process which is 
so dishonorably affecting—so revolting to 
humanity ! 
How indistinct and imperfect are our 
recollections of babyhood! When we 
attempt to retrace the incidents of that 
period, we lose ourselves in a maze of asso- 
clations and remembrances. ’Tis like look- 
ing from a mountain-top over the misty vale 
below. There are numberless objects before 
us; but they are only to be discovered in 
parts. We are dazzled with indistinctness ; 
and indeed it may almost be doubted whether 


we have any real recollections of what we 
were in the earliest bloom of childhood. We 
are accustomed to observe the habits of 
children around us; and therefore naturally 
conclude they are but such as ours were in 
their stage of pigmy existence. Yet can we 
well remember the time when we were fond of 
dabbling in a puddle, or putting a shell to 
our ear, and listening to its sea-roar! We 
love, too, to fancy ourselves humming away 
at a sunny window—riding a family dog 
down the green-plotted garden, or creeping 
along to put salt on sparrows’ tails. All 
this, ridiculous as it now is, frequently sug- 
gests itself to our memories, when we survey 
the revelries of children, and seem to recol- 
lect our feats and adventures. 
The most important day that I can remem- 
ber of my childhood, is that on which I was 
breeched- I perfectly recollect, that I 
thought myself as mighty a personage as 
the Emperor Fum himself. With what 
imperial glances I surveyed my little shape- 
less Tom Thumb body, now for the first 
time bagged in manly trousers. No lagnum- 
vite peg-top, spun by a clever hand, ever 
reeled about in such a giddy delirium as I 
did this day! How magnificent was the 
middle row of glittering buttons on my 
waistcoat! What a fine thing it was, that I 
should be able to climb a knotty tree, and 
poke myself through a briary hedge without 
the awful sound of torn petticoats! I re- 
member wellbeing called into the parlour, 
and turned almost topsy-turvy for the grati- 
fication of friends who were anxious to 
compliment me on my “first appearance” 
in breeches ! 
I should like to see an able analysis of a 
baby’s mind,—if mind it may be called. It 
is a subject of considerable interest; and 
one that frequently leads to many absurd 
speculations about materialism. One thing 
seems evident: that for a month after an 
infant’s birth there is scarcely any mind in 
it. That which prompts its piping cry is 
mere instinct; and when the appetite is 
satisfied, it relapses into a dozing state, a 
senseless helplessness. It is almost on a 
level with an automaton. By degrees, how- 
ever, the visage begins to clothe itself with 
the light of life. The eye appears capable 
of distinguishing an object, and betrays a 
consciousness of terror or delight; while the 
outstretched hand, together with a plaintive 
wail, explain its desire for an object.* At 
last, the voice is enabled to vent itself in 
words ; the feet begin to walk; the memory 
awakens ; and something like a mind is dis- 
* For the occasional development of the 
natural affections in all their purity and intensity, 
at a very early period of life—see an article en- 
titled ‘‘A Child’s Heart,” in Volume III, 
page 209. 
