or to his having to "take up a little bill." So
blunt is his truthfulness that it frequently
becomes inconvenient and embarrassing. He
makes the most alarming revelations, in all
innocence and unconsciousness, respecting the
malpractices of the servants, and the criticisms
passed by his relatives upon the appearance
and manners of their friends and
acquaintances. He suffers in the flesh for
this, and is a martyr to his truthfulness.
Not strong enough in purpose to hate, he
is yet afraid and ashamed to lie. He blushes
and stammers over an untruth. 'Tis practice
makes the liar perfect. The infant knows
the truth and its seat, for it is in his
heart, and he has no need to go wandering
about the earth in search of it, like that
mad fellow, who hearing that Truth lay at
the bottom of a well, jumped into a well and
was drowned; finding indeed Truth at the
bottom—for he found Death. You, foolish,
cockering mothers, teach your children to
lie, when you aid them in denying or
concealing their faults from those who would be
stern with them. You, unreasoning,
impetuous parents, nourish lying scorpions in
your bosom, when you beat your children
savagely for an involuntary accident, for a
broken vase, or a torn frock. You give the
child a motive for concealment; you sow
lying seed that will bear black fruit; you
make truth to mean punishment, and
falsehood impunity.

In letters as large and bold, as beautiful and
clear to view, is written on the sheet of paper
you are pleased to call blank in little children's
minds the word charity. Large-hearted, open-
handed, self-denying charity. Unreasoning,
indiscreet, indiscriminate, perchance, but
still charity of the Christian sort, which,
done in secret shall be rewarded openly. I
am compelled to admit that little children
know nothing about the Mendicity Society
and the indefatigable Mr. Horsford; that
they have never perused the terrible leaders
in the Times against street mendicancy and
the sin of indiscriminate alms-giving; that
they would, if they could read bad writing,
become an easy prey to begging letter
impostors, and would never be able to steel their
hearts against the appeals to the benevolent
in the newspapers. I must own, too, that
their charity does not stop at humanity but
extends itself to the animal creation. I never
saw a child feed a donkey with macaroons;
but I have seen one little girl press pound-
cake upon a Shetland poney, and another
little girl give half of her cake to a four-
footed acquaintance of the Newfoundland
breed. I have watched the charitable
instincts of children from babyhood to schoolhood,
when hopes and cankering fears, desire
of praise, solicitude for favour and lust
of gain begin, shutting up charity in an
iron-bound strong box of small-worldliness.
Children love to give. Is it to feed the ducks
in the park, or slide warm pennies into the
palsied hands of cripples, or drop them into
the trays of blind men's dogs, or pop them,
smiling, into the slits of money-boxes, or
administer elementary sustenance to Bunny
and Tiny the rabbits, or give the pig a "poon"
—to give is indeed their delight. They want
no tuition in charity; it is in them, God-sent.
Yonder little chubby sheet of blank stationery
who is mumbling a piece of parliament in his
nurse's arms, has scarcely consciousness of
musical power sufficient to teach him to
hold the sweetmeat fast; yet, if I ask baby
half by word half by gesture to give me a
bit, this young short-coated Samaritan—
who not long since began to take notice, and
can only just ejaculate da-da, ma-ma—will
gravely remove the parliament from his own
lips and offer it to mine. Were he a very few
months older he would clutch it tighter in his
tiny hand, and break a piece off, and give it
me. Is not this charity? He does not know,
this young neophyte, that the parliament is
moist and sticky with much sucking and
mumbling; that I am too big to eat parliament;
and that it is mean and paltry in me,
a great, hulking, able-bodied, working man,
to beg cates of him, a helpless infant. But he
knows in his instinctive sapience that he
cannot fill my belly with wise saws, or with
precepts of political economy. He cannot quote
Adam Smith, Ricardo, or S. G. O. to me;
he administers, in his instinctive charity,
corporeal sustenance to my corporeal necessity.
The avaricious infant is a monster.

What word is that that shines so brightly
—whose letters dance and glitter like precious
gems on the so-called blank scroll? Love.
Instinct of instincts, inborn of all innate
things, little children begin to love as soon as
they begin to live. When mere flaccid helpless
babes their tiny faces mantle with smiles
—ah ! so full of love and tenderness—in their
sleep. The first use they make of their arms
is to clasp them round the neck of those they
love. And whom will they not love? If the
witch Sycorax had nursed Miranda and
Caliban had been her foster-brother, the little
monster and the little maiden would have
loved each other, and Prospero's little child
would have kissed and fondled her hideous
nurse. The first words children utter are
words of love. And these are not necessarily
taught them; for their very inarticulate
ejaculations are full of love. They love all
things. The parrot, though he bites them;
the cat, though she scratches; the great bushy
blundering house-dog; the poultry in the
yard; the wooden-legged, one-eyed negro who
brings the beer; the country lout with
clouted shoon who smells so terribly of the
stable; the red-faced cook, the grubby little
knife-boy, the foolish fat scullion, the cross
nurse. They love all these; together with
horses, trees, gardens, and toys, and break
their little hearts (easily mended again, thank
Heaven), if they are obliged to part from
them. And chiefer still, they love that large