CHAPTER XL.
CHILD NONSENSE.
One word of introductory explanation.
During my husband's illness, Marion came often, but, until he began to
recover, would generally spend with the children the whole of the time she
had to spare, not even permitting me to know that she was in the house. It
was a great thing for them; for, although they were well enough cared for,
they were necessarily left to themselves a good deal more than hitherto.
Hence, perhaps, it came that they betook themselves to an amusement not
uncommon with children, of which I had as yet seen nothing amongst them.
One evening, when my husband had made a little progress towards recovery,
Marion came to sit with me in his room for an hour.
"I've brought you something I want to read to you," she said, "if you think
Mr. Percivale can bear it."
I told her I believed he could, and she proceeded to explain what it was.
"One morning, when I went into the nursery, I found the children playing at
church, or rather at preaching; for, except a few minutes of singing, the
preaching occupied the whole time. There were two clergymen, Ernest and
Charles, alternately incumbent and curate. The chief duty of the curate for
the time being was to lend his aid to the rescue of his incumbent from any
difficulty in which the extemporaneous character of his discourse might
land him."
I interrupt Marion to mention that the respective ages of Ernest and
Charles were then eight and six.
"The pulpit," she continued, "was on the top of the cupboard under
the cuckoo-clock, and consisted of a chair and a cushion. There were
prayer-books in abundance; of which neither of them, I am happy to say,
made other than a pretended use for reference. Charles, indeed, who
was preaching when I entered, _can't_ read; but both have far too much
reverence to use sacred words in their games, as the sermons themselves
will instance. I took down almost every word they said, frequent
embarrassments and interruptions enabling me to do so. Ernest was acting as
clerk, and occasionally prompted the speaker when his eloquence failed him,
or reproved members of the congregation, which consisted of the two nurses
and the other children, who were inattentive. Charles spoke with a good
deal of _unction_, and had quite a professional air when he looked down
on the big open book, referred to one or other of the smaller ones at his
side, or directed looks of reprehension at this or that hearer. You would
have thought he had cultivated the imitation of popular preachers, whereas
he tells me he has been to church only three times. I am sorry I cannot
give the opening remarks, for I lost them by being late; but what I did
hear was this."
She then read from her paper as follows, and lent it me afterwards. I
merely copy it.
"Once" (_Charles was proceeding when Marion entered_), "there lived an aged
man, and another who was a _very_ aged man; and the very aged man was going
to die, and every one but the aged man thought the other, the _very_ aged
man, wouldn't die. I do this to _explain_ it to you. He, the man who was
_really_ going to die, was--I will look in the dictionary" (_He looks in
the book, and gives out with much confidence_), "was two thousand and
eighty-eight years old. Well, the other man was--well, then, the other man
'at knew he was going to die, was about four thousand and two; not nearly
so old, you see." (_Here Charles whispers with Ernest, and then announces
very loud_),--"This is out of St. James. The _very_ aged man had a wife
and no children; and the other had no wife, but a _great many_ children.
The fact was--_this_ was how it was--the wife _died_, and so _he_ had the
children. Well, the man I spoke of first, well, he died in the middle
of the night." (_A look as much as to say, "There! what do you think of
that?_"); "an' nobody but the aged man knew he was going to die. Well, in
the morning, when his wife got up, she spoke to him, and he was dead!" (_A
pause._) "Perfectly, sure enough--_dead_!" (_Then, with a change of voice
and manner_), "He wasn't really dead, because you know" (_abruptly and
nervously_)--"Shut the door!--you know where he went, because in the
morning next day" (_He pauses and looks round. Ernest, out of a book,
prompts_--"The angels take him away"), "came the angels to take him away,
up to where you know." (_All solemn. He resumes quickly, with a change of
manner_), "They, all the rest, died of grief. Now, you must expect, as they
all died of grief, that lots of angels must have come to take _them_ away.
Freddy _will_ go when the sermon isn't over! That _is_ such a bother!"
At this point Marion paused in her reading, and resumed the narrative form.
"Freddy, however, was too much for them; so Ernest betook himself to the
organ, which was a chest of drawers, the drawers doing duty as stops, while
Freddy went up to the pulpit to say 'Good-by,' and shake hands, for which
he was mildly reproved by both his brothers."
My husband and I were so much amused, that Marion said she had another
sermon, also preached by Charles, on the same day, after a short interval;
and at our request she read it. Here it is.
"Once upon a time--a long while ago, in a little--Ready now?--Well, there
lived in a rather big house, with _quite_ clean windows: it was in winter,
so nobody noticed them, but they were quite _white_, they were so clean.
There lived some angels in the house: it was in the air, nobody knew why,
but it did. No: I don't think it did--I dunno, but there lived in it
lots of children--two hundred and thirty-two--and they--Oh! I'm gettin'
distracted! It is too bad!" (_Quiet is restored._) "Their mother and
father had died, but they were very rich. Now, you see what a heap of
children,--two hundred and thirty-two! and yet it seemed like _one_ to
them, they were so rich. _That_ was it! it seemed like _one_ to them
because they were so rich. Now, the children knew what to get, and I'll
explain to you now _why_ they knew; and _this_ is how they knew. The angels
came down on the earth, and told them their mother had sent messages to
them; and their mother and father--_Don't_ talk! I'm gettin' extracted!"
(_Puts his hand to his head in a frenzied manner._) "Now, my brother"
(_This severely to a still inattentive member_), "I'll tell you what the
angels told them--what to get. What--how--now I will tell you how,--yes,
_how_ they knew what they were to eat. Well, the fact was, that--Freddy's
just towards my face, and he's laughing! I'm going to explain. The mother
and father had the wings on, and so, of course--Ernest, I want you!" (_They
whisper._)--"they were he and she angels, and they told them what to have.
Well, one thing was--shall I tell you what it was? Look at two hundred
and two in another book--one thing was a leg of mutton. Of course, as the
mother and father were angels, they had to fly up again. Now I'm going to
explain how they got it done. They had four servants and one cook, so that
would be five. Well, this cook did them. The eldest girl was sixteen, and
her name was Snowdrop, because she had snowy arms and cheeks, and was a
very nice girl. The eldest boy was seventeen, and his name was John. He
always told the cook what they'd have--no, the girl did that. And the boy
was now grown up. So they would be mother and father." (_Signs of dissent
among the audience._) "_Of course_, when they were so old, they would be
mother and father, and master of the servants. And they were very happy,
_but_--they didn't quite like it. And--and"--(_with a great burst_) "_you_
wouldn't like it if _your_ mother were to die! And I'll end it next Sunday.
Let us sing."
"The congregation then sung 'Curly Locks,'" said Marion, "and dispersed;
Ernest complaining that Charley gave them such large qualities of numbers,
and there weren't so many in the whole of his book. After a brief interval
the sermon was resumed."
"Text is No. 66. I've a good congregation! I got to where the children did
not like it without their mother and father. Well, you must remember this
was a long while ago, so what I'm going to speak about _could_ be possible.
Well, their house was on the top of a high and steep hill; and at the
bottom, a little from the hill, was a knight's house. There were three
knights living in it. Next to it was stables with three horses in it.
Sometimes they went up to this house, and wondered what was in it. 'They
never knew, but saw the angels come. The knights were out all day, and only
came home for meals. And they wondered what _on earth_ the angels were
doin', goin' in the house. They found out _what_--what, and the question
was--I'll explain what it was. Ernest, come here." (_Ernest remarks to the
audience_, "I'm curate," _and to Charles_, "Well, but, Charles, you're
going to explain, you know;" _and Charles resumes_.) "The fact was, that
this was--if you'd like to explain it more to yourselves, you'd better
look in your books, No. 1828. Before, the angels didn't speak loud, so the
knights couldn't hear; _now_ they spoke louder, so that the knights could
visit them, 'cause they knew their names. They hadn't many visitors, but
they had the knights in there, and that's all."
I am still very much afraid that all this nonsense will hardly be
interesting, even to parents. But I may as well suffer for a sheep as a
lamb; and, as I had an opportunity of hearing two such sermons myself not
long after, I shall give them, trusting they will occupy far less space in
print than they do in my foolish heart.
It was Ernest who was in the pulpit and just commencing his discourse when
I entered the nursery, and sat down with the congregation. Sheltered by a
clothes-horse, apparently set up for a screen, I took out my pencil, and
reported on a fly-leaf of the book I had been reading:--
"My brother was goin' to preach about the wicked: I will preach about the
good. Twenty-sixth day. In the time of Elizabeth there was a very old
house. It was so old that it was pulled down, and a quite new one was built
instead. Some people who lived in it did not like it so much now as they
did when it was old. I take their part, you know, and think they were quite
right in preferring the old one to the ugly, bare, new one. They left
it--sold it--and got into another old house instead."
Here, I am sorry to say, his curate interjected the scornful remark,--
"He's not lookin' in the book a bit!"
But the preacher went on, without heeding the attack on his orthodoxy.
"This other old house was still more uncomfortable: it was very draughty;
the gutters were always leaking; and they wished themselves back in the new
house. So, you see, if you wish for a better thing, you don't get it so
good after all."
"Ernest, that _is_ about the bad, after all!" cried Charles.
"Well, it's _silly_," remarked Freddy severely.
"But I wrote it myself," pleaded the preacher from the pulpit; and, in
consideration of the fact, he was allowed to go on.
"I was reading about them being always uncomfortable. At last they decided
to go back to their own house, which they had sold. They had to pay so much
to get it back, that they had hardly any money left; and then they got so
unhappy, and the husband whipped his wife, and took to drinking. That's a
lesson." (_Here the preacher's voice became very plaintive_), "that's a
lesson to show you shouldn't try to get the better thing, for it turns out
worse, and then you get sadder, and every thing."
He paused, evidently too mournful to proceed. Freddy again remarked that it
was _silly_; but Charles interposed a word for the preacher.
"It's a good _lesson_, I think. A good _lesson_, I say," he repeated, as if
he would not be supposed to consider it much of a sermon.
But here the preacher recovered himself and summed up.
"See how it comes: wanting to get every thing, you come to the bad and
drinking. And I think I'll leave off here. Let us sing."
The song was "Little Robin Redbreast;" during which Charles remarked to
Freddy, apparently by way of pressing home the lesson upon his younger
brother,--
"Fancy! floggin' his wife!"
Then he got into the pulpit himself, and commenced an oration.
"Chapter eighty-eight. _The wicked_.--Well, the time when the story was,
was about Herod. There were some wicked people wanderin' about there, and
they--not _killed_ them, you know, but--went to the judge. We shall see
what they did to them. I tell you this to make you understand. Now the
story begins--but I must think a little. Ernest, let's sing 'Since first I
saw your face.'
"When the wicked man was taken then to the good judge--there were _some_
good people: when I said I was going to preach about the wicked, I did
not mean that there were no good, only a good lot of wicked. There were
pleacemans about here, and they put him in prison for a few days, and then
the judge could see about what he is to do with him. At the end of the
few days, the judge asked him if he would stay in prison for life or be
hanged."
Here arose some inquiries among the congregation as to what the wicked,
of whom the prisoner was one, had done that was wrong; to which Charles
replied,--
"Oh! they murdered and killed; they stealed, and they were very wicked
altogether. Well," he went on, resuming his discourse, "the morning came,
and the judge said, 'Get the ropes and my throne, and order the people
_not_ to come to see the hangin'.' For the man was decided to be hanged.
Now, the people _would_ come. They were the wicked, and they would
_persist_ in comin'. They were the wicked; and, if that was the _fact_,
the judge must do something to them.
"Chapter eighty-nine. _The hangin'_.--We'll have some singin' while I
think."
"Yankee Doodle" was accordingly sung with much enthusiasm and solemnity.
Then Charles resumed.
"Well, they had to put the other people, who persisted in coming, in
prison, till the man who murdered people was hanged. I think my brother
will go on."
He descended, and gave place to Ernest, who began with vigor.
"We were reading about Herod, weren't we? Then the wicked people _would_
come, and had to be put to death. They were on the man's side; and they all
called out that he hadn't had his wish before he died, as they did in those
days. So of course he wished for his life, and of course the judge wouldn't
let him have _that_ wish; and so he wished to speak to his friends, and
they let him. And the nasty wicked people took him away, and he was never
seen in that country any more. And that's enough to-day, I think. Let us
sing 'Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate, a combing his milk-white
steed.'"
At the conclusion of this mournful ballad, the congregation was allowed to
disperse. But, before they had gone far, they were recalled by the offer of
a more secular entertainment from Charles, who re-ascended the pulpit, and
delivered himself as follows:--
"Well, the play is called--not a proverb or a charade it isn't--it's a play
called 'The Birds and the Babies.' Well!
"Once there was a little cottage, and lots of little babies in it. Nobody
knew who the babies were. They were so happy! Now, I can't explain it to
you how they came together: they had no father and mother, but they were
brothers and sisters. They never _grew_, and they didn't like it. Now,
_you_ wouldn't like _not_ to _grow_, would you? They had a little garden,
and saw a great many birds in the trees. They _were_ happy, but didn't
_feel_ happy--that's a funny thing now! The wicked fairies made them
unhappy, and the good fairies made them happy; they gave them lots of toys.
But then, how they got their living!
"Chapter second, called 'The Babies at Play.'--The fairies told them what
to get--_that was it!_--and so they got their living Very nicely. And now I
must explain what they played with. First was a house. _A house._ Another,
dolls. They were very happy, and felt as if they had a mother and father;
but they hadn't, and _couldn't_ make it out. _Couldn't--make--it--out!_
"They had little pumps and trees. Then they had babies' rattles. _Babies'
rattles._--Oh! I've said hardly any thing about the birds, have I? an' it's
called '_The Birds and the Babies!_' They had lots of little pretty robins
and canaries hanging round the ceiling, and--_shall_ I say?"--
Every one listened expectant during the pause that followed.
"_--And--lived--happy--ever--after._"
The puzzle in it all is chiefly what my husband hinted at,--why and how
both the desire and the means of utterance should so long precede the
possession of any thing ripe for utterance. I suspect the answer must lie
pretty deep in some metaphysical gulf or other.
At the same time, the struggle to speak where there is so little to
utter can hardly fail to suggest the thought of some efforts of a more
pretentious and imposing character.
But more than enough!
