I say, it strikes one as very rough; and moreover, they don't speak
it well, their own though it be. My little nephews, when I first
came home, had not gone back to school, and it distressed me to see
that, though they are charming children, they had the vocal
inflections of little news-boys. My niece is sixteen years old; she
has the sweetest nature possible; she is extremely well-bred, and is
dressed to perfection. She chatters from morning till night; but it
isn't a pleasant sound! These little persons are in the opposite
case from so many English girls, who know how to speak, but don't
know how to talk. My niece knows how to talk, but doesn't know how
to speak. A propos of the young people, that is our other danger;
the young people are eating us up,--there is nothing in America but
the young people. The country is made for the rising generation;
life is arranged for them; they are the destruction of society.
People talk of them, consider them, defer to them, bow down to them.
They are always present, and whenever they are present there is an
end to everything else. They are often very pretty; and physically,
they are wonderfully looked after; they are scoured and brushed,
they wear hygienic clothes, they go every week to the dentist's.
But the little boys kick your shins, and the little girls offer to
slap your face! There is an immense literature entirely addressed
to them, in which the kicking of shins and the slapping of faces is
much recommended. As a woman of fifty, I protest. I insist on
being judged by my peers. It's too late, however, for several
millions of little feet are actively engaged in stamping out
conversation, and I don't see how they can long fail to keep it
under. The future is theirs; maturity will evidently be at an
increasing discount. Longfellow wrote a charming little poem called
"The Children's Hour," but he ought to have called it "The
Children's Century." And by children, of course, I don't mean