In that dry, ugly, depressing book, Harry and Lucy, which I used to
read in my youth, there is a terrible father, kind, virtuous,
conscientious, whose one idea seems to be to encourage the children
to amass correct information. The party is driving in a chaise
together, and Lucy begins to tell a story of a little girl, Kitty
Maples by name, whom she has met at her Aunt Pierrepoint's; it
seems as if the conversation is for once to be enlightened by a ray
of human interest, but the name is hardly out of her lips, when the
father directs her attention to a building beside the road, and
adds, "Let us talk of things rather than of people." The building
turns out to be a sugar-refinery, or some equally depressing
place, and the unhappy children are initiated into its mysteries.
What could be more cheerless and dispiriting? Lucy is represented
as a high-spirited and somewhat giddy child, who is always being
made aware of her moral deficiencies.

One looks forward sadly to the time when nature has been resolutely
expelled by a knowledge of dynamics and statics, and when Lucy,
with children of her own, will be directing their attention away
from childish fancies, to the fact that the poker is a lever, and
that curly hair is a good hygrometer.

Plenty of homely and simple virtues are inculcated in Harry and
Lucy; but the attitude of mind that must inevitably result from
such an education is hard, complacent, and superior. The children
are scolded out of superficial vanities, and their place is
occupied by a satanical sort of pride--the pride of possessing
correct information.

What does one want to make of one's own children? One wants them to