The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 5, No. 28, February, 1860

V >> Various >> The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 5, No. 28, February, 1860

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It is impossible to believe that the Juarez government is possessed of
much strength; and the gentleman who lately represented the United
States in Mexico (Mr. Forsyth) is of opinion that it is powerless.
Nevertheless, our government acknowledges that of Juarez, and has made
itself a party to the contests in Mexico. In his last Annual Message,
President Buchanan devotes much space to Mexican affairs, drawing a
deplorable picture thereof, and recommending armed intervention by the
United States in behalf of the Liberal party. "I recommend to Congress,"
says the President, "to pass a law authorizing the President, under such
conditions as they may deem expedient, to employ a sufficient military
force to enter Mexico for the purpose of obtaining indemnity for the
past and security for the future." This force, should Congress respond
favorably to the Presidential recommendation, is to act in concert with
the Juarez government, and to "restore" it to power. In return for such
aid, that government is to indemnify the Americans, and to provide that
no more Americans shall be wronged by Mexican governments. Does the
President believe this theory of Mexican settlement will be accepted by
the world? If yes, then is he a man of marvellous faith, considering the
uncommonly excellent opportunities he has had to learn what the
political settlements of Mexico really mean. If no, then he has a
meaning beneath his words, and that meaning is the conquest of Mexico.
We do not charge duplicity upon President Buchanan, but it is vexatious
and humiliating to be compelled to choose between such charge and the
belief of a degree of simplicity in him that would be astonishing in a
yearling politician, and which is astounding in a man who has held high
office for well-nigh forty years. Let us suppose that Congress should
kindly listen to President Buchanan's recommendation,--that a strong
fleet and a great army should be sent to the aid of the Juarez
government, and should establish it in the capital of Mexico, and then
leave the country and the coasts of "our sister Republic,"--what would
follow? Why, exactly what we have seen follow the Peace of 1848. The
Juarez government could not be stronger or more honest than was that of
Herrera, or more anxious to effect the rehabilitation of Mexico; yet
Herrera's government had to encounter rebellions, and outrages were
common during its existence, and afterward, when men of similar views
held sway, or what passes for sway in "our sister Republic." So would it
be again, should we effect a "restoration" of the Liberals. In a week
after our last regiment should have returned home, there would be
rebellions for our allies to suppress. If they should succeed in
maintaining their power, it would be as the consequence of a violation
of their agreement with us; and where, then, would be the "indemnity"
for which we are to fight? If they should be overthrown, as probably
would be their fate, where would be the "security" for which we are to
pay so highly in blood and gold? It is useless to quote the treaty which
the Juarez government has just made with our government, as evidence of
its liberality and good faith. That treaty is of no more value than
would be one between the United States and the ex-king of Delhi. Nothing
is more notorious than the liberality of parties that are not in power.
There is no stipulation to which they will not assent, and violate, if
their interest should be supposed to lie in the direction of perjury.
Have we, in the hour of our success, been invariably true to the
promises made in the hour of our necessities? A study of the treaty we
made with France in 1778, by the light of after years, would be useful
to men who think that a treaty made is an accomplished fact. The people
of the United States have to choose between the conquest of Mexico and
non-intervention in Mexican affairs. There may be something to be said
in favor of conquest, though the President's arguments in that
direction--for such they are, disguised though they be--remind us
strongly of those which were put forth in justification of the partition
of Poland; but the policy of intervention does not bear criticism for
one moment. Either it is conquest veiled, or it is a blunder, the chance
to commit which is to be purchased at an enormous price; and blunders
are to be had for nothing, and without the expenditure of life and
money.

We had purposed speaking of the condition of Mexico, the character of
her population, and the probable effect of her absorption by the United
States; but the length to which our article has been drawn in the
statement of preliminary facts--a statement made necessary by the
general disregard of Mexican matters by most Americans--warns us to
forbear. We may return to the subject, should the action of Congress on
the President's recommendation lead to the placing of the Mexican
question on the list of those questions that must be decided by the
event of the national election of the current year.

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

_The Florence Stories._ By JACOB ABBOTT. _Florence and John._ New York:
Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 252.

_Ernest Bracebridge, or Schoolboy Days._ By W. H. G. KINGSTON. Boston:
Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. 344.

How should a book for children be written?

Three rules will suffice. It should be written clearly and simply; for
young minds will spend little time in difficult investigation. It should
have a good moral. It should be interesting; or it will generally be
left unread, and thus any other excellence that it may possess will be
useless. Some writers seem to have a fourth rule,--that it should be
instructive; but, really, it is no great matter, if a child should have
some books without wisdom. Moreover, this maxim is eminently perilous in
its practical application, and, indeed, is seldom followed but at the
expense of the other three.

To these three rules all writers of children's books profess to conform;
yet a good book for children is a rarity; for, simple as the rules are,
they are very little understood. While all admit that the style should
be simple and familiar, some appear to think that anything simple to
them will be equally simple to their child-readers, and write as nearly
as possible in the style of "The Rambler." Such a book is "The Percy
Family," whose author is guilty of an additional impropriety in putting
his ponderous sentences into the mouth of a child not ten years old.
Another and more numerous class, evidently piquing themselves not a
little upon avoiding this error, fall into another by fancying it
necessary to _write down_ to their young readers. They explain
everything with a tiresome minuteness of detail, although any observer
of children ought to know that a child's mind does not want everything
explained. They think that simplicity demands this lengthy discussion of
every trivial matter. There is such a thing as a conceited simplicity,
and there is a technical simplicity, that in its barrenness and
insipidity is worthy only of a simpleton. In Jacob Abbott's "Juveniles"
especially, by means of this minuteness, a very scanty stock of ideas is
made to go a great way. Does simplicity require such trash as this?

"The place was known by the name of the Octagon. The reason why
it was called by this name was, that the principal sitting-room
in the house was built in the form of an octagon, that is,
instead of having four sides, as a room usually has, this room
had eight sides. An octagon is a figure of eight sides.

"A figure of four sides is called a square. A figure of five
sides is called a pentagon, of six sides a hexagon, of eight
sides an octagon. There might be a figure of seven sides, but
it would not be very easily made, and it would not be very
pretty when it was made, and so it is seldom used or spoken of.
But octagons and hexagons are very common, for they are easily
made, and they are very regular and symmetrical in form."

The object of all this is, doubtless, to impart valuable information.
But while such slipshod writing is singularly uninteresting, it may also
be censured as inaccurate. Mr. Abbott seems to think all polygons
necessarily regular. Any child can make a heptagon at once,
notwithstanding Mr. Abbott calls it so difficult. A _regular_ heptagon,
indeed, is another matter. Then what does he mean by saying octagons and
hexagons are very regular? A regular octagon is regular, though an
octagon in general is no more regular than any other figure. But Mr.
Abbott continues:--

"If you wish to see exactly what the form of an octagon is, you
can make one in this way. First cut out a piece of paper in the
form of a square. This square will, of course, have four sides
and four corners. Now, if you cut off the four corners, you
will have four new sides, for at every place where you cut off
a corner you will have a new side. These four new sides,
together with the parts of the old sides that are left, will
make eight sides, and so you will have an octagon.

"If you wish your octagon to be regular, you must be careful
how much you cut off at each corner. If you cut off too little,
the new sides which you make will not be so long as what
remains of the old ones. If you cut off too much, they will be
longer. You had better cut off a little at first from each
corner, all around, and then compare the new sides with what
is left of the old ones. You can then cut off a little more,
and so on, until you make your octagon nearly regular.

"There are other much more exact modes of making octagons than
this, but I cannot stop to describe them here."

Must we have no more pennyworths of sense to such a monstrous quantity
of verbiage than Mr. Abbott gives us here? We would defy any man to
parody that. He could teach the penny-a-liners a trick of the trade
worth knowing. The great Chrononhotonthologos, crying,

"Go call a coach, and let a coach be called,
And let the man that calleth be the caller,
And when he calleth, let him nothing call
But 'Coach! coach! coach! Oh, for a coach, ye gods!'"

is comparatively a very Spartan for brevity. This may be a cheap way of
writing books; but the books are a dear bargain to the buyer.

A book is not necessarily ill adapted to a child because its ideas and
expressions are over his head. Some books, that were not written for
children and would shock all Mr. Abbott's most dearly cherished ideas,
are still excellent reading for them. Walter Scott's poems and novels
will please an intelligent child. Cooper's Leatherstocking tales will
not be read by the lad of fourteen more eagerly than by his little
sister who cannot understand half of them. A child fond of reading can
have no more delightful book than the "Faerie Queene," unless it be the
"Arabian Nights," which was not written as a "juvenile." There are pages
by the score in "Robinson Crusoe" that a child cannot understand,--and
it is all the better reading for him on that account. A child has a
comfort in unintelligible words that few men can understand. Homer's
"Iliad" is good reading, though only a small part may be comprehended.
(We are not, however, so much in favor of mystery as to recommend the
original Greek.) Do our children of the year 1860 ever read a book
called "The Pilgrim's Progress"? Hawthorne's "Wonder-Book" is good for
children, though better for adults.

Then look at our second rule. What, after all, constitutes a "good
moral"? We say that no book has a good moral which teaches a child that
goodness and effeminacy, laziness and virtue, are convertible terms; no
book is good that is "goody," no book is moral that moralizes. The
intention may be good, but the teaching is not. Have as much as you will
of poetical justice, but beware of making your books mere vehicles for
conveying maxims of propriety. You cannot so deceive a child. You may
talk _at_ him, while pretending to tell him a story, but he will soon be
shy of you. He has learned by bitter experience too much of the
falseness of this world, and has been too often beguiled by sugared
pills, to be slow in detecting the sugared pills of your
literature,--especially, O Jacob Abbott! when the pills have so little,
so very little, sugar.

Our notion of a good moral is a strong, breezy, open-air moral, one that
teaches courage, and therefore truth. These are the most important
things for a child to know, and a book which teaches these alone is
moral enough. And these can be taught without offending the mind of the
young reader, however keenly suspicious. But if you wish to teach
gentleness and kindness as well, let them be shown in your story by some
noisy boy who can climb trees, or some active, merry, hoydenish girl who
can run like Atalanta; and don't imply a falsehood by attributing them
always to the quiet children.

Mr. Abbott's books have spoiled our children's books, and have done
their best to spoil our children, too. There is no fresh, manly life in
his stories; anything of the kind is sourly frowned down. Rollo, while
strolling along, picturesquely, perhaps, but stupidly, sees A Noisy Boy,
and is warned by his insufferable father to keep out of that boy's way.
That Noisy Boy infallibly turns out vicious. Is that sound doctrine?
Will that teach a child to admire courage and activity? If he is ever
able to appreciate the swing and vigor of Macaulay's Lays, it will not
be because you trained him on such lyrics as

"In the winter, when 'tis mild,
We may run, but not be wild;
But in summer, we must walk,
And improve our time by talk" (!)

but because that Noisy Boy found him out,--and, quarrelling with him,
(your boy, marvellous to relate! having provoked the quarrel by some
mean trick, in spite of his seraphic training,) gave him a black
eye,--and afterwards, turning out to be the best-hearted Noisy Boy in
the world, taught him to climb trees and hunt for birds' nests,--and
stopped him when he was going to kill the little birds, (for your
pattern boy--poor child! how could he help it?--was as cruel as he was
timid,)--and imparted to him the sublime mysteries of base-ball and tag
and hockey,--and taught him to swim and row, and to fight bigger boys
and leave smaller boys in peace, instructions which he was at first
inclined to reverse,--and put him in the way to be an honest, fearless
man, when he was in danger of becoming a white-faced and white-livered
spooney. And that Noisy Boy himself, perversely declining to verify Mr.
Abbott's decorous prophecies, has not turned out badly, after all, but
has Reverend before his name and reverence in his heart, and has his
theology sound because his lungs are so. No doubt, Tom Jones often turns
out badly, but Master Blifil always does,--a fact which Mr. Abbott would
do well to note and perpend.

What! Because Rollo is virtuous, shall there be no more mud-cakes and
ale? Marry, but there shall! Don't keep a boy out of his share of free
movement and free air, and don't keep a girl out. Poor little child! she
will be dieted soon enough on "stewed prunes." Children need air and
water,--milk and water won't do. They are longing for our common mother
earth, in the dear, familiar form of dirt; and it is no matter how much
dirt they get on them, if they only have water enough to wash it off.
The more they are allowed to eat literal dirt now, the less metaphorical
dirt will they eat a few years hence. The great Free-Soil principle is
good for their hearts, if not for their clothes; and which is it more
important to have clean? Just make up your mind to let the clothes go;
and if you can't afford to have your children soil and tear their laced
pantalets and plumed hats and open-work stockings, why, take off all
those devices of the enemy, and substitute stout cloth and stout boots.
What have they to do with open-work stockings?

"Doff them for shame,
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs."

Believe now, instead of learning by sad experience, that tin trumpets
and torn clothes do not necessarily signify depravity, and that quiet
children are not always free from deceit, cruelty, and meanness. The
quiet, ideal child, of whom Mr. Abbott thinks so highly, generally
proves, in real life, neither more nor less than a prig. He is more
likely to die than live; and if he lives, you may wish he had died.

These models not only check a child's spirit, but tend to make him
dishonest. Ask a child now what he thinks, and, ten to one, he mentally
refers to some eminent exemplar of all the virtues for instructions,
and, instead of telling you what he does think, quotes listlessly what
he ought to think. So that his mincing affectation is not merely
ungraceful, but is a sign of an inward taint, which may prove fatal to
the whole character. It is very easy to make a child disingenuous; if he
be at all timid, the work is already half done to one's hand. Of course,
all children are not bad who are brought up on such books,--one
circumstance or another may counteract their hurtful tendency,--but the
tendency is no less evident, nor is it a vindication of any system to
prove that some are good in its despite.

Again, the popularity of these tame, spiritless books is no conclusive
evidence of their merit. The poor children are given nothing else to
read, and, of course, they take what they can get as better than
nothing. An eager child, fond of reading, will read the shipping
intelligence in a newspaper, if there be nothing else at hand. Does that
show that he is properly supplied with reading matter? They will read
these books; but they would read better books with more pleasure and
more profit.

For our third rule, let our children's stories have no lack of incident
and adventure. That will redeem any number of faults. Thus, Marryatt's
stories, and Mayne Reid's, although in many respects open to censure and
ridicule, are very popular, and deserve to be. The books first put into
a child's hands are right enough, for they are vivid. Whether the letter
A be associated in our infant minds with the impressive moral of "In
Adam's fall We sinned all," or gave us a foretaste of the Apollo in "A
was an Archer, and shot at a Frog,"--in either case, the story is a
plainly told incident, (carefully observing the unities,) which the
child's fancy can embellish for itself, and the whole has an additional
charm from the gorgeous coloring of an accompanying picture. The
vividness is good, and is the only thing that is good. Why, then, should
this one merit be omitted, as our children grow a little older? A
lifeless moral will not school a child into propriety. If a twig be
unreasonably bent, it is very likely to struggle in quite a different
direction, especially if in so doing it struggle towards the light.
There is much truth in a blundering version of the old Scriptural maxim,
"Chain up a child, and away he will go." If you want to do any good by
your books, make them interesting.

And with reference to all three rules, remember that they are to be
interpreted by the light of common sense, and you will hardly need the
following remarks:--

It is alike uncomfortable and useless to a child to be perpetually
waylaid by a moral. A child reading "The Pilgrim's Progress" will omit
the occasional explanations of the allegory or resolutely ignore their
meaning. If you want to keep a poor child on such dry food, don't
mistake your own reason for doing so. It may be eminently proper, but it
is very uncomfortable to him. If you want children to enjoy themselves,
let them run about freely, and don't put them into a ring, in
picturesque attitudes, and then throw bouquets of flowers at them. But,
if you will do so, confess it is not for their gratification, but for
your own.

If you choose to try the dangerous experiment of writing "instructive"
stories, beware of defeating your own object. You write a story rather
than a treatise, because information is often more effective when
indirectly conveyed. Clearly, then, if you convey your information too
directly, you lose all this advantage.

Perfection is as intolerable in these as in any other stories. We all
want, especially children, some amiable weaknesses to sympathize with.
Thus, in "Ernest Bracebridge," an English story of school-life, the hero
is a dreadfully unpleasant boy who is always successful and always
right, and we are soon heartily weary of him. Besides, he is a horrible
boy for mastery of all the arts and sciences, and delivers brief and
epigrammatic discourses, being about twelve years old. However, the book
is full of adventure and out-door games, and so far is good.

After all, a child does not need many books. If, however, we are to have
them, we may as well have good ones. There is no reason why dulness
should be diverted from its legitimate channels into the writing of
children's books. Let us disabuse ourselves of the idea that these are
the easiest books to write. Let us remember that the alphabet is harder
to teach than the Greek Drama, and no longer think that the proper man
to write children's books is the man who is able to write nothing else.

_The Simplicity of Christ's Teachings, set forth in Sermons._ By CHARLES
T. BROOKS, Pastor of the Unitarian Church, Newport, R. I. Boston:
Crosby, Nichols, & Co. 1859. 16mo. pp. 342.

The name of the author of this volume has long been known as that of an
accomplished man of letters. Successive volumes of poetic versions,
chiefly from the German, had, by their various merit, gained for him a
high rank among our translators, when four years ago, in 1856, by a
translation of "Faust," he set himself at the head of living authors in
this department of literature. It is little to say of his work, that it
is the best of the numerous English renderings of Goethe's tragedy. It
is not extravagant to assert that a better translation is scarcely
possible. It is a work which combines extraordinary fidelity to the form
of the original with true appreciation of its spirit. It is at once
literal and free, and displays in its execution the qualities both of
exact scholarship and of poetic feeling and capacity.

This work, and the others of a similar kind which preceded it, were the
result of the intervals of leisure occurring in the course of their
author's professional life as a clergyman. While the wider world has
known him only through these volumes, a smaller circle has long known
and loved him as the faithful and able preacher and pastor,--as one to
whom the most beautiful description ever written of the character of a
good parson might be truly applied; for

"A good man he was of religioun,
That was a poure Persone of a toun:
But riche he was of holy thought and werk;
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche,
His parishens devoutly wolde he teche.

* * * * *

And Cristes lore and his apostles' twelve
He taught, but first he folwed it himselve."

And it is in this character that he now comes before us in the volume
which is well entitled "The Simplicity of Christ's Teachings."

It is a misfortune that the qualities which distinguish most published
sermons are not such as to recommend them on the score of literary
merit. The volumes of religious discourses which are worthy to hold a
place in literature, when judged by the usual critical standard, are
very few. A very large proportion of those which are continually
appearing from the press deserve no remembrance, and fortunately have no
permanence. They are addressed to a special class of readers,--a class
generally neither of highly cultivated taste, nor of acute critical
perception. Their writers are rarely men of sufficient talent to win for
themselves recognition out of their own narrow set. What in the slang of
the day are called "sensation" sermons are no exception to the common
rule. Their momentary effect, depending upon exaggeration and
extravagance, is no indication of worth. We should no more think of
criticizing them in a literary journal, than of criticizing the novels
of Mr. Cobb or Mr. Reynolds. Some of the causes of the poverty of
thought and of the negligence of style of average sermons are obvious.
The very interest and importance of the subjects with which the preacher
has to deal oftentimes serve to deaden rather than to excite the mind of
one who takes them up in the formal round of duty. The pretensions of
the clergy of many sects, pretensions as readily acknowledged as made,
save them from the necessity of intellectual exertion. The frequent
recurrence of the necessity of writing, whether they have anything to
say or not, leads them into substituting words for thoughts, platitudes
for truths. The natural weariness of long-continued solitary
professional labor brings mental lassitude and feebleness. The absence
of the fear of close and watchful criticism prevents them from bestowing
suitable pains upon their composition. These and other causes combine to
make the mass of the writing which is delivered from the pulpit poorer
than any other which passes current in the world,--perhaps, indeed, not
poorer in an absolute sense, but poorer when compared with the nature of
the subjects that it treats. It is by no means, however, to be inferred,
that, because a sermon is totally without merit as a work of literature,
it is incapable of producing some good in those who listen to it. On the
contrary, such is the frame of mind of many who regularly attend church,
that they are not unlikely to derive good from a performance which, if
weak, may yet be sincere, and which deals with the highest truths, even
if it deal with them in an imperfect and unsatisfactory manner. And,
indeed, as George Herbert says, good may be got from the worst
preaching; for,

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