The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1859-12-29
For Inc NallonaI Era.
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A YOUNG
WESTERN HOUSEKEEPER.

For the National Era.
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A YOUNG
WESTERN H0USEKEEPER.
Oct. 3O.-Tommy delights greatly in old Ro-
man legends, and fights Punic wars with the
clothes-pins and chess-men, or struts around
with bunch of rods at his back, fancying him.
self an old Roman lictor, and longing to exer-
else the prerogative of Office upon poor little
Lew, who is guilty of many an act of high
treason, and whose little dimpled shoulders are
no doubt very suggestive. often compare
Tommy's childhood and education with my
own early experiences; he gives promise of
bright intelligence, gathering his crumbs of
knowledge through pictures and cheerful an
swers to his eager questions. Sometimes under
the shell-bark trees, or in ride to the post Of
flee, as pony joys along this little sixyears old
rogue will acquire the leading incidents of
book of travels, such as Kane or Livingstone,
or at least such incidents as would strike
child's fancy and / hold, with Walter Scott,
that it is useless to burden a child with any
thing more they reject hard thought with dis
gust and it is wasting ones breath to hammer
it into them, and they break down into dyspep-
STA and pale faces over the hatefultasks of the
school.room.
/ have often thought would write the his
tory of the United States myself for my chill
dren, rather than drag them through the inqui
sitional pages of Frost and Grimshaw. 1 would
tell them all about Pocahontas, and King Philip
and Father Hennepin, and the hard favored old
Puritans, or read them bright sketches of revo-
lutionary days in Harper's Magazine but as
for lines of dates, and columns about patents
and charters and war negotiations, and all
such horrid hobgoblins to tender minds, /
wouldn't have one of them in Tommys book :;
and yet he should have as good a knowledge
of history ga any boy of his age, whose animal
spirit has not been annihilated by the peda-
gogue.
These views are not very orthodox, but to
my mind, there is no greater object Of compass
sion than a sweet, laughing boy of twelve with
his heart full of merriment, and his limbs fair
y aching for activity, and his head full of skating
and shinney, and the goose that he saw going
home in the family dinner basket, all pinned
down, like maniac in straight jacket, with
Lexicon and mathematics harassng his very
SOUL and wrnging from his rosy lips execra-
tons and lamentations, such as make angels
weep.
In the historical line chill ren of the present
generation cannot be sufficiently thankful for
such ameioration as has been wrought by men
like Abbott and Bonner, who have set forth but
little that is not lively and attractive in their
pages-and only date here and there-great
landmarks 10 time, on which memory should
rest with unerring distinctness. But as for the
heartsickening chain of dates from the days
of Noe DOWN which was expected of school
children in my time, | must lift up my protest
against it as a species of juvenile martyrdom
equal to the Chinese shoe or the clamp of the
fat headed Indian.
| AS write, l seem to see the grim figure of
my quondam Goody TwoShoes rising before
me, like Banquos ghost, with her long curl
papers and leg of-mutton sleeves; and strong
nervous contraction of the palm of my hand
reminds me of her malicious old ferule. / can
hear her now, revealing in such questions as
these: "At what time does this period begin?'
"When does it end?" "At what time was the
charter granted to the Plymouth Company 2"
and so on. And l see my twin sister and my
self again shivering in the class, with dozen
other trembling innocents, as the memorable
Next next" passes from one poor little
dropping head to another, and then the angry
dismission to our seats, with the sentence
passed that we are q kept in"--and there we
we sit, in vacant, silent absorption, until our
two extra hours are fulfilled, and with empty
stomachs and broken hearts we at last reach
our homes. Here dinner is over, but dear old
Ellen, the housekeeper, has put away our plate
full, good and warm, and oh she looks so
very sorry for our fearful faces but she lets
| ~ hot hou boa
ished only her very kindness, in contrast with
the severity of the schoolroom, is oppressive ;
so we seek poor dumb Kitty but Kitty seems
to stare her great glass eyes wider than ever at
US, and we feel that even Kitty NUT know our
disgrace. Very shy are we little folk of the
senior part of the family that day but when
evening comes, and we are sent to the old study
with our books, to pour forth all Our pent-up
wretchedness on dear Hafry's brave little
breast, what fresh courage we take when he
cracks his little dumping fist on the table, and
"vows he will knock her down, as sure as
fatel" After this heroic explosion, we toll On
hopefully with the lessons, and as the dropping
eyelids dimly con the lenses of the potential
mood, the tired head is bowed downward upon
the dusky page, and we dream, oh, what sweet
that he may, can, must, might, could, would,
and should, become our hberator; and how,
with sword in hand, he bursts asuuder the
prison doors of the school room, and Lila and
Gertrude and | walk forth into the fresh air,
forever freel while the Goody is pinned down
to her chair of state, and locked up in her old
dungeon, never, never to escaped
Ali wherefore should all these feverish in
Auences attend Life's earliest trial of strength
Why should the growth of discipline be es-
teemed the object of paramount Importance,
rather than the easy and willing progress of
the tender band of disciples? Why may we
not have the sunshine of poetic association, in
exchange for the dark cloud of despair under
which our school, nurslings have pinned and
dwindled away? We want the cheering rays
of picture illustration to break in upon the din
gy dignity of school-room walls. We want the
sweet presence of Evangeline and Hiawatha
but here am reminded we have no national
minstrelsy. And how happens this? "Theres
nae nook" in bonnie Scotland unsung by her
Burns or Scott; Ireland has Tom Moore
France her Beranger; England her legion
but America alone is without her lyric bard.
We want poet for our Preside and homes-a
poet who shall entwine our history as nation
with the affections of our childhood--one who
shall sing of our vast prairies and savannas,
our sweet lakes and broad rivers, our bold for
ests and sylvan caves, with the glowing spirit
of love, that would bring TO remembrance