ON THE NURSERY LABEL.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume XXXIX, Issue 12728, 11 April 1904, Page 4

ON THE NURSERY LABEL.

. Med, who will walcli with pairifni Slid inexhaustible solicitude every, fluctuation of the money market, iind women; who will become inspired in tHeir eagerness to follow every shade of change in a lover’s temper, are nevertheless deiise, unobservant, and always wrong when they Have to deal with the character of any near blood relation. No one denies that an individual is least known by the members of his own family; brothers and sisters on the subject of each other’s peculiarities are often very amusing, but they are never right. Few parents can manage their own children; fewer still have the gift of gaining their confidence, and the grinding tragedy of family life lies in the fact that familiarity wth a person’s mannerisms, is accepted indolently as intimacy with that person’s heart. In the first place, the label for life is given by the nurse and the nursemaids—Master Charles is a little pig; George is a pretty dear; Miss Ethel is a lamb of a child; Miss Kate is as spiteful and as sly as they make them; Master Wilfred is a selfish, horrid boy; Miss Amy is the biggest liar that ever walked; Master Basil has a nasty, sulky temper; Master Tom is a Turk; Master Percy is as good as gold; Miss Ada is a proud, forward mins no one could take to. And so on. These untrained misunderstood Masters and Misses, prejudged and influenced by servants (themselves mostly undisciplined), grow up; and the nursery label, after a certain period becomes regarded, if it be unflattering, as a family secret, and if it be flattering, as a family credential. Ethel, for instance, is a pet and a lamb for ever this is announced from the housetops; Wilfted. for ever this is murmured in confidence has a selfish, horrid disposition. This is silly enough, but there is worse to be told. Let us grant, for the sake of argument, that the nursery label, in its crude way, is approximately correct— Basil, at seven, did sulk, and Percy, at eight, was as good as gold. But the discipline of life, of education, of illness perhaps, of sorrow perhaps, of pleasure and success perhaps, of ease and indulgence perhaps, of hard labours and embittering trials perhaps, will make short work of the finest, most careful label ever thought out—whether by the astute governess or the blundering servant. Ethel, the lamb, under the strain of constant praise, grows gradually into Ethel the tyrant; the proud Ada, after harsh reverses, becomes a sympathetic, silent woman; hold Tom, on the strength of his possibilities in the way of courage, declines into a loafer; the selfish Wilfred, after a few tussles with the egotism of the world, astonishes strangers by his nobility; the despised fool of a family, not infrequently makes it famous; the bright hope is 100 often its most humiliating burden; I do not know of a case where the nursery label found its justification in a career. The label, however, would matter little enough if it did not lead to so much unnecessary pain and confusion in a world where there is already too much grief that is unavoidable. Human he,ings change hourly and daily, and it is piteous to find people, who, while they admit that the laws of transition and development are the first laws of life, will not take the trouble to remember them in connection with those whom they are taught to regard as their nearest and dearest.

We can all see depressing changes and striking improvements in the relatives of other people. Each of us has spent hours of wonder discussing the unkindness and obtuseness of our best friend’s parents; there was never yet a marriage made for love, except on me sound basis that the bridegroom’s people—though charming—did not understand him, and the bride’s people though nice in every way—never really understood her. The old worn jokes, of which we are all weary, about mothers-in-law and “in-laws” altogethei could not have lasted so long if they had not touched on partial or temporary truth. I say partial or temporary, because I must hope, at least, that it is not eternal. There are signs in the land that the great science of human souls —which was always the first consideration in the Catholic religion and in all other mastering religions—is being restored to its right position at the head of all the sciences. It is a monstrous thing to comprehend the stomach of a dead fish and misjudge, through ignorance, your brother’s soul. I take the liveliest interest in the anatomy of the dead fish, but it cannot he compared for a second with the everlasting importance of a passing mood in a neglected beggar—so highly should we rate the mind of man. I do not say that there is not enough of self-analysis and self-introspection. The least sympathetic persons will think willingly and incessantly of themselves,' they find clews to their own unknowableness in every novel they consider readable and in every; play they can enjoy. Self-study is to psychology what the practice of scales is to the musician—a means of gaming clearness. But just as one may play scales to perfection, yet stumble ignominiously through a fugue by Bach, so the individual may know, beyond praise, himself and his needs and yet go utterly wrong in his estimate of a fellow creature. Laziness is a genial failing; it has, moreover, an artless, healthy value in this feverish age; I would call it inexcusable only at those moments in a conversation when the nursery label is brought forward and left uncontradicted for want of a trifling exertion of some one’s heart in the direction of justice. John Oliver Hobbes.