In the usual 19th century hubris of the day, a story about foreign children would usually be postscripted with commentary about how, of course, American children had it best of all. Very soon phrases like "white man's burden" and "little brown brother" would come into common use. Which is why this story, about infant life in different countries, has an unexpected twist at the end (although there is an unfortunate jab at Irish nursemaids along with it).We all are travelers on the journey of life—some of us pleasant and helpful, and some of us cross and complaining, but all with equal speed hurrying on to the end.
Let the older travelers pass on their way, while we take a peep at the youngest of all the little travelers in their first stage, when as yet they have no voice in the conduct of their own lives, but are tumbled and tossed about at the convenience of more experienced fellow-passengers. To begin where the human race started, let us see how the little travelers get on in the far East. The Oriental baby inherits from his grave, ceremonious papa a quiet, thoughtful air, to which our babies are perfect strangers. No laughing, kicking, crowing, and screaming little traveler have we here, but a solemn, quiet, black-haired infant, who looks out at life from his mother's back with a calm indifference that even the grown-up babies of the West cannot equal. Tied up in his wooden tray, for a cradle, he goes with mamma to the field, taking his dinner, or lying under a tree, with equal composure, contentedly waiting the time when he shall waddle around, wrapped in yards and yards of silk and woolen cloth; jackets and trousers, fez and turban, and big shawl around his waist, if he's a Turkish baby; and red shoes or wooden kob-kobs, blue baggy trousers, loose jackets, and red cap or tarboosh, if he's a Syrian baby. He makes his journeys in a basket hung on the side of a horse, with stuffed seat and bar to hold him up, while his nurse rides the same animal and keeps him quiet with a lump of opium, if he 's a Persian baby; and rides luxuriously on donkey-back, with his cradle swung between two upright posts from the saddle, if he 's a Jerusalem baby.
The bare-headed baby of China, not quite so grave as his Asiatic cousins, is still a contented little traveler, whether he rides on the back of mamma, or is tied on a mat to sleep, or exposed beside the door in a bamboo cage, or fastened to his gilded baby-chair, to teach him to sit up. The most important moment in his young life is when, at the age of one year, he decides his future destiny in a curious way. He is carefully dressed in new clothes, and seated in the middle of a large sieve, in which are placed many articles, among which are money-scales, a brass mirror, writing utensils, books, silver and gold ornaments, and fruits, while the anxious parents stand by to see which object will first attract his sober black eyes. If he takes up a book or pencil, he is destined to become a scholar; if the glitter of gold or silver attract him, his fate is to amass wealth; if fruits suit him best, he will incline to spurn the rice of his father's table, and feast upon delicate puppy-stew, or bird's-nest soup.
At two years of age he will dress like his grandfather of eighty, and look like that old gentleman seen through the small end of an opera-glass. When he first enters school, he will bring, not a spelling-book and slate, but two candles, a few sticks of incense, and a small quantity of mock money (made of paper), to be burned before a piece of paper having the name of Confucius written upon it. Thus the little Chinese traveler is launched on his school-life.
The little traveler on the shore of the Ganges has a very different life. Bathed every day in the sacred stream, or in a jar of its water ; scrubbed with its holy mud—ears, eyes, and mouth ; thoroughly purified from all sin, as his parents devoutly believe—how can he help being better than other babies? He is a jolly, happy baby, bright as the sunshine of his native land; not troubled with clothes if he belongs to the poor classes; but wrapped in gorgeous silks of scarlet and blue, loaded with jewels, and weighed down by enormous gold-embroidered turban, if he happens to be a prince. He is betrothed by his parents while he is still in the first stage of his journey, and often is married at the age of six or eight to a bride of as many months, when, according to the custom of the country, he goes to live in the family of his little wife, and be educated—not to learn his lessons with her, as you might suppose, for, alas! the baby-girls of Burmah are not taught to read.
This little Hindoo traveler sleeps in a basket hung from the roof, and rides out on mamma's hip; and, what seems dreadful to us, he learns to smoke before he can walk, his mother often taking a cigar from her own lips and putting it into his. If his life-journey is cut short, his body is carried to the grave in his basket-cradle, which is covered with a fringed canopy and hung from a pole on the shoulders of men, and left at last upside down on his last resting-place.
By the side of the same sacred stream we can see the little traveler of the Farsees, a people who came long ago from Persia, and who worship the sun. The peculiarity of this fair-faced baby in the land of darker colors, is that he is never seen with his head uncovered. Man, woman, or child,—old or young, rich or poor, day or night, asleep or awake, indoors or out,—the Farsee must always keep the head covered. He wears a pretty cap of silk or velvet or linen, which is very becoming. His dress is always of silk, covered with embroidery, gold and jewels, according to the wealth of his family, and the little Farsee is a very picturesque object among the naked babies of the poorer classes.
The little traveler in Italy, with his droll little cap, and dress like his grandmother's, goes in leading strings, or a walking-frame of wicker-work. On the Cornice road he goes to market with mamma, riding in a basket hung to the sides of a donkey, with a brother or sister in a similar basket on the other side. The vegetables, which mamma sells, and the babies, ride very contentedly together; while the mother, with her parasol-hat, crowns the droll load, busily engaged in knitting or spinning as she rides along.
In Algiers, baby rides "pick-a-back," and in Bavaria tied flat to his nurse's back; but if he belongs to the poorer classes, he has the best time in France. Have you heard of that most beautiful charity of Paris called "The Cradle" (Crèche), where the babies of mothers who must go out to work are kept all day—bathed, freshly dressed, fed, doctored, and amused till their mothers return home at night? The late Mrs. Field, in her pleasant letters from France, tells about it, and how the children of richer parents are interested in it, saving their money to pay for a cradle in the house, and then going to visit it, and feeling a particular interest in the baby which lies in their cradle.
There is another charity in Paris, as well as in many other places, for the little traveler who is "left out in the cold" by poor or unhappy parents. In our country he is apt to start on his life-journey from somebody's door-step, from which he is generally sent by the owner to a Foundling Home, provided for such unfortunate waifs; but in Paris the charitable home for this little traveler has, in its door-way, a sort of box which turns on a pivot. When a mother, from poverty or any reason, feels obliged to give away her baby (and none can tell what a mother must feel before she comes to that), she goes to this door, lays the little creature in the movable box, and turns it around out of her sight, ringing a door-bell as she does so. An attendant takes the gift, carries it to kind-hearted women within, who dress and feed it, and bring up the motherless baby, in time teach it some trade, and give it a start in life.
The little traveler on our side of the water has a variety of fashions. In Lima he swings in a hammock; in Yucatan he toddles around amply dressed in a straw hat and pair of sandals. Among the Indians of our prairies he begins life as a passive bundle, hung over his mother's back or from the limb of a tree. His head is made to grow flat by means of a board, if he is to have the honor of being a Flat-head Indian. Waste no pity on him; it would be the sorrow and disgrace of his life if his head were shaped like yours. He will in future years select his slaves from round-headed races, and proudly declare that no Flat-head was ever a slave!
When the little travelers come in pairs, they make confusion in the world. Among our Piute Indians (as I lately read in a Nevada paper), when this happens, it becomes necessary, by Indian law, for the dignified, pompous papa himself to take care of the superfluous baby. When you remember that an Indian never deigns to notice, much less to touch, a papoose, you can imagine what a mortification this must be to him.
Among some peoples the extra baby is at once put out of the way; but in one African tribe a curious custom prevails. The hut containing the unfortunate pair is marked by a cloth hung before the door, and a row of white pegs driven into the ground in front of it. If any one except the parents goes in, he is at once seized and sold into slavery. The twins cannot play with other children, and no one can use anything out of that house. The mother is allowed to go out to work in the field, bring wood and other necessary things, but she cannot speak to any one out of her own family. This performance goes on till the unwelcome pair are six years old, when they have a great ceremony—music, marching, feasting, and dancing ; and when this is done, the banished family takes its place among respectable people again.
Save your pity for the unhappy little traveler, American born and white, who is abandoned to the tender mercies of nurses. He will be dressed too tightly perhaps, drugged with soothing-sirup (or worse), slapped if he cries, and left alone in the dark. He will ride in his carriage with the sun in his eyes, if it is sunny; and with arms and hands uncovered and half frozen, if it is cold. Flies will be allowed to tickle his fat little nose, and pins to stick into his tender little back. The strings of his absurd lace cap will choke him till he is black in the face; and he will nearly break his neck falling over the arm of Bridget when she wants to gossip with a crony. His troublesome clothes will be twitched down and jerked around; and he will be laid down, set up, turned over, and arranged any way most convenient to her. Above all, if he dares open his mouth to complain of any of these tortures, his delicate little body will be trotted on her hard knees till it will be nothing short of a miracle if his precious little life is not worried out of him.
The calm Oriental baby in his tray or basket; the Chinese baby in his cage; the baby of Burmah, naked or wrapped in silks, smoking at two and married at ten; the baby of the "Cradle" and the Foundling Asylum of Paris; the Lima baby in its hammock, and the stolid Indian papoose on its boards,—each and every one is happier and better off than our poor little mother-abandoned American baby, left to ignorant and careless nurses.
The "mother-baby,"—the happy little traveler who is not left to the mercies of a nurse, whose throne is his mother's arms, whose pillow is soft, and whose needs are wisely met,—he is the happiest of all. Fair, fat. and hearty, the sorrows of babyhood come not near him. He truly is the one "born with a silver spoon in his mouth."
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