But what I have spoken of hitherto is nothing to the airs which these creatures give themselves when they come, as they generally do, to have children.  When I consider how little of a rarity children are,—­that every street and blind alley swarms with them,—­that the poorest people commonly have them in most abundance,—­that there are few marriages that are not blest with at least one of these bargains,—­how often they turn out ill, and defeat the fond hopes of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty, disgrace, the gallows, &c.—­I cannot for my life tell what cause for pride there can possibly be in having them.  If they were young phoenixes, indeed, that were born but one in a year, there might be a pretext.  But when they are so common—­

I do not advert to the insolent merit which they assume with their husbands on these occasions.  Let them look to that.  But why we, who are not their natural-born subjects, should be expected to bring our spices, myrrh, and incense,—­our tribute and homage of admiration,—­I do not see.

“Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant, even so are the young children:”  so says the excellent office in our Prayer-book appointed for the churching of women.  “Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them:”  So say I; but then don’t let him discharge his quiver upon us that are weaponless;—­let them be arrows, but not to gall and stick us.  I have generally observed that these arrows are double-headed:  they have two forks, to be sure to hit with one or the other.  As for instance, when you come into a house which is full of children, if you happen to take no notice of them (you are thinking of something else, perhaps, and turn a deaf ear to their innocent caresses), you are set down as untractable, morose, a hater of children.  On the other hand, if you find them more than usually engaging,—­if you are taken with their pretty manners, and set about in earnest to romp and play with them, some pretext or other is sure to be found for sending them out of the room:  they are too noisy or boisterous, or Mr. ——­ does not like children.  With one or other of these forks the arrow is sure to hit you.

I could forgive their jealousy, and dispense with toying with their brats, if it gives them any pain; but I think it unreasonable to be called upon to love them, where I see no occasion,—­to love a whole family, perhaps, eight, nine, or ten, indiscriminately,—­to love all the pretty dears, because children are so engaging.

I know there is a proverb, “Love me, love my dog:”  that is not always so very practicable, particularly if the dog be set upon you to tease you or snap at you in sport.  But a dog, or a lesser thing,—­any inanimate substance, as a keep-sake, a watch or a ring, a tree, or the place where we last parted when my friend went away upon a long absence, I can make shift to love, because I love him, and any thing that reminds me of him; provided it be in its