OF PURPLE JARS
IT is against Infallible Parents, and
chiefly the
Perfect Mother, that I would fain take up
my parable,
albeit their ways are too won-
derful for me, and past my finding out.
Wisdom is bound up in the heart of a child
together with foolishness. The free, fearless
mind of his fathers he
inherits: their prejudices
he has to be taught. Few and weak are the
links of his reasoning, scanty,
his facts, absurd his logic; yet when he
takes his first mental flights,
he often swoops right down into the very
heart of the truth, and that
chiefly because such truth as he has espied is
one which lies quite bare
and on the surface, but which mature sapience has
long ago decreed to
be invisible. For this he is invariably reproved. He
has posed his
elders—children need not be argued with—they should be seen
and not
heard. So, believing not one syllable of imperious denial or
disclaimer,
he holds his peace, and forthwith looks out for such other
secrets of
this queer world as he may pry into—a watchful critic,
obstinately
storing up every new fact to confirm his tacit revolt, till the
time comes,
sooner or later, when by force or fraud the young rebel is
subdued, or
reconciled, to the wisdom of the majority. Then, learning with
a new
arrogance more suited to his growing years that his eyes are at
last
really opened to know good and evil, he embraces the consoling
faith
that all is for the best in this worst possible of worlds. Not till
long
afterwards, if ever at all, from such snug perch in the cage of life
as he
has managed to secure, does he look back and try to understand
those
childish beatings of the wings against the golden wires, then so
strangely invisible to the fledgling in his eager gaze across the far, free
world beyond—now, alas, so plain, so firm, so impassable. But all he
can do
now is to peck at the bars, not indeed with much hope of
breaking them, but
at least to spoil their gilding; nor in these days
can the most perverse
Irreconcilable, who from first to last has always
been wholly on the
children’s side, hope to do much more. Fellow-
prisoner! if you too have
defied Conversion, and are in heart still
blessedly Unregenerate, read
on—we are friends!
Of all the pitfalls in the way of youth fra le vane speranze e’l van
dolore, the Moral Tale would be the most dangerous,
but that, except
by stupid children, it is always profoundly suspect.
Excellent Parents,
Kind Aunts, Judicious Friends, commanded at least our guarded
acquiescence
199
acquiescence, but the Moral Fabulist
we rejected as a bare-faced,
deliberate cheat. We knew—that is, we felt—it
was all wrong and
unjust and silly; and what right-feeling child could feel
it otherwise?
With superb disdain he ignores the maxims of grown-up
morality as
clumsy plots to cajole him into a noiseless, manageable
submission.
But, after all, the despised Moralist does not go quite
unavenged; for
in the inmost soul of the young enthusiast there will linger
a shadowy,
haunting suspicion of the great world as of a place all Aunts
and
Uncles and Schoolmasters, wherein it were well for a wise child not
to
be too candid, but rather to hold his peace. From that moment he
becomes a true-born Englishman, jealously concealing his feelings,
whether
in self-respecting reserve or in hypocrisy, he least of all knows.
One of these well-meant Moralities has always strangely
haunted
me. On it I am going to dwell, and that, I fear, mostly
in the first
person, because so much of it is only my own imagining. Who
wrote
this dismal apologue of The Purple Jar I
know not, nor care. Not, I
trust, Sancta Maria Edgeworth, than whom few
hold higher place in
my last-revised Calendar. Nor need I go hunt in the
Bodleian, for,
though I dare say I shall tell the story all wrong, the only
version
which concerns me is that which has grown in my memory through
long years, from the days when we gathered it with much painful
poring and
spelling from an obsolete sheepskin volume—the ‘Third
Class Reader,’ I
think it was called, but to us irreverent urchins known
familiarly as the
‘Silly Book.’ There it was printed as a parable of
Youth s folly and Age’s
wisdom: we, alas! read it as a true tale of
outraged innocence and
cold-blooded treachery.
The first scene is a street. Rosamond and her admirable
Mamma
are on their way to the shoemaker’s. Our little heroine is
sadly down
at heel, and Mamma with her usual beneficence is going to buy
her a
nice, strong pair of boots. But as Rosamond trips along,
prattling
of boots and gratitude as inoffensively as any utilitarian parent
could
wish, suddenly there flashes on her a strange, glorious,
entrancing
radiance—the veritable purple light of youth itself. I suppose
the
chemist had just lit his gas, or more likely his candles, and there
it
stood proudly, the beautiful Purple Jar—its ample body one great
disc
of imperial splendour, its shoulders curving so graciously up to the
pale
lilac delicacy of its neck, and crowned with its tiara of pure,
glittering
crystal. Among its fellows of azure, gules and vert it shone
forth, the
queen of all—the fairest, because the rarest. For remember, in
our
day there was no blazing, acrid aniline; our old indigo and madder
violets
200
violets were dull and sombre, in fact
what we called elderly colours.
Even among our sweatmeats the violet
specimens were by far the
fewest, and therefore the most highly prized. So
to poor Rosamond
this shapely pyramid of ruddy purple, its translucent
gleam, its
plenteous mass, was something entirely novel. What can she do
but
gaze, and gaze, and long with all a child’s yearning for instant
posses-
sion ? A yearning of pure, admiring love; for already her very
heart-
strings are twining about it, and if only it shall be hers, be sure
that
when Mamma and Laura have gone up to dress, the little arms will
creep round it with a passionate hug, and the warm cheek be pressed
against
its poor, cold, insensible sides, and breathless lips shower
kisses and
murmured caresses as of a young mother, mingled with a
lover’s triumph—‘And
now, Purple Jar, you are all my very own!’
What though Mr. Pestle is
frowning through the tooth-brushes, and
Mamma warning her that she has
dropped her muff, and commencing
that old, old lecture on the vulgarity of
staring—Rosamond’s thoughts
are other where; she pants for the blissful
days in store glorified by this
talisman of felicity she shudders to think
what life must be without it.
Those who have forgotten the quick sensations
of childhood may call
this exaggerated. I did not feel it so then; I cannot
think it so now.
I know how heroic was the resolve with which in her
imperious need
the child conquered the supreme delicacy which bars a
foolish petition,
and boldly faced her Mamma with a request for the
purchase of the
Jar.
Now this Mamma was not only an admirable, but a good—a
very
good woman. She loved her child, but somewhat, I fear, as
her child
loved the Jar, with an inward whisper now and then. ‘She is all
my
own, my very own.’ In all her life Mrs. Barlow—for so I have always
somehow named her—had never wished for anything that was not
clearly and
lawfully obtainable, or which was not also wished for by the
other Mrs.
Bensons and Goodchilds of story; or if once she too had
longed for the
improper, she had very properly forgotten all about it.
Really most
untoward! to think that any child of hers! such pre-
posterous
inclinations! this must be nipped in the bud. So turning
with her sweet,
wise smile to the flushing suppliant, she speaks—
à propos des bottes. The Useful she will munificently
bestow, but the
Beautiful ‘she cannot possibly afford.’ Not that I have
ever doubted
that she had been very genteelly left by Mr. Barlow, or that
she had
always felt it her duty to live well within her income, but of
course,
if once the children suspect your means, they will hardly worship you
for
205
for taking them to the Polytechnic,
and you lose a precious opportunity
of inculcating gratitude. So Rosamond,
with a vague sense of
Mamma’s financial embarrassments and of the vast,
ungrudging sacri-
fice involved in those long-promised and much-talked-of
boots, is
penetrated by a great shame. But, alas! is there no escape? can
she
let it go? If Mamma can only afford one will she please buy the
jar
—it is so big and all of such lovely purple glass. ‘Purple glass!’
repeats Mamma with a flash of inspiration. She sees her way now,
this
Excellent Parent! Has not a beautiful Providence expressly
placed ignorance
as a bit between the teeth of youth, whereby we may
drive them as we will?
Does it not lay a thousand snares and pitfalls,
whereby their little hopes
and joys may be turned back upon them as
suicidal weapons, and all things
work mightily together for the incul-
cation of Moral Lessons? And shall
she, wise in the example of poor
dear Mr. Barlow, and in the lore of Mme.
de Genlis and the Parent’s
Instructor, be wanting to this Providential
opportunity? Surely no!
she is an Admirable Mamma—she loves her child—she
knows her duty
—she will lay a trap.
So they step into the shop, and by a transparent collusion
between
Mr. Pestle and Mamma it appears that the price of the
Jar is just that
of the boots. And now Rosamond may choose the good and
eschew
the evil as best seemeth her; but first, from a scrupulous respect
for
fair dealing and possibly also to barb the stings of future
remorse,
Mamma will place the issue clearly before her. Preluding briefly
on
parental infallibility and passive obedience she points out how
lasting
and substantial are the pleasures of boots as compared to those of
the
Jar. Observe that she does not call it the Purple Jar; that would be a
story, for she knows that it is not
purple at all, but of course she is not
bound to mention this. She merely
advises; she wishes Rosamond to
choose freely; only, if she choose the Jar,
she must make her old
boots last another month; for till then Mamma will
not be able to
afford new ones. Rosamond is a little frightened by these
solemn
judicial proceedings, but she is very brave. Seeing all the
sacrifice,
she accepts it gladly. In vain does Mamma goad her with the
thought of walks to Rose Hill and Primrose Wood, for mark her
answer—‘I
shall not mind that at all; for when you are gone, I can set
my Jar on the
table, and put flowers in it, and look at it, and then I
shall never be
lonely; besides a month will soon be over, but I shall
have my beautiful
Jar always.’ O most unaccountable and discon-
certing of children! O poor,
poor Mrs. Barlow of the soft, flaxen
braids
206
braids and sweet wise smile, well may
you wonder, you dear, dull,
English matron! and would wonder more if you
knew all! For what
your child sees is no mere paltry chemist’s bottle but
the divine illusions
of Art and Beauty; that eager, quivering voice is more
than childish
petulance,—it is the faint birth-cry of the very spirit of
the archangels,
of Michael and of Raphael. Well, well! smile on sweetly and
wisely
—thou hast thy trap.
So the die is cast, the Jar is to be sent home, and as
Rosamond in
pure gratitude nestles for a moment in the big sable
boa, whose
mingled odour of preservative camphor and natural vermin she
will
associate to her dying day with maternal goodness, be sure that
no
qualm flutters the well-regulated heart beneath it. I am not so
sure
that Mr. Pestle, sneering sarcastic therapeutist as he was, did not
feel a
little uneasy, for perhaps he had a little Frederick of his own, who
came
in sometimes to help Papa roll the pills, and who, though he
scorned
the secret of the Purple Jar, held other pretty delusions which
Pestle
would not for all the world destroy.
I cannot paint the walk home, its terrible slowness, the
fever, the
sickening longing when Mamma would stop to look into those tiresome
toy and picture shops—O
cunning, didactic Mamma!—and all the
time the prolonged savour of the
coming certainty. Good Heavens!
how the child ran on, and what nonsense!
how she clung to Mamma’s
hand, and how hard it was for her not to jump up
and kiss her again
and again before the whole street in a perfect riot of
love and trust-
fulness!
And, lo! the Jar already arrived and on the table, and in
front of it
Laura, impassive as ever—is she of flesh and blood?
calmly drawing.
Of course she was drawing—they were always drawing, these
terrible
Lauras. Why, I can see the very picture, the tottering column
and
broken arch on the left crowned with vague twiggery, the glossy
black-
ness in the mouldings and capital—with what furtive and
ladylike
discretion used Laura to moisten the pencil tip—the deformed
traveller
and two trees on the right—they are beeches, so the pencil goes,
jog,
jog—had they been chestnuts it would have gone jag, jag, scrape,
according to the rules of that black art called ‘tree-touches.’ And when
Laura has shaded and stippled and finicked, and smudged it all over
except
the salivated shadows with the leather stump, she will have
done her worst,
and then it will be for Mr. Touchup to spend a inauvais
quart d’heure over it, and lay on those bold masses
of Chinese white
and bathe the thing in isinglass. And at last, tastily
framed in seaweed
Laura
207
Laura will preserve it with just
pride, and I dare say if you ask her
next time you are at Clapham, the old
lady will show it you in the
spare bedroom, and tell you how she had been
considered to have a
very remarkable talent for drawing, ‘but that of
course, my dear, was
before my marriage.’
Need I say that Rosamond was never suspected of such talent,
and
so was not allowed to learn, though she pleaded hard enough,
and was
always scrawling in her rough, ridiculous way. For, you see, she
had
no patience, and as Touchup said, ‘Patience is so ab-so-lute-ly
essential.’
So she can only loyally admire Laura’s masterpieces, and plan
what
pretty things she would draw if only she knew how. As for working
out her own way, please, remember that in those far-off days it was
læsa majestas to attempt anything without ‘proper
instruction,’ and that
our infallible guardians settled among themselves
what we were, and
what we could, or could not do. John chopped the frog’s
leg off and
so must make a good surgeon, and Joseph a parson, because he
was
shocked and told Papa. Jane was destined for literature, because in
her
dull apathy she liked the playground no better than the
schoolroom,
and Clara doomed to the harp, because her taste was really so
beautiful,
and her arm—this in a whisper—as elegant as Mamma firmly
believed
her own to have once been. Had Rosamond cultivated a talent
which
she had been ‘distinctly told’ she did not possess, Mrs. Barlow
would
have been all aghast at her presumption, and Laura’s laughing, ‘O
you
dear, ridiculous, clumsy, little thing!’ would have smothered the
kindling spark of genius. For a genius I am afraid she was in her
childish
way, this little sister, as even Laura may have been too before
she left
off frilled trousers. But now, since among the objects which
young ladies
may and should admire, druggists’ bottles were certainly
never even so much
as mentioned at Acacia Lodge, she draws on
unmoved.
I wish my story were done, for the little tragedy which that
cruel
horse-hair couch, and the false, blear-eyed mirror, and
the gaunt piano,
with its flaring red silk stomacher gathered up by the big
brass brooch,
must so keenly have relished that day, I like not to tell.
Just a few
whose real, grown-up sorrows have not quite effaced the scars of
their
first disillusions, may sigh to read, but the many will only laugh,
and
well perhaps for them that they can. They have no patience with
children’s fancies—if the girl begins to cry, let her be sent to bed at
once. Even Mrs. Barlow herself could say no more. As she watched
Rosamond’s
delight, I think she was exquisitely happy. Her trap is
about
208
about to spring, and the joyous
chirping of the little bird to be turned
into piteous cries of despair. O!
that demure cruelty of the Woman
and the Ecclesiastic! where in ah this
wicked world is there anything
so fell?
And whereunto shall I liken it? If you are a Barlow, you
will
wonder how I can have forgotten what all the best Barlows
have settled
long ago, that the proper illustration of cruelty is a cat
playing with a
mouse, and not an Admirable Mamma tormenting her child. But
I
fancy that when Mrs. Barlow watched—as I dare say she often did with
a certain scandalised fascination—poor Tabby’s barbarous antics the
caressing pats, the guileless complacency, the fatal springs—she entered
unconsciously into the sport, and constructed out of her own instincts a
pretty intelligible set of feelings, which having transferred to the
account of Puss, she could safely call cruelty. My own notion—per-
haps it
is wrong—is that Puss is debarred by Providence, not only from
the luxury
of cruelty, but even from the high human zest of sport, and
that she is
merely practising those exercises of vigilance and dexterity
on which her
livelihood depends, profoundly unconscious that mice can
feel. It is we
alone, to whom it is given to probe and realise the feel-
ings of our
fellows, who can really enjoy their sufferings—who can per-
versely delight
to trouble the repose, to lacerate the heart, to reopen the
old wounds, and
all in pure, selfish love. I hold very cheap my first
forefather, the old,
arboreal, anthropoid Nondescript, and would shoot
and stuff him without
remorse if I found him surviving in some desert
island, but all the same I
see that his children have not escaped the
curses of
over-domestication—perversion of instinct and morbidity of
feeling.
But Mrs. Barlow’s mind at that moment offers a problem so
com-
plicated, that I dare only glance at its most obvious
feature—that
quintessential savour, that unalloyed delight—the triumph of
the
inferior over the superior mind. Mediocrity is intensely jealous.
As
my dear old Voltairean friend used to say of our Cur£ in her grand
First-
Empire tones, ‘C’est un homme tres borne. Il
hait partout la supériorité.
Voilà pourquoi il me déteste!’ Not indeed that poor
Rosamond boasted
a superior mind, nor, I fear, as yet much mind at all, but
only some
vague, instinctive yearnings for higher things, which Mrs. Barlow
either
did not feel or did not cultivate, and which therefore she
pronounced
to be wholly improper. Among all the strange dealings of old
and
young which I see going on around me, this crass, maternal
jealousy
puzzles me most. I often hear the man in his big, self-depreciatory
tone,
209
tone, as of one whose sins after all
sit not so badly upon him, hope that
Jack will make a better man than his
father, but I never heard Mamma
breathe a similar prayer over dear Louisa.
The better a woman is, the
more gigantic and more sincere is her
self-admiration and self-belief ;
and the more subtly does she veil in
devotion to her husband, her
children, this
supreme devotion to self. The Excellent Mamma—and
truly excellent she
is—has but one type of excellence—herself. Her
child must parody her
virtues, think her thoughts, wear her chains, live
her life, and, losing
all individuality, be gradually absorbed into the
Nirvana of Mamma. Alas!
that we cannot all be excellent in the same
way! Every aspiration to
perfections which are not hers is a tacit
insult to the mother’s
infallibility. Nay, I sometimes fancy that in the
obedient, responsive
machinery of Mrs. Barlow’s conscience there
must have lurked a distressing
suspicion that all this high-flown Jar
nonsense somehow took the bloom off
her prosaic Boot-theory, and
thrust the moralist down to lower ground.
Heroism—the very shadow
of heroism—is an exasperation to the unheroic.
So there was probably just a touch of benevolent spite to
heighten
the zest of her Spartan morality. Rosamond shall see
what comes of
knowing better than Mamma, when she discovers how finely she
has
been deceived. Deceived? but by whom? Hem! well, we need not
go
into that, but smoothe our lappets, and fumble in the reticule, and
practise our best smile, for already the child is calling out, ‘Oh, it is
full of nasty, black stuff! May I not pour this away?’ Jane shall
fetch a
bucket. In grave silence (Jane has her cue) she tilts the Jar—
Laura kisses
her pencil in knowing amusement—Mamma fixes the
chosen vessel with a
mysterious stare—what can they all mean?—and
with gurgling sobs the
doctor’s stuff is pouring, pouring forth, and with
it all the child’s
delight. Amazement—dismay—the numbness of first
grief—desolation
complete—then the fiery pang of outraged justice and
the shrill, resentful
cry—‘But, Mamma, you never told me of this!’
What kind, improving things Mrs. Barlow said I cannot repeat,
for
this was just the part of the story I never remembered. Nor
do I think
that Rosamond was as submissively attentive as she seemed, so
absorbed
was she in weeping and self-pity. Dear, amiable Laura of course
cried
too, susceptible to the infection of tears, but Mamma, gravely
jubilant,
did not cry, nor did Jane, for in her eyes her kind, just
mistress could
do no wrong; but when she was safe back in her kitchen, I
dare say
she sighed hugely over her kneading trough, and owned that
perhaps
Madam was just a bit hard sometimes, though to be sure Miss Rosy
was
210
was fearful aggravating and not a bit
like the other young ladies, but
always such a one for anything pretty. So
Jane—God speed her loving,
clumsy hands! falls to work to fashion a dough
pig with currant eyes
and caraway bristles, and when she goes to tuck up
her darling, she
will carry it up hot in her apron, and Rosamond shall
munch the tooth-
some statuary, and be comforted.
The rest of the tale has faded quite away, except how the
authoress
gloated like a ghoul over the tribulations of that
weary month; how
during the next morning walk Rosamond was always lagging
behind to’
pull up her slipshod shoes, and was forthwith interned in the
house as
altogether too disreputable for public view; sentenced for one
calendar
month—no Primrose Wood, no going to tea at Mrs. Goodchild’s, or
to
hear Harriet Benson’s new bird organ, but to sit always, always at
home
O impatient little feet and fingers that drum the window pane!
alone, with no company but the poor, pale, colourless Jar. Let us
fervently
hope that the dancing bears always came round just at those
very times, and
the fantoccini, and the courtly old signor with his
poodles, and Punch’s
show, and the little Auvergnat with a waxen
Solomon’s Judgment in his box
and the white mice peeping out of his
sleeve his flashing smile and kind
eyes such a vision of ragged felicity
that even Jane relents, and against
all rules permits bread, nay even
cake, to be carried out to him, and
Rosamond, flighty little puss! feels
that if he really were the Marquis of Carabas in disguise, she would
gladly trudge with him, slipshod or barefoot, and carry Solomon through
the
wide world till they reached his father’s kingdom. All these brave
shows, I
trust, passed before the prison window, and that Laura missed
them every
one.
Whether Mrs. Barlow relented I know not, nor how the tale
ended,
nor even how long it was. If, when you have searched the
archives of
the nursery, it should turn out to be after all no more than
three or four
pages of big print, believe that I have but told a part of
the full
version as I held it, and hold it still. Its whole import has
grown
upon me gradually, but from the very first there was never a doubt
that
Rosamond was entirely right, and her Mother entirely wrong, or that
a
black deed of stupidity and injustice had been done. Dear lady, best
of Moral Fabulists, your tale has in spite of you told some truths to
which
you yourself were stone-blind—the child’s barbaric, untrained, yet
holy
admiration of beauty such as he sees it; his vast yearning for
possession—no mere sordid acquisitiveness, but the thirst for realising,
for identifying his soul with the thing admired by the nearness of secure
ownership;
211
ownership; his faith in the universal
Utopia; his choice—sadly wrong
no doubt, but for all that truly heroic—of
the Beautiful before the
Useful; all those childish things which seem ever
pleading to us, ‘Ne
brutalisez pas la machine!’—which we parents and
pedagogues, calling
them delusions, trample in our dust.
Can all this, it will be said, refer to the sordid,
gluttonous little
animals one meets in the holidays? No indeed!
nor yet to those
effeminate manikins in slashed velvet and Florentine
barrets who early
learn to lisp the Correggiosity of Correggio. I am only
speaking of the
average English child of gentle birth, pure blood and
healthy instinct,
before we have made him ashamed of his better feelings,
and equipped
him for the coarse, great world by the far coarser world of
school. Such
children do of their own free will betray a genuine love of
beautiful
things and an honest readiness to sacrifice to them their grosser
desires.
The elements of this childish sense of beauty need not here be
analysed;
enough that it rests mainly on three grounds. First, smallness;
partly
connected with delicacy and fineness, but much more with the
patron-
ising, piotecting love of pets. That the child has any true sense
of the
grandiose is a common error—bigness he admires partly as a sign
of
force in sympathy with his own ebullient energies, partly from mere
greedy preference of what is largest and most for the money. The
other
elements are bright colour, and, most important of all, rarity.
Given these
most inadequate grounds, the child does undoubtedly
discriminate,
appreciate and admire; and these active feelings do, or
rather might, form
a large and wholesome element in his early life.
But our good parents, and
we too I fear in our own day, must have
it otherwise. The children admire
the wrong things—their taste is
really deplorable—what on earth can they
know about it? Hush, dear !
Papa does not like to be teased about such
rubbish! He has risen
above Purple Jars.
Well, I am no Parent’s Instructor to give advice, but only
grief
and wonder and scolding. Por of all the moon-rakers and
sand-rope-
weavers on this foolish planet the most pitiful and the most
hopeless to
my thinking are the Judicious Parents. How they love their
little
dolls! how they tyrannise over them! how careful they are not
to spoil them! how entirely they do spoil and mar them for
any aim in life
higher than their own! How patiently do they
mould and smoothe and pat and
thump the rebellious little clay
models, investing them with some strange
merit of incongruous age
and sobriety! what rejoicing over the neat, easily
managed automata
when
212
when quite finished! what woe
unspeakable when at times the young
Adam breaks out! Strangest of all, that
blind confidence in the child’s
credulity, a confidence undisturbed by the
faintest recollection of the
parents’ own infant scepticism. Beautiful it
is, this parental affection,
because it rests on instinct; grotesque,
because that instinct is per-
verted—a veritable chinoiserie of love. Such, too, are its masterpieces—
nature so
overlaid with minutest art that the nature is well nigh lost;
all beauty of
material jealously effaced by cunning handicraft. And
then all is well; the
artificer happily unconscious that under his strenu-
ous hand are being
crushed the purest charms and the sweetest graces—
that the child’s
sensuous instinct buds forth in exuberant welcome to
the wealth of Nature,
as a young fig-tree which, pruned unkindly, bleeds
to death. But why not
indeed? Let it die, this rank, useless growth,
and plant we our leeks and
onions in its place, dear to mature palates !
And so it comes about that
only the poor réfractaire, who in his intense
Conservatism is always finding himself on the Extreme Left with
impracticables and irreconcilables, remains to cherish in silence the
supreme reproof of all pedagogy, the watchword of all goodly nurture,
‘Suffer little children to come, and forbid them not.’
As children they come, with a child’s sweet, foolish wisdom,
foolish
dreams, supremely foolish longings—come to us standing
outside the
doors of a poor pantomime Paradise, where we too once were
happy,
which never more shall we re-enter; into our woeful world we
drag
them to make them even as ourselves. I know well that in this
hard,
ugly world are weaving epics and tragedies and idylls of love
and
sacrifice, beside which all fairyland and the grand transformation
scene
itself are as shabby tinsel; but these, alas, the child cannot see.
For
him the lust of the eye and the pride of life are no Satanic snares,
but
the unspeakable gift of God. We may blindfold the eager gaze, if
we
like, but it will never brighten again at our bidding; cramp and
fetter
the wayward life, and yet it shall never be as ours. Why then
forbid
young eyes to see their full in all beauty—even beauty to us poor
and
false? lest peradventure the very desire of seeing should fade out ere
the
sight wax dim. Mr. Ruskin indeed has said that Art is not for
children,
but rather fresh air and food and nature. But then by Art, we
usually
mean so much that is really Nature, so much that can best
rouse
and warm a child’s soul, which is capable of no higher passion
than loving admiration. The whole domain of child-land is swayed
by this
beneficent lust of the eye, this exquisite delight of the young
stranger in
a world so full of beautiful surprises. Yet which of us has
the
213
the loving courage to take him by the
hand, and lead him all through
the raree show, and stop to stare at all the
pitiful, make-believe marvels,
and not by one sneer or yawn poison his
delight, or turn his joy to shame?
But unless we can stoop to this, we
shall hardly train his eye to any
power of eager sight with all our Art
Schools and Museums and
Academies, but rather, I fear, dim and extinguish
it. What such
wholesome training should be, what are the sweet uses of
Purple Jars,
so far as I know them, must here be left unsaid, but, believe
me, they
are many and potent.
More and worse remains. For the story tells not only of a
wilful
darkening of the seeing eye, but of deliberate and
treacherous mis-
leading of the blindfolded. Of such sort is much of our
home discipline.
It seems so much easier to the Excellent Parent to
convince by
deception than by argument or persuasion or authority. The end
is
no doubt gained—the tiresome child silenced, the tired parent at
ease.
But meanwhile a wrong, a calamity, a crime has been perpetrated,
so
irreparable that the Infallible herself would stand aghast thereat,
were
she not infallible. For, little as she knows it, the smooth, pure ice
of
moral rectitude and maternal perfection on which hitherto she has
glided so superbly before the eyes of her young admirers, has broken
under
her, and, alas! by her own fault. No longer will she steer her
calm,
majestic course, but rather flounder dismally and shamefully—
strange
object of wonderment and misgiving and heart searching to
the disillusioned
worshipper. Once for all she has been found out. The
child no longer
believes her mother—whom then will she believe? For
the scepticism of
children is a disbelief, not in God, but in the Parent;
the religion of
love once discarded, the young infidel loves henceforth,
if at all, with
mere brute instinct. Is this a light harm? With the
loftiest professions
the superior, in pretending to raise the inferior mind,
has stooped to
fraud, treachery and cruelty. From that instant the
whole conspiracy of
education is seen through as a bungling plot to
inveigle children into
paths which are not those of peace and pleasant-
ness for themselves, but
of ease and self-seeking for their instructors.
To us the end may justify
the means; in their eyes the means damns
the end. The bubble has burst; the
Purple Jar is drained of its fairy
splendour. Virtue becomes the monster
which, to be hated, needs but
to be seen through the pedagogic camera—hated
because it is uncon-
sciously felt to war against the soul, and rob life of
its just delights—
hated as only hypocrisy, cant, and pretence can be hated
by the pure-
hearted and hot-headed. Mournful as it seems, this, more or
less, is
the
214
the burden of the cry from many a
model English nursery. To such
a pass have all our long-suffering, deeply
planned strivings brought us—
the parents utilitarian morality inculcated
by trickery, enforced by
oppression, and therefore never cordially
adopted—the child’s uncon-
scious love of right and hate of wrong, his
simple enthusiasm, his
sensitive honour, his shrinking delicacy, all
crushed and wounded
beyond healing.
O kind Papas and Mammas of story! I fear me that after all
there is
little kindness in you. If yours be love, I know not
what is this I feel for
your victims. Crabbed Age and Youth cannot dwell
together—their joys
and griefs are too far apart, nay often clean
opposed—yet from time to
time a sweet and wholesome converse may hold them
a while together
on the same path. There is in all of us a retour de jeunesse, or rather a
survival of
childhood, a relighting of smouldering fires, which accords not
ill with
simple, youthful gladness; the sweet, momentary seriousness of
the child is
strangely attuned to our habitual gravity. It is when at
their best, most
simple, most earnest, most sequestered from the shame-
ful world, that the
child and the man are really at one, that they can
interchange their gifts,
that mirth may be given for wisdom, gladness
for guidance, peace for
strength. In this hopeless impasse, this uni-
versal loss of human contentment to which we have brought the world,
this
strange medley of luxury and woe, it seems almost as if the children
alone
have kept the power of pure enjoyment. For us it remains mostly
to share
their pleasure as best we may, or at least not to spoil it.
Ah, Rosamunda! little wild rose, opening so pure and fresh to
joy
thee in the boon air and merry sun, let other hands than
mine, more stern,
more self-certain, dash the dew from thy bright cheek and
mangle thy
pretty vesture, and train thee to the prim perfection of my
lady’s garden.
For I too have been young—have laughed and played and
sighed, and
have not forgotten. As my comrades, trooping to death along
the
high road of success and fame, leave me behind, fain would I
linger
yet awhile among the young and brave, mingling with the merry
crew
to cheer on their games and faintly echo their glee, consoling
little
griefs and laughing away transient pains, nor seek, as fond fools
may,
some measured return of gratitude. But thou, little dream-child,
I
know, art not ungrateful, nor ungracious. What though they are all
against us? we are brave; we are strong; we are two against the
world! Has
Mamma taken Laura to Primrose Wood and left thee to
disenchantment and the
Purple Jar? Then together we will revive the
broken spell. Let us away from
the town beyond the last ugly villa,
and
219
and roam the fair river-meads, where
you shall ask a thousand eager
questions, and I, a very Solomon in your
eyes, will tell of all trees and
flowers and glad living things we see,
till the gleam of the waters and
the rush of the breeze and the green
glorious growth beneath us shall
call laughing music to your lips, and to
mine some echo of long silent
harmonies. Then back we will trudge,
spoil-laden; for the poor, forlorn
old Jar shall have his share in our
festivity. And when we have crowned
him with reeds and poppies and
meadow-sweet and tall golden flags,
and girdled his gleaming bosom with ivy
and bindweed, he shall stand
transfigured—no longer a poor Purple Jar,
foolishly worshipped for an
hour, then wantonly despised, but the selfsame
Crystal Vase that
eternally droops its sprays over the couch of the
Sleeping Beauty.
And thou, dear child, to whom all fairyland and its
wonders are
familiar, wilt know it again at once, and clap thy hands in
returning
pride and admiration, and, half-believing, thank the old magician
for
his charm.
But already Mamma has returned, not at all put out by our
escapade,
indeed vastly complaisant, and as usual quite
delighted—guileless
Rosy can never make out why—that Uncle John should take
so much
notice of her little girl, and invite her to tea, and—of course she may go
if he is quite sure she will
not be too troublesome. So off we march to
hold high banquet on sweet
forbidden dainties from dishes which have
each a history, and Rosamond
shall marvel for the hundredth time at
my pots and pans and graven images
many and outlandish, and shall
even handle my chiefest treasure, which no
mortal housemaid may
touch and live, the vase of old emerald crackle
smothered with gouts
and tears of foaming enamel. And then, after due
pressing, I consent
to unlock the old corner cupboard where sleep Aunt
Cynthia’s dolls—so
tenderly used, so carefully laid by, poor soul! for the
children she never
lived to bear; and beside them the tiny pink jockey cap
and miniature
spurs in which the Archdeacon won on Beelzebub; and on the
top shelf
all that survive of the Chinese toys, Indian gods, and other
dear-bought
rubbish which the poor Admiral used to bring home for Susan’s
brats.
Perhaps we shall play a little at one of the stupid, obsolete games
we find
in the drawer, which are not such bad fun after all, at least for
Rosamond
who always wins, or reconstruct one or two old picture-puzzles, or
read
some more about the robins in Dame Trimmer’s incomparable story.
And when we have put everything away neatly in its proper place
for Mamma’s
golden maxims must not be openly discredited—we fall
to talk, and that
neither patronising monologue nor vacant chatter, for
220
the subject changes so
suddenly, arguments so illogical and novel,
questions so startling and
insoluble are sprung upon the Oracle, that
he feels he is on his mettle and
his reputation at stake. Our discourse
is no doubt absurdly serious, for
small skill have I and still less heart to
parry or wound young questioners
by banter and mockery; likely
enough we shall get all wrong and talk sad
nonsense. But old Fatima
will not mind that, as she poses on her
tiger-rug—a motionless, vaguely
outlined form blurred in a nimbus of fluffy
whiteness, with tasselled
ears and eyes unfathomable, the embodied Spirit
of Discretion—for
she was brought up on the knees of an Ambassador, has sat
in Con-
gresses, and smeared with indolent tail the signatures of a Great
Treaty;
to her after a youth of protocols and pourparlers all speech is but
a
human purr. And after all what care we if cat or king be listening ?
For in perfect simplicity we will talk only of beautiful and joyous
things,
the child weaving her wildest, silliest fancies, and because we
both
believe in all goodness and fairyland, I would not for the world
check her,
but, so far as I may, gently lead her bright enthusiasm to
dwell on such
sweet verities of life and nature as she can best under-
stand, and I most
revere.
Ah me! how fast the time has flown! Hark! it is Jane, with
pattens
and lantern, come to fetch home her charge. Good-night,
Rosamond!
little dream-guest of my failing hearth! good-night! brave,
trustful
English children, all of you! To your dreams! to your dreams!
and
may they every one come true!
EDWARD PURCELL.
1883
MLA citation:
Purcell, Edward. “Of Purple Jars.” The Pageant, 1897, pp. 198-220. Pageant Digital Edition, edited by Frederick King and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2019-2021. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2021. https://1890s.ca/pag2-purcell-purple/