life. And it is added, by way of exemplification, that the pulse of an infant, or of a little man, is more frequent than that of an adult, or of a large man. The pulse of an ox is slower than that of a man. A dog's pulse is quicker than that of a man; and the motion of the heart in very small animals, as that of a sparrow, is so rapid, that the strokes can hardly be numbered. That INFANTS, so very tender in their make and constitution, should have every possible attention paid them, is a position which none will deny. And who so proper to take this care of them as THE MoTHER to whom they owe their birth? Among the poor this becomes a necessary duty-not having the means of transferring the important charge to the care of another. The rich, indeed, often betray a criminal inattention to the earliest years of their offspring. Consigning them over to some hireling nurse; diseases and obliquities of body are superinduced, which remain with them throughout life, An Infant ought on no account, except in cases of imperious necessity, to be withdrawn from a MoTHER's breast. The little stranger is deprived of what nature has kindly provided for her offspring. In many cases an injury is sustained which proves to be irreparable. * * The celebrated Author of Lorenzo de Medici, Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, has a beautiful Poem on this subject, entitled THE Nurse, well worthy the perusal of every Mother throughout the kingdom. An instance of maternal affection is too singular to be here omitted—“One morning,” said an old shepherd of Freshwater, "as I was looking for a strayed ewe, I came up with some bird-catchers. They presently prepared their tackle, and went down the cliffs, and left behind the wife of one of them to shift the ropes, and do such offices as the nature of their business demanded. That she might better attend to her charge, the woman had placed beneath her cloak at a small distance a sleeping boy, about twelve months old; and thinking all was safe, applied herself to the stake; when looking round, to her great astonishment the child had crept from beneath her covering, and had wantonly reached the verge of the cliff, at least eight hundred feet from the sea, and wanted but a few inches more to sink into eternity! Alarmed at his tremendous situation, the Mother stood like a fixed oak, but spake not. To rush forward was to destroy her lovely boy. What could she do? Heaven inspired her with the sudden thought; she bared her breasts and claimed by signs which feeling Mothers best devise, her boy's attention! He saw his favourite source, stretched his little arms, and smiling, hastened to the fountain of life and health! The eager mother, in speechless enjoyment, first hugged him to her breast, then bore him from the reach of danger, and still retired some paces further back; but only to fall and faint, overcome with the swift returning ecstacy." A poet of the name of Greene, a contemporary of Shakspeare, has, in the following exquisite lines, depicted the charms of INFANCY, as fascinating even in the eyes of a depraved and profligate parent BY A MOTHER TO HER INFANT. Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee, Mother's wagge, prettie boy, Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee, Streaming teares that never stint, Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee, The wanton smild, Father wept, For he left his prettie Boy, FATHER'S sorrow, FATHER's joy! Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee, The frequent loss of INFANTS by death, is a sore trial to parental affection. It is pathetically recorded in the Sacred Writings, that RACHEL refused to be comforted-for her children were not! The memorials of the dead, scattered throughout all cemeteries, bear testimony to the agonies which rend the bosom of parents by the premature decease of their offspring The languid notes of lonesome bird As slow my devious feet advance 'Tis simple! yet the green sod here, A lonely primrose lifts its head, And here and there pale violets peep; And if no venal tears are shed, The dews from many a daisy weep! And Pity here is often seen To prompt the nameless pilgrim's sighs, Where Grief is stript of Art's disguise! Farewell, sweet spot ! my soul I feel Entranc'd in Sorrow's softest mood; They shall not lightly be withstood ! INFANCY, though in its earliest stage, requiring such incessant care, that maternal tenderness alone can supply all its wants, has in its advance a thousand charms to repay it. Its smiles have a sort of magic in them—they are irresistible. The well-known interview of Hector and Andromache, in the immortal Iliad of Homer, must not be forgotten on this occasion : The illustrious PRINCE of Troy |