Get ebook downloads in full at ebookmeta.

com

DirectX 11 1 Game Programming 1st Edition Pooya

Eimandar

https://ebookmeta.com/product/directx-11-1-game-
programming-1st-edition-pooya-eimandar/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWNLOAD NOW

Explore and download more ebook at https://ebookmeta.com

 Recommended digital products (PDF, EPUB, MOBI) that
you can download immediately if you are interested.

Game Programming with Code Angel 1st Edition Mark

Cunningham

https://ebookmeta.com/product/game-programming-with-code-angel-1st-
edition-mark-cunningham/

ebookmeta.com

Game Programming with Open 3D Engine 1st Edition Oleksandr

Lozitskiy

https://ebookmeta.com/product/game-programming-with-
open-3d-engine-1st-edition-oleksandr-lozitskiy/

ebookmeta.com

LÖVE for Lua Game Programming 1st Edition Akinlaja Darmie

https://ebookmeta.com/product/love-for-lua-game-programming-1st-
edition-akinlaja-darmie/

ebookmeta.com

Rattle Man (Ymiran Chronicles #1) 1st Edition E.H. Gaskins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/rattle-man-ymiran-chronicles-1-1st-
edition-e-h-gaskins/

ebookmeta.com
The Gender of Crime 2nd Edition Dana M Britton Shannon K
Jacobsen Grace E Howard

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-gender-of-crime-2nd-edition-dana-m-
britton-shannon-k-jacobsen-grace-e-howard/

ebookmeta.com

Elementary Cryptanalysis A Mathemathical Approach Abraham

Sinkov Paul L Irwin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/elementary-cryptanalysis-a-
mathemathical-approach-abraham-sinkov-paul-l-irwin/

ebookmeta.com

Picture You Dead 1st Edition Peter James

https://ebookmeta.com/product/picture-you-dead-1st-edition-peter-
james/

ebookmeta.com

Your Career in Animation How to Survive and Thrive Second

Edition David B. Levy

https://ebookmeta.com/product/your-career-in-animation-how-to-survive-
and-thrive-second-edition-david-b-levy/

ebookmeta.com

Troubleshooting Microsoft Teams: Enlisting the Right

Approach and Tools in Teams for Mapping and
Troubleshooting Issues 1st Edition Balu N Ilag
https://ebookmeta.com/product/troubleshooting-microsoft-teams-
enlisting-the-right-approach-and-tools-in-teams-for-mapping-and-
troubleshooting-issues-1st-edition-balu-n-ilag/
ebookmeta.com
Revival and Reconciliation The Anglican Church and the
Politics of Rwanda 1st Edition Phillip A. Cantrell

https://ebookmeta.com/product/revival-and-reconciliation-the-anglican-
church-and-the-politics-of-rwanda-1st-edition-phillip-a-cantrell/

ebookmeta.com
DirectX 11.1 Game
Programming

A step-by-step guide to creating 3D applications and interactive

games in Windows 8

Pooya Eimandar

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI

DirectX 11.1 Game Programming

Copyright © 2013 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in

a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the
case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure
the accuracy of the information presented. However, the information
contained in this book is sold without warranty, either express or
implied. Neither the author nor Packt Publishing, and its dealers and
distributors will be held liable for any damages caused or alleged to
be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information

about all of the companies and products mentioned in this book by
the appropriate use of capitals.

However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this

information.

First published: August 2013

Production Reference: 1190813

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place

35 Livery Street

Birmingham B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-84969-480-3

www.packtpub.com

Cover Image by Pooya Eimandar ([email protected])

Credits

Author

Project Coordinator

Pooya Eimandar

Amigya Khurana

Reviewers

Proofreader

Doron Feinstein

Paul Hindle

Stephan Hodes

Vinjn Zhang

Indexer

Mariammal Chettiyar

Acquisition Editors
Saleem Ahmed

Graphics

Erol Staveley

Ronak Dhruv

Commissioning Editor

Production Coordinator

Yogesh Dalvi

Adonia Jones

Technical Editors

Cover Work

Ruchita Bhansali

Adonia Jones

Aniruddha Vanage

Copy Editors

Gladson Monteiro

Aditya Nair

Alfida Paiva

About the Author

Pooya Eimandar was born on January 07, 1986. He graduated with

a degree in Computer Science and Hardware Engineering from
Shomal University and has been programming mainly in DirectX and
OpenGL since 2002.

His main research interests are GPU-programming, image processing,

parallel computing, and game developing.

Since 2010, he has been leading a game engine team for a company
Bazipardaz, working on their latest titles for Xbox 360 and PC. You
can find more information

about this at http://persianengine.codeplex.com/.

I thank God for every moment of my life.

I would like to thank the staff at Packt Publishing, in particular

Yogesh Dalvi and Amigya Khurana, and thanks a million to the
technical reviewers for their valuable suggestions.

Also, I would like to thank Amir Sarabadani, Seyed Mohammad

Hossein Mayboudi, and Simin Vatandoost for their valuable support
while editing the book.

I would also like to thank my colleagues at Bazipardaz, and finally my

family for their love and support.

Your feedback is valuable to me, so never hesitate to contact me. You

can find me at http://www.Pooya-Eimandar.com.

About the Reviewers

Doron Feinstein is a Senior Graphics Programmer at Rockstar

Games and is the author of the book HLSL Development Cookbook
published by Packt Publishing.

After working with simulations for a number of years, he decided to

switch to an exciting career in the games industry. Max Payne 3 and
All Points Bulletin (APB) are among some of the titles Doron has
worked on commercially.
Stephan Hodes has been working as a Game Engine programmer
for almost 15

years while GPUs made the transition from fixed function pipeline to
programmable shader hardware. During this time, he worked on a
number of games released for PC as well as for Xbox 360 and PS3.

Since he joined AMD as a Developer Relations Engineer in 2011, he

has worked with a number of European developers on optimizing
their technology to take full advantage of the processing power that
the latest GPU hardware provides.

He is currently living with his wife and son in Berlin, Germany.

Vinjn Zhang is an enthusiastic Software Engineer. His main interests

in programming include game development, graphics shader writing,
human-computer interaction, and computer vision. He has translated
two technical books into Chinese, one for the processing language
and one for OpenCV.

Vinjn Zhang has worked for several game production companies

including Ubisoft and 2K Games. He is currently working as a GPU
Architect for NVIDIA, where he gets the chance to see the secrets of
GPU. Besides his daily work, he is an active github user. He tries to
make every piece of code open source. His website is also an open
source repositoryVisit his website http://vinjn.github.io/.

www.PacktPub.com

Support files, eBooks, discount offers and more You might

want to visit www.PacktPub.com for support files and downloads

related to your book.

Did you know that Packt offers eBook versions of every book
published, with PDF
and ePub files available? You can upgrade to the eBook version at
www.PacktPub.

com and as a print book customer, you are entitled to a discount on

the eBook copy.

Get in touch with us at [email protected] for more details.

At www.PacktPub.com, you can also read a collection of free

technical articles, sign up for a range of free newsletters and receive
exclusive discounts and offers on Packt books and eBooks.

TM

http://PacktLib.PacktPub.com

Do you need instant solutions to your IT questions? PacktLib is

Packt’s online digital book library. Here, you can access, read, and
search across Packt’s entire library of books.

Why Subscribe?

• Fully searchable across every book published by Packt

• Copy and paste, print and bookmark content

• On demand and accessible via web browser

Free Access for Packt account holders

If you have an account with Packt at www.PacktPub.com, you can

use this to access

PacktLib today and view nine entirely free books. Simply use your
login credentials for immediate access.

Dedicated to my mother
Table of Contents

Preface 1

Chapter 1: Say Hello to DirectX 11.1

The need for DirectX 11.1

Why should we target Windows 8?

The prerequisites

Introduction to C++/CX

Lifetime management

10

What is a ref class?

11

Inheritance 12

Delegates and events

13

Metro Style apps

14

Setting up your first project

15

Building your first Metro app

16

Working with game time

21

Initializing the device

22

Connecting to a swap chain

26

The render target and depth stencil views

28

Summary 29

Chapter 2: Getting Started with HLSL

31

An introduction to HLSL

32

New features of HLSL

33
Compiling and linking to shaders

34

Buffers in Direct3D

39

Constant buffers

39

Vertex buffers

40

Index buffers

40

Textures 41

Table of Contents

Rendering primitives

43

Direct2D 1.1

45

Summary 48

Chapter 3: Rendering a 3D Scene

49

Displaying the performance data

50

A short introduction to FPS

50

Asynchronous loading

52

Introduction to tasks

52

Asynchronous resource loading

54

Getting started with the Model Editor

56

Loading a model from the .cmo format

61

Rendering a model

65

The input devices we'll need

71

Keyboard 71

Pointer 74

Xbox 360 controllers

75

Turn on the camera

77

Base camera

77

First person camera

79

Third person camera

80

Composing XAML and Direct3D

82

Summary 86

Chapter 4: Tessellation

87

Hardware tessellation

87

The most popular usage of hardware tessellation

88

Basic tessellation

90
The Hull Shader stage

90

The Domain Shader stage

92

Tessellating a quad

93

Displacement mapping using tessellation

94

The normal mapping technique

95

The displacement mapping technique

96

DirectX graphics diagnostics

97

Capturing the frame

98

The Graphics Experiment window

99

Investigating a missing object

102
Disabling graphics diagnostics

103

Summary 104

[ ii ]

Table of Contents

Chapter 5: Multithreading

105

C++ AMP

105

Compute Shader

109

C++ AMP versus Compute Shader

110

Post-processing 115

Implementing post-processing using C++ AMP

115

Implementing post-processing using Compute Shader

119

Summary 121

Index 123
Other documents randomly have
different content
a clergyman in the North, who suffered from ‘clergyman’s sore
throat’; he was a popular evangelical preacher, and there was no
end to the sympathy his case evoked; he couldn’t preach, so his
devoted congregation sent him, now to the South of France, now to
Algiers, now to Madeira. After each delightful sojourn he returned,
looking plump and well, but unable to raise his voice above a hardly
audible whisper. This went on for three years or so. Then his Bishop
interfered; he must provide a curate in permanent charge, with
nearly the full emoluments of the living. The following Sunday he
preached, nor did he again lose his voice. And this was an earnest
and honest man, who would rather any day be at his work than
wandering idly about the world. Plainly, too, in the etymological
sense of the word, his complaint was not hysteria. But this is not an
exceptional case: keep any man in his dressing-gown for a week or
two—a bad cold, say—and he will lay himself out to be pitied and
petted, will have half the ailments under the sun, and be at death’s
door with each. And this is your active man; a man of sedentary
habits, notwithstanding his stronger frame, is nearly as open as a
woman to the advances of this stealthy foe. Why, for that matter, I’ve
seen it in a dog! Did you never see a dog limp pathetically on his
three legs that he might be made much of for his lameness, until his
master’s whistle calls him off at a canter on all fours?”
“I get no nearer; what have these illustrations to do with my wife?”
“Wait a bit, and I’ll try to show you. The throat would seem to be a
common seat of the affection. I knew a lady—nice woman she was,
too—who went about for years speaking in a painful whisper, whilst
everybody said, ‘Poor Mrs. Marjoribanks!’ But one evening she
managed to set her bed-curtains alight, when she rushed to the door,
screaming, ‘Ann! Ann! the house is on fire! Come at once!’ The dear
woman believed ever after, that ‘something burst’ in her throat, and
described the sensation minutely; her friends believed, and her
doctor did not contradict. By the way, no remedy has proved more
often effectual than a house on fire, only you will see the difficulties. I
knew of a case, however, where the ‘house-afire’ prescription was
applied with great effect. ’Twas in a London hospital for ladies; a
most baffling case; patient had been for months unable to move a
limb—was lifted in and out of bed like a log, fed as you would pour
into a bottle. A clever young house-surgeon laid a plot with the
nurses. In the middle of the night her room was filled with fumes,
lurid light, &c. She tried to cry out, but the smoke was suffocating;
she jumped out of bed and made for the door—more choking smoke
—threw up the sash—fireman, rope, ladder—she scrambled down,
and was safe. The whole was a hoax, but it cured her, and the
nature of the cure was mercifully kept secret. Another example: A
friend of mine determined to put a young woman under ‘massage’ in
her own home; he got a trained operator, forbade any of her family to
see her, and waited for results. The girl did not mend; ‘very odd!
some reason for this,’ he muttered; and it came out that every night
the mother had crept in to wish her child good-night; the tender visits
were put a stop to, and the girl recovered.”
“Your examples are interesting enough, but I fail to see how they
bear; in each case, you have a person of weak or disordered intellect
simulating a disease with no rational object in view. Now the beggars
who know how to manufacture sores on their persons have the
advantage—they do it for gain.”
“I have told my tale badly; these were not persons of weak or
disordered intellect; some of them very much otherwise; neither did
they consciously simulate disease; not one believed it possible to
make the effort he or she was surprised into. The whole question
belongs to the mysterious borderland of physical and psychological
science—not pathological, observe; the subject of disease and its
treatment is hardly for the lay mind.”
“I am trying to understand.”
“It is worth your while; if every man took the pains to understand
the little that is yet to be known on this interesting subject he might
secure his own household, at any rate, from much misery and waste
of vital powers; and not only his household, but perhaps himself—for,
as I have tried to show, this that is called ‘hysteria’ is not necessarily
an affair of sex.”
“Go on; I am not yet within appreciable distance of anything
bearing on my wife’s case.”
 “Ah, the thing is a million-headed monster! hardly to be
recognised by the same features in any two cases. To get at the
rationale of it, we must take up human nature by the roots. We talk
glibly in these days of what we get from our forefathers, what comes
to us through our environment, and consider that in these two we
have the sum of human nature. Not a bit of it; we have only
accounted for some peculiarities in the individual; independently of
these, we come equipped with stock for the business of life of which
too little account is taken. The subject is wide, so I shall confine
myself to an item or two.
“We all come into the world—since we are beings of imperfect
nature—subject to the uneasy stirring of some few primary desires.
Thus, the gutter child and the infant prince are alike open to the
workings of the desire for esteem, the desire for society, for power,
&c. One child has this, and another that, desire more active and
uneasy. Women, through the very modesty and dependence of their
nature, are greatly moved by the desire for esteem. They must be
thought of, made much of, at any price. A man desires esteem, and
he has meetings in the marketplace, the chief-room at the feast; the
pétroleuse, the city outcast, must have notoriety—the esteem of the
bad—at any price, and we have a city in flames, and Whitechapel
murders. Each falls back on his experience and considers what will
bring him that esteem, a gnawing craving after which is one of his
earliest immaterial cognitions. But the good woman has
comparatively few outlets. The esteem that comes to her is all within
the sphere of her affections. Esteem she must have; it is a necessity
of her nature.
“‘Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles,’
are truly to her, ‘human nature’s daily food.’”
“Now, experience comes to her aid. When she is ill, she is the
centre of attraction, the object of attention, to all who are dear to her;
she will be ill.”
“You contradict yourself, man! don’t you see? You are painting,
not a good woman, but one who will premeditate, and act a lie!”
 “Not so fast! I am painting a good woman. Here comes in a
condition which hardly any one takes into account. Mrs. Jumeau will
lie with stiffened limbs and blue pale face for hours at a time. Is she
simulating illness? you might as well say that a man could simulate a
gunshot wound. But the thing people forget is, the intimate relation
and co-operation of body and mind; that the body lends itself
involuntarily to carry out the conceptions of the thinking brain. Mrs.
Jumeau does not think herself into pallor, but every infinitesimal
nerve fibre, which entwines each equally infinitesimal capillary which
brings colour to the cheek, is intimately connected with the thinking
brain, in obedience to whose mandates it relaxes or contracts. Its
relaxation brings colour and vigour with the free flow of the blood, its
contraction, pallor, and stagnation; and the feeling as well as the look
of being sealed in a death-like trance. The whole mystery depends
on this co-operation of thought and substance of which few women
are aware. The diagnosis is simply this, the sufferer has the craving
for outward tokens of the esteem which is essential to her nature;
she recalls how such tokens accompany her seasons of illness, the
sympathetic body perceives the situation, and she is ill; by-and-by,
the tokens of esteem cease to come with the attacks of illness, but
the habit has been set up, and she goes on having ‘attacks ’ which
bring real suffering to herself, and of the slightest agency in which
she is utterly unconscious.”
Conviction slowly forced itself on Mr. Jumeau; now that his wife
was shown entirely blameless, he could concede the rest. More, he
began to suspect something rotten in the State of Denmark, or
women like his wife would never have been compelled to make so
abnormal a vent for a craving proper to human nature.
“I begin to see; what must I do?”
“In Mrs. Jumeau’s case, I may venture to recommend a course
which would not answer with one in a thousand. Tell her all I have
told you. Make her mistress of the situation.—I need not say, save
her as much as you can from the anguish of self-contempt. Trust her,
she will come to the rescue, and devise means to save herself; and,
all the time, she will want help from you, wise as well as tender. For
the rest, those who have in less measure—
 “‘The reason firm, the temp’rate will’—
‘massage,’ and other devices for annulling the extraordinary physical
sensibility to mental conditions, and, at the same time, excluding the
patient from the possibility of the affectionate notice she craves, may
do a great deal. But this mischief which, in one shape or other,
blights the lives of, say, forty per cent. of our best and most highly
organised women, is one more instance of how lives are ruined by
an education which is not only imperfect, but proceeds on wrong
lines.”
“How could education help in this?”
“Why, let them know the facts, possess them of even so slight an
outline as we have had to-night, and the best women will take
measures for self-preservation. Put them on their guard, that is all. It
is not enough to give them accomplishments and all sorts of higher
learning; these gratify the desire of esteem only in a very temporary
way. But something more than a danger-signal is wanted. The
woman, as well as the man, must have her share of the world’s
work, whose reward is the world’s esteem. She must, even the
cherished wife and mother of a family, be in touch with the world’s
needs, and must minister of the gifts she has; and that, because it is
no dream that we are all brethren, and must therefore suffer from
any seclusion from the common life.”

Mrs. Jumeau’s life was not “spoilt.” It turned out as the doctor
predicted; for days after his revelations she was ashamed to look her
husband in the face; but then, she called up her forces, fought her
own fight and came off victorious.
 CHAPTER IX

“A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!”

The Christmas holidays! Boys and girls at school are counting off the
days till the home-coming. Young men and maidens, who have put
away childish things, do not reckon with date-stones, but consult
their Bradshaws. The little ones at home are storing up surprises.
The father says genially, “We shall soon have our young folk at home
again.” The mother? Nobody, not the youngest of the schoolgirls, is
so glad as she. She thinks of setting out for church on Christmas
Day with, let us hope, the whole of her scattered flock about her.
Already she pictures to herself how each has altered and grown, and
yet how every one is just as of old. She knows how Lucy will return
prettier and more lovable than ever; Willie, more amusing; Harry,
kinder; and how the elders will rejoice in baby May!
And yet, there is a shade of anxiety in the mother’s face as she
plans for the holidays. The brunt of domestic difficulties falls,
necessarily, upon her. It is not quite easy to arrange a household for
a sudden incursion of new inmates whose stay is not measured by
days. Servants must be considered, and may be tiresome.
Amusements, interests, must be thought of, and then—— Does the
mother stop short and avoid putting into shape the “and then,” which
belongs to the holiday weeks after Christmas Day is over?
“Let us have a happy Christmas, any way,” she says; “we must
leave the rest.”
What is it? Pretty Lucy’s face clouds into sullenness. Kind Harry is
quick to take offence, and his outbursts spoil people’s comfort. Willie,
with all his nonsense, has fits of positive moroseness. Tom argues—
is always in the right. Alice—is the child always quite
straightforward? There is reason enough for the strain of anxiety that
mingles with the mother’s joy. It is not easy to keep eight or nine
young people at their best for weeks together, without their usual
employments, when you consider that, wanting their elders’
modicum of self-control, they may have their father’s failings, and
their mother’s failings, and ugly traits besides hardly to be accounted
for. Is it a counsel of perfection that mothers should have “Quiet
Days” of rest for body and mind, and for such spiritual refreshment
as may be, to prepare them for the exhausting (however delightful)
strain of the holidays?
Much arrears of work must fall to the heads of the house in the
young folk’s holidays. They will want to estimate, as they get
opportunity, the new thought that is leavening their children’s minds;
to modify, without appearing to do so, the opinions the young people
are forming. They must keep a clear line of demarcation between
duties and pastimes, even in the holidays; and they must resume the
work of character-training, relinquished to some extent while the
children are away at school. But, after all, the holiday problem is
much easier than it looks, as many a light-hearted mother knows.
There is a way of it, a certain “Open sesame,” which mothers
know, or, if they do not, all the worse for the happiness of Holiday
House. Occupation? Many interests? Occupation, of course; we
know what befalls idle hands; but “interests” are only successful in
conjunction with the password; without it, the more excitingly
interesting the interests the more apt are they to disturb the domestic
atmosphere and make one sulky, and another domineering, and a
third selfish, and each “naughty” in that particular way in which “’tis
his nature to.”
Every mother knows the secret, but some may have forgotten the
magic of it. Paradoxical as the statement may sound, there is no one
thing of which it is harder to convince young people than that their
parents love them. They do not talk about the matter, but supposing
they did, this would be the avowal of nine children out of ten:
“Oh, of course, mother loves me in a way, but not as she loves X
.”
 “How ‘in a way’?”
“You know what I mean. She is mother, so of course she cares
about things for me and all that.”
“But how does she love X .?”
“Oh, I can’t explain; she’s fond of her, likes to look at her, and
touch her, and—now don’t go and think I’m saying things about
mother. She’s quite fair and treats us all just alike; but who could
help liking X . best? I’m so horrid! Nobody cares for me.”
Put most of the children (including X .) of good and loving parents
into the Palace of Truth, children of all ages, from six, say, to twenty,
and this is the sort of thing you would get. Boys would, as a rule,
credit “mother,” and girls, “father,” with the more love; but that is only
by comparison; the one parent is only “nicer” than the other. As for
appropriating or recognising the fulness of love lavished on them,
they simply do not do it.
And why? Our little friend has told us; mother and father are quite
fair, there is no fault to be found in them, but “I’m so horrid, nobody
cares for me.” There you have the secret of “naughtiness.” There is
nothing more pathetic than the sort of dual life of which the young
are dimly conscious. On the one hand there are premonitions of full
and perfect being, the budding wings of which their thoughts are full,
and for which their strong sense of justice demands credit. Mother
and father ought to know how great and good and beautiful they are
in possibility, in prospective. They must have the comprehension,
appreciation, which, if they cannot get in the drawing-room, they will
seek in the kitchen or the stable-yard. Alnaschar visions? If so, it is
not young Alnaschar, but his parents, who kick over the basket of
eggs.
If the young folk are pugnacious about their “rights,” and are over-
ready with their “It’s not fair!” “It’s a shame!” it is because they reckon
their claims by the great possible self, while, alas! they measure
what they get by the actual self, of which they think small things.
There is no word for it but “horrid;” bring them to book, and the
scornful, or vain, or bumptious young persons we may know are
alike in this—every one of them is “horrid” in his or her own eyes.
Now, if you know yourself to be horrid, you know that, of course,
people do not love you; how can they? They are kind to you and all
that, but that is because it’s their business, or their nature, or their
duty to be kind. It has really nothing to do with you personally. What
you want is some one who will find you out, and be kind to you, and
love you just for your own sake and nothing else. So do we reason
when we are young. It is the old story. The good that I would I do not,
but the evil that I would not, that I do. Only we feel things more
acutely when we are young, and take sides alternately with
ourselves and against ourselves; small is the wonder that their
elders find young people “difficult;” that is just what they find
themselves.
“Fudge!” says the reader, who satisfies himself with the surface,
and recalls the fun and frolic and gaiety of heart, the laughter and
nonsense and bright looks of scores of young people he knows: of
course they are gay, because they are young; but we should have
many books about the sadness of youth if people in their “teens”
might have the making of them. Glad and sad are not a whole octave
apart.
How soon does this trouble of youth begin? That very delightful
little person, the Baby, is quite exempted. So, too, are the three, four,
and five-year-old darlings of the nursery. They gather on your knee,
and take possession of you, and make no doubt at all of your love or
their deserts. But a child cannot always get out of the nursery before
this doubt with two faces is upon him. I know a boy of four, a healthy
intelligent child, full of glee and frolic and sense, who yet has many
sad moments because one and another do not love him, and other
very joyful, grateful moments because some little gift or attention
assures him of love. His mother, with the delicate tact mothers have,
perceives that the child needs to be continually reinstated in his own
esteem. She calls him her “only boy,” treats him half as her little
lover, and so evens him with the two bright little sisters whom,
somehow, and without any telling, poor Georgie feels to be sweeter
in temper and more lovable than he. An exceedingly instructive little
memorial of a child who died young came under our notice some
time ago. His parents kept their children always in an atmosphere of
love and gladness; and it was curious to notice that this boy, a merry,
bright little fellow, was quite incapable of realising his parents’ love.
That they should love his sister was natural, but how could they love
him?
The little ones in the nursery revel in love, but how is it with even
the nursery elders? Are they not soon taught to give place to the little
ones and look for small show of love, because they are “big boys”
and “big girls”? The rather sad aloofness and self-containedness of
these little folk in some families is worth thinking about. Even the
nursery is a microcosm, suffering from the world’s ailment, love-
hunger, a sickness which drives little children and grown-up people
into naughty thoughts and wicked ways.
I knew a girl whose parents devoted themselves entirely to
training her; they surrounded her with care and sufficient tenderness;
they did not make much of her openly, because they held old-
fashioned notions about not fostering a child’s self-importance and
vanity. They were so successful in suppressing the girl’s self-esteem
that it never occurred to her that all their cares meant love until she
was woman-grown, and could discern character, and, alas! had her
parents no more to give them back love for love. The girl herself
must have been unloving? In one sense, all young beings are
unloving; in another, they are as vessels filled, brimming over with
love seeking an outlet. This girl would watch her mother about a
room, walk behind her in the streets—adoringly. Such intense
worship of their parents is more common in children than we
imagine. A boy of five years was asked what he thought the most
beautiful thing in the world. “Velvet,” he replied, with dreamy eyes,
evidently thinking of his mother in a velvet gown. His parents are the
greatest and wisest, the most powerful, and the best people within
the narrow range of the child’s world. They are royal personages—
his kings and queens. Is it any wonder he worships, even when he
rebels?
But is it not more common, now-a-days, for children to caress and
patronise their parents, and make all too sure of their love? It may
be; but only where parents have lost that indescribable attribute—
dignity? authority?—which is their title to their children’s love and
worship; and the affection which is lavished too creaturely-wise on
children fails to meet the craving of their nature. What is it they want,
those young things so gaily happy with doll or bat or racquet? They
want to be reinstated; they labour, some poor children almost from
infancy, under a sad sense of demerit. They find themselves so little
loveworthy, that no sign short of absolute telling with lip and eye and
touch will convince them they are beloved.
But if one whom they trust and honour, one who knows, will,
seeing how faulty they are, yet love them, regarding the hateful faults
as alien things to be got rid of, and holding them, in spite of the
faults, in close measureless love and confidence, why, then, the
young lives expand like flowers in sunny weather, and where parents
know this secret of loving there are no morose boys nor sullen girls.
Actions do not speak louder than words to a young heart; he must
feel it in your touch, see it in your eye, hear it in your tones, or you
will never convince child or boy that you love him, though you labour
day and night for his good and his pleasure. Perhaps this is the
special lesson of Christmas-tide for parents. The Son came—for
what else we need not inquire now—to reinstate men by compelling
them to believe that they—the poorest shrinking and ashamèd souls
of them—that they live enfolded in infinite personal love, desiring
with desire the response of love for love. And who, like the parent,
can help forward this “wonderful redemption”? The boy who knows
that his father and his mother love him with measureless patience in
his faults, and love him out of them, is not slow to perceive, and
receive, and understand the dealings of the higher Love.
But why should good parents, more than the rest of us, be
expected to exhibit so divine a love? Perhaps because they are
better than most of us; anyway, that appears to be their vocation.
And that it is possible to fulfil even so high a calling we all know,
because we know good mothers and good fathers.
Parents, love your children, is, probably, an unnecessary counsel
to any who read this paper; at any rate, it is a presuming one. But let
us say to reserved undemonstrative parents who follow the example
of righteous Abraham and rule their households,—Rule none the
less, but let your children feel and see and be quite sure that you
love them.
We do not suggest endearments in public, which the young folk
cannot always abide. But, dear mother, take your big schoolgirl in
your arms just once in the holidays, and let her have a good talk, all
to your two selves; it will be to her like a meal to a hungry man. For
the youths and maidens—remember, they would sell their souls for
love; they do it too, and that is the reason of many of the ruined lives
we sigh over. Who will break down the partition between supply and
demand in many a home where there are hungry hearts on either
side of the wall?
 CHAPTER X

PARENTS IN COUNCIL

Part I
“Now, let us address ourselves to the serious business of the
evening. Here we are:
‘Six precious (pairs), and all agog,
To dash through thick and thin!’

Imprimis—our desire is for reform! Not reform by Act of Parliament, if

you please; but, will the world believe?—we veritably desire to be
reformed! And that, as a vicarious effort for the coming race. Why, to
have conceived the notion entitles us to sit by for our term of years
and see how the others do it!”
“Don’t be absurd, Ned, as if it were all a joke! We’re dreadfully in
earnest, and can’t bear to have the time wasted. A pretty President
you are.”
“Why, my dear, that’s the joke; how can a man preside over a few
friends who have done him the honour to dine at his table?”
“Mrs. Clough is quite right. It’s ‘Up boys, and at it!’ we want to be;
so, my dear fellow, don’t let any graceful scruples on your part hinder
work.”
“Then, Henderson, as the most rabid of us all, you must begin.”
“I do not know that what I have to say should come first in order;
but to save time I’ll begin. What I complain of is the crass ignorance
of us—of myself, I mean. You know what a magnificent spectacle the
heavens have offered these last few frosty nights. Well, one of our
youngsters has, I think, some turn for astronomy. ‘Look, father, what
a great star! It’s big enough to make the night light without the moon.
It isn’t always there; what’s its name, and where does it go?’ The boy
was in the receptive ‘How I wonder what you are’ mood; anything
and everything I could have told him would have been his—a
possession for life.
“‘That’s not a star, it’s a planet, Tom,’ with a little twaddle about
how planets are like our earth, more or less, was all I had for his
hungry wonder. As for how one planet differs from another in glory,
his sifting questions got nothing out of me; what nothing has, can
nothing give. Again, he has, all of his own wit, singled out groups of
stars and, like Hugh Miller, wasn’t it?—pricked them into paper with a
pin. ‘Have they names? What is this, and this?’ ‘Those three stars
are the belt of Orion’—the sum of my acquaintance with the
constellations, if you will believe it! He bombarded me with questions
all to the point. I tried bits of book knowledge which he did not want.
It was a ‘bowing’ acquaintance, if no more, with the glorious objects
before him that the child coveted, and he cornered me till his mother
interfered with, ‘That will do, Tom: don’t tease father with your
questions.’ A trifling incident, perhaps, but do you know I didn’t sleep
a wink that night, or rather, I did sleep, and dreamt, and woke for
good. I dreamt the child was crying for hunger and I had not a crust
to give him. You know how vivid some dreams are. The moral
flashed on me. The child had been crying to me with the hunger of
the mind. He had asked for bread and got a stone. A thing like that
stirs you. From that moment I had a new conception of a parent’s
vocation and of my unfitness for it. I determined that night to find
some way to help ourselves and the thousands of parents in the
same ignorant case.”
“Well, but, Henderson, you don’t mean to say that every parent
should be an astronomer? Why, how can a man with other work
tackle the study of a lifetime?”
“No, but I do think our veneration for science frightens us off open
ground. Huxley somewhere draws a line between science and what
he calls ‘common information,’ and this I take to mean an
acquaintance with the facts about us, whether of Nature or of
society. It’s a shameful thing to be unable to answer such questions
as Tom’s. Every one should know something about such facts of
Nature as the child is likely to come across. But how to get at this
knowledge! Books? Well, I don’t say but you may get to know about
most things from books, but as for knowing the thing itself, let me be
introduced by him that knew it before me!”
“I see what you mean; we want the help of the naturalist, an
enthusiast who will not only teach but fire us with the desire to know.”
“But don’t you find, Morris, that even your enthusiast, if he’s a
man of science, is slow to recognise the neutral ground of common
information?”
“That may be; but, as for getting what we want—pooh! it’s a
question of demand and supply. If you don’t mind my talking about
ourselves I should like just to tell you what we did last summer.
Perhaps you may know that I dabble a little in geology—only dabble
—but every tyro must have noticed how the features of a landscape
depend on its geological formation, and not only the look of the
landscape, but the occupations of the people. Well, it occurred to me
that if, instead of the hideous ‘resources’—save the word!—of a
watering-place, what if we were to study the ‘scape’ of a single
formation? The children would have that, at any rate, in visible
presentation, and would hold a key to much besides.
“My wife and I love the South Downs, perhaps for auld sake’s
sake, so we put up at a farmhouse in one of the lovely ‘Lavants’ near
Goodwood. Chalk and a blackboard were inseparably associated;
and a hill of chalk was as surprising to the children as if all the trees
were bread and cheese. Here was wonder to start with, wonder and
desire to know. Truly, a man hath joy in the answer of his mouth! The
delight, the deliciousness of pouring out answers to their eager
questions! and the illimitable receptivity of the children! This was the
sort of thing—after scrawling on a flint with a fragment of chalk:—
“‘What is that white line on the flint, Bob?’—‘Chalk, father,’ with
surprise at my dulness; and then the unfolding of the tale of wonder
—thousands of lovely infinitely small shells in that scrawl of chalk;
each had, ages and ages ago, its little inmate, and so on. Wide eyes
and open mouths, until sceptical Dick—‘Well, but, father, how did
they get here? How could they crawl or swim to the dry land when
they were dead?’ More wonders, and a snub for that small boy. ‘Why,
this hillside we are sitting on is a bit of that old sea-bottom!’ And still
the marvel grew, until, trust me, there is not a feature of the chalk
that is not written down in le journal intime of each child’s soul. They
know the soft roll of the hills, the smooth dip of the valleys, the
delights of travellers’ joy, queer old yews, and black-berrying in the
sudden ‘bottoms’ of the chalk. The endless singing of a solitary lark
—nothing but larks—the trailing of cloud-shadows over the hills, the
blue skies of Sussex, blue as those of Naples—these things are
theirs to have and to hold, and are all associated with the chalk; they
have the sense of the earth-mother, of the connection of things,
which makes for poetry.
“Then their mother has rather a happy way of getting pictures
printed on the ‘sensitive plate’ of each. She hits on a view, of narrow
range generally, and makes the children look at it well and then
describe it with closed eyes. One never-to-be forgotten view was
seized in this way. ‘First grass, the hill-slopes below us, with sheep
feeding about: and then a great field of red poppies—there’s corn,
but we can’t see it; then fields and fields of corn, quite yellow and
ripe, reaching out a long way; next, the sea, very blue, and three
rather little boats with white sails; a lark a long way up in the sky
singing as loud as a band of music; and such a shining sun!’ No
doubt our little maid will have all that to her dying day; and isn’t it a
picture worth having?”
“Mr. Morris’s hint admits of endless expansion; why, you could
cover the surface formations of England in the course of the summer
holidays of a boy’s schooldays, and thus give him a key to the
landscape, fauna, and flora of much of the earth’s surface. It’s
admirable.”
“What a salvage! The long holidays, which are apt to hang on
hand, would be more fully and usefully employed than schooldays,
and in ways full of out-of-door delights. I see how it would work.
Think of the dales of Yorkshire, where the vivid green of the
mountain limestone forms a distinct line of junction with the dim tints
of the heather on the millstone grit of the moors, of the innumerable
rocky nests where the ferns of the limestone—hartstongue,
limestone polypody, beech fern, and the rest—grow delicately green
and perfect as if conserved under glass. Think of the endless ferns
and mosses and the picturesque outlines of the slate, both in the
Lake Country and in Wales. What collections the children might form,
always having the geological formation of the district as the leading
idea.”
“You are getting excited, Mrs. Tremlow. For my part, I cannot rise
to the occasion. It is dull to have ‘delicious!’ ‘delightful!’ ‘lovely!’
hailing about one’s ears, and to be out of it. Pray, do not turn me out
for the admission, but my own feeling is strongly against this sort of
dabbling in science. In this bird’s-eye view of geology, for instance,
why in the world did you begin with the chalk? At least you might
have started with, say, Cornwall.”
“That is just one of the points where the line is to be drawn; you
specialists do one thing thoroughly—begin at the beginning, if a
beginning there is, and go on to the end, if life is long enough. Now,
we contend that the specialist’s work should be laid on a wide basis
of common information, which differs from science in this amongst
other things—you take it as it occurs. A fact comes under your
notice; you want to know why it is, and what it is; but its relations to
other facts must settle themselves as time goes on, and the other
facts turn up. For instance, a child of mine should know the
‘blackcap’ by its rich note and black upstanding headgear, and take
his chance of ever knowing even the name of the family to which his
friend belongs.”
“And surely, Mr. Morris, you would teach history in the same way;
while you are doing a county, or a ‘formation’—isn’t it?—you get fine
opportunities for making history a real thing. For instance, supposing
you are doing the—what is it?—of Dorsetshire? You come across
Corfe Castle standing in a dip of the hills, like the trough between
two waves, and how real you can make the story of the bleeding
prince dragged over the downs at the heels of his horse.”
 “Yes, and speaking of the downs, do you happen to know, Mrs.
Tremlow, the glorious downs behind Lewes, and the Abbey and the
Castle below, all concerned in the story of the great battle; and the
ridge of Mount Harry across which De Montfort and his men
marched while the royal party were holding orgies in the Abbey, and
where, in the grey of the early morning, each man vowed his life to
the cause of liberty, face downwards to the cool grass, and arms
outstretched in the form of a cross? Once you have made a study on
the spot of one of those historic sites, why, the place and the scene
is a part of you. You couldn’t forget it if you would.”
“That is interesting, and it touches on a point to which I want to
call your attention; have you noticed that in certain districts you come
across, not only the spots associated with critical events, but
monuments of the leading idea of centuries? Such as these are the
ruined abbeys which still dominate every lovely dale in Yorkshire; the
twelfth-century churches, four or five of which—in certain English
counties—you come across in the course of a single day’s tramp,
and of which there is hardly a secluded out-of-the-way nook in some
counties that has not its example to show; such, again, are the
endless castles on the Welsh border, the Roman camps on the
downs, each bearing witness to the dominant thought, during a long
period, whether of war, or, of a time when men had some leisure
from fighting.”
“And not only so. Think of how the better half of English literature
has a local colouring; think of the thousand spots round which there
lingers an aroma of poetry and of character, which seems to get into
your brain somehow, and leave there an image of the man, a feeling
of his work, which you cannot arrive at elsewhere. The Quantocks,
Grasmere, Haworth Moors, the Selborne ‘Hanger,’ the Lincolnshire
levels—it is needless to multiply examples of spots where you may
see the raw material of poetry, and compare it with the finished
work.”
“All this is an inspiring glimpse of the possible; but surely,
gentlemen, you do not suppose that a family party, the children, say,
from fifteen downwards, can get in touch with such wide interests in
the course of a six weeks’ holiday? I doubt if, even amongst
ourselves, any but you, Mr. Meredith, and Mr. Clough, have this sort
of grasp of historical and personal associations.”
“We must leave that an open question, Mrs. Henderson; but what
I do contend for is, that children have illimitable capacity for all
knowledge which reaches them in some sort through the vehicle of
the senses: what they see and delight in you may pin endless facts,
innumerable associations, upon, and children have capacity for them
all: nor will they ever treat you to lack-lustre eye and vacant
countenance. Believe me ‘’tis their nature to’ hunger after knowledge
as a labouring man hungers for his dinner; only, the thing must come
in the first, the words which interpret it in the second place.”
“You mean that everything they see is to lead to a sort of object
lesson?”
“Indeed I do not! Object lesson! talkee, talkee, about a miserable
cut-and-dried scrap, hardly to be recognised by one who knows the
thing. I should not wonder if it were better for a child to go without
information than to get it in this unnatural way. No, let him see the
thing big and living before him, behaving according to its wont.
Specimens are of infinite use to the scientist whose business it is to
generalise, but are misleading to the child who has yet to learn his
individuals. I don’t doubt for a minute that an intelligent family out for
a holiday might well cover all the ground we have sketched out, and
more; but who in the world is to teach them? A child’s third question
about the fowls of the air or the flowers of the field would probably
floor most of us.”
“That’s coming to the point. I wondered if we ever meant to touch
our subject again to-night. To skim over all creation in an easy, airy
way is exciting, but, from an educational standpoint, ’tis comic to the
father with a young swarm at home who care for none of these
things.”
“Of course they don’t, Withers, if they have never been put in the
way of it; but try ’em, that’s all. Now, listen to my idea; I shall be too
glad if any one strikes out a better, but we must come to a point, and
pull up the next who wanders off on his own hobby. Each of us
wishes to cover all, or more, or some of, the ground suggested in our
desultory talk. Difficulty, we can’t teach because we don’t know. We
are in a corner with but one way out. We must learn what we should
teach. How? Well, let us form ourselves into a college, or club, or
what you like. Now, it’s simply the A B C of many things we wish to
learn. Once organised, we shall see our way to the next step. Even
in the small party here to-night, some know something of geology,
some are at home in the byways of history; what we cannot evolve
from our midst we must get from outside, and either amateur recruits
or professional folk must be pressed into service; recruits would be
much the best, for they would learn as well as teach. Then, when we
are organised, we may consider whether our desire is to exhaust a
single district in the way suggested, or to follow some other plan.
Only, please, if it be a district, let it be a wide one, so that our
intercourse be confined to ‘speaking’ in passing, like ships at sea.
Don’t, for pity’s sake, let it be a social thing, with tennis, talk, and
tea!”
“Suppose we do enrol ourselves, how frequent do you think
should be our meetings?”
“We’ll leave that question; in the meantime, those in favour of Mr.
Morris’s motion that we form ourselves into a society for the
consideration of matters affecting the education of children—the
parents’ part of the work, that is—will signify the same in the usual
way.”
“Carried unanimously!”[23]

FOOTNOTES:
[23] Ancient history now; a forecast fulfilled in the formation
of the Parents’ National Educational Union.