the children(孩子们)-第3章
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fineness of the delicate hairs。 Moreover； what becomes； afterwards； of
the length and the curl of the eyelash？ What is there in growing up that
is destructive of a finish so charming as this？
Queen Elizabeth forbade any light to visit her face 〃from the right or
from the left〃 when her portrait was a…painting。 She was an observant
woman； and liked to be lighted from the front。 It is a light from the right
or from the left that marks an elderly face with minute shadows。 And
you must place a child in such a light； in order to see the finishing and
parting caress that infancy has given to his face。 The down will then be
found even on the thinnest and clearest skin of the middle red of his cheek。
His hair； too； is imponderably fine； and his nails are not much harder than
petals。
To return to the child in January。 It is his month for the laying up of
dreams。 No one can tell whether it is so with all children； or even with a
majority； but with some children； of passionate fancy； there occurs now
and then a children's dance； or a party of any kind； which has a charm and
glory mingled with uncertain dreams。 Never forgotten； and yet never
certainly remembered as a fact of this life； is such an evening。 When
many and many a later pleasure； about the reality of which there never was
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any kind of doubt； has been long forgotten； that eveningas to which all is
doubtis impossible to forget。 In a few years it has become so remote
that the history of Greece derives antiquity from it。 In later years it is
still doubtful； still a legend。
The child never asked how much was fact。 It was always so
immeasurably long ago that the sweet party happenedif indeed it
happened。 It had so long taken its place in that past wherein lurks all the
antiquity of the world。 No one would know； no one could tell him；
precisely what occurred。 And who can know whetherif it be indeed a
dreamhe has dreamt it often； or has dreamt once that he had dreamt it
often？ That dubious night is entangled in repeated visions during the
lonely life a child lives in sleep； it is intricate with illusions。 It becomes
the most mysterious and the least worldly of all memories； a spiritual past。
The word pleasure is too trivial for such a remembrance。 A midwinter
long gone by contained the suggestion of such dreams； and the midwinter
of this year must doubtless be preparing for the heart of many an ardent
young child a like legend and a like antiquity。 For the old it is a mere
present。
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THAT PRETTY PERSON
During the many years in which 〃evolution〃 was the favourite word；
one significant lessonso it seemswas learnt； which has outlived
controversy； and has remained longer than the questions at issuean
interesting and unnoticed thing cast up by the storm of thoughts。 This is a
disposition； a general consent； to find the use and the value of process； and
even to understand a kind of repose in the very wayfaring of progress。
With this is a resignation to change； and something more than resignation…
…a delight in those qualities that could not be but for their transitoriness。
What； then； is this but the admiration； at last confessed by the world；
for childhood？ Time was when childhood was but borne with； and that
for the sake of its mere promise of manhood。 We do not now hold；
perhaps； that promise so high。 Even； nevertheless； if we held it high； we
should acknowledge the approach to be a state adorned with its own
conditions。
But it was not so once。 As the primitive lullaby is nothing but a
patient prophecy （the mother's）； so was education； some two hundred
years ago； nothing but an impatient prophecy （the father's） of the full
stature of body and mind。 The Indian woman sings of the future hunting。
If her song is not restless； it is because she has a sense of the results of
time； and has submitted her heart to experience。 Childhood is a time of
danger； 〃Would it were done。〃 But； meanwhile； the right thing is to put it
to sleep and guard its slumbers。 It will pass。 She sings prophecies to
the child of his hunting； as she sings a song about the robe while she spins；
and a song about bread as she grinds corn。 She bids good speed。
John Evelyn was equally eager； and not so submissive。 His child
〃that pretty person〃 in Jeremy Taylor's letter of condolencewas chiefly
precious to him inasmuch as he was； too soon； a likeness of the man he
never lived to be。 The father； writing with tears when the boy was dead；
says of him： 〃At two and a half years of age he pronounced English；
Latin； and French exactly； and could perfectly read in these three
languages。〃 As he lived precisely five years； all he did was done at that
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little age； and it comprised this： 〃He got by heart almost the entire
vocabulary of Latin and French primitives and words； could make
congruous syntax； turn English into Latin； and vice versa； construe and
prove what he read； and did the government and use of relatives； verbs；
substantives； ellipses； and many figures and tropes； and made a
considerable progress in Comenius's 'Janua；' and had a strong passion for
Greek。〃
Grant that this may be a little abated； because a very serious man is not
to be too much believed when he is describing what he admires； it is the
very fact of his admiration that is so curious a sign of those hasty times。
All being favorable； the child of Evelyn's studious home would have done
all these things in the course of nature within a few years。 It was the fact
that he did them out of the course of nature that was； to Evelyn； so
exquisite。 The course of nature had not any beauty in his eyes。 It might
be borne with for the sake of the end； but it was not admired for the
majesty of its unhasting process。 Jeremy Taylor mourns with him 〃the
strangely hopeful child；〃 whowithout Comenius's 〃Janua〃 and without
congruous syntaxwas fulfilling； had they known it； an appropriate hope；
answering a distinctive prophecy； and crowning and closing a separate
expectation every day of his five years。
Ah！ the word 〃hopeful〃 seems； to us； in this day； a word too flattering
to the estate of man。 They thought their little boy strangely hopeful
because he was so quick on his way to be something else。 They lost the
timely perfection the while they were so intent upon their hopes。 And yet
it is our own modern age that is charged with haste！
It would seem rather as though the world； whatever it shall unlearn；
must rightly learn to confess the passing and irrevocable hour； not
slighting it； or bidding it hasten its work； nor yet hailing it； with Faust；
〃Stay； thou art so fair！〃 Childhood is but change made gay and visible；
and the world has lately been converted to change。
Our fathers valued change for the sake of its results； we value it in the
act。 To us the change is revealed as perpetual； every passage is a goal；
and every goal a passage。 The hours are equal； but some of them wear
apparent wings。
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Tout passe。 Is the fruit for the flower； or the flower for the fruit； or
the fruit for the seeds which it is formed to shelter and contain？ It seems
as though our forefathers had answered this question most arbitrarily as to
the life of man。
All their literature dealing with children is bent upon this haste； this
suppression of the approach to what seemed then the only time of
fulfilment。 The way was without rest to them。 And this because they
had the illusion of a rest to be gained at some later point of this unpausing
life。
Evelyn and his contemporaries dropped the very word child as soon as
might be； if not sooner。 When a poor little boy came to be eight years old
they called him a youth。 The diarist himself had no cause to be proud of
his own early years； for he was so far indulged in idleness by an
〃honoured grandmother〃 that he was 〃not initiated into any rudiments〃 till
he was four years of age。 He seems even to have been a youth of eight
before Latin was seriously begun； but this fact he is evidently； in after
years； with a total lack of a sense of humour； rather ashamed of； and
hardly acknowledges。 It is difficult to imagine what childhood must have
been when nobody； looking on； saw any fun in it； when everything that
was proper to five years old was defect。 A strange good conceit of
themselves and of their own ages had those fathers。
They took their children seriously； without relief。 Evelyn has nothing
to say about his little ones that has a sign of a smile in it。 Twice are
children； not his own； mentioned in his diary。 Once he goes to the
wedding of a maid of five years olda curious thing； but not； evidently； an
occasion of sensibility。 Another time he stands by； in a French hospital；
while a youth of less than nine years of
