the children-第2章

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just　how　old　she　is；　mother；　then　they　would　know　she　is　onward。
They　can　see　she　is　pretty；　but　they　can't　know　she　is　such　a　onward
baby。〃

Thus　speak　the　naturally　unreluctant；　but　there　are　other　children
who　in　time　betray　a　little　consciousness　and　a　slight　mefiance　as
to　where　the　adult　sense　of　humour　may　be　lurking　in　wait　for　them；
obscure。　　These　children　may　not　be　shy　enough　to　suffer　any　self…
checking　in　their　talk；　but　they　are　now　and　then　to　be　heard
slurring　a　word　of　which　they　do　not　feel　too　sure。　　A　little　girl
whose　sensitiveness　was　barely　enough　to　cause　her　to　stop　to　choose
between　two　words；　was　wont　to　bring　a　cup　of　tea　to　the　writing…
table　of　her　mother；　who　had　often　feigned　indignation　at　the
weakness　of　what　her　Irish　maid　always　called　〃the　infusion。〃　　〃I'm
afraid　it's　bosh　again；　mother；〃　said　the　child；　and　then；　in　a
half…whisper；　〃Is　bosh　right；　or　wash；　mother？〃　　She　was　not　told；
and　decided　for　herself；　with　doubts；　for　bosh。　　The　afternoon　cup
left　the　kitchen　an　infusion；　and　reached　the　library　〃bosh〃
thenceforward。



CHILDREN　IN　MIDWINTER



Children　are　so　flowerlike　that　it　is　always　a　little　fresh　surprise
to　see　them　blooming　in　winter。　　Their　tenderness；　their　down；　their
colour；　their　fulnesswhich　is　like　that　of　a　thick　rose　or　of　a
tight　grapelook　out　of　season。　　Children　in　the　withering　wind　are
like　the　soft　golden…pink　roses　that　fill　the　barrows　in　Oxford
Street；　breathing　a　southern　calm　on　the　north　wind。　　The　child　has
something　better　than　warmth　in　the　cold；　something　more　subtly　out
of　place　and　more　delicately　contrary；　and　that　is　coolness。　　To　be
cool　in　the　cold　is　the　sign　of　a　vitality　quite　exquisitely　alien
from　the　common　conditions　of　the　world。　　It　is　to　have　a　naturally；
and　not　an　artificially；　different　and　separate　climate。

We　can　all　be　more　or　less　warmwith　fur；　with　skating；　with　tea；
with　fire；　and　with　sleepin　the　winter。　　But　the　child　is　fresh　in
the　wind；　and　wakes　cool　from　his　dreams；　dewy　when　there　is　hoar…
frost　everywhere　else；　he　is　〃more　lovely　and　more　temperate〃　than
the　summer　day　and　than　the　winter　day　alike。　　He　overcomes　both
heat　and　cold　by　another　climate；　which　is　the　climate　of　life；　but
that　victory　of　life　is　more　delicate　and　more　surprising　in　the
tyranny　of　January。　　By　the　sight　and　the　touch　of　children；　we　are；
as　it　were；　indulged　with　something　finer　than　a　fruit　or　a　flower
in　untimely　bloom。　　The　childish　bloom　is　always　untimely。　　The
fruit　and　flower　will　be　common　later　on；　the　strawberries　will　be　a
matter　of　course　anon；　and　the　asparagus　dull　in　its　day。　　But　a
child　is　a　perpetual　primeur。

Or　rather　he　is　not　in　truth　always　untimely。　　Some　few　days　in　the
year　are　his　own　seasonunnoticed　days　of　March　or　April；　soft；
fresh　and　equal；　when　the　child　sleeps　and　rises　with　the　sun。　　Then
he　looks　as　though　he　had　his　brief　season；　and　ceases　for　a　while
to　seem　strange。

It　is　no　wonder　that　we　should　try　to　attribute　the　times　of　the
year　to　children；　their　likeness　is　so　rife　among　annuals。　　For　man
and　woman　we　are　naturally　accustomed　to　a　longer　rhythm；　their
metre　is　so　obviously　their　own；　and　of　but　a　single　stanza；　without
repetition；　without　renewel；　without　refrain。　　But　it　is　by　an
intelligible　illusion　that　we　look　for　a　quick　waxing　and　waning　in
the　lives　of　young　childrenfor　a　waxing　that　shall　come　again
another　time；　and　for　a　waning　that　shall　not　be　final；　shall　not　be
fatal。　　But　every　winter　shows　us　how　human　they　are；　and　how　they
are　little　pilgrims　and　visitants　among　the　things　that　look　like
their　kin。　　For　every　winter　shows　them　free　from　the　east　wind；
more　perfectly　than　their　elders；　they　enclose　the　climate　of　life。
And；　moreover；　with　them　the　climate　of　life　is　the　climate　of　the
spring　of　life；　the　climate　of　a　human　March　that　is　sure　to　make　a
constant　progress；　and　of　a　human　April　that　never　hesitates。　　The
child　〃breathes　April　and　May〃an　inner　April　and　his　own　May。

The　winter　child　looks　so　much　the　more　beautiful　for　the　season　as
his　most　brilliant　uncles　and　aunts　look　less　well。　　He　is　tender
and　gay　in　the　east　wind。　　Now　more　than　ever　must　the　lover　beware
of　making　a　comparison　between　the　beauty　of　the　admired　woman　and
the　beauty　of　a　child。　　He　is　indeed　too　wary　ever　to　make　it。　　So
is　the　poet。　　As　comparisons　are　necessary　to　him；　he　will　pay　a
frankly　impossible　homage；　and　compare　a　woman's　face　to　something
too　fine；　to　something　it　never　could　emulate。　　The　Elizabethan
lyrist　is　safe　among　lilies　and　cherries；　roses；　pearls；　and　snow。
He　undertakes　the　beautiful　office　of　flattery；　and　flatters　with
courage。　　There　is　no　hidden　reproach　in　the　praise。　　Pearls　and
snow　suffer；　in　a　sham　fight；　a　mimic　defeat　that　does　them　no　harm；
and　no　harm　comes　to　the　lady's　beauty　from　a　competition　so
impossible。　　She　never　wore　a　lily　or　a　coral　in　the　colours　of　her
face；　and　their　beauty　is　not　hers。　　But　here　is　the　secret：　　she　is
compared　with　a　flower　because　she　could　not　endure　to　be　compared
with　a　child。　　That　would　touch　her　too　nearly。　　There　would　be　the
human　texture　and　the　life　like　hers；　but　immeasurably　more　lovely。
No　colour；　no　surface；　no　eyes　of　woman　have　ever　been　comparable
with　the　colour；　the　surface；　and　the　eyes　of　childhood。　　And　no
poet　has　ever　run　the　risk　of　such　a　defeat。　　Why；　it　is　defeat
enough　for　a　woman　to　have　her　face；　however　well…favoured；　close　to
a　child's；　even　if　there　is　no　one　by　who　should　be　rash　enough　to
approach　them　still　nearer　by　a　comparison。

This；　needless　to　say；　is　true　of　no　other　kind　of　beauty　than　that
beauty　of　light；　colour；　and　surface　to　which　the　Elizabethans
referred；　and　which　suggested　their　flatteries　in　disfavour　of　the
lily。　　There　are；　indeed；　other　adult　beauties；　but　those　are　such
as　make　no　allusions　to　the　garden。　　What　is　here　affirmed　is　that
the　beautiful　woman　who　is　widely　and　wisely　likened　to　the　flowers；
which　are　inaccessibly　more　beautiful；　must　not；　for　her　own　sake；
be　likened　to　the　always　accessible　child。

Besides　light　and　colour；　children　have　a　beauty　of　finish　which　is
much　beyond　that　of　more　finished　years。　　This　gratuitous　addition；
this　completeness；　is　one　of　their　unexpected　advantages。　　Their
beauty　of　finish　is　the　peculiarity　of　their　first　childhood；　and
loses；　as　years　are　added；　that　little　extra　character　and　that
surprise　of　perfection。　　A　bloom　disappears；　for　instance。　　In　some
little　children　the　whole　face；　and　especially　all　the　space　between
the　growth　of　the　eyebrows　and　the　growth　of　the　hair；　is　covered
with　hardly　perceptible　down　as　soft　as　bloom。　　Look　then　at　the
eyebrows　themselves。　　Their　line　is　as　definite　as　in　later　life；
but　there　is　in　the　child　the　flush　given　by　the　exceeding　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　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。



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　resignationa　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